Phoebe 2

(Originally published years ago elsewhere, but they have since taken it down for being too spicy ...)

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It had been two months since the king's execution, and a few weeks since the Roundhead troops had been billeted into Lady Phoebe Mountmere's home. It would never have happened, she knew, if her father had still been alive, and if her mother were living she was sure they would at least be much more respectful. As it was, Colonel Banks had tired of the way she kept herself hidden in her rooms, and had summoned her with a forceful request to spend more of her time in the company of himself and his officers. In an effort to appear modest and republican, she borrowed a plain, black gown from a maid, leaving her more lovely silks in her chamber.

"Thank you, Peg," she said as the maid brushed her hair smoothly back from her face, destroying the carefully-tended curls. "I promise not to let anything happen to it."

"No need for thanks, my lady," Peg replied. "I only want to help."

"The next time that I am getting rid of clothes, you shall have the first pick," said Phoebe. Peg giggled in response, and fetched a clean white cap to cover her mistress's rich brown hair.

While she walked down to the main parlor, Phoebe reflected on the state of her house and land. There was very little difference in its appearance , with only a few pieces of artwork and furniture sold to cover the expense of feeding the soldiers, but it was indefinably changed in some way. It no longer felt like her home, but a prison in which she was kept by a horde of jailers. The servants were mostly loyal to her, but they had been slowly and steadily leaving - especially the maids, who were routinely embarrassed and assaulted by the soldiers - and every one that went took a little more of her power.

Banks did not rise when Phoebe entered the room, and she did not expect him to - no man who could order her into his company would allow himself to show her any courtesy. His captains shot each other knowing looks as she approached their chairs by the fire. It hurt the marrow of her soul, but she wished to keep the colonel in a good humor, so she curtseyed deeply and stood with her eyes demurely fixed on the floor, hands clasped in front of her.

"So good of you to join us," said Banks, and belched. "You do brighten up the place, even though you're dressed like a crow. Come and sit down." There were only four chairs, all of which were taken up by Banks and his three captains.

"There is no place for me to sit, sir."

"Well, why not here, dear lady?" he called out, patting his thigh with the hand not holding a pewter mug of ale. "It should be soft enough - though it might not stay that way." As the captains roared with laughter, Phoebe schooled her face into a blank expression, acting as though she couldn't understand the double entrendre. When she was still in the same position by the time the laughter was done, Banks rolled his eyes and kicked a footstool forward. It was rough and low, but it seemed possible that the men might take offense if she were to remain where she was, so she stepped into the semi-circle of chairs, gathered her skirts, and sat on the stool. She felt as though she were almost sitting on the floor, all of the men looming over her with barely concealed excitement.

"Much better," said Banks. "It is only right for a lady to sit when in company. And it's only right for her to entertain her guests." 'Guests' was not the word Phoebe would have used, but there was no point in arguing with them: she could sense that the one thing keeping them moderately polite was the fact that she did not rise to their bait.

"You are quite right, colonel," she said quietly. "I have been remiss. Are you finding my home comfortable? Is everything to your liking?"

"Aye, it's comfortable enough," said one of the captains, "but it's not all to my liking. The maidservants are all frigid."

"My bed hasn't been warmed the past two nights!" said another. "That's the problem with the country, there aren't any whores. I miss Whitechapel."

"I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do about that," Phoebe told them. "Is the food prepared well? I think that we do not eat the same things, and I should hate for my guests to eat worse than myself." They ignored her question, and continued to talk over her head about the previous topic, becoming more and more ribald until Phoebe could not be embarrassed, as she had no idea what they were specifically speaking of.

"I think we're boring our gentle hostess," said Banks at last, looking at her as though he could see through the wool of her gown. "And we have forgotten what we intended to talk about in the first place. My dear, the officers of the Fifteenth are coming to dine tonight, and your presence is required."

"Very well," she said, resigning herself to an evening of more crude talk that could go on perfectly well without her.

"But you're to dress up. Wear a nice gown - low-cut - and tie your hair up with some ribbons. We want them to be impressed, don't we?" Thinking the question was rhetorical, she remained silent, but Banks frowned and prodded her thigh (very far up on the back of her thigh) with his foot.

