Voyage of Terror

by J. D. Jensen

  It came in a sort of combined and long drawn-out zip-thwacking noise, the leather tails simultaneously cutting both cheeks, instantly drawing a further dozen red lines to mingle with the haphazard profusion already there. Now there was scarcely any unlined flesh on the girl’s magnificent domes, the welts already beginning to ripen and stand out, some in inflamed purple ridges where several strikes had landed all in one identical place.

  “Twenty-five!” Mimmie announced with finality, visibly relaxing and letting the tails of the martinée drop against her leg at last. Taking a deep breath as if the exertion had been altogether more than she expected, she turned now to the captain with a look of almost pride on her face. “A job well done.”

  His mouth dry with lust, Labastide had been watching every stroke intently, trying to control the unwanted little tremor that had seized his whole body. The entertainment had been more than he could ever have dreamed. The sheer potent illicitness of the drama had all but drained him. Momentarily he was lost for words, being only able to grunt his acknowledgement of the satisfactory end of the punishment. He was aware of Duval beside him licking his lips, his face still flushed and strangely subdued, as if his eyes could not quite believe what they had seen. Although both men had witnessed so many beatings before of female prisoners, the beating of this delectable creature had risen to new heights of voyeuristic ecstasy.

  Labastide marvelled again at the exquisite lines of the Contesse’s now nearly motionless form in the dreadful aftermath of her ordeal. It was true that occasional little groans escaped her lips and she was struggling to breath in air, her lungs heaving below her crouched, pinioned body in its debased posture. But otherwise she was bravely fighting the stinging agony and desperately trying to calm the ague that had engulfed her in the final stages of the whipping. Her delightful shoulders and convex curved spine glistened with sweat. Where Mimmie had been less than her usual skilful self, one or two tails of spidery red had encroached beyond her twinned domes to reach out onto her lower back and a few lines had also flicked across her left lower leg. Otherwise the welts were mainly confined to within the perimeters of the taut crests of her rump. Only in the rift between was the pale flesh entirely unmarked and here the unblemished scarps were in almost stark contrast to the pink-red ravaged mass on either side.

  Labastide took a faltering step towards the rear of the Table of Correction, realising that he had done so involuntarily. He almost had to consciously restrain himself from reaching out and touching the forbidden tableau of punished flesh that still thrust out so deliciously towards him, wanting to run his hand over it and down into the taut revealing cleft between. Hardly able to contain himself, his own flesh was still unremitting in its jacked position at his crotch. For a second longer his gaze dwelt in the lowest extremity of her very inviting crevice, its round velvety sump scarcely visible beneath the slender chain. Then furtively lowering his gaze still further, the twinned backward-peeping rise of her sex at once filled the totality of his vision, the links of chain drawn across its slit - and the darkly mauve hoods slightly parted to reveal an almost imperceptible twirl of teasing pink.

  “Shall I release her, Sir? Or do you want her to stay where she is?”

  Mimmie’s words interrupted his guilty reverie. For a moment he could not reply, his eyes not able to disengage from the object of their gaze. Lost in his own lustful dreams, he was slowly drawn back to reality again, at once aware of Mimmie Latour’s patient but knowing stare.

  “Er …no. I mean, yes. I think it would be quite beneficial for the Contesse to remain there for a while. Don’t you, Duval?”

  Labastide had turned on his chief-officer so unexpectedly that Duval was momentarily taken aback, his ferret-eyes not yet having finished feasting on the illicit tautened spread before them. He swallowed guiltily before replying, his lips set in a sly sneer.

  “Yes, Captain. You’re absolutely right. Let the bitch have a good long spell on the Table of Correction. It’ll do ‘er no harm. Might even teach ‘er that she’s only a bloody convict like all the rest of ‘em now … and not some fucking high-and-mighty Contesse any more getting herself all made up in her boudoir, getting ready to take her fucking silk knickers down for some poncy government minister!”

  Then, his mouth twisting into an evil grin, he turned in the direction of the Contesse. He spoke down at her, his tone laced with sarcasm.

