“Mistress Jenkins, is this where you feed your imp?” I don’t dare express my confusion. “Your pet demon,” the voice explains.
I am naked and shivering in a room that is really too large to be heated only by the fire in the stone fireplace. My long brown hair, flowing over my shoulders, is my only covering. Deacon Jones is pinching my red nipple between two bony fingers as he studies my face for signs of guilt. His ice-blue eyes peer out from under heavy eyebrows that are as black as his cloak. Shivers chase each other from my nipples through my quivering belly to my cunt, and up and down my spine.
“No, Sir,” I answer. “I have no imp, but I hope to suckle a child there someday.” By avoiding his eyes, I can see steam rising from his papery skin, as though he would like to spread me out on the long oak table and make me a mother at once.
“You are too gentle with her, Deacon,” scolds Mistress Green, “too set in the ways of a gentleman.” She is a buxom blonde housewife who volunteered to help examine me. “You will never discover her secrets by treating her better than she deserves. Her witch’s tit must be hidden where only another woman would seek it out.” Her plump breasts bounce as she breathes deeply in her tightly-laced bodice. She studies my slim body with satisfaction. “This one is too conscious of her charms, Brethren. We must show her that her tricks will get her nowhere in the presence of the righteous.”
“Well spoken, Mistress,” smiled Goodman Plow. He is a young, rosy-cheeked farmer with broad shoulders and warm brown eyes. His glance strokes my breasts, my sides, my hips and my buttocks like an exploring hand. I know that I must co-operate with the investigating committee if I want to prove myself as a decent woman who would never dabble in witchcraft. (Would I?) Otherwise, the remains of my stubborn pride will be taken as a sign that I am being strengthened by the Devil.
“See how she blushes,” remarks the Deacon, licking his thin lips. Even his peaked hat shakes with indignation, or some other feeling. “She is wanton.”
“Wicked,” chimes a feminine voice.
“Led astray by the source of her shame,” adds Farmer Plow, studying the triangle of brown curls between my thighs. He rubs his own crotch with a weathered hand. He glances at the Deacon.
Without another word, the men each grasp one of my butt-cheeks, lift me by my shoulders and sit me on the edge of the table. “Spread your legs, wench,” growls the Goodman. His voice is huskier than before.
If I spread my legs for their penetrating eyes, they will see how wet I am. “Please, Sirs! Madam,” I beg. “Have mercy on your humble servant. You have already troubled my weak flesh enough.” I press my thighs together, trying to hide my hot and swollen female parts.
The Deacon and the Farmer pull my knees apart and hold them open so that Mistress Green can look at my slit and tickle it with her nimble fingers. She is known for her skill with a needle. I shiver as I imagine the pricking to come.
“Are you a good wife to your husband?” The Farmer’s baritone voice betrays his desire to reach deep inside me to discover my innermost fancies and passions, my failings and my deep-red sins. “Do you serve him faithfully as a helpmeet sent to him by God?”
I don’t know what to say, so the Mistress prompts me. “Lying will not profit you now, little minx,” she sneers. “We will find out the truth.”
My armpits prickle with fear. “My husband left me!” I wail. This sounds pathetic and dishonest, even to my ears. “We agreed to part over a year ago,” I explain. “How can I faithfully serve a man who isn’t there?” I remember that to these people, there is no such thing as divorce. I cast my eyes down like a modest woman, and see that the trousers of both men are stretched enough to split their seams.
“Neither a wife nor a maiden nor a widow,” taunts the Deacon. “Ripe for seduction by the Evil One.”
Mistress Green has found my little button, and she is rolling it between her fingers. I can’t sit still or keep silent. She slaps the sensitive skin on my inner thigh, and the sound seems to echo in the room as the sting echoes in my flesh. “Strumpet!” she labels me. “If this excites you, we must find better ways to examine you. Ways that will mortify even your self-indulgent nature.”
“She is accustomed to a man,” observes Farmer Plow. “Her womb is empty, and she is rank with frustrated desire.” The earthy smell of my exposed quim is inescapable. All my skin is damp with sweat.
