by Lindsay David
Olana tugged futilely on the heavy chain that secured her manacled wrists to the stone wall of the Liege’s dungeon, but there was no more give in it now than last night when they had first secured her. What time was it now? She had no idea. This far down in the dungeon, the only light was the smoky flicker from torches stuck in niches in the walls. They would come for her in the morning, and when they did, the sentence of the Beauty Tax would be carried out.
It was her father’s fault, all of it was, Olana thought bitterly. He was, to put it simply, a cheat. The meat and produce he sold from his stand at the edge of their farm was weighed on a scale that had been “adjusted”, as he put it. She had always been terrified when she accompanied him in the heavily laden cart on the weekly trips to the roadside stand they had set up. She knew that one day they would be caught. But more than that, they were cheating their fellow villagers, their friends and neighbors. None of them was rich, nor ever would be, so why cheat? Her father, however, insisted that they needed the “advantage”. When asked about the source of the money that he spread around in the taverns, her father would just say he was good at gaming.
No, Olana had not been arrested for cheating their customers. Her idiot father had falsely reported his earnings to the Liege’s tax collector. The fraud was uncovered, and the Liege, furious at having been taken in by a mere peasant, had ordered her father’s execution. So incensed was the Liege, in fact, that it appeared that he would immediately and personally mete out his justice. Olana’s father, in a feeble attempt to save his life, had blamed Olana for the scam, saying she meant only to help them survive, and that he, her father, was unaware of her actions.
Olana had gasped in horror at her father’s betrayal. But the Liege’s hand was stayed by a Councilor, who suggested, “That perhaps there might be another way to recoup your loss, my Lord.” He then engaged the Liege in a whispered conversation as they moved some distance back from Olana and her father. More whispering occurred between the two men, and Olana remembered the rising dread that had nauseated her as she noticed how the eyes of the Liege and his Councilor shifted from her father to her as they talked. Could they possibly be accepting her father’s obvious lie?
The Liege nodded as his conversation ended and stepped up to where she and her father were standing, surrounded by the Liege’s henchmen.
“By all rights, farmer,” the Liege began, “you should pay with your miserable life for your heinous crime, as well as your cowardly attempt to avoid my justice But, as has been pointed out to me, that will not solve the problem that I am still short my due. Here then, is my final judgement: Tomorrow, at the height of the day, your daughter, Olana, will pay the tax that you owe with her beauty. Let that be a lesson to you.”
Turning to another aide, the Liege ordered, “Scribe, post notice throughout the village that this cheating farmer’s daughter will pay the beauty tax on the morrow, and pay it in full.”
The Scribe dutifully noted the Liege’s order in his ledger and closed the book.
“Seize her,” the Liege ordered.
Immediately, the Liege’s guards released their hold on her father and grabbed Olana. Her wrists were bound behind her with cords and a noose from a length of coarse rope tightened around her neck. The other end of the noose was attached to the Guard Captain’s saddle horn. The Liege, and his guards and minions, then mounted their own horses and set off for the castle, the procession moving slowly enough so that Olana could stagger along behind them, choking on the dust kicked up by the horse’s hooves.
The Liege’s castle was located on the other side of the village from her farm, and thus the party passed through the center of it on the way. Inevitably, word of her arrest preceded them, and as they came up on the outskirts of the cluster of homes, shops, stables, and such, a crowd had formed along the road.
“So, you weren’t content to only steal from us, you had to try and nip his Lordship’s coin, as well?” cried out a woman.
“We’ve long suspected you and your father of such, and more besides, but we could never prove it. Now the truth is out and you shall pay, you hussy. You shall pay.”
Olana eyes widened in horror and shame as she realized that her father, and herself, too, had only thought they were getting away with it.
“We haven’t had a Beauty Tax here in quite some time,” remarked a youth named Juron, a sly smile creasing his face.
Juron was the son of a neighboring farmer, and had of late shown more than a passing interest in Olana. She had resisted his advances. No, more than that, she had spurned them. Juron quickly stepped up and grabbed at her arm, “I guess I’ll be getting that date after all.”
