Diary of a bad housewife

Diary of a dad housewife chapter 20

OMG I FINALLY MADE IT TO CHAPTER 20!!!!! but it's not done get. Pls vote and comment.

Chapter 20

Ordinary cabin class came as a shock to me. When Mom flew us to Europe, we traveled ensconced in the wide leather seats in first class. When Dad accompanied us, he put us aboard a private Gulfstream. Here, in what Mom referred to as 'cattle class', babies cried, a rabid boy kicked the back of Colin's seat, and I worried dandruff on the person sitting in front of me would drift into my lap.

Colin couldn't get comfortable, a victim of conspiracy between a lack of leg room, poor lumbar support, and the little monster seated behind him. I almost felt sorry for my husband.

As the skies darkened over the Atlantic, I twisted sideways in my seat and drew my knees up to my chin, locking my hands around my ankles. When my eyes closed, I felt Colin tuck his own blanket around me. I began to dream.

Where was I?

The castle surely, for I knew the grey stone of the palace walls. I didn't recognise this chamber, far darker than most with cobwebs fluttering in drafty corners. The arches here appeared more functional and less decorative. That must mean I was down in the cellars, the crypts, or perhaps the dungeons.

One pair of torches flickered in wall sconces. I tried to shift to see more, but it proved difficult with my wrists bound around my ankles, my legs bent and flattened against my chest. I wanted to cry out, but sticking plaster that tasted ghastly covered my mouth. Part of my skin felt too hot and part was too cold, and my flesh itched from straw. Comprehension dawned on me: I lay on a stone floor, trussed and tied, completely naked.

It took a moment longer to realise I wasn't the only one bound and incapacitated. I could make out the backs, buttocks, and ribcages of at least fifteen or twenty other girls trussed in this place like animals meant for slaughter. My imagination didn't need to stretch to understand held captive here were the royal ladies of the court, the contessas and young duchesses, those of us who idled away each day, chattering with and entertaining the Princess Fiona.

The clattering of an iron lock caught my attention, followed by the frightening creak of a heavy unoiled hinge. Lights flickered and grew brighter, casting ungodly shadows. I heard a woman's voice, descending, growing louder. "... and whilst you and your lads occupied yourselves playing with the guardsmen, I busied myself too. Look at all the little piggies I trussed for market."

Lanterns and torches appeared and played light across our bodies. The woman was right; naked, pink, and locked in a fetal position, we resembled piglets in a pen.

"Roam about, take your pick. I shalt set you a bargain if you buy two or three. Fetch me first if you want to sample one."

As the torches shifted, I could see and study the woman's face. The warmth of the flame failed to touch her icy beauty. Her dress swept straight down from her shoulders to her waist, exposing her exquisite breasts, seemingly sculptured and cold as marble. Indeed, this woman appeared not to been born from a human womb at all, but the quarried stone of a gifted artisan.

As her gaze swept over us, I recognised the woman and I heard others near me gasp. In my earliest days at court when I was no more than thirteen, this woman was a favorite of the queen. What was her name? Morgana? Witty and sharp, I remembered, before the scandals and the trials, before the woman was accused of sorcery and betrayal, before the queen stripped her of titles and banished her.

The men who moved amongst us prodded our helpless bodies. They might be callous and even cruel, but they could not hold a candle to the evil in this woman. My mother, the Duchess Octavia, oft held Fiona lapsed into softheartedness. Out of sentimentality, she merely expelled Morgana for her crimes and betrayals, rather than give her a taste of the flames.

"Well, well," said a voice, and I knew his scent before I saw him, the leader of the rebel band, the warrior who ravished my mind as much as my body. He stood above me staring down. "How much for this wench?" he shouted above the din.

Morgana left off stroking a young gryphon and descended, swirling her skirts to avoid contact with the unpleasant. She held a torch above my face. "Colin, you rascal. This one? Why do you want her? You'll find her selfish and unkind. Worse, she's frigid toward men. I think I'll roast her later for my pets. Why not this beauty over here? Hugo, sling this lass upon the table so Sir Colin might inspect her."

Fraught cold with fear then burning with anger, I shook with humiliation. I watched as Morgana's man lifted Anne, one of my dearest companions, onto a trestle table and rolled her on to the curve of her spine.

"Take this one," said Morgana. "I remember her. Anne, I think. She is pliant, she learnt to cook, and unlike the Lady Julia there, this one enjoys the intimate arts, see?" We were bound foetally in such a way to expose our nether parts. Morgana grasped the girl's ankle with one hand and smacked her bare cunny with her other. "See? Even now she dampens. Remove the sticking plaster from her mouth, if you wish, and avail yourself of any aperture."

"No, Morgana. I want that one there, the one you call Julia."

"If you wish. She's too cold and ill tempered. Better I cook her for my little beasts, but take her if you be of a mind to."

"Har," said a rebel, unbuckling his broad belt as he ripped the sticking plaster from Anne's mouth. "I wilst sample this wench."

The leader cuffed him across the cheek. "We're bandits, man, not barbarians. Buckle thy breeches and be gone."

I could not help but be taken by his gallantry, but the oddest reaction came from my friend. From my position, I saw Anne tilt her head and purse her lips to receive the man's cock, and most strangely I heard her whimper when he was forcibly withdrawn. How peculiar some women could be.

The rebel leader dropped a few silver coins into Morgana's coffer, hefted me under one arm and carried me up the stone staircase into the sunlight. Once in the courtyard, he dropped me into a wooden cart along side a few other bound women. The driver cracked a whip, and the cart jerked and bounced over the ruts and roads. The dusty straw in the bed of the cart afforded little protection against the bump, bump, bump, ...

Bump, bump. I opened my eyes. The cabin lights had dimmed and of course the night looked pitch black over the Atlantic. My watch read 3:17 in the morning. Colin hunched, scrunching his back again.

Bump, bump. I twisted to look through the crack between seats. The monstrous boy who tormented Colin now sat behind me, his shoes drawn up, hammering my seatback. His mother stared engrossed in the in-flight movie I found impossible to follow.

"Madam," I said. "Ask your little boy to stop pounding my seat."

She pulled out an earphone. "I moved him after your husband complained. I'm not moving him again."

"I didn't say move him, I said discipline him. Make ... bump ... him ... bump ... stop before I lose it."

"You're threatening him? I'll have you arrested. You can't make threats on an airplane."

Colin hit the call button and turned back to her. "Fine. Let's not move only him this time, let's move both of you or us."