THE SCHOOLING OF VIRGINS
In a cloistered, 17th century English village, a young woman’s virginity is prized above all else.
Fraternisation with Outsiders is forbidden.
Emma’s cruel guardian, Gideon Batlow, rules the maidens of his kingdom with zealous piety, the sting of his cane on their bare buttocks, and the enforced wearing of crotch straps.
Can Emma escape Gideon’s shackles, and find passion with the man she loves? An Outsider.
The year 1651. In a cloistered English village, Bishop Gideon Batlow’s interpretation of Christian and Astrological dogma is rigidly observed.
“You debauched harlots will burn in the fiery pits of hell for your perfidy.” Gideon Batlow, bishop of the Church of the Holy Constellation, pounded on the pulpit and glared at the thirty or so women sitting on one side of the church.
The tightly fastened crotch strap Emma wore crushed her pudenda and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her guardian Gideon and his brother Rufus were the founders of the Church of the Holy Constellation. They decreed that all unmarried females in their flock from the age of twelve, should wear a crotch strap in order to safeguard their virginity and keep depraved thoughts at bay.
Emma pushed up hard against the back of the pew, trying to ease the pressure on her clitoris.
The time was nigh for a husband to be chosen for her. He would be a big man Sarah, her guardian’s wife warned with that vicious smile that always boded ill for Emma. A man so powerfully endowed his turgid manhood would stretch her fully each time he claimed his husbandly dues. Fill her to almost bursting point as he bruised the forbidden flesh, forcing all lustful thoughts from her mind.
Deep within her womanly cave a nervous flutter developed into a throbbing ache. Her bud wantonly quivered, straining to be released from its prison under her crushed labia.
“The world would be a better place if it was purged of women. Unfortunately, they are a necessary evil for procreation.” Gideon glanced around, his eyes dark and ferocious.
“Unmarried women who are not virgins are whores of the devil, evil harlots who flaunted themselves in front of men. During every waking moment, with every step she takes, a virgin must be aware of her clitoris and guard it with her life. Better a woman be dead than give up her maidenhead to any man but her husband,” he raged.
Male members of the congregation nodded their heads in agreement.
“It has been brought to my attention that there are men in this very congregation who are failing in their duty to our church. They are not administering sufficient punishment to save their wives and daughters from the evils of the flesh.”
Emma watched a couple of men squirming in their seats as Gideon glowered at them. How could he possibly know who the guilty parties were? As well as being an astrologer, perhaps he did have the gift of second sight as he always claimed.
“A few slaps will not stop women committing acts of debauchery. These debased creatures must be chastised on a regular basis. Lay the cane across their bare buttocks with vigor, but don’t break the skin,” he roared. “As your bishop I demand that you do it.”
Emma knew for certain that at the next prayer meeting there would not be one woman sitting in the church who did not have a sore bottom. No one dared to defy any edict that came from the pulpit.
Alexander Satan owns the Pleasure Palace , an exclusive gentleman’s club where carnal delights abound.
Emerald is the auburn haired beauty he rescued from the sea.
Where the hell had Samuel been all this time? And how dare he yell out like that. Alexander Satan strode from his study. I’ve a damn mind to whip his black ass.
He skidded to a halt in the vaulted hallway. His man was dripping wet and he carried a girl in his arms. She was drenched also.
“Found her in the water near the cove, Mas’r,” he panted. “Her nearly drowned, must be off the whore ship that sank.”
The girl was barefoot, she only wore a torn, stained shift and her pubic hair was clearly shown off by the wet, almost transparent cloth, her long auburn tresses trailed over Samuel’s arms like liquid fire, and Alex’s groin tightened.
“Take her to the kitchen,” he said. If she hadn’t been such a beauty he wouldn’t have followed Samuel to the kitchen, but he couldn’t resist the urge to gaze upon this wench’s naked body.
Samuel laid the girl on the scrubbed kitchen table. “Now get your own clothes off before you catch a chill, Alex ordered. As Samuel stripped off his sodden jacket and bent down to pull off his ballooning trousers, Alex glanced at his back, the criss-crossing scars and puckered skin bore testament to the numerous severe whippings he had received from a previous owner.
