by Kim Knight
Kim is also the author of the extraordinary ‘Unchained’ series of novels which combine terrific scenes of lesbian sexuality, domination and submission with very fine male dom scenes. Kim has also written;
Dark Surrender
A Slave’s Desire
The Chains that Bind
Slave House.
The Making of a Mistress.
The Sufferer
(the Lost Chapter from ‘The Sufferers’)
by
Caroline Swift
When it comes to female slaves, Caroline wrote the book! In fact she’s written a lot of them and all of them feature strong, beautifully described scenes that carry the unmistakable feeling that one is reading fiction based on very real experience!
A while back Silver Moon brought out, among its host of spicy publications, ‘The Sufferers’, a story relating the fate that befell two young women of heretical belief in the Cevennes during the early eighteenth century. Captured along with others by the royal dragoons despatched by Louis XIV to root out the growing threat of Protestantism in the realm, the girls found themselves spared condemnation to the horrendous Tour de Constance on account of their exceptional beauty. Through negotiation the two prisoners were exceptionally consigned to the Marquis Francis-Etienne for use by his wife, Elodie, Marquise de Vonnange-Lassignac, a wealthy royalist and owner of a batch of submissive slaves. Stripped naked, chained and fitted with flesh rings, Joanne and Martine joined the other captives in the dismal cellars of the Lassignac château to serve as sex-slaves under the whip and instruments of torment employed by the Marquise, her husband, their high-born visitors, as well as the ruthless retainers charged with the incarceration and disciplining of the prisoners.
After months of brutal treatment, the two victims were unpredictably freed by their Camisard comrades engaged in the civil war raging in the Cevennes. Their liberation, as recounted, entailed a fierce vengeance being meted out to the Marquise and her vicious niece, Anthea, at the hands of their own servants, the latter being obliged under the Camisards’ swords to inflict the floggings. Both girls, Martine more so than Joanne, had in fact encouraged their rescuers to administer the retaliatory punishments.
When subsequently the girls managed to find their way to freedom in the Calvinist city of Geneva, Martine became a deaconess. Joanne however began to waste away in that dour atmosphere, yearning to return to her beloved Cevennes - and above all to resume her affair, however exacting, with the Marquis Francis-Etienne. She had fallen hopelessly in love with the man and the demands he made on her alluring body. Despite the further perils that should have cautioned her, Joanne decided to risk the folly of travelling back to Lassignac where, she believed, her lover would not only forgive her but also shield her from his wife’s and niece’s fury over what had occurred on that fateful day, the 20th of June, 1702.
To her dismay, when venturing to the château amid the autumn leaves in the hope of meeting up again with the handsome Francis-Etienne, she learned from a guard on duty beyond the drawbridge that he had been summoned to join the royal court in Paris. Appalled by the news and the absence of that delicious cock she dreamed of servicing again - this time as a bona fide mistress as well as a whipping concubine, imprudently she lingered a while under the battlements, hoping to catch sight of her former companions whom she also truly missed. Alerted by the sentinel, Elodie could hardly believe her good fortune; the slave’s sudden, unexpected appearance was providential. A moment later the wretch was seized and dragged into her presence. What was to betide her, despite her pleas for forgiveness, is recounted in this, the ‘lost’ chapter of the book, a somewhat different account that came to light later in court circles in Paris.
The ‘Lost’ Script
The Marquise’s first idea, once the ‘swine of a bitch’ was made to kneel before her, consisted in relegating her to one of more inhuman brothels the family owned, catering for the needs of mariners returning from long voyages overseas. Her whorehouses at Nantes or in Bordeaux, which was nearer, specialized in the use of the whip, and at neither port did a sex slave last longer than a few months, if that, under cock, scourge and instruments of torture, thereafter being sold off on the cheap to some outgoing vessel for use of crew members, regrettably deprived of female flesh over extended periods. Moreover, a slave could be flogged, in the case of foul weather, as a sacrifice to appease Neptune’s wrath and calm the seas...
