Medi-EVIL
The king's daughter, and her marriage to the handsome prince, was the envy of
all throughout the known land. Few, however, would now trade places with the two
since the princess and her spouse were captured and held prisoners by the evil
English warlord. Their plight stood precarious at best.
Captain Swainford stroked his goatee and malevolently appraised his prisoners.
He sat upon an ad hoc throne set in one corner of the town square. Around
bustled artisans, peddlers, merchants, minstrels and soldiers but his focus
riveted the two standing just beneath the raised platform on which he sat. The
good prince Bidonne Lizanne and his lovely wife Catherine stood awaiting his
declaration.
"The auburn princess shall share my bed."
In unison, the prisoners spurned his suggestion as those within earshot
lustfully cheered the captain's proclamation.
"What? I am to be denied?" The cheek through which the scar deeply jagged
twitched. He glared at the young woman's eyes. Her emerald eyes glared back.
Lizanne's face flushed red with fury. Despite the bandaged arm wounded in
battle, the prince gallantly fought those holding him and attempted to rush the
stage.
Swainford settled back in his throne and idly gazed up at the Spring's morning
sky. High around three sides of the square ran sturdy walls. Near each
embrasure, or opening in the parapet, stood armed soldiers. Just behind him
arose the great wall of the cathedral. Safety, as well as victory, was now his.
"You know what to do with him. Put the woman in stocks."
Catherine screamed. Her fingers clutched madly at the air. Forearms locked in
the stocks as she stood just before a buttress from the cathedral, helpless to
save herself or her husband. Just beyond, men pummeled him until he moved no
more.
Tears streaming down her fair face, she watched him stuffed into a cramped cage
and then the cage hoisted high off the ground until it hung near an arched
window of the church. Inside, she could see Bidonne battered and bloodied. From
down below she heard his moans. At least, she thought, he still lived.
She was freed from the stocks and stood before Swainford. Strong arms gripped
each of her shoulders. Braided hair came undone and fell over her shoulders.
Racking sobs shook her entire frame. Cramps she felt the stocks were nothing,
she knew, compared to what her husband endured. Head lowered as her body
sorrowfully quaked; she refused to give the evil one the pleasure of seeing her
face.
From above the mademoiselle's bowed head excited The disarray of locks flowing
over the velvet cape was beauty in itself. "I will ask you one more
time...Clearly, your husband," he peered up behind him at the hanging cage and
its occupant, " doesn't seem quite up to the pleasure, but of course that does
not entirely mean you should be deprived of ecstasy."
Catherine de Lizanne tightened every fiber and raised her head. The princess of
Ile de Mallelville, Lady of the castle/cathedral of Saint-Depradines, wife of
Prince Bidonne was well educated in the English tongue. She knew well what to
expect the horrid Swainford to say next.
"I ask you again, fair lady, will you or will you not share my chambers?"
Sitting up on the platform as he was she didn't expect to hit him but knew her
volley would speak volumes. She spat.
The captain chuckled as he saw the spit fly. "Oh my. Guess that is your answer,
then." The spittle had not even landed close enough to make him move. He
absently waved his hand in a gesture meant to send her off. "Take her to you
know where."
The barrel vault was dimly lit and sloped slightly downward as they entered its
dark opening. Catherine's shoulder scraped rough walls lining the half-cut
tunnel as they rushed deeper into its recess. Material covering her sleeves
tore. The rich cape had been taken from her in the square, as had her boots,
leaving only the embroidered gown for outerwear. More hair tosseled. They
stopped at the center of the room. Peering around she could see small kettles of
flames. Light flickered shadows past dripping naked rock walls and ugly
instruments hanging from them.
She arrived in a torture chamber.
"Welcome to your new home." Captain Swainford announced as he entered. With him
were three of the minstrels from above. They looked more frightened of the place
than the princess. "Since I expect that you'll be doing plenty of singing here,
I took the liberty to invite one with bagpipes, psaltery and dulcian. They
should provide pleasant accompaniment."
Catherine shook tresses from her face. Hands jostled her arms and then the cold
of iron clasped her wrists. A chain rattled behind. Chancing a glimpse, she saw
metal links swing from a soffit, or underside of the arch, just above. Snapping
her head forward again, she felt the chain connect to her wrist cuffs. Her bare
toes prodded a small puddle on the rock floor.
"Since, in your strong-minded obstinacy you have refused my public and most
generous offer...,"Swainford said as he sat in a plush chair near the front of
where Catherine stood,"you will be so tortured that no man or woman, not even
Runt will find you attractive."
