The Demands of Mr. Darcy, page 20
A shackle, lined with what looked like sheepskin clamped around her ankle. A moment later, and her other foot was similarly shackled.
Fitzwilliam released hold of her foot and made his way around the rack.
She took the opportunity to kick against her restraints, wanting to know just how sound they were. Her feet lifted from the rack, but they would not move from side to side. She craned to see how she was restrained, only to find a similar bar to the one waiting by her head, only this one was holding her ankles a good width apart, and there would be no struggling against it.
A pressure at her wrist alerted her to her husband's presence again. She looked up, finding him towering over her, his groin just inches from the top of her head. He pressed her wrist into another sheepskin lined shackle and clamped it shut, there.
She pulled against it, swinging the bar it was attached to.
He took hold of it, stopping her, and their eyes met.
Despite the skewed sight of his face now upside down to her, the expression was as clear as ever it had been. Though he was about to take her and make an example of her for all to see, his eyes were soft with affection.
Still, even in the softness of affection, when he clamped her second wrist into its shackle, it was quite clear he was enjoying what he was doing.
Elizabeth stared up at the ornate panels of glass high overhead, imagining their beauty in the light of day. She fought to force her mind elsewhere, contemplating whether anyone was allowed in the Roslindale during the day, if anyone was allowed to utilize the space for just this purpose when the sun could shine through the panes of colored glass. She tried to guess what might lay in the far parts of the house, given the Roslindale was nothing short of a palace.
The cold of the air between her legs gave her a shiver. She was wet there and the sensation made her spread legs all but impossible to forget. No deliberate mundanity could carry her outside that room and away from those shackles. She was tied, naked, aroused, waiting - and she was terrified.
A finger grazed against her ankle, startling her back to the present moment. She craned to look down and found her husband standing there at the foot of the rack, his fingers wrapping slowly around a long wooden handle.
He gave her a smug, knowing smile and cranked the lever downward.
The wooden table split beneath her, drawing a frightened yelp. She shut her eyes tight, embarrassed by the involuntary sound, but they didn't stay closed for long. The rack was shifting beneath her, parting at its center to leave her ass hanging with nothing beneath it. Her legs strained, readying for the work of holding herself upright, but Fitzwilliam released his hold on the lever and left her with just the small opening, the edges of the wooden slats pressing into her buttocks.
"Oh, this is so exciting. What do you imagine he's planning?" A voice whispered within the gathered mass. It was a giddy man's voice, and she couldn't help but think of Monsieur Cochon.
If there was an image less arousing than that, she couldn't think of it.
Fitzwilliam rounded the rack suddenly, as though some new inspiration had taken him. He moved with a new purpose, marching past the rack and out of sight for a moment. When he returned, he held long stretches of satin, each dangling in half-loops from a metal ring. Fitzwilliam made his way back to the foot of the rack and quickly unlatched her feet. He stepped aside more than once, making sure to clear view of his efforts for their watchful audience. Once her feet were free, he slid a loop of fabric over each foot, then shackled them right back into place. Once she was securely restrained again, he came to her side and leaned over the massive shape of the rack. With a gentle tug on each loop, he slid them up the length of her leg, sliding them over her knees. Once in place, he gave the attached straps a good tug, yanking her knees upward.
She gasped, but didn't say a word as he let her legs relax again, leaning down to untie the long cords threaded through grommets on each of the fabric loops. They pulled tighter like a corset and soon she was locked into them, the smooth fabric cool against her skin.
Fitzwilliam moved to the head of the rack now, two long straps still gripped in his hand. They were each attached to one of the strange garters she was now laced into. He settled just above her head, looking down at her with a wicked grin.
Someone in the crowd gasped. "Oh, that wicked thing! I know what he's going to do! Oh my, yes!"
This was the voice of a woman, and she was softly hushed by her companion.
Elizabeth didn't see either. The woman's sudden excitement on tripled Elizabeth's sense of unease. What did this woman know that she didn't?
The answer came an instant later as Fitzwilliam yanked the straps upward, tugging her legs sprawled legs up into the air. She whimpered softly as Fitzwilliam latched the metal rings onto a bar high over her head. Then, as she lay there helpless, Fitzwilliam cranked another lever, and the bar rose slowly, the sounds of chains grinding through a pulley echoing through the room.
"Wait!" She whispered. "Please, what are you doing?"
The bar that held her feet wide apart remained steadfast, and with each inch the bar lifted, her legs rose high over her, leaving her knees spread impossibly wide as they were pulled almost to her breasts. Her sex was bared completely now, and the new sensation of cold air against her ass left her body shaking. She was spread open to the world in every sense, her ass dangling over the edge of the split in the table by no more than an inch or two.
Fitzwilliam stood back to take in the sight of her like some piece of art he'd commissioned.
Should could only imagine how she looked - her knees spread wide and bent to her breasts, held there by unforgiving binds, and her hands pinned high overhead, useless.
The crowd had been murmuring since the moment Fitzwilliam began lifting her legs, but Elizabeth just closed her eyes, almost afraid to see what he would do next.
"Bring out the piston!" Someone called.
