If one was to look up the word “suburbia” in a dictionary there would simply be a picture of Chamberlain Close. It was indeed the very definition of middle class respectability, the sort of place where an unkempt front lawn would make one a social pariah. Range Rovers were dutifully washed every Sunday morning, Songs of Praise was watched every Sunday night and the paperboy delivered nothing but the Daily Mail to every household. Mrs Boyce had lived there for over 30 years now and saw herself as very much the elder stateswoman of the Close. She was head of the neighbourhood watch, organised the sandwiches for the cricket team and the tea and biscuits for the church jumble sale. Without her, Mrs Boyce often though to herself, the close would go to hell in a handcart.
She also kept a sharp eye on any new arrivals to the area. Mrs Price he young wife and mother at Number 6 had initially started tending her garden wearing tiny shorts and a low cut vest top before Mrs Boyce had put a note through her door firmly but politely suggesting that she wear more respectable attire in future. Mrs Price had initially wanted to go round and give the old battle axe a piece of her mind but her husband convinced her that if they wished to exist happily in Chamberlain Close then getting on the wrong side of Mrs Boyce would be a dreadful mistake and so from that day on it was in jeans and a baggy jumper that Mrs Price tended her herbaceous border and Mrs Boyce had maintained order and decency in her beloved close. And then Emma moved into Number 13.
From the moment Emma had knocked on her door to say hello to her new neighbour Mrs Boyce had resented her. Cheerful and curvaceous her hair was dyed with red streaks, she wore low cut black dresses that her plump bosom threatened to spill out of and even worse she had a tattoo on her arm! When Emma invited Mrs Boyce and the other neighbours round for an introductory glass of wine Mrs Boyce could scarcely believe her eyes at the inside of her house. The sofa was draped in leopard print covers, there were posters on the walls of rock bands and even a shirtless Robbie Williams.
One item on the wall particularly disturbed Mrs Boyce, a large fabric wall hanging with a large five sided star on it.
“What on earth is that?” Mrs Boyce had shrieked in her shrill upper middle class tones.
“Oh its lovely isn’t it?” replied Emma leaning over to refill Mrs Boyce’s wine glass and giving Mr Boyce and the other husbands present an eyeful of her soft bountiful cleavage.
“It’s a Pentagram.”
Emma could see that Mrs Boyce was utterly puzzled
“I’m a wiccan.” she added by way of explanation.
Mrs Boyce looked even more puzzled she had never heard of a Wiccan before but was far too proud to let this woman know that. She would have to find out some other way
As soon as she reached the safety of Number 11, Mrs Boyce composed a letter to the Daily Mail’s Q&A section enquiring as to what precisely a Wiccan was. When she read the paper’s response over her breakfast a few mornings later, she spat out her tea in panic
“Henry! That woman next door!” she trilled to her husband “It says here that she’s… a witch!”
Henry Boyce thought that his wife must have taken leave of her senses. A witch in this day and age and in Chamberlain Close? But there it was in black and white. And in the Daily Mail too who were, as far as Henry could see, right about pretty much everything else. Mrs Boyce raced to the phone and frantically dialled her neighbours one by one. There would be an emergency meeting of the neighbourhood watch that very night to discuss the greatest crisis Chamberlain Close had ever faced.
That night, Henry Boyce dutifully passed round the biscuit barrel as his wife held court. All of the stalwarts of the close were there, Mr and Mrs Holland, The Braithwaites and Professor Williams the close’s resident historian.
“Something simply must be done!” wailed Mrs Holland “It’s bad enough that she plays that ruddy awful rock music at all hours. And walks around with her bosoms on display in those dresses.”
“And the men!” trilled Mrs Braithwaite “Why I’ve seen three different ones and she’s only been here a few weeks. Rough types too. Leather jacket and earrings one of them had! The property value of this close will simply plummet!”
“We’re missing the most important thing though.” Mrs Boyce appealed “The woman’s a witch! The Daily Mail said so! If we don’t do something about her now we’ll end up turned into toads!”
“But what can one do about a witch?” butted in Mr Holland “I mean there can’t have been witches round here for hundreds of years. What did they do about them then?”
“Professor.” said Mrs Boyce “You’re a learned man do you know anything about how to deal with this sort of ghastliness?”
“Well.” began the Professor as he puffed on his foul smelling pipe “When you phoned me Mrs Boyce, I had a little look in my study at some history books on this very subject. Now this tattoo on this Emma person’s arm.”
