At first Joanne's throat denied her a voice. Then she managed a hoarse cry: "No. Never! Do what you want with my body. My faith is steadfast. My soul is..."
"Flog the bitch!" was all she heard. The knotted whip hissed and fell. Her whole body burst in an explosion of white pain, the buttocks clenching under the knots. Lash after lash from the half-naked Anthea lacerated the curved rump. She felt the welts swelling but steadfastly dared not risk her sexual extremities by intensifying the murderous drag on them. Each lash cut her breath until the tenth stroke fell and she screamed as never before in her life. The bitch sliced harder into the shuddering rump, ensuring the knotted thongs curled into the open crotch. The cords securing the ringed flesh seemed to tighten frighteningly, inexorably.
Fifteen, twenty and then more slashes catapulted shock waves into her brain, her howls shrilling down the nave. Dom Anselme, cock in hand, watched through slitted eyes. Though inexperienced, the infidel's naked body was responding well.
Again came the grindstone of a voice. "Do you repent? Do you abjure, whore?" The interrogation developed into a frightening torrent of abuse. "Foul she-devil incarnate! Anathema on you! Abjure, vile sow! Does not your strumpet's brain tell you that you are stark naked, spread for blooding? I shall have you flayed raw until you howl out your plea of repentance. Abjure and you will be spared and comforted. Speak!"
"Never!" Through veils of agony Joanne heard her own frantic voice yelling out again the only word she had the force to dredge up out of her lungs.
The Dominican's eyes narrowed further as he nodded to Anthea. The girl moved to the victim's reared head, noticing with pleasure the tears and sweat pouring down the cheeks, the artery in the distended neck pulsing behind the studded collar. With all her might Anthea brought the leathers down along the length of the spine. The blow made the loose circles of slave metal in the cunt jounce as the body heaved, sending fresh wails up into the chapel's clerestory. Somewhere in the crescendo of pain, Joanne sensed she was about to faint. Behind slavering lips, she gritted her teeth.
"It's your last chance, infidel. Do you abjure?" the Dominican yelled. In reply the nude body slumped, inert, no longer conscious of the continued thuddings over her flesh.
"Sc be it," the voice announced resignedly. "Give her ten more, Anthea. In the position we have her, forty lashes will suffice. I shall now give her unction that is neither holy nor extreme and you shall reap your reward. Ram your pretty cunt into her maw."
As the thrashing came to an end the victim found herself reviving, only to feel several things: just able to sense what was happening, she knew the prelate was close to her rear, the coarse habit grazing her thighs as he freed his cock. She even felt the thread of liquid trailing over her scorched buttocks and then the head being lowered as the man mounted the prie-dieu. At the same moment, her tear-dazzled eyes saw Anthea's golden triangle nearing her mouth. But more mortifying was the state of her own vagina - swollen and flooded, bloated from the whipping, the clit unsheathed and pulsing. Instinctively she knew the whipping had aroused her to that summit of readiness only penetration and clogging semen could satisfy. Her body was trembling, ready for orgasm.
No sooner aware of her condition, for which she feared she would probably be further punished, Joanne suddenly tensed. The man's shaft was not seeking her vulva; the huge piston was butting at the puckered anus. With a savage jab, the rod was driven home, the slave uttering a sharp cry as the sphincter stretched and yielded. For once she was grateful for the enlarging the plug had brought about. The erection was like the pestle she used at home for crushing olives and just as firm. As the shaft bored in up to its root, for the first time in her uneventful sexual existence, Joanne realised she was at last being sodomised, a pleasure her Jean-Jacques had denied her. As her mouth, like her anus, opened with amazement, she found her face smothered against Anthea's crotch.
"Tongue me, bitch!" the whip mistress hissed, but all Joanne could do was to grit her teeth again to counter the gouging of her rear. Furious at not being instantly obeyed, the woman reversed her grasp on the scourge and, sideways with the haft, struck the nearer of the extended breasts. The blow made the slave gasp as the nipple stretched, the anal thrusts jerking her forward. Quickly, she licked into the steaming slot, perfunctorily at first and then, driven by further slams across the taut udder, vigorously, lapping up the flood of liquid oozing over the labia and then flicking and sucking the stub of gristle as best she could. Surprised at its dimension, modest compared with her own, she curled her inexperienced tongue round the thing, drawing it out now and then with her teeth when Anthea yelled at her to bite. The odour and slime of the young sex, despite her hatred of its owner, excited Joanne, somehow heightening the new sensation in her anus as the sphincter muscle rippled in and out along the Dominican's penis. Even her whipped sex thrilled as the heavy ball sac slapped against it.
