The Devil's Surrogate

The Devil's Surrogate
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ISBN:  9781780800554
Author:  Jennifer Jane Pope
Word Count:  69,213
Format:  eBook

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Cauldron of FearCauldron of Fear
Bridled LustBridled Lust
The Bridle PathThe Bridle Path

He fumbled with the buckle of his belt. 'Now that most of the devil's work has been scourged from you, it's time again to at least welcome your physical body back into the fold.' He drew the front of his breeches apart and Harriet saw that his shaft was already growing erect. To her horrified astonishment, she saw also that it appeared to be inordinately long, making it appear thinner than she might have expected, like the neck of a rearing serpent. 'Let's see if you still have the strength to wriggle as you did before,' he challenged, leering...

Witchfinder Jacob Crawley has the countryside around the Hampshire village of Fetworth held in a grip of terror, as rural superstition and fear flies in the face of emergent 17th century urban reason.

Hooded, gagged and bound, beautiful Harriet Merridew lies in the church vault, substituted for the unfortunate Matilda Pennywise, whom Crawley is shortly to execute for witchcraft, whilst her bitter rival, Jane Handiwell, leader of a gang of nocturnal highwaywomen, revels in her plight and in the pending fate of Harriet's cousin Sarah, now sold by Jane to Roderick Grayling, son of the local Lord of the Manor to become just another statistic in his white slavery operation.

Only Thomas Handiwell, Jane's innkeeper father and Harriet's would-be suitor, and a handful of troopers supposedly commanded by an inexperienced and convalescent young officer, stand between further murder and extortion and any chance of a return to sanity.

Isobel had long since lost count of the number of small orgasms Jane's whip and her probing finger had triggered within her. Held rigidly by the cunning twine bindings, her head down and her buttocks raised, she gasped against her gag as fiery darts of ecstasy pierced her through and through.
   Twice Jane had stood back and let the dog-girl at her, the bitch's long tongue pressing inside her like a small penis, its rough surface working on her throbbing clitoris with devastating effect. Time and again Isobel came, whining and wriggling, panting and moaning until she could no longer tell whether it was tongue, finger or whip her body was responding to so fiercely.
   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.

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