The Devil's Teats Ch. 02

(This is Part 2...for Fiona's public spanking, and to learn how she got into this mess, check out Part 1)

*

Twenty minutes later, Fiona was standing on her tiptoes in the town square, awkwardly trying to nail a piece of paper to the wall of the local barbershop. The wall served as a kind of unofficial bulletin board where notices and advertisements could be posted, and now Fiona was adding Reverend Godwin's hastily scrawled note to the mix.

Attention: To all the people of River's Forge: This is to declare that the maidservant FIONA JENKINS is in league with the DEVIL. She has taken DEMONS to her BREASTS and has given them SUCK. To prevent her from trafficking with SATAN, she must not be permitted to cover her BODY, for if she does, she will give the DEMONS shelter. Anyone who attempts to aid FIONA JENKINS must also be considered IN LEAGUE with the DEVIL. So says your REVEREND, Emmanuel Godwin.

Once they'd reached town, Lucas had sent a boy to fetch a hammer and nails from a neighbor, and Fiona had been instructed to pin up the notice detailing her shame. The only open spot was nearly six feet above the ground, and Fiona could barely reach it. She attempted to hammer one corner of the piece of paper into the wall, but she kept missing and accidentally pounding her fingers. Because she had her face to the wall, she couldn't see how many of the townspeople had gathered to watch her, but she was still uncomfortably aware of the way her bare breasts were pulled up and outward as she reached her arms over her head. She would have thought that the public spanking she'd just received would have burned all the shame out of her forever, but somehow that wasn't the case. There was something about being naked (well, half-naked -- she still had Jane's old blanket tied around her waist) in such a familiar setting, surrounded by the same old dull shops she visited almost every day, that made her feel very strange, as though she was wandering through a dream.

Splat!

Fiona nearly swallowed the nail she was holding between her teeth when the first rotten vegetable splatted against her skin. It must have been something soft -- a tomato, maybe -- or very rotten, because it slid along the curve of her bare back and began to drip its juices down beneath the blanket. She could feel the cool droplets pooling in the cleft between her sore buttocks. It might have felt good, if it hadn't been so disgusting. But there was no time to stop and no point in trying to shield herself. The sooner this was done, the sooner she'd be allowed to leave...although she didn't much like to think about what fate might await her once she'd been turned over to the reverends.

A few more vegetables and bits of garbage were clinging to her back by the time she'd gotten the second nail halfway into the wood. Just a few more taps with the hammer, and she'd be --

Crack!

Fiona shrieked and dropped the hammer, which fell clattering to the ground. That hadn't been a vegetable. It had been an egg, and someone had whipped it right at the side of her breast. It had burst, of course, and now her right tit -- which was already covered in filthy smears of dirt, mud and grease -- was dripping with goopy egg white.

Fiona twisted her head around, glaring. The crowd that had gathered around her was smaller than she'd guessed -- fewer than fifteen people, all told, mostly young men. She wanted to shout out, "Who did that?!" but even if she'd known, there was nothing she could have done. A few of them snickered. None of them met her eyes.

She bent over to retrieve the hammer, and was nailed by another egg, right in the ass.

The third egg got her just as she finished posting the announcement, in the left tit this time. As she felt the slimy yolk trickle down her breast, tears pooled in her eyes. She had never felt so dirty in all of her life. She wanted a bath so desperately -- but the thought of bathing brought back terrible memories of this morning, when her ordeal had just begun. She turned to Lucas and Jane, mutely begging them to take her away. Although she saw a twinge of disgust in their eyes -- she was, after all, covered in dirt and garbage -- they gestured to her to come with them. Gratefully, she followed them out of the square.

"Wait!"

Fiona stiffened.

Although she was too terrified to turn around, she recognized that voice: George, her spurned "lover." Hadn't he tortured her enough?

Apparently not.

"Hold on!" The voice was coming closer. Fiona saw Jane and Lucas turn toward their interrogator, and reluctantly, she followed their lead. George swaggered up to them, and Fiona was sure she saw him try to stifle a grin.

"Can we help you, George?" Jane asked.

"Begging pardon, Goodwife Jane," George said, "But I have a question for you. Regarding Fiona, of course."

"Of course," Jane said coldly.

