Voyage of Terror

  Title Page

  VOYAGE OF TERROR

  by JD Jensen

  Kinks Books is an imprint

  of W&H Publishing LLP.

  Publisher Information

  This ebook edition published by Kink Books is an imprint of W&H Publishing LLP, Foresters Hall, 25-27 Westow Street, London, SE19 3RY.

  Digital edition converted and published by

  Andrews UK Limited 2011

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Previously published by The Olympia Press PO Box 148, Ryde, Isle of Wight, PO33 9BE.

  Copyright © JD Jensen

  The right of JD Jensen to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead and is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by the way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, electronically copied, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent.

  Chapter One

  Captain Labastide spat disdainfully over the bridge railing before closing the wheelhouse door again. It was hot and tomorrow would be hotter. Barely five hours out from Marseilles the ship had already settled into its familiar pitch and yaw, a motion that was at once both gentle but somehow sinister. It was as if the “L’île St Joseph” knew its unwilled destination.

  Beneath his feet the steam-piston engines rumbled and shuddered as the screws cut a white fluorescent wake astern.

  “Steer two seven zero,” he growled at the helmsman. Squinting into the sun, he turned then to the fresh-faced second-officer. The young man was so full of unknowing innocence, not fit for a ship such as this, Labastide considered.

  “Ring down for three-quarter speed, Bouvier, and maintain course for an hour.”

  “Aye, Captain!” His tone was so absurdly enthusiastic.

  The beauty of the distant shimmering horizon offered no solace. Not for Labastide’s soul. Neither, he reflected ruefully, for the tortured souls under his command. Below in the forward Number One hold it would already be sweltering, even with the fans full on. He tried to imagine the sweating, glistening skins of the newly loaded human cargo. In less than two weeks the women would reach the dreadful landing quay of Port Cayonne, having by then lost a quarter of their bodyweight, fearful, dejected, but wiser than before.

  Yet the voyage would scarcely be more than a mild foretaste of what the poor wretches must surely endure. The penal colony of St Laurent de Maroni was a lifetime away. Hell-on-earth was its rightful reputation. Only the youngest and fittest of female convicts were ever sent there. Only the strongest and most resourceful ever came back to the motherland still retaining any of their remaining youth and femininity. Thirty of them were aboard - Labastide knew from the manifest - as well as nearly a hundred male prisoners. Kept separated and housed in Number Two hold - aft of the amidships accommodation and bridge - these miserable wretches attracted neither his sympathy nor any vestige of interest for him. Soon they would be little more than emaciated walking dead-men, fodder for the jungle timber-camps, fodder for the mosquitoes and malaria.

  The women, on the other hand, were altogether another matter. A brief surge of lustful anticipation filled his loins. So many images danced into his vision. Madame Latour would, as ever, see to it that discipline would be enforced and …

  Duval interrupted his contemplations. The wiry figure of the chief-officer almost burst through the wheelhouse-door. From the smugly wicked expression on his weasel-like face Labastide knew instinctively that the man could scarcely wait to report to him.

  “We’ve a cargo of spectacular beauties aboard, Captain, for a change. At least, several of ‘em are like fresh-faced young angels, plucked from heaven itself! Not like them usual old prunes we get aboard. One or two’ve got bodies on ‘em like as could make a man spurt his load just by look’n at ‘em! Delightful peachy little breasts and neat curvy butts! And you wouldn’t guess what!”

  “Spit it out, you hopeless piece of dogshit!” Labastide said under his breath without any particular rancour, his eyes focussed on the far horizon and trying to ignore Duval’s excitement.

  “It’s that Contesse De Louvois bitch! You know, the one that crooked all those rich bigwigs in that phoney Panamanian Bond scam. Remember? She even took two ministers to the cleaners. Bankrupted one of the silly bastards! Twelve years she’s got for it, six hard labour and six paroled-banishment.” Duval gave a nasty high-pitched cackle, eying the captain with amusement and keeping the best until last.

  “But that’s not all, Captain. The bitch is twice as dishy as the papers made out. Got boobs on her like friggin’ pumpkins – and ‘er figure’s like some friggin’ storybook goddess! God! Can you imagine all them old lags with their tongues lolling out, ogling her while she pounds laundry on those washboards in the sun - sweat running off her quivering tits and all! Doesn’t bear thinking about! What a waste! Her butt’s just mouth-watering, just waiting to be…er … waiting …” Duval glanced suddenly at the young second-officer and grimaced before continuing in a whispered conspiratorial tone.

  “I tell you, she’d eat that pipsqueak for breakfast if she just so much as flashed her cunt at ‘im!”

  “What else, Duval?” Labastide feigned disinterest, his tone flat.

  Duval was not to be put off.

  “Well, she’s as cool as a stick of spring asparagus. Already got two of the younger pretty ones eating out of the palm of her hands. Mimmie says she’s already planning to start a mutiny about conditions down there. Saying things like she’ll complain to the Governor and all that shit when we arrive. Makes out she’s still got powerful friends. Baaah! If you ask me she’s either slept with every fuck’n minister or bankrupted ‘em! But with an arse like that …”

  “Is Madame Latour certain of these facts, Duval?”

