The Sufferers

by Caroline Swift

  Far more astounding to Martine than to the Dominicans was the regularity with which she found herself producing orgasm after orgasm when they twisted her clitoris or took her, front and back, after flagellation. The transition had come suddenly, her body responding almost instinctively to the whips and cocks belabouring her. She even found the sight and swish of the cane enough to send her into readiness. The lashes across her crotch did the rest. Despite herself, she was being transformed into whore meat.

  "Ahhh!" the cry became invariable, day in, day out, rising in intensity, "please help me... I can't hold on any longer..." The yells delighted the men and also Madeleine, who reported progress daily to her Superior. The 'porky heretic' was yielding prolific orgasms and fast losing weight. Two weeks of beating and sex torture were bearing fruit.

  Mother Priscilla increased the calibre of the whips and the number of daily lashes in the hope that the bitch's return to the castle would be hastened, for it seemed the convent was not going to benefit from her sale on the market.

  However, in addition to the ceaseless persecution with leather, hemp and metal, another more worrying preoccupation invaded Martine abruptly one night. A further rumour circulating among some of the trainees again inferred that Joanne up at the château had indeed abjured before Dom Anselme and was apparently kneeling at Mass, probably still naked and severely marked, but nevertheless converted... Dismayed again, Martine surrendered herself wholly to slavery and ceased to fight, at least physically; what had hitherto been muttered psalms and prayers dissolved into strident shrieks of pain and orgasm. The heretical body became ordinary whipping flesh. Nothing more nor less. Martine was succumbing to the maelstrom of 'convent' punishment, enveloping her entire being.

  She no longer seemed to care what happened to her. Caked with semen and sweat, she crawled, without being ordered, from stake to slab, from overhead chains to floor bolts that stretched the nipple and labia rings for more blubber to be whipped off her.

  "The heathen slag's understood at last," the Dominican declared, rejoining Mother Priscilla after a particularly strenuous bout of breast torture after Compline one night.

  "It would seem so." The wimpled face gave him a smile thin as a wafer. "Another week or so in the cellars and the Vault of Verification and she'll be ready to return to Lassignac. But then, one whorehouse is very much like another, is that not so, Father?" And Dom Anselme nodded. A whore was a whore, after all. Just sex meat.

  Distancing themselves from the thud of leather on Martine's behind that indeed had notably diminished in size over the foregoing week, the two dignitaries retired to dine. The pleasures of the flogging cells beginning to cloy, they turned to politics and Versailles.

  That night, Martine was given eighty lashes, back and front, hung by the legs.

  It was true, Madeleine agreed, the trollop was making acceptable progress but still needed an appreciable amount of sex and flagellation if she was to pass muster. Wiping the sweat off her scourge in Martine's sodden hair, she made it clear she would see to that and without fail, despite the work she had on hand in other quarters.

  And work there was. In abundance. With a dozen whores in residence needing improvement and maturation, the 'convent' continued to receive visits from various brothel keepers from Paris and other centres, anxious to recuperate their wares or purchase reliable new flesh. It was during one such visit that Martine saw to her dismay her only friend, the bald Pauline, depart, hooded, hog-chained and gagged, for a stew near Blois.

  Martine then found herself allotted Pauline's former cell that still reeked of the former occupant's stale sweat and emissions. Strangely, the odours comforted her.

  By her third week of 'education', the slave had become acquainted with almost all the cellars where invariably she was dealt with alone. The enforced solitude exacerbated the tension, the prolonged periods of silence increasing her anxiety and helplessness while allowing the residual pain after each bout of beating or torture to run its course. Just when she was regaining her strength, the welts darkening and throbbing less viciously, there would come the screech of the key in the lock, the drawing back of bolts, and the massive door would open. Carrying her candle, the grim nun on duty - usually Madeleine but often the pretty, blue-eyed Tertia, or Véronique - would enter and lay her scourge and implements on the side table, prior to disrobing. If it was sister Tertia, whom she dreaded almost more than Madeleine, Martine - even when hooded up - recognised her at once by her custom of hooking the whip haft to the victim's clit ring, where the evil leather snake would be left to dangle while the nun stripped with deliberate languor, a preface that added terror to the flagellation and subsequent cunnilingus.

