Voyage of Terror

by J. D. Jensen

  “Only … the captain might not be in favour. Stickler for the rules and all that crap. So I think I’d better stay to make sure you … er … don’t go too far. I mean too far in the sense of you rather than Lucifer going too far, if you get my ….?”

  “Yes, Sir. I get your meaning, Sir. Do I … er … have your permission to carry on then, or …?”

  “Yes, yes! Mimmie. You can carry on. I’ll just stand here quietly … and observe your additional administration of punishment. Anyway the captain’s on the bridge plotting a change of course so we won’t be troubled by his presence. I’ll let you attend to … er … is it the Contesse-bitch again? Oh yes, I see that it is! How entertaining.”

  Mimmie nodded, turning again to the top tier of the Table. Taking half a pace towards it she held out the bolt as if sizing it up for a second or so. With her eyes focussed intently into the yawning crevice of Marie-Chantal’s waiting backside Mimmie stooped slightly over her. Then, reaching out with her free hand she let her fingers delve between the two steep scarps and then feel for where the taut slender chain ran along the lower extremity of her valley.

  “Relax yourself, Contesse! Dip your bottom a fraction please to loosen the tension. I don’t want to hurt you … or spoil your enjoyment!”

  As soon as the tension was released Mimmie quickly slid two fingers underneath the chain and nudged it slightly to one side, just enough to expose the small velvety sump beneath. Then aiming the shank horizontally she inserted its smooth conical end into the tight-resisting flesh, giving a little push just enough to make the point lodge there for a moment. With a little tingling thrill she saw how Marie-Chantal’s pink-streaked cheeks jerked forward in a little quivering spasm as the metal entered her. But the girl made no sound at all, as though resigned to the obscene intrusion. Now, with a swift almost continuous movement Mimmie drove the shank home.

  Although a silent fury raged within her, Marie-Chantal gave no sign of it, quelling her disdain and repulsion as she had done so many times before. Trying to make her spirit rise above the putrid invasion of her flesh she divorced her mind from the vile reality of her degradation. Even in the rigid obstinacy of her body she nonetheless felt the slight flutter of unwilling anticipation, the shock of cold metal within her making her shudder involuntarily. But still she did not utter a sound of protest, feeling the gliding smoothness as it progressed stealthily into her forbidden depths. Once the pressure had pushed beyond the initial tightness of her portals, the steel seemed to slip almost smoothly along the channel, the widening girth of the shaft parting her narrow flesh and seeking out the natural angle of its passage. At one point – when there had been a momentary resistance – she stifled a little urge to cry out, but only grimacing as the wardress coaxed the steel forwards again, past the temporary barrier of resistance, her wrist turning the shank with occasional little jiggling flurries of impatience.

  At least, Marie-Chantal told herself, this new but tolerable torment took her mind off the numbing excruciation of her whip-ravaged rump. However, she was conscious of Duval. Whilst Mimmie had been plugging her, the odious chief-officer had all the while been silently hovering around the Table, his eyes missing nothing. Now he was standing in front, stooping slightly, his lust-shining face and ferret-eyes leering down at Marie-Chantal.

  “Is ‘er ladyship comfortable now?” he mocked. “Or would ‘er high ‘n mightyship like a double-shafting of Lucifer’s Handle? One handle up top … and the other below? Like naughty twins! All neat and tidy like two piston rods rammed up two delightful beds of exquisite flesh. No room then for no rich minister’s cock, eh?”

  Marie-Chantal closed her eyes, once more letting her disdain and hatred smother her feeling of debasement, making her natural dignity rise above his vulgar presence. She knew that her stoic demeanour and silent forbearance was a source of irritation to him. She contented herself with this knowledge, tolerating his lustful malicious gaze, tolerating the stinging numbness of her rump and tolerating the wicked bolt inserted into its depths.

  Chapter Four

  Once Duval had had his fill of lust-gazing he had eventually left the fo’c’sle with Mimmie Latour close on his heels. A welcome draft of cool evening air came briefly through the open doorway from the deck beyond, leaving a salty wake that seemed to briefly purify the stifling chamber and bringing some instant relief to its three unwilling occupants. Before Mimmie clanged the door shut behind her she turned briefly to the three girls.