Catherine squirmed. From another entrance arch shuffled in a stooped man. A
straggled gray beard tangled over a face even more grotesque than Swainford's.
One eye sagged lower than the other, the broad nose bent, lips twisted in a
perpetual snarl and the peasant's head appeared almost bald.
"Oh, my manners. Where do they seem to have fled? Princess, do meet Runt. His
mind is half-gone, but what there is unfortunately has this thing for torturing
women. He especially enjoys maiming beautiful ones, such as yourself."
The water at her feet chilled, as did the entire place. Catherine began to feel
sorry for herself when she heard her husband moan. The sound penetrated into the
thick rock walled cavern. She shivered.
Runt made animal-like noises as he entered the chamber and circled around
Catherine. Oblivious to his own stench, his olfactory senses remained keen and
he smelled a pleasing blend of defiance and fear in this one. He pinched parts
of the gown and chortled when she jerked from his touch.
"By the look of him," Swainford scratched his goatee as he saw his lovely
captive shift in her bounds. "I'd say he wants to start with your chest."
Crossing his legs, he ordered a mug of wine brought and settled in to watch. "I
believe they call it Breast Torture."
She twisted and swung her arms. They remained locked behind. The shaking spilled
all of her hair out. Auburn curls and strands cascaded downward.
"Strip her to her waist."
Fingers grappled at fabric and leather ties. Waves of hair were swatted aside to
clear better access to the gown. Blue and gold embroidery parted to reveal a
white chemise. The undergarment was pulled away. Breasts filled with a youthful
firmness released. Pale globes fired male lusts in the gloomy room. Their
natural shade of rose darkened by the weak light, areole centered with thickened
nipples topped each breast.
Catherine sucked in her breath as she felt the rough hands. Modesty lowered hair
over her womanly charms after it had at first been pulled away. From somewhere
in the room she heard heavy wood slide over the uneven floor.
The wood appeared under her attempt at shelter. The flat shape looked as wide as
her chest. Twin rectangles sat in rails on the outside edge. Her breasts lay
atop of the wood as it was slid closer and rested against her lower ribs.
Swainford enjoyed the view along with the rest. He ordered the trio of minstrels
to begin playing. Soft notes covered the sound of heavy breathing and the
torture instrument being dragged. "Note the small wooden triangles on the middle
inside edges of those blocks."
She yanked the chained wrists behind and even tried to twist away, but could not
move off or from the wood now supporting her. The captain's voice echoed in the
rocky cavern. True, there were two dull tipped triangles on the edges. Runt slid
them closer to each other. Catherine felt the tips dent the sides of her
breasts. The rectangles they sided slid further in the rails. Her breasts were
pushed, then smashed together. She licked her upper lip free of sweat and closed
her eyes.
"Of course there's more!" Swainford gulped heartily from the mug and watched as
Runt brought forth an iron bar. It was as long as the wood, but much thinner.
Runt adjusted the bar and placed two long screws long enough to reach the wood
through holes in the bar. It then slid in place just under her chin. He watched
the iron lowered to lie across the base of her pleasing tits. "This begins...the
really fun part."
Catherine shivered. The bar brought cold just as the bottoms of her breasts
warmed to the wood. A black line ran across the tops of creamy white flesh. She
looked up at Runt. A blast of foul smell hit her as her reward. She also saw him
begin to slowly spin spindles in the screws. Catherine felt the bar grow
heavier.
The sight of her tits pressed together pleased, but as the half-wit tightened
down the top press the sight got better with each and every turn. Tips darkened
as did the globes begin themselves. Sweat began to sparkle as it dotted her
worried features.
"You are right, Runt. They are very pretty." Swainford smiled at his word of
appreciation. "Of course you may." He smiled and sat back, a leg crossing the
other. The ogre of a man bent down and mouthed one nipple.
Catherine shrieked. The crushing weight on her chest was bad enough, but then
feeling the repulsiveness of his tongue licking her nearly buckled her knees.
Insanely, musical strains surrounded this stage of horrors.
"Get them good and hard, and then show the pretty princess your collection of
pets."
He stopped licking and returned to screwing down the iron bar. Occasionally, the
side rectangles would be moved closer. Catherine's breasts turned to hard, dark
balloons. Runt gave each another lick and left to fetch two glass containers.
Inside buzzed swarms of bees. The princess' eyes grew wider as Runt opened the
lid on one jar, and careful not to let any of the insects escape, clamped the
mouth over one enlarged areola.
Sweat poured out of every pore. Catherine carefully followed Runt's movement
with the jars. Given the numbness in her chest she imagined she felt one placed
over the end of her breasts, and that she could feel the insects inside
brushing over her skin.
