Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Mussiltarte was combing my hair. Giggli sat close to my feet humming Enslaved by the Surrey Girls, a popular song from Berenice’s camp. Shugathise was using a battered-looking emery board on Beddibelle’s finger nails. Wiggli had found a length of string and was forming cat’s cradles.

“Here comes Scurfy with the pressies” a girl by the door said – in a voice loud enough for half of the room to catch.

Shocked to hear a slave call her mistress Scurfy, it took me a minute or two to consider what she meant by pressies. Having no wish to witness a whipping, I hoped that Madame Scurf had not caught the words. Nor was the punishment of a fellow whore my only concern. Bad temper on the part of our owner could mean no good to me – or any of the others.

A few minutes later, Madame Scurf entered the room followed by two slaves in harness, both women in their middle years. Each slave carried a basket laden with savouries, preserved fruits and the like. The smell had my mouth watering.

“What’s all this?” Mussiltarte asked of a nearby cluster of four girls.

“Payback!” replied one called Fuquibelle, grinning broadly.

“Gifts from grateful customers,” her friend Juici explained more helpfully. “Madame Scurf likes us to have them – it encourages good work and that has the punters coming back for more.”

“So the presents feed her till,” Bonnithise said.

“But feed our bellies as well,” Juici added.

As Madame Scurf distributed the gifts, I noticed that not all of them were food. They included a small bottle or two of scent, a hair ornament, a fancy comb. To my surprise, she presented me with a large sausage. It came with a note scrawled in an uneducated hand: to last night’s gorgeous number 23, with love from Derek.

“I wonder which one Derek was,” I said, “not that I can remember many of them.”

“I bet his Willy is a sight and a half smaller than that there sausage,” said Bonnithise.

“And the rest!” Fuquibelle added. “One of mine, last night, had one no bigger than my thumb.” She raised a rather dainty thumb to display its smallness. “I’m not kidding!”

“Yeah, well,” Bonnithise replied, “if he had decent size knob, he’d probably have a real girlfriend.”

“Pathetic losers, the lot of them,” Quervi, who hadn’t previously spoken, said this with considerable venom – almost spitting the words.

“I think the women are the worst,” Fuquibelle said. “If they can’t get girlfriends here in the home of Surrenity…”

“Here in the home Surrenity
“We conduct ourselves with obscenity,” sang Juici.
“A woman who licks will get plenty of kicks…”

“Connie Lingus is the girl for me…” Fuquibelle interrupted with a completely different tune.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m sure she is – but has anyone got a knife to cut the sausage?”

“If there was any danger of a slice coming my way,” Fuquibelle said, “I think I could scare up a knife.”

“I reckon the sausage would go into ten,” I said, “we six – and you four.”

“You, Tuerqui, are an angel’s dancing boots. I’ll get my knife.”

In truth, my seeming generosity had little connection with angelic footwear. It was more in the nature of an investment, aware as I was of how useful friends can be. After a couple of minutes, Fuquibelle returned with a penknife – and I cut the sausage as evenly as possible. While I did so, the others gave me not always useful advice on where I should divide the slices.

“You know,” said Fuquibelle, “a penknife is a really useful thing. When one of the punters gets good and soupy on you, tell him that you want one.”

“Do they get soupy?” I replied.

“Sometimes… They’re a weird bunch. That cut should be a little to the left. No – my left.”

Useful as a penknife might be, Fuquibelle’s was rather a girly[1] one. The blade had a cutting edge of less than an inch and a half – and was far from ideal when it came to slicing a sausage with a three and a half inch diameter. Still, it was the best available – and it is unlikely that Madame Scurf would have permitted one of our number a more formidable potential weapon. Eventually, I had ten roughly equal pieces – and handed them round, giving Fuquibelle first choice.

Biting into my portion, it seemed the most delicious savoury I had ever tasted – better even than the work of the Palace Victoria kitchens. Of course, my palate had been blunted by years of swill in Berenice Blackheart’s camp. For all of that, it was certainly an exceptionally good sausage. I must have fingered Derek like an expert.

“Hey! This is good,” I exclaimed. “What is it?”

“Blesh, of course,” Quervi replied.

I grimaced and made as if to spit out my fragment of sausage – but it was too late, I’d already swallowed the first bite. Pausing, irresolute, I stared at my chunk, its edge indented with a ragged crescent. Obviously, I’d already become a cannibal[2]. It was yet another transition – princess, slave, mother, whore.

‘What the Weird,’ I thought. ‘There’s no undoing the bite I’ve already taken, and who knows what I’ve eaten mixed into swill? Then there’s that dreadful blesh and onion pie kiss last night, and the savouries Madame Scurf brought us yesterday. It’s a good sausage and it would be a pity to waste it.’

I finished my portion of sausage – and enjoyed it. Afterwards, I passed the remainder of the day dozing, eating and chatting to my companions. Although the girls seemed naturally friendly, my sausage investment had almost certainly helped to form bonds between us. In spite of my separation from Tuerquelle – and awareness of what I must do that night – I felt genuinely happy.

The goddess’ love, and friendship with the other girls, helped buoy me through a difficult time. I had been raised to despise whores, but never – after this – could I regard them without respect. Their work is hard, and their good humour astonishing. Every one of them merited a much better fate.

As evening fell, back in the robing room, I realised that the girls were vying with one another to see who could paint her face most provocatively, and who could disarrange her garments in the most sluttish manner. I joined the game enthusiastically – and did better than I expected. The face that looked back at me from the mirror was a genuine mistresspiece of whoredom. We chatted merrily on the way down to the groping parlour.

“That’s right,” Madame Scurf said approvingly, “the clientele don’t want to see no sour faces. They can get that elsewhere, I dare say, if they wants it.”

We took provocative stances at the bar, where the whore boys were already draping themselves to tempt the customers. To my surprise, I found some of my fellow whores sexually exciting in their working clothes, although we had been together all day naked without my being in the least aroused. I extended my left leg, bent at the knee – so as to reveal a hint of stocking top – right hand on hip, breasts thrust out. The pose was obviously effective, as I was the second harlot to be selected by a customer that night.

