Voyage of Terror

by J. D. Jensen

  “From what we hear about you, lady, you’re no fuck’n stranger to taking your knickers off in men’s presence anyway. I reckon you must’ve shown your bare arse and tits to more men than I’ve had hot garlic escargots!”

  Marie-Chantal’s eyes flicked almost lazily to the ferret-faced officer, holding him in what could have been a teasing gaze from beneath her eyelashes, seemingly unabashed by the crudeness of the remark. Then, without taking her eyes from Duval’s face and scarcely hesitating for a moment she hitched up her smock with an exaggerated little flurry of movement before slipping the coarse garment over her head and letting it fall to the floor. Now she stood there naked and brazen in her poise, still fixing Duval with an almost provocative twinkle in her eye, her head cocked cheekily to one side.

  “Sir, what you say may be true – but my conquests were … after all … always gentlemen of quality.” Her eyes shone defiantly now.

  Then, her lips curling insolently at the corner, she quickly swivelled on her feet towards the platform before even having time to see Duval’s dumbfounded expression turn to thunder, his face flushing angrily. Labastide could hardly contain his smile. This charismatic young woman truly had spirit, he reflected wryly. Her flogging promised to be yet more entertaining than anything he had ever witnessed before.

  Mimmie Latour stood there patiently, secretly enjoying the girl’s insolent haughtiness. How she wished she might have had a pretty girl like her – and one with such pluck - as her companion during her four long years in the penal colony’s sewing-workshops.

  While these verbal exchanges between the Contesse and the officers had been going on Mimmie had meanwhile selected a thick leather belt from the wall-rack. Her hips rolling with exaggeration, she strode back to stand beside her charge, holding the belt conspicuously in her hand and letting it swing back and forth so that the girl’s eyes were immediately drawn to it.

  “Before mounting the Table of Correction - as we call it - I must first put this on you. We don’t want you falling off and injuring yourself, my dear!”

  For a second or so Marie-Chantal studied the black leather implement as if fascinated by its construction. It could almost have been lovingly stitched together by a skilled craftsman. The width was almost the span of her four fingers. The middle part of its length consisted of two separated strands of leather fixed to one another by several large studs at the two points where the belt became a single strand again. Between these separated strands three heavy brass half-circle rings had been inserted so that they ran freely, their freedom only impeded by the studs. At one end of the belt were two sturdy buckles - as if perhaps one alone were insufficient for the purpose. The other end was divided into two separate forked-tails, each containing a line of punched holes.

  Marie-Chantal nodded slowly as though comprehension had dawned but gradually upon her.

  “I see,” she said simply, although not entirely seeing the precise intricacy of the manner of her coming shackling. She let her eyes alight again on the so-called Table of Correction, which seemed as if to eagerly await her.

  Mimmie stepped over to stand close beside her before passing the belt around her waist, all the while marvelling at the trim neatness of it. Adjusting the belt carefully she gave it a hefty tug, making Marie-Chantal utter a tiny gasp of surprise. Then Mimmie roughly fastened the two buckles as tightly as she could - just over her belly-button. For a second the naked prisoner was pitched jerkily forward towards her. The girl’s pert nipple-buds almost brushed against Mimmie’s face, the delightfully curved mounds glistening under the ceiling light. Finally the wardress leaned down and slid the brass rings around the belt, positioning them carefully so that one was above each of the girl’s flanks whilst the third ring was positioned just above the base of her spine and some three inches from the dipping crease of her globes.

  “We’re ready to proceed, Sir.” Mimmie gave a final tug at the belt, her eyes momentarily sweeping over the girl’s magnificent torso. Now for the first time Mimmie’s nostrils detected that unmistakable scent of fear radiating from beneath the girl’s armpits.

  “Very well, Madame Latour,” Labastide croaked, his lustful anticipation nearing its sating. “I will formally pronounce sentence.”

  Stepping briskly in front of Marie-Chantal he cleared his throat nervously. His vision was at once entirely occupied by the magnificence of her breasts and he felt his hand tremble ever so slightly, wanting to reach out and touch the velvety roundels below her nipple-buds.

