Voyage of Terror Page 7

  At that there was a petulant little sob from over by the wall-rack and Fleur’s whining voice began to plead.

  “Oh, please, Miss. Please give me a break, I beg you. This is murder! I really can’t take it. Not all night. Please.”

  Solange glanced up now at the frowning wardress, hardly daring to voice her own timid protestations.

  “Yes, Miss. Please … not all night. It’s so very uncomfortable for us.”

  “Uncomfortable! You, uncomfortable?” Mimmie rasped, her agitated tone laced with sarcasm, peering disdainfully down at the girl on the lower tier.

  “YOU, who’ve not had any pain or real discomfort? YOU who’ve only had to lie there quietly, DARE to complain!” she snorted derisively. “My poor dear girl, you’ve had it too soft for sure. I think I shall have to remedy that! It’s hardly fair on your two comrades that you’ve got off so lightly … so far.”

  In a flash Solange realised her own impetuous stupidity, her eyes widening in sudden apprehension, desperately wanting to retract her words.

  “I d-didn’t mean anything disrespectful, Miss. Honest I d-didn’t …” she began, but instinctively knowing that it was already too late. Whatever additional act of punishment the wardress had in her mind she could see by the woman’s hardened face that there would be no escape from it now. A sort of gleam of mischief had crossed Mimmie’s features.

  “Yes, indeed, I think I have JUST the thing for you, my dear Solange,” she announced slowly, her eyes narrowing. “In fact I think it will be entirely appropriate, seeing how you like to plunge a pointed metal shank into other people’s flesh.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t at all …” Solange started to protest, shocked at the idea that anyone would think that she had purposefully stabbed Jean-Claude.

  “Shut your mouth! We don’t want to hear your feeble excuses. Anyway, you’ve been sentenced by the Tribunal to penal servitude for your crime and as far as I’m concerned you’re a properly convicted murderess. As such I shall do with you what I like whilst you’re aboard this transport-ship.”

  There was no anger in Mimmie’s voice. Her words were almost matter-of-fact, although there was the merest hint of something wickedly playful in her tone – almost as though it promised something unforeseen to come.

  She strolled leisurely across to the metal box at the front of the chamber again, three pairs of eyes following her every movement. Even Fleur had stopped whimpering, her tear-stained face now turned towards the wardress with anxious curiosity. Mimmie bent down over the opened box. After seeming to search noisily amongst its contents for a few seconds she lifted out a shiny steel shank. It was about eight inches long, its cylindrical girth no greater than a large carrot, one end tapering smoothly into a rounded conical head. Welded to the blunt end was a short length of thin chain that rattled against the box as she removed the shank. Inspecting it thoughtfully for a second, she stood up straight and held the steel up in her raised hand, blatantly displaying it with unhurried and deliberate provocation. She knew how the girls’ eyes would be immediately drawn to it, wondering at its intended purpose.

  “These are not really legal. Not any more, girls. But sometimes the captain turns a blind eye to me using them on awkward customers.” Mimmie’s tone was conversational.

  Passing in front of Fleur, she walked back to stand on one side of the Table of Correction, still holding the shank out conspicuously in one hand, ensuring that both occupants could clearly observe its detail.

  “I think I’ll just start you off with the standard size, Solange. I don’t want to cause you any … er … severe distress. It’s just for you to experience some real discomfort … and to put you on an equal footing with your two comrades.”

  Ignoring the Contesse’s knowing look, Mimmie glanced down at Solange, giving her a rueful smile and noticing how the girl’s puzzled eyes were as wide as saucers.

  For a few tense seconds the wardress was silent, only turning the shiny steel over almost lovingly in her hand, letting the chain hang loosely down. Then, her tone seeming as if she might have been discussing some everyday occurrence, she announced flatly:

  “You’re going to be bolted, my dear.”

