Anna's Affliction, part 1

by Abe

“How old are you, Anna?” asked Uncle Wilbur.

“Sixteen, almost seventeen,” she replied.

“You are no older than our Kate, but you are dressing like a lady.  Your  hair is up, your skirts are down, and it looks as if you are wearing corsets.  Our Kate is still a girl.”  He was looking at Anna with intense interest.  She was striking, with blue eyes, porcelain skin, coppery hair, and a bosom to waist to hips ratio that was the height of fashion, the image of the fertile woman.

“Some girls mature sooner than others, Wilbur,” said Aunt  Edith impatiently.  “Well, Anna, you and Kate are sisters, now.  Your uncle and I are responsible for you until you are 21.  I'm sorry that your parents died, but you have us.  We'll take care of you.”  Edith did not mention that Anna's trust fund, intended to provide her with a dowry,  would now provide monthly payments for her support, until she married, which Edith would do her best to   prevent until the fund ran out.  “Of course, we're not as well off as your parents were.  You and Kate will have to work hard to help us to succeed.  We'll have to get you a plain frock, like Kate is wearing, and your corsets will get no use, I think.”

“Uh, Edith,” said Wilbur softly, “perhaps we should leave her dressed as she is.  Put her up front in the shop, where people can see her.  It might be good for trade.”

So, when Wilbur went off to work at the Sea View Hotel  and Edith worked behind the counter and Kate worked in the back making candy for sale, Anna was placed by the front window, where she worked, embroidering souvenir handkerchiefs or coloring black and white postcards with water colors.  Her uncle's shop sold tobacco and candy and  dozens of other more or less useless things that visitors to the beaches of Brighton might want to take back to London as souvenirs.  Immediately, Aunt Edith discovered that more men seemed interested in the things she sold, while before Anna the customers were mostly women and children.  Anna, laced tightly in her corsets, was forced to sit upright, ladylike, as she worked, with her full skirts falling to the floor and the sun gleaming off her striking hair, which contrasted with her black silk mourning dress.  Nearly everyone entering the shop would look at her for at least several seconds, but she was under orders to speak to no one.

  The repetitive work was boring, but Anna worked conscientiously, most of the time.  From time to time, however, Anna would pause in her work, get a dreamy expression on her face, breathe deeply and perhaps perspire.  “Anna!” Edith would call out, “Mind your work!”  “Anna, don't cross your legs.  It's not ladylike.”  “Anna, when a customer stares at you, you must lower your eyes and smile.”

Anna and Kate shared a bed in the back room upstairs.  Kate was very curious about the “fits” that Anna would experience at night.  Kate knew that some girls might rub themselves, between their legs, and respond as Anna did, a nasty, indecent practice, but Anna slept with her hands quite visible above the covers.  She did not touch herself  sinfully.  Still, Kate resented that Anna seemed to enjoy passionate episodes while Kate did not.  Finally, after several days,  Kate asked what was going on.

“I really can't help it, Kate.  If I press my thighs together, or if my clothing rubs me, I just get all excited.  I get warm and wet  down there.  I like it, but it can be embarrassing.”

“Anna, would you show me?  Could I watch?  I mean, we're sisters.  We shouldn't have secrets, should we?”

Reluctantly, Anna pulled up her shift and exposed herself to Kate for the first time.  Kate noted that Anna had much more pubic hair than Kate had, and it was red, like the hair on her head. Anna put one knee atop the other, so her inner thighs touched each other, and rhythmically tensed her muscles.  Very soon, Anna seemed to be in a trance, almost gasping, softly moaning, with perspiration gleaming in the candle light.  She writhed and sighed and relaxed, letting her lower limbs spread apart.

“Krikey, Anna, you have a wee-wee!  Like a boy!”

Sleepily, Anna said, “Don't be silly, Kate, I'm a girl.  I sit down to pee, same as you.”

“But it looks like a baby boy's wee-wee.  It must be an inch long.”

“Oh, that.  It's nice, isn't it?  Don't you have one?  Let me see.”  Anna pulled up Kate's shift and examined the relevant area, spreading Kate's lower lips with her fingers.  “Yes, you have one, Kate, but it's tiny.  Now, let's go to sleep.”  She blew out the candle.

Kate overcame her revulsion about touching herself.  She reached down and explored her cleft, finding the little button where Anna had a larger one.  Experimentally, she pressed and rubbed it.  It felt good, but she didn't experience the exciting fit which seemed to overcome Anna.  Maybe she needed to practice more.

By day, as Anna worked in the window, attracting admiring  glances from passing men, Kate did the dirty work, and she developed a resentment of that.  Finally, Kate told her mother that Anna was “playing with herself”, even during daylight.  It was reprehensible, disgusting, indecent, intolerable.  Edith insisted on staying with the girls as they prepared for bed, and she insisted on examining Anna, under her shift.  Anna was clearly embarrassed, but she submitted to the inspection.  Kate whispered to her mother that Anna had a wee wee, which grew if it was rubbed.  Edith fingered what her friends sometimes called the man in a boat – she had no better word for it – and, yes, it did grow and stand up like a little wee-wee.  Edith stood tall, pulled down the shift, and slapped Anna's face.  “You depraved slut!  We'll put a stop to this!”  She stalked out of the room in a rage.

The next day, as she worked, Anna again got that dreamy look.  Edith responded promptly, dragging the girl into the back room, lifting her skirts, and spanking her until Anna was crying uncontrollably.  When Edith returned to the shop,   Mrs. Wilkinson, a frequent customer, was standing there with a questioning expression.  “The girl needed a spanking,” said Edith.  Mrs. Wilkinson smiled and placed her order for half a pound of taffy.

It happened that, the next day, Mrs. Wilkinson again entered the shop.  She stared at Anna, who was supposed to lower her eyes and smile, but Anna had that dreamy look and a different sort of smile.  Edith came out from the back room and saw that Mrs. Wilkinson saw.  No explanation was necessary.  Edith snatched Anna's arm and dragged her into the back room.  Mrs. Wilkinson followed and volunteered to help punish the wayward girl.

Edith sat and pulled Anna across her lap, gathering her victim's  skirts up and revealing her drawers.  Mrs. Wilkinson said, “I've had experience with willful, immoral girls.  Let me administer the cane.”  Edith agreed.  “It must be on the bare.”  She pulled down Anna's drawers, removing them over her feet.  Anna could not resist.  Anna immediately began to cry.  She had never before been caned, even in school, and she  had learned yesterday that her aunt was merciless.

       Mrs. Wilkinson applied the cane vigorously but with precision, making bright pink welts on the pale skin of Anna's buttocks, neat parallel welts, starting at the waist, just below the corsets, and progressing downward to the upper thighs.  Anna      squealed and squirmed and pressed her thighs together even as she sobbed and  protested that it hurt terribly.  What had she done to deserve such a beating?

Mrs. Wilkinson forced Anna's thighs apart.  “See that!

She's wet!  The strumpet  likes it.  Oh, Gawd, would you see that?”  She made Anna stand and hold her skirts up in front.  “Did you ever see such a thing?  She's got a willie.”

       

       “Is that what it's called?” said Edith.  “It's abominable.  Such an affliction.”

       “No wonder,” said Mrs. Wilkinson, “that she is so depraved.  With a thing like that.  No wonder she displays such evil passions.”

       “She needs more whippings,” suggested Edith.

       “No.  See how aroused she is.  Whipping will simply arouse her passions.  You must go to the source of  the trouble.  So, do not whip her arse.  Whip that thing.”

       Anna was spared more immediate punishment by the arrival of more customers up front in the shop.  Edith  wiped  Anna's tears and led her back to her work place, now without her drawers, and made her sit silently on her sore bottom and paint the post cards while Edith served the new customers.  Mrs. Wilkinson stood by and smiled.

       When the customers left the shop, Edith said to Mrs. Wilkinson, “She must be very uncomfortable sitting on those welts from the caning.  It will be a while before she lets herself  do the nasty again.”

       As she prepared to go, having forgotten what she came for in the first place, Mrs. Wilkinson said, “This is a very interesting case.  I shall do some investigating and let you know what I find out.”  Kate had been a silent observer, unnoticed by the women.  She resolved to do some investigating, too.

       The next day was gray and rainy.  The customers were few, and Edith had need to cane Anna three different times, each time with more difficulty, as Anna resisted and squirmed and would not let  Edith cane her “willie.”

       “Well,” said Mrs. Wilkinson the next day, “It may be you will need the have your Wilbur to help you, to hold her down, unless, of course, you would prefer to have me help.”

       “Sarah, would you help?”  They were on a first name basis now.

       “Of course.  It's my Christian duty to assist in the bringing up of the young.  I've no children, myself, but I have disciplined many a servant girl.”  They summoned Anna to the back room and Kate, in the kitchen, silently spied through a door that was barely ajar.  Kate watched, fascinated, as the two women half undressed Anna and bound her, on her back, to a table, with her legs spread in a vee.  The wretched thing, the tool of the devil, peeped up through the curly, coppery hairs.  Mrs. Wilkinson, with practiced precision, brought the cane down so that the tip struck the  pink nubbin.  Anna screamed as if in fear of her life, so loudly that three passers-by came into the shop, afraid some felonious assault was taking place.

       Edith had to run to the front and explain:  “It's all right.  My daughter is making candy in the kitchen, and she spilled some hot taffy on herself.  She'll be alright.  A tiny burn, mostly fright.”

       Back in the back room, with Anna still spread upon the table, Edith had an idea.  She asked Mrs. Wilkinson to stuff  Anna's drawers into her mouth, as a gag.  Then Edith went into the kitchen. Kate stirred the hot candy and  pretended she had not heard a thing.  Edith took a ladle full of caramelized sugar and carried it back to where Anna was imprisoned.  The two women smiled as Edith poured the hot, viscous candy over the offending organ, and they watched it harden in place as Anna writhed and moaned into her gag.

       Kate reported the next morning that it seemed Anna had no more passionate fits, but the hardened candy had fallen off  during the night.

       Anna was not observed to have her “fits” for the next few days, but Edith suspected that the effect of boiling was wearing off.  When the blisters had healed,  Anna would surely return to her evil indulgence.  And so she did.

                “Stinging nettles,” said Mrs. Wilkinson.  “Stuff  nettles in her drawers, and she will be unable to bring her thighs together.  That should keep her chaste.”  The nettles had the desired effect, except  Anna was unable to work, writhing in pain, her inner thighs and bottom inflamed by the poisonous needles of the nettles. Customers asked where she had gone and were told Anna was ill, upstairs in bed.  Nettles were not the answer to Anna's affliction.

