The Devil's Surrogate (19 page)

Finally the
combined assault ceased, and although Isobel's vision was still
hazy, and her other senses were equally befuddled by her ordeal,
she was dimly aware that Jane was speaking.

'Now, Oona,
you can let the birdie see what the nice doggie has for her. Come
around so she can look at you, there's a good dog.'

Isobel felt a
sharp kick in her side and tried to look back at Jane, but the
cording prevented her from turning her head very far, and the
eye-slits deprived her of any periphery vision.

'Wake up,
slut-bird!' Jane commanded. 'Here, look up and see what the nice
doggie has for you!'

Blearily, Isobel peered out of her mask aware that a dark
shape had moved around before her. She blinked, trying to focus on
Oona, and then blinked again, this time in sheer disbelief.
The dog-girl has a cock!
her brain screamed even as all her mouth could manage was a
whimper of horror. Oona, who had earlier been all too obviously
female, was now all too obviously male, at least from the groin
down. Isobel kept blinking, trying to see whether the organ now
jutting so threateningly up before the dog-girl's navel was a
trick, an artificial phallus strapped to her waist... but no, there
was little doubt that it was real. It emerged from between the lips
where normally a particularly responsive clitoris might appear, the
dark-blue veins decorating it straining against the stretched and
gleaming flesh.

'My doggie is
going to fuck you now, birdie.' Jane laughed. 'Her cock is going to
skewer you good, too. I've seen her in action before and she'll
outlast any man you care to name, won't you Oona, my pet?'

The dog-girl
growled on cue, but this time Isobel could have sworn the growl
turned into a gratified chuckle.

Crawley's
remaining original assistant, Silas Grout, had taken charge of the
proceedings on the green. There was no sign of his master as the
newly recruited men dragged Harriet from the church, her eyes
blinking in the harsh sunlight after her long stint in a gloomy
crypt. They led her over to a position opposite the graveyard,
where the curious execution platform had been set up beneath the
tallest oak. However, it was still a few hours until sunset, the
appointed hour for the hanging, and first there was the matter of
Wickstanner's funeral.

Grout - or
perhaps the instruction had come from Crawley himself - had taken a
certain amount of care to ensure that not only would Harriet have a
clear view of the burial, but also that the villagers would have a
clear view of her and her shame. A heavy post had been driven into
the ground before which stood a trestle bench some three feet high.
Onto this bench two men hoisted Harriet, and then Grout himself,
standing on one end, took up a long staff which he passed through
the crook formed in her elbow by the cuff holding her left wrist to
the waist-belt. Pressing her back against the upright, he thrust
the pole in further so it passed behind the post, and then grabbing
her other elbow cruelly, he forced the wooden bar through the crook
on that side. Now she was not only held against the post but her
shoulders were bent back painfully and her naked breasts were
thrust forward in an obscene parody of temptation. Harriet grunted,
trying to shift her position to ease the strain, but it was
impossible.

'There now,
you can show your nice titties off to all the world one last time,'
Grout said quietly, so only she could hear him. He moved in front
of her, the trestle so narrow he was forced to press up against
her, and Harriet felt his hand grope between her thighs as he did
so. To her utter chagrin, she realised her recent ordeal had left
her sex wet and open, and she immediately tried to pull her thighs
together. Grout, however, was having none of it.

'Must let the
good people see there's no devil's spawn hiding in there,' he
hissed, jumping down onto the grass. He signalled to one of the
men, who stepped forward holding two coils of rope. Within a matter
of seconds they had snared each of her ankles and dragged her legs
wide apart, tying the ropes to either end of the trestle.

Tears stung
Harriet's eyes, for she knew her plight would surely attract the
attention of the people as they began gathering for the funeral.
The men-folk might try to affect an attitude of piety for the
benefit of their female relatives, but few would be able to resist
staring at her nudity.

