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

Yet, the Marquise dallied, relishing a further precious moment of peace. There was still time and before stirring herself, Elodie treated herself to one more recollection that had given her pleasure.
Although Francis-Etienne's proposals towards improving procedures were few, one had certainly invigorated life in the second courtyard. Just after New Year, he had instituted the 'punitive whippings'; these were carried out early on the Monday following a ceremonial weekend, when delinquent slaves - and sometimes servants and the castle's serfs - were led out, following condemnation, to be publicly flagellated naked. Sexual lethargy, disobedience, attempts to suborn servants, failure to report menstruation in time were among the crimes expiated at the so-called 'whipping gibbet'. The post stood on a broad timber platform in the centre of the desolate walled yard; it consisted of an iron brace projecting from its summit to which the culprit's arms were extended and chained, the ankles being wrenched back and bound behind the stake from which a thick rod bolted, midway on the upright, thrust deep into the anus, arching the body outwards, the pendant breasts dangling free. Elodie found the posture pleased her more discerning guests who made a point of staying over to watch the ordeals. In addition, the gibbet served also to mete out special punishment for slaves who had failed to satisfy a guest fully during a weekend; in such cases it was left to the visitor to decide on the type of scourge and number of lashes the miscreant merited. It was always Bouchard, the castle major-domo and flogger, who carried out the flagellations. Such cases were relatively rare but the fleshy, rump-branded Bette knew the place well; she had an unfortunate way of vexing guests with her brash look and crude behaviour. The guests had the post used regularly despite Elodie's fear that a slave might develop the ague while hanging naked for hours in the raw morning air. Slaves were becoming hard to replace in these days of revolt and military investment of the Cevennes. Moreover, an increasing number of females were seeking refuge abroad.
Thinking of Protestants, Elodie found herself again reminded of the problematic Martine, this psalm-singing parpaillote sluggard, and wondered if she should not spend an hour or two on the gibbet and be given, say, fifty lashes with the bull's pizzle by Bouchard over those hulking dugs. No, preferably the convent. With that constructive thought, the Marquise roused herself from the cobwebs of reverie. But the slut irritated her with her refusal to cooperate, her wailing to high heaven and fighting like one of those wild cats that roamed the Cevennes. As she was, the slag would hardly tempt a guest. If only Francis-Etienne would take more interest in running the place instead of just hunting, fucking and suddenly deciding, of all things, to whip the useless newcomer.
Languidly, Elodie roused herself from her ponderings and went to discuss with her faithful Bouchard how best to transport the slut to the holy Convent of the Annunciation, should the Mother Superior agree to take her in for training. Bouchard would also know what was happening out in the world at large and how the royal answer to this disturbing Protestant revolt in the Cevennes was progressing. That worried her more than Martine.

THREE
Still chained to the iron screen in the darkening chapel, as the nave filled with the entire staff attending vespers, Joanne summoned up what courage remained in her after the beating and sexual attacks on her naked body. Worse than the punishment was to be left exposed to the gaze of the congregation and forced to listen to the service; for the first time since her capture, she felt shame, her welted buttocks in full view as she hung bound on the chancel steps.
The end of vespers seemed never to come. When it did and the faithful had filed out in silence, she felt a gradual change taking place in the cords throttling her breasts and encircling the nipples. A moment later, pain throbbed in her extended labia. Drying under the heat of her burning flesh and that generated by the crowd now leaving the nave, the damp hemp was shrinking. The constriction of the rope was growing in intensity. Striving to keep her panic in check, she stared fixedly at the red glow of the sanctuary oil lamps, as a sharp agony commenced in the strangled extremities. Fright seizing her, she screamed hoarsely, the cries resounding through the empty edifice. "Help me! Please... release me! My flesh's tearing..." Only echoes replied as the contraction built up.
Slowly the grip and tension of the dehydrating hemp became unbearable. The turns round the root of the breasts bit in deeper, causing the bulges to swell even further, surging with thick violet veins, the skin turning dark. Looking nervously through the bars, she saw the nipples had also become purple and twice their normal length. The irrigation was gradually being halted; the terror of necrosis, as Elodie called it, paralysed her.
Her lungs yelled to the flickering lamps, to the altar, to the mute heraldic tombs in the side chapels, begging to be freed, only to sense her labia being drawn ever tauter round their bar. The slave became frantic. She was under a completely new torture.

The voice behind her quivering body was both acerbic and unctuous.
