Tasmanian Whipping Shed
by A. de Granamour


Early in the 19th Century, convicted criminals were "mercifully" released 
from prison and shipped to the colony of Tasmania, there to face a life of 
indentured slavery. Though many were innocent of any crime, they were 
nonetheless subjected to beating, whipping, sexual abuse, and sexual slavery 
according to the cruel whims of their masters. With wills completely broken 
by sadistic punishment, men and women were forced to submissively kiss the 
bodies of their owners and to open their own bodies to disgraceful 
sadoeroticism. 


FOREWORD 

Man's inhumanity to man has been chronicled through the ages, and there are 
black pages in nearly every century to attest to the sadism and the 
unscrupulous tyranny which those in power exert over their inferiors and 
those whom they have bested, either through war or through the pernicious 
exactitude of formal laws which penalize the oppressed and the impoverished 
and bring justice only to the side of the oppressors and the wealthy. 

The French had their Devil's Island, the Nazis their hideous concentration 
camps like Ravensbfuck, Belsen, Dachau and Auschwitz. The Spaniards, in the 
days of the Holy Inquisition and the bigotry aimed at the Jews and the 
Moors, had their colonies in the conquered lands of South America like Peru, 
and parts of Mexico, where men and women labored in withering, humid heat on 
inedible food and with the whiplash of the overseer a constant punctuation 
to their enforced toil. 

But the English, who perhaps were the greatest colonists of all, had 
Australia, the Carolines and what was once called Van Dieman's Land, some 
25,000 square miles south of Southeast Australia between the Indian Ocean 
and the Tasman Sea and separated from Victoria by Bass Strait. 

That foreboding island was discovered in 1642 by Tasman, who named it Van 
Dieman's Land. It was visited in 1777 by Captain James Cook (who was to die 
soon after his discovery of the Sandwich Islands, now Hawaii) and brought 
under British control in the year of 1803, when a penal colony was 
established. In l825, Tasmania was attached to New South Wales, and joined 
the Commonwealth of Australia as a state in 1901. 

This is the story, then, of convicts of both sexes who, for political 
reasons, for paltry thefts which in a more emancipated and enlightened age 
would never have reached the courts, and for a score of other misdemeanors, 
were sentenced to death or to prison and eventually remanded to that 
terrible island where life was a constant struggle for survival against 
despotic masters and mistresses as well as the savage aborigines. 

As is our custom in an historical novel, we have taken only a few liberties 
with the truth; the rest is documented fact. Indeed, one of the oddities of 
our life is that often truth is stranger than fiction. 

In the years following the end of the American Revolution, England sent its 
criminals (including a girl of fifteen who rode the squire's horse in 
violation of the rules!) to a land so far away and so forbidding that it was 
believed that such prisoners would never bother the English again. And yet, 
one of the early American governors was actually a prisoner in Tasmania, 
Thomas Francis O'Meagher, an Irish insurrectionist, who was condemned to 
death in 1848 but "transported" to Tasmania. There he met and married a 
lovely girl, but soon afterward he escaped to the United States where he was 
hailed in New York as a great hero by Irish exiles. 

His wife gave birth to a son whom O'Meagher never saw, and the boy died at 
the age of four months. The young wife attempted to follow her husband to 
America, but when she first returned to his home town of Waterford in 
Ireland where thousands of citizens welcomed her, she fell ill and returned 
to Tasmania where she died. 

O'Meagher joined the Union Army, rose to the rank of general, was appointed 
secretary of the territory of Montana, and later became its governor. He 
died by drowning in the Missouri River in 1867. From his own memoirs, one 
can read between the lines to know what horrors and what fiendish brutality 
was meted out to the unfortunates transported to that island so far from 
what was known in those days as civilization. 

Our story, then, has truth behind it, truth even more dreadful than the 
incidents inscribed in the pages that follow. If there is a lesson to be 
learned, it is that man repeats his follies in timeless cycles and does not 
learn from past history. Perhaps only the methods change, the techniques of 
cruelty become more refined and imaginative. And, too, the setting changes 
from century to century. And so, perhaps those who say that we have come 
nearer to a universal brotherhood of man would do well to remember that it 
has not been many years in the span of time when children could be hanged 
for stealing a handkerchief or a crust of bread, when helpless young women 
could be branded, whipped and mutilated at their master's whim, and when the 
hopelessness of the indentured prisoner was such that he or she prayed for 
death rather than continued existence. 

 CHAPTER ONE 

It was the year of our Lord 1824, a year notable in the young rebellious 
country which had broken away from the British Empire some forty-eight years 
previously. In this year the American Sunday School Union was formed. At 
Auburn, New York, a new system of prison management was adopted, which 
allowed for silent but not solitary confinement. 

In this same year Frances Wright arrived in the United States from Scotland 
to champion free thought, labor, public education, anti-slavery and women's 
rights. In April of this notable year, Russia and the United States 
concluded a treaty which recognized the 54/40 parallel as the southern limit 
of expansion and in which Russia abandoned her extreme claims in the 
northern Pacific. The great Marquis de Lafayette arrived in New York with 
his young son for an American tour that would last a month. And oddly 
enough, though the hero of the battle of New Orleans, Andrew Jackson, 
received more votes than any other candidate, the fact that he obtained no 
electoral majority led to the eventual choice of John Quincy Adams as 
President, chosen by the House of Representatives the following February 
when these votes were counted. 

It was a year in which Daniel Webster delivered his fiery speech in favor of 
free trade, and his mortal enemy, Henry day advocated his system of 
developing home industries by protective tariff and internal improvements. 

But across the seas, one did not speak of women's rights or of better 
treatment in prisons. Here there was dire poverty, unrest, and sharp 
disparity between the wealthy and landed gentry and the impoverished masses 
who lived in the slums of London or who toiled as little better than slaves 
on the lordly estates in the country sides. 

It was true that George III no longer sat upon the English throne: his reign 
embittered by this same successful rebellion of those thirteen original 
colonies who proclaimed themselves a free nation and a democracy, the 
pompous Hanoverian king had succumbed to insanity, and in 1811 his son 
George Augustus Frederick was proclaimed regent, to ascend the throne in the 
year of 1820. 

This foppish young man, who ruled through Tory ministers, was the leader of 
a profligate society and was personally detested. Indeed, it would be almost 
a hundred years before another George would sit upon the throne of England, 
four years before the outbreak of the first great global war. 

And because the monarchy was tottering, young George IV had intensified the 
power of his courts to suppress rebellion. The always scurrilous Irish 
rebels, and the quarrelsome Scots, who had plagued the British Empire even 
back to the days of Good Queen Bess, menaced the security of a nation who 
had already lost its most recently acquired colony and had lost face among 
the other nations of the world as a result of that defiance. 

And so the magistrates were pitiless in enforcing the edicts of the land 
when there came before them the downtrodden, the poor, the helpless and the 
resolute who believed that independence was as priceless as life itself... 

It was a sunny April day, but the disposition of Squire Timothy Dengman was 
black and stormy indeed. The fifty-two-year-old widower owned a luxurious 
two-thousand-acre estate about ten miles west of Nottingham, and he had long 
been feared as a tyrant in his own household. His wife, indeed, had died 
fifteen years ago, browbeaten, despairing of being able to put up with his 
numerous infidelities which included the seduction of her very own maids in 
her own house. She had come to him with a sizeable dowry, and he had 
dissipated most of it in spirits and wenches as well as gambling. 

Beetle-browed, squat, his brown hair receding from his forehead, paunchy and 
choleric, Timothy Dengman sat in his study, playing with his ivory-handled 
riding crop, made of flexible black leather with an oval-shaped flap at the 
very end. His footman, the lanky, toadying Miles Verdon, had just brought 
him a piece of infuriating news scarcely a few moments ago. "It's that 
Arabella, Squire," he had obsequiously explained, "She's taken Prince and I 
didn't think it was by your orders." 

"Oh damn it, man, of course it wasn't by my orders! Why, that stubborn 
little bitch! But shell be back. If she runs off with Prince, they'll 
stretch her pretty neck at Tyburn for her. No, she'll be back. And when she 
does, Miles, she'll have a hot welcome You'll assist me, of course." 

"It will be my honor, Squire Dengman." The footman winked and scraped, a 
lecherous smile curving his lips. Squire Timothy Dengman had found his 
footman particularly trustworthy and helpful in informing on the errant 
members of his large household. Thanks to the footman's spying, he had 
enjoyed many a thrilling session with some tearful maid or buxom 
housekeeper, culminating always in a sound thrashing for the culprit and 
then a brutal fucking. 

Arabella Lewis was only sixteen, but already her voluptuous young beauty had 
inflamed his viciously depraved lust. A year ago, the young girl and her 
mother, Mrs. Evelina Lewis, had come to Dengman Manor when her handsome 
forty-eight-year-old father had been killed by his former master's horse. 
Richard Lewis had been an excellent groom, but unfortunately for him the 
stallion had had a thorn in its hoof and proved unmanageable. As he had been 
attempting to extricate the thorn, the stallion had kicked him in the 
forehead and killed him at once. Lewis's master had uncharitably refused to 
offer the widow and her young daughter employment, and so Evelina Lewis had 
swallowed her pride and come to Dengman Manor. 

Squire Timothy Dengman had at once offered her the post of assistant to the 
fat old cook, Gertrude Benton, whose attacks of asthma had of late begun to 
interfere with her culinary skill. But he had really engaged the woman 
because of her spirited young hoyden of a daughter. Arabella Lewis was 
auburn-haired, about five feet seven inches in height, with a sensitive oval 
face and a bewitching figure. Her mother had taught her letters, and the 
girl had developed an omnivorous interest in books far beyond the humble 
rural school to which she was sent. As a consequence, she expressed herself 
with a maturity far beyond her years, and this had infuriated the lecherous 
Squire. 

Evelina Lewis herself was still quite attractive, with dark brown hair, of 
medium height, and sumptuous titties and bottom and thighs, with a very 
finely-grained milky skin. Arabella's complexion was exquisitely tawny, and 
so the dissolute landowner had envisioned compelling both mother and 
daughter to share his bed. 

After much planning and scheming the answer had finally come. 

Three months ago, he had found an occasion to coerce the widow into 
surrendering herself. Arabella had unwittingly broken one of his dinner 
plates, and when the malicious old cook had reported that to her master, he 
had sentenced the girl to a flogging by the house steward, a gnarled, 
elderly reprobate named Tom Gentry, who shared, as did the footman, his evil 
master's penchant for sadistic cruelty towards the weaker sex. 

Evelina Lewis had herself gone to beseech mercy on behalf of her daughter, 
and had flung herself down on her knees before the Squire in his study, 
imploring him not to punish the girl. "Punish me instead, Squire Dengman," 
she had implored, tears glistening in her hazel eyes, "She's never known 
even so much as a slap, she's been a fine girl, I beg you to have mercy on 
her!" 

He had chuckled at the woman's distraught supplications. "Well, if I let the 
little doxy off this time, do you think you could be grateful to me, woman?" 
he had demanded. 

"Oh yes, Squire, I'll pray for you, I'll-" 

"I need none of your snivelling Methodist prayers, woman," he had sharply 
interrupted. "What I have in mind is something you can do for me in your own 
bed tonight. Now then, here's the long and short of it. I'll spare your girl 
the thrashing she's earned, and tonight I'll come to your room and you'll be 
good to me, you understand me, woman?" 

Biting her lips and turning scarlet from mortification, Evelina Lewis had 
obeyed. And that night, in only her shift, she had timidly unbolted the door 
and allowed the master of Dengman Manor to enter. He had ripped off her 
shift, slapped her titties and bottom, pinched and gouged her flesh as she 
lay gasping on the bed, her face averted and trying to hold back her cries 
and tears. Then he had fucked her brutally, and panted, "Next time, woman, 
you'll show some life, or by the Eternal, I'll have that little bitch of 
yours trussed up and thrashed within an inch of her life, you mind me!" And 
last night, his blood hot within him, Squire Timothy Dengman had attempted 
to force his way upon Arabella, going to her room at night and knocking on 
the door demanding entry. The spirited young auburn-haired teenager girl had 
indignantly barred him, exclaiming, "It is true that you have hired my 
mother and myself, Squire Dengman, but it does not give you the right to 
have your way with me!" 

Thwarted, he had gone back to his bedroom swearing vengeance on the little 
bitch. And now, he could hardly believe the testimony of his footman, for 
now he had a superb pretext to condemn her and force her. She had taken his 
best stallion without permission, and he knew that when she returned, he 
would order her a really severe thrashing, which her mother wouldn't be able 
to beg off with her body this time. No, it would be Arabella herself who, 
under the whip, would implore him to fuck her and to take her cherry. He 
could see the girl with her long dark red hair tumbling about her shoulders, 
kneeling down in just her camisole, rubbing the backs of his hairy, stocky 
thighs with her soft little fingers and sucking his prick to prove her 
humility and obeisance. 

It was true that Arabella Lewis had gone for a ride on the white stallion 
which her master so cherished, as a kind of act of defiance against his 
brutal and humiliating attempt to lie with her last night. First she had 
thought of running away, then she had remembered that this would leave her 
mother behind alone to endure their cruel master's vicious spleen. And so, 
after two hours of riding, she had finally jerked the reins and headed 
Prince back to Dengman Manor. 

As she reached the stable, a smirking, pimple-faced boy of her own age, 
Willy Murdock, seized the reins and joked, "Now you're in for it, Bella! The 
Squire is in a towering rage, and I wouldn't want to be in your shoes when 
you get into the big house. He's been asking for you every minute." 

"You mind your own business, Willy Murdock, and I'll mind mine!" Arabella 
spiritedly flashed. "I mean to go and tell him myself, come what may so 
there!" 

She entered gingerly by the front door, another breach of discipline since 
no servant in the Dengman household was permitted that liberty, being an 
inferior and virtually a slave. Miles Verdon gawked at her as he opened the 
door, and then grinned: "Well, your ladyship has seen fit to return, I see. 
And the master is waiting for you in his study. You'd best go there quickly, 
I'm thinking." 

"I intend to," Arabella retorted. She strode down the ball still wearing the 
boots she had borrowed from a young hostler, and the riding breeches which 
she had cozened out of the infatuated boy, who, himself an orphan, was as 
badly treated as any of the other members of this ill-fated household, and 
would have gladly given his life for a smile from Arabella's soft red lips. 

Arabella Lewis went directly to the door of the study, and, knocking on it, 
heard Squire Dengman bawl out, "Come in, dammit!" 

Taking a deep breath, the courageous teenaged girl turned the knob of the 
door and entered. 

"Well, my fine lady, so you come in by the front door, do you? You think 
yourself quality, I've no doubt, just as you've done all along since your 
first day here. And then taking Prince out for an airing, the horse which 
only I myself am privileged to ride. You've a good deal to account for 
yourself today. Miss Arabella!" 

"You know why I took it? I wanted to run away from here forever. Squire 
Dengman. It was vile of you!" 

His face black with fury, the paunchy landowner rose, gripping the handle of 
the riding crop. "You dare to speak to me that way, you filthy little 
baggage? But you'll sing a different tune when I'm done with you, aye, that 
you will! I'll have Tim Gentry trice you up in the stable by the thumbs, 
with just your feet left to kick an inch or two above the ground, and I'll 
have you thrashed on your naked butt with a harness strap!" 

"Because you're too much of a coward to do it to me yourself, Squire 
Dengman, that's why. And you've no right, if the truth be known." 

"No right, girl, no right? Do you dare to tell me, you, a mere brat from 
that bitch of a mother of yours, what I can do and what I can't here at 
Dengman Manor?" 

"Yes, but when I tell Mr. Gentry before he thrashes me that you tried to 
force me last night and are punishing me because I wouldn't let you in my 
room, he may see what sort of vile and wicked man you really are," Arabella 
Lewis tilted back her head and defiantly exclaimed. 

"Why you-you filthy, insolent little slut! I'll have you arraigned at Old 
Bailey, so I will! Do you know that you can be hanged for the theft of a 
horse?" 

"I'd rather be hanged than give myself to a fat, wicked brute like you. And 
when I tell the judges there what you did to my mother-" 

Squire Timothy Dengman ground his teeth, almost at the point of having a 
stroke, so overwhelmed was he by this minx's blithe defiance and arrogance. 
Then he grinned wickedly. 

"You're right, though. I'll punish you myself, and we don't need Mr. Gentry. 
And after I finish, Miss Bella, we'll see whether you want to be nice to me 
or not. Because if you don't, the constable will take you in charge and off 
you'll go for a hanging." Then, reaching for the silver bell on his desk, he 
rang it angrily. And when the footman entered, having eavesdropped just 
outside the door all this while, he bellowed, "Take this bitch into my 
bedroom and prepare her for a thrashing. If you need Tim to help you, call 
him! And then when she's ready, come back here and tell me." 

 CHAPTER TWO 

Miles Verdon was panting with lustful anticipation as he reached his 
master's bedroom, joked the lovely teenaged captive inside and kicked the 
door shut. "Now then, you little spitfire," he panted, "Don't give me any 
trouble or III have old Tom come in and gentle you, sure as you're born! 
Step over here to the foot of the bed. You're in for it now, Bella!" 

Arabella Lewis was very pale, but her courage had not deserted her. She 
infinitely preferred a whipping to the filthy lust of Squire Timothy 
Dengman, whom she considered debauched and evil to his very marrow. Indeed, 
on many a night she had urged her mother to run away with her to some 
friendly little hamlet, but Evelina Lewis had only sighed disconsolately, 
shaken her head and replied, "Ah, my poor girl, that's all very well to say 
for the gentry. But not for the-likes of us, dearest Bella. Why, if we did 
that, the Squire would have us hunted down with dogs and by the sheriff or 
the beadle, brought back here and thrashed within an inch of our lives." 

"But then we're no better than slaves, Mama!" the courageous young beauty 
had protested. 

"That's true. But, that's the way of the world, and when you're poor and 
have no man to stand up for you, you'd best bow your head and try not to 
anger the master too much," the handsome widow had dolefully advised. 

And so now with punishment imminent, Arabella Lewis had decided to submit 
herself and take it as bravely as she could. At least, she told herself, 
that vicious man would get no satisfaction from her. Oh, if she were only a 
man, that she could kill him for what he had done to her poor mother! She 
moved slowly to the foot of the huge canopied, four-postered bed while Miles 
Verdon, smirking, adjusting his somewhat rumpled wig which had come awry in 
the scuffle of dragging her down the hallway to his master's bedroom, 
advanced, licking his lips, his beady little watery blue eyes lecherously 
undressing the' lovely young girl. "Hold your hands up high over your head 
there, you saucy chit! I'll warrant that when the Squire's done with you, 
you'll dance to a different tune!" he gloatingly averred. 

On the heavy walnut post at the right, there was a pair of solid brass 
manacles fixed round the wood and set solidly with turnscrews. Reaching up, 
the lanky footman touched a spring and opened both the shackles, then seized 
Arabella's wrists and guided them inside, and locked them shut around the 
girl's slim wrists. Then, moving to her right side and reaching up to the 
post, he adjusted a larger turnscrew which slid the brass ring to which the 
shackles were attached upwards, again locked it, forcing Arabella to stand 
on tiptoe, with painful stress on her arm and shoulder muscles. 

She had closed her eyes, and was very pale. Her magnificent, luxuriant mane 
of glossy, auburn hair tumbled just below her shoulder blades. Miles Verdon 
stood sweeping her body with glittering eyes, envying his master for the 
nonce. There wasn't much chance, he told himself, that Squire would share 
this tasty little pullet with him, not likely. But just the same, before 
Squire came in to administer punishment, there wasn't any reason why he 
couldn't steal a few kisses and pinch the little bitch here and there in the 
most delightful places. 

"Now to get you ready for the thrashing, Bella girl," he jocularly 
announced. Then, stooping, he ran his lean, bony fingers over the sides of 
her riding breeches, moving round to the front and then slid his fingertips 
right down her crotch to feel her cunt. 

"Stop that, Mr. Verdon!" she panted indignantly, turning her face to stare 
at him with blazing eyes, "Do what you have to do, but there is no need to 
shame me. You're a worse coward than your master." 

"Oh do you think so, now, Bella?" his lips were compressed and thin now, and 
there was a nasty look on his smug face. "You think I'm a coward, do you? 

If I were the Squire, I'd flay the skin off your butt until you crawled at 
my feet and licked them, aye, I would that! But he'll do that for you right 
enough, Bella. Now close your yap while I get you ready, or I'll have old 
Tom in, and he won't be quite so imagine with an uppity little slut who 
thinks herself a lady! Wearing breeches like some trollop in London town! 
Let's just see what's beneath them, shall we?" 

Now his fingers were rough as they unbuckled the thin belt, loosened the 
buttons and then, inserting into the waistband, yanked them down 
unceremoniously while Arabella Lewis uttered a stifled gasp, bent her head 
and closed her eyes. Because the weather had been warm, she had put on only 
the breeches and a dark cloth blouse with long sleeves over her camisole and 
drawers. Lisle stockings up to the knees and held there by dainty little 
pink garters were her only other covering, and the boots hugged her finely 
turned, sinuously high-set calves and rose to the hollows of her dimpled 
knees. Miles Verdon now fucked up the camisole, rolled it up under the 
blouse to her armpits, then reached slyly round to squeeze her pear-shaped, 
already magnificently firm and thrusting titties, marveling at the soft 
satiny feel of her naked flesh. 

"You bastard!" she panted in a low trembling voice, glancing furiously round 
at him. "I'm not to be whipped there-take your filthy hands away from me, or 
I'll tell the Squire that you've tried to do me a harm!" 

"Oh would you? We'll see about that," he vindictively muttered. Just to show 
her how helpless she was, he put thumbs and forefingers to the soft pink 
buds of her nipples and pinched viciously. Arabella's head tilted back, her 
eyes wide with agony, and humid tears blurred her vision as she ground her 
teeth together, though unable to suppress a dull, prolonged groan of pain. 
She arched and twisted, all her muscles in play, till at last he released 
her and stepped back. "Not so high and mighty, now are you, you red-haired 
doxy!" His voice was harsh, his breathing quickened, and already there was a 
stiff bulge at the crotch of his liveried breeches. Then his fingers 
inserted into the waistband of the girl's batiste drawers and brutally 
yanked them down to her knees. Arabella Lewis uttered a poignant cry of 
shame and despair, and bowed her head and closed her eyes, while a violent 
shudder rippled through her tractioned body. 

Miles Verdon's eyes were narrowed and aglow with lust to see the saucy, 
spaciously firm tawny sheened ovals of that voluptuous virgin ass, the 
muscles of which were now in violent mobility as Arabella Lewis desperately 
tried to diminish the revelation of her most intimate charms to his 
profaning gaze. The cheeks of her behind were set tightly together, with a 
very sinuous amber groove between them, and her long, gracefully rounded 
thighs had almost a kind of boyishness, which of course the riding breeches 
had accentuated. 

Now, putting his hands to the neck of the blouse, he ripped it from her 
body, and then yanked the uprolled camisole over her head as a kind of 
improvised blindfold, leaving her naked from shoulders down to her knees. 
Again she gasped, and a still more violent convulsive shudder surged through 
her svelte, helpless young nudity. He moved round in front of her to stare 
greedily at the turbulently rising and Calling pears of her virgin titties, 
at the wide shallow dimple which was her navel, and then at the already 
surprisingly thick dark-red curb which fleeced her virgin cunthole. Sensing 
his intent, Arabella Lewis pressed herself frantically up against the round, 
heavy and expertly hand-scrolled bedpost. 

"That's it, girl, hide your cunt all you Eke, the Squire'll make you show it 
to him by die time he's taken his crop to that imagine butt of yours," Miles 
Verdon hissed. 

And at that moment Timothy Dengman flung open the door of his bedroom and 
strode inside, brandishing the ivory-handled riding crop, having taken off 
his cambric shirt. "Get out, Verdon," he snapped, "And see that I'm not 
disturbed, because I will hold you personally responsible for every minute 
that I am!" 

"Your servant, Squire," the lanky footman obsequiously inclined his head and 
reluctantly left the bedroom, closing the door behind him. But once outside, 
he dropped down to a squatting position and squinted through the keyhole to 
watch. He could just make out the tawny jut of Arabella Lewis's naked ass 
and the bulky form of his master standing behind her and partly obscuring 
that regalia of virginal girl flesh. 

"I imagine you don't feel quite so proud and independent now, girl," the 
brutish landowner hoarsely chuckled, as he playfully traced the oval flap of 
the riding crop down Arabella Lewis's beautifully chiseled back, along the 
deep, exquisite hollow of the spine down to her chinkbone. "Do you want to 
beg me for mercy now or will you wait till you've had a few dozen cuts over 
that sweet butt of yours, girl?" 

"Go ahead and kill me, Squire Dengman," Arabella gasped, still keeping her 
eyes closed and teetering uncomfortably from her shackled wrists which made 
her arch up high on the toes of her boots. "I wanted to run away for good, 
and it's only when I remembered that my poor mother would be left alone here 
at your mercy that I came back. I know what you did to her. It was the act 
of a coward and brute!" 

"So you'd say that to your master, you, a snip of a girl just turned 
sixteen? Now be reasonable, Bella," his voice changed now to an almost 
coaxing tone. "I'm quite fond of you, girl, and even though you've given me 
mortal affront and shamed me in the eyes of my servants, I don't bear you 
any real ill will. We could be good friends, very good friends, Bella, I'd 
see that your mother's wages were doubled, yet-doubled, mind you. And you'd 
have imagine gowns from London and even a poodle, if you would like-or a 
monkey-" 

"And I suppose the price would be going to bed with you here in this bed, 
Squire Dengman, and letting you do to me what you wanted to do last night!" 
she interrupted. 

"You stubborn little bitch," he growled, "I own you, yes, and your mother 
too. Best not to forget that while you're here in this house, eating my 
bread, quartering in my rooms. I've but to say a word and the sheriff will 
turn you and your mother into gaol as vagrants, and no one will give either 
of you a situation if I say the word, just remember that." 

"Because of your bounty, I'm to spread my legs for you and let you have me, 
I suppose," Arabella 

Lewis defied him. 

He sucked in his breath at her effrontery, and his stubby fingers tightened 
round the ivory handle of the riding crop. "I could have you branded and 
your ears dipped or your tongue cropped, bitch," he reminded her. "I've got 
to lodge a complaint with the magistrate at Notts, and you and your mother 
could be pilloried and whipped and branded as mutinous. Aye, and I'll do 
just that if you don't have a care of that sharp tongue of yours, you little 
shit! Now ask my pardon for having ridden Prince, and tell me that you'll be 
nice to me. Sure, I know the humors of a girl as young as you. You just want 
to get the best price for your charms, and I can't say that I blame you. 
You're young, but you've a body that sets a man's blood to heat, rd much 
rather gentle you than thrash you, if you'd but be more humble and grateful 
for your station in fife here, Bella girl." 

"Whip me and have done with it. I'd die before Td go to bed with a pig like 
you, Squire Dengman!" Arabella Lewis hoarsely cried. 

His face blackened, and he stepped back and slashed the riding crop 
diagonally over the tightly contracted, smooth satiny cheeks of her virgin 
ass. A poignant though stifled cry was at once wrested from her, and she 
writhed, her head tilting back and her tear-filled eyes fixing on the 
overhead lofty ceiling, while her slim fingers clawed at the shiny, heavy 
round post. On the pale tawny sheen of her naked bottom, an angry, darkening 
red welt had at once sprung up. 

