Feature Writer: Curt Strap
Feature Title: The Inquisition
Author’s Notes: Please post any comments to French Connection BBS (914-278-6266) or Leather Rose BBS (312-665-0111). I visit both regularly.
The Inquisition
Foreword
The cruel power of the Inquisition, whose bondage and suffering and tortures went on in secrecy behind the gray cloistered walls of the great monasteries in Toledo and Madrid, was not limited alone to heretics. Often noblemen of power and wealth conspired with the black and gray robed monks to wreak their own personal vengeance on helpless men and boys, women and girls, punishing enemies in the name of the Church and paying money to the Inquisition to be permitted to pose as inquisitors and torturers. My story is of such a case, in the year 1492, and it illustrate this policy.
Chapter 1
“We are agreed, then, Friar Bartholomew,” the short, fat Conde de Castlemar eyed the black-robed monk as he tossed a purse on the table.
“Besides, she is suspect. Since the death of her parents, she has ignored the order of the King to accept me as her guardian, that her estates may be under the proper and rightful protection of the Crown. Moreover, as I have told you, she is a brazen child who, though a daughter of nobility, may have committed more grievous sins.”
“I hear you, my son.”
The fat friar untied the strings of the velvet purse and let the golden doubloons clink out onto the table, his eyes glistening with greed and lust.
“The charge is serious. And since you are witness to the sins of which you accuse her to the Holy Inquisition, then it is only just that you be her interrogator as well.” The fat monk grinned crudely.
“I, of course shall witness the interrogation.”
The Conde de Castlemar smiled and inclined his head in a token of reverence, his fat lips curving in a cruel rictus of anticipation. Sixty-five years of age, heir of one of Spain’s oldest families, he had tossed away his family’s entire fortune on gambling, women, fine wines and costly clothing for his own pleasure. Nola de Curbada, the cute auburn haired 12 year-old daughter of the late Don Pedro de Curbada and his saintly wife, Nola, had been left a fabulously rich estate. He had suggested to her that he take over responsibility for her but she had indignantly rejected him, for she was aware of his lecherous reputation and his interest in young girls.
Yet his power at court was such that the King had ordered Nola to consider no other guardian; yet the virginal young girl had dared to denounce the Conde and to ask her sovereign’s permission to enter a convent.
She could not know her danger when, last week, she had angrily told the perverted nobleman that she would never consent to request. That statement was to plunge her into the darkest dungeon of the Inquisition, to hurl her down from her gentle childhood and make her a slave tyrannized by bondage and indescribable torment, until she would tearfully offer to become the Conde’s ward in return for remission from interrogation.
Little guessing what lay in store for her, cute Nola studied herself in a gilded mirror. Five feet two inches in height, with huge dark-green eyes, a wilful, ripe mouth with haughty upper lip, a determined, firm chin and a pale-ivory complexion that was the envy of other girls, Nola was very desirable.
Her auburn hair was swept back from her forehead and dressed high on top of her head in an imposing pompadour. Around her neck was a chain of gold links supporting a plain gold cross. Her gown was white satin, with a tight full bodice which showed no evidence of developing breasts, high at the neck and long in the sleeves, it spread into the deep pleats of the wide flaring skirt which scarcely revealed the toes of her white slippers. Under that gown, she wore three petticoats, under which was a chemise, knee-length white silk underwear and white silk stockings. The bodice was removable just under the gown. Yet all this finery could not hide the delicious, provocative beauty of her girlish figure, nor the slim girlish waist which flared into curved vibrant hips, saucy rounded buttocks creased by a deep shadowy groove which broadened as it reached the base of her thighs.
