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London Calling
- Thread starter Barbaria1
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Barb 16
By this time the second act had gotten underway I was pretty pissed. Goldman was hamming up his part beyond belief. Throwing in a reference to what he paid for our room at the Dorchester was uncalled for in my opinion. He would hear about that later! And then there was that inappropriate remark about Georgie and Pritchard getting it on together that drew a laugh from the audience. That's no one's business but Georgie's! Nonetheless, I couldn't help but notice how she seemed to be enjoying this whole thing. And I was under the impression that she would be on my side!
Indeed, as I lay on the floor trying not to sneeze ... given my allergies to all that straw they had strewn around ... and not to mention trying to keep some shred of decency given that overly-revealing dress I had been given to wear, I began to wonder how I had gotten myself into this awful mess.
I had intended the expensive dinner at the Dorchester to be the final touch in my campaign to make Goldman miserable after what he and Bob had done to me in Rome. And I thought bringing a high-class act like Georgie onto the scene would be the crowning touch ... the perfect way to put Goldman and his lowbrow cop friend in their place.
Instead I got roped into playing a part in this strange re-enactment production, and "Turncoat Georgie" seemed to be reveling in her role. To add insult to injury, Goldman was having the time of his life.
I really didn't quite know what to make of Covington and the people in the audience either. This was clearly anything but a snobby drama club. We had only done two scenes, but the catcalls and remarks from the audience were enough to convince me that this was some-kind of kinky, high-class bdsm club that tried to project an air of respectability around their doings by dressing up and claiming they were dramatizing historic events. In fact, as far as I could tell, they were mainly interested in ogling nude women thrust into compromising situations, and perhaps even worse!
Reading ahead on the monitor, it was soon clear to me that the second act featured the interrogation of Anne Boleyn and her lady-in-waiting, Margery Horsman ... and that dear old Georgie, playing Margery, was to go first.
Once the action got underway, Georgie was forced to strip away what was left of her costume, and then they strung her up. Judging by the cheers and the shouted instructions, the audience apparently thought she looked magnificent, nakedly hanging by her wrists from a pair of manacles, and were more than eager to even participate in what might happen to her next.
Then I heard Goldman say that I be "brought out to have a look at my galpal".
Galpal?!?!?!? Where the fuck did Goldman get such language?
And by this point in time, I had no intention of confessing anything regardless of what the overhead monitor might tell me I should say. "Turncoat Georgie" was on entirely on her own from here on out!
But the production managers apparently had other ideas.
"Hang together"? Oh Shit, not that!!
Then it only got worse when Cromwell said: "Or perhaps we could let Anne have a nice lie down on the rack. I have heard she often wished she were a bit taller."
And a bad joke too! "Wishing I was a bit taller", my eye!!!!! Neither Pritchard or Goldman would ever make it as stand up comedians!
I would have liked to have stomped off the stage in disgust at that point, and I actually tried, but I found myself to be effectively immobilized. My wrists were tied behind my back and the two extras, standing alongside me, held my arms and elbows in an iron grip. I could stomp my feet, and complain all I wanted, but I wasn't leaving. And my struggle to break free just incited the crowd ... to those out there watching, it was all part of the act.
A break in the action followed.
Then we moved on to the next scene in which I was hauled before Goldman ... I mean Henry ... sitting on a stupid looking excuse for a throne. By that time, I was seriously thinking of telling the lot of them that I was through with the whole ridiculous thing, but I never thought of myself as a quitter and, besides, that might be construed by Goldman as some kind of victory ... heaven forbid! ... so I decided to tough it out. How much worse could it get anyway?
I sleep-walked through a dialogue sequence in which I was told by Goldman to observe how Georgie suffers on my behalf. She still looked to me like she was enjoying it!
To each their own I figured, and played along until I was ordered to get naked! Somehow I knew that was coming ... given what had happened so far, I guess it was inevitable. But I had no intention of cooperating. I mean I am no prude. I have a healthy attitude toward my body. I've even gone topless on beaches ... and the bodice on that costume had already bared my boobs more than once since the show began ... but to strip totally naked in front of all these strangers was more than I was prepared to do. If Georgie didn't mind, that was her business. But not me!
To signal that I was having none of it, I flipped Goldman a finger and tossed in a sassily pointed: "Kiss my ass"!
