Theater of Sexual Depravity, a short story by EmyNaso. Date added: 2010-09-10. Times viewed: 3830.
- Please SEND FEEDBACK - Writers love hearing from you. You can view the Authors profile here
- Intro: A lonely hotel where they act out their extreme sensuality
Theater of Sexual Depravity
By Emy Naso
Time could only be counted in his head. Sean had been taken to a dark, musty smelling room after his performance on the stage at the Theater of Submission. Forced, would have been nearer the mark. He’d been escorted by two guards, dumped in the room and the door locked. Occasionally one of their faces appeared at a hatch. They taunted and threatened Sean. The intimidation either of punishment or enforced bestiality.
He’d been left naked, and the guards took evil pleasure in voicing these cruel, menacing remarks, making him graphically aware what they would do to him, always taking pleasure in using Mercado’s name, vividly telling Sean how she would be treated when they visited her where she was being kept. The unrelenting sexual terrorization was beating his spirit into the ground. Leaving him without clothes added to the feeling of vulnerability.
The door flew back.
“Come on, Sean. Your up for a leading part. No time for makeup or elaborate costume. Get your fancy ass in gear.”
The four guards dragged him up, two manhandling Sean along a corridor, one leading the way and the fourth following, slapping Sean’s bare rear with a cane, mouthing suggestive and crude remarks, much to the amusements of his companions.
They reach the end of the corridor. Two guards pushed Sean fiercely against a rough stone wall. His chief tormentor grinned wickedly, shoving his face into that of their prisoner.
“Now listen to me, pretty boy. When you go in to the audition room do exactly as Miss Shalamy tells you. If you disobey the lady and she has to call us…” He fondled Sean’s genitals. Turning to the other guards he grinned and said, “Do you think we should tell our lucky actor what happens to those showing insubordination?”
One guard roared with laughed, before holding a finger up to his mouth and assuming an act of mock contriteness. “Sorry, mustn’t disturb Miss Shalamy with too much noise.”
“If we have to take you back to your own room for being a naughty actor, Sean, it won’t matter how much racket we, or you, make,” the guard squeezing his balls croaked malevolently. “And as a special treat we’ll not only let you listen to your bride’s screams, but you can come and watch what the lads are doing to her.” His mental and sexual persecutor, massaged Sean to an erection, his wide mouth open, showing a row of brown stained teeth.
The Guard stepped back and held the prisoner’s stiff cock. “When we said are you up for it, Sean, we meant the acting part, not this.”
The guards took it in turns to molest Sean, while he was held by their companions. He was saved from further humiliation, when the door opened and the distinctive voice of Shalamy called, “Sean.”
They bundled him in and left the room.
The mistress of Fendyke House leaned back on a table, her rear perched just on its wooden edge. There were folders and bound manuscripts on the desk along with a silver topped black cane. For some reason Sean gazed down and took in the plain boarded floor and a row of three pairs of feet. He followed up the legs, the bare rears and backs. Two of the naked figures had long hair. He did nor need that clue as to gender. The shape of hips and roundness of derrieres was enough. The third person in the line up was male.
“Don’t just stand there. You are late for the audition. Get in line. No, not there,” Shalamy urged, picking up the cane and pointing. “Stand next to that delectable lady.”
After his experiences, Sean was subdued. His eyes barely strayed to the figures by his side, even though he must have been aware of their equal nakedness.
Shalamy tapped the floor with the long black cane, leaning on its silver top with both clasped hands in a pose which made her look like a teaching premier ballerina, instructing her young dancers.
She rapped the cane again. Four separate spotlights shone down, narrow beams focusing on each of her nude actors in waiting. It kept the rest of the stark room in a gloomy mystery.
“This is a singularly great moment for you all,” Shalamy began. Her face was not made up with its usual heavy black eye-shade. The dim reflected light from four bare skinned torsos made her complexion even paler, a pallid, beautiful woman who had the look of a Victorian consumptive, fading in health yet still strikingly gorgeous. All she needed was a Gardenia to complete the Victorian Gothic picture.
“The Director has honored us with a new play,” she continued, her voice gaining strength at the mention of the revered man. “You can be part of this.” She walked gracefully closer to her row of supplicants. Studying each one in turn, there was no hint of artfulness, no reluctant shame to visually examine and appreciate the more intimate delights of the four young people before her. With a natural sweep of her arm, she ran a hand along the foursome, lightly touching each one, caressing genitalia, smiling at he experience.
“I do not want to be accused of favoritism, so I shall merely refer to you as…” she paused and glided back along the line. Placing a hand on the first, blonde, female she said, “Butterfly.” Moving to the next in line, a swarthy male, she contemplated, touched his chest and said, “Dragon.” Proceeding to the brunette female, Shelamy sighed, her fingers lightly fondly the young woman’s breast, “Humming Bird.” Ultimately she stood in front of Sean. “When you came into the audition room you were very excited about something,” she smirked, looking down at his cock. “There is no other name than, Dog.” Shalamy pressed the cold, black cane against his groin, letting her fingers wander onto his shaft. “What bitch would not want to be served by this master.”
Before moving back to her position in front of the auditioning captive actors she brought him to a hard, upright salute.
Echoing ominously around the bare room, Shalamy rapped the cane firmly on the floor.
“I will test your suitability in a series of questions. Only one answer, please. You are free to say what you wish.” The tall, elegant lady stared intensely along the line. “But you will benefit…or suffer…the consequences of that reply.”
“Butterfly.” Her loud, crisp voice was in contrast to the previous softness. “Would you do anything to be in the play?”
The blonde’s voice quivered. “I think so.”“Yes or no.”“Yes.” It was very tentative. Shelamy stared sternly. Picking up a file from the table, she opened the pages and wrote something in it, looking up often at Butterfly.
Without warning, Shalamy snapped, “Dragon. Do you value the theater more than the young man who arrived at Fendyke House with you?”
The man who had been designated Dragon gulped, quickly raising a hand to dab away a tear, then just as swiftly putting the arm back by his side.
“Is Mark okay?” he asked hesitantly.
Shalamy went over to a square of switches on the wall. Her long finger flicked at one. The spotlight on Dragon went out. She approached the shivering man, who now stood lonely in the gloom.
“The Theater of Submission is not for you, Dragon. The guards will take you to be reunited with your lover, Mark.” She smiled. Seeing her face, Dragon managed a weak grin. Shalamy hit him furiously in his stomach. Her lip curled as she confronted him. “You have no place in the play. I will order the guards to bring you two lovers together.” There was a snarling noise and she hissed, “You can spend the night watching each other being abused by some of the more sadistic guards. When you have been taught a lesson The Director will pen a short play to illustrate your public sodomy.”