  “I’ll be back later with some water for each of you. So don’t worry, I won’t let you die of thirst! I must attend to my other charges in the hold. It’s time for them to have a spell on deck before lock-up for the night. It’s dinner time for them, but I’m afraid not for you three tonight … although I expect none of you are exactly all that hungry.” Her tone was still conversational.

  Whilst she had resented Duval’s presence, he had not interfered in the end, both of them silently revelling in the illicit bolting of the Contesse and the Solange girl. Mimmie had made it clear by her disapproving expression and polite objection that she was against any “double-bolting” of the Contesse. Eventually Duval had reluctantly accepted this, only continuing to mock sneeringly at the poor girls in turn, all the while making crude comments under his breath. Once, he had dared to put his grubby hand out to feel Marie-Chantal’s streaked and balm-greased bottom. That had even made Mimmie cringe with disgust, let alone to imagine the utter disgust the Contesse herself must have felt. The sick lusting thrill on Duval’s face had been clearly evident, his eyes glazed over, his offensive hand in a tremor of forbidden ecstasy.

  At one point there had been a sudden tiny jangling movement from over by the wall-rack as Fleur shifted her awkward squatting balance. She groaned, a new kind of distress showing on her features.

  “Miss, I am dying … dying to pee. I can’t … can’t hold myself for much longer.”

  This was at once an additional source of malicious glee for Duval. Grinning broadly he sniggered, the sarcasm thick on his voice.

  “What d’yer want Madame Latour to do about it, girl? Come and hold a pot under your zizi for you, I suppose?”

  Fleur gave a little sob, her face turning away miserably, the torque suddenly pulling against her neck, making her wince again.

  “I just … need to … to go. I’m desperate.”

  Mimmie seemed to take pity on the girl, moving towards her and speaking soothingly in a low tone, as if not wanting Duval to hear.

  “If you can’t wait until he’s left the chamber, just do it, dear, if you have to … on the floor. It’ll drain away into the scuppers. In any case you’ll have to do it there anyway during the night. You won’t be released to go to the latrines, if that’s what you’re thinking! The same applies to your companions.”

  Whether Marie-Chantal or Solange had heard these shocking words was not at once apparent. At that same moment Duval had been bent over the Contesse, muttering crudely, his eyes focussed intently on the protruding end of the bolt. His eyes bulged with fascination as he saw how the girl’s flesh moulded so perfectly around the bolt, gripping it within her depths. He noted too how the steel made involuntary little quivering movements every time her flesh convulsed, as if in silent protest. The chain at the end of the bolt hung down freely, brushing against the external scarps of her bottom-cheeks each time she moved a fraction. But it was the taut chain beneath that ran down from the waist-belt and across the lowest extremity of her crease that was somehow most intriguing, particularly how it had been pushed aside by Lucifer’s Handle. It was then that he had been all but overwhelmed by a tormenting surge of lust and depravity.

  As if in the grip of some debilitating paralysis Duval stood there behind the Table of Correction for several minutes as he tried to calm himself. Yet it was almost impossible to drag his gaze away. His bird’s-eye view of the double-tier of exhibited flesh beneath him was far too p
otent an image: the glistening splendour of the Contesse’s tautened rump on top and the opened spread of the girl underneath - both motionless in the wicked perversity of their plugging. At one point he almost lost control of himself, only at the last second managing to control his urge to grasp the chains and evacuate the bolts just a few inches from out of their tight confines. Then with a supreme effort of willpower he finally turned away, the twitching ugliness of his features yet more pronounced in the torment of his lust.

  Then he and Mimmie had left the girls to their own misery and discomfort, each in their own thoughts, the sound of surging water against the hull somewhere beneath them and the throbbing hum of the ship’s machinery in their ears.

  For some while afterwards all three girls remained silent. Fleur had been able to contain herself only for just long enough until the door onto the deck had clanged shut behind the wardress. Then with a long sigh and a little whimper of humiliation she let herself go, the sound of her urgent stream onto the metal floor below seeming loud in the confines of the foc’s’le.

