|Free Wealin'||Quest||Six of the best||Penny Dreadful||Queen|
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"That was a lovely story", said the Young Man. "Is it true?"
"I don't know", the Storyteller replied, "It's a very old story, but as to the truth of it ...."
"Do you mean it isn't really true?", the Young Man pressed.
The story teller answered rather sadly, "I don't think it's true. I
thought there might be a castle like that once, but I looked for it for
years myself. I never found it". He smiled wistfully, "That's not to say
I regret one step of the search. I met some fascinating people. Some beautiful,
cruel women. I've had a good life, but my search is over. Now I'm just
a very happy old man with my stories. With my ..."
And more softly than a breath the Storyteller died. The Young Man stood up and gently pressed two coins on the Storyteller's eyes.
"I'll take your spirit with me", he murmured, "There is a castle and a cruel Princess. I know there is. I know. We're going to find it".
Philippa has been exploring. She says the Dream Boys have been on stage,
they are very muscley but do not undress enough for her liking. There are
many stalls with big pink vibrators, naff pornography, and crap whips.
There is some good art. Somewhere in all this is art. And film crews. People
have been taking her picture all over the place, especially Babewatch TV.
At the grand old age of 35 she has at last, she declares, achieved babehood.
Some are born babes, some achieve babeness and some have babehood thrust
upon them. At 34 I have a babe girlfriend. Nich continues to fret. His
pornography is not selling as he thinks it should, but Freewealiní is walking
off the stall with the agility of the Gingerbread Man - the original hot
cake. Conan has gone home to make even more stock. Iona explains this with
the kind of shiny-eyed admiration that dares anybody to suggest that either
of them have gone completely mad.
It is always busy. Sometimes so many people in this section that it takes 20 minutes to get to the loo and back. A very charming and well-spoken man brings me a beer Ė after reading Freewealiní. Iím very pleased and ask The Man Who Knows who the fellow is. "Special Branch", says Man Who Knows. Perhaps brown trousers would have been better.
PS. Ms St Lucien is in the Seychelles when I try to call her, but eventually we co-ordinate. She sends a taxi to the Hackney Empire to collect the banner with £200 in an envelope. I have never seen this woman and do not know what she looks like. Should have asked for £500.
"At any moment you expect to find Enid Blyton being spanked by Tom Sharpe" Ė JB Strangetrousers, Emeritus Professor of CP fiction, St Bethesdaís Col., Univ Stoke on Trent
Between them, they frog-marched Jane Kerr to the gym, and across the parquet floor to the wall bars. John pulled off his tie with one hand. "Need yours too, Paul."
As Paul removed his tie, John used his own to pinion one of Jane Kerrís wrists to the wall bars, then he used Paulís tie to fix her other hand.
"Youíd better let me go," Jane Kerr said, fighting down the panic. "You wonít get away with this."
"So what?" John said shortly. "If you Ďan your mates do what you planned, there wonít be no school no more. So wot we gotta lose?" He strolled off towards the storeroom.
Jane Kerr said more levelly. "Just think what youíre a part of, Paul Andrews. You canít win you know. You really canít."
Paul said nothing. He did not move.
John Smith returned from the storeroom, casually holding a cane. "Iíve always bin told it took rakes oí practice to use one oí these," he remarked as he got near. Then he swished the cane across Jane Kerrís bottom, bringing a loud yell. "It donít take no practice," John said, happily. "Dead easy!" He re-applied the cane.
"Ow!" Jane Kerr cried. "Stop that, for Christís sake!"
"Not been caned before?" John asked lightly. "Nah. I sípose not. Goody-goody like you. Whereís Wendy?" He brought the cane down in another hard line. "Iím getting the íang of it now."
Jane Kerrís yell ended, and she breathed in. "You have got to stop this."
"Eh?" John said. "Itís a good crack."
"Because..." said Jane Kerr with authority, "None of this is real. This is not a real school - itís all pretend! You know itís pretend. Miss Prim isnít a real teacher. You arenít real schoolboys!"
"What do you say to that, Paul?" John asked.
"Seems real to me," Paul replied, uncertainly.