"So you'd rather be thrashed than be nice to me in bed, would you? I'll give 
you plenty of time to make your choice, Arabella Lewis. Tell me how you like 
this-and this-and this one too!" 

His voice raucous with savage lust, the paunchy landowner applied three 
whistling cuts of the riding crop, each horizontally inflicted, the first 
over the tops of the young girl's hips, the second over the upper summits of 
both naked cheeks, and the third squarely over the ripest curves of that 
huddling, virginal posterior. Arabella Lewis could not suppress a strangled 
scream of pain as she twisted and jerked, lurching from side to side, 
frantically glancing back with tear blurred eyes at his darkened, twisted 
face. It felt as if a searing bar of hot iron had been touched to her tender 
bottom at each place where the venomous leather had kissed her virginal 
flesh. 

"It's a shame to mark such a sweet, satiny butt, but mark it I will till 
you've come to your senses, you insolent little bitch!" he growled. "Or 
mayhap you'll be changing your mind now while there's still time?" 

"I told you I'd rather die and I meant every word of it! Oh, if there were 
only justice in England to stop brutes like you from harming and tyrannizing 
poor innocent females!" she flashed at him. 

Baring his yellowish, decaying teeth, Squire Timothy Dengman slashed the 
riding crop with all his might over the base of Arabella Lewis's naked ass, 
making her lunge forward with a piercing cry of intolerable agony, as her 
fingers clawed at the post. Then, the fingers of his left hand digging into 
the scruff of her slim neck, he began to flog her. With quick, brutal, short 
but stinging cuts, he patterned her writhing, jerking naked ass cheeks with 
livid streaks and welts, crisscrossing them especially at the base and at 
the ripest curves of the summits, while the unfortunate teenaged victim, her 
face turning from side to side, drowned in tears, ground her teeth together 
with all her strength to keep from begging for mercy. Her body shuddered 
under the uncontrollable, feverish torment of the thrashing, and the muscles 
of her shoulders and wrists and arms ached savagely from the atrocious 
traction which the shackles round her slim wrists exerted. She could nor 
escape at this short range, and it seemed to her that fire was consuming her 
tender flesh, till she prayed for a merciful swoon. 

But she was young and healthy and courageous, and this boon was not 
vouchsafed her. 

By the time he had administered forty strokes, there were tiny rubies of 
blood pearling here and there at the tops of her hips, on the lower right 
cheek of her bottom near the narrow groove which led to her virgin ass-hole, 
and at the base of both globes, while beads of torture-sweat trickled down 
her heaving sides, and her lower lip was bloody where she had gnawed it to 
keep from imploring him for mercy. 

Panting heavily, he ripped open the fly of his breeches to bare his turgid, 
dark-veined prick, pulled back the foreskin with right thumb and forefinger, 
till the plum-shaped head aimed at her welted, bleeding bottom, the lips 
puckering with the frenzied urge to spurt his vicious lust-lava into her 
virgin orifices. 

"Now, you hussy, what do you think about me now?" he gasped, his eyes 
feasting on the welted, shuddering, lividly streaked and bleeding ovals of 
that delicious young bottom. The nuance of her down-tucked drawers clinging 
round the tops of her dusty black boots, the camisole pulled over her 
face-though in her struggles it had fallen slightly back to allow her to see 
him or that ceiling to which she addressed her silent prayers as if it were 
Providence which alone could save her. "Are you ready to beg my pardon, 
bitch, and ask me to come to your room tonight?" 

Arabella Lewis shuddered, moaned, her head bowed, as a fit of trembling 
seized her. Then, fighting for breath through her sobs, she panted at last, 
"I will not! I'd rather die right now!" 

"God's bowels, was there ever such a stubborn little whore!" he bellowed, 
beside himself with frustrated lust and fury. "Perhaps you've a imagine, 
then, for one of the young stable boys-aye, young Tom! Aye, I've no doubt 
he's the one gave you those breeches and those boots-well, he'll .answer to 
me tomorrow morning." 

"You-you dirty, contemptible c-coward-it wasn't T-Tom-I-I found them 
myself," she courageously lied, her teeth chattering now with the savage, 
burning waves of pain that made her almost sick with nausea as she teetered 
there, her arms tractioned high above her head and all the stress of her 
body aggravating the fiery torment of her furiously marked naked behind. 

"Perhaps you've no cherry left, then," he mocked her. Moving behind her, so 
that she could feel against her welted bottom the prodding of his stiff, hot 
prick, Squire Timothy Dengman moved his pudgy right forefinger round her 
body, foraged for the furry niche of her cunt, and inserted it between the 
pouting soft pink lips of her virgin cunthole. 

"Oh no! Take it away-oh how I wish I were a man-you coward, you beast-oh 
stop-aahhh!" she wailed, and began to sob hysterically. What the lashing had 
not made her do, his obscene and taunting palpitation of her maiden cunt had 
achieved. But by now his finger had run up against the barrier which 
proclaimed her chaste of man, and he grinned wolfishly. "Aye, you've still 
your cherry, and it's as well for you that you have. Now a last time, do I 
come to your room tonight at your bidding to take it properly and to honor 
you?" 

"Never! Kill me now! But you shouldn't have me if you were the last man in 
all this world, Squire Dengman!" she cried. 

The lust in his face had changed to a furious and vindictive hate. "Say you 
so, girl?" he muttered softly, his lips twisted, his eyes pinpoints of 
satanic cruelty. "Then if you'd do yourself a harm rather than lie with me 
tonight, you can lie in shit for all I care. You can keep your cherry for 
the hangman, aye, and for the rats at the Old Bailey. I'll have you charged 
as a rebel, that I will, and as one who threatened my very life. For I've no 
doubt you'd try to stop me with a bodkin could you but put your hands on it 
this moment!" 

"I would that-I would willingly kill you for the pig and coward and brute 
that you are," she panted. 

"Speak your peace, girl, the magistrate will hear every word. But first, 
before I deliver you to him in the morning, I'll at least take some little 
pleasure with you. I've no doubt your butt is paining you right now, eh? 
Good. Then you'll feel me all the more." 

And with this, grinning like a fiend out of hell, Squire Timothy Dengman 
snuck his pudgy fingers into her lividly striped and bleeding ass-cheeks, 
and yawned them pitilessly apart to reveal the shrinking dainty-petaled pink 
crevice of her virgin ass-hole. 

The pain was so intense as his blackened fingernails sank into the striped 
and bleeding flesh that Arabella Lewis tilted up her head and uttered a 
shout of intolerable agony, wordless and prolonged. And then her body jerked 
and quaked and another, even longer and more despairing shriek was ripped 
from her throat. 

He had thrust his turgid prick against that dainty orifice, cramming himself 
past one ring of sphincter muscles, till he had forced half his length 
inside her narrow, protesting bumhole. Then, reaching round to clutch at her 
pear-shaped titties, his breath hoarsened and quickened, Squire Timothy 
Dengman gouged himself to the very balls as poor Arabella Lewis uttered cry 
upon cry of unspeakable despair, shame and torment. 

Pinching her titties, tweaking and gouging at her nipples, he began to 
bottomfuck her, while the unfortunate young girl struggled desperately. Her 
fingernails scrabbled at the heavy wooden post to which her wrists were 
shackled, she tried to lunge and avoid this brutal evisceration of her 
bowels, and the hot waves of agony which his digging, gouging fingers caused 
her severely flogged naked young ass drew piteous cries and wails and 
hysterical sobs from the unfortunate sufferer. 

At last, with a bellow of triumph, he emptied his gism deep into her bowels, 
and sagged forward against her, squeezing her titties until she thought she 
would faint with the pain. His chin resting on her shoulder, he gasped, "Now 
at least I've had a little of you, you whore! As for the rest of you, mayhap 
when they sentence you to the rope at Tyburn, I'll come see you in your 
prison cell the night before you're driven out there in a cart file with 
straw to say good morning to Jack Ketch, the hangman. And maybe then you'll 
grovel at my feet and lick my boots and ask me to take your cherry. But till 
then, I'll have you charged as a treasonable little rebel and murderous 
bitch, for such you are. Do you hear me, Bella? And your mother, I'll be in 
her bed every night while you're lying on your prison straw and thinking of 
the rope, aye, that I will!" 

But Arabella Lewis no longer heard his triumphant, jeering, hoarse voice. 
She had fainted. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

In Dublin, the same week in which spirited Arabella Lewis began her 
ill-starred destiny, Michael Corrigan was to enter upon his own, one that 
would involve his devastatingly lovely black-haired young wife Colleen. 

Michael Corrigan was a printer's clerk, having served as an apprentice since 
his fourteenth birthday to old Paddy Murfree, and his elevation beyond the 
rank of printer's devil to official clerk had been inspiration enough to pop 
the question to winsome Colleen, whom he had loved since his school days. 

Michael Corrigan was six feet tall, with an unruly shock of dark brown hair, 
thick brows and rugged features. But his candid blue eyes and frank mouth 
bespoke the measure of the man, and he was already marked down by the 
British secret agents in Dublin as a hothead, a radical and a dangerous 
rebel who must be watched with the utmost vigilance. 

Even in these early days of the year 1824, British press gangs scoured the 
taverns, the brothels and the gutters here in far-off Dublin forlikely 
seamen who would be shanghaied and wakened out of aching slumber induced by 
either a rap on the noggin with a kerry club or by the addition of a 
powerful soporific in their ale or whiskey, to find themselves aboard a 
British man-of-war. When they protested, if they were new to the ways of 
Britain's lordly empire, they were summarily shown what purported to be 
their very own signature on a document which bound them to his Majesty's 
Navy for a period of not less than three years. If they further protested, 
the boatswain was ready with his cat-o-nine-tails to persuade them to honor 
the aforementioned signature. And once aboard, their life would be a living 
hell, subject to floggings at the post before the entire crew, moldy 
biscuits and rotten meat or fish, pitifully small wages, and always the 
chance of death by hanging for the slightest mutiny or rebellion against the 
master of the vessel to which they were confined. 

But of such skullduggery young, lighthearted Michael Corrigan thought little 
this sunny April day, for even as the sun was setting he had bidden his 
employer a hearty "Good day to you, Master Murfree!" and was striding down 
the cobbled street towards his little cottage a mile to the northwest, where 
his bride of ten days, the beauteous black-haired Colleen, would be waiting 
with his supper. There would be a fat kipper and a baked potato, and strong 
tea and her own hot buttered scones, a fine day's provender for a starving 
man. And after the supper dishes had been cleared away, there beside the 
fireplace they would cuddle on the couch until it was time to seek the 
nuptial bed. Michael Corrigan's prick throbbed with the very anticipation of 
that. 

Colleen Bewley (her maiden name) was but nineteen, yet there was no more 
hot-blooded, deliciously provocative lass in all of Erin. Oh, a good, 
chaste, God-fearing girl was she, and Michael Corrigan's thick brows formed 
an angry scowl as if in readiness to challenge any man Jack who would dare 
say naught against his sweet young wife. 

But there was no gainsaying that once they were safely between the sheets 
and the candle blown out, Colleen would turn to him with a fierce hunger 
matching his own, her high-set pear-shaped titties stabbing their turgid, 
dark coral points against his heaving chest, her warm red mouth sucking his 
in a passionate entreaty, as she squirmingly accommodated the brunt of his 
sinewy body atop hers. And once his stiff prick had fitted against the 
moistening, twitching pink lips of her narrow, seething lovesheath, her 
beautiful long legs would lock round him and she would arch herself up to 
devour every throbbing, swollen inch of his virility, then thrust in her 
tongue between his lips to tell him that she had it all and wished it was 
his. Thus, Michael Corrigan was heard whistling "Rose of Mavourneed" as he 
trudged happily down the cobbled street towards the domain which was his 
entire world. Even this morning, fussy old Murfree had as much as promised 
him a raise in wages. Then they could plan on a bairn, and of course the 
first would be a boy. He would name it after his father, Patrick Shaugnessy, 
and then the second would be a girl with black hair and lustrous dark-brown 
eyes like sweet Colleen herself. Oh, what a lucky fellow he was to have such 
a bride! There wasn't a man in Dublin who didn't envy him the sweet 
pillowing of his head upon those firm pale-ivory-tinted bubbies of hers, nor 
the clinging, muscular grip her long beautifully sculptured thighs impressed 
over his own when she felt him deep inside her cunt. To be sure, to no man 
alive would Michael Corrigan have breathed such impious and salacious words, 
but his sweet Colleen had dazzled him by murmuring a few on her very wedding 
night. Yes, she had been brought up at Mrs. Dannaher's Finishing School for 
Young Ladies, where they applied the switch to the pantalettes or drawers of 
an ill-mannered girl, but she had never once known that humiliation. And 
yet, as she had shyly confessed when he had blown out the candle and taken 
her into his arms, "You big great lout of a man, Michael Corrigan, don't you 
know that I've been fair crazy for love of you ever since you first pulled 
my pigtail back there in Dunderry School? I've saved myself for you all 
these years, and I'm thinking you'd best be appreciative, for I warn you, 
Michael Corrigan, it's only the good sisters who brought me up properly and 
my own decent folks, who've kept me from being a painted hussy in Mrs. 
Case's house on Ulster Lane." 

He had been speechless at this revelation of her sexuality. "Mother of 
Heaven help us all, Colleen," he had gasped. "What do you know, you a pure 
virgin, of that wicked place?" 

"I would ask you the same question, my husband. And you had best not tell me 
you've been there, or you shall have none of me this night, be it or not our 
wedding night," she had teasingly replied. 

And then she had whispered to him how some of her girlfriends had told her 
of the naughty things men and women did together in that bordello, and how 
she had often confessed her sins to the old priest who had given her many a 
rosary to tell as penance. "I've used my own finger, I've been shameless, 
Michael Corrigan," she had breathed into his ear, as she wriggled beneath 
him, her night-shift fucked up to her armpits, her satiny warm pale-ivory 
flesh torturing him with its exquisite promise. "So now you'd best service 
me so that I need never use such a naughty substitute again, d'you hear me?" 

There were few women who would have dared make such a candid admission of 
sexual knowledge to their own husbands, but Michael Corrigan's keen mind and 
blithe independent spirit had already divined that sweet Colleen was no 
simpering, prim clit who would swoon away at the first honest kiss she ever 
got. And thus far, in the ten brief nights of their union, each had been a 
paradise upon earth, as she brought to the bridal bed her own eager hunger 
for him, her curiosity and, as she herself merrily explained, her own 
pent-up girlish passions... 

But Michael Corrigan was not the only man in Dublin who hungered for the 
lithe, sweet thighs, the hard-nippled titties, the upstandingly rounded, 
tightly set bottom-cheeks and the thickly furred tight cunt of delectable 
Colleen. Benjamin Scorcey, very bald, with horn-rimmed spectacles and 
threadbare coat and worn boots, who lived across the way, had long lusted 
for this gaily smiling young beauty. Ostensibly, Benjamin Scorcey was 
employed as a clerk in a greengrocer's shop. But in reality he was a British 
agent and informer. Once a month, he rode his spavined mare out to Gorgan's 
Creek, some twenty miles to the West of Dublin, where he would meet with two 
supercilious, well-groomed men who listened to his toadying reports with 
bland faces, taking snuff from jeweled little boxes. Then one of them would 
contemptuously hand him a few guineas, and he would ride back to Dublin by a 
different route, hoarding his Judas-gold in the cellar of his little 
cottage. 

Michael Corrigan attended several meetings of the Sons of Free Ireland. The 
theme was as it had always been, independence for Erin. George IV had sent 
his Tory soldiers to patrol the streets of Dublin, after a violent revolt by 
a handful of hotheads in February. Three of these men had been hanged as an 
example to the others, were languishing in prison, under very indeterminate 
sentences. 

But since his marriage, Michael Corrigan's head had been in such a whirl 
that he knew he would have no time for politics. It would suffice that he 
worked all the harder at the shop so that he and Colleen might have their 
bairns and a good life together. And Ireland would have her own freedom 
under God during his own lifetime, he was certain. 

But Benjamin Scorcey had already, just yesterday at Gorgan's Creek, turned 
in the name of Michael 

Corrigan as a man to be watched and to be taken so that he would not lead a 
similar rebellion against the English soldiers. Confident that his rival for 
Colleen's bed surrender would soon be arrested and brought to trial to face 
treasonable charges that could only result in a hanging for the rascal, the 
informer had decided to make Colleen his very own this very afternoon. 

The man who had given him his pay, Cecil Upshire, had assured him that 
Corrigan would be arrested at his place of employment this very afternoon. 
And Benjamin Scorcey, who had never had a wife or even a sweetheart, and who 
spent some of his ill-gotten guineas on sluts at Mrs. Case's house, was 
knocking on the door of the little cottage even as Michael Corrigan neared 
it by about half a mile. 

Colleen, thinking it was Michael, ran to the door eagerly and opened it, and 
then her face fell and her eyes widened. "Mr. Scorcey-I'm sorry, I was 
expecting Michael." 

"I'm not sure you'll be seeing your husband, Colleen. You must be brave and 
prepare yourself," the informer glibly adopted a commiserating tone as he 
edged his way inside. "Hmm, I smell hot scones. Perhaps you can spare a cup 
of tea and some of them, my sweet Colleen!" 

"Mr. Scorcey, I am not your sweet Colleen and what you told me does not 
smack of the truth. Why do you say that I won't see Michael again?" 

"Who knows? The British are rounding up all known rebels, and I know that 
your husband has fiery Irish sympathies." 

"Why, then, so have I, Mr. Scorcey. And I'm sorry, but I'm in the midst of 
preparing Michael's supper. You'd do me a great courtesy by taking your 
leave at once, sir, I've nothing more to say to you." 

"But I've a great deal to say to you, Colleen." 

"And who gave you leave to call me by my first name, as if we were good 
friends, I'll be asking you?" she angrily flashed, her eyes sparkling, her 
hands on her lissome hips. 

His shifty, gray-blue eyes narrowed as he studied her, in the white blouse 
and long dark full skirt which could not hide the stately sculpture of her 
hips and thighs. Indignant as she was, her magnificent titties rose and fell 
exuberantly against the clinging blouse, serving to inflame his already 
whetted lust. 

"You'd best be nice to me, Colleen, I'm thinking," he purred. "You'll be 
needing a friend when poor Michael is standing his trial. And I'll console 
you, you'll see. I've much gold-" 

"And I can guess how you came by it, Benjamin Scorcey!" she exclaimed. "I'm 
telling you for the last time, be out of here, you scalawag, you 
good-for-nothing, before Michael comes back and clouts you out of County 
Cork and into the briny Atlantic where perchance you'll drown as you 
deserve." 

"Why, you high and mighty little slut, taking such airs with me, a peasant 
brat such as you were!" he growled. Advancing on her, he seized her by the 
shoulders and began to rip her blouse away, while she tried to kick at him 
and pummel him with her fists. With a sneering laugh, his prick violently 
swollen with rutting desire, the informer twisted one arm behind her back 
and wrenched the slim wrist till she cried out and doubled over with pain. 
The he began to tear away with his other hand at her skirt, till he had 
tattered it and exposed one lovely, lithe hip clad only by the thin pink 
camisole. 

"Michael will kill you for this!" she panted, twisting and trying to escape 
him. "You great coward, you wouldn't be man enough to try this if he were 
here!" 

"But he won't be here, you bitch, and it would be a shame to waste such 
white skin and such big firm titties in a lonely bed for all the nights 
you'll be missing Michael Corrigan," he boasted. Now, ripping away the 
camisole, he attacked her drawers. Colleen uttered a shriek of 
mortification, twisting like an eel, to avert this catastrophe. But now, 
moving round in front of her, he ripped the front of the camisole so that it 
festooned down to her waist and exposed the magnificent pale ivory turrets 
of her bubbies, with their dark coral points. Wild with rut now, he grabbed 
her by the bottom cheeks and, bending his head, sucked one of her nipples, 
while she struck at his nearly bald head with her fists, trying to jerk up 
her knees and foil his lecherous efforts. 

Releasing her, he struck her brutally across the jaw with the side of his 
right fist, and Colleen Corrigan stumbled and fell, dazed, to all fours, 
shaking her head like a wounded prizefighter. Then, baring his swollen 
prick, he stooped down, seized her by the hair with his left hand, and with 
his right completed the fucking down of the thin drawers, exposing the 
jouncy white globes of her voluptuous ass between whose sinuous crease he 
could see the black silky curls framing the pink lips of her cunthole. 

"Now we'll just see how much you're going to miss him," he gasped as he sank 
down on his knees, and, cruelly squeezing her titties with his fingers, 
crammed his prick against her cunthole. Mad with shame and despair, Colleen 
cried out and twisted wildly, defeating him momentarily. And then the door 
was flung open and Michael Corrigan uttered a roar of incredulous rage and 
horror at what he saw. 

"You'd dare, Scorcey!" he was nearly speechless with fury. "You stinking 
informer, I'll send you straight to hell, for your heart is as black as the 
horned one's!" 

"Now wait a minute, Corrigan," Benjamin Scorcey babbled, stumbling to his 
feet, turning himself half way round to hide the jutting obscenity of his 
swollen prick, "You don't understand-" 

"And I don't think I've a mind to. There, you blithering swine!" the young 
husband roared as he strode forward and struck the informer with all his 
strength on the cheekbone. 

Benjamin Scorcey's eyes goggled, then a spurt of blood shot from his 
nostrils and mouth, and he crashed to the floor and lay on his side, 
breathing stertorously for a moment. Colleen, weeping, tried her best to 
cover her almost naked body with her tattered garments. "Oh I was sore 
afraid, Michael, oh thank the good God you came in time," she whimpered. 

But all of a sudden the informer's breathing had stopped. He had, his 
physician had told him but a few weeks ago, an overtaxed heart. And this 
access of ravening lust and then the terrible fear of discovery by the 
enraged young husband had ended his mean, toadying life. And in a sense, 
also, the happy connubial existence of Michael and Colleen Corrigan. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

After he had buggered young lovely Arabella Lewis, the sadistic Squire of 
Dengman Manor had the house steward, white-haired, lecherous old Tom Gentry, 
lock the auburn-haired teenager into a narrow, dank little closet in a guest 
room on the other side of the house, there to await being turned over to the 
bailiff on a charge of insubordination and mutiny. The corrupt Magistrate 
Edward Holcomb, who presided in the lower courts of the district in which 
Nottingham was situated, would, the vindictive Squire knew, do whatever he 
wished. Many was the evening that Justice Edward Holcomb had enjoyed his 
lavish hospitality at 

Dengman Manor, and had always found some pretty kitchen wench or upstairs 
maid to bed down with the old rascal. No, Arabella Lewis would be sent far 
away from Dengman Manor where she would no longer be a troublemaker to him. 

He sent Willy Murdock over to the Justice's house on horseback, though the 
hour was late and it was a good fifteen miles away, to ask his good friend 
to be ready to preside at a special hearing the next afternoon. Before this 
hearing, Arabella Lewis would be taken, incommunicado, gagged and 
blindfolded, bound if need be, and her case would be quickly disposed of. 

But in the morning, Evelina Lewis, having overheard a sniggering remark by 
the footman Miles Verdon, learned that her daughter had so gravely offended 
the master of this estate that he himself had punished her and then locked 
her up awaiting trial. 

The brown-haired widow, agonized by this horrifying news, had gone at once 
to her master's study, only to be told that he was riding out in the fields 
and would not be back until late evening. By then, at his previously given 
orders, Arabella Lewis, gagged, blindfolded, with her wrists tied behind her 
back and her ankles hobbled by a hempen cord, had been smuggled out of the 
closet and through the garden where Tim Gentry and Miles Verdon themselves, 
on horseback, awaited her. Then, trundled off like a sack of potatoes, she 
was driven into Nottingham in this ignominious and demeaning fashion, with 
Squire Timothy Dengman himself standing as chief witness for the prosecution 
in the little courtroom of gray-haired, dyspeptic Justice 

Holcomb. 

By then, of course, the gag and blindfold had been removed, but not the 
fetters on her wrists and ankles. Her eyes swollen with weeping, her face 
haggard, still suffering the pangs of that brutal flogging and then her 
buggering the night before, she faced the magistrate defiantly. But when she 
heard him intone the pompous and oratorical words of the charge of mutiny, 
treason to the master's person and then to the Crown itself, she broke out 
vehemently: "But 'tis a lie, Your Worship! Never once have I uttered a 
single syllable of aught that is treasonable against the King, I would not 
do such a thing!" 

"You will have your chance, girl, to plead to the charges after I have 
finished their reading," the gray-haired judge reprimanded her. Then, 
gesturing to his stout, red-faced bailiff to stand behind her and be ready 
to clap his hand over her mouth if again she should speak before it was her 
time, he finished the reading of the indictment. 

"And now what say you, Arabella Lewis?" the judge demanded. 

"That I'm not guilty! That this wicked man, the Squire himself, because I 
would not lie abed with him, did thrash me and then take his satisfaction on 
my person in the most inhuman and unnatural way that could befall an 
innocent young girl!" she defiantly cried. 

"How now! What pack of lies is this, wench?" the judge removed his 
spectacles and peered angrily at her. "You do yourself no good in this court 
by reviling such an upstanding gentlemen as the Squire here!" 

"He is less than a gentleman, the worst beggar and outlaw in the forest is 
better than he!" Arabella cried, digging her fingernails into her palms, her 
shoulders erect, her body shuddering with revulsion as she saw the scowling, 
mocking face of her tormentor. "Is there no justice in all this land for a 
poor girl who, because she does not have blue blood in her veins, must be at 
the mercy of any scoundrel who is wealthy and has a title? Must such a girl, 
I demand to know, be forced to give her body like a slut simply because he 
beckons to her? My mother and I were engaged as servants, nothing more. 
Naught was said about our letting this man have his way with us." 

"Take care, girl, I have already warned you," Magistrate Edward Holcomb 
thundered, as he brought his fist down on his desk, for this hearing was 
being conducted in his private chamber. Then, turning to Squire Dengman, he 
respectfully demanded, "Tell me, Timothy, where did this wench get her 
learning? Egad, she speaks the King's English better than we do." 

"Aye, that's because she's the devil's own time on her hands with naught to 
occupy her save seditious books which she's forever reading. It is true that 
she's only sixteen, a mere chit of a lass, but you know the trouble we have 
had with rebels and traitors the past decade. It would be wise to arraign 
her as such, lest she raise up the countryside against all of us landowners. 
Why, she would overthrow the class system of our very empire, Magistrate 
Holcomb!" 

"That is true. It is a very serious thing, Arabella Lewis, that your master 
tells me. I fear I have no alternative but to remand you to the court at Old 
Bailey in London. Let it be here inscribed," he turned to his bewigged 
clerk, who was frantically scribbling with a quill pen, "that I have done 
this on this day and that in my opinion, which should be transmitted to the 
justices in London, this girl is a very dangerous potential criminal." 

"You lie, all of you! Oh hell, is there no one to help my mother and me? I 
have done nothing except defend my virtue. If Your Worship has a daughter, I 
pray God himself she will not one day have to stand at bay before such a 
vile, despicable beast as Squire Dengman. And if she does, may she not come 
before her father in a court of supposed law and justice!" Arabella cried. 

But the bailiff's hand now clapped over her mouth and he dragged her away, 
his other hand squeezing one of her titties, as he muttered, "Tonight, you 
dirty little slut, for offending His Worship so, I will myself trounce your 
young butt and learn you better manners. By the time you're in Old Bailey, 
I'll warrant you'll have learned how to hold your shrewish tongue!" 

