"Goodness me, Monsieur le Professeur, another one? So soon? To be sure, it can be no more than, what, eight weeks since you were last here with the very same request?"

Malette nodded gravely. He was neither a professor nor even a fully qualified doctor, but willingly accepted the honorific offered by the residents of the town: small recompense for his thankless calling.

"Yes I am afraid so, Madame Villiers. There was terribly unfortunate, er, accident."

She ushered him inside and closed the heavy door with haste, as the biting chill wind was sending flecks of snow and damp leaves swirling inside and across the freshly mopped tiles. As she led him into the adjacent drawing room, she snapped her fingers at the small barefoot girl of about six or seven, who was on her hands and knees at the foot of the great staircase, scrubbing at the lower steps with a well-worn brush, and the girl grabbed her bucket and scuttled over the cold ceramic, gathering up the debris with her fingers.

The visitor was invited to sit, though the choice of chair was poor - a hard wooden bench, a pair of rickety dining chairs or the cracked and misshapen leather armchair, into which he sank so far that he wondered if he would ever be able to rise from again, so deep had his ample rear descended into its bowels. He wisely kept his coat tightly buttoned.

Madame Villiers tugged her shawl over her shoulders. The room was very cold, with kindling and wood unlit in the grate, but times were hard and only an expected visitor to the orphanage could expect the luxury of a prepared fire, She tugged the motheaten cloth bellpull adjacent to the mantelpiece and the faint tinkle of a bell echoed down a far corridor. Primly, she arranged herself opposite him, perching carefully on one of the other suspect chairs.

"Enter," she replied to the soft knock on the door, instructing the nervous young girl to bring them coffee. Like the small child cleaning the hallway, the young teen was also barefoot and her long black dress was threadbare, though her apron and cotton cap were freshly laundered and to judge from the way strands of her greasy blonde hair escaped from each side, had been hurriedly donned in deference to the surprise guest. She bobbed quickly and hurried out, followed closely by Malette's narrowed eyes. As soon as the door closed behind her, he continued.

"I will be frank, Madame. With my lad away fighting the Prussians, I am struggling to keep afloat. I have the Chesson brothers to assist me during the day of course and Madame St Amand is a wonderful housekeeper, but like me, she is not so young any more and there are times when I find it difficult to cope. And we are already so very overcrowded. The country has been going mad and I fear the weak are succumbing to such madness in increasing numbers."

As governess of the town orphanage, Madame Villiers knew all too well herself how the terrible upheaval of war and political turmoil had made life for everyone so difficult. Now that France had capitulated finally, not only were there still the food shortages but now the so-called government was simply robbing everyone to pay off the Boche! The selfish idiots in Paris had screwed it all up and it was those of us out in the sticks who were having to pay for their arrogance! With the state bureaucracy in tatters, her own establishment's funding was now almost entirely dependent on the largesse of the diocese.

She leaned toward him.

"I do not envy you, Professeur. Here we can at least take some small steps to maintain ourselves, with the laundry and kitchen garden and so on, but such measures are obviously not viable for you." She was not without genuine sympathy. "I heard that your son was at Belfort?"

"Indeed, Madame, he was. Medical officer to the heavy artillery. And I have received word from him that the Prussians may allow the garrison to disperse at Easter but until then, I must continue to do the best I can without him."

The girl returned with a pot of coffee and a pair of the orphanage's best china cups and saucers. Madame Villiers dismissed her quickly and poured herself.

"There is a problem," she began, handing him his coffee.

"Ah," replied Malette, with a sigh. Everything these days was a problem.

"Last time it was not difficult. The girl was due to leave us anyway and to exercise a little, er, imagination in the records was not that difficult, as was explaining her slightly early departure."

"And she was an excellent choice, too," he interjected. "Quite ideal, in fact, if only I had not misjudged..."

Madame Villiers held up her hand. She would prefer to know no more than she strictly had to. She had supplied the professor with a fifteen-year-old called Madeleine and been generously rewarded for her efforts. Beyond that was not her concern.

"The timing is very unfortunate," she declared, "for next week we have a grand inspection by the Bishop himself, no less. Any discrepancy in the roll would be noted and I could not risk giving his bean-counters any reason to give us a black mark. Funds are so scarce as it is and even the Church is looking for ways to rein in its spending."

Malette seemed to sag deeper into the collapsed armchair. This was not the response he had hoped for.

But the wily old governess was merely preparing the negotiation. She had already conceived a proposal. Only this one would cost him much more. His institution had that endowment from the aristocratic family who used to have the chateau and she was sure that he could find some more funds if he really were that desperate.

She let him stew.

"There may be a way..." she began, archly. "No. Forgive me, she is not what you need."

But of course Malette was now chomping at the bit.

"Please, Madame. I would not wish to burden you, but without some assistance, I fear I shall collapse with exhaustion long before Michel returns from Belmont."

"Well, there is a new girl, from Paris, who has not been with us for more than a week or two and so her name has not yet been added to the official nominal roll for the month, but as I say, she is but a little thing."

"I implore you, Madame. That should not be of great import. Her very presence would be of such inestimable value. You would only have to see for yourself the beneficial effect at night. Without a diversion, I fear without her I may not be able to maintain control on my own when next the moon is full!"

She feigned reluctance. Almost reeled him in!

"Very well, it could be arranged but I will still be taking an enormous risk, fabricating the records with the inspection so close.

The 'professor' resembled an overweight spaniel coveting a bone. She had him.

"But I think I would be entitled to a more substantial fee. Shall we say double last time?"

"Done!" exclaimed Malette, too relieved to haggle.

Madame Villiers once again pulled the bell sash to summon the girl in the apron.

"Be so good as to fetch the new girl, Pauline. And have her pack all her things."

------------------

Sylvie had stripped to her vest, despite the cold in the deserted kitchen.

Last night, Madame had taken a stick to her again, this time because the pots and pans were not all done before Vespers and so she was racing to finish her way through the massive pile of washing up. Her hands were red and sore from the scalding water. Back home, they had had maids to do this sort of thing.

Home. Only a few weeks earlier, she could never have imagined herself here, doing this sort of work. Her parents were teachers and had a comfortable life in Paris and even the nasty war had not troubled them too much. Sometimes they had kept her indoors but it was actually a little exciting. But when the long-range artillery shells began to hit the City in January, and Tante Agathe arrived to take her to be safe in the country, it was becoming quite a bit more scary.

They managed to get a cart to take them to a railway station where trains were still running and it seemed that everything was going to be all right.

That's why It was all so unfair.

She and her aunt had managed to complete the journey - it had taken almost three whole days - but a telegram awaited their arrival. Papa and Maman had been killed in the Prussian bombardment. And the news was so dreadful that within hours, delicate Tante Agathe had suffered sudden heart palpitations and was herself dead.

