Of Bondlings and Blesh Ch 10

Chapter 10

Yummibum, having finished work on my face, took a comb and dipped it into a large jar of perfumed oil. She stroked it slowly through my hair. An overseer glanced in through the tent flap, muttered something inaudible and withdrew. An unfamiliar but beautiful tune drifted on the wind, before being drowned in the drumming of heavy rain on canvas.

“You’ll like the next bit,” Yummibum said, smiling weakly.

She started to massage the oil into my skin and, in spite of my dread, I did enjoy her oily touch – especially when it reached the more intimate parts of my body. Once I was oiled, she slipped the dress over my shoulders, and eased it into place. Glancing down, I saw that the oil glued it to my every contour and rendered it even more nearly transparent than it would otherwise have been. I had been clad only in harness for more than three months, and now felt perfectly at ease with that – but, in the oiled dress, a sense of my nakedness overwhelmed me.

A guard, fondling my bottom appreciatively, escorted me to another tent. There, more than twenty slaves waited – each presented as provocatively as me. The company included two boys – faces made up like those of we girls, dressed as we were, and as thoroughly coated with perfumed oil. As far as I could tell, the boys were even more nervous than the rest of us.

I was saddened to see that several of my friends from Cap’n Gentle’s cargo, and the torment production, were amongst those awaiting ravishment. One of them was Leggi, at whom I smiled weakly, but to whom I said nothing. Spanquibelle and Fuquibelle also joined us. We all exchanged glances, but none of us spoke – there seemed nothing to say.

We waited for what seemed a very long time, during which the guards brought more slaves to join us. Eventually, there must have been more than forty, including four boys. Even with our company completed, we continued to wait. Just when it seemed that we would spend the night where we were, guards and drivers took us, at smart trot, to the banqueting tent.

The top table was occupied by Berenice and the ladies of her court – before them the remains of a meal, wine glasses and Berenice’s goblet of slave’s milk. Facing the Surrey ladies, a lower table perhaps ninety feet long – and given over to the barbarians – was littered with mugs, more wine glasses, half-eaten food and spilt drink. Serving slaves scurried about their duties, heedless of straying hands. The decorations on which I’d worked so hard were completely ruined.

On our entry, the din was redoubled as the men whistled, stamped and yelled what were probably obscenities in their own tongue. A few well aimed lashes had we slaves standing in line, facing the barbarians, our backs to Berenice and her court. Never had I felt so ashamed as I did then, presenting myself for their lustful gaze. Suddenly silence fell – I think as Berenice rose to speak.

“Lords,” she began, “you have feasted, now let the frolicking begin – there is a succulent virgin for each of you. Or each but Bummer Jones, the Tiger of the Bay, Owen of Foul Mouth, Tarquin of Dart Moor and Griffin of the Holy Isle. The tastes of you four are known to us – and I don’t think you’ll fault the boys I have provided. Of course, the lads have no hymens to crack – but, as nearly as possible, we’ve ensured their absolute purity.”

Berenice paused. The barbarians renewed their clamour – mostly directed, I thought, toward the unfortunate slave boys. Perhaps concern for them helped alleviate distress over my own imminent fate. Then silence fell again – presumably at sign from Berenice.

“The slaves have been busy,” she continued, “embroidering your devices on their pretty frocks. There can be no doubt over which slave is for which lord. It wouldn’t do to lose one of our gallant allies in a fight over some trollop. Let the rogering commence, my brave boys – and don’t spare your pricks!”

With a roar, they arose – knocking over the furniture in their haste. A bearded man grasped me, his hairy arms horribly muscular. Picked up bodily, I was hurled to the ground. His stench – mingled beer, sweat and excrement – filled my nostrils as he fell upon me.

The smell, however, was almost a welcome distraction as he pulled his penis from a pair of filthy breeches. I was trying not to look at the thing. In rising panic, my only thought was: he’s going to stick that in me! Then he was thrusting inside of me without foreplay or gentleness.

