Parker 23: Lady Jane Greystone's Remarkable Experiment
Part 1
PARKER23.TXT -- 1/3
LADY JANE GREYSTONE'S REMARKABLE EXPERIMENT
1/3
By Parker
an210088@anon.penet.fi
WARNING: This story involves a fair bit of non-consensual
sex, humiliation, domination and - last but not least -
bestiality. If this sort of fantasy offends you, then read
no further. That, in case you didn't notice, was a warning.
Copyright 1994 by Parker (me). Feel free to distribute the story
(unaltered, of course), but be discrete.
=================================================================
The horseshoe clack and rattle of the fading carriage had only just died
away down the cracked cobble of Bond Street when the carriage's recently
disgorged passenger reached the large oak door and rapped three times with the
brass handle of his cane. The door opened a few moments later, allowing a weak
candle glow of light to seep out and dissipate in the cool night fog.
A voice: "Sir!"
The man grimaced. "I left my keys at Windsor, I was in such a hurry." The
door opened wider and the man walked into the entrance hall. It was a small
room, with a passageway leading straight ahead and a stairway off to the side.
"I trust everything is in readiness," he said, standing impatiently while the
other man, a servant, removed his hat and jacket.
"Yes sir."
"And my friends? They've enjoyed dinner?"
An outburst of laughter sounded from above. The servant allowed himself a
quiet smile. "I believe so, sir."
The man nodded. "Good. I was concerned that my lateness might have upset
matters."
The servant stared blankly.
"Yes, well... you remember the arrangements?"
"Sir." The servant managed to look offended without changing his
expression.
The man nodded, a tiny smile reaching his lips. "Quite."
Another burst of laughter came from above.
"I suppose I should join them."
He turned away from the servant and climbed the stairs.
*****
"...and then I said to him: 'sir, my family has enjoyed noble status for
centuries. If you wish to claim monkeys in your lineage, that is your affair.
I'll thank you, sir, not to claim such for mine.'" The speaker, Lord Richard
Fleming, paused briefly to drain his wine glass while basking in the inevitable
laughter. When the merriment died down, he resumed speaking. "I thought he'd
have a stroke, he looked so angry." Lord Fleming dropped his voice and put on
an exaggerated cockney accent. "'But sir' he said, 'if you had taken the time
to read my book...' but I just looked at him and said 'My good man - and I use
that term under advisement - *I* do not read books written by monkeys." The
table erupted into a fresh round of laughter.
Sir Gerald Reid entered the dining room - his dining room - grinning at
the joke. "I say, Dickon, you might have waited with the stories. It's bad
enough I missed the meal..."
The fat Lord waved the newcomer silent, still wrapped in the throes of his
anecdote. "Then he said: 'my lord, I do not claim any such thing. Monkeys do
not write books.' Well, I looked him up and down and answered: '*I* know one
who does.'"
Gerald Reid grinned with appreciation as another round of laughter swept
the table. Dickon had been dining out on that story for months now, but it
never failed to incite amusement. Particularly from old Warrington. The tall,
wiry clergyman was rocking back and forth in his seat, roaring with
high-pitched laughter as tears ran down his angular face. Arch-Bishop
Warrington was one of Mr. Darwin's bitterest critics in England, having
declared the scientist's work "blasphemous" and calling for a ban on his book
'The Origin of Species' ever since it had been published two years ago.
Likewise, Sir William Buckman, the head of the geology department at
Oxford, was enjoying the tale of Darwin's discomfort. He too was an outspoken
critic of the naturalist's work. The heavily bearded academic let out a loud
belch of laughter as he finished his glass and reached for the whisky bottle.
"Well said, Dickon, well said. That man needs to be put in his place; he should
have stuck with barnacles and coral reefs and the like." He paused for a moment
as he poured himself a generous glass. "He's made himself a laughingstock with
his ridiculous monkey theory."
"Actually," Reid said, taking a seat at the table and reaching for a
glass, "it's a bit of a rum thing, finding you gentleman putting your mind to
this topic, as my story tonight deals with that very subject." He reached into
his jacket and pulled out a battered, leatherbound notebook. "And about Lady
Jane Greystone."
Buckman let out a braying laugh, dribbling whisky into his beard. "Her? A
humorous story, then?"
