by J. D. Jensen
“Good! Now I want you to turn around and face me.”
The girl obeyed, doing so slowly, her face flushing again with mortified embarrassment, knowing that the men’s eyes were all over her. She stood there with her chin downcast, her chest and tummy very slightly bent forward so that the metal bar did not pull at her crotch. Nevertheless she felt the unfamiliar heavy downward pressure of the torque and the tight leather straps biting into the crease of her backside.
Her moist bright eyes took in every detail. The bar that ran down her middle was now effectively held firmly not only against her tummy but also against her crotch and the hard valley between her breasts. The metal was cold against her skin, and where the top of the bar was attached to the front of the torque her neck had to bow forward slightly to ease the tension. In her wretched turmoil of degradation and confusion she tried to fathom out the purpose of her strange shackling. Yet it was far from over, she soon realised. Besides, there were still several frightening-looking items remaining in the wardress’s heap on the ground. Not least was the strange metal brassiere. Then in a flash she knew immediately where it was to be positioned and she shuddered at the thought of its cruel embrace on her flesh.
Mimmie bent down and picked up the brassiere-cage device. Standing directly in front of the girl she placed each cup over her breasts almost simultaneously, hearing Fleur’s sharp intake of breath as the metal cages closed over her firm white mounds, clenching her vulnerable flesh tightly in the perverse embrace. At once her nipples seemed to squeeze themselves through the open holes at the tops, staring out.
“The brassiere won’t do any damage to your skin, my dear. It’ll just leave a few marks for a day or so. It’ll only be unpleasant when the studs press into you when I tighten the straps … but it will be bearable. Be brave, my dear. It won’t be for long,” Mimmie whispered almost maternally.
Stepping behind Fleur, Mimmie took hold of the two straps and pulled them firmly together before loosely fastening the buckle. At the same moment she heard the girl give a quick little gasp and her breasts quivered in a tiny tremor of protest.
“There, there. Don’t fret! It’ll be better in a moment when you get used to it,” Mimmie cooed soothingly in her ear, waiting for a second before giving a sudden unexpected little tug on the buckle to notch-in the strap one hole more.
Fleur gasped again, her eyes brimming with threatened tears.
“There now!” Mimmie stood back for a moment to survey her work. Then stepping round to the girl’s front again she made a slight adjustment to the straps between the two cups before taking another hasp and clipping the centre ring of the brassiere into the nearest corresponding slot in the bar. Now the brassiere-cage was securely attached - not only from behind the girl’s back but also now from between her breasts.
“There is only one more punishment device … at least one more that’s worth speaking of, my dear.”
Mimmie was breathing heavily now as she stooped to pick up the strange snake-like coil of thin stitched-leather. Holding it up by one end she let it uncoil so that its looped-end flopped back down to the ground again. Just over five feet long and no wider than the circumference of a child’s index finger over its entire length the evil-looking strip was more of a rounded pliable cord of soft leather than a strap or thong. One end had been looped back and spliced into the leather to form an eye. The other end was split into two small tongues, suggesting that they were ties for it to be fastened. Running along its centre was an outer sleeve of coarser leather into which numerous pointed metal tooth-like studs had been sewn at close intervals around it. All faced outwards and were set evenly around its circumference.
Fleur’s eyes settled nervously on the device. She could not see its precise purpose but she knew that it was a cruel one. The teeth were similar to those that were already pressing uncomfortably into the peaks of her breasts from inside the perverse brassiere.
“Turn round, Fleur. Don’t be afraid. It won’t bite you. I’m going to place it under your breasts. That’s all.”
The two officers watched silently as the ever-so-diligent wardress went about her business. There was also complete silence now from the Table of Correction although both its occupants were also watching the procedure with anxious disbelieving eyes. Solange’s vision was partially obscured by the top-tier of the punishment table and she had to lift her head and peer forward and to one side to see what was going on. The Contesse, who was facing the opposite wall, had to twist her neck round as far as the torque permitted her so that she could observe enough of the activity to know what was happening to her young friend.