A dozen thrusts into the behind sufficed to bring out of the priest the vilest oaths Joanne had yet heard. A moment later she heard herself being ordered to recite twenty Ave Maria's which, quite apart from being smothered by Anthea's grinding cunt, she had no earthly intention of doing. The refusal brought further retaliation as Anselme urged his partner: "Lash the heretic's udders, Anthea, both of them!" and the young girl used the whip haft again below the roped body. Joanne prayed chaotically and somehow managed to remain whole.
Suddenly the man withdrew, only to lower his cock and plunge in between the vulva fronds, stretched to a prodigious length by the rope. With a groan of relief, the slave, at long last, felt the rod slither sumptuously into her to hammer the cervix; again she almost fainted but with lust this time, as the shaft became aggressive. Joanne let out a muffled cry of despair when the prelate pulled out to ram again into the anus, his preferred site for depositing his sacred seed. Joanne's groans, stifled in the golden fleece flattened on her face, diminished as excitement obliterated the aching residues of the flogging. The cock's return to impale her backside left the clit jerking with need, the impending orgasm fluttering like a kestrel hovering above her, about to swoop out of the skies of the Cevennes into her entrails. But the Dominican continued to ream the butt in silence, admiring the way his partner was wrenching clumps of the slave's hair to keep her head working, threatening her with further lashes if she did not tongue harder than she was pretending to do. Joanne licked and suctioned desperately, not anxious for a renewed onslaught of leather. What, she anguished, was to prevent them turning her over and thrashing her breasts and pubis? What stopped them twisting her nipples until they bled? Nothing. They had her stark naked, at their mercy.
Abruptly, Anselme's fingers groped below the whipped thighs to seize the stiff clit. "Cap de Diou, as I thought," he grunted, "whipping excites our wanton slut!"
Joanne knew he was right. The two of them had brought a sex-starved victim to a point of no return. She was teetering on the verge of crisis. She was about to come. As the man's fingers mauled her clitoris, the gladiators' Morituri te salutant her old pastor had mentioned in a sermon echoed in her. She was about to die. Not by the sword. By orgasm. She felt panic rising in her. Had she the right to spend? And if so, what would they do to her? Torture her? Make her run, jangling, behind a horse as on that ghastly night of capture, but in a circle with the major-domo, valets, servants lashing her?
Cursing her two persecutors and her own lust, she strove to delay the explosion. The exertion proved fatal. The hawk swooped with distended talons on to her and bore her screaming into the cloudy heights. Her yells intermingled with groans: "Yes, yes... whip me... I'm coming! Now...Yes... Oh, yes! Now!" Careering into wild orgasm, the nude body wrenched recklessly on the corded nipple rings. The orgasm tore so suddenly, so utterly through her that the howls of ecstasy and release transpierced the drab walls of the chapel, invading the passages, bedrooms, cellars, stairwells, vaultings... Then Anthea followed suit, spewing her discharge over the slave's face. The females'
cries drove the man to lengthen his rectal plunges and, just as abruptly, the thick sperm pumped into the heretic's bowels, Joanne continuing to spasm. Slowly he freed his penis from the grip of the anus and lowered his cassock.
"Comes like a veritable prostitute, Anthea. Yes, as I thought, a sister of sin. As she seems to relish the whip, we must apply other, more appropriate instruments to instigate conversion. But for now, we shall leave her to wallow in the slough of her despicable heresy. I have done my best with the slag. At least for the moment."
"You certainly have, Brother Anselme!" his partner remarked breathlessly. "She came with a vengeance. Where did your fine piston deposit its offering? Front or Back?"
"Always in the dark realms of the bowels, sweet daughter. As a man of principle, I do not wish to trouble this noble castle with my offspring. Now, dear Anthea, kindly call the valet and have the filthy strumpet bound to the rood screen to consider her plight."