As he thrust and pushed, I felt myself tearing. I tasted salt, having bitten – as I later realised – the inside of my mouth until it bled. Teeth clenched upon my lower lip, the paint’s waxy taste soon grew salty too. He thrust and pummelled, was in at last, my virginity now broken.

The horrible tearing was done, but the pounding between my legs continued, and hurt every bit as much. As a torment subject, I had become accustomed to pain, and could accept it with fortitude even when there was no mingled pleasure. This was entirely different – the whips had been external to my being – his penis was inside, violating what had been the secret sanctum of the goddess within me, untouched by any beating. As my hands brushed my face, the fingers blackened – eye paint dissolved in tears – but the barbarian laughed, placing a groping hand on my breast, pounding harder.

His stench was becoming more difficult to bear – perhaps he had farted. The pounding was worse than ever – then suddenly, it was over. His body stiffened, then grew limp. He had discharged his semen, mingled with the blood of my violation.

His penis withered within me. Then he pulled himself up to rejoin the laughing throng. I lay weeping, a damp patch beneath me, the fine fabric of my dress ripped, cosmetics ruined in the flow of my tears. My vision was still obliterated, as I continued to cry, when a soft voice sounded – as though from far away.

“Did he hurt you very much?”

The voice was unmistakably feminine, with a pronounced and rather lovely Cymric lilt. I didn’t realise that the speaker was kneeling so close – or that she was speaking to me – until a gentle hand touched my shoulder. Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand didn’t help me to see – fresh tears were still welling. A second attempt to wipe my eyes was just as useless.

“Did my father hurt you very much?” she repeated.

By way of reply, I could only produce an inarticulate sob. Strong arms enfolded me, and I felt myself pressed close to what could only be a girl’s body. Instead of speaking again, she sang softly in her own language. It seemed to be a lullaby.

As she sang, she rocked me gently. Slowly, I ceased to sob. When my vision cleared at last, I saw a girl’s face – round, dark haired and pretty. Without thinking, my lips sought hers.

For a moment, our mouths brushed softly, chastely. Then our tongues met, each stroking the other: the kiss was still affectionate, but on the cusp of sexuality. After a moment or two, she disengaged herself from my arms, and rose to her feet. Feeling momentarily abandoned, and perhaps disappointed, fresh tears came to my eyes.

“Come, my chickadee,” she murmured, gently wiping my eyes, “time to slip away to somewhere more private.”

Fighting back the tears – and trying to look about – I saw that she had a point; the tent was still full of people, although no one seemed to be paying us any heed. With a shudder, I realised that retainers were queuing to use some of the slaves, now that their masters had done. Amongst those still being gang raped was my friend Leggi – I couldn’t bear to look for more than a moment. Grim as my fate had been, others were still receiving more merciless treatment.

Kneeling once more, the girl placed one arm about my shoulders, while cradling my knees with the other. She rose to her feet, lifting me as though I were a doll, or a baby. Her strength was comforting. Still carrying me, she stepped from the tent and through the compound beyond.

“You’re really strong,” I whispered – the first thing I’d said to her.

She kissed me again, and said with a little laugh: “A warlord’s daughter on the Meadow Lands marches has no chance for weak arms. Not when she has to fetch boulders for the Powytzer[1]. The man who took you was Lewis Ironhand of Clun, and I’m Lady Nerys – his daughter.”

“I’m Tuerqui, only a slave… You’re lovely, mistress.”

Lady Nerys carried me into a small tent, its flap painted with the white horse device of Lewis Ironhand. Inside, she placed me on a soft mattress which must have been stuffed with feathers. The last time I had lain on anything so exquisite had been in the Palace Victoria. Lady Isobel’s mattress had been a straw one.

I watched as Lady Nerys crossed the tent to return with a jug and basin. She wetted and wrung a flannel, then wiped my face methodically. Before washing, my face must have been a dreadful sight. What my tears had done to my make up was something I preferred not to imagine.

“Thank you, mistress” I said.