       It took Edith and Sarah and Wilbur  to hold Anna down and to bind her to the table when they again  addressed the problem of her thing.  They applied mustard plasters, as had been used on the late, mad King George, and cinnamon oil. Both caused burning sensations, great pain,  but still Anna would  sooner or later go dreamy when there was pressure or friction on the evil appendage.  Red hot sewing needles heated in a candle flame and  inserted in the “willie” were no more effective than cinnamon oil, and the sooty needles left little black tattoos.

       Mrs. Wilkinson suggested another tactic.  During the next punishment session, instead of the cane,  Sarah applied a flat iron, as used to iron clothing, and ironed Anna's bottom, leaving it red and blistered.  Then they ironed Anna's inner thighs,  to assure she would not cross her legs.  That worked, until the blisters healed, but, as with the nettles, Anna was unable to sit in the window and work.

                 It became clear to Anna that there was more to her torment than simply preventing her pleasure.  When Uncle Wilbur participated, it seemed his willie grew large and made a bulge in his trousers, and Anna learned to avoid being alone with him, for he would press her against a wall with his body and squeeze her boobies or, sometimes, grope though her skirts to rub her willie.  Once, against her will, Anna actually experienced  a sensuous “fit” as Wilbur rubbed her, and he left a wet spot on his trousers.  When she complained to him that he was doing to her what she was forbidden to do to herself, he declared that it was his duty as her guardian to  determine if the treatments needed to be repeated.

       One night, Edith checked on the girls as they slept and found that Kate had her hand between her thighs.  She sniffed the girl's shift and  detected the distinct smell  feminine secretions, proof of Kate's sinfulness.  In the morning, Edith and Sarah agreed that Anna had corrupted Kate.  Something more must be done.   It was Anna's turn to watch while Kate was disciplined, spread upon the table.  After a stern lecture about sinfulness, Sarah applied the hot needles.  Kate's little thing was barely visible, covered by the apex of her inner lips, so Mrs. Wilkinson inserted several hot needles under the covering, so as to thoroughly blister Kate's “man in the boat.”

                 Kate was cured, it seemed, for scar tissue formed around her little pleasure button so that, when rubbed, it could not grow and emerge from its hood.  Faced with the pain and frustration, Kate became careful not to rub herself down there.  Anna, however, was incorrigible and  continued to pleasure herself  at every opportunity, it seemed.

       Wilbur approached a well dressed man who was sitting   in a gazebo in the hotel gardens, reading a newspaper and smoking a cigar.  “Doctor  Hunt, Sir, may I ask you a medical question?”

       “I'm on vacation.  I am not seeing patients.”

       “It's my daughter, doctor.  She is almost seventeen, and I need to know if  a doctor can help her.  You see, she has this thing, between her legs.”  Wilbur discretely pointed.  “It looks like the willie on a baby boy, and it seems to cause her distress.  Could a doctor, a surgeon, remove it?”

       “What your daughter has is an unusually large clitoris.  Every girl has one.”

       “But could it be cut off?”

       “It is true that certain North African tribes routinely excise the clitoris, but it is generally done at an early age.  I would advise against surgical intervention.  Such an operation would be very bloody, and there would be a substantial risk of  a fatal septicemia.  If it causes her discomfort, the solution lies in protecting it from friction or pressure.”  The doctor returned to his paper and blew some cigar smoke in the direction of the lingering Wilbur.  “Good day, sir.”

       Wilbur relayed the discouraging news to Edith and Sarah.  Sarah said, “I once heard that, in the middle ages, husbands would lock their wives into iron chastity belts.  I don't suppose that would be a good idea, and I have no idea where you might find one.”

       Wilbur reflected on the doctor's advice, protection from friction or pressure.  Suddenly, he had an idea.  He removed from one of the shop's shelves a souvenir vial of Brighton beach sand.  He pulled the cork and poured out the sand, then judged the size by inserting a finger.  At the next “hurt Anna” session, Wilbur demonstrated his scientific acumen by boiling a little water in the vial and then pressing the open end over Anna's clitoris, scalding it with steam.  As the steam condensed, it formed a vacuum which drew the abused organ into the vial, half filling it, the inflamed flesh pressed tightly against the inner surface of the glass.  Wilbur announced, “If you let that fall off, Anna, we will do it again, and we both know that is painful.”

       The consensus was that the new treatment was effective.  The offensive thing could not be touched or pressed.  The vial did not show, and there were no more dreamy distractions as Anna worked.    Edith inspected from time to time and observed that Anna's pink thing seemed to grow longer daily as it was sucked into the vial.  Anna discovered that, by drawing the teeth of a comb across the vial, delicious vibrations teased her “willie.”

       One day, when customers were few because of a light rain, Edith went shopping and left Kate in charge of the counter and cash box, while Anna sat by the front window painting a composition of her own, a sunny beach scene.  Framed and sold, her paintings produced more profit than post cards.  A well dressed gentleman, perhaps twice Anna's age, entered the shop and went directly to her.  “Miss,” he said, “my name is Robert Harriman.  I have long admired you from afar, and I would very much like to make your acquaintance.  Would you do me the honor of dining with me at my hotel?”

       “I cannot, “ she replied.  “If my guardians discovered I had spoken with a customer, I would be severely beaten.”

       “And I'm here to tell them,” interjected Kate.

       “That is abominable!” the man exclaimed.  “You unfortunate person, what can I do to help?”

       Anna lowered her eyes and said nothing.  She was, of course, beautiful, and Robert Harriman would not be put off.  “Miss, I must take you away from this intolerable situation.  Will you come away with me?  I am a Scotsman; we can go to Gretna Green.”

       Anna knew that Gretna Green, just across the border from England, was where eloping couples went to get married without the publishing of bans for three weeks before the ceremony.  It seemed this man wanted to marry her.  No, much more likely he was a confidence trickster who would turn her to prostitution.  She considered very briefly whether life in a brothel could be any worse than life with Wilbur and Edith.  She stood up and offered her hand.  “My name is Anna,” she said.

       “Anna,” shouted Kate, “you can't just go away with a stranger.”  Robert took Anna's offered arm and led her toward the door.  “Anna!  What can I tell Mother?”

       Anna looked back over her shoulder and replied, “Tell her I have gone to the beach, and I am going to try to walk to France.  Tell her I must be dead.”  

    

Anna's Affliction,  part 2                               by Abe

       I assume you have read about me, and you know how I am afflicted with a large “willie” and how Aunt Edith and Uncle Arthur punished me by hurting it.  When Mr. Harriman offered to take me away from them and from Brighton, I had been deprived of my usual pleasures by having my willie scalded and sucked into a glass vial which kept me from rubbing it or pressing on it, thereby preventing the dreamy “fits” of pleasure which I used to induce simply by squeezing my thighs together.  I would take any chance to get away from  Edith and her friend, Sarah, and Wilbur, who seemed to enjoy torturing me, hurting my willie to prevent my sinful pleasure.  And Wilbur tried to hurt my boobies, too.  I knew it was a risk to go with a stranger, but I had to get away.

       I accompanied Mr. Harriman to his hotel, where he recovered his portmanteau and sample case.  He said he was a traveler, selling Belgian lace.  We went to the terminus of the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway.  There was a ladies' room, which I asked to use.  He gave me a penny for the attendant and said he would meet me there, after he had purchased tickets.

       I was not familiar with the new flush toilets.  The attendant led me to a little stall which contained a large ceramic bowl, decorated with flowers and leaves.  She wiped the rim with a damp cloth, and I gave her the penny as she left and closed the door.  I am used to squatting over a chamber pot, but the public toilet was something else.  I surmised that one was supposed to sit on it, but, with my skirts and petticoats, it would not be easy.  Finally I managed to pull up my skirts in front and to straddle the affair, facing the wall.  After relieving myself, I contrived to reach down and take hold of the glass vial.  Several times I banged it against the edge of the bowl until, at last, it broke with a pop and the broken glass fell into the bowl.  My willie was free!  I restored my clothing to its proper place and exited the stall.  The attendant looked annoyed as she entered and pulled a chain, causing the bowl to empty and refill with clean water.  As they had not yet adopted the S-bend trap, there was a whiff of poisonous sewer gas.

       Mr. Harriman was waiting for me, and he led me to the front of a train.  The locomotive was splendid in yellow ocher  livery, and the first class carriages were gleaming varnished teak, with luxurious seats upholstered in light blue plush, not like the hard wooden benches of third class.   We stepped into an open compartment, and Mr. Harriman stowed his baggage.  We sat opposite each other on the side away from the platform.  He said, “Well, we have an opportunity to become better acquainted.  You must...”  He went quiet as a middle aged gentleman, his portly wife, and their little girl entered the compartment and sat beside us.

       I could not help myself.  I pressed my thighs together and found my willie was as responsive as ever.  Very soon I was in the dreamy state on my way to a paroxysm of pleasure, and I hardly noticed when the gentleman covered his daughter's eyes and led his family from the compartment.  Mr. Harriman stood up, closed the compartment door, and said, smiling, “How clever you are, Anna, to drive them away by faking...  by doing what you did.”

       After a few seconds to catch my breath and return to normal, I replied, “Fake?  What do you mean?”

       “Have you known many men, Anna?  You must be experienced with, uh, intimate relations,” he said.

       “No, I have never been intimate with a man, Mr. Harriman.” I replied, truthfully I thought, since Uncle Arthur didn't count.

       “You are a virgin?” he said, his voice rising as if he could not believe it.

       “Yes,” I said.

       “How old are you?”

       “Very near to seventeen, Mr. Harriman,” I replied.

       “You must tell me all about yourself,” he insisted.  “Tell me the story of your life.”

       So I told him.  I told him I had been raised in the village of Nettlebed, west of London, that my father was the miller.  My mother died, so I left school and kept house for my father.  He was concerned that I should read widely, and he arranged for Madame Foch, the wife of the baker, to tutor me in French and piano.  I did not miss the formal schooling.  Then my father died, quite suddenly, which is why I wear black.  The solicitors who were executors of his estate arranged for me to live with my Aunt Emily and Uncle Arthur.  They said that money for my keep would be sent from a trust fund my father had arranged, having in mind a dowry for when I married.

       He seemed very interested.  “Do you know how much is in this trust fund?”

       “No,” I replied, quite truthfully.

       “Do you know the names of the solicitors?”

       “Wilkes and Wilkes,” I replied.  “They have offices somewhere near the Inns of Court.”  Our conversation went on for the duration of the train ride to London, though Mr. Harriman did not tell me very much about himself.