This caused Elizabeth's eyes to shoot open, glancing around the room as though she might find and defend herself against whatever menacingly thing they suggested.
The piston sounded foreboding enough, it drew an undeniable panic - and curiosity. She glanced toward Fitzwilliam, waiting to see if he'd take the advice.
His expression read, plainly. He was humoring the idea, and the wicked look in his eye told her everything she needed to know about the piston.
"And spoil you all so soon?" He said, finally. "No, no. That's for a later time. Slaves!"
This last word came with an air of force she'd rarely heard from her beloved husband, and it startled her against her restraints.
From the sound of yelps and giggles, she wasn't the only one to jump at the tone.
Fitzwilliam turned toward the sound and raised an eyebrow. "Well, which one of you is ravenous?"
There was a moaning sound of approval, and before Elizabeth could understand his meaning, gold figures appeared at the side of the rack, blocking view of the crowd beyond. A man and a woman, and they stood at her side, their hands reaching for her body with hunger in their eyes.
Elizabeth struggled against her ties, the sudden threat of their touch startling her.
Fitzwilliam barked at them both. "I didn't give you permission to touch, did I?"
The two gold slaves recoiled, looks of shame on their faces. They apologized just under their breath as several members of the crowd made tsking sounds.
The warmth against her breast startled her attention back to her husband. His hand moved over her skin, teasing at her nipple as he glared at the slaves. "Eagerness might be rewarded, but obedience, moreso. Impale them both."
A round of excited calls announced some unknown punishment was about to be carried out, and though both slaves were taken forcefully from the side of the rack, their expressions betrayed an unbidden lust and excitement. Whatever this punishment was, they wanted it.
"Now, you two," Fitzwilliam said, pointing out of her view. "Tell me, how obedient are you?"
Two more gold painted figures stepped into her view, but before they could come to stand beside the rack, Fitzwilliam snapped his fingers, pointing for them to come around to him, keeping them from blocking the view. Fitzwilliam moved to the foot of the rack and took hold of the lever that pulled the rack apart at its middle.
Elizabeth felt it shift beneath her again, but she stayed centered on her half of the table. It was the other half that was moving now, widening the gap between.
Fitzwilliam looked at the two slaves, a man and a woman. "Tell me, do you think you can entertain as well as the piston?"
The man straightened, fighting a smile, but the woman shivered, curling her fingers into the edge of the rack like a dog pulling at its chain.
A sudden lustful cry drew attention to one of the outer walls, and despite her prone position, Elizabeth could see one of the punished slaves being lowered slowly down onto one of the phalluses protruding from the wall, her legs tied up in a manner similar to Elizabeth, her body held aloft by a net. An instant later, a similar sound came from the male slave as he was given the exact same treatment on another phallus directly across from the first.
Fitzwilliam didn't even glance over. His eyes were fixed on her. "Very well. Get her ready for me."
He stepped away from the side of the rack, and the two slaves were unleashed upon her. The woman dove beneath the table, and an instant later, her head appeared from beneath, coming up through the opening between the two halves of the rack. She'd barely appeared more than an instant before Elizabeth felt her eager mouth clamp over her sex.
She screamed, pulling against the shackles that held her there, but it was no use, she was helpless. The woman's mouth devoured her as the man moved over the rack, climbing atop it to approach her sex from above. The woman slipped lower to give him space, and soon both of their mouths were on her, sucking and lapping with a hungry fervor.
Elizabeth gasped and fought for breath, but sensation overwhelmed her, and she found her mouth fallen open in a constant, silent scream. She tensed her stomach, fighting to lift her backside up and away from their attack, but the effort only heightened every sensation, and she could barely withstand the sudden rising of heat and sensation that was quickly rushing through her body, threatening to release in violent waves in front of all those prying eyes.
"Please! Make them - oh, no!" She cried, losing the breath it took to finish her words. She was too close to stop it now. She would come even if Fitzwilliam called them off, but if he did, it wouldn't be half as powerful, and despite her vulnerable state, she didn't want to still it now. She wanted to feel it in all its power, wracking her body as it threatened to do.
"Excuse me," Fitzwilliam said from somewhere not far off. "When I said get her ready for me, I meant both ways."
The woman between her legs growled with excitement, and before Elizabeth could process what her husband had said, the woman's tongue slid down over her ass, teasing at the entry there with each flick of her tongue.
Elizabeth's whole body seized and she came with such violence, the long straps holding her legs high over her pulled the crank a half turn, the bar holding her feet apart nearly braining both of the slaves as they pleasured her.
Fitzwilliam made haste, coming to the head of the rack as the slaves continued their assault, oblivious to the near injury. He turned the crank back, hoisting her legs upward again.
Elizabeth gasped for air, her body convulsing in a near constant spasm now as the sensation peaked again and held steady. She was too sensitive now for the slaves' attention, but her husband hovered over her there, watching her expression with feigned disinterest.
"Stop! It's too much," she whispered to the slaves.
They ignored her completely.
She turned her eyes up to her husband and cried out. "Please! Mercy!"
"Oh, have you had enough, darling?"
She opened her mouth to speak, but her head fell back, helpless instead.
