B: Mr. Information and the Wimshurst Machine

You, my dear, are an interesting problem. You are a person too, of
course, but to be honest, that does not concern me. You must understand
that I maintain a strict detachment from the subjects of my work. It
was not always so. I well remember the first time I was called upon to
apply the expertise I then possessed.

My meagre skills I had learned from my unfortunate father, in the two
years I worked for him. When my father died penniless, leaving me
destitute after his business collapsed, it was Jeldry Carpartha who
took me on. He had known my mother, he said, before I was born. Which
was more than I had. It had taken some years for my father's
explanations to hit home to me. "Died in childbirth, Dak," was what he
always said. It was only later that I, his only son, understood just
whose birth had killed my mother.

And so, at the tender age of sixteen years I, Dacio Molson, found
myself apprenticed to Jeldry Carpartha, otherwise known throughout the
castle as 'Mr Information.' His official title was 'Master of Royal
Intelligence,' but Mr Information was how he was known -- and
feared.

It was not long before I was to learn the root of this fear.

Initially my work was to carry out odd jobs for the Master, maintain
his tools and electrical devices, and occasionally complete some
intricate handiwork on one or other of his projects. The truth is, he
was getting old; his hands were not so steady, nor his vision so sharp,
as once they were. My duties, in my youthful innocence, were to be his
eyes and hands.

In that fateful week of my initiation into the Master's arcane skills,
he had me copy a small device -- a thing of brass, and iron springs,
about the size of a walnut -- a clip, or clamp of some unspecified
kind. I copied it with ease; the Master's workshop was a vast
improvement on my father's ill-equipped shack, and the tools were all
of high quality and in perfect working order. Indeed their upkeep was
by far my main employment.

The clip, when finished, seemed to please the Master, and he placed it
with its twin upon a loaded trolley, next to an array of apparatus he
had recently collated. Now, some days later, the trolley stood next to
a long oak workbench, which that very morning on his instructions I had
cleared and scrubbed.

"We are complete, I think," he said. "Go tell the officers we are
ready."

My bewilderment must have been apparent on my face, for he nodded
toward the door, and when I didn't move he pointed a crooked finger at
it.

Outside waited two of the King's guards, one standing and the other
sitting on a bench next to a servant girl, who stared off down the dim
corridor.

"He is ready?" asked the standing guard. It was Boldar, an affecting,
officious man, whom I had inadvertently crossed when first I came to
the castle. The other guard I knew as Phelimp, a rough and ready
soldier, whom I had seen in Boldar's company on more than one occasion.
I nodded, and he turned toward his partner, who stood, pulling the girl
roughly to her feet. I saw then that her hands were tied behind her
back. She stumbled as Phelimp propelled her forwards. Regaining her
balance she looked into my eyes.

I know not how to describe what I saw. She was afraid, for certain, but
also confused, as if she did not understand what was to come. No more
did I, and perhaps she recognised this.

"Well?" said Boldar, looking down his nose at me. "Let us in. We have
no wish to stay forever in this draughty basement."

I retreated through the open door, and the officers together pushed the
girl before them. Once in the Master's workshop, they stopped, one each
side of her. I slipped behind them and latched the door, and as I
turned I glimpsed the fine cord with which they had tightly bound her
hands. Red weals encircled her wrists, and the cord itself was stained
with blood. Silently I crossed the room and stood beside the
Master.

The girl glanced quickly around the twilit workshop. The Master was
frugal with his light, and only four oil-lamps cast their unsteady
beams from the many brackets ranged around the walls. Her glance came
swiftly back to the Master, and then she dropped her gaze to the floor.
She was a forlorn sight: a fearful expression fixed upon her dark
features, and as she stared at the packed earth in front of the
Master's boots, she bit her bottom lip.

I was not sure what she was doing here, but I was beginning to form an
idea. She wore the clothes of a castle servant: a dark blue dress of
coarse material, long to the ground, swelled out no doubt with ample
petticoats against the harsh winds whistling through the castle. Long
sleeves completed her protection from the climate, but her servant's
cap was gone. Her jet black hair had begun to tumble down her shoulder.
I put her age at about nineteen years, though truth be told I was
inexpert at such estimates.