The château’s tumbrel therefore set out with the valet Coursel assigned to convey the slut to Bordeaux, the man, like Bouchard, Elodie’s major-domo, having been duly pardoned for their part in the sufferings inflicted on the Marquise and her niece back in June. The driver was given full right to use en route the slave’s body as he wished. Hog-tied, chained and barely covered with sacking, Joanne left Lassignac to cross the Cevennes in the first chill of autumn.
It was a sullen, pouting Anthea some days later who finally persuaded her doting aunt to change her mind. “After all,” she had pleaded, “those parpaillot bastards will not descend on us again now that the dragoons are about. And anyway, who knows the bitch has returned? So why send her hence? Have we not refurbished Uncle Francis’s private whipping chamber and is it not serving admirably as a torture precinct? Bring the trollop back, now that your husband, who seemed to fancy her, is up in Paris and won’t interfere.”
On second thoughts, Elodie finally consented. “Very well, treasure. Tell Bouchard from me to send out a rider and have the pernicious reprobate brought back for punishment. We can always sell off what’s left of her later after she’s spent a week of penitence with us. But, Anthea dear, I have no intention of keeping her here overlong nor of allowing her to be used by the guests. We all know how talkative they can be. And that’s too much of a risk, after what happened last June.”
Accordingly, a servant - an excellent rider - was despatched with orders for Coursel to return the criminal to Lassignac. Mounted on the absent Marquis’s roan, the man caught up with the tumbrel as it was crossing the Lot river, with still three days’ journey to cover before handing the cargo over to Elodie’s most infamous flogging establishment for seafarers disembarking at Bordeaux.
Terrified, Joanne was slung head down behind the messenger, wrists and ankles roped under the roan’s belly for the trek back to the Cevennes. Her sole consolation was that, unlike the valet who had made full use of her three orifices at each halt of the cart, the servant refrained, anxious not to lose time. The same evening, her head and legs spattered with the horse’s foam, the half-conscious burden was handed over to a scantily-attired woman she had not encountered during her previous months of captivity. As she was hauled into the courtyard’s northern tower, Joanne assumed the new, shapely recruit was probably the replacement for the merciless Marie-Félice, now serving the Marquis in several ways at his courtly Versailles lodgings.
The prisoner, clotted with the residue of Coursel’s ejaculations and the steed’s sweat, was stripped of her one covering and hastened down the stairwell to the so-called preparation cellar that she recalled only too well. Passing before a couple of booted, leather-strapped guards playing at cards on what appeared to be a punishment slab that her numbed memory could not remember being there before, she thought one of the men seemed familiar, although both were masked; the volume of the fellow’s phallus, lolling between the parted thighs, reminded her of a vicious flagellation and sodomy - and the orgasms - she had once enjoyed from someone similar... Neither of the lackeys spared her more than a glance, being more interested for the moment in betting, but a lewd comment on the size of her breasts did raise her spirits. As she left the autumnal sunlight and descended the steps, Joanne caught sight of the walled compound where the morning floggings used to take place to prepare the slave flesh for the weekend guests who were invited to visit the château and make use of its submissive inmates.
“Step lively, whore,” ordered the
woman, garbed in an open doublet and tight-clinging leggings, cut away to reveal a neat, shaven crotch. “My name is Melanie and I’m charged with priming your hefty body, and that takes time. You will address me as ‘Mistress’ when, or rather if, you’re given the right to speak. In any case, you’re to be hooded up but probably not gagged so that you can perform fellatio and tongue cunt. Your first session takes place tonight, after Elodie has dined.” Her use of the divine Marquise’s first name dumbfounded Joanne, disclosing a self-assurance rare in an assistant slave mistress when referring to her lofty mistress; if she was not cautious, the nude thought, a return to slavery might well threaten. But the harlot seemed unaware of the arrogance she displayed so unperturbedly. “Your ordeal is being confirmed at this moment at table.” Then she added: “You will, of course, undergo it stark naked and chained.”