“That’s better,” she replied. “You look pretty with a clean face. Let’s see how lovely you can make it.”

She handed me a cosmetic palette and a hand mirror. Setting to work on my face, my hands trembled as Lady Nerys started to wash the blood and semen from my groin. When I was clean – at least externally – she ran exploring hands over my contours. I wished I had a free hand with which to respond – but needed my right hand for the cosmetics brush and my left for the mirror.

“No need to hurry,” she whispered, brushing my ear with her tongue, “I want you, but I can wait.” Then more loudly, and weighing my breasts in her hands: “Just a nice handful each… Damn it, you little minx – I can’t wait. Put your hands on mine, Tuerqui.”

It was the first time she had spoken my name – it made me tingle. Laying aside palette and mirror, I obeyed. Her breasts were a little smaller than mine, but firm and satisfying. Forgetting my place, I unbuttoned her bodice and thrust my hands inside, my fingers encountering a silky undergarment, rather than the flesh for which I’d hoped.

“My, you’re eager,” she said placidly.

Recalling my place with a start, I withdrew my hands hastily. Lady Nerys’ touch slipped from me as I arose. Stepping back half a pace, I sank to my knees. In need of correction, my action was almost automatic.

“I am sorry, mistress,” I said soberly. “I am an unworthy slave, who has forgotten her place. Would you please have the kindness to whip me?”

“Oh, screw, that!” she replied. “Get back to work, you hussy!”

Joyfully, my hands were exploring her body once more. She responded, and we were rolling, giggling, on the softness of the feather mattress. For the first time since parting from Lady Isobel, I was suddenly unreservedly happy. A tear trickled down my cheek, but I disregarded it – and Lady Nerys didn’t seem to notice.

When Lewis Ironhand entered the tent in mid-pleasuring, I shrank back in alarm, memories of my rape flooding upon me. It wasn’t me he wanted, however, but spoke to his daughter in Welsh – a question to judge from his intonation. She replied, evidently impatiently, in the same language – and a conversation ensued of which I understood not a word. After some final remarks which – from the direction of his glance – seemed to concern me, he departed laughing.

“He said,” Lady Nerys told me, “that he hoped I’d have more pleasure from you than he did. He said you were as cold as…” adding a word or two of Welsh before translating: “…it’s an icy stream when the winter snows melt – it turns your skin inside out with its cold. And he said that you were as tight as… but I should not repeat such a thing of the holy virgins, indeed not! I fear that my father is a blasphemer – but our gods love him for all of that – his sheep multiply and so do his victories.”

Her look of severity, or more probably mock-severity, faded as her eyes moved from my face to my breasts. Lady Nerys’ hands shifted, once more, to cup the objects of her scrutiny. Again, she seemed to be weighing them. The action filled me with pleasure – and my alarm at her father’s entrance was fading.

“He said that your tits were too small,” she continued. “But I don’t think he’s right, indeed not! They’re like ripe apples in my hands.”

Biting my neck, Lady Nerys fell upon me. Our love making continued, more furiously than before. She was clearly taking a lot more pleasure in me than her father had. I experienced a delight which, when she had lifted me from the banqueting tent, I would not have believed possible.

The barbarians stayed a fortnight longer – no doubt discussing the distribution of booty. Throughout that time, I remained in Lady Nerys’ tent, often acting out her confusing sexual fantasies. Amongst other things, she enjoyed putting on slave harness while I wore her clothes. This preference was pretty well the same as my games with Jenna – but
much more perplexing for Tuerqui than it had been for Lady Margaret.

The constraint of now unfamiliar ladies’ clothing felt almost bizarre. A tight skirt and high heels restricted my movements as a slave harness and bare feet did not. It is paradoxical that a slave should be able to step more freely than a lady. The cool touch of silky fabrics seemed curiously alien – the underwear was soft, but less so than cold Dankfog air upon my bare skin.

“I have been a naughty slave, your ladyship,” Nerys murmured.