Now that Fleur was facing the wall again, standing there trembling visibly in her bizarre shackling, Mimmie came close up behind her.
“Now lift your arms up to the ceiling, dear,” she instructed. “Like that. Good girl.” Her tone remained brisk but not unfriendly.
Taking the leather device she reached under the girl’s armpits with both hands and drew the middle part of the device around to Fleur’s front so that the studded sleeve was lodged just beneath the curved under-hang of her breasts. Almost hugging the girl now as she worked, Mimmie raised the sleeve and positioned it carefully into the natural crease below the base of her breasts until the teeth pressed against the overhang of her flesh. Then bringing the leather ends back, one under each armpit and around the sides of Fleur’s torso, Mimmie pulled the cords together – about halfway up her spine - and slotted the forked end through the eye of the looped end. Slowly and almost gently, as if knowing precisely what pressure to exert, she pulled the single remaining end upwards in a sort of body-noose. At the same time she reached round to Fleur’s front again so that she could slide the leather cord along inside the studded-sleeve. Giving it one final adjustment so that it was securely positioned exactly dead centre under the poor girl’s breasts she tightened it again with a little tugging motion that almost lifted them both in the closeness of an embrace.
At this, Fleur made a little jerking movement, gasping but more with shock than pain, instantly feeling the teeth of the sleeve biting into her skin - both at the base of her breasts and at the flesh just beneath. For a second or so she seemed to be seized by a momentary surge of panic. But Mimmie was expecting it. Still holding the split-end of the cord steady in one hand - not tightly but enough to ensure that there was hardly any slack - she whispered soothingly in her ear again.
“Calm yourself, mon petit chou! It’s nothing. So long as you keep perfectly still it won’t hurt you. It’s only there to make sure that you don’t move. If you do … then the studs will bite into you and be very uncomfortable indeed. So keep still whilst I secure it to your collar.”
With that, Mimmie gave a final little tug of the cord, pulling it upwards. Again Fleur jerked in a little spasm of shock, momentarily lifting herself up on her toes as if seeking to escape the upward pressure as the sleeve tightened yet a fraction more beneath her breasts. Quickly now Mimmie raised the cord to the nape of the girl’s neck and tied the split-ends to the back of the torque so that there was no remaining slack at all, the noose winding taut around the girl’s torso.
“Ooooew … it’s too t-t-tight, Miss,” Fleur began to whimper. “It’s pricking the bottom of my boobs, and those cage-things are sticking into me. It’s painful if I move even a bit!”
“Then, my poor dear, DON’T move at all. As I told you!”
“But I can’t … ouch! … help it. I can’t … oooieow!”
“Calm yourself! Shsssh! It’ll be all right in a moment. Keep your head bent down just a fraction so that it takes the pressure off your collar. There! That’s better isn’t it?”
“But …”
Now there was a sudden angry outburst from near the door.
“Shut your mouth, you silly little cow … or you’ll feel the whip on your arse as well!” Duval snarled menacingly. There was a wicked curl
to his thin insipid lips, his ferret-eyes leering at the girl.
For a second Captain Labastide glanced sourly at his chief-officer before returning his lustful gaze to the two occupants of the Table of Correction, his eyes roaming ceaselessly between the gloriously thrust-out rear of the Contesse and the delightful pelvic spread of the other girl beneath. It was truly a magnificent sight to behold - such a strangely exciting combination, one girl above the other, trussed up in such debasing stretched posture, each girl waiting silently, almost expectantly in her bonds. Despite the thin chain that stretched down tightly from the belt and all the way down against her crease he could glimpse the backward-facing sex-lips of the Contesse peeping just below her deep anal split. So too could he clearly see the slightly opened velvety portals of the girl below her - as well as the squashed spheres of her bottom reposing on the metal grid of the platform. Her firm white sinewy inner thighs and upper legs seemed as if to proffer themselves outwards - almost invitingly at him, her toes curled tensely over the edge of the platform.