  “It’s all right. You’ll feel better now, Fleur. Try to focus your mind on something else. Then your discomfort will seem tolerable.” Marie-Chantal had turned her head slightly, speaking quietly but loud enough for her two companions to hear. “If they really keep us here all night it won’t really seem that long … if you can think pleasant thoughts … thoughts far away from here. Let your mind float above your body, as if it were disconnected.”

  Her words seemed to convey such rationality and uplifting reassurance that both girls at once took comfort by them, even though Fleur still shifted herself constantly with agonised little movements, her face etched in misery.

  “Ooooer. It’s j-just … just so unbearable. My legs are so stiff and my breasts hurt like …”

  “Concentrate your mind, Fleur! Do as I say. I promise the time will pass by before you know it!” Marie-Chantal’s voice rose a fraction, herself grimacing as she spoke.

  There was no way of knowing how much time had elapsed before Mimmie Latour came into the chamber again, letting the door clang behind her. She went round each girl in turn, holding the metal jug of water up to eager lips, allowing each of her charges to gulp back enough to quench their thirsts. She started first with Marie-Chantal, tipping the jug slowly so that the girl would not choke, scarcely able to lift her head sufficiently in the restricting torque. It was altogether more difficult in the case of Solange on her back in the lower tier. She had to half-turn her upper torso awkwardly to one side in order to receive the proffered jug to her mouth, taking tiny laboured sips and gasping in between, trying to keep her abdomen from making any movement. To her it seemed that if she moved a muscle below her waist the movement would precipitate a further inward slippage of Lucifer’s Handle.

  “Why … why has that evil bitch done that to me … I mean to us, Contesse?” Solange looked up with round mournful eyes at Marie-Chantal, wanting to know so much, yet not wanting to.

  “And to have whipped you like that … as well! Is she the devil? Are we already in hell for our crimes?” she whimpered now, overcome with a sudden surge of utter despondency, thinking of Jean-Claude.

  Marie-Chantal smiled down at her.

  “Don’t be too hard in your condemnation of her, my friend. She has suffered too. She’s only doing the bidding of these wicked men and the evil system of so-called justice. Try to be strong. They’re just trying to break our spirits and degrade us. Just try to bear it all with courage and you’ll come through. You never know what might happen. Fate may smile on you yet, my dear friends.”

  There was a strange edge of expectancy to her voice now, almost as if she knew something that the other two did not. Yet, what could possibly come to alleviate this misery or to rescue them from this dreadful purgatory. There was only worse to come once the ship arrived at the Colony - if rumours were true of what life was like there. There was only more misery ahead and it was all too much for Solange to contemplate.

  “I never … meant to … kill Jean-Claude. Never. Oh, Mary Mother … help me,” she mumbled to herself before beginning to weep silently.

  For once Fleur was silent, only watching her sobbing companion with sad comprehending eyes, her own discomfort momentarily put aside. Shifting her gaze upwards for a second she looked at the Contesse in her silent debasement, kneeling there in her animal-like posture on the tier. Fleur noted absently and with unrealised admiration how this remarkably graceful creature still somehow retained a modicum of dignity despite the unnaturally forced thrusting angle of her exposed tautened backside … and not least the bolt that protruded so vilely from between them. She wondered how this woman could still possibly harbour any thoughts of hope or salvation, or how she could speak to her two younger companions with such calm reassurance. Now Fleur too began to weep, her chains jangling against the sinister bar down her middle.

  ***

  There was no possibility of sleep for any of them. They only dozed in a semi-conscious state of nightmarish unreality and misery in the semi-darkness. The single light bulb had dimmed to a flickering yellow brightness that barely cast more than a shadowy glow over the Table of Correction and its unwilling occupants. Beneath them the rumbling hull of the ship rolled and pitched in a gentle monotonous rhythm, taking them nearer to their destiny.

