Chapter One

 

The time worn, roughly hewn stones of the dungeons were blackened from the acrid smoke of countless flaming torches, making feeble attempts to illuminate this dark and soulless place; a place cut deep beneath the forbidding castle. It was, without doubt, a place offering no hope, once a luckless captive was incarcerated behind its impenetrable walls.

A single torch spluttered in its rusting metal holder, serving only to create deep shadows in every corner and reflect the gleaming red eyes of the occasional rodent as it scuttled about its business, the only creature happy to be in these terrible catacombs.

Suddenly the silence was broken as a distant door slammed open and heavy footsteps clattered down spiralling stone steps. The flicker of additional torches grew brighter, casting distorted shadows on the stone passages.

The echo of men's gruff voices could be heard. There was a curse and scuffling of feet, followed by a high pitched scream that could only come from the throat of a young female; a female desperate to leave this God forsaken place.

"Let go of me! For God's sake, let me go!" came the desperate scream, ear piercing in the stillness of the air.

The words echoed from wall to wall, as if to tease the one who pleaded so pathetically.

The party came into view.

In the lead was a short, stout man, dressed in filthy, ragged leathers. He held a spluttering torch in one hand and in the other, a large bunch of crude keys. A satisfied smile was on his face and it was obvious that this was the jailer.

Next came a man who, by his immaculate costume and stance, was most certainly of a far higher class than the others. He held a laced handkerchief to his nose in a vain effort to filter the stench from his sensitive nostrils. This man was known by all as simply The Duke.

Bringing up the rear were two soldiers; big men with bristling beards, their coarse features exaggerated by the yellow light of the torches they held aloft.

Between them, held firmly by their free hands, was a young woman of about twenty who, despite her obvious distress, looked disarmingly attractive in the dim light. Only a slight smudge of dirt marred her otherwise near perfect features.

The jailer took shackles and chains from a rusty hook and turned to face the struggling girl.

"Oh please, I beg of you, my Lord Duke!" the girl cried out to the effeminate man ahead of her. "Don't let them do this to me!"

There was sheer terror in her eyes and they filled with tears as she began to sob, pulling desperately against the iron grip of the men on either side, knowing full well that it was pointless to struggle, the pathetic efforts being no match for her escort.

"Oh, would that I could die right now and deny you the pleasure of your terrible ways," she called out, as her legs finally gave from under her. The men had to drag her the last few yards across the flagstoned floor to the waiting jailer.

"Secure her well!" called out the nobleman, standing back to observe the unequal struggle.

"Do not chain me like an animal, kind Sir!" she begged, collapsing to her knees in front of the jailer and lifting her hands to him as if in prayer. "I will give you anything; gold, riches beyond your wildest dreams, only please do not chain me!"

"Get on with it!" called the Duke impatiently. To the girl's horror, iron shackles were clamped over her slim wrists and locked in place.

The soldiers dragged her to her feet and pushed her face forward over a metal trestle which, at waist height, pressed against her stomach as she was doubled over the frame, her hands down by her feet and her bottom held at the highest point, vulnerable to anything they might care to do to her.

More heavy iron shackles were clamped around her neat ankles and all four shackles were secured to the legs of the trestle so that her legs and arms were spread wide apart. She strained to lift her head, to see what was to follow, but her bonds allowed little movement and her long dress prevented her from seeing directly between her legs.

"Remove the dress!" came the next order, delivered in a cold, toneless voice, as if it was an everyday occurrence and this excursion interrupted better and more interesting things.

The rotund jailer stepped up behind the girl, took hold of the ornate dress in his grimy fist and with one massive heave, ripped it from her back, leaving her with nothing but a plain white cotton petticoat to cover her young but fully matured body.

The girl screamed, this time with anger as well as fear.

"How dare you treat me so!" she called out defiantly, twisting her head to look across at the nobleman. "My lover will hear of this and then you will regret ever having laid a finger on me!"

"Your lover, the one who dares to call himself a prince, will soon be captured, it is only a matter of time," replied the Duke, his vicious tone of voice matching the cruel atmosphere of this hell on earth. "And before the day is out, you will tell me where he hides, like the skulking dog that he is!"

"You will get nothing from me!" she screamed back, spitting out the words and wishing she could spit in his face.

"Shall I remove the petticoat, my Lord?" asked the jailer, taking hold of the material, ready to tear that too from the girl's trembling back.

"No!" said the nobleman quietly, a cruel smile twisting his evil face.

