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This is a historical tale about the ordeals and social downfall of a Lady at the hands of religious zealots and deceitful family members, starting with the death of her husband. It is set in the year of 1631in a Manor House in rural England. The story and all characters are fictitious.
“WHORE!” The accusation cut through the room like a knife. One minute my husband lay dying on his deathbed, surrounded by his family and so called friends, and the next, he had sat bolt upright in bed, eyes bulging, face twisted in hate and pointed a finger at me, Katherine, his 29 year old wife. There was no doubting the recipient of his accusation and what it meant. Heads turned and looked at me, as he collapsed back on the bed and breathed his last. With a shock, I realised he had died. It was the last day of May, in the year of our Lord, 1631 and my life had just changed for the worse.
What he had meant by his final dying word, there was no knowing, because, in my heart, I knew I had never betrayed or cheated on him with another man, even though he was considerably older than me when we married. I was his second wife and he had a young son who I had brought up as mine. We had had a successful and happy marriage for some 7 years up to that point, so at that precise moment, I was bewildered and puzzled by this rather shocking development rather than frightened or scared by it.
Then I went scarlet, as everyone stared at me. Everyone who was anyone was there in that room, the priest, the village elders, as well as my mother in law, brother in law, stepson and neighbours. They were all there to witness his dying day judgement of me. And I was undone.
My mother in law led the tirade against me. She had never liked me and now she seized her chance to vilify me. “She has sinned and broken her marriage vows to my son,” she shouted, “the devil is in her.” Then, everyone in the room just turned on me and I was speechless. A man’s dying words are a powerful thing and I knew my protests would be treated with contempt and disbelief. I regretted then, my decision to leave my husband’s final hours to his son and doctor. What had they done to his mind to bring this about…what evil medicine and potent had they given him?
Before I knew it, they had sent for Jesuits Priests. In 17th century England, they were frequently used to investigate family disputes and social sins and had a history of dealing with matters of this kind. As they were highly respected in the Catholic Church their judgements and opinions were sought after and respected. In other words, they had the final word. So, like the rest of the family I awaited their arrival. I was confident that when they examined my conduct and heard my denials I would be vindicated.
I was allowed to attend my husband’s funeral, dressed in black from head to toe. But I was not allowed to approach the coffin as other members of his family did. I was a person non-gratia and in disgrace. It was a humiliating snub by the Hartley’s.
The rain was incessant that day as the procession proceeded through the village. I was not allowed to walk with the main family. Instead, I was made to walk at the rear with servants and other non- descripts. The streets were lined with the villagers and I was roundly hissed and booed as I passed. Obviously word of my alleged disgrace had got around to all and sundry.
A few days later, Jesuit priests came to Morden, our village, and found their way to the Manor House. Then they asked for me by name, “Lady Katherine.”
I had thought about my situation a lot pending their arrival. I had committed no crime, or broken any law, despite what people thought of me personally. What was at risk for me, however, was my reputation, my social standing and well- being. And these things were so very important to me, as they were to every Lady in the land. So, I was anxious to convince them of my innocence. Sad as I mourned my husband’s death, I wanted to maintain my dignity as the Lady of the Manor, and, thereafter, run the household and estate as I had done for the last few years.
So, I stood proudly to receive them when they arrived. I was dressed in my best blue dress and hooded cape, my head held high. As far as I was concerned, what he had said on his death-bed had been gibberish and nonsense, fuelled by medicine and his feverish illness. So why should I appear cowed and ashamed?
There were two of them, in simple rough cloth regalia; grim faced, short on grace and determined to get things underway.
I sensed no mercy or civility in their manner and behaviour. And that was a worrying observation. My Stepson saw to them and they were given rooms in the Great House and access to the private chapel and dungeon.
After their formal introduction to me, they were ensconced in a meeting with village elders, my stepson and brother-in-law. Why I was excluded from this, I did not know. It was not a good sign. Surely, I had a right to speak and give my opinions. What was going on? I sensed an ill wind of foreboding as gaziantep kızıl escort bayan I awaited my turn with them.