"I was reading the announcement Fiona was kind enough to post, and it seems to me that Reverend Godwin said that on account of her witchcraft, she wasn't supposed to be allowed to cover her body."

He's going to make me take the blanket off, Fiona thought. Well, let him. It doesn't matter to me. Everybody's seen me already. Besides, the rough wool scraped the raw bits of her bottom where the switch had scratched her. It would almost be a relief to take it off.

Jane said, "Frankly, George, I wouldn't have expected you to be able to read. That half-wit Albert sometimes struck me as cleverer than you. But yes, you're right. So what?"

George hitched his thumbs into his belt loops. His eyes roved over Fiona, but it hardly bothered her. They were cruel eyes, but they didn't seem to be much lust in them -- after all, she was so dirty and bedraggled, she must have looked like some kind of street urchin.

"The problem, Goodwife Jane, is this. It looks to me like Fiona is right covered up."

"Are you mad, boy?" Lucas interrupted. "You've got eyes in your head. She's been stripped to the waist, and it was in front of Reverend Godwin that we stripped her. So stop your foolishness. We've got to be getting back."

"Is this how she looked when she left Reverend Godwin's?"

Lucas and Jane exchanged glances. They'd both been worried about what the Reverend might say when they brought Fiona back in this condition, but what of it? They'd kept her unclothed, just as they'd been instructed to do.

George continued in a loud voice that was, no doubt, intended as much for the townspeople as much as for the trio standing in front of him.

"The problem, first, is that the notice says that she's to keep her body uncovered, and yet half of her body is wrapped in a stinking blanket. How many devils she could be hiding under there I can't say. But the bigger problem, as I see it, is that she's covered in filth! Her tits, including the very nipples on which Satan has been sucking, have been completely hidden from the eye by mud and dirt! You claim to being carrying out the Reverend's work here, and yet this girl is garbed in the devil's disguise!"

Jane pursed her lips. Lucas furrowed his brow. They were caught in the same dilemma Fiona herself had been in just a few hours before: someone right in front of them was clearly talking madness, and yet to argue was to get caught up in the trap. But they were cannier than Fiona had been. Rather than debate George, they only nodded, as though they had little stake in the outcome of the debate.

"I hadn't thought of that, George. You're right. What should we do?" Jane asked.

George hesitated. He'd obviously expected them to argue. Indeed, he'd been planning to accuse them of being in league with the devil, so that he could try to take charge of Fiona -- and her punishments -- himself. But now he had to improvise.

"She, uh -- she must be cleansed."

"Of course," Jane said. "As soon as we return home, we will ensure that she bathes."

"No! I mean -- it is too urgent for that. You read the notice! At any moment, she could begin her unholy traffic with Satan's spawn. Why do you insist on this delay?"

Jane said, "We're not insisting on anything George. And we have no hurry, other than to obey the Reverend's orders to return Fiona by sundown."

The truth was that Jane seen the lust in her husband's eyes as she spanked Fiona, and the episode had kindled desire in her own heart too. She didn't know if they'd be able to...make use...of Fiona once they'd returned home, but she was certainly eager to spend some time between the sheets with Lucas.

They turned to the townspeople, who, it seemed, lurked like shadows in every corner, ready to swarm forth at the least sign of entertainment, and who -- smelling trouble -- had once again begun to gather.

"Is there a problem with the way we have been disciplining Fiona? We do not pretend to be experts in witchcraft. If the good people of this town feel that something else should be done, they are welcome to tell us."

Goddamn Jane! Fiona thought. Look how eager she is to turn me over to this mob.

The townsfolk murmured among themselves. The slavering lust to punish that had possessed them during Fiona's spanking had subsided. No one, it seemed, took George's accusations too seriously, but neither were they eager to relinquish Fiona and go back to the ordinary business of their day. A few of the men nodded or shrugged. "Why not clean her?" someone called from the back of the crowd. "She could certainly use a good wash!"

"Aye," someone else echoed. "Scrub the girl up."

"I am happy to ensure that Fiona cleans herself once we reach home," Jane said, "I agree that she needs a good bath. But George, if you are suggesting that we wash Fiona here, in public, well...I won't protest. But I won't take the lead, either. This goes far beyond either my responsibility as her mistress or the instructions that were given to us by the Reverend. If this is to be done, someone else must take the lead...and take the responsibility if the Reverend is displeased."