The women all grimaced at the thought of it
“Well illegal bahis it seems to be some kind of an occult symbol. A devil’s mark if you will. Now to prove that she’s a witch we’d need to find out if she’s got any more of these marks on her.”
“And how do we go about doing that?” enquired Mr Braithwaite
“Well.” the Professor answered “We’d obviously have to get her things off and have a good look at her.”
“Starkers you mean?” piped up Mr Braithwaite trying to disguise his excitement at the prospect of the buxom Emma in the altogether.
“Well yes.” the Professor chuckled “And if we find any more evidence on her then it’s simply a matter of extracting a confession.”
“And we do that how?” asked Henry Boyce his eyes surreptitiously meeting with Mr Holland and Mr Braithwaite’s.
Each man knew the others had on their mind. Whilst their wives had been sat discussing how disgraceful Emma was over coffee, the drunken discussion in the snug at the Cricketers Arms had mainly revolved around her daring displays of cleavage and her round womanly bottom.
“Well I’ve been reading up on this all day.”said Professor Williams “And I think we need to use the authentic methods that our ancestors used when they were faced with a similar catastrophe.”
“And those methods are?” grinned Mrs Boyce filled with barely disguised glee at the prospect of Emma being humiliated and tormented.
“Well.” the Professor smirked as he reloaded his pipe “What we need is some good shaving tackle, a large goose feather…”
While this was going on Emma,oblivious to the discussion of her fate, had been enjoying a nice long candlelight soak in the bath. She was planning to head to the nearby town in search of a good drink, good music and hopefully a good man. Emma couldn’t stand the local pub The Cricketers. It was full of stuck up snobs shaking their heads at her while their husbands mentally undressed her. Emma had taken to wearing more and more revealing tops and dresses in the hope of winding the harpies up even further.
After getting out of the bath and drying herself with a fluffy towel, Emma went through her underwear drawer for a few minutes before settling on a black lacy pair of knickers and a matching bra. She was feeling lucky tonight. As Emma went through her wardrobe in search of the right dress to go over the lacy lingerie she heard a knock at the door. Surely, it couldn’t be that bloody woman. She’d had Metallica on at hardly any volume at all, there was no way she could have heard it.
Emma covered her lace clad figure with her favourite red silk dressing gown and marched angrily to the door ready to give Mrs Boyce a piece of her mind. As she opened the door Emma was shocked to see not only Mrs Boyce but Mr Boyce too and the Hollands and Braithwaites and that strange old bloke with the pipe who was supposed to be a Professor of some kind.
“What on earth do you all want?” Emma snapped “If it’s the music don’t worry because I’m just getting ready to go out for the evening and if I’m lucky I might not be back until tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us my dear.” the Professor said gravely
“Come with you where?” began Emma before shouts of “Witch!” and “Harlot!” from the assembled wives drowned her out.
“I’m afraid we shall have to do this the hard way gentlemen.” said the Professor “Mr Holland if you’d like to do the honours.”
Mr Holland was a large heavy set man of farming stock and it was with considerable ease that he grabbed the voluptuous and full figured Emma and manhandled her into a fireman’s lift. Emma wriggled and shrieked in protest but Mr Holland held her fast in his brawny arms and carried her away.
“I’ll have the bloody police on you!” Emma shouted.
“By all means call them.” Mrs Boyce smiled “We intend to summon them ourselves once we’ve finished with you.”
“What are you going to do?” wailed Emma.
“Oh you’ll see.” grinned Mrs Braithwaite smugly “We’ve got a special treatment for the likes of you around these parts, witch!!”
“What do you mean witch?” cried Emma. She could feel her dressing gown riding up and could feel that her plump black lace clad bottom was on display to anyone walking behind her.
“You said yourself you’re a Wiccan.” scowled Mrs Braithwaite.
“Do you even know what a Wiccan is?” shouted Emma incredulously.
“Silence Witch!” boomed Mrs Boyce.
Eventually the procession reached its destination. The Village Hall where the Professor’s meticulous research had revealed stood on the very spot where confessions had been extracted from suspected sorceresses many centuries before. Inside seated on rows of plastic chairs were the other inhabitants of the close. Those outside Mrs Boyce’s inner circle were less inclined to believe this talk of witches but now that the close’s self appointed guardian had literally began a witch hunt they feared her wrath too much not to go along with it. Mrs Price in particular felt very sorry for Emma as she was unceremoniously lowered from Mr Holland’s shoulders illegal bahis siteleri and held fast by the women. ‘There but for the grace of god go I’ she thought to herself.
