The Trials Of Pauline Ch 08

Chapter Eight

It was Christmas. Polly usually came home for the holidays but had agreed to spend the first two nights with Rita. At the last minute, however, plans changed and she travelled home after all. She took a taxi from the station, to find her parents out when she arrived at the house. All was in darkness.

Feeling tired, she decided to retire to bed early. The central heating was on a high setting and Polly woke hot and damp. After tossing and turning for a few minutes, she decided to get herself a glass of milk. Not bothering to slip on her dressing gown, she stole quietly down the back stairs. No one would see her at the back of the house.

Her parents, if they were at home, would be in the lounge, a large room at the front of the house. Her short nightgown allowed the flow of air to cool her thighs as she crept down the dark staircase. There was no need to switch on the kitchen light. The one in the fridge was enough for her to see to fill her glass with cool milk.

A faint cry coming from another room made her pause in her movement. She cocked her head to listen. Nothing! It must have been an owl, she thought. After pushing the door of the fridge closed, Polly glanced through into the dining room. She was stopped in her tracks, dumb-struck. At the far end of it were a pair of multi-paned glass doors leading into the drawing-room beyond.

It was a spacious room, with French windows in the far wall, now heavily curtained. Through these doors had come the muffled sounds she'd heard. Polly could see through into the lounge. The lighting was subdued, and the sounds were muffled. But the action was clear enough. Sitting round the room were people in cloaks, wearing hoods attached to the back of the collar. Some were black and others red. Polly could only see the people on the opposite wall, so she had no idea how many were there.

Tip-toeing silently into the dining room, she got a clearer view. There were four or five couples. On the low coffee table, placed in the centre of the room, stood a woman in a long multi-coloured, almost transparent chiffon gown. Her figure could be clearly seen in profile through the fine silk; wrists were tied above her head to the large sturdy chandelier directly above her, lifting the spiky breasts high, nipples jutting against the silk.

The woman's head was dropped onto her chest, loose hair hanging over her shoulders, in an attitude of contrition. Before her stood a man, carefully weighing a multi-thonged whip in his right hand. He was testing it's balance. He was speaking sternly to the woman. Though muffled, Polly recognised her father's voice. When he turned sideways, Polly was staggered to se that he was naked beneath the cloak. His familiar thick penis was half-filled, swaying before him.

He was shouting. 'Mary, you're nothing but a filthy whore! We shall whip the devil out of your lecherous body!' Polly watched in horror as her father raised his arm, coiling his body back.

'No!' the woman screamed, twisting her body to try to escape the blow. But, with a twist of his waist he brought the vicious whip hard across the buttocks of the helpless woman. There came the crack of leather thongs biting deep into the soft flesh of the cheeks. Muffled sobbing sounds accompanied the jerk of the torso. A second blow followed immediately, stinging into the tops of the cheeks even before they had recovered from the first slash. A painful cry came from the twisting body.

'You must be punished, else you won't truly repent of your carnal sins.'

A third slash cut into the flesh. Polly could see the long weals forming on the pale skin. Like angry red stripes along fine mounds of swollen flesh. Polly put her glass of milk on the kitchen table and stepped cautiously into the dining room to get a clearer view. Not too close in case she could be seen, although very little light penetrated through the glass panes into the dining room.

'Don't hurt me, Albert! Please! I promise not to do it again.'

Although faint, to Polly's amazement, she recognised her mother's voice. She was clearly being punished for something she'd done. One of the silent men then stood. As he did so, his cloak fell open. His waist was encircled by a bright yellow sash above his dark mat of hair and rearing phallus. He crossed to the suspended body to remove the silk gown with one swift move. It fluttered to the floor, draped over the edge of the table.

'No mercy!' His voice was stern and hard.

The pale curves of her mother's slender body reflected the glow of the lamps. Her jutting nipples were clearly aroused, pointing to the ceiling. The warm glow emphasised the red weals crossing her buttocks. Another of the men went to a switch beside the window and touched it. The chandelier started to lower from its pulleys. Polly had often wonered what that switch was for, but had never found out. Now she knew!

When Polly's mother was slumped on her knees in the centre of the table, her head thrown back, tears streaming down her cheeks, two other men, each holding a short cane, came to either side of her and pulled her thighs apart.

Polly's father put a hand between her trembling thighs.

'Look! Just look at your secret gash. Hot and wet with lust! The fiend within needs to be beaten out of it. Feel, brethren.'

'I can't help it, Albert,' his wife squealed. 'I can't control my body. The devil has control of it.'

But the men approached the beaten figure, lewdly groping between her thighs to sample the wetness.