A spasm of fear, mingled with the usual excitement, coursed through the returnee as a rope was tightened round her neck, and the steep descent commenced.
On entering the readying chamber, Joanne found the place had hardly changed since the day when Martine and she had been pierced and ringed there, so long ago, it seemed. The overhead cords and ankle hasps in the paving, serving to stretch the muscle and sinew to full tension, were the same as before, as was the long table on which the shaving was done but now was littered with implements, oils and the flesh rings.
“Place that enticing mass of meat and brawn under the ropes, whore, and up with the arms. Part the legs wide - yes, like that but wider still.” The slave mistress’s orders, compared with those the departed Marie-Félice used to scream out, were rather invitations than commands, and Melanie seemed surprised at the readiness the slave showed, Joanne having no immediate wish to become acquainted with the knotted scourge swinging from the young woman’s loin belt; lashes on a cold, unreceptive body could be dispiriting.
Despite the sludge and slime blemishing the contours, the slave knew the effect her erotic nudity could have on a dominant. Already the nipples had returned to life and tumescence, the belly hollowing between the sharp crescent of the ribcage and the fleecy pubic mound and soon enough the woman would not fail to notice the emergence of the clitoris from its protective sheath and below that, the inevitable ooze of vaginal fluid, merging with what remained of Coursel’s sperm, crawling down the drooping labia...
But the swabbing down of the trunk, dorsal area, buttocks and limbs proceeded without comment. Even the freezing water from the pail and the harsh brush gave Joanne pleasure, her cleansed body listing forward as the mistress’s fingers scoured out the anus, and then rearwards for the cunt to be freed of what the valet had pumped into it on the aborted journey north. It was only when the oiling began that Melanie commented on the body entrusted to her.
“You certainly have a spectacular bulk of blubber on you, wench - the sort that Elodie seems to fancy, leave alone Mademoiselle Anthea” - she seemed to be wary of the niece - “and Bouchard who revels in flogging a lavishly fleshed female. Since I arrived here, all I’ve heard from him have been grouses over the ‘spindle-shanked starvelings’ he’s given to thrash, torture and prepare for the guests... although there are one or two whores he says are worth the efforts he expends on blooding them.” Quite suddenly, the girl took hold of one of Joanne’s breasts in a grip that cut the slave’s breath. “But bulges of this sort are sure to please him when it comes to strangling the roots with the iron clamps and using the cane and flesh tongs...”
“Of that I’m quite aware, mistress,” the nude muttered, aware that she was risking the knotted whip for speaking without permission. She even added, as her teat was seized and twisted: “I’ve been here before and I thought you knew it.”
“Have you, indeed! Well, that I wasn’t told. Then you must be one of the two slaves who escaped after some sort of drama or other. That was before my time and no one seems ready to talk of it. But now I begin to understand some of the remarks made in the banqueting hall where they chew the cud.” She paused, looking up and down the length of flesh she was preparing. “Then why, upon my faith, did you return here? I suppose you know or at least can guess what your succulent, sultry body’s in for now.”
“I had my reasons, mistress, but clearly I was mistaken.”
“You certainly were, trollop. But now I have to finish your preparation.” Turning to the table to take up a razor, the piercing awl and a collection of slave rings, she added over her shoulder, “I suppose you know you’ve been condemned to the torture precinct for a week, away from the other inmates...” That Joanne might have guessed but not for a whole week! Her nipples shrank into the delicious unblebbed areoles, her throat tightening. But what she said was factual. “You don’t need to pierce my teats or the rest down below, because I’m already slit. The rings should enter easily enough, mistress.”