As soon as I joined my first customer of the evening, there vanished all trace of arousal: he had the dilated belly associated with too much beer, he farted repeatedly and had bad breath. Gritting my teeth, I reached inside his trousers. His penis felt like a black pudding fried too long and bloated with grease. His fat fingers crawled up my skirt like maggots, his stinking lips pressed against mine and his slug-like tongue extended into my mouth.

Fortunately not all of my customers were so repulsive. Part way through the evening, a woman fingered me pleasantly. After the lady, however, my next was a youth with a spotty face. Obnoxious as the boy was, I felt a little sorry for the lad as the other customers mocked him.

“Don’t serve ’im no bitty ale – it’s too strong fer a baby!”

“What’s ’is Ma doin’ lettin’ ’im out on ’is own?”

“Pick out a young girly fer ’im – rahnd eleven or twelve years old’ll be abaht ’is mark!”

“Bugger off, son. It’s man’s work in ’ere. Come back when yer grown!”

“None o’ the ’ores in ’ere will ’ave ’ands big enough fer ’is willie. Give ’im a door frame ter shaft!”

My sympathy didn’t last much beyond starting work on him. His penis – on the whole – felt less vile than those of the older men, but his fumblings were exasperating and sometimes painful. He insisted on telling me his sexual fantasies – all of which were repellant, but I was obliged to listen. I fought back my impulse was to tell him that he was a very rude little boy, and spank him soundly, as his mother should.

Later that night, a customer bought me half a pint of bitty ale. I looked enquiringly at Flo, uncertain as to whether I was supposed to drink it. After the sample Madame Scurf had given us at Red Hill, I was far from enthusiastic about the liquid. However, I wished to please – partly to avoid punishment, and partly through a continuing desire to be a good slave.

“Drink it down, love,” Flo urged, nodding encouragement. “Madame Scurf likes yer ter please the clients, as well yer know.”

Tipping the stuff down my throat, I decided that the flat ale had been better than this gassy drink. It tasted worse than all but the vilest slave swill. I later discovered that Madame Scurf made a large profit on drinks and liked to sell as many as possible, irrespective of who swallowed them. Food was more reasonably priced, but was very salty, to stimulate the customers’ thirst.

I retain no other clear memories of the second night of my whoredom. For the most part, the work had already come to seem more monotonous than repulsive – and, when it became too vile, I found myself able to retreat into the goddess’ space. A little after dawn we returned to the robing room. After washing and eating, I prayed in the shrine.

“Servisibelle!” Madame Scurf’s voice cut into my devotions. “You can pray later. You’re on the vet’s list fer this mornin’, as yer should know fine well. Come on quick, nah, or do yer need a bit o’ painful encouragement?”

For a moment, in my tiredness, I thought that this command was directed at me. I half rose before fully realising that Servisibelle was the name of the whore who was to see the vet. A blonde hurried to her feet and scurried after our mistress. The irreligious interruption seemed at odds with the Madame Scurf of the previous morning.

On my third or fourth night I discovered what lay behind the door in the cabaret room that was marked room service. My client was a clean and – in fairness – quite a personable man, perhaps in his late thirties. Already, I had the ability to predict which playlet would be shown next. As my customer steered me towards the cabaret, I was expecting to see a reprise of the tennis player performance.

“A room service ticket please,” my customer asked of the pay desk girl.

Although registering the words, I wasn’t paying attention – we harlots seldom did. My hands went automatically to the hook and eye at the nape of my neck, ready to remove the dress. It seemed a universal preference amongst the customers that we shed our outer garments for the cabaret room. The pay desk girl reached out to restrain me.

“No need for that, ducky,” she said. “The gentleman wants to take you to the rooms.”

I dropped my hands and, with rising apprehension, followed the customer through the cabaret room. It seemed improbable that room service would involve anything pleasant. Without knocking, my customer passed through the door next to the stage. I followed, a pace behind.

The room beyond was large but cramped. Most of the floor space was occupied by boxes, cupboards, cabinets and chests of drawers. A set of steps mounted on wheels was obviously to allow access to the upper drawers – some of them were almost at ceiling height. In the midst of the towering furniture a slight girl – whom I hadn’t seen before – sat behind a desk.

“Evening Bert,” she greeted the customer, rising to take his ticket. “Got a bit of our new stock, I see. The usual, is it?”

“I think so,” he replied. “A new floozy is enough variety for me. The old fantasies are always the best, eh?”

I glanced about. The drawers and cupboards were marked with neatly-written labels. The inscriptions, however, were too cryptic for me to make much sense of them. One example read: Bond F gear lea L-XL mis.

As the girl bustled about, rummaging in drawers and cupboards, it became clear that most of them contained clothing. She produced a bundle of garments quite quickly. Then, eyeing me carefully, she moved more slowly to withdraw a white blouse and short grey pleated skirt. I was sure that these were for me – and that my customer wished me to take the part of a schoolgirl.

“Room number three,” the girl told my customer, handing him a final item.

It was no surprise that this last object was a cane – and I wondered how it would feel to be beaten again in pursuit of pleasure, as opposed to punishment. Doing what was clearly expected, I picked up the rod and pile of clothing to follow the customer through a door opposite the one by which we had entered. That brought us into a passage from which led a series of numbered doors. Beyond door number three was the semblance of a small school room – although several full length mirrors were at variance with that impression.

“Place your bundle on teacher’s desk,” my customer said. “Then you can undress me.”

I eased him from his garments, noting that he was much cleaner than most of my customers, before – following further instructions – dressing him in women’s clothing. His choice was tasteful – a smart blouse and a sharply tailored skirt suit. After placing a wig on his head, I teased it into shape with a brush which I’d viewed as a likely secondary spanking implement. I applied cosmetics to his face and – stepping back to view my handiwork – found that he made a surprisingly convincing semblance of a woman.

“That’s lovely,” he said in an unnatural falsetto voice, admiring himself in the mirrors. “Some of the girls make me look like… Well, never you mind. Let’s see what I can make of you.”

