The elegant youth smiled at Dom Anselme. The abrupt outcome confirmed his master's conviction: if properly chained, whipped and fucked, any female could be spurred into deliriums of lust and reduced to a whimpering, jolting carcass. To reap his reward, Christophe lengthened his plunges into the novice's tunnel, battering the cervix in the descent of sex slush to fill her with jets of hallowed sperm, seething and thick as convent porridge. Martine passed out like a snuffed candle.
Dom Anselme watched intently as Sister Véronique knelt before him and frigged his revered cock assiduously, mouthing it now until the sacred spunk came to the boil. The jets arched out to spatter the welted slave, anointing what was, he had to admit, a promising sexual candidate for the tortures he now had in mind, freed of the harangues and harassing confines imposed by the Marquise Elodie. Indeed, he had weeks of entitlement before him without her intrusions. He would grind this parpaillote whore down until she was just flesh and three holes. He would force her to grovel naked, renunciate and abjure.
He watched the slave's body sag, extenuated by the whipping and its first real climaxes since it had been deflowered up at the Château de Lassignac. The infidel, whether she abjured or not, was almost ready to be used regularly and indiscriminately at least in that one hole for the time being - by the males and dildoed females the Marquise invited to her weekends, with the proviso that the slut be first well prepared with the whip. Unlike her religious obstinacy, her erotic progress seemed encouraging.
Hardly conscious of her welts and throat band still hooked to the wall, Martine revived and gave both men a strange look, almost of gratitude. They had shown her into a secret corner of heaven, but a paradise different from that portrayed in her psalms; rather a place where a sex slave realised why she had a slit between her thighs.
What happened to the beautiful naked 'nun' on the other side of the preparation cell escaped Martine. She identified the swish and thud of the whip, the moans and then the shrill, bird-like cries as, in turn, a demented orgasm severed Pauline too from the nunnery and the world. Beyond that, Martine was just aware of being released, of sprawling on the sperm-clotted paving stones and of being allowed to regain her strength, possibly prior to transfer to the torture sanctum proper - that place where, Pauline had told her, the head hoods, tongs, iron breast-clamps and bristled cock rings abounded. Still unconverted, she knew she had passed a test, had crossed over Jordan, ready for whatever ordeals were now to come. With Brother Christophe's tepid sperm seeping down her inner thighs and Anselme's jets over her belly, she curled up on the flagstones and slept as never before.
The following days and nights passed in what Martine considered the grossly misnamed Preparation Cell without more than four trivial flagellations from Véronique.
Then, one evening the newcomer saw Pauline suddenly tense and scramble to her knees, thrusting out her breasts. Unaware of what prompted such haste, Martine adopted the same orthodox posture of submission. Kneeling with the thighs well apart to disclose the ringed vulva, belly indrawn, nipples - fortunately - erect and head bowed, as was the required position, Martine had no time to ready herself fully and presumed her lethargy, if noticed, would probably earn her a stiff punitive whipping at some later date.
The cell door opened to reveal three 'nuns' in their solemn habits, rosaries between the praying hands, their starched coifs fluttering above the bucolic faces. The eldest was tall, slim and not inelegant with her pale complexion and a thin mouth that did not seem often given to smiling but was probably energetic on a hard cock or splayed vulva; half-hooded by the eyelids, the dark pupils augured no good. Moreover, Sister Madeleine, for it was she, carried a leather quirt - which, Martine guessed, was not there to swat flies...
The slave's heart stampeded immediately, again with that mixture of fear and arousal she was becoming accustomed to but could not yet govern as Pauline seemed able to do. But, if terror tightened and parched her throat, puckering her nipples, her vagina had begun to react very differently compared with its stubborn behaviour up at the château; the prospect of being catapulted again into sexual delirium under the lash and cock drove her to a point of no return. She knew a further whipping, quite evidently about to be administered, would transport her into another of her newly discovered orgasms. Weak with lust her cunt liquefied.