Without a thought, I had her over my knee and picked up the hair brush from the bedside stool. I struck hard a great number of times – working out, perhaps, some of the pain and frustration inherent in my slavery. Continuing until my right arm ached, I must have really hurt her. The spanking complete, I threw her to the floor, falling upon the Welsh girl to use her with almost the violence to which her father had subjected me.

“I’m sorry, mistress,” I whispered, regaining self control when I was spent. “I don’t know what came over me. You must beat me, of course… and hard, please.”

“I think I know what came over you, my girl,” she said, opening her eyes and smiling. “I think I know very well. But you have a point. We’ll swap clothes and harness again, and then I’ll give you back a little of that lovely spanking.”

Returning to harness, I was pleased to be Tuerqui the slave, secure in my place, without doubts or confusion. My pleasure continued throughout the savage beating she gave me. It hurt, of course, but I accepted it eagerly. Slavery felt natural and, with a caring mistress, treasurable.

I lived very well. In place of swill, I ate the dainties Berenice provided for her guests, and sipped fine wines – probably booty from the noble cellars of my father’s allies. The barbarians, as far as I could gather, did not much care for the cuisine – but raised as I was on the work of the Belle House chef, the subtlety of the dishes was not wasted upon me. It seemed that even Lady Nerys was unable to appreciate Berenice’s delicacies – brought up, as she had been, on stewed sheep and turnips in the Cymric hills.

Quite as much as Lady Nerys, I luxuriated in the feather mattress – few slaves enjoy such comfort. There was even a whole day during which I had the service of Nerys as a slave, laying good things upon me in abundance. Alas, good things come to an end. I knew that Lady Nerys was about to leave – and that I must remain – before she broke the news, perhaps I read it in her eyes.

“Sometimes,” she began, “they present gifts – a slave or two, perhaps, and…”

She broke off, a tear trickling down her cheek. Curiously, I was dry eyed as I completed her news. Tears would have been a relief, but refused to form. Neither would s a smile.

“You’d hoped to accept me as a gift, keep me in your distant valley… But this time Berenice isn’t giving away any of the slaves.”

Lady Nerys nodded, dabbing at her eyes as she continued: “Henrietta Heartless, they call her…”

“Henrietta Heartless?” I asked, puzzled now. “They call Berenice Henrietta Heartless…? I don’t see…”

“No,” she corrected me, “Berenice has hired Henrietta. What is it she calls herself…?” Lady Nerys was clearly struggling to recall an unfamiliar English phrase which, presumably, she’d attempted to learn by rote. “A slavery eff – in – er – see – const – constable? No, that’s wrong. I’ve lost it…”

I was to learn the phrase soon enough. It should have been slavery efficiency consultant, a class of person universally hated by slaves. Cold efficiency is harder to bear than a more severe hot blooded cruelty. Lady Nerys may not have known the words, but she understood the concept well enough.

“Berenice is rich,” she explained, “she is – or was – one of the richest of the Nine. But even for her there are limits. She put on a do at an arty festival or some such… I don’t really understand it – a bit like the bards and choirs at home, maybe, but ever so much more expensive.”

“Grand labay and torment,” I told her. “I was there as a subject for Woodward’s third.”

“Oh, I dare say… Anyway, it cost a lot, and then she put on the do for my father and the others… Well, there’s something about breaching prices, and book values, and dep – ree – no, I’ve forgotten the word.”

“Depreciation,” I supplied, following her drift.

“Perhaps. It’s you slaves – when she gave you to the men, it seems that your value fell right down… I can’t remember the amount, I never was good at reckoning, but it’s a shocking lot – enough to buy half my father’s sheep, so they say[2]. I don’t really understand your civi… civi… civi… lised, that’s the right word, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps.”