Apparently, as was the custom in an English village for such Jesuit involvement, I was to attend a special service in the village church, while the Priest and the Elders said prayers for me. When I heard about it from the local Priest I was surprised, but, not unduly alarmed. I thought, why on earth should that be necessary when there was absolutely no evidence of any wrong doings on my part? I remember arguing with the Priest on that, but, he thought it was in my best interests to participate. What I didn’t know then, was that the Hartley family had dreamed it up, had insisted on it, had put pressure on the Priest and the elders of the church to persuade me to go along with it. Money and threats were involved to get their way. They were a very powerful influence in village life. In the end I just agreed, being fooled into thinking that it would be a private affair. How wrong I was about that!
And so it was, that in the late afternoon of that same day, I walked out of the house and along the bridle path to the church. It was obvious I was expected, as there waiting for me, was a large stout table with chains and ropes. As soon as I saw this, I panicked and turned to leave. However, men appeared from hiding places to grab me and drag me into the church. Then, despite my protests, I was made to lie across the table, my legs and arms spread wide and tightly bound to it. I couldn’t believe what was happening and struggled and screamed, as my dress and other clothing were ripped from my body. But it was to no avail.
I hadn’t agreed to anything like this, but now, I was left naked, save for a small piece of loin cloth placed discreetly across my vagina to preserve some modesty. That piece of token material was just a token cover. It didn’t stay there long and for the rest of my time on display in there, I was completely naked.
It was simply unprecedented in religious practise, that the Lady of the Manor’s naked body could be laid out and viewed by everyone and anyone who came into the Village Church. Only when all and sundry came trooping in did I fully realise that they had tricked me. I began to realise that it was the Hartley family members who had arranged that I be shamed in this way. They wanted everyone to believe I was a sinning wife, when in fact I wasn’t. As I lay there, red faced and humiliated, I finally realised that all the respect that I previously had as the wife of Sir Reginald Hartley was ebbing away. I was going to be viewed as nothing more than a common whore, a slut, and a harlot.
They kept me there with one church official for protection, otherwise alone. During which time, I was inspected and examined by every man from the village and surrounding areas who turned up. And there were plenty of them that came, word had obviously got around. There was a long queue and they hadn’t come to pay respect or say prayers, they wanted to see and touch my naked body. Their hands roamed my body freely, handling my breasts and thighs. Their eager fingers to touching my private parts at will. It went on for two hours…
Despite my anger and humiliation at this punishment, I was ashamed to feel my pussy getting warm with the constant attention. It seemed that despite my resolve I was being betrayed by my body. I blushed profusely and closed my eyes as the men fingered me then taunted me with their glistening fingers. Over and over they shouted that dreadful word that sent shivers down my spine. “Whore”…”Whore” …”She’s a fucking whore and here’s the proof of it.”
Finally, they closed the doors and I breathed a long sigh of relief.
In the middle of the night, it was dark and eerie. Thankfully, however, there was a little moonlight shining through the coloured glass windows to give some light inside the church. It was then that I had my final lone visitor. It was my mother-in-law, Lady Alice, the last person I expected to see. It was a shock to see her there, especially as she was dressed in black with a hooded cape.
She drew level and slowly peeled off a long black glove.
“Well, well, well” she gloated. “How the mighty have fallen. And, no doubt, due to fall further still once the Jesuits have got to work on you.”
Then she reached out and ran her fingers, delicately up and down my exposed cunny. I gasped as her index finger then probed inside, deep inside my wetness. Her green eyes seemed to glow as they met mine. “Ummm, you are so very pretty, my dear… and such a beautiful body, I could enjoy you all night…but, there will be many such nights. You can be sure I will arrange for that.
“And, when you eventually are mine, my dear. And, daughter-in-law, you will be mine, I promise you. I have such wicked plans for you. There will be fun and joy for me…and lots of humiliation and disgrace for you. I intend to enjoy you to the full, my dear…make you my slave; make you gaziantep köle escort bayan suffer.”
Then, chuckling, evilly, she was gone, her measured steps echoing on the hard floor all the way out of the church. I heard every one and thought about what she had said…I thought about it for the rest of the night.