'Beat it out of her,' one of them cried. 'Then the others.'

The men at the side of her, after feeling her soft folds, slippery and hot, began whacking her buttocks with alternate smacks. Instead of a sharp crack, the sturdy canes made more of a thud as they sank into the flesh. Polly was now aware that beneath the red robes were naked women. They stood, calling out words of encouragement to the men. Eyes gleamed through the eye-holes in their hoods. One pair of large breasts were hung heavily over her ribs, heaving with excitement, their nipples hard and inflated. The breasts on all the women Polly was able to see were supported by a halter-like bra's, lifting their weight forward, presenting their distended nipples.

'Enough! Untie her!'

The beating stopped. In the sudden silence Polly could detect the sound of her mother sobbing. From where she was watching, though, Polly couldn't see the effect of the punishment. She knew her mother's cheeks would be red, perhaps even purple, burning and stinging. She also knew that the churning in her loins would encourage more juices to flow, preparing her passage for the great idol of manhood. Perhaps several. Her own juices ran freely during a good spanking.

'Come and feel the waters of hell seeping from the depths of this depraved woman. Tell me if you think she should be spared or thrashed.'

'No, please, don't,' the woman begged.

The man in the yellow sash, stood behind the victim, pushed his hand through her legs, fondling her vulva.

'This is a bad case of molten lust overflowing the carnal passage. It needs to be thrashed and then doused. It may require several attempts.'

The chandelier was lowered further until the woman was on her back. The two side-men unfastened her wrists before stretching her legs upwards. When the ankles reached the chandelier, Polly noticed the fastenings round them. They were quickly snapped onto opposite branches of the chandelier so that the captive was resting on her neck and shoulders.

The red, swollen cheeks of her buttocks were now fully visible. The object of their examination was exposed to them, separating the red cheeks. The wrinkled lips were puffed, thrusting obscenely from the outer folds, and liberally coated with her secretions.

At that precise moment, Polly froze. Her breathing stopped. The short hairs on the back of her neck bristled with fear. Her scantily clad still figure was reflected dimly in the glass of the connecting door. A slight movement in the glass drew her attention. To one side of her own reflection was the image of a head. It was this head which had moved; like a ghost. The face of an ugly old man, eyes gleaming.

Polly's throat dried and her legs turned to jelly. She was paralysed with fear. The figure was sitting behind her, only a metre or so away. He must have been there all the time. Who was he? He scared the pants off Polly. She dare not move for fear of attracting the attention of the people in the next room. The ritual action was continuing before her eyes but they hardly took in what they saw. In her alerted mind, she watched her father raise his whip arm. Polly realised that he was about to whip her mother's genitals. That tender, secret flesh; the soft entrance to her private folds of pleasure.

She gasped in disbelief as the cry of pain penetrated the closed doors. The body lurched as the searing lash bit into the delicate lips, the stabbing pain flooding the body. Polly was alarmed. Just then she felt a light touch on the cleft between the cheeks of her bottom. Her body stiffened and reflexed at the touch. She was powerless to do anything about it. The roughness of the texture raised goose pimples on her flesh. She went cold all over.

It was a finger, prodding at her rear cleavage. It slid down the peach-like skin of the cleft until it reached the puckered, slightly damp orifice of her anus. There, it paused, gently nudging at the aperture, testing its tightness. Polly felt a wave of acute embarrassment as the finger reached her downy covered vulva, stabbing into the wetness, exploring the soft folds.

Her body had reacted to the sensuality of the scene before her and lubricated her vulva with a profuse seepage of her juices. The muscles in her bottom clenched tight. The intruding finger reached even further, making contact with her private button. Her loins gave an instinctive jolt of excitement at the stimulation.

In the next room, her mother's vulva was being paid more attention. The members of the party came up to her exposed genital area one at a time, lifting their hood to spit on the battered open lips between stokes of the cane. The hard nipples were pinched hard, the small breasts pulled hard and slapped. Her screams went unheeded. Her inner thighs were blue and purple with bruises, cris-crossed with red weals. The skin had broken here and there, showing strings of ruby-like spots. Spittle was running down her thighs and over the defiled genitals. Her body was being tormented. Her face was wet with tears.

Polly was rooted to the spot. Her loins were churning. She couldn't control her muscles. They twitched and trembled at the stimulating rough fingers groping into her secret passage. She felt disgusted by the attentions of the ugly old man. But, to her shame, the coiled spring inside her groin was tightening. The old man was an expert at manipulating the vulva and clitoris. Abruptly, the finger was transferred to the rear opening and pushed deep into the tight passage.