“Bring your money on the morrow, lad,” snapped a nearby guard, as he shouldered Juron back into the crowd.
The confrontation with Juron reminded Olana of the one who did hold her interest. His name was Anton, a young magistrate. Olana had seen him at their cart from time to time and had been impressed by his curly hair, blue eyes, and sensitive nature. It had pained her to know that he was being cheated along with everyone else. She quickly glanced over the crowd, straining to see if Anton, too, was there. Mercifully, she did not see him.
It was then that the full impact of her upcoming ordeal finally hit Olana. In a Beauty Tax, the victim was paraded naked to the center of town, where the Chief Magistrate intimately examined her and assigned a price to each of her charms: How much for whipping her; how much for touching her; the price of each of her openings, etc. A complex dynamic composed of the value assigned to the woman, compared to the amount of tax that was owed, determined the length of time it took to pay the tax. It could be anywhere from several hours to most of the day, or even longer. Olana’s legs gave out under the weight of the horror that awaited her, and she fell to the ground. At first, the Guard Captain did not realize this, and Olana was dragged a dozen feet or more before he stopped. A foot guard, the same one who had pulled Juron from her, now kicked her with his boot and then jerked her to her feet.
“Walking’s easier, wench,” he said. “But we’ll drag you if you choose it.”
They started up amid more catcalls, taunts and insults. Some villagers threw rocks at her and poked at her with sticks while others spit their invectives. Others shook leather purses in the air, the coins jingling loudly to indicate they were ready and waiting for the chance to exact their revenge. Hot tears of fear and humiliation left muddy tracks down Olana’s dusty face.
The crowd thinned as the procession left the village proper, and by the time it reached the gates of the Liege’s castle it was just the Liege’s entourage and Olana.
She was taken immediately to the dungeon where heavy iron manacles were bolted over her slender wrists. The manacles, in turn, were secured to a chain anchored in the stone wall of her cell. The Liege’s brutish guards enjoyed their work, groping and pawing at Olana’s lithe, young body as they secured her.
“Jumpy little wench, ain’t she,” hissed one guard as Olana tried to twist away from him. She succeeded only in turning into the grip of the second guard.
“Your father taught you to cheat, but it seems he didn’t teach you any manners,” said this one.
Olana spat at him and received a sharp slap to her face that knocked her dizzy.
“You’ll be doing some learning soon enough, bitch,” he snapped, and his hands explored Olana’s body at will. Despite the emotions that stormed through her, Olana was shocked to find that her body responded to the thug’s rough hands. When he mauled her breasts and worked his way to the nipple, it had hardened enough to form a visible tent in her tunic. She gasped as the guard pinched it and a blush deepened her cheeks. The guard snickered. A boot forced her feet apart, her tunic was pushed up, and another hand closed over her mound, taking the feel of her sex.
“Aaahh,” moaned Olana as the fingers pushed deeply into her already wet vagina.
They would likely have raped her then and there, but for the Guard Captain, who pulled them off and clanged shut the door to her cell.
“She is to be saved for tomorrow, men. You may then have your turn at her along with the rest of them. Now be off to your duties.”
As they left, the second guard lifted a gloved finger to his nose and smiled as he savored the smell of Olana’s sex.
Sleep had been impossible, and Olana spent the night huddled in the far corner of her cell, contemplating her fate and trying to keep the rats at bay. Then she heard them coming.
“Top of the morning,” announced a guard, as he and two others appeared at the door.
These guards were different from the ones that had tormented her the night before, cleaner and with more polished armor, one even wore the red aiguillette of the Liege’s palace guard. The door was swung open and the three of them entered Olana’s cell. It was cramped with four people in the tiny area, and Olana was forced to stand with her body touching two of the guards as the third one removed her manacles. Their bodies smelled of warm leather. When the manacles were removed, two of the guards each took one of Olana’s arms and twisted it tightly up behind her back. With the other hand, they each took hold of her hair and pulled Olana’s head back.