“She is worse than that,” retorts the woman who glows with pleasure, knowing that in this instance, she has power. “This one responds to a woman’s touch,” she brags. She pinches my upper arm hard, to make my jump. She chuckles. “She would give herself to a female husband. She won’t confess it in words, but her body speaks for her.”
She wants to bring me to surrender, but the men are not willing to stand by and watch. “Lay her on the table,” gruffly orders the Farmer. “I must explore her womanly parts to make sure she is not hiding anything from us.”
The Mistress looks at him as though he were her naughty little son. “You want to ravish her like a bull in rut,” she corrects him. “Brethren, we must be as patient as ants, doing our private but necessary work in tiny steps, all as soldiers in one invincible army. Our reward will be greater if we are thorough. We must not overlook any part of her sinful body, and we must not gratify her greedy soul.”
Deacon Jones grunts in approval. The Mistress goes on: “Look at her now, panting like a mare in heat and spilling her vile juices on the clean wood of this table. Are we here to satisfy her or is she here to answer us?”
Goodman Plow is restless and angry, but he can see that he is outnumbered. I can see his inner turmoil as he reminds himself that the committee must work as a team to get fruitful results from an examination. I also know that if he cannot find an excuse to release his seed soon, he will want to make someone sorry. I can guess who that will be.
Deacon Jones seems aware of the younger man’s mood, and why it must be given an outlet before the three committee members fall to bickering. “Judicious use of the birch,” points out the Deacon, “is good for difficult women like this. It softens them and makes them more forthcoming as well as more respectful.” He smiles at me like a sinister version of a loving grandfather. “Goodman Plow, will you do the honors?”
Mistress Green strides briskly to the far wall, where a bundle of birch twigs, neatly tied at one end, hangs from a hook. When she returns, she places it in Farmer Plow’s outstretched hand. She looks pleased with herself, having found a way to punish a man she considers crude, as well as me. “Up, girl,” she orders, “on all fours like the she-beast you are.” With quick slaps on my behind, she positions me on the table. “Now, Goodman,” she sparkles, “you may spur her to a standing gallop.”
The Farmer looks as if he would like to drive the Mistress out of the room with his twig broom or even his riding crop, but he doesn’t dare. I can’t help enjoying Mistress Green’s clever strategies for controlling men, even though I know that all such thoughts will soon be driven out of my head. “Put your head down on your arms, girl,” the Farmer growls at me. “Show me a clear target.” I suspect that he is really thinking of my cunt rather than my moon-pale bottom. The faint smell of oil from the wooden table comforts me.
Swish, whack! Comfort is hard to keep, so I focus on the pleasure that reaches my neglected, swollen cunt as the first sting spreads through my flesh, fading as it goes. Swish, whack! The second blow follows too quickly and violently after the first. Fear rushes through me like ice-water. The Farmer’s strong arm is propelled by anger, and the pain can only get worse as each strike of the heartless twigs adds to the sting of the last. Tears flow from my eyes and wet my arms as my voice rises.
“Enough, Goodman Plow,” advises the Deacon. I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for his unexpected chivalry. “The signs of her penitence are a pleasure to see, but she is not truly fit for the birch. She has not been well-trained in that regard, but we have made progress and we must press on while she is willing and able to tell us what we wish to know.”
Rising up slowly, carefully touching my sore bum, I look around and see that the Farmer has already pulled off his trousers to release his thick red cock, which seems to be pointing at me. “Brother and Sister,” he addresses them, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “we are three and she is one frail woman, barely as heavy as a sack of feathers. Yet she could still be hiding all manner of stolen goods in her natural places of concealment, which are yet unexamined. At the very least, she is as filled with illicit pleasure as a spoiled pig is filled with corn. You must allow me to do my duty as a man.”
“Fuck her well,” calmly advises Mistress Green. “She needs the release as well as you, but then the examination must continue.”
