He’d seen them jog out of the gates of the hall, though at that distance they were just
four small dots seen through the shimmer of heat from the late summer sun. It was
possible to see them because he and Daft Bob were on the only significant rise in the land
for twenty miles around, a prominence identified by cartographers as ‘Haglett Hill’ for
reasons lost in linguistic history, but known to Tom and every other tenant and worker on
the Falstead estate as ‘up on top’. It was little more than a knoll with a tight, dense
coppice of trees on it; a feature which was subject to infrequent and extremely cautious
plunder for fuel by nearby tenant families, given His Lordship’s injunction against
tree-felling on his lands.
It was why Tom was here now, with Daft Bob – literally – in tow, led by the rope
that ran round his waist. Tom didn’t know just how old Bob was – he wasn’t at all certain
of his own age, come to that – just that he seemed to have been around as long as Tom
could remember, most of that time with a rope around him, being led somewhere. That task
had devolved on Tom a couple of years ago and had become so much part of his life that he
no longer thought about it. Indeed, if he did not have the company of the gangling,
shambling vacant-eyed idiot, a product of his teeming family’s in-breeding, he would have
felt lost. His intention had been to come up here to fossick for wood that they could
stock for winter, not that there was much chance of finding any dead-falls, since the
place had been picked clean long ago. But Bob was massively strong; it was possible that a
small tree could be persuaded to fall over and the blame put on a storm.
That was the plan; it was also why Tom was keeping a wary eye on the mounted group
that was heading, vaguely, in his direction. His Lordship was not a man to forgive people
who crossed him, a fact well known to everyone who lived and worked on his lands. Indeed,
only a few weeks ago Tom had been commanded to take Daft Bob to the paddock close to the
hall, where practically every person in the Falstead’s employ had been gathered beneath a
beating sun to witness the punishment of a couple who had transgressed in some way or
other. Tom didn’t know just what their offence had been, but he had watched as the pair –
a woman and a man, both young – had been stripped naked, tied face to face on a rotating
platform and whipped mercilessly as it rotated. When that was over, he had been told to
lead Bob forward and command him to fuck and then bugger the sobbing, weeping girl before
the eyes of her lover and the baying, lusting crowd.
His Lordship had given him two golden guineas! That money was hidden away from the
rapacious hands of his father who would have had no compunction in slitting Tom’s throat
as easily as he did that of a malformed baby for wealth that would keep him drunk for six
months. He hadn’t though; he hadn’t because Tom was the only one who could handle Daft Bob
and the idiot was bigger and stronger than Pa by far. So the money stayed hidden, to be
used when the tinkers came round next, their wagon loaded with things that Ma could
suddenly afford to buy instead of gaze at longingly.
He felt a sudden resistance on the rope and turned. Bob had stopped and was gazing,
mouth hanging open, at the sight of sheep grazing in a nearby field, his eyes holding a
familiar gleam. It was a look that Tom knew well; in fact, it was the only look that the
idiot possessed apart from blank emptiness. An arm lifted, finger pointing, while spittle
dribbled from the mouth. The head turned to Tom, furrows in the brow.
“Aaauuurgh!”
He sighed. “No, Tom,” he said, clearly and patiently. “No fuck!”
“Aaauuurrrgh!” Frustrated: he may not have understood the words, but he clearly
recognised a negative tone when he heard it.
“Work. Fuck later.” There was no point in saying that he’d already fucked one a
half an hour before because he’d probably forgotten about that already; besides he wasn’t
at all sure that Bob understood any of the words that Tom said, he probably reacted to the
tone of voice. But if there was one thing that Bob could do as well as lift, carry and
knock over small trees it was fuck: he never seemed to get enough. Perhaps it was some
sort of compensation for everything else he lacked.
“Uuuuurgh.” Resigned, acquiescent. As docile as ever, the thought – if there’d been
one - of the sheep apparently banished, the huge figure turned and stood waiting, hands
dangling.
Tom went to move forward again, but checked to looked down towards the hall. The
group had moved further in this general direction, but was still a long way off and now
seemed to have stopped. He could just about identify His Lordship on his big black
stallion; he seemed to be gesticulating about something. Behind him was the white blob of
a blouse above the dun colour of what could be Her Ladyship’s mount, another stallion.