“Uuhh,” Olana grunted.
At the sound, the third guard, the one with the aiguillette and who seemed to be in charge, held up his hand, stopping the other two. They did not relax their grip, but they did not increase the pressure either. The third guard reached out and, hooking a finger under her chin, lifted Olana’s face up to his.
“We have a job to do,” he said. “It’s up to you how difficult that job is to be.”
Olana nodded against his hand.
The third guard led the way out of Olana’s cell, and down a narrow passageway to an open area. Chains and ropes hung from the walls and ceiling, and whips and various instruments of torture hung from hooks in the wall. Olana’s knees weakened when she realized she was in the torture chamber, and she would have fallen had she not been so thoroughly held by the guards. Near the center of the chamber was a table. On the table was a carafe of water, a goblet, along with sheet of parchment, written upon with a fine elaborate hand. Next to the parchment was a small candle. Seated at the table was a young man, scarcely older than Olana herself, it seemed to her, dressed in the ceremonial robes of a junior magistrate. It was Anton! He had the same dark, curly hair and his eyes were the deepest blue Olana had ever seen.
“The prisoner is presented,” announced the head guard.
At a nod from the seated man, the guards abruptly released Olana.
The combination of fear and the shock of being suddenly unsupported left Olana wobbling rather unsteadily on her feet. Her eyes were locked with those of the magistrate and Olana realized that she could not see anything else.
“Are the charges ready for presentation?” asked the head guard.
“Yes, yes, they are,” replied the magistrate, finally forcing his eyes from Olana’s.
“Are you Olana, daughter of Theato the farmer?” he asked, looking up from the document on the table.
For a moment, Olana wondered what would happen if she were to deny her identity. It was patently absurd to do so as the Liege himself, along with half his guards, had seen her with her father when she was arrested. But still, she did wonder.
“I am,” Olana answered, trying to stand without shaking.
“Your father, Theato,” the magistrate read from the parchment, “has been found guilty of defrauding his most noble and honorable Liege, the High Lord of Allamore, of said Liege’s just and due taxes in the amount of 742 gold sovereigns, 10 pence. In his most beneficent mercy, the Liege has agreed to spare the life of said Theato dependent upon his daughter, Olana, submitting to pay the just and due liability by means of her own beauty.
“Furthermore,” the magistrate continued, after clearing his throat and taking a sip of water, “as a gesture of fealty to both his honor the Liege, and to the power of the law, the Liege has requested that you, Olana, sign this document certifying your submission to this fair and just punishment.”
With that, the magistrate turned the sheet of parchment around so that it faced Olana, and offered her a quill pen. Olana stared at the document through eyes made blurry with shock. This could not be happening. It was one thing to be forced to submit to this humiliating violation, but to be made to “voluntarily” submit, was worse than she could ever imagine.
“Failure to do so subjects you to a charge of treason,” he explained.
Olana realized the trap. If she refused to sign, she could be executed herself, after paying the Beauty Tax. If she agreed, to sign, she would be admitting her guilt--guilt that Olana did not feel was hers. She bent down and scrawled her name at the bottom of the parchment.
“Thank you,” the young man said.
He, too, signed the parchment, next to Olana’s signature. Then taking a gold seal from a pocket, the magistrate melted some wax over the candle and applied his seal to the parchment before rolling it up and placing it in a wooden tube.
There was a pause of several moments then the head guard spoke.
“Strip her now, sir?” he asked, prompting the magistrate.
“Yes, yes of course,” Anton replied, his voice quavering, his cheeks coloring.
Olana felt each of her wrists being seized. She knew, from the way the guards had earlier pinned her arms up behind her back, that resisting was useless. The head guard pulled a dagger from his belt and ran it down the front of Olana’s tunic, the material parting like water under the sharp blade. Then with a sudden jerk, the tunic was torn from Olana’s shoulders, leaving her completely naked.
