"Swift, Caroline - The Sufferers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swift Caroline)

The first lash rasped through the already fetid air of the cellar, extending its length across the space separating the man from his victim. The leather ripped across both buttocks with a heavy thud, followed by a sharp hiss as the extremity curled round the slave's haunch to bury itself in the sex rings. Staggering, slamming her belly into the whitewashed wall, Martine's head craned back as the yell tore through the chamber; a pig being slaughtered in the castle farm barely matched the din.
After several more lashes had welted the ponderous lumps of rump steak, the slave crossed her thighs in a futile attempt to protect the splayed sex. But a dozen more had her jerking like a hooked bream. The screams only drove the wench's flogger to whip harder until he felt she was ready. Unbuttoning the lappet of his breeches and gesturing to Simone to reverse the body, the Marquis brought out his huge erection. Breathing heavily, he gazed at the vast breasts rasped scarlet by the stonework and then hauled the thighs up round his hips. The cock yawed a moment before the distended cleft and then drove in with a single thrust, the man still grasping his whip haft. The girl let out a deafening screech as her hymen was ruptured by the monstrous penis... Joanne watched grieving for the poor virgin and yet somehow envying her. Any energy Martine had left in her sobbing, thrashed carcass abandoned her as the Master of Lassignac fucked her. By the time he was ready to empty into her, the head of dark hair had fallen back to thump against the wall. She had passed out.
A moment later, the body was released to slump against the rough wall, the inner fat of the thighs drenched red from the deflowering. Francis-Etienne wiped his cock on the slave's hip. "Well, that's one virgin the less, Elodie dear, for you to play with," he said.
"Indeed," she agreed, again her normal self. "At least you cheated our Dominican out of that! Now, Simone, get them both back to the cellar and medicate them. I don't want any infection blossoming."
As there was still time before the solemn gong would sound for dinner, the Marquise inveigled her Francis to her soft bed upstairs, along with Anthea. Together, the two women writhed like serpents, feeding the man's cock into each other's body in turn, frigging the clitoris as the shaft sank in, emerged and plunged in again. Both were experts at that. After recovering from her orgasm, Elodie managed to put a question.
"But why, beloved, did you use that frigid one? I mean, there was the blonde beauty dazzling us all with her new rings and superb body. Why didn't you take her?"
"Later, Elodie later." He paused, drawing on his silken blouse. "I happened to learn in the stables from a groom that you've decided to consign her - what's her name, yes, Joanne, and what a body indeed - to Anselme for an attempt at conversion in the chapel. I thought that would be ample for her, directly after ringing." Elodie was amazed at how news got around among the servants. "In any event as you saw, the other bitch - the fat whore - seems to lack sexual vigour and needs rigorous whipping if she's to satisfy you."
"Yes, of course." Elodie agreed. "By the way, Francis, I've agreed to lend Anthea to help Anselme with the conversion." Both nobles smiled at the gorgeous minx as she too arranged her dress and peruke. "I'm sure you would have no objection, Francis. Now, let's go down for dinner. I could eat a whole capon after that. You're really a great lover!"
On the way down, the Marquis reverted to the question of Joanne. "I suppose the blonde slave has to be made over to the Dominican." There was reluctance in the voice.
"I'm afraid so precious. We can hardly decline. After all, she is a parpaillote. But as the questioning is to take place in the chapel, it ought to be mild enough. And Anthea will be there to see that the man behaves himself. In any event, whether the shapely wench recants or not, I'm going to keep her here for good. She has begun to satisfy me."
"Very well. But the other one isn't worth much, Elodie, as you gathered from her behaviour just now under the whip. Anselme's going to have a stiff task with her, no?"
The Marquise nodded. "It seems so, alas. We'll just have to see. Meanwhile she can be kept in the cellar. But at least you deflowered the slut and that's a step forward. When her turn comes, our dour Dominican will need to use all his persuasive ingenuity."
Her husband took the beautiful arm as they entered the dining hall, receiving the obsequious bows of the half-naked maids. "Do you honestly believe they will abjure, Elodie?" he inquired. He had his doubts. Moreover, the new blonde attracted him.
