Thyme II Thyme Page 4

  'Yes,' I said. 'There was little enough room for anything other than trying to figure out how to stay in one piece and try to get away from them. Besides, it's a moot point as to where exactly my life force, if that's the right term, would be. Did I carry on breathing while I was out cold?'

  'Just about,' Anne-Marie replied. 'Very shallowly, though, and very slowly, like someone in a coma, I suppose. But that's not the point now, is it? Tell us what happened next. Or would you rather rest a while?' she added, as if suddenly appreciating the fact that my adventures in time might have left my nineteen seventies self in need of a recovery period. Her eyes, however, betrayed her eagerness to know more, and quickly.

  'No, I'm okay,' I said, shifting my position against the pillows. 'Just give me another ciggie and I'll carry on with the story.'

  As I said earlier, my actions with Erik seemed to be being carried out by a third party and I was little more than an observer. But in the meantime, the central core of my brain was active on another tack. As I stroked and sucked Erik's cock slowly back to full attention, I was trying to work out some logical line to what was happening, and why.

  Gregory Hacklebury had employed a look-alike to take Angelina's part in a so-called marriage ceremony, presumably because Angelina would have been no more willing to give him the nod in front of a priest than I would myself. Therefore, as far as the world at large was concerned, Angelina was now Lady Hacklebury. Presumably, the doppelganger was still being used for any public appearances. But then again, was she?

  I considered what I knew of this period. Ladies were frequently 'out of sorts' for all manner of reasons, and if the public had been informed that Sir Greg's new spouse had taken to her bed with some form of ladies' ailment, the likelihood of any eyebrows being raised was remote. Which meant the situation regarding the doppelganger was irrelevant.

  I set myself to concentrating on the facts, the facts, Teena, just the facts.

  Okay... so the world thought Greg had a legitimate wife and that wife came with a healthy dowry. A disgustingly healthy dowry, from what I had gleaned before. Greg thus had his hands on the family money and on anything else of Angelina's he fancied, including her body, which was currently being occupied by yours truly. However, he seemed only marginally interested in her body, beyond the fact that he seemed to get off on it being physically abused and on shagging it as he so thoroughly had in his bedroom.

  On the other hand, Greg already struck me as the type to whom one fanny was much the same as another, and a serious shagging was a serious shagging regardless of who was on the other end of it, if you pardon the expression. Besides, the mad maid Meg also seemed to have some hold over him and considered that cock of his as being primarily her domain and only 'on loan' to his supposedly legal wife.

  And there was another 'besides'.

  I had been incarcerated in this apparently specially built prison in the woods and given over to a living, breathing and almost comically well endowed version of the Swedish Chef. And unless my personal Viking was going against direct orders, part of his remit included going through my service manual on a daily basis. Given that Meg must have realised she had come upon us not long after my latest 'overhaul' and had not sounded or looked as if she was at all upset by the fact, I concluded that my personal bits could not therefore have been off limits to the giant Scandinavian and, moreover, that Meg at least, if not Hacklebury himself, was actively encouraging him to roger the living daylights out of me.

  Given what I knew of Victorian birth control methods - hit and miss and then only if you were lucky seemed to be the order of the day - there was thus a very serious probability that my virile minder was going to plant a lasting memory inside me, and not just in my mind. Unless, of course, he was in some way sterile, but then I doubted they had the technology back in this here-and-now to be sure of that, so I dismissed this from my list of factors and posted it onto the one marked 'remote possibilities for later consideration'.

  So... neither Hacklebury nor Meg could be worried about my eventually giving birth to a little blond bundle. Or maybe Hacklebury might be and this was just part of Meg's ploy to make sure I did not establish any position of favour with her beloved master. She was certainly possessive enough of him to consider something like that, but if I did end up conceiving courtesy of Erik and the resulting offspring turned out to be his spitting image and Hacklebury had indeed not wanted that result, he would surely turn against Meg for betraying him. Wouldn't he? What was happening to me probably had to be happening with his full knowledge and consent, the question was why. And then a thought struck me, a thought which, as I tried to work it through to its logical conclusion even though logic in such an illogical set of circumstances tended to run its own course, sent a chill through me.

