Cauldron of Fear

Cauldron of Fear
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ISBN:  9781780800646
Author:  Jennifer Jane Pope
Word Count:  91,008
Format:  eBook

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Bridled LustBridled Lust
The Bridle PathThe Bridle Path
The Devil's SurrogateThe Devil's Surrogate

The metal contraption was an old scold's bridle, something Matilda had only previously seen in picture books at her former home. The iron bands were dull, but any rust appeared to have been removed and the hinges showed traces of having been oiled. Her initial reaction was to draw back, attempt to resist having the cruel device placed upon her head, but she quickly realised that such an action was futile and likely only to earn her even more dire retribution.

Set in the latter half of the seventeenth century, in an England ruled by fear and superstition, this is a tale of ignorance versus wealth and so-called education where, despite the fact that the notorious Witchfinder General has supposedly died in disgrace some fifteen years since, his acolytes continue his nefarious work in the more remote villages and hamlets.

Greed, torture and a clandestine white slavery network are all intertwined here, where the wrong word, a misinterpreted glance, or simply a pretty maiden spurning the advances of a powerful admirer, can lead to a gruesome death, or worse still, a life of degradation, humiliation and constant agonies.

Add a handful of genuine witches, with their own speciality of 'wyrd' sex, abduction and torture, and life in rural Hampshire starts to become more than just a little precarious.

Breathing heavily, her cheeks burning, Kitty walked slowly towards Adam, who now stood waiting for her, naked from the waist down, his organ rampant. She saw the look of triumph in his eyes and the almost dismissive look of contempt on his face and new that he had succeeded in achieving exactly what he had set out to do.
   Between her legs she now felt wet, as well as hot, her swollen labia parting to reveal the pink tunnel in which the memory of the leather covered phallus was only too recent and too real. She clenched her buttocks, contracting her vaginal muscles, aching to have her hands free, but knowing that her bondage was all part of the scenario. Without the use of her hands there was only one source of final relief available to her, and that now stood to attention before its gloating owner, seemingly beckoning her towards it.
   'Come on then, Titty Kitty,' Adam taunted, 'let's see you mount this saddle.' She was almost to him now and she could feel the heat from his breath. Slowly, she pressed up against him, rubbing her lower stomach up and down the length of his shaft, moaning quietly as she did so. His hands came up, cupping her breasts, and she shuddered.
   'Good girl, Kitty,' he whispered, his lips close to her ear. 'Now tell your master what it is you want.'
   'I want,' Kitty grated, grinding her teeth in a mixture of lust and humiliation, 'I want my master to fuck me for the worthless slave whore I am.' She leaned into him, nuzzling into his neck as she raised herself onto tiptoes. His hands left her breasts and moved downwards, slipping behind her until they cupped her buttocks.
   'Time to mount, then,' he leered, and she felt herself being lifted clear of the floor, his throbbing member sliding further down, until it slipped between her parting thighs. With a small squeal she lifted her legs, wrapping them about his waist, preying he would not lose his hold on her, but he was clearly a powerful man for he supported her easily, even freeing one had in order to guide himself into her sex.
   'There, Titty Kitty,' he said, 'can you feel that now, just inside your hot little cunny?'
   'Oooh, yes, master,' she gurgled, surprised at how much his weapon was stretching her, for the phallus on the rocking horse had seemed big enough. A moment later she let out a shriek as he once again gripped her with two hands and forced her down, impaling her fully with one thrust.
   'Nicely filled now, slave slut?' he laughed as her eyes rolled wildly. Kitty nodded, trying to speak but simply gasping instead. She tried to focus on his face, but his features simply blurred and floated before her in a curious kaleidoscope.
   'Yes, indeed,' she heard him say as he began slowly to lift and lower her, 'I think you'll fetch a fine price by the time I'm finished with you, eh girlie?' But Kitty was no longer paying any heed to him, nor did she any more care about what the future might hold, for the first wave of orgasm had already risen up to wash over her and now she was in danger of drowning in the lust he had aroused within her treacherous body.