And so Sylvie was suddenly completely alone, frightened and desperate, in some strange town out in the sticks. Only the kindness of the priest had saved her. He had taken her to the orphanage and even though the old hag who ran it tried to turn her away, he had insisted she be allowed to stay.

Now Sylvie wished she had never come here. It was horrible.

The other girls were all bullies. On her first night, they had ganged up and hit her and taken all her possessions, and even most of her clothes. That bitch Simone had thieved her fine boots and left her with a horrid pair of old leather clogs with the soles falling off. And they only let her have one blanket and made her have the bed right next to the soil bucket. And she got all the worst jobs. And they kept telling on her to Madame, so she got in trouble every day.

That reminded her of her most recent beating. She paused and stood up from the sink, massaging the still tender backs of her thighs.

"Slacking, Princess Sylvie?" sneered the older girl, Pauline.

Sylvie wheeled around. Pauline had been one of the ringleaders who rifled through her bag when she first arrived and she instinctively stepped back, lest the bigger girl lash out at her again.

Pleased to have frightened the stuck-up kid from the City so satisfyingly, Pauline relayed Madame Villiers' instructions, embellishing them with her own unpleasantness.

"I bet she's kicking you out. You don't belong here anyway. I reckon she's sending you back to Paris so the Prussians can get you. They eat kids! Stick them on a skewer and roast them over the fire, haha! Yumyum, Princess Sylvie - bon appetit!"

She rushed up to the dormitory in a half-panic, to gather what few things she had left. It occurred to her that it could be yet another trick to get her into even more trouble but just in case Madame Villiers had actually sent for her, she wasted no time, timidly tapping on the drawing room door, carpet bag in hand.

She even wondered if somehow another distant relative had come to her rescue, though she dared not to hope too strongly.

"Enter!"

Sylvie opened the door just enough to squeeze inside. Madame was seated with a big old gentleman with his coat collar up. His hair was long and grey and wavy, though the top was bald and he had piggy eyes behind his little round spectacles.

"Come here, girl!" boomed the Governess, pointing to the piece of floor between the two grown-ups where Sylvie was expected to stand. They were both staring hard at her and she quickly looked at her feet, so as not to meet their eyes.

"Well, Monsieur le Professeur?" asked Madame Villiers.

The old man bit his lip. She was indeed very young. Tiny: a mere child, in fact. But needs must.

"Ideal. Thank you, Madame," he replied, without much conviction.

-----------------------------

Sylvie could not stop shivering.

Though she had both her coat and cape wrapped around her, her hands throbbed from the icy wind. Her mittens had been stolen, along with her pretty red scarf. But she had to hold on to the rail of the little open cart because the road was so bumpy and that meant she could not keep her hands tucked inside her clothes. She tried to console herself, thinking that it was good that she still had the woollen bonnet to keep her ears warm, but the ploy did not work: she was still so miserable that it made her feel physically sick.

The old man still said nothing. He was hunched at the front of the cart, concentrating hard on driving through the darkness. She wished she had a nice thick blanket over her knees like he did.

Madame Villiers had not even said goodbye. She had just said that Sylvie was to go with her new Maitre immediately and she had not explained anything else, other than that she should obey him without question. Did that mean she really was leaving that awful orphanage? She hoped so, though it was bewildering, just being taken off so suddenly. By a fat old man whom she had to call 'Maitre'.

The clouds cleared and the flurries of snow abated for a few minutes, so that in the light of the moon and the dim glow of the cart's lamps, she could just about read the peeling sign over the big gates. The hinges creaked as Maitre pushed them open.

'The Sanctuary of St Christina for the Incurably Insane. L.P. Malette, Directeur.'

He closed the gates and replaced the chain securing them once the cart was inside and Sylvie clutched the side of the cart and peered at the dark shape of the building coming into view as they proceeded down the tree-lined avenue. It was hard to make out, tall and with a pointed roof was about all she could make out, for it was in total darkness apart from a weak light by the door. The man, her new Maitre (was he Monsieur LP Malette, or was a Professeur like Madame Villiers had called him? Suppose it was just easier to call him Maitre), helped her down from the back of the cart and handed her her bag. He hauled a huge bunch of keys from beneath his cape, unlocked the studded door and stepped inside. He lit a candle, though it was too weak to reveal the full extent of the cavernous lobby. He bade her sit on a small wooden stool next to the door.

"Wait here whilst I see to the horse. Make no noise and do not move."

He had left the candle when he had gone back outside, and after a few minutes, her curiosity became too great and she took it and went to examine the huge, dark oil painting which hung on the wall opposite. It was just some old duke or something, wearing fancy clothes and a white wig but a small plaque was hung beneath. Her numb fingers stroked away the layer of dust.

'Tristan, XIIth Duc de Vericy, 1809. Esteemed Benefactor Of The Sanctuary.'

"I thought I told you not to move."

Sylvie almost dropped the candle. The old man was standing at her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Maitre " she blurted, dashing back to the seat.

"The duke founded this place over sixty years ago," he said. "Legend has it that it was all just an elaborate rouse so that he could lock away his eccentric father and inherit the title."

He turned and approached her, his podgy face lit from below by the fluttering candlelight. Sylvie shrank back instinctively. The way his eyes bored into her made her extremely uncomfortable.

"Back then it was little more than a refuge for the well-heeled yet feeble-minded and a way for the local nobility to demonstrate their great philanthropy. Not like today. Now we belong to the Republic and we have two dozen inmates crammed in - simpletons, lunatics and even the criminally-insane. It is too much, you know."

She frowned. Was this actually where they locked up mad people? Her stomach lurched. Why was she here? She wasn't mad!

Malette grasped the candleholder, beckoning her and she took up her bag and followed him. Her ears strained to receive his rambling.

"I have been Directeur for fifteen years and I have always planned for my son to be my assistant with a view to taking my place in due course. It needs the two of us, with so many souls now within these walls. But no sooner had he graduated from the medical school in Rouen than he was caught up in the Troubles. And it needs new ideas. I have no formal training, though I do my best."

He led the small girl through several doors and passages. The walls were stone, as was the floor, and yet the entire place seemed stifled by a heavy silence that absorbed their footfall. The XIIth Duke had built the asylum in the style of a medieval abbey, dedicated the St Christina, patron saint of the insane, a pastiche and in-joke that had humoured him greatly once he had proved his father's incapacity and seized control of the family estates.

"In the daytime, we can run a tight ship," the Maitre continued over his shoulder. "But the darkness of night brings out their demons and I fear that I alone am often unable to bring calm."

She stopped close behind him as he fumbled again with the bunch of keys.