  If Solange had any idea what this overbearing woman had meant by the word ‘bolting’ she gave no indication of it. Although from the growing look of apprehension on her face it would have been clear to any onlooker that Solange knew beyond the slightest doubt that whatever this ‘bolting’ actually entailed it could scarcely be anything but wickedly unpleasant. For a moment her eyes glanced up nervously at the Contesse, as if seeking some explanation from her more worldly-wise companion-in-misery. But poor Marie-Chantal was still absorbed in the painful wake of her flogging, her face screwed up with every fresh wave of depleting agony.

  Solange’s frantic look had not escaped Mimmie’s attention.

  “Sorry, my dear.” She shook her head in mock regret. “I’m afraid your friend the Contesse can’t help you. So there’s no point in looking up at her for reassurance like some mournful puppy-dog. She’s got her own problems. Isn’t that so, Contesse?” For a second Mimmie’s eyes darted towards the occupant of the top-tier. But Marie-Chantal only looked back at the wardress silently before turning her head away again as another twinge of pain crossed her features.

  Mimmie turned her attention to Solange again, still holding the steel shank so that the girl could continue to see its every detail.

  “And don’t forget, my poor sweetie, the Contesse got you into this predicament in the first place!” Mimmie chuckled quietly to herself, adding, “So it must have been almost quite a pleasure for you to have witnessed her lashing at such close quarters, no?”

  “Er … no, Miss. It w-w-wasn’t … not really…”

  “OOOH, I see …!” Mimmie’s tone was mocking again, her eyes glittering. “Not quite entertaining enough for the cute little murderess in our midst, wasn’t it? Or perhaps your worm’s-eye view of the proceedings going on above you was too restricted? Spoilt by her legs or her hips being in the way of your vision maybe? Or was it that her boobs were hanging down too much so that they obscured your view? Which is it, girl?”

  “Oh, I mean yes … er, no, neither. I mean I’ve learned my lesson … but … it’s just that …” Solange was suddenly tongue-tied, her voice etched with misery as it trailed away.

  “Madame,” Marie-Chantal broke the silence, coming to the girl’s rescue. Turning her head just sufficiently to look up at the wardress, she asked pleasantly and without the merest trace of insolence, “Why do you have to torment her? As you say, it was my fault, not hers … or Fleur’s. Couldn’t you just leave her alone … please, Madame Latour?”

  For a second or so Mimmie’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Then she smiled, although a sardonically wary expression remained on her face.

  “My dear Contesse, you really are a brave one - sticking up for your newfound comrades like that. I respect that sort of courage in a woman – even if you are a woman of airs and graces and one who uses her body for manipulating men into her bed and then fleecing the balls off them! Under any other circumstances I would admire that.” Her eyebrows were raised teasingly and her tone was not unfriendly. “But, unfortunately, your ladyship, we’re not flaunting ourselves hereabouts in Parisian high society. We’re on a penal transport-ship and, what’s more, I’m in charge here … and you – and these two friends of yours – are under my command. So perhaps you will be kind enough to allow me to carry out my duties. With your permission?”

  Marie-Chantal winced at a sudden surge of pain before giving a wistful little smile back at the wardress.

  “Of course, Madame. I meant no disrespect. I just thought …”

  “Contesse, it’s best not to think too much aboard this ship – or for that matter when we get to the Colony. Thinking is not good for Prisoners of France. Obedience is all that counts.
My advice might save your life. I suggest you heed it … all of you!”

  Her voice rising at the end, she quickly flashed a warning glance at each girl in turn. The steel shank and chain rattled slightly before she visibly relaxed again. Standing back for a moment she let her eyes roam mischievously over her charges. Then, after a loud exaggerated sigh she went on once more in a chatty tone:

  “Anyway, enough of this pointless discussion, my dears. It’s time for me to attend to Solange now.”

  Striding purposefully to the rear of the punishment frame she stooped down so that her head was now just below the level of Marie-Chantal’s splayed backside - and between Solange’s opened knees. Peering down into the girl’s spread sex, Mimmie called to Marie-Chantal in a soft voice, the sarcasm barely noticeable.