"Merya Myalotta," said the Master, and the girl looked up at him at the
sound of her name. "You know why you are here."

She began to shake her head. The Master nodded slowly. "N-No," she
said. Her voice was deeper than I expected.

"Oh yes," said the Master. "You know very well." He walked to the bench
I had so assiduously cleaned that morning. Merya Myalotta shook her
head again, more vigorously this time, and when the Master raised his
hand she began to struggle against the soldiers' grasp.

"No! I have done no wrong!" She tried to wrench herself free, but it
was futile; the guards gripped an arm each, and restrained her with
ease.

The Master brought his hand sharply down onto the wooden surface, and
at the slap of his palm against the scrubbed oak, the guards dragged
the struggling girl over toward the bench.

Mesmerised, I watched this performance, for performance it surely was.
An exercise in intimidation, and still I knew not what misdemeanour
this unfortunate had committed.

The Master stepped closer to the girl, and took her chin in his hand,
forcing her to look up at him. "Merya, we can make this quick and easy,
or we can make it long and hard. It makes no difference to me. Whether
you put up a fleeting resistance, or cut your losses and come clean,
either way you will provide a valuable lesson for my young apprentice
here. He has need of lessons. You will be his first."

With that, the Master turned the girl's head towards me, and I saw
again that beseeching fear in her moist-rimmed eyes. I surely reddened,
and could not hold her gaze.

The Master continued, "These officers have informed you of your rights,
requested your compliance, and reported your refusal to co-operate. It
remains only for me, Master of Royal Intelligence, to enforce the
King's Law."

He dropped his hand from her face, and took a step back.

"Divest her," he said.

There was a pause, as if all present were waiting for a signal. Merya
looked from one guard's face to the other, then back to the
first.

Phelimp, with a leisurely slowness, withdrew his knife from the
battered sheath strapped across his chest. The blade, unlike the
sheath, was pristine -- the lamplight flashed along its foot-long
mirrored surface. Still gripping her arm, he leaned behind the girl,
and she flinched as the blade sliced cleanly through the cord that
bound her wrists.

She had no chance to rub those angry weals, as Boldar and Phelimp
continued to hold her fast with one hand each.

And now, with a methodical precision that suggested they had performed
this task before, they used their other hands in perfect synchronism to
disrobe the girl: peeling her garments free; pulling straps away and
down, a harsh tug to burst the brittle buttons of her blouse; a quick
wrench to loosen the laces of her bodice.

Though held fast by her arms, Merya's body jerked at each violent tug.
Phelimp used his formidable blade once more to cut the waist-cords of
her petticoats in one quick snap. Soon she stood in far less clothing
than was piled up beside her on the floor.

Merya Myalotta was a well-fed girl, not scrawny like some others of the
servants. Her pale flesh, now exposed in the dim light of the Master's
workshop, trembled as the guards manhandled her.

Despite her obvious fear, she stood defiant between the guards, her
linen under-shift the only protection to her modesty. Her ample
cleavage heaved with each uncertain breath, the twin points mesmerising
me as I watched the rippling fabric.

There was a pause -- again as if rehearsed -- and both guards looked at
the Master.

Jeldry Carpartha looked from Boldar to Phelimp, and then to the girl.
He looked back at Phelimp and nodded.

Phelimp turned to the girl. He raised his free hand, and with a single
movement grasped the top of Merya's shift and tugged it roughly
downwards, rending the cloth in one easy movement.

The girl gasped at the sudden violence of her divestment.

I too was shocked. When Phelimp tossed the torn garment onto the pile
with the rest, Merya Myalotta was left standing in only a pair of
skimpy knickers.

The guards pushed her forward a step, toward the workbench. She
stumbled, but was prevented from falling by her captors' grip. Her
breasts, well-rounded -- full, dark-haloed nipples hypnotising my
untutored eyes -- bounced and rippled in a most tantalising way. I was,
you see, inexperienced in matters of love, emotional or physical, and
this full view of Merya's delightful flesh was affecting me.

