Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 14

Chapter 14

A smartly painted red and yellow cart rounded the corner, but didn’t stop, sixteen draught slaves at the shafts. Madame Scurf spat into the gutter. The cat jumped from the bake house roof to a wall, stalking with its tail in the air. A startled bird fluttered skywards.

“Anyfink else you’d like ter ask, dearies?” Madame Scurf asked after a long pause.

“No, mistress,” we mumbled.

The information that we had been sold into whoredom left none of us with anything to say. The idea of running away occurred to me – but flight through the heart of Surrey with RBS tattooed on my forehead was not to be contemplated. Small wonder that our new owner had not bothered to chain or tie us. I felt slightly sick.

When Sam’s cart finally rattled into the street, it proved a sorry sight. The ill-matched draught slaves looked as though they comprised whatever Sam could pick up at no great expense. At least half of them were clearly unsuited to heavy work. As to the vehicle itself, it was impossible to tell what colour the peeling paint had once been.

The carter was a wrinkled man with wild hair and matted beard. Neither his ragged clothes nor his person seemed to have been washed recently. His blue eyes sparkled and a grin spread from ear to ear, revealing as many gaps as teeth. He doffed his battered hat as he approached.

“Sam! You useless image! What time d’ yer call this?” Madame Scurf shouted.

“Now, now, Molly. ’Ow’s abaht a kiss? You looks lovely when yer riled.”

“I’ll bloody kiss yer with this!” Our mistress brandished her cane. “And don’t you Molly me. I’ll not be back in time ter open the Laughin’ Phallus.”

“Don’t you fret, now. Beryl and Gilly’ll do it.”

“That pair! They’ll ’ave more o’ the takin’s in their purses than in me till.”

“Nah, nah, Molly, you knows they’re honest workers.”

“Honest workers – I don’t fink – fieving ’ussies more like!”

“An’ Doris an’ Flo’ll give ’em an ’and.”

“Ho yuss! More idle that me ’ores are that pair!”

“Well, don’t fret – I’ll just tend ter me ’orses, then we’ll be off licketty-spit. Be in Dorkin’ before yer knows it.”

Rather than respond to this, Madame Scurf yelled at us: “On the cart, ’ores!”

Cart ’ores sounded so much like cart horse that I was confused for a moment. Our mistress chose to clarify her words with the cane. A stinging stroke made contact with my thighs, and had me scrambling on to the vehicle with some alacrity. Giggli followed me closely, clutching her bottom.

In contrast to our flurry of activity, Sam was shifting himself slowly. He gave his slaves a bucket of water, which they passed from hand to hand, and some dry biscuits that looked as though composed of sawdust. As Madame Scurf’s cane made contact with his buttocks, the carter howled like a dog by its master’s grave. After two or three more strokes, he returned the bucket to its rusty bent nail and levered himself cautiously into the driving seat.

Soon the cart creaked into motion, and a few minutes later we were leaving town. On either side of the road were green fields, some of them wheat, others pasture. Giggli, Wiggli and I had seated ourselves on a packing case at the back of the cart. Beddibelle, Shugathise and Mussiltarte sat facing us on another large box.

Madame Scurf was sitting up front with Sam, seemingly taking no notice of her purchases. In spite of the recent shouting and plying of the cane, the two were now, clearly, engaged in friendly conversation. For some time, we the cargo sat in silence, then Wiggli started to tell us of her life with General Slaughter. Soon we were all adding to the conversation – the idea of whoredom thrust to the backs of our minds.

“…but the overseer lifted the whip too high and caught the captain of the guard across her breastplate,” Mussiltarte was saying. “It can’t have hurt, but…”

“There’s another town ahead,” Wiggli broke in.

She was right – just ahead was a straggle of grey buildings. I had never seen the place before, but somehow I knew that this was journey’s end – and the start of my whoredom. It seemed that we all knew it: our conversation came to an abrupt halt. In the sudden quiet, Madame Scurf was audible again.

“…done it. But I’m glad as Fiona’s doin’ fine. She’s a good girl. If she ever wants work at the Laughin’ Phallus you only gotta ask.”

“A daughter o’ mine an ’ore?” Sam replied. “Sarah woon’t stand fer it – not fer a minute.”