"Yes, we do, sir."

"Yes. And it will be good for our own morale, of course." There was a chorus of agreement.

"Lord, yes!"

"I could be content with a cold bed for a while if I could see those naked shoulders."

"And that hair - nothing like being able to see a woman's curls and imagine twisting your fingers in it. Pulling her head back, kissing her neck." Her cheeks flushed and she longed to spit in their faces, but as long as she was unprotected among them, she could not respond. If she did, she would only endure worse, she knew.

When they finally allowed her to leave, she hurried back to her room, going out of her way to avoid meeting anyone in the corridors. The supper would be hell, with Banks presiding as the devil: he would torment her, attempt to provoke her into betraying some emotion which he could use to humiliate her. Oh, if only she had had a brother or an uncle or a cousin, a man who could defend her and prevent them from despoiling the estate. They wouldn't dare to taunt her then.

The hours passed too quickly, and Phoebe soon found herself being dressed and primped in front of her mirror in preparation for the meal. Her gown was a light blue silk, with a boned bodice that pushed her breasts up so that her nipples were almost visible, and with pearl drops sewn on around the neckline. Peg used the irons on her hair to bring back the curl, and arranged her locks so that they tumbled over her shoulders and down her back; the maid also accompanied her down to the front hall, where she expected to meet the officers, but it was empty aside from the two soldiers guarding the door to the main hall. She could hear a crowd roistering beyond it, however, and so she walked up to the door.

"I'll come in with you, my lady," Peg said, but the right-hand guard shook his head.

"Orders. She's the only one to come in."

"If you're that eager for male company, though," said the other with a leer, "you're more than welcome to wait here with us."

"Go back to my rooms," said Phoebe in a whisper. "No - follow my orders this one time, Peg, and let me spare you some humiliation. When I return, you can help me undress." At this, the second guard chuckled, though she was unsure exactly why. Peg bobbed a curtsey and scurried away, throwing troubled glances back over her shoulder; Phoebe took a deep breath, held her head high, and strode in as the guards opened the door for her.

Beyond the threshold was a scene that caused her heart to sink: the hall was filthy and crowded, so different from how it had been before the estate had been overrun by looters and vermin. Most of the tables were for common men of the rank and file, and many of them were drunk; the officers' long table on the dais was somewhat tidier, but it was still a far cry from the way that it had looked when her father entertained company. The food was plain and greasy, though it was evidently being washed down with wine from her own cellar. She made her way to the colonel, who looked slightly surprised, then pleased, that she had appeared.

"This is our little swan, gentlemen," he announced to the new officers, "the mistress of this house, and our mascot, you might call her."

"Mascot?" asked one.

"Oh, she only wants the best for us, Knox," said Banks, reaching behind her and groping at her bottom as well as he could through her clothing. "She's just like a little pet - so eager to please, follows orders very nicely, and knows how to beg." This at last was too much for Phoebe to hear without responding, and she flung her intruding arm away.

"I beg you, sir," she said hotly, "to desist lying to these men. I have never been obliging to you in any way, and I am certainly not eager to please you at all - I have only come here in order to prevent you from taking revenge on my people or property. You are not gentlemen or even men; you are simply cowards who prefer to make war on innocent women and to plunder their estates than to do an honest day's work." There was a silence after she spoke, beginning at the high table and rippling out through the rest as each group of men noticed that something was happening.

"Well," breathed Banks. "Well, well. Little miss, you seem to have quite a bit to say. An honest day's work? What would you know of that, with your soft hands and white breasts?"

"I believe we ought to show her what a day's work looks like for many women who are not born to her high station," said Knox, wetting his lips.

"She's dressed for it, with her tits out on display like that," Banks replied, and reached out to them. Before Phoebe could react, he had tugged them just enough to bare her nipples above her dress; as she began to blush and fix herself, he pulled her arms behind her back and forced her to face the men, who cheered as one. Settling her wrists in one hand, he pulled out his belt knife and began to cut through the laces holding her bodice together in the back. Once it was hanging from her shoulders, he tugged at the hooks fastening the skirt until the thread binding them on snapped. "Take these off, or this will be sheathed somewhere in your body," he hissed, pressing the flat of the blade to her neck and letting go of her arms.