He knew it was bad for his soul but he could do nothing to resist the illicit indulgence of his voyeuristic inclinations as he took in every detail of the exotically displayed tableau of flesh before him. His feet seemed riveted to the floor, his whole body gripped in the lustful anticipation of what was soon to come. All the while that Mimmie had been shackling the other girl, Fleur, he had only once or twice taken his eyes away from the dreadful Table of Correction, as if finding the exotic vista of its two occupants even more enticing than the bizarre and scarcely less-intriguing side-show over by the wall. But now, sensing that Mimmie’s shackling work would shortly be completed, he turned his attention to those final preparations, watching intently as she turned the girl around so that her back was again turned to the wall-rack behind.
“Squat down on your toes, Fleur. Right down!” Mimmie ordered.
Fleur hesitated for a second, perhaps not quite understanding the command. Then, placing her hands rather pathetically over her crotch again, very slowly and stiffly she lowered herself, bending her knees until they were thrust out in front of her and as close together as the steel bar against her lower pubis would allow.
“Spread your ankles and knees out! Further apart! Hands down to your ankles.” Mimmie’s voice was sharper now.
Wincing as the teeth bit into her breasts again at the sudden movement, Fleur shifted her position until she was squatting there on the balls of her feet, her toes splayed out daintily, a little whimper coming from her lips.
“Oooomph … it’s s-s-so … uncomfortable!”
Mimmie only grunted in an off-hand way and immediately picked up both pairs of manacles without a word. Stooping to one side of the girl’s haunches she fitted one cuff to the girl’s wrist before fastening the other around her ankle, clicking the catch home. Only a few links of chain now separated wrist from ankle, her arm now secured so that it rested loosely against the outer side of her leg. Going round to the girl’s other flank Mimmie manacled the other wrist and ankle together in the same way before quickly standing up to survey her work.
“Good,” she muttered. “Now for the final strap. This is to fasten you to the rack behind you, dear. Then you’re done. All you have to do is remain in that posture until the captain says that you can be released. It’ll be very uncomfortable … which is how it’s supposed to be. Perhaps you will have learned your lesson by that time, yes?”
Fleur uttered a miserable and almost inaudible little murmur of acknowledgement. Her face was tilted down, keeping the neck-torque in the least uncomfortable position so that it neither pulled tightly against the leather straps under her pubis, nor at the cruel leather cord attached at the back of her neck. There, the slightest involuntary movement made the noose tighten and the teeth at the base of her breasts dig into vulnerable flesh. So she kept as rigidly still as possible. The discomfort that came from the brassiere was slightly different inasmuch that the sharp pressure was almost constant. It was only if the bar shifted position at all that the linkage of it to the front-section of the brassiere momentarily caused the cups to bite deeper into her breasts.
She watched out of wide puppy-like eyes - a sort of pitiful look of resignation spreading over her features - as the wardress now stooped down again in front of her, holding out another thick belt in both her hands.
“Take a deep breath, girl! And hold still.” Mimmie looked directly into Fleur’s eyes, which seemed on the point of silent tears again.
“Courage, ma chère!” she added softly before placing the middle of the belt against the bar and encircling Fleur’s belly just below her ribcage.
Pressing the belt tightly up against the girl’s front and at the same time against the bar Mimmie reached forward and brought the ends around Fleur’s sides. Then she passed the leather back around a vertical beam of the rack behind her so that her spine was pulled tightly back against it. Mimmie’s face was almost up against the girl’s while she struggled to fasten the belt behind her. She could smell the sweet sheen of sweat that had broken out on Fleur’s naked shoulders and breasts. In particular she could see the perspiration oozing from under the metal cages of the brassiere. And she could feel the girl’s panting little breaths against her own face.
