Therapist

Lucy flinched as a bottle smashed on the wet tarmac beside where she knelt on all fours in the pub car park. The crowd of men jeered and jostled, spraying her naked body with beer as she gagged and spluttered, choking on the cock thrust brutally down her throat, saliva dripping from her chin as she struggled to swallow. With eyelids fluttering she tried to gaze up at her assailant, but failed, her lashes gummed together with sticky spunk.

With a bellow, the figure behind her dug his fingertips harder into the soft flesh of her hips as he stiffened and flooded her bruised and pulpy cunt with cum, his cock slipping out still dripping, immediately replaced by another. Lucy groaned hopelessly into the twitching shaft that filled her throat as this new man hammered his cock into her sloppy slit, leaning over her to cup her swaying tits, kneading them roughly, pinching and twisting her nipples until she squealed.

In mid-squeal, Lucy felt the cock in her mouth spit hot spunk deep down her throat and she began to choke on it, coughing as it slid from between her lips, spunk hanging in long, sticky trails from her chin and dripping onto the ground. As she spluttered, blowing bubbles of spunk and saliva from her mouth, another man knelt in front of her and Lucy whimpered as her eyes half-focused for a moment on his thick, rigid cock before he jerked her head back by her hair, cupping her chin and forcing the head of his cock between her trembling lips.

Tears streaked her cheeks with mascara as he jerked her head back and forth, fucking her face, one hand sliding down to circle and squeeze her throat. Behind her, another man emptied his load into her cunt and slapped her arse as he shook the last drops of cum into the crack of her buttocks. A rough finger smeared it across her arsehole, pressing inside her tight, puckered, pink hole. Lucy writhed as it forced deeper inside her, her tongue outstretched to take spurt after spurt of spunk, letting it pool on her tongue and drip off for a moment before tipping her head back and letting it slide down her throat. Behind her, the finger was replaced with the head of a thick cock and Lucy pressed back against it, moaning and wriggling as it screwed its way slowly into her arse and the crowd let out a mocking cheer.

It was many hours before the police patrol found her, alone now in the car park, sprawled naked in the rain. Her face, her tits, her belly were all plastered with spunk. Her eyes were gummed shut with it, her face and neck bruised by the tight grip of many sets of fingertips. More spunk dripped from her cunt and arse, forming a pool on the tarmac between her thighs. A bottle protruded from her cunt, its lips stretched tightly around the green glass and Lucy’s fingers weakly plucked at her clit, still stiff and pulsing, coaxing just one more shuddering, moaning orgasm from her exhausted flesh, her lips twitching into the ghost of a smile.

 

 

“Looking at her record, it seems to be a classic case of nymphomania. The police have picked her up six times in the last month. Once under the canal bridge with a gang of vagrants; in the alley behind a nightclub with the club bouncers; on a piece of derelict land to the east of the city – that time she had a circle of taxi cabs around her with their headlights illuminating her while she sucked off the drivers; and then there was the rugby team behind the pavilion, the school party of young lads in the Egyptian room of the museum and, ironically enough, the little party at the police station. I understand some of the handcuffs and truncheons are still missing.”

Doctor Carlisle flicked through Lucy’s file as his colleague spoke.

“See what you can make of her,Carlisle.  You know my views on the matter, I think these women are hopeless cases and we should just concentrate on keeping them away from vulnerable men, but I know you think your regressive techniques have value here, so…”

With a grunt and a nod it was agreed.

Carlisle looked at Lucy’s picture as he walked back to his consulting room. She was wearing a summer dress, smiling for the camera, healthy and freckled and happy. Some more pictures fell from the file and he stooped to pick them up. Lucy naked and sprawled on her bed, her fingertip balanced on the tip of her clit; bent over a desk, her thighs parted, the delicate folds of her pussy glistening with juice; gazing up with wide eyes at the owner of the cock buried in her throat, her ruby lips stretched around it, her nose pressed against the anonymous man’s belly.

Carlisle thought Lucy looked pretty happy in these pictures, too.

He opened his consulting room door. The nurses had restrained Lucy, wrestling her, kicking and squealing onto the couch, her wrists and ankles buckled tightly into leather cuffs. She was dressed in a hospital gown that had risen up in the struggle to mid thigh and with her legs slightly parted by the restraints Carlisle could glimpse the dark hollows of her inner thighs. He snapped his eyes away from them and smiled professionally at Lucy, pulling up a chair to sit at the head of the couch.

“Now, I expect they’ve already explained to you that I am Doctor Carlisle and I am to be your therapist. We’re here to get to the root of your destructive promiscuity and see if we can improve your behaviour a little. My field is regressive therapy and so I will be placing you in a light trance while we explore your past psyche.”

Without waiting for Lucy to reply, Carlisle held his pen over her face a few inches from her nose.

“Focus on the pen, Lucy. When I tap my finger against it, you will have gone back to your earliest sexual feelings.”

He flicked his fingernail smartly against the pen.

“Tell me what you can see.”

Lucy stirred uneasily on the couch, then licked her lips and began to talk quietly.

“I can see the wooden roof of a barn. I can see timbers and shafts of sunlight through gaps in the tiles. They’re filled with swirling dust. I’m lying on my back in a pile of hay, looking up. And there’s a man lying on top of me, his weight pressing me down, he smells of the outdoors and sweat – but a clean smell, not stale. He’s pulled my skirt up, my legs are bare, and his cock is hard, digging into me through his britches.”

“His britches, Lucy?”

“Yes, this is a long time ago. My dress is full and floor length, made of rough, scratchy material and with linen petticoats beneath. And I have a starched cap that’s come unpinned, my hair is tumbling down from underneath it and I have straw stuck in it. Oh, I can’t help myself from arching my back and rubbing my pussy against the bulge of his cock, moaning in his ear, I want it so badly. He’s biting my neck, nipping my earlobe between his sharp teeth, murmuring ‘You witch’. Now my hand is inside his britches, my fingers curled around his shaft, squeezing and rubbing it gently, circling the palm of my hand against its head, spreading the first drop of cum across it until it’s glistening. I look down at it winking back at me, such a big cock. I rub my cheek against the stubble of his chin and lick his neck, tasting the saltiness of his skin.

“Oh God, his fingers are sliding between my hot, sticky pussy lips, slowly prising them open. I can feel the juice dribbling down the crack of my arse. I have both hands on him now, one wrapped round his cock, the other cupping his balls, guiding him towards me as I lift my legs up in the air, wrap them round his waist. His cock sinks into my molten cunt like a hot knife through butter and I groan, squirming as it drills deeper. It’s so big, it’s too big, it’s hurting me, oh God it’s bumping against the neck of my womb and it’s still not all the way in. I’m turning my head to bite the sleeve of his leather jerkin, screaming into it as he slides his hand under my arse, lifting me up until I’m arched off the floor, forcing his cock another inch inside me.

“Now he’s fucking me with hard, steady thrusts, grunting as he slams it into my writhing, whimpering body. He’s curling his fingers round the rim of my bodice, tugging it down, my tits spilling over its edge and shuddering with his thrusts. And my arms are round his neck now, my fingers tangled in his hair, begging him to fuck me harder, my eyes half-closed, my mouth hanging slackly open as I gasp and groan, pressing my belly against his, rubbing my clit against his flesh, my head right back now, screaming and thrusting my hips against his, our bodies slapping together frantically, his cock twitching inside me…”

“What is it Lucy, why have you stopped?”

“The barn door has crashed open and the daylight is streaming in. There’s a figure in the doorway, I can’t see properly who it is, my eyes haven’t adjusted…oh…”

“Who is it, Lucy?”