Unfortunately, he responded by ordering the extras to strip me forcibly. Geeze, Goldman!
Like a tiger, I bravely fought their attempts to remove my costume, even managing to knee one of them in the balls, and it wasn't play-acting either! Not only did I flail about, I used every curse I knew too. But they got serious (and very rough), and before I knew it they had me stretched out stark-naked ... like Georgie ... but, in my case, on a big wooden rack!
The audience loved the action. As soon as Goldman gave the order to strip me, everyone was on their feet, shouting encouragement as the extras struggled to subdue me. Quite a few of the men in the audience even left their seats to come on stage and lend a hand ... and by the time they had me stripped and racked, quite a few had laid their hands on me ... in places, I don't mind saying where touching was definitely not welcome! It was totally humiliating and through it all Goldman sat on his stupid throne and grinned at me.
After everyone had returned to their seats, the two extras playing guards happily set about giving the wheel on the rack two turns ... and I felt real pain! What ever happened to acting?!?!?!? This rack was no stage prop ... it was the real thing, and these guys knew exactly how to work it and were enjoying it too. The whole re-enactment thing, in my opinion, was careening out of control.
While I was gasping for air and checking to see if my arms were really still attached to my shoulders, attention shifted to Georgie, whom Goldman, following the script on the monitor, asserted would soon betray me.
As far as I was concerned SHE ALREADY HAD!
And then, continuing to follow the script, Goldman offered to have me beheaded rather than burned at the stake. How thoughtful of him! Geeze! I began to wonder if they intended to play that part out with a real ax too?
"Go fuck yourself, Hank!" was my unscripted response to that idiotic offer. And I paid dearly for my outburst when the over-enthusiastic extras decided it was time to turn the wheel a couple more turns. That really hurt!!! I noticed through teary eyes that one of them was still nursing his groin and that he certainly seemed more than happy to exact a little revenge on my poor body.
(manip by bobinder)
Meanwhile Goldman's ad-libbing was getting stupider and stupider ... some kind of lame thing about braziers and brassieres. Childish, Goldman! Childish!
The brazier, however, was no toy. The damned thing was so hot it was glowing. They slid it under Georgie's bare feet, and for the first time I thought I detected distress rather than glee in her demeanor. Moments later she yelled, "Owwww!" And, as the heat under her dangling feet intensified, she lapsed into an extended series of incoherent moans and squeals, in addition to thrashing wildly about as she hung from those manacles.
Good, I thought. She asked for it! I felt like gloating.
But then, they re-positioned the brazier so that it rested under my right foot. And the men at the wheel, ever helpful, decided it was time to give it another full turn.
"Fuuuck! Stop it! It burns so! And my shoulders! Owwwwwww!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.
I looked up desperately at Georgie, hanging high above me. And much to my amazement, she winked at me.
What the fuck, I thought? What does that mean? And then I thought I saw her wink again, although I couldn't be sure, because it happened at precisely the moment the bastards decided to turn the wheel yet another turn and I was too busy screaming "Nooooo ... Nooooo .... Nooooo" and violently shaking my head from side to side to focus on Georgie anymore.
And when at last the pain subsided somewhat and I lay there panting, chest heaving, sweat breaking out all over my stretched body ... my eyes were too full of tears to see what Georgie might be trying to communicate to me.
Besides, Goldman was reading his lines again, saying: ... "you can avoid all this with your confession. And save your maid as well."
I took a deep breath, shook the tears and sweat-sodden hair from my eyes, and read my lines with true conviction: "I would suffer the fires of Hell rather than satisfy you, Goldman ... I mean, Henry!"
And the bastard ended the scene by saying, "Your choice, sweet cheeks!"
By this time the second act had gotten underway I was pretty pissed. Goldman was hamming up his part beyond belief. Throwing in a reference to what he paid for our room at the Dorchester was uncalled for in my opinion. He would hear about that later! And then there was that inappropriate remark about Georgie and Pritchard getting it on together that drew a laugh from the audience. That's no one's business but Georgie's! Nonetheless, I couldn't help but notice how she seemed to be enjoying this whole thing. And I was under the impression that she would be on my side!
Indeed, as I lay on the floor trying not to sneeze ... given my allergies to all that straw they had strewn around ... and not to mention trying to keep some shred of decency given that overly-revealing dress I had been given to wear, I began to wonder how I had gotten myself into this awful mess.