“Nah, yer great lummox. Sweepin’ up an’ such. Yer knows as ’ow…”

The rest of the sentence was lost as the cart left the muddy road to clatter over the cobbled streets of the town. Then the noise abated as we turned left from the main street and into a muddy lane flanked by dingy buildings. The paint flaked from every door but one. The exception was a violent splash of colour against the grey background.

The door was scarlet. Above, in letters of the same colour were the words: The Laughing Phallus Groping Parlour and All Night Shaftarama. Higher still, the Laughing Phallus sign extended for more than half the width of the lane. It was a bright red model of an erect penis, at least five feet long, with a toothy grin at its tip.

The wall was embellished with several luridly coloured posters depicting scantily clad girls in provocative poses. Have you got what it takes to fill my need? was the caption to one in which a girl was shown inserting one hand into her briefs. Cabaret Room Now Open was matched with a depiction of three almost naked girls pleasuring one another. One with a girl on a bed carried the rhyme: Shaft away the night – LP whores won’t bite!

“’Ere we are, remember me ter Sarah, Fiona an’ Roger,” Madame Scurf said to Sam. Then – flailing her cane and bellowing at us: “Aht the cart – yer lazy ’ores!”

“I’ll remember yer to ’em, Molly,” Sam replied, “Set them ’ores ter work – an’ I ’opes as they don’t wear out yer pay-shunce, an’ yer arm, too much.”

Fortunately, only one stroke of the cane made contact with me – but that was plenty. All six of we slaves hurried through the red door – Madame Scurf close on our heels, but no longer plying her cane. She was puffing, which allowed me to hope – albeit without much conviction – that she was unused to beating her whores. We stood in a short passageway from which led three exits.

At the end of the hallway, a yellow door was marked in purple with Groping Parlour and Cabaret Room. The colours were reversed on the door to the left – All Night Shaftarama. Less conspicuous, to the right, a black door was inscribed in white with the word Private. Madame Scurf unlocked the black door and ushered us through.

The room beyond was furnished as an office with two chairs, a desk and a filing cabinet: dusty ledgers were buried under loose papers stacked in untidy heaps. My eye was drawn to a corner given over to a tangle of leather straps twisted with metal anklets and bracelets. They had obviously been worn by slaves – the idea of a blesh butcher came unbidden to my mind. Ominously, once we were all inside, Madame Scurf locked the door and proceeded to unfasten our anklets, bracelets and harnesses.

“Yer won’t want ’em in ’ere,” she said, “leastways barring doin’ a turn in the cabaret mebbee. Me clientele likes ter fink as ’ey’ve got real girls – not jus’ an ’andful o’ slave flesh. Blesh on the ’oof, as yer might say. We aims ter please.”

As each harness fell from one of our bodies, she threw it into the corner with what seemed to me scant respect for the symbols of slavery. Deprived of mine, I felt uncomfortable – wearing the arrangement of straps had come to seem natural and inevitable. Taking her cane once more, our mistress urged us out of the office by a different door. It led into a dingy unpainted passage where we waited while Madame Scurf paused to lock her office.

“Be rights you lot should be workin’ be now,” she said, “would be if Sam could be arsed to shift ’imself. An’ ’e’s too soft on ’is cart slaves… Anyways – ter business – ’as any of yer worked as ’ores before?”

“No, mistress,” we mumbled in unison.

“As I thought.” She nodded grimly. “I don’t suppose as any of yer ’as even bin in a brothel before.”

We shook our heads. I noticed that she had started to sound her th’s correctly, and wondered which was an affectation – the f or the th[1]. If I was trying to keep my mind from separation from Tuerquelle, or my imposed whoredom, it wasn’t working very well. Crying might have helped, but tears refused to come.

“Well,” she continued, “I suppose yer all got ideas about what brothels are like?”

We smiled and nodded. All of us had definite ideas about that. I looked to Madame Scurf, expecting her to mirror our smiles. To my surprise, she was frowning.

“Them answers cou’n’t be worse.” She sighed deeply. “The Lady knows – it’s typical of the girls I buy – so I sh’oun’t be surprised. Oh well – I’ll try ter knock the silly notions out o’ yer ’eads over a bowl o’ summat ’ot.”