       Upon our arrival in London, we took a cab to the East End, east of the Tower of London,  famous for its squalor and lawlessness.  We stopped at a public house, The Broken Lance, and entered the bar, which  contained a throng of rough men; sailors, longshoremen, carters, coopers and who knows what.  We went through to the saloon bar, where there were a few men and three young women.  I had never met a prostitute, but I knew they must be whores, judging from their dress, or undress.  One seemed to be wearing only a dressing robe, with nothing on underneath!  It seemed my earlier apprehension that Mr. Harriman had no interest in marrying me but intended to sell me into prostitution was likely well founded, for surely he had delivered me to a brothel.

       We went further, back to the kitchen and scullery.  There, a woman in a scarlet dress greeted us.  “Mother,” said Mr. Harriman, “this is Anna.  I want you to feed her and take care of her and keep her until I return.  She is a virgin.  Do not let any man touch her.  I won't be long.”  Then he left me with the woman.

       “Well,  Anna, sit you down.  I'll have Pansy bring you some food and prepare a bath for you while you eat.”  Pansy, it turned out, was only eleven, but she was clearly with child, even though she was not yet old enough to have any boobs at all.  She was barefoot and wore only a man's shirt which reached to her knees.

       I ate a bowl of oatmeal in the kitchen, while I explained to Mrs. Harriman how her son had rescued me from a frightful existence in Brighton.  Then I went into the scullery where Pansy helped me to undress, and I bathed in a big tin tub which Pansy had filled with water warm from the range.  When I supposed I was clean,  Pansy said that Mrs. H. required one more thing.   To my great embarrassment, Pansy lathered the curly hairs of my belly and shaved them with a wicked razor, plucking a few with tweezers.  This seemed to me very strange, but Pansy explained that one of her jobs was to shave all the girls regularly for hygienic reasons.  Surely, I didn't want crab lice.  Men, she said, like to see what they are buying, and I would look younger if I had no hair down there.

       I said that I was not for sale, but Pansy just laughed and shook her head and asked me if this place was not a whorehouse.  I asked Pansy for my clothes, but all she would give me was a dirty robe of the sort the whore wore.  Then she went to Mrs. H. and whispered something.

       “No, half man?” exclaimed Mrs. H.  “It can't be.”  She snatched at my robe, tearing it open and exposing me to everyone in the kitchen.    “It's true.  She has a stud like a man.”  Then, to me, she said, “Does it work?”

       “I don't know what you mean,” I answered, embarrassed to be so exposed and discussed among strangers.

       “Pansy, suck it as you would a man,” ordered the woman in scarlet.  I protested, but two of the kitchen maids held me while Pansy went down on her knees and took my willie into her mouth.  I tried to resist, but in seconds the thrills were coursing through me, and soon I lost track of time.  Great heaving waves coursed through my belly, my knees buckled, and I nearly lost consciousness, transported by ecstasy.  Then I found myself sitting on a chair, with the kitchen help all agog, and Pansy was told to take me up to Master Robert's room.

       On my way upstairs, however, there was a great commotion in the saloon bar.  Pansy and I  detoured to peek in and see what was happening.  A large man held one of the whores by the wrist and shouted that she had picked his pocket, and he wanted the police.  Harry, the bartender,  told him to calm down.  The  police would not come, and if they did, no one wanted them on the premises.  The man twisted the whore's wrist until she dropped a few coins on the floor.  “There, there,” said Harry, “pick up you money, and there's no harm done.”

       “She's a thief!  I want justice,” shouted the man.

       “Very well,” said Harry, “how about a little summary justice.  I've a cane.  You can get your satisfaction by taking it out of her hide.”

       Pansy and I watched, fascinated, as Harry stripped the whore and held her bent over a bar stool while the man vented his anger by caning her until her bottom bled, and she surely would be unable to work on her back for some time.   Pansy and I were not the only ones fascinated.  Men from the bar swarmed into the room at the sound of the unfortunate woman's screams, and the kitchen staff watched, too.  I never forgot that scene.

       I was asleep on his bed when Mr. Harriman returned.  “I went to see the solicitors,” he said, “but I was too late.  A clerk told me to come back tomorrow.”  He removed the robe and examined me as I stood there naked.   “It's true.  You clitoris is huge.”

       “Is that what it is called?” I said.

       “Yes, but you may call it what you will.”

       “I have always called it my willie.”

       He put me into bed and said, “I must touch it.”  He did, and the results were as usual.  I slept very soundly.

       The next day, he went again to the solicitors and he returned excited.  He and his mother helped me to dress; it's impossible to lace oneself into corsets and to button the back of a dress by oneself.  Then we took a cab to the office of the solicitors.  The elder Mr. Wilkes wanted to speak to me alone.  “Anna,” he said, “do you really want to marry this man?”  I explained that I had no other suitors, and I would do anything to avoid returning to Brighton.  “Well,” he explained, if you must marry him you shall, but I am very concerned about your welfare.”  Then, to the two of us, he explained that I would have an income of more than 140 pounds a year, interest on the capital held in trust, which capital I could not touch until I was 21, more than four years away.  The sale of the mill had added substantially to the fund.  The payments to my aunt and uncle would, of course, be stopped, as Robert would be my husband and entitled to all my possessions.  However, he required from Robert a promise to provide me with a house and maid, somewhere west of The City or even in the country, and the payments would not commence until Robert produced a marriage certificate.  Mr. Harriman and I took the overnight train to Scotland and were married before 10 AM the next day.

       Even though we were married, on paper, it was never consummated.  Sometimes, to cheer me up, Robert would  rub or even suck my willie, which invariably pleased me,  but I remained, technically, a virgin.  I don't know why.  Perhaps he was diseased, or he had a mistress, or he might even have preferred boys, but the fact was that he never penetrated me and, as I later learned, I might obtain an annulment if I wished on grounds of non-consummation,  with my intact maidenhead as evidence.

       We leased a newly built terraced house in the western suburbs, Shepherd's Bush.  It was one of several identical houses, each sharing a common wall with its neighbor, each with a parlor, a dining room, and a kitchen and scullery on the ground floor, with bedrooms and a WC on the first floor.  The lease called for a rent of  25 pounds per annum.   Uniformity, conformity, was the rule.  Each house but mine had a young couple, with a husband who worked in town and a wife whose function was to bear his children and to make sure that, when he came home in the evening, he was well fed and content.  It was expected that the parlor would be lavishly decorated at a cost of at least a year's income, saved up before the marriage, including, probably, a piano, Persian rugs or copies of them, a mantel clock under glass, silver candlesticks, porcelain figurines, brocaded drapes, and all the other useless ornaments which established one as equally middle class as one's neighbors.  If a man increased his income, or his family grew much larger, he was expected to move to a finer house, though it might not be more than a quarter mile away.  I, of course, did not fit in.  My parlor was bare, but for a table and chairs and inexpensive lamps.  I had no intention of  competing with the other wives.  My husband did not work in London, and he did not come home each night, or even each week, expecting a fine meal and the pleasures of domesticity.  I did not have children, or even one on the way, so I had little in common, nothing to talk about, with the young mothers.  Rather, they saw me as a threat, a pretty young woman who was practically single, who might well seduce their husbands.

       I had a maid, Sarah, who was no older than I.  I helped with the laundry on Mondays; it takes two to do it right.  I did most of the cooking, though not the washing up.  Sarah's job was to help me dress and undress and to keep the place clean, which was not greatly difficult as we were upwind of the worst of the city soot.   When Robert came home we waited on him hand and foot, but he always slept in his room, and I in mine.  Without productive work to do, I devoted myself to self-improvement, reading extensively, both fiction and non-fiction,  often French novels or medical texts which booksellers and librarians were reluctant to let me have, as they dealt with subjects unsuitable for a young woman.

       I soon learned that my husband was both a traveling salesman and what was called a procurer, a recruiter of prostitutes.   England had  surplus of women, about ten for every nine males, as so many men went to sea or emmigrated to the colonies.  Employment for an unmarried female was very limited.  She might stay home and ultimately care for her aging parents.  If she was very lucky, she might find as position as a nanny or governess or possibly as a shop girl in a millinery shop or such, but most shopkeepers preferred males.  Otherwise, she was a domestic servant, practically a slave, or she was a prostitute.  The Society for the Suppression of Vice reported that, in London, one in fourteen women was a prostitute.  There was an oversupply of whores, so being a procurer tended to be a part-time job.  Never the less, as Mr. Harriman went from town to town with his samples of lace, he came in contact with many young women, potential customers or potential  prostitutes.  I have no doubt that, had he not learned of my dowry, he might have turned me over to his mother to service the scum of the East End.

       The weather grew colder and gloomier.  My pubic hair grew back.  Robert told me that Pansy's baby was stillborn.  Pansy was so afraid of  becoming pregnant again that she begged him to let her serve us.  So then I had two maids.  Sarah and Pansy were like sisters and shared a bed.  I've no doubt that  Pansy corrupted Sarah's morals.

       A proper wife does not concern herself with her husband's job.  Many of my neighbors had no idea of what their husband's did for a living, and such things were never discussed in the home, which was a refuge from the cares of the world.  With my income, had he not loved his work, my husband might not have spent so much time seducing young women, for it cannot have paid well, given the number of women who were already in the trade, as they say.  Still, I did discuss it with Mr. Harriman.

       “Is it true, Robert,” I said, “that there are gentlemen who prefer boys and will pay well for them?”

       “Anna!” he said, “where did you learn of that?”

       “I read a lot,” I said.  “And is it true that men will pay a great deal to deflower a virgin?”

       “I have heard that is so,” he said.

       Remembering the incident of the pickpocket in the saloon bar, I said, “And are not a great many men fascinated with violence, particularly  violence toward women?  Do you not think that many would pay more to see a woman caned than to see a prize fight between men?”

       Robert thought for a moment.  “Yes, I should  think that might be so.  Women, too, might pay.  And some might pay to see a woman abuse a man.  What are you driving at,  my innocent wife?”

       I gathered my courage to explain what I had been thinking about.  “The Broken Lance can hardly be a real money maker.  Perhaps the beer and gin sales are profitable, but with so many whores on the streets, surely your mother can hardly afford to feed the girls she has.  When, in your travels, you run across a pretty girl, such as myself, and you induce her to put herself in your hands, selling her to a brothel can hardly pay your expenses.  Am I right?”

       “I did not know that you knew so much about me.  Yes, you are correct.  Procuring prostitutes is more of a hobby than a trade,” he replied.

       “Suppose,” I said, “that we could make it profitable.”

       “We?  What do you have in mind?”