Reflexively, Olana pulled tried to cover herself with her arms, but as they were held fast out to her sides by the guards the effort only caused Olana’s breasts to sway, drawing even more attention to what she had tried to cover. She glanced at the magistrate and saw that the young man’s cheeks were even more red. Whether they were colored by embarrassment or excitement, Olana could not tell, but either way, the his eyes remained stuck to her. Olana felt an answering quickening in her loins even as she cringed under the gaze of the magistrate and the guards.
“Take her hair now sir” asked the aiguilletted guard, who seemed to be leading the young magistrate through the process of preparing Olana for paying the Beauty Tax.
“Is, is that necessary?” asked Anton, his face paling under his blush.
“Necessary?” asked the guard. “Sir, the Liege requires it. Prisoners subjected to public punishment must not be allowed the smallest bit of covering.”
“I, uh, I see. Very well, then.”
The guards at Olana’s sides hoisted her up and set down on the table with a thump. She was pushed down on her back and her arms were spread out and tied to the legs of the table near her head. Then her legs were spread wide and her ankles bound to the table’s other legs.
The lead guard took his dagger, the same one that had so easily rent Olana’s robe, and began to cut off the locks of dark flaxen hair that had hung practically to her waist. He took his time, turning her head this way and that, and trying not to scratch her. Soon, Olana felt the unfamiliar sensation of light and air on her scalp. Olana heard a scraping sound, like metal being dragged across a stone, and looking up, she saw the guard was honing his dagger on a sharpening block. Her eyes again met those of the magistrate and Olana saw a sense of dismay in his eyes that told her how she must look. He was standing on her left, near her ankle, a position which afforded him an unobstructed view of Olana’s splayed anatomy. Reaching out, the man lightly closed his hand over her foot, his grip strong, yet soft and comforting. Olana flexed her toes into his palm.
“More rope for her thighs,” ordered the guard, and the other two quickly looped cords over Olana’s thighs and pulled them even further apart, before securing the ropes to the table.
Olana shivered as she felt the lips guarding the opening to her sex part under the strain placed on her thighs. Then she gasped with shock as she felt the edge of the dagger begin to scrape away her pubic hair. As before, the guard took his time and was careful, ever so careful, not to cut her. But his care and attention also meant that he was forced to handle her in a more thorough way than she had ever before been handled. Shiver after shiver trembled through Olana’s body as she struggled to quiet the tide that surged within her as all of secrets were displayed for not only the business-like guards, but for the view of Anton as well.
At last, the head guard sheathed his dagger. Olana’s limbs were freed from the table and she was lifted to her feet. A stout post, several inches thick, was placed across her back just below her shoulder blades. The guards folded Olana’s arms back over the post and bound them that way.
“Keep it tight,” instructed the guard. “Her breasts must be displayed in a most prominent manner for her parade.”
Olana gasped and grunted as she struggled to balance the heavy wooden beam, her breasts moving, she knew, quite provocatively with her efforts. Her breasts seemed heavy and they ached to be touched, to be held, and her sex was swollen and so wet it dampened her thighs. But relief was not to be had as the guards next buckled a thick leather collar around her neck and led her up the narrow stairs, out of the dungeon, and to a courtyard by the stable. There, Olana saw that the preparations for the parade into town were almost complete. Olana saw banners with the Liege’s colors held aloft by an Honor Guard, sunlight glinting off the soldier’s polished armor, and the freshly groomed manes and tails of the horses as she was marched to her place at the end of the line, where the same coarse rope from the day before was hooked to her leather collar. All was in place now. They waited only for the Liege.
Shortly he appeared, coming at the end of a group of well-dressed men that included his Councilor and his Scribe. The Liege, resplendent in a leather doublet and a deep purple cloak, stepped away from his group when he spotted Olana. He came up to her and blatantly ran his eyes leeringly up and down her body.
“Not so pretty are you now, eh cheat?” he asked.
He pulled off one of his gauntlet gloves and ran has hand over Olana’s nearly shaved scalp, snickering as he did so. He grasped a breast so conveniently proffered by the severe binding that secured Olana’s arms, and Olana jumped backward. Or rather tried to, as she was immediately seized by guards who held her steady. The Liege took his time, fondling each of Olana’s breasts and smiling as he felt the nipple harden, and Olana’s cringe of dismay at her body’s betrayal.