"Ah, well then," he said with a grin. Then he snapped his fingers and both of the slaves recoiled like vampires in the wake of sunlight, crawling away from the rack. "You've served your purpose very well, haven't you?"
His final words were directed at the slaves. They both nodded, eyeing Elizabeth and her husband hungrily as Fitzwilliam glanced off to the far walls of the room. He gestured to the slaves still impaled on the walls. "Now, go bring both of them to climax. If you do it fast enough, I'll have you both impaled, as well."
The two gold figures took off across the room, and an instant later, the wild cries of need echoed through the space from the two slaves still dangling in nets, their bodies filled and affixed to unforgiving stone.
Elizabeth's body was still trembling, not just from the fading release, but from a new and growing trepidation. Fitzwilliam had literally ordered the public impaling of two complete strangers.
She fought to still her breathing, frightful that he might speak and he'd take her shortcoming as inspiration to punish her, as well. Elizabeth imagined being dragged to one of the far walls and impaled like the others. Were they alone, the notion might've drawn her curiosity, but the thought all those watchful eyes on her as she was degraded in such a way - it would be humiliating.
She closed her eyes to the sound of the wailing and moaning coming from the slaves and remembered - that was entirely the point. A flash of Mr. Oliver Dougherty came to mind - the memory of him crawling across the floor in a saddle, a horse-hair plug lodged in his backside. The enjoyment these creatures took in their own humiliation seemed so foreign and terrifying to her, yet her body had tingled and sang when she was stripped and tied before the crowd.
It sang even now as her husband stood over her there, watching her closely as he untied one of the ropes anchored to the side of the rack. She'd barely time to consider what he was doing before her backside began to slip across the hard, wooden surface.
The rack was rising upward, lifting her upper body toward the ceiling. In a matter of seconds, her weight began to pull at the sheepskin shackles on her wrists, the weight of her legs held up from the bar high over her head.
"Fitz -" She said, catching herself halfway through the word. She turned to meet his gaze, hoping her expression would express her apology for her. She'd nearly said his name in this place, and there was no question such a crime would be considered grievous to him, especially when he was in this mood. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. Please, forgive me," she whispered.
He exhaled in a half laugh, then yanked the rope down again, this time with excessive force.
Elizabeth was instantly hoisted up, her body hanging free almost a foot above the rack.
The shackles, however lined with soft sheepskin, began to pull at her wrists, and she wrenched her arms in them, fighting to relieve the pressure. Nothing worked.
Suddenly, her stomach tightened. She wouldn't last there very long without reprieve. If Fitzwilliam didn't change course soon, she might have to utter their word.
It would be the first time she'd ever said it.
"You, come here," Fitzwilliam said, calling to someone out of sight.
Elizabeth's belly was beginning to scream with the effort of holding her legs up. Despite the straps being tied overhead, she was fighting to curl into herself there, anything to relieve the pressure on her wrists.
"Just there. Good girl," Fitzwilliam said, still speaking to someone out of sight.
Something grazed against her backside, and her body jerked, involuntarily, causing her wrists to turn in their shackles. She winced, a soft murmur of discomfort escaping her lips.
The sensation returned now, this time in sudden speedy procession as what felt like a dozen thin ropes were dragged beneath her. She craned to look down, ignoring the pain at her wrists to do so.
Before she could make sense of what she was seeing, the sound of chains rolling through a pulley echoed across the room, and the pressure at her wrists lightened.
The strange ropes across her backside dug into her flesh, but this discomfort was nothing compared to being strung up as she'd been. She relaxed in the netting of satin ropes, feeling one slide up between her buttocks. It took every ounce of will not to sigh in relief.
"Thank you," she said, meeting Fitzwilliam's gaze as he came to stand before her.
He smiled, reached up to her wrists and took hold of them. Then, with a great heave, the whole world moved around her. He was pulling her out from over the rack, closer still to their prying audience.
Once he'd moved her to the open air, he let go, letting her swing on the chains overhead like some strange windchime, her legs still bent to her chest, her ass pinched between the ropes of netting, and her sex bared for all to see were she to simply swung around a few more inches.
Gratefully, she remained facing the doors.
Should anyone walk in, they'd surely get an eyeful, but for now, there was no one to ogle her most intimate places like some sculpture at an art museum.
And she wouldn't be surprised in the slightest were a patron of the Roslindale to openly enjoy such a thing.
"Now," Fitzwilliam said, his voice carrying with a little more purpose than before. "What shall I do with her?"
The crowd burst into excited voice, suggestions flying every which way. Elizabeth listened to them with her heart in her throat. "The piston, lad! Bring in the piston!"
"Impale her!"
"The clamps would be a nice touch."
"Auction her off!"
Elizabeth closed her eyes and fought to still the rhythmic throb of her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
The effort was in vain, as Fitzwilliam's next words nearly stopped her heart completely.
"Perhaps one of you would enjoy toying with my wife, no?"
The crowd burst into a new chorus, voices upon voices volunteering for a chance to do whatever they might like to her.
Elizabeth squirmed against the netting, tugging her wrists at her shackles. "No, please," she said, craning to look at her husband.
He didn't even acknowledge her, there.