He extinguished the candle once they had passed through into the next room, for it was a vast vaulted chamber, lined with numerous pitch torches mounted in sconces along the walls, which provided adequate illumination for her to see all around. The thick atmosphere enveloped her, heavy and hot, in sharp contrast to the chill elsewhere. Along both long walls were a row of iron-braced wooden doors, each with a small grille at face height. Face height if you were a grown-up, that is. The floor was strewn with a light covering of straw, rather like a stable. A raised dais covered in grimy sheets and piles of straw lay beneath the end wall next to her and at the far end opposite was a long trestle table flanked by bench seats sufficient for two dozen or more to be accommodated in a single sitting. And pervading everything was this ghastly smell, which permeated her crinkled nostrils and sat heavy in her throat. The stench of unwashed human being and fresh nightsoil. Like the stink under the bridge near her home in Paris, where the beggars lived. But a lot worse.

He held his finger to his lips.

She knew this had to be where the mad people lived. They were asleep behind the doors and the very thought made her skin creep. Sylvie really, really did not want to be here.

Malette led her silently through the chamber. For the first time since she had left the orphanage, Sylvie did not feel cold, for the flares burning on the walls heated the foetid atmosphere almost too effectively. Though she still trembled uncontrollably under her cloak.

Only now from pure fear.

Without warning, a pained scream tore through the air, high-pitched and mournful. More animal than man. She clutched at the Maitre's coatsleeve, trying to use him to shield her from the sound. Then from the other side of the chamber, mumbled voices could be heard through the grilles. Close behind her something crashed heavily on the other side of a cell door and she yelped in shock.

The Maitre grabbed her arm and hurried her to the far end, where he unlocked another door and hustled her inside and relit the candle from one burning on a nightstand.

He was muttering.

"Damnation! They saw you. Not good, not good."

Even through the thick, heavy door, she could feel as much as hear the crescendo of sounds. Indistinct voices yelled and wailed atop a drumbeat of banging against the doors of the cells.

Sylvie's heart was drumming too, in her ears. Although she assumed the cell doors were strong and locked, the sheer proximity of the unseen mad men was so frightening. Why had the Maitre brought her here? She looked in his eyes for an answer, for some reassurance, but she found only cold resignation.

"Put your bag there, child. I'm afraid I must put you to work tonight."

She only now looked about her. This was more of an alcove in a corridor than a room. He was pointing to a low trestle supporting a paliasse stuffed with straw. Next to it was a small wooden trunk, atop which sat an enamel jug and bowl and a pile of freshly-laundered rags.

"You will keep your belongings in the trunk," he added, noticing where she was looking. The chamber pot beneath the trestle caught her eye.

"There is a place down there to the right, where you can perform your ablutions and empty out the pot. And at the far end is the scullery; you can refill the jug with hot water there, when you need to - the housekeeper, Madame St Amand, heats up a cauldron every evening. In an establishment such as this, cleanliness is most important, you must understand."

She frowned, struggling to comprehend this strange, uneasy place.

"I shall show you around and explain more about the asylum of course, but that can wait until tomorrow. They are growing restless."

Which was undeniable, for the racket coming from the main chamber had reached new volumes.

She set her bag on the mattress. For several moments, she stared back at him, desperate to ask her questions, but he eyed her with impatience.

"Come along then! What are you waiting for?"

Sylvie was utterly baffled.

"Your clothes, child. Get yourself undressed!"

When she still failed to respond, he reached down with a grunt and began tugging at the fastening of her cape.

"Sorry, Maitre," she offered weakly and let the cape fall, busying herself with the buttons of her coat. Her fingers stung as they struggled to unfasten it and the circulation began to return. She knew to obey. Grown-ups like him and Madame Villiers did not tolerate girls who were slow or disobedient or idle. Her fingertips were numb and picking at the fastenings made them throb and she rushed, wondering if the Maitre would beat her too, if she were slow.

But she couldn't stand it: not knowing. How could she be good if she didn't even know why she was here? Or what work he wanted her to do?

"Please, Maitre," she half-whispered, instantly regretting her own impertinence. Having taken this long to summon up the courage, she decided to go on. "Please, Maitre, I don't know what I am supposed to be doing?"

Her tears glinted in the candlelight.

And Malette realised that he had been so absorbed in his own thoughts that the girl genuinely had no idea.

"Oh child, my apologies," he said gently, sitting on the trestle and guiding her between his legs, turning her away from him to unbutton her pinafore and dress for her. "How could you know? There we go, let's get this off. Yes, I must explain."

He slipped the heavy dress from her shoulders and she held up her arms so that he could lift her chemise and vest over her head. He was surprised at the top quality cotton from which they were made - not at all what one would expect to be clothing a girl from the town orphanage.

Malette stroked the soft fabric as he placed it on the blanket.

"You are the new Night Girl."

When he turned her towards him, her uncomprehending frown showed that she was still puzzled. But his eyes had strayed to her bare chest. He cupped her tiny breast and stroked the nipple with his thumb. Sylvie remained rigid, for no man apart from her father had ever seen her undressed and nobody at all had touched her there! Maitre or not, it was embarrassing beyond words.

"Let me tell you some about the inmates first. You can take off your own drawers and stockings, by the way."

With relief she moved back and his hand dropped from her body, but he was still close and watching her and she was about to be completely naked. And there was nothing she could say or do. She could sense the hotness rising in her cheeks.

"My son has been trained in the latest medicine. When he returns, perhaps we shall at last be in a position to offer these wretches some palliative treatment. I don't know. But I myself have no knowledge of such matters. I simply have my Faith and knowledge of the old ways. It troubles me greatly that cannot treat their minds. It is beyond a simple man such as I. But I can pray for their souls; I can give them shelter and sustenance and keep them from harming themselves and others as best as I can."

Sylvie placed her undergarments with the rest beside the Maitre. She tried to keep her distance and coyly crossed her hands in front of her, but he took her wrist and pulled her back before him, placing her arms by her side to expose her fully in the weak light and eyeing her up and down appreciatively.

Goodness, she was such a child, so pale and slightly built and narrow-hipped, her chest almost flat, her pubis unblemished by even the faintest evidence of hair, a small white bulge, neatly cleaved and inviting his closer examination.

"Yes, very good," he murmured, moistening his lips. She gulped with surprise and horror. His hand slid straight between her legs and his palm pressed up over her smooth pubic mound.

"The inmates here are but mortal men whom God has chosen to be unusual. Their minds are unlike ours, for sure, but their physical bodies are no different. They need sustenance like normal people, they require sleep, exercise... most of them have just the very same basic needs as the rest of us."

He lifted his gaze from her groin and stared her right in the eye.

"And that includes the needs of the flesh."

She flinched. The inside knuckle of one of his fingers was pushing up between her labia.

"In recent months I have come firmly to believe that if we can look after these poor men's physical welfare in whichever way we can, the demons inhabiting their brains can be pacified, until such time as God takes them unto Himself."

The Maitre's finger curled and she gasped as it sought and found the opening to her vagina.

"Oh. Goodness gracious. You are an Innocent," he smiled, easing the pressure.