The customer attended to me, much as I had to him. As he eased my whore’s dress over my shoulders, I felt an unexpected sense of luxury. It reminded me of my life as Princess Margaret[3], with slaves to dress and undress me. The years of my slavery seemed to slip from my shoulders with the dress.”

“Fetch my…” I began, as though to a body slave.

“What?” he sounded more confused than angry.

“I’m sorry… I was just reminded of…”

“Never mind that – this is my time, not yours.”

Already I had forgotten what I had been telling an imaginary slave to fetch. He had started to tug at my garments with less gentleness. Once the last of my working clothes were off, he eased me into a pair of soft navy blue knickers[4]. They felt very comfortable, and something of my sense of luxury returned.

Thereafter he dressed me in the white blouse and grey skirt, knotting a striped tie at my neck. A blazer, straw boater, white socks and T-bar shoes completed the outfit. As he worked, his fingers explored my body in a manner that no longer reminded of life in the Palace Victoria. Gently, but firmly, he sat me at a pupil’s desk to plait my hair into two rather untidy pigtails, which he secured with ribbon.

“Cynthia!” he yelled, taking a step backwards and into a new role. “Whatever are you about? Have the school rules changed? Don’t you stand when a mistress enters the room?”

I scrambled to my feet. The customer, cane in hand, gave a surprisingly realistic impression of a schoolmistress. He seemed to be living the part. To my surprise, I was living mine – rather than acting.

“Well?” he asked.

“No miss, the school rules haven’t changed. I stand up when a mistress enters the room.”

“Indeed you do. Only you didn’t, did you?”

“No miss. I’m sorry miss.”

“That I doubt. But I can assure you that you will be sorry. Extend you hand for the cane, girl.”

I held out my left hand, palm uppermost, supporting it with my right. I had not been caned on my hands since I was, perhaps, eight or nine. Assuming the stance for such chastisement made me feel small and vulnerable. Waiting for the caning to begin, my knees shook – he did not seem in any hurry to start.

“Cynthia, I feel inclined to be lenient.”

“Thank you, miss.”

“Four strokes on each palm will suffice. You will count the strokes and thank me for each. After the fourth, you will change hands. Is that perfectly understood?”

“Yes, miss.”

Then, as I remained with my arm extended, he lectured me on the subject of insolence. I wished he’d shut up and just get on with it – then the cane fell. It hurt even more than I expected and I yelled before counting the stroke and thanking him. He looked pleased.

“Don’t drop your hands,” he said after the eighth stroke. “Do I see nail polish? And I believe that you’re wearing make up.”

“Yes, miss.”

“What do you think I should do about that?”

“Cane me some more, please, miss.”

“Very well, two more on each hand, then I’ll have you over your desk.”

By now, he had dropped the stupid falsetto voice, and – as a result – seemed more like a real school mistress. Without being told to do so, I continued to count the strokes aloud as I bent over the desk. Twelve fell upon my knickered bottom, before he tugged the knickers down for a further twenty. All were delivered with considerable force, leaving me smarting more than I had in a long while.

It was the first time someone had beaten me for pleasure since my last session over Lady Nerys’ knee. Only the most naive or crass would believe that there isn’t a noticeable difference between blows struck in impatience, anger, artistry, retribution, love and lust. This was most definitely the last of those. Madame Scurf’s punishments aroused in me only fear and pain, but this was entirely different.

My reaction may have owed something to my customer giving quite a convincing impression of a woman. A lustful beating from a member of my own sex – Jenna, Lady Isobel or Nerys – was the surest thing to arouse my sexuality. For the first time at the Laughing Phallus, I grew really wet, dribbling in my excitement. Passions pent up for years were unloosed.

“Well, I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” he said.

“I’ve been a naughty, naughty little girl,” I tried to encourage him. “Cane me more, cane me harder, I truly deserve it.”

“I know you do, you little slut, but much more and I’ll cream myself. On the floor, now – and on your back.”

As a good slave, I obeyed without question. All the same, I’d rather not have lain on the floor – for one thing, it seemed none to clean, for another its hard surface pressed uncomfortably upon my sore bottom, and – furthermore – I would have liked the caning to continue. He peeled off my knickers, already at my knees, hitched up his skirt, and lowered his own underwear. Descending upon me, he became the second man to penetrate my vagina with his penis.

It was a lot less unpleasant than it had been with Lewis Ironhand. I no longer had a hymen to snap, I was fully lubricated and he entered me more gently than the Welshman had done. Indeed – apart from the caning – most of what he did was gentle. For all of that, I greatly disliked having him within me.

Fortunately, it took him only a few seconds to reach ejaculation. He arose from me and after wiping himself with a rag – taking his male clothes in a bundle – left the room. I removed the schoolgirl garb and clothed myself as a whore. My moistness soon soaked through my briefs.

Returning to the slight girl amid the towering furniture, I expected to be sent straight back to the groping parlour. Instead, she motioned for me to remain where I was while she bustled about again. The result of her activity was an armful of garments and cosmetics. Receiving these, I started to disrobe again.

“No,” she said, “not here. Of course, you’re new. I’ll show you.”

She took me up a flight of stairs to a passage from which four doors led. They were marked male clients, female clients and staff, girl whores and boy whores. Passing into my allotted room, I found it furnished as a toilet with the wherewithal for washing and applying make up. The girl drew some water from a pump and set it on a stove.

“Don’t worry, love,” she said, “I’m not in the habit of walloping the girls. In any case, I expect you’ve had enough of a whacking for one night. How much did the pervert give you?”

“Six on each hand, miss,” I replied after a moment’s thought. “And thirty-two, all told, on my bottom. That makes forty-four.”

She whistled. “I’ve seen sorer looking bums – but not very often. And there’s no need to call me miss. I’m Tanya. But don’t let none of the punters hear you call me that.”

“Thank you, Tanya. You’re nice.”

“Yes – well – one of my cousins was enslaved. We used to play together as kids… I don’t know what happened to her. She could have ended up working somewhere like this – or worse.”

“How come? How come – if you don’t mind me asking, Tanya – was she enslaved?”