  "Now you wanton scum," the termagant would remark, retrieving her thick length of horsehide brutally from Martine's groin, "you won't forget what I'm about to give your fork of lascivious gluten," - the repulsive leather adder dredged between the palpitating labia, sticky with arousal, and then flicked over the breasts - "and how these jouncing bags of meat are going to flatten." Tertia would strike and strike hard, bringing out hoarse gulps from the larynx, as if the slut was choking on a clotted load of Anselme's sperm.

  The regular beatings and 'schooling' of her writhing body reduced Martine to almost normal proportions. But worse than sessions with the nuns was the dismal duty of satisfying the demands of the Dominican himself. Hung from the vault hooks, Martine felt her beliefs, like her sex juice, being drained out of her. Yet, as orgasms emptied her, she managed to retain what was left of her convictions.

  It was towards the close of her third week that Martine heard Sister Madeleine's soft announcement. "Our indulgent and most gracious Mother superior considers your progress and loss of fat to be satisfactory. This entitles you to be assigned at last to the Vault of Verification prior to your being returned. You will spend three days and nights down there and we trust you will work diligently, slag, to earn your discharge."

  Uncertain as to what sort of discharge the woman meant, Martine felt elated at the prospect of leaving the convent. She had done what she could.

  Her joy was short-lived.

  The already fast dwindling body, blindfold removed, was dragged down to the Vault. The slave's heart almost halted when confronted with the spine-chilling machinery. No previous cellar could possibly compare with the sight. The rows of whips and irons lining the side wall turned her to ice. At the same time there was consolation; she was not alone. Apart from the initial Preparation Cell she had shared with Pauline, she had known only solitary confinement.

  Suspended by the wrists, legs fettered wide to iron bolts fixed in the flagstones, a stark-naked female hung gleaming with oil. The head, enveloped in black leather, was chained backwards and from the rectum emerged the summit of a ribbed plug. The prisoner's flesh rippled from armpits to knees with fresh lash welts, shredded with purple scars glinting where pincers and rakes had been applied. On the superb, concave belly a deep brand mark in the form of some cabalistic sign stared out - no doubt that of the prostitute's owner. Although overjoyed to have company once again, Martine was given no time to observe more before her flesh too was consigned to chained bondage.

  With the help of the pert, vicious peasant slag, Annika, Sister Madeleine ran a chain down from the stone spandrels of the vault to pass a curved hook through the rings in Martine's manacles. Unlike the female facing her, the new victim's head was left to loll forward before her straining biceps - no doubt to allow her to follow the proceedings, a privilege Martine barely appreciated. Her body, fully tensed by the chains, tottered a pace from the wall. While Annika adjusted a stout rod hinged to the masonry to grate the arse cleft, the senior nun parted Martine's legs wide, tethering the ankles to iron wall staples. As the body distended, Annika drove the penis-shaped shaft past the sphincter and up into the bowels. Martine's already well-disciplined anal muscle relaxed immediately until the stanchion could penetrate no furthe
r. The nun slapped the breasts. "That's how a thinned down whore should look, no longer obese like a rotten load of mutton. You filthy whore!"

  Well exercised by countless shafts and rigid cocks - the worst being Anselme's - Martine's rear then gripped the ribbed stave. Thus, even if her splayed vulva invited fucking and the usual tortures, her distraught brain told her she was at least safeguarded for once from sodomy. She tautened anxiously, her sex dripping, trusting orgasm was not far off.

  Annika verified the position and seemed satisfied; the slut hung rigid and tempting in one of the better postures for punishment. Although the huge bosoms had shrunk to quite agreeable proportions, thanks to continuous bondage and flagellation, they still swung enticingly, even provocatively. Annika passed her hand over the rump; there too the daily beatings had decreased the volume, the skin now drum-tight, without a crease.

