Voyage of Terror

by J. D. Jensen

  Suddenly shrugging off such improper thoughts Mimmie strode purposefully over to the wall-rack – the one opposite to where the Fleur girl was shackled and which was in full view of the Contesse. Taking the bridle and bit from off the hook she almost casually ambled back to the Table of Correction. Her hands all the while fussed over the intricate arrangement of small straps, separating them out and twisting the bridle and bit it into shape. She did this almost with deliberate slowness, letting the steel rings and fastenings jingle quietly in the silence, knowing that Marie-Chantal was watching her every movement.

  “I want you to open your mouth wide, my dear. As wide as possible, please. I don’t want to damage such pretty little lips!”

  Mimmie was standing directly in front of the frame now, looking down at the Contesse with an amused expression.

  “This soft leather piece goes above your tongue. When it’s comfortably in position please bite down on it and hold it there. It’s to stop you biting your tongue or cheeks. Also to allow you to clamp your teeth onto, so as to … er …take your mind off the pain.”

  The bit consisted of a shiny steel shaft, some five inches or so long. A short crossbar was inserted at either end so that it formed a ‘T’ junction at each end of the bit. The crossbars were bolted in such a way that they would lie at right angles to the corners of the wearer’s lips and be able to move sufficiently freely to adjust to the contours of the lower face and mouth. Welded to the lower end of each crossbar were three small steel loops set at intervals along it, the two lower loops each containing a small ring with a strap stitched into it. These straps joined the two crossbars together and were clearly fashioned so that they would go over the back of the wearer’s head in order to hold the bit in place. Once the shaft of the bit itself had been inserted into the mouth and the straps brought over the head – one just above the ears, the other just below and at the top of the neck - they could then be tightened by the buckles at the top, pulling the bit further into the mouth and so ensuring that it was firmly lodged between the wearer’s drawn-back lips. There was a short length of thin chain bolted into the topmost loop on the left-side crossbar. It was evident that this was to be drawn under the chin and fastened to the other crossbar. The actual shaft of the bit itself was slightly curved, and midway along it there was a soft-leather wad of padding wrapped round it and stitched together, allowing it to be placed between the upper and lower teeth as though to lock the jaw open.

  The whole thing indeed resembled a miniature horse’s bridle. As the apparatus came close-up to Marie-Chantal’s face she was briefly able to study its evil-looking construction, noting in particular how the leather wad was somewhat worn-down, gnarled and compressed with numerous teeth-marks.

  She gave a sort of disgruntled little sigh of resignation, raising her head as much as the torque allowed her to and stretching her neck upwards so that her eyes immediately met with the wardress’s still amused expression just at the moment that she bent over her.

  “Open wide, dear,” Mimmie said quietly in a matter-of-fact tone, as if she might have been a dentist attending to a child.

  Marie-Chantal shrugged her shoulders visibly. Pausing for just a second she lifted her head and obediently opened her mouth wide, displaying two perfect rows of gleaming pearly-white teeth.

  Carefully inserting the bit with her fingers, Mimmie held it there while the girl adapted its unfamiliar shape to her oral confines. The bit-shaft was wider than her mouth so that the ends protruded on either side at the corners of her lips, the lower sections of the crossbars slanting downwards and resting against either side of her chin.

  “Bite down now! Good. Close your mouth tight. Comfortable enough?”

  A kind of muffled murmur of acknowledgement came from Marie-Chantal. At the same moment the two straps were brought over her head and loosely fastened behind. Mimmie stood over her now slightly to one side, busily adjusting the straps until they were tightly positioned - one above and one just below her ears - before she fastened the buckles in such a way that the bottom end of the side-bar lifted slightly. This made the bit twist round in the girl’s mouth, forcing her head to dip a fraction more. Finally Mimmie reached under her jaw and fastened the hook of the chain to the loop on the opposite side until the links were tight up against her chin.