The door opened. Guards marched in and dragged Dragon away. His cries for mercy could be heard all along the corridor.
“The house lights have gone down for Dragon,” Shalamy shrugged, interesting herself in the papers and bound manuscripts, indifferent to the dying sounds of distress. Peeking over the top of a folder, she pursed her lips and took up the cane in one hand.
“You, Humming Bird. Look at me.” The pretty woman raised her eyes, partly shielded by the deep brunette fringe. “Shalamy threw the manuscript at the petrified woman. “Read the first line.”
“I am nothing but a…” The brunette’s gaze darted to the woman with the cane.“Well. Have you lost your tongue, Humming Bird?”“It’s not true.” “Don’t be ridiculous, young lady. This is not life. We are acting on the stage. Now say the lines.”
Timidly, the brunette stared into space. Fidgeting with the script, she nervously read, “I am nothing but a slut…”“And?” Shalamy cracked the cane on the floor.
The pause seemed to last forever. “Slut,” the edgy voice repeated. “And deserve to be used by all the men.” Tears ended the blubbered sentence.
“That is the worse rendition of this magnificent play I have ever had to endure,” Shalamy sneered. She deliberately put the folders down in a neat pile on the desk, looked a Humming Bird with pity and slowly walked toward the switches.
Humming Bird realized her fate. She broke rank and fell to her knees in front of Shalamy.
“Please, no. Let me have another chance.”
Callously the tall, pale faced woman flicked the switch on the panel. The spotlight went out. She untangled Humming Bird’s fingers from her dress, pushing the woman away contemptuously. “There are no second chances in the theater, Humming Bird. It is an unforgiving profession.”
Shalamy called, “Guards.”
Two callous looking men stomped into the audition room. “Take the woman away. She is no longer part of the play. Let her amuse the backroom boys.”
Merciless laughter fused with pathetic and shrill shouts for forgiveness.
“So, Dog. Let us hope you have studied the script.” Shalamy smirked and added, “For your sake.” She perched back on the table, cane in hand.
“The question is, Dog, are you experienced enough for the part.” The rhetorical question lingered in silence.
“Tell me about Mercado?”For the first time in the bizarre audition Sean shook himself out of the submissive mood into which his punishment and conditioning had cast him.“Leave her out of this.”“I cannot,” Shalamy rejoined immediately. Sean nibbled at his lips. “You see, Dog, actors bring their past life to any role. That delicate and almost innocent bride is part of your experience.”
He looked as if he wanted to respond, but something, evidently, told him to stay silent.
Shalamy remained balanced on the edge of the table. Lifting the can, she held it out, poking into Sean’s stomach, nudging the metal ferule at his genitals. “Do you bring her to an orgasm?”
“Answer. Now.” The second word was uttered loudly.“Yes,” he muttered.“Is her ecstasy full of passion?”“I don’t know.”She laughed in an ironic manner and swirled the cane, letting it stimulate his cock. “Surely you are there at the time. Is not that manhood of yours the instrument of her pleasure?”
Before he could answer Shalamy got up and went to Butterfly. “You arrived at Fendyke House on your own. Yet the letters in your possession suggest you had a torrid affairs and were coming to the hotel to escape.”
Butterfly’s eyes widened.
“Don’t look so surprised. While you have been in our care your possessions were fully searched so we could gauge your suitability.”“Care!” Butterfly said through clenched brilliantly white teeth. Shalamy shot her a steely glance.
“Be careful, young lady. Petulance will be punished. “But we digress.” The audition mistress ran fingers through the young woman’s blonde hair. “Was your sex with your lover good?”“I’m not sure…”“It is my business, Butterfly?” The success of the play is certainly my business.” She smacked Butterfly’s rear with the cane. “Look at Dog.” The blonde turned and self consciously met Dog’s eyes.
“Not his face, Butterfly. Look down and see how erect Dog has become.” Shalamy let out an exasperated sound. “Take hold of his penis, Butterfly. Feel it. Is it as good as that of your lover? Can you imagine that hard cock in you? Grinding and thrusting.”
Butterfly touched Dog’s cock. When Shalamy described her sexual surrender she let go.
“I don’t think this part…or Dog’s cock…are for you, Butterfly.”
The blonde whimpered. Her spotlight went out. Shalamy rammed the cane three times on the floor. Two guards marched in.
“Butterfly needs far more coaching in learning her lines. “Get some of the stagehands to give her lessons.” The implications of the command were obvious. The blonde broke down, sobbing as she was bundled out of the room.
The audition mistress walked up and down for a few minutes. On her tenth straight line stroll, she stopped, looked at Dog and kissed him on the lips. Moving back, she fondled his cock back into its stiffness.
“What am I going to tell the Director, Dog?”“I don’t know.”Of course you don’t. You actors are so shallow. As someone who is responsible for the staging and management of our theater I have the worries on my shoulders. I think I need comforting, Dog.”His eyes flickered.“Unzip the back of my dress and push it off my weary shoulders and down to my waist.”
Watching him comply, she let the cane fall heavily to the floor. Shalamy wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were as milky white as the paleness of her face, small but high set and upright.
“While I massage your magnificent cock, Dog, bring me consolation with your strong hands at my breasts.” She groaned as they touched each other, whether at the feel of his fingers on her nipples or her hands around his cock could not be discerned from the sensuous gurgling tone of the sound emanating in her larynx.
“I need to think deeply, Dog. Slip my dress right down.”
It was soon revealed that she was naked, her loins pubescent smooth and fragile. “Spare one of those strong hands, Dog, from my breasts, and seek my petal with your fingers.”
In mutual gratification they both began to breath harder.“Have you done this to Mercado?”He panted, offering a slight nod.“The play demands a man and woman perform like this on stage.” Shalamy let him think about this. “Without Butterfly and Humming Bird we need a female lead.” There is no more time to think. “It will have to be Mercado.” He tried to pull away. She shook her head, denying him permission. “Continue, Dog.” Their massaging went on, faster and with growing vigor.
“You must do it, Dog. I think you have had enough experience of Fendyke House to realize refusal would be serious. For you…and Mercado.”
Shalamy pushed her body closer. “It will be a wonderful scene.” Again she kissed him. “It will be a great and dramatic show. But not the climax.” She grinned at the double meaning.