The collected wasps repeatedly stung as opposed to other bees that only stung
once. Venom injected into the engorged breasts. Catherine became nearly
hysterical. The pain she felt was not merely imagined. Loss of consciousness
spared her more than once, but the chain and press held.
"Get the Abess. I have a feeling she will wish to also see this." The captain
pretended not to notice the hysterical wails and encouraged the sheepish
minstrels to continue their gentle music.
"Do as the Mother Superior says. Start with widening the blocks." Swainford
kissed his favorite mistress as she sat in his lap. He offered no protest when
the blonde followed the nun into the chamber. The more the merrier...
Catherine whimpered as hands released the wood pushing together her punished
breasts. Already swelling covered their tops. Blisters, where the bees had
stung, began to suppurate as thick compresses were applied. With nowhere for the
venom to go outside, inflamed tissues expanded. Through her tears the rustle of
a black and white of a cleric's habit approaching gave a glimmer of hope.
"This woman is scandalous!" The abbess of the local convent blanched on seeing
waves of auburn draped over the topless female. She immediately ordered a
widening of the wooden rectangles mashing each outside of the female's breasts
and ordered shears.
Unlike the captain's growl, the nun's voice sounded a mixture of rattled shards
of glass, ice and bits of metal. To Catherine, the craggy face with its fiery
eyes and crooked nose looked worse. It was obvious that no hope was to be found
with her, religious or no.
The captain kissed the soft female squirming in his arms again and watched the
habit fly. Bony fingers tore away shears from one of his men. Minstrels
continued their music as the shears began to cut.
Several links in the ceiling chain hoisted the princess's manacled wrists higher
behind her back. The action caused the naked body to lean slightly more forward,
placing additional pressure on her tortured breasts. A manservant holding a
basket caught shorn locks of falling hair before they hit the floor.
"I must worn you," Swainford spoke out to Catherine. "That the Abess is also
something of a fanatic."
Ferverent prayers rapidly uttered beneath her breath didn't stop. Nor did the
nun's shears as she continued to lop off more of the offending mane. Soap was
ordered as she prepared to shave the scalp, less for the comfort of her weeping
victim and more to raise up remaining stubble as a razor was produced to finish
the job.
"Open the louvers!"
A shaft of sunlight poured down over Catherine's bald pate as soon as the shrill
command was ordered. Mechanical sounds of metal sliding continued as the shaft
widened until all of Catherine brilliantly shone. Her head looked unusually
white. Lower down her chest ran the dark bar. Large breasts erupted from its
depression. Purplish splotches mottled their complexion.
The Abess dug amongst the folds of her habit and finally produced what she
sought. Sunlight warmed her head as she stepped just to the other side of the
prisoner. A bright circle appeared over the top of the left breast as she held
the magnifying glass. Lowering it slowly, she grimly smiled as she watched the
circle diminish in size, but also get brighter.
The sun felt better than her dank surroundings. A large spot warmed one breast.
Catherine opened her eyes and realized what the abbess held in her hand. She
screamed.
The sweet thing in his lap stopped her cuddling and looked over to watch
Catherine. Melodies ran uninterrupted as the nun huddled over her work.
Swainford saw the blackened cross. Knowledge of the Mother Superior's
predilections for all things sadistic, he surmised from the raising steam coming
from the other side that she was branding both tits. The Abess deserved her fun,
he thought, and stroked the warm golden tresses of his distracted mistress.
They revived Catherine four times as the lens burned her flesh. When completed,
two crosses starkly contrasted with the already discolored flesh.
"This devil-woman bears the signs of our Saviour!" The nun ranted. Sweat
darkened her brow. "She must be pierced!"
Catherine shook from her own pain. The fury of the nun in front of her only
added to her terror. She saw the first thin rod appear and flinched.
The captain's Main Squeeze buried her pretty head in his shoulder as the Abess
stabbed all six of the skewers into the princess. Manfully, he embraced her and
slowly rocked her shivering body. He had to wonder, though, if his whore didn't
want to see this sort of action why she came in the first place? Besides, she
wasn't the one getting tortured. The idea gave him pause.
The Abess flew from the chamber. Swainford could guess where she was headed. The
nun left them behind, and of course, the prisoner. Serpentine trails of blood
ran from the six rods poking up at odd angles. "Let the woman down. Take her
down...I suspect she needs a drink."
Skewers waggled in front of her face as she stood. Manacled wrists were released
from the chain. Modesty no longer presented a concern. She felt hands lower what
remained of her gown over her hips. White slips and pantaloons joined them. A
dark triangle of cropped curls topped long thighs. Save for the rods and
manacles, Catherine stood totally nude.