The Master held up a hand and stepped toward her. She looked away as
his gaze took in her nakedness.

"What is this?" he said pointing a thin finger at her only remaining
garment. "How is a mere servant girl able to wear such lavish -- and
expensive -- under-things?"

Merya showed no reaction, but when the Master placed the back of his
hand upon her faintly rounded belly, and slipped his fingers inside the
front of the garment, I heard the rush of breath she took through
gritted teeth.

"Such fine silk," the Master said. "One would have thought it wasted on
the likes of you."

Merya said nothing. She did not meet his gaze. Her composure and
defiance impressed me, as she stood between the guards, arms gripped
tight, bosom jutting, the Master's hand against her flesh, so close to
her most intimate place.

Jeldry Carpartha withdrew his hand, stepped back and gestured sideways.
"The bench," he said.

Merya, as I said, was well covered, unlike the starving servants I had
seen elsewhere in the castle. And now I could see the full extent of
Merya's shapeliness. Her voluptuous body fascinated me: the way it
narrowed to her waist, the flesh of which still showed the indentations
of her clothes; the spread of her hips; the curve of her behind; the
firm lines of her long legs. I was entranced.

And now the guards were pulling her over to the wide oaken bench that I
had unknowingly prepared for her. Clearly they had performed this task
before. As one, they lifted Merya and placed her, sitting, with the
backs of her knees against one end of the bench, legs dangling over the
edge.

The Master reached under the surface and withdrew a canvas bag. "Dak,"
he said, tossing it toward me. I caught it clumsily. "Apply these
bindings."

Inside the bag were coiled some stout ropes, four in all, each fastened
to a rectangular leather flap. The flaps were laced like boots, with
tongues and eyelets. Each rope was looped, and sewn into its flap in
such a way that the two could not be separated.

With patience the Master watched my inspection, then beckoned me
over.

Phelimp stood at the end of the bench, facing the girl. As Boldar and
the Master grasped Merya's wrists, Phelimp placed his big hands on her
thighs, just above her knees, while the other two pulled her arms back,
forcing her to lie down on the bench. She tried to turn her head, to
see what was happening, but as her shoulder-blades touched the oak,
Boldar and the Master pulled her arms above her head, and her view to
either side was thus obscured. She was breathing rapidly now, in what I
suspected was blind fear. Her stomach, and those fulsome breasts,
trembled with each gasp.

"One cuff," the Master said, pointing at the coils I held. I passed it
to him, and he slipped it over the hand he held so firmly. As he
shifted his grip, I saw the white marks his fingertips had left in
Merya's flesh. "Now tie the laces," he said.

I threaded the leather laces through the cuff and pulled them tight. I
was about to tie the knot, when the Master interrupted.

"Tighter," he said. I pulled the laces, tugged them hard. Merya let out
a yelp and lifted her head from the oak, but the Master simply yanked
her arm, and with a cry she dropped back onto the wood. "Now loop the
rope through the binding ring, and tie it." He nodded toward the far
end of the bench. Merya's outstretched arms reached barely to its
middle.

I knew the whereabouts of the ring -- I had often wondered about its
purpose -- and as I took the rope over the far edge of the bench, I saw
how it slipped into a groove worn in the timber. There was a matching
groove some three feet from the first.

I tied the rope, and with swift precision -- now that I knew what to do
-- I fastened Merya's other wrist, and then her ankles, pulling them
tightly back to a ring located beneath the other end of the bench.
Phelimp released Merya's thighs; white patches turned palest blue where
his grip had pressed her skin.

Both guards stood at the foot of the bench, eyeing Merya's helpless
form. Boldar licked his lips.

"Thank you," said the Master. "That will be all."

With lingering leers at the girl, the guards retreated to the door and
went away.

So now Merya was in the Master's power. She lay between us, straining
at her bindings, but it was futile. The leather cuffs were tight, the
ropes securely fastened. The muscles in her arms and legs tensed as she
pulled against the restraints, her stomach quivering with each effort.
It was no use; she was held fast.

The Master looked into Merya's eyes, but said nothing. She returned his
implacable gaze, then turned her head and glanced at me. I had expected
her to cry out, to plead for mercy. But it was as if she knew what was
to come, and that there was no stopping it.