“Harder,” she panted. You can feel how wet I am.” He obliged the lady. Shalamy responded by quickening her pumping up and down of his foreskin.
“The final scene will be when you and Mercado consummate the great play, your beautiful cock penetrating her with this Oscar winning erection.”
She groaned in a long exhaling of passion. He uttered a low sound and closed his eyes. Dog ejaculated all over the fair loins of the audition mistress.
Duty Of Punishment Somewhere out in the crescent bay of salt marshes, a huge flock of ravens swooped untidily, black clouds of squawking birds diving this way and that. Shalamy, with her ordered mind, looked on them with contempt and distaste. They formed irregular patterns across the full moon, before settling in noisy clusters amongst the silhouetted, sparse trees. She turned from the evening spectacle, made her way along the east wing of Fendyke House and unlocked the door to the small rooms.
These were not the lavish guests room visitors were given when they first arrived at the lonely hotel. Accommodation in the east wing was for recalcitrant players in the Theater of Submission. Housing the reluctant or failed actors, the rooms were dark, meanly furnished and small.
The owner of Fendyke House had more duties to perform other than the management of the hotel. She was the lynchpin of the theater, the Director’s valued assistant, front of house management and audition mistress. It was her task, amongst many, to oversea the teaching of those who had not made thegrade. It was an onerous charge, and one Shalamy took most seriously.
Proceeding along by the staff quarters she nodded to the numerous faithful servants, knowing that many had served her for long years, and before that her mother, in the great house on the lonely fens. These people and their families had been the backbone of the hotel, Fendyke House, and when Shalamy’s mother discovered the beauty of the theater, the same servants became involved in its efficient running. Blind loyalty to traditions, the past and their betters was inbred in the people on this lonely peninsular.
For a brief moment, Shalamy looked out of the arched window on the landing, again seeing the dead and disfigured oak tree out by what the locals called, Drover’s Grave.
In the old days, Drovers of livestock would herd the sheep and cows from the lush meadows, across the marshes, and down to the wooden landing jetties. Small, flat bottomed boats took the livestock to market, much quicker along the coast than the long trek overland.
Some Drovers were too impatient. They misjudged the treacherous tides and were caught in the fast rising sea. If the brine didn’t get them the sinking mud did.
Out on Drover’s Grave were said to be the bones of at least twenty-five herdsmen and thousands of livestock. It was also the resting place of another. When Shalamy’s mother embraced the dark yet intoxication of the theater, her husband wanted nothing to do with it. He grew jealous of the men in his wife’s life. He stomached the plays but grew angry when she took to sexual practices with both men and women.
Nothing could come between the mother and the thrill of the stage. That is why he had to die and be buried out on the fen marshes.
This had happened when Shalamy was a small girl. She had followed the ways and inclinations of her mother. When the older lady died Shalamy embalmed the body and set it in a coffin, resting forever on the balcony overlooking the dining area. The same room which became the theater.
“We have come to witness, madam,” one of the servants nodded. Shalamy acknowledged the man and walked in stately fashion to the small hall at the end of the east wing. The hall was converted to a tiny amphitheater, a half moon stage, with below the tiered ranks of wooden seats.
The servants waited for the mistress to take her place, before fifteen of them crowding in to become the audience.
It was an evening of entertainment. A roll of drums brought the whispering crowd to an awed hush.
The Play’s The Sensuous ThingThe amphitheater went from black to a brightly lit presidium. In the center, a blonde sat on an old upright chair, the seat’s varnished, simple barley twist legs, peeling. The young woman’s hands were clasped in her lap, shyly over her loins, arms pushed in to try and cover her breasts. She stared forlornly into the darkness before her, probably unaware of the small audience watching breathlessly, hypothesized at the possible fate of the pretty naked performer.
“What shall we ask the woman to perform?”
The deeply resonant tone was unmistakably that of the Director. He spoke from some hidden place. The audience muttered. Once voice called out from the darkness, “Let her be a flower.” There was a ripple of gentle, yet satirical laughter. Another suggested, “A tree.” The carefully modulated voice of Shalamy, who was in the audience, intervened. “We named her Butterfly. Let her be that.”
“Come forward and act as a butterfly,” the Director said with finality.
Timorously the young woman got up from her chair. For a second she stood defenselessly in the unwanted limelight. Self consciously she raised and fluttered her arms, perfectly formed breasts moving to the imposed movement of her unclothed body.
Moving across the bare boards of the small stage her careful steps, simulating a butterfly rising from early morning sun, squeaked toes on wood, a gentle noise, yet amplified to great sound in the deadly hush. Butterfly acted, for all the world, gossamer wings like delicate skin on her exposed, subtle torso. Reminiscent of the quick, graceful flight of the insect she portrayed, her dance ended.
The naked Butterfly stood, alone and frightened.
“Can we vote?” It was the Director.
From the auditorium came a repetitive, gruff vocal amphibious sound of frogs. Butterfly had no way of knowing what it meant. Her face suggested she feared its meaning.
“She needs to be taught another part.”, the Director said. “Volunteers..”
Voices muttered. Two men advanced from the gloom, mounting the stage. “Let the scene commence. Let Butterfly entertain us,” the Director announced.
She performed valiantly but to no avail. Butterfly was bound, wrists behind her back. The more she screamed, the greater was the delirious cheering from the small band of onlookers. The two men delighted in discovering her body, with probing hands and searching fingers. In the macabre theater the blonde was abused and humiliated. She was forced to give them oral sex, before the men carried her from the stage. If she was spared ultimate penetration in a wild, orgiastic public scene, her cries from below stage suggested it was a fate delayed only for a private place.
Talking nonchalantly, like a well heeled audience during an interval, the servants were brought to silence by a trumpeted fanfare. They settled down for scene two.
The swarthy man, called by Shalamy, Dragon, and his companion Mark were ushered onto the stage. Looking anxiously perplexed both young men were respectably dressed in suits.
A gaudy backdrop fell in place, blazing lights flooded the stage, and from the right an immaculate, teeth gleaming smiling man bounced ebulliently between the two men.
“Welcome Dragon and Mark to ’Save Your Partner’ our weekly gameshow, full of fun, frenzy and fanatical frolics,” the host gurgled in a high pitch hysteria of over-the-top exhibitionism. Although he pranced and danced around, his immaculately cultured hair was rigidly set in a mass of waves, tints and rinses. Obsequiously he put arms around Dragon and Mark in his touchy-feely manner. The audience, although small in number, were cheering, whistling, in what sounded like an induced state of emotion. The theater became a chilling parody of some ghastly TV show.