  “I’m sorry that you won’t actually be able to observe what I’m doing, my dear Contesse, but I feel sure you’ll already have had an inkling of what I’m about to do to your young friend here … with this steel bolt. It’s called Lucifer’s Handle, by the way. First used, I think, by the Marquis de Sade himself. I’m sure – as a fellow aristocrat yourself– you’ll no doubt appreciate how very appropriate that is!”

  A cunning look of wickedness spread over her face as though a sudden gleeful idea had just come to her.

  “In fact, my dear Contesse, I would say that it might even be just as appropriate for you to be a recipient of its favours as well. Aristocratic flesh might perhaps be more worthy of Lucifer’s Handle than the flesh of us ordinary poor common folk! Perhaps that shiny steel will even prefer to enter those extra-fine little satin depths of yours … depths which I may say, my dear, you’re already … er … shall we say … most delightfully displaying to the world in all their glory, just as if you might be begging me to let Lucifer do his work inside you!”

  Marie-Chantal’s ears twitched. For a split second her thrusting thighs seemed overcome by an almost imperceptible tiny tremor. But she said nothing, keeping her face rigidly forward. Whatever thoughts were in her mind she was not intent upon sharing them with the wardress.

  Glancing up anxiously at Marie-Chantal again, Solange could see that same stoic look of resignation crossing her companion’s face, just as it had done immediately before her terrible whipping. But there was no more time for idle contemplation. At that moment Solange felt a sudden cold shocking insurgence beneath her at the lower extremity of her middle crease.

  She gave a little cry of alarm, craning her neck forward to see across her chest and between the valley of her reposing breasts. At the same moment she involuntarily jerked her thighs away from such improper intrusion. Her lips parted to emit a surprised little utterance, scarcely more than a sobbed outburst of dismay.

  “Oh er! What are …? Aaagh … Miss!”

  “Don’t resist, girl! Relax and it won’t hurt!” Mimmie said sharply, grunting.

  “But what … please what are you putting …? That thing … what …?”

  “I said relax! Make your muscles relax. Do as I say. I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t pull away!”

  But the girl could not help herself. Her anal muscles contracted inwards, tightening automatically to impede the perverse entry of the steel. Her legs and knees convulsed frantically against the straps so that the whole spread of her inner thighs hardened like moulded latex against the intrusion, every tendon and muscle as tense as bowstrings.

  “No please … leave me alone …”

  But Mimmie was not to be thwarted. Scarcely showing any impatience – as if perhaps she were enjoying the challenge - she busied herself between the girl’s legs again, crouching there with the steel already poised to make a fresh assault, undeterred by the resistance offered.

  “Just relax, Solange! It won’t tear your flesh if you keep still. Just let me do it, girl. That’s an order!” Her tone was still mild, like a nurse about to administer some vital life-saving injection to a reluctant patient.

  This time placing her free hand between the girl’s legs and onto her pubic rise she pressed down firmly, forcing the girl’s lower body down against the grid beneath it. Holding her there to stop her struggling, with her other hand she deftly drove the steel forward into the opening until the end of the shaft was wedged sufficiently beyond the outer perimeters. Then, jiggling and turning the steel all the while and carefully gauging the angle of the tunnel, she gently manoeuvred the shaft further inside, feeling the resistance of the walls as the flesh expanded reluctantly away from the sliding plough of intrusion.

  This time the girl gasped aloud, moaning her protest. Her forward-craning face was the very picture of misery and disbelief.

  “Oh Mary Mother of … oh NO … not …!”

  But with a final little wiggling flourish Mimmie had already pushed the shaft as far as the hilt permitted, so that only an inch or so of shiny metal remained protruding from the girl’s plugged flesh, the chain hanging down and trailing beyond the edge of the metal grid of the tier.