I had intended the expensive dinner at the Dorchester to be the final touch in my campaign to make Goldman miserable after what he and Bob had done to me in Rome. And I thought bringing a high-class act like Georgie onto the scene would be the crowning touch ... the perfect way to put Goldman and his lowbrow cop friend in their place.
Instead I got roped into playing a part in this strange re-enactment production, and "Turncoat Georgie" seemed to be reveling in her role. To add insult to injury, Goldman was having the time of his life.
I really didn't quite know what to make of Covington and the people in the audience either. This was clearly anything but a snobby drama club. We had only done two scenes, but the catcalls and remarks from the audience were enough to convince me that this was some-kind of kinky, high-class bdsm club that tried to project an air of respectability around their doings by dressing up and claiming they were dramatizing historic events. In fact, as far as I could tell, they were mainly interested in ogling nude women thrust into compromising situations, and perhaps even worse!
Reading ahead on the monitor, it was soon clear to me that the second act featured the interrogation of Anne Boleyn and her lady-in-waiting, Margery Horsman ... and that dear old Georgie, playing Margery, was to go first.
Once the action got underway, Georgie was forced to strip away what was left of her costume, and then they strung her up. Judging by the cheers and the shouted instructions, the audience apparently thought she looked magnificent, nakedly hanging by her wrists from a pair of manacles, and were more than eager to even participate in what might happen to her next.
Then I heard Goldman say that I be "brought out to have a look at my galpal".
Galpal?!?!?!? Where the fuck did Goldman get such language?
And by this point in time, I had no intention of confessing anything regardless of what the overhead monitor might tell me I should say. "Turncoat Georgie" was on entirely on her own from here on out!
But the production managers apparently had other ideas.
"Hang together"? Oh Shit, not that!!
Then it only got worse when Cromwell said: "Or perhaps we could let Anne have a nice lie down on the rack. I have heard she often wished she were a bit taller."
And a bad joke too! "Wishing I was a bit taller", my eye!!!!! Neither Pritchard or Goldman would ever make it as stand up comedians!
I would have liked to have stomped off the stage in disgust at that point, and I actually tried, but I found myself to be effectively immobilized. My wrists were tied behind my back and the two extras, standing alongside me, held my arms and elbows in an iron grip. I could stomp my feet, and complain all I wanted, but I wasn't leaving. And my struggle to break free just incited the crowd ... to those out there watching, it was all part of the act.
A break in the action followed.
Then we moved on to the next scene in which I was hauled before Goldman ... I mean Henry ... sitting on a stupid looking excuse for a throne. By that time, I was seriously thinking of telling the lot of them that I was through with the whole ridiculous thing, but I never thought of myself as a quitter and, besides, that might be construed by Goldman as some kind of victory ... heaven forbid! ... so I decided to tough it out. How much worse could it get anyway?
I sleep-walked through a dialogue sequence in which I was told by Goldman to observe how Georgie suffers on my behalf. She still looked to me like she was enjoying it!
To each their own I figured, and played along until I was ordered to get naked! Somehow I knew that was coming ... given what had happened so far, I guess it was inevitable. But I had no intention of cooperating. I mean I am no prude. I have a healthy attitude toward my body. I've even gone topless on beaches ... and the bodice on that costume had already bared my boobs more than once since the show began ... but to strip totally naked in front of all these strangers was more than I was prepared to do. If Georgie didn't mind, that was her business. But not me!
To signal that I was having none of it, I flipped Goldman a finger and tossed in a sassily pointed: "Kiss my ass"!
Unfortunately, he responded by ordering the extras to strip me forcibly. Geeze, Goldman!
Like a tiger, I bravely fought their attempts to remove my costume, even managing to knee one of them in the balls, and it wasn't play-acting either! Not only did I flail about, I used every curse I knew too. But they got serious (and very rough), and before I knew it they had me stretched out stark-naked ... like Georgie ... but, in my case, on a big wooden rack!
The audience loved the action. As soon as Goldman gave the order to strip me, everyone was on their feet, shouting encouragement as the extras struggled to subdue me. Quite a few of the men in the audience even left their seats to come on stage and lend a hand ... and by the time they had me stripped and racked, quite a few had laid their hands on me ... in places, I don't mind saying where touching was definitely not welcome! It was totally humiliating and through it all Goldman sat on his stupid throne and grinned at me.
