More hands were on her legs, rough, demanding, kneading her legs from hips to thighs to calves, and she was spread further, her arms straining as the irons held them firm. And then fingers gripped her nether lips, pinched them, peeled her wide, opened her to frigid air and lurid stares. Hot breath mingled with the night mist. Fingers plied her wider, squeezed her labia, stretched them.
She tried to pull away from the touch, but hands she could not see caught her from behind, kneaded her cold quivering rump, spread her cheeks wide until she felt split from rear to core.
No part of her lay hidden, untouched. Even the mist seemed to caress and probe her as her body grew weak and moist.
And then someone’s cold fingers invaded her core, slowly at first, to a knuckle perhaps. Then deeper. She felt herself stretched and softened, as the fingers grew warm within her. They pulsed inside of her. Forced an immodest cry from deep in her throat. Her body clenched around them even as they pulled out.
She rolled her head side to side, wishing for pain, not these touches meant to arouse. To be so exposed, so forcefully awakened before all, was shame too great to bear. She closed her eyes. If a witch could not feel, they should know she was not one, for her body quivered with her every breath.
The fingers invaded her once more, more forcefully now, then withdrew and entered her again. And a warm slippery finger touched her from behind as well. It pressed firmly where it should not, and every muscle within her grew so taut she ached. It was no use. The finger pushed on until it eased through the tightness there, showing no mercy. Slowly stretching her. Heating her. Filling her. Deeply. She would not scream, would not sigh. Could not bear for the crowd to see their effect on her. Yet it was only by submitting that she would be freed.
“I will see your eyes, Elizabeth.”
She struggled to open them, to look to the watchman as he spoke but could not. Every twitch of her hips, sent the fingers deeper. No matter which way she recoiled from one touch, the other probed further until she was impaled both front and back, held in place by these fingers, rocking within her, sliding in and out.
Forcing her heated body to tense and pulse.
Need rose within her, shame burned her face. And then the fingers behind her pulled out with a sudden tug that left her body eagerly clutching at nothing. She gulped in air, let her head lag backward and then the fingers behind entered her again, slowly, steadily, and she heard her own cry, like a hungry cat mewling.
“Look to me.”
The fingers left her and another hand caressed her breast, flicked her nipple. She mewed again, unable to keep silent. Unable to deny her body’s response to this relentless and immoral pleasuring.
“Elizabeth. Look to me.”
She forced her eyes open. Saw the watchman beside her, close, his gaze steady on hers, his hand gentle on her breast.
“You will clasp the chains above you,” he said calmly. “Or you will be hurt.”
The words did not sound clear. Nothing was clear but the hands on her, now cupping her rump, holding her. And then her legs were lifted and she felt she would fall as all her weight pulled at her shackled wrists. The watchman’s arm came around her, tight beneath her breasts, his chest against her side, and he, along with the hands below, lifted her, held her as they gathered yet closer to examine her.
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