Chapter Five
Mrs. Taylor Reads a Book
Mrs. Taylor woke up feeling very good. She usually did after a weekend like the one she had just experienced. Mr. Rowling screwed in more ways than one, Michelle's ass reamed for her first time, the Goth Girl at the sex shop ass fucked until unconscious, then robbed and finally Greg given a serious dose of his own medicine. 'Not bad for only two days work,' she thought. 'I might even take today off.'
It was Sunday, not that Mrs. Taylor had any religious tendencies. For her, Sunday wasn't a day of rest, unless she wanted it to be. There had been plenty of her husband's clients to screw, sexually and financially on that day of the week. But today, Mr. Taylor was still out of town doing his thing. Mrs. Taylor took a long shower and then fixed herself some breakfast.
She spent the morning doing some household chores including mowing the lawns. Both she and her husband were careful to keep up an image of a respectable, every day couple. As she was outside, several neighbours wandered by, some stopping for a short chat. Mrs. Taylor always wore conservative clothes around home. She spoke with not a trace of profanity, never said anything untoward and generally made herself look like a simple housewife. As far as the neighbours were concerned, Mr. Taylor travelled a lot on his business of selling insurance.
After a small lunch, Mrs. Taylor took out a book from their personal library of sexual fiction and instruction. The library also contained a high end collection of erotic photography. This library was upstairs, away from any prying eyes of a neighbour who might have come into the house for some reason. Downstairs on display was a collection of popular but respectable fiction and also some general books on such boring subjects as bird watching and nature.
The book Mrs. Taylor had chosen was one of her favourites. Produced in Germany, it was a collection of very well done photographs of bondage and discipline, along with the English translations of short stories of the same genre. Having gone through the book at least a dozen times, Mrs. Taylor never got bored with it. Some of the photographs had been taken with female models that looked to be very young. Some appeared barely pubescent. The book wasn't sold in any bookstore in the country. Perhaps it was illegal. It had been taken from a wealthy connoisseur of such material, along with other books that now graced the Taylor library. The man had fallen victim to one of her husband's ploys and gladly had given the books, along with a generous amount of cash in return for silence.
Mrs. Taylor sat in a comfortable easy chair in the library, admiring the images and reading the stories. She often got inspiration from the collection of material that surrounded her. As she reread a favourite story about a young housemaid in the seventeenth century, who turns the tables on her wealthy and sexually deviant mistress, she toyed with herself. She was good at drawing out the pleasure, stroking softly and slowly, keeping herself in a state of high but not intense sexual arousal. As the story ending drew closer with the young girl anally abusing her mistress, as she had been abused, she let her climax build and build. With a lot of practice she had perfected the art of not coming until the main character in the book was doing just that.
Frieda could only imagine what her mistress was thinking. After many penetrations to her womanly place, she had gone silent, no longer calling down death and Damnation upon her housemaid. The thick rod in Frieda's hand was wet with her mistress's drippings, as if the prolonged assault on her woman's place was welcome. Frieda's anger could only grow hotter as she considered that the woman tied down over the bench was actually revelling in the misuse of her most private place. How many others had also thrust this rod into that wet, dripping place of fornication, she wondered. How many men had rutted there until the seed of Damnation issued forth into the receptacle of her unnatural lust? How many times had she cuckolded her lawful husband, with another man's agent of Sin thrusting and thrusting, until it gushed out the hot, white wine of fornication to mix with her mistress's depraved flow?
Mrs. Taylor wasn't at all put off by the simple and dated fiction. She was more interested in the emotions than the writing.
Frieda's blue eyes narrowed as she considered her further revenge. The dripping rod in her hand, thick and smooth, so well used by her mistress on her own young and once innocent Venus entrance, seemed not thick enough to make her mistress scream. Frieda ached to her the woman give out the cries she herself had given out when the rod first overcame her virginity. Also she ached to hear the cries of anger and rage that she had given out so many times as was she tied down over the bench for her mistress's friend's amusement. Fine ladies of Stuttgart...laughing and cackling as they played with the young and tender place where only her future husband should have gone. Fine ladies who rubbed their privates until they moaned with pleasure as they drooled their spittle in excitement at the debasing of the prostrate and bound young maiden.
'I bet they were drooling,' thought Mrs. Taylor, not blaming them one bit.