"Iím not a real schoolgirl!" Jane Kerr shouted. "Look in my pocket if you like. My ID cardís in there - Iím a reporter on the Sunday Herald - and you, John Smith, are a carpenter, and you, Paul Andrews, are an electrician. Youíre all here playing a silly game of Ďschoolí. Its a kidís game. And we are all adults. So just let me go, and no more will be said. Itís just got out of hand, thatís all."
John turned away. Paul put his hands in his pockets, then took them out again, "What do we do, John?"
John Smith shook his head as he turned round. Jane Kerr said quietly, "Untie me."
"Well," John said slowly. "You may be right, Jane Kerr. There may be a world out there where Iím just a carpenter, and Paulís just an electrician. Maybe there is. Maybe this school is all pretend, and one day we will all go back to the real world, where thereís no Miss Prim, and no detention, aní no whackings. Yeah. Say you are right, we are just babies playiní a game..."
Jane Kerr nodded. "Itís just a game."
"But the way it seems to me," John continued thoughtfully. "If your
real world is a place where you go sneakiní aní spyiní just ícause
you donít like people haviní fun: a place where everyoneís so scared oí
the Sunday papers that they canít íold up their íeads no more, well it
must be a pretty poor one. Aní as I see it, a whole lot oí babies playiní
a game can make a play world that licks your real world hollow. So as it
comes to that, Iím for this school, aní Miss Prim, aní whackingsí - aní
speakiní oí which," he swished the cane, "I ainít finished yours, yet."
Suzie Blake stood up, and picked up a chair. She turned it with its back to Saddler and said, "Bend over." She picked up a supple leather tawse. It had four strands.
Saddler looked at her, then at the tawse. "But thatís -"
"A senior tawse, yes," Suzie smiled. "Reserved for Fifth and Sixth-formers with more than two hundred entries in the punishment book. And with reason," she added. "Itís exquisitely painful."
"You canít," Saddler began.
"I can," Suzie said. "Whatís it to be? Ten from me now, or ten from all the prefects while we hold you down?"
Cyril gulped and bent over the chair, placing his hands on the seat. Blake stood back and took aim.
Thwa-whack went the tawse, in a sudden explosion of pain. Saddler yelled. "Oww! One. Please let me get up!"
Blake drew back the leather "If you only want ten, youíll stay just where you are." She flicked out her arm and sl-lap! It cracked loudly across his bottom.
"Two," Saddler wailed. "Stop it!"
Again the leather bit through his shorts. "Ow! Three! Please donít do any more, I donít deserve it!"
"You failed Mr Gorman," Blake said. "You do," and down came the tawse again, with even more power behind it. "Ooww! Four. But I didnít..."
She gave him no time to get his breath. Sl-lap-p! "Ahh! Five - know it was going to..."
Th-whack-k! "Be like this." He fell to his knees, sobbing, "S-six Ė please Suzie, donít Ė"
"Quiet!" Suzie smiled down at him. "I am going to continue, otherwise it is ten from all of us, but first-"
"Anything," Saddler whimpered.
"Youíre going to pull your pants down."
"But," Saddler sobbed, "prefects canít give it on the bare, itís not allowed."
"It is now," Suzie said. "Now do as I ask."
Saddler got to his feet and slowly undid his buttons. His big shorts and underpants fell around his ankles as, trembling, he bent over.
The leather fell again with a sharp, smart slap. Saddler wailed.
"Naaooow! Seven! Whereís Wheelwright?"
"None of your business," Suzie sneered. "No good crying for her." Slap-p! went the tawse. It hurt like anything. After the caning the tawse Ė that tawse especially, and very hard on the bare bottom - was murderous. "Ah - Owww! Eight. Please, please donít do any more!"
Blake swung again, and Saddler jumped. "Oooow! Oww! Nine," Saddler sobbed. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"Orders are orders." Suzie Blake swung back the tawse. "And its such fun." Sl-lap-pp!
"Yow, Aaaw! Ten! Itís not fair," he sobbed, sliding again to his knees.
