A moment later Mariette reverted to the valet's last remark before he left.
"You know, to be taken up to the Marquise's bedchamber - that's what Coursel said, wasn't it?" - she looked around and received nods - "when you're both still novices, is something! That's damn rare here. Even I've never been up there. Not sexy enough."
"Well, I have!" Therèse put in, coming alive. "And it's rather a privilege you know, Joanne."
The newcomer noticed the ironic grins on the line of faces and asked her to go on.
"Well, since you're new, Elodie examines you - all sorts of weird questions about how you feel when you're being nipple-tortured with tongs, whether you can orgasm without having your clit twisted and more of the same. Then he whips you, tied on her bed, and you make love, as it's called up there. Of course, if Anthea or the Marquis are around, it becomes quite a party. A free-for-all... a fracas. That's all there is to it." Joanne had hoped for a little more detail but the chatter was cut abruptly short by the entry of Coursel and the slatternly Simone. The slave cellar filled with tension.
The gate was thrown open, the two newcomers released and dragged out to have their wrists locked again to the neck band, ankles linked and the anal plug inserted and chained. Then the so-called 'control lead' - Joanne was learning the house vocabulary rapidly - was clipped to each slave's clit ring. Aware that inmates, according to Marlene, were permitted to speak to servants, Joanne summoned up her courage and risked a question. Her pluck astounded the others who, through bitter experience, had found it wiser in the presence of their gaolers, to keep their tongues still on all occasions, except when sucking a cock, licking a vulva or shrieking in pain. Or in the throes of orgasm.
"Where are you taking us, master?" the novice dared to ask, the voice trembling.
"Thou'll find out soon enough. So shut thy gob, scum, an' see thy cunt's runnin'. Now move!" With a wan smile from Joanne to her newfound colleagues and a tearful groan from Martine, the little cohort departed down the dark passage of fate.
The clamber up the spiral stairway proved pure agony, neither slave being yet used to the wicked strain on her clitoris. Since the blonde was first on the chain stretching directly from the man's fist, she received most of the sickening jerks as the prisoners turned sharp corners; the rest of the chain passed down between her cunt lips to hitch on to the younger slave's central ring and the slightest hesitation in the ascent on Martine's part provided both with excruciating pain. Each time she was lugged forward, Martine yelled hysterically as her unfledged, elfin-like stub elongated. It was as if the girl was already being chained and hung nude before masked, whip-wielding torturers... Had she dared, Joanne would have calmed her by confirming they were merely mounting to a noble lady's bedchamber but all she risked were a few warning glances over her shoulder. Finally reaching the hallway, the valet appeared to have had enough of the caterwauling; he turned and lashed Martine's thighs with his service whip until she quietened. Then the upward progression continued, into parts of the château naturally unknown to either, along hallways where they encountered scurrying domestics carrying trays of crockery and piles of bed linen and tablecloths. Going about their appointed duties, the servants paid scant attention to a couple of stark-naked females in chains, being escorted to some routine destination or other; such sights were frequent enough.
At one point, the newcomers encountered a startling spectacle, sufficient even to silence Martine. An unconscious nude slavegirl, grasped by the ankles, hung head down over a servant's back. Since the body, lavishly whipped, could not be one of the six down below, Joanne assumed it was that of the wife or mistress of one of Elodie's friends, breaking his journey with an overnight sojourn at the castle and use of its facilities.
Joanne was astonished by the lack of interest Martine's and her own nudity evoked. But she realised they were only slave meat being marched to some special site, most probably for punishment. At least they were not heading towards the grim torture cells.
As they traversed a corridor lined with stag and boar heads, fleetingly Joanne caught a glimpse through the high windows of the sunset over the mauve hills, almost free of snow, stretching down to the Mont Aigoual. Somewhere in these valleys lay the village of St André where her cousins had lived prier to its plunder and destruction by the brutal Cadets of the Cross and dragoons. On the night of the sixth of November, she recalled, nineteen men of the Faith had received life sentences and had been led off to the galleys, while eight women had been flogged and branded with the fleur de lys before being sent to moulder in convents as Repentant Daughters. The pastor had been hanged from an oak. As Joanne gazed sadly over the familiar landscape, she tried to imagine what was happening out there. Even the buzzards wheeled in liberty...
