"I want the two new ones readied for fitting the straps and rings, Simone, and..."
"Coursel's down there, Madame, preparing for the riveting too," the servant put in with a curtsey. "Both 'ave been scrubbed and strapped down ready for skewerin'. Bressac's sorted out the rings and tools. Does yer Grace wish us to proceed as ordered?"
"Of course woman. See to it Coursel chains the sluts tight over the slab. I want them extended to the full reach of the tendons, to avoid that annoying tussling like the last time. And tell him there's not be any flogging, particularly between the thighs, until the Marquis and I have appraised their bodies and stamina. They'll be on the wall chains in the holding cellar, I suppose?"
The hard-featured servant nodded. "Of course, Madame. By the necks to opposite walls. But soon they'll be spread on the slabs. But the younger bitch keeps moanin'."
"She'll have full reason to moan very soon. You may go."
Elodie turned to her lesbian treasure, admiring the firm breasts. "What a treat to wake up and find you next to me, all wet and sticky. You were simply delicious last night. Pity Francis was too done in to fuck us more than twice. He likes slaves more than us."
Hours later, the remains of the extravagant lunch cleared away, Elodie again kissed the young woman on the lips, cupping a hand over her sex pouch through the silks. "All right. I can see you're dying to get down there to watch the piercings. I know how you like that part of the proceedings. There's no need for you to change into that martial outfit of yours, my sweet. Just go down and enjoy it as you are. You look so pretty in that dress and narrow waist. Being arrayed like that, you won't be able to frig that riotous clit for once will you? So, off you go."
Anthea needed no encouragement. She left in a whisper of silk and perfume.
The spiral stairwell leading into the funereal depths always excited her; the silence reigning amid the guttering tallow seemed even more charged with significance than when the passages rang with the screams of slaves writhing under the leathers and implements. What she was about to watch sent a tremor through her body, causing her nipples to harden. Excited, she entered the stifling cellar. It smelled already of scared female flesh.
What met her eyes was more exciting than she had expected. In the glimmer of the candles positioned round the two slabs of basalt, the totally stretched bodies shimmered with oil and, she guessed, the chill sweat of terror. Coursel stood beyond the superb, elongated length of the blonde bound to the nearest block, checking how much further the prisoner's arms could be bent backwards over the far margin of the stone without luxation. At the other slab, Simone was wrenching Martine's freshly-riveted ankle straps back to lock them to U-bolts halfway along the base of the block. The nude's rump lay crushed over the near edge, the tensed thighs completely parted to reveal the umber slot and pubis, still protected by its swathe of dark curls that was no longer wanted.
Beyond the breathtaking sweep of the hollowed bellies rising to the rib cages, the slaves' breasts rose vertically, the engorged areoles crowned with swollen teats - even Martine's nipples were reacting. The sight made Anthea glance at the crotches, from the blonde one's sex folds the pale tip of what had to be a really stalwart clitoris emerged almost provocatively. But the other slave remained torpid, her sepia labia still glued together. To Anthea's mind the drab needed stimulating - a dozen lashes of the quirt there across the fat vulva; but Simone sought quite the opposite; piercing slave flesh and fitting the rings required docility on the part of the slave. Precisely to that end, the two servants passed broad straps over the chest, belly and thighs of each nude, buckling them tight. If before there had been the risk of a heave or jerk, now the bodies were absolutely rigid.
Simone's depilations of males or females were always flawless, that Anthea knew as she watched the woman working up her lather in the soap mug and daubing the sexes and armpits. Soon each girl's succulent pubic hump bulged enticingly, freed of hair, curving down to the lips of the vulva slit, ready to be perforated, the bodies slick with sweat. Coursel laid the array of open metal circles on each slave's belly for the cunt and nipple rings to be threaded through the flesh and clamped. From the pocket of her greasy leather apron, Simone brought out her saddler's tools, one straight, the other a curved sewing awl which Anthea knew was used for piercing the slippery root of the clitoris.
"Which tits yer want t'do first?" the valet asked, disinfecting the tools and a pair of crimping pliers in his urine. His wife motioned towards Martine. "Better get this drab fixed," she said, "before she 'ollers 'er bloody 'ead off." They used the vernacular together.