After everyone had returned to their seats, the two extras playing guards happily set about giving the wheel on the rack two turns ... and I felt real pain! What ever happened to acting?!?!?!? This rack was no stage prop ... it was the real thing, and these guys knew exactly how to work it and were enjoying it too. The whole re-enactment thing, in my opinion, was careening out of control.
While I was gasping for air and checking to see if my arms were really still attached to my shoulders, attention shifted to Georgie, whom Goldman, following the script on the monitor, asserted would soon betray me.
As far as I was concerned SHE ALREADY HAD!
And then, continuing to follow the script, Goldman offered to have me beheaded rather than burned at the stake. How thoughtful of him! Geeze! I began to wonder if they intended to play that part out with a real ax too?
"Go fuck yourself, Hank!" was my unscripted response to that idiotic offer. And I paid dearly for my outburst when the over-enthusiastic extras decided it was time to turn the wheel a couple more turns. That really hurt!!! I noticed through teary eyes that one of them was still nursing his groin and that he certainly seemed more than happy to exact a little revenge on my poor body.
(manip by bobinder)Meanwhile Goldman's ad-libbing was getting stupider and stupider ... some kind of lame thing about braziers and brassieres. Childish, Goldman! Childish!
The brazier, however, was no toy. The damned thing was so hot it was glowing. They slid it under Georgie's bare feet, and for the first time I thought I detected distress rather than glee in her demeanor. Moments later she yelled, "Owwww!" And, as the heat under her dangling feet intensified, she lapsed into an extended series of incoherent moans and squeals, in addition to thrashing wildly about as she hung from those manacles.
Good, I thought. She asked for it! I felt like gloating.
But then, they re-positioned the brazier so that it rested under my right foot. And the men at the wheel, ever helpful, decided it was time to give it another full turn.
"Fuuuck! Stop it! It burns so! And my shoulders! Owwwwwww!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.
I looked up desperately at Georgie, hanging high above me. And much to my amazement, she winked at me.
What the fuck, I thought? What does that mean? And then I thought I saw her wink again, although I couldn't be sure, because it happened at precisely the moment the bastards decided to turn the wheel yet another turn and I was too busy screaming "Nooooo ... Nooooo .... Nooooo" and violently shaking my head from side to side to focus on Georgie anymore.
And when at last the pain subsided somewhat and I lay there panting, chest heaving, sweat breaking out all over my stretched body ... my eyes were too full of tears to see what Georgie might be trying to communicate to me.
Besides, Goldman was reading his lines again, saying: ... "you can avoid all this with your confession. And save your maid as well."
I took a deep breath, shook the tears and sweat-sodden hair from my eyes, and read my lines with true conviction: "I would suffer the fires of Hell rather than satisfy you, Goldman ... I mean, Henry!"
And the bastard ended the scene by saying, "Your choice, sweet cheeks!"
Is this "Henry" the man who liked the Jeans'panthy by the past ?
windar
Teller of Tales
And a few you just made up for the occasion, Moore.
Are you suggesting that I would use a fake ax?
Give the wheel another turn, guys!You said after the last chapter that it couldn't get any lamer. You owe me an apology
Is it OK to say that you have never looked better, Anne? I mean that sincerely.
It's almost enough to make me reconsider chopping your head off. Almost... - Your loving husband, Henry
You give her clothing and she complains!!!
Doing not good things and your happen not bad things!
Is it OK to say that you have never looked better, Anne? I mean that sincerely.
What do YOU think, Goldman? ... NO ... IT'S NOT OK!!!! 
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
"Come on Moore! Take it sportsmanlike! Admit this is a walk in the park compared to the debauchery inflicted during your cadet hazing at the NYPD police academy."
"Come on Moore! Take it sportsmanlike! Admit this is a walk in the park compared to the debauchery inflicted during your cadet hazing at the NYPD police academy."
Those were the days, my friend 
...and now just a memory???View attachment 530699 Those were the days, my friend
I light up a cigarette
Sit down and try to forget
Your face as you turned and left me again...
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
Let him enjoy his vacation. We have Spike Sharp who is still here. Now he has a unique opportunity to show his journalistic talents without having to bother about Wragg's resentful comments. Why is he so silent?