  "Compared with her state of entry, Sister," she remarked, again ensuring the anal rod was correctly angled from the wall hinge and fully inserted, "the gross drab has certainly slimmed down. The body's almost voluptuous, no?"

  Madeleine did not encourage such trite remarks even from someone she slept with regularly, but agreed. "A striking change indeed, but the breasts are still a trifle flaccid." She lifted the globes of whipped flesh by the teat rings and slapped them. "They still need further beating if they are to satisfy connoisseurs. Now, Annika dear, you may go and inform Mother Priscilla and his Holiness that the bitch is ready for her final trial," - her practised hand bored up into the saturated vaginal tube - "and more, seeing her state."

  But she was left to quiver in frustration, sheathed in sweat, as the two nuns left, locking the door behind them. Martine knew the cold-blooded woman was right. Bondage, the roving hands, together with the vision of the flagellated slave hanging before her, was edging her to the verge of orgasm. It was futile to try to converse with the gagged, marked beauty; in any event the naked whore had lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Martine waited, her wrists starting to ache, the inner thighs strained taut and wet.

  It was indeed the long pause rather than the posture that corroded her. But then that she knew formed an intrinsic part of the 'training'. She recalled Pauline one night in the Preparation Cell describing how at her former master's house on the Ile St. Louis in Paris she was left in chains for days, desperate for a grain of attention, longing for the whip and sex; and finally, when it came, how she responded! Like a ravenous animal. Slave owners knew how to deal with lascivious females, she said. "The bastards keep you in abeyance, waiting, waiting, darling, until all you can think of is a lash across your cunt."

  Dom Anselme's entry into the Vault of Verification, alongside Christophe and the heartless Annika, came virtually as a relief to Martine; time seemed to have been long since suspended. And her bondage had raised her to such a height of anticipation that she was ready for anything, anything the convent could devise. Even blood.

  The trio's appearance made her realise another change in her: what had once been stubborn repudiation of her slave status - destructive, short-sighted hubris Joanne and the others called it - had become compliance and submission, the whip now part of life.

  Once again nemesis beckoned. She saw the cassocks bulging over the thrust of the erections, Mother Priscilla having readily offered the two slave bodies in the Vault to her virtuous colleagues to make use of as they wished.

  Sister Madeleine, accompanying the two prelates in case of need, gathered up their white habits, admiring, as they stripped, the muscular bodies and stalwart penises. Ignoring the hooded slave opposite, both men advanced on Martine.

  The flagellation quickly assumed proportions far beyond anything the parpaillote had ever imagined possible up to that instant. The younger man was offered the slave's rump.

  Despite the limited space between buttocks and wall, he managed to slice into the buttock crests and also strike the anal plug. That sufficed to despatch the nude into a crescendo of screams as the stopple jolted in the rectum. A blissful pause followed the first ration of lashes, a breather that allowed her sex to prepare for orgasm. She sensed warm liquid sliding down the curve of the rump to dribble on to the thigh and realised it was not oil or sweat but blood. It oozed from an earlier welt she thought had healed; instead of frightening her, the gash kindled lust in her. Her groans became short, frenzied yelps as the leathers swung again, now into her breasts that were already compacting agreeably.

  "Yes... ahh, yes... master!" she moaned, forcing her head against the biceps of one arm to shield her face and give the whip full leeway to pound the udders. "Yes, thrash them... Lash the lust out of my sinful body... Martyr my nipples... Make them shed blood..." The raucous croaks differed from those that had startled Madeleine days before in the Chamber of pleasures. They were cries of crude, wanton lechery. "Scourge them... Split them!"

  "That we shall do, heathen slag!" Anselme's retort covered her shrilling.

  Slicking pre-ejaculate over his awesome pestle, the Dominican came forward to take his subordinate's place, raised his quirt and brought the thongs down across the still swaying loads of breast lymph. Martine wailed as the meat flattened and rebounded under the strokes. Again like the convent bells tolling, the mammaries swung across the ribs before being slugged again into the armpits, reddening under Anselme's onslaught. On the point of ordering Madeleine to screw a pair of carpenter's clamps into the roots to proffer and immobilise the throttled bulge of flesh he relished, he changed his mind, roused by the flabby slap of the dugs as they jolted and collided. Baring his teeth, the saintly soul struck directly across the areoles. Martine yowled, presuming her teats were about split open as she had pleaded for.