“Nah – you can ask, Tuerqui. She had a bag of money that didn’t belong to her – two or three hundred electors, or so they said. She said she’d found it, and was going to hand it in. Only she head butted one petty-girl[5] and kicked another – that didn’t go well with the judge.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Tanya.”

Yeah, well – she was a stupid mare – and should have left the pettties alone. All the same… well, never mind… You should wash and change.”

“I expect Madame Scurf’s wondering where I am by now.”

“Don’t mind her. Three bob of what the room service punters pay is to cover your time cleaning up afterwards, so by rights you’ve got half an hour. Just relax and get on with it. I’ll ring the bell when your time’s up.”

She pointed to a bell on a string set near the ceiling and – a moment later – was gone. While regretting not having her company, there was pleasure in a little time to myself. Slowly, I removed my garments. By the time I was ready to wash, the water was quite hot.

“Tuerqui!” Madame Scurf called while I was praying next morning. “Quick, girl you’re on this morning’s vet’s list. In future, you always report for the vet after you’ve been to the rooms – OK? You can pray later.”

I joined a queue of whores, waiting while one of our number was poked and prodded by a girl in a white coat. She looked to be the youngest vet I had ever seen – no more than sixteen or seventeen, I felt sure. The queuing harlots included several girls from the groping parlour, both of the cabaret room actresses and eight or ten whom I hadn’t seen at work. My assumption was that the unfamiliar faces were from the all night shaftarama, though I preferred not to think about what their work involved.

When the vet examined me with less assurance than was usual for her kind, I concluded that she was a student whom Madame Scurf had engaged cheaply. Perhaps, I thought, she was conducting pregnancy tests. Certainly, she took a scraping from my vagina and labeled it with my name. I would have much preferred to give a urine sample – not, of course, that anyone cared about my preferences.

Thereafter, I received a veterinary examination whenever I had been in the private rooms. It wasn’t long before I took this as a matter of course – its possible purposes no longer crossing my mind. The vet in attendance was not always the same girl, but all of them were young and clearly inexperienced. My thought that they were students approached certainty.

The frequency of my visits to the private rooms increased as customers started to take a repeated fancy for my services. Once in a while, one of the men would not ask very much from me, perhaps just a listening ear, and these left me puzzled. Sometimes the customer only required sexual intercourse, occasionally oral or anal sex. More often they wished to enact a sexual fantasy, some of them involving more than one whore.

The fantasies usually required costumes, of which the schoolgirl and maid in personage outfits seemed the most popular. Other room service garments were made of leather or elastic fabrics – and, when these were employed, the customer often hired chains, straps and other restraining devices. Some of them liked to combine bondage and whipping. However, to my surprise, I found that more clients liked to be tied and beaten than wished to subject whores to such treatment.

Some of the girls disliked punishing customers, but I found in it a release for my frustrations and anger. I became known for the merciless beatings I administered and several submissive customers asked for me repeatedly. Of these, the one I recall most clearly was Fred, who enjoyed dressing as a schoolgirl. For our first session, Tanya supplied what seemed to me an insufficiently flexible cane, but I put it to as good use as I was able.

“All right,” he said after little more than a dozen strokes. “I’ve been punished enough now. Let’s…”

“Frederica,” I replied levelly, “you are an insolent little girl. It is for me to decide what you deserve. Now you will be truly punished for your insolence.”

In spite of his protests, I struck harder than ever, fully expecting to find myself in trouble as a result. Instead, I received a magnificent food hamper the following day. On his next visit, Fred the schoolgirl asked for me by name – and I asked Tanya for her very swishiest cane. She seemed very pleased to oblige.

As my reputation as a stern disciplinarian increased, I had a number of customers paying to heap punishments and humiliations upon me. But – for the most part – they wished me to play the dominant role. It became common for me to pick the customers’ outfits and the implements with which to beat them. I liked, also, to make them change into costume while Tanya looked – and to talk about them as though they were not present.

“What do you think of the shorter skirt, Tanya?”

“I don’t know… It borders on the sluttish.”

“That’s true, but it should make it easier for me to slap Frederica’s insolent thighs – a punishment the little trollop truly deserves.”

“Yes, you won’t have to lift the hem. Save you a bit of effort. Is a leg slapping the limit of it for today, then?”

“Of course not. In fact, I think the hussy deserves something a bit heavier than usual. Can I have a look at the straps? I mean straps for whacking, not the restraining ones.”

“With pleasure… This one would make anyone squirm.”

“Umm… Yes, but the three tailed one might be closer to what the wretch deserves.”

There was a satisfactory swish as I made a trial stroke. Fred the schoolgirl, already in costume, squirmed. Tanya winked at me. Lifting the strap to my nose, I breathed deep the scent of good quality leather.

[1] The word girly – in this context – clearly refers to the expectations of girls in Tuerqui’s life prior to enslavement. Its evident meaning is odd in view of (for example) the fact that Surrey employed girls as soldiers – and that they made better troops than boys.

[2] As explained in Chapter 15 note 1, prior to her enslavement Tuerqui belonged to a social class which did not eat slave flesh. However, her strong aversion to doing so calls for a special explanation. It may have simply been the idea that slave should not eat slave. However, there could have been a couple of other relevant considerations. One is that Madame Scurf referred to Tuerqui and her companions as blesh on the hoof (whilst unharnessing them). The other is that Tuerqui had expected to be slaughtered for blesh when sent to the Red Hill auction.

[3]The use of Princess Margaret, rather than Lady Margaret shows that this passage was last revised in, or after, the fifth year of the reign of Berenice I. In year five, Berenice abolished the title of princess for all but her daughters. At this point, Tuerqui’s cousin Jenna was obliged to drop the title of Princess of the Blood Victoria. For Tuerqui to refer to her former self as a Princess of the Blood Victoria would have been inadmissible while the authorities in Surrey regarded that as a legitimate title for her cousin. From year five onwards, however, Tuerqui’s use of the title would have implied no more than that the enemies of Surrey had regarded her as a princess. The emphasis this placed on the enslavement of an enemy princess would surely have been viewed as an entirely proper thing to place in a book.

[4] Tuerqui’s usual word for such underwear is briefs. Here, she uses knickers correctly for a more substantial garment. She repeatedly quotes other people as using the word knickers to include briefs.