       “Suppose,” I said, “that we operated an establishment for select  gentlemen, or ladies, of means, who would pay handsomely for entertainment such as they would never expect at a place like The  Broken Lance.  I imagine a private club where a gentleman or gentlewoman could visit and  view or partake in activities of,  ah, an unconventional sort.  I could run the business.  You could provide the 'live stock'.  The problem is finding the clients to become members.”

       Robert seemed to take a while to ingest the idea.  “You mean,” he said, “like the clubs on Regent Street where gentlemen dine and play at cards or whatever they do?  We could call it Harriman House.”

       “I don't think we could compete with the established, fashionable, respectable clubs.  I was thinking of something more novel, with a name that would attract the sort we want.  I thought, perhaps, The Caligula Club, 'for those interested in the classical Greek and Roman arts', a euphemism for pagan orgies.  We have no friends in the moneyed classes, do we?  We would have to advertise discreetly, until word of mouth brings in more members.”

       “Do you really think this scheme is possible?” he said, shifting himself nervously.

       “Yes, I think it is.  As I said,  I could run the business, and you  could find the participants.  We can save enough from my income to lease premises.  May I have your permission to investigate some more?  Of course, I can  do nothing without your approval.”

       “Anna,” he said, “I thank God for the day you said you would come away with me.  Yes, see what you can do.”

       While my husband was traveling,  I found  what I thought would be a suitable location, in Soho.  Soho is located not far from the fashionable shops and quite close to theaters.  For a century or more  the area was home to immigrants, artists, and other non-conformists, but lately the respectable people were moving out.  I found a suitable building.  The ground floor was occupied by Chez Jacques, a restaurant with French cuisine, much favored by cultured gentlemen of the sort I hoped would become members of the club.  Jacques, who owned the building, was a refugee from the revolutions of 1848 who  had found refuge in England, but he retained his French tolerance for worldly vices.  The floors above the restaurant were flats, apartments in the continental style, which shared a common stairway.  Jacques had the building modernized, with running water, flush toilets, and gas for lights and hot water geysers.  The apartments were still vacant and available for rent.  I explained to Jacques what I planned to do,  pointing out that our members would likely eat at the restaurant or order food sent up, which would be good for his business.  I introduced Robert to Jacques, and a rental arrangement was agreed upon.

       There followed a flurry of activity by Sarah and me, cleaning, decorating, selecting furniture.  The vestibule was accessible from the street or from the restaurant, but there was a door at the foot of the stairs, so I could control access to the upper floors.  The inner door soon bore a brass plate, The Caligula Club.  There was also a second stairway, the servant's stairs, in the back, with an  exit to an alley.  Sarah and I moved into the third floor, leaving our suburban house vacant for a while.  The second floor would be the club rooms while the first floor, over the restaurant, would initially remain vacant, so that patrons of Chez Jacques would not hear what went on upstairs.

       The most difficult part was getting started in business, finding the first few members and arranging entertainment to suit.  I had printed business cards:  The Caligula Club, a private club for members only, located above Chez Jacques, with the address and a note that members can bring male or female guests.  I began by approaching diners in the restaurant – a pretty young woman is seldom rebuffed – and handing them a card.  The majority declined to show interest, but some would ask questions.  By the end of a week I had a prospective member, whom I interviewed in the vestibule.

       “Is it a residential club?” he asked.  Not yet, there is room to expand in the future, if members want their own room.  “Well, then, what reason is there to join?”  There will be entertainment, which can be arranged on appointment to suit the member's tastes.  “What sort of entertainment?”

       “You sound like an educated man,” I replied.  “You would be acquainted with classical Greek and Roman culture and you might imagine the sort of entertainment.  The name, after all, suggests the theme.  You must have heard of Caligula, one of the most depraved of Roman emperors.”

       “You  are referring to some sort of pagan orgies?” he replied.

       “Have you heard of the 18th century Hellfire Club?  Sir Francis Dashwood, Lord Sandwich, John Wilkes, Benjamin Franklin?  We will be like that, except the members and their female companions will not have to journey to Medmenham or West Wycomb.  Meetings,” I explained,  “will be by prior arrangement.  Members are required to wear masks.  You may bring a companion or guest.  If not, a companion can be provided. Generally, other members may observe what takes place, but the utmost discretion is required; thus the masks.  You may provide your own mask, but I have arranged a supply of  masks, from simple cloth coverings to garish papier mache' masks suitable for Carnivale in some southern locale.”

       “How then will you know who I am?”  he asked.

       “I do not want to know who you are.  I will give you a medallion with a membership number on it, which you can show to gain admission.  Since I will not know your name or address, I cannot send you a bill.  Therefore, you will deposit an amount, perhaps ten pounds, on account, and I will deduct from your account as needed.  Each time you visit will cost a guinea, plus whatever additional expenses we may incur to satisfy your particular desires.  Do you have a particular desire?”

       He thought a moment, then asked, “You can satisfy any desire?”

       I smiled and said, “As long as it does not involve blood, broken bones, or other lasting harm, most likely we can supply whatever you might want.  Do you have a specific interest?”

       He hesitated again and then said, “Can you supply a virgin?  Could I rape a virgin?”

       Again I smiled and said, “A virgin may be costly to obtain, but a virgin you shall have.”

       “And could I cane her, too?”

       “We aim to please.  Would you like to buy a medallion?”  I handed him a disc, one of several I had obtained, with a roman figure on one side and consecutive numbers on the other side.  His was 101.  After taking his money, I asked, “When would you like to meet the virgin?”

       “Saturday, about 7 PM?”

       “We will expect you.”

       I placed an order with Robert for a suitable girl.  On Saturday he returned home, to the club, empty handed.  “Robert,” I said, “I promised to fulfill his needs, and though I am a virgin, I do not propose that I should fornicate with members.   I have the cane but not the bottom.  Find me a virgin!”

       Robert thought for a moment and the called out, “Sarah!”    Sarah came running.  “Sarah, are you a virgin?”

       Sarah blushed and seemed flustered: “Yes, Master Robert.”

       “There you are,” he said.  He walked out of the room.

       “Sarah,” I said, “You know that I have never disciplined you, never spanked you.  Have  you ever been punished, with a cane or strap or something?”

       “Yes, Mistress, many times.  I was a naughty girl in school and got the slipper many times.  My father, he used a strap on my bottom.  Then, when I went into service, my first employer,  Mrs. Gulliver, she used to punish me with a cane and later a paddle, until she got fed up and let me go, which is why I work for you so cheap.  I have no reference.”

       “Suppose I offered you a pound to agree to be caned.  Would you accept that?”

       “Oh, yes, Mistress,” she answered enthusiastically.  “That's almost two month's wages.  Gosh, you can cane me for a pound any time.”

       “On the bare?  Maybe entirely naked?” I asked.

       “Of course, Mistress.   I'm told that's how it's done in some of the best houses.”

       “And if it was a man caning you?”

       “That would be alright, I think.  My father was a man, and he used to whip my bare bottom.” she replied.

       “And Master Robert and I could look on, just to see that you are not seriously hurt,” I added.

       “That would be alright, I think.  It would make me feel safer,” she said.

       “And suppose, after you were caned on the bottom, a man put his thing inside you?”

       She visibly drew back, a frightened expression on her face.  “You mean the sin of fornication, Mistress?”

       “Yes, that is it exactly.  You would lose your virginity.”

       “No, I don't think I could agree to that, Mistress,” she said with a tremor in her voice.

       “Suppose, Sarah,” I said, “I give you three month's wages, and a new dress, and three days off to spend the money.  Would that induce you to put up with perhaps an hour of inconvenience?  Your clothes come off.  You are caned on the bottom, and then he sticks something into you.  No harm done.   God will forgive you.”

       Sarah bit her lip for half a minute before answering, “Yes, Mistress, I'll do that for three month's wages, and the rest.”  I felt a profound relief.  Tonight's entertainment had to go well; our whole future depended on  it.  We had to establish our bona fides, to please our first member, or there might never be more members.

       That night, Number 101 arrived early, about dusk, which is early afternoon in December.  He had brought his own mask and a male guest, also masked.  They seemed to be in no hurry, as Robert and I tried to make them comfortable in a room which passed for our parlor.  They sent down to Jacques for two plates of food and a bottle of his best Madeira.   Sarah waited off-stage, fidgeting and pulling on her hair.  She was barefoot, dressed in a short dress more appropriate for a twelve year old, with nothing on underneath.

       Then came the moment of truth.  We introduced Sarah to the two men.  “Sarah, you have been a bad girl, a depraved sinner!  You must be punished,” announced Number 101.  “I have a cane.  Do you know what you must do?'  Sarah hesitated, uncertain.  “Take off your dress,” he ordered.  Sarah complied, appearing to be embarrassed, though she later told me she wasn't.   Our first member pushed her over the arm of an upholstered chair, and the guest held her arms, so her bottom was turned upwards.  “Count the strokes!” 

       The cane swished through the air and audibly smacked her fleshy buttocks.   “Ow!” she cried, “One.”  The man seemed satisfied with his work and took a moment to run his hand over the welt he had left.  He continued his work, as Sarah screamed and called out the numbers.   Between strokes, he would loosen his clothing or slide his hand over her, even fingering her virginal cleft, pulling gently on the curly hairs.  He stopped when she called out twenty.

       His erect prong was exposed and ready.  As the other man held Sarah, our member stood behind her.  He positioned the tip of his shaft between the lower lips of his victim and slid it fore and aft a few times.   It seemed to me that she was naturally lubricated at that point, but I had some butter, just in case.  He positioned his tool toward the back of her cleft and lunged forward, driving into her cunt.  She cried out, and there was blood, proof of her former virginity.  The man was  exaltant, and he thrust rapidly half a dozen strokes until he came with a grunt, depositing his seed deep inside her.  She responded with a deep sigh.

       The guest, who until then had simply held Sarah and watched, now stood back and brought forth his erect organ.  He traded places  with Sarah's ravisher and thrust his own sword into her now wet-with- semen sheath.  He was made of sterner stuff, and he rammed into her, his belly squashing her  bruised bottom, continuing as if he would never tire.  Sarah grunted and sighed as he ravaged her girlish cunt, and, in time, she began to pant like a dog.  “Oh, God!” she cried.  “Oh, don't stop.  Oh, Gaaahhh!”  Her assailant evidently liked that, and he ejaculated even as her own juices splashed his balls.

       Before the two men left, the guest had become our second member, with medallion 102.  Sarah washed and dressed, and he, 102, asked to see her before he left.  Wordlessly, he pressed a gold sovereign  into her hand, more money than she had seen in her life.  He took with him a number of our business cards.  Over the course of the next week,  two more men and a woman I had approached in the restaurant applied for membership.  Word of mouth was working. 