“Get something to dry her with.” Hell’s teeth, Samuel was well hung. His black dick stretched ten inches or more. It was secured on one side by cock rings attached to a band on his inner thigh to prevent him from getting an erection.
The wench was unconscious, little wonder with a huge bump on her forehead. The shift was ruined so he ripped it from her and threw it on the floor. Her skin was white and smooth as the finest porcelain, her breasts were high and tight, crowned with dusky pink nipples. A tantalizing wedge of auburn pubic hair had him stretching out his hand to tweak some of the curls, before he slid his finger into her clit.
Samuel returned with towels. Alex snatched them out of his hands and started drying the girl. No, not a girl, she was a young woman. Seventeen or so, if he was any judge. She whimpered and her eyes flickered open. He had never seen such a brilliant green before.
“Get some clothes on man. I’m sick of looking at that big black dick of yours.” Samuel, grinning, bent down and pulled on the harem type pants he always wore indoors.
Her naked body was flawless, her skin smooth as fine porcelain, her rose tipped breasts creamy mounds of perfection. Her stomach was flat and smooth, her legs and thighs slim and shapely. He felt an overwhelming desire to bury his face in the triangle of pubic fluff. He wanted to open her, part the soft pink lips guarding her female recess and slide his tongue into her lush clit, to taste the sweet nectar he felt sure he would find there. Hell’s teeth, he admonished himself. Stop behaving like a cunt-struck youth.
He couldn’t remember ever having seen a more exquisite wench. He dried her hair first, lifting the gossamer strands up before dropping them. They tumbled over her shoulders and splayed out over her chest. Carefully he patted her body dry with the towel, lifting up her breasts, rubbing the nipples until the pale ruby buds burst forth from their dusky areolas. Squatting down he slid the towel up her legs. He was shocked to notice a tremor in his hands by the time he reached her inner thigh.
His forehead rested against her belly, he only had to stick out his tongue. He clenched his teeth, nudged her thighs apart with one hand and gently dried her. She smelt of salt, sand and woman.
He fought to control the rising desire her naked beauty aroused in him. His cock felt hard, a huge bulge straining against the cloth of his pants. His balls became sensitive, almost painful as they tightened in his crotch.
She was awake now, glancing around with fear filled eyes.
“What’s your name?”
He got a blank green eyed stare. “I…I don’t know,” she said in a soft English midlands accent.
“Where am I?”
“At my home, I’m Alexander Satan.” Bastard son of Lord Trengowey and a tavern wench, he could have added, but didn’t. Hatred rose up in his breast every time he thought of the injustice perpetrated on his mother.
All they have in common is sex and secrets.
Branded a traitor, Sir Giles Moncrieff was disowned by his family and his country.
He now makes his fortune out of an exclusive club, where debauched men can live out their sexual fantasies.
Escaping from her brutal owner, Angel Smith finds solace in her skills as a circus acrobat.
Can two tortured souls find happiness together, or will their dark secrets tear them apart?
“Is he here tonight?” Angel asked frantically, too frightened to peek through the striped canvas curtain.
“Yeah, in the front row like the last two nights,” Louie said.
Angel leaned down to put herself at eye level with the little be-whiskered juggler. “Who is he?”
“Sir Giles Moncrieff, he owns an exclusive men’s club called the Devil’s Playground,” Louie said. “It’s a front for a high class brothel if you ask me.”
Dressed in diaphanous harem pants with a matching bolero top of pale blue trimmed with gold lace, Angel gnawed at her fingertips. “I…I don’t think I can perform tonight.”
“The show must go on,” Louie said. “No matter how we feel about Rolf dying, he always said that. We’ll be heading to York next week, and the likes of Sir Giles won’t travel too far away from the fleshpots of London.”
She hoped so. Please, God, she inwardly prayed. Make him go away.” She did not know why the dark haired man with the vivid blue eyes disturbed her. She put it down to the shock of Rolf’s death, but deep down knew it was something more.