That next day, dazed and shattered by my ordeal, I found myself in a large room packed with family and elders of the village. It was the reading of my husband’s will. As it was read out, I was shocked, because, it became obvious that my husband had been persuaded to alter it significantly. Now, according to the new will, which, apparently, was signed and witnessed on his death bed, my dying husband had left everything to his 22 year old son. That meant he got the Manor House, the Estate and all his wealth, everything. I was mentioned only in as much as I was to be clothed, fed and sheltered by his son as he saw fit. I was to be his responsibility. It was the final humiliation. So much for 7 years of dutiful marriage.
The Jesuit priests were there watching. My Stepson turned and looked at me, his face full of contempt. “Take her away” he shouted “and do what is necessary to cleanse her soul.”
I gasped at the hardness in his voice. Was this the boy I had raised with kindness and love? I had become his mother and friend, now he was treating me like dirt.
As I was escorted away by the priests, I saw my mother in law sneer at me.
“You are penniless and helpless now my dear and there’s more misery in store for you, a lot more.”
Her words and cackling laughter echoed down the corridor, as I was hauled down the stairs. To my horror, I knew where they were taking me, the dungeon.
Their first action was to get me out of my clothes. “You are to be naked before God.” they demanded. And so, I had to shed every item of my clothing, until I stood before them with not a stitch to cover me. (It was the last time I was to wear such finery or use my title and status as Lady of the Manor.) My face was red with embarrassment as they made me circle slowly. As I did so, they examined me at close quarters with lustful, lecherous eyes. Then their holy and religious façade was temporarily put to one side as lust took control. Now they were intent on touching me, handling me and feeling me all over. This went on for quite some time, my instincts telling me that these so called holy men were more interested in my curvaceous young body than my soul or religious state of mind. I began to wonder then if they really were who they claimed to be.
Then, at the end of that first encounter, they quickly reverted to type. “You have the devil in you” they asserted. “See how he uses your beautiful body to tempt holy men of the cloth.”
It was during the second time they saw me that they demanded that I confess to the accusation which had been levelled at me by my dead husband. The word of Sir Reginald Hartley carried a lot of weight in those parts and I could see that they were prepared to believe him without question.
I refused. “It’s a lie” I shouted. “I have never betrayed my husband.”
They obviously didn’t believe me. In fact they didn’t want to hear any explanation from me. They didn’t want to know about my innocent behaviour. They were convinced that I was a woman who cheated frequently on her husband. How unfair and unjust that was. Goodness only knew what the Hartley family and their cohorts had told them about me.
After that, there were more questions about my so called wicked behaviour, more accusations and demands as to the names of my various lovers and partners. It went on for hours.
Getting no co-operation from me in that regard, and, seeing that they were getting nowhere, they then proceeded to their second option. To whip me until I confessed.
“Confess!” They urged me. “Confess to God these evil deeds and your sinning ways.”
“No, No.” I shrieked in reply. “This is all untrue. It has no foundation whatsoever. I never cheated on my husband, not once.
And I never indulged in evil practises. Why don’t you believe me?”
And so these intense and unrelenting question and answer sessions went on for long periods as they tried to wear me down. They wanted me to sign a confession document and made it clear that they would not leave the Manor House without one.
I suspected that the Hartley’s were paying handsomely in exchange for success in this fraudulent endeavour which would inevitably lead to my downfall.
So, they stepped up my humiliation and punishment to get what they wanted. They had no grounds for doing so, for any moral, religious or legal reasons. I had not committed a crime. But, there were no limits as far as they were concerned. They just went at me, relentlessly, until I could take no more. They were determined to get a confession out of me any way they could. My screams reverberated around the stone walls and still they continued with no respite. gaziantep kumral escort bayan I was shocked by what these religious zealots had in store for me.