The youngest of the nuns, a bright eyed chit of a girl with thick peasant lips, helped the ever-vigilant sister Véronique to drag the table to the centre of the cell. As the scene was being prepared, Martine glanced nervously at Madeleine's quirt. Only a day before, Pauline had described the thing, Martine recalled, and its effects. It was the nun's personal property - an exception to the Order's rule of poverty - crafted for her by an Avignon saddler. It was, at one and the same time, a hideous and beautiful object: a chased silver haft led down to a short length of plaited leather which, beyond a knot, spread out into three broad lashes of rawhide, no longer than a forearm. Another rumour, Pauline had whispered, had it that the thing had been a gift to Sister Madeleine from a grateful prelate of high rank who spent nights behind locked doors grovelling naked at her feet. Not only, she added, did the quirt exert considerable pain when laid on hard but usually constrained victims to remain standing or kneeling for a couple of days after its use, unless being consigned to Madeleine's bunk, where no girl could expect indulgence.
"Sister Maddy's an expert with it," Pauline had explained. "She reserves it almost exclusively for beating a female's corded breasts and the splayed crotch - her favourite sites, you know - once she's got you suspended by the ankles from the irons up there." Her eyes directed Martine's to the long row of hooks along the cell's central beam. "I've no idea what she does to males," she added, "but one can imagine..." Martine could not, but let the conjecture pass, perplexed that men too were subject to 'convent' training; she thought of Laurent up in the relative comfort of the château. Then she wondered how, as a 'trainee', her huge breasts would react to the quirt. Well, she hoped, despite their size.
"Sometimes for routine offences," Pauline added, "the beatings are carried out in the refectory before the others. There we're made to spread our legs and grasp the ankles. They throw your habit over your head to deaden the yelping. Then you get ten lashes and probably have to spend the night in Maddy's bed. And that's something you don't forget, I can assure you! You come out a debilitated wreck, even if you did your utmost for her."
Martine bit her lip at the prospect. Then she thought back. Over the brief time already spent at the convent, she had gathered that plans were being drawn up by the Mother Superior to reduce the volume of her grossly oversized buttocks and breasts. The balcony of dug-offal, as Dom Anselme put it, would undergo tight cording, needling and similar methods of flesh torture. As to the rump, the slimming was to be achieved almost exclusively through prolonged flagellation. Highly self-conscious of her overweight, Martine was scared by the prospect but it also set her pulse racing; the beating of her breasts, which she feared, nevertheless gave her a strange new thrill. Moreover, Pauline had also told her that she would, sooner or later, be strapped to the breast bench in the so-called torture closet or sanctum to have her mammaries flogged and wrenched - something the young conventual admitted she had never experienced, hers being of modest size. "Flogging does get rid of superfluous lymph, you know," Pauline had added helpfully. "And, from what I see, you could do with more than a session or two. They're keen on well-shaped tits here. Heavy breast meat is frowned upon. I'm told breast shrinking can be quite an ordeal. They use the good old breast gallows with its throttling straps and special whips, sweetie. As to your overloaded arse, don't worry. They'll beat that till it's neat, hard and full of muscle. The skin'll tighten as the bulk shrinks, see?"
At the entry of the nuns, Martine presumed her breasts were about to be dealt with. Avid now for attention and more of those unbelievable orgasms that flagellation seemed to detonate in her, she found her corpulent body ignored. Mad
eleine and the nuns focussed their entire attention on their colleague Pauline, as if the newcomer did not exist. Even more frustrating for Martine was to see her beautiful companion being led to the table. There the two assistants made the nude bend forward to enable them to wind lengths of black cord round the root of each swaying breast. Martine watched how they did it; the younger of the two assistant nuns grasped each bulge in turn and pulled hard for her colleague to wind the line round the base; the youngster then dug her nails into the nipples and tugged for them to be throttled with cobbler's twine close to the areole. Martine gasped as both protuberances bulged, doubly garrotted. Each breast seemed to resemble a cow's udder before milking, bloated and taut. Gradually, the globes turned crimson, the blue veins pulsing sluggishly as the circulation slowed. Yet Pauline hardly moved.
