Grushenka. Three Times a Woman Page 17

  “Later on I'll take the small blonde in cell nine. I like the way she screams when I get her between me and the cot.” “We can't dispute that,” was the answer. “You like the young ones when they haven't got hair yet between the legs. I prefer the plump ones, like this-” and he slapped Grushenka between the legs. “I'll do anything you want!” wailed Grushenka. “Everything! But please don't hurt me, I can't stand it” “Well see to that later on,” replied the constable. “Turn around now and bend over.” She did as she was told. The other man, to help his comrade, went in front of her, took hold of her head, put it between his legs and closed his thighs, at the same time holding her up by the hips. The first constable had taken a huge shaft out of his trousers. He grasped her big buttocks by their soft, thick flesh and moved them apart He had no difficulty in sticking his monstrous machine into her love-nest. The entrance, once so small, was now wide open. Her grotto was juicy, but the air of mystery was no more around it. Too many visitors had found pleasure in it, and Grushenka's own passionate nature had helped to enlarge it. The constable took his time. There was nothing especially exciting in poking a prisoner, especially one who was apparently a whore, and the men chatted while he worked away on her. “Pretty big mouse trap,” said the one holding her between his legs. “I hope you don't get drowned in it.” “Better than a crack in the door, anyway,” muttered the pushing man. “Dust every nook and corner of it, will you, so that she'll remember you for a long time.” “She'll do that anyway. There are no shafts where she is bound for”-meaning the detention house, where whores were sent. “At least if you give her a brat they won't hang her” -referring to the ancient law that a pregnant woman could not be executed. While these and other remarks were heard in the room, Grushenka had her head buried between the high boots of the constable. The smell of grease and leather penetrated her nostrils. The dirt rubbed against her cheeks, and, in her bent position, blood ran into her head. This was the first poke she received on Russian soil. How different she had expected it to be! Perhaps as the mistress of an aristocrat in a bed with silk sheets. Or perhaps taking a strong young Russian into her own bed! But now… One constable kneaded her full waist-line while the other one clamped his hands on the upper part of her thighs and poked her with might. She remembered of a sudden that she needed the good graces of these men, and she began to counter his pushes, to wiggle her buttocks and with apt swinging and to embrace his love-shaft tightly.

  Just as she started, he came to a climax. She tried to glue her love-nest to his shaft. But he took his instrument out in a matter-of-fact way.” Both men agreed that she had fine, softly-upholstered buttocks, better for the leather whip than for the knout. They slapped her soundly and let go of her. She straightened herself slowly, her face crimson and soiled with black from the boots. She implored them again not to hurt her. The men did not listen. Orders were orders. They had to put her on the horse.

  The horse was one of the oldest of torture instruments. Invented in Oriental countries, it had been taken over by the Inquisition and thus had spread all over Europe, it being one of the least expensive but most effective machines to be used on female captives. It consisted simply of a board nailed between four high legs in such a way that the narrow edge of the board was uppermost. The constables made her move towards it, then forced her to step onto a little footstool and to swing one leg over the board into a sitting position. While one man from behind held her around the waist, the other chained her feet together and put a weight on the chain.

  She sat now with her cleft over the sharp wood, the iron weight drawing the weight of her own body down. Placed as she was, she sat on her love-nest and on the crack between her buttocks, which were the lowest spots on her body, and the sharp, narrow edge of the lumber cut into her most sensitive parts. In addition, her jailors fastened a rope which hung from the ceiling through the cords which held her arms to her back. This made it impossible for her to throw herself forward or backward and thus to relieve the pain of the pressure.

  Having arranged things properly, the men strolled out of the room, slamming the door without listening to her pleas that she would tell them all. The first few moments hurt her terribly, but she felt that she could stand the pain. Then, of a sudden, a roaring pain shot through her loins and she began to scream in agony. She closed and opened her eyes, which rolled wildly. She cramped her hands together, piercing the nails into the palms. She tried to find another position which would take the weight from her tortured cleft. In vain.

  The weight on her feet and the rope at her back did not allow a change of position, and, the more she moved, the deeper the edge of the board intruded into her unprotected cleft. She did not know how long she had been sitting in this cleaving, terrible position. Her screams became howls, the howling diminished to faint sobs. She was ready to lose consciousness, but the excruciating pain would not permit it.

