Voyage of Terror

by J. D. Jensen

  “Ah, yes Sir. I’m … er … quite sure that your inspection was … satisfactory.” Her grin spread wider, her eyes darting knowingly to the Contesse’s thrusting spread. It was clear that Mimmie had difficulty in containing the urge to laugh. A young man on a long celibate voyage must, after all, be prone to moments of lecherous curiosity. She hoped that his lustful gaze had not been altogether a disappointment for him. She wondered too whether he had been able to exercise sufficient self-control to stop himself from running his trembling fingers over the inviting flesh before him.

  “I take it that everything is in order, Sir? Punishment has been administered in accordance with the captain’s orders.”

  For a second Marc Bouvier hesitated. Then he replied in a faltering almost timid voice, his eyes not quite sure where to look.

  “Yes but … why … I mean what … those metal things in their?” he broke off, the embarrassment written all over his young face and Mimmie enjoying every second of it.

  “You mean “Lucifer’s Handles”, Sir?” Her eyebrows raised in almost mocking defiance.

  “Well … whatever …”

  “That’s what they’re called, Sir. I agree a rather medieval punishment, but effective though … particularly for those prisoners who persist in arrogant disobedience and outright rebelliousness,” she went on confidently, watching his expression with increasing amusement.

  “Yes, but … I thought they were illegal now … shouldn’t they be taken out from …?”

  “Mr Duval himself has sanctioned the punishment, Sir.” Her tone was frosty now, unrepentant and uncompromising.

  “Er … I see. Well in that case …”

  “If you wish to take it up with him then?”

  “No, no. That won’t be necessary, Madame,” he said hastily, gulping back his unease.

  Then with a curt nod he turned and strode out of the fo’c’sle, closing the door quietly behind him, leaving Mimmie standing there in the dull light frowning, hands on hips. Glancing over at the two girls on the Table of Correction, she muttered wryly:

  “Well, my fine beauties, I think you have an admirer there! I think I probably came in just in time … or you might have got another sort of steel up your nether regions!” She snorted with derision.

  The Contesse remained silent, as did her companion below. Only Fleur made any murmur, once again whimpering with misery.

  “It’s just after midnight, my dears. It’ll be a long time before dawn. So make yourselves as comfortable as you can. I’ll release you at six o’clock. Good night, girls.” Mimmie said lightly.

  Then after walking briskly around her charges, checking their fastenings, she turned out the light and left the chamber. In the sudden darkness Fleur began to sob.

  Chapter Five

  The three girls only knew that dawn had come when the door was flung open and sunlight flooded the foc’s’le chamber.

  “Good morning, my beauties. Did you sleep at all? Or have you been awake all night enjoying the finer points of your punishment?”

  It had been a long and very uncomfortable night for each of them. At some point the swell had increased considerably and the bow had begun to pitch and lurch, making it hard for Fleur to keep her balance. Every muscle and bone in her body ached excruciatingly. Her neck was stiff from the stretching embrace of the torque and her backbone felt as if paralysed in its rigid posture. The dreadful metal bar down her middle had left her with scarcely the slightest flexibility of movement. Each time that she felt unable to keep her body in such a frozen and unyielding poise for a moment longer she had made frantic little flurries of movement to stretch her cramped bones, shifting her feet and wiggling her hips from side to side until she could get herself into a less uncomfortable position. The trouble with that was that the torque would instantly contract, which in turn would make the leather cord beneath her breasts tighten and the sharp studs on the sleeve at once dig into her. Moreover the wicked brassiere-cage would pull further into her chest, gripping her flesh in its teeth. Only her nipples were entirely free of torment, the puckered roundels squeezed obtrusively through the open holes between the twin circular slats, her hardened nubs like small stalks of objection staring out helplessly onto the chamber.