(At this point in the story, readers are spared the painful details of what took place in that dungeon)
After a few more hours, I cracked; sobbing and defeated, I could take no more. With trembling hands, I signed the confession. I had no choice, because, there was only so much pain I could endure. But, in doing so, I saw that it was packed from beginning to end with made up falsehoods, vile practises and fictitious trysts with a host of lovers. Not one single word of it was true. And yet, it now bore my signature to say that it was. I cried in desperation and defeat. In fact, that night I cried all night long.
After they got what they wanted, the bad stuff stopped and I was untied and thrown onto some straw in the corner. But, they were not finished with me yet. Now they wanted my body for pleasure. They closed in on me and I saw lust blazing in their eyes. Their simple robes were discarded and I saw their hard cocks jutting out with desire.
They made me crawl on the floor on all fours and began using me purely as a sexual object. I had never been so humiliated in my life. One made me take his manhood in my mouth, while the other clearly intended to fuck me from behind. They were about to fill me with “holy seed.” Well that’s what they said. Luckily, the thrashing had made me wet enough to receive the one kneeling behind. All I could do was concentrate on what was filling my mouth. I was not new to such activity , as my late husband had occasionally made me perform this task for him. I knew how to lick and suck cock to please a man, and, it wasn’t long before I had this one spurting down my throat. Coughing and spluttering, he made me swallow every drop.
Then, I became very much aware of the driving urgency of the cock penetrating me from the rear. It pervaded my senses and possessed me, until animal instincts took over and I found myself grinding backwards to meet his rhythm. Soon, he was bucking and heaving and spilling his seed into me. I cried out in disappointment and frustration. I had nearly reached my climax, but not quite.
Next thing I knew, they threw a bucket of cold water over me again, before leaving and bolting the door behind me. I was left to contemplate my social downfall from Lady of the Manor …to Slut of the Dungeon.
But there was hope for me yet, surely, I reasoned. My stepson would take pity on me. I had been his mother for 7 years. And my brother in law, Mathew, would have some respect for me and help me out of this nightmare. If only I could talk to them and remind them that I had been a good wife and mother. I had married at 22 and was now 29. I was considered to be a rare beauty when he courted me and I was still a proud and handsome woman. I was just above average height for a woman and endowed with a fine bosom and curvaceous body. I took pride in my long curly auburn hair, which hung down my back and my husband had loved my brown eyes and long lovely legs.
I cried myself to sleep, like a naked animal huddled in the straw, with hands tied securely behind my back. I thought of my lovely bedroom far above me, with a wardrobe full of fine clothes. I would accompany my husband to church every Sunday in my finest dresses and coats and command respect and deference. I ran the household of the Manor House and helped my husband run his Estate. Now, after that death bed accusation and my subsequent “confession” my status now was no more than a servant.
My time in the dungeon followed a daily pattern for the next few days. I was subject to more punishment, relieved only by buckets of ice cold water poured over my head. Then there were short prayer sessions and long periods of sexual interference at the hands of the priests. They would not leave my body alone. Taking it in turns, they fucked me; spreading my legs wide and taking great delight in thrusting their cocks all the way into my vagina. For a woman married all those years to one man it was a shattering and humiliating experience.
But, fuck me they did, over and over and over again. If they weren’t fucking me they were fingering my cunny, handling my breasts and feeling my bum and thighs. For so called holy men they knew exactly what to do to get me worked up for yet more sex. They used me in all kinds of filthy and degrading ways. Both men were quite well endowed and did not hesitate to use me in every orifice. For so-called religious men they were disgusting, despite their claims that they were sanctifying me with their holy seed. And there was no one I could complain to, no one to help me. After what seemed like an eternity, they reluctantly declared their work done and left the village. I think their visit had lasted longer than anyone had contemplated. I for one was not sorry to see them go.
The next day, I was tied upside down to a wall, my long legs pulled apart to expose my cunny. Then I had a visitor. It was Meg, the witch from a nearby village. I heard her shuffle towards me, cackling and wheezing. She was old and wizened and held a small glass bottle, full of what looked like green slime. Then she proceeded to open my sex lips with her gnarled old fingers and smear the green ointment into my vagina. She worked it down deeper and deeper inside, ignoring my angry protestations. Soon her glass bottle was empty.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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