“Okay, Dragon. Let me come to you first.” The game how host winked to the audience, cuddled Dragon and artfully said, through bouts of pouting, When I say ‘come’ I hope you get my meaning.” There were more knowing nods to the crowd.
“First I’ll remind today’s contestants of the rules.” He raised a hand to the audience. “Yes, I know you good folk know them…but we have to be fair to our gallant friends, Dragon and Mark.” More hugging and oily grins were dispensed.
“I’ll set you a challenge, Dragon. You can either accept or give it to your partner.” The host smiled at Mark, nudged Dragon and winked at the audience. “And I’m sure you’re giving it to Mark.” Ribald laughter filled the small theater. The burlesque was rapidly descending into an orgy of bad taste and smutty innuendos.
“So listen carefully, Dragon. Here is your first challenger.” The smarmy host took a red card from his pocket, held it up ostentatiously and read, “Would you like to be stripped naked and whipped by two volunteers from the audience?”
A deathly, expectant hush held the onlookers in suspense. The gameshow host fidgeted, pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. Dragon looked apprehensively frightened, eyes quickly darting from his partner, to the demonic host and then the darkness of the tiny auditorium.
“Times up, Dragon. We must now have your answer. “Do you strip for the whip, or make Mark gain the pain.” This was obviously the host’s catch-phrase. The audience burst into applause.
“Yes or no, Dragon?”
Dragon muttered. “Speak up, Dragon,” the host jovially cajoled.“I’ll submit,” Dragon managed to say.
The host jigged around the two men, beaming and slapping Dragon on the back.
“Let’s hear it for Dragon, folks. He certainly sticks up for his partner.” The idiotic man gave an exaggerated wink to the crowd and in a mock aside said loudly, “And we can guess what he sticks up his partner.”
Music played, a pretty young woman, dressed in a sequined bathing costume, glided onto the stage and started to undress Dragon. Consecutively, three burly men appeared, two grabbed hold of Mark and held him tight, the third standing close to Dragon, his presence making it abundantly clear he was there to make sure the scared contestant complied.
As every article of clothing was theatrically removed the audience cheered. When Dragon’s shorts were taken off and he was instructed by the young woman to turn and display his nakedness, the crowd went crazy.
The grinning fool of a host held a hand up for silence. Stagehands dragged a chair onto the set. Two men eagerly appeared, the volunteers from the audience, whips in eager hands and idiotic grins. Drums rolled.
“Take your position, Dragon. It’s flogging Showtime.” Bewildered and fear in his eyes, Dragon was led to the chair, bent over, with ass to the audience.
A fanfare sounded and dramatic drums beat. The volunteers stepped forward.
They took it in turns to lash Dragon, most of the stroked striking his rear, some hitting back and thighs. He cried in pain and had to be held down by stagehands.
The public flogging ceased. The host took hold of Dragon’s hand and steered him back to his partner.
“I think you owe Dragon a kiss for that, Mark. Go on, don’t be shy. We won’t look, will we?” He smiled unctuously at the audience. The men kissed self consciously. “Wasn’t that sweet. I know we all want say a big thank you to Dragon for being such a wonderful contestant.” The host gestured for a round of applause. Prancing between the two men he pulled them very close.
“Now Mark, it’s your turn to show Dragon how much you love him.”
The audience gave a long ‘oooh’ followed by a mock ‘arrrrrh’.
“Mark. Here is your challenge. And this is one we’ve all be waiting for.” The host spoke in a ridiculously serious tone. “Let me ask you this. Would you submit, here on the stage, to a gorgeous public showing of being anally penetrated by our two volunteers.” He waved at the grinning men. “Or be taken backstage with Dragon and both getting a good screwing by at least ten specially selected charming…” he flashed a sparkling smile to the audience…“sadistic perverts.”
The host looked back to Mark. “Now take your time, Mark. There’s no pressure.” With a silly laugh, he turned to the crowd and added, “ But there might be some pressure when those sadists thrust deep into your pert ass.”
Mark instinctively sought Dragon’s hand. He was frozen in fearful indecision. The silence went on and on.
“I’m sorry, Mark. Time is up.” The gameshow host put a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “I’ve got to say, young man, you’ve disappointed the folk here this evening. The rules say that if you don’t answer in time then you can’t take part in the stage show. That’s a great pity as I know we were all looking forward to seeing you be screwed on stage, weren‘t we folk? ”“YES,” came back a loud reply.
Closing music brought a chorus line of girls, dancing erotically on the stage. Over the cacophony, the host shouted, “Never mind, tomorrow we can all see a video of brave Mark and Dragon being continually screwed. Take the contestants from the stage.” With a suggestive smile, the host announced. “Stay where you are folks. After a short intermission, we have the highlight of tonight’s entertainment. Humming Bird, a rare and precious young woman, will be the star prize in our audience participation game, ‘Submit and Say Thanks’”
Thumbs Up For The Sadistic GamesSome brought sandwiches, eating and chatting during the interval. Shalamy sat apart from the servants, a pretty dark skinned woman bringing a glass of champagne to the owner of Fendyke House, then sitting by the mistress quietly. A bell rang to tell them the finale of the evening’s entertainment was about to begin. Paper rustled as snacks were put away. Shalamy went on sipping her drink, her face almost the same shade as the pale liquid.
This time there was no ostentatious music, just a bank of subdued lights from somewhere high up. A black and silver edged box, as tall as a man, was wheeled onto the stage, accompanied by a magician, in top hat and flowing cloak. He bowed to the audience, produced a huge bunch of flowers from his sleeve and then from cupped hands, a tiny, exotic bird, letting the creature fly into the darkness of the auditorium.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began with an exaggerated flourish of his arm and hand, “ We are privileged to live here at Fendyke House. Yet this is a lonely and isolated place and many of you do not often see the outside world.” He swirled the cloak in another embellished motion. “But this evening we have a jewel to bring a sparkle into your life, a refined and precious object for your pleasure. We offer this prize to two lucky people.”
Moving toward the upright metal box, the magician clapped his hands, a shower of colored lights cascading in all directions. Spinning the box, he chanted some incantation, and in a puff of smoke the box flew apart. There was a loud cry of appreciation and wonder from the audience.
Humming Bird, the beautiful woman of fine features and gorgeous figure, stepped down from the plinth where the box had stood. The bank of lights dimmed, as a single radiant spot picked her out in the center of the stage. No a sound came from the watching crowd, such was the enchantingly, sensual sight.