[5] Petty girls or petties were the Protection and Enforcement Troopers, whose task was to keep civil order, capture thieves and the like.

For chapter 17 click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2007/05/of-bondlings-and-blesh-chapter-17.html

Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 15

Chapter 15

At the bar, a customer was wracked with a loud coughing fit, culminating in spitting a glob of phlegm into an almost empty glass. The dribble of spilt bitty ale had turned to a rivulet across the bar and a wet patch on the carpet. One of the barmaids made a token dab at the liquid with an already soggy towel. There was a sudden stench of someone passing wind.

“Ooh Charlie,” Doris scolded, her face registering genuine distaste, “that’s ’orrible!”

“Better out than in, love.”

“I s’pose that you’ve come ter the bar ter drop some money inter the till, as well as fart gas up me nose.”

“O’ course, Doris. It’ll be an ’alf o’ bitty ale an’ a blesh an’ onion pie, if yer ’ave it… Oh an’ a bit o’ something ter reach the parts me missus don’t want ter reach no more. What’s new?”

“Lovely bunch – fresh in – come from Red ’ill ternight – but yer might fink as they was from Leather ’ead… Look at the knockers on that! That un’s got a lovely arse… What about ’er as looks like she’s creamin’ ’er knickers just finkin’ o’ yer willy?”

“Not bad,” he conceded, “some of ’em are not ’alf bad. Put me dahn fer ’alf an hour wi’ number twenny-free. Nice arse on ’er.”

“OK, love. That’ll be one an’ eight fer the ale. One an’ seven fer the pie, an’ free bob fer the ’ore – six an’ froo pence all told, Charlie. It adds up, don’t it?”

“It do an’ all… I’ve got an ’alf elector ’ere somewhere…”

Realising, with a start, that my number had been called, I teetered forward on my unaccustomed stilettos, tugging at my skirt hem as I did so. This attempt to adjust my dress – clearly futile in view of the slit high enough to reveal my stocking top – was presumably a vestigial reaction from Lady Margaret’s experience of more modest garments. My customer found his coin, handed it to Doris, and received his change. He wrapped one arm about my waist and thrust his other hand inside my plunging neckline to cup my left breast.

“Nice bit o’ stuff,” he said to no one in particular. “Pick up me pie an’ drink, girly. Then we’ll ’ave a bit o’ fun, eh?”

With a little trouble, owing to his grip upon me, I took his plate and glass from the bar. We made our way to a table – a difficult walk, as far as I was concerned, because he was still exploring inside my dress and my shoes were not well designed for walking. Finally, he released me, and I placed his purchases – other than my body – on a table. As I did so, his hand slid over my buttocks.

“On me lap, girly,” he said, patting his thighs. “Jus’ undo me flies before yer sit down. It’s a bit awkward fiddlin’ with ’em after yer sat. Then we can get nice an’ cosy, eh?”

With considerable distaste, I unbuttoned his greasy trousers, and placed myself upon his lap. One of his arms encircled me while his free hand wriggled through the skirt slit and advanced up my thigh. His mouth pressed hard on mine, tongue thrusting past my teeth. Knowing what was expected of me, and wishing to have the business done, I slipped my hand through his fly, fumbled with his already moist underpants and encountered his stiffening penis.

Stifling my repulsion as well as I could, I stroked his erection. It occurred to me that my having so little experience of men left me uncertain as to whether this was the correct procedure. My doubts were resolved a minute later when I felt his semen squirt, sticky on my fingers. My reward was that, immediately, his mouth disengaged from mine – something for which I was truly thankful.

“My, but you’re a lovely little mover,” he said. “It fair gives a body an appetite. See if yer can get the old feller up again while I ’ave a bite an’ a sup.”

He withdrew his hand from my upper thigh. I slowly coaxed his penis into a second erection. He munched on his blesh and onion pie between slurps of bitty ale. I started to masturbate him again, careful to keep his member inside his trousers.

In the half hour for which he had paid, I coaxed him into ejaculation three times. His underpants, probably none too clean at the start, became a real mess – and his semen soaked through the coarse fabric of his trousers. Belching after his pie and drink, his wriggling fingers explored much of my body. The body – of course – was not truly mine, but Madame Scurf’s, and the customer’s while his money lasted.

Worst of all, I think, was his blesh and onion pie coated tongue thrusting against mine. It was the first time that I’d knowingly had slave flesh in my mouth[1]. The morsels of meat, which must have been tiny, seemed enormous. There was nothing I could do to avoid swallowing them – no matter how big they seemed to be.

“Come in number twenty-three,” Doris bawled at last, “your time’s up.”

I rose with unmingled relief – and considerable alacrity – from the lap of the first customer of my whoredom. My respite was all too brief. As soon as I reached the bar, I had another customer. He looked to be in his thirties and was smartly dressed.

“’Ere’s a fresh one,” Flo – the second barmaid – said. “New in ternight an’ jus’ getting’ inter the swing of ’er work, I dare say.”

“Yeah,” he replied non-committally, “she’ll do. I’m in a bit of an ’urry.”

“Yer next client, love,” Flo was addressing me. “’E’s already paid.”

“Come on, prostitute,” he snapped, “jump to it. A quick finger job. I haven’t much time. Make sure you don’t stain my clothes – catch it with this.”

He handed me a rag. I unfastened his flies. His penis was already erect. When he left, hastily fastening his trousers, his clothes were unmarred by semen spatters but the rag was quite damp.

“Hell!” he snarled on his way to the exit. “I’ll be late. Slow cow!”

“Don’t worry, love,” Flo said. “You did ’im faster than many an old ’and would er done. An’ nice work on not spunking ’is trousers. Give us the rag – I’ve got another punter for yer.”

My third customer was a youth of less than twenty. As I led him towards a table, he stopped abruptly and pressed me against the wall. The lout was obviously intent on thrusting his penis into my vagina. This was something my mistress had expressly forbidden.