Arabella Lewis had been lodged in the county gaol for the night, and would 
be the next afternoon chained and placed in a carriage bound for London. The 
matter settled to his utmost satisfaction, Squire Timothy Dengman shook 
hands with the smirking gray-haired magistrate, invited him to dine the 
following Saturday night and promised him a tasty wench as dessert. Then, in 
high good humor, he mounted the stallion Prince which the condemned girl had 
dared to ride without his permission, and went back to Dengman Manor. All 
that afternoon, poor 

Evelina Lewis had wept and wrung her hands and implored the servants to tell 
her what had happened to her poor daughter. And only Miles Verdon, the 
gloating footman who himself lusted for Arabella's virgin cunt, had replied 
to her, adding immeasurably to her mounting horror and terror: "You won't 
see that pretty one again, Mrs. Lewis, I pledge you. The Squire's had her 
taken to Notts this very day, to appear before the justice there. She will 
spend the rest of her days in a cell if they don't decide that she ought to 
be stretched at Tyburn." And then he had made a hideous gesture of his 
finger circling his throat and uttered a croaking sound to symbolize the 
last gasps of a hanged convict, so that she had nearly fainted in her 
mounting grief and frantic despair. 

Squire Timothy Dengman knew perfectly well that she had been trying to see 
him all day long, but he had taken his supper in a private guest room, 
served him by a fawning, simpering ash-blonde kitchen maid named Dorothy 
Wiggins. Because it pleased his sadistic nature and his perverse humor after 
what he had done to the unfortunate and innocent Arabella, he had ordered 
the giggling eighteen-year-old maid to bolt the doors and then to strip down 
to her stockings and camisole and share the meal with him. At this 
unexpected mark of favor, Dorothy Wiggins nearly swooned away for joy, and 
she drank a full mug of ale, after which what inhibitions she had swiftly 
fled. 

So when he gestured to her to remove the camisole, she did so at once and 
stood there, blushing, with her eyes boldly fixing on him for a sign of 
approval, as her hands cupped her big closely spaced round titties, then 
smoothed her belly and at last the thick dark blonde bush of her cunthole. 
She was not a virgin, and it was her fervent hope that the Squire would take 
interest in her and elevate her beyond the kitchen. 

But because he knew that Arabella's mother would doubtless plead the girl's 
cause with her own voluptuous and buxom body, Squire Timothy Dengman decided 
to amuse himself with Dorothy Wiggins in his own cruel way. 

"Fetch me that pair of leather gloves over there on the settee, girl," he 
had ordered. And when she had brought them, simperingly kneeling down to 
offer them and looking at him under her long thick lashes, he had taken one 
and slashed it across her mouth, making her recoil with a gasp of stunned 
fear: "That's to remind you, you bitch, not to be bolder than your station 
befits. Now, if you want to be of some service to me, my prick is 
overloaded. Take it out of my breeches and suck it all down, for I am fair 
loaded with spunk, girl," he commanded. 

"Oh sir, don't make me do that, you can have me, I want you to, but oh 
please sir, no!" she had whimpered. 

Reaching out and seizing her by her tumbled hair, he had dragged her, 
squealing and pleading, across his lap. Then, gripping the heavy leather 
glove like a whip, he had begun to bring it down violently and rapidly over 
her pale pink-sheened naked ass-cheeks, till she began to wriggle and groan 
and sob and beg for mercy. 

"I'll have Tim Gentry give you the cane on that big butt of yours, Dorothy, 
if you don't do what I tell you to this moment," he growled. 

And so the sobbing young maid had got down onto her knees, forgetting the 
burning and vividly streaked contours of her quaking naked bottom, fumbled 
in his breeches, drawn out his stiff aching prick and begun to French him. 

He amused himself by flickering her bowed back and shoulders with the heavy 
glove, until at last he spurted all his essence down her throat. It was all 
poor Dorothy Wiggins could do to swallow, retching and coughing and choking, 
but she at last managed, which was as well for her. 

"Now take these supper things and get out of here, you bitch." 

"At once, Squire! But-but, didn't-didn't I please you, sir?" 

"Well enough, I dare say. Have Verdon give you a shilling when you leave 
here. And now get out, I'm finished with you. Tell Verdon to send Mrs. Lewis 
to my bedroom by about midnight. I'll just take myself a little nap until 
then," he yawned. 

Stretching out on the settee, he was soon asleep, his sensual mouth curved 
in a smile of reverie as he saw in his dream how the spirited red-haired 
girl he had sent off to London was, in his fantasy, stripped naked, bound to 
the whipping post by the public hangman, lashed until blood pearled down her 
thighs, and how he was standing in the front row by the whipping post and 
watching her taper under the lash.' 

It was nearly ten when he wakened, and pulled the bell rope for a flagon of 
ale. Miles Verdon himself brought it to him, obsequiously inclining his 
head. His master winked at him: "Well, you dog, I've no doubt you're 
regretting Arabella's leaving here. I shouldn't be surprised if you'd wanted 
her yourself." 

"Your Worship knows everything, but then that is why you are the best master 
in the county," Miles Verdon flattered him. 

"Go to, you tricky dog," Squire Timothy Dengman chuckled, not at all 
displeased with the compliment. "As you've done me a service, Verdon, and 
you've helped me settle the accounts of Miss Arabella Lewis, would it 
interest you to fuck her mother?" 

"A good deal, Squire Dengman, thank'ee sir!" the footman bowed and scraped, 
lasciviously grinning. "Do you want me to help you whip her tonight, 
Squire?" 

"If you like. I'll go to my bedroom, and do you bring me my leather dog whip 
out from the stable. The one I use when I hunt the fox, Verdon. It may be 
that tonight will be diverting after all." 

He napped a little, then awoke just before midnight, belched and coughed, 
then sat up with a hoarse chuckle as he recalled what awaited him. Without 
putting back on his waistcoat or cravat, Squire Timothy Dengman left the 
guestroom and went directly to his own bedchamber. When he opened the door 
without knocking, Evelina Lewis, clasping her hands in prayer, tears running 
down her cheeks, moved towards him. Behind her stood the smirking footman, 
who nodded imperceptibly to tell his master that he had just informed her of 
her daughter's fate. 

"Oh, Squire Dengman, in dear God's name, let poor Bella go just this once! 
I'll be your slave, I'll do anything in the world you want, but don't send 
her off to London-oh it's a wicked, terrible thing!" the widow wailed. 

"Have a care of your tongue also, woman," he growled, "or you'll find 
yourself alongside her in the dock at Old Bailey." 

Evelina Lewis bit her lips and sobbed helplessly. Then she said in a dull, 
resigned tone, "What do you want, Squire Dengman? It's mortal cruel to take 
my only child from me, for she's a good girl and meant no harm. She's too 
young yet to know the ways of men, and I beg of you, don't be spiteful with 
her just because she wouldn't go to bed with you. If you must have someone, 
punish me, do what you want, but not my poor Bella!" 

"Am I to understand, you cringing bitch," he smirked, "that you'll be my 
slave, to come here running at the crook of my little finger whenever I wish 
it, so long as I change my mind about that flighty chit of a daughter of 
yours?" 

"Oh yes, yes, I swear it on the Holy Book!" the unfortunate widow groaned, 
fixing him with so piteous a look of entreaty that even a hardened criminal 
would have flinched at. But the perverse and greedily lecherous soul of 
Squire Timothy Dengman was proof against such compassion and humanity. His 
fleshy lips curled triumphantly as he purred, "Mayhap something can be done 
for the wench. I'll think on it this night and let you know on the morrow, 
Evelina." 

"Oh no, I implore you, sir, oh do have mercy, take me now, do anything with 
me that you wish, only promise me you'll not send her off to London! I can't 
think of my poor little girl at Old Bailey!" 

"You'll do anything, is that it?" 

"I swear it!" Evelina Lewis moaned, wringing her hands. 

"I have a mind to test you, Evelina. All right, take off all save your hose 
and shoon, aye, and your garters too, so your hose will not be wrinkled and 
vulgar, like those of a whore," he commanded. 

Rushing furiously, the brown-haired woman began to undress, letting her 
garments fall on the floor about her, while the lecherous landowner lit a 
cheroot and began to unbelt his brocaded satin dressing gown. He had, of 
course, clad himself in only that after his earlier session with little 
Dorothy Wiggins 

When at last she straightened, her eyes averted, the generous round milky 
globes of her titties displaying their wide brownish-coral aureoles and the 
voluptuously ripe nipples which had given suck to lovely young Arabella, 
with the widely dimpled goblet of her belly quivering with apprehensive 
loathing, and with the thick dark-brown triangle of her mount hiding the 
fleshy, pink lips of her cunt, he rose and flung off the robe and was naked. 
Massively virile, again, despite the tributes to Venus he had paid with the 
kitchen wench. Squire Timothy Dengman gloatingly appraised the humbled, 
self-surrendering widow and found her toothsome indeed. "Now this is a 
demeanor which better becomes you and that brat of yours, Evelina girl," he 
muttered thickly. "Get down on your knees now and suck my prick a little. I 
want to sec you kneeling and humble, and perhaps then I can think on Bella's 
future more benignly." 

So saying, he seated himself on a wide low footstool, spreading his hairy, 
fat thighs, puffing at his cheroot and sending wreaths of thick, noisomely 
pungent smoke right into her face as the unfortunate woman sank down on her 
knees and servilely crawled towards his bobbing, swollen spear. 

Hesitantly, her soft trembling fingers touched the shaft, where the 
dark-blue veins were thickest as they bulged against the tautly drawn skin. 
Then, smoothing back the foreskin to bare the angry-looking glans (chafed 
and reddened from Dorothy Wiggins' ministrations to it), she forced herself 
to open her mouth and accept the ignoble weapon of his rut. He breathed 
deeply, his face darkening with lust and avaricious triumph. "Mind you be 
gentle now, Evelina, because, so help me, if you make me come too soon, I'll 
burn my brand on you with this cheroot, like this!" 

As he spoke, he leaned over her and put the glowing tip of the half-smoked 
black cheroot to her spine just above the waist. For an instant, there was 
the sickening smell of burning human flesh, and then an agonized shriek as 
she righted herself, eyes mad with pain and terror, her hands supporting 
herself by gripping his knees and her throat contracting. 

"Just a warning," he chuckled, pleased with the effect he had wrought. "Now 
back to your work, you bitch, before I have your little daughter charged 
with attempted murder! 

"Make up your mind you belong to me, woman," Squire Timothy Dengman snarled, 
yanking at Evelina Lewis' hair, his pudgy fingers twisting, as he showed her 
the glowing cheroot. "If need be, I'll mark your face, you sluttish bitch, 
so every one in Notts will know you are mine. Now go back and suck my prick 
nice and slow and get me ready for that fat hot twat of yours if you want to 
save your Bella!" 

Agonized and desperate, Evelina Lewis could only capitulate. Choking back 
her sobs, the livid scar of that burn already throbbing in her milky back 
she crouched before her satanic master, cupping the backs of his thighs with 
her trembling hands and again her soft lips accepted the swollen tip of his 
cock. She began to nuzzle it, to flick her tongue against it, following his 
instructions. All the while, the fingers of his left hand still twisting her 
disheveled hair, he puffed at the cheroot to keep it hot and studied her 
with a smirking and triumphant look. He already knew that no matter what he 
did, her daughter was bound for Old Bailey. He knew well that if he kept 
Arabella with him, he might well flog her to death, so maddeningly 
provocative was she and so defiant at the same time. And even though he had 
taken the virginity of Arabella's ass-hole, it had been a hollow triumph and 
one which had given him little joy, for he found himself rutting after that 
little slut and wanting her to respond to him ... and since he knew she 
never would, the only alternative was to send her far away, either to be 
hanged or transported. 

So like a kind of little god, he exulted now in this realm of his, watching 
this handsome, buxom, milky-skinned woman grovel before him and perform the 
most ignominious obscenities in the illusory hope of saving her daughter 
when all the time it was manifestly impossible against his already 
predetermined will. And when he felt the sap rising again in his prick, felt 
himself near climax, he told her brutally, "Now get over to that chair and 
bend your head on it, and then open up the cheeks of your butt so I can 
bugger you, Evelina. Aye, just as I did with Bella. Oh, I left her cherry 
untouched, safe enough, I trow, for some farmer's boy to wed her one fine 
day. Now do as I tell you, woman!" 

She crawled over on her knees, weeping helplessly. Arrived at the chair, she 
bowed her forehead to it, reaching back to open up the plump round 
hemispheres of her milky behind, to expose the crinkly, twitching and 
shrinking crevice of her ass-hole. With a grunt that was more that of an 
animal than a man, Squire Timothy Dengman flung himself down behind her, 
reaching out with his pudgy fingers to squeeze and pinch her titties 
mercilessly as he gouged his prickhead against the shrinking fissure of her 
brown hole. Setting her teeth and offering only stifled groans and gasps of 
pain, the woman endured what she needs must, till he was lodged deep within 
her to the balls. And then he began to bottomfuck her violently, taunting 
her with her whorishness, telling her that she could well earn a few 
shillings a night if he let her into a town to do her harlotry. "You'll be 
able to teach your Bella," he chuckled as he drew himself back, only to dig 
to the roots again. "Between the two of you, you'll be able to earn a farm, 
I'll be bound. Now then, get ready, woman, I'm going to shoot my gism into 
your butt, so drink up every drop, greedy whore that you are!" 

He thrust himself a last time and with a bellow, shot out his torrential jet 
and sagged over her. Then there was a knock at the door, and he swore a 
violent oath as he stumbled to his feet, his prick limp and greasied, while, 
broken and annihilated, Evelina Lewis crouched there with her forehead 
pressed against the seat of the chair. 

"Who's there?" he roared in a fine frenzy of anger. 

"It's I, Squire, Miles Verdon," came the answer. 

"May the devil take you for a stupid dolt to bother me now-well, what is it, 
man?" he testily called. 

"Just to tell you that the girl's off on her journey to Old Bailey, Squire. 
All's well. Old John, the post rider from the next farm, just came by to 
tell me that he'd seen the carriage well on the high road for London town." 

"You cursed imbecile, did I not know that, and why disturb me at my 
pleasures now? I'll attend to you in the morning, you whore's bastard-now 
begone!" Squire Timothy Dengman roared. 

But Evelina Lewis slowly raised her head, her eyes shadowed with an almost 
insane anguish at having heard these words. And she realized then how he had 
tricked her and gone against his word, how all this demeaning sacrifice of 
her body had been for naught. 

Her eyes shifted now, and she saw a heavy candlestick on the mantelpiece 
near his bed. She stumbled to her feet, hurried over and seized it, then ran 
towards him even as he turned back to her. He had time but for a cry of 
"Woman, what do you now-" and then the sharp edge of the candlestick crashed 
against his skull. The owner of Dengman Manor uttered a hoarse groan, and 
then sprawled his full length inert on the floor, dark blood oozing from the 
open wound. 

Hearing the struggle and his master's cry, Miles Verdon hurled himself 
against the door and broke the lock. His ghastly pale face peered down on 
the motionless body of his master. And he squatted down and fumbled for the 
squire's pulse, but there was none. 

"You've killed him, you've killed the Squire!" he uttered in a horrified 
gasp. "Oh you'll swing for this, you and that little bitch of yours, you 
planned this together, I'll be bound!" And then, wresting away the 
candlestick from her numbed hand, he drove his fist brutally into her face 
and stretched her unconscious on her back, and then bellowed for Tim Gentry 
and for other servants to come help him with this demented bitch who had 
just killed the master. 

And on the following afternoon, before the same magistrate who had condemned 
her daughter to be sent on to Old Bailey, Evelina Lewis, her eyes listless, 
her head bowed, her wrists bound with hempen cord behind her back, heard 
herself remanded over to the prison in London, with the magistrate's 
recommendation that she be hanged by the neck until dead. 

By an odd quirk of fate, Evelina Lewis was flung into a cell at Old Bailey 
adjoining that which her lovely young daughter occupied. And by the same 
quirk of destiny, the two women appeared on the same docket on the same day 
a month later, each to hear the bewigged judge of the Assizes intone the 
formula of death, putting on the black cap and piously mouthing, "And may 
heaven have mercy on your soul." 

They were both to swing at Tyburn, and Jack Ketch would have fair sport with 
both handsome wenches, their neighbors told them, for the miserable wretches 
in Old Bailey under the same death sentence could find their only solace in 
the misery of their companions, in calculating who would go first in the 
cart to Tyburn field. There they would hawk meat and drink and pamphlets 
telling of the crimes of those slated to swing, and do the devil's dance in 
the air when black-masked Jack Ketch kicked away the stool. 

In those days, there was no trap door for the gibbet. Women, with only their 
hands bound behind their backs, perched on stools with the noose round their 
necks. When the stools were kicked away, they kicked and twisted in the air, 
slowly strangling. Sometimes, if one paid the executioner in advance, he 
would leap onto the body of the victim and bear down all his weight on her 
shoulders as to make the strangling the swifter. But when the wenches were 
comely and there was no one to buy them off, then the spectators below would 
stare up under their skirts and petticoats and obtain a perverse and morbid 
pleasure in seeing what they could of that flesh which would please man no 
more. 

Because My Lord Duke Clarence Willoughby of the estate of Monmouth and Lord 
Privy Councillor to George IV, had pointed out to the profligate king that 
men were needed to labor on the plantations and women to serve as indentured 
servants to the landed families in the far off colonies of the Empire, 
George IV was disposed towards mercy. And that was why he set his royal hand 
and seal to a commutation of sentence which spared not only Arabella Lewis 
the rope, but her mother also, as well as Michael Corrigan, and his young 
bride Colleen, who had both been sentenced to hang for the murder of 
Benjamin Scorcey in Dublin. There were a host of others, and all were, by 
this royal edict dated June 24, 1824, consigned to sail upon H.M.S. Orion, 
bound for Bohart in what was now called Tasmania and had been known as Van 
Dieman's Land. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

Captain Matthew Bordager, in command of H.M.S. Orion, sat in his cabin 
grumbling as the insolent, dandified King's Agent, Francis Moultbury, handed 
him the manifest which ordered him to transport as sentenced convicts some 
thirty-six men and twenty-eight women to Tasmania. "You will drop anchor, 
Captain Bordager, at Hobart, naturally. In this manifest, you will observe 
that a number of the men and some of the females are there to be indentured 
by the town sheriff, these being considered not too dangerous and of fair 
health and disposition for such domestic labor. The others, after you have 
delivered the first lot, will be taken to Port Arthur." 

"But the devil take it, man," the burly, bearded captain growled, "it will 
take us till mid-December to reach that end of the earth, for such it is. 
Know you not that Port Arthur is some sixty-five miles round the rocky 
headlands of the Tasman peninsula from Hobart? "T'will take the best 
seamanship and heaven's own luck to avoid the reefs near Port Arthur, just 
at that devil's blowhole. 

"Why, man, the boiling ocean surf hurls a stream of water through a rocky 
hole as high as a hundred feet, and there are few decent landing places near 
the port itself." 

"Nonetheless, these are your orders, Captain Bordager, and you will carry 
them out. I have seen to it that my men from the warehouses have put aship 
sufficient provisions to feed your scoundrelly cargo. And knowing your 
shrewdness and how tight a ship you run, I'm sure you'll make a fair 
profit." 

"Aye, I expect to, man," the captain glowered. "Think you I've any stomach 
for a journey that takes nearly six months and then back to England through 
storms and typhoons to take on another load? Damme, with all respect to King 
George, why in tarnation couldn't he find some closer place for these 
hangman's castoffs?" 

"Take care, Bordager, for what you say is close to treason," the bewigged 
fop sniffed his disapproval as he took a pinch of snuff from a silver case 
and daintily inserted it into each of his nostrils. 

"You will have your sailing clearance from the harbor master directly. A 
fair voyage to you, and do try to keep the blackguards alive, dear Captain. 
There are a few wenches comely enough to perhaps make wives for some of the 
young settlers in Hobart. like that sweet little bitch with the dark red 
hair, the one who rode that Notts squire's stallion and rebelled against her 
punishment." 

"Look who's speaking treason now, man," Captain Bordager sniggered with a 
wink. "You'd pardon her a dozen murders, I'd warrant, so you could tumble 
her in a imagine bed. Well," he added, his face hardening, "she'll get no 
privileges aboard the Orion. 

"And my boatswain Tom will cat her fine white back if there's the slightest 
hint of nonsense from the little slut. I keep my prisoners separate, and 
there's no hankypanky on my ship. Nor do the females get themselves exposed 
on deck enough to tempt my seamen to their filthy lusts, the rogues. Aye, 
they spend enough time in London town to all have doses of the clap from 
tumbling whores in Gin Lane. Well, a good day to you, Master Francis." 

And when the King's man had taken his leave with a wave of this tricornered 
hat, Captain Matthew Bordager hawked and spat on the floor of his own cabin 
to indicate his disgust for such a namby-pamby prig who would doubtless puke 
out his guts at the first sign of a squall. 

The quarters in the hold of the Orion were uncomfortable, although on this 
voyage they were not to be quite so crowded as they had been on other 
journeys. At least for the sake of the women and the young girls-for there 
were about a dozen girls whose ages ranged from that of Arabella Lewis to 
nineteen-they would not be nearly so packed together as the men. 

And of course they would be separated, the door of the hold locked with 
heavy chains and padlocks to which only the first mate and the captain 
himself would have keys. On the other side of the ship, near the stores of 
meal, dried fish, hardtack and barrels of salt pork, there was the hold for 
the men, and here there was squalor and even more crowding. The Orion was 
one of four convict ships impressed into service from England's merchant 
marine to take unwanted criminals as far from England as possible so that 
good folks of the British Empire might consider them as good as dead ... and 
indeed, such they were for the most part. 

Those who were fortunate enough to secure indentured bondage to some 
reasonably humane landowner or farmer in Hobart, or a girl or woman who 
could be bound out as a maid, cook, seamstress or even tutress (supposing 
that her education qualified her for such a role), would escape the utter 
hell and desolation of life in the complex of gray-stone buildings standing 
on a hillside overlooking the magnificent harbor of Port Arthur. 

At the very tip of the Tasman Peninsula, when one had taken the road from 
Hobart to it, one would find Eaglehawk Neck, a narrow strip of land without 
which the Tasman Peninsula would be an island. 

Here savage dogs were chained six inches apart to prevent the escape of 
prisoners from those buildings in which every known crime of man's 
inhumanity to man and to women as well took place. 

No knowledge of this ever filtered back to the ministers of the Crown. The 
prison commandant, Sir Clarence Edmunds, who had been politically disgraced 
and ignominiously sent far from court with this supposed title of "Governor 
of the Tasman Prison Settlement," brooded over his banishment, cursed his 
powerful enemies who had pulled strings to have him transferred out to this 
isolated spot in the world. 

And his only pleasure could be in the torture of male and female prisoners, 
in punishing their pitifully petty misdemeanors or, at times, by more 
serious punishment, their futile attempts to escape. 

Few people had ever escaped from Port Arthur. It was sometimes possible to 
bribe the guards, even to bribe some of the natives to find a little boat. 
But the treacherous reefs, the uncertain weather, the sharks and the always 
lurking danger of an informer eager for a reward made such successes almost 
unheard of. 

It was no wonder, then, as the Orion pulled anchor and slowly lumbered down 
the Thames on its way out to the Atlantic Ocean, many a prisoner in the hold 
prayed silently for a swift and merciful death, perhaps even on this vessel 
before it should dock in Tasmania. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

Among the twenty-six female prisoners in the women's hold of the Orion were 
Meg Tanner and her two daughters Phyllis and Sally, whose wretched lot was 
not unlike that of Evelina Lewis and her daughter Arabella. 

Meg Tanner was a handsome if somewhat blowsy chestnut-haired Juno of 
thirty-eight, and had been married at the tender age of sixteen to a 
Wainwright. Born in Manchester, she had been a slave in an elegant house 
from the early age of twelve, by which time her parents had quarreled and 
drunk themselves to death. 

Rather than send her to an orphanage, the town sheriff, who was in the pay 
of Jesse Moulton, a wealthy factory owner of that thriving industrial city, 
had consigned the girl to domestic service in Moulton's resplendent mansion. 

Because she was comely even at twelve, with long hair, vivacious manners and 
a winsome face with full ripe mouth and dainty snub nose and expressive blue 
eyes, it was not long before Moulton's profligate son Henry, already a 
rakehell at fifteen, conceived a lecherous passion for her nubile and 
already well developed body. 

His first attempt to creep into her room during a Spring night was 
indignantly rebuffed, and the young scoundrel crept away mumbling threats of 
revenge, his cheeks bleeding from the scratches which her sharp fingernails 
had inflicted. He bided his time to get revenge and had it soon after. 

By dint of hiding in her room one of his monogrammed handkerchiefs and 
complaining to his mother, an arrogant and shrewish beauty who missed her 
London socialite friends in the dull monotony of Manchester, he had Meg 
Tanner's room searched and the missing handkerchief discovered. 

Lady Angela Moulton sharply lectured the unfortunate and innocent girl, 
warned her that thievery was still punishable by hanging and that, as a good 
example, she would suffer a severe birching before all the servants. 

Accordingly, in the huge stone kitchen the following Saturday afternoon, Meg 
Tanner was brought in by the righteous, fat, gray-haired housekeeper who 
horsed the girl on her back, while a giggling young maid pinned up Meg's 
skirt and petticoats and fucked down her lisle drawers to her ankles, 
twisting them to prevent the young girl's frantic kicks under the swishing 
rod. 

Lady Moulton herself administered the birch, applying twenty-five whistling 
cuts which left the lovely, chubby naked bottom bleeding in a dozen places, 
and drew the most heart-rending cries and protestations of innocence from 
the unfortunate girl. 

Thus having already been marked at the outset of her life by an implacable 
destiny, Meg Tanner learned to be subservient in the hope of averting 
similar disasters along the way. 

A week after her hurts had mended from the rod, she was importuned again by 
the lecherous son and heir to the Moulton fortune, and this time she 
tearfully submitted to the loss of her cherry. 

Gloatingly, the youth promised that if she became his willing mistress, he 
would see to it that she was not again whipped. In return for this, the 
unfortunate girl was obliged to submit herself to buggering, Frenching his 
insatiably virile young prick, and even to submitting to spankings and 
thrashings, since he had a penchant for sadistic games. 

Six months later, the boy's father came upon the two of them locked in 
fucking congress, and Meg ingenuously hoped that her days of sexual 
servitude had come to an end. Quite the contrary: the father lectured his 
son and cuffed him in rebuke, forbade him ever to approach the girl again. 

Then when the boy had gone sulking off to his rooms, the father contemplated 
the blushing, frightened and stark-naked young girl, noting with a 
connoisseur's eye the already shapely curves of her thighs and ass, the 
budding rounds of her young olive-sheened titties and the dark-brown, soft 
and not yet thickened curls which framed her soft pink cunthole. 

Then he commanded her to unbutton his breeches, take out his prick and suck 
him to attunement so that he might fuck her in his turn. 

For two years thereafter, Meg Tanner remained as her employer's mistress. 
Lady Angela Moulton knew of this arrangement and tolerated it because she 
had her own foppish London lover, a distant cousin named Jeremy Bridges, who 
visited her every several months and whom she in turn visited for amorous 
assignation in a little inn on the outskirts of London whenever she made a 
pilgrimage to the city of her birth. 

But in a kind of spiteful retaliation, nevertheless, she ordered the 
sanctimonious housekeeper-the same woman who had held poor Meg aloft on her 
back for the birching-to keep the girl busy from dawn till dusk and at the 
lowliest of chores, from scrubbing the flagging around the fireplace to 
emptying the chamber pots. 