  Fleur did not know how she had been able to withstand the torture for so long. It had been a nightmare of a seemingly never-ending night. At first she had sobbed pitiably, her ears oblivious to the comradely entreaties of her two companions and their friendly murmurs of encouragement. Eventually her sobbing had died away leaving her only making tiny sniffing sounds in the darkness, her occasional restless shifting movements causing the metal fastenings to jingle against the bar down her middle. She had never before supposed that life could be so cruel, but perhaps she would be that much wiser now, even hardened to the obscene injustices of man. Only time would tell.

  Yet, if Fleur’s torment had been bad, Marie-Chantal’s had been even worse. Her cramped kneeling posture on the bars of the top-tier of the Table of Correction had seemed intolerable. Every part of her body ached and strained. The fact that she did at least have some vague restricted freedom of movement in her arms, shoulders, upper torso and her belly and hips accorded her some modest relief. Every so often she made herself consciously exercise every muscle in turn, straining herself against the straps as she did so, and stretching her long neck out like a swan as far as the torque allowed her. The agony of her ravaged bottom had gradually subsided, the dreadful stinging sensation giving way to a sort of half-numbed throbbing. However whenever the partial numbness had worn off, every nerve-end in the sebaceous layering of her flesh had started to palpitate agonisingly. This had lasted for two or three hours before it finally waned, leaving a tolerable throbbing sensation over the entirety of her rump.

  Having so consciously focussed her mind on the matter of escape, she had been able to divorce herself from her bodily discomfort, allowing her spirit to rise beyond her tortured frame once more. As for the evil bolt, she had soon accustomed herself to its demeaning presence within her, feeling its dull expansion of her anal channel more as some turgid inconvenience rather than something of greater significance. It was hardly much more to bear than those many fumbling and obscene intrusions of men in her life before. Her revulsion and furious disdain was another matter altogether and it brewed silently within her gut like a hot sludge of vengeance, only serving to strengthen her resolve and determination.

  Once or twice during the night Solange had whispered up to her, momentarily breaking her train of thought. It was so dark that Marie-Chantal could not even see her companion’s face, even though her own was hardly more than a foot or so above.

  “Are … are you all right, Marie-Chantal?” The girl’s hesitant voice had a slight tremor to it.

  “Yes. I’m fine, Solange. And you? How are you taking it?”

  “N-not too bad. I’ve almost … g-got used to the discomfort. It … it’s just this horrible plug thing …” She broke off suddenly, as if realising that her torment must be far less than either that of the Contesse or of poor Fleur.

  “Don’t think about it, Solange! Just hold on. It can’t be for too long now.”

  “Yes … it’s just that … I’m worried …”

  “Worried? Don’t be. You’ll get through this nightmare, I promise.”

  “No, I mean … this plug thing. It just feels like it’s … kind of going into me … like further all the time.” Now her voice had a childish little quiver to it, as though she too, like Fleur, might be on the point of tears.

  Marie-Chantal smiled to herself in the oppressive blanket of darkness, making herself answer almost lightly.

  “No. It can’t. I assure you. It just seems like that. Please. You mustn’t be worried.” She reassured the girl, knowing exactly what she was feeling.

  Although Marie-Chantal was concerned about getting their
hopes up prematurely - and despite the huge risk of discovery - she had decided to reveal her intentions anyway. Although previously having made the decision to include her two companions in the escape she was reluctant now to divulge too much detail at this stage. Everything could still go wrong. Even though she trusted the two girls, some small, overheard remark might be fatal, spoiling everything. Moreover the consequences were too terrible to contemplate. If this was the due punishment meted out for a few complaining words of dissent, what punishment would be unleashed for such a mutinous crime as attempted escape?

  “Solange. Fleur … can you hear me?”

  A small timid reply came from out of the darkness over by the wall.

  “Yes. I can, Contesse. I can hear you.”

  “Good. Now listen, both of you. We’re going to escape … all of us.”