The lady was attired, yet nakedly erotic. A wide gold band around her neck continued down, and under her breasts, lifting them so her large nipples pointed majestically forward. An emerald adorned her belly-button. Her waist was girdled with a diamond encrusted belt, and silver tassels hung down at such wide intervals that they were nothing but tantalizing decoration and did not hide her loins and fair brunette pubic hair. Thighs were tattooed with exquisite renditions of exotic birds and she wore silver thong sandals with matching straps to her knees. The whole effect was sexual hypnotic, heightened by the carved and ornate chains around her ankles, shackled together, allowing her to step down from the plinth but restricting Humming Bird running away. It was a elegant symbol of bondage.
“You are rightly stunned into silence,” the magician said, holding a hand out to bring Humming Bird to the front of the stage.
Conspiratorially, he approached the unseen audience. “Have you all picked your lucky number?” There was a returned, muttered ‘yes’.
“Our mistress will graciously come on stage and pick two numbers from the magician’s hat.” With a grand swish of his hand, he took off his hat and placed it on a small round table.
“Inside are all your numbers. The prize is…” he turned and pointed to Humming Bird. “Our winners will come up on the stage and ask…should I say tell, ladies and gentlemen…this fabulous woman what she must do.” With an devious grin, he held the side of his hand to his mouth, in a pretend gesture of confidentiality.
“In our “Submit And Say Thanks,” the prize must be grateful, and express it, after performing whatever task requested. I have a treat for you tonight. Our chosen award, Humming Bird has shown a recalcitrant attitude in training for this part. It is possible she will not say thank you.” The magician marched around the stage once, stopped where he had begun, and with a beaming face, addressed the audience. “That means the lucky winners can go on demanding submissions until Humming Bird says thank you.”
Shalamy appeared at the side of the stage. The magician respectfully went over and bowed, walking backwards as she approached the table. Her long, pallid fingers dipped into the top hat. She drew out a single piece of paper and then another. Handing them to the magician she walked away, out of the spotlight and left the east wing theater. She had no interest in the servants’ uncouth games.
“Numbers eighteen and seven,” the magician announced. Jubilant shouts came from the crowd. Within a few seconds two men ran eagerly onto the stage.
“Calm down,” the magician joked. “She is all yours. Do you want the audience to stay and witness your entertainment. Both men nodded, licentious grins on their faces.
The magician brought Humming Bird to the men. Her face showed fear and disgust in equal measure.
“These are your masters,” he shrugged, for the first time in his show, indifference showing. She pulled her head to the side, looking away from the men. “It is not necessary to see them while you submit to their sexual demands,” the magician sneered in a soft voice so only she heard and the play was not soured for the audience.
“Have you decided how she will submit?” he said to the men. They guffawed and said something to the magician. He suppressed a wicked laugh. “I’m not sure she will say thank you if you both do that,” he grinned. “But it will be fun to watch you two making her submit, and how kinky you will get before she yields to the inevitable and becomes a willing submissive.”
The magician stepped back, arms folded. Humming Bird screamed as the men got hold of her.
“Enjoy yourself,” he sarcastically said. “She is a stubborn young woman. The backroom boys enjoyed her this afternoon, yet she didn’t once stop struggling.”
Shalamy was out of earshot. She never heard, or cared, about the shocking sexual fate Humming Bird was enduring.
Ritual On The FensThe briny, brackish waters of the flood tide receded from the marshes. In the dark, early hours of the morning, the fen loving insects and amphibians buried safely in the exposed mud banks.
Since childhood, Shalamy knew the reliable routes through the fenlands. It was dangerous for strangers, and many lost their lives showing too much bravado and not enough respect.
The mistress of Fendyke House carried an oil lantern, just as her mother and grandmother had used before her. Modernity was not welcome.
Picking her way through the newly liberated marsh land, the ebbing tide only now at the edge of the bay, she saw the sign that all was made ready. Two lights flickered in the distance, one to her right and the other not twenty yards from the first.
Getting nearer she saw the two figures. Brought there on the instructions of the Director, and now awaiting Shalamy, these were very carefully selected victims. They were on the slightly raised bank, where once a dyke turf wall stood, long ago swept away but the area was still dry, even when the tide had only recently gone out.
The figures were very quiet. This young woman and man from the village, an offering from the Director for his great love, Shalamy, awaited their destiny. The Director had been leaving these gifts for almost a decade. She had no idea how, and by what persuasion, he managed to demand compliance. Perhaps it was the power of tenure, her family owning all the land, farms and cottages within twenty miles of the lonely Fendyke House. Or maybe it was the magnetism of sexual excitement that persuaded them to this place, not knowing the erotic flame of evil would burn their curious, young wings.
Shivering in the early morning, they watched Shalamy come to them, her single light to witness their shame.
She marveled at their youthful beauty, and wondered if they were lovers or brother and sister, so alike were they, similar brown, deep set eyes and light auburn hair. Like all the Director’s gifts of the marsh night, the pair wore black cloaks. Shalamy shuddered with sensual thoughts, knowing that they would both be naked under the one rough, woolen garment.
Names were not for her. She did not ask them. Sin should be anonymous.
Taking great pleasure, she slipped the cloak from the man. She judged him to be an agricultural worker, his body tanned from the wind and sun, hands strong, even in one who was barely twenty. The woman waited compliantly, head bowed.
The removal of her cloak revealed a soft body, pubic hair hardly visible, breasts, small and delightfully round. She was not pale of skin, like Shalamy, but had the same darker complexion of the male. Hers not from manual labor in the fields but a natural olive shade from her parent’s land of sun before coming to this desolate place of cold and damp days.
It was silent in the marshes. Shalamy did not want words to disturb her pleasure of fens and young bodies. Her left hand felt over the man’s chest, her left fondled the woman’s breasts. Hearing their breathing, the mistress kissed each and let her hand slip down to their loins.
His cock was erect in anticipation of her touch. The village woman needed gentle manipulative fingers to yield and willingly part her legs so that Shalamy could delve into her vagina and bring on her moistened dew.
The night owl hooted to another lonely soul across the fen. The young couple responded to Shalamy’s expertise, panting hot air into the cold night, forgetting the early shivers.
Sensing her offerings growing excitement, Shalamy embraced the woman, whispering in her ear, reminding her what was expected.