“It’s his wife. He’s rolled off me and he’s starting to apologise to her. He’s telling her I tempted him but she’s not listening. She’s grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to my feet, one arm locked around my waist as she drags me out of the barn. I’m struggling and trying to cover my breasts with my hands. Oh God, she’s dragging me out onto the village green, people are starting to gather, I’ve taken my hands away from my breasts and used them to cover my face in shame instead. There’s a small crowd gathering, with baskets and pitchforks, they’re jostling and shoving me towards the Magistrate’s house, and they’re shouting. ‘She bewitched my husband. She’s a hussy and a whore!’ ‘My husband too, I found them in our marriage bed, she’s an enchantress!’ ‘And mine, she enchanted his cock out of his britches and into her mouth!’ There’s laughter now and everyone is joining in the shouting and yelling, the crowd growing larger. ‘She’s a strumpet!’ ‘She’s the devil’s child!’ ‘She’s the whore of Babylon!’ ‘She’s a witch!’

“They throw me to the ground at the feet of the magistrate. I’m trembling so hard I can barely move and the crowd grows silent, watching me slowly uncurl myself until I’m on my knees. I anxiously raise my eyes to look up at the terrifying figure of the magistrate. He’s so tall and forbidding, his face never softening, his eyes a steely, impenetrable blue, his black-clad figure towering over me. I’ve been in trouble with the magistrate before, as a girl I took whippings from him for stealing apples and sugar. Bent over the table in his dining hall, my naked bottom striped scarlet from his birch cane I’ve wept hot tears of shame and apology and sworn to be good. He’s stroked my burning arse and kissed away my tears and forgiven me. I’ve even shown my gratitude on my knees a few times. But one look at his face and I know he won’t help me; the wrath of the women of the village is too great to be swept aside this time.

“He orders me into the stocks for the night and silences the cries from the mob for immediate justice. ‘This will be done with due process of the law, tomorrow in the court. Now go home to your husbands and wives and think hard on the fate of this unfortunate harlot.’ I’m man-handled roughly into the wooden stocks, on my knees with my head and hands trapped as the great bar of the stocks falls and is padlocked in place. The mob slowly trails away – but only until the magistrate has retired for the night, the candle in his window snuffed out. All night I’m prey to the vengeance of the village. The men who loved me while their wives’ backs were turned returning for a last taste, taking me sometimes two or three at a time in any hole they can reach with their quivering cocks. Many young boys have their first taste of a woman that night. And the women, oh they’re the worst. They come out of their homes bearing any implements they can find to effect my humiliation. They bring leather belts and bundles of twigs, one brings the stone pestle used for grinding flour, another brings a fistful of carrots, freshly pulled and still covered in mud. By the morning, I’m frozen and stiff, my clothing ragged, my face and thighs caked with dried spunk, the largest of the carrots still poking obscenely from my arsehole, only its feathery green fronds visible.

“The magistrate tuts in disgust when he sees me, slowly pulling the carrot from my hole and tossing it aside. He clicks his fingers and his stable lad brings round a horse and cart, smirking at me as he passes. I scream as I’m released and hauled to my feet, the blood rushing back into my stiff limbs flooding my body with agonising cramps. Still screaming, I’m dragged towards the cart, but instead of being lifted up onto it as I expected, my wrists are roped together and lashed to its back. The magistrate climbs onto the trap, whips the horse into a trot and we set off, me stumbling and tripping behind the cart towards the court house. Attracted by the commotion, people begin to come out of their houses, jeering and flinging clumps of mud and rotten vegetables as I pass. A stone glances off the side of my head and I fall, twisting and scrabbling with my feet as the cart drags me, dazed and bloodied, the last few feet up the hill to the court house steps.

“I sit on a wooden bench in the middle of the room, my dress ripped open to my waist, my hands demurely in my lap, their wrists still tied. I surreptitiously glance around me as the room fills, the good people of the village filling up the wooden benches behind me, twelve of the most important men in the village filling the jury bench. I know these men. One used to like to fuck me while his wife, naked and tied spread-eagled to the bed, her mouth securely gagged, wept and watched us. Sometimes he would force my face between her thighs, order me to lap at her cunt while he rammed me from behind, pulling his cock out of me at the last minute to spray his wife’s tits and belly with his spunk, then make me lick it up. Another would have me on the floor of his stable, his horses whinnying and snorting around us as the scent of sex filled their nostrils. Sometimes we would ride out, far from the village together, he would unsaddle his horse, climb on its back with me before him, his stiff cock buried in my arse while I gripped the horse’s mane and he spurred it on to a gentle canter, then a jolting trot and finally a thundering gallop. And that man there, sitting at the end of the row, so pompous and fat. I knew him when I was, oh, such a little girl, not yet blessed with any womanly curves. He’s the man who, one sunny afternoon, watched me playing and then sent me on an errand and when I got back rewarded me not with a shiny farthing but with a lesson in what it means to be a woman. He broke me open on his cock, stretched me wide until I sobbed and begged him to stop hurting me, then he slapped my face and called me a disobedient girl who everybody would see for the liar she really is if I ever told anyone about the game we’d played. And I remember the day he first cupped my budding breast in his hand. The next time I went to his house to run an errand for him, I was turned away by his housekeeper but not before I heard the sobs and pleas of my young replacement.

“With an echoing bang, the courtroom door slams shut and the room falls silent as the magistrate takes the bench and peers down at me. ‘Lucy Tyler, you have been accused of witchcraft. You know the heinousness of this offence against Our Lord. How do you plead to this charge?’ I stammer out that I’m innocent and the Magistrate briskly calls the first witness. She tells the court the story of discovering me in the barn with her husband, but it’s a perversion of the truth. ‘She had bewitched him to a frozen, helpless trance and despite his struggles he could not escape her as she rode him, cackling and screeching and praising the very devil himself!’ More witnesses follow. ‘She took my husband in his sleep, his soul unconscious of the sin his body performed.’ ‘She used her sorcery to beguile my husband into believing he was lying with his own beloved wife when all the time he was rutting with her like a beast.’ ‘I saw her, I saw Lucy Tyler in a clearing in the woods. She built a fire and threw into it the dead skin of an adder and said her incantations. She stripped her clothes off and danced naked around the fire until its smoke billowed up and took the form of a demon. The demon was seven feet tall and had the horns of a ram the body of a man and the legs of a goat. And Lucy Tyler got down on her knees and licked and sucked the demon’s cock until it was stiff and swollen to twelve inches long and so thick she could not wrap both her hands around its girth. She got down in the dirt like a bitch on head with her arse thrust up into the air and she begged the demon to stick his cock into her arsehole and bugger her. Mewling and screeching like a cat, she clawed at the earth as the demon spat on her hole and shoved his cock into her, splitting her open until she wailed and howled, her eyes as wide as if terrified. He kept on drilling deeper into her bowels until she was completely impaled on his shaft, then he wrapped his arms around her trembling body, lifting her clear off the ground, standing and gripping her tits, her back arched, her legs kicking wildly, pinned on his cock. Then he thrust his hips, forcing her up his shaft until only its tip was in her arse, her weight slamming her back down onto it. Again and again he thrust, her body jerking helplessly as she moaned and begged him to fuck her harder. Then the demon gave a roar and fire burst forth from his mouth and I saw Lucy Tyler stiffen on his cock, her head thrust back, her mouth open as the demon’s seed gushed into her bowels and burst out of her screaming mouth, showering her face.’