She conducted us to a kitchen the paintwork of which – like that of Sam’s cart – had deteriorated to a point where it was impossible to tell what colour it had once been, but the place seemed clean enough. Madame Scurf filled our bowls from a pan of simmering swill. It smelt good and, although I didn’t think that I was hungry, I raised the bowl to my lips. It was excellent – and I soon found that I was hungrier than I’d thought.

“I’m sure as the swill is better than yer used ter,” our mistress said. “It’s a yinvestment. The punters like smilin’ faces. So ’ow yer gonna show yer appreciation for a tasty feed?”

“Smile, mistress,” we chorused.

“That yer will – or I’ll be busy with me whip. Yer’ll smile, an’ yer’ll work. But what yer gotta know is that this is jus’ a business like any other. The punters get what they pay for – neither more nor less.”

She paused for us to say “yes, mistress.”

“It’s like me goin’ ter Red ’ill terday. I pays fer six slaves, an’ I gets exactly them six – not one less, not an extra, not a substitute. An’ them six does as they're told an’ don’t annoy other bidders, neither. When I engage Sam to take us ’ome, ’e don’t take us the wrong way, ’e don’t drop us ’alf way ’ere, an’ ’e don’t take us on terward Gillsford.”

Again she paused – this time I varied my response with “of course, mistress” – but most of the others stuck with “yes, mistress.”

“Right – well, I’m startin’ yer off in the gropin’ parlour, as I always do. But – first – the bathroom. The punters likes yer to smell nice – so make sure yer do. Spank’belle!”

The final word was shouted, and clearly not addressed to us. A few minutes later a weary-looking middle aged slave appeared. She was in harness, had the name Spanquibelle on her thigh and an RBS tattoo on her forehead. Madame Scurf treated her to several strokes of the cane.

“Spank’belle, you are the laziest slave I ever come across. If it weren’t fer me kind ’eart, yer’d a been boiled dahn fer glue years back. Nah take me new ’ores ter the bathroom – an’ get ’em smellin’ nice. ’Ave ’em in the gropin’ parlour robin’ room in ’alf an hour.”

The slave led us along the passage and into a bathroom walled with what had once been colourful decorative tiles. I was puzzled by the familiarity of a few of the designs until I remembered that some of the tiling of the Palace Victoria was booty from raids into Surrey[2]. Spanquibelle hurried to set a large pan of water on the fire. When she spoke, it was with quite a refined accent.

“I’ll heat the water as well as I can, but there isn’t much time. Madame Scurf will be displeased with all of us, should we take too long.”

“You have an RBS mark, Spanquibelle,” Wiggli observed.

“Yes – I once worked as you will be working – but I’m too old for that now, thank the goddess. Madame Scurf retains a few of us for domestic duties. Not every slave thinks so, but I’d rather scrub the toilets than have to do with men’s… Well – even now – I would prefer not to say.”

There was an uncomfortable silence while Spanquibelle warmed our water and opened a chest to produce cakes of strongly scented soap. I’d had an impulse to ask her about working as a whore – but had, at the same time, not even wished to think about it. Her obvious disinclination to talk about such matters stayed my tongue and, I think, those of my companions. The break in the conversation was becoming hard to bear.

“Spanquibelle,” I said, “whatever you’ve become, you still sound like a lady.”

“Thank you… Tuerqui,” she replied, pausing to read my thigh. “You, too, still sound like a lady. My people were of a fine family – the Dykes[3] of Hen-Lay. They sent me to Bracknill Academy for Young Ladies…”

“Were you...” I faltered… “Were you Lady Caroline Dyke?”

“Why, yes – but how do you know…?”

“My mother[4] was your best friend at the Academy… She told me about the raid[5] and how the girls fled… And how, when they reached safety, you were missing.”

“Good Lady! I see it now. Your face… your mother’s face. Of all the…”

She threw her arms about me, weeping. I hugged her, feeling that I, too, should cry – but no tears would come. My fellow whores had removed the warm water from the fire and were lathering themselves with soap. No doubt they feared Madame Scurf’s anger.