He walked over to where the girl was secured and ran his bony fingers down her back, causing her to shudder from the spine chilling contact. The Duke turned then and faced the jailer, the cruel sneer still in place and when he spoke, his voice was as cold as crystals of ice on a harsh winter's day.

"Whip it from her!"

"Very good, my Lord," replied the stout man and waddled over to a selection of devices hanging from one of the walls.

He returned with a long whip, made from the finest leather and by the dark red stains ingrained in this instrument of pain, it had been used to draw blood from hapless victims on many an occasion.

He thoughtlessly demonstrated its suppleness by flicking it casually through the air. It was more than obvious that he was well trained in the art of torture. Extracting the required information from this wench would be a simple task, skilfully executed.

The sobbing, helpless girl had seen the filthy man approach and having heard the singing of the leather as swished it about, tensed her body, waiting with fearful dread for the first blow.

The jailer lifted his muscular arm and took careful aim, squinting his eyes to improve his focus in the dim light.

The girl was unable to suppress a whimper of fear.

The soldiers looked on in anticipation.

"Wait!" called the effeminate Duke, waving his scented hanky in the air.

He minced his way over to the assembly of torture instruments and after some consideration, selected a device of cast iron, formed in the shape of an over-sized penis. The medieval dildo was handed to the jailer and the nobleman used his handkerchief to wipe the grime from his lily white hands, then forgot that he had done so and wiped his face with the now rust coloured hanky. The material came away to reveal a rust red smeared face, giving him an even more bizarre appearance than usual.

The jailer and soldiers looked at each other and desperately worked at suppressing their amusement.

"Well?" called the nobleman impatiently, annoyed at the delay and upset that they should be looking at him. "What are you waiting for?"

"Yes, my Lord!" mumbled the jailer hastily and crouched down behind his victim.

"What are you doing?" screamed the girl breathlessly.

Without the dress interrupting her view, she could now see between her legs and caught sight of the device the man had in his fist. By its shape alone, there was no denying its intended purpose and she gave out a deep, agonising groan.

"Oh my God!" she sobbed, tugging against her unyielding shackles. "What evil possessed you to do such things?"

The jailer knelt directly behind the girl and lifted the cloth of the petticoat, ready to insert the iron dildo, when a faint, high pitched sound invaded the tense, silent room. The sound dropped steadily in tone and rapidly increased in volume, ending in a thunderous raspberry. The girl, her bottom exposed and only inches from the fat man's face, had passed wind, the sound of the noisy fart echoing around the walls of the chamber.

The jailer froze, the back of his thick neck turning a bright red and slowly at first, but with ever increasing rapidity, his shoulders began to heave. A peculiar wheezing sound came from his throat and unable to contain himself any longer, the control of his limbs gone, he collapsed to the floor, convulsed in laughter.

The hilarity was infectious and the nobleman and soldiers could do little but join in the mirth, tears running down their previously serious faces.

Unable to speak, the jailer pointed an unsteady finger at the nobleman, who was trying to wipe the tears from his face, but in doing so was unwittingly spreading the rust all over his carefully applied make-up.

"ALL RIGHT - CUT!" boomed the director, unnecessarily using his megaphone to amplify his voice, so his words bounced frantically from wall to wall. He paused for the sound to die down. "O.K everybody! Take five!"

"Sorry, Boss!" called the giggling jailer, wiping tears from his eyes. "She farted right in my face!"

"I passed wind, if you don't mind!" called out the girl, trying to sound indignant. "Queens don't fart!"

"I nearly passed out!" retorted the leather clad man and shuffled off the set, still wiping eyes.

Switches were thrown and the set was suddenly illuminated by unaccustomed light. The film crew wandered off, together with the actors, all highly amused by the incident and glad for an excuse to get some coffee.

Brad Bekmayer was the last to leave.

"Hey!" called a pathetic voice from the middle of the set. "What about me?"

The director stopped and turned back, suddenly realising that the star of the movie was still shackled to the metal frame.

"Hell! I'm sorry, honey!" he said, striding over to her and patting the bent over girl on her exposed bottom. "It looks like they forgot all about you!"

"You can say that again!" replied Amanda Bush, star of a totally forgettable collection of B movies and late night television soaps.

"Who's got the keys?" Brad asked sympathetically, at the same time unconsciously continuing to pat the girl on her bum cheeks.

"The jailer," replied the upside down and exasperated Amanda. "I guess he scooted off with the rest of them."

"I'll get him back here right away!" the big man assured her, then gave her a resounding smack before following the others to the canteen.