Sir Giles belonged to the English aristocracy. Hatred churned in her breast as memories, suppressed for three years, suddenly surfaced. A shaft of cold fear shot down her spinal column.
She took several deep, steadying breaths and willed her hands to stop trembling. She could not let the circus down; she owed it to Rolf’s memory. He had saved her life, given her a home.
She scrubbed at a wayward tear. Thankfully, Grenadier, the white gelding she rode, knew the routine as well as she did. Putting two fingers into her mouth, she emitted a low whistle and within seconds her loyal steed appeared in the mounting yard behind the striped canvas curtain. Vince followed a step or two behind. He was a swarthy, overweight gypsy. His black hair hung in dirty rattails around his neck and she shuddered with revulsion. How could Rolf have such a horrible nephew?
She put her foot into his cupped hands and mounted Grenadier. Her flesh crawled when Vince ran his hand up and down her leg. She gritted her teeth to stop herself from slapping the leering, lecherous smirk off his face. And he actually thought she would marry the likes of him?
Sir Giles Moncrieff tried to curb his annoyance at having to sit and watch this pathetic excuse for a circus, but he desperately wanted to see Angel again. He was obsessed with the beautiful bare-back rider. He crossed his legs in a vain endeavor to control his hardening cock. What would it feel like to part her thighs and plunge his rampant member into her soft, succulent flesh? To ream her delectable little bum hole with a dildo while she sucked his cock?
The trumpet sounded, the curtain swung back and the white horse trotted out. His mane and tail shone in the light thrown out by the brassieres positioned on tall poles at intervals around the enormous tent. The fancy bronze fittings on the bridle glistened, but it was the girl who mesmerized him. Tiny and dainty she stood on the horse, hands raised above her head, her long golden locks spilling over her shoulders before cascading down her back.
The crowd, predominantly men, clapped and stamped their feet, the latter probably to ease the pressure on their cocks. Every male in the audience desired her. A man would have to be cast from stone not to. They only wanted her in their beds as a temporary diversion, whereas he was prepared to offer her employment at his club, once he slaked his desire for her body. She was not a gypsy like the rest of the troupe, her features were too fine, her coloring too fair.
Loud whistles had him coming out of his reverie as Angel maneuvered herself on to the horse’s rump and did a back flip on to the creature’s neck. She moved back, raised herself and balanced on one leg, arms outstretched, head thrown back as the horse picked up pace until it was galloping around the circular enclosure.
The horse was a fine specimen, obviously well trained. As horse and rider moved as one, she did not use reins or a whip, just a series of clicking noises, and the beast seemed to know exactly what was expected of him.
Giles watched her, his eyes unwavering as she did her ten minute routine then to thunderous applause, horse and rider disappeared behind a curtain.
They returned a few moments later. The horse reared, his feet pawing at the air for several seconds while the girl smiled and waved, the curtain dropped and they were gone.
Now that old Rolf was dead, he would have to deal with his no-good nephew, the uncouth pig. If he wanted Angel he had to do something now, before they moved to God alone knew where. He could find them of course, he was rich enough to track them to the ends of the earth if he so desired.
Vince minced up to Angel. “What the hell were you doing somersaulting on that bloody horse?”
“I felt like it.” She tossed her head. She owed her life to Rolf and would have done anything he asked, but not Vince. She owed him nothing, not even respect. His lust filled eyes had ranged over her body during the last couple of years, and on several occasions she had caught him spying on her as she was getting changed or washed. She had to get away from him somehow, and once the circus got to York, she would have her chance.
Louie’s brother travelled with a circus and he had married the owner’s daughter. It was a much bigger affair than this one, Louie was going to leave to work for his brother and he had promised that she could accompany him. Rolf had given Grenadier to her a few weeks before he died, and no-one but her would want Fleabag. She did not doubt her ability to be an asset to any circus; she just had to get there.
“The wench is staying with me,” Vince snarled, as she stopped outside his wagon.
“Let her decide.” A deep, aristocratic voice floated out the open door, and she somehow knew it was Sir Giles Moncrieff.
Nervous butterflies cavorted deep within her stomach. She stepped inside, and the tall, slimly built man towered over Vince’s pudgy shortness.