       The woman, 104, was a widow past childbearing age who  wanted a Wednesday visit.  Sarah and Pansy disrobed her and bathed her, and then she lay down, face down,  on a large table.  Sarah and Pansy rubbed scented oil into her body, from toes to neck.  Then she rolled over,  and they rubbed her front.  After a while, Sarah concentrated on  oiling and rubbing  104's breasts, while Pansy got down between the woman's parted thighs and applied her tongue where it would do the most good.  “Oh, yes,” she sighed, and then, more loudly, “Yes, squeeze my breasts. Hurt me.”  She arched her back, pushing her cunt against Pansy's face, and howled for several seconds, until she relaxed and her bum slapped against the table.  She said the entertainment was well worth a guinea, and made an appointment for the next week.

       The gentleman with medallion 103 wanted a young man.  Robert found an older boy who was used to servicing sailors and would do anything for a few shillings.  Sarah and Pansy cleaned him up, but we didn't have clean clothes for him, so when 103 arrived we presented the boy in a loincloth, like an American Indian.  The two demanded privacy for an hour or so and left together.  We never saw either of them again, though 103's account remains open.

       Number 105 had a specific request which I wasn't sure I could accommodate, so he agreed to give me some time and he would check back with me.  My more immediate concern was finding virgins for 101.   Friday night, Robert showed up with a sack over his shoulder, which he left  on the floor before he left again.  The sack contained a slender girl who was bound and gagged.  We undressed her and bathed her and fed her.  She said her name was Ruby.   She seemed happy to be warm and well fed and readily shared a bed with Pansy.  In the morning, warmly dressed, she wolfed down her breakfast.

       “Pansy,” I asked, “have you told Ruby why she is here?”

       “No, Mistress,” she said.  “I wouldn't do a thing like that without your permission.”

       “Sarah, you have been there before.  Would you please tell Ruby what we expect of her?”  Sarah explained about how Ruby would be caned and fucked.

       Ruby had only one question: “And when I've been fucked, you are not going to send me away, into the cold, are you?”

       I couldn't bring myself to tell her that's what we had planned.  Sometimes emotion or morality overcomes reason.  “No,” I replied, “you can stay here as long as you cooperate, do what we tell you to do.”

       I examined Ruby, looking for proof of her virginity.  I didn't find  it, but it was too late to find another virgin.  “Ruby,” I said, “I'm going to sew up your cunt a bit, make it tighter.”

       “No!  That will hurt,” she blurted out.

       “Are you going to cooperate or are you going to leave?  I believe it has started to snow.”

       Pansy intervened, explaining that she wanted her cunt sewed up, so she would never again get pregnant, and proposing that I should sew her up to prove to Ruby it wouldn't hurt too much.  I did, using a curved needle and silken thread, joining her inner lips, leaving only a small opening for her monthly flow.  I know it hurt, but Pansy did not show it, and Ruby consented.  For Ruby, I used only a few tiny stitches, with the object that when 101 fucked her the stitches would tear out and there would be bloody “proof” of her virginity.

       That night, 101 and 102 repeated their actions of the previous Saturday.  Ruby howled and blubbered as her arse was caned, unable to count the strokes.  When it was time to fuck her, 101 was well satisfied, noting how tight she was and how she had bled.  102 then took his turn, and he worked hard with cock and fingers to finally bring her to her climax.  Only then did he “fire for effect”, as the artillerymen say, and, I think, she had another orgasm as he ejaculated   inside her.  And he slipped her a sovereign.  They made an appointment for next Saturday, with a request for some improvements.

       As I showed the gentlemen out, I discovered in the vestibule a miserable shivering woman who had sought refuge from the cold and snow.  She was perhaps twice my age, dressed in what once were respectable clothes but which were now ragged and dirty.  She had no hat, probably sold it.  Again, my emotions ruled, and I led her upstairs for food and a warm bath.  Her name, she said, was Hermione, and she had worked as a governess, until she was sacked without a reference for being too enthusiastic about disciplining her charges.  As we talked, her wrapped in a blanket in front of the fire, I realized that she was the answer to my problem.

       He came on Wednesday, before Madame 104  arrived, and while  Sarah and Pansy massaged the widow and brought her to two wild and wet climaxes, he and Ruby secretly watched through peep holes.  When 104 had recovered her composure, dressed with Sarah's help, and departed, 105 was ready to re-enact his fantasy.

       Hermione stormed into the room, made up with a gray wig and theatrical make-up to look as old as 105's mother.  “You naughty boy.  You must be punished.”

       “Yes, Mother,” he replied.  “I know I shouldn't have impure thoughts or watch a naked woman.”  We installed him on the big table, tied down on his back with his legs lifted and his knees near his shoulders.  His limp cock and balls hung down, and I worried that, if he were caned, his balls might be injured.   Hermione, however, was expert at administering pain.  Ruby brought in a flatiron, the kind used for ironing clothes, which was in a pan of hot water.  Hermione tested the heat with a wet finger and, satisfied that the iron was a suitable temperature, proceeded  to apply it to his upraised buttocks.  Judging from 105's cries, it was truly painful, but, while there was a red outline of the iron on his pale buttock, the skin did not blister, as it had when I had been ironed.  Systematically, Hermione ironed his bum, until it was red as a baboon's arse, and his cock was erect.  Then she tortured him by gently stroking his hard cock, telling him he was a bad boy, depraved,  who must purge his impure thoughts.  Obviously, it was impossible for him not to have impure thoughts while his “mother” stroked his cock, but she expertly avoided his progressing to ejaculation, teasing him for about an hour  or more.  When she left him, warning him that she would punish him worse if she caught him again, Pansy and Ruby released him from his bonds.  His cock was still standing tall, so  Pansy showed Ruby how to give head, and 105 spent all over Pansy's face.

       105 must have had friends with similar interests, as we added 106 and 109 to Hermione's regular clients.  We augmented out equipment.  The big table was complemented by a facsimile of a medieval rack  and ropes on pulleys hanging from the ceiling.  We had a proper whipping bench made, a pillory to confine the neck and wrists with wooden troughs for the knees, so that the imprisoned person was immobilized with his or her bottom uppermost.  It served well for 101 to thrash and rape his virgins, but others, like 106 and 109, sometimes found themselves pilloried.  Since 101 seemed unable to distinguish between a genuine virgin cunt and a stitched up cunt,  the provision of “virgins” was less of a problem.  By using more or less experienced whores to play the part,  I was able to send them back to whence they came  without the pangs of guilt I might have felt with Ruby.

       Our little household had grown.  I had to feed myself, of course, and sometimes Robert, but also Sarah, Pansy, Ruby, and Hermione.  Of course, I could afford it.  Sarah and Ruby, having discovered the pleasures of  being roughly fucked, were willing to perform as needed, but both worried that they might get with child.  I had read that the Greeks had a way to prevent that, using a sponge soaked in vinegar and inserted deep into the cunt.  When I inserted the sponges, both girls, believing they were immune to the usual consequences, were uninhibited in their servicing of members.  Of course I also provided “French letters”, condoms, but the men declined to use them.  I could understand that.

       In a month, we had 14 members, and by summertime nearly three dozen, so we had visitors seven days a week.   Many were  satisfied to simply watch, or perhaps fuck Sarah or Ruby.  Hermione  had several regular clients, the three men I mentioned, plus more men and women.  One woman, 113, came alone and seemed to relish pain as a substitute for sexual gratification.  Hermione creatively varied the treatments.  In addition to conventional caning or strapping, while 113 was confined to the pillory, Hermione applied the hot flatiron, nettles and cactus thorns, even a mustard plasters.  She pierced the woman's lower lips and adorned them with earrings and bells.  She carved a large potato into a sort of spear point and raped the woman's asshole.  The woman, and those who covertly watched, seem well satisfied and ready for more, and she seemed, almost every week, to actually achieve sexual gratification.   At Hermione's suggestion, we obtained a large rocking horse, the sort found in a nursery but sized for an adult.  The saddle could be changed, and the stirrups could confine the rider's feet to prevent the rider from dismounting.  113 was mounted on a saddle which had post in the middle which, of course, was buried in her cunt.  There was another appendage which reached up between her lips and pressed her hidden “willie.”  Studs on the saddle pressed painfully into her buttocks and inner thighs.   She was blindfolded and did not realize that three male spectators were rocking the horse, but the surfeit of stimulation drove her into paroxysms of pleasure until she actually lost consciousness.  The spectators demanded more, and when 113 was again able to feel pain and pleasure, the ordeal was repeated until the woman was exhausted, her cunt gaping and her arse bruised from the burrowing studs.  Before she left, she gave Hermione a large tip.

       I soon discovered that Hermione rode the horse when she thought she was alone.  That being the case,  I  stitched Hermione's cunt, and she became a “virgin” for 101.  The caning obviously stimulated her, so several men took their turn, leaving her bottom covered with welts and her cunt filled with blood and semen.  Hermione loved it, but of course she could only be a virgin once.  After three weeks,  113 did not show up as expected; perhaps it was “that time of the month.”  Several spectators complained, so Hermione, instead of inflicting punishment, received it, and she rode the “cock horse”, minus the studded saddle,  until she was exhausted.

       One gentleman member brought his wife for Hermione's services, saying that she was guilty of  terrible sins, unspecified, and needed discipline.  After the first visit, during which Hermione applied the flat iron, followed by the cane, her husband requested additional services.  The next visit, after session with the cane, the wife was fitted with a leather belt, which buckled in the back.  It sat well below her waist, below the bottom of her corsets, but tightly enough that it could not be pulled down over her hips.  From the front to the back a strong copper strap went from front to back, between her legs.  It was perforated in front, so urine could pass, and split behind, going either side of her shithole, so, while it might be messy, there was no need to remove it for elimination functions.  Various objects could be fitted to the inside.  For the first week, Hermione placed two wooden balls, attached with screws through the perforations in the strap.  The foremost ball, the size of a grape. was at the upper juncture of the inner lips, where it bore against the clitoris.  The after ball, like  a small egg,  snuggled into the vestibule of her cunt.  Whenever  she sat down, the balls were pressed against those sensitive spots.  Her husband was pleased, happy to pay the price we asked for it, and he ordered his wife to wear the belt until the next week's session.   The following week, Hermione used a tawse, a  leather strap, while the copper band remained in place.  Every third or fourth

blow would strike the copper,  rubbing the wet bits, until the woman cried out and shuddered with sexual passion.  He husband could not control himself.  He removed the belt and fucked her to the satisfaction of all present.