  “Isn’t that so, Contesse? I’ll bet the last time you positioned your arse like that it wasn’t to receive THAT sort of roasting … but more likely to receive some other kind! What do’yer say, your ladyship? I’ll bet you’ve had any number of ministerial proclamations up there, no?” Now he cackled wickedly, delighted at his own gleeful crudeness.

  Marie-Chantal’s breathing was still laboured through the bit, her lungs expanding and contracting in controlled little bursts as she sucked in air. Still constrained by the halter-chains and bridle she was unable to turn her head, not that she had any intention of replying. Her every effort was concentrated in overcoming the lingering wake of excruciating pain and discomfort, willing herself to be calm and to quieten the tremor of her body.

  Strangely she no longer felt degraded in her naked humbling poise - not in front of these men, neither the wardress nor her two comrades-in-adversity. It was to her as if this evil little ferret-faced vermin, Duval, was in some way inconsequential and almost somehow beneath the level at which her contempt would merit worthy consideration. As for the Captain, there was at least some small measure of civilised and polite finesse about him, even if his soul were no less corrupt and licentious. Perhaps the absolute power he commanded and being in charge of so many vulnerable women for so long had simply polluted his mind. She, above all women, knew how easy it was for weak men to become depraved, the ever-present shadow of debauchery waiting like a demonic hump on their shoulders.

  The wardress, however, intrigued her more. Marie-Chantal had instinctively begun to comprehend what made this seemingly cruel and dominant woman tick. There was much more to Mimmie Latour than was immediately apparent. It was as if her harsh exterior concealed some other emotions beneath, yet Marie-Chantal could not entirely grasp what they were. Certainly, there was no denying the woman’s relish for her work. She seemed to delight in her devoted role and the diligence with which she administered ‘justice’. Her years in the penal colony had clearly taken their toll on her. The job that she had been given allowed her, perhaps, to unleash all her frustrated emotions and to unburden herself of a lifetime of failed aspirations. Yet despite all this Marie-Chantal realised that Madame Mimmie Latour was more vulnerable than she appeared, and that there were even hidden qualities in the woman that might perhaps reveal themselves in some other less-impure environment.

  Labastide was speaking again, coming round to stand close beside the Table of Correction now. Marie-Chantal was aware of him looking down at her sweating nakedness again. Out of the corner of her left eye she could see his legs. She could see, too, the telling thrust of his crotch. The very idea of having Labastide’s shank inside her made her nearly retch.

  “Madame Latour, I think we should remove the Contesse’s bridle. She seems to have difficulty in breathing and the steel crossbars of the bit are chafing the sides of her pretty mouth. We don’t want to spoil the lady’s looks, do we?”

  Duval seemed momentarily disappointed, interrupting snidely, “Yeah, but the cheeky little bitch is so arrogant and full of herself she’ll start being lippy again if we take the bit out of her mouth!”

  “Oh, I think the Contesse has probably learned her lesson. Haven’t you, Contesse?”

  There was a slight jingle of chain and a muffled sound from deep in Marie-Chantal’s throat as she nodded.

  “Good!” Labastide seemed pleased. It was as much as he could do to stop himself from reaching out and patting her bottom. The delightful notion of his fingers caressing her ravaged flesh came again
to him in a sudden burst of lust.

  “You can remove the bridle and bit, Madame. But perhaps, as Mr Duval implies, we should keep it handy just in case.”

  “Yes Sir.” Mimmie immediately went to stand in front of the Table and began to unbuckle the straps behind Marie-Chantal’s head. “What about the two other girls, Sir? How long do you want them to stay there?”

  “The whole fucking night at least!” Duval snapped suddenly, before glancing at his captain and adding in a more respectful tone, “Wouldn’t you say, Sir? It’ll do them all good to sample some discipline.”

  Labastide only nodded. Then, realising suddenly that he had been away from the bridge for too long, he turned on his heel and strode out of the foc’s’le and onto the still sun-drenched deck outside, letting the door clang shut behind him.