“Not only a cheat, but a whore, too, I suspect,” announced the Liege.
The assault continued, as the Liege slid his hand down Olana’s stomach to her sex, the guards dutifully spreading Olana’s legs. Olana trembled with humiliation as the Liege discovered the warm wetness that made her defenseless to his penetrating fingers.
“Turn her,” the Liege ordered, his voice becoming thick with lust, and Olana was spun around so that her backside faced the Liege. Anticipating the Liege’s intentions, the guards each gripped one of Olana’s buttocks and pulled them apart, exposing Olana’s most private opening to the Liege. The Liege again plumbed the depths of Olana’s womb with his fingers, and then began to use Olana’s own moisture to open her anus, which he finally penetrated with a jamming motion that made Olana cry out, the cry raising cheers and laughter from the guards.
“You should make the slut ride your hand on her way to the village, my Lord,” offered one of the guards. “She could use the preparation.”
Several of the guards and minions laughed at that, as did the Liege himself. “Let’s take this cheating whore to town so she can pay her penance,” The Liege said, a sneering smile on his face, as he released Olana and mounted his horse.
As they approached the village Olana caught sight of the “sentries”, young men from the village who watched for the approaching party and sprinted on ahead to announce the news. Then, it seemed like they were suddenly in a sea of people. The crowd screaming taunts and insults and shaking money bags at Olana. The crowd pressed inward, and hands groped and slapped at Olana’s buttocks, thighs and breasts. Whereas, on the way out of the village, the guards had been careful to restrict physical access to their prisoner, now they were much more permissible, clearing the crowd only when someone had tripped Olana. But after hoisting her to her feet, the guards had backed away and allowed the crowd to again take advantage of Olana before kicking the horses into motion.
When they arrived at the center of the village green the crowd parted and Olana saw the assembled dignitaries, among them the Chief Magistrate. She looked around for her father, but did not see him at first. then she spotted him off to the side, already sharing a tankard of ale with a saloon-keeper. To Olana’s horror, she saw that Anton was seated next to the Chief Magistrate.
Of course, Olana thought, it was Anton’s job to witness her punishment. The Chief Magistrate motioned the guards, and Olana was released from her noose and shoved towards him. Reading from the same parchment that Anton had her sign earlier, the Chief Magistrate repeated the charges against her and announced that she had confessed to her crimes. That news brought a chorus of howls and catcalls from the crowd.
“So the shameless hussy admits to her cheating. We’ll she’ll get her just desserts today,” shouted one.
“Have I got a lesson for you, bitch,” called out another.
The guards freed Olana from the wooden post she was carrying and held her fast while the Chief Magistrate slid his hands, gnarled with age and arthritis, over her skin.
“Her thighs and buttocks are firm, and not used. One sovereign for every ten strokes of the lash.”
The Scribe noted this down.
“Her breasts are likewise firm and oh, so responsive, two sovereigns for every ten lashes here, and one sovereign a minute for touching and sucking.”
As the Scribe scurried this down in his ledger, some in the crowd laughed as one man called out that he would have to budget for this.
“Her mouth is clean and sweet, ten sovereigns for use of this.”
Next Olana was laid on her back on the table in front of the Chief Magistrate. He legs were lifted, spread wide, and pulled back, which turned her hips upward and fully exposed her bottom to the crowd. The Chief Magistrate opened Olana’s vagina, and worked in one, and then two, and finally three fingers, as she struggled vainly to stay quiet.
“Thirty sovereigns for this tight tunnel of womanhood,” he announced.
Lastly, Olana’s anus was opened and the Magistrate plumbed the depths of her rectum, the crowd laughing uproariously at Olana’s writhing.
“Twenty-five sovereigns for taking her dignity this way.”
Whoops, hollers, and general cheering greeted the completion of the valuation of Olana’s beauty. The Chief Magistrate slowly returned to his chair, and the guards made ready to secure Olana to the slanted table that would ensure that she was most available to any use.