       In another case, the member was a white haired gentleman who was probably unable to fuck his much younger wife.  He wanted to watch while another man fucked her.  He required, however, that the man be an English gentleman, so that if a child resulted, the husband would not be disappointed with it.  She was not required to disrobe entirely.  When placed in the pillory, even though she wore her corsets, her cunt was readily accessible.  Pansy prepared her, so she was nice and wet between the legs.  For the first visit, the fucker was 102, who volunteered, but the spectators lined up to be assigned for future visits.

For three months her husband watched her being fucked by a stranger, which she soon learned to accept, even to relish.  Then, perhaps because she was pregnant, she came no more.

       'Most every night of the week,  men would come and eat at the big table, wearing half-masks so their mouths were exposed.  The girls  would bring up trays of food and many bottles of wine or whiskey from the restaurant downstairs, and the men seemed in no hurry.  They enjoyed talking together and, though they never let on, I'm sure many knew each other in the social world outside the club.  Mostly, they would be spectators when the serious entertainment took place, though a few would swive Sarah or Ruby or a pretty new girl, seemingly inviting the others to admire their manly performance.  And later, when there were women to abuse, the sponsors of the abuse, often the husband of the victim, seemed to enjoy that there were spectators.  Most of the women, whether wives or whores, seemed to respond more intensely when there were spectators.   Hermione was proud of her skill, and Sarah and Ruby were much encouraged when men praised their performance.  Rather than riding the horse, Ruby in particular enjoyed riding the cock of a man who was on his back on the table, while the spectators urged her on.  Some nights she would ride five or six men.  The Caligula Club was, indeed, a social club.  All of these activities I would observe, but I never participated.  When the last member had left, I would cross my legs and squeeze my oversize “willie,” which always seemed to satisfy.

       Things went very well, and by summertime we were showing a profit of  close to two hundred pounds a month.  Projecting more than two thousand a year, Robert began to regard himself as a moneyed gentleman, dressing the part and aping the gentry.  He took to minding the vestibule, admitting members, whom he regarded as his equals.       His main interest in the business was finding cunts for our members to fill.  Virgins were preferred,  but from time to time a particularly attractive young woman would join out little family, for a night or two or much longer, if she were especially popular.  We began to use the first floor to house our “stable of mares.”

       Sometimes, however, things did not go well.  Robert, who more and more had access to the wealthier classes, recruited a new member,    number 129.  She was a beautiful young woman not many years older than I, who dressed in the most current and expensive fashions.  She was on the tall side, dark and voluptuous, and she wore no wedding ring.  The first two visits she ate with the males and merely observed the subsequent activities.  On the third visit, while the gentlemen enjoyed a post-prandial cigar, 129 went into another room with Pansy.  She emerged wearing nothing but her silk stockings and stood there, holding her boobs up with her hands, thrusting her black, curly pubic bush forward, and said, “Very well, gentlemen, who will have me first?”

       It was a memorable evening.  As she lay on her back on the dining table being fucked for the third time,  Robert left to answer the bell in the vestibule.  Suddenly a large whiskered gentleman charged up the stairs, shouting, “Where is my daughter?”  Upon arriving in the dining room, with Robert close behind, the man, who turned out to be Lord H., stood, as they say, transfixed by the sight of his daughter, her legs spread, happily engulfing 117's stiff cock.  Lord H. pulled out a revolver and fired three shots.

(to be continued?)

Anna's Affliction,  part 3                               by Abe

       One of the first two bullets carved a furrow across the buttocks of the fucker.  The other barely missed the fuckee and buried itself in the heavy wooden table.  As Robert tried to restrain the gunman,  the shooter, with the strength of a madman, twisted and pushed the muzzle against Robert's breastbone and pulled the trigger.  Robert died instantly.

       Two spectators, former fuckers, wrestled the killer to the floor and held him, face down, with his arm twisted behind his back.  I picked up the revolver and pointed it at his head.  An until now passive spectator cried out, “Call the bobbies!  It's murder.  With all these witnesses, we'll see the monster hang.”

       “Calm down and think,” I ordered.  Pressing the muzzle to the prone man's temple, I said, “Who are you?”

       He explained that he was Lord H., and he called out to 129, “Patricia, I disown you.  You have dishonored our family.  I'm sorry my shots missed you.”

       “How did you know she was here?” I asked.  A private investigator had followed her and reported on her location.  “Where is the investigator now?”  He had been sent away, his job finished.  “How did you get here?”  By carriage.  I  took a moment to go to a front window and peep between the drapes.  The lord's carriage was waiting at the kerb, illuminated by the light from the restaurant.  A driver and two footmen stood smoking.

       “Well, gentlemen,” I said, addressing the room in general, “which of you is prepared to testify in open court, with the press present, as to what you were doing  when the shot's were fired?”  The men just sort of shuffled and said nothing.  “Who is prepared to help me dispose of  the body, if I were to execute Lord H. right now?”  Again there was silence.  While they held the killer down, I removed the contents of Robert's pockets.   If he simply disappeared, I would not legally be a widow and could not access our assets.  I did not want the police coming to The Caligula Club, so  I needed to come up with a plan.

       Meanwhile,  Sarah had swiftly brought clean towels and was helping 117 to stop the bleeding of his bum.  The wound was nothing a surgeon couldn't easily sew up, but it would be a while before 117 would enjoy sitting down.  Member 129 got up off the table and went to get her clothes.

       “Lord H.,” I said, “it looks as if you might get away with murder.”

       “It was self-defense,” he replied.

       “First degree murder, a killing during the commission of a felony, to wit, the attempted murder of your daughter.  She can testify to that, as can I and others here.”  Lord H. seemed deflated, recognizing his defeat.  “I'm prepared to let you go, if you will agree to  cooperate.”  I stepped back and lowered the revolver to my side.  “Let him stand up,” I said.

       The helpful members let Lord H. regain his feet.  “First of all, I want to see some remorse for trying to kill one of our members.  If you mean to disown your daughter, you will have to compensate her,  perhaps a large cash payment.  However, if you are lucky, she may forgive you and agree to return to the home of a murderer.  Will you ask her forgiveness?”  Lord H. grumbled an affirmative.   “Louder, please, so she can hear you.  Tell her  you will not disown her, and you still love her as your daughter.”  He complied with my request. “Second, you will have to dispose of the consequences of your rash action.  I will tell you how.  Now, sit down and keep still.”

       We got Robert into one of his overcoats and left in a pocket some of his business cards, the ones which said he was a dealer in fine imported lace and giving his address as the house in Shepherd's Bush.    129, Patricia, emerged, once again dressed as a lady.  She consented to  return home with her father, if he would never mention her behavior here nor interfere with her further attendance at the club.  “After all, Father, it is better I should come here discretely rather than go about seducing the sons of your friends.  And I will refrain from mentioning that you are a murderer.”

       We got Robert's body down the back stairs and left it near the back  door of the restaurant  kitchen. “Lord H.,” I instructed, you will  have your driver take the carriage around back and tell your footmen to carry Robert to your carriage, as if he is drunk.  You will convey him to Shepherd's Bush and deposit him somewhere out of sight where he will be found tomorrow.  Make it look like an armed robbery.  I'll keep your revolver.”

       The next day, there was a short item in The Times: “The body of Robert Harriman  was found in a mews not far from his home in Shepherd's Bush.  He was a dealer in fine imported lace.  Police speculate that he was shot in the course of a robbery.”  I immediately cut out the item and went to the offices of Wilkes and Wilkes.  I did not want the police worrying about my whereabouts and discovering The Caligula Club.  I needed a solicitor to oversee my financial affairs.  I was, after all, a woman and a minor.  I could not sign a legal contract, not even to provide for my husband's burial.  Then there was the question of  the payments from my trust and access to Robert's assets.

       “As a minor,  you must have a guardian,” advised the elder Wilkes.  “The obvious one, since you no longer have a husband, is your uncle, Wilbur.”

       “Never!” I shouted.  “He sexually abused me.”  I would never have spoken like that, used the word 'sexual', before my reading and experience with the depravity of  The Club.  “I am entirely able to handle my own affairs, but for the limitation of being legally a child.  I want access to my late husband's bank accounts.”

       “If he has no male heirs,  you are entitled to a third of his estate.”

       I replied, “His estate is the result of my money.  He had long since given up working for a living.  His only relative is his mother, who should be in prison, if there is justice in London.  I have made deposits to his account, but the bank manager would not let me make withdrawals.”

       “Of course not,” said the solicitor, “Legally what was yours was his, but he was the head of the family and responsible for financial affairs.  That's the law.  Your trust fund from your father is intact.  The simplest solution to your problems would be to marry again, but it is possible that we could get a judicial ruling to declare you an emancipated daughter.  Most likely, we will have to make a settlement with his mother, after which you could inherit the remainder of his assets.”

       “Then,” I inquired, “I would be able to legally write a cheque or sign a lease?  I would be the equal of a man?”

       “Yes,” he said as he nodded his head slowly, “I believe so.  It may take time and money to achieve, but the law tends to regard a widow as being more responsible than an unmarried minor.  I will have to find a sympathetic judge.”  I told him to proceed.

       While that all worked out, I had the revenue from The Club to live on,  but I had a real problem, having lost Robert's services as a  procurer of virgins.  It wasn't simply a matter of  satisfying 101; there were several other members who came each Saturday to watch or take sloppy seconds with the deflowered virgin.   I needed a source.  I thought about advertising for a maid and then subverting her, as I had with Sarah.  I decided that would be too risky, as there would be a paper trail and who knows who would know where she had been.  I could not keep the used virgins with me, as I had Ruby, and the deflowered victim might go to the police.   I resolved that I would have to experiment.

       I carried the revolver, there were three bullets left, in a pocket in my voluminous skirts and took a cab to the East End.  In late afternoon, there were many children and adults crowding the streets,  buying, selling, going places, idly playing.  I selected a girl who was  trying to sell a handkerchief, almost certainly stolen.  I held out a pound and asked her if she would allow a man to fuck her for a   pound.  She screamed and ran away as a dozen people stared at me.   

       Next I approached a pair of young men, louts who lounged against a wall, smoking.  I offered them a pound if they would bring me a  girl.  The larger, dirtier  one, a head taller than I, said  of course he could do that.  What sort of girl did I want?  Pretty, I said, and a virgin, preferably with well developed boobs.  He told me to follow him.   We went a block or so and then entered a dimly lighted cellar. 

“Give me all your money,” he said.

       “Give me the girl, and I will give you the pound,” I said bravely.  

       In response, he pulled a knife and  said, “Give me all your money, now!”   While the other lout guarded the door, the big one waved the knife before my face and reached out, grabbing the neckline of my bodice and pulling me toward him.  “If you have enough money, maybe I won't fuck you so hard before I let you go.”