After the The Bronx Crux Murders I had great esteem for Goldman who saved Barb from the claws of Gerhart and Donnelly.
What Goldman did to her in Rome was not very sensitive in view of what she had endured before but it was excusable because he thought she would like it. That was not entirely untrue although Barb did her very best not to show it. Her Dorchester revenge should have made him think. But no, he took her to the tower for a re-enactment and submitted her to unspeakable things which apparently she didn't like at all.
Beware, Goldman. When Wragg returns I might ask him to read his loathometer.
Oh Barb, you are a star! I was among the audience. You performed such a great show. Your naked body writhing on that rack was such an exciting sight.
And that brazier scene... So hot!
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Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
The historical Henry VIII was also an esteemed king in the beginning. Until he spotted Anna Boleyn.
So, no safe word. This attitude reminds me of Marcella's 'Trust' story!
You and Georgina dangling nude next to each other by heir wrists? A good idea for the next performance!
Oh! You were there too!?Oh Barb, you are a star! I was among the audience. You performed such a great show. Your naked body writhing on that rack was such an exciting sight.
And that brazier scene... So hot!
windar
Teller of Tales
Stan 17
Stan had to admit that he had been enjoying the evening’s fun and games. It was all very appealing in its way-the English and their love of drama, the setting in the real Tower of London, where people had really been tortured and killed over the centuries. And playing Henry VIII was a scream. Stan could sympathize with the guy and his troubles with ex-wives. The costume was pretty cool, too.
But he was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. Sure, Barb looked awfully sexy stretched out on that rack, every muscle straining, beads of sweat rolling down her breasts, which were heaving from the effort of breathing. Stan was tempted to rip his royal robes off and have her right there.
Perhaps she was exaggerating a bit for effect, but damned if that stretching didn’t look painful. And the brazier was no fake. Stan had held his hand six inches away and felt the heat and those guards, whoever they were in real life, had it at least that close to Barb’s foot, a foot Stan had always admired by the way. One of them picked it up by the insulated handle and moved it next to her other foot (which Stan had also admired). She gritted her teeth and emitted a plaintive moan as she tried to jerk her foot away, a task made impossible by the iron chains which held her ankles quite immobile. Either she was Meryl Streep or that really hurt.
And what about her friend Georgie hanging there in the manacles, looking, perhaps, a bit relieved that Barb was having a turn at the foot warmer rather than her? What was her role behind the scenes in all this? Was she a regular at these soirees? What was the strange hold she seemed to have on Barb? What had gone on that afternoon when Barb had blown off the BBC interview so suddenly? Did she just wink at Barb? Stan didn’t know what her game was, but the ex-detective in him made him want to find out.
He looked up at the teleprompter, but it had gone blank. He approached Bill and whispered, “What the fuck do we do now?”
“I think we’re supposed to ad lib, Stan.” Stan looked at Bill puzzled. “You know, act natural. Pretend they’re suspects and all the rules are thrown in the dustbin.” Stan guessed that was British for the wastebasket.
One of the guards came out of the shadows holding a nasty looking whip, several sturdy rope cords, attached to a wooden handle. Stan recognized it from old nautical movies as a British Navy cat o’ nine tails, the instrument that reduced even the most hardened sailor to a blubbering infant. “Perhaps Your Majesty would like me to whip the maid Margery. That ought to loosen her tongue,” the guard suggested.
Stan considered this. Maybe that was a good idea. Get her to confess and bring this drama to a conclusion. Maybe she would come out of character and also confess what was going on between her and Barb in real life. Moreover, to be honest, he’d enjoyed whipping Barb’s tight little in the prison in Rome. Georgie’s ass was almost as cute as Barb’s and surely this wouldn’t be the first whipping in the history of the Tower.
“I think I’d rather take care of that myself,” Stan told the guard.
“As Your Majesty wishes,” the guard replied, handing the whip to Stan. It felt solid and the cords looked like they could do some damage to sensitive skin. Stan walked around Georgie admiring her from all angles. He couldn’t entirely blame Barb for fooling around with her, if that’s what had happened. He ran his hands over her breasts.
“Do they please Your Majesty?” she cooed.