“Madame Scurf!” I yelled. “Quick! He’s…”

She was already there, whip in hand. Before he could attain penetration, the plaited leather cracked loudly upon his back. He howled and, to cheers and cat calls from the other customers, disengaged himself from me. I felt the sting of two lashes as he did so, although neither touched me with full force.

“None o’ that in my nice gropin’ parlour,” she snorted. “There’s enough upstairs ter stick it in fer a screw.”

He fled for the door while Madame Scurf trotted behind with unexpected speed, raining more blows upon him. Red stripes appeared through the tatters of his shirt. Someone tripped the lad. He received at least a dozen more lashes before regaining his feet and stumbling through the door.

“That’ll fix ’im an’ ’is viper tricks,” Madame Scurf said, breathing heavily after her exertions, “ruinin’ me nice respec’able gropin’ parlour – but ’e’ll not try it again in an ’urry. Yer did right ter call me, love. All the same, what’re yer standin’ abaht for? Back ter work, yer idle tart, if yer don’t want a dose o’ leather yerself!”

I didn’t want a dose of leather – and my fourth customer was already waiting for me. It was not far from the point where I would lose count – many customers were with me for only five minutes, some even less[2]. The service I provided was becoming automatic, requiring neither thought nor volition. Mechanically, my fingers dived into the man’s flies.

“My, you’re keen,” he said.

He inserted a hand into my skirt slit, running his fingers up my stockinged thigh to toy with a suspender. Such actions from customers had already ceased to feel personal. It really had nothing to do with me. I no longer felt ashamed, no longer felt anything very much.

One customer during the course of my first evening was a woman. For a minute or two, I was delighted to have a member of my own sex to pleasure. Alas, she made no attempt to respond to my fingerings and left me feeling depressed. It was almost a relief to return to the men – at least I didn’t care for them in any way.

Twice, during that first night, I was taken into the cabaret room. Although the customers’ faces have vanished from my memory, the first performance still remains vividly with me. It was past midnight and drowsiness had descended. Not long before, however, I had been restored to full wakefulness by Madame Scurf’s cane.

“D’ yer want ’er with ’er dress on or orf?” the girl on the pay desk asked my customer.

“Off, I think,” he replied.

“Come on, love,” she said, turning to me. “The dress code is a bit more informal in the cabaret room. Don’t forget ter dress proper when yer come out, though. Madame Scurf will wallop you and good, if you go swannin’ about the gropin’ parlour in yer undies.”

My customer gazed on appreciatively as I slipped the dress down my body and stepped out of it. His fingers slipped over my buttocks. The door girl took my dress and placed it on a hanger. She looked bored.

“Purple… my favourite colour… nice…” the customer said to no one in particular. Then, to she on the desk: “She’s a new ’un then? If she weren’t nice an’ fresh, you wouldn’t ’ave ter tell ’er Scurfy’s little rules, would yer? If she ain’t seen the cabaret before she’s in for a treat an’ a n’alf.”

“Yeah,” she replied listlessly, “new in ternight. Soft ’earted, that’s me. I don’t like ter see ’em get a beltin’ if I can avoid it. Not that I get much thanks from the ungrateful little trollops.”

“Thank you,” I said, curtsying. It seemed the thing to do.

“What!” she roared, obviously startled, and flushing angrily. “You ’ave the impudence ter speak ter my personage – without me speakin’ to you first? I’ll learn yer a bit o’ respect, yer saucy little ’ussy!”

She seized me by the neck, bending me over the pay desk. Something a good deal more effective than her hand slapped hard upon my buttocks a spanker’s dozen[3] times. It hurt a great deal – none the less for my recent session with Madame Scurf’s cane. When the girl released me, I saw that she held a wooden paddle – well oiled to judge from its gleam.

“Well, deary’” she said, her expression softening, “I ’opes as ’ow that gives yer a bit of an idea on ’ow we treats cheek ’ere. Speak when you’re spoken to – and keep yer nose an’ fanny clean. I’ll not say a word to Madame Scurf. Soft ’earted, that’s me.”

Tenderly, she placed her arms about me, planting a kiss upon my cheek. I felt that it was the first genuine token of affection I’d received from the Laughing Phallus staff. Stifling an urge to return her embrace, I followed my customer into the cabaret room, stepping warily into the dimness. It was difficult to see where I was putting my feet – and I was still unused to the high heels.

The space was furnished as a small theatre with rows of seats facing a stage. With no more than half a dozen candles lit, it was impossible to discern much of either the stage or the seating. The performance area was uncurtained – the dim outlines of scenery and props were visible, but I could not divine their nature. It seemed that more than half of the seats were occupied, but the composition of the audience was unclear.

One of the few details to be clearly illuminated was a yellow door next to the stage. It bore the words room service. My assumption was that it led to the private rooms to which Madame Scurf had referred – not that it seemed important. It was late and I was tired.

We took our seats. The man started to grope me, and I went to work. It was just another job, as uninteresting as every other one, and I had almost forgotten that we were in the cabaret room. When, suddenly, the stage flambeaux were lit, I jumped in surprise – the customer squeaked as my hand jerked and my grip tightened.

The scene revealed in the unexpected glare was clearly intended to represent a drawing room, with some touches to suggest that it belonged to a person of quality. Two women entered, dressed for tennis, racquets over their shoulders, their sweat bands presumably covering RBS marks. As Lady Margaret, I had seen the plays of great dramatists interpreted by actors of renown – and thus was well aware that what followed was poorly written, implausible and performed woodenly. No doubt all of that was beside the point.

“You have beaten me fair and square,” one of the women said. “You have won your forfeit. I am yours to command. What do you wish?”

“Now that I have beaten you, I will beat you again.”

“Beat me at what? Not tennis again, surely. Wouldn’t you rather take your forfeit inside my knickers?”

The vanquished player ran her hand up inside the victor’s skirt and – flipping its hem so that the audience could see clearly – down toward a dark smudge of pubic hair in her all but transparent white briefs. They embraced, lips locked together. There followed an explicit display of Surrenity which I found unexpectedly arousing. To my greater surprise, it was clear that the customer found it more arousing than I did – although I could not think what women pleasuring one another had to do with a man.