  The police captain now entered and, disregarding her sobbing pleas, took up a leather whip. The blows fell over her thighs, over her belly, over her breasts. They provided a climax of suffering; as the whip cut into her flesh, she jerked her body, thus adding to the horrible pains between her legs. Yes, she was ready to tell everything-the truth, nothing but the truth. The captain took the weight off her legs without removing the shackles and tossed the footstool under her feet. She got onto it and stood with her pain-wracked crevice only a few inches away from the terrible board. A push against the footstool would have brought her back to her former position. She told all; her whole life story. The fat little police captain sat on a whipping block and listened. He scratched his head. This was a complicated case. He understood from her story that she was a liberated and free person all right, but, on the other hand, a runaway slave from the Sokolov estate. To whom did she belong now?

  To the Sokolovs, to Madame Sophia, or was the later liberation in force and was she considered a free person? He would not make a hasty decision on so complicated a question. In any event, for the present she belonged to the State, or better, to himself. Hence he would hold her until some enlightenment should come to him. He left her standing over the board and went out. After a while, the huge prison matron came in. She took off Grushenka's chains and dragged her back to her semi-dark cell. The woman refused to give her back her finely made undergarments and left her entirely nude. Grushenka's protests were mild; while the pain had somewhat subsided, she felt so weak and sore that she could hardly walk. Days went by in her dirty cell. The uncertainty of her fate weighed heavily upon her. The noise and the screams throughout the busy prison got on her nerves.

  The filth crept into her skin. One day the matron dragged her out, gave her a quick cleaning all over, dressed her in an old prison garment and turned her over to a waiting constable. He led her over many hallways and stairs, finally pushing her into the private room of the police captain. She paused, surprised, on the threshold. On the big table in the middle of the room sat a young whore. She was not older than eighteen, but one could see that she had been through much and was tough as leather. She was in her underwear and was engaged in a squabble with the undersized head of the almighty police department.

  He had no shirt on but was still in his trousers and made a ludicrous impression. Apparently he was as much pleased as annoyed with the impudence of the little creature who treated him like the dirt on her shoe. “Hey, you,” she addressed Grushenka, “can you imagine that this big brute here claims that he is too good to kiss my love-nest, my sweet little love-nest mind you-” and she opened the slit of her trousers and brazenly held the orifice open with both hands. “I told him I wouldn't give him a thing unless it was thoroughly licked all over. He sent for you and claims that you ought to understand that job, at least if you don't lie to him-” “All right,” grumbled the fat captain, slightly annoyed, “go ahead and do what she wants.

  Perhaps that will make her keep still, brazen hussy that she is. But don't let her reach a climax or I'll beat hell out of both of you. I don't want to poke a corp
se.” Grushenka stepped up and got busy on the vixen. Here was an opportunity to get her own fate decided; better make herself agreeable. She had learned well to love, to make “lady's love.” Down in Italy she often had enticed young girls to come to her apartment, and she had gotten a thrill out of making them wiggle and scream under her tongue treatment. Often her maids had to hold them by force when they wouldn't give in. But she disliked this little whore and she could find no pleasure in making love to her love-nest, which, in spite of her youth, seemed to be well played out.

  She stooped down and opened the girl's legs in order to give herself a comfortable working position. The impudent street-trotter rested her body on the table and sent a triumphant look at her sturdy lover, who fumbled about the room. Grushenka's tongue began the operation.

  This tongue had become broad and alert and knew its tricks from A to Z. The love-nest, feeling that a master was at work, at once became intensely interested. The blonde creature had started this whole comedy only to tease her lover, but she discovered that-to her own surprise-a treat was in store for her and she decided to allow herself to come to a climax. Grushenka felt how the tiny love twig, having swollen to hardness, suddenly fell slack again. But she kept on with her tongue-play, so as not to have the police captain know that his love partner was doing what he had forbidden: giving herself out before he put it in. “Enough of this nonsense,” he interrupted Grushenka, and pushed her away. “I'll give it to her now, whether she likes it or not.” With that, he shoved his short stub into the wet love-channel. Grushenka turned around, found a wash basin and cleaned her face. Then, looking at the couple, she decided that she would not leave the room before she had cleared her own state of affairs with the captain. She saw him bent over the girl, his trousers around his ankles on the floor, his muscular buttocks busy with crafty pushes. An idea came to her. Swiftly she knelt down behind him, opened his rim and glued her mouth to the entrance. This had never been done to him. Surprised, he stopped his movements, and, standing in front of his sweetheart, gave himself to this enjoyment.

  The girl not knowing what was going on, called to him. “Hey, you, what's the matter? Getting lazy? Poke me you bastard! Poke your sweet love nest!” And she heaved her buttocks to get him working again.