  What if Gregory Hacklebury needed Angelina pregnant? Maybe the initial marriage dowry was only part of it and there was more money and perhaps even more land coming to him on the production of an heir. It was the sort of thing that happened back in these times and still happened in the twentieth century, for that matter.

  Yes, that made a lot of sense, I realised. Angelina gives birth, doctors confirm the arrival of the baby, Hacklebury cashes in his second set of chips, and then...

  Then he no longer has any need of either Angelina or the child and that was the chilling bit about the whole concept. Infant mortality rates in Queen Vicky's day were quite awful, as were deaths in childbirth, and whilst Gregory undoubtedly would need the child to survive the birth and be pronounced healthy in order to claim the rest of his wife's dowry, would he need Angelina any longer? I shuddered to think of the fate that awaited any illegitimate infant once Greg and Meg had their hands on the last of the loot. It would either be 'disappeared' or die of some mysterious infection, poor little mite. I blinked back tears for my as yet unborn baby, but then realising what I was doing, I shook my head fiercely and tried to dismiss such sentiments from my mind. After all, this was all only just so much conjecture; the truth was probably a mile off.

  Or was it?

  By this time, my ministrations had aroused Erik as fully as it was possible to arouse any man. And as his shaft throbbed in my gloved fist, he now regained far more interest in its possible re-employment. Only too aware that the people around Hacklebury appeared to regard serious amounts of ropes, chains and straps as a main ingredient in the recipe for satisfactory sex, and wishing to spare myself further sessions bent double or strung up in mid-air, I decided upon a pre-emptive strike.

  Without waiting to be asked, I drew myself up onto my knees and quickly straddled Erik as he lay propped against the wall, fumbling as best I could with my hampered fingers to guide him into me. After two brief and clumsily ineffective attempts, I succeeded with my third effort and sank down onto his monstrous erection with that stomach filling sensation I now knew so well.

  He grinned at me and raised one finger to trace a line down my leather-covered nose. He then opened his massive hands and grasped me around my slender waist, his fingers and thumbs all but touching thanks to the strictures of the corset I still wore beneath the bodysuit. 'Erik's little dolly,' he said softly, lifting me slightly and then lowering me back over him again.

  I let out a whimper and felt myself starting to go limp, for that was exactly how I always became in his grasp. Inside this diminutive body, my individuality laced away inside the featureless leather skin, I was indeed nothing more than a doll as, fully recovered now from his earlier efforts, Erik proceeded to play with me.

  I was lifted and lowered over his shaft, worthy of a god in Valhalla, at a languid pace, but each deep thrust was doing its inevitable work. Very soon I felt the heat rising inside me and the debilitating tingles and spasms in my belly began anew. My head lolled back and my arms hung loose at my sides, my eyes hooded not just by the mask now but also by my half closed lids. Reality flew out the door and I gave myself over completely to the sensations swiftly overwhelming me. His penetrations felt so unbelievably good, even th
ough I knew there was little enough emotion involved in the performance. I moaned and groaned, whimpered and simpered, and my head rolled from side to side. I was not tied down this time but I was just as helpless and thus I felt free to grant this body what it seemed to enjoy, and myself the liberty of sharing in that pleasure. I began to come and continued to come, over and over again, orgasm after orgasm flowing together as my sex gushed in response to its energetic filling, until the barren room was no longer there and images I could not even begin to describe were swimming before my eyes and inside my head... until consciousness and dream became as one and I hung in mid-air and in mid-existence and cared not whether I lived or died...

  When I finally regained some sort of self-possession, I felt as if I had in fact died or wished perhaps that I could.