  “The bridle’s in place, Sir. Do you want the halter-chains, as well?”

  “Yeah! Put ‘em on the stuck-up cow and make ‘er bow ‘er head more. It’ll do ‘er good to grovel!” Duval sneered, not waiting for the captain’s answer.

  Labastide refrained from any objection. His eyes were taking in the little quivers that the tautened sinews of the Contesse’s upper legs were making every time she moved so much as a muscle. Anyway the halter-chains would scarcely mar the coming thrill of the proceedings and he nodded absently in agreement.

  Mimmie briskly collected a lightweight pair of chains from the wall-rack, carrying them jingling noisily back to the Table before bending down again in front of Marie-Chantal. Holding one of the chains up to the middle ring of the left hand crossbar of the bit she snapped the clasp into place before doing the same on the other side with the second chain. For a moment she looked down at the girl’s harnessed mouth, noting how each of the two chains was left hanging freely from either side of the bit. It only remained for Mimmie to fasten the bottom ends to the legs of the frame. Without a word she hurriedly clipped them into the rings there so that now the girl’s mouth and face were effectively chained to the frame – rather as a horse’s nose might be tethered to each side of its manger. Now there would be insufficient freedom of movement for her to be able look either left or right.

  Marie-Chantal grunted something without moving her head. Her beautiful dark eyes suddenly darted up to Mimmie’s face, although still not showing any fear. This certainly could not have been said of Solange. In her upside-down posture on the tier below she had been watching the various proceedings with wide staring eyes that swam with nervous anticipation. No doubt she was wondering whether some fresh torment might be heaped on her, desperately hoping that she was not going to be arrayed in any similar paraphernalia of harnessing. Mimmie, however, ignored her completely, only bending down again and whispering close to Marie-Chantal’s ear:

  “Now you’re mine, my proud beauty.” She smiled wickedly, licking her lips so that that both girls could clearly see. Then she turned back to the captain.

  “I’m ready now, Sir. She’s gagged and bridled. Shall I begin with punishment?”

  “Proceed please, Madame.”

  Once more Mimmie walked over to the rack, pausing briefly before removing the martinée from its hook and sauntering back to stand behind the Table of Correction. She was careful to ensure that Marie-Chantal had ample time to observe the black leather whip in all its sinister detail.

  Holding the implement loosely in her hand the wardress made a few experimental little flicking movements with it as if to limber up its dozen or so lightweight thongs. These were scarcely more than a foot long and made of thin strips of finely-stitched leather, smoothly finished, each no wider than a pencil except where they tapered off into wispy little tails at their extremities. The handle itself consisted of a stout leather-bound shank about six inches long, its circumference only slightly greater than a walking stick. At the very top was a looped hanging-strap and Mimmie had slipped this over the wrist of the hand with which she grasped the handle.

  Taking up her position just to the left-side rear of the Table and standing not even an arm’s length away from the wide spread of Marie-Chantal’s thrusting rump Mimmie gave a final look around her. Labastide and Duval were still standing motionless and silent behind her. She could sense their lustful, eager anticipation. The girl, Fleur, was also motionless and ashen-faced in her perversely squatting posture. Her legs were trembling slightly and her eyes riveted on the whip in a sort of fatalistic fascination. Every n
ow and then she winced at some imprudent movement, constantly trying to adjust her balance to the gentle motion of the ship and to keep her head, body and limbs as steady as she could. On one occasion the ship’s bows had pitched violently, almost making her lose her balance and making her utter a little squeak of protest.

  Sizing up her target Mimmie drew the martinée back over her shoulder, flexing her arm muscles. For a second or so she feasted her eyes on the gaping rift of Marie-Chantal’s exquisite bottom, noting the stressed curves of its pale unblemished cheeks and the faint sheen of perspiration that seemed to reach across from the central cleft. Surely now the girl had fear, even if her body remained stubbornly rigid and calm in its shackles. Then without allowing her mind to waiver further from her task Mimmie tensed her body suddenly and in a quick powerful sweep she brought the martinée’s thongs slashing down simultaneously across both crests of Marie-Chantal’s rump. The leather tails seemed almost to slice the air with a brief zipping sound before they cut into the girl’s waiting flesh with a sort of hollow ‘thwaaack’. Then without a pause Mimmie delivered the second and third cut, each time spanning across the same area of skin as the first stroke had lashed.