"That's not our affair, Francis. We need good whipping flesh, such as we have already down in the cellar. Frankly, that's all that concerns me. To hell with that tonsured Anselme and his hopes of Vatican promotion." Her antipathy ran deep. In her mind's eye she still saw the worthless Martine being flayed, the gross legs capering as if treading the grapes of wrath in the wine cellar. The slag, parpaillote or not, required educating.
The meal, as usual, proved delicious and welcome. Elodie felt exhausted, the unavoidable presence of Dom Anselme at the table annoying her, as he tried to ferret out what had been taking place in the chamber below. The carpe р la juive, jugged hare and rognons de veau flambщs, lifted her spirits. And, to her delight, Francis-Etienne had Therшse brought up afterwards from the cellar to the great bedroom for her to thrash.
The following day, Dom Anselme took great care to ensure the chapel presented as sacrosanct an atmosphere for enforced conversion as possible. Thick candles, like white, supplicating arms, had been lit and the nave was thick with holy, aromatic incense. He had placed the prie-dieu centrally in the nave before the wrought iron rood screen, hemp cords ready, if necessary to help the parpaillote bitch towards her abjuration; the short, thick flogging whip lay upon the chair before the prie-dieu. The sight of that instrument, Anselme believed, could persuade any heretic to abjure; but should defiance ensue, a mere dozen lashes of the six-knotted thongs were enough to make a heifer bellow and confess.
It had been agreed with the somewhat awkward Marquise that the young Anthea should attend: in the event of obstinacy on the part of the heretic, it had been further conceded that the girl should carry out such flagellation as might prove necessary. Elodie persuaded herself it would give her lesbian odalisque, despite her already vicious talents, valuable practice. But only if absolutely necessary.
Dom Anselme had considered using the vestry for the interrogation and, if called for, the ensuing beating, but the room was exiguous and hardly lent itself to serious questioning and less still to efficient bondage and the swing of a whip. Hence, the nave was preferred, in which case the holy friar had reluctantly declined to perform a flogging in full view of the high altar. Again Elodie had consented, although the endeavour to convert a stark naked female with flagellation in the chapel hardly pleased her; after all, there was a magnificently equipped cellar as well as other precincts below ready for use, where massive stone walls stifled screams. But the Dominican had insisted on the nave.
Furthermore, he required that the interrogation be carried out in bondage, using the flesh rings which, if the subject proved recalcitrant, could serve to hold the body for persuasive beating. The arms and legs, he explained, would be roped to the platform of the prie-dieu, cords cinching the waist, others passed through the nipple and outer labial rings to secure the infidel outstretched while the examination proceeded. Elodie felt obliged to consent; in fact, she felt the bondage would provide the girl with a taste of what awaited her at a later date. She had already acquiesced to the slim blonde being examined first, the other, less attractive and more obstreperous sinner being meanwhile chained with the other seven inmates in the cellar, awaiting her call. There at least the stout whore would have the opportunity of learning from the group of more mature slaves; although by no means protestants, the cohort below knew what discipline implied and, should the novice persist in her wrong-headedness, what a lusty six-thong or a session of teat torture could do to a naked slave. Whether this uncouth newcomer could be brought to a series of hysterical orgasms, leave alone recant, Elodie doubted, even if the iron tongs were used directly on the inexperienced clitoris.
For his part, the chaplain contended that neither girl could long resist his methods of proselytism and subsequent conversion. If they did hold out against him, he had other means by which a heretic could be brought to see reason.

Accordingly, on the day following the painful ringing session in the holding cellar, Joanne found herself in a windowless cell where she was flushed out, anally greased, oiled and her areoles, teats and clit brought to full erection by the quiet, sour-faced Simone. Curiously, the preparation gave her a thrill she had not experienced before. Even more unexpected was the need spreading through her loins to be used as Martine had been; her body began to yearn for sex, even at the cost of a flogging. She was ready for both.