At last, grunting with exertion, Mimmie managed to buckle the belt after giving it a final little tug, tightening the embrace around the girl and effectively securing her torso to the rack behind her. Fleur had been almost pulled off balance at this sudden movement, another little gasp escaping her lips. But she had quickly recovered her balance, her toes squirming to get her feet into a new position and struggling to adjust to the new undignified squatting posture. Now she was locked into position with her back against the rack behind her, unable to move in any direction, her toes and feet forced to support her entire body-weight. Her body gave a tiny quiver of final protest and resignation. Her knees were splayed outwards, each pointing forwards at a wide angle so that her pubis was fully exposed, only the lower end of the bar concealing the twinned rise of her sex. Her neck was bowed down slightly and straining against the torque; each ankle and wrist shackled together at her sides; and the strapping under and between her bottom cheeks was tight against the crease.
Worse perhaps was the tightness of the belt’s embrace. Its pressure against the perverse bar down her middle had the effect of making it not only mould itself into her belly and chest but also to pull down at the neck-torque. This of course increased the overall tension of her shackling. If she bent her head too far forward it pulled against the leather cord behind her neck, immediately making her body-noose painfully taut. At the same time the pointed studs would bite into the under-hang of her breasts. If she bent her head too far backwards the leather under her pubis and in her anal crease would immediately cut into her. Moreover this had the effect of making her chest swell outwards so that the teeth of the evil brassiere would stab into her all the more. She knew too that the weight of her body and the awkwardness of her bent knees and straining feet would soon become excruciating. It was then that she began to sob silently, knowing that her debasement was final and unremitting, her misery and dejection complete.
A trifle breathless Mimmie Latour stepped in front of the captain.
“Everything’s ready, Sir,” she announced rather needlessly.
Labastide swallowed with a sudden pang of nervous expectation now that the moment he had waited for was finally here.
“Very well. Begin the punishment, Madame. Twenty five lashes of the martinée. I have already pronounced sentence.”
“Very good, Sir. Do you want me to give her the gag-bit and bridle?”
Labastide hesitated for a moment before nodding his agreement. The idea of seeing the Contesse’s pretty little head encased in the bridle had an additional appeal, even if it delayed the flogging for a few moments longer. The anticipation was almost as good as the reality. He glanced down
at the Contesse again, knowing somehow that she would turn her head to look at him.
He was not to be disappointed. At that precise moment her graceful neck craned round at him, pulling at her torque. The image would forever be etched upon his mind. With her head now half turned to look back at him - and from beyond one side of her thrusting rump - it was as if three cheeks of exquisiteness were now lined up together to face him. A battery of resentful flesh, not cowed but with a placid beauty such as he had never seen before. For a moment her left eyebrow raised quizzically at him but her face showed scarcely more than scornful amusement.
“A bridle, Sir? Am I now to be ridden like a mare?” Her voice seemed to tease him. There was that sweet evenness of tone about it that made his nerves tingle with excitement. Once again he marvelled at her coolness, finding that even the rawness of his lust was strangely diminished for a passing moment - an unknown emotion seeming to suffuse the very fabric of his soul. He could not reply, swallowing again.
Mimmie glanced sideways at the Contesse as if briefly trying to fathom what made this exotic creature tick. It seemed incredible that she could retain such an almost graceful, languid poise whilst trussed in such a debasing posture. The elegant bone-structure of her upper torso and shoulder blades, the long exaggerated curve of her prominent spine and the delightful upward sweep of her bottom - even in its wide, thrust-out extremity and gaping tautness - was all somehow oddly stimulating. It seemed almost sacrilegious to have to whip such sculpted beauty. Yet Mimmie knew that she would do so and with greater diligence and professional skill than ever before. It would be the very pinnacle of her brief career as a wardress - almost an honour to flay the beautifully honed buttocks of such a notorious woman fraudster as the Contesse Marie-Chantal de Louvois.