Perhaps Jane had been trying to help her after all, Fiona thought, for when confronted directly, George wavered. As crazy as this day had become, if George sinned too openly with Fiona, there might yet be consequences George's mouth gaped open and shut like a fish, torn between the temptation of getting his hands on Fiona's sweet flesh and the chance he might be held accountable for his sins. But before he could answer, an unexpected voice called out from the crowd.

"I'll do it. I'll take responsibility for cleaning the girl."

Fiona couldn't have been more shocked if God himself had called down from the clouds.

The speaker was the barber, Jacob Smith. There was no more staid, respectable or slow-moving man for miles around. The barber was in his sixties, and sported a bald head and a bushy white mustache. Why on earth would he volunteer for this task? He had never been particularly kind to Fiona, but neither had he ever looked at her with lust. Apparently, Fiona wasn't the only one who was surprised. "You, Goodman Smith?" Jane asked.

"Why would you want this responsibility?"

Goodman Smith scratched his head. "No real reason, except that somebody's got to do it. I don't doubt that you're doing the best you can, Goodwife Jane, but the truth is that you're the one who let her get into this state. I think it's possible that your own feelings -- and the girl's sins - may have clouded your judgment a bit. I believe in my Reverend, and if he says the girl shouldn't be allowed to cover her body, then she needs to get scrubbed down right quick. I can barely see the color of her skin under all that dirt. That said, it's obvious what this lout" -- and here he gestured with a thumb towards George - "is up to. He just wants to get the girl in some dark corner so he can lift her legs up over her head and take his pleasure. I don't begrudge him that -- we were all young once -- but it means he can't be trusted. Anyway, I'm the barber, which means I'm the doctor and the nursemaid and the confessor of this town when the Reverend isn't present. Cleaning this girl up is my job if it's anyone's. I'll do it right here in the square so that no one can complain that I'm sinning. My apprentice can help me. Won't take more than half an hour."

Ten minutes later, Fiona was standing on a small upraised platform in the center of the town square. The barber's apprentice, a youth named Joe, had been sent to gather supplies, and he had laid them in a small pile on the corner of the platform: a wooden bucket filled to the brim with water, a chunk of soap, a tin cup, a washcloth, several brushes from the stables and a coil of rope.

"Give me your hands, lass," Smith said to Fiona. "I know you've been behaving, but I don't quite trust you yet. Anyway, it will make things easier if you're not squirming around."

Mutely, Fiona offered her pale wrists to the barber. He had a calm, clinical demeanor that both soothed her and made her realize that begging would be useless. Smith looped the rope around her wrist and tied it in a loose knot, then tossed the remainder of the coil over a tree branch that extended over the platform. As Smith pulled, Fiona's arms were stretched up over her head and she was dragged higher and higher until only the balls of her feet touched the platform. Her body was stretched out to its full length, her dirty, quivering breasts lifted fully into view.

Smith secured the rope to a post and snatched the blanket from around Fiona's waist. Despite herself, she flushed from head to foot. Now she was naked again. If Smith was going to wash her, she guessed he was going to do a thorough job.

Taking one of the horse-brushes from the pile, Smith walked up behind her. She stiffened, but all he did was drag the rough bristles through her tangled red hair. It felt so good that she rolled her head back to better feel the refreshing scrape of the brush against her scalp.

It was late afternoon. The town square was strangely hushed. Fiona was exhausted. Her whole body ached from the strain of the beatings she had received, and as the barber ran the brush through her hair, her shame slowly drained out of her and her thoughts went quiet, until she felt as docile and simpleminded as an animal. After a few long, calming strokes of the brush, it almost didn't matter that she had been tied up and strung from a branch and was now dangling naked and helpless in full view of everyone she knew. At least no one was beating her. The hands touching her weren't angry. All Fiona wanted was to please, to be touched gently and to avoid pain.

The barber brushed her red hair until it shone, and with practiced hands, pulled it back off of her face, weaving it into a long, thick braid that hung down her back. Then he bent down, scooped up a cupful of water from the bucket, and poured it over Fiona's head. Even though she'd been expecting it, the splash of cold made Fiona gasp. She shook her head and blinked her eyes as the water poured over her face. It wasn't until the cool liquid reached her lips that she realized how thirsty she'd been. She lifted her chin and opened her mouth, lapping the water up with her pink parched tongue.