Her mouth had fallen open and her face was drained of colour. He removed his hand from her crotch and brushed her fringe from her eyes. Her legs felt wobbly and her head was beginning to spin. Despite the funny long words he was using, it was at last beginning to dawn on her that he was talking about things that grown-up women knew about, but not well brought-up young girls. His touching her there confirmed her worries and her guts tightened.

"So, Sylvie, have you any idea what the Night Girl does?" Malette's beady eyes twinkled with mischief. Dumbly, she shook her head and he wet his finger in his mouth and applied it once more to the warm resistance between her legs.

"All men, be they mad or sane, have carnal desires, which have to be satisfied. I have long suspected that if left unfulfilled, such desires can only serve to heighten what we perceive as madness. And I proved my theory too. With the other girl, Madeleine, the one before you. Once she, er, addressed the problem, it was as if a blanket of calm descended over the Sanctuary. And order was restored."

Sylvie winced and sucked her breath. His finger was hurting, pushing right into her private place. She wished she had the courage to ask him to stop.

The rhythmic thump and cacophony of voices was if anything louder still. He leaned forward to speak softly into her ear. His finger was now sliding up and down between her labia, brushing and moistening the tickly bit above her hole. Her breathing had quickened. The tip of his finger kept darting to her vagina, pushing and probing and trying to go beyond the tightness just inside. Her hips moved, to try to lessen the discomfort, but the finger rubbed and teased faster and more insistently.

"The Night Girl exists to satisfy the inmates' desires, my child. She relieves the pressure. With her fingers, her mouth and her body. Throughout the hours of darkness, you will coax the pent-up lust from their bodies and still their disquiet. You will replace anxiety with pleasure," he beamed.

"Owwww!"

Sylvie leapt back. It felt as if his finger was a hot sharp poker, trying to go right up inside her...

"It appears that I must prepare you better, child," growled Malette. His stern expression softened to a smirk and he snatched at her wrists, pulling her down on to the palliase. That the little girl was a virgin too was an unexpected reward that had to exploited forthwith, no matter how urgent the inmates' needs.

He moved around to the end of the trestle and gripped her calves, spinning her until her feet were towards him, then tugged her bodily until she was flat on her back, with her backside almost at the end of the trestle and her legs flailing in the air. To have her available like this inflamed his ardour beyond that of his self-control.

Tearing at his trousers and shoving them down his fat thighs to his knees, he chortled, "And it is not just the inmates who have desires!"

She tried to press her knees together but his strong hands easily forced them open again. Her little cunt was splayed, the tiny roll of skin over her clitoris pink and exposed and her virgin hole, already glistening with saliva, ready for him.

"Haha, modesty has no place here, child," the Maitre chuckled, "but you'll learn that soon enough!"

She braced herself. She had glimpsed his fat cock sticking out beneath his waistcoat, much bigger than she had ever imagined, the domed end thick and gleaming and red. Sylvie had never seen a man's thing that big! And she felt it pushing between her legs. Snapping her head to the side, she stared at the rough stone wall, in vain trying to blot out the feeling. Her belly seemed to be paralysed with sharp pain, her innards swollen and throbbing and each slight movement delivered further peaks of intense discomfort, as if her legs and lower body were being wrenched open.

Her mind saw patterns and shapes in the stonework and she tried to imagine them as animals and flowers and smiling faces but it was not easy when the tears kept making them blurred, so she pressed her eyelids tight shut and saw only black and purple and deep red and wished for the rocking of the trestle to stop, and the stinging chafing of the Maitre's great big thing pumping in and out of her to stop making her tummy hurt so much. He was squashing her, pressing on the tops of her legs and hips and when he bent closer over her, his grunts sent nasty wafts of stale breath to torment her nostrils.

Pausing, he looked down between her legs and smiled with satisfaction.

He was pushing it inside now, right up high, and the unfamiliar sensation within her lower stomach became increaingly overwhelming, as he drove himself faster, so that she could actually picture in her mind's eye how it was stretching open her private place each time he forced it deep. All around her little hole had become so sensitive, so tender, that she felt nothing else and her brain became totally focussed on the regular pumping down there, no matter how hard she tried to blank it out.

Malette's breathing noisily accompanied his jerking thrusts into her deliciously tight little fanny. He leaned right over her, using his forearms both to support himself and to keep her shoulders in place, preventing her tiny body from being pushed along the trestle as he bore down on her.

"Keep still, girl, I am nearly there!"

And with that, he pushed his body upright and clutched at her hips, forcing his pelvis forward as the satisfying rush of his climax surged and shuddered and the hot release bathed the tip of his spent cock.

He held her tightly and surveyed her skinny nakedness with relish. So small and white and naive, but now no longer a child.

The girl's body gripped him so sweetly and he enjoyed a final wave of pleasure as the last of his semen seeped out. She should prove to be an excellent choice.

The perfect treatment.

-----------------------------

Sylvie pushed aside another tear with the back of her hand. Her cheek felt gritty and hot. The rest of her body simply hurt. All over. And felt so utterly dirty.

She lay flat on her back and now that the latest man had climbed off her, she let herself go floppy to rest, sinking into the prickly layer of straw beneath the grubby sheet, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she caught her breath. Above her head, the flame of the torch made even her eyes ache and she closed them tightly, though the nightmare continued.

From the adjacent cells, the cheering subsided now that the show had ended. A dozen pairs of eyes had watched her being fucked one more time.

"Oh no, Mademoiselle, you can't go to sleep. There are more."

She opened her eyelids and the scary face was leering down again, filling her vision. A mass of grey bristles and twisted teeth and pock-marked skin the colour of mildewed parchment. That sneering mouth.

Bastien.

The Maitre had said he was the 'Trustee' and that is why he had his own set of keys, though smaller than le Professeur's.

And that would have been why he had been the first of the mad men to do her, after she had been taken into the big chamber and the Maitre had shown her where she would be 'working'.

It had been horrible. As soon as le Professeur had left, Bastien had pinched her nipples until she cried out and kept doing it even when he was poking his thing in her and he only stopped when a gush of wet appeared between her legs and he swore and climbed off her.

The Maitre had told her that although he was an inmate, Bastien was not ill like the rest, but incarcerated because somebody high up wanted him locked away. And so he was allowed to be a helper and was not locked up in his cell like all the others. And that meant also that she had to do what he ordered, even when the Maitre had gone to sleep and was not there.

The Trustee terrified her.

"Ready for the next one, girl? I bet you are, you filthy little slut! You're loving this, aren't you? Little rich girl getting her cunt filled by the dregs of society? Now that's what I call proper 'egalité'!"

He took her wrist and hauled her to her feet. His hand stroked her breast and she shook it off, causing him to crease up with mirth. It was terrible. Bastien pawed her all the time. He touched her bottom when she walked in front of him, and pinched her poor nipple when she waited for him to unlock doors. Even when another man was actually doing her, he sometimes touched her skin. And he stared right in her face when the men were taking their turn with her, mocking her pain and disgust, blowing kisses and running his fat tongue over his lips. He looked as old as her grandfather. Even older, but unlike her lovely Grandpa, Bastien was very, very nasty.

