The Molly Ch. 03

Just so readers know some background on this: the Lousiana parts of this saga are set in 1897, while the London sections are set between July of 1889 and February 1890. In the world of the story, the Jack the Ripper killings happened in 1888, and are therefore fresh in everyone's memory. In a later chapter, something will happen to one character, a minor historical figure, which in real life happened to the guy some time between 1886 and 1887. Rather than mess with history too much by changing the chronology of the Ripper murders, I've made a small but deliberate change to the biography of a real person, just in case anyone thinks I hadn't done my research. Note: Laing's Nek was a battle in the First Boer War, which the English lost.

*

Half an hour later, two servants manhandled a heavy carpet-bag into the back of a hansom cab.

Edith was inside. She was naked, and had been hog-tied with military efficiency by the bearded man, her arms and legs tightly bound. She was gagged with a napkin, blindfolded with a black cravat, and loosely shrouded in a sheet. She could breathe, but not move. She could see nothing and hear little. She knew that they were taking her somewhere where everything was going to get far, far worse, and she was telling herself that if she escaped with her life, she would do something, she didn't know what, but she'd be revenged on these fucks, she would ruin them, she would bring them down . . .

The cab jerked into motion. The bearded man had got in with the bag, which was on the floor. He hummed a little tune as the cab drove off.

It's useless, said the voice, and the self-pity filled Edith's eyes with tears once again and made her throat ache.

What are you telling yourself? They're clever rich toffs, and you're a poor tart from Whitechapel. They could kill you and they'd get away with it. They probably will kill you, that's what they're planning.

Oh bloody hell, what if one of them was the Ripper? Oh fucking hell I'm dead, I'm gonna get killed, that's what, that bastard Stephen, he hated women, you could feel it off him, when they turned me over and he saw my quim it was like he'd been stung, he looked at me like I was dirt, he hates me, he'll kill me when they've finished with me...

She sobbed quietly for a while, as the cab rocked through the darkened streets.

No, she said to herself as the crying subsided. You're not going to die, Edith, you won't give the bastards the satisfaction. You'll live, and you're better than any of them. Remember that. Whatever happens, whatever they do to me, whatever fucking horrible things they can do to me, I'll live through it because I'm not giving the bastards the satisfaction.

You still might die.

I don't care. If I die I'll do it when they're not looking. That'll fox 'em.

They'll kill you. They'll cut your throat and open your belly and throw you on a dungheap to rot.

Fuck them. I don't care. They'll --

Shut up!

The cab rolled on in silence.

Half an hour later the men were already gathered in the room when the bearded man entered, carrying the carpet-bag over his shoulder. They had helped themselves to drinks, and cigar smoke perfumed the air. The bearded man slung the bag off his shoulder and let it thud to the floor. He leaned over and unfastened it, and another man helped him to take out the shrouded body.

They put the bag aside and unwrapped the girl. She lay still, unresponsive, lying hogtied, naked, blindfolded and gagged on the floor. The bearded man methodically untied her, freeing her body from the ropes, which left red welts on her white skin. Her short ginger hair was lank with sweat. They made her sit up, and her hands were cuffed behind her back. Then the bearded man took off her gag. She sat in silence, the thick dark cloth still bound over her eyes, licking her lips once, then remaining quite still. It was warm in the room, but she shivered.

"So," said the bearded man, "this is where you are to meet your destiny."

He leaned over and took off her blindfold. She blinked and squinted, focusing on them, and then looking around the room. She looked very young and very vulnerable. As she made out what was hanging on the walls, and recognised the unusual furniture, she went pale.

Mr Stephen was leaning against the wall negligently, smoking a cigarette.

"Well?" he asked. "Are you scared yet?"

"Yes sir," she said tonelessly.

Don't give them the satisfaction.

"You should be," he said. "Grown men have broken down in tears, in this room, and begged me for lenience. I very much doubt that a whore like you is capable of resisting for long."

"Yes sir," she said, in the same flat toneless voice. The fat young man leaned down and slapped her hard across the face. She cried out, but remained still, staring ahead of her, not looking at any of them.

"By God," said the fat young man, red-faced, shaking a finger at her, "you'll not keep that tone for long, you little bitch. You'll show more respect, do you hear me?"

"Yes sir," said Edith coldly. She was rewarded with another slap across the face. Then the young man reached down, seized her bare nipples and twisted them. She gasped with pain, but her jaw set firmly and she made no other sound.