Tom’s pulse quickened while his penis stirred; he was not a great connoisseur of female
beauty, but he had seem Her Ladyship close up on a number of occasions and he thought that
she was the most desirably thing that he had ever laid eyes on. Was she riding astride, he
wondered, wearing those tight breeches that showed every curve and crack?
She was. Georgina, Lady Falstead was a woman who both despised and flouted
conventionality, not least in the expression of her sexual appetites and perversions. Put
beside these, the matter of her public behaviour and mode of dress paled into
insignificance. But taken in isolation and given the mores that prevailed in the England
of 1840, her open defiance of those unwritten rules that governed ‘society’ would have
been seen as scandalous, even allowing for her aristocratic status and the licence that
went with it. No lady, it was considered, would think about mounting something so…
complete … as a stallion and as for riding astride – astride! – why, such a thing was
unthinkable! Add to that the fact that her legs and lower body were clad in figure-hugging
breeches; that the simply peasant-style blouse she wore was quite clearly her only upper
garment and the whole put her quite beyond the bounds of any form of acceptability
whatsoever!
She cared not one jot. At twenty-six, she was at the height of her beauty and was
married to one of the richest and most powerful men in England. The fact that he was
eighteen years her senior and possibly the most sadistically depraved man of his
generation did nothing but increase her adoration for and devotion to him, for she shared
these characteristics in full measure. The combination of these factors and the presence
of the two principals in Edward and Georgina made Falstead Hall a veritable Mecca for
aristocrats with like feelings and a hell on earth for young and attractive females who
were unfortunate enough to become their victims.
Now she leaned forward, balled hands between her thighs on the saddle, stiff-armed,
elbows braced in as she watched her husband and the woman in front. She was quite aware
that the posture was giving Percy Worsthorne, Lord Massingthorpe, who was immediately to
her right on a chestnut gelding a perfect view of her breasts as the blouse gaped open and
they were squeezed together by her arms, but he had seen a great deal more of her than
that tantalising glimpse, not least during the night that had just passed. Abandoning for
the moment the scene that was being played out a few paces to her front, she cast a sly,
contrived coy glance sideways at the lean, spare figure, a smile on her face. He was
looking; their eyes met to exchange a look of companionable, joint satisfaction before
they both turned forward to observe what was passing between the two figures before them.
Edward, Third Earl Falstead, was mounted on his favourite black stallion, a giant
of a beast at seventeen hands, which meant that he was looking slightly down on the slim,
elegant figure on the bay mare immediately to his left. She, unlike the other three, who
were dressed casually as a concession to the hot sun, was in a clad in a heavy, formal
riding habit in dark green velvet: a full skirt, a tight jacket over a frilled blouse with
a lace cravat at the throat. On top of her neatly-piled, dark brown hair was a matching,
curly-brimmed, feathered hat set at a jaunty angle. But despite the heat of the day and
the obvious weight of her clothing her face was pale, with lines etched from the nose to
the corners of her mouth, while her eyes were dark pools of tragedy and suffering.
Edward held the reins in his right hand, holding his impatient mount in check
firmly, while his left arm extended to her, finger pointing. His florid face was contorted
with anger, though whether that was feigned or genuine was difficult to say.
“I thought I said that this was to be a silent ride, madam,” he rasped.
“un-interrupted by any contributions from you? And yet we are barely started and you are
yelping and whining!”
The pair behind exchanged amused glances and yet another smile: Georgina had seen
this game going on for eight days, but Percy had arrived late last night, after the
russet-haired woman sitting side-saddle had been dismissed to her chamber. But since he
shared the sadistic tendencies of his host and his wife – as well as her bed and body –
the exchange brought him nothing but the delight of novelty, an ever-rarer commodity for
one who has explored perversion in most of its many forms.
Tears sprang to the eyes of the unhappy woman. Since she sat in the conventional –
and socially acceptable – side-saddle position, she was forced to crane her head round to
meet the eyes of her tormentor. Not that she wanted to; she’d have been far happier not
having to look into the hated face, but she had been ordered to look at him when she was
addressed. And with the ties that bound her to the pair she had come to think of as
Satan’s closest associates, she dared not disobey; she must not only follow their
repulsive orders, but she must do so willingly and enthusiastically. Those latter were
quite impossible, of course, but the consequences were such that she had to strive with
all her being, forcing down her revulsion, better feelings – even the vomit that rose in
her throat – to meet their demands with a ghastly smile pasted to her face. Because if she
did not, then her dearly beloved Richard, who lay within this evil man’s power, would
suffer the unthinkable fate that had been gloatingly described to her: that of being
forced to submit to the un-natural passions of depraved men.