Silas Grout was not quite finished, however. One of the new
assistants had been despatched across the short span of grass
separating Harriet's perch from the wagon, and he returned carrying
a piece of board on which had been painted, in large red letters,
DEVIL WHORE AND WITCH. Beneath this legend, in smaller print, had
been added,
Sentenced this day, by order of
the Holy Church
. A length of cord had been
knotted through two small holes so the sign could be hung about her
neck, and Grout held it up for her to read before doing so. He
also, she realised, had made sure the board hung beneath her
breasts and above her crotch, thus not affording her any modesty
nor obstructing the view for the lascivious eyes that would soon be
feasting on her.

She closed her
eyes and tried to shut out the horror of it all. The board bore no
date and she shuddered as she realised it had probably been painted
without one so it could be used over and over again. She wondered
how many other terrified and mortally ashamed females had stood as
she did now with this piece of wood hanging from their necks
counting the minutes to their death.

'There now,'
Grout said, jumping down onto the grass for the last time and
stepping back to look up at her. 'That should make sure anyone else
in this place thinks twice before they start meddling with the dark
arts.' He turned to the five men who had gathered in a half circle
before Harriet. 'You lot had better make sure no one gets near her.
Can't be too careful when it comes to witching, so make sure you're
all wearing the crosses Master Crawley gave you. The whore's powers
should be just about scourged from her, I reckon, but it's better
to be safe than sorry, I always says.' He turned to Thaddeus
Gilbert. 'You're in charge till I get back. Anything happens while
I'm gone and it won't just be getting paid you have to worry about.
I'm going to wet my whistle for an hour, but I should be back
before they start lowering the vicar. Once that's over you bring
the girl over to the tree, and I'll need a couple of you to help
get her up onto that bit that sticks out under the noose
there.'

Harriet opened
her eyes, and for the first time saw that there was indeed a rope
hanging from one of the thick branches of the oak with a noose
already tied and waiting. There also seemed to be another loop in
it halfway up its length, but she was too far away to make out what
it was exactly, or to understand its purpose.

The hunt was
approaching the end of its second hour, Guy Bressingham calculated,
looking up at the position of the sun in the sky. Two hours nearly
gone and he had seen not one sign of life, not even one of the
other bird-girls.

He paused
alongside a fallen tree trunk that had been stripped bare of its
branches and leaves quite recently, to judge from the freshness of
the axe marks, and lowered himself onto it, relieved to take the
weight off his feet, which were beginning to ache. He was not, he
was forced to admit, used to such strenuous exercise; he rarely
walked much further than the door of his carriage these days. He
sighed, and bent to loosen his right boot.

Isobel de
Lednay could wait awhile yet, he decided. Her marker ribbon
guaranteed that none of the other hunters would attempt to take
her. His toes were throbbing, and a few minutes of freedom from the
restricting boots would be more than welcome. There was also the
small brandy flask in his belt pouch. A bracing reviver was the
order of the day.

He was about
to kick off his first boot when the sound of rustling leaves made
him look up. There, to his amazement, stood one of the other
bird-girls. No, she wasn't standing; she was walking - walking
straight towards him without fear.

'Well!' he
exclaimed, sitting up, 'what do we have here? A tired birdie maybe,
or just tired of running around? I can sympathise with that, to be
sure.' He stood up slowly, not wanting to startle the girl, who
continued to approach him slowly. 'Decided to get it over with?
Well, I can't say I blame you. It's inevitable anyway, and I'm sure
you know that.' His eyes narrowed as he studied her. 'Ah yes,' he
continued, 'I remember you, the girl with the big titties, and what
a fine pair they are too.' She stood before him, staring mutely up
at him through the eye-slits of her colourful mask. 'Well, there's
no rule says I can't take two of you, I suppose,' he said, feeling
the warmth from her body now, and the manner in which her large
breasts were rising and falling was all too appealing. It was
Isobel he really wanted, but then Isobel was his anyway. Meanwhile,
he had this creature for the taking, and her attitude seemed to
indicate she wanted him as much as he now wanted her. 'Somehow,' he
said, placing a hand on each of her shoulders, 'I don't think I'm
going to have to waste any time with all that trussing up nonsense,
eh?'