  I must have passed out completely at some point for I came around lying in the straw flat on my back with my legs spread wide. When I tried to sit up, a jangle of metal links told me that a chain leash now ran from my collar to a ring set in the wall. Of Erik there was no sign.

  Every joint in my body was aching with a fierceness I could scarcely believe - my knees, back, neck, elbows and shoulders - and inside I felt as if I was on fire, my stretched muscles sending burning messages of protest to my brain for the torture I had allowed to be inflicted upon them. I groaned, rolled over and got myself onto my hands and knees as a precursor to attempting to stand up, although why I felt the need to regain a vertical position I had no idea.

  My throat was dry, my mouth still free of the gag, and I longed to get to the jug of water that stood in a corner, but I could as easily have crawled to it as walked. Perhaps something inside me was insisting I crawl for such a basic requirement and was surrendering to its animal status. But should I have cared by now? If this weird crew were out to break me, they were certainly going about it the right way and were well on the road to succeeding.

  I managed to raise the jug between my hands and gulped gratefully at the contents, which tasted surprisingly fresh and cool. And yes, I did walk across the little room even though it required a tremendous effort to regain my feet. It was even more of an effort to effect the few short steps required, for I still wore those silly high-heeled boots and my balance was as badly off form as my joints and muscles felt.

  After what must have been at least two pints of water, consumed I hasten to add in three or four separate gulping sessions, I realised I badly needed to pee, not from this recent intake but from an earlier one and as a result of everything else that had happened since. The cool air told me I was still unlaced over my private parts. With little or no other options open to me, I squatted in an ungainly fashion, my back against the wall for support, and let the river flow, closing my eyes in a futile effort to block out the sound of urine splashing into the straw between my feet.

  'Very good, bitch.'

  I groaned inwardly for it was Meg who had spoken, her timing immaculate to catch me in such a degrading position. I opened my eyes and there she was in the doorway, her hands as usual on her hips, her features contorted by a grin that was all sheer malicious triumph. With my mouth empty for once I was tempted to make some retort, but apart from the fact that I could think of nothing suitable I was quick to realise that any show of spirit or resistance on my part could lead only to even worse retribution than anything she undoubtedly already had planned for me.

  'I... I had to go,' I stammered, trying to get back to my feet even as the last dribbles pattered down into the straw.

  Meg's grin widened. 'Of course you did,' she agreed 'and like all bitches, you went on the spot. That's very good, bitch, and you'll learn a few more things before I'm through with you. I've had a word with the master and he likes my idea. Even now his man is preparing your new skin for you. It should be ready this very evening and I shall take the greatest delight in displaying you in it. Meanwhile, I have given Erik some strict instructions for the rest of your day and he will be back as soon as he has eaten and bathed. The great oaf smells of you, you whore,' she hissed, but I could see the fact pleased rather than angered her. 'Bitch in heat, that's all you are now, sweet little Angelina.' She paused and stroked the side of her jaw for a moment, considering. 'And that name simply won't do,' she concluded. 'Such a ladylike name for a doggie girl just simply won't do, so we shall have to find a more suitable one for you.' She snorted something between a laugh and a cough and spun on her heels. 'I shall spend the afternoon considering it,' she called back as she swept out into the open air. 'Yes, we must find a proper name for a proper bitch.'

  In the right era and in the right circumstances, mad Meg could have earned herself a fortune. She seemed to have a perfect grasp of what was needed in order to humiliate and control people, and there are always plenty of men and women who are prepared to pay fortunes to suffer such treatment in such imaginative clutches. I, however, do not count myself among their numbers, but then I wasn't being given any choice in the matter. Nor was I given any choice by Erik when he eventually returned.

  He carried with him two slats of wood and for a moment I thought he might be intending to use them to paddle my backside, but no, for he also had with him two lengths of some sort of canvas strapping. These two pieces of timber were, as I quickly discovered, intended for a far more devious purpose.