“I bury my face in my hands, weeping at these terrible lies, at the fervour of excitement and revenge they are whipping the courtroom into. The magistrate bangs his gavel for silence. ‘What do you have to say in reply to these allegations, Lucy?’ I can’t speak for sobbing; I can only shake my head. ‘Lucy, if you won’t defend yourself…’ ‘She don’t need no defence!’ shouts a voice from behind me ‘the ducking stool will tell the truth about the witch!’ Suddenly the whole courtroom is taking up the cry, ‘The stool, the stool will tell the truth, take her to the river!’ The magistrate bangs his gavel angrily but the mob ignore him, surging forwards and grabbing hold of my arms and legs, hoisting me shoulder high and running from the court, down the hill towards the river. Rough hands are ripping at my clothes, tearing them off my body until I’m dressed only in a thin and torn linen shift. They lift me into the seat, my wrists and ankles tied in place and then, cheering wildly, they watch as some of the strongest young men of the village push on the bar of the chair, swinging me out over the river until they hold me in place, balanced in the ducking stool above the rushing water below.

“The preacher is on his feet now before the crowd, whipping up their frenzy. ‘The ducking stool never lies. If the child is innocent then the river will take her and the angels of the Lord will descend to raise her immortal soul to heaven. But if she is guilty, then her black arts will save her from the icy water and we must destroy the witch!’ And with that, the young men release the bar and I tip forward in the stool, plunging into the freezing river. I gulp for air, my cheeks bulging as I struggle against my bonds, my hair and shift billowing and floating around me, my eyes open and staring at the rushing water ad murky river weed. My breasts heave as I struggle to hold my breath, my lungs burning and bubbles streaming from between my tightly-pressed lips. With a roar of water in my ears I’m suddenly hoisted back out of the water, gasping and sucking down air even as I choke and spit out putrid river water. My wet shift is moulded to my shivering body and hair plasters my face as I pant and cough. Before I can recover, I’m plunged back down again, every nerve ending in my body screaming with cold and fright, fighting desperately against the ropes as they tighten against my flesh. An eel slithers around my leg and over my thigh and I let out a scream, bubbles filling the water around my head and river water gushing down my throat just as I’m hoisted out again, coughing up water, my belly heaving. For the third time they drop me down, limp and cold and unresisting. I gaze blindly into the dark, summoning the courage to let out the breath I hold and end this torture. I look up through the greenish water, see the sunlight dancing on its surface, the dark shadows of trees overhanging the river. The first bubbles are popping from my nostrils and my lungs are on fire again, my body stiffens as I struggle and my head throbs from lack of air. More bubbles and my eyes start to roll back in their sockets, my blue lips parting slightly in a rush of bubbles, my heart racing erratically as the water pours in and floods my body. Then with a jolt and a creak, I’m hoisted out of the water for the last time, the ropes are cut and I’m hauled onto the riverbank where I lie face down in the mud, water trickling from my mouth. I shiver as I feel a breeze on my wet skin. ‘Is she dead?’ asks a voice. Fists pummel my back and I choke up more water. ‘No, she’s a witch.’

“I watch them, curled up on the riverbank, hugging my body for warmth, as they fell a tree, lop its branches and whittle its end into a point, driving the stake into the ground. The village blacksmith brings freshly wound rope and I’m lifted, my toes balanced on the stump of a branch, my arms pulled behind the stake, the rope wound around my body, pulled tightly until it digs into my flesh, knotted securely around my ankles, my thighs and waist, around my breasts and neck. Children run back and forth between the riverbank and the village carrying bundles of kindling which are stacked up around me. The preacher leads prayers, not for my soul, which is beyond redemption, but to keep the villagers safe from all sorcery. Finally, the last bundle of kindling is stacked and the villagers light their torches, passing the flame from one torch to another in a circle around the stake as the sun sets and darkness falls. The smith steps up to adjust the rope one more time. He brushes his hand lightly across my breast and I whimper as, reflexively, my nipple stiffens against his palm. ‘It’s a sad day, girlie’ he whispers. ‘I had many a good time with you bent over my anvil taking a good hammering. Don’t be scared of the flames, they’re not what will take you.’ And he shows me, secreted in his other hand, a leather pouch. ‘It’s gunpowder, it’ll bring the end more quickly.’ He rolls the pouch between his hands, spits on it and then presses it between my thighs. My eyes widen in shock as I feel the smooth leather slide into my cunt, filling it. I gaze at the blacksmith in horror. He grins and winks at me then jumps down off the pyre, calling ‘She’s ready!’

“My skin glows pink in the heat of the flames and sweat trickles down my brow and between my breasts. I shut my eyes against the rising smoke, longing to be able to shut out the sound as well – the crackle of igniting logs, the hymn-singing of the villagers. A hot spark lands on my belly and I flinch, squealing. There’s a louder crackle and part of the pyre subsides in a shower of sparks that prickle against my thighs. I look down into the flames, see the leather strings of the pouch dangling between my thighs, one string catching as the fire licks against it, the flame sizzling up it like a fuse, closer to the gunpowder hidden deep inside me. Oh God, help me!  Help me please! Make them stop! HELP MEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

Carlisle clicked his fingers and Lucy blinked, dazed, up at the ceiling.

 

 

Lucy walked down the ward, carrying her bundle of bedclothes, flanked on either side by a nurse. He cheeks burned under the hostile gaze of the other women, lounging around in the day room or sitting in secretive huddles on their beds. Avoiding eye contact, Lucy made her bed, then took up her towel and wash bag and made for the showers.

The shower room was like the rest of the hospital, an old Victorian building of tiled walls and draughty corridors, high ceilings and dingy linoleum floors. Lucy stood under the last of the row of shower heads, her eyes closed and her head tipped back, letting the water run down her hair and over her shoulders. She jumped as she opened her eyes and saw the row of silent women, watching her.

“Don’t mind us, dear, we just came for a look at the new girl.”

“You’re worth looking at, nice round bum, give us a little wiggle.”

The women laughed, unkindly and Lucy blushed and turned away, busying herself with shampoo.

“Ahh, I think she’s shy, girls. Can’t have that, can we? Let’s make her feel more at home.”

As Lucy screwed her eyes shut against the shampoo suds, she heard the other shower heads being switched on, the rustle of clothing removed. Wiping her eyes, she squeaked with surprise as she felt shower gel squirted onto her back and firm hands stroke it up and down her spine. More hands joined in, swirling the gel around her belly and over her tits, squeezing them slippily between pinching fingers. More fingers slid between her thighs, slipping inside her pussy, curling inside her arsehole, circling her clit.

“Leave her!” barked a firm voice. The women melted away and Lucy turned to see the voice’s owner. She was tall, curvaceous, and Junoesque. Her chocolate brown skin glistened under the water, her hips and breasts rippling as she walked towards Lucy, her wide lips curving into a cruel smile. She stopped a few inches from Lucy, parted her legs and pointed to a spot on the floor. Unable to take her gaze away from the woman’s glittering eyes, Lucy sank to her knees.

She buried her nose in the folds of the black girl’s cunt, inhaling deeply then tentatively licking the underside of her clit. She gasped and clamped Lucy’s head firmly between her hands, digging her fingertips into her cheeks and guiding Lucy deeper between her legs. Lucy spread her hands across the round globes of the girl’s buttocks and squirmed her tongue deep into her cunt, lapping and slurping at it, her face smeared with its juice.

Lucy parted her pussy lips with her thumbs, licking along the sides of her clit, circling its tip and gently teasing it out. She kissed it and sucked on it, licking now with long, slow, rhythmic laps all the way along her slit, now with quick little licks with the very tip of her tongue on the tender underside of her clit.

The girl turned round, pressed against the tiled wall, her arse thrust out. Lucy spread her buttocks, licking along the crack of her arse and probing the tip of her tongue inside her arsehole, pushing it in as deep as she could and wriggling it about inside the squirming girl.

Behind her, the other women were emboldened again and began stroking her back and hips, smoothing their hands across her arse, their fingers invading her soft flesh, squeezing the swell of her tits and spanking her shuddering buttocks.