  “One! Two! Three!” Mimmie chanted aloud almost breathlessly between each zipping thwack.

  Again she delivered another three cuts in quick succession, now aiming just below where the first three strikes had landed. It was only on the seventh strike that there was any discernible reaction from the victim. She jerked forward suddenly against her bonds, making the frame ring with a little jingling rattle. The tendons and muscles of her upper legs seemed to jump beneath her skin in a momentary spasm of agony. Her cheeks contorted inwards, the frantic muscles tensing and forcing an involuntary partial closure of her cleft. But she uttered no sound at all, relaxing herself again before the next onslaught.

  “Seven! Eight!” Now there was a little huff of exertion from Mimmie. “Nine! Ten!”

  Again Marie-Chantal jerked forward, her body shuddering exquisitely in another jingling protest of metal rings and chains. She seemed to arch her spine as though trying to pull her rump away from her tormentor, her whole body trying to rebound away from her. But this only had the effect of tightening her straps as her body bucked against them. The neck-torque and bridle-chains cruelly resisted any movement of her head and the belt around her waist scarcely yielded at all to her contortions. The straps around her legs and ankles bit into her, adding to her general distress. Yet, still not even the slightest of muffled sounds passed her lips. Only her toes showed any sign of her excruciation, making tiny squirming motions, curling back against the tensed soles of her feet. For the briefest of moments Labastide’s eyes were distracted by them, drawing his gaze away from her now stripe-ravaged backside. The whole illicit scene held him rigid, his shaft jacked hard against the crotch of his trousers.

  Again Mimmie brought the thongs pounding down so that now virtually the entire expanse of Marie-Chantal’s cheeks was streaked with a profusion of red-lined welts.

  “Eleven! Twelve! Thirteen!” Mimmie grunted.

  By now only the central sheltered scarps of Marie-Chantal’s rear had escaped the ravaging pattern of the thongs. There, in the sweat-glowing valley the pale unblemished purity of her flesh seemed to stand out in stark contrast to the red inflamed streaks elsewhere. The slender chain that ran down the fissure was now all the more acutely tensed, pulling at the waist-belt and at the metal ring on the platform below. Occasionally, where Mimmie had been less than accurate, there were several uneven, ragged stripes reaching down onto the girl’s upper legs. One or two had even encroached onto the lower part of her back.

  “Fourteen! Fifteen!”

  For the first time there was a muffled groan as the next strike of thongs wrapped themselves around the contours of Marie-Chantal’s cheeks. It seemed as though the wicked tails almost embedded themselves in her flesh just before they peeled away again and fell to Mimmie’s side. At the very next strike Marie-Chantal’s now writhing body almost erupted, her rump seeming to leap upwards, straining frantically against the bonds. Her bridle was so tight that the bit dragged mercilessly at her lips. Despite her desperate efforts to keep her head still the halter-chains jingled at every forward or backward jerk of her body. Her face was flushed, glowing with perspiration. Saliva dribbled down from the corners of her mouth where the bit held them back in a kind of perversely grimacing grin.