She flinched as the Master raised his hand above her face. She seemed
to hold her breath as the hand hovered over her, and her gaze followed
as it descended toward her. Jeldry Carpartha placed two bony fingers on
Merya Myalotta's neck, and slowly traced a line between her breasts,
down to her navel, where he rested his hand upon her abdomen. Merya
lifted her head to see.

The Master spread his hand and began to knead the skin of her belly. He
pressed his fingers into her flesh, massaging her solar plexus muscles,
then slid his fingertips upwards to the base of her ribs. She let out a
gasp as he pressed his fingers deep under her ribcage, causing the
outline of the bones to stand out under her skin.

"My predecessor," said the Master, maintaining his manual pressure,
"used to break each rib by hand, one at a time." Merya Myalotta stared
at him, a look of terror on her face. "But he had a grip of iron..."
The Master withdrew his hand. "Alas, my rib-cracking days are over. I
no longer have the strength. But young Dak here..." A grin flashed
across his face and he turned to me. Merya followed his gaze and stared
into my eyes. She wore a look of fear, of confused anticipation.

"Dak will learn the skills," said the Master, turning back to the girl.
"Today he will learn them from you."

He reached toward the trolley and retrieved a small pot, which he held
at arm's length over Merya's chest. "Here," he said, beckoning to me
with his other hand. Obediently I leaned in close, watching Merya's
breasts rise and fall with each nervous breath.

The Master gently tipped the pot, and a trickle of glutinous, yellow
oil trickled over the lip and landed on the girl's left breast, just
above the nipple. The Master moved the pot around, so that the flow of
oil encircled and engulfed the nipple. Merya watched the oil ooze
slowly over her skin.

"Use your fingers, Dak," said the Master. "Make sure the oil is well
rubbed in." Merya looked up at me as I reached out a tentative hand.
The oil was silky smooth. Merya's nipple was soft and yielding. But
under my insistent fingertips it became much firmer, and Merya's
breathing became deeper.

The master handed me the pot, and with a nod indicated Merya's other
breast. I poured the yellow oil delicately onto her right nipple, and
repeated the massage. This time the pink protrusion erected almost
instantly. Merya's breathing was more rapid now, and she eyed the
Master suspiciously as he withdrew another item from the trolley.

What Jeldry Carpartha held in his hand was the original mysterious clip
that he had had me copy. And as he operated the spring it dawned on me
the purpose for which it had been designed. With practised dexterity
the Master operated the central plunger, causing the collar to expand
and reveal the claw-like central part. I watched, fascinated, as
quickly he placed the open device around Merya's left nipple, and
released the plunger.

The girl half gasped, half cried, as the brass claw fastened upon her
delicate flesh. She let out a moan, watching the metal appendage move
about as her body shook in surprise, the weight of the clip pulling her
breast to one side.

The Master handed me the other clip, the one I had copied from that now
attached to Merya's flesh. I operated the plunger and easily applied it
to her right breast, letting the claw snap over the nipple.

The iron springs in my copied clip were newer than those in the
Master's original, and must have been much stronger, for as the claw
bit into her she cried out in obvious pain. Tears squeezed out between
her tightly closed eyelids and she began to breathe in rapid bursts.
This only exacerbated her discomfort, as the heavy clips flailed around
with each rise and fall of her chest.

I glanced at the Master, but he simply stood at the side of the bench,
arms folded, watching the girl writhing. After a few moments, when her
movements had slowed, Jeldry Carpartha turned to me and said, "Bring
the Wimshurst."

The Wimshurst machine was the Master's pride and joy. He had explained
to me more than once that it was an electrostatic device for inducing a
static charge -- a charge that could be stored in glass containers. My
knowledge of such things was minimal, and the operation of the machine
was a mystery to me. It was impressive, though, in its ability to
produce large sparks that leapt across the air like lightning -- but on
a smaller scale. Now it appeared that he wished to subject Merya
Myalotta to the awesome power of his electric-storm generator.