The lubrication of her honey gave the finger ease of entry. Polly jerked and grunted involuntarily as the finger invaded her rectum. Her orgasm exploded inside her, unexpected, flooding her whole body with a feeling of ecstasy. Her mind was in a whirl. Everything was blotted out whilst her mind gave way to the thrill of the flesh; unable to take anything in.

As reality slowly returned, she felt a roughness pushing between the cheeks of her bottom. A snuffling; a turbulent sniffing round her genitals. Hands were holding on to her waist firmly. It was the old man's head, pressed into her thighs, sniffing her young juices, pushing his nose deep into the crease. His tongue lapped at her entrance. His rough stubble chaffed her thighs, soft and tender.

Polly saw that her mother had now been lowered to the table, buttocks over the edge, thighs splayed wide. The man in the yellow sash was thrusting at her savagely. The small spiky breasts were bouncing wildly. The two sidesmen held her down by the shoulders, watching intently. Her head was thrashing from side to side, lips drawn back in anguish. Polly could not hear the sighs and whimpers her mother was making. 'Come on!' a woman cried out loud. There was urgency in her voice. Others joined in the verbal encouragement. 'Pour your magical balm into the burning hell of this bitch. Put out the fire of her lechery. Harder! Deeper! Reach into the farthest corner! The embers still burn in every tiny fold. Dry her passions.'

The large man gave a violent lurch, followed by erratic thrusts as he poured his seed deep into the burning shrine.

'Enough!' she cried in anguish.

'It still burns with lust and desire!' Her husband retorted. She opened her eyes as he positioned himself between her thighs.

'Your fiend is standing up, all excited! Your own devil is swaying his head.'

'He's searching for your hell mouth, Mary! He'll not rest now until he has entered your furnace to slake the fire burning hot in your hell. You dirty slut! Let him in!'

There were many voices now, shouting.

'Fuck her! Split her open! Rip her nipples off! Tear her legs apart!'

Polly watched her father violate her mother's slender body, ravish the womanly shrine with great pounding loins. Two men lifted her from the table. Her legs were wrapped round her husband's waist, exposing her back. Two of the women began lashing her back and hips as she was bounced roughly up and down on the urgent penis within her. The victim's voice became shriller until it turned into a long high moan.

The old man behind Polly finally stood. Her knees crumpled beneath her. She sank to the floor, exhausted with fear. Eyes closed, her brain no longer registered the terror. Her brain was numbed, refusing to take in any more. She was powerless. Without feeling. Completely in the old man's domination. Hands gripped her shoulders and turned her kneeling body.

Opening her weary eyes, Polly was confronted by a heavy, turgid penis. The veins stood out thickly, pulsing, giving the shaft a gnarled appearance. The foreskin was half retracted showing the purple knob. It had a pronounced ridge, smeared with a stinking cream. It reminded her of a toad. Dark and blotchy. The old man's muscles no longer had the strength to erect the phallus fully upright. It was pointing horizontally from the thick grey curls at its base. The shaft was not properly hard and rigid. It smelled of stale urine and sweat.

Taking her head in both hands, the old man pushed his repulsive phallus at her mouth, prising open the lips. Unable to resist, Polly allowed the filthy monster to penetrate her mouth, soft and warm. As it started to thrust into her, Polly was glad she had fully mastered the art of deep throat. Her tongue pressed upwards, pushing the stiff rod against the roof of her mouth. She took hold of the rough baggy trousers still hanging over his meagre bottom, jabbing into her with short urgent strokes.

There was a grunt. A jerk. Her mouth filled with spurts of warm, acrid-tasting fluid, strong, almost bleach-like. She gulped hard to prevent the starchy substance from choking her. After a moment of stillness, the softening cock was withdrawn. Polly watched its gnarled skin slip out of her mouth, drooping over the small testicles, tight and wrinkled. The image of the toad returned.

Glancing at the glass doors, Polly was horrified to see the hooded people stood watching her fellate the old man. Finding strength in her need, she jumped up and ran from the room. Her naked body staggered and fell up the carpeted staircase, rushing into her bed-room. Locking the door, she leaned heavily against it, panting for breath, before throwing herself under the blankets. The taste of the old man's sperm lingered in her throat as she finally fell into an exhausted, troubled sleep.

The following morning, everything was as usual. A grim-faced mother sitting quietly eating her toast. Her father read The Times as he sipped his coffee. Polly wondered if she had dreamed the whole episode. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she was sure it had been a particularly realistic dream.

Her mother looked at her. 'You didn't drink your milk last night.' The episode was never referred to.