"By God," laughed Cyril, "what a little termagant! Does she seriously believe that she can keep this up?"

The man with the pipe took his pipe out of his mouth and placed it on the mantelpiece.

"Put her over the horse," he said brusquely. "I want to break her in."

"Oh, splendid!" said the fat young man eagerly. Edith was hauled to her feet and dragged over to a low vaulting horse by the wall. Her handcuffs were unlocked, and then relocked with her hands in front of her. She was pushed over so that she bent over the horse, and her cuffs were locked to a hoop on the frame. Her legs were still standing, but her naked rear end was presented to the men.

This is it, now they're having their fun, don't make a sound, don't let them see how it feels, don't let them . . .

She stared doggedly ahead of her, but she was trembling. She heard the man unbuttoning his trousers, and the whisper of cloth as they sank down his legs. Then a hand was rubbing some kind of grease between her naked buttocks, and she clenched her teeth, and then a strong arm had encircled her hips and a thick, stiff member was pressing in between her cheeks.

"If this is your first time," said Cyril laconically, "I advise you not to squeeze. It's much better if you let it in."

Oh Christ, this is it, he's going up your bum, don't scream, Edith, don't scream, he's, he's going to . . .

The man pushed his cock head against the tiny black star of the girl's anus, and he leaned into her with a grunt.

"Ahh!" Edith gasped, despite herself. It was terrible. It hurt, and she wanted to shit. He jerked his hips into her some more and she screamed again.

"AAAUGHH!"

Oh God, it hurts, they're watching me, they're watching him fuck my arse . . .

Her eyes were tight shut and her mouth was stretched into a rictus of pain. She clutched the chain that secured to the horse and squeezed it, and the pain helped her to focus. The man drove his cock all the way into her arse, and she couldn't hold him out any longer, she had to let go . . . and then it didn't hurt quite as much, although it was still bad, but she'd had men in her before, if not there. It was agony, him pushing into her at first, but now he was fully inside her, it was just painful and humiliating.

The terrible bit was the way they were just watching her. That was the worst thing, the feeling of just being something for them to fuck, because they hadn't been able to lay hands on a boy. Edith moaned as the man buggered her, and the weak thought came to her -- maybe it's better they were doing this to me, than to some young lad they got off the street. I've saved some kid from a life of debauchery, she thought, and the thought almost made her smile.

"Good heavens," said Cyril. "I could almost swear she's enjoying it."

"I told her she would,' said the bearded man. 'In any case, there's a physiological reaction." They watched in silence for a while as the man sodomised the naked girl, listening to her hoarse, regular breathing.

Edith found that if she breathed deeply and regularly it wasn't really any worse than being fucked by any bloke she didn't fancy. But what still ached was the humiliation -- she couldn't stop them, she was strapped down while they did this -- and the fear of what was going to happen to her when they'd decided that they'd had their fun.

And there was something else, too, something that made her flush with shame, something deeper that she hadn't considered or expected, but which was true nonetheless.

Oh god, ohgodohgodohgod he's fucking my arse, and it . . . god, it's making me feel wet, I'm actually wet, oh Christ I mustn't let them know, they mustn't think they can do that to me . . .

"What do you think, Jem?" asked the bearded man with a smile. Mr Stephen had sat down on a nearby stool, and was smoking.

"What a ridiculous spectacle," he said calmly. "With a female? Such an utter waste of a perfectly good buggering."

"She rather reminds me of Marden-Smith," said Cyril. "You remember Marden-Smith, Jem? That rather lovely ginger boy who came up in '79. I seem to remember we fucked him in your study."

"Oh yes," said Mr Stephen. "I remember him. I suppose there is a certain superficial . . . Yes. She could be his sister, indeed."

"Full many a flower is born to bloom unseen," said the bearded man with a smile.

"Oh don't be so sentimental," Mr Stephen scoffed. "She's a bloody little East End whore."

"Which of us has not strayed down that particular path?" said Cyril, lighting a cigarette, and then, warding off Mr Stephen's imminent and indignant retort with a calmly raised hand, he added "Obviously not you, Jem."

Oh Christ, oh how much longer, how much longer, oh fuck don't let me cum, don't let me cum, just spend you bastard, you fucking buggering bastard, oh god it's not right, it's not right, I can't, I need to think of something else but, god, just spend in my arse and get it over with, oh god, he's going faster, he's going to do it, the bastard's going to make me cum . . .