“Very much so, as does this,” Stan replied, as he traced his hands down her torso and behind to caress her buttocks. He glanced quickly at Barb, who appeared to be glaring at him through her pain. “The skin is very soft, Margery. It would be a shame to mark it,” he told her, slipping back into the Henry role. “Why not just admit that the Lady Anne betrayed me?”
“She did not, My Lord,” Margery replied.
Putting on the bit of acting he had used many times in questioning suspects, Stan shouted, “Enough of your lies, woman!” He strode purposefully behind her, grasping the wooden handle of the whip firmly, while sighting the center of the maid’s derriere, which, due to her having been hoisted in the manacles, was at the height of Stan’s chest.
He measured his distance, drew his arm back and struck. The tails swished through the air and smacked into the butt cheeks, biting into the succulent flesh. Stan felt the satisfying impact in his forearm. The force of the blow caused her dangling body to swing forward and then back, like a pendulum.
A second or two after the tails fell away, a set of bright red lines arose on Margery’s ass as the circulation returned, growing brighter as she swung in her manacles, twisting and contorting her body as the pain registered. She gasped, struggling to breathe.
“Nice one, Hank!” someone in the crowd yelled. “Hit her again!” another one called.
As soon as her body came to rest, Stan struck again, this time eliciting a howl of pain and more frenzied gyrations. How much was acting and how much was real? Did she just wink again at Barb? Stan didn’t know, and the only way to find out was to carry this through to its conclusion.
He struck again. Margery howled, and, gasping for breath, managed to utter, “Please, stop, it hurts so much. My ass, my shoulders. Have mercy on a poor maid.”
“Of course it hurts, bitch! It’s supposed to fucking hurt!” another audience member shouted to general hoots of approval.
Bill approached, them, ad libbing Cromwell. “Mercy begins with a confession of the truth. Look at your Lady Anne stretched out on the rack. I fear she cannot help you. Only the truth can save you.”
“I am telling the truth,” Margery wailed. “Please believe me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Cromwell answered. Stan struck again. Margery howled even louder. Her ass was a bright red, criss-crossed by livid welts. Stan was afraid that further blows would draw blood, something he knew the cat was perfectly capable of doing.
Stan approached the hanging woman. He could hear her panting. Dropping out of character he whispered, “Georgie, this is enough. Would you confess already?”
“It hurts like hell, Stan, but it’s kind of thrilling at the same time,” she told him.
“One more is all I’m giving you and then you break and spill the beans on Anne, OK. I’m the King after all; you have to obey me.”
“As Your Majesty wishes,” she replied. Stan struck once more as hard as he could. Margery’s body swung forward hard, her feet kicking wildly.
“Owwwwww!” she screamed. “I cannot stand any more, Your Majesty. I did see the Lady Anne cavorting naked with her own brother George. With mine own eyes I saw that and I cannot deny it.”
“I knew, the truth would come out,” Cromwell said, looking very pleased with himself. “Take her down,” he ordered the guards. They lowered the manacles and Margery dropped limply to the cold stone floor, sobbing. She looked over at Anne. “I’m sorry, My Lady, but it hurt so much, I could protect you no longer,” she cried, shaking with emotion.
Henry and Cromwell walked over to where Anne lay stretched on the rack. She was crying too, whether with the pain or the emotion of being betrayed by her maid, Stan couldn’t be sure. “The game is up, Anne. Margery will testify against you. We can do the same to others of your ladies-in-waiting if needs be. So why not make it easy on yourself and confess?” Stan had used that line on countless suspects and it had worked much more often than you would suspect, without even having to torture them.
“I cannot confess to something I’m not guilty of,” Anne replied.
Cromwell interjected, “Anne you have felt the heat of the brazier, near, but not touching your feet. Now imagine the flames of the pyre licking your body all over. Why suffer that? Confess and His Majesty will let you die quickly instead. Your head will be off before you feel a thing.” The audience laughed.
Anne remained silent. “Give her one more turn and see if that changes her mind,“ Cromwell ordered. The guard struggled with the wheel, finally advancing it.
“Owwwwww! Fuck!” Anne howled. Her arms looked like they might pop from her shoulders under the strain. “OK, I confess, I’ll say whatever you want. Just stop, for God’s sake, stop!!”