The woman sighed and walked along the straight bank toward the other light. The mistress of Fendyke House turned the young man to face where his companion went. She stood by his side, continuing to massage his cock, fingering the foreskin back to stroke his sensitive zone.
The woman reached the end of the bank. Shalamy and her paramour could not see that far into the dark night. The mistress knew that the arranger of these events was there. The Director would be waiting for the naked village woman.
Faster and faster, Shalamy’s hand worked up and down his erection, feeling the blood gorge and swell the size and dimension of his hardness. In the twenty yards from where they stood, both could hear the woman panting, being taken, sexual possessed by the Director. His low groans made Shalamy sexually agitated, her hand, not massaging the man’s cock, sought his hand, encouraging him to seek inside her pants and delve into her loins.
He knew what she desired, his finger stimulating her clitoris and slipping easily inside to bring comfort to her vagina.
A cry rent the still air. It was uttered by the woman in pleasure and torment. The Director’s satisfaction was complete. He had penetrated her, fulfilled his needs, setting free his sexual angst inside her coerced young body.
When she heard the woman’s wail, Shalamy brought the young man to an ejaculation in a hand frenzy. She let her fingers seek the tip of his cock, allowing the warm cream of his release run over her hand, bringing it up and smearing his chest.
The ritual was over. When the young woman returned, Shalamy kissed her, easing fingers down to the villager’s clitoris, closing her eyes and thinking that the Director’s cock had been questing in this tight orifice.
One last embrace, and Shalamy walked away. It was the end for her. Not for the young couple. The man was virile, rapidly recovering and becoming hard.
Performing to instructions, the young woman bent forward, spreading her legs. Her companion grabbed her slight thighs, pushed forward and entered her vagina.
Their love, if such is was, lasted surprisingly long. That pleased the Director. He moved closer, watching and salivating in their carnal act. Long after Shalamy had gone to bed and fallen asleep, the Director ordered their continual sexual performances from his dark, unseen spot on the bank.
That night on the marshes, this strange man of power indulged his mind, ordering acts of oral and anal sex for his visual delectation.
Arise Greek Gods and Goddesses.The evening of the great play dawned. Sean and Mercado had been schooled, punished and threatened. They had no choice but to be stars in the gala performance.
It was a very special play. The small audience, dressed in their best clothes, chatting and laughing, waited for the curtain to rise. Shalamy sat in the front row. Out of respect nobody occupied seats around her, except the mistress’s current favorite servant, the young black girl who had served her champagne at the previous evening’s performance in the small theater. This grand affair was being staged in the huge dining room of Fendyke House, now decked as ’The Theater of Submission’
Drums sounded, house lights dimmed, the audience took its place. Pipes of Pan echoed around the theater adding an exotic air to the evening. A broad shouldered man walked to the side of the stage, wearing a long, white gown, his face covered by a mask, with the fixed expression of tragedy.
“I am your chorus, the teller of this tale of love and deceit.” He stood by a wooden lectern, turned the pages of a thick book, and began to read.”
“Back in the days of the gods of the ancient Greeks, the ravishingly beautiful goddess, Aphrodite, possessed a magic girdle, which made everyone fall in love with its wearer.”
A trap door opened and slowly a stunning female figure arose up from the bowels of the lower area, appearing in magnificence on the stage. The goddess wore a simple silk robe, long to the ground, yet tight at the waist, exposing the white breasts of the woman. Her hair was tied up and dressed with a silver threaded net, held in place with a gold comb. Mercado was Aphrodite.
“The great Zeus had given Aphrodite in marriage to Hephaestus, the lame Smith god,” the chorus intoned. “But Aphrodite had sinned and her three children, Phobus, Deiumus and Harmonia were sired by her love, Ares, god of war.”
A great clash of thunder and simulated lighting rocked the theater, much to the amazement of the audience.
“Hephaestus know nothing of this deception, until one day he saw his wife and her lover in an erotic embrace.”
From the stage left came a noble figure, almost naked except for a brief loincloth, and holding a javelin. This was Ares, played by Sean.
Ares approached Aphrodite, took her in his arms, kissed her breasts and embraced her passionately.
“Her husband was angry and vowed revenge. He went to his forge and hammered out a bronze hunting net as fine as gossamer, but totally unbreakable. Then he waited for an opportunity.”
For no reason in the story, purely for dramatic effect, dancing semi-naked nymphs swept across the stage, leaping and somersaulting, revealing even more of their bare assets. The divergence gave the stage hands an opportunity to push a large bed into the scene.
The lights dimmed to a blue, faint glow. Ares led Aphrodite to the bed. Undoing her dress he let it slip away from her body. Her nakedness, apart from a slim, golden girdle, brought a subdued roar from the audience. They kissed and caressed for a while. Ares then removed his loincloth, took Aphrodite down on the bed and they rolled together in a display of passion.
“That night, thinking her husband was away, Aphrodite took her lover to the marriage bed. Their fervor knew no bounds.” The chorus paused. In censorious tones he continued. “Aphrodite presented herself to Ares, inflaming his desire.”
The stage goddess knelt, rear raised high, head low, arms stretched out, legs apart. Mercado’s erotic pose made the audience gasp. They cheered when Sean in his guise as Ares came up to her rounded ass, his cock as straight and deadly as the spear he had carried. To shouting and applause, he pushed forward, and thrust into Aphrodite.
The aroused crowd screamed encouragement in lascivious and bawdy fashion.
“Their lovemaking was never ending,” chorus chanted. “Ares possessed her in every position.”
To the ecstatic delight of the audience the stage Aphrodite rolled over onto her back, knees raised, accepting her lover, wrapping her legs around him as he returned his cock to her vagina.
The crowd were now standing and cheering. They adored the play. It was impossible to tell if Sean and Mercado were equally enjoying their coerced pubic sexual performance. What punishment, indignities and threats were needed to get them to become a theatrical peep show did not occur, or concern the onlookers.
One member of the audience remained calm. Shalamy enjoyed the spectacle in a calm manner. While the Director wrote and staged the production, she’d been the instrument and instigator of the chastisement necessary to bring her erstwhile guests, Sean and Mercado, to accept their part in the play. She had relished her duties. Devising humiliating and always sexual punishment was her forte. Sensually tormenting Sean and Mercado to break their spirits had been her task. Shalamy created, participated in and voyeuristically looked on to all the bondage and submission sessions. Her experience told her that actors were easier to train if they witnessed the capitulation of their partner. Shalamy ensured Sean watched Mercado being subjected to sexual games with other men and women. It brought his strong will to her command so much quicker.