A large bucket filled with water and a funnel were produced They were set near a
short pedestal. The prisoner was laid backward so that her only support was
where the top of the pedestal met the small of her back. Hands and feet were
anchored to the floor.
Runt looked down at Catherine's .knitted brows "Don't be too concerned, he just
wants to give you a drink." Swainford's baritone sounded above the madrigal.
Runt placed the narrow end of the funnel into Catherine's mouth. A helper tipped
the bucket. Water dribbled from its lips and into the funnel. Runt kept his
fingers tightly pinching Catherine's nose. He animatedly nodded his head with
glee as he watched her throat move. A little water spilled each lips corner, but
she gulped most of it.
"Well, keep my bedcovers warm," he smiled as his mistress said she could "take
no more" and ran from the chamber. He swatted her behind as she slid off and
turned his attention back to the prisoner. Already, the white stomach was
beginning to rise. A small dome built where once she was once concave. One
skewer fell out and lay in a puddle on the floor, but the others stayed. They
shook as their owner did. More water poured from the bucket. It was refilled and
its contents, too, were slowly fed into the funnel.
The half-wit excitedly motioned for Swainford to see. He pointed at the hairy
mound. The captain adjusted his position until he saw the golden arch glinting
in the sunshine. Smiling, he sunk back into the chair. It seemed the fair
princes lost control of her bladder. How terribly embarrassing, he thought.
"Enough! Now use the staffs." The belly had risen. Its shape gleamed in the
gloom of the chamber. Runt and his assistant moved to each side and swung the
poles down onto the mound. Red marks showed where they smacked. The shocked
musicians stopped, but when seeing the captain's glower at them resumed playing.
A mixture of water and bile gushed from every orifice as the water torture
continued. The two beat the swollen belly back down to its normal shape.
Catherine was semi-conscious as her hands and feet were released. Her face
wiped. A crude smock, the kind worn by the lowliest of peasants went over her
head. Cord fashioned a belt. A skull cap was placed on top.
"Take the prisoner back to the square." Swainford rose from his comfortable
chair and strode out to the afternoon's daylight.
"It's our version of the Spanish Horse," Swainford explained to the prisoner at
his left. Glancing down, he had to admire the way the smock rose out from her
rising chest and credited not only her natural charms for the bust-line, but
also, the fine work done in the torture chamber. "You, of course, get to be the
rider."
Two soldiers took Catherine closer to the wooden structure. Able to walk only
haltingly, she managed. Casting eyes to the wall of the cathedral, she cried as
she saw Bidonne's bloody body crammed into the small cage. For a moment she
forgot her own miseries and only thought of him, but then sounds of the gathered
towns people brought her mind back.
On stilts sat a wooden triangle. It seemed halfway up to where Bidonne hung.
Hands gripped under her shoulders and she climbed a ladder on one side of the
structure. Twisting her head she saw more of the townspeople and could hear
their mean jokes about her shaven head. High above the pyramid on the top ran a
sturdy-looking cable. From it dangled two ropes.
It hurt as she felt the hard point divide her nether lips. The smock fell bellow
her knees and she felt hands pull her bare calves back and tie her ankles
loosely to the structure. Other hands gripped her wrists and raised her arms
high above her head. The dangling ropes she saw before held each up. She angled
her view up higher and saw Bidonne and wept for their shared shame.
"This is all quite simple," Swainford knew she could just barely crane her neck
to see him on the ground, but continued for the sake of all present. "The cables
on high will lift you up from the "saddle", and when they release you obviously
will sink back down. Just like riding a horse." He acknowledged the laughter
with a wave of his hand and again looked at the beleaguered rider perched above.
Despite the smock that covered her, it was quite apparent on what she sat.
He walked over to the platform carrying his throne prior to signaling for this
latest torture to begin.
Thin clouds from roasting meats and various incense hindered any hopes of
clearing air quality in the town square. Few seemed to care, however, as
commerce between various guilds and consumers reached a peak with the maturing
afternoon. Troubadours joined the original minstrels. Citizens pleased with
purchases, or simply not buying, milled about. Small groups merrily danced.
Swainford's harlot rejoined the captain. This time, she brought her sister. All
in the square seemed eager to see the French couple.
Perched above it all Catherine slump in the ad hoc saddle, arms stretched high
above her head and chin resting on her chest. She had ridden the Spanish Horse
well. Using a simple network of rope and pulleys, Runt had illustrated all gaits
a rider might expect, from a slow walk to full gallop. Swainford ordered him to
stop after several cycles were run and the female had clearly tired. Ominous
stains slid down the solid pyramid/saddle straddled by the bared legs. As
striking a sculpture as the tower and its rider made, it was obvious the
townspeople had lost interest. The captain ordered that she be taken down and
sent to a subterranean cell.