  “But of course, Captain! Mimmie’s already preparing the Table of Correction in the fo’c’sle. Her first customer for this voyage! And, no doubt, she’s got her eye on the two young un’s as well. They’ll soon enough learn of our Mimmie’s little pleasures!”

  The fact that ‘Mimmie’ Latour was herself a convict – still serving out her debt to France in her parole period – did nothing to detract from her status aboard the ship. As wardress of the women’s hold her authority and power were unquestioned. She had already served four years in the penal colony sewing canvas shrouds for the daily toll of corpses. Now she was serving her final four ‘paroled-banishment’ years, preparing her young charges for the life that she had so recently left behind. Nevertheless Labastide kept a keen watch on her activities, both from the perspective of curbing her excessive zeal, as much as for his own entertainment. Soon it would be time for an inspection, but he would let Duval’s itchy palms sweat for a little longer.

  “I’m going below for a drink, Duval. I’ll ring up when I’m ready to make my rounds.”

  If the chief Officer glared at him, Labastide neither knew nor cared.

  ***

  In the upper ‘tweendeck of Number One hold the fans overhead whirred and clattered monotonously. The heat was oppressive. Here and there little whimpers could occasionally be heard from the hammocks that swung in gentle rhythm to the ship’s motion. Otherwise there was only the rumble and juddering of the hull for company.

  A heavy metal grille ran along the middle and length of the hold, although the door grating was open. There was scarcely a need for locking it. The only exit was the iron steps that reached steeply up to th
e hatch above. This in turn led out onto the open foredeck. During the mornings the women were allowed to wander freely there. It was there that they were fed and watered and once daily they were hosed down, naked, scarcely bothering to cover their nakedness, their torsos glistening in the sun as they dried. It was a spectacle much looked forward to by the crew – and by those few male prisoners lucky enough to glimpse the proceedings through the metal barrier of the passageway that led to the after-deck.

  Madame ‘Mimmie’ Latour surveyed the swaying hammocks with interest. The sun was still high although there was only a dusty shaft of light penetrating through the open hatch. Apart from that, there were several oil-lamps hanging from welded brackets along the wall but the place was gloomy, adding to the discernible misery of its atmosphere.

  “You there! Contesse! Is that what they call you? Get out from your hammock and look sharp, my dear, if you please! There are lessons aboard ship that they probably didn’t teach you in First Class - and which you, my dear Contesse, must learn!”

  Contesse Marie-Chantal de Louvois raised herself and stared almost curiously at the large voluptuous wardress before shrugging her shoulders and lowering herself unhurriedly and quite gracefully to her feet. For a few moments she stood there, entirely naked, hands on hips, her proud, magnificent breasts thrust out almost defiantly. Her legs were long and shapely, her thighbones set so widely that the narrow indent of her waist was gloriously accentuated. Her whole stature was altogether exquisite Mimmie thought, letting her eyes travel slowly up and down the girl’s brazen nakedness. This notorious and impressive creature could not have been past twenty-six or seven, yet she had an air about her of cool assurance – not a trace of fear on those beautiful features.

  “What should I call you?” the Contesse asked simply, her voice as sweet as sugarcane, but with a vaguely imperious edge to her tone.

  “You call ME ‘Madame’, is that clear? And I call you Marie-Chantal or de Louvois or whatever I bloody like to call you!”

  “Yes, Madame. Have I done something wrong? Already?” There was almost amusement in her voice as she stood there watching Mimmie with twinkling eyes.

  “It’s mutiny to talk with the other girls about conditions here. You’ll find worse when you get to St Laurent, my poor dear. There you get the guillotine for such subversive chatter. Here you only get the whip - and a few hours of discomfort in the fo’c’sle. So think yourself lucky!”

  “Oh, the whip? I’ve never incurred the misfortune of being whipped before. It will be … er … a whole new experience for me, if that is what I’m to get.” She spoke casually, almost nonchalantly, still no trace of fear.

  Usually the mere mention of ‘whip’ was enough to instantly blanch the face of any convict-girl and for a moment Mimmie was taken aback by such brazen cheek – or was it bravado? She was not sure. Either way the insolent smile would soon enough be wiped from her pretty little face.

  “Insolence is punished here as well, my dear. But at the moment let us deal first with your crime of mutiny. The captain will want to pass sentence formally.”

  By now several pairs of eyes were peeping warily from hammocks, ears listening fearfully. The two girls in the hammocks on either side of the Contesse’s were saucer-eyed, nervously darting between the naked celebrity-prisoner and the heavily built wardress.

  “I only remarked that it was too hot down here and that I couldn’t breath properly and that the food was filth and that the hammock was rough on my skin …”

  “Oooh, rough on your skin, is it just?” Mimmie mocked. “Well there’s a notion! By the time I’ve finished with you, my poor dear little Marie-Chantal … your skin will be even rougher, I fancy. Now, put your smock on and follow me to the fo’c’sle, your ladyship!”

