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Perhaps it was my association with the man—the way I always viewed his virile prowess as the most sexually masculine thing I’d ever seen; perhaps it was my own arousal peaking; perhaps it was the animated crowd around me generating so much energy, but regardless, I found KC’s turn with these tarts to be the most astounding of this astounding exhibition. I believed the others around me did, too.
My body felt each smack he laid on these bouncing derrieres as if he were laying it on my own ass. My insides jerked and I’m afraid my outsides did as well. I don’t think anyone noticed; though, I was so focused on the scene that I wouldn’t really know. There he was—my boyfriend, the man who made my insides melt with just a stern look directed my way—punishing these voluptuously teaming Old-world wenches as though he were their master.
They were beginning to Ooo, and ouch and wail like crazy, their asses wriggling as the belt came fast, delivering pain over already scorched surfaces. You’d think that with the natural pauses in the proceedings, when one woman’s behind was allowed to take a break while another was being whipped, that this wouldn’t be all that bad a punishment. I’d been through a lot worse on my own, but these ladies didn’t see it that way. Soon they were all insanely squawking, letting the whole world know of their collective woe.
And then, too soon for me, the bawdy bedlam stopped.
KC stepped back, took one last look at his handiwork and tossed the belt to a man at his side. Moving away from the front of the room, he retreated to the side of the tent, put his one foot up on a chair and leaned in listening to Davis’s final words.
“Be it known now, my fair collared ladies, that your behavior will be monitored in this fashion for the rest of the faire. The men in this spectacle are kings, and you are here to serve. From today on, sirs, you have free reign to punish a collared maid, a mistress or a lady as you see fit. Be just in your decisions, but by all means enjoy the wares this faire offers you.”
The natural ebb and flow of energy in the small space seemed to rise again with that proclamation—a wicked game of tease and spank had just begun. Davis smiled at the response and he ended the night, “And now, to all of you, we need some sleep.”
The drinking began again, while the four spanked women remained displayed. Not until a husband or lover pulled them to their feet were they allowed to rise. Poor Gretchen had to wait for nearly half an hour while her longtime lover, Marcus, was out of the tent. When he finally returned, I breathed a whole lot easier. I guess that I imagined myself in her embarrassing position, her fat red ass there for all these eyes to see as the color slowly faded.
The evening wound down from this point. Still a little shocked by the festivities, I sat in the back of the tent by myself except for a few quick visits from several of my new female friends. Even the punished Carol was heartened enough to stop by and give me a goodnight hug. While I waited for KC to claim me, he talked to his male friends, occasionally glancing my way. He wore that darker aspect of his persona he used to rule his theatre, or when he was punishing me. After having done his duty to these women, he wasn’t returning to his more amiable self. I figured I’d take this time to settle myself and appraise the night’s activities. This event had certainly changed the nature of our three-week stay at the Sword & Tankard. If this kind of display happened on the third night, what would be happening in a week? Two weeks? By the end of the third week?
In the midst of my daydreams, I suddenly found KC at my side. “Time to go,” he said. His voice sounded as stern as his look.
“What did he mean by collared ladies?” I asked KC when we were finally walking from the dining tent to our own.
“You’ll notice, some of the female members in company wear the collars, others don’t…”
“I assumed they were for decoration like any other necklace.”
“Not exactly. Collared women are subject to the rules. Those who aren’t collared, aren’t.”
“Who decides who’s collared and who’s not?”
“That’s between the woman and her man. Choice mostly. For most of us, it’s a game we play each year—the women living out a little fantasy just for the thrill of it. For a few it’s a lifetime arrangement.” I must have looked puzzled because he went on to explain, “Sort of like you and Rossi. He ordered, you obeyed. Disobedience was swiftly punished.”
“But it doesn’t feel like Rossi and me.”
“Maybe not. Perhaps it’s more real for these women than it was for you, so it doesn’t jar the senses so.”
“And who are those in the lifetime arrangement?”
KC snickered, looking appreciably more amiable than he had since the punishment. “I’ll let you guess.”
“You won’t tell me?”
“No. Watch carefully, you’ll know.”
KC and I fucked more roughly than we had in days. I was venting lust like a teakettle vents steam. I thought I’d scorch my skin, I was that hot. I could think of nothing but KC brandishing the belt, raising it against my ass, the feel of the sting, the burn, and most curiously, the idea that there might be people around to witness my submissiveness and my punishment. I’d had an audience before, many times with Rossi, and then with KC at the theatre, but spanked here in front of a crowd was as though I was declaring myself in a public forum. The thought so aroused me that my crotch was perpetually wet and my bottom ached for abuse.
The next two days, I learned the ritual. Every morning at breakfast—usually six-thirty, long before the Faire patrons would be arriving for the ten o’clock opening—one of the collared women—drawing lots for the prize—would be chosen “wench of the day.” It didn’t matter if the woman played the role the day before; her name would still be entered into a bag of tiles that bore the names of all the possible candidates. I was told that no woman had been as unlucky to be “wench of the day” more than two days in a row.
Once the drawing and breakfast were over, the wench would be taken to the whipping post in the midst of our circle of tents. Her hands would be tied together at the wrists, her arms raised, and the rope attached to a nail above. Then, the back of her skirt would be untied, her ass bared and beaten with a paddle, strap or switch until it was quite raw. These scenes always produced a sizable crowd of the crew and entertainers. Following this travail, she’d be subject to the paddles, straps and switches of any man who decided he wanted to add to her punishment. For nearly an hour while the company was busy getting ready, or practicing for the day’s events this luckless wench endured the lengthy humiliation, until Davis, or his second in command, Connor, would let her down.
The more bawdy displays like the one I saw the third night of our stay only occurred every other night—and then only if there was a misbehaving ass to punish. There were usually at least two, and once as many as five. Though there were only nine collared women in the company, there managed to be regular breaches in appropriate submissive etiquette that required reprimands.
In addition to these formal rituals, any collared woman could be singled out during non-performance times and punished by any male member of the company—as long as the act took place away from the paying customers. (These absurd practices occurred behind the regular activities of the day—a parallel theatre specifically for a parallel company of souls w
ho were living in a made-up world where the present and past seemed confused. Of course, all in the spirit of good fun.) I didn’t witness many of these incidents since they usually took place in private. I had the feeling that there was often a sexual end to these scenes, though it took some time before I could confirm that fact.
My fifth day was a turning point. Gretchen and I were working, setting up a booth of fabrics that had to be taken down each night and put up again in the morning. This time of year in the upper Midwest, the threat of rain was always looming in the background of the summer heat.
“You enjoying our little banquet of indecent lechery?” she asked. Her fair breasts jiggled at the top of her bodice piece. She had the reputation for the most exposed nipples in the company. They were always wresting free, to which Gretchen would laugh, push them back into their confinement and go on her merry way.
