"Now, Number Seven, you're going to take real delight in these," the man's voice promised. "They'll help you towards orgasm. And only orgasm will free you from pain." With that the guest leaned forward over the trembling nude and snapped the serrated metal clasp sideways on to each of the distended teats. Amid her moans and writhings, Joanne strangely found herself grateful for the posture the ladder imposed, for it locked her thighs and safeguarded the labial fronds from similar torture. At least thus far...
The breasts fully stretched towards the ceiling by the clenched teats, the limping guest took up the tongs from the belly and set to. Joanne gritted her teeth.
The initial pinchings around the tautened areoles seemed bearable until a blinding, purple streak of lightning stabbed through the slave's brain. The pincers' saw-toothed jaws seized lumps of her mammary lymph, twisting and wrenching the scourged meat then slowly descended to grip the breast roots; there the iron clinched, screwed and ground into the drum-tight flesh. Her shrilling spanned the cellar, adding to the cries and whip thuds issuing from other areas.
Although she had graduated in her time at Lassignac through many forms and degrees of correction - among which had been the other type of clasp Anselme had screwed on to her labia to open up the vagina for reaming, Joanne knew she could not bear much more. Even in her erotic fantasies the pain was always bearable. But on the ladder her strength was ebbing although her sex continued to throb and seep.
Still astride the ladder and his victim, de Montclamart watched the beautiful, sensuous torso writhe, jolt, rear a moment and then slam back against the wooden rungs. He knew the limit to which a young, strapping slavegirl could be taken but, dominating his prey emotionally as well as physically, he paid no heed to the slave's screams; they were part of his enjoyment. At the same time, as the agony spiralled, disintegrating time and place, Joanne was conscious only of three things: first, pain atrocious pain; the tempting cock dribbling over her; and finally blotting all else out, the sense of sharing her colleagues' privilege in exploring the secret groves of sexual slavery. As if participating in a sisterhood, her groans mingled with theirs, as their submissive flesh was mauled, flagellated and driven into orgasm. Joanne had joined the Lassignac weekend frivolities.
A long pause in the proceedings ensued leaving Joanne to wonder what more was to come. To distract her mind from the ladder, she recalled other moments and one in particular: in search of ready flesh, one evening Anthea had seized her in the cellar and, demanding total compliance, had taken her to a punishment cell for a bout of what she called 'the sort of love making that I really enjoy'. Chained spread-eagled on the torture slab, her head over the far edge, Joanne had 'enjoyed' a session of much pain and some pleasure with fortitude. In addition to her spiked nipple cones, Anthea wore the infamous double dildo: the rigid length of stitched leather bobbed at her groin with menace, half of it buried in the bitch's own vagina, the median flange, knurled on both faces with studs, cupping her clit. When fully inserted in Joanne, the artefact (fashioned for Anthea by Brissac, the blacksmith) provided intense orgasms for both fucker and fucked. Laying the full weight of her body on the helpless nude, the minx rammed the dildo in hard, crushing both clits while the atrocious barbs round the teats scarified the victim's breasts No slave was ever the same after one of those interludes, despite the fierce climaxes and even if later Simone did soothe the breasts and crotch with calamine mixed with sperm.
***
Returning to her present predicament, Joanne caught sight of the Marquise strolling round her cellar, monitoring matters. Thrilled, Elodie looked forward to enjoying Anthea - with a spare slavegirl to whip at the bedpost - later between the silken sheets, once the guests had retired with their victims. She could hardly wait.
Delighted with the progress of the evening, although annoyed by Francis-Etienne's absence, she approached that area of the cellar where the ladder was posed with its new vibrant offering. She watched her slave Seven trembling on the rungs in the final throes of torment. De Montclamart bowed, greeting his beautiful hostess.
"Excellent whore flesh... yes, truly responsive." His compliments were lost in the tumult of wailings from the other appliances. "Somewhat turbulent but responsive, dearest Marquise. I congratulate you on your purchase."