To be sure, death was, in principle, preferable to dishonor, but Phoebe could not force herself to believe it very strongly. Gingerly, she allowed the bodice to slide down her arms to her elbows, and then to the floor. Her skirt was already halfway down her petticoats, and she stepped out of it in a moment. Though her shift was quite transparent, that and her petticoats were some protection against the greedy eyes viewing her, and she considered the distance between herself and the door.

"Do not even think about it," said Banks with a laugh. "If you run, my men will catch you in an instant, and if they do I won't rest until I've made sure every man Jack fucks you." This made her blood run cold - but then, if he were using that as a threat, at least that meant that he did not intend to give her to the men. "Now, take off the rest." Removing her underwear was the most difficult task she had ever set out to do, but at last her numb fingers pulled the thin shift over her head, to the raucous applause and commentary of her audience. Clutching it before her, she turned to Banks.

"Please - please," she begged. "I promise to be a more convivial hostess in future - I will pay you, you know that I have money and land." But he only ripped the linen away from her, leaving her to try to cover herself with her hands in front of a hundred eyes. As she stared wildly at them, Banks began wrapping her wrists with rope. "No! What are you - " Sighing, he paused a moment to take out a handkerchief and shove it into her open mouth.

"We don't want land from you, Mistress Mountmere," he said. "We want you to pay for being a blight on this fine, free land!" He continued to tie the rope about her wrists, then picked her bodily up and deposited her on the table, throwing the free end of the rope to a man to pull under the far end of the table and tie to a cross-piece connecting two of the table's legs. Sensing what was to come, she crossed her legs and shouted into the gag - but two soldiers were beckoned forward to tie ropes to her ankles. These ropes were pulled under the table at the sides to tie to the nearest cross-piece, spreading her wide open and trapping her ankles off the table. Phoebe twisted and bucked, attempting to dislodge her bonds, but the knots held fast. Finally, Banks reached out and pinned her down with a hand on her stomach.

"My men are eating stew, mistress," he said to the soldiers, more for their benefit than hers, "but many have only gruel to eat, thanks to the cruelty of the lords and ladies of the land. I suspect you don't know what gruel is, so I have had some prepared to show you." At a gesture, a man with a large pot came forward; Banks took a ladle out of it and held it over her chest. "Will you eat some?" Trying to retain some of her dignity, Phoebe refused to make any kind of reply, and stared past him at the rafters. Banks shrugged, playing to his audience.

"The lady isn't hungry, I fear. Still, I wish for you to become familiar with this food, and there is only one other way that I know." A moment later, he had turned the ladle, spilling the warm gruel onto her breastbone. "It does take more time, this way, but I begin to think it a good thing." He continued to ladle out the gruel onto her unresisting body, pouring it over each breast before moving down to her stomach, and then her thighs. He must be finished soon, Phoebe thought, but another man was bringing out some kind of device that resembled a gun. They would not shoot her, surely? But Banks simply ladled more of the gruel into it.

"For the last, sweetest place," he told his soldiers who erupted in roars as he pressed the front of the device between her legs and up inside her. Phoebe's eyes opened wide. No - oh, please, no!

With a swift motion, Banks pushed the plunger on the device, and her innermost self was flooded with the gruel. It was more humiliating than anything she had considered him likely to do, filling her with a common foodstuff as though she were merely a dining implement. As he withdrew the device, some gruel leaked past her nether lips as though she were a plump cream tart, ready to be devoured.

"I believe that Mistress Mountmere might be sufficiently familiar with the gruel by this point," said Banks to his men in a carrying voice. "But now she requires cleaning. Symes, Foster - have you chosen your men?" Two soldiers in the tables stood up sharply and saluted, then started up to the table, each followed by three others from his immediate company. Phoebe's heart sank, but she resolved to remain stoic and unresponsive, as though none of the events could have any lasting effect on her or, more importantly, her reputation, if she did not allow them to see that she noticed it.

The eight men surrounded her body. Two on each side of the table began licking her breasts, cleaning them of the cooling gruel and grazing her nipples with their teeth; the other four began to eat the gruel from her thighs. Although she had sworn not to respond, the relentless sensation forced Phoebe to twist in her bonds and even whimper a little. Increasing her humiliation, Banks began to call attention to her movement.

