straight,” said Salerno, holding up his index and second fingers to demonstrate.
“As you add more fingers,” he went on, “crowd them together so the index and small fingers slide under the middle two.”
“Yes, yes, but the knuckles?” the drunkard prompted.
Salerno nodded, pleased as always to have a fascinated audience. “They’re the widest part of the hand, so one always encounters resistance during either vaginal or rectal insertion, though more so with the latter, naturally. As I push inside, I tuck my thumb under my fingers, forming a sort of wedge shape. Here, it’s best to heed any complaint from the male patient. However, in my opinion females are more prone to hysteria so one should insist upon proceeding regardless. Once the knuckles slip past the outer ring of muscles, one must press on gradually and with utmost care.”
Jordan’s anxiety escalated as he proceeded to illustrate the best manner in which to infiltrate her anus. As a crack of thunder came from outside the theater, a twin bolt of anger shot through her. Suddenly, she wanted to rage at all these men. To slap their satisfied faces and punch their paunchy bellies.
She’d reached her limit of enforced obedience. She’d rather die than return for this sort of treatment next year or even two years from now. No matter how her mother begged, this would be the last birthday she’d allow herself to be subjugated in this way. If Salerno exposed the true facts of her gender and they lost everything, so be it. She would find work. Or perhaps she could convince her mother to marry one of the many swains who doted on her.
The Sicilian returned then with two pitchers of water. Her eyelids slitted as she measured the distance to the door. He blocked it now, but she would watch for an opportunity to cut the evening short.
With a final flourish of his nail file, Salerno flexed his fingers and pronounced himself ready. After filling the syringe from the pitchers, he went to stand at the back of the stage, near the wall.
“Come over here so you don’t soil the table,” he told her, motioning her forward with one hand. “Cleansing with a clyster can be a nasty business.”
Pretending to be woozier than she was, Jordan slowly gathered herself and half-rolled off the table. Stumbling, she made her way toward the rear of the stage where Salerno waited.
He eyed her critically as she approached. “Is that my cloak?” Aghast when he determined it was, he thrust his equipment into the bishop’s hands. “Take it off before it becomes soiled beyond redemption.” He yanked the garment from her. Shaking out its folds, he carefully draped it over the back of the chair the artist had left positioned by the door.
When he returned, he neglected to reclaim his device from the bishop. “On your knees now,” he told her. “In a squat. That’s right.”
His hands pressed her shoulders downward and Jordan sank to her knees. A bucket was set on the floor, just behind her between her ankles.
“Lean forward.” She didn’t budge.
“The root has taken effect,” he told the bishop over her head. “You’ll have to wield the syringe.” Salerno came and stood in front of her, holding his hands under her armpits. She had no choice but to bury her nose in his crotch.
Within his trousers, his prick dangled, soft against her cheekbone. Working with her never excited him physically. She wondered if anything ever did.
Hands fumbled behind her, spreading the cheeks of her bottom. The bishop’s robes puddled over her feet as he bent closer. Cold metal prodded her anus.
Perhaps she should pretend to faint. Or to vomit. She had to do something that would offer a distraction in order to escape.
The sound of someone clearing his throat just outside the theater curtain came to her like a gift from heaven. The remaining men turned their attention away from her and toward the interruption.
“Don’t do anything until I return,” Salerno muttered to the
“As you add more fingers,” he went on, “crowd them together so the index and small fingers slide under the middle two.”
“Yes, yes, but the knuckles?” the drunkard prompted.
Salerno nodded, pleased as always to have a fascinated audience. “They’re the widest part of the hand, so one always encounters resistance during either vaginal or rectal insertion, though more so with the latter, naturally. As I push inside, I tuck my thumb under my fingers, forming a sort of wedge shape. Here, it’s best to heed any complaint from the male patient. However, in my opinion females are more prone to hysteria so one should insist upon proceeding regardless. Once the knuckles slip past the outer ring of muscles, one must press on gradually and with utmost care.”
Jordan’s anxiety escalated as he proceeded to illustrate the best manner in which to infiltrate her anus. As a crack of thunder came from outside the theater, a twin bolt of anger shot through her. Suddenly, she wanted to rage at all these men. To slap their satisfied faces and punch their paunchy bellies.
She’d reached her limit of enforced obedience. She’d rather die than return for this sort of treatment next year or even two years from now. No matter how her mother begged, this would be the last birthday she’d allow herself to be subjugated in this way. If Salerno exposed the true facts of her gender and they lost everything, so be it. She would find work. Or perhaps she could convince her mother to marry one of the many swains who doted on her.
The Sicilian returned then with two pitchers of water. Her eyelids slitted as she measured the distance to the door. He blocked it now, but she would watch for an opportunity to cut the evening short.
With a final flourish of his nail file, Salerno flexed his fingers and pronounced himself ready. After filling the syringe from the pitchers, he went to stand at the back of the stage, near the wall.
“Come over here so you don’t soil the table,” he told her, motioning her forward with one hand. “Cleansing with a clyster can be a nasty business.”
Pretending to be woozier than she was, Jordan slowly gathered herself and half-rolled off the table. Stumbling, she made her way toward the rear of the stage where Salerno waited.
He eyed her critically as she approached. “Is that my cloak?” Aghast when he determined it was, he thrust his equipment into the bishop’s hands. “Take it off before it becomes soiled beyond redemption.” He yanked the garment from her. Shaking out its folds, he carefully draped it over the back of the chair the artist had left positioned by the door.
When he returned, he neglected to reclaim his device from the bishop. “On your knees now,” he told her. “In a squat. That’s right.”
His hands pressed her shoulders downward and Jordan sank to her knees. A bucket was set on the floor, just behind her between her ankles.
“Lean forward.” She didn’t budge.
“The root has taken effect,” he told the bishop over her head. “You’ll have to wield the syringe.” Salerno came and stood in front of her, holding his hands under her armpits. She had no choice but to bury her nose in his crotch.
Within his trousers, his prick dangled, soft against her cheekbone. Working with her never excited him physically. She wondered if anything ever did.
Hands fumbled behind her, spreading the cheeks of her bottom. The bishop’s robes puddled over her feet as he bent closer. Cold metal prodded her anus.
Perhaps she should pretend to faint. Or to vomit. She had to do something that would offer a distraction in order to escape.
The sound of someone clearing his throat just outside the theater curtain came to her like a gift from heaven. The remaining men turned their attention away from her and toward the interruption.
“Don’t do anything until I return,” Salerno muttered to the
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