By good fortune, Meg did not become pregnant, for it appeared that Sir Henry 
Moulton's seed was sterile. And so when on one of her rare afternoons off 
she went into Manchester to a fair and there met the young wainwright Peter 
Tanner, it was inevitable that she should fall in love. He was then only an 
apprentice, but handsome and kindly and by contrast with her employer's 
family, a virtual saint. 

That same late afternoon, in a hayloft in a deserted barn, Meg gave Peter 
Tanner not her maidenhead-since that had long been taken from her-but the 
first true loving fucking she had ever bestowed on any man. When she 
returned home two hours after the appointed time, the housekeeper had her 
birched. 

But this fortune seemed to smile on her, for she ran away that same night 
after the entire household had gone to sleep, made her way back to 
Manchester and thence to the humble dwelling of Peter Tanner. Their marriage 
bans were proclaimed three weeks later, and they were wed the following 
week. 

For a few years, life seemed to favor Meg Tanner after all the adversity she 
had encountered. Peter Tanner became a full-fledged wainwright with his own 
little shop and business flourished. 

Two years later, she became pregnant and nine months after that her first 
child, Phyllis, black-haired, tall and lovely, was born to them. Four years 
later, Sally, golden-haired, petite and shy, rounded out their happy little 
family. 

But the evil genius of the Moultons had not been lifted from her life. Two 
years ago, Peter Tanner had died of a stroke, working in his shop on a 
scorchingly hot day to execute a profitable commission. 

Meanwhile, Angela and Jesse Moulton had died within three months of each 
other just before Peter Tanner's untimely passing, and Henry Moulton as 
their only son and heir had succeeded to the estate. 

Already a legend around Manchester for his whoring, dicing and gambling at 
piquet and baccarat, Henry Moulton's only talents were for horseback riding 
as well as the riding of girls in bed. Nor had he forgotten the pleasures 
which Meg Tanner had been forced to give him when she was but a girl out of 
puberty. 

His first act was to inveigle the corrupt and aging sheriff, the same man 
who had consigned her as an orphan to his father's mansion, to impound Peter 
Tanner's estate on the pretext that the dead wainwright had not renewed his 
license with the guild, that there were certain taxes on the little house 
which were in default, and so the upshot was that Meg Tanner and her two 
daughters found themselves dispossessed and penniless. 

Young Moulton and the sheriff divvied up the few hundred pounds which poor 
Peter Tanner had left his wife and daughters, and the profligate heir spent 
his share that very night at the dicing table. 

Indigent, having little skill, Meg Tanner sought work as a domestic. She 
could sew, and was a fair cook, but virtually untutored in reading or 
writing. Then it was that Henry Moulton came to her wheedingly and offered 
her and her daughters a situation his household. She had no choice but to 
accept, for the only alternative was prostitution. 

But it was not long before she discovered that the son of her employer, now 
the heir and in his maturity and lecherous power, intended to impose the 
same sexual bondage which he had demanded of her as a twelve-year-old girl. 

She yielded to him, out of desperation, pleading with him to leave Phyllis 
and Sally alone, to allow them to grow up and to marry. For a time, he 
pretended to be compassionate to that plan, but in return demanded from her 
the most degrading of sexual servitude. 

For the first time, she endured the agony of being first birched while one 
of the young maids held her over a sofa, seated on her shoulders and 
pinching her maliciously, after which Henry Moulton forced apart the cheeks 
of her plump olive-sheened bottom, bleeding from the stinging cuts of the 
flexible withes, and buggered her dry, despite her frenzied cries of 
suffering. 

Then she had to suck his cock clean, and then gamahuch the 
seventeen-year-old maid Elsie, who gloated over this mature woman's shameful 
suffering. Naked, it was then her duty to stimulate both her master and the 
maid as they lay abed fucking. 

And then six months ago, her oldest daughter Phyllis came tearfully to her 
room one night, her shift torn, finger marks on her titties and inner 
thighs, to complain that the master had taken her cherry after first 
thrashing her with a leather strap until the pain made her spread her thighs 
for him. 

The indignant mother went at once to the dissolute Henry Moulton's 
bedchamber, only to find him in the act of ripping the clothes off her 
daughter Sally, who was fiercely trying to defend herself and who was about 
to lose the unequal struggle. 

Meg Tanner seized a paring knife which lay on the plate with the remnants of 
cheese and cold cuts, and stabbed her master just below the left shoulder 
blade. 

The knife was not large enough to inflict a lethal wound, but Henry Moulton 
was taken to his bed for two months before he recovered. His first act, when 
he was thoroughly convalesced, was to have Meg, Phyllis and Sally stripped 
naked, tied by their wrists to the rafters of the barn and savagely birched 
from shoulders to heels until the blood dripped onto the straw-covered 
ground. 

Then he had his footman and steward bugger all three while callously in 
turn, standing before each half-fainting, writhing naked victim, he pinched 
and slapped her titties and then fucked her. 

Then, summoning the sheriff to his mansion, Henry Moulton preferred charges 
of attempted murder against Meg Tanner and named her daughters as 
accomplices. All three were sent to Old Bailey to await trail, and were duly 
condemned to hang. 

The edict of George IV commuted their sentences to life imprisonment in the 
penal colony of Port Arthur, with the stipulation that the two daughters 
might be sold as indentured bondservants at Hobart, while Meg Tanner herself 
was sentenced to incarceration in the women's compound at Port Arthur, a 
virtual death sentence. 

And thus again the pitiless injustice which favored the gentry and the 
wealthy against the helpless and exploited poor came to pass as these three 
attractive and innocent females boarded the Orton, wrists and ankles chained 
as if they were wild beasts. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

Tom Dewson grinned maliciously at the shrinking women and girls who passed 
timidly by him as they made their way to the poop deck. The clank and 
clatter of their chains was an evil music on the warm July air. 

A week out of London and heading down the Atlantic towards Cape Verde, 
thence to the Brazilian Basin and on to the Argentine Basin till at last the 
H. M. S. Orion would turn its prow along the Strait of Magellan and Tierra 
del Fuego, till finally it moved around the dangerous Cape Horn and so 
onward along the Southwestern Pacific Basin till at last it would find the 
grim fortress-like prison of Port Arthur. The passengers would face long 
months, endless and torturing, with sudden squalls and violent storms, and 
then long periods of calm when the ocean was like glass and the pitiless sun 
beat down. 

For this first week, Captain Matthew Bordager, secure in his pledge that his 
seamen far outnumbered the entire contingent of male and female prisoners, 
was content to allow the women an hour or two of air out of their 
confinement in the hold. 

It was the third such run he had made to Tasmania, and were it not for the 
excellent profit and the chance to ingratiate himself with His Majesty's 
Naval Commissioners, he would willingly have sought work elsewhere. Convicts 
were always a scurrilous lot, and even the prettiest wench among them was a 
danger aboard ship. On the last trip, there had been a little Jezebel by the 
name of Polly Anston, a mere seventeen-year-old auburn-haired baggage being 
transported for having stabbed her lover when he told her he would not honor 
the bairn she bore in her belly. 

She'd been lucky enough not to have swung off at Tyburn, but instead she 
tried her best to bedevil his entire crew. The slut had even managed to turn 
daft with her promises of bedding down with him, until the fool had actually 
tried to help her escape in one of the longshore boats. 

Well, he thought grimly to himself, they'd both paid for their folly. They'd 
been triced to the mast, facing each other, and old Tom Mewson had been 
ordered to lay on nine and thirty stripes with the cat on the naked back of 
each. 

That had taken the fire out of the little bitch, and she'd been humble and 
quiet when at last they'd reached Hobart. The last he'd heard, she'd been 
sold to an old dragon of a farmer's widow who was probably thrashing her 
backside with a broom every other day to keep her gentle. 

Tom Mewson, his left cheek disfigured by an ugly, jagged purplish scar (the 
result of a knife brawl with a Portuguese sailor five years ago in Lisbon), 
stocky, his sparse gray hair and weather-beaten, ugly face enough to scare 
the females who passed by him, without the sight of the cat whose handle was 
thrust through his seaman's belt, squinted appraisingly at the lot. 

He could spot the trouble-makers at first glance, old Tom could. Just fifty, 
but still able to out wench and out drink any landlubber in any port of 
call, the boatswain's very presence guaranteed Captain Bordager there would 
be no mutiny on this ship of His Majesty's line. 

The captain and his first mate, Ned Knowles, a tall, taciturn Welsliman 
slightly past forty, had agreed that it would be best to exercise the men 
and the women separately, at different times, to prevent any sentimental 
scenes or attempts to pass messages. 

Already Captain Bodager had been annoyed by having common seamen assigned to 
guard the holds report to him the second day out that some condemned Irish 
rebel had asked if he might have a moment with his wife. It was, of course, 
none other than Michael Corrigan, who was agonized over the fate of his 
lovely young bride Colleen. What tortured him most was his knowledge that 
once arrived in Tasmania, he would be housed in the great graystone 
buildings at Port Arthur, while Colleen would doubtless be auctioned off to 
some fat farmer or sheepherder in Hobart, her sweet body to be at the 
disposal of her new master for as many years as the indenture stipulated. 

Already he was forming desperate plans to escape, but he knew that this was 
irrational and it was best to survey the terrain when at last he was upon 
it, before anything sensible could be done. Nor did he wish to harm his 
lovely wife by his actions. 

Nonetheless, his mere request for an audience with the captain had already 
marked him as a troublemaker. And Matthew Bordager believed in a firm hand 
with seamen and even more so with what he was pleased to call "Newgate and 
Tyburn trash." 

Tom Mewson was himself a viciously depraved man, who had lost one wife 
through miscarriage when he was still a young man in his early twenties, and 
a second young wife from sheer brutality and insane jealousy. That had 
happened eighteen years ago, and because he despised women as trulls and 
whores, he had become a seaman. 

Because he was rough and ready with his fists, he had quickly risen in favor 
among the ship's officers. Six years ago, he had single-handedly quelled a 
potential mutiny on board the Orion, and for this he had been promoted to 
boatswain, one of the few promotions possible upon board a British ship of 
the line. 

This he cherished mosi. One of his duties included the flogging either 
seamen sentenced on deck by captain or lesser officers, as well as convicts 
accused of mutiny, troublemaking or interference with the ship's order. 

And most of all, he itched to thrash one of these handsome wenches whom he 
had greedily appraised as they had come aboard in their chains going towards 
the hold. He had already marked Colleen Corrigan as a tasty bit of fluff, 
whose cunt he would dearly love to poke, and he had noticed also Meg Tanner 
and her two young daughters, Phyllis and Sally. 

Absently his right hand fondly caressed the handle of the wicked nine-tailed 
cat thrust through his. heavy leather belt and his piggish little eyes saw 
in imagine one of these tasty lasses triced to the mast, dress and camisole 
ripped down to the waist to expose her titties to the sun and wind, her 
white smooth back exposed to the kisses of the lash. 

But where the cat employed on a man's back was harsher and often had tiny 
metal pellets sewn to the tips of the thongs, he had himself fabricated a 
whip for the more tender flesh of the female. The thongs were more tapering 
and plaited, brine-soaked for weeks, and then polished beautifully, so that 
they would be viciously supple and clinging. Expert that he was, he could 
draw blood with six cuts, or, if he so desired, apply forty good ones to the 
naked back and shoulders of a buxom wench without once cutting the skin, yet 
inflicting unspeakable torment. 

"A rum lot, that," the first mate moved up alongside him, interrupting his 
sadistic reverie. "Poor bitches, I wonder what fortune they'll have when 
they reach Hobart." 

"Not all of them are due for that mercy, Mister Knowles," Tom Dewson 
chuckled grimly. "There ain't many gentlefolk would take into their homes a 
murderess like that Meg Tanner or that Mrs. Lewis. But her daughter, now, 
aye, that's a different matter. Have you noted that red-haired doxy yet, Mr. 
First Mate?" 

"Aye, that I have. A man would have to be blind not to, Mr. Mewson," the 
usually laconic first mate smiled. "But the Tanner woman has two bitches I'd 
rather have in my bunk. They'd give less trouble, I'm thinking, than the 
red-haired piece." 

"There is summat in what you say, Mr. First Mate," Tom Mewson grudgingly 
observed. "But I'll warrant ye that if that red-haired hoyden comes afoul of 
the captain, I'll gentle her with my friend Betsy here-" he touched the 
handle of his whip lovingly and grinned down at it "-so ye'll not be 
thinking of troublemaking in the future, dammee if I won't!" 

But Arabella Lewis was not yet to incite the boatswain's vicious cruelty. 
That unfortunate distinction fell first on the journey of the Orion to Meg 
Tanner and her younger daughter Sally. 

On the ninth day out of London, the afternoon being blustery, Meg and her 
two daughters were at the ship's rail looking sadly back at an England they 
thought they would never see again. Phyllis and Sally were trying their best 
to comfort their crestfallen, chestnut-haired mother. 

There had been malicious gossip down in the hold, as there was in the men's 
quarters, too; one woman who had already served in Bridewell and even been 
flogged on a Friday after for the pleasure of the gentry, and was now being 
transported to Tasmania for having tried to poison the innkeeper where she 
worked as barmaid, had sniggered, "Don't worry about your girls, you old 
bawd. like as not when they get to Hobart, 'they'll find masters who will 
gentle them to bed. But you, you're for it, Meg Tanner. You'll have the rope 
spared your neck, but they won't let such as you into decent houses. Oh no, 
you're for a cell in Port Arthur. Mayhap if you're sweet to the guards, 
they'll give you all the fucking you want." 

White with shame and fury that such words would be used in front of her 
young daughters, Meg Tanner had fallen upon the virago, and a hair pulling, 
scratching catfight at once took place, egged on by the other women who saw 
this as a device to relieve the terrible monotony of the long days and 
nights on this endless trip to the other side of the world. 

Roused by the noise, the sentry outside the hall pounded with his musket 
butt, bawling out for the bitches to quiet down before they were keelhauled. 
When this did not suffice, he hurried to the boatswain's quarters. 

Tom Mewson grinned, patted the handle of his cat-of-nine-tails, and strode 
along with the seaman. He had the door of the hold unbolted, and then he 
bawled out: "Enough of this, you dirty cats! I want silence here, or the 
next to raise her voice will find herself at the mast and a good taste of 
Betsy here!" 

With this, he dragged out the whip and brandished it in the air, letting 
them see the polished, tapering leather thongs. Meg Tanner scrambled to her 
feet, her bodice ripped, her hair disheveled, scratches on her face and 
throat. 

"It was this bitch who started it," she protested, seeing the boatswain's 
vicious, narrowed blue eyes fixed on her. "I was but trying to spare my poor 
daughters-" 

"I've heard enough from you, woman, now be still. I've only to speak to the 
captain and he'll have your rations cut in half. Mayhap that'll bring you to 
your senses do y'hear?" 

The door was slammed to and again bolted, but Tom Mewson felt his prick 
harden at the remembrance of how defiant and buxomly handsome Meg Tanner had 
looked standing down there defying him, the naked curves of one bare 
shoulder and curves of her titties on display. 

And those two young sluts hovering beside her, that black-haired one and the 
little golden-haired pair of sweet pussies-there must be a way to taste them 
before the ship reached Hobart and those two young vixens were quickly 
stolen for an indenture. 

In his evil and hateful mind, he conceived a plan that would bring one or 
the other of those younger girls to his bunk one night before the Orion 
dropped anchor. And since he knew that Ned Knowles was a man usually of 
moody silence, which had been caused by a nasty secret which by great good 
luck, one night when Ned had been in his cups, he had let slip, and Tom 
Mewson took steps to involve the first mate in his cunning, ruthless plan. 

Ned Knowles had been a contented young cobbler, wed and with a baby on the 
way at the age of twenty-three. His wife had died in childbirth and the 
child with her, and he had turned to drink. Then a handsome widow down the 
street had dozened him, setting her cap for him and trying to make him 
forget his bereavement. 

But she was a bawd at heart and once she had coaxed him into marriage, she 
dispensed her insatiable pussy passion to other men. He came upon one of 
these one night when he had forgotten not to visit her, and he'd nearly 
killed his rival. Then, after whipping her almost senseless, fucked and 
buggered her, and went out and got roaring drunk. 

He was bailed out of prison by his employer and sent back to his last. But 
the evils of pussy and drink were too much in him. Six months later, he was 
again in trouble with the law, and to save himself a long prison term, he 
flung himself on the mercy of the court and offered to go to sea for a 
period of ten years. 

It had made a new man of him, and he had risen to the illustrious rank of 
first mate. But back in Falmouth, three years ago, and with Tom Mewson to 
bear witness to what had happened, Ned Knowles had gone to a brothel, drunk 
more ale than was good for him, and so savagely set about fucking and 
buggering a young whore that she was very nearly killed. 

He would have been clapped into jail but for the intervention of the 
boatswain, who bribed the brothel madame with half a year's wages which he 
had stolen out of the first mate's purse, and the promise that he himself 
would find some slut as replacement for her damaged girl. 

He had smuggled Ned Knowles back on the ship, sobered him and then craftily 
said to him, "Mr. First Mate, you're in real trouble. No, I won't say a 
word, but you'd best see things my way when it chances. D'ye ken me? I know 
enough to have you sent to the rope at Tyburn, what with your murdering rage 
against some poor slut who never did you a harm." 

And so, with this extortionate hold on the first mate, Tom Mewson plotted 
well. By the time the Orion was two weeks out of London, he had almost 
maddened Ned Knowles with the alluring promises that both of them might bed 
Phyllis and Sally Tanner if they could but involve those two sweet pussies 
and the still ripe and tasty mother in some altercation that would bring 
them to the wrathful attention of Captain Bordager. 

It happened just as the two men planned, two days later. As they were out on 
the ship's deck for an hour of sun, Phyllis and Sally Turner once more stood 
at the ship's rail beside their mother, looking sadly back to England. 

A furtive little man, the cook's assistant, one Dick French by name, who had 
once felt Tom Mewson's cat on his back and nearly died of it and would have 
done aught to escape another dose, sidled towards the trio. 

He had been told precisely what to do by the boatswain, who had warned him 
that if he blabbed, he would find himself dropped overboard for the sharks, 
gagged and bound and no one to hear his cries. 

Touching his cap, he mumbled to Meg, "You gotta friend aboard this ship, 
ma'am, said for me to give you this. Here, take. It'd best be getting back 
to quarters. Cookie'll be needing me." And with this he thrust a dirk into 
Meg Tanner's hand and then made his way swiftly through the other women back 
towards the stairway and was quickly out of sight. 

Meg uttered a cry and dropped the dirk to the deck. 

"What is it, Mother?" Phyllis exclaimed. 

"It's a dagger. Now what fiend in hell would be sending me such a thing? 
What we need is a ship to take us back home and away from this cruel doom 
they sent us to," Meg Tanner bitterly responded. 

At that moment, shouldering his way through the cringing women, Tom Mewson 
approached. "What's this now, woman?" he growled, and put his booted foot on 
the dirk at her feet. 

"A weapon now, and in the hands of a murderess-who gave you this?" 

"I know nothing of it. One of your crew came to me just now, said I had a 
friend on this ship who wished to give it to me. Take the foul thing and be 
off with you!" Meg Tanner exclaimed. 

"Not so fast, you murdering bawd," boatswain sneered as he bent forward and 
seized the dirk, then grasped her wrist. "You'll come with me to Captain, 
direct. He'll have summit to say about your little game. Play innocent, 
would you? We'll have the truth out of you, or Betsy will." 

And half an hour later, Meg Tanner found herself standing in her chains 
before the bearded captain, and, her mouth agape with stupefaction, heard 
herself denounced as an incorrigible, murderous bawd who should have been 
hanged at Tyburn and who, since she had not yet used that dirk which she 
obviously must have smuggled aboard by some illicit .means, would set an 
example to all her kind by receiving the cat on her naked backside that same 
afternoon, an hour before sundown. 

All hands were piped to punishment, and the women convicts as well as the 
men kept well apart and each group guarded by a dozen armed seamen, were 
marched to the foc'sle to hear the sentence read and to watch its execution. 

Mad with shame and despair, Meg Tanner cried out as two seamen dragged her 
towards the mast. "I'm innocent, I tell ye. I know naught of that weapon 
till a man on this very ship, yes, one of you, gave it to me. It is unjust, 
I swear before heaven, it is unjust!" 

"Gag her and trice her up and ready her backside for Betsy," the boatswain 
sniggered, drawing out the cat from his belt and swishing it about. Two 
seamen swiftly corded Meg Tanner's wrists high above her head, then ripped 
down her coarse prison dress from the neck to waist and with it the dirty 
camisole to expose the finely grained, quivering naked skin. 

Her big firm titties panted as they rubbed against the round, hard wooden 
mast, and she cast a frantic glance over her shoulder even as one of the 
seamen, roughly cupping her chin, thrust in a dirty wad of linen, while his 
mate bound a strip of ship's cloth over her mouth and knotted it at the back 
of her neck. 

The captain from his bridge looked down and gestured. The sentence was to be 
forty strokes of the cat. But Tom Mewson now approached the shuddering woman 
and muttered, "I can kill ye with thirty of Betsy, if I've a mind, I can 
make your flesh hang down in shreds, you bawd. 

"And more than that since you two whelps were party to it, I've but to tell 
the captain and he'll have them at the mast here after ye. Do you want that, 
Meg Tanner?" 

She made mewling sounds behind the gag and shook her head. Her eyes were 
huge and frantic as she searched that cruel face for a spark of mercy. 

"Well, then, a bargain with ye, bitch. I'll lay on enough to thrash ye, but 
not enough to kill. But ye'll tell them this night that one of them's to 
come to my quarters at night or on the Book I swear I'll have them here and 
whip them to the blood, each of them. Now, d'ye ken me, woman?" 

Agonized, Meg Tanner could only nod her head, choking back her sobs. Even 
here on this ship, bound for the terrible penal colony, unjustly sentenced 
and all her life destroyed, again injustice and cruelty pursued her and her 
two young girls. 

She had visions of their tender bodies triced, bared for all to see, and 
shrieking out and bleeding under the cat, even more horrible to contemplate. 

"You're a smart bitch. I'll try not to kill ye, or hurt ye too much. Mind 
you tell whoever you sent to me to be lusty and obliging, or I'll still have 
her triced up here. Now get ready!" 

He ran his left hand down the smooth, shuddering olive-sheened back and Meg 
Tanner closed her eyes and prayed. There was a deathly silence on deck as he 
measured his distance and then, planted solidly on his booted feet, the 
boatswain drew back the cat, hovered it in the air a moment, then sent out 
swooping the nine leather thongs to cling viciously across the smooth satiny 
back on which the facing rays of the afternoon sun glistened almost 
obscenely. 

Meg Tanner jerked, lifting her agonized face towards the heavens. The 
expertise of the boatswain had made the thong sting but not cut the skin. 
The angry marks which flamed at once on the smooth back looked painful 
indeed, but he knew his trade all too well. 

Slowly he flogged her, pausing after the fifteenth, as she hung, half 
conscious moaning piteously, to rip dew? the frock and camisole a little bit 
more so as to show the opulent curves of her upper hips and just a hint of 
the spinal furrow which led to the chinkbone. 

Again he resumed. By the time he reached the thirtieth stroke, she danced 
and twisted and flung herself this way and that, for with cruel skill he 
made the tips dance around her, sometimes stinging her in her furry armpits 
or at the sides of her mashed titties which she tried to press with all her 
might against the obdurate post. 

More dead than alive, she was cut down but only after he himself had flung a 
bucket of brine over her limp form. The captain was disappointed: he had 
expected to see blood drawn before this. 

"Put her in irons at the bottom of the ship," he ordered. 

But the boatswain muttered to the seaman who was to take the half-fainting 
woman away, "Give her some rum and a biscuit, Petey. Then you'll ask her 
which of her whelps is to come to me tonight, you hear, and then you go tell 
the bitch what her mother has said. If she changes her mind, just tell her 
that I'll use Betsy on those two brats of hers until there's not an inch of 
skin left. She'll know what I mean." 

At midnight, trembling, eyes averted, Phyllis Tanner followed the wizened 
little seaman who leered at her as he led her to the boatswain's quarters. 
She had volunteered to sacrifice herself to save not only her mother but 
also her sister Sally. 

"Mind you make no noise, bitch," the seaman muttered as he knocked furtively 
at the door of the boatswain's quarters. "It'd be worth my neck if the 
captain caught us." 

The door opened and the seaman grinned and touched his cap. "Here she is, 
Mr. Mewson, like you wanted." 

"Fine, Petey. Now you get back to your quarters for about an hour, and then 
you come here and take the bitch back. We'll be done with her by then, I 
warrant. Now then, sweetie-" Tom Mewson, naked except for his breeches, 
reached for the tawny-skinned, tall brunette. 

Her eyes were wild with terror, for she saw Ned Knowles, the first mate, 
seated on the edge of his bunk, wearing only his underdrawers, a sickly look 
on his face, and between his hands a thick leather strap. 

"Oh no! You said just-oh please, Mr. Mewson, don't, don't I'm a good girl," 
Phyllis quavered. 

But the ravening boatswain had already ripped off her coarse frock, then her 
shift, and she was naked in her shoes and coarse lisle hose. Swiftly he 
liberated his prick and, thrusting her back against the bunk, crammed 
himself into her while, one hand over her mouth to silence any outcry, his 
other hand pinched and squeezed her titties. 

And when he had burst his essence into her, he dragged her to her feet and 
flung her over to the first mate. Then, taking a deep swig from the bottle 
of rum, he said, "Let's gag her first, if you're going to thrash that butt 
of hers to get yourself a hard-on, Neddie boy!" 

Phyllis Tanner uttered a cry, but the first mate, with an oath, rose and 
seized her. He flung her to her back on the bunk, and the boatswain helped 
him gag the unfortunate girl with a strip from her own dress thrust between 
her teeth and another wound around her mouth and tied at the back of her 
neck. Then, sniggering, Tom Mewson dragged her across his lap and held her 
wrists with his right hand while his left bore down on the scruff of her 
neck. 

"Lace into the bitch! Lace into that sweet butt," he panted. 

Ned Knowles, his face that of a madman, raised the strap and brought it down 
with a sickening crack over the jouncy summits of Phyllis Tanner's naked 
ass-cheeks. Her body jerked and her legs began to fail the air as the blows 
followed, quick and furious, till her warm creamy skin turned an angry, 
darkening red. 

Then, dropping the strap, the first mate bared his swollen prick and mounted 
over the hysterically weeping, terrified, naked captive, yawned open the 
cheeks of her ass and buggered her. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

The Orion provisioned at the Falkland Islands towards the middle of 
September, more than two months after the convict ship had sailed out of 
England bearing its doomed cargo of prisoners bound for Tasmania. A week 
later, around the Cape of Good Hope, a ferocious autumnal typhoon battered 
the vessel off course for more than forty-eight hours, and nearly all the 
women were sick, and many of the men. 

Two of the male prisoners died of fever and were sewn in coarse tarpaulin 
and their bodies committed to the deep after brief burial services which 
Captain Matthew Bordager read without emotion. He thought to himself they 
were better off in the bosom of the ocean than in the stinking hellhole that 
was Port Arthur. 

Arabella Lewis, though seasick, had kept up her spirits. She had reasoned 
with her mother that, since they were still alive and the vicious beast who 
had persecuted them was dead, there was a kind of justice after all. 

Yes, they had been under the shadow of the gallows and yet they had 
survived. "You're not to worry about me, Mother," the spirited red-haired 
girl had said with a firm courage. 

