In a chamber steeped in shadow, only the flickering light of candles offered reprieve. At the heart of the room, the penitent knelt before Circe - cloaked in humility, spine bowed, and breath shallow. Behind him stood a grotesque semicircle of carved figurines arrayed in silent audience. No ordinary effigies each bore the twisted form of half-man half-beast: jackals, swine, bull faces - a hoary menagerie. Though carved from wood and bone, their gazes seemed to bore into Crispin's back.

"So, my sweet, sticky doll -- you made quite an exhibition of yourself in Molly's yard in the company of those gentlemen friends of hers. It was pleasing to my eyes and I sense not wholly displeasing to your uncontrollable lusts." With reddening cheeks, he looked at the floor. "Go now! I demand more ... crawl off to see your next maid!" As Crispin made his exit, Circe looked after and her lips parted in a serpentine grin. The mortal fool's third penance about to unfold in a grand carnival of filth and feminine triumph. And Lucy -- oh, Lucy - stands at the heart of it. Lucy, the one Piedale girl resistant to all Crispin's advances and whom he had the temerity to besmirch as an alleged village muck spreader and gossip. Let us linger over this next phase of his downfall.

The scene switches to April's farm -- the last vestiges of dawn mist curling around the barns, the air heavy with the earthy tang of livestock and hay. Lucy leant against a fence post, one heel cocked, short skirt teasing the breeze, lacy black brassiere peeking from beneath a low-cut blouse. Her eyes -- sharp, hazel brown, and wicked -- Crispin drank them in as he shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

April, the sturdy farmer's daughter, appeared at Lucy's shoulder with a burlap sack and a grin that promised no mercy. "So," Lucy purred, stepping closer, her breath warm at your ear, "our brave little muck spreader has arrived. Let's see how well you wear your own filth, darling"
April cracked her knuckles. In moments Crispin's shirt was torn open, buttons scattering across the packed dirt. Hands tugged at his trousers -- rough farm-girl fingers stripping him bare in the morning chill, leaving him naked but for the remnants of quivering pride.

April gestured to the waiting muck spreader -- an old iron contraption freshly loaded with mulch. Lucy circled behind, her fingertips ghosting down his spine as she clicked the mechanism's lever. The machine roared to life, with a knee-buckling growl. She bent Crispin forward -- presenting his backside -- and with a triumphant flick of Lucy's wrist, the spreader erupted. A roiling spray of sludge arced through the air, coating his back and legs, dripping down his chest and face as he spluttered, slipped and slid over. Assuming the controls, April worked the lever to ensure full coverage, while Lucy watched, licking her lower lip as each blast drenched him deeper in the special brew.

Satisfied, Lucy nodded to April, who guided Crispin to the pit: a shallow tank of cattle feed molasses, dark and sticky as treacle. He balked at the sight but Lucy's palm on the back shoved him down -- the warm, sickly sweet syrup closing around thighs, then hips, then chest. Recognisable only from the shape of his cock, which stuck out prominently, the rest of his body lay anonymous in the black molasses, every hairless inch glistening in the sun.
April tossed the burlap sack toward the pit -- but Lucy ripped it open instead, lifting handfuls of soft goose feathers and sprinkling them over tacky skin. The feathers clung to the molasses: a ridiculous downy coat stuck to every crevice and curve.

While Crispin's feet squelched, April wheeled up her pride and joy -- an old battered wheelbarrow, its seat lined generously with fresh slop. Lucy gestured with her chin --he climbed in, legs spread wide, the warm slime oozing under his backside. Lucy gripped the handles, and his bare thighs quivered against the rusty steel as she pushed the penitent out through the farm gates.

Down the village lane they went -- the two girls singing sprightly:

A carting we will go!
A carting we will go!
Heigh-ho, the dairy-o
A carting we will go!

Feathers drifted behind them like obscene confetti. Waiting ahead lay Rosie and her van, loaded high with custard pies, each one creamy, sweet, and merciless.

Lucy brought the barrow to a halt in the village square -- already teeming with womenfolk: Mrs Lloyd the post mistress first in line, rolling up her sleeves with a grin that seemed as if it had waited decades for this day. Jenny was there too, arms folded, nodding in grim approval alongside Molly. Among the party also numbered Mary, the Lady Mayoress, who had given official sanction to the events about to unfold.

Smack! -- Mrs Lloyd slammed the first pie into Crispin's groin, splattering custard and feathers in all directions. Then the less than gentle sex followed one by one -- pies of lemon, raspberry, chocolate -- splat, splat, splat! -- feathers matted down by sweet filling, face invisible under layers of crust and cream. Each shot greeted with laughter and shrieks of delight. Mrs Lloyd enjoyed seconds, landing one square in the face, the pie tin ringing as it connected. Molly aimed low to cover a twitching phallus, Mary aimed high --pride that day was truly battered with custard and village scorn.

When the last pie landed -- a final thwack right on a feathered crown -- Lucy wiped her hands clean on Crispin's incongruously bare shoulder. "One last lesson, muck spreader," she crooned. The jolting barrow wheeled its way back to the farmyard, transporting a sticky, dripping form that had become a carnival of humiliation.
At the barn, April swung open a gate to the old cowshed. Inside: a wide, creamy mud-like channel: the final resting place for ruined dignity.

Lucy tipped the wheelbarrow forward -- slow at first, letting Crispin's filthy, feathered rump dangle over the pit. Then, with a wink and a little twist to the handles, she pitched him in headfirst.
Landing with a wet, slopping squelch, submerged nose to knees in thick viscous mire, legs thrashed in vain - while somewhere above the rim, Lucy's laughter rang out, warm and wicked.

"Three done, my sweet slop pig," Circe whispered from the shadows. "Four to go. Let's see what rises next besides you."