He gingerly tiptoed over the stale straw. A tip of his gilded boot parted the
legs of the sprawled female as a servant washed away most of the dried blood. He
saw something he had not noticed before. Streaks wiped over the flesh, but the
design remained. Bending down for closer inspection, Swainford appraised the
small birthmark on the upper inner thigh. It was shaped like a rose.
Standing, he stepped to the cell door and gripped a soldier's bicep. "Never mind
any food for this one. Tomorrow Runt will provide his special selection," he
stroked his goatee and leered back at the barely conscious prisoner. "His own
special collection of...pears." Telling the man to let her rest for now, he
walked away proudly whistling one of the courtly lyrics the music makers of the
afternoon seemed to favor.
Catherine tossed nightmarishly during the night, but given her exhaustion she at
times fell into a deep sleep. A small window set high in the bare concrete wall
showed the dawn of a new day. Desperately she listened but could no longer hear
any sounds from Bidonne. Only the movements of various early risers outside and
the sharp clanging of keys at her cell door could be heard.
She still wore the coarse hemp but felt her chest sag as soldiers dragged her to
the torture chamber. The wasp venom made her breasts weigh heavily. Without
looking she could tell they had grown to gargantuan size overnight. Ligaments
and shoulders ached as arms lifted under hers and her feet slid over the cold
stone.
Runt gestured and grunted at the standing St. Andrew's cross with its dangling
chains and manacles. Catherine groaned as she was lifted up. Metal tightly
closed around chafed skin. Links of chain rattled as slack was taken up.
Catherine felt her arms pulled higher. Ribs rose. Swollen breasts jutted out
from under the smock. Testing her legs, she found enough give in the chain to
bend each knee and place the sole of each foot on the lower part of the wooden
"X".
"Well, good morning all." The captain effusively burst into the gloomy chamber
accompanied by the blonde twins from the day before. He wore black while they
wore matching slinky gowns of midnight blue. Diamonds, rubies and gold glittered
from all three. "I trust everyone had a delightful night, and is ready for this
grand new day?"
Male grunts greeted the arrival. The three soldiers knew what to expect and Runt
readied his tools.
"Then let's begin, shall we?" Swainford sat in his customary chair facing
Catherine and pulled the two other females onto his lap. "You boys know what to
do, but Runt wait just a moment. I have a little favor to ask of my friends
here."
Catherine winced as fingers tore at her ragged neckline and ripped all of the
garb away. Chancing a look down, she saw some normal color restored to her
breasts, but the nipples looked angrily bruised. Black crosses topped each huge
globe. Where the Abess in her religious zealotry had driven in the skewers tiny
pink pimpled the black. Each was topped with a crater fresh from having its scab
removed. Her breasts were so huge they blocked sight down her body. She raised
her head up in agonizing frustration and stared at the vaulted ribs crossing the
ceiling.
Swainford whispered to each of his companions. One seemed to protest and he
viciously slapped her face. No resistance was offered and both removed their
gowns down to their ivory lace cottes, or undergarments.
"Runt, my friends here have volunteered. Isn't that nice of them? Less work for
you, eh old man?" The captain laughed and shoved the females forward. "Give each
of them one of those nice whips you so enjoy."
The soldiers' eyes sparkled in the gloom as they listened to their commander and
then watched the pretty blondes strip. Runt begrudgingly handed each a coiled
black whip. Too heavy for them to hold, the wound leathers immediately uncoiled
and fell to the floor.
One twin playfully snapped the lash at Swainford's boot. She blew him a kiss and
then whirled back to face Catherine. Reversing the thick handle in her hand, she
gently rubbed its length over the tortured lips parted between upper thighs.
Fingers admired the pretty birthmark. She kept sliding the long handle back and
forth. Next to her she smiled at her sister.
She returned the smile, but her cheek and ego still smarted from her sister's
slap. Glancing down at the wetted handle as it slid back and forth, she decided
it was time for a little one-up time. Tucking away an errant golden curl, her
fingers delicately reached under the prisoner's swollen breast. The heavy jug
felt warm. Fingers squeezed. Flesh gave. The Frenchwoman's scent got stronger as
she bent at the waist. Knowing that her sister, as well as the captain keenly
watched her every movement, she took the swollen nipple into her mouth.
Feelings she thought lost forever fired anew inside of Catherine. Groans turned
into moans. She felt her hips and torso dare to rock in rhythm with
manipulations being done to her body. She felt one of the blondes remove the
stained skullcap from her shaven head. Catherine's mouth opened as the other's
tongue slid in.