The black girl turned again, leaning back against the tiles, Lucy’s hair wrapped round her fist, her head jerked back. Slowly the girl bent her face close to Lucy’s and opened her mouth as if to speak. She paused and smiled lazily then spay in Lucy’s face. “I run this ward. Don’t forget it.”

She shoved Lucy roughly to the floor and stalked away imperiously, Lucy lifting her head to watch the magnificent roll and shudder of her buttocks as she left. Then she turned to the other women. Freed of the constraints of their leader, they began to give their attentions more freely. Each slap of Lucy’s bum was sharper, intended to hurt. They pinched and tweaked her nipples until she screwed her face up. They jammed their fingers into her roughly, frigging her hard and slapping at her bouncing tits. One of them picked up Lucy’s discarded shampoo bottle and rubbed its end along her slit. Lucy tried to scrabble away across the floor but the other women grabbed her arms ad legs, lifting her up, her head flopping back. She writhed in mid-air, moaning as the head of the bottle slid easily into her cunt. But the shoulders of the bottle were wide and the woman had to twist it this way and that before, with a yell from Lucy, she forced it into the opening of her cunt, slowly turning it as she shoved it deeper.

Another of the women picked up the bottle of shower gel, flipped up its lid and pressed its head against Lucy’s arsehole, squirting the gel inside her where it prickled and burned. Lucy groaned, her eyes brimming with tears. Shut tightly again, the bottle slid on the slippery gel into Lucy’s arse, her screams echoing off the tiled walls as it stretched her hole around its thick base.

The hot water was gone now and the shower splashed freezing cold on Lucy’s body, slumped on her knees, her cheek pressed against the tiled floor, her arse in the air, the two bottles protruding from her cunt and arse as she choked back her tears, listening to the wet slap of the retreating footsteps of her companions.

 

 

“Focus on the pen, Lucy. When I tap my finger against it, you will be able to remember some more of your past sexual history.”

He flicked his fingernail smartly against the pen.

“Tell me what you can see.”

Lucy laughed, delightedly.

“Such a beautiful dress! It’s pale blue Chinese silk embroidered with exotic birds, every one different. It’s laced so tightly with whalebone corsets underneath and I can hardly breathe in it, but my hands almost span my waist. The skirts are layered and quilted and padded and they rustle when I move. And on my head I have a tall, powdered wig, threaded with pearls. Oh and this room! The ceiling must be eighteen feet high, gilded and painted and hung with chandeliers. The walls are hung with gilded mirrors and tall, elegant, silk-curtained windows lead out onto a gravel walk and a topiary garden filled with dark, sinister shapes and shadows and bright streaks of brilliant sunlight across the grass. I long to go out and soak it all in, but I’m dressed for my suitor.”

“And who is your suitor?”

“His name is the Comte de Beauville.”

“And is he a good man?”

Lucy snorted with laughter and covered her mouth with her hand.

“No, he is not! He’s the most disreputable rogue and libertine in all of France! The whole of Paris society is alive with gossip of his exploits. They say he keeps a whole dungeon filled with local girls at his chateau in Beauville. He kidnaps them and chains them up naked, whipping and fucking them until they bore him and he turns them out into the gutter without a sous to their names. Some people say he seduced the Abbess of Beauville and paraded her naked on a halter through the town. And at court, they even say he introduced the queen to the pleasures of the back door.”

“Why do you let a man like that pay you suit, Lucy?”

“Oh, life at court is so stultifying, don’t you think? The same people day-in, day-out, the same gossip and fashions and balls. Don’t you just long to be really, thoroughly, shockingly bad?

“He’s here, I can hear his carriage draw up, his horses are always whipped to exhaustion, steaming and flecked with foam. He’s calling to me, we’re going out driving in his carriage. It’s so snug in here, jut the two of us, my skirt crushed in around me, the blinds pulled down, just the rattle of the wheels and the rocking of the springs as we crunch away over the gravel. His hand is beneath my skirt straight away, checking my readiness, he insists that I always be wet and ready for him. He bends his head, kissing my swelling breasts as they press against the edge of my corset, two fingers thrust sharply into my hot, tight cunt, filling the carriage with its salty scent.

“He unbuttons his cock and I wriggle onto my knees on the carriage floor, licking and stroking it, kneeling up to slide my lips over its tip, sucking it gently while I flutter the tip of my tongue against it. The carriage goes through a pothole and the jolt forces his cock down my throat, gagging me. He laughs and holds my head down until my spluttering has stopped. Slowly at first, gradually getting faster, I bob my head up and down, sucking hard on his cock, my fingers wrapped firmly round its base, my tongue flat against the underside of his shaft, swirling it round the head of his cock as I plunge back down. He grunts contentedly and lifts the window blind, idly staring out at the passing countryside as I suck.

“Suddenly he raps his cane sharply twice on the roof of the carriage and we pull up. I let his cock slip from my mouth, puzzled, as the driver leans down to the window. ‘These vineyards are part of my estate, aren’t they?’ ‘Yes sir, we’ve been on your land for a good five minutes now.’ ‘Good. Get me that girl.’ And he points with his cane towards a plump and very young blonde, a basket of grapes on her hip.

“The driver jumps down, whip in hand, raises his arm and cracks the whip out. Its long lash curls around her waist and she screams, dropping the basket, grapes tumbling out as the driver hauls her, hand over fist, towards him, bending and lifting her over his shoulder. She kicks and wails, bringing other peasants running across the vineyard, but as they see the carriage, they slow and then stop dead, watching helplessly as the driver tosses her inside. ‘Ah, my dear, welcome. I am the Comte de Beauville and you look like a very clever girl. Tell me, do you know what droit de seigneur means?’ Wide-eyed with terror, she shook her head. ‘Ah well, never mind, Lucy knows, don’t you my angel?’ He kisses my hand then turns back to the trembling girl, hauling up her skirts over her head and stabbing his cock into her cunt with a single thrust. She howls pitifully and I cover my face with my fan as he rapes her, his hand on her face, covering her mouth and nose, forcing her to struggle for breath, sobbing and whimpering as he bellows and pumps his spunk into her, Slumping back heavily on the carriage seat, he taps on the roof again and the carriage sets off with a lurch. When it has picked up some pace, he kicks the door open and then, with the tip of his shoe, nudges her limp body out of the door. I gasp as it lands with a crunch and a thud, hiding behind my fan again. The Comte stifles a yawn and says, ‘I despise virgins.’ 

“He shows me around his chateau and I admire the obvious signs of his extreme wealth, all the time on the look out for signs of his fabled depravity. He sees through my feigned interest in dark corridors and locked doors and, laughing indulgently, leads me along a stone passage and down a narrow flight of stairs – cut stone to start with but then, as we climb further down, hewn from the rock itself. At the bottom, lit by a guttering torch, is an iron-clad wooden door which creaks as it’s unlocked and slowly swings open.

“The smell hits me first, dank and musty, but then, as my eyes adjust to the gloom, they grow wide with wonder. From the ceiling hangs an iron cage containing two naked girls, as plump and country-fed as the girl from the vineyard. As I walk beneath them they reach out to me, their eyes pleading for pity but I’ve already lost interest in them because beyond them I can see an iron grille sunk into the floor. Peering down through it I can just make out a pit and deep down at the bottom of it are huddled the naked figures of two more girls. The walls of the pit are slimy and green with moss and putrid water trickles down the stonework. I shudder and move on to the wall, where an olive-skinned girl hangs suspended from manacles, the very tips of her toes just brushing the floor. Her body is criss-crossed with savage whip marks, scarlet slashes across her thighs and breasts. I reach out and gingerly touch a raised welt across her belly and she shudders, moaning softly.