Having no wish, for my own part, to incur our mistress’ wrath, I disengaged myself from Spanquibelle’s arms. The water was tepid and, my companions having had first call upon it, none too clean. The soap was the most strongly scented I had ever used. It smelt – in that phrase from my childhood that now brought a mirthless smile to my lips – like a Surrey brothel.

Regaining control of herself, Spanquibelle handed us towels – the softest I’d used since my enslavement. Perhaps that was because Madame Scurf didn’t wish to scratch her whores’ faces.[6] I was scarcely dry when my mother’s school friend was hurrying us down a passage and up a rickety flight of stairs. As a result, we were in the groping parlour robing room before our mistress arrived.

It was lined with slightly dimmed mirrors. Just below the reflective surfaces, a shelf of cosmetics ran almost the entire distance round the room. Racks in the middle of the floor held a large quantity of clothing. As far as I could see, all of the garments might be aptly described as tarty – which was scarcely surprising.

“Good!” Madame Scurf said as she entered. “That lazy tart Spank’belle ’as got yer ’ere on time, fer a wonder.”

She laid aside a whip – which she’d evidently fetched as remedy for possible tardiness. I appraised the strip to plaited leather with a professional eye. It was by no means a torment instrument, but there was little doubt that it was well made and would hurt a great more than her cane. My impression was confirmed – that she was not a person to annoy.

“This ’ere’s the gropin’ parlour robin’ room. It’s where yer dress fer yer night’s work – an’ makes yerselves look pretty. Plenty o’ slap – the clientele likes it – bright red lips, nails ter match, eyes done up, powder an’ rouge, the ’ole lot. Nah…” she held a loop of red fabric to which was pinned a large feather, “I’m sure yer don’t know what this is for.”

“It’s a head band, mistress,” Mussiltarte replied.

“Watch yer lip, tart!” Madame Scurf snarled – then, inappropriately – “Speak when yer spoken to!”

“I’m sorry, mistress.”

“Yer bloody well will be, if yer don’t watch it – an’ sharp! A n’eadband is what it is – but it ain’t what it’s for. It’s ter ’ide the RBS marks of yer brows. ’Member that the clientele likes ter fool ’emselves ’as they ’as real girls – not slave meat an’ not common broffel tarts.”

She started to remove garments from the racks and hand them to us. I received a basque and a tiny pair of briefs – both purple, trimmed with black ribbon and lace. Starting to struggle into the tight things, I felt a sharp impact upon my buttocks. Fortunately, it was only the cane, not the whip.

“’Old it, ’ore! Get yer nails done an’ dry before yer dress. I don’t want varnish on yer nice clothes. It won’t wash orf.”

With the encouragement of Madame Scurf’s cane, my companions and I started to prepare for our first evening as whores. It was soon to be clear that she used the cane to express impatience or exasperation, reserving her whip to punish actual faults. I painted my nails bright red and wiggled my fingers to dry them. Then, I began to dress.

It was the first time I had wriggled into underwear since my affair with Lady Nerys – over four years before. The now unaccustomed act of dressing proved difficult. Nor was I helped by the fact that the basque and briefs were at least a size too small for me. The bones of the basque dug painfully into my flesh.

There was no time to dwell upon such discomfort, however, as our mistress and her cane urged us to hurry our preparations. I rolled a pair of black fishnet stockings up my thighs and clipped their tops to my dangling suspenders. As the first suspender slid home the cane made fiery contact. I tried to work faster, but received a couple more stinging strokes.

“No – no – no!” Madame Scurf bawled. “Suspenders inside yer knickers. When they takes yer ter the private rooms, our customers are gonna want yer drawers orf ter get ter yer minges! Stupid fucking ’ores!”

I slid the suspender under my briefs and fastened it again – this time without painful consequences. Madame Scurf placed a red dress in my hand. When I struggled into the figure-hugging fabric, I found that the bodice was low cut – almost sufficiently so to expose my nipples – while the skirt was slit to the thigh. Without waiting to be bidden, I hurried to brush my hair and busy myself with the cosmetics.

When I was done, an unmistakable whore stared back at me from the mirror. I felt deeply ashamed, as I had not while naked. Even the greatest ladies are sometimes unclothed. They are not in the habit of bedecking themselves as strumpets.