"Thank you, Maitre," she smiled, ignoring the term 'purchase'. "I presume you'll wish to continue with her, once she has simmered down." As an important public notary, he was to be treated with unction. "I'm glad she didn't pass out on you. She must learn to remain conscious while being used and to place her sexual gifts ahead of her personal whims. But, by the look of her breasts, she's showing promise."
The guest realised the session was over and clumped off to watch those of his associates still at work. Elodie gestured to her favourite slave handler to release Joanne. As the chains descended and the nipple clamps were removed, the tortured blonde let out a strident scream of pain as blood returned to the teats. Elodie chided her slave. "They'll be fine in a day or two, my beauty. Now, I want you to continue with him, particularly as you've not had an orgasm. But remember, Maitre de Montclamart has a horror of the female genitals so you'll have to fend for yourself. Now, off you go, sunshine, after you've had your gruel and water, and do your best to please him for the rest of the night. And try not to flake out. It lets down the house."
Her muscles stiff and almost incapable of supporting her, Joanne struggled off the ladder, prostrated herself and kissed her owner's thonged sandal. "If you permit it, dear mistress," she pouted, astonished at her own audacity, "I'd rather not continue with... him. He's terribly cruel... I'd rather be whipped and raped..."
"What's all this nonsense, child? No one's raped here. They're fucked. And he's one of our firmest friends, an upstanding man." Remembering the great cock, Joanne found the adjectives appropriate. "And your fine whore body attracts him. Of course, you'll continue with him. In one of the special cells with which you have to become acquainted."
The slave winced. The prospect of hours in a private cell with him dismayed her.
Having decided, the sumptuous Marquise moved on, leaving the blonde to Simone and Marie-Félice who immediately secured the wrists to the neck strap and whipped her across the almost empty cellar towards the slave pen, next to which reared the fateful arch leading down to the cells. The very thought of that dark underworld froze Joanne.
As she hobbled forward Joanne caught sight of Laurent, still chained to the vaulting by the wrists, his ankles drawn back to wall rings. The youth's erect cock throbbed crimson; it was extended to the far wall by a chain through the ring pierced through the underseam of skin. The paving glistened with semen the lad had already discharged and Evelyn de Burre-Sage was engaged in wiping off her penis whip. But a more disconcerting scene was being enacted further afield: the fury that Anthea exerted in flogging Isabella under Elodie's admirative eye made Joanne halt. Hung by the ankles, the legs wide, the slim body swung slowly as the booted female used a braided flogger on the crotch and buttock crease, the pale undersides of the breasts awaiting their turn. The sleek Isabelle struggled weakly under the lashes. 'Oh heaven,' Joanne prayed, 'save me from that gorgon.' Then an impatient Simone drove her into the slave precinct to swallow the bowl of gruel.
Hardly refreshed by the cold pottage, she was then led towards the arch and stone steps. Beyond lay the cells that she had not so far frequented. Although terrified, she found her ringed sex flooding again. She knew she was being conducted into hell.
Weirdly, as she stumbled down the worn steps, Joanne suddenly wondered what had befallen Martine. In a way, she was relieved her headstrong sister-in-faith was not present to grace the so-called ceremonial weekend for, if it was providing Joanne with a certain fulfilment of her frantic erotic dreams, Martine would have fought like one of those wild cats that haunted the Cevennes. She just trusted the plump dumpling was in safe hands down there at the convent where no doubt
there were understanding souls...
Having negotiated the treacherous steps Joanne found herself thrust into a cubicle hewn out of the bedrock where, to her surprise, Marie-Félice awaited her and Simone. Again the organisation astonished the slavegirl as she was directed to stand against the stonework and spread her legs to be groomed. Briskly the two women soused her body, scouring the flesh with a grooming-brush, fingers purging the anal and vaginal vents.
"You've got to be prinked up, gorgeous," the slave handler smiled. "Even if he abhors those unctuous cavities down there. But one never can tell with guests."
The cleansing over, the group passed several massive, iron-braced doors and halted the slave before a further entry emblazoned with a frightening heraldic escutcheon depicting a pair of crossed whips surmounted by an erect penis and pendulous balls. The chamber beyond was bleak and ominous as Simone lit a candle from her lantern.
"Against the wall, whore," the drab servant ordered. "Pull in that belly and wait."