It was horrible here! Worse than anything else, ever.

As she followed him back to her alcove, she felt the chill of wetness at the top of her legs. Pinky-grey gloopy stuff was leaking out, coating the inside of her thighs. The hurt had become a persistent dull pain now, filling her tummy without respite, though each time another man put it inside, the initial stinging of her tortured flesh instantly brought fresh tears to her eyes.

Bastien opened the connecting door and smacked her backside hard as she squeezed past him.

"Clean yourself up quickly, girl. The next one is a bit special but your sweet little cunt can have a short rest," he smirked.

She had wiped her skin down hurriedly, but no amount of scrubbing could lessen the pall of shame and disgust that lingered over her little naked body. Her brain delivered a torrent of sickening flashbacks, of wild-eyed old men with beards and drooling mouths, clutching at her, kneading her flesh. The smell of rancid breath and the bitter stench of dirty, sweaty body as she knelt and wiped their horrid things with warm water from her enamel bowl. Before tonight, she had only ever seen a man's penis briefly, by mistake, but already she had bathed perhaps seven or eight, holding them with horror in her fingertips as they thickened and grew large, dabbing away at their balls through the nests of matted curly hair, and curling her fingers around afterwards like the Maitre had showed her, moving the gnarly skin up and down to 'get the gentlemen comfortable and ready to perform'.

Each time, Bastien had led her out on to the dais, and brought her another inmate from his cell, to wait patiently as she cleansed him. Then once more she would force herself to submit, to put the rag and bowl aside and position herself ready, legs open, as the man's eyes glinted with anticipation in the flickering torchlight. Her heart would pound with fear as she tried to ensure that another hard grown-up cock (for that is what she had to call them now) forced her open without damaging her further.

And she tried to keep still and not cry out as it rammed into her and the man grunted and groaned and slobbered and pummelled her poor little body until he emptied himself inside her.

Words were hardly spoken: Bastien had told her that he would bring her the 'easy' ones first. The docile men. Imbeciles who grinned or mumbled but who knew what to do with the Night Girl.

She had no concept of time now. Nothing had prepared her for this. The pain of each clumsy penetration, the ritual of opening her legs to yet another hairy, dirty, smelly old man. Soon she had sunk into a stupor, unable to distinguish between individual sessions in the unending stream of violation. Interrupted only when Bastien lay beside her, fiddling with her and whispering disgusting words into her ear as the latest inmate laboured on top of her. Or took her away to wash and prepare herself for the next.

She stumbled and Bastien caught her and took the opportunity to pull her close to his chest and press his crotch against her belly.

"You have begun well," he snarled through clenched teeth. "Though you need to start learning some new tricks, girl. A quick poke is fine for the likes of these poor sods but I have some special work for you later."

She stared up at him, hopelessly, and her exhausted, resigned look of dismay fuelled his mounting erection.

He would definitely need to have her again before the end of the night, though he had yet to decide if he wanted to break in her tight young bottom quite yet or else would wait until tomorrow night to indulge that particularly sweet pleasure and for now simply fuck her again a bit more roughly this time and enjoy watching her cry beneath him.

"But you've got to finish your duties in here first."

Bastien took her through the main hall and into his own cell, which was unlike the others, being furnished like a proper room, with painted walls, a rug on the floor and addtional furniture and decorations. Leading her to a small writing desk in the corner, he pointed to an open ledger.

"This is all about you, girl," he explained, picking up a quill pen and making an entry against the man who had most recently filled her young belly with semen. "Can you read?"

Sylvie nodded. Of course she could!

"This lists all the inmates and these symbols are M Le Professeur's, er, 'prescription' for each of them. I write here when you have serviced one and in which way. See here: you've been fucked by all these ones so far."

She shivered. It was all so revolting. He was writing down each time one of the foul men did it, like the score in a game! And what made her stomach churn was that there was a mark against only a third of the names. Bastien's hand stroked her hip.

He watched her lips and knew she was counting. His cock throbbed. Christ, this kid's undisguised fear was making him so aroused.

"You are to attend to each one at least three times a week, except that one, who has no need of your special services."

His hand hooked her waist and he tugged her towards him, his gloating face close against hers.

"He cut his own cock off!"

Sylvie recoiled from Bastien's evil cackling, her face crumpling with horror. This place was like a living Hell! She tried to suppress her shock and disgust. Her brain was struggling to do the sums. There had to be over thirty names, and three times per week, divided by seven nights...

He snaked his hand around her again and slid his hand lower, across the smoothness of her pubis and hooking the tip of his middle finger inside her moist, raw vagina. She winced at the renewed torment and Bastien smiled and watched her pale face as he wiggled it again to tease her. Pointing at another line in the ledger, he continued.

"These ones marked with a 'D', they're the ones you need to watch out for. They are the dangerous ones, the real basket cases. Le Professeur has them kept tied down most of the time."

Sylvie's eyes widened.

"These three, they'd snap your neck, soon as look at you!"

Her lip quivered and Bastien sensed that his intimidation was working. He pressed on, his finger remaining inside her. It felt so good, having this little kid in his power.

"But that doesn't mean you don't have to do them as well. No, no, you're here to be fucked by everyone, even the psychopaths," he grinned, slyly. And when she met his eyes, her horrified incredulity betrayed her.

"I'm being kind with you, girl, this being your first time, so we'll save them for tomorrow. And all the others who missed out tonight. You'll have a lot to do tomorrow but you'll get used to it."

He waited for the slightest signs of relief.

"Except him!" Bastien's nib landed against one of the names with a 'D' beside it. To emphasise the point, he extended his finger within her.

"Marcel. You have to do him every night and he's next. He's a fucking monster: takes the Professeur and both the Chesson brothers to tie him down when he's having one of his fits. Yeah, you want to watch your step when I put you in with him."

Sylvie stared at him open-mouthed. Surely they can't expect...?

The Trustee removed his finger from her cunt. She was nearly in tears, it was just such fun.

"Oh yes, the bad ones, you have to take care of them in their cells - only the well-behaved lads get to screw you in the the open. Likes of Marcel, when they are strapped down, they can't, you know, take matters in hand themselves." Bastien winked knowingly gave a coarse giggle, waving his curled fingers in a crude gesture of masturbation. "So it just builds up and in his case, if he doesn't get relief regularly, he goes, well, let's just say it is best not to risk that happening. Strong as an ox, is Marcel. Snap you in half with his bare hands, he could!"

He winked at her again, as she digested his words. Thank you God, for this tiny naked girl, his new little toy to torment and scare witless. And play with all night when he wanted. There were some benefits of being locked away in the Sanctuary, he mused.

"Aww, don't worry, the restraints should keep him still enough. But I'll have to lock you in with him, just in case he gets free."