Thrilled at having been offered the chance to flagellate a fine pair of whore buttocks and breasts (although she would have preferred a better presentation of the latter), Anthea had enjoyed the pious session. Like the gracious Elodie, she felt no dismay over Dom Anselme's failure to convert the heretic; the object was there to be whipped and used. That was what naked slaves were for at Lassignac. To provide pleasure.
Wiping off her faithful six-thong, she summoned Coursel. The valet, nettled to have been, as usual, left out of the session, had contented himself by solemnly frigging off in the nearby transept, leaving the clots to harden on the paving; it was dirty enough already and the chapel was not in his purview of duties; but flogging was. Yet he had to admit that this spoilt lesbian, Anthea, did wield a whip with force and style. She needed no tuition.
"Chain this stubborn pagan trash to the rood screen, man," Anselme ordered, "while I pray for continued spiritual strength to perform my mission. I shall try again with her anon." The priest's eyes glinted as he observed his cum oozing from the slave's anal bud. Converted or not, the newly arrived blonde at least showed promise in one direction: she took whip and penis admirably enough. As he straightened out his garb, he wondered how, should she persist in refusing conversion, the pretty bitch would react to the Marquise's sessions of sex torture, the breast quirt, pincers, prongs, needles and the rest. Although he was never invited to such ceremonies, it was common knowledge that the other slaves currently domiciled at the château responded well, but then they had been toughened and trained through incessant use by their eminent proprietress and guests. This well-built blonde, he thought, might well outstrip them in competence. In any event, whether she abjured, attended Mass and confession or not, Anselme knew she would remain a prisoner and available to the house for routine use. Thus, his work to achieve abjuration could continue. Like the Marquise, the saintly man felt that conversion lay still some way off but he would strive for it. As to the other parpaillote, the plump newcomer with her enormous breasts and broad arse, he felt fairly certain she would not be tempted by abjuration, whatever was done to her at the outset; hence, she could be counted on to provide him, as well as the rest of the household and visitors, with ready flogging flesh until ultimately she weakened and gave in. Once she had been whipped into grovelling submission, conversion would be merely a matter of sequential steps, for had he not when seconded earlier to accompany the dragoons, made scores of scourged women abjure? Fifty lashes had usually sufficed. Thirty, if hung by the legs to be crotch or breast whipped.
As he watched the flogged, groaning slave being detached from the prie-dieu, Dom Anselme smiled to himself as he thought of the cunning Marquise's preoccupation over the possibility that he, her chaplain, would request the release of the girls, if conversion were achieved. Under no circumstances would he suggest such a thing. The slaves would remain slaves, precisely where they were, imprisoned nipple-naked in the dungeon, like the others, for sexual use. Meanwhile, and Anselme smiled again, the parpaillote bitches would hold out to the limit of what they thought their flesh could stand and then abjure on the promise of release, only to find themselves condemned to permanent slavery within the dark womb of Lassignac.
Again observing how the valet handled the blonde beauty, who had collapsed at the man's feet, Anselme knew he could break the bitch sooner or later and trusted the unpredictable Marquise would act in a spirit of cooperation and not commandeer the new whores completely. One never knew with her. Sometimes he suspected that lust took precedence over her wish to bring about conversion.
Having kicked the wilting nude to her feet, Coursel bowed to the Dominican whom he admired for his faith and for the patience he exhibited in dealing with headstrong transgressors. He would give a finger of his hand to fuck with Anthea but that was beyond imagining; he would have to make do as usual with the cellar slaves during their daily whippings - 'to keep them conditioned' was Elodie's phrase - and, alas, with his appallingly unappetising spouse; his Simone required a great deal of cock to keep her quiet.
As she was dragged towards the high rood screen, Joanne also cast a covert look through her tears at the sanctimonious Dominican fingering his rosary beads as if still rolling her clitoris. How she hated him! But even more virulent was her loathing for the young bitch, Anthea - if that was indeed her name. Legs apart, the beauty stood there imperiously, mopping up on her gauntlet the saliva and come beginning to encrust her sex. She was a heinous invention of nature, even if highly responsive to cunnilingus...