  “In the name of the … er … Republic of France and according to …”

  “… What about the other two little bitches she was conspiring with?” Duval suddenly interrupted peevishly. “They need their fat little butts lashed, too!”

  Labastide seemed to ponder this remark for a few seconds, all the same glancing disapprovingly at Duval. Labastide was impatient for the flogging of this marvellous creature to get under way. He wanted no other diversions – not at least for the moment, now that his lust was forcing a growing hardness at his crotch.

  Turning to Mimmie he gruffly ordered, “All right. Get the two other culprits up here, Madame. What are their names?”

  “Fleur Dupont and Solange Gillard, Sir. They’re both only twenty, I believe, Sir, but they were warned about conspiring with mutineers.”

  Labastide grunted, nodding reflectively.

  “Well, Mister Duval, I think we shall be lenient with them on this first occasion. After all it was the Contesse who was mutinous by her own admission. I shall give the Dupont and Gillard girls the benefit of any doubt. But I think some token punishment is called for, I agree.”

  He turned again to Mimmie. “They can witness the Contesse’s flogging - as an example to them both. Each of them can spend the night ‘in tackle and braces’. All right?”

  Duval brightened. “Seems a fitting-enough punishment, Captain. The bitches can get a taste of what’ll come to them for stepping out of line.”

  Labastide nodded curtly, gesturing at Mimmie. “Perhaps you’ll see the Contesse safely into her position first - before you fetch the other two young women.”

  “Yes Sir!” Mimmie turned to Marie-Chantal. “You, my dear! Get yourself onto the Table and look sharp for the captain.”

  Marie-Chantal gave a little sigh before stretching herself almost languidly. Her chest swelled out proudly, her upturned breasts seeming to thrust themselves out to the ceiling. As if composing herself for the ordeal, she closed her eyes for a few seconds and then as gracefully as an exotic bird she took a step towards the waiting frame.

  Mimmie held her arm to steady her as she climbed onto the platform with as much dignity as she could muster. The sinews and lean muscle of her long legs made delightful little pulsing waves beneath her lightly-tanned skin as she positioned herself awkwardly. Labastide’s jaw dropped, his eyes fixing helplessly onto the widening cleft of her rump. He marvelled at the broad expanse of her hips and the way her cheeks tautened as she knelt.

  “Move your knees out and further forward - onto the leather knee-pads! Yes, like so. Spread your feet apart to the sides and rest them on the pads. Soles upwards. Good. Now settle yourself back on your haunches and bend right down.” Mimmie spoke in an almost gently encouraging tone. “Bend lower. That’s a good girl. Now don’t move whilst I strap you.”

  Starting with the ankle-straps the wardress quickly passed them over the girl’s heels and pulled the straps tight, first one side then the other. Now she fastened the other straps over the sleek calves of her legs so that the Contesse’s knees and feet were effectively pinioned on either side of the frame. As an additional fastening on each side there was a small length of rounded black-rubber strip – less than the width of her little finger – and this was passed around the back of the prisoner’s knee and looped onto a hook on the side of the frame. Next was the torque and chain, which had mysteriously appeared i
n Mimmie’s hand.

  This pliant twisted-metal loop was the thickness of a man’s thumb. It contained three eyelets set into either end and a chain that was no more than two feet long. She placed the torque over Marie-Chantal’s swan-like neck, bending it over so that it formed a tight oval embrace around her. Now that both ends were positioned beneath the girl’s chin Mimmie clenched them together, holding them in her fist whilst she inserted the clasp of the chain into the middle eyelets at each end. Finally she clicked the hasp shut, letting the hanging chain drop to where the ring at the far end of the frame awaited beneath.

  “I’m going to lower your head, Marie-Chantal. Don’t fight it, please. Good girl!”

  With that Mimmie pulled the chain downwards, forcing Marie-Chantal to bend lower until her nose was scarcely inches from the bars. Threading the chain through the ring on the bar she drew the links taut and secured them with another hasp.