The slave was chained by the neck strap to a wall ring. The two servants positioned themselves outside the doorway to await the clubfooted guest - who had an aversion to a female's lower orifices, pristine or not.
Nervously Joanne stared at the sombre block of granite looming in the centre of the cell. The far wall was festooned with scourges and perplexing articles of flesh torture; Joanne recognised some but not others. More disturbing to the newcomer but at the same time exhilarating, matching her secret phantasms, were the hasps set into the sides of the frigid altar. From them hung chains and shackles awaiting their quarry.
Time dragged by in the eerie silence. Not a sound permeated from the adjoining dungeons - not that screams, shrieks or the slam of leather could pass through the massive masonry. Joanne was alone in the underworld of Lassignac, waiting.
The drag and scrape of de Montclamart's feet startled her and she froze.
When the crippled ghoul appeared, handing his velvet cape to Simone, the object he held in his left fist cut the slave's breath: of braided horsehide, each lash terminated in a metal lug. The naked girl gaped at the weapon.
"You may leave, woman, and you too, Marie-Félice," the grim notary announced. Both females bowed, Simone sketching a curtsy which was more of a shrug. She had more pressing chores to attend to than watch a slave beating. In any case, this Number Seven was docile and would stretch out compliantly enough over the whipping slab. Marie-Félice, or the other hand, regretted the dismissal, giving the tortured breasts a final glance. Another session on those, she judged, and Lassignac could well have a problem on its hands. And the staff had enough to deal with as it was.
Then Joanne noticed the other item the illustrious guest held. He leaned heavily on the polished walking cane, a gloved palm cupping the chased silver pommel - which, to her dismay, was fashioned to resemble an erect penis and a hefty one at that. Inwardly she prayed it was not destined to gouge her rear orifice. Its size alone perturbed her.
"Did you enjoy the ladder, my beauty?" came the question, to which no slave in her right mind would ever have dared respond. Yet Joanne did so, courageously.
"Yes, distinguished master. But, deprived of orgasm, I suffer and..."
"But as a whore slave you exist solely to please me. And you did. Fully. Flesh such as yours requires inventive punishment. But your gluttonous lust will now be satisfied."
The blonde victim felt her vulva swell but reverted to caution and silence.
Laying the terrifying whip on the slab, the man released her from the wall. "On to our altar of sacrifice, slut. Mount it crosswise, belly up, head over the side."
Joanne was quite certain she was to be beaten not only with the scourge but with the cane and shuddered; only her buttocks, at most, could withstand that tapering length of briarwood; but luckily they would be flattened on the stone. Instantly she laid herself out as ordered and waited for the four limbs to be chained, her corn-blonde hair tumbling down the granite's flank. She felt her wrist manacles being attached to the corners of the block but, to her bewilderment, the splayed legs were left to dangle free over the edge, her sex leaking dangerously. After carefully adjusting her posture the macabre cripple, to her consternation, retrieved the scourge and retired behind the lolling head. The slave stared up at the prick and balls swaying before her face. The massive penis scared her.
Very abruptly, the leather thongs rose, hissed and carved into the crotch with a force that deprived her of breath; the splat over the wet orifice echoed round the cell as did the further half-dozen lashes, the metal spheres fortunately striking only the stones. Somehow Joanne managed to control her cries through the first blows and then screamed with force, the sex rings jangling like a yearling's bridle. Abruptly she was silenced as the man's erection rammed into the yelling gullet, her head thudding against the slab's side. Frantically, she suctioned and tongued with all her sexual talent, a gift gained through constant servicing of her Francis-Etienne - heavens, how she missed those dark eyes, the hirsute loins and that phallus - in the erotic seclusion of the west wing...
Ablaze with bittersweet pain, she felt her smouldering clit take over control of her entire body. Smitten by the thongs, the stub of gristle seemed to cry out for far more direct manipulation if it was to gratify its owner.
The man's curt command sounded incongruous amid the lashes.
"Up with the legs, bitch! Ankles on my shoulders. And continue to suck."
