Molly

Chapter Two

Molly slept in the cupboard most nights, and had since she was too little to remember it.  Ma was still busy with her man-friend, moving about on the bed and making those panting and groaning noises.  She hoped he wasn't hurting Ma, but in the morning Ma always promised she was fine, and that Molly needed to remember to stay in the cupboard no matter what.  Molly was always good and obedient, and Ma was always happy with her.

Then, one night, Ma went out to bring home her man-friend, and when Molly woke up in the morning and climbed out of the cupboard, there was nobody there.  She went back in, because she was supposed tobe there when Ma came back, but after several hours she had to come out to use the po and to find something to eat, before going back in again to curl up among her nest of blankets and wait.  By evening, the police had come in and looked about, largely ignoring her.

“Looks like the usual whore's den,” said one, poking into a bureau drawer.  “Bit of a tip.”

“Someone's going to have to take her brat to the foundling's hospital or the poorhouse,” said the other.    In the end, they both took her together.  It was never really explained to her what had happened toMa, and Molly spent many cold nights imagining that she'd just gone to find her fortune and would be back any day, in a coach and four, wearing silks and ribbons and laces, and would take her home to a hot meal and a soft bed and all the comfort in the world.

“You are wet again, girl!”  Molly was standing with her legs spread, holding her skirt up to her waist, as Mrs. Wilson inspected her.  She had been wearing a leather belt, tightened to the point that it didn't shift at all, with a piece that ran between her legs.  It was supposed to keep her from touching herself, or from feeling anything, but it was so tight – it was as tight as possible, pushing her arse cheeks apart and making her nether lips splay apart around it.  Whenever she bent over, it pressed, and when she walked, it rubbed, and after just a few hours the strap was quite … well, slimy, which would have been disgusting except that Molly couldn't get away from the hot, panting feeling it gave her.  “Wetter than I have ever seen in my life.  Is there anything you have to say for yourself?”

“I can't help it, ma'am.”  Molly tried to explain, but the pulsating heat between her legs combined with having to hold her skirt out of the way while Mrs. Wilson inspected her with her eyes and her fingers made her words bottle up inside of her.  “It just – it's too tight, I can't – ”

“Stop making excuses.  I can see you need a stronger hand.”  Mrs. Wilson unbuckled the belt and pulled it off.  Molly didn't dare drop the skirt until she was told to, but when her mistress turned back and saw that she still held it up, she received a stinging slap on her bottom.  “Yes, I can see you like showing off.  Get on your knees and put your cheek to the floor.”  Once Molly was in the position, Mrs. Wilson walked away and into the kitchen; Molly listened to her footsteps as they returned.  “I think this will cool you down a little.”  With that as the only warning, she plunged something freezing deep into Molly and stepped back as the younger woman gasped and squirmed involuntarily.  It was ice – a shard of ice from the icebox, which the man had just filled the other day.  Fortunately, it didn't seem as though the edges were sharp at all, or she'd be in real trouble.

“Now,” said Mrs. Wilson from somewhere very far above her, “what you're going to do is scrub this floor, and the kitchen and the corridor as well, while you keep that inside yourself to calm your unseemly ardor.  If you finish before it is melted, come back here and resume this pose until it does.”  She turned on her heel and walked away.  I must obey Mrs. Wilson to get better employment, Molly reminded herself, but it was very difficult not to seriously consider standing up and running away.  She'd have no reference though, and no character, and would most likely end up in the stews, where she'd be just as badly off.

Molly cautiously picked her head up and raised herself to all fours.  The ice slipped out, and she reached back to push it in again – she was going numb, but she could tell that it wouldn't stay unless she kept her face close to the floor.  Keeping that in mind, she began to awkwardly scrub the floor with her nose only inches from the brush.  It was horrible and degrading, but – she could feel herself becoming aroused through the cold, and what made it worse was that it almost seemed that she was more affected by the humiliation than by the chunk of ice.  The more she scrubbed, the more the feeling grew, and when she crawled through the doorway to the corridor her legs brushed together and she wanted nothing more than to sit there with her bare arse exposed for any passing visitor to gawp at.