"Stand up," Suzie ordered. "I donít think Iíve finished". As Saddler
raised his eyes, he saw the title of the book on Mr Gormanís desk: Mein
"More boerewors, Miester Heyser?" said Gorman hospitably. He was entertaining a special visitor in the shade of the officersí tent.
"Thereís more? Yis I will," replied the Boer, glancing salaciously at the girls as they began to jab and circle. He was lean and muscular, grey-haired and bull-headed with small eyes.
Trishaís guard was held high and the dark girl crouched low; her elbows pulled in tight to her body. Trisha threw a right and the dark girlís gloves exploded into the waistband of her shorts forcing the air out of her in a great gush. Trisha was driven back to the rope and the lithe brunette, head down, elbows tucked in, pressed her attack, black leather fists hunting for a clear shot.
"And no more, Meister Heyser, eh?" the Boer went on, as Isabel helped him to more sausage. "Itís Frikki now, all right Erasmus?"
"Thank you, Frikki," said Mr Gorman proudly. "The girls do terribly well, donít they?" He nodded to the boxers. "Iíd wager a fiver on the blonde."
"All right but I think youíll lose it," Mr Heyser remarked. "Iím all in favour of healthy competition between the youth of our movement. Survival of the fittest. Damn!"
Suddenly the red gloves seemed to come to life. As if taking her prey, Trisha executed a series of sharp, fast punches to the dark girlís body, followed by a single right cross into her face. The dark girl hit the ground hard. "One," Frank cried. "TwoÖ" She sat up breathing hard and rubbing a glove across her forehead. "ThreeÖ" Trisha bounced from one foot to the other in her corner, smacking her red gloves together tauntingly. "FourÖ"
"Weíve done our best for the cause," Mr Gorman replied. "Let it never be said that English Fascists are less dedicated than our brothers in South AfricaÖ My fiver I thinkÖ Good Lord"
The dark girl stood up, raising her fists. Trisha skipped confidently forward, the red gloves up and ready. Her opponent jabbed twice, fast and light into Trishaís face. Trisha dodged and stepped inside her guard, and the red gloves went to work on her body.
"Lit me tell you, Erasmus," declared the Boer between mouthfuls. "I shall be giving a viry good report to the Special Council. Youíll soon git rid of all your kaffirs, eh?"
"Definitely," said Mr Gorman. "Chinese and Jews must go too."
Dominating the centre of the ring, Trisha picked up the pace left-right-left to the dark girlís face. She was clearly playing out the match and inflicting the maximum hurt and humiliation before Frank stopped it. She smiled, beckoning her opponent forward with one red glove, while the other waited to punch. The dark girl edged forward, her left glove jabbing tentatively. Trisha blocked with her right, dealing her lethal leftt hook in reply.
It never landed. A black glove took her under the chin and she landed sprawling on the grass.
"Ye sid thereís bin some trouble with this other kimp," Mr Heyser said. "Whatís all thit about?"
"Itís a good school," Mr Gorman replied. "Very many good English pupils. With its Liberal ideas excised, it will be an excellent teaching base for us."
Frank had given Trisha an eight count, though she was up at five, drawing breath grimly, and raising her gloves for revenge. The dark girl was standing ready, and for the first time she smiled. A black leather paw snapped into Trishaís face. Trisha hooked again, the red glove connecting hard, but the dark girl barely paused. The black gloves tore in.
Mr Heyser glanced up at the guard, a tough-looking boy, with his cap pulled down. "Bring me the box from the back seat of my car."
"Sah!" barked the boy and, executing a perfect about-turn, marched across the field to the black Volkswagen.
"Come on, Trisha!" Frank urged "You can do it." But the red gloves were dropping as Trisha tried to ease her hurting stomach. A black glove jabbed into her face.
"Yes, come on," the dark girl purred. "You donít need to be this gentle with me."
The guard opened the rear door, eyeing the ignition cable with a view to clipping it in the near future. Collecting the box of cigars, he returned to the tent.
ĎI ought to be on stage,í thought John Smith. He glanced
towards the ring, as Wendyís black boxing glove kissed Trisha on the side
of the head, and lost Mr Gorman five pounds.