"Yes, I'll be in bondage as a servant, but I've my life ahead of me. What I 
shall do will be for you, Mother. I can't think of you rotting away in that 
awful prison that I've heard so much about. And you're not a murderess, 
you're not! 

"I'll ask the governor himself at Hobart where we land, I'll beg an 
interview with him and I'll plead for you. The worst they can say is no, 
Mother, but if I succeed, at least you won't be in prison with those brutal 
guards and those horrible dogs and all the other horrible things I've heard 
so much about. It would break my heart after what you've done for me, trying 
to save me from that filthy brute." 

And Evelina Lewis wept in compassion for this young girl of hers who had 
grown to maturity so swiftly and tragically. Though she had a small comfort 
in her daughter's courage and conviction, she still resignedly believed that 
she could not escape the rigors of that prison to which her sentence had 
consigned her after the commutation from the rope..... 

And now it was October and the Orion was heading west by southwest towards 
the still far distant shores of what was once Van Dieman's Land. And then 
the young Dublin couple who had so unjustly been condemned for the death of 
their Judas-informer had their hour of stark terror and shame and 
ignominious pain. 

Colleen Corrigan desperately yearned to have but a few moments alone with 
her husband Michael. She had begged the guard who stood in front of the door 
of the women's hold, but he had told her it wasn't possible. 

There would be no talking between prisoners at any time, for the captain 
himself might order out the cat. And yet Colleen knew herself to be 
pregnant, nearly six months gone. It had been their last night of love, the 
night before that filthy little beast had forced himself into the cottage 
and tried to have his way with her. 

That afternoon their lives with the sweet idyll of love and married passion 
had ended, and come to the grim cells of Old Bailey to stand in court and 
see the black cap placed upon the judge's powdered wig and to hear those 
awful words again. 

And then the dull despair back in the cell of waiting, even praying that it 
would be swiftly over, until the turn-key had opened the door and jerked his 
thumb and growled, "You're for the guv now, stir your stumps!" And then 
stumbling in chains to the office of the prison governor who read a long and 
meaningless document only a few words of which either of them could 
understand, so hopelessly clouded were their minds by the oppressive terror 
and the horror of their sudden doom upon them. 

But the words, "On his Majesty's merciful clemency, it is hereby ordered 
that the aforementioned prisoner be transported to the penal colony in 
Tasmania," had saved them from the rope. 

She had not wanted to tell Michael, even at their trial, that she was 
bearing his child. It would add to his agony when he went to the gallows to 
know that their love was thus doubly blighted and murdered before it could 
be human life. 

And then, of course, once aboard ship, there had been no time, no way to 
tell him. She had to speak. Her lithe young body bore the baby well, and it 
was not so evident that she was heavy with child. It would be an easy birth, 
and it would be a son. Only please, heaven, it must be their son, Colleen 
Corrigan fiercely prayed. 

And so in that desperation born of love, as the guard was opening the door 
of the hold to allow the female prisoners their hour of airing on deck, she 
pleaded, "I'm big with child, it's my man's and he doesn't know. I'll do 
anything, give you anything, if you'll but let me have a moment with him, oh 
please!" 

The seaman, rough and brutal like his fellows, nonetheless had a faint 
glimmering of compassion for this lovely black-haired girl. True enough, she 
was down in the log as a murderess, but she'd been decent all this voyage 
and given no trouble, not like some of the other hellcats. "Aw'right, I'll 
do what I can. Find me a shilling, though, I must have something for my 
trouble," he growled. 

Colleen Corrigan nodded, her eyes welling with tears. Impulsively, she put 
out her shackled wrists and she touched the man's arm. "May the fates bless 
you," she murmured huskily. 

But as the sailor, after once again bolting the door of the hold when the 
women had returned from their airing, was moving stealthily down to the 
other end of the ship to find the men's quarters, the boatswain emerged from 
his cabin in a black humor. Last night he'd had that black-haired bitch 
Phyllis Tanner to his quarters, and Ned Knowles had been there to share the 
bitch with him. 

Only she'd pleaded her belly, said that the two of them had bigged her and 
that she wasn't to fuck any more. Well, he learned the slut. Her belly 
scarcely showed, and who could tell whether he or Ned was the father, with a 
slattern doxy like that one, her mother a murderess and all? So again he 
gagged her, and the two brutal men had whipped her till she was nearly 
unconscious and then buggered her in turn. 

And he'd mocked her as he'd kicked her out of the cabin and let his toadying 
accomplice drag her back to the women's hold-"You can't say I fucked you 
this time, bitch! And where I've put it won't give you a baby, that's for 
certain!" 

But then the stupid slut had broken away from her guard, got herself up on 
deck and before anyone knew it, had flung herself overboard. Weighted down 
with her chains, death had been instantaneous. She had called out only once, 
"Oh Mother, Sally, forgive me!" and then gone down. 

Glowering, he knew he would have to tell the captain, who would doubtless 
wonder how a girl locked in the hold could escape and fling herself 
overboard. 

Well, that couldn't be helped. He'd make up some story, something that she'd 
wanted to confess and the sailor guarding the hold had brought her to him 
because he was the nearest in charge and hadn't wanted to wake the captain. 

That would do well enough. But he'd counted on fucking her till they'd 
reached Tasmania. Now he'd have to find himself another piece of pussy. 
Sally, that younger, golden-haired slut, she'd do nicely. And if Meg Tanner 
dared squeal, she'd get worse than a catting this time. 

His mind thus preoccupied, Tom Mewson lurched into the sailor and swore 
resoundingly, "Damn my liver, don't you see where you're going? And who gave 
you leave away from the women's hold, Barton." 

"Excuse me, Mr. Mewson, I had something." 

"Well, speak up, man! You're up to some sneaky work, I can see that with my 
own eyes," the boatswain roared. 

"But please, Mr. Mewson, it wasn't I, it was the lass-" 

"What lass are you jibbering about?" 

"The Irish girl, she says she's big with child and it's her man, and she 
hasn't had the chance to tell him yet. I thought I might-" 

"So you did, did you, Barton? You infernal fool! Don't you know that 
carrying messages between men and women convicts could get you the skin off 
your back? Now you tell me what it's all about, or by the hair on my chin 
I'll have the captain in on this right enough!" 

Cowed by the boatswain's ferocious manner, Abner Barton stammered out the 
news he had to tell. Tom Mewson grinned. "All right, man, you've saved 
yourself the cat. Now go back where you belong. I'll handle this myself." 

An hour later, he had the door to the women's hold unbolted and stepped 
down, staring appraisingly at the huddled, pitiful creatures, some lying on 
pieces of canvas as beds, others seated on the timbered floor, their arms 
clutched round their knees, their faces blank with despair and hopelessness. 

He recognized Meg Tanner and grinned at her, and then at the golden-haired 
young girl beside her who had her arms around her mother and who shrank back 
at the sight of him. He saw Meg Tanner make a face, hawk and spit. 

He grimaced with fury, but repressed himself. The bawd knew or at least had 
guessed how her older whelp had come to do herself in. Well, it was no fault 
of his. 

Besides, trash like that was better off dead. But now his eyes sought out 
Colleen Corrigan, who stood at the very end of the hold, leaning her 
forehead against one slim arm, her other hand to her belly. 

He strode towards her, "Stir your stumps, girl, you're to come with me!" he 
called. 

Colleen Corrigan turned, eyes widening. Then she moved towards him, her face 
lighted with the hope that she would see her darling Michael, if only for a 
few moments, to tell him about the life that stirred within her. Oh it must 
be a boy, she could almost feel it kicking like one! 

A proud, fine tall man like his father. At least he'd be free, he'd have his 
chance at life, and in this new land there might be more justice, than back 
in England or Ireland under the English yoke. 

Tom Mewson led her out of the hold, and muttered, "You want word with your 
man, I'm told. You say you're with child? Come to my cabin, for I'll have to 
make certain. You bitches are all full of tricks that you pick up in Old 
Bailey." 

"How dare you! You can but look at me and see that I'm big, and you're no 
prison matron to examine me, nor will I let you!" Colleen hotly flashed. 

"You Irish scum, to talk to Tom Mewson that way! I'll learn you!" 

Twisting her wrist, he dragged her up the stairs to the foc'sle, and at that 
moment, under guards, the male prisoners were marching back to their hold. 
But Michael Corrigan had seen the unexpected vision of his beautiful wife 
scuffling with the boatswain. 

With a cry, he turned and ran, heedless of the chains that shackled his 
wrist and ankles, calling, "You dog, let my wife be or I'll do you in! 
Colleen, my sweet darling Colleen, it's Michael!" 

A sailor near him raised a belaying pin and swung it down in 'a vicious arc. 
Michael pitched forward on the deck and lay still. Colleen Corrigan uttered 
a shriek and, twisting out of Tom Mewson's grasp, struck him with all her 
might, her fists smashing his lips back against his teeth and drawing blood. 
Then she turned and ran towards her fallen husband. 

Justice was swift and summary. Captain Matthew Bordager himself sternly 
lectured the two mutinous prisoners, Michael and Colleen Corrigan. By his 
order, each was stripped to the waist and bound to the mast, facing each 
other. And Tom Mewson, uncoiling "Betsy", grinned savagely at the 
shuddering, half naked young woman who had closed her eyes and leaned her 
forehead against the post and was murmuring, "Oh Michael, dearest Michael, 
we've a bairn, it's worth a whipping to tell you this. I didn't dare when we 
were in prison, for I thought certain we'd be hanging and the bairn would 
die with me." 

"This is one way you may pass your word to your man, you bitch," the 
boatswain sniggered. He reached out with his calloused hand and squeezed one 
of her titties till she bit her lips almost to the blood and tilted back her 
head, shuddering with pain. "Now get ready. Forty lashes for each of you. 
And don't think I'll spare you for your belly's sake." 

"You heartless swine, give me all the lashes, but not my poor wife, have you 
no heart in you?" Michael Corrigan shouted. 

"You'll cringe and snivel, you Irish rebel, before the cat has done playing 
its tawse on your dirty back," the boatswain sneered. 

Stepping around and behind the tall handsome young Irishman, he drew back 
his arm and slashed the nine thongs viciously down. Michael Corrigan 
stiffened, clenched his teeth and shuddered, but uttered no cry. 

Then, cat-like, the boatswain moved around the mast and, licking his lips, 
swept the thongs across Colleen's slim shoulders with a sickening crack. 

And thus it went, a lash for Michael, and one, perhaps even more vicious, 
for her. 

She tried not cry out, wanting her best to be brave before her man, but the 
pain was excruciating. She slumped in her bonds at the twentieth stroke, but 
the flogging went on. 

And when at last it was over, when the thongs of the cat dripped blood upon 
the deck, Colleen Corrigan had lost her child. And her husband, still 
conscious, shrieked out insane threats against the evil fiend who had 
murdered their innocent babe. 

And the Orion sailed inexorably on towards its rendezvous and its 
deliverance of those surviving prisoners to the penal colony. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

It was the eleventh day of December, and on the mountainous island of 
Tasmania, 150 miles south of Australia, half as large as the state of 
Illinois, the equatorial climate was that of summer but extremely cool. 

Here there were rugged, wooded mountains, rushing rivers, trout-filled 
lakes, vast beaches, and the thriving city of Hobart. As the Orion entered 
the harbor and prepared to drop anchor, Captain Matthew Bordager could see 
with his spyglass the towering summit of Mount Wellington which had 
withstood the ravages of time for aeons. 

Its peak towered 4,166 feet above the bustling city and its fine harbor. 

In back of Hobart, there wound the scenic Derwent River, spanned by a sturdy 
bridge built by convict labor and made of stone hewn out in the quarries 
near Port Arthur. 

These great stones had been transported in oxcarts and the work had been 
done under the lash of the guards, and with the savage, chained dogs on 
heavy leash vigilantly guarding the contingent. Already the stone was quite 
weather worn. He thought that it almost seemed like a scene out of religious 
history. 

He could see also as he moved his spyglass the turreted government house, 
Saint George's dignified old church, and the slips at Battery Point where 
boats were just beginning to be built as part of the commerce which would 
one day make Tasmania one of the most affluent states of Australia. 

Already the wharf at which the Orion would dock was thronged with 
townspeople, ladies in their bombazine gowns and parasols and men in frock 
coats and "side-of-mutton" whiskers, with broad hats to protect them from 
the glaring sun, even though the equatorial breezes made the summer months 
of December through February cooler than anywhere else in the South Pacific. 

The town sheriff, Daniel Durway, was giving orders to his several assistants 
to prepare the bidding for the indentured bondservants. Several of the men 
from the convict hold, whose crimes were considered less reprehensible than 
those of most of the others, would be offered as farm laborers, and for a 
few who had schooling, they might even aspire to the post of clerks. 

Nonetheless, their indentures would be for a minimum of twenty-five years. 
One of these men, Francis Tulley, a slim dandified brown-haired young man of 
twenty-six, had been sentenced for writing scurrilous pamphlets about the 
Tories and had, in the prisoner's dock at Old Bailey, denounced the King 
himself. 

It was well for him, the stern judge had scolded, that they had not raised 
the severity of the charge to high treason, or he might still have been 
hanged, drawn, and quartered. 

He had been to Oxford, and thus would draw a high price from the wealthiest 
citizens who might require a former gentleman of his breeding-for though a 
bastard, he had blue blood in his veins-as perhaps a tutor to their 
children. 

The governor, Arthur Beaseley, had sent his regrets; an attack of gout was 
confining him to his bed. And thus the sheriff would represent the Crown and 
take charge of the proceedings once the convicts had been taken from the 
hold in their chains and led down to the dock and there taken over by the 
sheriffs deputies. 

Captain Bordager sighed, took a pinch of snuff, and turned to his first 
mate. "Well now, Mister Knowles," he said, "It's come off pretty well. Less 
trouble than I'd hoped for, to be frank with you. And we've only lost a few 
who won't be missed. We'll give the men shore leave tomorrow morning, reload 
our provisions, take on casks of fresh water, and then two days hence with 
the tide make our way to Port Arthur to deliver the rest of our troublesome 
cargo." 

"Very good, Captain. You're right, it's been an uneventful voyage. But as 
for my part, I should be happy to go back to the merchant marine. To be 
associated with such scum and riff-raff somehow makes me feel like scum 
myself." 

"I follow you, Mister Knowles. But that's our duty. And don't be forgetting 
we've made a tidy profit on this voyage. I dare say I shall go back for 
another load. Ah, well, come join me in my cabin for a glass of rum." 

Already, under the boatswain's orders, the sailors were entering the two 
holds and calling out the names of those who would leave the Orion to be 
auctioned off by the sheriff. Sally Tanner, the golden-haired 
fifteen-year-old sister of the unfortunate Phyllis (who had drowned herself) 
was one of those to be called. 

She turned, weeping bitterly, to her mother. 

"Oh I can't go, Mother," she wailed. "You'll need me more than ever now with 
Phyllis gone! Oh why can't I talk to the captain, beg him to let you go with 
me? You've done nothing wrong, it's not fair!" 

"Come along, ye little slut," one of the sailors snarled as he seized her 
arm. 

But Meg Tanner looked towards the stairway of the hold and her eyes were 
brooding. She had not forgotten how she had been used by Tom Mewson nor how 
her older girl had died willingly rather than live with the memory of his 
debauchery. 

And when she saw that two of the sailors were occupied with trying to lift 
one of the women, who had developed a fever, she quickly made her way up the 
stairway, mingling with the others who were dutifully emerging into the 
light of day, blinking their eyes, grasping as the circulation returned to 
their shackled limbs. 

She saw the ugly face of Tom Mewson and she took a deep breath as she moved 
towards him. The others were going down the gang plank, as their names were 
being called off by the boatswain himself, who was glancing at a sheet of 
paper on which were written the names of those consigned to the indentured 
auction block at Hobart. 

"Clarke, Emily," he bawled out. "Forward and lively, bitch!" 

A mild-mannered, spinsterish woman, slim and blonde, about thirty, moved 
docilely forward, bowing her head before the boatswain's searching look. She 
had originally been sentenced to hang at Tyburn for smothering her newly 
born child, a bastard forced on her by the rich and dissolute young son of 
her master. 

Tom Mewson chuckled, put his gnarled finger under her chin and lifted it up 
to stare at her--"Don't sulk, Emily girl," he drawled. "You don't bring near 
half as good a price if you don't bob and curtsey to those fine gentlemen 
and ladies. Who knows? Maybe you'll find a protector who will take you to 
his bed and comfort you. Well for my part, you've no tits and not much butt 
for a cold winter's night!" 

With a salacious guffaw, he shoved her forward, "On to the plank and good 
luck to you in Hobart, bitch!" 

Then he turned, and his jaw dropped. Meg Tanner had twisted herself in front 
of the next in line. "What's this? You're for Port Arthur, you murdering 
doxy you! Gates, get this bitch back to the hold-how the devil did 
she-arghhh-ugghhh!" 

Meg Tanner had seized him by the throat with both hands, forced him over to 
the edge of the plank and, drawing up her right knee sharply, struck him in 
the crotch. With a gurgling shriek, locking his arms round her and trying to 
break her fatal hold, he staggered, and both of them toppled into the water 
below. 

Cries of alarm rose from the sailors who hurried over to the side of the 
vessel. But Meg Tanner's fingers had dug into Tom Mewson's throat in an 
unbreakable grip. Weighted down with her chains, and sucking in the water 
through nostrils and mouth so that she could not possibly rise to the 
surface, with her last failing strength she clung to the man who had abused 
her and driven her older daughter to such disgraceful death. 

And soon all that could been seen were a few bubbles on the surface of the 
shimmering blue water. 

Sally Tanner, at the rail, had to be restrained by two sailors from flinging 
herself over to join her mother. Hysterically she screamed for them to let 
her die, but such was not her destiny. And two men dragged her back to the 
plank and carefully led her onto the first land she had touched since that 
July sailing back in London. 

For Colleen Corrigan, the wharf at Hobart was another Golgotha. Only the 
grudging humaneness of the Orion's captain in sending the ship's doctor to 
attend her after her miscarriage had kept the lovely black-haired Dublin 
girl alive. But now, shackled at wrists and ankles, moving along with the 
other women down the auction mart along the wharf and near the main square 
which overlooked the harbor, she turned her lovely face back, piteously 
stained with tears, as if to catch a last glimpse of her husband Michael. 
He, alas, was locked in the hold, and would sail two days hence to be 
incarcerated in the penal colony of Port Arthur. 

Her sturdy young health had enabled her to make a miraculous recovery, 
against the dread dangers of infection amid the squalor of the women's hold. 
There was color back in her cheeks, but she was agonized at the thought of 
being separated from the man she loved and who had fucked her in passion to 
conception, so that she would not even have this memory of him to hold in 
her arms. 

She felt that she would never seen her husband again, for the women had 
regaled her with horrid tales of the brutalities of the gaolers, of the 
whipping shed and the "sun-scorcher," a fiendish punishment devised by the 
prison governor for the most incorrigible. 

As for herself, it mattered nothing now. She did not much care what she did 
or even if she lived at all, if there was no hope of seeing Michael again. 
Dully, she moved along with the other women, while the sheriff and his men 
impatiently hussled them, each in turn, onto the wooden platform which 
served as slavery block-for such indeed it was. 

Daniel Durway, a black-bearded, heavily set man in his mid-forties, ascended 
the platform beside the summoned female convict and in a loud, resonant 
voice described her qualities and attributes: "Now, my fine people, here's a 
jade who can labor in the kitchen or in the fields, as you please. She's 
Margaret Pendelton, four-and-twenty summers. Charged with filching a purse 
from a gentleman in a tavern-where doubtless she went to sell her body." 

"That's not true!" the young woman lifted her head, her black eyes 
glittering with indignation. She was raw-boned, with tumbled black hair, and 
the truth was that she had been the mistress of a minor nobleman who, 
wishing to get rid of her so that he might substitute a younger and more 
toothsome bitch for his bed, had arranged with the tavern keeper to accuse 
her of theft. 

When the watch had come to the tavern to arrest her, she had struggled with 
him, and in the scuffle inadvertently blinded one of the soldiers. For this 
she had been sentenced to hang at Tyburn, and only the great clemency of 
George IV himself had saved her from Jack Ketch's clutches. 

"Keep your mouth shut, you dirty bitch," Daniel Durway turned with a snarl 
and backhanded her across the cheek, nearly knocking her to the floor of the 
platform. "As you can see, this jade needs gentling. 

"But she's had no babe, though for sure she's no maiden-" at this, salacious 
guffaws from the male spectators crowding round the platform greeted the 
sheriff's lewd intimations. 

"And as you can see for yourself, she's strong as a horse, and she'll be 
grateful to the man who buys her, for he'll being her from the rope. Mind, 
though, you'd best keep a watch on her and have her shackled at night, for 
she put out the eye of one of his Majesty's own soldiers. She's a dangerous 
one rJ you, and I myself wouldn't wish to cross he:. " 

Margaret Pendelton gave him a vindictive glance, but wisely held her peace 
as she stared boldly out at all those faces. The bright sun made her blink 
again, and she scarcely heard the eager bidding: "A hundred pounds for the 
doxy-Nay, I'll give a hundred fifty-Might we not see summat of her body, 
good Sheriff, so we can be sure that she's a good worker?" 

"Well, as to that," the sheriff smirked, "it's not customary, because this 
isn't the market place of the Turks, mind you. But seeing that you're all in 
good humor and I'm bound to get all the gold I can for our gracious king, 
I'll be showing you a trifle!" 

With this, he slyly lowered his Malacca cane and whisked up Margaret 
Pendleton's skirt, revealing for an instant long, splendidly sculptured 
calves and thighs sheathed in black cotton hose. 

With a cry of shame, the young woman tugged down her skirts and recoiled, 
her eyes blazing. But Daniel Durway lifted his cane and after clenching her 
fists and breathing hard a moment, she again held back from the impulse 
which doubdess would have cost her a flogging. 

"What spirit she has, the fine doxy!" An elderly dowager lifted a lorgnette 
to study the unfortunate prisoner on the platform. "But all that energy 
should be best put to work in the fields. Aye, to work her into a lather so 
she'll hawno time for mischief or revolt, is what I say. George, will you 
not buy her for me? She can tend to my little garden out by the azaleas." 

The wealthy dowager's husband, a florid-faced man in his mid-fifties, eyed 
the raw-boned brunette. Then he nodded. "Of course, my dear. I shall make a 
gift of her to you." What he had in mind, to be sure, was that he himself 
would use Margaret Pendleton's tall, sturdy body to grant him the lustful 
joys which his fat, dowdy wife had not granted in over twenty years. "I'll 
give two hundred and fifty pounds, not a shilling more!" 

But Margaret Pendleton's defiance on the platform had scared off some of the 
potential buyers. Besides, she was but the first to be thus auctioned;, 
there would be at least a score of others even comelier. And so the woman 
heard herself knocked down by three taps of the cane on the platform and 
then uttered a cry of pain as the sheriff called out, "And sold, indentured 
for life, to Mister George Anson!" 

And then he pronounced the sale concluded by applying a deft cut of the cane 
straight across both Margaret Pendleton's bottom-cheeks which made her jump 
and cry out in pain, reaching her shackled wrists back so that her hands 
could rub the flaming hurt, amid roars of laughter from the heartless 
spectators. 

And indeed, George Anson put his new indentured bondservant to the rutting 
usage he had originally contemplated that very night. Once he was certain 
that his wife was snoring away deep in slumber, he went with his steward, a 
whining, middle-aged Cockney named Willy Sturton, to the chamber which 
Margaret Pendleton had been given, near the attic of the fine house on the 
hillside. 

The little steward winked at his master as he unlocked the door, and the two 
men crept in and closed, then bolted the door behind them. Margaret 
Pendleton lay on a trundle bed, in a small windowless room. She wore only a 
coarse lisle shift, and it was fucked up half way along her long, 
beautifully muscled, tawny sheened thighs. 

"Egad, there's a tasty piece of cunt, eh, Willy? You'll share her with me. 
But we must gag the wench-what's this, she's waking up!" 

Hearing the noise, and having already learned in prison back in London that 
noise at night might mean the coming of some vicious lesbian to ravish her 
or perhaps to steal some trinket from her person, Margaret Pendleton had 
indeed awakened, sitting up with a gasp: "What-who-" 

George Anson nodded to the Cockney, who promptly clapped his hand over her 
mouth and hissed, "Not a sound, you bitch, or it's the whipping shed for 
you. The master wants only to comfort you this night, so you'd best be 
obliging to him. I myself will take a rod to your butt if you're not, now 
you mind that!" 

But Margaret Pendleton managed to strike away his hand and cried out hoars 
', "For shame, this is not right, you do not "wn my body, you've no right to 
that-" 

"You filthy bitch, you speak to me of rights, you, a trull and one who would 
blind a loyal soldier of His Majesty!" the elderly landowner snarled. "To 
the whipping shed with her, Billy! But take care not to wake Hermione or 
we'll both catch it!" 

"No fear, Mister Anson," the Cockney chuckled. He had come prepared for just 
such an emergency, and now suddenly pulled out of his breeches pocket a 
cloth which had been soaked in laudanum. Springing on her, hurling her back 
against her pillow, he pressed the wad against her mouth and nostrils, while 
she beat him with her clenched fists and the paunchy, gray-haired master of 
the house had at last to grip her wrists and hold them until her struggle 
subsided. 

A few moments later, breathing hoarsely, her head lolling to one side, the 
two men carted her off between them through the back of the house and out to 
a gray stone shed standing beside the barn in which George Anson kept his 
carriage and his fine horses. 

A kerosene lamp was lighted, and the door of the shed closed and bolted from 
the inside. There was a whipping ladder in one corner, a saw horse in 
another, and in the middle a heavy round post with a cross arm piece at the 
top, at each end of which was fixed a metal shackle that could lock or open 
at the touch of a spring. 

In a few moments, Margaret Pendleton's wrists were clamped in those 
shackles, and then the Cockney steward aided his master in pantingly ripping 
off the shift so that the superb, sturdy, tawny sheened naked body was 
exposed to their avid gaze. 

"Go on, Willy," the master of the house hoarsely commanded, taking off his 
waistcoat and rolling up his sleeves. The bulge at the crotch of his 
breeches indicated that he was already in rut. 

With a lewd snicker, Willy Sfurton squeezed the spacious bottom-ovals of the 
still unconscious woman, ran his hands over the lithe hips, the supple slim 
waist and then reached round and forward to cup her high perched, widely 
spaced pear-shaped titties. 

"This one's a fine scrapping bitch, Mister Anson," he mouthed. "I'LL waken 
her for you, never fear!" 

Near the door of the whipping shed was a charcoal brazier, which the steward 
now kindled. Into it he thrust a wooden-handled branding iron at whose end 
was the letter "A" signifying that anything so marked was the property of 
his wealthy master. 

Then, taking a hand bellows, he began to work it till the coals glowed hot, 
while George Anson impatiently paced the floor, his eyes devouring the still 
unconscious woman at the whipping post. 

The cross beam had been placed high enough to make her stand almost on 
tiptoe, and his eyes laved the deeply hollowed back, the smooth tawny satin 
of her naked flesh. Impatiently, he undid the buttons of his breeches to 
liberate his swollen prick, and uttered a grunt of lustful anticipation. 
"The devil take it, Willy, haven't you got it warm enough yet?" 

"In a moment, Mister Anson, in a moment-there we are! Now where should we 
put this mark of yours, sir? Nowhere to spoil her, to be sure," the steward 
sadistically grinned as he lifted the red-hot iron out of the brazier and 
approached the naked victim. 