  “There!” Mimmie announced with a sort of satisfied tone of finality. “Lucifer has well and truly plugged you now with his nice shiny little handle, my poor darling. That’ll keep you occupied for a while! It’ll quietly do its work without you really noticing. As I say, you’ll feel uncomfortable … as your flesh expands around the handle and finds its own new broader channel. Then next time – if I have to bolt you again – I’ll have to use the next size up, my Number Three Handle. That was only my Number One … a sort of beginner’s rod. For the more maturely advanced passageways I use size Three … or even Four! And …”

  Here Mimmie paused, glancing up mischievously at Marie-Chantal’s motionless domed spread just above.

  “… and yes. From what I can see …,” she began slyly, peering to one side for a moment so that she could see into the open chasm that loomed in front of her eyes. “… it looks rather as if the Contesse could probably do with the larger size! Would you not agree, Contesse?”

  “I’m sorry, Madame. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean … but as I’m in no position either to see or to argue with you, I’m sure you will do whatever’s best.”

  Marie-Chantal’s voice was husky and almost distant, her head turned forwards, another little spasm of pain making her shudder momentarily. Mimmie smiled to herself, marvelling again at the girl’s extraordinary pluckiness … but nonetheless intent upon her own impure purpose.

  “Well then. We shall have to see.”

  With that she walked over again to the metal box and, taking her time, she eventually selected a similar shank, only the circumference of this one was far greater than that of the one she had previously selected for Solange. Mimmie held the instrument up, looking at it with an air of smug satisfaction.

  “Yes, I think this one’ll do the job adequately. My number Three. Perhaps a Four would be a might too harsh for a first journey into such silky-soft … er … aristocratic flesh.”

  Noticing that Fleur’s wide staring eyes were once again focussed in fatalistic fascination on the steel, Mimmie walked over to her, holding the steel bolt and chain up to her face so that the girl could examine the implement at close quarters.

  “See, Fleur, this particular Lucifer’s Handle would be far too big for such a small cutie-butt like yours, my dear. Besides which you already have enough discomfort to contend with … for a while anyway.” Then peering down at the girl’s caged breasts and squinting at either side of them critically, she went on in a sort of matronly tone, “By the way, how’s the brassiere? Not too uncomfortable I hope? Good! But don’t fret, my dear. The night is yet young.”

  Fleur had no time to reply, only a small peevish moan coming from her lips. Mimmie had already turned away, almost swaggering back to the rear of the Table of Correction. She stood there silently for a few seconds in apparent meditation, her head cocked to one side as she contemplated the thrusting spread before her, the
bolt and chain held loosely in her hand.

  “Well, well! It will be a delight to acquaint you with Lucifer’s Number Three Handle, Contesse. I am sure that the Marquis himself would approve … even if you don’t,” she chuckled.

  It was at that moment that the heavy metal door to the foc’s’le opened. Duval came in and closed the door behind him, the same leering sweaty look still on his face. Immediately his eyes widened as they alighted on the steel bolt in Mimmie Latour’s hand, seeing her standing there almost guiltily behind the Table of Correction. For the briefest of moments he said nothing, taking in the scene, his mind enjoying the licentious thrill of what he knew was about to take place.

  “Ah, Mimmie!” he began slyly. “I see you’ve decided to introduce a bit of your own discipline! By my recollection Lucifer’s Handle is no longer actually fuckin’ legal anymore. Bloody banned, it were! Against the rules and all that shit! Yet here it is about to be administered …” he broke off, suddenly peering down below at Solange’s luscious rear-facing spread, the tell-tale end of the shiny bolt and its chain clearly visible from its plugged position. His eyes were glittering beads of mischief and he grinned wickedly.

  “Ahahaa! ALREADY administered I see … at least in THAT one!” he licked his lips, his face at once more flushed than before.

  “Yes, Sir, Mr Duval. I … er … was having a spot of bother with these two prisoners, Sir. Thought it merited an extra touch of punishment!” Mimmie replied uneasily, having turned to face him, her eyes weighing him up warily.

  The chief-officer laughed, the cunning expression thickening on his ferret-like features.

  “Don’t let me stop you, Madame! I’m entirely in favour of a stern approach to discipline as you know. Only …” he paused again, peering down wickedly at the girl on the lower tier.