Bondmaiden by B.A. Bradbury Page A

suffering increased with each passing second, and by forty she was whining pitifully, clearly in distress. She began to quicken the pace, going faster until her large breasts were bouncing, her face twisted in pain.
    ‘Forty-eight… forty-nine… fifty!’
    Clady strained up onto her tiptoes, obviously wanting as little of the horn inside her as possible, and looked at Holmann pleadingly; but the overseer slowly shook his head.
    ‘A fair enough performance to begin with,’ he said, ‘but very poor at the end. No half measures is what I said, but your arse barely touched the seat for the last five. So you’ll do another five, and I want to see them done right.’
    Clady’s face crumpled at his pronouncement and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Please, master—’
    ‘I can soon make it ten, if you wish!’ Holmann threatened harshly, and Clady’s entreaty died on her lips, as tearful and trembling she thrust down on the dreadful horn once more, Lia fearing the task surely beyond her. And yet, despite her tribulations, the plump girl somehow managed to drive herself on, her movements stiff and jerky, her legs shaking as she forced herself up and down, and finally, mercifully, the extra five were complete.
    At a nod from Holmann, Jarold put the blocks back in place, and Clady dismounted in a reversal of the mounting process. She shuffled to the table and lay on her back, raising her legs and spreading them wide apart so Holmann and Dagna could examine her.
    ‘Very good,’ the overseer mused. ‘This new pot of pepper paste is fierce stuff.’
    ‘I told Berta to make it extra strong,’ Dagna said.
    ‘You did right. These three need a sharp lesson.’
    He fingered Clady for a while longer, then nodded and told her she was dismissed. She sat up carefully and slid off the table, snatching up her smock from the floor, and without even pausing to put it on she crept out of the room, her hand pressed between her legs as though that might somehow quench the fire inside. Her departure raised smiles on her tormentors’ faces, and Holmann chuckled.
    ‘It’ll be a while before she’s tempted to give a man the eye, I reckon. There’s nothing like a hot crack for cooling the ardour, I always say.’
    ‘You warmed her up good and proper, master,’ Jarold said with an ingratiating nod of the head.
    ‘Aye,’ Holmann said, ‘and we’re not done yet. Kerta, get them things off. Let’s see how you fare on the prong.’ As Kerta took off her smock, Dagna spread fresh paste on the horn. ‘Lay it on nice and thick,’ Holmann said, his eyes on Kerta all the while. ‘No need to stint.’
    Jarold, his face wearing its customary leer, also watched with keen interest as the laundress stripped. She dropped her clothes to the floor and stood up straight, seemingly unaware of the men’s attention, for her own eyes were firmly fixed on the stool with its gross appendage.
    Kerta stepped forward, apprehension and determination showing in her eyes in equal measure. With the blocks and Jarold’s shoulder to aid her she mounted the stool and grasped the horn as Clady had done. She positioned herself over the tip, took a deep breath, and impaled herself. The blocks were removed and her ordeal began.
    It was soon clear that Kerta – older and no doubt wiser than her predecessor – was determined not to repeat Clady’s mistake. She set a much slower pace right from the outset, pushing down on the horn in a deliberate, measured fashion till her bottom was firmly on the seat, then rising smoothly until her legs were straight. She even paused for a heartbeat at both extremes, so that even the most critical of observers must surely be satisfied with her performance.
    Even when it became apparent that the pepper paste was being keenly felt, she still refused to vary the pace. Her face grew tight and her shoulders stiff, but that was all. She didn’t wail or whine as Clady had; indeed, the only sound to be heard was a soft, tormented groan