"Okay ladies...now we all know why we are really here. Stop your fooling around
and let's not disappoint the esteemed Runt over here."
The kissing and the sliding stopped. Catherine's eyes opened wide. Two naked
blondes with whips stepped away and back from her. She wanted them to return,
yet only their eyes remained locked with hers.
The first lash cracked through the dank air. Fire seared into one breast. Its
heft swayed and seemed to leap as if to pull free from her torso. Catherine's
entire body shuddered. The St.Andrew's cross she was chained to shook. Fresh
beads of sweat spurted.
One guard elbowed his partner as they watched another welt erupt across the
prisoner's body. Crude jokes were made at her desperate attempts to escape by
using her arms to pull up and bent legs to help. The captain calmly stroked his
chin and idly wondered if he had not been mistaken in neglecting to invite the
musicians for this second day of torture. He decided that no mistake was made as
the prisoner could only now croak her displeasure. Runt idiotically clapped as
he learned the two blondes could handle the whips.
Welts marked the nude. The heavy tits had bounced and swung, especially when
they were directly hit. Pleasure growing on the two sweating twins was
inescapable. Swainford ordered them to stop and waited as they returned to his
lap. Explaining what was to soon follow, he offered each the choice of
redressing and returning to his bedroom, or to stay and watch.
He kissed both of the blonde's cheeks as they eagerly wished to stay. Stroking
their soft hair, he allowed them to put their gowns back on. Both harlots would
jump to be nude later...
"Runt, you may splash water on the prisoner, if you wish...Be sure and show her
the breast ripper and the pears, but be judicious on how you use them."
Swainford smiled. The half-wit did know his stuff, but the captain wondered if
the idiot knew that either the ripper or the pear could be fatal. Timing was to
be of the essence.
The cold water on her face revived her. Blinking her eyes clear, she saw Runt go
over to one of the glowing braziers. From over his back, she saw him lift a tool
from the coals. Catherine got a better look as he turned her way.
Heat radiated from the four curved hooks at the end of the tool. They looked
sharp and red hot. In the darkness, she could make out Runt's set of beady eyes
glaring back at her as he held the cooler end. Catherine shut her eyes and
turned her head away, but knew the ripper remained just in front of her face
because she still felt its heat radiate.
"Don't forget the other things."
Her cheek cooled enough so that she opened her eyes again. Runt was returning.
This time he carried a tray. On the pewter sat three silver engraved objects.
Either it was the room light, or, the objects badly were in need of polishing as
each shone barely brighter than the pewter tray. Basically the same shape, each
was a different size. There was the oval body and then a turn-screw exiting each
end. Catherine wasn't sure what they were, but had the sinking feeling that she
was soon to find out.
One blonde helped the other with her gown. Braids were tucked back in place. One
nudged the other. Both watched the captain rise and step in front of the
prisoner on the cross.
Exotic bone structure appeared more chiseled than distinct. Sallow hollows
depressed cheeks. Shadows bagged the eyes. What were once sparkling emeralds had
become a listless green. Swainford used one finger to lift the fallen cheek.
"Did I not say before," he began as the dullness stared back at him. "That you
would lose your feminine gifts for spurning my amorous overture? Feel free to
correct me if I am wrong, but I dare say that you are well on your way to
achieving that goal now, dear princess."
Pale blue gowns and golden hair streaked across the dim light as the captain let
go his prisoner's chin and returned to his chair. The sisters giggled as they
made secret dares between each other and stood before Catherine. Manicured
fingers pointed at the ample, but marbled tits, the small triangle of fur, the
birthmark and the shaven head.
The first blonde bussed a cheek. Not to be outdone, her sister pressed her mouth
over Catherine's lips and deeply kissed. Fingers clutched at one swollen globe.
Stomping her slipper in frustration, the other sibling ran her fingers down
Catherine's stomach, around the navel and slid into the pubic hair, there to toy
with what lay beneath the heated crown.
Catherine let her body slump. Rich perfumes like she used to wear announced the
other females' presence. Any inhibitions melted away. Her own musk made known
its presence. The groping and kissing awoke tingling sensations that were not
altogether unpleasant.
Swainford saw from his chair one nipple being sucked and pulled between a set of
white teeth. He also took note of the reactions the twins were evoking from the
prisoner.
Deciding that enough was enough, he walked over to join them. "I have changed my
mind. You two," the blondes dearly fired his passions and he much anticipated
later satisfying his lust with them, "well, let's just say that I have changed
my mind. Things are going to become a little messy around here, so you two run
along now."