The still raw novice of a prisoner stared with unexpected envy as the condemned Pauline glanced down with lascivious pleasure at what had been done to her. Quite clearly, although her breasts needed no reducing, Pauline was used to such treatment and was being simply readied for a routine whipping, just as other 'nuns' - or rather, sexual trainees received - Martine held her breath as she watched the preparations.
In silence, Pauline was laid backwards over the table while the more spirited of the girls passed ropes over two widely separated ceiling hooks. Running the cords down, she knotted one round each delicate ankle. Martine guessed what was about to take place.
As the rope tightened round the left leg, it bit into the skin, causing the condemned one to give a sudden jerk. "Keep quite still, wench," the officiating sister advised her, "unless you want to be hung in leg-irons. I'll not stand for struggling and disobedience. After all, you've been hung for flogging how many times before, Pauline?"
The novice thought a second. "Seven times, Sister Madeleine. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be awkward." It was the first time she had spoken, other than clandestinely when alone with Martine, who was taken aback. The last thing she would risk, knowing she would probably be crotch whipped for it, was to utter a word. Scream yes, but not speak...
"You know the rules," Madeleine went on, caressing her quirt, "You must remain still when being prepared for punishment. Once you're hung, you can writhe and jerk to your heart's content. Just because you're in constant demand in the dormitories doesn't give you any rights here. I'll have to give you a dozen extra for moving. As they're in addition to the stipulated thirty, you may choose where you'd like them."
"Where it hurts and excites most, Sister." The reply was prompt and Madeleine did not have to be shown but in confirmation she slid the quirt between Pauline's sex lips, as the smiles met in a strange collusion of lust. The two, of course, Martine realised, knew each other not only as inmates but as lesbian sisters. Whipping was part or their delights.
Martine listened to the exchange in wonderment. There was no virulence in it as when the foul priest addressed her. Most probably, Martine thought, her own religious resolve marked the difference in treatment. Well, she was not going to change.
The nuns put the finishing touches to the positioning and awaited the sister's order which came after she had checked that Pauline's sex was appropriately sodden.
"Aloft with her! And see she's at the right height pull hard, you lazy tarts!"
The muscular thighs and superb long legs left the tabletop and rose, followed by the buttocks, back and shoulder blades. With Pauline swinging free, her hand grazing the flagstones, the suspension ropes were tied off at lugs cemented in the side walls. Sister Véronique, still mistress of her domain, removed the table, swabbing off the sweat and other oozings left by Pauline. She wanted her place pristine, for it was in constant use.
It took time for Martine to recover from the shock of seeing her friend's golden sex fully exposed between the legs splayed to opposite sides of the ceiling. The beautiful probationer's cunt folds, swollen like Martine's own with craving, seemed to have glued together with her sticky outpour. Evidently wanting the slot open, Sister Madeleine delicately divided the rolls of umber flesh with the edge of her quirt as if slitting a ripe fig with a knife; the lips peeled apart slowly, the clogged oval cleft opening like a mouth begging for nourishment. From where she knelt, Martine could see the tip of the clitoris, pale and erect like a budding crocus emerging from fertile earth. Hardly able to contain the churnings within her, she stared at the congested, bound breasts standing out from the chest without a sign of downward sag; they darkened through vermilion to deep purple and again she saw the veins, like trapped worms throbbing under the skin, and the strangulated nipples stout as thumbs. As she stared, Martine wondered how a nude bondage could stir such excitement in her own hitherto obdurate nature. One look at Pauline's expression told her that suffering and humiliation had turned into sexual euphoria. The sight of the young nude being readied for flagellation sent again a weird sensation through Martine, her fibres still alive with the residues left by the orgasms the young Christophe had brought out of her body. Furthermore, to her astonishment, she found herself again hankering after the whip across her huge, soft buttocks, a wish that had never dawned up at the grim château. What the sinewy youth had given her, both in terms of lashes and sperm, had opened up an entirely new world where pain and pleasure seemed to meld into ecstasy. She began to understand Joanne's insatiable reactions more clearly as she watched Pauline's sumptuous nudity swinging erotically from the ceiling hooks, awaiting the quirt. Martine would have willingly changed places with her - but, again, not at the price at abjuration. Her sex seemed to be licking its lips under the rings - the metal now exciting her - with a newfound ravenous appetite. Why she asked herself, being a prisoner, had she starved herself of pleasure, so stupidly, so wilfully? How was it she had not understood that the whip could escort her to orgasm? The young Christophe with his huge penis - even if it was papist meat - had liberated her sexuality; she only regretted losing her virginity at Lassignac to the Marquis' cock rather than to his. In any event any penis was preferable to the grim Dominican's - may he roast in Hell eternally.