This is a story about Benjamin Sophocles Wagg, newspaper columnist,
slumming toff, and inveterate coward. Too cowardly to tell Nettie Puncher
that she is the last girl on earth he wants to marry, much too cowardly
to admit to her his masochism. Eventually, of course, she is sure to find
both out Ė a man named Humble is threatening to tell her, and Wagg is not
Humbleís only victim, the blackmailer has his claws into most of the various
operators in Bethnal Green. Before long, Humble is found horribly Ė and
inexplicably Ė murdered. But by whom? Setting out to rescue their friends
from the deathly grip of the malevolent Lady Swandle, Wagg and his comrades
swiftly discover that they may have badly over-reached themselves.
A spine-chilling SM adventure story, set in the East End of Victorian London.
Penny Dreadful is not yet published. Interested publishers and/or financiers should send me an e-mail
She stepped out of her door onto Maiden Lane, and was reaching for the key to lock up when a shadow fell across her. Hortense looked up into a pitiless face. "Miss Vinse?"
"Good.", without another word, the grand lady reached across Hortense
and pushed the door open, pushing Hortense inside. "Get off me!" Hortense
stumbled back into her sitting-room. "Who are you? What do you want?" The
lady followed her inside. She was tall and slim, and very pale-skinned,
nontheless she had bundled Hortense inside with very little effort, and
there was a blank determination in her eyes which told of a will of adamant.
"I am Lady Swandle", she replied coldly. "I own this property. Where is my money?"
"I ain"t got your money!" Hortense retorted.
The contempt in Lady Swandle"s face stung Hortense like vitriol. "I was assured that all those engaged here were ladies", was the icy reply. "Yet you speak little better than a common shopgirl". Lady Swandle held out her walking cane and delicately unscrewed the top, drawing out a long swishing rod, black as jet. "I want to see your work room."
Hortense stood up. "Just donít think of touching me with that, alright?
Itís through here"
She walked to the corner of the room and opened the door. Inside was a room with a scrubbed floor and whitewashed walls. Countless canes and tawses hung on chapel pegs and a horse covered in faded brown leather occupied the centre of the floor. Lady Swandle gripped Hortense by the scruff of her neck and pushed her firmly across the horse. "You bleeding well get off me!" Hortense yelled.
"Girl, I have no intention of leaving until certain matters have been
addressed. You will lie still and take what I feel you deserve, or you
will be tied down and take far more."
Hortense did not move. Lady Swandle reached down and pulled up her shirts, then pulled apart the back of her drawers. The cold air on her bottom made Hortense suddenly aware of her vulnerability. She made men feel like this. There was a rustle at Lady Swandle stepped back, then Hortense felt a blow, as from the wickedest cane ever grown, slice across her buttocks. She screamed. In an instant, her hands were furiously rubbing the burning weal in a way that Hortense would never have allowed in one of her victims.
She heard Lady Swandleís voice. "That is a disgraceful display. I am
doubling your punishment; you will receive twelve strokes. Then you will
thank me, making your best attempt to speak like a lady." The rod swished
down again. Whee-wap! Hortense could only wail. It was an excellent cane,
but she hated its touch. Lady Swandle swished it down again. The next three
strokes fell on the more resilient areas of her bottom, and Hortense took
them through gritted teeth. She knew that once her bottom was hurting all
over in those places, the remaining strokes could only fall on the sensitive
spots which she herself had been taught to reserve.
There was much worse to come. The rod sliced in under the left crown, and almost immediately under the right. Hortense choked back a sob. Lady Swandle paused. "Do you think you are learning your lesson, Miss Vinse?"
"Yes, Ma'am" she murmured.
"Do you still think it wise to speak like some sailorís trull?"
"No, Ma'am." The cane whistled. For as Hortense had answered, Lady Swandle
had selected her next targets - the upper crowns. The rod swished down
twice, hard and spiteful. The ninth stroke cut across the abused territory
of both buttocks together. Hortense jerked. "Ah - o - ow!"