Cromwell signaled the guard, who turned the wheel backwards, relaxing the tension on Anne’s body. Two of the guards undid the restraints from her wrists and ankles and lifted her up, depositing her like a rag doll on the floor next to Margery. Anne put her arms around her lady-in-waiting and pressed Margery’s naked body close to her own. The lights lowered and they lay together in the darkness. The audience applauded lustily.
Stan had to admit that he had been enjoying the evening’s fun and games. It was all very appealing in its way-the English and their love of drama, the setting in the real Tower of London, where people had really been tortured and killed over the centuries. And playing Henry VIII was a scream. Stan could sympathize with the guy and his troubles with ex-wives. The costume was pretty cool, too.
But he was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. Sure, Barb looked awfully sexy stretched out on that rack, every muscle straining, beads of sweat rolling down her breasts, which were heaving from the effort of breathing. Stan was tempted to rip his royal robes off and have her right there.
Perhaps she was exaggerating a bit for effect, but damned if that stretching didn’t look painful. And the brazier was no fake. Stan had held his hand six inches away and felt the heat and those guards, whoever they were in real life, had it at least that close to Barb’s foot, a foot Stan had always admired by the way. One of them picked it up by the insulated handle and moved it next to her other foot (which Stan had also admired). She gritted her teeth and emitted a plaintive moan as she tried to jerk her foot away, a task made impossible by the iron chains which held her ankles quite immobile. Either she was Meryl Streep or that really hurt.
And what about her friend Georgie hanging there in the manacles, looking, perhaps, a bit relieved that Barb was having a turn at the foot warmer rather than her? What was her role behind the scenes in all this? Was she a regular at these soirees? What was the strange hold she seemed to have on Barb? What had gone on that afternoon when Barb had blown off the BBC interview so suddenly? Did she just wink at Barb? Stan didn’t know what her game was, but the ex-detective in him made him want to find out.
He looked up at the teleprompter, but it had gone blank. He approached Bill and whispered, “What the fuck do we do now?”
“I think we’re supposed to ad lib, Stan.” Stan looked at Bill puzzled. “You know, act natural. Pretend they’re suspects and all the rules are thrown in the dustbin.” Stan guessed that was British for the wastebasket.
One of the guards came out of the shadows holding a nasty looking whip, several sturdy rope cords, attached to a wooden handle. Stan recognized it from old nautical movies as a British Navy cat o’ nine tails, the instrument that reduced even the most hardened sailor to a blubbering infant. “Perhaps Your Majesty would like me to whip the maid Margery. That ought to loosen her tongue,” the guard suggested.
Stan considered this. Maybe that was a good idea. Get her to confess and bring this drama to a conclusion. Maybe she would come out of character and also confess what was going on between her and Barb in real life. Moreover, to be honest, he’d enjoyed whipping Barb’s tight little in the prison in Rome. Georgie’s ass was almost as cute as Barb’s and surely this wouldn’t be the first whipping in the history of the Tower.
“I think I’d rather take care of that myself,” Stan told the guard.
“As Your Majesty wishes,” the guard replied, handing the whip to Stan. It felt solid and the cords looked like they could do some damage to sensitive skin. Stan walked around Georgie admiring her from all angles. He couldn’t entirely blame Barb for fooling around with her, if that’s what had happened. He ran his hands over her breasts.
“Do they please Your Majesty?” she cooed.
“Very much so, as does this,” Stan replied, as he traced his hands down her torso and behind to caress her buttocks. He glanced quickly at Barb, who appeared to be glaring at him through her pain. “The skin is very soft, Margery. It would be a shame to mark it,” he told her, slipping back into the Henry role. “Why not just admit that the Lady Anne betrayed me?”
“She did not, My Lord,” Margery replied.
Putting on the bit of acting he had used many times in questioning suspects, Stan shouted, “Enough of your lies, woman!” He strode purposefully behind her, grasping the wooden handle of the whip firmly, while sighting the center of the maid’s derriere, which, due to her having been hoisted in the manacles, was at the height of Stan’s chest.
He measured his distance, drew his arm back and struck. The tails swished through the air and smacked into the butt cheeks, biting into the succulent flesh. Stan felt the satisfying impact in his forearm. The force of the blow caused her dangling body to swing forward and then back, like a pendulum.
A second or two after the tails fell away, a set of bright red lines arose on Margery’s ass as the circulation returned, growing brighter as she swung in her manacles, twisting and contorting her body as the pain registered. She gasped, struggling to breathe.