"Want me to flog 'er senseless first? Or gag 'er?"
"Won't do no good." The maid turned to Anthea. "That's if Mam'selle don't mind the yells that's comin'."
The onlooker shook her head. "I'm used to it, Simone. Proceed."
Indeed the brawny bitch did howl as Coursel hooked the flat-nosed tongs over the nipple and stretched it. As if jabbing a sow's ear, Simone drove the awl through, widening the aperture with a turn of the wrist. Amid deafening shrieks, the other teat and then the four labia were holed, then he drew out the puny sex button for Simone's curved instrument to perforate what there was of it. She wiped off the beads of blood for her husband to thread the rings through and clamp them solid with the pliers. By the time they had finished with Martine, the girl had passed out, sparing everyone, including Joanne, her demented yelling. Then, with only sharp hisses of pain, Joanna underwent the same ordeal, the torture of her tumescent sexual extremities causing only a litany of sharp cries. Unpredictably, she discovered herself savouring the erotic humiliation that was reducing her to slavery; the weight made her vulva flutter and ooze, as one of her most secret yearnings came true.
Collecting her tools the maid remarked on Joanne's courage. "By all the saints, this one'll make a tidy slave, Coursel. And she's got a great body t' whip and fuck."
Before Coursel had released the bodies, Anthea approached Joanne to finger the sex rings. The cluster gave her, too, an exotic thrill. Burrowing in amid the dangling metal, she thrust her gloved hand up into the vagina; hot, seething with viscid sap, the tube gripped her; feeding her thumb through the clit ring, she felt the metal jerk. It was one of the most extraordinary sensations Anthea had experienced. Circumstances, alas, did not allow her to take matters into her own hands; otherwise she would have whipped the blonde beauty where she lay, straddling the face to be tongued and brought to orgasm. Instead, she walked slowly to the reversed head and made Joanne lick her glistening fingers. But she did not wait to see the shuddering bodies manhandled back to their wall chains to recover from the shock and residual pain throbbing at the seven points. She required relief.
She made for the steps leading down to the lower cellar, feeling her way along the masonry in darkness. After a perilous descent, she entered the dungeon, her crinolines and farthingale hoops rasping against the doorjambs and causing the candles to waver in surprise. But it was Therèse, lounging behind the bars and playing with her sex rings, who received the real surprise. The key grated in the rodded gate and Anthea released the chain from the neck of the startled whore. Her sisters held their breath.
"Out there, scum, and over the torture trestle, arse well up, legs wide!" The voice was strident enough to drain the blood from the cheeks of the perpetually welted brunette, as she scrambled out to obey the summons. Bending over the bar, Therèse watched the slender, evil figure cross to the whip rack and seize a knotted cat-o'-nine-tails; she knew what was coming. In her brief time at Lassignac, she had had it across the thighs, buttocks, belly and once over her breasts - everywhere, from the valet, Elodie and countless guests. But never from the pampered beauty standing there, shaking out the lashes that could either take one to orgasm or reduce one merely to tears. Therèse feared this time it would be a flood of tears. Sex was beyond reach, faced with Anthea.
She spread herself out over the woode
n crosspiece, grasping the uprights, her legs parted to their extreme reach with only her toes for purchase. Without a further word, Anthea flogged the rump with a ferocity that cut the victim's breath. Around the tenth lash, Therèse's stamina failed her. Weeping, she begged to be spared. "I've... already had..." Schlack "two flagellations... today, mistress." Schlack "Ahh, God!... And I've... paid for... my faults... too" Schlack! Again, up into the crotch... "out in the... yard. Pleeese!"
"Get that split arse out further, slut! You owe me more than faults. You owe me whatever I want to give you, bitch. It was to be twenty but as you can't hold your tongue until I need it, I'll give you ten extra, you wimp. That's what an arse is for." Schlack!
Anthea took her to well over the usual thirty, desisting only when blood was drawn. Therèse sank to her knees, her breasts sagging, the rump seething. She could not take any more, even if it meant the torture closet...