"I thought she'd disappeared some time ago," Fleming ventured, scratching
his neatly trimmed grey beard. "In Africa, or some such place."
"Indeed she did," Reid answered. "She was heading an expedition. With
Brooke."
"Rupert Brooke?" Buckman seemed surprised. "But I heard he was in India
now. After suffering a protracted fever."
"Oh, he was rather ill," Reid answered. "but he's quite recuperated now. I
saw him before he left." He patted the notebook. "He gave me this, and told me
what happened."
"In Africa?"
Reid nodded. "And I've since... shall I say, confirmed his information by
my own sources. I can assure you, then, that the story I'm about to tell you is
completely true. Every word."
The table fell silent for a moment.
"Well then," Warrington said, "perhaps you'd best get on with it then."
"Yes," Buckman agreed, finishing his whisky. "My interest is piqued."
"As is mine," agreed Fleming. "Do tell us."
"Well," Reid said looking pleased, "I shall."
*****
Annoyed, Lady Jane Greystone tossed her head and tried to push her thick,
auburn hair back over her shoulder, where it wouldn't interfere with her
writing. She normally tied back her long hair or wore it in a tight bun, but
she'd already let it loose in preparation for bed. Now it fell in unhampered,
distracting waves as she leaned over the sputtering oil lamp that kept the
darkness from her small tent and tried to write.
It was hopeless. She'd been staring at her notebook for a good fifteen
minutes now, but nothing came. Not enough sleep; too much excitement. The
dizzying discoveries of last few weeks were finally catching up with her. If
she was right, and she was quite certain that she was, she had discovered a new
species of ape. Or something. The creatures she had encountered were far more
advanced than any member of the great ape family previously known. Although
generally ape-like in appearance, the new species exhibited traces of
intelligence previously thought to be the exclusive domain of humanity. Some of
them were even constructing and using tools!
Unable to work or sleep, she turned back the pages and skimmed through
some earlier entries:
"...the proto-humans [as she had termed them] exhibit
the physical characteristics of both man and ape. They
are exceedingly hairy, and have the same long, well
muscled arms of the great ape family, but the facial
features and cranial development suggest a more
developed mental capacity.... and other physical
characteristics suggest a cross between the two
species; the genitals, while not as large as that of a
homo sapian [she blushed, reading this], are much
larger than that of the great ape..."
Inspired, she picked up her pen, flipped to the last passage and began to
write:
"I feel that I have found one of Mr. Darwin's
'numberless transitional links' regarding which he
predicted criticism. The evidence clearly shows that
the proto-humans are a 'closely allied and
representative species' of mankind."
*****
"Oh, nonsense." Buckman shook his head and took another deep pull on his
drink. "What absolute twaddle. Shows why women shouldn't get involved with
science."
"That may be," Fleming told him, "but we still want to hear the story." He
looked at Reid and grinned. "Nonsense as it may be." Warrington nodded in
agreement. "Do continue." Reid looked down at the notebook and resumed
reading...
*****
"As an experiment, we've been living among them for
almost two weeks now. We've begun to gain a rudimentary
understanding of their language, and they're beginning
to accept our presence. I believe that we're well on
our way to establishing their essential kinship with
humanity."
Overwhelmed by her own words, she put down the pen, shivering as she
considered the events of the last few weeks. Quite a discovery for anyone, but
for Jane Greystone, it meant vindication. Vindication for choosing a life of
science when that field was almost exclusively the domain of men. Vindication
for suffering the ridicule and taunts from those bastards at the university.
Vindication for the long, hard hours of study while her childhood friends
attended parties and plays and, eventually, married.
Marriage.
Sighing, she gazed blankly at the canvass side of her small, poorly lit
tent. Rupert. He was the only one who'd believed in her, who'd stood by her.
She almost imagined she could hear his quiet breathing from where he slept, in
the tent next to hers. But of course that was impossible.
Rupert. And those days on board...
No. She wouldn't think of that now. She had a job to do here. Even if
Rupert didn't understand that at present. Shaking her head, she picked up the
pen and stared down at her notebook. There'd be plenty of time for that later.