I wheeled the Wimshurst machine on its trolley over to the bench. The
Master grinned and took up the pair of flexes -- narrow copper strands
woven into thin cords and sheathed in fine cotton. One end of each flex
was already secured to the machine. The other ends he deftly attached
to the clips on Merya's nipples. She stared in horror at the apparatus,
and at the flexes coiling away to the infernal device.

The Master leaned close to her face, careful not to obscure her view of
the machine, its twin discs -- a foot or more in diameter -- sitting
ominously silent on the trolley.

"Merya," he said, speaking in a gentle, quiet tone. "This machine is
very powerful. It is probably the most powerful, painful and
destructive machine you will ever come across. You are now at its
mercy." He straightened up. Merya looked across to the Wimshurst,
innocently stationary next to her, and then back to the Master. She bit
her lip, and strained against her bindings. The coiled flexes quivered,
their motion echoing her shudders.

"So that you will appreciate the power of the machine," said the
Master, "we will apply a small charge to you. Then you can decide
whether we shall go further."

He took up a pair of measuring calipers from the trolley, and precisely
set the distance between the Wimshurts's discharge globes. Then he
signalled me to start the machine.

I pulled on the gloves provided for the purpose, and began to turn the
handle. The twin discs started to rotate, in opposite directions,
building up the static in the two glass jars. The sound of the machine
was a constant hiss as I built up the speed.

Jeldry Carpartha watched me, occasionally glancing down to the
outstretched form of the unfortunate girl, who seemed transfixed by the
rotating discs. And then, after I had turned the crank for some
minutes, the sound began to change. A raucous crackling punctuated the
hiss as the charge built up in the jars. Despite the perspiration that
I felt beading on my skin, each hair on my body seemed to be straining
away from its neighbours. I continued to crank the handle as the
crackling became louder still.

The Master turned to the girl. She glanced up at him, and then back to
the blur of the rotating discs. The crackling had become a fierce
spitting, and I sensed the static in the air.

Then, as I knew would happen, an almighty crack, like a clap of
too-near thunder, rent the air. And as the flash of electric energy
leapt across the gap between the discharge globes, Merya Myalotta's
body sprang wholesale into the air, lifting some inches above the
wooden bench and dropping roughly back again. The thud as her body
remade its contact with the oak was almost masked by her wailing cry of
agony.

The Master signalled me to stop turning the machine, and I let the
discs run on under their own momentum. The static crackling
subsided.

Merya was crying now -- long sobs of pity, and pain. She must have
known that she would talk, sooner or later, but when the Master bent
down and whispered in her ear she shut her eyes and shook her head. He
grasped her chin and forced her to look at him.

"Very well, Merya Myalotta," he said. "You leave me no choice." He
beckoned me over to the bench, indicating with a pointing finger that I
should stand at the end, where the girl's knees bent over the edge of
the wood. "You have one last chance," he said, "before Dak here applies
the special ministrations of the Wimshurst to your intimate regions."
He looked me in the eye and pointed to Merya's skimpy silk knickers. I
touched the smooth fabric; the Master nodded.

I slipped the fingers of one hand inside the front of the knickers,
aware of the warmth of Merya's skin, and the tickle of her hair on my
fingertips. Grasping the fabric in a firm grip, I wrenched downwards,
ripping the silk and pulling the entire garment away. Her body jerked
at the violence of it and she cried out. As I shook the shreds from my
grasp I noticed some of her curly black hairs between my fingers. And
my gaze was inexorably drawn to the place between her thighs.

Jeldry Carpartha was at my side. In his hand he held a smooth rod of
brass and ebony, a foot long and maybe two inches in diameter. To one
end of this he had already attached a coiled flex. He handed me the
rod.

"You know what to do," he said.

Indeed I did. And Merya Myalotta was no match for the relentless
persuasion of Mr Information and the Wimshurst machine.

My initiation into the work of the Master of Royal Intelligence was
brutal and uncompromising, but I performed my duties well, and honed my
skills. When Jeldry Carpartha eventually passed on, I was his natural
successor. By then he had taught me a great deal, but I went on to
refine his techniques and develop some of my own.

As you, my dear, are about to discover.