Once Fiona's head and face were soaked, the barber dampened the washcloth and smeared it with a bit of soap. When he put it over her face, she tried to wriggle away out of instinct, but he grasped her braid and held her head firmly in place. His fingers, wrapped in the washcloth, probed the corners of her eyes, her nostrils and the edges of her mouth. Her ears came next. Again, she couldn't help but struggle a little, kicking her legs at the intrusion, but his strong hands forced her to be still. When her entire face was covered in a soapy film, he dumped another cup of water over her head, rinsed the cloth and patted her face and neck dry.

Her face stung, but it felt good. Fiona blinked her eyes and looked out over the square. As the long summer dusk settled over the town, air was rapidly cooling. A small crowd milled about the platform, but they seemed only vaguely interested, and often turned away from her to talk among themselves. By now, most of the town had been able to examine Fiona's extraordinary proportions, and a public washing didn't compare to the sight of a public spanking when it came to excitement. How strange, she thought, that in less than a day the sight of her nakedness had become nothing remarkable. Of course, she still had a few more engaged spectators -- Albert and George, Lucas and Fiona. What they were thinking, she couldn't even begin to imagine.

The barber came and stood in front of her, blocking her vision. He took both her shoulders in his hand and gazed down at her monumental bosom. Fiona was put in mind of the moment just a few hours earlier when Reverend Godwin had surveyed her breasts speculatively before smearing them with grease. The layers of filth that covered her chest were truly disgusting. Her silver dollar sized aureolas, normally a bright pink that contrasted dramatically with her milk-white skin, had been so blackened by dirt that you couldn't tell where they ended and the flesh of her breasts began. Her nipples, which seemed to have been permanently stretched by the abuse they'd taken that day, were caked with a coat of dried mud so thick that it had begun to crack. Here and there, dollops of the smelly grease that Reverend Doyle had rubbed all over her tits shone through the mud, but they were difficult to tell apart from the sticky goo of egg white that dripped down the skin on the sides of her breasts. Bits of garbage still clung to her thin, concave stomach, and a shred of old cabbage was lodged in her belly button. No wonder everyone had begun looking at her as though she were nothing but an animal! She felt like a hog that had been left to root around in its own filth. Even the barber, who had seemed so detached and professional up until now, curled his lip a bit in disgust. After everything that had happened, how could she ever get clean?

The barber began by using his hands. He hefted one of Fiona's enormous, filthy tits and rolled it roughly between his palms. Working from the base of her breast, he used his fingers to remove the worst of the mess, pulling it off in gobs and chunks. He scratched much of the mud off of her nipple, digging at the tender skin with his fingernails. Dipping his hands ever so often in the bucket to rinse them, he continued his ministrations on her other breast, until the dirt had retreated to isolated patches, and bright, shining streaks of pale wet flesh shone through. It hurt, but Fiona was so eager to be clean that she didn't utter even a peep of complaint.

When he had removed the bulk of the dirt from Fiona's breasts, the barber picked up the bucket of water and placed the bottom edge just beneath Fiona's neck. Then he tilted it slowly so that the grimy water sluiced out over her tits and stomach. He poured half of the water over her front and half over her back, then called out to his apprentice to come and refill the bucket. As the boy was doing so, the barber picked up another brush, this one slightly softer than the one he had used to comb Fiona's hair. He rubbed a thick slice of soap along the brush until foamed, and then brought the horse brush to Fiona's chest.

Even though she wanted to be clean -- even though the last thing she wanted to do was struggle -- when those cruel sharp bristles came scraping across her breasts, Fiona couldn't help but rebel. The brush was made for the tough hide of horses, not for a girl's vulnerable skin. "Aieeeeeee!" she cried, straining desperately to shield her soft exposed tits, but her arms were tied well above her head, so she just flailed about, her huge soapy tits flopping back and forth beneath the brush. It hurt so bad!

Without comment, the barber took the cloth he'd used to wash her face and jammed it into Fiona's open mouth. He shoved her helplessly kicking legs together and pinned them between his own, then took hold of her braid and yanked her body backwards so that her nipples pointed to the sky.