How many times had the young housemaid felt their evil fingers exploring and penetrating every part of her? How many hands had fondled her bosoms and traced the curvatures of her lithe young hips? Frieda cringed at the memories of fine ladies' fingers touching and pressing to her most unchristian place, her bodily orifice of excrement. Her very bowels heaved as she remembered fingers pushing and pushing...until her dark orifice was overcome and entered. How she had loathed the high pitched cackles of mirth as she protested this most ungenerous treatment. How many times had she endured the results of her mistress's encouragements to her fine lady friends, to debase and misuse the girl laid out for their perverse and sinister pleasures.
'I've had my fair share of laid out girls myself,' thought Mrs. Taylor, 'and then some.'
Frieda looked again upon her mistress's body. Clad only in the thin, gossamer shift that she usually wore during her abased penetrations of Frieda's body, her buttocks were clearly visible and so was the mound of dark curls covering her overused Mound of Venus. Large and pendulent bosoms hung aside the narrow bench and Frieda envisioned them fondled and used by men who were not to be there. With a dark and deep fury, Frieda took hold of the shift and tore it open in one pull. Lifting it away, she left her mistress almost as naked as she had been laid naked so many, many times. With her eyes filling with the tears of the sadness of her lost innocence, Frieda took her revenge upon those buttocks, smiting them with the rod, as if the force of her blows could drive out the demons of unnatural lust inside the perverse and debased body in front of her.
'Good on you, girl. Now you're cooking with gas.'
Her mistress shrieked out her rage and fairly spat, she was so indignant. "Hold, you verminous piece of maggot meat! I'll have your very bowels feel the sting of that rod, thrust up your filthy cunt so hard it bursts! I'll see it disappear in your very ass, you unthankful child of Sin. Where would you be if I hadn't taken you in? Spreading your legs nightly at every tavern in Stuttgart, I'll wager. Release me or I swear by Satan's hairy balls, I'll drag you to one this very night! And I'll supply the piece of copper that will be the price of your fucking! I'll take one hundred of them, I will! Now, release me!
'Don't do it girl, don't do it. She'll just see you fucked one hundred times anyway...'
"Nay, I won't! I won't! You are but a harlot and a slut. You are but a scandalous adulteress, rutting and grunting with any man who cares to taste the vileness of your...your...wicked, wicked...cunt! There! I said it! To these depths of inequity have you driven me. You and your fancy harlot lady friends, your evil partners in depravity and blasphemous sin. How many men have...have...fucked you and for only the price of asking? How many need not ask, knowing full well your debased penchant for cuckolding your husband? Call me a piece of maggot meat will you? Take that! And that! And that!"
Frieda laid on with a will. Again and again, the very rod that had so cruelly penetrated her very femininity endless times came down upon the buttocks of her mistress. With her legs tied down over the side of the bench, Frieda could see the very orifice of her that was so recently foully threatened of her own body. Her mistress's dark orifice was there in front of her. Even darker thoughts were coursing through her fevered head.
'Do it, Frieda, stick that rod right up there. Fill that 'dark orifice. No mercy now, Frieda'
"Now you will feel the vile touching that I have endured these past two years. Now you will be debased lower than any of your filthy lovers has ever done to you." Frieda knew that what she was about to do was punishable by the most vile and devilishly depraved instruments that the town execution had in his terrible dungeon. She had heard stories of what happened to woman who ran afoul of the town council. And she knew that her mistress would be only to pleased to see Frieda sent into those dark and terrible walls. But the anger in her burned hotter than any fear of retribution. With eyes set narrow with both hate and the expectation of long sought revenge, she put a fingertip to her mistress's forbidden place.
"Frieda!" screamed out her mistress. "No! For the love of God and for all the Angels, no! Touch not that place! Any other, but not that. It would be most unbecoming of a lady such as myself to be violated in that place! Do not touch again and all will be forgiven. You may stay in my employment, unpunished and unharmed...but you mustn't do this to me!"
'Fuck that noise, girl...ram that rod! Right up the bitch's unbecoming place...'
"Nay will I listen to your false promises of hope. I know you well, mistress. Having released you from these bonds, I would be in the town dungeon this very night, perhaps never to be seen again, dead after the most wicked tortures and renderings of my body. Dead after being the lust object of every scoundrel in Stuttgart with a single copper piece to pay the executioner. Nay, mistress. You'll have no release or succour from me!"
With those excoriating words, Frieda thrust her finger forward but gained no advance. Then she remembered the hands of those cronies, preparing her dark orifice for its unnatural uses. Yes! There it was! A pot on unguent, prepared from the rendered fat of a suckling pig. There to ease the task the cronies' fingers in their most inhuman debasement of her body and her very soul. Now it was her mistress's turn to feel the most unnatural of the sensations, the penetration of that which should never be penetrated.