Coursel led them up a magnificent flight of stairs to halt before an ornate doorway. He knocked and drew the pair in after him. There he detached the leads and made the slaves kneel. The vast room - the dreaded bedchamber - had its long velvet curtains drawn to and glimmered in soft candlelight.
"Thighs apart, whores. Breasts out, damn you!" he muttered. The two obeyed. Before them sat the Marquise of Lassignac, regal and awesome. She nodded to the man who backed out, leaving the slaves facing their owner. The woman was superb in her powdered peruke, layers of silk millinery, bared shoulders and a beauty patch above the dimpled cheek. Precious rings flashed on the pale fingers in the wavering light.
In dismay Joanne saw her elegant owner was not alone. In the penumbra behind the throne stood Anthea, fully clothed for once; the revolting Simone, holding a coil of scarlet cords, had stationed herself by the great four-poster bed. The room seemed haunted, Joanne imagining the ghostly presence of bygone slaves shuffling and whispering among the shadows at the arrival of fresh victims.
"The Marquis will be here shortly," the Marquise's silver voice announced, "and together we shall decide on your fate. Meanwhile," Elodie turned to her companions, "it would be well to prepare them. Get the bodies suspended."
Immediately Anthea and Simone strode forward, seized the slaves and released the wrists. A minute later both nudes, a few steps apart, were teetering on tiptoe, their arms straining aloft from chains descending from a beam traversing the chamber. Joanne stared at the canopied bed, noticing the series of bondage rings set in the newels. In the frugal light she could see little else; if there were whipping stakes or trestles to stretch bodies for thrashing, they were lost in the obscurity.
"As you may have gleaned from the endless chatter in your dungeon," the powdered one announced, "we are preparing for the next gathering of our friends. The wait may prove tedious for newcomers like yourselves but the Marquis and I have to decide whether you are suitable to entertain such noble guests. If either or both of you qualify, I shall have you readied along with your colleagues. It not, we'll decide what to do with you."
At that moment the door was flung open and the Marquis entered, sweating from his evening ride and smelling strongly of horse and leather. After kissing his wife's hand, he strolled round Martine's hanging body, tapping the flanks with his crop and extending each breast by its ring, staring at the volume, elasticity and the hold of the metal in the swollen teats. The gloved palm roved slowly over the belly before grasping the rump flesh that bulged between the chains securing the anal plug to the rings in the splayed vulva. With a deprecating shrug, he stooped to probe into the yawning trench of mucous membrane.
Martine let out a shriek, twisting her torso and raising a stolid thigh as high as her ankle links allowed, in an attempt to counter the intrusion. The yell deafening her, Joanne winced at her colleague's rash skirmishing. The utterly miserable youngster began to weep uncontrollably, the huge breasts heaving with sobs. Joanne closed her eyes in despair; the stupid wench was simply jeopardising any hope of advancement to the status of the other slaves below. And also putting Joanne's future, for what it was worth, at stake - in both senses of the
term. If only the girl would learn to control her tattered emotions.
The Marquis said nothing and turned to Joanne. The blonde beauty endured the inspection quietly, aware of the effect her sensational taut body was exerting on the handsome bearded man. She noticed how the erection bulged in his riding breeches.
"This one, at least," he remarked, glancing at his glove, wet from her preliminary down-flow, harbinger of the full glut to come, "seems to respond well, Elodie. She's awash already, even before seeing a penis or a whip. Highly promising, I'd say. I like the smooth areoles and rigid teats. She sports a fine clit, too. The navel's deep and deserves a ring. Yes," he mused, "the loins are splendid. A splendid arse, too, by all the saints! Again, Elodie, it's a pity she's been welted and marked like this already, but I suppose the weals will pale in time for your ceremonies. That's the damned Dominican's doing, I presume."