“Halt!” ordered the Liege, rising from his own chair at the head of the row of dignitaries, and the guards stopped.
“As both your Liege Lord and the aggrieved party in this criminal enterprise, I will take the first turn with this thieving, cheating harlot.”
More cheers greeted this announcement, and the excitement of the crowd increased.
“Hang the bitch from the post,” ordered the Liege, indicating the stout wooden whipping post that stood off to the side of the green.
A murmur of shock quieted the crowd. This was highly unusual. Usually, a public whipping was a separate punishment from a Beauty Tax. The whips used in the Beauty Tax were thin strips of leather designed to cause as much stimulation as pain. Undoubtedly, the Liege had a more severe punishment in mind for Olana.
The guards half-carried, half shoved Olana over to the post and bound her wrists to the iron rings bolted near the top of the post. Pulling on the ropes, Olana’s body was stretched out until her toes barely scraped the packed earth. Additional ropes were used to bind her ankles to the base of the post.
“Before I turn you over to my loyal subjects for the venting of their just due,” the Liege said, addressing Olana, but speaking loudly enough for all to hear, “I feel it is my duty to properly prepare you myself.”
Olana, along with the rest of the assembled crowd, heard the menacing smile in the Liege’s voice.
What followed next was the sound of a buckle being released and a belt being freed, then a sudden crack as the belt exploded across Olana’s shoulders, slamming her against the post. The fire was like nothing she had ever felt before, ever imagined before, and even though Olana had vowed to weather the Liege’s attack in dignified silence, a shriek literally jumped out of her mouth.
Another blow came, and then another, and another, the Liege aiming for a different spot each time. He worked his way down Olana’s back, over her buttocks, banging her pubis against the rough wood of the whipping post and drawing cheers from the crowd, and then down her thighs to her calves. He stopped then, and Olana tried to catch her breath as her chest heaved and her body quivered against the post. She struggled to grip the post with her thighs, to reduce the strain on her arms.
“Looks like the little slut is fucking the post,” remarked a man from behind Olana.
“Sure does, don’t it, agreed another amid general guffawing. “My Lord, it seems that you are warming her up rather well.”
“If you want her to fuck the post, she shall do so,” announced the Liege.
Again, he slashed his wide sword belt across Olana’s buttocks. “Fuck the post, bitch,” the Liege ordered, “or I’ll whip you all day.”
Olana spread her knees and ground her mound against the post. The Liege continued to thrash her with his whip, but he did it only when she slacked in her efforts. Olana choked back tears of humiliation as her orgasm rose within her and then shuddered into spasms as it broke.
“The bitch is leaking down the post,” someone called out, and Olana knew it was true. Perspiration, tears, and drooling saliva had soaked her skin, increasing the bite of the LIege’s belt, and her own orgasmic secretions had added to the mixture, making Olana’s thighs so slick that she could no longer grip the post. The Liege forced his hand between her thighs and Olana shuddered with humiliation as the sucking sounds coming from her nether regions announced to the whole village the degree of her arousal.
“Turn her around, guards,” the Liege ordered, and Olana was now bound with the raw skin of her backside against the post, and her front turned to the ravenous crowd, unable to turn their eyes away from the horrific sight of a woman being frontally whipped.
The Liege now slashed the belt over Olana, working up from her thighs to her breasts, seeming to enjoy every shriek and spasmodic writhing that his strokes pulled out of her. Then the Liege stopped and drank from a goblet of ale offered by a minion, as Olana sobbed and trembled on the post.
“Take her down and mount her up,” the Liege ordered. “It’s time for me to take her.”
Olana was freed from the whipping post and dragged over the specially designed board. She was laid down on her back, with her arms pulled up tied off behind her head. He legs were lifted up and spread outward, then tied to vertical posts so that she was fully exposed. An iron ring was jammed into Olana’s mouth, chipping several teeth and insuring that she would be unable to bite anyone choosing to take her that way. The Liege, with his sword belt already off, had only to lift his tunic and his cock, thick and urgent, sprang free. The Liege wasted no time in driving his cock deeply into Olana’s vagina and the pummeled her violently before achieving his own pleasure.