  Marie-Chantal de Louvois stirred uneasily. The pressure in her belly had been unremitting for at least an hour. Glancing down she could see Solange looking up at her with a vacant expression, every line on her face showing her misery and discomfort. Smiling sadly, not certain whether the girl could see her face clearly enough in the gloom, Marie-Chantal whispered:

  “I’m sorry, Solange. I cannot hold myself for much longer.” For a moment she paused, unsure of what more she could say, the notion of what she had to do already like a fire of mortifying shame in her gut. “I can’t help myself …” she let her words trail off into the silence.

  “It’s … all right, Contesse … er … Marie-Chantal. I … understand. Completely. Don’t be embarrassed about it. We are both of us beyond that now. This is another world to the one we came from. We are together now … all three of us … like sisters.”

  Marie-Chantal felt a sudden warm glow of affection for the girl. Whatever happened she would take these two young women - victims of circumstance like herself – with her when the moment came. If it came. Of course it had all been planned down to the last detail - but anything could go wrong. The slightest change to the ship’s schedule. The over-zealous vigilance of a guard. Some chance mistake. An unforeseen hiccup in the plan, no matter how meticulously everything had been devised by Jacques. The faithful Jacques. One-time servant and now her friend. Nothing more. Not now. But there was still a future. Not in France, but in Morocco – an anonymous place into which displaced or fleeing French nationals could still disappear and live in comfortable obscurity.

  As for herself she had no real regrets. Her present predicament was, she considered, nothing more than a passing burden of adversity that had to be borne in the natural course of things. Her throbbing backside, her vile debasement from the steel plug, the discomfort and assault on every nerve of her body and now the pressing urgency of her bladder– these were all things she could tolerate in her fortitude. There was, after all, still the money safe in the Banque Commerciale de La Suisse. Neither did she feel any remorse for her past actions. It had only ever been the greedy-rich who had suffered in her clever scam: those lecherous government ministers, the presidents of two banks, a high-ranking civil administrator and a judge – all of them corrupt and most of them cheating on their wives. The fact that she had both fleeced them and fucked them – always in her most diligently gracious and charming manner – was not something she felt any shame over. Her only regret was the Minister of Justice and the judge. That had proved a fatal combination – an unfortunate miscalculation on her part. She suspected that i
t had been as a consequence of their combined wrath that had determined her arrest and the harsh severity of her sentence – perhaps an almost poetic revenge on her for their financial demise. The fact that her own family fortunes had been all but decimated by the corruption of men in high places had been, perhaps, the inspiration for her scam, devised over nearly two years with her cousin Anton. No, she had no regrets for what she had done. Only regrets for her discovery. Yet there was hope still, if fate were kind.

  Grimacing at a new surge of discomfort, she nonetheless managed to smile as she thought of Anton. At least he was free, somewhere in Canada. And it was he who had helped Jacques with the escape plan and he who had made the necessary bank arrangements.

  “How can you be smiling, Marie-Chantal?”

  So Solange had noticed, even in the gloom.

  “Because I’m reflecting on things far away from here, my poor girl …” Marie-Chantal stopped suddenly, the pressure coming in a hot rush upon her again, this time unbearably as her straining abdomen came to breaking point.

  “I’m … sorry, Solange. So sorry, but I c-c-can’t …”

  Then it came. In an uncontrolled steaming burst it flowed down onto her companion beneath.

  “… so…so sorry. I’m really …”

  “It’s all right. Don’t feel bad, Marie-Chantal. It’s nothing. It even soothes …,” the girl began quietly but did not finish, only looking up at the Contesse, sharing with her the moment of their combined adversity and indignity.

  When finally the fullness of her stream had been released, Marie-Chantal gave a little shudder and a sigh, mumbling yet a further apology, the sound of her dripping aftermath seeming loud in the chamber. It had been at that moment that the door creaked slowly open, the welcome rush of air at once filling the chamber again. Whoever it was carried a lantern, a pool of sudden brightness wavering across the floor and bathing the occupants of the Table of Correction in a circle of glowing light … light that made the Contesse’s thrusting rump stand out immediately in starkly-twinned golden domes of splendour.