“What risks?” asked Jordan, with increasing concern.
He eyed her anxiously. “If done improperly, an examination such as they’re proposing can result in serious injuries. Torn bowels, infections, bruising, incontinence, sterility.” He counted them off on his fingers.
“Nonsense. A rectal examination done with proper care by a medical practitioner carries a low risk of injury,” said Salerno.
“I won’t be a party to this!” said the other man, ripping off his glasses to emphasize his protest.
“Then hustle yourself off,” Salerno told him diffidently. “We’ve determined our course. And the subject isn’t protesting.”
“Your subject is hardly in a position to get its way! You’ve obviously got some sort of hold over it.”
“Your imagination runs away with you,” said Salerno. “For its cooperation, La Maschera is paid in a coin you wouldn’t understand.” He looked her way. “Aren’t you?”
Jordan averted her eyes, hating him.
Shooting them all a disgusted look, the Englishman donned his glasses, coat, and hat in that order. The door at the back of the stage let in a bluster of rain, then banged shut as he deserted them.
His colleagues scarcely noticed. But Jordan knew her only ally had gone.
Salerno dug through his bag and pulled out a stoppered bottle containing bits of black root. Selecting one at random, he extended it to Jordan. “Chew this while I prepare myself.”
“What is it?” asked the bishop, intercepting and studying the root before passing it to her.
But Jordan knew the substance well and popped it in her mouth. Salerno had dosed her with it to calm her when she’d been younger and given to screaming fits during examinations.
“It’s an herb that will relax the subject’s muscles,” said Salerno.
Jordan chewed, watching as he began filing the nails of his right hand with the rasp of a particularly evil-looking file.
“Once stuck my hand inside a woman,” one of the drunkards ruminated. “In her cunt though, not her ass. Did it on a bet with my brother. Devil of a time getting my knuckles inside her as I recall. Once inside I made a fist though—in spite of her caterwauling—and won the wager.”
“Was there any injury?” Jordan couldn’t help asking.
“My hand was a little stiff and bruised the next day. Nothing serious.”
Jordan rolled her eyes at his stupidity. “No, I meant was there any injury to the woman.”
The man scratched his chin and looked perplexed. “Dunno. Never saw her again after that night. Whore, you know.”
He turned to Salerno, holding out one of his hands for inspection. “My hands are smaller than yours. And I’m a man of experience. Maybe I should have a go at it.”
Salerno shook his head. “You won’t know what you’re searching for. The shape of the organ is specific and requires a knowledge of internal anatomy.”
“Well at least tell me this. What’s your secret for getting the knuckles in?” the drunkard inquired with an air of seriousness.
“Adequate lubrication is the ticket to the whole endeavor. I start in with two fingers straight,” said Salerno, holding up his index and second fingers to demonstrate.
“As you add more fingers,” he went on, “crowd them together so the index and small fingers slide under the middle two.”
“Yes, yes, but the knuckles?” the drunkard prompted.
Salerno nodded, pleased as always to have a fascinated audience. “They’re the widest part of the hand, so one always encounters resistance during either vaginal or rectal insertion, though more so with the latter, naturally. As I push inside, I tuck my thumb under my fingers, forming a sort of wedge shape. Here, it’s best to heed any complaint from the male patient. However, in my opinion females are more prone to hysteria so one should insist upon proceeding regardless. Once the knuckles slip past the outer ring of muscles, one must press on gradually and with utmost care.”
Jordan’s anxiety escalated as he proceeded to illustrate the best manner in which to infiltrate her anus. As a crack of thunder came from outside the theater, a twin bolt of anger shot through her. Suddenly, she wanted to rage at all these men. To slap their satisfied faces and punch their paunchy bellies.
She’d reached her limit of enforced obedience. She’d rather die than return for this sort of treatment next year or even two years from now. No matter how her mother begged, this would be the last birthday she’d allow herself to be subjugated in this way. If Salerno exposed the true facts of her gender and they lost everything, so be it. She would find work. Or perhaps she could convince her mother to marry one of the many swains who doted on her.
The Sicilian returned then with two pitchers of water. Her eyelids slitted as she measured the distance to the door. He blocked it now, but she would watch for an opportunity to cut the evening short.
With a final flourish of his nail file, Salerno flexed his fingers and pronounced himself ready. After filling the syringe from the pitchers, he went to stand at the back of the stage, near the wall.
“Come over here so you don’t soil the table,” he told her, motioning her forward with one hand. “Cleansing with a clyster can be a nasty business.”
Pretending to be woozier than she was, Jordan slowly gathered herself and half-rolled off the table. Stumbling, she made her way toward the rear of the stage where Salerno waited.
He eyed her critically as she approached. “Is that my cloak?” Aghast when he determined it was, he thrust his equipment into the bishop’s hands. “Take it off before it becomes soiled beyond redemption.” He yanked the garment from her. Shaking out its folds, he carefully draped it over the back of the chair the artist had left positioned by the door.
When he returned, he neglected to reclaim his device from the bishop. “On your knees now,” he told her. “In a squat. That’s right.”
His hands pressed her shoulders downward and Jordan sank to her knees. A bucket was set on the floor, just behind her between her ankles.
“Lean forward.” She didn’t budge.
“The root has taken effect,” he told the bishop over her head. “You’ll have to wield the syringe.” Salerno came and stood in front of her, holding his hands under her armpits. She had no choice but to bury her nose in his crotch.
Within his trousers, his prick dangled, soft against her cheekbone. Working with her never excited him physically. She wondered if anything ever did.
Hands fumbled behind her, spreading the cheeks of her bottom. The bishop’s robes puddled over her feet as he bent closer. Cold metal prodded her anus.
Perhaps she should pretend to faint. Or to vomit. She had to do something that would offer a distraction in order to escape.
The sound of someone clearing his throat just outside the theater curtain came to her like a gift from heaven. The remaining men turned their attention away from her and toward the interruption.
“Don’t do anything until I return,” Salerno muttered to the bishop. Leaving her on all fours with the bishop positioned behind her, he went to the curtain.
“You think I’m stupid?” the bishop whispered to her when he’d left them. “You think I don’t know?”
Jordan froze, looking back at him over a shoulder. “What the hell are you talking about?”
His eyes turned