  “There! That shouldn’t be too uncomfortable – not yet awhile!” Her tone was still almost amiable and polite. “Now please put your hands forward and reach down. A bit further forward. Thank you. Now I shall fasten your wrists. Otherwise there is a tendency for occupants to let their hands fly back to shield their rumps – which is not desirable.”

  “As you see, Madame, I am entirely at your disposition.” Marie-Chantal said quietly from the front of the frame. Her breathing was quicker now, her lungs heaving as she knelt there in her bent-up posture.

  Duval smirked wickedly. Beside him, Labastide was motionless, his face the essence of concentration, his eyes focussed as ever on the deep valley of her bottom.

  Mimmie stepped to the front of the Table of Correction and fastened both wrist-straps, which were bolted about halfway down on either side of the front legs of the frame. Marie-Chantal ‘s slender arms were now stretched forward, only leaving her elbows slightly bent, her elegant fingers making little squirming motions in the tight embrace of the wrist-straps.

  There was a heavy silence now in the fo’c’sle. Only the distant hum of machinery and the sound of the sea swishing against the bowhead could be heard. The Table of Correction took on a gentle ringing vibration so that occasionally the clasps and rings sang out in a strange metallic melody. Whenever Marie-Chantal moved at all there was a sudden accompanying little jingle of protest.

  However, the preparation procedure was not yet quite complete. Mimmie had selected three short lengths of chain from the wall-rack and was now fastening one of them to the brass belt-ring on Marie-Chantal’s left flank. That done she attached the other end of the chain to one of the rings on the side-beam of the frame. Pulling the links taut, she clipped the end into place. Going round to the other side, she repeated the procedure so that now the waist-belt was firmly secured to both side-beams of the Table, pulling the girl’s hips further down against it and forcing her to bend her knees double beneath the under-hang of her belly.

  “Nearly done now, my dear. There’s just this …”

  The third chain was of lighter weight than the other two. Mimmie stood with it over the girl’s thrusting bottom before fastening the end link to the remaining free belt-ring, which was still positioned just above the very base of her spine. Slowly she let the slender chain drop into the opened crevice of the girl’s outstretched cheeks so that now the links hung down dead-centre in the rift – making a little jingling sound as the loose tail-end links draped themselves over the bars beneath. Stooping low, Mimmie busied herself now in the restricted space between the girl’s under-belly and the grid-bars of the platform. Reaching under to retrieve the end of the chain – which hung vertically down from a point just below the perineum ridge that divided her two orifices – Mimmie’s hand accidentally brushed against the girl’s breasts, sending a tiny illicit pulse of shock through her arm. Fumbling for the end of the chain she grasped it finally and attached it to the ring bolted into the central bar of the platform, just below the girl’s midriff. Now with a little jerk Mimmie pulled the chain forward and taut, noting gleefully how the sudden tension made the links bite into the deep well of the girl’s crevice, pressing tight up against her perineum ridge.

  “Good! That’ll keep you securely chained to the Table, my dear. No chance of you falling now,” she whispered in Marie-Chantal’s ear.

  “None at all I should think, Madame! I’ve been trussed like a veritable turkey. It’s even hard to breathe,” the Contesse replied almost conversationally. She had not turned her head even a fraction in the torque, her voice coming almost distantly from the front of the frame.

  “Hmmph!” Mimmie acknowledged, grunting in disbelief at such casual insouciance. From her tone the girl might have been engaged in some polite social discourse at a bishop’s dinner party. Even in her naked humility and thrusting display of her opened rear she was still able to maintain some degree of finesse and decorum. It was amazing. Mimmie needed to shake off her growing admiration for this extraordinary creature and focus her mind on her task – albeit a dutiful one from which she took habitual satisfaction. Attending to the subjugation and somewhat perverse judicial bondage procedures of mainly young women - and then having to whip their outspread naked backsides - was certainly a preferable occupation to that of stitching shrouds for dead emaciated convicts.

  Mimmie straightened herself and cast her eyes in a brisk professional manner around the frame, peering at the fastenings and looking out for any looseness in her strapping work. Here and there she gave a little tug at the fixtures, once making the girl give a little quiver of discomfort. Satisfied, Mimmie turned to the captain.