Next to the spot where Emma wriggled in the grip of her captors was a small table on top of which was a bowl of water, a towel, an old fashioned shaving brush , a mug brimming over with foam and a cut throat razor.
“Right!” barked Mrs Boyce “Let’s get that awful robe off of her.”
Before she realised what was happening to her, the belt of Emma’s silk robe was yanked away causing it to fall open, revealing her lacy underwear to the assembled audience. There were mutters of “tart” and “hussy” from the women at the sight of the racy black lingerie a world away from the sensible full briefs and cross your heart brassieres favoured by the housewives of Chamberlain Close. Mrs Price gulped audibly as she wondered what may have happened to her had she not heeded the warnings about her Sunday morning cleavage displays.
“There it is!” Mrs Braithwaite pointed at the tattoo on Emma’s upper arm “The devil’s mark!”
“It’s not the devil’s mark it’s a Celtic cross you stupid bloody woman!” Emma shouted causing a chorus of disapproving murmurs form the crowd.
“Lets’ see what other incriminating marks are on her.” smiled Mrs Braithwaite wickedly as she reached for the clasp of Emma’s bra.
Emma struggled but Mr Holland had her wrists held tight in his shovel like hands and thus Mrs Braithwaite was able to undo her bra with ease causing her plump milky white breasts to tumble free. At the same time Mrs Holland hooked her thumbs into the waist of Emma’s lacy silk knickers and yanked them down over her broad soft hips, down her thighs and finally over her feet before holding them up like a trophy to the chortles and applause of the crowd. Emma’s trimmed brown pubic bush was now fully on display to the crowd of sneering women and their transfixed husbands.
“Well, Professor.” said Mrs Boyce “You’re the foremost expert on these matters. Are there any more marks on her that you can see?”
“Hmmm.” muttered Professor Williams producing a magnifying glass from the pocket and peering through it as he looked over Emma’s bare breasts. Emma let out a sharp squeal as he lifted each one in turn with his cold hand and looked underneath giving a sly squeeze as he did so.
“Nothing I can see here. I’ll just need to take a look down below to be sure.”
He crouched down and examined Emma’s pale round buttocks exclaiming “No nothing here either.” before following the line of Emma’s hip round to the front. Mandy shut her eyes tightly. It was bad enough the way this crusty old bugger eyed up her bum in the pub when she was fully clothed and now he was inspecting her close up. Just as the Professors magnified gaze reached her crotch he stopped and turned to Mrs Boyce.
“I’m afraid it’s as I thought Mrs Boyce. There may well be undiscovered devil’s marks on this young lady but I’m afraid this” he pointed at Emma’s bush “Is obscuring my view. In the olden days, the suspected Witch would have her nether regions shaved so that she could be thoroughly inspected.”
Emma’s jaw dropped and her eyes went as wide as saucers. Surely this wasn’t happening, she’d dozed off in the bathtub and this was all just some bizarre nightmare.
“So who is going to have the rather dubious honour of shaving the accused?” asked Mrs Boyce
“Well I had a friend who was a barber and he showed me..” began Mr Braithwaite before being cut off by the steely gaze of his wife.
“I’ll see to it.” chuckled Mrs Holland picking up the bowl of water. “I was a midwife years ago and I’ve shaved a few in my time. Right we’ll need to get her on her back with her legs apart.”
As Mrs Boyce and Mrs Braithwaite dragged the table centre stage, their husbands assisted Mr Holland by grabbing Emma’s legs and lifting her onto it.
“You can’t do this!!” Emma screamed trying in vain to wriggle free from the men.
“She’s just worried about what we’ll find.” sneered Mrs Boyce “Probably another tattoo of one of those so called pentagrams.”
Mr Holland held Emma’s arms and shoulders down tight to the table as Mr Boyce and Mr Holland grabbed a leg each and held them apart so that Emma was facing the audience in the most undignified position imaginable. Mrs Holland produced a sponge from the bowl of soapy water and squeezed it in her hand.
“This takes me back.” she chuckled as she rubbed the warm water into Emma’s pubic hair. Mrs Holland was surprisingly gentle and Mandy was almost beginning to enjoy the feel of the sponge on her mound and labia before Mrs Holland stopped and reached for the mug working up lather with the brush.
“It’s been a while since I’ve used one of these.” said Mrs Holland wistfully. “All electric shavers nowadays I suppose but you can’t beat a good badger brush in my book.”
Emma nearly jumped out of her skin as she felt the bristly brush going over her most intimate parts. Her tummy and hips wriggled as Mrs Holland bustled it round canlı bahis siteleri her crotch.