  Chapter Three

  The “L’île St Joseph” gave a lazy heave in the swell, the old ship juddering momentarily as if the speed had been increased. A wallowing surge of water swished suddenly against the bow somewhere beneath the foc’s’le, a place where so much wickedness occurred.

  Marie-Chantal de Louvois sighed with relief, taking a gulp of air as the bit and its moist wad of leather was carefully lowered from her mouth and the bridle lifted off her head. Without disconnecting the two halter-chains Mimmie set the harness down on the metal floor just in front of the Table in full view of Marie-Chantal’s downcast eyes, the torque around her neck still making her head bowed down and forwards.

  “There now, my dear, you can breathe freely. In a moment or two I’ll give you something to help the painful stinging of your rump. It’ll help your welts heal quickly.” Mimmie’s tone was almost friendly. “That way, if I have to flog you again, I won’t feel so bad about it. I hate having to use the whip on already badly-scorched backsides!”

  “I’m sure, Madame. Thank you for such kind consideration,” Marie-Chantal muttered, venturing polite words of half-concealed sarcasm and suddenly looking down at Solange. The girl’s upturned face was at once fearful again, as if suspecting that anything the Contesse said now might be interpreted as insolence. Yet the wardress seemed either not to have heard or simply chose to ignore it.

  Solange could see that the martinée - with its sinister black thongs folded back neatly along the shaft - was held firmly under Mimmie’s armpit, almost as if that were the habitual place when not in use. For a second the wardress’s eyes darted down to hers, making her inwardly cringe.

  “You, my dear girl. Think yourself lucky this time. It will be my future pleasure to lay into your wide hips before the voyage is ended, I’ve little doubt of that. You’ve had the privilege of being able to watch the flogging of your friend here at such close quarters … sort of being a part of the punishment but avoiding the pain. That can all change in a moment, so beware! I wonder if you’ll be half as brave as Marie-Chantal. I must confess, dear Contesse, that I cannot help admiring your courage. But please don’t take advantage of my weakness.”

  “What weakness, Madame? I have felt only the strength of your hand and arm.” Her tone was almost respectful.

  Mimmie smiled with sudden amusement.

  “Don’t flatter me, either, dear Contesse. Keep that for seducing your powerful men-friends. Now, I’m going to put some of my lotion on you, unless you object, of course, Contesse?”

  Marie-Chantal hesitated for scarcely a second before replying, turning her head just a fraction so that she could look up just high enough to see the wardress’s face.

  “Will your hand be more gentle than it was with your nasty little whip, Madame?” she enquired innocently. No trace of sarcasm.

  This time Mimmie gave an abrupt little laugh.

  “I shall be as gentle as if your bottom was a new-born baby. Fear not, my dear! I’m as much an expert in the art of healing as I am in the punishing.”

  With a further snort of amusement she went over to where a small metal box stood almost at the very forward point of the chamber. Leaving the martinée there, she opened the box and took out a pot of some sort of greasy-looking substance before returning to the frame. She passed right in front of the wall-rack to which the still perversely crouching form of the other girl, Fleur, was strapped.

  “You look very uncomfortable there, my poor girl. Have you learnt anything yet?”

  For a second Fleur seemed too petrified to answer. Although only out of pure fear that she had watched the flogging without uttering a sound herself, it was increasingly difficult for her to silence the little whimpering moans of distress that threatened to erupt every second or so from her lips. It was no easy feat to balance herself continually on her toes and the balls of her feet. The stiffness and constant tension on both legs and feet was excruciating. Having to keep her knees bent outwards, as well as trying to ensure that she held her body as motionless as possible - thereby avoiding any sudden pressure from the sharp studs of the brassiere or from the evil leather-cord device under her breasts – it became increasingly difficult to retain her balance. She knew that she could not stand much more than an hour or so of this terrible posture, let alone a whole night. When she had heard the captain announce it, the words had come to her like a dread. The whole thing was a nightmare. Every slight pitch or yaw of the ship threatened to unbalance her. Each time it did so the frontal bar down her middle jerked painfully, simultaneously pulling against all the various straps that embraced her trembling form.