Amanda felt stupid. It was all right all the time the cameras were rolling; anything seems to be acceptable then, but now that she was on her own, in the middle of a silent and deserted set, locked securely to this stupid medieval torture frame, she found it embarrassing and highly uncomfortable.

She heard a footstep and tried to see who was there.

"Hello?" she called enthusiastically.

Suddenly, the eerie silence was broken by the crash of a heavy duty switch and the next moment, the set was plunged back into semi darkness, the illumination reverting to the flickering yellow of the flaming torches.

"Hello?" she called again, a little less certain now. "Who's there?"

She cursed her restraints and tugged against them, only succeeding in making iron clanking sounds.

Soft footsteps shuffled towards her and she twisted her head as much as could to see one of the extras approaching, the dim light unable to probe the depths of the monk's hood he was wearing.

"Have you got the keys?" she asked hopefully.

"I've got something better than that," said the deep voice softly.

The costumed man came up behind Amanda and lifted his robes to reveal a rigidly erect penis.

"What are you doing?" screeched Amanda, knowing full well what the man intended.

A few minutes ago she had been threatened by a rod of iron, now she was going to taste the real thing and there was nothing she could do about it. She considered screaming, but the canteen was two studios away and with each studio efficiently sound proofed, unless someone was actually in the building, she would not be heard.

"I've checked," said the soft spoken man, as if reading her thoughts. "There's no-one else in the building, just you and me."

"Get the hell out of here!" spat Amanda, trying to wriggle her bottom out of the way.

"Well!" he laughed, his voice higher now and showing signs of being affected. "There's a nice way to greet a friend."

"You're no friend of mine," she protested tugging vainly against her bonds.

"I'm sure we could get to like each other," he replied, as he placed his hands on either side of her thighs and pushed his body forward.

"Get stuffed!" she yelled, angry now.

"It's you who is going to get the stuffing!" he said as the tip of the rock hard penis pressed against the area of her vagina. "My!" the intruder exclaimed, as he pushed forward to enter her. "You feel cold."

"It's not me," replied Amanda, but stopped as the man went rigid and let out an ear piercing shriek.

"Shit in hell!" he cried, clinging on to her as if his life depended on it. "My goddamned prick!"

"I tried to tell you," she said, without any sympathy in her voice. "I'm wearing a chastity belt."

"It's got hold of my poor little prick!" he gasped, unable and unwilling to move either forward or backwards. "What are we going to do?"

"As I'm locked in this position anyway," she replied teasingly. "I sure as hell know what I'm going to be doing. How is it your end?"

He tried desperately not to move, his body held rigidly to attention, his breath coming in short anguished gasps.

"It's not too bad if I stand still," he managed to say.

Amanda thought it strange that a few moments ago she had been embarrassed by simply being alone. Now she had company, despite the fact her attachment to him was involuntary, she was rather pleased that the creep had been trapped in such an uncompromising way, even though she couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

There was a period of silence, which made the situation seem even worse.

"Hi!" she said, for something to say. "Sorry I can't shake hands, but as you can see I'm somewhat restricted. My name's Amanda. Who are you?"

The man carefully slid his hand inside his costume and came out with a small wallet, which he flicked open and held it out in front, for Amanda to see.

"C.I.A?" she queried, straining to read the badge.

"Oh, please don't move," he pleaded desperately.

"Who are you investigating?"

"We want your co-operation," he said.

"In the light of the present circumstances," she laughed. "That is an understatement."

"It's not funny," he groaned.

"I think it's bloody hilarious," she replied and gave her bottom a little wriggle.

"Oh my!" he gasped, gripping on to her, to try and hold her still. "Please don't do that."

Amanda was about to do just that when a door slammed open at the far end of the studio.

"Hi!" boomed a voice and Brad Bekmayer came striding across to the close coupled couple.

He thumped the pseudo monk on the back.

The man yelped in pain and from fear of what might be happening down below, but Brad seemed not to notice.

"Thanks for keeping her company," continued Brad, then took hold of the monk and pulled him backwards. "Now stand aside. I've got the keys to the shackles."

"Yeeeeeeeeow!" screamed the man from the CIA as he stumbled backwards, clutching his excruciatingly painful penis.

"Good man!" boomed Brad. "Give that lazy lot in the canteen another shout, will you? Tell them I want to be shooting in five minutes."

The CIA agent decided it was time to make his exit and walked slowly and painfully away, his legs spread wide apart, unable to pluck up the courage to see what damage had been done.

"That guy has a walk just like John Wayne!" commented Brad, then stooped to unlock Amanda's shackles.