“I don’t really understand your ways. Even now, Berenice isn’t really poor, not like the…” she used a Welsh word, but failed to translate, “…in his reed hut by the lake – I dare say she’s richer than all the lords of Cymru put together. But she’s worried about her wealth – so this Henrietta Heartless has come to organise the slaves – and it’s her who says that none are to be given away. I can’t remember half the long words, but every slave must stay, even you, my sweet…”

She started to cry. I cradled Lady Nerys in my arms, rocking her back and forth, crooning a lullaby with which Nanny Spencer had soothed me in the Belle House. Thus was our final hour spent. When guards came to lead me away, no word of parting was spoken.

I was taken to a tent housing all of the slaves whose virginity had been presented to the barbarians – all except the slave boys. Handed a bowl of repulsive swill, I devoured the mess silently and methodically, although I wasn’t hungry. It seemed a kind of penance. Still I remained dry eyed.

My only pleasure was in seeing a few familiar faces. I was especially pleased to see Leggi, at least for a moment. We chatted in a half-hearted way, neither of us mentioning our rape – it formed, I sensed, a barrier between us. That night we hugged, more against the Dankfog cold than in affection or desire.

In the morning, a white-coated woman toured the tent, taking a little of each slave’s urine. She used a separate pan and separate bottle for each girl – and labelled the bottles carefully. The idea occurred to me that the liquid might be recycled in our swill, but Leggi assured me that she was a vet, taking samples to test us. No one explained further, and I failed to understand her purpose, taking it as some kind of general check on our health.

For the next few days we were assigned to sewing – light, easy, but rather dull work. Stitching, we started to voice some of what we had been unable to say the previous evening. I spoke before Leggi, although I didn’t think that I knew what to say. Her fate had been so horrible.

“When I last saw you…” I began.

“Last night? Or do you mean…”

“Yes I mean… with the barbarians, that is.”

“Well – we all… Didn’t we?”

“Yes, but it was worse for you… At least, I think…”

“Why? You like girls – just girls – don’t you? I would have thought…”

“But there was only one…”

“Only one?”

“Only one man raped me.”

Finally, I had said the R word, and in that moment, it was as though a barrier had been shattered. We could acknowledge what had been done to us. Our pain no longer divided us, but was able to unite. That night, Leggi and I made gentle love.

“Henrietta Heartless is coming here tomorrow,” Bounci announced the following morning.

She was a favourite with our guards and overseers, several of whom she pleasured every night, and from whom she received whatever news there was. Possibly, we were intended to know the things she retailed – or perhaps she passed on careless pillow talk. I was always careful about what I said in her hearing, in case information passed in the opposite direction. Likewise, if I did anything of which the authorities might not approve, I tried to avoid the glance of the overseers’ girlfriend.

“I’ve heard of her,” Bounci’s friend Wirquibelle said, “something to do with measuring how hard slaves are whipped.”

“And how hard we work,” Bounci added. “Seems that if they whip us too little we don’t work properly, and if we’re whipped too much we work even less. That’s what Julie was telling Valerie while I was pleasuring Joan. Henrietta has to work out how hard and how often we need to be lashed.”

“You can’t have made a decent job of Joan,” Strumpette snorted, “I’ve never seen her so out of temper.”

“Put a sock in it!” Wirquibelle replied. “What do you expect? You know what’ll happen to Joan and the others if Henrietta says they’re doing it wrong. We’re used to the whip, but it’s different for the overseers.”

When Henrietta Heartless arrived, resplendent in a fuchsia coloured strappy dress, she looked ready for a party rather than for business. However, it was soon clear that business was what she meant – carrying a clipboard, a pen and a small object I couldn’t at first identify. On glimpsing the thing properly, I was astonished to discover that it was a watch – a tiny timepiece, as made in the Old Time[3]. Several watches were included in the Victoria Jewels, one or two in working order, but they were considered too fragile to touch and seldom removed from their display cabinets.

Although I didn’t understand what Henrietta was doing, the results of her work soon became clear. Our overseers plied their whips with remorseless efficiency, and we slaves worked harder than ever. The motivations for previous harsh treatment had all been ones with which I could empathise to a greater or lesser degree – artistry, anger, or even simple cruelty. Suffering for the sake of efficiency was another matter, and I found it hard to bear.