  He pulled the hair over her Venus Hill roughly, and his tone was so imperative that she listened in wonder. “Hold still, you swine, and don't move, or I'll beat hell out of you-” Grushenka caressed him between the legs with her fingers, tickled his rear doorway with her tongue, and then inserted it. His legs trembled; he crushed himself against the young whore's thighs, groaned and spent rapturously.

  Getting up to dress, the whore still wondered what had happened, but she guessed the connection when she saw Grushenka cleaning her lips with a wet towel, while the captain gave himself a few gushes between the legs in the washstand. Grushenka found time now to plead her case with him. He kept thinking about it as a ticklish case.

  He told her to send the matron to him and, with this decision, which meant nothing to her, she was led back to her cell by the waiting constable. That evening the matron brought her his wise decision: since she did not belong to any private person at present, and apparently was not a free girl on the other hand, she belonged from now on to the State and was made herewith assistant to the matron. The deep thought of it was, of course, that he wanted her for his future pleasure and did not want her to die in that filthy cell. The matron was very dissatisfied with this turn of affairs. She was, as Grushenka soon would find out, greedy to a horrible degree, and she was afraid that Grushenka might be an impediment to her doings. But she had to obey; she had to give Grushenka some clothes, a living room next to her own, and had to put her to all kinds of tasks.

  Grushenka found herself busy preparing food- mostly a thin soup of nondescript contents-supervising the prisoners as they cleaned up their cells and helping around in general. Grushenka soon learned that there existed in the mind of the matron four classes of prisoners. First, those who had outside influence and were to be released soon and not to be bothered. Secondly, those who had money and could get more from the outside. They were maltreated, but just enough to get more and more out of them. Thirdly, those who had money but did not want to part with it. They were mercilessly tortured.

  Finally, there were those who had no money or influence and were just left to rot away.' She made no distinction in the age or state of health of the women she had under her thumb. She did not care at all whether they were criminals, thieves, whores or poisoners, or whether they were innocent or picked up by mistake or on false and malicious accusations. They were only objects from whom to extort money, and she put the screws on them mercilessly. As soon as they were delivered to her ward, she would take all clothes away from them and all money, jewelry, and other valuables. If it was an elderly whore or a woman who had been in the jail before, she would not hesitate to search even her love nest for hidden treasure. Then she would have them send messages through one of the constables to their outside friends, demanding cash. If money was forthcoming, the prisoner received a few days respite in the form of food and clothes and fresh air, the constable received a good tip and the matron added more booty to her store. But woe if the message was unsuccessful! She would then give the unlucky one torture, and Grushenka more than once had to assist her. The torture chamber was there to extort confessions, as it was up to the middle of the 19th century in all countries of the world-although torture officially was abolished in most countries at the end of the 18th century. The matron, however, used the tortures to get her prey to come through. Furthermore, she did the job herself, and seemed delighted with it. There was, for example, a big blonde woman about thirty years of age and apparently of means, judging from her wardrobe. She was brought in on a charge of shoplifting, but it was patently a trumped-up charge because she was not brought before the captain for sentence. There was something mysterious about this woman. She refused to communicate with the outer world at all, and this was usually the one and only thought of other captives. She sat in her cell in dirty rags and moped without uttering a word. The matron dragged her to the black chamber, tore the rags from her body and stretched her over the whipping block. The woman had nice, full buttocks, a very light skin and shapely legs, which instantly became the field of operation for her huge tormentor.

  Grushenka, who was supposed to help the matron, just stood around. The old and hardened jailer had not needed any help to tie her victim down; her strong muscular arms and her expertness in fastening the one strap over the middle of the victim's back did not call for assistance. “First I'll beat the hell out of you,” she shouted at the blonde woman, “then well have a little chat.” She made her word good. She began over the knees and hit the tightly stretched legs with a switching cane wielded with all her strength. She went up one leg until she reached the cleft, beat the other leg the same way, and then let out all her rage over the buttocks. The woman, was not muscular; she was of the finer type, well made and of soft flesh. She screamed in pain and swung her arms wildly, but was unable to shield her suffering buttocks with her hands. Blood-blue welts appeared on her body. She wailed and promised to do everything. The huge matron stopped, but she dug her muscular fingers into the smarting flesh.

  “Will you write a letter to a friend or to your family asking for one hundred rubles to be given to the bearer?” The woman consented. She then was led back to her cell and given time to sob to her heart's content, until Grushenka brought her a quill and ink and paper. The letter was duly sent away with a constable, but he came back saying that at that address there was no one of the name written on the letter. The matron got into a white heat. She did not say or do anything that day. “The next morning when she was through with her routine work she again took matters into her brutal hands.

  This time Grushenka had to help carry the woman to the black chamber.