“Nice one, Hank!” someone in the crowd yelled. “Hit her again!” another one called.
As soon as her body came to rest, Stan struck again, this time eliciting a howl of pain and more frenzied gyrations. How much was acting and how much was real? Did she just wink again at Barb? Stan didn’t know, and the only way to find out was to carry this through to its conclusion.
He struck again. Margery howled, and, gasping for breath, managed to utter, “Please, stop, it hurts so much. My ass, my shoulders. Have mercy on a poor maid.”
“Of course it hurts, bitch! It’s supposed to fucking hurt!” another audience member shouted to general hoots of approval.
Bill approached, them, ad libbing Cromwell. “Mercy begins with a confession of the truth. Look at your Lady Anne stretched out on the rack. I fear she cannot help you. Only the truth can save you.”
“I am telling the truth,” Margery wailed. “Please believe me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Cromwell answered. Stan struck again. Margery howled even louder. Her ass was a bright red, criss-crossed by livid welts. Stan was afraid that further blows would draw blood, something he knew the cat was perfectly capable of doing.
Stan approached the hanging woman. He could hear her panting. Dropping out of character he whispered, “Georgie, this is enough. Would you confess already?”
“It hurts like hell, Stan, but it’s kind of thrilling at the same time,” she told him.
“One more is all I’m giving you and then you break and spill the beans on Anne, OK. I’m the King after all; you have to obey me.”
“As Your Majesty wishes,” she replied. Stan struck once more as hard as he could. Margery’s body swung forward hard, her feet kicking wildly.
“Owwwwww!” she screamed. “I cannot stand any more, Your Majesty. I did see the Lady Anne cavorting naked with her own brother George. With mine own eyes I saw that and I cannot deny it.”
“I knew, the truth would come out,” Cromwell said, looking very pleased with himself. “Take her down,” he ordered the guards. They lowered the manacles and Margery dropped limply to the cold stone floor, sobbing. She looked over at Anne. “I’m sorry, My Lady, but it hurt so much, I could protect you no longer,” she cried, shaking with emotion.
Henry and Cromwell walked over to where Anne lay stretched on the rack. She was crying too, whether with the pain or the emotion of being betrayed by her maid, Stan couldn’t be sure. “The game is up, Anne. Margery will testify against you. We can do the same to others of your ladies-in-waiting if needs be. So why not make it easy on yourself and confess?” Stan had used that line on countless suspects and it had worked much more often than you would suspect, without even having to torture them.
“I cannot confess to something I’m not guilty of,” Anne replied.
Cromwell interjected, “Anne you have felt the heat of the brazier, near, but not touching your feet. Now imagine the flames of the pyre licking your body all over. Why suffer that? Confess and His Majesty will let you die quickly instead. Your head will be off before you feel a thing.” The audience laughed.
Anne remained silent. “Give her one more turn and see if that changes her mind,“ Cromwell ordered. The guard struggled with the wheel, finally advancing it.
“Owwwwww! Fuck!” Anne howled. Her arms looked like they might pop from her shoulders under the strain. “OK, I confess, I’ll say whatever you want. Just stop, for God’s sake, stop!!”
Cromwell signaled the guard, who turned the wheel backwards, relaxing the tension on Anne’s body. Two of the guards undid the restraints from her wrists and ankles and lifted her up, depositing her like a rag doll on the floor next to Margery. Anne put her arms around her lady-in-waiting and pressed Margery’s naked body close to her own. The lights lowered and they lay together in the darkness. The audience applauded lustily.
Ted Parry
Governor
Can't decide if this is going the way of "The Merry Wives of Windsor" ...... "As You Like it" ..... or "All's Well that Ends Well "
windar
Teller of Tales
As long as it isn't "Macbeth", "Hamlet" or "Julius Caesar" or any of the others where the king dies...
It's an honor to have our little story compared to a good one like that
She's a star. Maybe she is Meryl Streep after allOh Barb, you are a star! I was among the audience. You performed such a great show. Your naked body writhing on that rack was such an exciting sight.
And that brazier scene... So hot!
.
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Putting life experience into the character : indeed, a nice performance of method acting!
And it pays off with confessions at the end!
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
Don't trust them, Stan. Don't trust them.
Never trust winking women.