She finished scrubbing before the ice melted (which she only knew from feeling about with a finger, a practice that she would never undertake in front of Mrs. Wilson); this was fortunate, as Mrs. Wilson hadn't specified what she was to do if she finished after it was gone, and Molly knew that whatever she did would lead to a beating in that case.  As it was, she bent down in the kitchen while it disappeared, her fingers unintentionally curling and jittering about.  What would it look like to an observer?  Was it like Mr. Bottle said, that anyone who came upon her would treat her like a street whore?  It must be true, as he was so much older and more experienced than her.  They would come in with loud footfalls, and grab her hips roughly, one hand questing into her moist folds …

Mrs. Wilson came in at just that moment, and as Molly imagined an intruder taking liberties with her, she stuck in one long, bony finger.  The feeling had returned to the nerves there, and Molly couldn't help but jump, impaling herself and sliding back.

“Typical,” said Mrs. Wilson.  “I can take strong measures to curb your lusts, but you manage to overcome them to wallow in filth.  Pleasuring yourself on my finger – what next?”

I didn't mean to, ma'am, Molly said in her head, but refused to say out loud.  It would only lead to a beating, and while she could admit that she found a terrible, perverse pleasure in some of Mrs. Wilson's punishments, those inflicted with a cane or a bundle of birch twigs were to be avoided at all costs.

“Well, at least you are reasonably calm, compared to your state this morning.”  Mrs. Wilson slapped her on the thigh.  “Attempt to appear slightly respectable.”  Molly slowly unbent, her muscles stiff and cramped from her position, and drew her skirt and chemise back down.  “Go out to the grocer's and get what's on the list.  Since you did so well last time, I don't see that I need to give you any more than a shilling.”  This was the worst thing Molly could have imagined for her to say: she had only “done so well” because she had let Mr. Bottle take such extreme liberties with her body, and to do it again would require more degradingly interesting torture.

She was not surprised to be proven right.  The moment she entered the shop – once again empty apart from herself and the grocer – Mr. Bottle's eyes lit up.  He didn't rush over to her side, though, as she expected; he just stood, leaning on the counter, and watched as she slowly moved about the crates of produce, picking out the cabbages and potatoes and other assorted foodstuffs that Mrs. Wilson had specified.  As she approached him with the full basket, she had to look down at the floor.  He peered into it, totting up the figures in his head, and then smiled.

“That comes to two shillings,” he said.  One hand came up to hover at her breast.  She bit her lip and reached into her pocket, then dropped the coin on the counter.  As soon as the sound rang out, his hand clenched down on her soft flesh and squeezed.  Molly couldn't help but whimper slightly.

“So,” he said, “the same bargain as last time?  I knew you liked our little games.  Turn around and hold your elbows.”  She gave him a confused look, and he began to force her into the position.  She scrambled to finish it herself, and he turned away, rummaging in a drawer for some of the twine he used to tie up packages of brown paper.  He then wrapped it around her forearms, holding them together in a way that would be painful in a little while, she could tell, and forced her shoulders back and her bosom out.  He liked it, she could tell, when he spun her back around and surveyed her chest.  He groped at her breasts for a while, squeezing and pinching, and although she tried to stop herself from making any sounds, at some of his pinches she made a high-pitched squeal.  At a particularly loud one, he frowned.

“I like your little cries, but you're becoming rather shrill, my dear,” he told her.  “Hold still a moment.”  There was a rag on the counter near her arm, and he seized it and pushed it into her mouth before she could react.  Molly tried to shout, but only a low moan came out.  Mr. Bottle looked satisfied as he tied another piece of twine about it to hold it in place.  “We both know how much you're gagging for it,” he said, “so it doesn't really matter whether you can tell me about it right now, does it?  I promise that you'll get your chance to compliment me next time.”  Oh, sweet Jesus, did he really believe she wanted this?  It seemed to Molly that he did, and that he translated all of her muffled protests into encouragement.