She was as white as a new sheet.

"Please, I..." she began, but Bastien put down the pen and took her shoulders.

"None of that backchat, girl. You do what you're told here, what the Professeur tells you and what I tell you. Got that? But tonight you don't have to actually fuck him, so don't worry."

Sylvie looked puzzled; her head was in such a fuddle.

Bastien's mouth curled into a smirk then he opened his lips and mimicked holding a penis and jerking it inside his mouth. The little girl's jaw dropped as she worked out what he meant and he gave another earthy laugh.

"Think of it as your midnight snack. Suck the bugger dry."

-----------------------------

Sylvie was hanging back, but Bastien grabbed her arm and propelled her into the cell. It was the first time she had had to go right inside a cell, if you didn't count the Trustee's one: the men she had already had to endure had been brought to her singly on the dais and had her in the open, as many of the others hammered on their cell doors and whooped and catcalled.

The bad ones, they were to dangerous for just the Trustee to handle and so she had to go to them. She found herself shaking, though not from cold.

She shuddered to a halt, terrifed of falling against the man, Marcel. Water slopped from her jug, splashing her toes. Her heart pounded. She sensed Bastien standing behind her.

"He's all yours, girl. I'll be outside, so bang on the door when you've finished. Oh, and just in case you are thinking of pulling a fast one, keep it all in your mouth when he has done it and then show me, or else I'll leave you with him all night."

Marcel was indeed a big man. Even prone, he dwarfed the tiny body of the naked eleven-year old who stood nervously on the other side of the small chamber, clasping the chipped enamel jug and towel in front of her.

The cell was dark, illuminated only by a candle that Bastien had left on the floor just inside the door. Sylvie's eyes adjusted and she could make out his huge bulk, lying on his side on the straw-stuffed mattress, facing the wall. She could not tell if he was asleep, though the steady rise and fall of his chest showed that he was very much alive. Straining her eyes, she took a very tentative step toward him. A shadow passed across the grill in the door and she was startled: Bastien's sneering smirk looked in at her. He had said that if she did this properly, he would not make her do any more tonight and he would reward her with a 'special treat' but that did nothing to give her courage, for she did not trust him. He was nasty, this place was nasty and what she was now doing was the worst thing she had ever done, worse than seeing those dead people on the street near her home, a lot worse than being hit by the other girls in the orphanage and worse even than lying on her back earlier on while all the men put their horrid things in her.

Another step closer and she relaxed, but not by much - the man was wearing some thick canvas jacket and it looked as if the sleeves had been sewn up at the ends, because although she could see his arms pulled behind his back, his hands were invisible. The straps at the end of the sleeves were definitely buckled up and there was also another big thick leather one right around his upper body and now she could see where a thick chain was fixed to it and its other end had been padlocked to a great big iron ring set in the wall.

Sylvie was reassured to see irons around his ankles, with another short chain linking them up. So: he was tied up as the Trustee had told her, but that did not make her any more confident.

Summoning her courage, she took one more step nearer, but still the man lay still, his back to her. Now she was in a quandary.

Bastien was still looking in through the grille.

"Monsieur?"

She was annoyed with herself that it had come out as little more than a whisper. She spoke again, trying to sound brave, but her weak little voice still cracked and she coughed. Should she touch him - give him a poke or shake? Her legs did not want to move. But how else could she get this foul thing done and get out of there? Holding her breath, she crept right next to the great big man.

He sensed her and with a great roar, threw his body around, launching himself at her until the chains and straps yanked him back.

Sylvie yelped with terror, instinctively stumbling backwards. She dropped the cloth yet miraculously held the jug upright as she lost her footing and tumbled on to her backside. Marcel loomed above her, his grimy face set in a horrifying grimace, teeth bare, eyes bulging, flecks of spittle across his lips. She cowered away from him as his wild eyes devoured her.

Then suddenly he relaxed and was calm.

"Don't be afraid, little girl. What's your name?"

His voice was completely unexpected: rather soft and not at all threatening. Not that Sylvie was taken in. Her bottom and elbows hurt from hitting the hard stone floor as she reeled away. Keeping her eyes on the man, she hauled herself up, retrieving the cloth as she did so.

"Sylvie, sir."

"My, my. You are a pretty little thing. A lot smaller than the last one. Madeleine was a good girl. But you are a lot prettier. All smooth and soft like a baby. Mmmm. I like babies."

She willed herself to stop shaking. In vain.

"But I never managed to eat a whole one!" Marcel cried very loudly, exploding with laughter, the thick flesh of his shaven head wrinkling with the effort.

Sylvie recoiled, her mouth falling open. She hoped that was meant as a joke, but it was definitely not funny. What to say? She held aloft the cloth and jug, hoping that the man would understand.

He did. Playing games with the girl was amusing but he wanted something else even more. With a good deal of grunting, he was able to wriggle into a half-sitting position, his head against the wall of the cell.

"Come on then, girl, my balls are ready to explode. You'd better be fucking good."

The gentleness had gone and his voice was deep and menacing now. As she fumbled with the cloth ties around his waist, she nervously kept his face in view, ready to leap away at the slightest sign of trouble. But he simply chuckled when her face betrayed her shock at the size and vigour of his cock.

"Nice and gentle now, girl, plenty of water, that's it, get it ready for your sweet little gob!"

Again she addressed her thoughts with sadness. Only hours before, she had barely seen a man's genitals before, but she had already handled so many this evening that she had gained a good knowledge of the various shapes and sizes, but this man's thing was by far the biggest. It was thick too, rock hard and the skin at the end was peeled back tight, revealing a shiny purple dome, already slick with clear stuff oozing out of the hole. Very carefully, she held it steady with her fingertips as she bathed it and jumped with surprise when he made it suddenly twitch so strongly that she let go.

"Haha! Like it, eh, girl? It likes pretty Sylvie, don't it?"

His voice was again quiet, conspiratorial, almost a whisper.

"Hey, why don't you untie me a bit? What do you say? Let me make love to you, Sylvie. Show you what a real man can do. It'll be a lot more comfortable and I'll give you the best ride you'll ever have. Come on. Eh?"

She studiously ignored him, dabbing him dry. His penis seemed to swell even further.

"Aww, come on, girl. You'd like it. Best fuck you'll ever get. I promise. Undo the buckles."

Sylvie set the jug on the floor. 'Just do it like you had to use your hand on some of the others, to make them get a hard-on,' Bastien had told her. 'Plenty of spit, lots of licking and sucking and the rest is really just the same except you're using your mouth not your fingers to rub the fucker up and down. Remember that and it will be over before you know it.'

She stared at the huge knobbly thing and ran her tongue across her dry lips. No need to do anything to make Marcel's thing grow stiff. He held her breath and bent over.

Marcel gave out a long, chesty grunt. That felt so fucking good.