Isobel groaned
as the head of Oona's male organ pressed against her labia and
pushed it apart as easily as a hot knife passing through butter.
Steel claws grasped at either side of her breasts, compressed and
pushed outwards between her ribs and her thighs, but to her
surprise, the dog-girl did not set about ravishing her with the
sort of ferocity her demeanour led one to expect. Instead, she let
Isobel feel the end of her throbbing shaft slowly settling within
her, allowing her to anticipate the great length that would soon be
thrusting in and out of her.

'Good dog,
Oona,' Jane said from somewhere behind them. 'Yes, just let her
settle nicely, there's a good girl. My, but what artist wouldn't
give his left arm for the chance to paint this picture?'

Isobel was
certain now that the innkeeper's daughter knew exactly who she was
and was deliberately drawing out her humiliation. But did she also
know just how her victim's body was reacting to its ordeal? She
closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing, tried to ignore
both the dog-girl's presence at one entrance to her body and the
muscle-stretching leather dildo still filling her other orifice.
She knew she should at least attempt to expel it now that the
crotch-strap no longer held it in place, but why bother? There was
nothing at all she could do to prevent what was happening to her,
nor what was still to come. Jane Handiwell was going to enjoy every
moment of this, so why, Isobel reasoned grimly, shouldn't she do so
herself?

As the long
shaft finally began to glide deeper into her pussy, Isobel opened
her eyes again, and with a groaning cry of exaltation, pushed
herself backwards with all her strength the inch or so her bondage
permitted. A moment later, as Oona withdrew halfway, and then
slammed deep into her hot cleft a second time, Isobel was blinded
by the first of what she knew was likely to be a very long sequence
of climaxes.

Silas Grout
explained whilst miming the action of snapping a twig between his
two hands. He had finished his second flagon of ale now and was
waiting as the serving girl refilled it from one of the barrels
behind the counter, his back to her as he faced his audience. There
were about a dozen men in the taproom, and his monologue had caught
the attention of them all.

'We loop the
rope up and tie it about with a length of thin thread which breaks
when the witch drops, and lets her go on down till just before her
feet reach the ground. Then the rope snaps tight. Dead in an
instant, just like that!' He snapped his fingers to emphasise his
point. 'Of course,' he continued, sniffing and wiping his sleeve
across his mouth and nose, 'I reckon it'd be better to let them
have their little dance before they choke, but Master Crawley is a
kind Christian soul and hates to see unnecessary suffering.'

'And what do
you call taking the lash to a poor defenceless girl and stripping
her of all her clothes and dignity?' Thomas Handiwell strode into
the room through the door leading to his private quarters, pushed
his way past the knot of drinkers, and stood squarely before Grout.
'Is that the work of a man who hates to see unnecessary suffering?'
he demanded.

Grout half turned, took up the flagon the girl had placed at
his elbow, and shrugged. 'That's
necessary
suffering, that is. When
Satan possesses a witch, then there's only one way to drive his
evilness out of her, and that's with the lash. Then it's down to
making sure the bastard has nowhere to lurk and try to claim her
back when we've done. Tricky swine, the Devil, but then he's been
that way since he tempted Eve.'

'Nonsense!'
Thomas bellowed. 'I know for a fact that the lord bishops decreed
there were no such things as witches. This is all balderdash, and
whatever work it is that you and your master are about, it's not
that of the good Lord!'

'No such thing
as witches?' Grout lifted one eyebrow and looked slowly from left
to right. The watching faces were all expectant now, anticipating a
clash between the executioner's assistant and the innkeeper. 'No
such thing as witches?' he repeated. 'Well, if that's so, what else
could possibly have possessed your good vicar and ripped his head
clean off his shoulders? I call that witchcraft or the devil's work
by any other name.'

There was a
low murmur of assent.

'The fool
Wickstanner took his own life,' Thomas said evenly. 'He was
probably addled with drink and guilt at being responsible for
what's happened to that poor wench out there. The way I heard it,
he jumped off a ladder with a rope about his fool neck and it was
that tore his head off, not some supernatural monster as you'd like
these poor fools to believe.'