"Get up, bitch!" came the command, "and on your knees, there." The whip pointed to the terrifying flogging frame, halting the slave's heart. Cumbrously, the flayed nude crawled across the straw-littered flagstones, not daring to touch her bleeding rear, until she was facing the young fury leaning against the frame, her stockinged legs apart, the lace and crinolines lifted in both hands, baring the hot apex of the thighs.
Devoid, as usual, of any trace of knickers (a habit Elodie had tried to correct, along with her depraved lesbian's overindulgence in wearing a 'chastity' belt fitted with an internal dildo and clit rasp), the divinely elegant thighs and auburn-haired crotch stared out at the flagellated slave girl. Therèse knew immediately what the bitch wanted.
"Tongue me, slut. Lick till I come. If you stop, I'll thrash those flabby breasts until you wish you'd never had a pair." The tone had become guttural, hoarse and even more threatening than before. Relieved not to be chained to the frame and breast-whipped, the slave nudged her well-trained tongue into the wet, hirsute slot and flicked hard.
Watched by her nervous companions beyond the bars, she did what she could with the remainder of her energy, straining her head upwards and holding the slim thighs with hands that, strangely, remained free - an unbelievable privilege at Lassignac for a slave in the presence of an owner or a visiting dominant. The tongue lapped, curled and sucked desperately, the girl almost suffocating in the torrid downpour of mucilage.
Anthea's response began as a baying, like that of a dying animal, then mounted into a wild screech that penetrated the far reaches of the dungeon. The watchers behind the grating knew her potency but were surprised. For Therèse's sake they hoped there was not much more in store for their nut-brown teammate.
"Don't stop, you... you whore slag... or I'll..." The breathless, incoherent threat trailed off to join the echoes as the slithering tongue lapped faster, scouring the seething vaginal sheath and clit until the slave could no longer fight the lunges into her face. The convulsing, spasming creature clutched the whore's hair by the handful, almost tearing out tufts as the orgasms exploded, the crotch slamming the face awash with discharge. A volley of three more consecutive gushings submerged Therèse in thick sexual juice that she had barely time to swallow down before she found herself enshrouded within the descent of the perfumed underskirts. Panting and assuaged, Anthea sent the slave sprawling.
"Now, back to your chains, whore." No more than a murmur, the order consoled Therèse; she hoped it was over, for the dreaded whip still dangled dangerously, if irresolutely, from the exquisitely boned hand in the kid glove.
Under the rippling layers of soft silk, the slave girl kissed the embroidered slippers, as a slave had to do, hastening back beyond the bars to clip herself to her slave chain.
The iron gate slammed to, the key rasped and the contented one was gone.
"You must try to contain your lusts a little, darling," Elodie prompted her lover a while later. Her valet reported everything very promptly to his august owner. "But never mind. I want you to stand by in case you're needed to deal with our blonde newcomer, that is it you still have the energy! And this duty is, if I may say, official. You see, I have to allow our dear Dom Anselme have his way once in a while. He insists or trying to get our blonde charmer - the one we've just ringed - to abjure. A noble aspiration. Whether he will succeed is another matter. Anyway, he proposes to do it in the chapel rather than, say in one of the torture closets where he would have more privacy. Now, Anthea, you know," she lowered her voice a shade. "I am not particularly concerned over her religious beliefs but we have to content this sanctimonious chaplain of ours." She paused, hoping Anthea was listening. "I want you, my treasure, to do the honours in the chapel. I'm sure you'll relish it. But just remember, this session is under Anselme's guidance."
"What, pray, am I to do?" Anthea had no affinity with the gaunt Dominican but had to admire his shrewdness. Working with him was no great pleasure although admittedly he flogged and fucked admirably and she had learned much from watching him at work.
"It's very simple," the Marquise went on. "He has chosen to convert the blonde infidel first and then start on the other. Should there be problems - and, Anthea sweet, I'm certain there will be - he intends to flog the girls into the Faith. But he's unwilling to sully his holy hands with whips in chapel. So we've decided that, if necessary, you should do the whipping, prior to vespers, rather than the uncouth Coursel or Simone - although they, as you know, flagellate laudably to the blood when given the chance. So, Coursel will prepare the prie-dieu and the cords and you, with Anselme's concurrence, may choose the whip you think will help the girl to abjure. I have my doubts about the whole affair but it will provide you with useful practice. By the way, I think it would be correct, dearest, not to be too naked. I know you prefer nudity but remember you'll be on holy ground."