Sitting in the audience she remembered all those moments. Her present favorite, the delicious black young woman, allowed Shalamy to stroke her clitoris and when the scene on the stage was sexually exciting, knelt before her mistress, deferentially pushing up her dress and bringing pleasure to the lady of the pale complexion by adroit use of her tongue in a regal vagina.
“The lovers rested for a while,” chorus said.
The audience booed. They wanted more, and made their desires know with loud and persistent calls.
“Take her in another position,” a man lewdly shouted. Within minutes pandemonium, fueled by lust, broke out. The audience of servants invaded the stage. Sean tried to defend Mercado. He was overcome by four men and two frenetic women. His wife was pounced on by a male servant.
Before he could commit a lone sexual act on the screaming Aphrodite, more frenzied and sensually crazed servants bundled her away toward the east wing, where she would be available to many more eager hands and rampant loins.
A lone figure remained impassive. Shalamy sat silently, her dark, satin skinned companion now by her side. The mistress watched the sexual mayhem with disinterest. When the crowd dispersed with their unwilling victims, she stood, walked up the main stairs, and was followed by her female acolyte .
Desire To DeathBeyond the guest rooms were Shalamy’s private apartments. There were secluded and protected by many winding corridors and locked doors. Entering her drawing room, overlooking the west side of the garden, where during the day she could look out on sculptured lawns and lakes, the mistress felt secure.
She went to a picture of her mother on the wall, slid it back and keyed in four numbers on a dial. A panel of the oak lining slid back. A quick glance back told her follower to enter with her.
The secret door closed behind them. The room was lit with candles in heavy brass holders, casting eerie shadows across the gloomy sanctum. A musty, dankness purveyed the secret place, every light footfall echoing in the cavernous space.
It had the feel of a once hallowed church, long colonized by evil. From the unseen, unknown outside world, strands of ivy invaded and hung, lank and the palest of green, untouched by daylight, denied the health of the sun.
“Wait.” Shalamy commanded of her faithful servant girl.
From the deepest shadows came a low, faint breathing, mechanical, yet with the presence of living death. The mistress took a candle stick, and held the flickering yellow light to her face, giving her stunning features the appearance of jaundice in beauty.
“I have come to seek guidance.” Shalamy spoke softly.
The gasping sound replied. “I am listening.”
Shivering, the black servant girl tried to move back. Shalamy reached out and held her hand tightly.
“Your play has incited the servants into a sexual frenzy,” the mistress said. Then added, “Director, I mean no disrespect.”
An arm floated out from the shadows, its white gloved hand touching Shalamy on the shoulder.
“It is not the words, Shalamy, but the erotic sets and costumes you design.” It was the voice of the Director. “Where are the servants now?”
“Rampaging through the east wings. Probably satiated their desires on the prisoner guests we hold there.” The mistress took a long intake of breath. “We expended much time in training the gorgeous Mercado. I fear she will have been ruined for the stage by lustful sexually violated by many.”
Staying in the gloom so only the outline of his strong figure was visible, the Director moved closer to Shalamy.
“They have been too long incarcerated in this place, loyal to your family but frustrated in their deprivation of a normal life. I have warned you before about the servants, Shalamy.”
She stifled a sob. “Once before the suppressed frenzy in Fendyke House caused horrendous consequence,” he groaned.
Again she cried out.
“Do you remember, Shalamy? All those years ago.”“I am sorry, Director.”“Yes, I know, but I live that night over and over. I came to you as a guest and you held me as a prisoner.”“You were so handsome, my darling.”“I did not mind, Shalamy. We taught each other submission. But then…”“Don’t. Please, don’t.”“It must be said,” the Director moaned insistently.
“The play we acted in was wonderful. But the scenery, the costumes and the atmosphere you designed. It inflamed them…and you, Shalamy.”
The mistress squeezed the young woman’s hand fiercely. “I didn’t know it would end that way, my darling.”
For a moment he did not reply Then more words poured from the soul in darkness.
“I wanted to be in that scene of bondage. My sadomasochism had been well taught.”
The frightened black servant bit her lips, hearing the figure in the dark cry out.
“Madness, madness. Such sexual frenzy. Those whips and beatings. It never stopped. You and your servants scared my life in a frenzy of lust.”
His voice rose to a wail. Stepping from the shadow he held Shalamy by her shoulders, his white gloves luminous in the gloom.
The servant screamed hysterically. The Director’s face and neck were a macabre mask of brutality. He had been horribly disfigured. Shalamy kissed his scared face, hugging him, tears suppressing her inaudible words.
Eventually the mistress leaned away from the Director. “See, my darling, I have brought you this woman. Her silk, black body will comfort you.”
The Director looked at the woman, his eyes barely visible through deformed lids. “What is your name?” he asked the servant.“Jenny.” It was a nervous rejoinder.
The Director took his gloves off and let his robe slip from his shoulders. His muscular body was even more scared than his face.
The servant did not move. Suddenly she seemed to realize she was the sexual gift for this man.
She cried out, screams echoing around the vaulted room. Shalamy held her still as the Director stripped her naked. Carrying her in his brawny arms, Jenny screeched and kicked out.
The Fall Of The House Of Fendyke Clothes ripped from her ebony body, gagged and strung up from a metal beam, the young Jenny stared, wide eyed at the hideous man standing only two feet from her total sexual accessible. The disfigured Director and her mistress had bound her wrists, stretching arms up so that the soles of her small feet just touched the cold stone floor.
“Isn’t she magnificent?” Shalamy whispered, clawing at the Director’s arm, her eyes averted from his face, not having looked on his countenance for almost a decade. Even when submitting to his desires she would either let him take her from the rear or allow him to blindfold her before laying between her legs and entering his lover.
“Where did you find her, Shalamy?”“I saw her in the market in the town. She was serving on a flower stall.”“Such a black rose, her petal waiting to be plucked. Have you trained the black goddess?”Shalamy let her hand go to the Director’s cock, touching him as she answered his sensual inquisition.
“She has been to my bed many times, my darling, and felt both my fingers and a dildo in her.”
This seemed to excite him. His erection grew. “What of men? Is she a virgin?”“She tells me she is.”
Jenny wriggled, causing her body to turn. The Director leaned forward, his hard cock pressing into her rear, Shalamy’s hand still fondling him.
“Then I shall possess her completely,” he moaned. “Just as she is, bound into this upright positioned. First this gorgeous ass and then the young woman’s chaste, pure vagina.” He mauled her rear cheeks, laughing wickedly. “If she is a virgin, then her taut ass has probably not experienced the strength of a man inside.”