“Stop wriggling about!” scolded Mrs Holland tapping the inside of Emma’s thigh sharply with the back of her hand.
Once Emma’s bush was fully soaped with lathery suds Mrs Holland reached for the cut throat razor and opened it with a wicked glint in her eye.
“Now I don’t need to tell you to stay still for this part.” she grinned as Emma’s heart pounded like never before.
Emma’s feelings of humiliation were temporarily replaced by an all encompassing fear as the razor glided over her pussy as Mrs Holland deftly removed the soapy curls. Emma was sick with worry that Mrs Holland would cut her but the older lady was indeed experienced in these matters and before long Emma’s plump mound and lips were smooth as silk. After another going over with the soapy sponge and then the towel, Mrs Holland stepped back to admire her handiwork.
“Over to you Professor.” she smiled.
The Professor once again produced his magnifying glass and leaned over so close to Emma’s freshly shaven pussy that she could feel his breath on her skin.
“Nothing here either I’m afraid.” the Professor eventually exclaimed “But we do of course have the evidence on her upper arms.”
“Surely that’s enough to prove her a witch.” said Mrs Boyce
“Well I’m afraid Mrs Boyce, that according to the materials at my disposal we need a confession on top of the physical evidence.” the Professor replied with a wicked glint in his eye.
“And the police can hardly be expected to extract one properly from her.” piped up Mr Boyce, knowing exactly what the randy old goat was up to. “They just treat these people with kid gloves.”
“Political correctness gone mad!” added Mr Braithwaite.
“Yes.” grunted Mr Holland still pinning Emma down to the table “We’ll need to extract a confession ourselves.”
“I quite agree.” said Mrs Boyce “We’ll extract one with good old fashioned methods not the lily livered nonsense that passes for police work in this day and age.”
The Professor put the magnifying glass back in his pocket and began to load his pipe.
“Well ladies and gentlemen this is actually rather fortuitous as it gives me an opportunity to not only tell you all how witches were dealt with on this very spot some hundreds of years ago but also to give you a practical demonstration. Now I have been reading at some length today about a resident of this very village, a man who was famous in his day but whom has sadly been rather lost in the mists of history. I am referring to Obadiah Prodd better known in his day as The Witch Tickler General.”
The very mention of the word “tickle” made Emma writhe and struggle but the men held her fast.
“How fascinating Professor.” smiled Mrs Boyce “What an unusual nickname to have. What did he do exactly?”
“Well” began the Professor clearly in his element “The case I read about today was of one Eliza Miller who lived strangely enough rather near to where Number 13 Chamberlain Close stands today. Now Miss Miller was denounced as a witch by the villagers and she was taken to a public place, stripped and shaved, rather as you’ve already seen today and then Mr Prodd was summoned to extract the confession.”
“And how did he do that precisely?” enquired Mrs Braithwaite.
“Well my dear Mrs Braithwaite.” chuckled the Professor “He wasn’t known as the Witch Tickler for nothing. The account says that Prodd took a long goose feather and ran it up and down Miss Miller’s, shall we say intimate areas, until she could take the tickling no more and confessed. Now Mrs Boyce did you manage to track down a nice long goose feather as I asked?”
“I did indeed.” smirked Mrs Boyce smugly producing a long stiff white feather from her handbag and grinning as she waved it so that Emma could see it.
Just the breeze in the draughty hall felt horribly ticklish on Emma’s freshly shorn and super sensitive mound and the thought of the feather going up and down it terrified her.
“Would you like to do the honours Professor?” offered Mrs Boyce.
“Actually I think I’d be better off supervising proceedings to make sure of historical accuracy Mrs Boyce. In fact I think that you as the close’s most prominent citizen should have the honour of being the one who got the confession and brought the sorceress to justice.”
“Yes Professor.” said Mrs Boyce, puffed up with smugness and self importance “I believe I should. Right lets’ get her into position shall we?”
Mr Holland put his sinewy arms underneath Emma’s soft armpits and laced his fingers together, pulling her up so that she was now sat upright with her hands held in the air. The two other men kept hold of Emma’s legs and ankles, taking a few steps back and spreading them as wide as they could. Emma begged for mercy and tried to struggle but she was trapped and exposed. Now that she was upright she could see the crowd in front of her the women’s’ smug and contemptuous gazes compounded her mortification but the faces of the men which ranged from awestruck to lascivious caused those feelings of humiliation to mix with excitement. Even though Emma hated Mrs Boyce and feared the feather’s cruel touch, there was still the base excitement of being held wide apart for someone to touch her pussy.