"Itís for your own good" Lady Swandle placed two quick hard strokes across the diagonals, making Hortense gasp and yell. Lady Swandle tapped Hortense's bottom, pulled the cane back, and swished it in. Hortense screamed and slumped forward across the horse. "Now you will thank me."
Wincing with the pain, Hortense stood up and turned round. She forced
herself to courtsey. "Thank you for my punishment, Ma'am."
"And now that you have learned how foolish it is to displease me," Lady Swandle hissed with a smile, "-the matter of my money."
"I pay the rent every week, promptly," Hortense replied. "I never fail, you can see my book."
"Very well". Lady Swandle slid the rod back into the centre of the walking
cane. "I see you can learn. Is something the matter, Miss Vinse?"
Hortense fought down the lump in her throat. That cane had given her the most painful hiding of her life, but she wanted it again.
"Then repent of your sin", urged Mr Washing. "And God will forgive you."
"I always used to," Elsie replied. "But after last Saturday, I think Iíve changed."
"A brazen sinner", said Mr Washing, mournfully. "Repent - or you go
to infinite eternal torment. What did you do?"
Elsie stood up, moving closer to him. "This geezer said as he wanted a good hiding," she explained. "With this whip heíd got. So thatís what I done: attended to him good and proper Ė I surprised myself that night. It did us both a power of good." Mr Washingís mouth hung open. Elsie undid her bonnet and continued. " Wrong has to be punished, donít it, Mister? So if I do the punishing, that sort-of makes all the other stuff I do with gentlemen all right."
"Well", said the curate breathlessly. "I can see a certain logic, but-"
Elsie leaned forward. "Gussieís right. You are proper handsome, Mister. Sheí d give her eye teeth to be where I am right now, and to be doing what Ií m about to do". Her mouth closed over his. He struggled for a second, but her arms were twining around his neck, and her bottom pressing upon his lap. And her kiss, though it might be that of the evil one, was sweet. She stopped kissing him and looked into his eyes. "There. How bad did that feel?"
"Itís not how it feels now", he whispered. "But how we will suffer for it in time."
"Someone will", Elsie replied, kissing him again. "Iíll make sure of
that. But it wonít be us."
She nuzzled against his cheek and trailed her pointed tongue along the edge of his ear. "Do you like me, Mr?"
"Yes", Mr Washing gulped. "But you must not do this Ė I am a clergyman."
Her hand explored his crotch, caressing his growing cock. "See, you
do like me! Just think of this as a show of my appreciationÖ" Deftly, she
undid his trouser-buttons. "Are you going to sit still for me?" Releasing
his neck, she sank to her knees before him. "Iíll be ever so vexed if you
keep going on about sin."
Mr Washing watched in horror as she reached into his fly and worked his stiff cock free of his underpants. Worse still, she seemed quite unshocked by the sight - rather her eyes were widening in delight. " Elsie", he began, "I beg you to proceed no further-" She gave him one sharp look, then she put out her tongue and gently licked the tip of his glans. Mr Washing moaned; the sensation was exquisite, and there seemed no sign of the wicked girl desisting in her intentions. Her mouth enveloped the head of his manhood and slid slowly up and down the shaft, and her tongue was caressing its length all the time. Greater than his moral desperation, were the more immediate sensations of exquisite turmoil in his groin, and the fireworks that seemed to be exploding just behind his eyes. She looked up; her pale innocent eyes meeting his, as she drew back her mouth, placing a final delicate kiss on the head of his cock.
She stood up. "Look at the state Iíve got you into," she said quietly. "Better do something about that." Mr Washing was thinking the same thing, but his own remedy involved a cold flannel and the Book of Jeremiah. Elsie calmly raised her skirt and petticoat, and stepped forward straddling his legs, then she reached forward, opening the front of her drawers and grasping the root of this engorged organ, slid herself down. Mr Washing felt something hot and wet around the head of his cock. Like her hungry mouth, it worked its way down until the entire length was immersed in her. Her shirts fell about his lap, concealing the matter from his sight, but not at all from his awareness. She took hold of his shoulders and started to work herself back and forth, up and down the thick hard shaft of his cock.