"On the shoulder blade, man, and hurry!" his master cried. 

Willy Sturton slowly lifted the glowing iron, approached it close to the 
smooth naked flesh, and then, setting his teeth, pressed it home. There was 
the stench of burning human flesh, and then a maddened scream of intolerable 
agony as, wakened from her swoon, Margaret Pendleton thrashed about, 
kicking, dragging at her shackled wrists. 

"We'd best gag her again, Mister Anson, or she'll wake your wife," the 
steward whispered. And when his master impatiently nodded, he took a dirty 
handkerchief from the other pocket of his breeches, forced it between the 
woman's lips, and then bending to her torn shift, ripped off a piece and 
used it to bind over her mouth and knot it at the back of her neck. 

"Now then, she's ready for the thrashing, Mister Anson," he judiciously 
pronounced. 

His master had already seized a supple, murderously flexible rattan cane and 
planted himself at the woman's left. "Now then, Margaret," he thickly 
announced, "this is a good little lesson for you. What I've done, you'll 
obey me and you'll not say a word to my wife, do you ken me? If you do, I'll 
tell the sheriff that you've made an attack on my person, and off you'll go 
to Port Arthur, where the guards enjoy thrashing a rebellious bitch like 
you, aye, and fucking her every night. Get yourself ready, you're going to 
feel a good Tasmanian cane on your big naked butt!" 

With this, drawing back his arm, he made the cane bound with a sharp Splattt 
over the upper summits of both bottomglobes, and Margaret Pendleton 
stiffened, her head tilting back, her eyes enormous and blurred with tears 
as a muffled cry came through the gag. 

A darkening red narrow line sprang up at once on the tawny flesh. George 
Anson struck again, an inch below, and then a third time, an inch below 
that. At each, her tethered, naked body twisted and writhed from side to 
side, kicking out, while maddened, muffled cries escaped her. 

"When you're ready to be gentle and obedient, nod your head three times, 
bitch," he mouthed as he laid the cane solidly across the very centers of 
both her oval ass-cheeks. And then another one, before she hardly had time 
to cry out her agony from the previous furious cut. 

Perspiring, scolding hot waves of agony searing her vulnerable naked flesh, 
Margaret Pendleton could not long endure so cruel a caning. By the twelfth 
cut, she screamed wildly, then nodded her head three times as she turned her 
contorted tear-drowned face over her shoulder to contemplate the panting, 
flushed roue who had bought her indenture. 

"She's ready, Mister Anson," the steward cackled with glee. 

"Then take her down, Willy, and let's see if she's learned her lesson yet," 
his master thickly panted, lowering the cane. 

Willy Sturton hastened to the whipping post, opened the shackles, and 
Margaret Pendleton slumped down to her knees, weeping hoarsely, her hands 
frantically rubbing her angrily striped and swollen naked ass-cheeks. 

"Crawl over to me, bitch," George Anson gloatingly commanded. 

Slowly, wincing at every movement, the naked woman turned to face him, and 
crawled towards him on her knees, her hands still frantically soothing the 
livid weals left by the cane. 

"If I take that gag off, do you promise not to yell, you bitch?" he ordered, 
lifting the cane warningly again. Hastily she nodded, her eyes fixed with a 
horrid fascination on that swishy implement of torture. 

"Take out the gag, Willy," George Anson gasped. It was done at once, and the 
steward stepped back to admire the long thighs, the shapely calves, and most 
of all the magnificent, spacious bottom-ovals, with the angry purple welts 
flaming over the smooth tawny epidermis. 

"That's better," George Anson chuckled. "Now, are you going to be a good 
bitch and do whatever I tell you to? Are you going to promise me not to blab 
to my wife Hermione?" 

"Y-y-yes, oh please-oh no more," the woman moaned. 

"Call me master, you dirty slut!" George Anson applied a light flick of the 
cane right over her titties, and Margaret Pendleton screamed as she dutched 
them, babbling, "Oh don't, not there, Master, oh please don't whip me any 
more, please don't!" 

"You see, Willy? And this one's supposed to have beaten a soldier-why, I 
seem to be more of a man than he was," George Anson boasted to his fawning 
steward. "All right, Margaret. D'you see my prick? Take it in your mouth and 
suck it, and then ask me to fuck you nice and sweet, you hear? Or back you 
go to the post for another good dozen, and this time I'll send it up between 
your long legs right on your bushy twat!" 

This diabolical threat overcame Margaret Pendleton's revulsion. With a 
sobbing little moan, she leaned forward, and her soft lips took hold of the 
odious, plum-shaped head of her new master's prick. At his order, she put 
her hands to the backs of his legs, and humbly sucked and then rubbed her 
tongue over the puckering lips of his ram-rod until at last he stopped her, 
ready to juice. 

"All right, hurry, tell me what you want of me, bitch," he panted. 

"Please-please f-f-f-fuck me, m-m-master," Margaret Pendleton shudderingly 
murmured. 

"With the greatest of pleasure, Margaret," he chuckled gloatingly. 

Tossing the cane to his steward, George Anson bent and gripped Margaret 
Pendleton's titties with his pudgy lingers, pinching and twisting till she 
cried out in pain. Then he forced her down on her back and savagely mounted 
atop her, cramming his prick into her cunt. And at his order, the Cockney 
steward knelt down over her face, facing his master, and poor Margaret 
Pendleton was obliged to French the steward while she endured the savage 
fucking of the man who had bought her life for virtually nothing. 

 CHAPTER TEN 

Golden-haired Sally Tanner ascended the steps of the auction platform to a 
chorus of gasps of admiration from the eager male spectators. Sheriff Daniel 
Durway consulted his list and harangued the crowd: "Now here's a winsome 
lass. Sentenced to the rope at Tyburn for conspiracy in the murder of a 
gentleman, the sentence commuted to a life indenture. Now here's a girl not 
quite sixteen, and already a charmer, as you can see for yourselves! A fine 
complexion, and a figure that's tempting as that of a young Venus, I'll be 
bound. She knows her letters and can write a bit, has had but a little 
schooling and the evil in her can be blotted out if one of you good farmers 
or landowners will give her a berth and see to it that she's kept busy." 
With this, he gave his listeners a broad wink which drew roars of salacious 
laughter and made poor Sally turn scarlet as she stared down at her feet. 
Thus, with head bowed, wrists and ankles chained, a girl not yet sixteen was 
being offered to any man who would pay the price for her indenture and who, 
for the rest of her natural young life, would have the power to whip, brand, 
fuck or bugger or do aught with the privacy of his own bedchamber that his 
lusts desired. She might not refuse, she might not mutiny or run away, or 
she would be for the whipping shed, the branding iron and perhaps even have 
her tongue and ears cropped-such was the rigorous colonial law governing 
female convicts in this the year of our Lord, 1824. 

Naturally there was spirited bidding for so tasty a young wench, and at last 
Sally Tanner found herself knocked down for the sum of three hundred and 
seventy-five pounds sterling, but, singularly enough, not to a man. Instead, 
a simpering lackey ascended the platform, handed the sheriff a sheaf of new 
bank notes, and received the prisoner into his custody, whom he promptly led 
to an elegant landau. Inside, there sat a woman with a silver-tinted wig, 
haughty and tall, with cruel mouth and eyes, who curtly exclaimed, "Don't 
stand there all day, Wilkins, set the girl beside me." And then, staring at 
the still blushing and terrified teenaged English girl, she added as 
insolently, "My name is Lady Marjorie Tuggett, and you are my servant. Sit 
beside me but not too close, and mind you don't say a word till we reach 
home." 

She sniffed contemptuously as poor Sally Tanner awkwardly seated herself, 
tried to conceal the clanking chains about her wrists and ankles, and then 
tapped on the coachman's box to indicate to him her impatience to be off. 
The lackey had already ascended to sit beside the coachman, who wore a tall 
hat and a tan livery, exactly like himself. 

And thus in the midst of a long silence, Sally Tanner found herself being 
driven beside the perfumed, bewigged and jeweled woman who did not give her 
so much as a sidelong glance. 

The journey wound up along the hillside, in one of the most luxurious and 
fashionable houses near the very top. Once the landau had halted, the lackey 
scurried down to open the door for his mistress, then handed her down as if 
she were a queen. 

Lady Marjorie Tuggett glanced back over her shoulder and disdainfully 
commanded, "Wilkins, take her in to Ellen, have her scrubbed and scented, 
then give her something to eat and let her be brought to me at eight o'clock 
this evening in my bedchamber." 

"Very good, Milady," the lackey fawningly bowed. Then, grasping Sally by the 
elbow, he led her down a long corridor and back into the kitchen where a 
stout, gray-haired harridan confronted her. "New trash from the Orion, I'll 
be bound," she sniffed, staring at poor Sally till the latter blushed again 
and looked desolately down at the floor. "Well, you know what to do with 
her, Wilkins. Get Suzy to give her a bath-that's something you're not to do, 
my lad! Then put her in a room and stand guard over her-and mind you, no 
tricks. You won't be forgetting the lacing you had from the mistress herself 
when you peeked in at that wicked little slut Dierdre." 

The lackey grimaced, looked uncomfortable, mumbled something, then led Sally 
out of the kitchen and down another winding corridor to a little room at the 
very end of a hallway. "Get inside, wench, and Suzy will come take you for a 
scrubbing. You'd best be on your good behavior tonight, I'm warning you. 

So you're gallows fruit, are you? Tsk, tsk, and so young too! Why, with 
those blue eyes and that yellow hair-" 

"Keep a civil tongue to yourself, if you please," Sally flashed, tears of 
homesickness and grief glistening in her eyes. "You've naught to do with me, 
and you heard the cook tell you so. Now close the door and leave me here, I 
can't escape with these chains." 

"That you can't," the footman sniggered, "But I'll tell you one thing more, 
little lady. Lady Marjorie will keep you hopping just as a lusty man would, 
and that's no lie. She's been a widow these ten years, and she's come to 
love girls instead of men. Don't say I told you so, though. I'll see you 
again. And mayhap," here he gave her a lewd wink, "You'll be sick enough of 
your mistress then to want a red-blooded man between your sheets soon 
enough, girl." 

Then he slammed and locked the door, and Sally burst into helpless tears. 

About ten minutes later, the door was unlocked and Suzy, a tall, handsome 
young mulatress, who was not more than nineteen, entered. She wore a 
stunning crinoline gown, and also black leather boots, such as a seaman or 
stablegroom might wear. Without a word, she gestured that Sally was to 
follow her, and quickly the golden-haired teenager learned that Suzy was a 
mute. The mulatress led her to a bathroom, where two giggling teenaged 
maids, neither of whom was more than fifteen, awaited. Sally was made to 
strip naked, and get into the huge wide porcelain tub. The two young girls 
scoured and rubbed her till her skin was a vivid pink, then toweled her. 
Next they adorned her in a long trailing white linen shift, combed out her 
golden hair and put a blue ribbon bow in it. Then she was led back to her 
room by the mulatress, who an hour later brought her a tray of food and a 
glass of strong wine. 

Wonderingly, Sally ate and drank with appetite, momentarily forgetting her 
tragic sorrows over the death of her mother and older sister. Indeed, she 
had come almost to believe that perhaps a new life was beginning for her, 
because this kindness and the good food and the elegant house were such 
incredible contrasts after the horror of Old Bailey and the foul, stifling 
hold of the Orion. 

She lay down on her bed, a real bed, with damask cover and even a tiny 
little window through which she could see the garden in the gathering dusk. 
She must have fallen asleep, for suddenly she wakened to feel fingers 
caressing her titties. When she uttered a cry, the young mulatress put a 
soft palm over her mouth and shook her head with a gentle smile, then 
beckoned, indicating that she was to follow. 

Barefooted and in her shift, the chains still left upon her ankles and 
wrists, Sally Tanner uncomprehendingly followed the young mulatress up the 
stairway and down the corridor to a huge door on which she gently knocked. 

"Come in at once!" the arrogant contralto voice of Lady Marjorie Tuggett 
called out. Suzy opened the door, put her right hand against the small of 
Sally's back and gave the girl a gentle push forward, then entered behind 
her and bolted the door. 

Sally trembled, her eyes huge with stupefaction. There was a huge 
four-posted canopied bed, and on it Lady Marjorie Tuggett lay, naked except 
for black leather boots up to her knees, pillowing her head on her arms. She 
was perhaps thirty-six, and she still wore her silver-tinted wig. But there 
was one other accoutrement which dumbfounded the golden-haired teenaged 
bondservant. It was an artificial prick, tied round Lady Marjorie's waist 
with silken cords, made of wood and painted flesh-colored with such 
ingenuity that at first glance it seemed an actual male organ. 

"Did she give you any trouble at the bath, Suzy?" Sally's new mistress 
demanded of the mulatress, who shook her head at once. "That's good for her. 
And those shackles, the sheriff gave Wilkins the key and showed the lout how 
to open and put them back on again? You've done well, Suzy, I'm pleased with 
you. I like to see a girl with chains, then I know she belongs to me. As 
you're going to belong to me, Sally. Now come here and kneel down beside the 
bed and kiss my hand and tell me that you're going to be a good obedient 
little bitch!" 

"I-I don't understand, L-Lady M-Marjorie," Sally Tanner stammered, her 
blushed spreading down to her swelling young round titties under the linen 
shift, making even the lobes of her dainty ears red and hot. She could not 
take her eyes off that obscene prick which was strapped around the naked 
woman's waist. 

"Then I'll be brief with you, bitch, and it's best you remember what I tell 
you. I am Lady Marjorie Tuggett, for ten years I've been a widow. My 
husband, the poor fool, was not much of a man, a drunken oaf who brought me 
to this desolate island as a virgin bride. But it seemed that he preferred 
boys to me, although at times he did his duty as best he might. Do you 
follow me so far, girl?" 

Sally could only nod, bemused, horrified, unable to speak. 

"Then understand me well. One night I caught him and his paramour, buggering 
each other and in a drunken stupor. I had Wilkins hold the servant who had 
dared debase my husband, for he was of noble blood. My poor Teddy had a 
stroke at seeing this, and fell dead, more's the pity. He left me rich, and 
he left me loathing men. For I am better than any of them with this!" So 
saying, she tapped the head of the obscene wooden prick and smiled cruelly 
at the shuddering young blonde. "Now that you know my story, you'll serve me 
properly, I'll be bound. If you don't, there's the whipping shed and my pet 
Dalmatian, Horatio, to make you more docile. Now come here, girl, kneel down 
and vow your loyalties to your mistress!" 

More dead than alive, shamed and trembling, the young golden-haired teenager 
approached the bed, sank down on her knees and mumbled, I-I will obey you, 
L-Lady M-Marjorie." 

"Then show me how you will. Come now, hoist up your shift, lie beside me, 
and we will have sport this night," the perverse Sapphic widow commanded. 

"Oh no-don't-you won't put that dreadful thing into me, will you, L-Lady 
Marjorie?" Sally Tanner quavered. 

There was a peal of satanic laughter. "Of course I will. I bed and deflower 
each of my maiden slaves, girl, and you're not the first nor will you be the 
last to feel my borrowed manhood. Come now, or do you want the whip first?" 

"Oh no, I can't, oh please, dear God, don't do it to me, m-m-mistress!" 

"Suzy, take this stupid, stubborn little slut out to the whipping shed and 
have Wilkins thrash her properly. I'll be there directly," the 
silver-wigged, booted naked Lesbian hissed. 

The young mulatress seized poor Sally by her shackled wrists and led her, 
pleading and weeping, from the bedroom. Outside, the liveried footman 
Wilkins waited, having eavesdropped and understood his part in this cruel 
farce. "Stupid little fool," he muttered into Sally's ear as he helped Suzy 
drag her out of the house and to the whipping shed which stood beyond the 
garden, "Didn't I tell you to submit? It wouldn't have hurt too much, and 
then I'd have comforted you. But this time you're really going to smart for 
it. In you go!" 

He lit a kerosene lamp, and Sally Tanner shrieked as the mulatress and the 
footman removed the shackles on her wrists only to drag her towards a huge 
wooden pillory standing in the middle of the stone shed. Her neck and wrists 
were locked into the yoke holes, the chains left round her slim ankles, and 
then Wilkins ripped away the nightshift. 

He moved over to the wall where on hooks there hung a panoply of fustigator 
implements. He took down a cowhide whip, stationed himself behind the 
weeping, pleading, naked young girl, and sent the first stroke furiously 
over the ripest curves of her round naked bottom cheeks, Sally Tanner 
shrieked and the pillory creaked with her twistings and thrashings, the 
chains round her ankles clattering as she tried to kick and free herself. 

A dozen lashes made the flesh of her tender young virgin bottom inflamed and 
livid, and she felt as if the skin were being flayed from her. Whimpering, 
half-fainting, she sagged in the pillory and then she heard the cruel, 
insolent contralto voice of her new mistress: "That's enough, don't spoil 
her, you male beast! Now put her over the saw-horse so I can get at her. 
Then you may clear out, the two of you!" 

More dead than alive, Sally Tanner vaguely felt hands opening the yoke 
holes, dragging her naked body across the floor and then forcing her down 
over a sharply ridged wooden saw-horse. Her wrists were bound with hempen 
cords to the lower front legs, the shackles unlocked from her ankles, but 
her ankles were swiftly corded and similarly pinioned to the back legs of 
the fiendish device. At once she cried out, for the diabolically sharp 
wooden ridge chafed her tender cunt 

And then she felt slim hands caress her swollen, burning naked ass-cheeks, 
felt sharp fingernails dig into the agonized swollen flesh and shrieked 
again as she felt her bottom globes yawned apart. And then a wild, harrowing 
cry burst from her as the wooden prick strapped round Lady Marjorie 
Tuggett's loins burrowed slowly and inexorably to the hilt inside her 
tender, narrow young ass-hole. 

She seemed to have revived, and she found herself strapped over an 
upholstered bench still in the shed, but this time she was on her back, with 
her knees drawn up in the air and ropes around the knee hollows lofting to a 
ceiling beam. A waist strap restrained her on the bench, and her arms were 
drawn down to the lower legs and there her wrists were tied with heavy 
thongs. She saw Suzy bending over her, a bucket of brine in her hands, which 
she had just sloshed over the unconscious young girl's face and bottom and 
loins. The smarting in her bottom at once awakened Sally and she began to 
sob and plead for mercy. 

Suzy put her finger to her lips, shook her head warningly, and then pointed. 
The young girl's dilated swollen eyes fixed on the naked figure of the 
sadistic Lesbian. But this time the dildo had been removed, and Lady 
Marjorie wore only her boots and wig, the thick bush of her cunt a dark 
auburn, her natural hue. 

"I'm going to give you a chance to escape another thrashing, you bitch," she 
snarled. "You're going to gam me, and do it till I come, or I'll have the 
skin taken off of your titties, all the hairs plucked out of your little 
twat and then turpentine put on the raw lips of that soft little quim of 
yours!" 

So saying, she straddled over Sallie's face, and the unfortunate young 
golden-haired bondservant understood. Terrified at the thought of more pain, 
she began ineptly but willingly all the same to kiss and suck and lick that 
avid, perverse cunthole until with a cry of ecstasy Lady Marjorie Tuggett 
announced her climax. 

And thus Sally Tanner exchanged one life for another that, to her, was far 
more horrible-despite its comforts-than the squalor and the terror of Old 
Bailey. 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

Colleen Corrigan stood on the auction block, trying not to see the lecherous 
gazes which the young and old men crowding round the platform fixed on her 
slim, full body. The sheriff made great to-do about her crime, but all she 
could think of was that Michael would be but sixty-five miles away from her, 
yet far away as hell itself and without possibility of escape with the dogs 
and the guards and the strong graystone buildings which housed the convicts 
who were considered most dangerous. 

And yet even as she stood awaiting her sale at indenture, she had a small 
moment of rejoicing to know that the vicious boatswain who had whipped her 
and her husband and caused the death of their unborn child was dead. One of 
the women who had gone ahead of her upon the block had told her how Meg 
Tanner had seized Tom Mewson by the throat and pitched both of them over the 
rail into the water and that only bubbles had come up. 

She did not even hear the sheriffs praises, nor his crude comment that she 
was fertile, having spawned a whelp which had died aboard ship and thus was 
ready to spawn more worthy ones for her future master. 

But when she heard an elderly woman bid two hundred pounds for her 
indenture, which was for life, she looked up with a flicker of amazement and 
saw white-haired woman seated in a sedan chair, carried like a palanquin 
between four sturdy aborigines, who wore only loincloths. A young man, with 
the marks of dissolution on his weak, handsome face, upped the bid another 
fifty pounds, and the woman promptly doubled hers. In a moment, the sheriff 
had pounded his cane thrice on the platform floor and the sale was over. 

"You lucky bitch," he muttered to Colleen," You won't have to service her, 
at any rate. Unless, more likely, she has those bush niggers jump for sport. 
That's old Mrs. Dougherty, that is, wealthiest widow in all Hobart! Now mind 
your manners, you Irish slut, and serve her well!" 

Two of the kinky headed black men moved towards the platform, and although 
Colleen shrank from them, they smiled at her and gently helped her down and 
led her over to the palanquin. 

"My poor child," the white-haired woman murmured, "You're Irish as Paddy's 
pig, and from Dublin aren't you?" 

"Yes I am, ma'am," Colleen said wonderingly. 

"Well, so am I, poor girl. And I could not bear to think, no matter what 
your crime, of a good black-haired Dublin girl who lost her babe on that 
cruel voyage becoming the doxy of one of these pampered louts. You'll be my 
maid and companion if you will. Can you read, girl?" 

"Oh yes, ma'am!" 

"Good. Then come, there's room enough here in this silly litter. My old 
husband, bless his memory, got the notion from reading about the Romans. 
Here now, sit beside me. Kebo, take off these chains. No companion of mine 
wears them in Dougherty House." 

The tallest and youngest of the bushman nodded his head smiled, and examined 
the shackles which bound Colleen Corrigan's wrists and ankles. A moment 
later he found the spring which opened them, and they fell with a clank upon 
the ground. With a sigh of joy, Colleen burst into tears. 

"There now, there now, my poor girl, cry it all out. Come, get beside me, it 
is not far to my house. We'll have a cup of tea and we'll talk." 

And thus new hope was reborn. And hours later, Colleen found herself telling 
the kindly woman who had purchased her indenture how she and Michael had run 
afoul of the law and how the wicked informer Benjamin Scorcey had died when 
he had been stopped in his brutal assault upon her. And how for that 
supposed crime of "murder," she and her husband had been sentenced to the 
rope at Tyburn. 

"Oh, ma'am, I care nothing for myself, but only for poor Michael! He's 
innocent, as God is my witness. If only you could help him in some way-I 
cannot bear to think of him so far away and in that terrible penal colony 
where there are savage dogs and worse men to brutalize even the innocent!" 

"Tush now, girl, have done with crying. Old Elsie 

Dougherty has a few friends at Government House. I'll have my solicitor send 
back at once on the return of the Orion to London to have the papers and the 
indictment brought back and we'll examine them. If you husband's innocent, 
never fear, God will save him till justice is at last done." 

And thus at least one prisoner found new life and new hope in Tasmania..... 

Arabella Lewis was last to mount the auction block of all the females. In 
vain she pleaded with the sheriff and then, courageous always, addressed the 
amused and mocking spectators on behalf of her mother. She implored them to 
buy both her mother and herself and not let the woman who had given her 
birth and who had defended her even with her virtue be sent on to the hell 
that was Port Arthur. But all she got for her pains was a cuff across the 
mouth by Sheriff Daniel Durway, and a warning that the cane would be taken 
to her butt if she did not shut her mouth. 

When they saw this tall, svelte, lovely auburn-haired girl standing there in 
a dirtied frock, with chains dangling from her wrists and about her ankles, 
the lustful men, both young and old, shouted out their bids until the 
sheriff could scarcely keep up with them. But at last she was knocked down 
for the unheard-of sum of seven hundred pounds to Sir Marius Cordweigh, a 
wealthy shipowner and farmer as well, a man of forty-six, whose handsome 
wife was slowly dying of anemia. 

Sir Marius Cordweigh had no love for the Tories, and a decade ago had come 
to this distant island far from Lond's hubbub and intrigues to invest his 
gold in ship building and in produce farming. So well had he flourished that 
there was talk that he would be the next Governor of Tasmania. He loved his 
wife dearly, but for the past two years he knew that she was not long for 
this world. Ten years younger, she had wed him when she was but a chit of 
seventeen, and now at thirty-seven, was about to die and had given him no 
heirs. He had bought Arabella not for lust, but because his wife loved books 
and poetry and be had beard the sheriff extol Arabella's knowledge of 
letters and her ability to write. 

And so, she too passed into a household where there would be hope for her, 
though her heart was heavy with knowledge that her beautiful mother would 
two days hence be locked up with the other "dangerous" females in one of 
those graystone building at Port Arthur.... 

Bessie Bovielly, one of the handsomest trulls aboard the Orion, who had been 
boasting to her companions on the voyage that she would fetch the highest 
price of all and catch the imagine of some handsome lad, was doomed instead 
to a horrid destiny. At twenty-two, she had run away from home because her 
stepfather had tried fuck her. She had become a thief, her foster parents a 
couple in the worst slum in London who taught her all the tricks of lifting 
the purses, handkerchiefs, watches, and snuff boxes of the gentry. She had 
narrowly escaped hanging, and had vowed never to steal again, so she had 
turned to selling her body instead. But an old merchant, disgruntled that he 
could not get a hard-on and fuck her after having paid her ten shillings for 
the privilege, began to beat and abuse her. In her indignation, Bessie had 
tried to defend herself, knocked him sprawling and his head had split open 
on the edge of a table. For this, Bessie had been sentenced to swing and 
dance in the air at Tyburn, and the King's mercy had sent her instead to 

Tasmania. 

She went for a mere seventy-five pounds, to a fat, almost bald, and 
naturally heavy dandy named Julius Etimerton. He was thirty, enormously 
rich, and a vicious pervert. As soon as he had taken her home, he had her 
summoned into his sitting room, where, sprawling in an armchair, he fondled 
the heads of two Great Danes who stood beside him. Bessie had made the error 
of trying to cajole him, to flirt with him. Incensed, he had ordered his 
footmen to take her on his back and another footman to hoist her skirt and 
petticoat, lower her drawers, and then give her the birch on her naked ass. 

After Bessie had endured a severe whipping almost to the blood, she was 
coldly informed that he had not purchased her for his own interest or 
service, "but for these two beauties, you bitch. Here are Leander and Hero, 
and they shall have all your attentions, you scum of the London gutter!" 

And then, to her stupefaction, he had ordered his two footmen (both of whom 
were his bed-lovers and who lent themselves to being buggered by him) to 
take Bessie and the two massive canines to the kennels. 

He followed, daintily nibbling sweet meats which a little Negro page boy, 
dressed in a turban with a feather in it, handed him on a silver tray. 

Bessie was stripped naked, forced down on her knees in front of a low 
stocks-like apparatus. Her wrists were clamped at the opposite ends of this 
heavy wooden device, her neck clamped by the smaller middle yoke hole. Then 
her knees were dragged widely apart, corded and the cords in turn tied to 
rings set into the floor. 

Then one of the footmen, giggling like a girl, rubbed a piece of raw meat 
into her ass-hole and along her cunt, while the other footman led in the 
younger 

Great Dane, Hero. 