  As his associate had gashed the buttocks, he was not going to be outdone. After punishing the upper area of lubricity, he felt the lower zone needed attention. Zealously, the monster struck upward into the crotch, the thongs flaying and parting the labia to sink succulently into the clammy oval. Two-dozen lashes led Martine to flounder in those eddies that her convent ordeals taught her were about to be submerged in the riptide of orgasm. Only a few more strokes and the surge would drown her. The beast seamed to know precisely how a slave's naked body functioned when bludgeoned between the thighs.

  But instead, she was given cock. During the odious pause that followed the last lash she dared to open her tear-blurred eyes to see the prodigious prick approaching. Despite the rumours that abounded regarding the prelate's reluctance to use a vagina, a moment later the blue-veined spigot had entered and broached her, battering the cervix and the anal shaft beyond the membrane. Martine rode the grinding for as long as she could, then wailed, surrendered and, without awaiting authorisation, came violently. After what seemed an age of further hard fucking and yet another cataclysm, she felt the jets of semen siphoning up into her, clogging her entrails. She let out a final bray, orgasmed again and slid into the bottomless abyss that engulfs a slaked female. Sister Madeleine watched the final spasms and the droop of the body in its chains. Clearly, the slave bitch had not only changed corporeally but was making outstanding sexual progress.

  "A veritable whore," the Dominican observed, wiping his cock on Martine's thigh to free it of her spume and his last pearls of spunk. Disregarding the slut's audacity in spending without sanction, he motioned Madeleine forward, she preparing her crotch for the still rigid Brother Christophe, only to be cruelly disillusioned.

  "Lower the carrion to the appropriate level, Sister, if you would," Anselme said. "We cannot leave our young apprentice here in a state of abeyance." The nun had to agree and was ready to relieve the youth's one-eyed monster of its load. But that too was denied her. Obeisant, she ratcheted down the wrist chain sufficiently for the exhausted slave to reach the paving, the hinged rod torturing the anus as she knelt.

  Despite her condition, Martine knew what was required of her. Passing her desiccated tongue over her lips, she made an O of her
mouth, her cheeks hollowing as Brother Christophe's shaft rammed into her gullet. He had waited long enough.

  Grasping handfuls of the dark, matted hair, he jammed the infidel's head against her still taut arms and pumped while his mentor and a still hopeful Madeleine looked on in admiration. The youth's gluteal arse muscle clenched with each thrust; he was learning fast. What better apprenticeship for a lad, the nun consoled herself, than the throat of a whipped whore-slave? But of course, he had already used every mouth in the convent.

  The slave sucked competently enough, descending to the shaft root and, when given the chance, lapping her tongue round the swinging balls. When finally the semen came she choked (rather inelegantly, to Madeleine's mind) but swallowed as if gulping down her ration of morning gruel. More astringent maybe but Mariette had said it was beneficial; screaming did irritate and parch the larynx and pungent sperm helped.

  Taking pity finally on Madeleine, the Dominican compensated her. The senior Sister rode the huge shaft with zest, her climaxes exploding violently, threaded with vile oaths.

  Vaguely, Martine heard the man addressing the appeased nun. "That is to thank you for your righteous service, Sister. Now, unquestionably, this parpaillote wench can be restored to the care of our dear Marquise. I shall so inform Mother Priscilla." He marked a brief pause "However, having observed this slut's performance - and her difficulty in quaffing sperm - I suggest she merits a farewell favour, one that reminds her of the august Convent of the Annunciation which has expended so much concern on her welfare. I have consulted already with your distinguished Superior and she entirely agrees, should it be helpful, to the foul heretic being branded. Searing her heathen flesh will remind the sow of her status. So, Sister, lug the slave to the chamber of Brimstone and Fire and prepare her. The gracious Prioress has consented to attend. She will bless the Irons."