"What am I due for now, pray, Madame?" she inquired nervously, as the expansion plug was being extracted from her anus. She risked the query since both slaves had been informed they were free to speak to servants but never to their owners and their guests without express permission - and even there, she was told, speech was restricted to a plea to be thrashed and abused and to an expression of thanks once the session was over.
"Conversion, whore," came the reply. "In the chapel before our most saintly man."
"But I have no intention of being converted..."
"We'll see, filthy infidel. Aren't thou aware of our sublime and mighty Sovereign's dictates?" she pressed on the girl's back. "Lean further over and grasp them ankles so I can grease thy whorish arsehole..." Simone employed what French she had. Having learnt the terms by heart, she used them with assurance; they gave her stature.
In chains, the wrists crossed and linked to the nape, Joanna was led up by the expressionless Coursel to the musty chapel where she was expected to admit to her religious offence and beg to be allowed to embrace the true faith. Her first embracement, however, was that of the prie-dieu under the sullen eyes of Dom Anselme and stink of incense. He sat apart, flanked by the young woman that Joanne had seen in the cellar during Martine's recent beating. If the priest was in his customary white habit, the girl was very different; resplendent in black leather boots reaching to her lissom thighs, flared gauntlets, and a web of straps imprisoning her flat belly and hoisting aloft a pair of incredibly handsome, hard-nippled breasts. The pubic growth was narrow, crowning the neat slot of the pouting vulva. From her sloping belt hung a horrendous bunch of flogging leathers, each of the six strands, Joanne saw with a jolt of excitement, arrayed with knots. Anthea represented cruelty incarnate and seemed to know it. The novice stared at the slim figure and realised how deeply she feared and hated the spoilt bitch. Instinctively, she guessed that conversion was not the sole aim of the chapel session. If she was about to be put before the option of denying her faith - which she would repulse with all her strength - the whip told her what her refusal would entail. If she was to be flagellated, strangely she would prefer to suffer under the hand of a male. And, if possible, by a male in erection, as when the Marquis had whipped the pathetic Martine; a stiff cock implied erotic lust but also a compliment to her famished body. Joanne desired the whip as much as the orgasms that she knew would follow - but not bestowed by a ruthless, lascivious bitch...
Yet it was the complacent, half-naked beauty who gave orders to the valet.
"Rope the apostate belly down over the prie-dieu, Coursel. Breasts hanging free, arms and legs outstretched." The voice seemed to spiral up out of Hell. "Cord the teat and labial rings to the uprights and wrench the head back for her questioning."
Smelling of onions and garlic the valet seemed to know what was wanted, for he went to work unhesitatingly. Slamming Joanne down across the prie-dieu, his hands gripped the dangling breasts to tug the slack flesh downwards. Then like bells, the mammaries were left to swing listlessly, awaiting the tethering. Threading a length of cattle rope through each teat ring, he elongated the udders to their maximum reach, securing the cord to the base of the sculpted uprights. He then did likewise with the labia rings. Joanne whimpered as her ringed folds of vulva flesh, still tender from the piercing, were drawn down and outwards and tied to grommets in the platform. Immediately she realised that a sudden jerk of her body could rip the rings out of the flesh. As ordered, the servile brute then yanked back the head by the hair, passed a further cord over the forehead and fastened it to the neck strap. As a final refinement, the legs were splayed for the ankle straps to be tethered to nearby pillars aligning the aisle; the slave thought her hip joints would dislocate. The chill in the bleak edifice froze her sex and buttock meat. If the whip was to come, her entire cleft was bared and available.
"Now, let us commence." The Dominican's rasping voice reached her as if from another world. "You are a sinner, that you know. And a traitor to our Gracious King and to the Church, you devil-infested whore of a parpaillote, persisting in vile heresy. Recant and all will be well. Resist and you will be chastised to submission. Choose. Do you abjure?"
At first Joanne's throat denied her a voice. Then she managed a hoarse cry: "No. Never! Do what you want with my body. My faith is steadfast. My soul is..."