The pipe-smoking man gave a guttural shout and drove his hips with punishing force into the naked girl's arse. She moaned with pain as he shoved her pelvis against the vaulting horse, rubbing her pubis against the leather. She felt warm semen flooding into her bowels and to her intense shame, the filthy intimacy of his cock crammed into her bowels, coupled with the friction of the leather on her swollen labia, made her body flush with orgasm. She made a hoarse whimper.

"AAAAaahh-hh-hh-hh!"

Sweat was pouring off her face, stinging her eyes. She hung her head and stifled a sob of pain and humiliation, biting her lip to suppress the shame.

"What happened to Marden-Smith, anyway?" said Mr Stephen. "He was quite the tart himself, I remember."

"He died," said the bearded man shortly. "Laing's Nek."

Nobody spoke for a moment. The only sound was the girl's shuddering breaths in and out, in and out, in and out.

"Ah," said Mr Stephen at last.

The pipe-smoking man pulled his cock out of the girl's arse. Mr Stephen tossed him a handkerchief and he wiped the small stains of shit and blood off his penis, then put it away, breathing heavily.

"What do you say, you little beast?" said the fat young man, leaning over and shouting into the girl's ear. "What do you say, hmm?"

The girl was panting for breath. She raised her head weakly.

"Thank you, sir," she whispered through dry lips.

"Doesn't sound very grateful to me," Mr Stephen observed.

"We ought to keep her awake," said the bearded man. He went to the sideboard and poured out a measure of brandy, then added seltzer and went up to the girl. He lifted her head.

"Drink this," he said curtly, and he raised the glass to her lips. Edith drank. The watered brandy moistened her mouth, and it made a small fire as it trickled down into her belly. She found herself feeling grateful, and it angered her; she avoided the bearded man's gaze. He was the first one. He raped me first. He's like all the rest. Don't trust him. At any rate, he didn't wait to be thanked but put the half-empty glass down on the floor and walked away.

"She's none too clean," said the pipe-smoking man, mopping his forehead with a a silk napkin and reaching for his pipe with the other. 'Is there any way we can clean her out?'

"You'll find an enema bag in that cupboard," said Mr Stephen, rising to his feet and stretching. "I'll call for soap and water." He left the room. The bearded man went over to the cupboard and opened it.

"Here, we aren't indulging her, are we?" said the fat young man anxiously. "She's only a common tart from the streets. I don't think we should pamper her."

"Bassett," said Cyril with a sardonic smile, "you may not object to sticking your pizzle in that girl's shit, but I do. It's for our benefit, not hers."

"I thought we were meant to be punishing her," Bassett grumbled.

"And so we are. But there's no need to be unhygienic about it."

"Are you going to kill me?" asked a hoarse, high voice from the direction of the vaulting horse.

As one man, they turned and looked at her. She had raised her head and was looking at them, her round, smooth face wet and pale with tiredness, her mop of hair hanging around her face in rat's tails, her eyes bloodshot.

They were silent. There was no hope in her face, just weariness and pain and a dull flame of anger.

As Edith looked at them, she noticed the mixture of expressions on their faces. Cyril, the sarcastic one, looked amused. The pipe-smoking man looked drunk and bloated and tired. The fat one . . . for a moment he looked afraid, and then his face darkened and she could see he was getting angry again. Oh fuck, she thought. Why did I say that? The bearded man she couldn't read at all. His beard covered the whole lower half of his face, it made him impossible to read. He stood looking at her and she was frightened that she had no idea what he was thinking, none at all. The nervous one, with the weak chin and the dark rings under his eyes, the one they called Eddy . . . where had she seen him before? He was starting to flap and gibber and paw at the others. What a wet fish, she thought. Why had she said that? Why weren't they saying anything? The thought that they did mean to kill her made her start to shake.

"Here, you fellows," stammered Eddy, "I mean, no, we can't, oh God, haven't we, haven't we had enough of that, please, no more . . ."

"Be quiet, Eddy!" the bearded man barked, with shocking force. All of them, even the girl, were taken aback. The bearded man was glaring at the weak-chinned man. There was a sudden tension in the room. The girl had the strangest feeling that she'd brought up something that nobody wanted to talk about, something terrible and forbidden. She looked at the faces of the men. The bearded man looked furious. Cringing little Eddy looked scared and abject. Mr Stephen looked cold and watchful. The other men looked nervous, but also . . . puzzled. She realised that they had no more idea than she did why the bearded man was suddenly so angry.