Mercifully, no doubt, we were not permitted the leisure for deep reflection – time was pressing and the cane stung. It remained to don three more items, the first being a pair of shoes with high stiletto heels. Next was a red feathered headband with which I carefully hid my RBS mark. Finally, I hung a slender gold-coloured chain about my neck – from which depended a tag marked with the number twenty-three.

Then we whores were hurrying from the room, wobbling and bumping into one another, trying to manage our unaccustomed heels. The stairs seemed about to collapse as we clattered down. At the bottom Madame Scurf showed us through a door which I expected to lead to the groping parlour. It was marked girl whores – I wondered what other kind of whore there could be, it was surely no work for crones.

To my surprise, we found ourselves in a toilet, a place of strange contrast. The row of holes into which bodily wastes were obviously evacuated was almost indistinguishable from the latrines provided for Berenice’s slaves. There were, of course, no partitions or cubicles such as persons would expect. Along one wall, however, was a long mirror and a shelf of cosmetics that put me in mind of a ladies’ powder room.

“This ’ere’s yer lavvy,” she explained unnecessarily. “It’s the only one yer use – an’ if I finds yer in anuvver there’ll be a whippin’ an’ an ’alf. There’s ’ore ’ouses where the gen’lemen takes the ’ores inter the bogs – but I’ll not ’ave that ’ere. I runs a respectable ’ouse – an’ the kind of clientele I want are glad of it, I can tell yer.”

As she spoke, Madame Scurf flexed her whip meaningfully, and thereby clarified her means for dealing with any transgressions. She had yet to use the leather implement on any of us. It did not occur to me at the time, but I was later to recognise this as a clever tactic. Had she whipped us that first night, it would have become yet another accustomed whipping – held in reserve, it commanded a great deal of respect.

“Right – pay attention,” she continued, “before I takes yer into me nice gropin’ parlour, I needs ter tell yer the rules. You stands be the bar – makin’ yerselves look as tasty as yer can – until the barmaid tells yer to go with a customer. When she calls yer back – or yer client’s done wiv yer – yer comes back ter the bar. Every one of yer understan’ that?”

“Yes, mistress,” we said in unison.

“The customers are entitled ter kiss, an’ cuddle, an’ grope. Likewise yer ter finger ’em as they asks. But yer never ter fergit – this is a respectable ’ouse – no suckin’ or screwin’ in the gropin’ parlour, they can get that elsewhere. Yer ter say now if anyfink ain’t perfectly understood.”

“Uh – are we to m-m-masturbate them, mistress?” Shugathise stuttered.

“Call it what fancy name yer like, love – but I fink as yer’ve got me drift. Busy fingers is fine. Stick yer tongues in their mouths, but not on their willies, an’ no screwin’ against the walls or under the tables. An’ what is more they keeps their willies covered an’ you keep yer tits an’ minges under wraps – all right?”

“Yes, mistress,” we chorused again.

“They can pay ter take yer inter the cabaret room or the private rooms. In the cabaret the rules is pretty well the same – except as willies, minges an’ tits can come out. In the private rooms they can ’ave whatever fun they likes, within reason. Right – if that’s understood, yer can get ter work.”

She led us out of the toilet, through another door, and we were in the groping parlour. It was a large, dimly-lit room with a bar to our left – shadowy figures sat at tables. Tucking the whip and cane under her arm, Madame Scurf placed fingers in the corners of her mouth and produced a piercing whistle. The room fell silent.

“New ’ores,” she announced to the room. “They’re all virgins,” she winked, “but eager ter get stuck in. They’re ’alf in love with yer already.”

No one seemed to take much notice of this, and we took our place at the bar, the only well lit part of the room. Behind the counter were two barmaids and a gleaming array of bottles reflected in a large mirror. A placard read: drinks – snacks – strumpets. The snacks were presumably the pies, sausages, filled rolls, and hunks of bread laden with potted meat displayed under glass domes. The term may also have embraced the large jars of pickled gherkins, onions and eggs.

Several whores were already positioned at the bar – and, with a moment’s shock, I noticed that they included a couple of boys dressed similarly to we girls. Turning my eyes elsewhere, I noted that the floor was covered with a worn and none too clean carpet, the walls were painted crimson. The door by which we had entered was the same colour and marked in neat white letters Staff and Whores Only. The barmaids were polishing glasses and chatting.