“She was indentured to my uncle, and now that he’s dead, all of his property belongs to me.”
“I don’t belong to any man.” She glared at Vince. “Least of all you.”
“We’ll be wed within the week.”
Captain Ethan Harvey followed his future father-in-law, Pascal DeLaCroix into the large brick warehouse running off Toulouse Street in New Orleans.
“I have something to show you mon ami. I call it my chicken run.” Pascal laughed and his fat jowls wobbled.
Ethan could not believe how a beautiful young woman like Gabrielle, could have such an uncouth oaf as a father.
They passed barrels of turpentine and linseed oil, casks of Sperm oil, boxes of Havana cigars and coffee. A veritable fortune in stock mostly brought in by his ship, The Sea Eagle.
The Sea Eagle, under a different name, had started out life as a slave ship, but the only human cargo it carried now was a few select whores for Alex Satan’s bordello in England. His old navy friend had gone into partnership with Jacques Duval, and from all accounts their venture was doing extremely well.
The dark wooden door at the back of the warehouse groaned as Pascal pushed it open. The floor was cobblestone. Light poured in from a huge skylight in the roof. Ethan blinked to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him. His gut clenched with a sickening force.
“What do you think, mon ami?”
On either side of the long room there were ten or more cages containing Negro women. Iron bars were set six inches or so apart in the cages. The woman knelt on waist high wooden benches. Their arms and necks were secured in stocks, their bums pressed up against the bars, with the gap just wide enough for a man to thrust his cock through.
Pascal opened up his trousers and his fat cock protruded. Within seconds it was slamming into one of the whores.
“I have shocked you?” He gasped the words out between thrusts.
“Yes. What the hell are you doing?”
The Frenchman pulled out his cock and cum ran down the whore’s thighs. “Giving them a second chance.”
“He stuffed his now flaccid member into his trousers and snapped his fingers at an elderly Negro woman. She hurried over with a towel in her hand. “Clean the slut up, so she’ll be ready for her next customer. Which one do you want? I know that cock of yours is straining for release, and you will not stick it inside my Gabrielle until your wedding night.”
“I am not in the mood. What do you mean giving them a second chance?”
“I have set this up so no man needs to look at them. Clever, eh? Their cunts are soft and juicy, but their faces.” He waved his arms around. “They’re slaves from my brother, Michel’s plantation. He likes using the whip, but with women he gives it to them on their faces instead of backs and bums.”
Bile rose up into Ethan’s mouth and he swallowed it down. He could not afford to fall foul of Pascal if he wanted to marry Gabrielle. Michel DeLaCroix was the most feared slave owner in the whole of Louisiana.
“I have seen enough.” He suppressed a shudder. He had lived a life of debauchery for years, but could not come at anything as depraved as this.
“You will be over for dinner tonight, about eight o’clock.”
“Yes, thank you.” If it were not for Gabrielle, he would not go near the depraved bastard’s place.
“Stay the night then you can head off to that ship of yours straight after breakfast.”
They passed back through the warehouse and exited through a side door. The heat hit Ethan like a physical blow after the coolness of the warehouse.
“I will stay, thank you.” It would give him extra time with Gabrielle. If he was lucky, he might even get more than a chaste kiss from her. The more she withheld her favors, the more he wanted them. They would have to marry soon; he could not control his urges for much longer. He could find sexual relief with whores temporarily, but he wanted to make love to Gabrielle.
“Thank you. This is my last trip to England. I don’t like being away from Gabrielle, but I promised to deliver a batch of whores for my old navy friend. After we wed, I will only take coastal trips.”
“Your loyalty to your friend is commendable mon ami, but my little Gabrielle doesn’t like you being away.”
“I know, I hate leaving her, but I gave my word.”
“You English.” Pascal spat on the footpath. “You are always so righteous, so intent on doing the gentlemanly thing.”
If he had not been Gabrielle’s father, he would have punched the obnoxious, fat oaf in the mouth. He thrust his hands in to his pocket in case he gave way to the temptation.