“Very well, I will take my forfeit in your knickers,” the victor said, separating from the other, “but not in quite the way that you hope.”

The victor rang a small brass bell. A third actor entered, dressed recognisably – if not very realistically – as a house maid in personage[4]. The dress was cut to display a lot more thigh than such a servant would have shown in reality. The skirt revealed stocking tops at every step.

“You rang, madame?” the maid asked.

“Yes, Marie. Fetch me the cane.”

“But, madame, I have been a good girl.”

“It is not for you, Marie. I wish to take my victor’s forfeit – from this lady – with a lesson in discipline. I’ll soon make her bottom blush with shame for every ball she missed.”

The vanquished player protested, as Marie left the stage: “But you can’t be serious! Why should you wish take your forfeit in pain instead of pleasure?”

Marie re-entered carefully cradling a formidable-looking cane on outstretched palms. The maid presented it with a little curtsey. The victor took the stick and made two or three trial strokes. It was obviously very supple, and I had no doubt that it would hurt a great deal.

“Oh, but I am taking my forfeit in pleasure,” said she wielding the cane. “Pain is a great pleasure – and you must be at pains to please me.”

Nobody laughed at this pun. I was surprised that the audience seemed to be taking the performance so seriously. Scarcely a sound could be heard, other than from the stage. Great actors rarely have such rapt audiences.

“I must protest,” the vanquished player replied, “when I agreed to a forfeit, I had something entirely different in mind.”

“Protest as much as you like, but bend over the table. You should have specified your forfeit at the start – now it is far too late. You must stick to your word – and I’ll stick to my stick!”

“If you insist, I must agree,” the vanquished player sighed, bowing her head.

Collectively, the audience seemed to be holding its breath as the girl bent over the table. The victor lifted the other’s short skirt and tugged down her briefs. There followed a caning during which angry red wheals multiplied upon the victim’s buttocks. I winced, but the audience seemed to be slowly releasing its collective breath.

My assumption that this was to be the climax was soon proved wrong. On concluding the punishment, the actress with the cane tossed her stick toward Marie. The maid reached out as if to catch it, but missed, and the cane clattered to the stage. As Marie stooped retrieve it, the actor’s skirt lifted to reveal briefs bulging with male organs.

“Marie, come here a moment,” the tennis victor intoned

Marie approached, and the mistress lifted the maid’s skirt, tutting loudly as she did so. Now that a none too large, and very feminine, pair of briefs were fully displayed, it must have been clear to even the most obtuse member of the audience that the person wearing them was a man. The vanquished tennis player hoisted her own briefs before staring at the spectacle.

“What’s all this, Marie?” the mistress asked. “A good girl doesn’t bulge like that.”

“No, madame.”

“No, indeed, Marie. Only the very naughtiest girls have such bulges.”

“Yes, madame.”

“And what do we do with the very naughtiest girls?”

By way of answer, Marie handed back the cane. The punishment that followed was, if anything, more furious than the first. There ensued a sexual free for all, involving all three actors, during which the flambeaux were extinguished one by one. When the final torch was out, and the stage returned to darkness, the audience applauded politely before filing from the cabaret room.

My customer departed without a word, and I returned to the pay desk to collect my dress. The girl clearly made no attempt to restore the outfits whores had worn before the performance. I received a scarlet low cut blouse and a black leather skirt that was both very tight and very short. If anything, I looked even more the part of a strumpet than I had previously.

Before dawn, I sat through a second cabaret performance. To my surprise, although it had the same cast, it was a different playlet. This time, Marie took the part of a slaver who captured the two women and subjected them to a series of indignities. Eventually, they overpowered him and subjected the man to an even more bizarre series of humiliations. It ended in a sexual free for all indistinguishable from that of the tennis performance.

When I was about to re-emerge into the groping parlour, I received a second change of outfit. It occurred to me to wonder whether we were deliberately given different costumes each time – perhaps to present a greater variety to the customers. This time, I had a black see-through blouse and a bright blue skirt which might have given the illusion of a decorous pleated one, had I remained standing straight and still. In motion, it exposed even my briefs – comprising, rather than pleated fabric, lengths of two inch wide ribbon sewn to the waist band but not to each other.

There is a saying that good things must come to an end – fortunately, so do the bad ones. Eventually, the last customers made their way through the exit and Madame Scurf locked the door behind them. We whores returned to the robing room. Most of the girls carried their high heeled shoes, some paused to massage aching feet.

After leaving the groping parlour, the whore boys took a passage at right angles to the one that led to our robing room. I didn’t see any of them again until the following evening. Madame Scurf kept male and female whores strictly segregated outside of working hours – I suspect because doing otherwise would have offended against her ideas of respectability. It is hard to believe that, even had we mingled during the day, there would have been much sexual contact between girls and boys – all the same, time with exclusively female company suited me very well.

Back in the robing room, we stripped and hung our garments neatly. Madame Scurf maintained a watchful eye – ensuring that clothes weren’t left crumpled on the floor or otherwise mistreated. Naked, we queued for the bathroom to wash away our make up and less pleasant traces of the night’s work. Most of the whores then went to the kitchen for a bowl of agreeable swill – and we new girls joined them.

“When you new ’uns ’ave eaten, I’ll show yer the livin’ quarters an’ the shrine,” Madame Scurf told us.

Briefly, I wondered what she meant by the shrine, but was too tired to puzzle over the matter. Attacking my swill, I found that I was very hungry, and eating seemed to wake me a little. With uncharacteristic and unexpected patience, Madame Scurf waited for us to finish. Then all six of we new whores followed her upstairs.

She took us, first, to a whitewashed room that was, to my astonishment, furnished as a shrine – neither the pirates nor Berenice Blackheart had made any provision for worship. The image of the goddess was new to me. She wore a low cut dress the hem of which reached the floor, but the skirt was slit to the upper thigh so that the whole of one leg was bare. Her black hair fell to the waist, and she held aloft a red lamp in which a tiny candle flickered.

“This,” Madame Scurf said, “is Our Lady of the Lamp, goddess of harlots. You can pray here. There’s some as mock religion, but I’ll not have that ’ere. The goddess keeps me going, bless her[5] – and she’ll ’elp you too, if you’ll let her.”