  ***

  On deck the sheer brilliance of the sun made her screw her eyes shut. The planking seemed to scorch her bare feet as she walked as gracefully as she could, keeping a pace or so behind the wardress. It was deserted, or so she thought, until she saw the waiting figures of two men just beneath the awning at the forward end of the deck. She realised instantly that the thickset man must be the captain, the other puny ferret-faced man one of the officers. But Marie-Chantal de Louvois was not to be cowed in their presence.

  “Good afternoon, Captain. I’m told I’ve offended you, Sir – and that I’m to be punished … er … whipped for my sins. Is that so?”

  Captain Labastide had never before laid eyes upon such an exotic creature. Duval had not exaggerated one bit. Labastide could not help but notice how his chief-officer was struck suddenly rigid as the girl stood there calmly before them, a thin pouting little smile on her lips. Labastide himself felt momentarily lost for words. This impressive female was undoubtedly as brave as she was beautiful and foolhardy. He even noticed that Mimmie was strangely subdued.

  Labastide gave a curt little bow, realising that it was not even mockingly done.

  “Indeed, Contesse. I fear that from what Madame Latour has told me, that is indeed correct. I cannot permit mutinous talk onboard my ship by convicts, as I’m sure you will appreciate. We have our rules - silly though they may seem to you.”

  For a moment the girl said nothing, watching the two men impassively. Then her face spread into a dazzling smile. Even in her flimsy inelegant grey-serge smock she looked as glamorous as if she were wearing an evening dress, Labastide considered admiringly.

  “Well, Sir, at least I’m glad to make your acquaintance even in such unfortunate circumstances.” Then turning to Duval she added primly, “… and yours too, Sir, of course.”

  Duval was speechless, his jaw dropping.

  “This way, Marie-Chantal.” Mimmie impatiently broke the spell, gesturing at the doorway into the fo’c’sle. For a second she glanced warily at the two officers before following behind her charge.

  The bare metal chamber narrowed to a sharp point ahead of them, the walls sloping away to its peak. A single naked light-bulb hung from the low ceiling, giving a stark cold light onto the interior of the place, which smelt of tar and paint. Set into the walls were several metal racks and hanging from them were various straps, belts, chains and other paraphernalia. For a moment Marie-Chantal studied them curiously, her head tilted to one side as if working out their purpose. She was aware that the two officers were standing behind her so close that she could smell the musty staleness of their uniforms.

  “Am I to be strapped to the wall with these … things?” Her voice was steady enough, although perhaps with just the trace of a quiver at the end.

  “No, my dear. You’ll be strapped to THIS!” Mimmie gestured towards the centre of the room, a note of wicked triumph in her voice.

  A sort of raised steel box-frame stood there in sinister isolation. It resembled a small rectangular, double-tiered table, one tier positioned above the other with a gap of some eighteen inches between them, the lower tier only several inches above the floor. The topmost tier, which was no wider than twenty inches across, consisted of horizontal grid-bars stretching from one side of the frame to the other in such a fashion that it looked rather like some perverse metal washboard. There were a number of leather straps fixed to the side-beams at both ends and near the middle section. The four sturdy legs of the frame were about two and a half feet high, bolted to the floor. These were welded onto a series of support struts and triangular plates to the two horizontal platforms, so that that the whole apparatus was entirely rigid.

  The only concession to its cold uncompromising starkness was by virtue of the leather pads on either side at the edges - about halfway along. These pads were fastened to the grid-bars and there were two more at the back-end of the platform. Here and there at intervals were a number of solid rings inserted into the steel side-beams and also at the very centre of the middle crossbar. The bottom tier was more of a mesh grid rather than bars across its width. In the same way as the uppe
r level there were also a number of steel rings along the sides and again at each end, but none on its central plain.

  Although the precise working nature of the frame was not at once apparent, its purpose was at least entirely clear to Marie-Chantal. For several moments she studied the red-painted contraption almost dispassionately, even if her tongue momentarily licked the dryness of her lips.

  “I take it that I’m to … er … mount this … platform?”

  “When you’ve slipped off your smock first, yes.”

  For just a fraction of a second the business-like tone of Mimmie’s voice was betrayed by just a hint of a guilty tremor to it. But she instantly regained her composure, commanding the girl:

  “Then you get on and kneel on all fours. I shall do the rest for you.”

  “Am I to take it that I’m to get myself naked - in front of these two gentlemen?” Marie-Chantal looked horrified, but Mimmie wondered if she were not feigning her shocked disbelief, mockingly so.

  “Not only that, my dear, but you will be WHIPPED naked in their presence. It’s standard procedure for all sentenced male or female offenders on this ship, isn’t that so, Sir?” Mimmie Latour turned to the captain.

  For a second Labastide was flustered, feeling his rising lust. When finally he answered his voice was husky.

  “Er … yes … those are the regulations.” His eyes momentarily caught the girl’s before he added in a clearer voice, “I’m afraid so. My sincere regrets, Contesse, but I cannot bend the rules for you. You understand?” He shrugged.

  At that moment there was a sudden snort from Duval before he blurted out disdainfully: