Martine groaned and spat at the cassock. "Never, offspring of the great whore of Babylon that sitteth on many waters," she yelled. "Thou father of harlots and abomination of the earth. May you be consumed with fire..."
Sister Madeleine recoiled. Never had a trainee uttered such vile words. She knew what was in store, for the Dominican had divested himself of his cassock, the handsome assistant likewise. The two cocks stood upreared as the men retired to the table by the wall. Dom Anselme took his time, running his eye over the range of instruments before selecting his whip. Madeleine's eyes widened still further as Brother Christophe took up a handful of slender bodkins. Fortunately, she thought, the slut could not see the objects.
With fury, the friar lashed the body, first across the flabby breasts and then into the ringed vulva that jangled, in tune with Martine's shrieks. Only when the flesh had become turquoise did Anselme nod to his subordinate and order Sister Madeleine to stretch the breasts upwards by the nipple rings and then the sex labia outwards, the lower extremities splayed by chains cinched tight round the thighs. Executing the orders, the nun had to admit flesh rings were indeed practical adjuncts; they facilitated her duties.
"Now, Christophe, she's yours," the senior murmured, retiring to the side to watch and masturbate at ease. "Thrust them in deep, as I showed you on that other wench last week, until the stubborn animal abjures."
Brother Christophe did as he was directed. Each needle dented the skin to penetrate easily, in places skewering clean through the mammaries and then through the inner labia. Martine hissed, more with terror than pain, as a score of the slender points were inserted. Her entire body sang and throbbed in the aftermath of the flogging, but in her sexual extremities unearthly fires raged as the sharp prick of each bodkin was followed by the equally strange and arousing discomfort of steel moving inside her. In despair she realised that once again, whatever her tongue declared, her body made a liar of her; once again she was going to be driven to orgasm. And then, as if from a great distance she heard the Dominican's snarl: "Renounce your heresy, whore, and you will be released!"
His hated voice rallied her to deny her orgasm to the last possible moment; let them do what they wanted. And in the silence that followed, she heard him sigh. "Very well, then I am forced to convince you by other means. Sister Madeleine, kindly yoke the recalcitrant's legs and ratchet her up for flagellation. The slut is really feather-brained. No, Christophe, the needles can remain where they are while you flay those colossal buttocks. Pray, use the rattan cane and plenty of muscle."
Martine hardly knew what was taking place. She sensed being released, having a wooden frame locked over her parted ankles and hearing a chain clank over some gear or hook above. Then she was swinging free beyond the slab, head down, her thighs wide, her hands grazing the flagstones. Christophe's whipping of the lavish arse sent her into shrill screams and then finally into oblivion. As the feet had begun to turn white, the body was lowered into the straw and then hauled up again, this time by the wrists, for the cane to deal with the upper slope of the still well-fleshed rump. Thirty strokes later and hoarse from yelling, she found herself on her yoked feet, crushed over the sharp corner of the slab; there the needles sank deeper into the breasts and labia, causing havoc and ensuring that she could no longer hold out. Spurred on by the increasingly urgent cries, Anselme used the anus after which the young flogger lunged into the vagina. Under the reaming, the blindfolded nude's clitoris rasped against the stone. Suddenly and savagely Martine climaxed with a frightful shriek.
"At least," Dom Anselme remarked, "the bitch shows progress, if only carnal. Converted or not, she's at last conceding what our friends up at Lassignac seek. We'll continue later after our supper with the august prioress. The night will be hard and long."
Retrieving their cassocks, the papists thanked Madeleine and retired for dinner. The wild fowl and wine were merited even if abjuration had still not been achieved. The session and the slut's orgasm, when reported, gave Mother Priscilla some sense of achievement, even if the fat slug still needed starving, whipping and most likely a good deal of sex torture before confronting the Marquise's ice-blue eyes again. Moreover, Mother Priscilla had her hands full, training at least a dozen whipping slaves destined for other noble houses and specialised brothels in Paris and in the provinces. Demand was heavy.
***
Meanwhile up at the château the guests were finishing Elodie's equally succulent dinner while the slave cohort below swallowed its gruel and water prior to the start of the evening's enjoyments proper. Recovering from the hefty Comtesse's whipping, Joanne observed from behind the cellars barricade the preparations with attention. Not only were Coursel, Simone and Marie-Félice present but also, to Joanne's alarm Bouchard, loitering among the torture appliances that glimmered in the candlelit cellar. At least Anthea was absent, no doubt still at table, displaying her spike-laden tits. Joanne swore to revenge herself on her. How, she did not know but revenge she would wreak. One day.
Gleaming under a sheen of oil, nipples and areoles rouged, the slaves were led out of the enclave to be chained, each assigned to an iron bar separating their area from the cellar proper. Wrists manacled to the nape, a carabinier joined the necks to the rods, exposing the full length of the tensed bodies. Flicking her service whip, the attractive Marie-Félice, practically naked, strode along the line of slave flesh, ensuring the inmates stood rigid, legs parted.
"Thighs open, whores," she ordered. "Suck in those bellies and let's have those teats hard and prominent. You know the orders." Here and there, she jerked on a nipple, spread a vulva or raised a head with her whip haft, arranging a strand of hair that had escaped from the black ribbon behind a head, and checked on the condition of the clitoral erections. When it came to Laurent, her gloved hand tugged on the ball sac and cleared the bulb of foreskin to ensure the thick, pulsing shaft throbbed elegantly aloft.
The cohort waited in silence, the bared armpits sweating. Abruptly the cellar door swung open. To Joanne's dismay, Anthea appeared. Like the well-groomed Marie-Félice but more striking, the vixen was booted, gloved and harnessed over the thorax, the areoles sheathed with the usual barbed cones. But to Joanne's surprise, she wore a delicate, sleeveless jacket of brown suede, belted round the hips, no doubt - for news travelled fast in the confines of Lassignac - to conceal the last vestiges of her correction; however, despite the coat and powdering, the robust thighs showed the fading welts clearly. Nonetheless, she looked more vindictive than ever with her jangling spurs, as she inspected the nudes; Joanne wagered that the presumptuous minx would avenge herself on them. The insolent trollop then unrolled a sheet of parchment to read out the decisions taken at table. "The first session will commence forthwith," she intoned in a colourless voice, "and will involve the following: Slave Number One - you Mariette - to the flogging trestle for Madame la Comtesse de Challes. Slave Number Two, Isabelle, to the torture bench, for the Marquise herself, as you seem to be a sort of favourite." The bitch gave a smirk of jealous disdain. "Slave Three - you, Therèse - to the cartwheel. You'll be thrashed both sides by... let me see, yes, by the Baron de Bessinge. And make sure you respond better than the last time, you lazy slut. If not, we'll have to screw the clamps on your tits."
Therèse moaned at the prospect of the Baron's rawhide, only to receive a sharp lash across the midriff from Coursel, moving along the line as each sentence was read.
"Slave Four, Bette - to the breast bench again, at the Vicomte de Challes' request. Slave Five, Louise - you'll get off lightly this time in view or your earlier service above. You'll be clamped in the stocks and hung for a correction from Mademoiselle Marie-Claire." Louise froze. That was something she could well do without; she loathed de Bessinge's profligate tart who took revenge at Lassignac for what her master did to her at home. "Slave Six, Dalinde, to the crucifix for the breast quirt and needles from me." The former whore from Ales sighed and bit her lip. "Slave Se
ven, Joanne..." the newcomer held her breath, "our dutiful Marie-Félice will stretch your depraved body to the ladder for Monsieur de Montclamart's attentions, despite your service before dinner."
The sentence meant little to Joanne and there seemed to be little clemency in it. The club-footed Montclamart creature really scared her. The ladder? She peered into the flickering shadows of the vast cellar in an attempt to locate the object, for it had never been mentioned in discussions with her colleagues. Whatever it entailed, she hoped she could bear it and reach orgasm when permitted. At the same time, she felt eager for the ceremonies to start and found her crotch already oozing beyond control.
"Slave Eight, Laurent," Anthea concluded, "to the wall chains for the Comtesse de Burre-Sage. She has a treat for your foul length of cock meat. So, keep it stiff as iron. The first session will close at midnight," the bitch went on, "for our distinguished guests, hosts and senior staff to sup and relax." (And what about us slaves? Joanne wondered...) "The assignments will then be made, you slaves being redistributed, after the usual medications, for further service here in the cellar, in the torture cells or in the privacy of the bedchambers, according to our noble visitors' wishes. As you all know, the courtyard will be torchlit, should any guest, dissatisfied with your erotic response, desire to have you flogged on the gallows." She glanced at Bouchard and received a nod.
Turning on a high, spurred heel, she told her subordinates to proceed. "Take them in, Simone and you others, and ensure the bodies are well chained, ready for use."
Immediately, the three domestics detached the first batch of nudes and led them into the dim, vaulted area, assigning each to the allotted appliance. Apart from the clatter of links and a few groans, the positioning was carried out in silence. From where she still stood against the iron palisade, hardly daring to breathe, Joanne could see little of the shackling until her turn came. As Coursel whipped her and the remaining nudes forward, she stared, stunned by the spectacle. A sudden surge of adrenaline lanced through her.
Mariette lay arched back over the summit of one of the wooden whipping tripods, the parted shanks wrenched down and chained to the forward supports of the structure, the wrists fettered low on the third stay. All that was visible were the tensed legs, the open vulva, hip bones and flat abdomen; the breasts arms and ginger head hung beyond view, the body curved, awaiting flagellation and, the newcomer guessed, much more. Like Joanne, Mariette never failed to climax under the whip.
To the left, Isabelle and Therèse had also been prepared, the Marquise's boyish favourite chained recumbent across the sombre worktable, the four limbs secured to the corner uprights: already a thick scourge drooped ready over her belly. The tawny Therèse, on the other hand, being relatively new to Lassignac, seemed to be having trouble in settling her arse on the torture wheel, an ordinary cartwheel mounted to rotate on its axle cemented in the flagstones. Simone helped the slave with a few lashes while Coursel roped her outstretched; finally the nude was spread, the loins cambered over the hub. To Joanne's relief, the girl's well-haired slot was already expelling bright mucilage, like her own.
Whereas the overseers harried the seasoned victims along into the cellar by chains clipped to the collar rings, Marie-Félice tugged the newcomer forward by a lead hooked to the clit ring, as if still breaking her in. Joanne gasped as the already tumid stump elongated atrociously. Crossing the chamber, she had time to see Dalinde being crucified upon a hulking, wooden cross which, to judge from the glints was ladened with spikes.
The brat Bette, brazen as ever, was also being prepared. The setting made Joanne's heart miss several beats. The girl was on her knees between two jambs, like an empty doorway but traversed by bars; her arms chained to the higher one, the roots of her breasts were being trussed to the lower crosspiece by Bouchard. The man was tightening thongs that seemed to pass through holes in the bar, causing the mammaries to swell into livid congested bulges, ready no doubt for the quirt tongs and the needling that at Lassignac formed part of advanced slave torture. The stout body was held in place also by a hinged ramrod buried up her anus. As the newcomer passed, Bette gave her a pert, encouraging smile - she was used to such evenings and truly loved them.
Then something else came into view and almost paralysed Joanne. In the far corner a charcoal brazier stood smouldering, the smoke curling up into a metal cowl and chimney. Nearby on the wall hung an array of branding irons, one, terminating in an iron L, being that which had gouged its mark in Bette's buttock. Braziers did something to Joanne and figured frequently in her nightly erotic dreams in which she was being sold as sex flesh at a slave market in fabled Constantinople - but never were those pans of coals fuming three paces from her naked body... strangely, she had often envied the mark on the former milkmaid's rump but now shuddered at the thought of being fettered over the block there in the cellar, sensing the heat approach her rump or pubis. Even more disconcerting was her sudden desire to watch a slave branding, particularly if Bouchard, cock in erection, carried it out. She felt relieved that Martine was not there to share the sight of the brazier. She would have collapsed in terror, if not already lost to the world.
Forced onwards by Marie-Félice's whip, Joanne was driven into a far alcove. There her sex fronds fluttered a moment and then froze. Cemented at thigh height in the far wall, the ladder slanted into the straw-strewn paving. It was long, with many rungs. Several coils of hemp rope lay at the foot. Dutifully, the slave dropped to her knees, as was the custom, and shuffled towards her smiling warder. Mercifully, the clit lead was released.
"We'll wait for Coursel," Marie-Félice said. "Meanwhile, tongue me. Lick me."
"Of course, mistress." She bent down and lapped the moist slit. But not for long.
The valet arrived, giving the curved rump a stinging lash. "Right. Got to stretch this naked bitch damn tight 'cos it's 'er first go on them rungs. And wiv bubs like 'ers, god knows 'ow much the slag can take. If I was Monsieur Raymond, I'd 'ave 'er gagged afore startin' to torture them cantaloupes she's got hangin there." Giving the flaccid breasts a slap, the valet freed the wrists, kicking the nude towards the ladder.
"On to the rungs, my beauty." It was Marie-Félice who bound her, Coursel merely watching lecherously. "I've never seen you tortured before," she added, "but I suppose you've already had your tits really heavily punished haven't you?" Her nipples puckering with fear, the nude realised she was about to be breast-tortured. The slave handler's question had set her quivering vagina running. "Well, have you? You can speak with us."
"Not really, mistress." The parched throat could just muster the words. "They've been whipped... And one day, early on in the chapel, I had them strangled and wrenched through the iron chancel bars. It was something hard to forget, mistress... and master."
"Yes, that we saw, poppet - just as we're all aware of what goes on in the west wing with 'we know who'." She gave an icy smile. "Now stretch that much sought-after body, teats up, and raise your arms." Her pulse racing, the slave felt the rungs crushing into her back and buttocks. "Cross the wrists, then the ankles for the ropes. Penned up thighs surprise you, no? I mean, you're so used to having your legs parted rather than together, eh? Yes, that's it... You'll have that insatiable twat jammed tight for a change." The girl bound the extremities, using the ringed straps. "You're quite a cunt-vulture, aren't you, slag? So the Marquise said." The remark startled Joanne enough to prompt a reply.
"It's just that I like the crotch whip, mistress. It sets my clit on fire, you see."
"Too bad, whore, because the guest tonight prefers torturing female tits. So make sure those teats and areoles are gorged for him. I'll probably be allowed to whip them before he starts with the tongs, and maybe needles - it depends on how he feels; you're sure to love it, from what we hear about you. Now I'll strap your neck to that rung... That's perfect! By all the saints, you look really something! What a body! Make sure the ribs stand out from the sweep of t
he belly. And thrust out those udders. That's what he's after. He'll not go for your sex and anyway it's clenched and hidden."
Joanne's trembling breasts were ready for Raymond de Montclamart.
Chapter Seven
In the dismal chambers leading off the passages of the Convent of the Annunciation life for Martine in the preceding weeks had become not just a problem but a burden. Almost worse than the beatings in ever stricter bondage were the continual changes of locality imposed on her. The number of cells, windowless vaults, dark closets, crypts and always the interminable corridors linking them, seemed to her limitless, each more terrifying than the preceding one. After a gruelling session in one underground cellarage, she was made to mount and descend flights of worn steps, limping, barely conscious, along dank labyrinths to her next place of punishment - or torture, which Sister Madeleine euphemistically called 'whore-training'.
Day after day and often through the night hours, Martine did her utmost to endure the special treatment reserved for her. Some features, among many, began to dishearten her; the way in which she was kept heavily shackled, cumbrous, weighted chains tugging at her nipple and sex rings, often obliged her to go on all fours, unless whipped to her feet. The nuns seemed to delight in her degradation and misery. When she met other trainees in a passage, the girls backed against the wall to let what they considered an animal, even more contemptible than themselves, pass by under the nuns' whips. And Martine suffered a further ignominy - no one addressed her by name any more, but as 'whore bitch', 'bloated blubber' and the like. She was reduced to receiving curt orders, now to stretch out and masturbate herself against a flogging stake, now to fuck on a bristly phallus bolted to the wall until she climaxed - always under the whip. To her amazement, although the two Dominicans continued unceasingly to make use of her orifices and beat her viciously, they seemed to have abandoned their attempts to make her abjure. They concentrated more on her convulsions than on her conversion.
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