He felt her lips close over the head and the wet warmth of her mouth take him in and the gentle pressure of the little girl's tongue press against his engorged flesh. Curls of her hair bobbed over her white shoulders as her head began to move up and down and the caress of her nervous lips slipping down the tip and over his tight foreskin.

"Yeah, that's the way. Get it all inside your pretty mouth, Sylvie."

There was no way she could do that, she knew. Just a few centimetres and its was pressing against the roof of her mouth, so that was as far as she could do it. After the initial horror of having the hot, odd-tasting great stick of man against her tongue, she had bathed it with her saliva and as she now pulled her lips into a firm ring and slid them up and down, she tried to put aside her self-disgust and not dwell on the awfulness or her shame. She had discovered earlier when she had curled her thumb and forefinger around one of the other men and rubbed him like that, he had quickly swelled stiff and she concluded that her lips could perform in the same way. She just wanted to get it over with.

Marcel tensed his buttock muscles sharply, thrusting his cock hard into the girl. He loved the way she spluttered as the end tried to ram into her throat and she fell back, choking.

"Sylvie, Sylvie, Sylvie. You can do better than that. You can put it all in, can't you? Come on, let me fuck your pretty face, why don't you?"

She had managed to drift off into a numbed state of half-consciousness, letting her mind slip into nothingness and maintaining an automatic rhythm, her mouth sliding wetly over the smooth thickness of his fat cock. But his sudden move had shocked her and she panicked as the tip forced itself into her throat and she became terrified that she could not breathe.

Sitting back on her heels, she gulped for air and her fingertips massaged her neck, as if to confirm that her throat was clear.

Movement at the door grille caught her eye. The grinning Bastien was pointing: she had to get back to her duties.

It was a night for learning hard lessons quickly. This time she clasped her fingers lightly around the base of the big cock, in an attempt to exercise some control and it also made it easier for her to angle it to her mouth. She licked the end wetly, then pursed her lips and pushed them to the tip, easing their grip so that she once again slid down until she could feel the ridge of skin pass inside.

Enough humiliation - she wanted this to end.

The men poked her faster and faster before they finished inside her, so if she did it faster then perhaps it would mean he would squirt his stuff sooner? She had to try.

Marcel's breathing grew louder and his legs flexed as the sensations spread across his lower body. He too had had enough teasing tonight and was ready to fill the little bitch's mouth any second. Best not to let her know: he wanted to see her when he came.

It took a few moments for Sylvie to understand.

Then she distinctly felt the cock pulse against her tongue and her mouth was suddenly warm inside. She kept still. The man was doing it! But what to do? She knew she had to show Bastien but her mouth was so full and and she had to breathe! Her nostrils filled with a sharp scent and her throat was filled and she began to panic.

She pulled off Marcel's cock as the residual aftershocks produced a series of small eruptions of thick, grey semen, which drooled down his quivering shaft.

"What the fuck are you doing, girl? I hadn't finished!" Marcel roared with indignation.

But Sylvie was desperate. She wanted to spit the stuff out - it tasted strong and peppery. She snorted air in through her nose and pressed her hand over her mouth. She clawed her way up the door and presented her open mouth to Bastien. The stuff clung to her tongue and the roof of her mouth.

She had expected him to say something, so that she could quickly empty her mouth into the jug and wipe her wet chin with the rag, but the Trustee merely cocked his head to one side and held up his hand, indicating she must wait.

"Come closer," he ordered. "Mouth wider."

It seemed to be burning the back of her throat and she was becoming desperate.

"Tongue out," instructed Bastien, revelling in her obvious discomfort. He waited, absorbing the distress contorting her soft girly face. Slowly, he pretended to examine closely.

"Good girl. You may now swallow it."

Oh yes, her eyes popped. Her torment was just so delicious.

"Go on then. Swallow. All of it. Then show me your mouth empty so I can see you've not wasted any. If you waste it, I'll leave you in here and make you do it all over again when he's ready."

Sylvie's face burned with shame and anger and self-pity and she did what she was told.

----------------------------------------

The trestle shook and she was instantly awake but she had forgotten where she was and cried out in fear. By the time her head cleared sufficiently for her to remember the horror of her present situation, she had instinctively backed hard into the corner of the alcove, knees pulled protectively to her chin beneath the rough blanket.

Bastien's chuckle was throaty and loaded with scorn.

"Don't get used to sleeping on the job, girl. Most nights you'll be busy from lights-out 'til dawn."

Sylvie blinked.

Her eyes were swollen and tired and gritty from when she had sobbed herself to sleep an hour before. As her head cleared, she remembered being taken back to her alcove and sitting in a daze on the trestle, aching and with the taste of semen still strong in her throat and nostrils. Absently, she had stroked her hair with her fingers, for comfort. It was not all lovely and long and smooth now. The girls in the orphanage had hacked at it one time before Mme Villiers had ordered them off and so it no longer reached down in delicate waves, right to the small of her back. But back home, only a few weeks before, she would sit on the stool in her bedroom and her mother's maid, Cecily, would brush her fine tresses for a full ten minutes each evening until they shone. But the memories of her former happy, comfortable life back in Paris had simply made her even more miserable and when her fingers tried to unpick a knot, she had recoiled in disgust when she realised that her hair was actually matted by a wayward streak of Marcel's ejaculation: blatant evidence of her current worth, as a common slut. The awful discovery had tipped the balance and she had huddled up beneath the blanket, to seek refuge in sleep.

"I'm talking to you, cunt!" yelled Bastien, irritated by her torpor and kicking again at the trestle.

The Trustee snatched the blanket and tore it from her, licking his lips at the sight of her pale little body. He flicked his head.

"Come on. I said I had something else for you to do tonight."

The sleep had been so good. For that too-short period that Sophie had been unconscious, she had been safe, free from people who wanted to humiliate her and do horrid things to her. Nobody had bullied or hurt her, or taken her things or shouted at or mocked her. She swung her legs off the palliase, wincing at the rawness between her legs and the return of the cramps deep inside her belly. She felt filthy and empty. Only the looming bulk of the creepy Bastien motivated her to move.

If she had never woken up, that would probably have been for the best. She knew what Hell was like and it was here and now and things could get no worse.

But she was wrong.

He pushed her in front of him but instead of returning to the main chamber, steered her towards the scullery but held her by the arm just short of the door. With a grunt, he leaned his shoulder against a tall dresser, which slid aside with a jarring, grating sound, presenting a narrow gap of blackness. She squeaked as he shoved her into it.

He followed her with his lamp, the darkness materialising into a long, narrow corridor.

At the far end, a spiral staircase led downwards and at the bottom, a solid door blocked her way.

"Push it hard, it's stiff," instructed Bastien, adding sotto voce, "just like me!".

Sylvie applied her weight to the metal-clad door.

"Not even le Professeur knows about this place. It was the furnace when the place was built, before the boiler was put in."