  Their misery and discomfort was at once forgotten as Marie-Chantal quietly revealed the bare bones of the plan, speaking clearly into the blackness of the chamber. Neither girl so much as breathed as the full implications of what had come so unexpectedly to their ears filtered into the recesses of their minds. Whereas a moment before there had seemed only a terrible fate awaiting them in a place known throughout the world as Devil’s Island, now suddenly there was a bursting ray of hope shining through their dejection.

  Although scarcely daring to believe the Contesse’s words, the two girls felt their spirits soar. Marie-Chantal had been obliged to curtail their excited questions, shushing the girls into silence. It was already dangerous enough, she reminded them needlessly, but anyone – the wardress, the dreadful Duval creature or the captain himself – might be listening outside the door.

  “Can you imagine what they’ll do to us if they suspect anything?” she said threateningly. There had been an instant fearful silence as her words sunk in.

  For the remainder of the night the two girls had reflected silently on the Contesse’s extraordinary revelations, almost having to pinch themselves to know that it was not some fretful dream. For the first time in weeks there was a glimmer of hope and the chance of salvation. Their hearts warmed to their enigmatic companion, knowing instinctively that they would follow her regardless of the danger. Any thoughts of failure were inconceivable.

  ***

  “Well, you’ve truly served your sentences of shipboard punishment, my poor dears. Perhaps that’ll make you more careful in future. Toe the line, girls! That’s my advice to you all,” Mimmie Latour said breezily.

  She was busy unfastening Fleur’s straps. A look of complete relief was apparent on the poor girl’s face, firstly as the cruel brassier was lifted away and then as the torque and bar were finally removed.

  Glancing towards Marie-Chantal the wardress added pointedly:

  “Particularly you, my dear Contesse! You must learn that here … and when you get to St Laurent de Maroni … you’d do best to keep a low profile and put a stop to your high-and-mighty arrogance. Being some snooty ladyship’ll cut no ice with your fellow convicts. And you’ll get no sympathy. Neither from the guards nor the Governor. He’s as hard as bloody nails - that one. I should know. Last day of my sentence there he guillotined two men and had three others flogged. And he doesn’t make any concessions for women convicts either! So take heed, my dear. Get your head down and knuckle under. Serve your sentences as best you can … all of you.”

  Then in an almost maternal way she smiled down at Fleur who remained squatting on her haunches with her wrists still handcuffed to each ankle. All around her breasts the raw livid marks of where the studs of the brassiere and the leather cord had dug so cruelly into her were clearly evident … small pink blemishes of inflammation defiling the pure creamy whiteness of her flesh.

  “All right, my dear. Let me remove your foot and wrist shackles. It’s over now. I’ll put some lotion on those tender boobs of yours. They’ll feel better soon enough. Poor hurt things!”

  There was not even a hint of sarcasm in her voice as she bent over the girl to unlock the cuffs. Fleur uttered what could have been a little moan of deliverance as she struggled shakily to her feet, her cramped knees straightening painfully and her toes making little squirming motions as she settled back on her heels.

  “That’s right, dear. Stand up and have a good stretch. Stay there for a moment while I deal with your two comrades. We can’t leave them there for much longer … otherwise Lucifer’s Handles will take root!”

  Then Mimmie turned abruptly away and walked to the back of the Table of Correction. For a moment or two she stood there surveying her previous evening’s work critically. A thin smile gradually crossed her lips as her eyes slowly went from Solange’s bolted and gaping spread up to the Contesse’s streaked and ravaged-looking bottom - which still glistened from last night’s greasy balm.

  “Hmmm,” she muttered. “I think perhaps you could do with some more of my healing lotion, my dear Contesse, don’t you? It still looks a bit raw. But first let’s unbolt you both. You first, Solange.”

  Mimmie squatted down and reached out for the small length of chain that ran loosely from between the girl’s strapped feet and along to the end of the tier.

  “Hold your thighs still, Solange.”