“Further back in the darkness of the cellar I hear a rattle and I begin to feel my way along the wall towards where it came from. The Comte takes a torch from the wall and holds it above my head, sending shadows dancing up the wall, and I can see the woman. She’s handsome, aristocratic, wearing a brilliant choker of pearls and diamonds but nothing else. She crouches within an iron frame, her wrists and ankles locked into place by iron cuffs. Bolted and padlocked to the frame are three bars, each one bearing a fearsome iron dildo. One stretches her lips, filling her mouth, her neck bulging. Another splits her cunt. I touch the inch of it that protrudes, feeling its coldness, the iron studs that spike it. The third impales her arse, it’s twisted like a corkscrew, wide and cruel. ‘Meet your rival, Lucy. You knew I was affianced before, didn’t you? This is the Marchioness d’Egremont, widow of the late Marquis, one of the wealthiest and most beautiful women in all France. Sadly also one of the dullest. I tired of her Lucy. Make sure I don’t tire of you. Now, let’s have a game.’

“Stripped to my corset and stockings, upstairs in the ballroom I gaze at my many reflections in the mirrored walls, the candlelight flickering as the chandelier shivers, its crystals tinkling as I wriggle, suspended by my wrists, my feet kicking in mid air as one show slips off my foot. The Comte stalks around me, snapping the carriage whip in the air, weighing its heavy handle in his hand, curling and uncurling his fingers around it as he prepares for his first shot. He takes a couple of steps back, then a short run-up and slashes the whip across the centre of both buttocks. I scream and arch away from it, tears prickling my eyes. He paces again, watching me struggle, breathing hard as I regain what little composure I have. Suddenly he slashes the whip twice, quickly across the front of my thighs and I squeal, kicking my legs in the air. He stands close before me, smiling coldly as he rubs the tip of the whip handle between the lips of my cunt until I’m moaning and squirming again. Then, with a wide circular sweep of his arm, he cracks the whip across the underside of my tits, the tip of the whip curling agonisingly around my nipple.

“The strokes fall faster now, on my arse, my belly, my thighs, my tits. I jerk spasmodically with each burning cut, bite back my sobs as I remember the olive-skinned girl in the cellar, my scarlet striped skin like hers now. My screams rattle the chandelier as he lowers his hand, snapping the whip up cruelly between my thighs, curling it into my cunt, stinging my throbbing clit with its tip.

“Again, he rubs the tip of the handle between my cunt lips, making me gasp as it grazes my clit. With a hard little thrust, he shoves a couple of inches of the thick, plaited leather into my cunt and my eyes sparkle with lust. ‘No, I don’t think so’ he says coldly and pulls it out again, walking behind me and pressing its tip to my arsehole, forcing it in despite my screams until all nine inches of handle is stuffed inside me and the long whip curls like a tail to the floor. I hang my head, snivelling, my arms and shoulders aching and stiff, the whip marks glowing hot on my skin and listen to his footsteps as he leaves the room.

“Our journey back into Paris that evening is slow. The streets are filled with the common people who shout and jostle our carriage. The Comte takes me home before going on to meet up with his fellow libertines. Together they plan to pay a visit on the niece of one of their company, a young girl brought up in a country convent, spending her first night in Paris. Alone again, I step into the bath my maid has drawn for me before the fire and bathe my bruises, listening to the racket in the streets. I brush my hair out, shrug a fine lawn shift over my acing body and crawl into my bed.

“The crash of glass wakes me, a creaking and cracking sound of splintering wood, a scuffle on the stairs, angry shouting. Sitting up in bed, I hold the covers to my chin, frozen as the door to my chamber buckles and shudders then finally burst open and a rabble of shadowy figures tumbles into the room. At first they ignore my screams, turning over furniture, pulling drawers from bureaux, grabbing with both fists at anything they can steal, stuffing my strings of pearls and diamonds into the filthy pockets of their ragged coats. One picks up a chair and hurls it into the mirror above the fireplace, its shards showering the room. Another grabs armfuls of my silk dresses, ripping them and tripping over their trailing trains. The silk curtains are pulled down from the windows, the silk bedspread ripped from my fingers. And only then do they seem to notice me, taunting me, pulling my hair, grabbing at my tits and hauling up my shift. I’m lifted, tossed over the shoulder of one burly peasant, carried struggling and yelling down into the street.

"Alll around there are crowds running, some carrying their looted valuables, others tossing them from windows to smash on the cobbles. Servants with bottles from their masters’ cellars in their fists laugh and argue drunkenly on the street. A sedan chair is overturned, its elderly female occupant screaming as she’s dragged from it by her ankles. Flames start to crackle in some windows.

“The peasant tips me onto the cobbles and I try to scramble away from him but he grabs my thigh and hauls me back towards him, throwing up my shift and plunging his cock into my cunt in the middle of the street as the crowd mills around us. His cock is enormous, a brute battering ram to match his giant frame. It takes him several, savage thrusts to lodge it fully inside me, my pleas for mercy go unheeded. Through my hot tears of shame I see feet running towards me, look up and recognise one of my own servants. I clutch at his ankles, begging him for help, entreating him to save me. He reaches down, cups my cheek and wipes my tears away with his thumb, then unbuttons his cock and tries to shove it into my mouth. I jerk my head away, press my lips tightly together. He draws his hand back and cracks it across my face, my gasping scream giving him the moment he needs to stuff his cock into my throat, gripping my ears and fucking my face while his fellow rapes my cunt. My eyes dart from side to side, desperately scanning the crowd for someone who might rescue me. And then I see him, my Comte, my betrothed, but not as he was, no longer perfumed and powdered and dressed in the finest tailored Chinese silk. No, now he wears the loose dark hair of an artisan, a plain greatcoat, his head held low as he shoulders his way through the crowd. Our eyes meet and he stops to watch my brutal rape for a moment then turns up the collar of his greatcoat and disappears into the crowd.

“It is dawn when the mob finally begins to round us up, those who survive the night’s wild celebrations. Bruised and dazed, the women stripped and shivering, they toss us into the back of a cart that rumbles over the wrecked cobbled streets towards the fortress of the Bastille. From my cell in the tower I can just peep through the high bars, down to the square below, and watch the revolutionary soldiers building the wooden platform for the guillotine. I can’t watch for long though, the iron collar round my neck and the chain attached to the wall weigh me down again and I slump to the floor, waiting for the next visit. I seem to have been designated as an entertainment for the troops. The commanding officer brings them, two or three at a time, locks them in the cell with me, lets them have their way then leads in the next soldiers. Some are rough and ready, violent criminal types, others barely out of boyhood. These are the ones I fear the most, inspired with revolutionary rhetoric and filled with fervent anger, they are the ones who whip me with their belts or ram the barrels of their rifles into my cunt, laughing as they threaten to pull the trigger. The older men take their time and tell me I remind them of their daughters before they fuck me.

“Each morning I listen to the ring of steel and the soft, wet ‘whump’ of slicing blade as another group of my old friends is dispatched. One frosty morning it is my turn. With my hands tied behind my back I shiver in the freezing air as the crowd hollers at my nakedness. Thrust to my knees, my neck settled against the smooth, polished wood, I sob as the executioner presses one leather-gloved finger to my pussy, letting it sink into me, fucking it in and out. The hoots and yells from the crowd grow louder, a stamping, pounding chant begins, ‘Fuck her, fuck her, fuck her!’ The crowd ‘Oooooh!’ as the executioner reveals his cock, spitting on his hand and rubbing it along his shaft before ramming it into me. As he fucks me faster, his belly slapping against my buttocks, my tits swaying with each thrust, I look below me into the basket of bloodied heads, half recognising the frozen screams of women I had known as children, men I had danced with. The executioner’s cock jerks and twitches inside me and with his first spurt of spunk he lets go of the rope that holds the blade. The muscles of my cunt clench, squeezing his cock tight, milking it, as with a rush, the blade hurtles towards my neck…”

Carlisle clicked his fingers and Lucy fluttered her eyelashes as if waking from a dream.