  She fought like a tigress and swore that the matron would be sorry, that she'd be beaten to dea
th herself when she, the prisoner, should be set free. Neither threats nor fighting helped her. The matron bound her hands to her back and pulled her up on a rope which was fastened to her wrists. This dislocated the shoulders, and the weight of the body, hanging on the twisted muscles of the arms, caused unbearable pain. The woman screamed that they were murdering her.

  Grushenka, who herself was no longer soft-hearted, felt pity. But the matron did not seem to hear nor to have the slightest compassion. She tied the woman's ankles in a far-outstretched position to some rings in the floor, thus bringing still greater pain to the shoulders.

  Grushenka looked at the hanging figure. The twitching face was not beautiful, but still had good looking features. The breasts, too large and too full, drooped, but the belly was flat and without fat.

  The best parts were, without doubt, the firm, shapely thighs.

  Grushenka could not help stepping close up to the woman and studying her, even feeling the cleft which was wide open due to the outstretched position of the legs. The woman was strung up so high that the entrance to the orifice was exactly at the height of Grushenka's mouth, and she could not help making a sarcastic remark.

  While fumbling around with her fingers, she said to the matron: “I guess she has opened her legs so wide because she wants to be kissed, don't you think so?” But the matron, who had meanwhile carefully looked for a knout, pushed her rudely away. “You'll see what I'll give her, and, as you call my attention to her grotto, it's a good suggestion. I'll let her have it there.” The knout, a short wooden handle to which were fastened eight or ten short leather straps, began its work. Standing alongside and at an angle to her victim, the matron began slowly and with precision to beat her. She directed the end of the leather straps at the open orifice and at the surrounding flesh on the inside of the thighs. She did not count the strokes. She did not hurry. She took good aim, swung her arm out and-swish!-the blow crashed into the most tender parts of the hysterical, screaming woman. Not so many blows, only ten or twelve, because suddenly the woman became pale and her head dropped down. She had fainted. The matron released her leisurely, slung her over her shoulder as if she were a bundle of clothes and threw her roughly on the cot in her cell. When weeping was heard from that cell, the matron looked after the prisoner again. The woman consented to write another letter, but the outcome was far from what the matron had expected. The constable stayed unusually long and when he came back there was a distinguished-looking man with him who had a release for the prisoner. He swore by heaven and hell that he would get even with the matron when he saw the state that the woman was in, and he left with her in a hurry. The matron only shrugged a shoulder. Let them complain. Nothing would come of it, even if the Czar was their cousin-and she was right. Punishments were not usually so cruel, unless the object was to make a prisoner speak. Very often, however, the captain, sitting as judge and jailer at the same time, ordered a beating on general principles when a woman had to stay in prison only a few. days for a minor offense. These minor offenders were not sent to the State prison nor brought before a jury, but did their time, mostly less than a week, in the police prison. Such cases were handled similarly to the following, which was entrusted to Grushenka. Two young whores, hardly sixteen years of age, had been picked up soliciting in the streets. Women were permitted to do that, but only during certain hours of the evening and on certain avenues. Perhaps these girls, who were friends, had sought to make a better haul in the lighter main-streets; anyway, they had become the prey of the law and were each sentenced to five days in jail. As an added punishment, they had to sit every morning for one hour in the stocks and to receive twelve strokes with the switch. The girls had no money and were turned over by the matron to Grushenka. At first they cried bitterly, but, having a cell together, they began to make plans for the future almost before they had started to do their time. They were more curious than afraid when Grushenka led them to the black chamber. They took their clothes off meekly and climbed by themselves into the stocks. Grushenka used only the hand and foot stocks on them, not the head stocks, and she saw to it that the boards did not crush their skin. They sat next to each other on the floor, hands and feet close together through the boards. They did not seem to mind that their bare buttocks rested on the hard stone floor. They were good-looking girls, joking with each other and teasing each other that their lean buttocks had to carry their whole weight. They had small round breasts and there was something young and fresh about them. Grushenka, who for a long time had not had a good party for her love-nest, got slightly excited. She bent down and teased the girl's nipples and was curious about their love-nests. But they pressed their thighs close together and said, “No, Madame, it costs fifty kopecs to make us open up; that's our price.” Grushenka suggested that they kiss her between the legs a little. They claimed that they did that to each other and could not be untrue to each other. But if she would promise not to give them the switch- Grushenka said that she would have to beat them a little in order to make some marks lest the matron should interfere, and they agreed on that. Grushenka then let them out of the stocks, sat herself on the whipping blocks and had one girl kissing her between the legs while she got hold of the other one.