Elodie cast a sidelong glance at Anthea but said nothing. There was no call for comment for the damage was done. In Elodie's view, the lash marks made the beauty all the more erotic, inviting further and far more vicious treatment.
The scrutiny over, Francis-Etienne sat down next to Elodie to comment further.
"Depending on how she stands up to your dear friends' extravagant demands and implements, the blonde will certainly do," he concluded, gazing at the concave sweep of Joanne's belly descending from the jutting rib cage. The slave was truly stunning.
He paused and Joanne sensed what was coming; when it did, she felt both relieved and anguished, as the Marquis pointed to Martine. "Of course, Elodie sweet, you can't possibly risk offering this load of grease even gagged to someone like Evelyn de Burre, although she's even fatter! She'd get her quirt trapped under the slut's flabby dugs and then blame you for serving up an uncooked bloater, and Evelyn hates fish. No, this obese slut's a truly distressing sight. And incompetent too. She needs stiff training and have that blubber whipped off her. An hour's run daily behind Coursel's mare might help, some strict fasting and, let's say, a couple of floggings a day in the courtyard or in the beet field from Marie-Félice, preferably on a long lead so the slag can caper and sweat. That's my opinion. But after all, she's your slave like the others. What d'you think, treasure?"
Elodie smiled sweetly. "But Francis, I agree. Only we just don't have the time for that. The staff have so much on their hands as it is. Remember my suggestion of the other night?" The Marquis shook his head; Elodie was always making suggestions. "Well, I proposed we entrust the bitch to the convent. There, Mother Priscilla will ensure she's thinned down. After all, she's done the like so admirably in the past. You remember that lazy slug, Fenella?"
"Should I, sweet? You know I can't remember their names and you do tend to get through quite a number. But as to this mass of offal, I would agree. Although it's all the same to me. Do what you wish. Send the load of fat down to the convent without more ado. Oh, yes now I do recall Vrenolla or whatever her name was. Yes, they certainly ground down that lethargic tart."
"I'm glad you agree, Francis. I'll have Coursel take the idle slag down tomorrow." Her husband gave a vague nod. His eyes were riveted on Joanne's nakedness and the rise and fall of the magnificently moulded breasts. Although clearly his penis could have done with an airing, he kept it penned up. Again he studied Joanne's chained buttocks.
"This Anselme of ours, you know, has to be curbed, Elodie," he said. "Just because they're heretics doesn't give him a free hand whenever it tempts him. After all, abjuration, conversion or whatever he seeks is not our affair. They're your slaves, not his."
"I'm afraid our holy man did overstep his prerogatives the other day, Francis. Except that our darling Anthea did the actual whipping in the chapel - pity you didn't attend Vespers because you'd have seen the result yourself. Can we prevent him from trying to convert an infidel, my love? I mean, that's his duty."
"Maybe But I don't want any more of it." He turned to the slightly uncomfortable Anthea. "Well you apparently enjoyed yourself. Or am I wrong?"
"Oh, yes, thank you, sire. I did." The reply was frank. "You see, Dom Anselme ordered me to do it. And my, did she yell her head off! She seems to like the whip."
"I see. Well, in future, if that meddling priest gives you an order again, you'll have it confirmed by me or Elodie. I trust that is clear. It's fortunate for you that some of Elodie's guests don't object to being offered welted flesh."
The Marquise was about to object to curtailing Anthea's ready access to pleasure when the girl gave a shrug. She could not care a shoe buckle who gave the orders as long as she could use her six-thong freely. And have the slave lick her off.
For what seemed an eternity, the pair of nude slaves continued to hang before their owners, expecting the riding crop at any moment. Yet nothing happened. Side by side, the two nobles continued to converse in low tones, Francis-Etienne only half-listening as he pondered whether, once the fate of the flabby Martine was settled, to take Elodie to bed or use the insolent Anthea who, despite her lesbian proclivities, sucked cock like a famished vampire. Or preferably, return to the stables to see his mare dressed and fed. He preferred horses to humans. But there was this beautiful blonde slave hanging there and perhaps... No, that would have to wait. "I'm sorry, love, what were you saying?" he apologised, still staring at the gleaming crimson triangles of vaginal flesh chained back on the thighs by the rings and chairs leading to the rear dildo. He rather envied the Dominican who, without leave, had felt those labia slushing up and down his unruly cock.