Her companion, Isabella; 37, brown-haired, round face, blue eyes, small ripe mouth, Grecian nose, widely spaced pear-shaped, full breasts, sumptuous buttocks, full ripe thighs and sturdy, curvaceous calves; had been wed at the age of fifteen and widowed eighteen months later when her husband, Nola’s second cousin, had been killed in a duel. Nola’s parents, realizing that Isabella was
left penniless, had taken her into their lavish mansions and when
Nola was ten, had made her their daughter’s companion. And because she, too, had dared show her distastes for the Conde, she was destined to share Nola’s agonies.
xxxxx
A frightened servant hurried into the bedroom, stammering,
“Oh, Nola, Isabella, it’s the Inquisition-they have come for you”
And an hour later, horrified, stupefied with terror, both the young woman and the girl found themselves being led by the wrists, each by two black-robed monks into one of the nameless dungeons in the subterranean section of the gray-walled monastery; found themselves standing in shadows, while, at the back of the dungeon, each seated at a pulpit, were two cowled monks. A lighted candle flickered at each pulpit augmenting the eerie fear which had seized the captives who found themselves in the dreaded hands of the Holy Inquisition!
Chapter 2
“Why have we been brought here? What have we done?” the courageous child indignantly demanded.
Her eyes shifted from the cowled friar behind the pulpit to her left, then to the one at her right; he wore a black mask over his face and the short black pointed beard made him still more sinister, like the Evil One himself; despite herself, she shivered, for Isabella had told her of many terrible disappearances and the ‘auto-da-fes’ which took place after a person she knew had been brought before the Inquisition.
“My child,” the monk at her left was first to speak. “I see that you wear the cross of righteousness, and it is my prayer that your soul will be found as spotless as that symbol. Resolve, then, to speak the truth, for we have ways of finding out when deception and lies and cunning are tendered to us instead of honesty.”
“But, please, of what am I accused! I am the daughter of..” Nola began.
“We know. Once again, I advise you to submit yourself to the wisdom of you spiritual advisers, for the good of your soul. First, it will be your companion whom we question.”
“But I’ve done nothing, I swear it.” Isabella hysterically cried out, trembling as her two fat guards stood on either side of her, holding her arms.
“As companion to this child, you are familiar with her habits, her conduct, her views. She stands accused of impiety towards her sovereign, and, thus, guilty of treasonable conduct in the eyes of the Church, since the King is the temporal defender of Mother Church.”
“But that’s stupid! Nola is devout, chaste, obedient–”
“Take care, woman,” the gaunt friar at the left warned her.
“Again, I ask you to tell us what you know of your charge, what have you heard her say against His Most Catholic Majesty.”
“Why-why, only that she does not wish to have the Conde for her legal guardian, she cannot understand why it should be of royal concern.”
“You are devious with us, Isabella. This will not do. I have no other recourse but to turn you over to the officers of the prison, so that they may question you.”
He waved his hand, and the two robed men holding her wrists nodded, then began to drag her towards the middle of the dungeon, where the dreadful apparatuses of the ‘question’ awaited the helpless prey of the Inquisition. Nola, in terror, cried out, “oh it is unworthy-”
“That last remark,” the gaunt friar at the left turned to his masked, beaded companion, “It is surely suspect implying that His Majesty would behave other than as a wise and righteous king.”
“It is so noted,” the masked monk solemnly declared, and Nola shivered at the malevolence of his tone, at the long steady disgusting look his dark eyes sent her through the slits of the mask.
Isabella, panting, sobbing, was struggling with her jailers; the four men who had brought her and Nola to the dungeon were not priests, though garbed as monks; rather, they were the torturers of the prison. The inquisition did not stain its hands with blood; thus the temporal acts of torment were carried out by civil authorities.
“Once again, woman, will you confess to what you have heard this young girl say against the King and the Church?” the friar harassed the terrified, sobbing woman.
“But I swear she’s said or done nothing wrong, any more than I, Father! In the name of pity, I am a helpless woman and she is a helpless child, innocent of any wrongdoing.”
“Please, I beg..” Nola cried out, wrenching at her captive wrists.
“Let her be gagged until we are ready to hear her testimony,” the masked, fat bearded monk coldly interposed.
Nola cried out, but instantly one of the robed men holding her wrists drew a choke-pear gag from the pocket of his robe and brutally forced it into her mouth; then both men dragged the child towards a round stone column, forced her arms behind her and around it and corded her slim wrists tightly. Eyes huge and wet with tears of shame and terror, Nola was obliged to watch the degradation and bondage of Isabella.