She obeyed at once. The cripple stared at the swollen fig in the crotch rising towards him; he dropped the scourge and, to Joanne's terror seized the walking stick. Instead of rising, it bore down, the silver pommel plunging in among the rings and went deep into the cunt, glutted with slush. Joanne sucked the penis in tune with the thrusts, feeling the crimson folds of vaginal meat being dredged in and out until, suddenly, the rod slanted back to scour the whipped clitoris. Before her mouth could draw semen, she found herself careering towards her climax with uncontrollable violence. The frictioning of the flayed stump brought her off prodigiously, more savagely than she had yet known, even after a beating. She let spasm after spasm explode like discharges from a royal cannon. Then, without more warning than a harsh grunt, the notary spurted and spurted richly, choking her. Joanne swallowed what she could, the residue frothing from her nostrils.
Leaving her jerking, still chained over the slab, her mercifully free thighs clenching and squelching, the guest used the flaxen mop of bobbed hair to wipe her spume off his cock and then from the briar. Half-conscious, she heard the comment: "You suck well for a filthy parpaillote and come viciously. Most edifying, whore, I must say. If I can retain you for the rest of the night and again tomorrow, I shall flog you to orgasm without burying a pommel in you. And may your misguided faith guard you if you fail, slut!" Still convulsing, Joanne vaguely heard the cell door creak on its rusty hinges and she was alone, traumatised but fully appeased. The session had elated her and fire licked her crotch as if melting the rings.
It was Simone who led her back to the slave pen where she collapsed on her straw pallet, quite alone, the others still servicing the guests. Spent in every sense, Joanne slept.
But not for long. The iron gate grated. Florence in her kitchen apron entered on feline feet and kneeling next to the smouldering body, spread balm over the throbbing sex.
"I've delivered the message, Joanne, and things are afoot. Keep alert. I'll tell you when the men are about to attack." She hushed the girl's question with a finger on the swollen lips. "Not a word, even to me. Orders from the Camisards. Just follow me."
The cook released the neck chain and silently led the somnolent girl to the west wing and laid her gently between the cool, silken sheets Joanne knew so well. As she covered up the body, the Marquis de Lassignac stepped silently out of the shadows.
"Thank you, Florence. Now let her rest." The man's murmur was too subdued for the blonde one to hear
but he leaned forward to kiss the honey-freckled cheek. Drawing the cook out with him, he questioned her: "Now, what news do you have from your friends?"
Florence told him and they left Joanne to sleep. Only the jackdaws in the castle turrets seemed aware that all was not well in the wooded vicinity of Lassignac. But then, daws and owls, however wise, are just birds and humans rarely listen to their warnings.
***
Installed anew in his castle quarters, the weekend ceremonies over, it was Dom Anselme himself who informed Elodie of Martine's imminent release from the nunnery.
"Knowing your needs, gracious lady," he announced, pleased to be in office again, "Mother Priscilla and I - if I may include my own initiatives - have reduced your slave to the state you seek. She is, I am glad to say, now fit to re-occupy her place in your august cellar to do penance, naked under the whip. And the whore has changed..."
"Without conversion?" The Marquise raised a quizzical eyebrow, suspecting the probable answer which barely interested her, being fresh - or rather, prostrate - from a hectic session in bed with Anthea and the long-suffering Isabelle, the latter having been chained taut across the black sheets of the four-poster and used relentlessly. "I knew the convent would oblige," Elodie smiled, "and I hope she has been relieved of some of that obnoxious fat. I'll send Coursel for her anon. Thank you, Dom Anselme, for your patience, for I am sure you advised judiciously on the slut's training. We shall whip her soundly."
Just before daybreak the following day, Coursel covered the few leagues grudgingly with the mare and harrow, arriving at the convent amid the first chirping of birds. He was astounded by the change in the dark-haired slut shivering naked in chains before the pastern; it was not the abundance of welts and sombre contusions over the body that surprised him but rather the slave's sleek, diminished contours. If indeed she was Martine she was hardly the same slave he had hauled down three weeks before. Spreading her again upon the spikes of the same rusty farm harrow, he hesitated to fuck her but, once up in the sycamore grove, he dismounted and filled her.
The Sufferers Page 19