Lady of Flanders 02: Vessel of Cum

Dragged to the mast, one man held her arms behind her while the other dipped in the water butt, raised and dashed the dipperful over her head.

The cold was almost unendurable! She thought to raise her lips at the next dashing, drinking greedily the fresh water, clean and unsullied by her own waste.

The second man began scrubbing her with a bit of sack cloth. He ran his fingers through her wet hair, combing out the crusted cum and pork grease. He worked her neck, her shoulders, reached beneath her dress to scrub her breasts, all the while the dipper dashing water over her. Accumulated filth was rinsed away.

He kneeled and turned to her legs, sluicing water up and down each calf and then thigh. He didn't miss the opportunity to thrust his wet hand between her legs, to stick his fingers into her sex and rub, giving it a semblance of cleanliness. She nearly doubled over at the unaccustomed sensation, but the other man's hand kept her erect. She had to simply stand and endure the groping.

He didn't pull his hand out once she was thoroughly washed, but left his fingers inside her for a long moment, pushing and pulling with slightly bent fingers, as if searching for a penny in a pocket. Without wanting to she felt herself begin to flow.

Her need was acute since no cock had entered her for days or weeks. For a shameful moment she felt, had he bent her over the water barrel and taken her there, she would have welcomed it. But he abruptly withdrew his hand and stood, leaving her unsatisfied.

The washing apparently done, she was given a bottle of wine. She pulled the cork with her teeth, spat it in their faces, and tipped the bottle down her throat. It was sour and strong, and felt like ambrosia after her miserable rations. They left her to it for a time, then yanked the half-emptied bottle from her grasping hands, laughing.

Tugging at her clothes, she mistook their efforts for another assault, raked her nails down one man's arm. He backhanded her, but not so hard as to bruise. He merely pulled up her ragged dress and arranged it as best he could. The soiled cloth was barely presentable, but served to make her look human again.

She adjusted what lacing remained to hold the dress over herself, knotting it crudely. It barely covered her, leaving her breasts bulging between the irregular lacing, her nipples jutting obscenely. Was she to be presented to the Captain again?

They began goading her to follow, one before and one behind. Taking her to the rail, she saw a gangplank spanning the gap to the dock. Should she leap? Take her chances in the harbor water? But she couldn't swim, and in her weakened state would surely sink.

It was likely death. Did it matter?

They didn't allow her time for any more thought, monkey-walking her down the plank to the dock. Proceeding along the shorefront they passed before warehouses. The wharf was unpopulated at this early hour. The district was rough, few ships were in harbor, only a couple sailors lounged on barrels smoking. She called to them as they passed, pleaded, but they simply smiled and nodded to her captors pulling her along.

Coming to one warehouse no different from the others, they turned into an alley and found a small portal in a dim doorway. While one held her arm so tightly as to bruise, the other banged at the panel. Eventually a small window cover slid open, a word was passed, and the door swung backward to admit them.

Down a dank corridor, they led her out into the warehouse proper. The large space was stacked with baskets, barrels and strange casks with foreign writing. In a cleared space there was a sort of stage, really some boxes laid end to end to make a platform.

Next to this was a neatly dressed man, a merchant, with a lacy collar and dark leather shoes. Not the best shoes, but better than she'd seen in half a year. He indicated she should mount the platform. The crewmen left without a word.

Her legs were weak from the time at sea, held seated in the sail locker, fed scraps.

She stumbled onto the platform and stood trembling, bare-footed, bare-legged, bare cunt under her ragged skirt, pale. Waiting for whatever came next.

Shortly two more pairs of men came in from the corridor, each with another woman in tow. From another direction came a series of men both rough and smooth, laughing and talking, who circled the platform and leered.

The show began. The merchant in charge began to tout their features in a language unknown to her. First an Indian woman with wide hips and drooping breasts, generous lips and jet black hair. Her limbs were lifted, breasts prodded, dress pulled this way and that, hair stroked and shown like fine goods.

For her part she played the game, leering and flashing her cunt, palming her breasts, swaying her hips and calling in her own strange tongue.

The men began shouting, the gentleman merchant pointing and repeating their calls - an auction? Finally the calls ceased, and the woman was taken in charge by a stocky fellow, a tradesman apparently by his work-rough hands.

He was clearly pleased with his purchase, paid a confederate of the auctioneer with a small purse and exited with her the way they'd come in. She seemed to go willingly, flashing admiring looks at her owner as she ambled out with him.

Next was an older Slavic woman, stout with a severe expression and bruised legs, work-worn and weary. She began a series of what were obviously foul curses, which put off bidding considerably. The assistant back-handed her to quiet her, and a small period of listless bidding commenced.

She clearly went for a pittance, and was taken in charge by a uniformed factotum, perhaps of some wealthy house for menial work.

Finally the auctioneer turned to her. He paused for effect, then began extolling her virtues with musical exclamations and breathless rhetoric. Though she didn't understand a word, he was clearly praising her light hair, fine features, erect posture, tight bosom.

Her skirts were pulled up to reveal the fine hair of her pussy, the same light brown color as the hair on her head! Her lips were pulled back by fingers smelling of perfume, and her teeth exhibited like she was a horse.

She tried to stand erect as best she could, ignored the indignities, keeping what pride was possible under the circumstances.

The bidding was brisk, but one man in back shouted them down with what was clearly an exorbitant bid - the crowd gave out exclamations of amazement and then went quiet. The auctioneer, clearly pleased, ceased the bidding and handed her down from the platform.

The man came forward - a distinguished Spanish(?) mature man in a riding outfit and black leather boots, smelling of horse. He didn't touch her, passed his eyes over her but didn't see her. Satisfied he gestured for his African man to take her in charge.

Without another word the gentleman purchaser left the group. The crowd dispersed save the auctioneer and the buyer's manservant.

The sum paid, she found herself led by the manservant out another exit from the warehouse, emerging in a side street with a horse-drawn wagon waiting. The African lifted her into the back, fastening one ankle to a stout cord attached to a large bolt through the deck.

He climbed the driver's seat and took the reins. With a cluck! the horse began plodding forward, pulling the wagon over the cobbled back street.

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Next: Brood Mare