Despite her screams, prayers and struggles, the two torturers began to prepare Isabella for the ‘question’. Ripping off her long- skirted gown, they next removed her white bodice, then the two lacy petticoats, leaving her in her chemise, underwear, stockings and slippers.
“How shall we begin, your Worship?” the gross, bald robed torturer who had ripped off her dress respectfully asked of the leering friar at the pulpit.
“For her impertinence, she merits corporal chastisement. Let it be done with the birch. Begin with a dozen over her underwear; if that does not suffice, strip her bare and apply a second dozen,” the friar decreed.
“Oh nooo-oh God, not before men-mercy, don’t whip me. I’ve done nothing, nor has Nola-pity on a helpless woman-” Isabella wailed.
Chuckling with cruel anticipation, both men now ripped away her chemise, baring her to the waistband of her underwear, exposing her big breasts, which heaved violently in her shame and agitated fright. Isabella burst into hysterical tears and tried to drag her wrists free to cover her naked breasts with her hands. Her two torturers forced her over the whipping bench and swiftly tethered her wrists and ankles to the legs of the bench, which had a wooden triangle fixed just under her belly. When they had finished tying her, she was presented in the most obscene and demeaning pose, vulnerable to the kisses of the birch rods which stood steeping in a bucket of brine. The cheeks of her buttocks jutted lewdly against the skintight underwear which threatened to split, owing to the exaggerated tension brought about by the triangle. With her wrists and ankles cruelly tied by cord, all of her mature body was stressed and tractioned, and her half nudity seemed even more lascivious that had she been all naked.
Whimpering, Isabella turned her tear blurred, dilated eyes over her shoulder, in time to see one of her torturers lift a slim flexible rod, a bundle of five birch switches, out of the bucket and shake out the drops with a horrid swish that made her flesh crawl, and drew a stifled cry of anguish. “Oh-nnno-oh have pity on me, I know nothing,” she begged.
Slowly the torturer raised his arm, hovering the rod over the cringing buttocks; then with a whistling ‘hiss-thuckkk’, the switches spread out across the plumpest curves of both buttocks; the thin silk underwear, stretched to maximum, was no protection, and a scream.
“It hurts, it cuts, oh, have mercy, spare me, I’m innocent!” rang out at once as Isabella’s opulent body jerked and shuddered on the interrogation bench…
Chapter 3
The torturer wielding the slim birch over Isabella’s distended buttocks laid on his dozen slowly, letting the unfortunate mature woman suffer not only the atrocious pain of each cut which permeated the innermost threshold of her feminine nervous system, but also forcing her to wait for the following sadistic stroke.
Eyes drowned in tears, face twisted back over her shoulder, panting, sobbing, imploring mercy in an almost incoherent tone, Isabella watched the bundle of switches rise slowly in the air, hover over her cringing, burning buttocks and remain suspended over her flesh; until, relaxing her muscles for only an instant, her torturer perceived this and swept the birch down with emphatic vigor to make her lunge and twist and writhe on the flogging bench and utter a new, piercing, prolonged cry of suffering.
Nola, horrified at this brutality, tried vainly to tug her slim corded wrists free from behind the stone column against which she was so tightly posed. The gag did not succeed in silencing her frantic cries to implore the Inquisitors to end this cruel torture.
As the gross whipper flung aside the slim birch after his companion had counted aloud, “And twelve!”, the friar ordained, “Nola remains impertinent and defiant of our process. Let her therefore have a taste of the strappado as a warning of the serious penance we shall impose on her if she does not soon show herself more docile to our holy order!”
At one and greedily, the two cowled torturers assigned to the girl released the panting victim, only to fix her chafed wrists once again behind her back and, taking her by the shoulders, pushed her towards an overhead pulley rope which dangled in midair. One of them made it fast with a double knot to the cords fastening he wrists; the other stepped to the wall to turn the wooden windlass which raised the rope and drew Nola’s arms upwards behind her forcing her to stand on tiptoe. As he did so, she uttered a cry of pain, her large green eyes widening, her face furrowed with anxiety and discomfort, finding herself forced to stand on the toes of her slippers to ease the agonizing, searing, dislocating pain which shot through her shoulders at this unnatural elevated stress.
