Parker: Lady Jane Greystones Remarkable Experiment 1

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...

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