“Until tonight,” Pascal said. “Au revoir.”
“Yes, until tonight.” Ethan strode off.
While she waited for the other women to return, Neridah laid the three small fishes she had caught on a thick layer of grass and rested them on the hot ashes. She covered them with another layer of grass and heaped more ashes on top. This would be lunch, to prepare them for their long journey back to the clan. Her stomach grumbled at the prospect of warm food in her belly. She squatted on the ground, holding her hands out to the warmth coming from their meager fire.
The hunting had been scarce in the new place where the clan elders had decreed they would live, after breaking away from the main tribe. Adoni the head of the clan had fallen out with Ganan the tribal leader over wives, so they had left their traditional land near the coast to try their luck inland. What a mistake that had turned out to be.
With the cries of hungry children and the wails of the old women echoing in her ears, she and the only other young women who were not pregnant or suckling babies, had left their encampment to search for food. Eight times the moon had come and gone and the men had still not returned from their hunting trip. It had been a hard, cold winter and snow had fallen making it difficult to find game. Something was wrong, instinctively Neridah knew. The warriors had only planned to be away for a few days.
Gheera returned with a small kangaroo slung across her shoulders, its blood streaming down one arm. She had only recently become a woman, but already three of the clan men wanted to marry her, and two men from another clan had also offered for her. Kirra walked beside her carrying a boomerang and several spears, small enough for a woman to throw. Orani staggered under the weight of a reed basket full of roots.
The end of winter sun shone weakly out of a cloudy blue sky but it gave out little warmth and Neridah was glad of the possum skin cloak she wore.
Once relieved of their loads, the other girls squatted around the fire waiting for the fish to cook.
“I think I will marry Akam,” Gheera said suddenly. “He is so handsome and he doesn’t have other wives.
“Adoni is old, but he is our clan leader,” Orani said. “I would choose him.”
Neridah listened with a stab of envy. She would never be able to marry, because she was white. The Barega clan had found her collapsed and near death, the only survivor of an English shipwreck a few years ago. She didn’t know exactly how long ago it was. Although several other passengers had made it to shore including her husband, Gavin, they had all succumbed to their injuries and the harsh conditions.
The Barega people had treated her well, but the elders of the tribe would not allow any man to marry her as they wanted to ensure the purity of their bloodline. She tried to explain to them that she was barren, but they could not or would not understand that no child would ever come from her womb. Other than that, she was one of them, except she had to keep more of her body covered than her friends because of her fair skin.
A thunder of hooves spun her around. Several mounted horsemen raced toward them.
“Run. Run,” she screamed out in the Barega tongue.
Gunshots rang out, and Neridah ran for her life. Tales abounded amongst the different clans of what the white man did to aboriginal women.
The trees and safety were close now, but the horses and riders were gaining. Her breath came out in gasping pants. A scream pierced the air but she did not dare glance around. Another horse charged out from behind a clump of the trees. She was trapped between the two of them.
Darting to one side, she tried to outrun the mounted men. They herded her away from the sanctuary of the trees, but she kept on running until one of the men dived from his horse and brought her to the ground. Her head hit something hard and blackness engulfed her.
Neridah awoke and blinked her eyes. She tried to move her head but could not. An iron collar was clamped around her neck and a chain linked her to another young aboriginal woman. Terror overwhelmed her. Her head pounded so hard she feared it would crack open. Ten women including Kirra and Orani were all chained together.
“I don’t see why we can’t all have a turn fucking them before we hand them over,” one of the men said. “They might be black savages but their cunts will be hot and juicy.”
“You couldn’t pay me enough to put my cock into one of those dirty black sluts,” another said.
“I’d fuck ‘em for nothing. I like black meat, much tastier than white.”
She had not heard men speak English for many years. Trying to teach the young women of the clan some English had helped to keep her reasonably fluent in her native tongue. Her stepbrother Joseph used to use vile language like this to her after his father had died. Once he married Isobel, he became even more aggressive, and had tried to force himself on her. Isobel’s intervention had stopped it, but she had been banished, taken up to London and cast adrift, penniless, alone in a strange city with no-one to turn to.