 

 

“She’s an extraordinary case” said Carlisle to his fellow doctors as they sat around the boardroom table, files of case notes piled before them.

“Her destructive sexual behaviour appears to be programmed by deviant and damaging sexual behaviour in previous lives. She has experienced sex as something predatory and dangerous and has come to crave that. Her fulfilment lies in her degradation.”

“I’m sorry old chap, you said ‘previous lives’, surely you don’t mean she was Nefertiti or Lucrezia Borgia do you?”

There were stifled giggles,

Carlisle frowned. “Look, I know you don’t agree with my methods but I really believe there’s a root cause here that can be explored further. And if she can be programmed by experience to behave like an out-of-control slut then we can use auto-suggestion to turn her into a good little Stepford Wife, if that’s what you want her to be.”

He realised he had raised his voice and he loosened his tie, feeling flushed and hot.

“Steady on there, no offence intended. It’s just that you’ve been spending a lot of time on this case and maybe you need a break. Get a little professional distance on matters.”

Back in his office, Carlisle flopped angrily into his chair, stabbing at keys on his computer. His finger hovered over the mouse, then he pulled his hand away and stared furiously at the blank screen for a few moments. Suddenly his hard darted out again and hit the mouse, the screen blinking into life, showing him the image from the camera he had installed in the ceiling above her bed. Lucy lay on her side, propped up on one elbow, reading a book. He watched her lick her fingers to turn the page, sighed as she crooked one leg up, her knee bent, her thigh smooth. Restlessly, she rolled over onto her other side, her breasts jiggling and then settling again, the swell of her buttocks outlined against the thin fabric of her dress. With a surreptitious glance at the closed door to his office,

Carlisle unzipped his cock, wrapping his fingers around it as it stiffened, closing his eyes and imagining her lips gently brushing its tip.

 

 

“Focus on the pen, Lucy. When I tap my finger against it, you will be back in your past.”

 He flicked his fingernail smartly against the pen.

“Tell me what you can see.”

“Nothing, it’s too dark.”

“Where are you, Lucy?”

“I’m in the cupboard under the stairs.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m crying. It’s my first dinner party as a married woman and I’ve worked so hard to get everything just right, I’ve never had to plan anything like this before and the servants laugh at me behind my back because they know I don’t know what I’m doing. I scoured Mrs Beaton’s Book of Household Management, I ordered a new dress from Worth of Paris, filled the house with flowers…and my husband boxed my ears for being too extravagant. He says it’s not my place to spend his money acting like a duchess. Oh, I was only trying to please him, I wanted him to be proud of me.

“He’s changed so much since we married. When I met him he was a student of my father’s. They went hunting for fossils together and sat late into the night discussing all the latest scientific theories. I used to bring them coffee and pour their brandy and sometimes I would sit on a footstool before the fire listening to them talk. He would walk in the garden with me and listen to babble on about everything I wanted to do when I was out in the world. He was so attentive and handsome and my father liked him, so when he asked my father for my hand in marriage and my father asked me what I thought of him, well I was so happy I could hardly speak.

“But it went wrong straight away. I still had orange blossom in my hair the first time he beat me. For being lascivious, he said. It was my wedding night! I wanted to take my handsome husband in my arms…and between my legs, I’m not ashamed to say it. I wanted to love him, I wanted him to love me. Instead he thrashed me with his belt then used it to tie my wrists to the bed post, his hand covering my mouth as he thrust himself into me, taking my virginity, rolling off afterwards and telling me that’s how a good Christian wife does her duty, with humility and obedience.

“Ever since then I can’t do anything right. I’m too familiar in the way I speak to my maid, I talk too much when we have guests for tea, the way I dress my hair is too French, too like a common street whore. He has a cane he keeps to thrash me with, a knotty, Malacca cane as thick as his finger, whippy and frayed at the tip. He keeps it on his desk, laid out beside the inkwells as a constant reminder to me. The servants all know, they hear my screams and then my weeping, they smirk when they look at me, oh I can’t bear it!

“Even his long talks with my father turned out to be a lie. He tells me my father’s a silly old fool, taken in by other silly fools who believe we’re second cousins to apes. He says he only humoured him until the marriage was secure, my dowry paid his debts and set him up in an establishment he could be proud of. He makes us all line up every morning, me and the staff of servants my father’s money bought him, while he reads to us from the family Bible about sin and punishment and everlasting damnation.

“Oh, he’s coming! I can hear his footsteps coming down the hall. He’ll be so furious at me for hiding in here when we have guests. Whatever will I do? Hello dear, I was just, I was just…I’m sorry, yes of course I’ll come with you, our guests must be entertained.

“He grips my upper arm so tightly, hauling me to the door of the drawing room, only relaxing his grip as the door swings open and I take a deep breath, fixing my face in a smile as I sweep in. I pour the men brandy and sit on a footstool as I always did before to listen to their talk. They are discussing a club several of them belong to. ‘Yes it’s just an ordinary looking sort of house in Dover Street. You can just drop into the ground floor if you fancy a cigar and a brandy on the way home from the opera. Or if your tastes are more…oriental they can offer you an opium pipe and a glass of absinthe. But it’s the upper floors where the real interest lies if you’re planning on making an evening of it. Oh to look at it seems just like any other brothel at first. But it’s the women, d’ye see? They’re not the clapped out, jaded professional whores you usually get in these places. No, the beauty of this place is that every single blasted woman in the place is a wife of one of the members. Or a sister, I believe because there are some unmarried members. And amateurs are so much more fun than professionals; their reactions are so much more real.’

“My mouth is open with shock at this louche conversation and I turn to my husband to gauge his reaction, anxious that I will be punished for even listening to such talk. He clears his throat and begins, slowly. ‘Well, it sounds a most interesting club but tell me, what…duties are expected of members’ wives?’ ‘Oh, communal property, old man. They’re there to be used in any way that any member chooses. It’s considered poor form to step in to prevent one’s wife being used. After all, they become our property in marriage, they have no legal or financial rights, the law even says we may beat them provided it’s with a stick no thicker than our thumbs.’ We exchange a brief glance then look away. ‘So it’s only common sense to extend the same principle to the club. Instead of being your property, your charming wife here becomes the club’s property.’

“It is only a week later that our Hansom cab rattles across Green Park towards Dover Street. My husband has chosen my outfit for tonight but I shroud it beneath my black velvet cloak. Underneath it I wear a black satin corset, laced almost too tight to bear. It scoops up my breasts, my nipples resting on its rim. My silk stockings are held up by garter belts and my high-heeled boots are laced to my ankles. My cheeks burn with the shame of knowing that, not only will my pussy be exposed to the gaze of an entire club full of strange men, but they will see it as my husband has left it, shaved pink and smooth and clean with the flashing blade of his cut throat razor.

“We stand in the hall of the house, its walls draped with silk and velvet, mirrored and candle lit. I breathe in the heady mixture of incense and opium, dizzy with the jumble of sounds from different parts of the house – music and laughter and squealing and yelling, some close by but distorted, some distant and muffled. Suddenly, with a scream of laughter, a near-naked woman bursts from the drawing room and races up the stairs, hotly pursued by two men who catch her half-way up, dragging her squealing and giggling down a few steps before one buried his face between her breasts, the other between her thighs. ‘You see,’ hisses my husband into my ear, ‘all the other women make themselves available so we’ll have no more tears or tantrums unless you want some more of the stick.’ I can feel him trembling with excitement as he unhooks my cape and slides it from my shoulders, his hand firmly planted in the small of my back, propelling me into the room.