"Flog the bitch!" was all she heard. The knotted whip hissed and fell. Her whole body burst in an explosion of white pain, the buttocks clenching under the knots. Lash after lash from the half-naked Anthea lacerated the curved rump. She felt the welts swelling but steadfastly dared not risk her sexual extremities by intensifying the murderous drag on them. Each lash cut her breath until the tenth stroke fell and she screamed as never before in her life. The bitch sliced harder into the shuddering rump, ensuring the knotted thongs curled into the open crotch. The cords securing the ringed flesh seemed to tighten frighteningly, inexorably.
Fifteen, twenty and then more slashes catapulted shock waves into her brain, her howls shrilling down the nave. Dom Anselme, cock in hand, watched through slitted eyes. Though inexperienced, the infidel's naked body was responding well.
Again came the grindstone of a voice. "Do you repent? Do you abjure, whore?" The interrogation developed into a frightening torrent of abuse. "Foul she-devil incarnate! Anathema on you! Abjure, vile sow! Does not your strumpet's brain tell you that you are stark naked, spread for blooding? I shall have you flayed raw until you howl out your plea of repentance. Abjure and you will be spared and comforted. Speak!"
"Never!" Through veils of agony Joanne heard her own frantic voice yelling out again the only word she had the force to dredge up out of her lungs.
The Dominican's eyes narrowed further as he nodded to Anthea. The girl moved to the victim's reared head, noticing with pleasure the tears and sweat pouring down the cheeks, the artery in the distended neck pulsing behind the studded collar. With all her might Anthea brought the leathers down along the length of the spine. The blow made the loose circles of slave metal in the cunt jounce as the body heaved, sending fresh wails up into the chapel's clerestory. Somewhere in the crescendo of pain, Joanne sensed she was about to faint. Behind slavering lips, she gritted her teeth.
"It's your last chance, infidel. Do you abjure?" the Dominican yelled. In reply the nude body slumped, inert, no longer conscious of the continued thuddings over her flesh.
"Sc be it," the voice announced resignedly. "Give her ten more, Anthea. In the position we have her, forty lashes will suffice. I shall now give her unction that is neither holy nor extreme and you shall reap your reward. Ram your pretty cunt into her maw."
As the thrashing came to an end the victim found herself reviving, only to feel several things: just able to sense what was happening, she knew the prelate was close to her rear, the coarse habit grazing her thighs as he freed his cock. She even felt the thread of liquid trailing over her scorched buttocks and then the head being lowered as the man mounted the prie-dieu. At the same moment, her tear-dazzled eyes saw Anthea's golden triangle nearing her mouth. But more mortifying was the state of her own vagina - swollen and flooded, bloated from the whipping, the clit unsheathed and pulsing. Instinctively she knew the whipping had aroused her to that summit of readiness only penetration and clogging semen could satisfy. Her body was trembling, ready for orgasm.
No sooner aware of her condition, for which she feared she would probably be further punished, Joanne suddenly tensed. The man's shaft was not seeking her vulva; the huge piston was butting at the puckered anus. With a savage jab, the rod was driven home, the slave uttering a sharp cry as the sphincter stretched and yielded. For once she was grateful for the enlarging the plug had brought about. The erection was like the pestle she used at home for crushing olives and just as firm. As the shaft bored in up to its root, for the first time in her uneventful sexual existence, Joanne realised she was at last being sodomised, a pleasure her Jean-Jacques had denied her. As her mouth, like her anus, opened with amazement, she found her face smothered against Anthea's crotch.
"Tongue me, bitch!" the whip mistress hissed, but all Joanne could do was to grit her teeth again to counter the gouging of her rear. Furious at not being instantly obeyed, the woman reversed her grasp on the scourge and, sideways with the haft, struck the nearer of the extended breasts. The blow made the slave gasp as the nipple stretched, the anal thrusts jerking her forward. Quickly, she licked into the steaming slot, perfunctorily at first and then, driven by further slams across the taut udder, vigorously, lapping up the flood of liquid oozing over the labia and then flicking and sucking the stub of gristle as best she could. Surprised at its dimension, modest compared with her own, she curled her inexperienced tongue round the thing, drawing it out now and then with her teeth when Anthea yelled at her to bite. The odour and slime of the young sex, despite her hatred of its owner, excited Joanne, somehow heightening the new sensation in her anus as the sphincter muscle rippled in and out along the Dominican's penis. Even her whipped sex thrilled as the heavy ball sac slapped against it.