The welted slave girl stumbled up the three chancel steps for whatever was to follow, Coursel crossing himself devoutly as he slammed the debilitated, slaked body against the wrought iron. After stretching the arms aloft and splaying the legs the man chained the four limb straps to the screen. Satisfied with the bondage he then crammed the mammaries through the bars, three rods apart, as Dom Anselme had ordained. Entering the sanctuary with renewed genuflections, he joined the nipple rings and went about the throttling of the breast roots with lengths of wet cord he had brought in a pail. Again in line with the holy instructions received and with an unspeakable viciousness Joanne had begun to recognise as the mark of Lassignac, he wrenched the swollen masses together to join them over the bars. The strangled protuberances, still blazing from what Anthea had inflicted and now pulsing with blue veins, bulged from the tight hemp, the areoles and teats turning into dark magenta lumps. Joanne moaned as the mounds were roped together with a further length of damp rope, the flesh beginning to darken under the stricture. But more was to come. Similarly but using a pair of blacksmith's pincers, the valet seized the outer fronds of the vulva by the rings to stretch the flesh through the bars until the labia met round the central rod of iron. Passing a further length of soaked hemp through each ring he knotted it tightly. The slavegirl felt her slippery discharge gluing her to the bar.
Although assuaged by her orgasms, Joanne began to tremble, wondering in dread how long her corded flesh could endure the bondage. Her terror made her risk uttering a pathetic plea as she waited to learn her further fate.
"I beg of you, noble friar, sweet mistress, spare me... please! Have I not had enough to satisfy your needs? My breasts are aching, my lower lips..."
Her implorings were drowned by Anselme's fury. From halfway down the nave, he seemed to address the rood screen rather than the bound slave girl.
"A heathen whore in the process of conversion remains silent, unless it wishes to be hung head down, instead of its present position. It is against this sanctified screen that a flogged infidel must hang until well after Vespers, so that the miserable heretical body can be viewed by the entire company of our virtuous castle. We shall pray for your soul, misguided sister."
Her face crushed against the bars, Joanne suddenly sensed Anthea close behind her, the strands of the whip straying over the welted buttocks that immediately clenched with alarm.
"By Vespers," the hiss was close to her ear, "your cords will have dried and tightened. Then you can
scream with some justification to have your evil body freed. It will be for your distinguished owner, the Marquise Elodie alone, to decide whether to release you or to have you further flagellated."
The whip parted the rear cheeks to drift terrifyingly down the anal furrow.
"As a slave you must inure yourself to suffering. After all, slut, we let you enjoy your foul lust, didn't we?"
Joanne attempted a grateful nod, still trembling at the whip's journey over her.
"Unless," Anthea went on, this time startling Joanne rigid, "the Marquise summons you to the great bed chamber, to discharge special duties."
The prospect and the word 'discharge' were enough to bring a frigid sweat out from the prisoner's brow and armpits; she goosefleshed from head to heels. The phrase discharge special duties, she feared, probably inferred a great deal more than a few mind-splitting orgasms; she could almost see a flogging column, probably sheathed in velvet, and the gleaming instruments. And, worse still, her owner disrobing and strapping on a studded dildo to stimulate her body.
It was by sheer chance that Elodie met her chaplain and Anthea in the long, antler-adorned corridor that led from the chapel to the main building and the drawing room.
"Well, what was the result, dear friends?" Elodie asked pleasantly, her hand upon Anthea's bottom. "I trust it was not too tiresome for you."
"Gracious lady." Anselme reported with a shrug. "A lost cause, at least so far. The profligate requires extremely strenuous whipping and, if I may suggest, a modicum of inquisitional torture, of a sexual nature, of course," - he knew his Marquise well - "to convince the slut of her crass stupidity. And at the same time of the dangers she runs, should she continue in heresy. She does not appear to understand her predicament and the distress she is causing us all. Do not hesitate to call on me noble lady, when further convincing is required. I am at your Grace's service at all times. Night and day." He bowed stiffly with grave obeisance. Although he trusted the beautiful woman no further than he could spit, he admired her and had no wish to be assigned elsewhere by the bishop.
The Sufferers Page 5