Bessie uttered a wild scream as she felt the dog's front paws scrabble at 
her naked back and then an even more frenzied cry when she felt the long 
bony red prick of the animal thrust between the lips of her gaping cunt, and 
perforate her until it seemed it must tear through her very belly. 

Then, growling and whining, the Great Dane began to hump her, while her 
debauched master called one of the footmen over to kneel down and suck his 
prick as he watched with eyes blazing at this monstrous rut of his prize 
canine upon the naked, writhing body of the helpless young London whore. 

And after Hero had gushed his spunk deep into Bessie's cunt, the other 
footman led him off the leash and then brought Leander to service the 
whimpering, half-fainting naked brown-haired prostitute who had now become 
and indentured slave for life to this monstrous pervert. 

But Leander's pension was for buggering a bitch, as Bessie's new master 
mockingly drawled. And so, as the footman yawned apart the stripped bare 
bottom cheeks of the pleading naked captive, the older Great Dane upreared 
itself on its hind legs and thrust its long probing prick against the crinky 
rosette of Bessie's ass-hole, which was, despite her whoring for profit, 
still virgin. 

Her screams and entreaties filled the kennels, as madly she tried to break 
free of the stocks. But she suffered the vicious buggering until the hot 
shoot of the dog's jet burst into her bowels, and then she swooned away. 

When she woke, she found herself tethered, still naked, but with a dog 
collar round her neck in one of the kennel cages; no higher than a man's 
waist, compelling her either to lie or kneel on all fours. She had become, 
indeed, a bitch for the two massive canine pets of her vicious master, and 
thus she would spend the rest of her days until death claimed her ... which 
it did, for only a week later, the lovely prostitute who had boasted to her 
wretched companions aboard the Orion that she would win the imagine of a 
fine gentleman, took the bowl that had been put into her cage for her 
drinking water, broke it into sharp shards, and cut her throat with one of 
them so she might escape forever. . 

 CHAPTER TWELVE 

Two days after the Orion had dropped anchor at Hobart, the convict ship set 
sail for Port Arthur, carrying with it several women whose crimes in England 
had been considered sufficiently serious to deny them the relative liberty 
of indenture, as well as some eighteen men, among them Michael Corrigan, who 
were considered too dangerous to be given the freedom of any house. 

Into the narrow harbor, the Orion came at last, and the captain and first 
mate could train their spyglasses on the complex of graystone buildings 
which stood on a lovely hillside overlooking a superb natural harbor, easy 
to navigate successfully. 

The buildings were new, freshly scrubbed, but the mere sight of them was 
enough to make the prisoners quail as they disembarked and marched down the 
wharf. Guards armed with rifles and another six holding in leash savage dogs 
which had been trained to this brutal work, awaited the convicts. Several of 
these dogs were dingoes, the wild dogs of Australia which resembled wolves, 
twenty-one inches high at the shoulder, about three-and-a-half feet long and 
with a tail some fourteen inches. Their reddish or yellowish-brown coats 
wear special markings to distinguish them from the brindle canines which had 
been imported from England and which were, on the whole, a far more docile 
breed of animal. These wolf-dogs were introduced into the Australian 
continent by the aborigines and they were capable of killing a prey far 
larger than themselves, even man. 

The prisoners shuffled down the gangplank and were received as their names 
were read off by the first mate, Ned Knowles. Michael Corrigan stared up at 
the buildings on the hillside, and the man next to him, Terrence O'Grady, 
originally sentenced to be hanged as a revolutionist for the Irish against 
the English Tories, muttered to him, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here, 
Michael old fellow. D'you see that little flat house off to the left? That's 
the lunatic asylum. And on the other end, flanking all those other buildings 
where we'll be housed, like the gentlemen we are, you'll find the residence 
of the commandant, Sir Clarence Edmunds. I've heard tell he's a devil. 
I'faith, I'd rather take my chances with the aborigines if I could only 
escape this hellhole." 

"No talking there, ye scum," the new boatswain grumbled. "They'll take the 
nonsense out of all of ye up here, and ye can lay to that!" 

The men were led away, herded into horse-drawn carts, shackled hand and 
foot, and the women, among them lovely, mature Evelina Lewis, were unloaded 
on the dock. She saw the buildings on the hillside and shuddered, thinking 
of her daughter and wondering even now how Arabella was faring. 

As she was helped into another cart by two soldiers, one of whom slyly 
squeezed one of her titties, the other fumbling a hand up under her skirt to 
pinch her bottom through the coarse batiste drawers, she looked back at the 
Orion. At least there had been companionship there in the women's hold, 
there had been someone to talk to. Here there would be hard labor, 
brutality, loneliness and doubtless sickness. All she could pray for would 
be a quick death. 

Each convict, male or female, was led into the office of Sir Clarence 
Edmunds, Commandant of the Penal Colony of Port Arthur. He was a man of 
fifty-seven, obese, with a double chin, a puffy, sensual mouth, and an 
elegant wig and waistcoat. He would have seemed more at home at a London 
ball than here in this God-forsaken spot so many thousands of miles and 
months of sailing to what these prisoners knew as civilization. An ambitious 
and brooding man, thwarted in his bid to be named Governor of the Bahamas, 
Sir Clarence Edmunds detested his post and, still more, the scum of the 
earth whose duty his was to guard them. Often he had expressed in private 
the contemptuous wish that he might have a royal edict to hang every man 
Jack of them, aye, and the bitches too, the worst of the lot, for all their 
complaining and whining and trying to corrupt his good men by bartering 
their pussies for a few crumbs of bread or another bite of meat. 

His head guard, Burleigh Grimson, a scowling, former pugilist in the London 
ring (which he had fled a dozen years ago to escape a hanging for having 
stabbed his manager when he discovered the latter had held back too much of 
the purse from the fight) stood beside the teak wood desk of the bewigged 
commandant. Proud of his ability to read and write, the sadistic bully read 
off the list of the consignees to Port Arthur, their names, their birth 
place, their ages and sex, the crimes to which they had been sentenced and 
duly sent here, adding comments on each for the benefit of his commandant. 
When he reached the name of Velina. he stared greedily at the handsome widow 
and then muttered to his superior, "Here's a proud jade, Sir Clarence, 
begging your pardon. I'd have this one given a touch of the cat right off 
just to gentle her. Thinks she's a lady, the dirty murderess. Lucky for her 
the whelp she had was left off at Hobart, or we'd really have a pair of 
troublemakers here." 

"Quiet, man." The prison commandant leaned forward and studied the chained 
widow. "I must warn you, Mrs. Lewis, that although you are a female, here 
you arc simply a convicted criminal who, by the grace of His Majesty George 
IV was spared the rope. In return for this, you will be put to hard labor. 
Can you sew?" 

"Weil enough." 

"Call him Sir Clarence, you London slut," Burleigh Grimson growled and made 
a sign to the guard beside the brown-haired widow. He hit her hard enough to 
draw blood-he at once drew back and held his bayoneted rifle at the ready, 
muttering, "Just try it, you whore. I'll spit you as I would a Michelmas 
goose!" 

"Enough of that," the commandant snapped. "Now then, Mrs. Lewis, you can 
sew. Very well, I will put you with the others. You will work from dawn to 
sundown. You will be fed, you will have a cell, you will be given a chance 
to wash your filth away and if you are without fault after two weeks here, 
you will be granted half an hour in the recreation yard. I warn you also 
that here we do not coddle prisoners, no matter what their sex. There are 
many faults for which a man or woman prisoner may be taken to the prison 
yard and flogged by Mr. Grimson here. I warn you to avoid this, for he lays 
on the cat none too gently." 

"That's right enough, Sir Clarence," the head guard boomed with a salacious 
leer at the woman. 

"Take her away, Grimson, and put her in the cell with the murderess 
Wooliston." 

And thus beganEvelina Lewis' first day at Port Arthur. Locked in a narrow 
cell that had hardly room enough for one person with a timid-looking woman 
named Mary Wooliston who had struck a bailiff back in Coventry who had tried 
to evict her blind, ailing mother. The blow had killed him, and as a 
consequence Mary Wooliston had been sentenced to hang, but royal clemency 
had intervened and she was serving a life sentence at Port Arthur. But at 
least she had a Bible, and the two women, because of their common 
adversities, prayed until there was no more light to read by. And on a 
narrow bunk, hard and lumpy, Evelina Lewis sobbed herself to sleep, thinking 
of winsome Arabella..... 

Most of the aboriginal tribes in Tasmania were peaceful, but not the 
Pindiragoos, whose virile, wiry thirty-eight-year-old chief Mandingee hated 
all white intruders to this land of bush and hills and rivers. He regarded 
the buildings on the hillside which housed the convicts as infernal statues 
to horrid and inimical gods, and he had his witch doctor Ordulgu make 
incantations to destroy them. The dead body of a newt, the head of a puff 
adder, five dried scorpions and a lizard's tail were dropped into a kettle 
and simmered for three days and two nights, and then Ordulgu left the kettle 
unguarded that the great god Mani, Lord of the Spirit World, would drink 
this potion to his tribute and reward the Pindiragoos by driving forth these 
hated white invaders. 

But the chief lusted for the pale-skinned bodies of those females who had 
come on the great ship and were guarded by the men in the red coats and with 
the puffbang sticks on their shoulders. 

The stars had told him it was time to take a wife, and he summoned his witch 
doctor to evoke all the terrible gods of the never-never world, of the 
earth, of fire and of water, to send a pestilence or a great wind against 
those graystone buildings and destroy them, that the inmates might escape to 
the hills and the fertile plains of his tribal lands, where his warriors 
might seize the white females and bring them to his hut. 

A decade ago, he had come upon a thirteen-year-old girl, the daughter of an 
old sheepherder, seeking a lost lamb and having unwittingly passed into his 
domain. She had been seized by two of his bravest warriors and brought to 
his camp, there stripped naked and pegged out on the ground. He had knelt 
between her straining young thighs, played with her titties and the sprigs 
of tender blonde pussy hair, and then fucked her viciously. And when she had 
spat at him, the insult had been so great that instead of cutting off her 
head and smoking it, drying it and hanging it outside his hut, he had 
ordered her to be mated with Kurdala, the strongest of the dingoes, the 
mascot of the tribe, a huge beast, even fiercer than all the other dingoes 
who roamed the never-never land. 

Pegged out again, crouching on all fours, whipped upon her small budding 
titties with thorn branches wielded by the cackling old women of the tribe, 
the unfortunate captive was first fucked and then buggered by the hideous 
wolf-dog. 

Then, after Kurdala had been dragged off the half-conscious young girl, the 
witch doctor poured over her bottom and loins the thick gruel of a potion 
not unlike the one which had been left to honor Mani. He then pronounced a 
new and fearsome incantation, and the loveliest virgin of the tribe crouched 
behind the whimpering captive to cleanse her with a handful of plantains 
dipped into the clear water of a nearby brook, thus symbolizing her 
purification for man. 

Then four of the strongest warriors lifted the throne-chair of Mandingee and 
set it down in front of the tethered, kneeling girl. Stripping away his 
loinpouch, he leaned forward, the fingers of his left hand twisting the 
girl's tumbled, straw-colored hair and forced her face up towards his 
massive prick, gesturing with his right hand to make her understand that she 
must homage him. Seized with a fit of revulsion, the young girl vomited, 
amid the cries of horror of the watching warriors and women. Mandingee's 
face twisted in savage rage, and he gestured to the witch doctor to do with 
this captive what he would. 

Ordulgu gave an order, and the whimpering girl was unfastened from the 
wooden stakes driven into the ground, only to be tied by the thumbs and 
little toes with strong vines from the durian tree. These four vine-cords 
were attached to sturdy young saplings planted in a sacred square of the 
compound, each pair about three feet apart. Thus the helpless young victim 
found herself spread-eagled like a living hammock, at about waist-level from 
the grounds. The witch doctor, holding in his left hand the horn of a giant 
ram, and in his right a twisted stick at one end of which was attached a 
bone hook, then buggered the unfortunate captive. After him, a dozen more 
warriors, those particularly praised for valor, emulated him. And finally, 
the witch doctor thrust the ram's horn into the unfortunate girl's cunt 
while he drove the pitiless bone hook deep into her bowels. She died soon 
after. 

And now, ten long years after that sacrifice to the gods of the never-never 
land, Mandingee had once again been told by his trusted witch doctor that if 
the Pindiragoos were to prosper, he must seek not a bride of his own tribe 
or that of any other in Tasmania, but rather a white-skinned female who 
would thus symbolize the usurping devils who had come to enslave all the 
people of the bush and the mountain. And thus it was that Mandingee planned 
a daring attack upon the penal colony of Port Arthur itself..... 

A few weeks before Evelina Lewis had been locked into her cell with Mary 
Wooliston, Mandingee had sent one of his bravest young warriors, 
Keeteringee, on a mission to survey the prison and to determine by what 
means the abduction of one of those white-skinned female devils might be 
achieved. While the prison itself was perched on the hillside overlooking 
the cliffs, there was one stretch of perpendicular rock which seemed to 
offer an ideal chance for such a daring plan. Perhaps by erosion or even 
some volcanic upheaval in the ocean thousands of years ago, there was a huge 
V-shaped crack down the middle for about a hundred feet before the solid, 
unbroken rock continued for another forty feet to meet the swirling blue 
water. There was even a tortuous pathway down from the top of the cliff 
which someone with sure footing could descend. Then, by diving into the 
ocean, an expert swimmer could easily survive the plunge and be picked up by 
one of the war canoes. 

Keeteringee duly reported this back to his chief and the bold plan was put 
into execution. 

The women prisoners were given half an hour between four and four-thirty 
every afternoon in the recreation yard. Still shackled, they were able to 
walk about and allowed to converse. This recreation yard was walled in by a 
seven-foot-high stone enclosure on all four sides, and to the left and near 
the hillside, was a stone tower in which two armed guards were stationed. 
Four guards with muskets and billy clubs thrust through their belts moved 
along with the prisoners during this brief half hour. 

On this final afternoon of the month of January, 1825, a light rain had 
begun to fall as the women were ushered out into the recreation yard. Some 
five minutes later, as Evelina Lewis was conversing with her cellmate, there 
was heard the throbbing of drums on the hill far above the graystone 
buildings of the penal colony. 

The two guards in the tower shouted down to their companions in the yard, 
"Bush niggers are on the attack, keep close watch on those bitches of yours 
down there!" One of the guards squinted into the distance, then knelt down 
and aimed his musket. A moment later he uttered a gurgling cry, straightened 
with an arrow in his throat and then fell heavily to the floor of the stone 
tower. His companion fired, and then in the act of reloading, dropped his 
musket and pitched lifeless over the rail, a spear sticking out of his 
heart. 

Now the hideous whooping of the aborigines filled the air, and there was the 
sound of musket and pistol fire. Mandingee had sent fifteen of his wiliest 
warriors in a diversionary attack against the main buildings, including that 
which quartered Sir Clarence Edmunds. But forty more had hidden themselves 
behind the dense thickets and the tall grass north of the women's compound, 
and now Keeteringee and three of his fellows scaled the wall by a crude 
ladder they had made in the village and brought with them on this foray. The 
four guards in the yard died without firing a shot as poisoned arrows rained 
down on them. 

Keeteringee, from atop the ladder, passed down a heavy rope made of the 
strongest vines, and his three aids lowered themselves into the yard. He 
gestured toward Evelina Lewis, and a grinning young savage wearing only a 
loin pouch, his face and chest hideously painted, seized the beautiful widow 
and bore her off towards the rope. Winding it skillfully around her armpits 
and waist, he gestured and Keeteringee hauled her up to the top of the wall 
and then carried her down the ladder. Swiftly untying the rope, he secured 
her wrists and ankles with strips of her own drab prison dress and then 
nimbly ascended the ladder to direct his men in the abduction of a second 
captive. Mandingee had promised him two of the loveliest virgins of the 
tribe as a reward for his success. He found himself hoping against hope that 
he would be successful. 

Then swiftly, after the second woman had been secured and laid beside 
Evelina Lewis, Keeteringee lowered the rope back down into the yard till 
each of his three aids had emerged safely. Lifting the two women and putting 
them over their shoulders like sacks of flour, the two sturdiest warriors 
hurried on towards the cliff, while Keeteringee and the other warrior fell 
back on the lookout for any soldiers or guards. Two men hurried out of the 
main gate, saw the savages, and knelt down to aim their muskets. But a 
deadly swarm of arrows dropped them in their tracks. Then, with a bellow of 
joy, Keeteringee hurried down to the cliff. 

A heavy war canoe, manned by four strong paddlers, hugged the base of the 
cliff. Keeteringee and his three men painstakingly made their way down the 
V-shaped break, two men each holding one of the women captives. When all was 
ready, Keeteringee made a sign to the aborigines in the war canoe. Then he 
and one of his men lifted Evelina and then touched the chief's loin pouch 
with his scepter. 

She thought to her self that it would be death now, and closed her eyes and 
prayed. But hardly had she hit the water and begun to go down when one of 
the paddlers dived after her. A moment later, she found herself being 
dragged aboard the canoe, almost unconscious from the shock, not only of the 
daring abduction, but the impact of the water at such a height. 

The other captive was similarly transferred down into the war canoe, and 
then the aborigines dug their paddles vigorously into the swirling blue 
water as the sturdy vessel hugged the cliff and disappeared to the 
south..... 

It was nightfall and the rain had stopped, but there was the distant rumble 
of thunder in the west. In the camp of the Pindiragoos festal preparations 
for the nuptials of Mandingee were in full sway. The youngest and most 
comely girls and young women of the tribe had bedecked themselves with 
cowrie necklaces and painted their bodies purple and green and red, the 
sacred colors of the great god Mani, Lord of the Never-Never Land. Before 
the hut of the chief, the witch doctor stood, dressed in the pelt of a 
dingo, and wearing a headdress of condor feathers. Around his neck were tied 
the bones of the Tasmanian devil, the antelope and the cassowary. In his 
right hand was a kind of scepter made of polished bone to which had been 
sewn the tail of a jackal. 

Now he lifted the scepter and a hush fell over the painted, grinning 
aborigines. Mandingee stepped from the door of his hut, seated himself in 
his throne-chair, and the witch doctor bowed low and then touched the 
chief's loinpouch with his scepter, signifying the sacred night of nuptials. 

A chorus of wild glee burst from the throng. Then Ordulgu turned to the 
clearing and waved the scepter thrice. At the very end of the clearing, the 
warriors made way as four old women approached, forcing the two naked white 
captives in front of them, their wrists bound behind their backs with 
vine-cords. 

Keeteringee grimaced with jealousy and envy as he watched, standing near his 
chief. It might well be that Mandingee would demand both women as his 
rightful prizes. But he knew that each must first be subjected to the test 
of homage. He coveted Evelina Lewis more than the other, though the latter 
was younger and in some ways more enticing, both of titties and bottom. 

But it was Evelina Lewis whom Mandingee summoned first. The two old 
matriarchs in charge of her forced her forward and made her kneel before 
their chief. Again there was a deathly silence, as the witch doctor let the 
jackal's tail of his scepter brush her titties and then her cunt, and 
finally move over her face as a kind of purification before the ceremony. 

Mandingee tore away his prick pouch and revealed his massive organ, the lips 
convulsively puckering to proclaim the virile juices within his thick, hairy 
balls. He gestured to his organ as he stared greedily into the pale, 
agonized face of Arabella's mother. 

There was not a sound from the aborigines as the naked widow, dazed by all 
that had taken place, fought to comprehend his meaning. But intuition told 
her that to show revulsion or refuse his will would mean death. Nor would it 
be a swift death such as she had prayed for aboard the Orion. 

She drew a deep breath, closed her eyes and said a prayer that she might be 
pardoned for shameful cowardice. And then, leaning forward, her trembling 
lips brushed the glans of Mandingee's turgid cock. 

The night was hideous now with the frenzied cries of the rejoicing savages, 
and the deafening thunder of the bullroarers rose above the turmoil. And 
then as suddenly the clamor died as Mandingee rose from his throne-chair, 
lifted his hand to silence his people, and then bent down to lift Evelina 
Lewis by the armpits and carry her bound and naked into his hut. 

Swiftly he cut away the vine-cords around her wrists, using the head of a 
long spear which leaned against the wall of his royal dwelling. Then with a 
cry of triumph, he flung her down on his bed, made of three tanned, soft 
hides of the wild ox. Evelina Lewis closed her eyes and submitted herself. 
All that saved her from madness was the fleeting thought that perhaps by 
this sacrifice she might prolong her life and with it the hope of reunion 
with her beautiful young daughter. 

She felt his hot, fetid breath on her face, and then her titties, and she 
gasped as his teeth nuzzled at each of her nipples in turn. Then his wiry 
fingers dug into her armpits, and she felt the brutal thrust of his heavy 
prick against the lips of her cunt. Setting her teeth, she arched herself 
submissively to him, spreading her thighs to give him access. Then she 
gasped again as the harsh rasp of his prong seemed to distend the walls of 
her cunt intolerably. With a bellow of joy, Mandingee thrust himself to the 
balls, and Evelina Lewis groaned, for it seemed to her that he must tear out 
her very chink-bone with the savage prober that was spreading apart the most 
sensitive tissues of her body. 

Now, fully planted, and conscious of his conquest of her, the chief of the 
Pindiragoos began to fuck the naked English widow with a ferocity that left 
her gasping. And yet, to her own consternation, long-denied sensation began 
to bubble and seethe in her cunt, and as he drew back and thrust home again, 
the rasping of his taunted prick-head brushed the nodule of her clitoris. 
Her head twisted to one side, her eyes wide and questioning and humid. And 
then with a whimpering cry, she flung her arms around the oily, painted, 
sinewy body of the chief of the Pindiragoos and began to respond feverishly 
and almost fearfully. Her bare legs clutched over his bottom, as she dug 
herself up against him to meet his unyielding, eviscerating lunges. And her 
own cry of pussy juicing was drowned by his frenzied bellow of rapture as he 
felt his essence burst into her womb..... 

A long hour later, the rejoicing, dancing warriors and women of the 
Pindiragoo halted their merriment to turn toward the hut of their chief. He 
appeared framed in the doorway, grinning, his arm around the shoulders of 
the white devil-captive who, by mating with him, had banished the curse of 
those who had come to seize this land. Thus he was strengthened and his 
power over his people redoubled. 

He turned to her, his eyes laving her buxom naked body. And then he led her 
to the throne-chair and made her sit upon it and summoned the witch doctor 
to hand her the scepter with the jackal's tail. 

And thus it was that an English widow who had been sentenced to Tyburn for 
having slain a vicious master who had made her his bed-bitch and would have 
done the same with her virginal daughter, began a new life as the queen of 
the Pindiragoos. 

 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

Evelina Lewis was not the only female convict whom the aborigines captured 
from the prison yard at the Penal Colony of Port Arthur. There was also 
Grace Brorsley, a buxom, yellow-haired Manchester woman of twenty-eight, who 
had been sentenced to hang for the crime of trying to feed her two small 
children, ages three and five. 

She was ousted from her situation as a seamstress by a cantankerous and 
jealous shrew who mistakenly believed that Grace was trying to infatuate her 
husband away from her. 

She therefore found pretext to stop the unfortunate woman's wages several 
times, knowing full well that Grace depended on every farthing to support 
her two children. There was a harrowing scene, and Grace Brorsley finally in 
despair filched several half-crowns which were actually due her. 

Her employer called the watch and the unfortunate woman was taken before the 
magistrate at Old Bailey, and ordered to be hanged. Clemency again had made 
a commutation of her sentence to life imprisonment in Port Arthur's penal 
colony. 

She was even more buxom than Evelina Lewis, though her skin was sallow from 
long months in an English prison and then sequestered in the cramped, 
unventilated quarters of the hold aboard the Orion. Her waist, however, was 
more slender, and her bottom really sumptuous, two high perched, spaciously 
round ass-cheeks with a deepening, shadowy groove between them which gave 
access to her ass-hole and cunt. But she, alas, had an almost pathological 
fear of dark-skinned people. 

And when she found herself in the clutches of the aborigines, she shrieked 
and twisted and struggled with her captors in her attempts to free herself. 

Stripped naked, she was forced to kneel before the chief, who had already 
taken Evelina Lewis as his mate. But when she saw his monstrously huge, 
purple-veined prick bob out at her and saw the gross lips pucker and twitch 
with the furious torrential dam of spunk that organ contained, she fought 
like a tigress to break away from the two men who forced her down on her 
knees to do him homage. 

Her punishment was inhuman and thoroughly savage. First, suspended by the 
thumbs by a vine rope tied to the top of a giant banyan tree, she received a 
switching from all the women of the tribe, who circled her body, gibbering 
and gesticulating, as they lashed her cunt, inner thighs, her bottom, calves 
and titties while she writhed and kicked and shrieked in agony. 

Throughout the night they thus tortured her, pricking her heels with fir 
cones, digging pine needles under her toe nails-and into her ass-hole and 
cunt. She fainted several times only to be revived when several of the 
warriors dipped their broad metal spearheads into the fire circling the 
chief's hut in which Evelina Lewis was already being violently fucked by the 
primitive and cunning savage who ruled this band of never-never men, as they 
were called. 

It was as well for her peace of mind that she did not know what was 
happening to her unfortunate companion from the Orion. And his virility was 
such as to make her gush down all her pussy juice and thus gain her own 
salvation as a queen. 

Once the spearheads had been heated, the warriors ran up, circled the 
unfortunate, naked, pleading woman, pricking her with the red-hot tips of 
their weapons, or laying the flat against the small of her back or her ankle 
or the sole of her naked foot. 

She fainted again when one of them placed the red-hot metal point right into 
her left armpit and held it there until they could all smell the sizzling 
stench of human flesh. But again she was revived. 

For now she was to be mated with the Tasmanian devil, a small, ferocious, 
carnivorous marsupial, with its black coat and white patches, its length of 
three feet and ten-and-a-half inch tail. Two of the warriors had captured 
one in a bush trap, gained its friendship by feeding it doves and rats and 
mice and live fish taken from the creek to the south of the tribal camp. 

Binding a strip of cloth round its jaws, and spending infinite time and 
patience with the marsupial, they had trained it to copulate. 

First they had experimented with a young twenty-year-old woman of their own 
tribe, caught in adultery with an elderly warrior who was on the point of 
being banished. The man's head had been beaten in with a club made of wood 
from the baobab tree, but the young faithless wife had been knelt down on 
all fours, her wrists, knees and ankles bound with vines to heavy wooden 
pegs hammered into the earth. 

And then the hideous marsupial had been brought behind her, while she 
wrenched with all her might at her bonds and shrieked unendingly for the 
boon of a merciful death. 

The animal's jaws remained tied, but its sharp claws drew bloody weals 
across her bottom-cheeks as it stood on its hind legs, beating its tail 
against the ground in a kind of frenzy, its bony red prick-shaft stabbing 
for the pink grotto of her cunt. 

Her terror had made her faint during the fucking, but her punishment was not 
yet done. At a sign from the chief, the cloth was removed from the 
marsupial's jaws, and it began to bite her perineum, cunt and ass-hole, 
while she writhed and shrieked in a mad, insensate frenzy in her torment. 

She was left there to be bitten to death by the carnivorous animal, which 
was then again recaptured and put back into his little cage, fed well for 
its performance and kept safely for just such another occasion, which was 
now. 

For Grace Brorsley was at last taken down, more dead than alive, from the 
banyan tree, staked out as that faithless wife had been, and then two 
grinning young aborigines carried the cage and set it down behind her, 
carefully opened the door and drew out the animal, crooning to it, petting 
it, and preparing it by caressing its prick until it emerged in all its 
bony, red, obscene length. 