"Steady on, Robert," Cyril murmured, and placed his hand on the bearded man's arm.

"I'm sorry, Robert," Eddy whined. The bearded man continued to glare at him for a long moment, and Eddy almost seemed to cringe. He took them all in with his gaze, and then looked back at Eddy again.

"I went out tonight," said the bearded man quietly and coldly, "so that you and your friends could have your sport. It has not gone according to plan. I don't mind you indulging yourselves on this girl, who after all deceived us and planned to cheat us. I value her as nothing. But I will not have you dictate to me how I am to clean up after your fun. Keep your damned foolishness to yourself, Eddy, and do not mention that matter again. You forget your station."

There was an awful silence. Eddy looked abject, the other men just puzzled and embarrassed. The bearded man glanced at the girl, then he seemed to pull himself together.

"Please, gentlemen, if you would step outside for a moment. I wish to speak to this girl alone."

With some grumbling, they all picked up their glasses and cigars and filed out of the door. When they had left, the bearded man came over to Edith and knelt by her head.

"To answer your question," he said, and paused for a moment. "I have not yet decided what to do with you."

Edith felt herself about to start crying again. She fought back the tears.

"You are extremely privileged," the man went on. "Other women in your position have not been so fortunate as you. Now, you must answer me truthfully, or you will suffer for it. Do you recognise any of the gentlemen here? Have you seen any of them before?"

His dark grey eyes stared into hers.

And then, suddenly, it came to her with a terrible certainty that she did know who one of them was. And she knew, without question, that under no circumstances must he must know that she recognised the man.

If she came over too strong, he'd know she was lying. So she had to play it careful.

"No, sir," she said. Her look was blank. He held her gaze for a long, long time.

"We shall see," he said. "Now, you understand that we have not finished with you? That there is more to come?"

She hung her head and nodded. He gripped her bare shoulder.

"Just remember something. These men are selfish and rich and idle and cruel, but they can be restrained. I can restrain them. I will do this for you because . . . I want to see whether you can withstand the demands we make upon you. You have fallen, but with help you may rise again." He squeezed her shoulder encouragingly and stood up.

"Hypocrite," the girl breathed. She felt him stiffen.

"What did you say?" he said quietly. She raised her head and looked up at him through the damp fringe of her ginger hair.

"You're a hypocrite," she rasped, her mouth dry. "I read my Bible. You're a hypocrite. You're one of them . . ." She coughed, and licked her lips.

"You're one of them Pharisees. You want me to thank you. You want me to be fucking grateful, an' all along you was the one who brought me 'ere, you was the one who had first go at me. You fucked me first!" she hissed, as he stared back at her. "You fucked me first, so don't go telling me what a bloody wonderful soul you 'ave, cos you ain't the one who's been tied to a fuckin' lump of wood and fucked up the arse! Don't come the good Samaritan with me, you cunt! You're as bad as the rest of them!"

He knelt down again. His voice was low and dangerous.

"You are an extremely insolent young woman,' he said. 'I can make life very difficult for you."

She laughed, painfully, because her arms were stiff and her chest was sore from being lashed to the horse, and it hurt to breathe.

"Oh can yer?" she said. "And when d'yer plan to start?"

His face swelled briefly with rage. She braced herself for the slap, closing her eyes and offering her cheek. But it never came. Instead, she heard with amazement a low chuckle. She opened one eye and looked at him. He was sitting on the floor, looking up at her, with something like fascination.

"Forgive me," he said, smiling. "I may have underestimated you. Oh, you will pay for your impertinence, my dear, believe me. Mr Stephen has some interesting toys in here, and I intend to use them on you. But you are right about one thing. Yes, I am as bad as the rest of them. I am indeed a hypocrite. So are you. You walk the streets and earn your living sucking men's pricks for gin money. And you presume to lecture me on morality! I can write a letter tomorrow that will cause war to break out thousands of miles away. I am a man of substance. All of us are. Bassett, who you probably think is a glutton and a buffoon, and I would agree with you -- Bassett lives off the sweat of thousands of workers. Cyril will inherit millions. You are nothing, a mere harlot, a tuppenny whore. And yet you and I have more in common with each other than I have with them. For we, at least, know what we are. They are content in their ignorance. They think themselves fine fellows, but you and I, Jane Tarvey -- you see, I had not forgotten your name -- you and I both know exactly how rotten is the system that feeds us. And yet we continue to suckle at its cankered breast."