They didn't need to be told twice. Both understood what was meant by the
thinly-veiled hint. The twins stopped using the prisoner to spite each other and
rushed from the chamber.
"Put the princess on the rack. Arrange her like a snail."
Catherine felt her numbed arms lowered and ankles freed. Strong arms lifted her
up to kneel on top of a sturdy pine table. A strap was securely tied over the
backs of her knees. Someone pushed down her torso and attached manacled wrists
to chains in front of her. Catherine's chin supported her head. She felt her
massive breasts spread over the surface.
Swainford appraised the female nude. The back was relatively unmarked and rose
to the summit of the raised derriere. Grabbing a flask from a guard, he pulled
out the stopper and poured some of the warmed oil into his palms. Rubbing them
together he spread a thin film across the bunched shoulders.
His touch was surprisingly adept. Much pain remained, but Catherine also said
good-bye to much tension as the oiled fingers massaged more of her neck and
shoulder muscles. Thumb pressure paralleled her spine as the oil was massaged
over the middle of her back.
He smiled as he felt her relax more and more under his gifted touch. She was a
slut, and he her master. Pouring more oil into his palm, Swainford slicked ribs
over each flank. Reaching the apex, which in the position she was currently in
just happened to be her arse, he took the bottle of oil and carefully tipped it.
A thin stream of thick, perfume oil landed at the base of her spine and then
made its way down.
"You must hold plenty against me..."
Her dry mouth managed to croak an answer. "Qui s'excuse, s'accuse."
"Oh, well it is French-speak that we have reverted to now? It might surprise
you, princesses, that you are not the only one educated in other languages..."
Catherine squirmed. She had yet to free herself from excitement caused by the
two blondes, and now the captain and his massage continued her reverie. Raised
hips started to sway. When the oil down her crack hit, her muscles clinched
again. As the oil slid down inside her, wells of pent-up tension neared a
breaking point. Hopefully, speaking her native tongue back to the Englishman
would offer some distraction.
"I see the one before me, the one with the rose-shaped birthmark on her inside
thigh, the one who has forgotten somehow to speak English, answer her MASTER by
saying such drivel as, "A guilty conscience needs no accuser", and in her own
language, yet!"
The select group watching inside the chamber broke out in grins as the
prisoner's hoarse voice screeched as if to drown out the captain's own bellow.
Chains rattled as the shackled body resisted the bondage. The shaven head shook
from side-to-side. Steam seemed to radiate. Even the captain stepped back to
observe Catherine spasm through her orgasm.
Cares for one long moment appeared forgotten despite surely knowing this moment
of pleasure was to be her last.
"She's all yours, Runt." Swainford smiled pleasantly at the stooped idiot
holding his tray of objects. "But do be careful, as I know you will. Be sure and
save the oral pear for last. Whatever voice she has left is not to be denied."
He handed over the flask and returned to his chair as Runt oiled the largest of
the three. A misty shine glistened to spark and renew a faded luster. Perhaps,
just perhaps, his little massage therapy had serve to invigorate the prisoner.
Runt worked the screwing mechanism of the vaginal pear as he stood so that the
prisoner could see. Confidently twisting the handle one revolution, oiled and
engraved petals blossomed. Dull silver tips topped each leaf. Reversing the
action, he stepped back and placed the closed head at the mouth of the
prisoner's labia. Grunting as he shoved, his arm worked the object deeper inside
until only the turn-screw and handle showed.
A circle completed the first twist.
Catherine's eyes bulged. Fingers frantically clawed air, but manacles and rack
chains held. Runt's metal pear rammed inside. She coughed and garbled wild
noises from her gaping mouth as metal expanded her interior.
Panting like a penned animal, Catherine hardly felt the fingers slip inside her
anus. Sound rushed anew to the sore throat as the second pear invaded. Beads of
sweat blurred any vision. Pulse roared. A flood of tears mixed with the sweat.
Runt came around to the front of the prisoner and used the end of his jersey to
mop her face. He then took the third and final pear, the oral one, and placing a
hand over her forehead, pulled her head back. With her mouth opened wider, he
slipped in the pear. Like the others, he gave it a single turn.
Swainford applauded Runt's work as the half-wit untied the hapless princess and
led her back, inserted pears and all, to the St. Andrew's cross. Standing, he
approached closer as the final connections to the chains were secured.
"My, don't you look lovely?" Teeth flashed at the bulbous face. He reached down
and gave a tug and half twist to the vaginal pear. Swainford smirked as
Catherine tried to jump from her chains.