She did not know that the strappado was one of the favorite devices of the sadistic Dominicans; they hoisted condemned prisoners high in the air; then at the signal from the Grand Inquisitor, the rope was released, only to be caught before the victim’s feet could strike the floor; the savage wrench invariably dislocated the shoulders, causing unspeakable agony.
Hoisted even as she was, Nola could sense the grueling pain of the torture; it was simple, yet therein lay its fiendish efficiency. What was more disgusting, though, was she was placed so that she stared directly at the Isabella’s lush buttocks, elevated lewdly by the wooden triangle, and through the hugging thin silk underwear, it seemed to her she could see the angry bright red striata left by the switches, from lower back to upper thighs, horizontally marking both twisting, shuddering buttocks with their ominous and infamous weals.
“Proceed with the second dozen, as prescribed by this tribunal,” the Grand Inquisitor’s voice was dry and harsh.
Isabella uttered a piteous scream: “ohhhnooo,oh spare me any more, Father! I know nothing beyond what I’ve said-I swear it on the cross!”
“Unrepentant woman, the chastisement will disperse the devious thoughts you entertain to try to trick us,” the monk angrily replied.
The man who had wielded the birch now bent to the bench, and Isabella stiffened with a shrill cry of incredulous dismay and shame; “Ohhh-God, not that, let me keep my underwear, in the name of decency!”
“Woman,” the Grand Inquisitor replied, “now you mock our pious zeal to drive out the demon lurking in your soul. Beware, lest you show yourself to have heretical beliefs. Know you not that we, priests of the Order, see in your flesh only the terrain whereon temporal chastisement is inflicted for the greater good of your immortal soul? Are you so vain, are you such a whore, then, that you would believe us stricken by carnal lusts at the sight of your penitential nakedness? Remove them, I say!” And again, he made a sign.
He reached under his robe and stroked his swollen prick as he made his pious statement. His hairy balls tingled for relief as he waited in anticipation to see her naked ass whipped. Pressing herself frantically down on the bench, the woman tried to prevent this final humiliation; in vain: the torturer who had whipped her pinched her thigh, and with a squeal of anguish, Isabella arched up-just enough to permit the rogue to drag the underwear down, baring the juicy buttocks…their smoothness lasciviously marred by the multiple darkening red striata of the switches.
Closing her eyes, the woman wept hoarsely in her deepest shame. But the second torturer was already drawing the other birch out of its bucket, shaking it to eliminate the brine and, after whirling it around several times and descending it with an angry swishing sound that made the now naked victim start and sob convulsively, posed himself at her left and slowly raised the bulkier birch, awaiting the signal.
At the Inquisitor’s slight nod, he whipped it diagonally, and this time the vicious ‘Hissswishhhthuckkk’ of nine switches cracking against the tightly stretched, flaming red naked buttocks rose to the eager ears of the two robed men at the pulpit desks and to the torturers… and to poor Nola, who saw her companion begin an even more degrading and agonizing martyrdom, her intimate nudity bared to the lecherous, narrowed, cruel gaze of the torturers.
“One!” the man who had been first to flog her proclaimed.
“Ahrrr-ohhh God have mercy on me. I swear I have done nothing wrong. God how it cuts and tears my flesh-stop-oh I implore you!”
The second lash fell pitilessly, backhanded, cutting a flaming X over the already discolored plump jutting ass.
Chapter 4
The second dozen on the bare, welted, shuddering flesh of Isabella’s writhing ass took twice as long as had the first application over her underwear; it drew incoherent shrieks, babbled prayers for mercy, hysterical avowals that she could tell the Inquisitor nothing.
But the cowled monk at the pulpit was not satisfied. “Release her, but tie her on her back and apply the rod to her breasts and belly.” And when Nola groaned through her gag, he made a sign, and one of the girl’s torturers tugged at the ceiling pulley-rope, sending fiery waves of torment through her aching shoulders, so that she was forced to shift from toe to toe in a lewd dance to ease the horrid traction on her swollen muscles. Face haggard, dank with sweat and tears, she stared at the bench as the other two robed, cowled men turned the wailing, pleading woman onto her back so that, after they had finished tying her wrists and ankles, she was posed with her belly obscenely lifted, the lips of her sex provocatively accessible and gaping, her body jerking as the burning pangs from her cruel birching tore at her swollen flesh.