Farmer Plow lays me on my back, and I wince as my tender bottom touches the cool, smooth wood of the table. His eyes burn into mine as he crawls over me, holding his stout truncheon in hand. “Beautiful temptress,” he sighs, brushing damp hair off my face. I am so surprised by his gentle manner that I am tempted to start crying again. “Any man would want you. You could inspire sin without measure, but luckily, you are in our hands now.” He pushes his cock steadily into me. I love the feeling, but I try to resist giving in to it.
I know that if I come screaming in the presence of three good church-going witnesses, I will probably be condemned as a witch at my trial. All three of them hold me in place as the Goodman withdraws from me partway so that he can plunge back into my cunt, filling me without mercy. His rhythm increases in force, and I move with him. I feel as if my quim is filled with liquid fire. I study the beams in the ceiling, and try to think innocent thoughts.
Two long, bony fingers knead my breasts as though they were loaves of bread. I twist and squirm, and my movements increase the friction of the old man’s lecherous rubbing and squeezing. I remind myself that I haven’t completely lost my self-control, even though I am being rocked and pounded. Farmer Plow pulls my knees up by my sides.
A thin finger leaves a wet trail down the crack between my cheeks, presses against my smaller opening, and smoothly pushes in. Deeper and deeper it goes, spiraling around the walls that were formerly touched with nothing but filth. “Ah,” sighs a soft voice, as if its owner had found something surprising and important.
“Oh!” I scream. Or maybe it is “No!” I feel as if I am falling down into Hell, but I want this unbearable pleasure, this thrilling violation. As though from a distance, I hear sounds like the brush of dark wings on damp skin, and the music of different voices.
“We’ve got her now,” mutters one, “but I’ll never hand this sweet neck over to the hangman.”
“No indeed,” says a deeper voice. “That would be a sinful waste. And the theft of our lawful property.”
“A witch has her uses,” chimes in a third. Three voices laugh together like conspirators.
“There is so much left to do, Brethren,” croons a low feminine voice that sounds ripe with satisfaction. “You cannot appreciate the effects of pricking or pinching or tickling until you’ve seen it done.”
“Fine for you, Mistress,” admits Farmer Plow, “but we need to toughen her hide. A good whipping could save her soul.” I am amazed at the mellow, friendly tone in which this comment is made.
“Not yet,” responds the womanly voice, bubbling with impish laughter. “All in time.”
The light is growing brighter. Someone pulls my hair off my sweaty forehead and kisses it. Tom is watching me curiously. “That must have been some dream,” he speculates, speaking slowly so that I can understand him as I finish waking up. “Was I in it?”
My eyes take in his golden-brown eyes, his broad shoulders, and the adorable line of curly brown hair that runs down the middle of his chest. It makes him look like a man-pet, a healthy male animal. “Oh yes,” I sigh. “You were there. Mmm.”
I gasp as I remember the other two. One was definitely my co-worker Elaine, the one who gives off mixed signals of sisterly generosity and bitchy rivalry. She always watches me in ways that are hard to read. Or at least I used to find her hard to read.
And the Deacon? Unmistakably Tom’s boss Mr. Jones, the one who once cornered me at an office party to find out if I were really single and engaged to Tom, or still semi-attached (while waiting for my divorce to come through) and already spending nights with him. Mr. Jones seemed concerned about my virtue, and whether Tom and I were the kind of couple who could enhance the company image. But he wanted me, oh yes, especially when he looked disapprovingly at my tight skirt, my teasingly-low neckline and my non-corporate hoop earrings.
Total exposure, I think. That’s what that dream was all about. I wonder how Tom will react if I tell him about all of the investigators in my dream. He will want to fuck me hard enough to drive the taste of anyone else out of my mind and my body, but he will control himself to prove that he is a nice guy—always was, and always will be. If I encourage him to ravish me some time, it will be a great relief to him.
I know him better than he thinks I do. He can’t hide from me. Now I know myself better than I did before. I’ve also learned some things about the ones who want to find out what makes me tick. I feel like laughing out loud. Who would have guessed? Stripping off the uniforms of the day and finding the naked truth always works both ways.
© 2003 Jean Roberta. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.