       “Let go of me,” I said through clenched teeth, as I reached into my pocket.  He yanked on my bodice, and as I heard it tearing it took no real courage on my part to pull the trigger.  The report of the shot was especially loud in that confined space.  My assailant staggered and fell to the floor, clutching his crotch and groaning.  The second lout bolted for the street.  I departed and hurried westward until I could hail a cab.  I had learned a lesson about venturing into the poorer areas of town without a male escort.  I wondered if  I might enlist the help of Mrs. Harriman at The Broken Lance, but I thought better of it, as Mr. Wilkes said that she was wanting more of Robert's estate and could not be trusted to be my friend.

       On Saturday morning, as I worried about not having a virgin for the club members to abuse, the bell rang downstairs.  I went down to the vestibule and was surprised to see Lord H.  He smiled at me and said, “I hope I am not unwelcome.  My daughter assures me that you are unlikely to bear a grudge.”

       “Being a widow has been an inconvenience,” I said, smiling back at him, “but  I suppose, as a good Christian, I should forgive my husband's murderer.  What can I do for you, Lord H.?”

       He shifted his weight from foot to foot for several seconds and then replied, “I  wish to become a member of your club.”  I looked past him and saw in his carriage his daughter, Patricia, member 129.

       “You know the rules?” I said.  He assured me he understood, the need for a mask and prepayment and so forth.  “What particular desires can we satisfy?”

       “At my age,” he said, “I can no longer perform very well when it comes to servicing the fair sex, but I would like to watch, while others fuck 'em.”

       “Of course,” I replied, “I have the power to arrange such entertainment for you, but  I have small problem which perhaps you would like to assist me with.”  He nodded and smiled.  “Since you have deprived me of my husband, I have been deprived of his services.  Would you be able to replace him in certain respects?  That would only be fair, don't you agree?”

       Lord H. smiled and nodded.  “Of course, Mrs. Harriman, if  I can...  but, uh, as I said, I'm no longer the man I used to be, in the bedroom.”  He seemed to visibly slump.

       I smiled back and said, “Lord H., my husband was no great performer in the bedroom.  His essential function was to provide each week a virgin, which certain members of  club would thrash and deflower while others watched.”

       “Oh, I should like to watch that.  Maybe even wield a cane on a luscious little bottom?” he replied, once again smiling.

       “I will admit you to The Caligula Club on one condition; you will   provide one virgin each week, and take her back after she is no longer a virgin.”  Thus he became member 134, and he promised to deliver that evening.

       His carriage pulled up after dark and three people alighted:  134, 129, both masked of course, and a  pretty young thing dressed in a maid's uniform.  I didn't ask, but it occurred to me that, with his various houses and estates, in town or in the country, there must be hundreds of servants and tenant farmers who would sell their daughters to the lord.  Seldom would kidnapping be needed, though he surely had the means to arrange a kidnapping.  My moral sense was much relieved, to think that the victim du jour was legitimately  procured.

       129, elegantly dressed, watched in a detached way as 101 and 102 and others enthusiastically stripped off the girl's clothing and fixed her into the pillory.  She said nothing, though she blushed as her chemise was lifted over her ample bosom.  She was a well rounded wench, with a big black bush between her thighs.  As usual, she was told to count the strokes, and as several members, including 134, took turns with the cane or the tawse, she had to count to 60.  At that point, I compassionately put a stop to the beating.  The fucking followed which evoked more screams and protests than the cane had produced, probably because she had never been fucked before, while the caning was more familiar.

       I had not noticed, but 129 and Sarah had slipped away, and 129 reappeared naked, but for her stockings.  She asked to be placed in the  pillory and fucked by anyone who could get it up, while her father, anonymous to the other members, was required to watch his daughter degraded, fucked like a bitch from behind.

       As the maid vacated the pillory, she was kept handy by hanging her from her wrists from the ceiling.  One of the members, bored perhaps by the spectacle of 129 gasping and groaning as her cunt was vigorously stuffed, amused himself by seeing how much he could squeeze the maid's boobs or pinch her nipples before she would lose control and scream incessantly.  When he tired of that, he lit one match after another and burned off her pubic hair.  When at last 129 was sated and asked to be released, the bored one nominated the maid for a ride on the horse.  Even 129 approved the nomination, and the poor maid, who could hardly have expected such treatment, even if she had come to the club voluntarily, was placed astride the rocking horse with a wooden cock embedded in her cunt.  I'm sure that until that point she had not enjoyed her ordeal, but as the members rocked the horse and her cunt was  ravished more persistently than any man's cock could do she began to warm up to the game.  Her nipples became erect and there was a blush across her chest as, her boobs bobbing, she rode the rocking horse.  Slurping sounds came from her cunt and her juices wet the saddle.  She stopped pleading for mercy and instead sighed with passion, ultimately howling like wolf and going limp.  They lifted her off the horse, her gaping cunt clearly visible since her nether hairs were mostly gone, and laid her out on the table, which still showed the effects of the bullet.  Pansy, without being told, went down between the maid's parted thighs and applied her tongue to the moaning  victim.  Men toyed with the tits as the maid writhed in ecstasy.

       When the evening's entertainment was over, 134 and his daughter dressed the ravished maid and took her home in the carriage. While her bottom may have hurt when she sat, she seemed satisfied with the outcome of the evening.

       The next Saturday, Lord H. appeared with yet another virgin, a dirty, barefoot girl who looked as it she had never before left the farm.   129 arrived with the maid, the previous week's victim.  The maid, 129 said, hoped she might ride the horse again, and of course we all helped her realize her wish.  I could not help reflecting on the disparity between the moral  commandments of the middle classes and the actual morality of the upper and lower classes.  Back in Shepherd's Bush every young wife would submit, as a matter of wifely duty, to her husband's attentions, but not one would admit, if anyone ever asked, to liking the procreative process, and generally husbands and wives slept in separate rooms.  Even her husband would not be permitted to see her naked.  The cliché was to close your eyes and think of England.    Certainly spanking, caning, humiliation, etc. were punishments, not to be enjoyed.

       Yet there in the club was 129, indulged with every material thing, well educated, well churched,  but she found satisfaction, found an identity, by behaving like her idea of how a whore would act.  She seemed to genuinely enjoy being fucked, which is, I suppose, no more remarkable than my liking to squeeze my “willie”,  and she enjoyed flaunting the dictates of morality, displaying her dissolution before strangers.  The former virgins from the lower classes, Sarah, Ruby, Lord H.'s maid, unashamedly enjoyed sexual activity which would be denounced as evil by any “right thinking Christian.”  I could see that they enjoyed having their birth canal stuffed with throbbing meat, or a reasonable facsimile, but how could they enjoy being caned or otherwise subjected to pain and humility?  Would the maid, without having been morally destroyed by pain, have allowed herself to be fucked for the fun of it?  Was she raised with no sense of sexual restraint, or did such treatment so effectively undo years of moral training that she could, without shame or guilt, ask to ride the rocking horse?   I did not understand, but I accepted the evidence.

       The barefoot girl, who I supposed was a daughter of one of the lord's tenants, was subjected to intense punishment, 80 strokes of the cane, having her pubic hair plucked out as one might pluck feathers from a goose,  having her boobs crushed and pricked with needles, having her nipples sucked into vials as Uncle Arthur had tortured my willie, and then she was fucked in the pillory, both in the cunt and in the arse.  If pain and humiliation will overcome conventional morality, that girl should have become devoid of any virtue, yet, even with the ultimate ride on the horse, she got no pleasure from her experience.  I have no idea what happened when she was returned to her father, but I suspect  that she would never enjoy intimacy with a man.  This was, I recall, the  first time I had feelings of guilt about my conducting the activities of the club.

       101 and the other men were pleased that 134  provided a virgin every week at no cost to them and that 129 was happy to be fucked by anyone.  My “mares” were sent away, except for Sarah, Pansy, Ruby, and Hermione, each with her role in the family.

       Hermione, in particular,  competed with the male members in devising ever more unusual punishments for the victims brought in by 134.  For example, there was a slender blonde, older than most of the virgins, which Lord H. brought one Saturday.  She seemed more refined, of higher social class, than the usual sacrificial cunts; she might well have been some distant relative of Lord H.  We were told that she had serious sins to repent; no punishment would be too extreme.  Perhaps she agreed, for she passively did as she was told, as if she had no choice, as if protest would be futile,  which was true.   She had recently bathed and smelled of perfume.  When she was disrobed, she blushed and tried to cover her private parts with her hands.  Hermione, with a persuasive cane, forced the blonde walk around to each member, 129 included, and to strike a pose, to spread her lower lips with her fingers, to pull on her own nipples.  Tears streamed down her cheeks, as she was so humiliated and debased.  She was then made to crawl on hands and knees and to suck on the cock of each member who presented his.   Finally, she rebelled and tearfully refused to do that any more.  Hermione skillfully applied a long-tailed whip, cracking it so that the tip drew blood from the blonde's  protruding lower cheeks.  The blonde reluctantly resumed her sucking.  129, who was still dressed, lifted her skirts and demanded that the blonde “eat cunt”, which she did, sobbing between slurps.

       101 became impatient and said it was time to put the slut in the pillory and let him wield the cane.  It was done, and the pale skin of the blonde's arse was soon striped with pink welts.  While the blonde was still immobilized but before she was deflowered, Hermione applied  steamy jars to the pretty tits, scalding them and sucking them into each jar, as my “willie” had been tortured in Brighton.  She also took a turnip and stuffed it in the victim's arsehole until only the greens hung out, like a pony's tail.  Then 101 was allowed to mount her like a dog and deflower the miserable blonde, who bled as proof of her former virtue.  Two others had their way with her.  With no mercy, the consensus of the members present was that it was time for the horse.  With the turnip still in place,  the blonde rode the horse screaming in pain or distress.  She was not only deflowered, she was reamed and stretched until her cunt gaped as if she had delivered a baby.

       129 said it was time for herself  to be satisfied, and she chose to be fucked while lying on the table, as the blonde, still horsed, looked on.  While 129 got dressed, 134 declared that he was unwilling to remove the blonde, that she must be confined here until next Saturday, and Hermione must see to it  that she changed her ways.  There would be a generous payment if we  broke her will.  I have no idea why 134 should so single her out, but money talks, and Hermione looked forward to the task.