“…how long she’ll get away with it.”

“Yeah – well, we saw ’er on the whipping post on Sorday.” She laughed. “What a treat!”

“An’ di’n’t she yell?”

“I’ll say! An’ next time could be enslavement.”

“Maybe end up working ’ere – but not on this side o’ the bar.”

“I could enjoy seein’ that…” she said with relish. Then, in a different tone: “Oh – evening, George.”

The last sentence was addressed to a middle aged man with a down at heel air. His trousers had a greasy unwholesome look, especially around the crotch. The idea of placing my hand there arose unbidden. I shuddered at the thought.

“Evening, Doris,” he replied. His voice whined and grated on my nerves. “I’ll have a pint o’ bitty ale and a packet o’ pecker flavour crisps.”

“No strumpet tonight, lovie?”

“In a bit, maybe. Truth to tell, I’m feeling a bit queer.”

“Tummy trouble?”

“The usual. Skootin’ off to the khazi every five minutes. Still maybe the ale’ll settle me stomach – then I could set down to a nice slow finger job.”

“What’ll it be, pet?” the other barmaid asked of a fresh customer – no more attractive than George.

“’Alf o’ bitty ale’ll do me for now, love.”

“Go on – ‘ow about a nice bit o’ strumpet ter ease yer tensions? We’ve got ’alf a dozen lovely fresh ones in tonight – nice an’ unsullied. ’Ow about ’er with the big tits? Or, if you’re feelin’ that way inclined, the lad in the green knickers ’as got a bulge an’ a ’alf.”

“Well, I ain’t in the space for the laddie ternight – though I’ll admit it looks like a twelve pound sausage. But I’m tempted by some o’ the new ’ores – an’ that’s a fack. Do me fer a quarter hour with number nineteen, eh?”

“Right yer are, love. That’ll be one an’ eight fer the ale an’ one an’ six fer the strumpet – three an’ tuppence all told, ducks.”

I glanced curiously at my companions, uncertain as to who was number nineteen. He’d selected Wiggli. She grimaced briefly and accompanied her first customer to his seat. I turned my head, not wishing to see what he required of her.

Another three customers stood at the bar – two being served, the third shuffling impatiently as he waited. To my surprise, a woman clad in a smart business suit entered. I’d expected an entirely male clientele. She selected Shugathise and took her to a table.

One of the boy whores went, taken by a man. In spite of dreading my first customer, I was affronted at not having been chosen. It was bad enough to be a whore, but worse to be one insufficiently attractive to be hired. My feeling of wounded vanity was premature – the night was young and I wasn’t the only new whore not to have been chosen.

There was a shriek of male laughter from one of the tables, hollowly echoed by a woman’s voice. A dribble of spilt bitty ale reached the edge of the bar and started to drip to the floor. A customer wiped something wet from his trousers with an already filthy handkerchief. The acrid smell of stale urine wafted from a man with moist flabby lips.

[1] Nothing is known of Madame Scurf’s upbringing or lineage. The name Scurf is extraordinary, and is otherwise unknown. It is possible that it is a corruption of Scourge – in which case she could have been descended from Susanna Scourge who was prominent in Surrey politics a century earlier. If so, her coarse accent may well have been affected.

[2] Coloured decorative tiles seem poor booty for a raid into hostile and well defended territory. Presumably these expeditions were not very successful.

[3] The family were descendants of Sir Roger Dyke, one of Osrick’s commanders. Osrick settled upon him the estate of Hen-Lay on the Tems to the west of Lundin.

[4] It is notable that Tuerqui does not name her mother in this passage. In fact, she never names any of her immediate family. As an enemy of Surrey, her father’s name was certainly proscribed at the time of writing. It may, however, have been unnecessary to extend this to her mother.

[5] Bracknill was taken by Surrey forces in YD 694, but the reference seems to be to an earlier raid, probably one in YD 692 during which many slaves were seized and from which many persons fled.

[6] Clearly the whores had the marks of Madame Scurf’s cane elsewhere on their bodies, but a scratched or scraped face could render a whore less attractive to the customers. Striped buttocks were surely no especial problem in this regard.

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