It was obvious from Pauline's position that she was to be beaten, not only over the choked breasts but primarily across the inner thigh flesh and, what excited Martine most, over the fleecy bulge of the mons and into the sex slit. Martine could hardly wait. For a second, her hands being still unbound, she dared to reach down to her newly awakened clit, throbbing under its steel ring, to ready it for whatever the nuns had in store for her, when her turn came. From where she hung, head down, Pauline caught sight of her companion's fingers fumbling among the metal. With Madeleine out of earshot, greasing her quirt, the bald one risked a piece of sisterly advice. The murmur was just audible.
"I wouldn't do that. They'll only torture you something terrible for frigging without permission. Watch out, cherub!" Martine desisted at once, removing her hand.
"How do you feel, strung up like that?" she whispered in return.
"Glorious, darling!" came the reply. "Don't I look sexy like this? Watch how she wields the quirt, the old bitch. It'll help you later when your turn comes..."
"Silence, Pauline!" Madeleine yelled, coming forward. "Or I'll triple your lashes!"
That too excited Martine as she shrank against the wall to watch.
First, the nun stripped off naked. Martine stared at the lean body arrayed only in coif and wimple; she was well-preserved for her years, even if the breasts sagged, having known better days. The two nude females - dominant and victim - confronted each other's crotch in silence, Madeleine measuring her distance.
Then the corrective flagellation commenced.
The quirt hissed through the chamber's close, fetid air to slam down into the undersides of the strangled mammaries; ten strokes followed, making the orbs bounce but stimulating only a few dull groans from Pauline. Madeleine brought up a mass of welts before turning her attention to the wide V between the girl's legs. Where the quirt struck the thigh
tendons, the flesh clenched, blanched and quivered, the marks flaring up in scarlet blotches. After a dozen strokes on the rods or muscle, the quirt suddenly squelched into the gaping cunt. That, at last, extracted a howl from the victim as the entire trunk lurched and reared upward in pain. As she watched, Martine could resist no longer. She twisted and pulled at her clit ring, masturbating without compunction, enjoying the liquid sound of the thuds and Pauline's screams. The howls became interspersed with crazed pleas. "Ahh, yes... yes... Sister! Lash me there... Harder! Yes! Oh, please... whip the clit!"
"Down with those arms, Pauline!" Madeleine ordered brusquely. "You know the rules. Let this be a lesson not to give your whorish slit to others without permission." Then, after a further dozen lashes over the swollen labia, she dragged the quirt across the stiffened sex stalk, drove it into the cunt and then crushed the clit. That despatched her victim.
Pauline's voice suddenly thickened into strange guttural yells, her head thrashing frantically back and forth. The orgasm burst abruptly, weird cries filling the cell. Martine watched the nude's muscles contract, shimmering with sweat. The entire body stiffened, spending again. The sheer beauty of the sight entranced Martine. It was sex at its best.
The Sufferers Page 11