Once she'd completed her experiments here in Africa. Once she'd proven that
this new species of great ape was, indeed, Mr. Darwin's infamous missing
"transitional link". Once she'd shown the world that she was as good a
scientist as any man. Then she would be able to...
CRACK!
The chattering stillness of the African night was shattered by a gunshot.
Then another... and another... Shocked from her dreams of a triumphant return
to London, the englishwoman dropped her notebook and peered outside. The
campfire was still burning, still fighting off the shadows, but shed no light
on the source of the gunfire. Another shot rang out from the darkness
surrounding the camp. The shot was followed by shouting voices and screams of
panic and anger.
Panting with fear, Jane grabbed her father's old Springfield from where it
had been lying just inside the entrance to her tent. She pushed aside the flap
and moved outside - pausing for a moment as she realized that her tall, lithe
body was clad in nothing more than an oversized shirt and panties - and began
to run towards Rupert's tent. Another series of shots rang out from the
darkness surrounding the camp. Before she had covered half the distance between
the two tents, a man, nothing more than a dark shape in the flickerlight,
slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. By the time she cleared her hair
away from her face, the man was gone. She didn't know whether it was one of her
own men or an attacker.
Whoever they were.
She had just clambered to her knees when another man, silhouetted by the
fire, moved into her field of view. He was shouting orders in a native dialect.
A white man! Carrying a revolver. Jane swallowed; the only whites in her party
were herself and Rupert, and that wasn't Rupert.
Fighting to steady her breathing, she raised the heavy rifle to her
shoulder and took aim. The man walked slowly closer, not seeing her until her
was only half a dozen yards away. She couldn't miss. Staring down the barrel of
the rifle, Jane saw the man's eyes go wide in fear as she held her breath and
pulled the trigger...
*****
Jacques Manon staggered backward and fell on his ass. He looked down,
expecting to see his guts spilling out onto his lap, but there was nothing.
No wound.
He looked up. The gun must have misfired. The woman was pulling at the
lever, trying to dislodge the malfunctioning round and get a new one in the
chamber.
"Merde."
The frenchman pushed himself up off the ground and lunged at her. There
was a loud click as the new cartridge slipped into the chamber. The woman swung
the rifle around, but it was too late. Jacques was already too close. He
grabbed the barrel with one hand and jerked it away while striking the woman
across the face with his other hand. She let out a cry and fell backwards onto
the ground.
Panting, Manon got to his feet and tossed the heavy rifle away into the
bush. He walked over and picked up his revolver from where it had fallen and
went back to the woman. She glared up at him from the ground, but didn't move.
Jacques smirked and then looked around the camp. It was pretty much over.
His men, all experienced hunters through many years spent poaching, had made
short work of the porters and servants that had made up the white woman's camp.
That only left...
"Rupert!"
The englishwoman scrambled to her feet and began to run towards the centre
of the camp, where two of Manon's men dragged a struggling white man into the
firelight. Cursing, Manon grabbed at her, getting a fistful of cloth and
jerking her back onto her bare ass. There was a tearing sound and the poacher
caught of glimpse of white breast as the woman tried to twist free.
The white man renewed his efforts to break free when he saw the woman, but
one of his captors brought a pistol butt down on the back of his head and he
collapsed to the ground.
"Rupert!" The woman started to cry.
Manon looked at the men.
"" he asked, mangling the native dialect.
The black man laughed. "" he answered. ""
Manon nodded. "" he ordered. ""
He turned his attention back to the englishwoman, who crouched at his
feet, glaring up at him through a curtain of hair. He let out a low,
appreciative whistle. Three days of watching from the jungle had not conveyed
to him just how beautiful she was. She was tall for a woman, with long legs and
a lithe, athletic figure. Her hair, a rich auburn, flowed thick and rich down
to the small of her back. That much he had seen from the distance. But up
close, even in the flickering light of the half-dead fire, she was
breathtaking. The woman had fair, english skin and a small, upturned nose over
a set of full, rich lips. Her eyes, large and grey, stared up at him from under
a thick curtain of hair as she panted - in anger? fear? - at his feet.
The poacher had originally planned to ransom her, unharmed and untouched,
but those plans fell by the wayside as he gazed down at her. He had been in the
jungle for months; it had been a long time since he had seen a woman and even
longer since he had seen a white woman.