She had suffered and endured for eight long days, falling further and deeper into
the wallow of filth and corruption with every passing hour, for these were truly evil,
vile people. She had allowed her body to be used shamelessly, had performed tasks so
disgusting that even thinking of them brought bile to her throat. And worst of all, she
had, at their orders, taken a pure and innocent seventeen-year-old girl and had begun the
task of perverting her into the foulness of lesbian sex; something of which she was almost
entirely ignorant, learning of it only from some of the disgusting deeds she was compelled
to endure. For that alone, she was, she knew, condemned to the very pits of hell. But bad
as all that was, there were more urgent, pressing and immediate matters to concern her.
“Oh, My Lord,” she sobbed, “I… I cannot bear it! It is… dreadful!”
Behind her, Georgina and Percy laughed. She winced, but kept her eyes on the one
that mattered: him, the arch-demon himself.
He glowered, scowling. “You should have thought of that last night,” he growled,
“when I presented my prick to your arse and requested that you press back.”
Oh dear God! She thought; the man’s penis was grotesque, enormous! She had glimpsed
her dear husband’s only once or twice and that briefly, for that dearest of all men – let
him be safe! – was kind, gentle and understanding on the very rare occasions that he had
pressed himself upon her. But this… beast… this unmentionably foul savage had raped her
time and time again, even made her take the huge, obscene thing into her mouth! How it had
filled and stretched her! And he was insatiable! Time after time, unflagging,
inexhaustible! How could he possibly expect any woman to do as he demanded: that
repulsive, un-natural act? The pain was utterly excruciating, unbearable!
Edward took the opportunity of her introspected distress to glance behind him and
grin that encompassed both his wife and dearest friend. He knew that Georgina had
entertained Percy well last night, because his fellow peer had looked suitable exhausted
and satisfied at the breakfast table. Georgina had the look of the cat that’d had the
cream, too: something that was a tribute to Percy, since he did not have the advantage of
Edward’s inherited satyriasis to sustain him. But Percy was very expert in cunt-lapping,
just as he’d been a good cock-sucker when they’d roomed together at Eton. How good it was
to have him here! It was a just reward for the help he’d given in entrapping the succulent
morsel that sat beside him, sunk in her misery. He turned back to her.
“Well, Helen?” he demanded.
“Oh… O, My Lord,” she sobbed, brokenly. “It… it is so painful… so intrusive! The
motion of the horse is…”
“It’s not nearly so painful or intrusive as having my cock shoved into your
entrails without your arse-hole is widened, believe me! That’s the smallest dildo my dear
wife possesses you have up you, so be thankful that I’m a kind and generous man who cares
for the well-being and comfort of his sluts.” A muffled giggle and a guffaw greeted that
piece of hypocrisy, while Helen bit her lip hard to stifle the sob. “What are you?” he
demanded.
“A… a slut, My Lord.” She could answer that because they’d played this game before.
But then she had always been naked, on her knees, displaying herself to them blatantly.
Now she was dressed again for the first time since that dreadful day that she’d entered
their house and it was all somehow worse.
“Quite right. And sluts don’t complain; certainly not when their considerate owner
is going to the trouble of enlarging their arse-hole, do they?”
She choked. “N… no, My Lord.”
“I am heartily delighted to hear that, Helen. So we’ll have no more whimpering, if
you please. To make up for lost time, we’ll canter up to yonder rise and survey some of my
lands, shall we?” He indicated an insubstantial hill with a copse at its summit a couple
of miles away. “Mayhap we’ll see something that’ll enliven our day.” With that somewhat
enigmatic and thought-provoking remark he kicked his heels into his mounts flanks and set
off.
Helen, once the Honourable Lady Helen, now a slut with a dildo inserted into her
rectum, bit back another sob and followed. At the first jounce, it was a lot more than a
sob that had to be suppressed.
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