       Hermione took it as a personal challenge, devoting her waking hours to making the blonde, now addressed as Bitch, perform acts she would never have dreamed of before The Caligula Club.  Bitch lived naked  with her hands and elbows bound behind her back and her boobs, like red apples, sucked into the jars.  Thus encumbered, Bitch had to sleep on one side or the other on the hard floor in a chilly room.  She had to eat by sucking and licking her food and water from a bowl, like a bitch.  Often she was made to stand on one leg, the other foot raised and resting on the high back of a chair, or she was made to straddle a horizontal bar or to shuffle along on her knees.  The turnip in her arse caused some discomfort, especially when she had to shit, and each time the bitch expelled the turnip, Hermione would insert a larger one.  When ever so ordered, Bitch had to lick the cunt of  one of us, and Hermione even talked me into letting Bitch suck my “willie”, which I found so pleasant that I ordered her to do it five or six times a day.  Hermione plucked the bitch's cunt clean of hair and dictated that she should submit several times a day to being caned and to having Pansy “eat”  Bitch's cunt while bitch stood with her legs apart.  At first, it took several strokes of the cane to persuade the bitch to stand still  while Pansy worked between her legs.  Bitch did not enjoy that, but Pansy did.  However, after three days of such discipline,  Bitch had been trained to the point that, when commanded and caned with but one stroke, she would present herself for Pansy's attention.   After that single stroke, at the juncture of thighs and buttocks, Bitch would be wet and ready.   By the fifth day, Bitch would respond in seconds, writhing with passion as Pansy sucked her willie, and the ritual was repeated several times a day.  As a reward, her hands were no longer bound, and her swollen boobs were released from the suction of the jars.  However, Hermione then pierced the blonde's nipples for ear rings.

       When the members assembled for the Saturday night deflowering, 134 had brought another maid, a Catholic Irish girl who was clearly reluctant to participate in the festivities.   By general agreement, Hermione  served as Mistress of Ceremonies. “Are you a virgin?” she asked the maid.  The maid assured us that she was, and she did not want to change that.  “Girl, God made Eve to be submissive to Adam and to be fruitful and multiply.  If you are old enough to bleed, you are old enough to breed.  A cunt is a terrible thing to waste.   Tonight you will find out what it is for.”  The maid visibly shivered with fear.  “Now, girl, take off your clothes.”

       When the maid was reluctant, several members assisted in stripping her.  She stood there,  without a stitch on, quietly crying.  They tied her hands to the hook in the ceiling and made her stand with her feet on wooden boxes, so she was helpless, her legs spread, displayed front and back for all to see.  “Now, girl, you can see what happens to girls who do not do what they are told.”

       Hermione went into another room and returned leading the bitch with a leash and collar.  The blonde had her nose painted black and had black spots painted on her limbs and body.  The turnip greens were covered by a sleeve of cloth, like a dog tail, so the overall effect was that of a coach dog.  Hermione  pointed at the maid's exposed crotch and Bitch went, on hands and knees, to the virgin and, growling like a dog, she began licking the girl's cunt.  The virgin drew her hips back and lost her balance, falling off her boxes so she was hanging from her wrists with her toes inches from the floor.  She managed to regain her support, with a foot on each box, but that again exposed her  femininity to Bitch's attention.  Hermione gave Bitch a pair of tweezers, and Bitch, sitting on the floor with her own naked cunt visible to the girl, plucked the virgin's pubic hair.  It took some time, but the spectators, 129 included, patiently watched, enjoying the look of pain or terror on the maid's face.  That done,  134 called, “Heel”, and the bitch crawled to him and sat on her haunches by his knee.

       101 was impatient, for he was paying extra for the privilege, and suggested it was time for the virgin sacrifice.  The girl was detached from the overhead hook and, struggling, forced to kneel with her head and hands locked in the pillory.  101 methodically caned the virgin's backside, making her count the strokes, while Hermione, wearing heavy gloves, rubbed stinging nettles against the hanging tits, in spite of  the girls screams and protests.  There was a dramatic moment, with the sobbing girl's reddened tits, reddened arse, and bald labia exposed for examination.  Then,  with a single thrust, she was a virgin no more.  101 and two others left their seed inside her, and then she was placed astride the horse, which was not yet set to rocking.

       The girl on the horse had to sit and watch, aghast, as Bitch was fucked, doggy style, by two men and was made to ride the cock of a member who lay on his back on the floor.  The finale, so to speak, was when 129 lay on the floor, her skirts raised, and Bitch licked until 129 was spent, to the applause of the spectators.  Bitch went to again sit on her heels next to 134, and 129 regained her composure, lowered her skirts, and sat primly to one side.

       There remained the task of teaching the maid to ride.  Gently, Hermione began to rock the horse.  The  upright peg in the girl's vagina was not very large and it was well lubricated with cum, so the ride was not painful.  Slowly, the horse rocked more and faster, and the girl held its neck as mixed liquids drained from her cunt and wet the saddle and her inner thighs.  Many in the audience clapped in synchrony with the horse's motions, and there was general applause when the incessant stimulation finally achieved its purpose.  The girl threw her head back and called out, “God!  Jesus and Mary, Oh, AHH!”  Hermione smiled.

       The maid was lifted from the horse and allowed to dress.  134 took her by the hand and led her down the stairs toward the carriage.  129 took the leash and led Bitch, walking, down the stairs, still naked.  Clearly, she would have to walk naked to the coach and ride home shivering in her nakedness.

       Well, I suppose I have told you what you want to know.  Lord H. faithfully provided a virgin each Saturday, and another cunt, usually an ex-virgin, often the bitch, for Tuesdays and Thursdays.  The membership continued to grow, and 129 continued to offer herself to new members.  Hermione continued to perfect her torments,  to continuing praise from the members.  Picking up on my original thesis that men would pay to see violence against women, we added to the entertainment by staging wrestling matches between women who wore nothing but a coat of slippery oil and gladiatorial contests in which the female combatants were armed with non-lethal weapons, like whips or bunches of nettles.  When word got out about the training of the bitch,  from time to time a member would leave a woman – his wife?  his mistress? – to be trained by Hermione, and such trainees often returned as contestants.  Most importantly, the money poured in, and the membership grew.

       I should have known that, sooner or later, things would get out of hand.  Our rule of no blood was largely forgotten, especially since the virgins were expected to bleed (though some did not).  The staged combats between women, typically each with an ankle tied to her opponent's, gradually became more savage, with biting and scratching in addition to blows.  One whore was fucked so roughly that her arsehole bled.  The members loved it and shouted me down every time I tried to reduce the violence.

       Then on one well attended night member 171 and his wife, 172 attended, accompanied by a footman who carried a large box, almost the size of a coffin.  The footman seemed genuinely surprised to find himself among a crowd of masked men and women.  171 conferred with Hermione and then addressed the crowd.  “My wife has dishonored me, made me a laughingstock before my servants, who are all aware of her adultery.  Surely, she should be punished.  Will you all assist me?”  There was general agreement.  “Do you confess, wife, before these witnesses?”  172 nodded.  Swiftly, her clothes were removed, and she stood, naked, but for her mask, trying to cover her private parts with her hands.  The footman looked very uncomfortable.  The woman was treated like the virgin sacrifices, placed in the pillory and caned by several members, until her bottom was reticulated welts.  171 invited the spectators to fuck his wife.  “No one misses a slice off a cut loaf,” he said.  The wife was duly fucked by half a dozen men, and by 129, who used a dildo, and was then set astride the rocking horse with a rather large peg in her cunt.  She was made to ride the wooden cock until she was well spent, and her juices, mixed with the semen of her rapists, ran in rivulets down the saddle.

       While the adulteress sat, half conscious, impaled on the horse, 171 directed our attention to the footman.  “This cur fucked my wife!” he announced.  “Strip him.”  It was done, promptly, with half a dozen men  participating.  He was found to have a huge erection.  “It's not the first time you have seen my wife naked, is it?”  The footman replied that it was not his fault, that she had seduced him, but that excuse was not well received.  They tied his hands behind his back and Hermione tied a stout cord around the base of his penis and his scrotum.  They made him kneel on the floor, his penis still erect.

       171 himself tied cords tightly around his wife's nipples.  They lifted her off the horse and made her kneel on the floor, facing the footman.  His eyes seemed fixed on her gaping wet cunt.  They opened the big box and revealed that it contained a guillotine, not as big as those used to behead nobles but fully functional just the same.  A heavy steel blade could slide vertically in grooves in the uprights of the rectangular frame.  There was a kind of shelf, adjustable for height, with a slot into which the falling blade would fit.  The blade was lifted with a cord which had a wooden ball on the end.  171  grasped the ball and pulled, raising the blade to the top of the frame.  Hermione place a large potato on the shelf.  171 let go of the ball, and the blade dropped, neatly cleaving the potato.  At that point, perhaps only 171 knew what would happen next.  No one, certainly not me, tried to stop the drama.

       The guillotine was placed between the two sinners.  The cord raised the blade again, and the ball was put in the footman's mouth.  171 pulled the cords on his wife's nipples until they lay on the shelf of the machine,  and he secured the cords.  Murmurs went through the crowd, as every eye was fixed on distorted breasts, pulled into cone shapes as the woman tried to pull back.  “You like those tits, huh?  You liked to play with my wife's tits, didn't you?”  The footman, with the wooden ball in his mouth, kept his mouth shut and said nothing.  “As long as you keep the ball in your mouth, your whore's tits are safe.  Now, don't let go,” said 171, as he slashed a cane across the wretch's back.  The footman withstood countless blows without releasing the ball.  Then 171 took a hot poker from the fire and thrust it between the poor man's arse cheeks.  He screamed.  The ball flew in an arc as the  falling blade pulled on the cord.  Chunk!  The crowd sighed loudly as 171 tossed the severed nipples onto the fire.

       Ruby and Sarah attended to the wife, staunching the flow of blood and winding bandages around her chest, covering her nippleless     boobies.  The footman knelt there, sobbing.

       When 172 could do so, she was made to kneel with the ball in her   mouth.  171 pulled on the cord and secured the footman's cock and balls on the shelf of the machine.  “Well, dear wife, you loved the feel of that cock inside you, didn't you?” said 171.  172, of course, did not reply.  The now flaccid organ extended toward her, stretched by the cord.

       “Stop,”  I said.  “This had gone far enough.”  171 and the entranced audience ignored me.  171 heated the poker again and approached his adulterous wife.  Her terror showed in her eyes.  “Stop!” I repeated, but 171 thrust the hot poker between her arse cheeks, searing her lower lips.  She screamed.  Chunk!  Her lover was a eunuch.

       “Justice is done,” said 171 as he tossed the cock and balls on the fire.  All of us spectators were stunned.  Somehow what had seemed entertainment was now disgusting.  But it was too late to undo the violence.  171 and 172 and the sexless footman departed, leaving the bloody machine behind.  We never saw them again.