Once she could no longer defend herself with her hands or her voice, he slowed down.  Unbuttoning her bodice, she was torn between the warring desires for him to stop before it was too late and for him to hurry and simply get it over with, as he was savouring each new glimpse of pale flesh.  At last he finished, but this time he was not content to push back each side of her dress.  Instead, he pushed at it until it hung from her bindings, leaving her uncovered except for her low-cut corset and chemise, which afforded no protection at all to her breasts.  He ducked his head to them for a moment, kissing each one and leaving wet trails with his tongue, and taking her shudder as anticipatory pleasure.  Mr Bottle then turned all of his attention to the right breast, sliding both thumbs beneath it and lifting it up while squeezing it.  He tried to fit one hand around it but failed, and molded it into a high cylinder with both, bending down again to bite lightly at the nipple, which peaked.  He chuckled, and began pinching it, first lightly and then hard enough to make her eyes water, and pulled it out until her upper body bent forward.  He pulled her around the counter by it, and then pressed her to it with his legs so that she could feel his hard member.  After a few more hard tugs, he repeated the entire process with the other breast, apart from pulling her around the counter.  There was a strange pressure between her legs, and in trying to relieve it she pressed against him, causing him to chuckle.

“I know, I know, you're eager,” he said.  “Hot little trollop.  I always knew you just wanted a little touching to get as wet and ready as a brotherl-keeper's whore.  Wouldn't you like it if I took you upstairs and tied you to my bed for the next fortnight?  Maybe next time, maybe next time.  We've got all the time in the world.  Perhaps I'll take you off Mrs. Wilson's hands, to look after my rooms for me – nothing's been the same since Mrs. Bottle died.  I could do with someone to cook and clean, not to mention warm my bed.”  The clock struck three, just as it had the last time she was there, but this time he did not whisk her away into the back storeroom.  Instead, he pushed her around the counter and, to her horror, forced her to sit down on a closed crate of apples facing the door.  Once he took his hands off her she stood up again, but he pushed her back down, pulling her further back so that her feet didn't touch the floor.  “Stay,” he said, as he might to a dog, and went to rearrange a display of leeks.

People walked by the shop, but none looked in apart from a street urchin, who pressed his face up to the glass and began laughing loudly.  Molly hadn't thought she could become any more mortified, but she blushed and tried to shout at him through the gag, which only made him laugh harder.  Mr. Bottle noticed the pair of them and walked over to the door – Molly thought it was to tell the boy to leave, but instead he motioned for him to come inside.  She squirmed and writhed in order to get off the crate, but since her feet couldn't give her any leverage with the floor she only succeeded in making her breasts bounce and swing from side to side.  Mr. Bottle joined in the chuckling.

“I've got an appointment in a few minutes,” he told the boy, “but if you've got a penny on you, I'll let you have a good feel of her tits.”  The urchin didn't look like he had a ha'penny to spare, but he quickly managed to scrounge a coin from a hidden pocket, and held it out with grubby fingers.  Mr. Bottle palmed it and gestured towards Molly with one hand, and the urchin ran over to her.  First, he spread out his hands and took as much of a breast in each as he could, squeezing them until the flesh bulged between his fingers, and causing her to moan again through the rag.  This apparently delighted him, as he did it again, harder, and twisted in opposite directions.  Then he began pinching the undersides of her breasts, moving up to the sides and taking larger amounts in each pinch; he then moved to her nipples, pinching them tightly and trying to pull up her breasts by them as high as possible, pulling harder with each muffled protest.  His last act before Mr. Bottle took him by the shoulder and told him to leave was to put a hand under each breast and shake them, laughing again at the way they trembled and jiggled.  Before he went out the door, he turned.

“If I bring some more boys back with me, can I get them turns at two for a penny?” he asked.  Mr. Bottle laughed.

“And keep the other penny for yourself?  That sounds like a good business proposition,” he said. “But not today – come back this evening and we'll discuss terms.”  The boy grinned and ran off.

“Now,” said Mr. Bottle.  “My friend should be here any minute.  You remember – the one I told you about yesterday?”

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