The Marquise had crossed to the abject Martine to lift the tear-stained face.
"Yes, you useless slut, we've seen quite enough of you. We freed you of your stupid virginity and all you do is sulk. Hopefully, the next time we meet, you'll be a little more appetising." Then she gave the order everyone had anticipated.
"Lower this nauseating lump of obscenity, Simone, and get your Coursel to cart it down to our gracious Mother Superior before nightfall tomorrow. I've already informed her. You can chain the slug to the harrow behind the gelding for the journey." The servant began to lower the sufferer. "And strap those leather cones over those obscene dugs - you know, the ones with internal spikes our resourceful blacksmith made - and use the iron chastity belt. It wouldn't do to shock whichever worthy nun's on duty at the convent portal. And you can leave the stopple in the rear, Simone. It'll serve to keep the nerves alert until our holy and dutiful Mother Priscilla receives heavenly guidance on how best to proceed."
"The Mother Superior will know without guidance, your Grace," came the blunt reply, as Martine's body crumpled, whimpering, to the carpet and the maid tugged on the silken bell cord to summon her husband. For nothing in the world - not even a visit to Versailles - would she care to be in this wretched girl's skin, destined for the Convent of the Annunciation. The slob would not be the first nor the last to shed blood down there.
Having heard the august orders while listening behind the door, the valet promptly dragged the redundant slave out by the legs. It would take little time to prepare for the twilight journey the following evening through the gorse.
Although grieving for her companion of the Faith, Joanne felt strangely relieved she was gone. A further sign from Elodie then brought Joanne in turn to the floor where, instead of being returned to the cellar, she knelt where she was, there in the centre of the candlelit bedchamber amid the sumptuous furnishings and tapestries. Unsure as to what they were about to do to her, she felt her vagina clench with a tremor of excitement.
To her astonishment, she saw Elodie being helped to disrobe by Anthea and Simone, while the Marquis stripped down to his riding breeches, undid his crotch flap and brought out the one cock Joanne genuinely lusted after among the many at hand in the castle. Just as swiftly, Anthea stepped out of her crinolines, watching the Marquise slide naked on to the silken sheets of the great bed to lie back and spread her legs wide. In turn, the deadly lesbian vixen crawle
d up to the headboard, her back to the room, to straddle the noble head that had lost its wig. Before being smothered, Elodie gave Simone a final, breathless order. "Remove that slave's bung and on to the bed with her, head between my thighs."
Bewildered, sweating with excitement and trepidation, Joanne rose to her feet, bending over for the serving woman to free the chains of the dildo. Blissful reprieve came to her as the ribbed cudgel voided her rectum with a jerk, a scarlet roll of flesh accompanying the extraction. For a moment, the sphincter remained agape before closing as Simone lubricated the hole. Containing her joy, Joanne stared at the Marquis's hard cock.
"Up with you, my beauty, and let's have you crouched before your mistress!" It was now he who was giving the orders, the passing compliment taking Joanne aback, as did the spirited, almost jovial, slap planted on the buttocks. "And get to work on that insatiable twat of hers. Just lick smoothly and then bite into it. You'll see how she comes! Only whipping a hog-tied slave excites her more." A pause. "And relax your arsehole, Joanne."
Noting her name and elated to be rid of the cudgel behind, the slavegirl did as she was told, mounting the bed to bend over her owner's perfumed, auburn slit. For a delirious moment, Joanne believed the Marquis was about to thrash her rounded rump to prepare her for sodomy; but, with a sidelong glance, she saw him slicking his foreskin clear of the purple cock bulb and mounting the bed. As the feather mattress sagged under his weight, she was grateful for the anal greasing. The dildo was about to be substituted by something just as copious, if more thrilling and certainly more humane.
The Sufferers Page 8