And he had never, never seen a woman like this.
He had to have her.
To take her.
Now.
Growling, the frenchman grabbed the woman by her thick hair, pulled her to
her feet and shoved her, stumbling, into the weak firelight where she collapsed
to the ground. He walked quickly after her, his hands unfastening his belt as
he walked.
"No... oh no..."
The woman, her grey eyes wide, tried to scuttle away on her hand and
knees, but Jacques was too quick. He threw himself on top of her, pinning her
lithe body to the ground. Sobbing, she tried to squirm free, but couldn't. The
frenchman's rough hands slipped under the waist of her panties and tore them
away.
"You bastard!" She began to hit him on the side of the head, but he just
ignored her.
His cock felt like it was going to explode.
It had been too long.
Forcing her legs apart with his body weight, he manoeuvred himself so that
the engorged head of his cock was positioned right above her unwilling pussy.
With a sharp bark of lust, he rammed himself forward, burying his cock inside
of her with one violent shove. The woman's cries turned to screeches of agony
as his massive cock filled her dry, tight pussy.
"Noooo..." She bucked and twisted beneath him, struggling madly to pull
her body away the impaling cock, but her movements only served to increase his
excitement. A thin line of spittle trickled out of his open mouth and onto her
face as he grabbed her ass and began to pump his cock brutally in and out of
her.
"Ahhh..."
It didn't take long. Within moments, he stiffened and shot his load into
her belly. The woman stopped struggling and started to cry as she felt his hot
semen fill her pussy and dribble out onto her ass. She lay limp as he pumped
twice more and then pulled out, leaving a thick glob of cum glistening in her
curly pubic hair.
"Nice," he grunted. "You make a good whore." Grinning, he leaned down and
brought his lips against hers for a kiss. She gasped and tried to turn away,
but he forced his tongue into her mouth. Their eyes were inches apart as he
slowly explored the inside of her mouth and then pulled away as she gagged
beneath him. He drew in a breath to say something, but was interrupted by a
glob of spittle right in his eye.
She'd spat at him.
"Bitch! English bitch." He rolled off of her and got to his feet, wiping
the spittle from his face. "I'm not good enough, eh?" He gestured at the black
men that stood, watching, from the shadowed edge of the firelight. "Maybe black
flesh is more to your liking."
The woman's eyes widened and she began to scream anew...
*****
"I say!"
"You mean..." Warrington looked confused. "He... raped her?"
"Yes," Reid confirmed. "You take my meaning exactly."
Silence...
Buckman finished his drink and began to pour another.
"Well?"
"Do go on," Fleming urged, his face flushed.
*****
Lady Jane Greystone twisted and writhed in her bonds, her lithe, half-clad
body glowing a deep red where the belt had struck it and glistening with pain
sweat in the weak firelight. Her naked arms were tied at the wrist and spread
apart in a Y shape above her head by two ropes which led upwards to tree
branches. Clad only in the torn shirt that fell to just below her waist, the
englishwoman cried out in mindless pain as Manon's belt struck her ass and
lower back again and again. Her pussy and inner thighs, clearly visible every
time her torn shirt fluttered open, glistened with rivers of half-dried cum.
She'd already been fucked by half a dozen of the frenchman's men before
Manon had grown bored with the sport. She had cried and struggled madly through
the first few rapes, but, after realizing there was nothing she could do to
stop it, she'd just laid there, limp and unresisting as the black men had
fucked her body.
Her mind drifted, somewhere far away.
Somewhere pleasant.
Manon's men hadn't seemed to mind, pumping away at her and grunting like
animals, but Manon quickly flew into a rage. Cursing, he'd jerked the last man
off of her just as he came. She'd flinched a bit as his hot cum splattered her
stomach and face, but even that hadn't disturbed her sense of detachment. The
frenchman had shouted something at her, something that sounded like "...not
good enough... english whore should fuck like an english whore...", but again
it seemed far away. Like it was happening to someone else. It wasn't until they
tied her wrists and strung her up under the tree that brutal reality shattered
her sense of detachment.
The first blow of the belt dispelled all sense of peace.
By the fifth blow, she'd become a tortured, screaming animal...
END PART ONE
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As usual, I am interested in any comments you may have
regarding this story, or any of my other stories.