Desperately Jenny struggled to no avail
“You will stay and watch, Shalamy.” The Director moved away from his intended victim, and kissed the mistress’s neck. “I want you first, Shalamy. Bend before my demands. Let the girl watch how deep my cock thrusts into you. She can contemplate how it will feel when I penetrate her.”
Shalamy submitted to her lover of the dark. Leaning forward she held on to an alter shaped table, sighing when he swiftly came to her and immediately pushed his stiffness deep inside her moist and willing vagina.
They groaned and coupled for only a short time, much of their pleasure seemingly derives from stealing glances at Jenny, luxuriating in her expression, letting their imagination dwell on how she must be mentally suffering. The depravity heightened by the Director’s evil, breathless torments. Thrusting into Shalamy he goaded the helpless Jenny. “Soon, my ebony virgin. Very soon you will know the intensity of my cock.”
Abruptly he withdrew from the panting mistress. She stood up, his arms folding around her body, hands cupping breasts. “Tonight, my love, all my strength shall be saved for this precious, uncut stone.”
The Director let Shalamy go, and walked toward Jenny.
“See the scars on my face and body.” He grabbed her chin, a pincer grip with his hands. “Only my cock was without the marks of that frenzied night. You, sweet, pure girl will know it soon. First in your innocent ass, then between your divine legs and finally you will suck it in that sensuous mouth.” He forced her legs apart and pushed a finger into her. “Refuse me anything and your night will go on for ever. I have great stamina and can penetrate you many times.” The Director grinned. “After that I can hand you over to the servants…both male and female…to use you in whatever way they desire.”
The verbal taunting ended. He violent swung her around, seized Jenny’s hips and shoved his erection into her rear. Even through the gag her shrieks were heard.
The mistress did not watch. It wasn’t compassion for Jenny but the convention that she never looked at the Director’s disfigured face. She heard the muffled screams. Carefully raising her eyes, avoiding his face, she watched his thrusts going back and forth, constantly despoiling Jenny’s ass. Her fascination intensified, listening to him groan, her eyes riveted on that young, rounded, plump ass, knowing he was near satisfaction, seeing his rampaging cock slide out and ejaculate over her cheeks.
It seemed like an age she observed the trickle of hot passion slide down onto the black, sacrificial upper thighs. His voice brought Shalamy out of the sexual reverie.
“I have decided. She must be untied when I deflower her. If she fights, then I will use my strength to make her submit. Cut her down, Shalamy.”
Traumatized, Jenny stood naked and shivering. “And remove the gag.” Hearing her scream will be our final aphrodisiac, Shalamy.”
The mistress did as she was bid, then turned to move away.
“Submission or rape. The choice is yours, Jenny,” The Director sneered.
In that few seconds while he deliberated the adorably and evil delight of penetrating the virgin before him, his victim cried out like a banshee and dashed for the darkness, certainly with no plan or thought, except to escape.
Her flight was in vain. There were no open doors. The Director grabbed her, brutally mauling her naked body. He swung her around. Jenny’s legs struck one of the candle sticks. Hot wax from the holder poured onto the Director’s hand. Remembrance to a night of pain made him violently flail his arm. Another candlestick went flying.
The old cloth on the alter, where Shalamy had recently presented her body, caught fire. Soon the room was engulfed, the detritus of many years ample tinder.
Stumbling blindly, Jenny barged into the secret door. It sprang open to let her get away.
“Where are you, Shalamy?” The Director shouted. She ran into his arms. For the first time since that shocking night, she looked up, and in the roaring fire saw his horrendous face. Her cries pierced the inferno. It was not for the danger they were in, but the loss, she had forgotten, of that once magnificently handsome countenance.
Dust To MudShe would not let go of him. The sliding door was blocked by falling timbers. He picked Shalamy up in one arm, and smashed a chair at the small door on the far side of the vaulted room. It led into his own lair. Once through he saw there was no escape except to climb onto the outside ledge.
He kicked the window out. “Shalamy we have to do this.”“I cannot,” she trembled. “I’m afraid of heights.”“There’s no other way. Close your eyes and hang on to me.”
Inch by inch they edged along the narrow ledge. Every moment the fire took hold in the house. Below, voices shouted in panic, servants and prisoners of the dreadful hotel clambered out, many naked, some burned and skin blackened.
High above two figures crept along toward the rooms at the west wing. The Director hesitated, Shalamy holding on to her lover.
“We cannot go through the rooms. They are ablaze already,” he shouted over the roaring conflagration. “Our only hope is the tower.”
“Precariously tracing their route, he reached the metal steps hammered into the tall tower. “We must climb up,” he yelled. Go first. Do not look down.”
Hand over hand, unsteady feet on the rungs, they slowly made the top of the tower. Scrabbling over the crenellated wall, they stood huddled together. Both knew there was no escape. The far side of the tower had already collapsed into a seething cauldron of fire and flames.
Many eyes watched them, villagers, on seeing the fire, rushed out and ran to Fendyke House. Even in the far off town the red and orange night sky brought people into the streets to see.
“Shalamy, I cannot save you.” I am sorry. For me, this is a blessed release from the world I have hidden from for so long.”“It was my fault,” she wept, burying her face in his chest.“What a final scene,” he whispered softly. “We have an audience of thousands.”“Let me kiss you one last time and call your name. I have not spoken it for ten long years.”
They embraced. The tower began to fall into the mud and dark, rich soil of the marshes. A dog, called Algarth, wailed, ran into the night, and was never seen again.
Even the rumble did last for long. With the dykes destroyed it was not long before the sea reclaimed the land. On dark nights when the full moon reflects light across the great crescent bay, some say you can hear a female voicing calling a name. But nobody can ever recognize what she is saying.
Nobody spoke of what went on in the great house. Servants melted into the closed, isolated community. Victims did not wish to talk of their shame.
Years went by. One night when the languid tide was at its lowest, a party of men and women went out onto the treacherous mud flats, dragging a small stone cross. They set it in the fecund, black peaty soil. It is said that twice a year when the spring low tides seems to totally desert the bay you can see that small, algae encrusted monument, with its inscription. ’Shalamy Fendyke, mistress of life’s great stage.’
Copyright Emy Naso
- Use for below to send feedback to author - View the Authors profile here
- The following form will send feedback to the author about this short story, please enter your e-mail so the author can reply (which is obviously at the authors own discretion)