“Mistress,” I asked, “can we pray now?”

I had found consolation in prayer on the eve of the auction – perhaps thirty-six hours before – could it really be so short a time? There was still an ache upon me where Tuerquelle had once been – but I knew that the Great Mother had extended her hand to my daughter. A measure of peace had been granted to me, no matter how irreligious a slave I had been. Now there seemed an urgency in reaching the goddess of my new station.

“O’ course y’ can, deary,” Madame Scurf replied in a kindly voice. “Any of you other five want to join Tuerqui? If not, I’ll take y’ ter the girly ’ores quarters, where yer can rest.”

“I would like a little time with the goddess, as well,” said Giggli.

“And me,” Wiggli added.

“A little prayer would do me no harm, either,” said Shugathise.

“I’m very tired – I’m sure we all must be – but I’ll pray too,” Mussiltarte said.

“My name may be Beddibelle, but I can postpone bed for a few minutes.”

“Well,” said Madame Scurf, beaming, “it’s a pleasure to welcome such religious girls. I’ll join your devotions, if I may”

Her final words seemed to imply that we whores had more right to the shrine than our mistress – and perhaps it really was so. All seven of us – mistress and six slaves – knelt before the image of the goddess. For a few minutes words would not come to my lips. I looked into the eyes of the goddess – she looked back upon me with kindness and, I thought, at least a touch of mischief.

“Goddess,” I began, “I neither sought nor desired whoredom, yet I find myself in your following. I have hardly begun to know you, but I like what I see in your image – and especially in your eyes. Accept me, please, into those whom you shelter, and ease me through my new calling. Grant me peace, acceptance and whatever bounty this life may bring.”

Towards the end of this prayer, I found myself in such a place as the dream world. The goddess and I were standing in a niche set high into the outer wall of a square tower. Below us was spread a strange city set about with green open spaces, and free from the filth of towns we know. The air was filled with the song of a blackbird, sweet yet melancholy.

“Here, no customer’s hand may grope,” the goddess said, “fingers wriggle, nor penis thrust. Return to our private niche when you will, Tuerqui. Reach for me, I am waiting in this and every place of whoredom.”

“Thank you, goddess,” I replied.

Then I was back in the whitewashed shrine, the goddess smiling upon me enigmatically. Madame Scurf, Wiggli, Shugathise and Mussiltarte had finished their prayers. Giggli and Beddibelle were still at their devotions. I joined the group who had disengaged from the goddess, and waited patiently for the last two of my companions.

Turning my eyes back to the goddess’ face, she seemed to wink at me. Perhaps it was just the flickering light of her lamp. Looking again, her smile seemed to broaden. She would see me through.

When we were all done in the shrine, only a few minutes later, our mistress took us up a rickety staircase to the large untidy room that was the girl whores’ living quarters. Our secular space was only a short distance from that of the goddess – but seemed almost to exist in another world. For a moment, I felt distressed to return to the profane realm. Then I remembered the goddess’ closing words to me – she was here, I needed only to reach to find her.

The room was inhabited by perhaps three dozen naked women and girls. As many hammocks were slung between stout wooden posts. Most of the whores had retired for sleep. Perhaps six or seven squatted together on the floor, their occupation unclear to me.

Madame Scurf indicated which hammocks were free, and in another moment I levered myself into one of them and drew the blankets up to my chin. Glancing at the grimy window, which was not sufficiently dirty to exclude the daylight, I doubted whether I would be able to sleep. A minute or so later rain began to rattle loudly on the glass, and it seemed that the noise as well as the light might keep me awake. Then I was absorbed into a deep dreamless slumber.

When I awoke, several hours later, to unfamiliar surroundings and strange sensations, I wondered where I was. It took less than a minute for memory to sweep in upon me like a flash flood carrying all before it. The unfamiliar comfort stemmed from the ease of a hammock and good quality blankets. The cracked and stained ceiling belonged to the Laughing Phallus.

I stretched myself, rolled over on to my side and eased myself over the edge of the hammock. My feet reached the floor with neither grace nor dignity – rising from a mobile, and volatile, bed was an art I had yet to learn. More than half of the whores were up – the majority sitting in small groups. Some were playing cards or calendar bones, the girls in each group were talking and the air was full of conversation.

Looking about for my companions from the Red Hill auction, I was unable to see any of them. Probably they were still asleep. I stepped to the window and looked out over a landscape dominated by tall chimney pots and dark red roof tiles – we were clearly near the top of the building. Uncertain as to what I should do next, I returned to my hammock, but didn’t climb back into it.

A gust of wind shook the window loudly. Two naked girls strolled past me, arm in arm and giggling – they couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen. My nose was suddenly filled with a floral scent – I felt sure that it was not a cheap perfume. The word nix was shouted from a cluster of women playing calendar bones.

[1] In both Essex and Lundin, where Tuerqui lived prior to her enslavement, blesh was eaten only by the poor – and pecker was a meat favoured by the middle classes and newly rich, rather than by established families such as hers (who would have regarded it as vulgar).

[2] It is clear that the Laughing Phallus was a busy establishment. The reason for a small town brothel having so many customers was that, at this time, there were only seven licensed brothels in the entire territory controlled by Surrey. The fact that Madame Scurf was able to obtain one of these valuable licenses argues that she was well connected – and supports the idea that she was descended from Susanna Scourge (see Chapter 14, note 1).

[3] A spanker’s dozen was, strictly speaking, eighteen. In this context, there is no indication that Tuerqui actually counted the strokes – and it is probably only an approximation.

[4] Employing uniformed servants, rather than buying slaves, was a form of conspicuous expenditure at this time of low slave prices. It would have been considered vulgarto do so in an old family such as that from which Tuerqui came.

[5] It is interesting that the h of her is not dropped when the word refers to the goddess. It is not clear whether Madame Scurf was more careful with her diction when she spoke of the goddess – or whether Tuerqui made the correction through respect toward Our Lady of the Lamp.

For chapter 16 click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2007/03/of-bondlings-and-blesh-chapter-16.html