  “She’s ready, Sir.”

  “Very well, Madame. Please get the other two girls now. I will finish the formalities whilst you’re gone.”

  Mimmie nodded curtly, glancing at Duval before stomping hurriedly out of the fo’c’sle door and letting it clang shut again behind her.

  Labastide cleared his throat again before continuing with the unfinished pronouncement of sentence. Standing now to one side of the frame he was able to look down at the scarps of the Contesse’s cheeks from a different angle – rather more from above than from behind her.

  “Where was I? Ah yes, Contesse. In the name of the Republic of France and according to Article Thirty-Seven of the Penal Code, I sentence you, Marie-Chantal de Louvois, to … er … twenty-five lashes of the martinée for seditious talk.” Here he paused, glancing at Duval who seemed almost as if he were going to interrupt. But Labastide went on quickly and in a milder tone.

  “Sedition carries a less severe sentence than mutiny, my dear Contesse. If I were not such a lenient person I would have found you guilty of that – and the minimum sentence is fifty lashes! After such a sentence your backside would not have been … er … a pretty sight, Contesse. And if you permit me to say so – it IS a most pretty sight in its present condition and I think twenty-five lashes will not greatly alter such rare beauty - at least not permanently.”

  “That’s … er … most generous of you, Captain. How can I ever repay you, Sir?” she replied as sweetly as she could without a trace of irony. Turning her head as much as the neck-torque allowed she smiled almost seductively at him from beneath her long eyelashes.

  “The bitch is arrogant and insolent, Captain,” Duval spluttered with indignation. “She deserves a good fifty - and with the African bull-whip rather than that that flimsy and overly-lenient martinée. That’d teach her! She’s only a fuckin’ convict now – not playing her ladyship in her high-n’mighty boudoir, about to flash her cunt at some frigg’n Minister of State!”

  “That’ll do, Duval. Thank you. I’ve made my decision. If you don’t wish to witness sentence being carried out, then …”

  “No, no, Sir! Of course, I respect your orders.” The chief-officer interjected hastily, gulping down his silent disappointment, his face red and sulky.

  Labastide nodded knowingly. His eyes were twinkling little black
beads. Almost at once the door groaned open. Mimmie Latour had returned, closely followed by two clearly frightened young girls, each dressed in the familiar grey-serge smock.

  They glanced fearfully around them before their eyes finally alighted on the strapped and chained figure of their aristocratic and now-prostrate comrade. For several moments they gazed in a kind of stupefied awe, their eyes growing wider at every second, taking in the details of the perverse frame and the various straps and chains and the humbling, bent-over manner of the evil contraption’s silent naked occupant.

  “Yes, my dears! You see what awaits any convict who disobeys the rules. We call it the Table of Correction and your classy lady-friend here is going to be whipped for violating the code of obedience!” Mimmie watched the petrified faces of the girls with a kind of passive smugness, adding finally in a quieter almost conspiratorial tone, “And what’s more you two are most honoured. You’re going to view the proceedings as a lesson to you both.”

  “Er, y-y-yes, Miss. But all we did was to … to …” The small blonde girl called Fleur started to plead.

  “Shut your mouth, girl! You’re lucky this time not to be whipped as well! Let this be a lesson. The captain’s been very lenient.” Mimmie glared at the girl, who lowered her face, at once regretting her outburst.

  “Yes, Miss.” She murmured miserably.

  The other girl, Solange, kept silent, looking at the ground now, not wanting to draw attention to herself and perhaps thinking that she would soon awake from this nightmare. She was tall and very slim with long auburn hair. There was a noticeable tremor to her hands and her eyes seemed near to tears.

  “What crimes did you two young women commit and how many years transportation are you sentenced to?” Labastide asked quietly, not in an unkindly way.

  Fleur volunteered immediately, “I’ve got three years hard labour, Sir, and three years paroled-banishment in the Colony. I worked as a dressmaker and my employer accused me – falsely, Sir! – of stealing dresses and selling them, Sir. But I never … I swear …”