  With her back pinioned to the wall and in her braced position against the rack, Fleur’s forced view of the whipping had been no less devastating to her mind. Her unwitting eyes had observed every explicit detail, each impacting lash seeming to strike at her own flesh, noting each time how the Contesse’s body had jerked and recoiled in protesting agony. Never before had Fleur imagined that such things could occur. The very fact of the Contesse’s debasing and bent-over posture; and then Solange’s strange placement beneath her in the bizarre punishment frame; and the paraphernalia on her own naked body, was already unbelievable enough. But the flogging had been beyond rational contemplation and she had watched the lashes raining down through eyes glazed with a mixture of fear, disbelief and awe.

  “Well, girl. Have you bitten your tongue off so you can’t reply?”

  “N-n-no, Miss. I have. I m-mean I’ve learned my lesson. Really I have,” she stammered a hasty reply. Then she added tentatively, almost in a whimper, “But I can’t … can’t stand much more. My legs and feet and knees are so stiff … and I’m hurting …”

  “Don’t whinge, girl! You haven’t been put there to enjoy it. It’s SUPPOSED to be uncomfortable. By the end of the night you’ll know all about discomfort, my poor dear! That, I assure you.”

  “Oh no! P-please, Miss! I c-can’t possibly. Not all night. I’ll die! Please not all night!”

  It was then that she began to sob pitifully. For a moment this seemed to have some effect on Mimmie, as if she had felt a pang of sympathy for the girl again, but in an instant her expression hardened.

  “Stop your blubbering, girl. Or you can change places with the Contesse and I’ll give you something else to cry about … on that cute little rump of yours, if you’re not careful!”

  Almost at once Fleur’s sobbing subsided, although her wet face was still screwed up with misery and she winced at a sudden involuntary movement.

  “Good. That’s better!” Mimmie muttered before striding over to stand right up close behind the Table of Correction again, her back now to Fleur - the girl all but forgotten.

  Holding out the pot she scooped out a large dollop of ointment and wiped it on either side of Marie-Chantal’s buttocks. They made a tiny involuntary quiver and a scarcely audible little sigh came from the front end of the frame.

  The wardress smiled to herself and began to massage the ointment into the ravaged flesh with both hands, one on each flank, her fingers rotating in gentle soothing
motions across each of the girl’s magnificent crests.

  Mimmie had lost count of how many whip-streaked backsides she had ministered to over the past couple of years. But this one was somehow more delectable than any of the others before. The flesh was firmer, yet matured, the curves almost perfect, rounding slightly at the uppermost peaks before sweeping down tightly to the flanks and the muscled reaches of her thighs and legs. The texture of her skin was like smooth silk. The yawning cut of her rift seemed to fall away into a deep precipice below to where the slender links of the taut chain were firmly embedded, revealing just a hint of the neat velvet entrance beneath. Mimmie could not take her eyes away, marvelling again at such beauty at her fingertips. She began to work briskly now, kneading the streaked flesh and making the crests move in her hands. Now Marie-Chantal moaned, a little tremble of pain travelling through her at the sudden increase of pressure and motion.

  “Sorry, my dear. But I must work the ointment well into the welts. It might hurt a bit now, but later it’ll feel so much better. I promise.”

  “Oooer … er … th-ank y-ou, Madame. I’ll re-member y-our k-indness,” Marie-Chantal managed to murmur shakily between each of Mimmie’s rotating hand-movements, her words somehow neither sarcastic, nor yet entirely sincere. After a while a soothing warmth began to penetrate beyond the sebaceous layer of her flesh, seeming to alleviate the assaulted nerve-ends of her muscles.

  Another dollop or two of ointment was applied, then quickly massaged-in so that soon the entire area of her rump was like two glistening domes, the striped patches of inflammation glowing ever redder than before, but somehow bringing relief as the ointment’s suffusing potency began to take effect. Finally, Mimmie stood back as if to survey her work, before going round to the front of the Table once again.

  “Well, my dear Contesse, I think that’s all I can do to make you a bit more comfortable. I’m afraid you have a long night ahead. In an hour or so I’ll bring each of you some water to drink. Poor dears, you all look a bit dehydrated.”