"As you see, procrastinating heretic," the Dominican observed, "this technique of conversion may be unhurried but is also painful. It is but a prelude to more compelling tortures we have in store for your iniquitous flesh. Although to see your rings ripped from your teats would provide me with pleasure, I want you whole, once you have abjured."
The torment mounting with each hateful phrase, the nude became demented until finally the hollow-cheeked face and tonsured skull appeared on the chancel side of the screen. A quill-sharpener slipped in between the cording and skin of the left breast and slit the hemp; then the knife freed the other bloated hunk of flesh, followed by the nipples and outer sex fronds. As the clogged circulation resumed its flow into the mammaries, the shock sent Joanne into a deeper circle of Hell; her cries, like those of a trapped animal, filled the clerestory while she slammed her head against the iron trellis. "You... you damned, unholy, depraved... loathsome... sodomising bastard... of papist offal...!" The howls dumbfounded even Anthea, watching from a bench in the south aisle.
"Control your perfidious tongue whore!" came the response, as the man drew close and dug his nails into a nipple. "Such language offends our household of the faithful."
The pain abating slowly, Joanne saw she was no longer alone with the ghoul. The valet's fetid odour reached her, along with his query, as he slapped the crimson rump.
"Is it yer Holiness's wish to 'ave the whore flogged some more? To the blood?"
"No, my man I am becoming wearied by the trollop's thick-headedness. No, for I believe the time has come to discuss carnal torture with Her Grace, your mistress. Take the fractious thing away from this sacred place. I shall see what measures she merits."
Coursel obeyed, disappointed at being deprived of whore flesh to lash. Apart from the routine morning floggings in the cellar, he had not had a female to beat all day.
He released the exhausted girl and dragged her by the hair out of the chapel.

When allowed to regain her feet. Joanne was led by her cunt chain back to the cellar to join the rest of the slaves. Despite the hours of suffering that had demoralised her, she was overjoyed to rejoin what she supposed were now to be her permanent companions. After a distressing descent, her extended clit still sore from Anthea's knotted whip and the pressure of the iron rods, she collapsed to be chained to her wall ring, surprised by the number of candles shedding an almost welcoming glow over the prison. For once, the light allowed her to discern how the huge cellar was laid out. Beyond the long palisade of bars dividing the space into two unequal parts, she could now study not only the configuration but also its contents; first, there was the area reserved for the row of nude slaves lounging on straw palliasses, each body attached to the rear wall by the usual long length of chain clipped to a ring in the neck strap, allowing some movement.
The greater portion of the windowless cavern beyond the barrier extended into the shadows but Joanne was able to distinguish some of its furnishings. As she peered into the chamber, her flesh crawled with horror, her vaginal muscle contracting with a bizarre clutch of dread and excitement as it always did when, masturbating in bed at home after an unsatisfactory copulation with her devoted but inept Jean-Jacques, her erotic dreams conjured up Turkish janissaries approaching her with whips and devices of sexual torment.
Beneath a profusion of heavy chains hanging from the vaulting, each terminating in an evil-looking iron hook, loomed a ponderous wooden cross in the form of an X, bristling with honed spikes, a roughly stitched, leather-bound phallus rearing from its crux. To the right, just visible, stood a tall structure, resembling the frame of an empty doorway mounted on a platform, the crosspieces at its summit and centre equipped with chains and straps - the infamous breast bench her colleagues had mentioned earlier designed to throttle female udders for whipping and worse. Beyond, she discerned a chassis, bolted upright to the whitewashed wall, and again she froze: the horizontal bars were ladened with an array of whips, riding crops, quirts, sagging hoods of leather and bewildering rows of instruments and tackle. The gloom beyond prevented her from distinguishing the rest of the contraptions; each item, she guessed, constituted a further invention destined to inflict pain through flagellation; she could already visualise her slender body writhing helplessly but, she knew, only too willingly under the scourge. Uncontrollably, her sex began again to liquefy and throb, her nipples stiffening under the weight of the rings. Reclining to nurse her whipped buttocks and breasts, she heard the valet's parting remark.
"Thou'll like enough, slut, be called ter that there grand bedchamber anon, along wiv yer lousy yokemate over yonder," Coursel warned her, motioning down the slave line to Martine's curled up body. Joanne saw the useless youngster was shaking with sobs. "So keep yerself awake and wet, see?" Then the gate clanged. The brute locked it and left.