She was surprised at just how warm the air was in the tall room and her naked skin could sense the heat from the adjacent wall, on the other side of which was the 'new' boiler. The floor was thick with ash and the soles of her bare feet were pricked by sharp flecks of coal. Bastien swung the door shut, sealing them in.

"This is our secret place now," he grinned and her flesh crawled. Even though she could not imagine anything actually worse than the nightmare of being the locked away in a lunatic asylum for the pleasure of the inmates, her sinking stomach suspected that some how he had something even more ghastly planned for her in this gloomy, hidden room. She looked around. There was a chair and a couple of large slatted crates lined with straw. In the corner was a shallow bowl filled with water and half way up the wall opposite the door was a hatch, like a short door, and directly beneath it were the low remains of a heap of ebony black coal.

She did not want to be in any 'secret place' with this man. He had already had his way with her in his cell, and she thought there was nothing preventing him taking her back there if he simply wanted to do another... 'fuck'. She hated what she had become: using bad words, as well as having to do nasty things. He had said she had to call it that from now on: he had even made her say it out loud, that her job was to 'fuck' the men. To let them fuck her cunt and her face. Bastien had smiled as she said it back to him.

So why then did he want to bring her here?

Suddenly he was behind her, his hands snaking around her, cupping her breasts.

"The Night Girl has an important job here," he whispered, tightening his grasp. "She gets fucked by le Professeur, she gets fucked by the inmates, she gets fucked by the Trustee. I expect he'll even invite the Chesson brothers to fuck you before they finish work for the evening."

The large man guffawed, kneading her small tits and pulling her against him.

"Ha, I expect he would even let Madame St Amand stick a carrot up your little cunt too, as the old bag is doing the cooking!"

Sylvie squirmed, as much from the disgusting talk as the pain in her breasts.

"Welcome to the bottom of the shitheap, child. Everyone gets to fuck you, even the retards and the criminally insane. At least a whore gets paid; you don't!"

It was too much. She needed no reminder as to how her life had reached depths she could never have imagined.

Her face crumpled, tears flowing freely and her shoulders heaving and shivering. Her misery was complete.

Satisfied at the result of his torment, Bastien gripped her above the elbow, dragging her to the crate closest to them. His strong hands lifted her bodily and placed her on her stomach across it, with her feet and hands touching the floor and saving her from bearing down entirely on the rough wood. He stood back and unfastened his thick leather belt. Through her tears, she glanced up and wailed, sure that he was about to beat her.

He smiled and crouched low beside her.

"Oh come now, I'm not going to whip you. Not tonight at least. Though God knows your sweet little arse looks like it could do with a decent thrashing."

He placed his land lightly on the upturned curve of of her firm, narrow bottom and stroked her skin gently.

"The last girl needed a lot of whipping, especially before she..."

Bastien's words tailed away. Above their heads, something heavy was pushing against the coal-hole door. His voice became so quiet, almost conspiratorial.

"No, child. Your special treat is something much more amusing."

Her small body juddered with the unstoppable crying but he easily slipped the belt between the top slats of the crate and around her skinny waist and he fastened the buckle so that she was securely attached across it.

She watched him move to the wall with the hatch and reach up to open it. Instantly a cold swirl of icy air dived into the room and engulfed her and she could just see some stars in the sky. Beyond the asylum. She could see Heaven out there. Not her personal Hell.

The Trustee placed his fingers to his mouth and whistled a long, shrill note. He delved beneath his jacket and withdrew a damp parcel wrapped in newspaper. He held it up briefly for her to see.

"Madame St Amand - she saves me the scraps but pretends she doesn't know about Napoleon."

Before Sophie began to wonder what the horrible man was talking about, there was a rush of noise and a great blur of grey fur filled the hatchway. Bastien tossed the package to the floor and the large dog, Napoleon, leapt down and tore at the paper with his teeth.

Closing the hatch, Bastien returned and perched on the corner of the crate beside her, grinning at the animal, who was shaking the parcel to and fro until it split and he dived at the contents, snapping at each glistening morsel with his muzzle upwards before swallowing rapidly to seek out the next. Sylvie's lip curled in horrified fascination at the speed with which the dog finished off the meat. It was big, but thin, with its ribs clearly visible - part alsatian, part she knew not what, but she was not all that keen on any dogs other than Mme Dubois' poodle and she certainly did not like the look of Napoleon.

The dog slurped at the bowl and swished its tongue around its jaws to clean up. Only then did Napoleon remember his manners and pad across to be petted by the Trustee and nuzzle the man's hand by way of thanks for the meal.

With the dog so close, less than a metre from her face, Sylvie pushed upwards but the belt kept her firmly pinned down on the crate. Then, just as she feared, Napoleon's curiosity made him abandon Bastien's hand and dart towards her.

"Aww, boy, you'd rather check out the little girl than play with me, eh? Fickle friend you are." Bastien called after the dog. He stood and squatted beside it, as it sniffed at Sylvie's face.

"Like her, eh, boy?" Bastien ruffled the dog's fur. "That's the new Night Girl. Cute little thing isn't she? And very posh too, till she opens her legs, anyway. Go on, give her nice big sloppy kiss."

And he prompted Napoleon to lick Sylvie's face. She winced and squealed in protest.

"That's it a nice big slobbery kiss for our new girl!" and he snorted with laughter. "See, she loves it! Everyone else here just goes straight ahead and sticks their dick in her, but you are such romantic, Napoleon. Woo the lady first, eh, boy?"

The dog's breath was truly vile and she retched. Its tongue was rough and wet and she could do nothing to stop it lapping over her cheeks and nose and mouth. She dared not raise her hand, lest it turn nasty and decide to continue its meal with her fingers. Bastien was such an evil man, strapping her down and knowing that the dog would splash its foul spit all over her. Wasn't it enough that she had to endure all the other disgusting stuff upstairs? Her face flushed with yet more anger and shame. Would this never end - now she was to be a mangey dog's toy as well?

Oh God! No! A well brought-up eleven year old girl would not normally be expected to imagine such things, but Sylvie was learning fast. 'Woo the lady first' Bastien had just said. And why had he strapped her down like that?

"Here boy, come on," the Trustee was leading the dog gently by its ear. "Round here, this is what you want."

Her mouth fell open with disbelief. Her world was indeed about to become even worse. But deep in a forgotten cellar, beneath a lunatic asylum, there was no-one to hear her cries other than a man for whom they were music of the sweetest pitch, and large scruffy dog, whose red cock was swelling visibly as he took in her scent.

"No, please Monsieur Bastien, not that, not the dog..."

But he ignored her. He was winding some rags around Napoleon's front paws.

She yelped in terror. The dog's cold wet nose thrust deep into the cleft between her legs. Warm wetness followed as it sniffed and licked at her crotch and backside.

"Good boy, Napoleon, like that eh? Dirty little slag - we've all fucked her so now it's your turn. Yes, that's it, up you get. Give your new bitch a good, hard seeing-to..."