  Grasping my right arm first, he extended it horizontally and lifted the first piece of wood up against my forearm, winding the strap about it with his other hand until he had established it enough to employ both hands to continue winding the binding down as far as my wrist and up, until my gloved hand was also held immovably against the splint with some twelve to fourteen inches of the wood still projecting beyond it.

  My left arm and hand were quickly treated in identical fashion whilst I stood like a statue trying to work out what he was doing and what the planks were for. Of course, when the answer came it was obvious for all the clues had been there previously, but it still came as a horrible shock when he ordered me down onto all fours, legs straight, the tips of the splints acting now as extensions to make my arms approximately the same length.

  'Doggie girl,' he said, chuckling, and indeed I now must have resembled a greyhound in many ways although I moved, when instructed, with considerably less grace, of that I am sure. For several minutes, Erik made me walk back and forth so I could coordinate my legs and arms, until he was apparently satisfied with the result. 'Walk now outside we shall,' he announced, and produced a leash he snapped onto my collar before he stooped down and peered into my face, hot and red with shame behind the mask. 'Woof you will say,' he instructed.

  I swallowed and blinked, but there was nothing much else for it. 'Woof,' I repeated dutifully.

  He patted my head. 'Good doggie,' he said, looking pleased. 'Later a bone you shall be getting if good girl you are.' He shook the leash and gave it a short tug. 'And now walking we shall be, for sunny it is and fresh the air, too.'

  Outside, as I made my clumsy and undignified way, I could see no sign of Meg, but I was almost certain she had to be somewhere close by watching me with glee. Part of me wanted to stand upright again and shout out that they could do whatever they wanted to me without ever succeeding in turning me into an animal, but the sensible part told me to hold back, to bide my time and wait. For if they continued to think they were breaking my spirit, then perhaps they would relax their vigilance and present me with a chance to escape, though how, when and where was another question altogether.

  Our progress through the trees was slow and I wanted to shout that we could go a damned sight faster if only he would let me stand upright, but I knew the answer that would bring. Meg had decreed that I was to be treated like a dog and dogs walk on four legs, not two. I sighed mentally wondering just how far that woman was capable of going, but I already knew the answer. Hers was the sort of mentality that was able to justify mass murder, genocide, and the extreme tortures employed by gangsters and corrupt governments all over the world and all throughout the ages. Every terrorist
regime, whatever its size, depends upon dumb followers and semi-passive supporters, but there have to be those capable of leading them, and in events like the French Revolution, the Megs of this world would not be sitting at home knitting while the heads rolled; they would be the ones working the guillotines.

  It wasn't long before the two pints of water I had drunk began to make their presence felt and I knew I would have to stop to relieve myself. Tentatively, I tried to draw Erik's attention. 'Master?' I made an effort to sound suitably humble and compliant.

  He turned back and pointed a finger down at me. 'Woof!' he said, almost barking himself. 'Dog say woof.'

  'Woof,' I muttered.

  He smiled in a watery sort of way, as if his mind wasn't really on this new game at all.

  'Woof, woof,' I repeated. He chuckled and nodded, but I could see he had no idea what I was trying to communicate, and why should he? I gave up trying and instead simply shuffled my legs further apart and let it flow, trying to ignore the fact that the ground being hard and, there being no layer of absorbent straw beneath me, my leather-covered limbs would be splashed.

  'Aha!' he exclaimed. 'Peeing is what the doggie girl wanted. Better feeling will you be now, I think.'

  Better feeling I was, at least in as much as the emptying of a protesting bladder is a universal feeling of relief we all need no description of, but having to pee in front of a man was not something likely to enhance my spiritual well-being.

  We walked on again and all the time I was having trouble keeping my mind off one particular prospect. Peeing like a dog was one thing and certainly bad enough, but when it came to needing to empty my bowels, could I face having to squat down and do that in public as well, for that was surely the only option I would be allowed.