“On a damask sofa a young man sprawls, his head cradled in the lap of a woman whose unlaced stays reveal her breasts. She strokes his hair and hands him the pipe of a bubbling hookah. On her knees, another woman dressed only in her stockings, her hands clasped behind her back, bobs her head as she sucks on his cock.  In front of the fire, a naked woman crouches on all fours, ignored by the men who lounge, smoking and drinking absinthe from a bottle on the tray she balances on her back, the crystal glasses tinkling as she shifts almost imperceptibly. My head whips round to make out a sudden scuffle in a dark corner of the room. Four men have hauled a woman across a desk, holding her wrists and ankles while a fifth, with a fat cigar clamped between his teeth, digs his fingers into her buttocks, spreading them, his thumb shoved into her arsehole as he rams his cock into her, ash from his cigar dropping onto her shuddering arse as the men laugh.

“My husband steers me silently through this room and into the next, where a young woman sprawls across a table, her head hanging over the edge, her throat and cunt both filled with pounding cocks as excited men shout and laugh and place bets, tossing their gambling chips onto her belly. Beyond this room we step into a conservatory, humid and thick with exotic plants. We step around a hanging basket, its soil spilled across the tiles, and look up to see where it once hung now suspended a very young girl, naked save for her starched maid’s cap, her cheeks streaked with tears and her bottom striped with welts. ‘Oh, couldn’t we just let her down! No one would mind, I’m sure.’ Ignoring me, my husband guides me back to the hall and up the stairs.

“At the top we’re met by a liveried servant who greets my husband formally and looks straight through me. He is led away – I catch a glimpse of the rich furnishings of the room before its door is shut. I am led on up the stairs to the very top of the house, to a cold, whitewashed attic with an empty grate and only plain wooden chairs for furniture. The servant shoves me roughly down into a chair and locks the door behind me. I share this room with several other, half-naked and frightened-looking women. We sit in tense silence for a moment until I can bear it no longer and burst out, ‘What will happen to us? What happens in this room?’ They exchange anxious glances and one of them puts her finger to her lips and whispers, ‘Don’t let them hear you. This is where we wait.’ ‘What are we waiting for?’ ‘To be chosen. Some of the club members have their favourites and they are allowed to wait in the main house but we are nobody’s favourite and must wait here to be chosen. If they bring a man in to choose you must stand up and be silent and do as you’re told. You don’t want to be one of the ones who isn’t chosen.’ ‘Why, what happens than?’ ‘Nobody knows. They are never seen again.’

“Footsteps on the stairs silence her. The women start up out of their chairs, smoothing their hair, licking their lips and pinching their pale cheeks. Suddenly they freeze as they hear the man exchange words with the servant guarding the door. ‘It’s Lindley’ whispers one. The key turns in the lock and Viscount Lindley enters the room. I have only ever seen him at a distance, from the Strangers’ Gallery in the House of Lords when my father took me to see him make his maiden speech on the use of corporal punishment as social control in the Empire. But even from a distance he had struck me as a brute. He is tall and broad shouldered, dark and brooding, he smells of money and cruelty and every woman in the room trembles as he slowly walks from one to the next, surveying us. With the tip of his cane he lifts the breast of one woman, letting it flop down again as he moves onto the next, prodding her buttock and sliding the tip of his cane between her legs. When he reaches me, I try to raise my eyes to look at him but quickly lower them, flushed with shame. He puts his hands on my waist, spanning it and bends his head close to my neck, sniffing my skin.

“Suddenly he grabs the wrist of a red-headed girl with plump, creamy flesh who stands beside me. ‘This one’ll do me’ he snorts disdainfully and drags her, weeping, from the room. We listen to them go and when I judge it is safe I whisper to the other women, ‘What will he do to her?’ At first it seems as though nobody will answer me but then one of the women licks her dry lips and starts softly. ‘He likes to take his women out on carriage rides. They say he goes east, to Whitechapel. No one knows what he does when he gets there but good, respectable women have left with him and been found weeks later walking the streets selling themselves for pennies, or in the workhouse, raving mad.’ Another woman joins in. ‘I heard of one girl who was found nailed into a packing crate bound for the Far East, and on her buttock was the brand of his ring.’ ‘Well I heard he takes them to the dog-fighting pits and tosses them in with the dogs who are driven crazy by the smell of sex and tear them apart.’ ‘Now girls, don’t be silly, these are just stories.’ ‘Is that so? Well next time he comes in to choose, why don’t you ask to go with him and see what happens to you?’

“We are forgetting to be quiet now and don’t hear the next set of footsteps approaching. The door bursts open and takes us all by surprise, standing up in a flurry and knocking over our chairs. An elderly, white haired man is shown in, he peers at us carefully, then spots me, declaring, ‘Ah, a new girl! How delightful, I’ll take the new girl please.’ In a private bedroom he has the servants tie my wrists and ankles to the corners of a four poster bed, pillows beneath my bottom propping me up. While he sits on the edge of the bed and rubs his hand across my belly and thighs, he asks me questions which I answer in a tiny, quavering voice. ‘So, this is the first time your husband has brought you to our club, is it?’ ‘Yes, sir’ ‘And do you like it here?’ ‘It’s…it’s very nice sir.’ ‘And do you like being on display for all these strange men?’ ‘I..I’m not..no, not very much, sir.’ ‘Does your husband look after your sexual needs?’ ‘My husband’s a very good man, sir.’ ‘A very good man? Who whores his wife out to anyone who’ll have her? Does he give you a good fucking, girl?’ I turn my head away, my lips trembling as I try not to cry. ‘Clearly not or we wouldn’t have these silly tears at the mere mention of it.’ He stands up and walks across to the linen press, opening the doors wide and my heart skips a beat as I see its shelves, filled with row upon row of dildos - carved wood and ivory and rubber, every one of them monstrous, gnarled and knotted and veined, covered with ridges and spikes.

“He turns back to face me, in one hand he holds twelve inches of intricately carved ivory, curved and thick, in the other, a small bottle of oil which he pours over the dildo, smearing it all over with his hand as he approaches me. I start to scream and pull at my bonds, the bed shaking as I struggle. He proceeds calmly, ignoring my screams as he presses the tip of the dildo between the lips of my pussy, its head stretching me achingly wide. He slides his hands to the end of the dildo and slowly, leaning on it, starts to shove it deeper. My screams re-double and I arch my body clear of the bed as he slowly impales me, pulling it out a few inches then shoving it in again, deeper each time, twisting it inside me as I groan and plead with him to stop because he’s killing me. It’s only half-way into me but I can’t take any more. He starts to fuck it in and out, faster now, beads of perspiration on his brow, muttering under his breath, his words gradually becoming clearer. ‘All the same, you’re all the same, cock-loving little whores, can’t get enough of it can you, can’t get enough fucking, well I’ll show you fucking, I’ll show you whore.’ And as I twist and squirm, the tip of the dildo suddenly hits a tender spot inside me and I moan, my clit throbbing, I tip my head back and gasp out, ‘Yessssss’ thrusting my hips up to meet he dildo, driving it deeper as my screams turn from fear to excitement until I’m wailing out my orgasm, shuddering and drenched and happy.

“As my breathing grows less ragged, and the sweat dries on my skin, he unties me, sitting back exhausted at the foot of the bed. Emboldened, I crawl across the bed towards him, sliding my hand onto his cock then gazing up at him, puzzled at its limpness in his trousers. I unbutton it, wondering if he’s cum already and find his cock shrunk and floppy. I kiss it, sliding it into my mouth, sucking gently, coaxing it. Nothing happens and I sit back on my heels, confused. He looks away from me, shame-faced and I can’t help it, I start to laugh.