The chatter had subsided at Joanne's entry and all eyes were on her as she felt for traces of blood on her raw buttocks, ensuring they lay clear of the prickling straw. Trying to smile at her new colleagues, she glanced down the line of naked bodies at Martine. Indeed she had reason to blubber; Joanne recalled vividly the handsome Marquis's attack on the abject creature, the deflowering and the accompanying screams. She would not last long if she continued to resist. In one way, Joanne admired her stubborn resistance but what was the point? She would simply have to conform, suffer and, if possible, try to enjoy both whip and sex. Otherwise... Joanne shuddered to think what would happen to her. Life as a parpaillote prisoner in the hellish Tour de Constance for probably years on end could hardly be more pleasant. After all, at this Lassignac place one did get fucked. Somehow the poor youngster had to learn. Joanne noticed she at least had a dildo plugged into her rear, as she herself had endured. That was a start, along with the loss of her virginity. Although Joanne had enough to contend with on her own account, she tried hard to sympathise with her partner-in-heresy. As to the others, destitute prostitutes and starving serfs, they were nothing more than flogging chattel - sex meat, probably by now devoid of faith, religion and hope, if they had ever had known such luxuries. In any event, the bodies lolling there on their palliasses did not look particularly righteous.
Joanne noticed the male chained next to the snivelling wretch. He was not unattractive and maybe could help Martine over the hill into docile acquiescence. Then a redhead, who was no spring chicken, greeted her:
"Heavenly saints above, they've really made a mess of your lovely behind! And so early in the game!" Following Joanne's eyes, she added: "By the way, they've decided to have your little fatty of a friend - she is your friend, isn't she? - comfortably chained up over there, next to Laurent, instead of next to Therшse or Bette, who'll get her to kiss and suck them all night long. Oh, of course, you don't know us, do you? Well, tell us your names and I'll introduce us lot to you, for what we're worth. I'm called Mariette and I've been here nearly a year now. So I'm used to the routine. There are far worse places, you know."
Joanne nodded and thought of the Tour de Constance. Then she gave the group Martine's name and her own and left it at that.
The attractive Mariette, clearly the senior - she said she was thirty but looked a great deal more - gestured to a slender female playing with her sex rings. Joanne had noticed that, apart from the youth, all seemed to have been pierced and encumbered with the same number of flesh rings as Martine and herself. Strangely the fact reassured her.
"That's Isabelle, a favourite of sorts with the Marquise. She doesn't have to wait for a blue moon to be called up to the great bedroom. She comes back in a hell of a mess but just loves it, don't you, Isa? She can take fifty lashes from a guest and still spill her juice four or five times."
The slinky, boyish body turned to offer the newcomer an enticing, lascivious smile between dimpled cheeks. Somewhere in her secret, erotic depths, Joanne felt a jolt of desire; gazing at the yellowing bruises on the girl's small breasts, her own tits almost portentous in comparison, she found her breath shortening. The slave's vulva just visible among the rings looked neat and succulent. After tasting Anthea's unappetising slot, Joanne looked forward to something more inviting. Furthermore this Isabelle had a sensuous mouth that probably could do justice to a newcomer's crotch, still aching from the whip and the Dominican's intrusion. The salacious and probably rash question on the tip of Joanne's tongue - which she wished was already flicking Isa's clit - was altogether too audacious and certainty premature; time would tell who in the cellar sucked whom.
What Joanne wanted to know was what happened in the 'great bedroom', wherever that Promised Land might lie. But, for the moment and as far as the neck chains allowed, the cellar seemed to offer ample scope for lesbian recreation - and there was even a male cock available - this side of the bars; the terrifying area beyond being another matter.
The chance at long last to talk exhilarated Joanne but she did not wish to interrupt Mariette, who went on down the line. "That's Dalinde." Apparently a girl from Ales who, to eke out a living had descended into whoredom when her man had been impressed into the royal forces, given a pair of boots and a cutlass, and marched off to fight the ludicrous battles of the Spanish Succession. She gave Dalinde a friendly smile. She seemed to be the sort of girl who could teach her things.
"And this tart's called Louise," Mariette went on. "Just loves the whip and a good fuck."
A dark-eyed slut of around twenty-five spread out her long legs to show the marks over her inner thighs, just below the ringed sex. Then came Bette, plump and gay as a chaffinch. "I'm the only one who's been branded for disobedience - at least so far!" she informed the newcomer, with a mischievous look and displayed the sombre, purple mark on her whipped buttock; the letter L had been burned firmly into the cambered flesh. Joanne shuddered, horrified by the depth of the scar staring out at her. No doubt L signified Lassignac. The young bitch seemed proud of what her unruly behaviour had earned her.