A howl of triumph and salacious glee rose from the eager savages as the 
marsupial once again stood erect on its hind legs and dug its prick into 
Grace's gaping cunt. And when it had finished fucking her, the strip of 
cloth was drawn away and it began to attack her jutting bottom cheeks, and 
the tender tissues along the groove which led to her ass-hole, until at last 
she died amid the yowls and merriment of these primitive people of Tasmania. 

It was the first week of February in this new year of 1825. Arabella Lewis 
had the news by now that her mother was missing from the women's compound in 
Port Arthur's terrible penal colony. 

She prayed that this news might mean that her mother had escaped and might 
somehow have made her way to the other end of this long peninsula, where 
perhaps she had been able to find the help of some man who could hire a boat 
and go on perhaps to Australia and freedom. 

But meanwhile her master's wife was on the verge of death, and Sir Marius 
Cordweigh, having already recognized the spirit and intelligence of the 
lovely auburn-haired girl whose indenture he had purchased on the auction 
mart of Hobart, had made her a nurse and companion. 

For long hours, until Lady Cordweigh tired, Arabella would sit reading 
verses from Dryden and Pope, two of her mistress's favorite poets. She would 
describe the beauty of the day outside, for this emaciated, feeble woman who 
dreamed of seeing for a last time her native shores of Wales. 

And Sir Marius observed many an afternoon, when he silently opened the door 
and looked in on his wife, the lovely head of Arabella Lewis bowed over a 
book, hearing her expressive voice, noting in it the compassion and the 
tenderness of which this young girl was capable. 

Governor Arthur Beaseley had been stricken with the black flux this same 
week, and his physician gloomily shook his head and proclaimed that only 
Providence could save the Governor of Tasmania from death. 

News had come from Government House early this morning that Governor 
Beaseley was not expected to last through the day. It had been his wish, the 
courier told Sir Marius, that the latter deign to assume this trying post. 

Sir Marius Cordweigh paced his study, pondering this dilemma. If he agreed, 
and his wife died (as was certain) he would be alone in this forsaken land 
for which he had little stomach. 

True, it had been good to him, but now it was saddened with the thought that 
his wife had found only unhappiness and lingering death here. 

And yet the fawning psychopaths who had surrounded Governor Beaseley had 
created such corruption in the management of government affairs that he knew 
it was his duty to assume this thankless post, cleanse the Augean stables 
and begin a new regime which might bring prosperity to the faithful settlers 
in Tasmania and perhaps even more hope to the convicts. 

He knew only too well the brutality which both men and women incarcerated at 
Port Arthur had to suffer under the contemptuous aegis of Sir Clarence 
Edmunds, and he had heard many tales of the head guards' inhumanity and 
lusts. 

There was a soft knock at the door, and he whirled, engrossed in his 
thoughts and irritated at the interruption. But his face softened when he 
saw that it was Arabella, dressed demurely in a muslin frock, her beautiful 
auburn hair falling in a thick sheaf past her shoulder blades, her face 
saddened and her eyes downcast. "What is it, girl?" 

"I-I'm dreadfully sorry, Sir Marius. The doctor has just-your wife-oh I'm 
sorry!" and suddenly she burst into tears. 

And strangely, this man who was surely old enough to be her father and who 
had become cynical through years in Tasmania after watching the corruption 
and veniality of those in power, found himself comforting the sobbing young 
girl, his arms around her, murmuring, "It's for the best, she's at peace at 
last, Arabella. Come now, don't cry. No one could have been kinder to her 
than you. I shan't forget it, not ever, Arabella." 

Two weeks had passed, Sir Marius Cordweigh's wife had been buried on the 
little hill near a bed of flowers she herself had grown. And Governor 
Beaseley too had died and now Sir Marius was acting Governor of Tasmania. He 
had spent these two weeks in intensive work, driving himself night and day, 
demanding that all the records of his predecessor be brought before him. 

He discharged half of the late governor's staff, ignoring their threats of 
returning to England and demanding justice before George IV. He had sent for 
Sir Clarence Edmunds, the prison commandant at Port Arthur to make a model 
prison where there could be decency and justice and a chance for those who 
had perhaps been cruelly and unjustly dealt with back in England to 
rehabilitate themselves, perhaps even gain some kind of parole. 

He himself would argue before the king, when next he returned to England two 
months hence on the very ship, the Orion, which had brought Arabella Lewis 
to his household. 

The aborigines who had attacked the prison and escaped with their two 
victims had not yet been captured. In his private opinion, the women were 
dead, and there would be no purpose in ruthless reprisal against the 
savages. He intended to go before the tribal leader himself and offer a kind 
of peace by which they could live without fear of attack. 

All the other tribes in Tasmania had accepted English rule. 

And so that night, nearly at midnight, he returned to his luxurious house 
and went to his study, his work not yet finished. 

Once again there was a soft knock on the door, and he looked up and called, 
"Come in." 

The door opened, and it was Arabella, bringing him a tray of hot milk and 
little cakes which the cook had made earlier that evening. "You must have 
some refreshment, Sir Marius," she murmured anxiously, as she put down the 
tray on the desk. "You've had so little sleep, so little time to rest-" 

"I know, Arabella. I've tried to forget her death, you see. And there's so 
much work to be done. England has forgotten Tasmania, and I can see it all 
in these records which poor Governor Beaseley kept to his own ruination. 

"He could not cure the evils here of the power of the wealthy, those who 
held high favor and usurped it by exploiting the helpless convicts who 
arrived. Why, even your own indenture, girl, is unjust. It binds you for 
life to me, and yet I am certain that you never did any harm, no matter what 
the courts may have said back in London." 

"You're most kind, Sir Marius. But I don't feel the shame I thought I would 
at being sold there on the auction block. You've treated me like an equal, 
like a human being, Sir Marius. I shan't ever forget that. I'm proud and 
privileged to work for you, for as long as you'll have me." 

Her cheeks were rosy now with blushes, and she quickly turned away. He felt 
a throbbing in his prick, the kind of emotion he had not known in many 
years, for his ailing wife had not given him, still virile and lusty, the 
pleasure of what can take place between a man and a maid. 

"Don't go yet, Arabella, please," he said hoarsely. 

She turned, her eyes very wide. "What may I do for you, Sir Marius?" 

"Just stay. Be near me, Arabella. How lovely you are. And yet you're so 
young, but you seem much older. I know that you've been well educated-that, 
alas, was a harm and hindrance back in London. But here in Tasmania, still 
so primitive, we've need of women of wit and courage and intelligence. And I 
have need too. Great need." 

She did not answer. She lowered her eyes and her blushes deepened. She felt 
a strange aura of yearning and of great compassion for this man, so kindly 
and just, who had not once abused his right over her. He might well have 
taken her that first night, had her whipped for his own amusement, and yet 
he had treated her with the utmost respect as if she had been a lady. 

"It's very kind of you, Sir Marius," she faltered. "But you should sleep. 
You're driving yourself to death, and that mustn't happen. The people here 
need you too much. There are so few men like you anymore." 

"Now it's you who are being much too kind. My dear Arabella, I mustn't say 
this. And I shouldn't, since I'm widowed but two weeks. And yet for many 
years my wife was only a helpmate to me, nothing more. If 

I am to stay here and to be governor, I need someone with youth and strength 
to help me, to revive my flagging spirit when there are times-as there 
surely will be-that I am disillusioned. Would you think of that as possible 
for you, Arabella?" 

She uttered a stifled gasp and raised her eyes to him. "But I'm only a 
convict, Sir Marius." 

"That's easily done away with." He went back to his desk, scribbled 
something, threw down the quill pen and handed her the sheet of paper. She 
read it, uncomprehendingly at first: "Know all by these presents that I, Sir 
Marius Cordweigh, acting Governor of Tasmania, have this 26th day of 
February, in the year of our Lord 1825, manumitted one Arabella Lewis, whose 
indenture for life is in my possession and whom I admit to freedom and 
equality with the knowledge that I do not believe her guilty of the crimes 
for which she was committed to the penal colony." And it was signed with his 
signature as Governor of Tasmania. 

"Sir Marius-oh my goodness-do you mean this-it's too kind of you-and yet you 
know so little about me-" 

"Enough, Arabella, to know that I could not have it otherwise and keep you 
in this household. I would be much less a man if I used your senseless and 
unjust bondage to profit from your beauty. I desire, Arabella. Not as a 
slave, not as a bondservant, not one that I could have whipped or ordered to 
my bed out of my own whim, but as a man who stands before a young woman and 
knows himself to be too old for her and not worthy. And yet I do desire you, 
my darling. 

She put her hand to her mouth, her eyes huge with wonder, filming with 
tears. He came to her and put his hands gently on her shoulders. "If you say 
no to me, I will understand and I will not be offended. 

Good heaven, I am nearly forty-seven and you are but seventeen. There is a 
generation between us, and yet mine is old and corrupt and needs the fresh 
infusion of your blood and strength, my Arabella." 

"Oh yes, oh yes," she breathed. And then his mouth came down on hers and her 
arms locked round him, and she pressed her virgin crotch against his swollen 
prick and her blood was aflame. 

She had broken away from him, breathless, blushing, and whispered as she 
fled, "I'll wait for you, my darling." She had gone to her room, and she had 
stripped naked, dipping a cloth in a basin of water to lave her body that 
she might be sweet for him. 

And then, blowing out the candle beside her bed, she had clambered upon it 
and awaited him. And then the door had opened and he had appeared, and he 
was wiry and vigorous and his prick in fulminating tumescence to prove that 
the difference in their ages had not dimmed his appetites for such sweet 
young pussy as she could give him. 

"Is it true, that you will take this old broken body of mine and be my wife, 
Arabella? After a decent period of mourning, you will marry me?" he muttered 
thickly as he lay on his side towards her, his hands stroking her titties, 
their lips meeting chastely first. 

"Oh yes, yes!" she breathed. Intuitively, her hand crept to find him, to 
caress his prick, to touch it gently and reverently, for it was the emblem 
by which she would become a woman, a free woman now and one who would know 
love and passion. 

And then the sickening memory of what Squire Timothy Dengman had done to her 
that terrible night flashed into her mind, and she was on the verge of 
telling him that she was not all pure for him. But by then his fingers were 
tickling her pussy and his lips were at one nipple, sucking and plucking it 
forth from the aurola, until she moaned and squirmed with ecstasy. 

And then he was between her thighs, and they were widening of their own 
accord to receive him, and his prick was pressing between the soft pink lips 
of her virgin cunt hole, up against the barrier, and then, as his fingers 
vigorously gripped her shoulders and his mouth sealed hers, she felt herself 
shattered and made a woman. 

He was gentle and considerate with her, and he did not selfishly press his 
advantage. He murmured to her, telling her of his love for her, his hopes 
and plans for the land that the two of them would govern together. And then 
his hands again were on her titties, under her bottom squeezing and 
caressing, while he began to slowly move in and out lest he do her hurt. 

The tides of her being began to rise and flow towards him, and she began to 
buck and arch and squirm, as her mouth fused to his, as her fingernails dug 
into his shoulder blades, as she urged him on to the sweet conquest of her 
eager cunt. 

His body pressed down hard upon hers, all the while keeping his mouth on 
hers, also. Their lips were melting together as Arabella rotated her body 
faster and faster, feeling the swell of desire and arousal build to a high 
pitch inside of her. 

She threw her head back in a wave of excitement, crying, "Oh, my love, my 
love! You make me feel so wonderful!" 

Sir Marius Cordweigh held the young girl tightly, feeling the energy from 
her body flow into his as his prick throbbed heavily inside the virgin 
pussy. His balls had filled with cream and were ready to burst. He held 
tightly onto Arabella's shoulders, trembling and panting. 

"Arabella," he whispered into her ear. "Arabella." It was all he could say, 
for the next moment the heated come came rushing from his body into hers, 
wad after wad filling the small spaces of her pussy. 

"Oh, Marius!" Arabella cried, bucking under the pressure of the come, and 
experiencing her own orgasm. 

The pair held onto one another strongly, and pressed their groins together 
as their climaxes burned through their bodies. Only afterwards could they 
relax together, panting to regain their breaths, and lying together in 
post-climactic ecstasy. 

"Oh, Marius," sighed Arabella, "that was so wonderful. I've never 
experienced anything as beautiful as that." 

"I'm so glad you enjoyed it, my darling Arabella. I, too, was thrilled to 
find out that it could be such a good thing between us. It allayed my fears 
that you were too young, or I too old." 

"Nothing could be better than what we had, Marius, I know that now. You made 
all the horrible things from my past seem so insignificant, for, although I 
was afraid at first, they all melted away as soon as you began to love me." 

"I am so happy, Arabella. You don't know what this means to me." 

"I know it means happiness for us both, Marius, and I don't ever want it to 
stop." 

"It never will stop, my dear Arabella, my beautiful young woman. It never 
will stop." 

At this point, Marius Cordweigh began kissing the young woman's face again, 
touching the soft white skin with his warm, loving lips, nibbling at the 
flesh with his teeth. 

"Oh, that feels so good, Marius." 

He kept kissing her, pressing his mouth against her face, and then her neck, 
filled with delicate little hollows of her bone structure. Arabella sighed 
and lay back, enjoying the pressure of her lover's mouth on her skin. 

She moved slightly under him, and then encircled his back with her arms, 
lightly caressing the muscular structure of his body, and letting him know 
that she was enjoying his own movements. 

He moved his head down her neck to her breasts, and began kissing them also, 
loving the feel of the hard, red nipples against his cheeks. 

He held Arabella in his arms, then, and rolled over on his back, the young 
woman on top of him. Arabella needed no encouragement to mount herself over 
Marius Cordweigh so that she faced his body with her own. 

Her hands were by his waist, to balance herself, and she rubbed her groin 
against her lover's. His prick rose up, strong and sure, and she let it go 
in, once again, between her legs. She began a slow, seductive movement up 
and down on his hard cock, and he trembled as she did so, circling her 
moving body with his arms and holding her close to him. 

Arabella moved faster and faster, finally going at great speed. Marius tried 
to hold back a bit, but the feeling of his new, young love on top of him was 
too much. He felt the happy explosions coming and gave her a hot blast of 
juice that made her shout with pleasure. 

"Oh, fuck me, darling," she cried. "Fuck me, fuck me!" 

Marius kept his body going long after she had received his sperm, until 
Arabella finally began to calm down enough to stop. She rolled off of him 
and moved her face down his body to his prick, where she sucked off the 
cream from his hot tool, and licked it dean. 

With the come still in her mouth, she moved up to Marius' head, and kissed 
him, letting his tongue explore her come-filled mouth. 

Then she straddled his body, kneeling over his chest area. She held her 
breasts in her hands, and they dangled low beneath her lovely body. She took 
his cock in her hands and placed it between her breasts, which almost 
entirely obscured it from his view. 

The sensation for him was unique. It almost felt as though his prick was 
plunging into her pussy, and yet, it was so different. Arabella rolled his 
flesh back and forth between her mounds, squeezing it in earnest, as she 
tried to bring it to life once more. 

She maintained a firm pressure on the pulsating cock, which was already 
issuing a few premature drops of fluid. She increased her speed, and so her 
pressure, until Marius felt that it was only a question of time until he 
came. And it wasn't more than a minute later that he did, great quantities 
of cream spurting up into Arabella's soft, fleshy breasts. 

She raised them to her lips and got off most of the sticky white fluid, and 
then she turned around and kissed him, letting their tongues intermingle in 
the hot fluid. 

They lay together for a while, then, sleeping on and off, until both felt 
their desires rise within them again. 

Marius rolled over onto Arabella, and whispered in her ear, "Darling, I love 
you so much." 

Arabella let her arms go around his body, and pulled him tightly down onto 
her own desirous body, telling him that she loved him, too. 

Marius felt his cock revving itself up once more, and he straddled her with 
his legs, letting his prick touch the edge of her cunt. 

"Now, Marius, now!" cried Arabella softly, wanting him passionately and not 
hesitating to tell him so. 

Marius let his organ slide once more into the young woman's body and a smile 
of satisfaction came over her as she felt him deep inside. 

Marius pulled himself almost out of the young woman, and then plunged 
himself back in just as far as he could, loving how Arabella groaned in 
pleased pain. His stomach pressed hard against her crotch, as he made minute 
motions of his hips to move his cock in and out a tiny bit at a time from 
its position deep inside her. 

He felt that he could do this forever. It was only that he felt the 
inevitable climax coming soon. He pushed himself down hard on his lover 
beneath him, and felt her hips thrust up to his, as they moved together in 
the rhythm of their love and passion. 

"Yes, Marius, yes!" cried out Arabella, throwing her head back as he plunged 
into her. 

A moment later, it happened, and Marius gasped with pleasure as he gave an 
extra firm plunge deep inside her, and shot load after load of cream into 
the pussy that had taken so much already. She responded by wrapping her legs 
around him and thrashing wildly, just as excited as he was. 

They lay quietly in one another's arms, recovering from the wild climax they 
had had simultaneously. 

"Arabella," whispered Marius Cordweigh, "you see, I was right. Every time it 
will be just as good. It can never be bad between us." 

"I know you are right, my dearest Marius, and I only want to remain with you 
forever to serve you well and to take care of you for the rest of my life." 

"No, Arabella," answered the governor of Tasmania, who had just freed this 
girl from bondage. "I do not want you to be my slave. I want you to be my 
wife, my equal, my love." 

"Oh, yes," answered Arabella. "I wish to become your wife!" 

"We will be married soon, Arabella," spoke out Marius. 

"And then we can be together always, my darling," said the worldly-wise 
girl-woman who had gone through so many years of torture and pain. 

"Yes," replied her lover. "We will always be together." 

Arabella smiled and rubbed Marius' back with the palms of her hands. They 
rolled over on the bed together, and Arabella climbed up on top of Marius, 
leaning down over his trunk. 

She put her head over his prick as she got into a sitting position, facing 
him. She held the tool lightly between her fingers, and then licked it from 
base to end, flicking her tongue over and around the end, touching him with 
just the right amount of pressure to arouse him. Then she opened her mouth 
wide, and licked her lips with her tongue. 

She then slowly took his hard penis in her lips, gradually working them down 
over its tip, clamping and unclamping them as she loosened and tightened her 
pressure. Then Arabella moved smoothly down the cock until all but an inch 
of it was buried in her mouth. Marius moved his hips underneath her, 
thrilled by what she was doing. 

Working back and forth to the same position, Arabella alternately bobbed her 
head up and down over the large cock. Marius felt as though his rod was 
swelling to a never-before-reached size, and the feeling of having it sucked 
was so luxurious, he could hardly bear it. 

"Keep doing that, Arabella," he cried out to her in the midst of his 
panting. "It feels so good!" 

He pushed his hips up towards her mouth insistently until the orgasm came, a 
monumental gushing of come into Arabella's waiting throat. She swallowed it 
all down, several gulps at a time. 

Sir Marius Cordweigh could hardly contain the ecstasy he felt at such 
treatment. He held his young love in his arms and pressed her closely to 
him. 

"We will be married tomorrow," he whispered to her. 

"Yes, darling," sighed Arabella, "that will be wonderful, absolutely 
wonderful." 

"It will be the happiest day of my life," said the governor of Tasmania. 

"And of mine, darling," whispered Arabella. 

"We'll be able to build a new life together. You can forget your past." 

"No, Marius," sighed Arabella, "I can never forget my past. It was too 
filled with horror and pain. It will remain with me always, I am afraid." 

"No, my love! Don't talk this way!" cried Marius Cordweigh. "How can you 
hope to build a new life if you feel you must remember all the horror of the 
past?" 

"Marius," spoke Arabella softly, "You are not quite understanding me. I am 
not saying that I must constantly think about the horrors of my bondage, but 
I cannot, will not, ever forget the horrible things that were done to me and 
to my mother. How is it possible to forget all of these terrible things that 
have been so much a part of my life?" 

"Yes, Arabella," spoke the man, "I understand now that these things will 
remain with you always. But we will have a life that will help you to erase 
the things from your mind, so that all the good we will build together will 
take precedence." 

"Marius, you are so good to me," said Arabella. "How can I ever thank you 
for freeing me, and for asking me to be your wife? It is almost too good to 
be true." 

"I know, Arabella, and that is why we must treasure every moment together. 
Why, you are young! And we will be able to have so many fine times with one 
another! I don't ask for thanks from you. I did not free you so that you 
could serve me. I freed you because I believe in you, and love you dearly." 

"And I love you, Marius," said Arabella. 

They embraced once more, then fell asleep. 

In the morning, they went to the home of the judge, and were married in a 
simple ceremony. Then they came to their home, and had a wedding breakfast 
together. Both were smiling brightly, and could barely speak for all their 
joy. 

They decided to take a nap after breakfast, and crawled together into Sir 
Marius Cordweigh's large bed, after quickly removing all their clothing. 
Their bodies were eager and warm, and they fell into one another's arms 
immediately. 

"Oh, love me," cried Arabella to her new husband. "Love me now, my darling 
Marius!" 

The new husband held Arabella in his arms and kissed her passionately. His 
tongue moved into her mouth and sought out the wetness of the dark orifice. 
He pressed her lips apart with his own and bit at the soft flesh that 
offered itself up to him. Then he moved down to Arabella's neck and buried 
his face in all the warm hollows there. It was too much for him. He had 
never imagined this kind of happiness, and he could barely handle it. 

He stuffed his nose in between Arabella's firm breasts and felt the warm 
flesh surround him. He was in ecstasy, and moved down on Arabella's belly, 
kissing the heat and the softness, and nibbling at the squirming body. 

"Oh, yes, my darling!" whispered Arabella. "Yes, yes, love me, love me!" 

"I do love you, my darling," said Marius as he kept kissing the young white 
flesh. "And I will love you now." 

He moved his head down to the mass of hair that covered her newly-deflowered 
pussy, and buried his nose in it, so that his lips touched her clitoris, so 
susceptible to arousing reactions. 

Arabella squirmed and spread her thighs underneath her lover, and encircled 
his head with her hands so she could pull his head deeper into her wet womb. 

"Oh, yes, my darling, this is what I want!" she cried. "Deeper, deeper, my 
darling, my love!" 

Deeper and deeper Marius went, too, letting his tongue slide into the canals 
of Arabella's vagina and press against the wetness deep inside her. She 
squeezed her muscles against his probing tongue, and her excitement grew. 
Her hips began circling in a slow rhythm, and her legs spread out as far as 
they could go- 

Marius took her hips in his hands and felt them sway beneath his touch. The 
erotic rhythm drove him wild, and he began to sway his head with it, pulling 
on Arabella's hips as he did so. 

Faster and faster he butted his head up and down, plugging his tongue into 
the eager, gaping cunt. Faster and faster Arabella's hips circled, pounding 
against the face of her lover until her orgasm wracked her body, and she 
oozed white cream onto Marius' tongue. 

Marius rolled on top of his loving wife again, and pressed her body close to 
his own. It was so good, so good, for them to be together this way. Nothing 
could every separate them. Nothing. 

Arabella pulled him down onto her body until their groins met. She rubbed 
herself against him, hard, until his prick rose to meet her crotch. 

"Oh, darling, I want you inside me, now and always," said Arabella, 
spreading her thighs apart and inviting her new husband inside. 

"Yes, my darling," whispered Marius. "I want to be with you always, to be 
able to share our bodies this way forever and ever, and to be separate 
never." 

"Then come inside me now, my darling Marius," sighed Arabella, pressing her 
hands against his ass. "Come inside me now, and throb inside me, and press 
me until I die in ecstasy!" 

"I'll come inside you now, my darling," said Marius, "and I may never come 
out again!" 

His prick touched the edge of her vagina, and sank gently into the hole that 
lay open for him. 

"Mmmmm," moaned Arabella. "Hold me closely, my darling. Come inside me all 
the way." 

Marius let his prick sink down into Arabella's belly all the way, fully, up 
to his balls. 

"Yes, darling," the wife whispered. "That's how I love it. All the way in, 
my darling, all the way in." 

Up and down they moved together, with a rhythm that grew faster and faster. 
Their hips swirled together in a rhythm of love, of passion, of arousal. 

Arabella seemed to swing her body underneath her husband's, for she was so 
graceful, so eager, so loving. Her passion aroused him to an even greater 
extent, and he pushed his hips down hard on hers, feeling the length and 
thickness of his prick throbbing inside the womanly body beneath him. 

"Can anything else in the world possibly be this wonderful, darling?" 
Arabella looked up at her new husband and searched his eyes for an answer. 

"No, my darling," he told her. "Nothing is as wonderful as the two of us, 
together, always." 

"Oh, promise me, my love, that we will always be this happy!" 

"Arabella, Arabella," moaned Marius, in the midst of his passion, "I promise 
you, yes, that we will always be this happy. Nothing could ever destroy what 
we have between us." 

They held one another tightly in their passion. Their legs were dripping 
with the sweat that poured from their rapidly moving bodies. The sweat 
seemed to melt the flesh together, and they became one in movement. 

Arabella rubbed her hands frantically against her husband's back. Up and 
down, up and down, across the wide expanse of flesh. She felt the heat 
building inside of her, and she knew she would soon feel the thrashing joy 
of her orgasm surrounding and circulating through her body. 

Her husband, too, knew the time was coming. 

"Oh, my dear, dear wife," he panted out, kissing her lips passionately. 
"Hold me tightly, my dear, the time is near!" 

He felt his balls harden and slap against the young woman's thighs. Down he 
pushed, harder and harder. Finally the blast came, filling the cunt beneath 
with gush after gush of juice. Love juice. Joy juice. 

Without a doubt, their love would bind them. Nothing could keep them apart 
now. 

Nothing in this world! 

* * * 

It was only two weeks after this betrothal that Governor Sir Marius 
Cordweigh issued an order to Sir Clarence Edmunds to deliver the prisoner 
Michael Corrigan before him, and another order was sent to the home of Mrs. 
Dougherty to render back to him her indentured bondservant Colleen Corrigan. 

Sir Marius Cordweigh had himself examined the dossier concerning the young 
couple, and by authority of his own station, pardoned them and declared them 
free citizens of Tasmania. 

If they would remain and help him build this land as a part of the great 
Commonwealth, he would give them a house and land and be godfather to their 
children. 

Colleen and Michael willingly agreed, and within a week, in their new little 
house on a lovely hillside overlooking the harbor which had once spelled 
agony and despair to them both, lay in each other's arms fucking 
ecstatically and praying that their passionate efforts would be rewarded 
with a child which this time would not die but become the living proof of 
their unswerving love for each other. 

Lady 'Arabella Cordweigh met her mother two months after her wedding, when 
the beautiful Evelina Lewis, now the first wife of the aboriginal chief of 
the Pindiragoos, visited her in the company of her proud husband and his 
chief aide, Keeteringee. 

She too was offered freedom, but the brown-haired widow smiled and shook her 
head: "No, my darling Bella. I have found my lot here now. I have a husband, 
and I am with child by him-yes, don't look so surprised, my dear Bella. I'm 
not yet forty, I'll have you know. And he's a virile man. I only hope that 
your own sweet belly begins to swell quickly, for you've a wonderful man, 
the best in all Tasmania. Oh we shall see you again, and I shall bring you 
my child. 

May you be blessed always, my daughter." 

And thus it was that out of all the injustice and the brutality which the 
victims consigned to H.M.S. Orion found here in this penal colony at the 
other end of the world, there was at last a proof that there can be 
compassion and humanity between men and women of good will when they are 
brought together in the bonds of ardent fucking which knows neither race nor 
creed or prejudice.