  Beneath her on the second tier Solange also shuddered now at the impact, feeling the frame shake and jangle under the unremitting onslaught. It seemed almost that she herself had become an embodiment of the metal frame, fused inexorably with the writhing flesh of the girl above. Still lying on her back in her uncomfortable posture - belted to the metal grid, her hands pinioned to the side-beams and her knees splayed outwards - she had a most bizarre view of the Contesse’s whipping while it went on above her. With nowhere to rest her head Solange felt her neck aching from peering up at the proceedings. Naturally, from her upside-down position on the bottom tier, her view of the action was fairly restricted. By raising her neck slightly she could see the wardress’s legs as she stood there wielding the whip. But Solange was unable to see the actual whipping itself. All she could see of that were the tail-ends of the martinée as they fell away from the Contesse’s rump after each strike. Certainly she could see the poor girl’s sweating body above her, bucking forward at each fresh delivery of the whip, her breasts quivering at every impact and her belly tensing in agony.

  When Solange could no longer bear to watch the Contesse’s punishment above she turned her head to look at Fleur in her perverse squatting posture against the opposite wall. She too was finding it difficult to endure her forced observation of the punishment, although not daring to tear her eyes away and all the while struggling to retain her balance. Her opened knees faced outwards towards either side of the Table of Correction so that only the bar that ran down her middle actually concealed the gape of her pubis.

  Although she watched the proceedings with wide fearful eyes, her head was bowed slightly so as not to put pressure on the torque. It was clear that she was in extreme discomfort from her cruel harnessing, more so than Solange herself whose only real discomfort came from the raw metal grid of the platform beneath her and from the tightness of the straps on her ankles and wrists.

  From time to time during the Contesse’s whipping, Solange’s disbelieving eyes would glance up sadly at the woman’s beautiful face just above her. She marvelled at her forbearance of such a cruel onslaught. To begin with the Contesse’s face had remained almost passive despite the occasional agonised contortions. Her small snub-nose was pinched, the corners of her eyes lined with agony and she winced at every fresh delivery of the thongs. It seemed incredible that scarcely a sound came from her lips. But soon the whipping had become so excruciating that the fullness of her suffering began to show, not only in her face but also in the tremor of her body. There was no doubting her extraordinary courage and her almost disdainful refusal to succumb, but the signs of her agony increased with every strike. Her head gave little forward thrusts at each impact of the whip, her quivering body jerking forward against the torque, her lungs heaving. Solange saw how the evil bridle and bit drew painfully back against Marie-Chantal’s delicate mouth, the tight straps connected to the crossbars pulling like reins against the corners of her lips. Her breathing was laboured now, each exhaled spasm coming in almost little snorts of pain and forced past the padded bit. She was almost foaming at the mouth now, her spittle running down her jaw and dripping below onto Solange. That was not all. Marie-Chantal’s belly and breasts were running with rivulets of sweat and these too began to drip down onto the occupant below.

  “Sixteen! Seventeen … eighteen!” The wardress chanted as the thongs rained down again, zipping first at the air before the quick thuds of impact.

  “Aaaargh! Oooofff! Aaargh!” Marie-Chantal cried out now at each
fresh delivery.

  Her whole face was contorted in agony, marring the classic lines of her beauty. Her eyes were screwed tightly closed and the whole frame trembled as her body convulsed at each impact, the chains and rings jangling in a kind of perverse metallic cacophony. Through the bars above her Solange could see Marie-Chantal’s down-pointing nipples jerking and dancing as if they had a mind of their own. At every brief respite of the lash they settled for an instant in their normal graceful repose, hanging down as though in temporary pulsing relief, not ever quite touching the bars below. The pert roundels almost seemed to look down pleadingly at her. But lying so helplessly beneath her, all that Solange could do was murmur little words of sympathy and fearful encouragement, although never loud enough for the wardress to hear … she hoped.

  “Nineteen! Twenty! Twenty-one … two …three!”

  The whip-strokes were coming thick and fast now, as if sensing the approaching end of the sentence. All the while Mimmie Latour lashed down with an increasingly feverish persistence, the flying thongs of the martinée raining down with hardly any pause in between, as if perhaps she herself was reaching the end of her own stamina.

  “Twenty four!” she gasped. And then she drew the martinée behind her one last time, flicking the thongs back as far as she could, ready to deliver one final devastating blow.