"You see, she likes all of this attention!" he shouted out. "She's been waiting her whole life for men to treat her the way she deserves, and now she revels in her debasement. Or perhaps this is a step up for her - a pampered aristocrat is a useless thing, but see how many people she can serve as a platter?" He looked down at her, nearly cleaned of all the gruel. "Nobody has yet touched your little cunt," he said. "See, it is still full." Causing her to gasp, he drove two fingers inside of her and drew them out again, covered with gruel and, she was forced to admit to herself, her own juices. As he walked towards her head, the soldiers backed away but stayed near enough to have a good view of the proceedings.

Banks thrust his fingers under her nose, forcing her to smell them. "Open up and clean them off," he said in a conversational tone. When she continued to ignore his order, he bent nearer. "This will not end until you obey," he told her. Would he really keep her tied to the table until she gave in to his demented fancies? Surely the servants would rebel ... wouldn't they?

Unwillingly, her lips parted, creating just enough of an opening for Banks to ram his fingers into her mouth, depositing their unwelcome load on her tongue. When he ordered her to swallow it, she obeyed with less hesitation, hoping that it would placate him, but he then nodded to the small group of soldiers again. They did not hesitate at all, converging over her helpless body with lust and eagerness evident on their faces, as though this were all a game to them. Perhaps it was, she thought in despair as they consecutively penetrated her sex with two or three fingers, perhaps they were betting on her reactions. She did not want to give them any satisfaction, but after the third man she found herself pushing against their prying hands, trying to relieve the ache that did not come from being stretched. Phoebe also found herself accepting their unpleasant loads into her mouth without resistance, partially in order to get the entire task over with as quickly as possible, but also because she - how horrifying - could not force herself to rebel physically anymore. The eighth man speared her with four fingers, scraping at the sides of her womb to catch any remaining gruel, and when he placed his fingers in her mouth he did not remove them once they were clean. He appeared amused as she continued to lick and suck on them, unconsciously pushing her hips in the air. "Please," she tried to murmur around his hand, amusing him still further. Banks also appeared pleased.

"We come to this point at last," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Untie the knots, men." They rushed to obey, and very soon her hands and feet were free. Her first reaction was to curl up in a sitting position, covering her breasts with one arm and reaching down to her pelvis with the other, though she was not even sure whether it was to hide herself or relieve the ache or see if she were in some way damaged down there. "No, no," said Banks, and gestured to the men. How long and how intensely had they prepared for this? Untying the cord that had secured her hands from the table, one wrapped it around her wrists in front of her, while two more pulled her off the table and into a standing position. Banks himself took hold of the rope - oh, he meant to tow her about the room like a dog, what had she ever done to deserve this? But instead of pulling her, he dropped the end behind her back, confusing her until he reached between her legs to pick it up again. As he slowly pulled the line taut, drawing her hands behind her head and her elbows up, she did what she had not been able to do before: weep.

"Please, sir, please!" she begged. "Have mercy on me and I will do anything you ask of me in private. Do not subject me to this ... this ... torture!"

"Nonsense," Banks replied briskly. "Torture? You get to come, without even having a cock stuck in you. I should think you'd be thanking me on your knees - but perhaps that will come later. Now, every hostess ought to meet her guests." The rough rope was between her lips now, scratching at that abominable ache, and she was forced to follow as he led her to the visiting officers, introducing her to each in turn. After another reprimand, she curtseyed to each, pressing herself down on the rope even further; while she stood in front of them, they took their time in examining her body, palming her breasts and pinching her nipples, running their hands over her buttocks, forcing her to suck on their fingers to clean them of their meal ("she has already proved herself a capable fingerbowl," joked one), or prying the rope aside to test her depths. Next, Banks turned her to the larger audience. The soldiers had become quiet while she was untied and then tied again, but as she was toyed with by each officer their taunts and jibes rose in volume, and as she stood in front of them, their eagerness was almost palpable. There was a slim chance that he would restrain himself to having her debased at a distance from them - but when he began to walk towards them and pulled her with him, she knew that that would not happen.