Rather than brood upon our troubles, I tried to think of other matters. Camp gossip still trickled into our tent, although Bounci and the others were quieter than before. I attempted to recall Lady Isobel, but she seemed increasingly unreal, Lady Nerys only a little less so. More and more, I dwelt upon the fact that my period was very late – the last had been during rehearsals, six weeks ago, or was it seven?

“The vet’s finished the tests – and about bloody time, too. Eight of them positive, I’ve got the list for you…” The words caught me by surprise, bent over my work, I hadn’t seen or heard the speaker enter the tent.

Looking up, I saw an official in a turquoise figure-hugging dress handing a paper to Joanne, the supervising overseer. Joanne took the document. A carefully applied lash had me attending to my work once more. I didn’t look up again until I heard my name.

“Right,” Joanne announced, “eight of you are to accompany this lady: Duqui, Fluff, Gropibelle, Pette, Skruibelle, Spanqumi, Tuerqui, Wirkquibelle.”

The accident of the alphabet putting my name second from last gave me the impression that my name was not going to be called. Startled, I leapt from my seat as though summoned by the whip. Without a thought, I joined the other seven in an orderly file and, a moment later, we followed she of the turquoise dress into the compound. Only later was it to occur to me that this was my parting from Leggi – and my other friends.

She led us to a cluster of tents near the edge of the camp, almost in the shadow of the palisade. Still taking us in alphabetic order, she ushered two each into four of the tents. Duqui and Fluff were urged into the first with slaps on their bottoms, more sensual than efficient. Wirquibelle and I were directed into the fourth tent in the same fashion. My little smack had me feeling pleasantly sexy.

Inside, female slaves were making whips. I was much relieved to find a scene of industry rather than butchery – for it had occurred to me that the vet might have revealed that we were fit only for blesh. Better, it was a trade in which I had already acquired some skill. Wirquibelle grimaced at me – seemingly attempting to convey something, but I was unable to guess her meaning.

It was not until after we’d been supplied with strips of leather, and started work, that I took note of the overseers’ whips. They were extremely light, and of a kind I hadn’t previously seen – lighter than a peccalalo – but, for all of that, soon found that they had a powerful sting. Some of the other slaves were making exquisite torment instruments but, to my disappointment, I was assigned to an ordinary whip – fit only for a crass overseer. My consolation was having a fine piece of leather on which to work – I suppose that no one tried to dupe Berenice with second best.

Within half an hour, it struck me that the other slaves looked remarkably well fed. Swill is usually rationed and, in any case, is generally too repulsive for slaves to develop large bellies. Perhaps I was in a state of denial, but it may have taken another ten minutes or so before I framed the idea that they were big with child. A minute or two later, it occurred to me that I, too, might be pregnant.

“Do you think we’re going to have babies?” I whispered to Wirquibelle.

“What do you think?” was her unsatisfactory reply.

I shivered, but perhaps it was only the Dankfog chill. Several of the slaves were singing softly as they worked, a half familiar melody that I couldn’t identify. A lean cat entered the tent and mewed, an overseer tickled it behind its ears and found a morsel of food. From outside, there sounded the plaintive cry of a crow.

[1] Powytzer: or Powys howitzer, a large steam-driven war machine capable of hurling boulders for a considerable distance. The device was probably invented in Cymru during the 5th century YD. By the 8th century YD, they were employed by many Cymric warlords – especially those on the borders of Westland or the Meadow Lands.

[2] In fact, the loss of the slaves’ virginity cannot have reduced their book value to the extent implied here. However, both the arts festival and the reception for the barbarian lords were certainly expensive for Berenice.

[3] In fact, the ancient art of watch-making had been revived in Surrey about ten years before this time. The watch was probably of recent manufacture – but certainly a very expensive object.

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http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2006/09/of-bondlings-and-blesh-ch-11.html