Matilda said not a word as Jacob Crawley placed the iron collar about her throat and clicked the locking mechanism shut. She did not even look at him directly, keeping her eyes lowered and half closed.
   'Well, my little devil's bitch,' he rasped, clipping a length of rope to the heavy ring set into the front of the collar, 'now we have you suitably leashed, let's take you for a little walk, shall we?' He gave a tug on the coarse hemp and Matilda stumbled forward, falling into step with him as he led the way towards the open doorway.
   Once through, he turned left into the arched passageway and strode casually along, his boots echoing hollowly on the ancient flagstones, whilst Matilda's bare feet made merely the softest of pattering sounds. They walked what Matilda guessed had to be the entire length of the church above and then, finally, Crawley stopped before a heavy, studded timber door.
   'I found this chamber earlier,' he said, taking a crude key from his belt. 'Even the priest had no idea it was here. See?' He pushed open the door, which groaned on little used hinges and stepped back, thrusting Matilda in ahead of him.
   Two lanterns already burned inside, hanging from hooks set in the ceiling and, by their light, she saw the hideous looking structures that must have lain here unused for many years, though there was evidence that someone - either Crawley or one of his henchmen - had made a recent attempt at cleaning away the layers of dust that must have accumulated on them meantime.
   Matilda recognised the heavy stocks immediately, as she did the pillory, but she had to peer closer before she recognised the crude rack for what it was. There was also an iron-ribbed cage, shaped in roughly human form, standing propped in the furthest corner and, on a wide bench, several other implements had been laid out.
   'This will do to start with, I think,' Crawley said, leading her towards the bench and selecting something that looked, at first sight, like a leather bag. 'The hide was a bit stiff, but it had been wrapped in oilskins and Silas has been dubbing it well this afternoon.'
   Before Matilda had time to react he had drawn the hood - for that was what it was - down over her head, pulling it about her neck and thrusting the lower edges between the iron collar and her flesh. For a few moments Matilda started to panic, the heavy odour of leather and whatever it was that Silas had used to make it more supple again filling her nostrils, so that she thought she would suffocate.
   However, as Crawley moved behind her and began to draw laces tight, the hood began to mold itself to the contours of her shaven head, eyeholes slipped down so that she could once again see and two smaller apertures were drawn up beneath her nose, so that whilst the aroma from the foul garment was still all pervading, at least she was once again able to breathe some air. In addition, she realised, there was also a small slit level with her mouth.
   'Now you cannot even use your pretty witch features to beguile God fearing men,' Crawley rasped, turning her around so he could look at her now featureless face. 'And now we should do something about stilling your vile tongue.'
   The metal contraption was an old scold's bridle, something Matilda had only previously seen in picture books at her former home. The iron bands were dull, but any rust appeared to have been removed and the hinges showed traces of having been oiled. Her initial reaction was to draw back, attempt to resist having the cruel device placed upon her head, but she quickly realised that such an action was futile and likely only to earn her even more dire retribution.
   A few moments later she stood there, the bridle heavy upon her, the vicious pronged tongue flange thrusting in through the small mouth opening, pressing down so that it rendered even the most primitive speech attempts painful in the extreme.
   'Very fetching, witch whore,' Crawley snickered. 'And now for your feet. Such dainty toes might tempt the chastity of even the most devout man, and it is well known that witches move silently to come upon the unwary.'
   The boots were heavy, like farmer's boots, except that the thick leather appeared to have been reinforced with metal strands and the soles, as Crawley explained, were made of solid iron. As he stooped to lace them up Matilda's slim calves, she realised that as masculine as they appeared, they had been made to fit a female foot and shuddered as she wondered how many other unfortunates had been made to wear these awful things in the distant past.
   'They used to call these penance boots,' Crawley told her. 'An unfaithful woman would be made to wear these for a week and every day would have to walk the bounds of the parish, which is what you will do either tomorrow or the next day, depending.'
   He laughed harshly. 'And the iron is good, as iron imprisons the powers of evil. The more iron you wear, witch whore, the less your powers to resist will become. See here,' he added, picking up two circular iron bands, the inside edges of which were serrated like saw blades, 'let's see if you can work out what these are for.'
   With a gurgle of horror in her throat Matilda tried to pull back, for there was only one purpose for which these things could be intended, but there was no escaping and soon her distended nipples were clamped painfully within the two circles and a length of chain hung between them, dangling coldly against her breastbone.
   'That should hold you, devil whore,' Crawley sneered. 'Now, let's see whether you're hiding any marks upon this witch body, shall we?'

Sarah's screams were brutally stifled, by the simple expedient of someone thrusting a wadded rag into her mouth and tying another strip of cloth to prevent her from expelling it. Then, as hands dragged her from the coach, a sacking bag was thrown over her head and drawn closely about her neck. Her hands were dragged behind her, tied securely and tightly with thin rope and then she felt herself being lifted and thrown over a horse.
   Hardly a word was spoken during this, but dimly she was aware of orders being given to the driver to throw down the post box. Hoping her captors might be temporarily distracted, Sarah tried to heaver herself clear, but found herself grabbed again and felt more ropes being tied over her and about her kicking ankles. Finally, as she began to realise the futility of further struggle, a hand slapped down on her upturned bottom, causing her to squeal with pain and surprise through the makeshift gag.
   'Keep your arse still, girlie!' a gruff voice said, speaking close to her ear. 'You ain't goin' nowhere and you'll only tire yourself out.'
   A few minutes later Sarah heard the sound of jingling harnesses, accompanied by muttered grunts and followed almost immediately by the sounds of more slaps and then whinnying and hooves clattering forward and quickly fading into the distance. Even in her terrified and shocked state she understood what was happening - the highway robbers had unhitched the team from the coach and sent it galloping on its way, obviously with the intention of delaying the rest of their victims from raising the alarm.
   'Right then, girlie,' the same voice said again, 'we're going for a little ride, so you just stay still and you won't hurt yourself.' The horse moved and dipped beneath her as the rider mounted behind Sarah and, as it began to move off, to her utter shame, she realised that she was wetting herself in fear!

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