“All yours,’ The Liege announced. “What’s more, I order a discount in the evaluation of this cheater. Her worth is hereby determined to be only a third of what the Chief Magistrate assigned.”
This brought a roar from the crowd and cries of “Now everyone can have her,” along with, “It’ll take all day for her to pay up now.”
They came then, one after another. First up was the guard from last night who anted up for a whipping and Olana’s mouth. He turned her head to him and thrust his cock into Olana’s mouth, choking her almost to the point of gagging. Then he began to slash a thin whip across Olana’s already bruised breasts, using her gasps and moans to excite him further, until he expended himself in her mouth.
Even before the guard had finished with her, Olana felt another cock at her womb. This one thrust at her in a rough rhythm to the guard at her mouth, the simultaneous driving being just irregular enough to deny Olana her release and leaving her gasping and frustrated despite herself when they finished.
Two women were at Olana now, and she recognized them as being the ones that had hurled the cruelest invectives at her. They held thick candles in their hands, which they lit from a taper. One of the women hiked up her skirt and petticoat and straddled Olana’s face, blocking out the light and practically smothering Olana with her sex. Then Olana screamed as the first drops of how wax dripped onto her breasts. The screams seemed to excite the woman even more and she ground her sex over Olana’s face.
The wax drips went lower, over Olana’s belly and thighs, then to her vulva. Olana screamed and cried out but was helpless to stop the assault as the second women took hold of her by her vagina and dripped the wax on Olana’s clitoris until Olana shuddered in climax. Then the women exchanged places and repeated the process.
A guard came forward and with rough gloves he scraped the wax from Olana’s body. Just as he finished Olana saw Juron’s face before her. He spit into his hand and used it to lubricate his own cock, which he then slowly worked into Olana’s anus, laughing as she moaned. Once inside, Juron began to fuck her slowly, reaching up to slap and pinch at her breasts and nipples until he achieved his release.
On and on it went. The Liege’s terrible act of discounting Olana’s value had the effect of making it possible for the men to have their way with her, then fortified with food and ale, come back for a second or even, in Juron’s case, a third turn at her.
Olana’s father, too, joined in her ravishment, grinning down at her, his eyes glazed by alcohol, as he thrust himself into her, making Olana retch with disgust. Two other men, easily as drunk as Olana’s father, staggered up and asked the cost to piss on Olana. That had not been valued by the Magistrate, and thus was determined to be free. With an insane giggle, the men opened their breeches and covered Olana’s face and body in foul smelling urine. With the ring-bit in her mouth, Olana was forced to swallow their piss lest she drown.
Her mouth, vagina, and anus now gaped open, too fatigued or two badly reamed to offer any more resistance to the seemingly endless torment, as villager after villager vented their frustration and vengeance on her. She must have passed out, because she gasped in surprise when a bucket of water was poured over her.
“It’s over,” said Anton, as she sputtered into consciousness.
He gently removed the ring from Olana’s mouth, and untied her from the diabolical chair. She tried to stand, only to collapse in a heap at Anton’s feet. He covered her with his cloak and gently picked her up. She whimpered as her weight pressed on the welts from her whipping, some of which had bled.
“Easy, my lady,” Anton said. “I’m being as gentle as I can.”
Olana nodded and settled into his arms. She had been called every possible evil name in the past day, but never in her life had she been addressed as lady. Never until now. Anton carried her from the green to the small house he owned. He heated water over his hearth for a bath which, when he eased Olana down into, seemed to feel like heaven.
“You did very well,” Anton said. “The final tally was twice what was owed, even with the Liege’s discount. In return, his Lordship announced a reduction in this year’s taxes. Some are calling you a hero.”
After gently cleaning the detritus of her ordeal, Anton applied soothing ointment to the worst of the welts and scrapes, then put Olana into a soft bed. She was instantly asleep.