A dozen thrusts into the behind sufficed to bring out of the priest the vilest oaths Joanne had yet heard. A moment later she heard herself being ordered to recite twenty Ave Maria's which, quite apart from being smothered by Anthea's grinding cunt, she had no earthly intention of doing. The refusal brought further retaliation as Anselme urged his partner: "Lash the heretic's udders, Anthea, both of them!" and the young girl used the whip haft again below the roped body. Joanne prayed chaotically and somehow managed to remain whole.
Suddenly the man withdrew, only to lower his cock and plunge in between the vulva fronds, stretched to a prodigious length by the rope. With a groan of relief, the slave, at long last, felt the rod slither sumptuously into her to hammer the cervix; again she almost fainted but with lust this time, as the shaft became aggressive. Joanne let out a muffled cry of despair when the prelate pulled out to ram again into the anus, his preferred site for depositing his sacred seed. Joanne's groans, stifled in the golden fleece flattened on her face, diminished as excitement obliterated the aching residues of the flogging. The cock's return to impale her backside left the clit jerking with need, the impending orgasm fluttering like a kestrel hovering above her, about to swoop out of the skies of the Cevennes into her entrails. But the Dominican continued to ream the butt in silence, admiring the way his partner was wrenching clumps of the slave's hair to keep her head working, threatening her with further lashes if she did not tongue harder than she was pretending to do. Joanne licked and suctioned desperately, not anxious for a renewed onslaught of leather. What, she anguished, was to prevent them turning her over and thrashing her breasts and pubis? What stopped them twisting her nipples until they bled? Nothing. They had her stark naked, at their mercy.
Abruptly, Anselme's fingers groped below the whipped thighs to seize the stiff clit. "Cap de Diou, as I thought," he grunted, "whipping excites our wanton slut!"
Joanne knew he was right. The two of them had brought a sex-starved victim to a point of no return. She was teetering on the verge of crisis. She was about to come. As the man's fingers mauled her clitoris, the gladiators' Morituri te salutant her old pastor had mentioned in a sermon echoed in her. She was about to die. Not by the sword. By orgasm. She felt panic rising in her. Had she the right to spend? And if so, what would they do to her? Torture her? Make her run, jangling, behind a horse as on that ghastly night of capture, but in a circle with the major-domo, valets, servants lashing her?
Cursing her two persecutors and her own lust, she strove to delay the explosion. The exertion proved fatal. The hawk swooped with distended talons on to her and bore her screaming into the cloudy heights. Her yells intermingled with groans: "Yes, yes... whip me... I'm coming! Now...Yes... Oh, yes! Now!" Careering into wild orgasm, the nude body wrenched recklessly on the corded nipple rings. The orgasm tore so suddenly, so utterly through her that the howls of ecstasy and release transpierced the drab walls of the chapel, invading the passages, bedrooms, cellars, stairwells, vaultings... Then Anthea followed suit, spewing her discharge over the slave's face. The females' cries drove the man to lengthen his rectal plunges and, just as abruptly, the thick sperm pumped into the heretic's bowels, Joanne continuing to spasm. Slowly he freed his penis from the grip of the anus and lowered his cassock.
"Comes like a veritable prostitute, Anthea. Yes, as I thought, a sister of sin. As she seems to relish the whip, we must apply other, more appropriate instruments to instigate conversion. But for now, we shall leave her to wallow in the slough of her despicable heresy. I have done my best with the slag. At least for the moment."
"You certainly have, Brother Anselme!" his partner remarked breathlessly. "She came with a vengeance. Where did your fine piston deposit its offering? Front or Back?"
"Always in the dark realms of the bowels, sweet daughter. As a man of principle, I do not wish to trouble this noble castle with my offspring. Now, dear Anthea, kindly call the valet and have the filthy strumpet bound to the rood screen to consider her plight."