“Walking back down the stairs into the main house, I feel much more confident, feel I’ve earned my place in the house. I’m happy to stride on stockinged legs, my back ram-rod straight in its corsets, my titties wobbling with every step, I sway my hips and try to picture the roll and jiggle of my buttocks as a smile spreads across my face. And then I come face to face with Lindley. ‘Ah, now here’s a well-fucked girl. What a change from the frightened girl in the attic. Now you look like a girl I could have some fun with.’ And he wraps his arm around my waist, scooping me out of the front door and into a waiting cab.

“We travel east, the moonlight shining on the dome of St Paul’s as we pass, the roads growing uneven and narrow as we travel further into Limehouse, the night air tainted with the stink of the river. We stop at a rotting hulk of a building, crooked and filthy. Rats scuttle away as we enter the hall, climbing the creaking, narrow stairs to the garret room, occupied by a single iron-framed bed, a wash stand and a candle on the empty grate. He locks the door and lays me down on the bed, watching me as he slowly undresses. ‘Did those silly women tell you all sorts of tall tales about me?’ ‘No. Well, some.’ ‘And do you believe them? Do you think I’m going to sell you as a white slave or drown you in the river?’ I bite my lip and shake my head. ‘Good girl. Now crawl over here and suck my cock.’

“Such a beautiful cock, so thick and hot and velvety in my mouth. I lap at it and press my lips along his shaft, tipping my head back to let him slide it in deeper, fucking my throat while I moan into his flesh, the vibrations from my moans thrumming through his cock. He grabs my hair, pulls my head over the edge of the bed, plunges his cock back into my throat, all the way down until his balls rest on my nose and I gag and splutter. He pulls his cock out, saliva dripping from its tip and flopping across my face. He smears my face with it, sliding his hand down to my throat and fucking faster into my mouth. I reach back to grip his thighs, pulling him into me, my tits heaving as I gasp for air. He leans forward and slides two fingers into my slippery slit, frigging me, pinching and rubbing my clit until I’m screaming into his pounding cock, arching and squealing as I writhe and cum.

“He pulls his cock out and I whimper my disappointment but only for a moment. He flips me over, slaps my arse, tells me to spread my buttocks. I reach back to hold them apart, shuddering as he spits on my arsehole, rubbing it in with the tip of his cock. I squeal and buck as the tip of his cock forces in. he slaps my arse again, harder this time, murmurs, ‘Shut up, bitch’ and shoves his cock in deeper. I bite down on the bedclothes, rolling my hips as he screws his cock deeper into me, lying with his full weight on my back, crushing me as he starts to bugger me, grinding into my arse, growling, ‘You filthy bitch, you love it’ into my ear. And I do. I love the ache of his cock as it strains my arsehole open, I love the sting of his hand as it slaps my buttock. I love the filth and the degradation of this disgusting slum. Squirming one hand under my belly I finger my clit, rubbing it gently with each thrust, cumming again, a slower, deeper orgasm, throbbing through my whole body, as he pumps his spunk into my bowels.

“Afterwards, I lie on my side with my head in his lap while he slides his ring from his finger, holds it in the flame of the candle, heating it. He holds it close to the skin of my buttock; I can feel its heat. He pauses, and I look up at him and nod, smiling, my face splitting into a scream as the hot metal presses into my flesh with a sizzling, burning smell, leaving his brand on me forever.”

Carlisle clicked his fingers and Lucy woke, smiling up at him.

 

 

“I think we made a break-through today. I really think Lucy’s finding a way of putting her self-destructive behaviour behind her and ending up happy. Of course, there’s still a long way to go and she has some odd ideas about what happiness entails but…”

“Oh a break-through do you think? And what kind of a break-through do you think she was making in the basement just minutes after she left your last session?”

“What do you mean?”

“On her hands and knees on an old mattress surrounded by a circle of the male nurses while two of them battled to slide both their cocks into her mouth at the same time and another assaulted her with a vegetable marrow stolen from the kitchens. Apparently she’s been doing it ever since she arrived; they pay her in cigarettes and chocolate. Some of them have been filming it on camera phones. There’s a website!”

“Well I never suggested that everything was alright…”

“My favourite bit – of the website – is where they take her in the hospital minibus into town and film her in the public lavatories sucking cocks through a hole in the cubicle. And you know as I watched her swallow her seventeenth load of cum I thought, there’s a girl who’s well on her way to recovery! I’m sorry Doctor Carlisle, but this can’t go on any longer, I’ve got the reputation of the hospital to think of. I’m switching her course of treatment from regressive therapy to electro-convulsive therapy.”

 

 

The chair they strapped Lucy into sat in the middle of an empty tiled room, viewed through a glass panel in the adjoining room. Greased steel dildos fitted into place inside her cunt and arse and clips trailing wires pinched her nipples and clit. The nurse made the final adjustments to the visor that fitted over her eyes and retreated smartly from the room as, next door, the doctors adjusted the dials.

Carlise sat frowning at them. “Anyone would think we haven’t moved on in a hundred years, it’s barbaric.”

“Nonsense, man, the electrical stimulus is secondary. The virtual reality visor leads the patient to experience that stimulus in the context of a more appropriate set of triggers. We’ll have your girl re-programmed and out of here in no time.”

With the dials set, the power was slowly switched on and they watched Lucy’s body twitch and shudder, her back arching, her tits thrust out and wobbling, the first glistening trickle of juice leaking from her pussy.

“You see, perfectly harmless and enjoyable.”

Inside her virtual world, Lucy felt herself floating in a warm ocean, bobbing gently on lapping waves that stroked her pussy. She screwed her eyes up in the glare of the sun and spread her arms and legs, sighing as a soft breeze rippled across her flesh, her nipples stiffening.

Back in the control room, one of the assistants knocked his coffee cup over, catching it as it spilled, not noticing as he nudged a dial with his elbow.

The warm sea was gone now and Lucy stumbled naked through a dark and tangled forest, wind whipping the trees and rain lashing into her face as she tried to force apart brambles and step over stinging nettles. The brambles seemed to coil themselves around her thighs, visibly growing as she struggled. Ivy twined around her arms now, tightening its grip as she fought against it. As the tip of the bramble forced its way between the lips of her pussy she opened her mouth to scream but ivy rustled and forced its way into her mouth until she choked on it, her howls muffled as the bramble pushed deeper.

 

 

Privately, afterwards, some of Carlisle’s colleagues talked of it as a vindication of electro-convulsive therapy over any hypnosis-based remedy. Of course, there was some talk when he set up home with Lucy but as she was no longer his patient, there was nothing to be done about it.

Indeed she seemed to have turned into a model wife, cheerful, friendly and affectionate towards her husband, happy to keep the home and cook, beautiful and happy and good.

But behind closed doors, late at night, she would get down on her knees and let him fuck her face, choking on his cock and spitting up spunk and saliva. She would crawl on the floor, dildos protruding from her cunt and arse, mewing and purring as he turned the power up full. She would touch her toes, her legs spread and count the lashes he striped across her arse. She would kiss and suck his toes, gazing up at him and begging him to fuck her in the arse.

Sometimes he would share her, never with his colleagues or with anyone who might suspect, always with strangers, casual pick-ups, taken to some anonymous lay-by or seedy hotel and allowed to use her while he watched. For old times’ sake he sometimes took her to the places she used to go – the canal bridge where the vagrants set their fires, the back streets and alleys of the city, behind a dumpster or in a doorway.

And afterwards she always came back with him, demurely resuming her place in his bed, smiling sweetly at each command, thanking him for every slap. They would lie in bed together and he would listen to her stories of the past – as a concubine of the Pharaoh, a camp follower of the Roman Legions, a captive of Spanish privateers – in the knowledge that his therapy methods had worked perfectly, for him at least, just as long as he remembered never, ever to click his fingers.