The woman seemed relieved as she sashayed gracefully back, with Joanne glancing more closely at the new appointee: although she wore neither veil or mask, the breast summits were surrounded with the identical spiked discs Marie-Félice had always worn in the past - and which were not pleasant when she hugged a slave she was working on; the teats, however, although half the size of Joanne’s, stood firm and luscious and were tinted purple, as were the labia beneath the pubic bulge, meticulously shaven and bearing a brand mark, possibly from her own earlier spell of servitude. (It was later that evening Joanne was to discover that all of the staff serving Elodie were now devoid of sex hair, a novelty she had already noticed when being penetrated by Coursel during the horrendous journey to the coast. Such seemed to be one of the Marquise’s innovations, along with knotted whips, following her husband’s departure for Paris.)
Following the expert cleansing within and without, Melanie used the razor, after honing it on a strap, to relieve the slave’s body of every trace of hair that had grown since the escape in June. Joanne watched, or rather felt, the shaving, particularly of the pubis, with a certain pleasure but also with disquiet, since it presaged the cunt was to be whipped and tormented. As the growth was removed, she noticed that the slender woman did not wear the customary gloves but leather mittens that left the fingers free, most probably to manipulate an inmate’s flesh, especially the nipples and clitoris, more intimately and painfully. A further glance at the hands, as they raked the armpits, disclosed that the back of the mittens gleamed with sharp spikes, similar to those bristling on the jerkin and down the skin-tight breeches. Imagining the girl’s backhand blows across the teats, Joanne swore silently to obey the slim mistress unquestioningly, whatever order was pronounced. And there were those lengths of flogging hide grazing the woman’s thigh; however much the slave hankered after a good whipping, the knots on the thongs warned her that dumb compliance was advisable - at least until orgasm exploded. But there too she was uncertain of her rights. Culpable of what she had allowed to be imposed on Elodie, she wondered if indeed she would be allowed to spend. The question trembled on the tip of her tongue - and clitoris - but she dared not risk asking Melanie...
The rings slid into the engorged nipples easily enough and were neatly clamped with the crimping pliers. Only the quite unnecessary frictioning of the engorged teats disturbed Joanne, for it threatened to bring her off. But she controlled herself, even when the four labial rings were threaded through and similarly ladened. Thus six of the seven sites were loaded again with the metal circles she had missed so much since having them, at the same time as Martine’s, removed in Geneva. They had virtually become for her body natural adjuncts; without them she had felt dispossessed, her climaxes falling short of their usual intensity. Yet it was the reinsertion through the root of the clitoris that threw the slave into disarray. As the woman crouched before the cunt to extend the pinnacle with the tongs, seeking the elusive hole near the base, Joanne let out a sharp cry. At the same time, she heard the slave mistress’s remark.
“Parbleu, now that’s what I would call a truly lusty frigging stalk! I wage
r you use constantly, at least when someone’s not sucking it or it’s being twisted with the tongs. I’ve never seen one of such a size - it’s like a nipple, mon Dieu, like a thumb! I just hope Elodie lets me use the needles on it. I’ll bet,” she repeated, sinking her nails into the root, “you really punish it when it’s erect like this. How many times a night, whore, do you mash it, eh?” The silver slave ring threaded through the soft tissue and clicked.
The hand withdrew, only to be thrust in the slave’s maw to be sucked clean, the mouthful of fingers fortunately preventing a reply. Believing the insertions over, Joanne was startled to see an eighth ring gleaming in Melanie’s grasp. The slave mistress smiled, watching the dark violet eyes widen as they stared down at the additional annulus approaching the sweating face.
“Now, up with that head,” came the coolly efficient command. “This item will put you in a different category from the common dross that lives chained up in the holding cellar yonder - some of whom you probably know if, as you tell me, you were one of them in the past. But you’re to be kept apart from the others,” - a condition Joanne had expected, being likely to contaminate the cohort with her guilty presence - “and you’re going to pass the whole week alone in what I’m told is the new precinct, a chamber where extreme punishment is dealt out to reprobates.” (Where the woman had picked up such terms defeated Joanne - maybe from conversations between the Marquise and her guests at high table where this Melanie, probably naked, helped in waiting on the august company, prior to whipping sessions.) “By all accounts, it used to be the Marquis’s private sanctuary where he enjoyed certain privileged slaves...”