Her face was that of a hungry succubus, desiring coitus with the devil - yet it was Mr Washing she had caught. He would be damned for this. "Push against me", she instructed. "Thatís the way, use your legs, donít be shy". She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Itís a nice present, isnít it?"
He couldnít lie. "Yes", he whispered. She ground herself into him, "No
point in being a whoreís preacher if you donít know what we do, is there?"
And she reared back, riding him as if she were Joan of Arc, her face ecstatic,
her hair flying as she tossed her head. Her fingernails were suddenly a
sharp pain in his shoulders, and she was crying out. It was as if he had
suddenly lost his footing and fallen a hundred fathoms.
A yawning empty sensation in the pit of his stomach and a rushing in his head Ė and sharp, fierce spasms in his groin. His breath came in short exhausted gasps. She stood up, steadying herself against the table. "After that I think I need another cup of Rosie."
"Oh", he murmured, "You are damned-"
"If I am you are", Elsie replied dreamily. "Damned good sport I have
been called. So are you for that matter. If it really was wrong, Iíd have
never got away from Cold Kate that night."
He was starting to smile despite himself. She said, "Iíll put the kettle on meself, shall I? You men youíre all the same!"
Far away and long ago, in a world of castles, and swordsmen, and beautiful princesses Ė who usually lock their suitors in dungeons and beat themÖ Israel, Ishia and Guillot, unscrupulous, sadomasochistic and dangerously attractive, fetch up in the mountain fortress of Skeld. There the villainous Prince Nozmul makes them a dreadful offer for the life of his neighbour, Queen Karenza of AntiopaÖ
Queen is not yet published. Interested publishers and/or financiers should send me an e-mail
"No", she said suddenly, "No Ė I donít want this to happen. Iíve changed my mind."
The Prince nodded. "Do it." He smiled at her. "It wonít hurt you. Heís
very careful." Thin nimble fingers were already coaxing her nipples - they
were growing under the touch.
She let out a long shuddering breath. "You promised yourself to me", the Prince insisted. "This is what I desire."
She swallowed hard. "Yes", she said, biting her lip. "All right, do
it." Candlelight flickered. With a swift and practised pass of his hands
the doctor flashed the steel, fast as a blink, through the softly straining
nipple. Sharp pain followed it and her cry was stifled in her throat. The
pain glowed hot, but she knew the way of it, forcing it down through her
belly and into her cunt so it burned there, and would until it burned itself
The Prince was smiling at her as she opened her eyes. "Now the worst is over, only the bar remains." She nodded, now greedy, despite the throbbing pain. He picked up the gold. "Now this is what you really want." His smile glittered. "Pure gold. Think for a moment of the men who toil in my mines to bring me this."
Anger flashed in her eyes. "I donít care about them, and you care less. Seal our bargain."
He tossed the slim gold bar in his hand and smiled mildly, his gaze travelling away as though he were no longer interested.
"You gave your word!"
"So?" he glanced to the arrowslit window. "I am life and death in this
city. If I throw this down the mountain, and indeed you after it, it matters
nothing." He sneered faintly.
"Please", she murmured.
"Please, my Prince"
"Thatís better." He handed the bar to the doctor. "Very well." Again
the fingers were quick and practised. The bar fitted neatly on the needlepoint,
and as the shaft slid back, the gold followed. With a deft spin of tiny
pincers, he split the soft gold jaws and tied them back on themselves.
She winced a little, but the sight of the glistering metal with its intricate dog-head, swallowed up the pain. "I am pleased you like it", he said gently. And with the delicacy of a steel trap caught on the moment added, "Now the other" Her face hardened, protest was useless, but Ė "You do it", she said lightly. "Yourself, Prince Nozmul"
"Next time donít touch my tits!" Ishia shouted. "Assuming you get a next time!" She laughed; whipping, fighting, fucking - all the same. She let fly. A moan, low, desperate and sobbing. Ishia glanced at Israel, "Whereís Guillot?"
"In the Jakes", Israel grinned. "It was cold outside."
"Iím not cold", Ishia swung the whip. "Norís Vinse".
His body arched in agony. "Did that hurt?" shouted Ishia.