"Why that?" Joanne murmured, at which the chestnut-haired slut laughed.
"Oh, just because I tried to escape last Lent. I'd had enough of this bloody place. They caught me on the ramparts and flogged me almost to death. Then I got branded by Brissac, the smith, in front of the whole damn place and the bloody guests. I wouldn't try making a getaway, if I were you, poppet, unless you can change into a starling or squeeze into an empty milk churn. Anyway, I was put on the cross and they branded me like a fuckin' heifer. It's the only time I fainted, lovey. An iron really sizzles into your flesh..."
The remark sank deep into Joanne's brain deeper than a brand, She was learning.
No one introduced the youth at the end of the line. "He'll fuck you whenever you're in need, darling," Mariette muttered. "We tend to steer clear of him and anyway we get enough cock as it is."
The sixth prisoner Therшse, the purported lesbian, got scant attention also. She looked exhausted and had turned away from the group. Nevertheless Mariette did pronounce her name. "Oh, yes, that's Therшse over there," she observed. "She's just had a training sщance with Bouchard - he's the torturer, by the way. I think he shoved the bodkins through her tits. That's one of his specialities and guests go for breast needling in a big way. She's fairly new you see - like you two - and has to learn. She tends to scream now, even if you touch her. Got chained to the spiked grid, as you'll be one of these nights. That fat parasite friend of yours over there should watch her tits."
"And this Bouchard?" Joanne inquired; hoping she was not over-tasking her new helpful colleagues, "is it true what you said? He really tortures us?"
The beautiful novice felt another thrill ripple through her and, despite the slaves around her she began to ooze. To be tortured naked by someone like this grim Bouchard fellow they were mentioning recalled some of the more unusual fantasies she treated herself to when frigging in bed next to her snoring husband. But that was before her capture.
"Oh, Bouchard," the dark-maned Louise answered. "He's rather a peach, with a fine length of hard cock you don't forget! Yes he's the major-domo and in charge of the torture cells. Wait till you're spread and chained over the trestle with him getting the flesh bodkins - they're silver needles - ready for the guests to stick through your really sensitive parts! He's something, believe me! The cells for sex torture, by the way, are down there." She motioned beyond the iron bars towards a carved doorway to the left of the cellar. "Master Bouchard certainly knows the ropes, as they say on the galleys. Someone to be avoided, if you can. But all the same, if a guest wants you down there, you've got to go and then you're under Bouchard's supervision for the night. I suppose," she added encouragingly, "you're used to having needles driven through your tits. If not, you'd better train yourself up. There's a whole heap of bodkins over there in the alcove, if you want us to give you a spot of practice." Mariette gestured to Louise to ease up but the sultry one was in her stride. "When they take you down there and along the long passage, you can hardly walk with your mass of chains, straps and flesh weights. So try to crawl, if they'll let you. They enjoy seeing you act like an animal. Naturally, you're whipped all the way along, to remind you to look as if you've been counting the days waiting for a lesson in needlecraft."
The description raised a titter among the slaves, followed by silence.
The newcomer felt her head swimming. She felt tempted to ask scores of questions about the physical treatment mere novices like herself could expect but confined herself to one. "What's needling like? I've never had anything pushed into my breasts or anywhere else for that matter." Her voice trembled, her hands cupping her swollen breasts.
"Never?" Bette stared incredulously. "Well, you've got a thrill coming. Especially when they shove them straight into the nipple vent of your boobs. Of course, it gets scary when they start on your extended cunt frills. You mean you've never had that?"
Joanne shook her head, feeling very much an amateur. If the prospect both excited and scared her, she shuddered to think how Martine, with her outsized udders, was going to react, were she to be skewered. Fortunately, the youngster was still too busy shedding tears to follow the conversation. "One more thing, if I may," she managed to ask, continuing to use the local dialect rather than her Calvinist French. She made a gesture towards her sniffling colleague. "What happens if, say... one refuses to... cooperate?"
There was an almost embarrassed hush. It was Mariette who came to the rescue. "Well, that's never happened. We've all sort of grown used to life here, if you can call it that, and we try to enjoy it. I mean we're here as slaves to be used, just as you seem to have been. Were you flagellated by Coursel, our cock of the dunghill, or was it Elodie?"
"No, it was Anthea, it that's her name under the Dominican's supervision..."