The Mortification of Isabel by Lindsay Ross

never taken a proper look before but on closer inspection it seemed likely that most of the contents of the sloping glass topped cases were valuable even if they were not all traditional in their appeal.
    My life in Mr. Povey’s rooms had been so circumscribed and constrained, most of the time spent on my knees, that I had not had occasion to examine the master’s material possessions.
    Later in the day John came to fetch me and took me downstairs where a footman waited to lead me to the ballroom thronged with men and women in fancy dress. When the footman, none other than Hall himself, strode in, head held high, pulling me on the leather leash, the musicians struck up a fanfare and everyone turned to discover who had made a grand entrance.
    There was a burst of applause and cries of appreciation.
    When I was unleashed and left to wander round the room I could think only of how badly marked I must look having endured such a recent caning from Hall and his friend.
    I meandered through the groups of guests keeping well clear of those who were dancing and both men and women reached out to grope between my legs or feel my breasts as I sidled past.
    When I reached an area where a group of acquaintances was seated enjoying conversation, a woman stopped me in my tracks and demanded I made myself available in lieu of a table, placing a hot coffee pot and coffee cups on my naked back. I tried to keep absolutely still like the inanimate object I was meant to be but the coffee pot burned my back and caused me to yelp, much to their amusement.
    Eventually this group released me and Hall, who had been hovering close by, attached my lead again and pulled me along the corridor to the games room where Mr. Povey was locked in combat (with hearts, clubs, diamonds and spades) on the green baize table with a large number of his cronies.
    The room was full of cigar smoke and voices were loud, testimony to the amount of hard drinking that accompanied the card playing.
    “Ah, here’s the bitch you’ve been boasting about. What do you call her?” asked one of the guests as a few caught sight of me.
    “Bella,” said Mr. Povey.
    “ Bellisimo … magnifico ,” said the same guest.
    In another part of the spacious room, men were playing billiards.
    As I crawled in their direction I heard one of them say: “Here’s a chance of some sport.”
    They continued their game for awhile but I saw two of the players whispering to each other and guessed I would be the victim of whatever plan was hatched.
    I was seized, hoisted onto the billiard table, and made to lie on my back with my legs open wide.
    “Let’s see how many we can pot,” said one of the originators of their little diversion.
    I was made to lift my knees and open up my sex as much as possible while they took turns to aim billiard balls at my pussy. Someone had the bright idea of inserting a ball inside me so that the balls they fired clicked against it. They talked crudely as so-called gentlemen do when ladies are absent, calling my quim “the pocket” and laughing at the double meaning of “kissing balls.” In order to strike the ball lodged in my pussy they had to perform what they called “trick shots” to make the billiard balls jump up at the end of their journey across the green baize.
    It wasn’t long before one of them had the idea of turning me over and using the billiard cues to strike my bottom.
    They seemed to lose interest in me after they had thrashed me soundly and resumed their game, leaving me to return to the card table.
    Mr. Povey had instructed me to amuse his guests so I crawled under the table where I could see only pairs of legs and not their owners. I rubbed the gentlemen between their legs, moving from one to another, a little like a music hall performer keeping plates spinning. I was soon aware of which cocks were erect and which were still soft and unbuttoned the trousers of those who were responding and drew out their pricks.
    I continued to