Supporting his goateed chin with one hand as his other braced its arm, he
stepped back to admire the work. Lowering his gaze to the trembling bosom he
snapped his fingers as if reaching a decision. "Runt, I do believe our princess
here is in need of another of your tools. Bring back that ripper. And make sure
its hot."
For the best of him, Swainford could not shake the image of the rose-shaped
birthmark from his head. A steward once delivered a French manuscript authored
by one Jean Renart. The story was a little mystery, a "true story untold", about
the source of knowledge of a very similar birthmark in the same location on one
of his heroine's thighs. Renart speculated that only an intimate could have
possibly known of the mark. Could it be, he wondered, if the original
inspiration for Renart's "La Belle Lienor" now hung in his own torture dungeon?
The chamber was not entirely devoid of any architectural workings. Runt returned
from near a blind arcade. Next to the fake arch sat an ugly melange of leather
and metal scrap. The executioner's mask fully enclosed his head. Slits allowed
eye-holds and a pointed nose extended for breathing.
Headgear in place, he shuffled and snorted his way over to a brazier. Sparks
crackled. A cloud of bright orange speckles burst. He lifted from the blaze
joined metal shafts. Four hooks on the glowing red ends curved inward.
Movement in the chamber diverted the captain's day-dream. Who ever the princess
was, she fought the bite of the fiery tongs as best she could. Knees bent. Soles
slid up and down the lower portions of the cross. Her head frantically shook
from side to side. The executioner's mask made of bits of hide and metal was
truly grotesque. How fitting for one so repulsive as the moron to wear thought
Swainford as he watched the left tit, swollen from the earlier wasp poison,
scoured by the searing metal tool wielded by Runt. Swainford could see the
purplish areola and nipple point out in unnatural directions as its fat base was
shredded. Smoke billowed with the stench of burning flesh.
Runt picked up a paw to claw a finish to his first of two projects when he
stopped. Placing an ear closer to the prisoner's bloody pear handle, he removed
the object, unleashing a dam. Scarlet rivers flowed forth over her lower lip and
chin. He animatedly gestured for the captain.
What could it be now, he wondered as he reluctantly coughed and uncrossed his
legs to stand and cross the floor to see what Runt was so excited about. He
didn't want to get near the man so stood closer to the female.
Swainford was no surgeon, but looking at the mess of bloody gore and ribbons of
flesh on her chest, he thought that the light pinkish tubes might somehow be
connected to her milk making process.
Runt was right: Her lips attempted some message to him. He hazard placing his
ear closer to hear. What she was rasped sounded something like, "Votre tres
de'voue' serviteur."
Swainford stepped back a pace and picked an errant piece of lint from his velvet
vest. The ripped and torn body inescapably riveted his attention. A nipple
dangled from ragged sheets of skin. "If I understand you correctly...you just
told me that you were 'mine to command', correct?"
He didn't expect an answer.
"Well, sorry to break it to you this way, Princesse Catherine, but that's what
you always were...and now?" A dramatic pause underscored sarcasm in the
marvelous voice he was most proud of. "Well now, I am afraid that your
acquiescence to my earlier overtures come a bit late. Runt? Proceed."
Swainford sat back down and wet his lips as he watched the helmeted half-wit
apply a freshly heated ripper to the right breast. He let black lines brand into
earlier marks left by Abess, but then changed his mind. "Runt, leave that one.
Remove the other pears, put her garb back on, get a humiliation mask and lets
all go outside."
Sodden black mushroomed across the filthy gray smock. Catherine's head was
covered by rusted bronze. Scalloped metal ears, a long snout and other detailing
made the mask resemble domestic livestock. Scarlet streams dripped from the
insides of pale legs that no longer functioned as two soldiers dragged her
across the town square.
Stoic statues of saints lining the cathedral walls ignored the mounting gaiety
of the locals as they jeered and mocked the prisoner. The noise startled carrion
feasting on rotting remains of Bidonne high alongside the flying buttress.
Oblivious to the plight of the princess below, fluffy clouds ambled overhead
amid sunshine.
The cage was just tall enough so that if her head was bent, she could fit
inside. Metal from her bronze scraped against the iron roof. Sleeveless arms
were braided through open squares in the iron. Bare knees bent out, but were
shoved back in as the cage door was closed and locked. A signal was given, and
up she went.
Swainford wrapped an arm around the soft shoulders of each of his blonde twins.
He was pleased the sisters had decided to join the festivities outside after
all. Gazing skyward, he contemplated the rose-shaped birthmark on the upper
inner thigh he had been privy to as the princess hung caged next to her prince.
Renart or no this was one not-so-true story definitely told, and he was the
teller.