Anthea nodded. The prospect delighted her. To whip a slave, whatever her religion, in the chapel of all places, excited her, even if the lugubrious, morbid Dominican was involved. Moreover the duty would excuse her from confession for some weeks and that too pleased her, for a tête-à-tête with Dom Anselme was trying; his bony hands fumbling her nipples, the confessional stall rendering lower contact difficult. Moreover, the man's cock, straining under the cassock, hardly attracted her. Even Coursel's was finer.
"Now, angel, run along," her lover concluded, "and try not to masturbate too much, darling. You'll wear yourself out. A clit needs repose, you know." She caressed the girl tenderly, not far from the spot in question, and gave her a kiss, but only on the mouth.
The beautiful youngster could hardly believe her good fortune as she mounted the stairway leading to the bedrooms. She had been chosen to assist in the questioning of a prisoner! Knowing Dom Anselme, she was sure he would order the whip, whatever the outcome of the interview. The only drawback lay in the place. Anthea would have much preferred the cellar or a secluded precinct; the chapel was so funereal and forbidding.
For a moment she stood by the casement, looking out over the still snow-smudged hills of the Cevennes, wondering when she would be needed in the chapel. If she had understood, Elodie was to inspect the newcomers first. Life was becoming exciting.
She strolled over to the rustic sideboard and took out her personal scourge. Slowly and affectionately, she let the six black thongs run over her glove, feeling the tight knots; the weight, balance and texture pleased her and the colour went with the high boots she would wear. Her cheeks flushed, her vagina swelling again. She stripped off, spread out across the bed and, gasping, brought herself off savagely with the phallus-shaped haft of the whip. It was almost as satisfying as flogging a female slave... Almost? Nonsense - there was nothing to equal flagellation. Nothing. As this newcomer, Joanne, would discover.
Chapter Two
The two probationers were left a while, still chained to the slabs, to recover from the piercing and the threading of the metal through the flesh. Although throbbing painfully herself, Joanne found her colleague's whimpering hard
to bear. The pause in the operations did not last long before Coursel was clamping the rivets in the ankle and wrist leathers; already in place, the bonds required a final hammering to ensure permanency. Each neck was then encircled with the broad iron throat band, replacing the earlier temporary leather strap; there too the rivets were flattened. Writhing in pain, Joanne guessed each restraint carried the same four rings for chaining and bondage, as on her colleagues in the cellar.
The work was done competently enough. Martine moaned and struggled, only to receive a lash across her vast, freshly ringed breasts. "What are you doing to me?" she shrieked. "Heaven will punish you for this. Take them off! Haven't we suffered enough?"
Surprisingly, Simone answered her. "And how d'yer think we're going to lead you sluts around? And hook your whorish body up for the whip, eh? Keep that mouth shut unless you're wanting a strap round that too." Martine's groans softened but continued.
The piercing and bondage completed, the slaves were driven to the wall for the neck and wrists to be tied to an iron ring. The new fittings proved effective and painful.
Facing each other, neither girl wished or even managed to utter a word; each stared at the other's hardware, stunned rigid. Both had ample pain to contend with in the semi-darkness. After the departure of the servants, the hours passed very slowly.
Unlike her suffering companion, Joanne was not unhappy. Despite the throbbing in her sexual extremities, she felt her nakedness enhanced by the metal, the clit ring already giving her a sensation of strange arousal. In her heart she felt little compassion for the poignant figure opposite her; the youngster was deplorably faint-hearted, devoid of the slightest sense of eroticism and dismally obese. If she were to survive, Joanne thought, the girl would have to bestir herself, accept her predicament and conform. Her pious refusal to yield was not only pointless but dangerous for them both as religious heretics. Unless, of course, Martine was determined to act the martyr. For her part, Joanne was finding a certain sensual pleasure in this sexual slavery and nudity. She pitied Martine's naivety.
The Sufferers Page 3