  Slowly and with silent concentration Mimmie gently tugged the chain so that the bolt emerged only slightly at first. Pulling it now with sudden deliberate swiftness she withdrew the steel in a single gliding motion. Then standing up straight, for a moment she held the shiny implement up to the light before turning to where Fleur waited. She was still stretching and flexing her limbs and making odd little circling movements with her shoulders.

  “You see what you’ve missed, my dear? Aren’t you happy?”

  Fleur’s gaze was instantly drawn to the steel, her eyes remaining fixed to it with pure fascination before then looking guiltily away again. Shy in her thoughts she remained silent, nervous once more, not daring to glance at Mimmie’s mischievous face.

  “I’ll unstrap you in a moment, Solange.” Mimmie had turned back to the punishment frame, laying the steel shank down on the floor just to one side of it.

  “Now, my dear Contesse. Hold still, please.”

  She reached out and took hold of the short chain that dangled from the blunt end of the shank. Pulling the links taut Mimmie exerted sufficient backward pressure so as to nudge the shank out – not more than two or three inches - from between the crease of Marie-Chantal’s rump, letting the glistening steel protrude brazenly from beyond the tight portals of her anal sump.

  The sheer entirety of the exotic tableau was so utterly appealing to Mimmie that she stood there for a full minute, feasting her eyes almost gloatingly, her mind and soul as if totally absorbed in the extraordinary illicitness of the moment. It was not only the streaked and ravaged beauty of the girl’s backside in its forced backward-thrust that was so compelling. It was perhaps as much the leather, the chain and the steel accoutrements of the girl’s debasing punishment - the various straps around her graceful limbs; the tight belt around her waist; the two sturdy chains, one each side linking her flanks to the frame; and perhaps most intriguing of all was the slender chain that ran down from the central ring of the belt, just below the base of her spine, and how the tensed links lay so tightly against the lower extremity of her rift before stretching down to the ring of the metal bar below. Only, now the chain had been pushed aside to make way for the protruding steel, leaving both chain and shank clasped together in taut embrace, occupying the distended valley of their unwilling host.

  Mimmie had to consciously shake herself free from her own lusting gaze, her mouth feeling suddenly dry. Then cocking her head round so that she could see one side of Marie-Chantal’s face she enquired breezily:

  “Ready, my dear? Yes?”

  There was a muffled murmur of acknowledgement from the front of the punishment frame. Mimmie smiled and without a further moment’s delay
she gave a sudden tug on the chain of the shank so that the metal slid quickly out. At the very same instant of its departure Marie-Chantal’s rump gave a little fluttering spasm of contentment, her flesh contracting inwards before releasing an almost imperceptible suction noise that could nearly have been a tiny sigh of relief. The shank then clattered onto the metal bars of the tier below, disturbing the silence of the chamber.

  “I’ll just return Luficer’s Handles to my box of tricks and get the balm,” Mimmie announced pleasantly before stalking off to the box. After a few moments, with the jar in her hand, she went over to Fleur.

  “Stand straight, dear. There … in front of me. Don’t be shy! Chin up!”

  Taking a large dollop from the jar Mimmie preceded to smother first the girl’s left breast with the grease before applying it to her right breast.

  “Keep still!” she snapped. Then in a milder soothing voice, all the while allowing her fingers to knead and massage the bare inflamed areas gently but firmly, she added: “There now. Isn’t that better?”

  “Yes, Miss.” Fleur agreed timidly, grimacing all the same.

  She held her body entirely erect and awkwardly rigid, her chin upright but her eyes downcast. Trying to keep herself from wobbling under the wardress’s ministrations she sort of swayed on her feet, gritting her teeth, her brazen nakedness no longer a source of real chagrin to her anymore. After all, her life had changed so dramatically. But now there was at least some hope for salvation and this secret thought warmed her heart as she stood there compliantly, allowing this large voluptuous woman to so intimately massage her flesh. Fleur did not even flutter an eyelid when Mimmie’s fingers strayed onto her nipples, kneading and pinching at her buds … not that they required the healing balm.