The switches had drawn blood and her skin was torn and bruised.
Both torturers picked up long brine soaked rods and placed themselves one on each side of the bound, grossly exposed woman.
One on her left, his target her breasts and the other on her right by the wooden triangle ready to lash her belly. They paused, waiting for a sign from the Grand Inquisitor, who was conversing in whispers with the masked friar opposite him: “Do you confess now, woman? Are you ready to tell us what impious things you heard Nola say? Speak!”
But the woman, half-fainting with terror and pain, her body shaken by convulsive tremors, the burning agony of her whipped ass intensified by the cruel position of her flesh, as her buttocks were pushed up by the hard wooden triangle under her, only feebly moaned.
“Continue, thirty each!” the Inquisitor hissed, leaning forward, his face a mask of pitiless zeal and fanaticism as he stared at her exposed cunt, his huge cock hard against the underside of the pulpit, his balls ready to explode.
One robed ghoul raised his rod high above his right shoulder.
The taunting smile vanished and his mouth tightened with vindictive pleasure. There was a pause and the monks held their breath in anticipation. Then his arm came down with flashing energy. The rod landed with an ear-splitting smack across both pale breasts.
The woman barely caught her breath after her shriek at the ferocity of the pain. Where the stroke had landed a print of the rod glowed across the swelling and writhing tits.
The other man carefully measured the rod-wickedly low across her belly. He raised it and slashed it down across her naked belly.
There was desperation in the woman’s face. The torturers met this with malicious smiles, to show her their private enjoyment of what was being done to her. There was dismay in her narrowed eyes and she saw the bulges in the front of the robes, the shape of a cock, hard and heavy with the enjoyment of watching her thrashed.
Twice more the rod smacked agonizingly across the soft under-curve of her breasts. The first pain of the impact did not diminish but swelled over several seconds. The monk naturally took pleasure in timing each stroke to land just as the torment of its predecessor reached a climax.
Isabella was gasping at the searching intensity of the rod’s torture. Between the strokes, the silence of anticipation was broken only by the creak of the wooden block and the breathless writhing of the naked woman in the cords which held her down. Twice more the rod lashed diagonally across her belly, the second through her pubic hair. Three strokes, each a deepening red, now embossed her breasts and belly. Another stroke, aimed low, caught her across the tops of her upper thighs. Her screaming never stopped.
The stone walls echoed the woman’s shrillness and gave a new edge of enthusiasm to the excitement of those who watched her. The Grand Inquisitor and the masked monk lent forward, licking their lips eagerly, taking a closer view. Isabella’s breasts and hips surged in the lewdest sexual invitation. Her narrow eyes brimmed with tears and the thin mouth was stretched in a never-ending howl.
The shrieks seemed paralyzed by the intensity of the pain which another lash of the rod inflicted across her bare breasts.
Isabella’s eyes rolled back, glazed, her mind staggered, her nerves in shock, torn by the satanic feverishly hot strokes.
“Tell us only what you have heard Nola say against the Church and you will be released from the interrogation.”
“Only…ah…God…I…I suffer so….ah…only…th..that she…oh, there is no treason or heresy. Be me…merciful, I… beg you, Oh F-father…I…I hurt everywhere. I am so sick-”
She persists in defying us,” the masked friar now broke in hoarsely. “Keep at her!”
The rod cracked into her belly again. Her pleading ended in a wild scream. Again her breasts were ravaged. With whip-like savagery the rods cut into the woman’s defenseless flesh. The walls sang with the sharpness of the impacts. Isabella cried out, wild and shrill. They thrashed her quick and hard.
The rod landed aslant the heaving tits and her belly at the same time branding her with their fiery imprint. “Fourteen, fifteen!” …Pl-e-ease! Stop! Just for a moment! Ooooooow!…NO!…OOOW!…Don’t do it again yet! NOT MY BREASTS, NOT MY LEGS!”
“Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.”
“I can’t bear any more! NOT MY NIPPLES! Oh, God. LET ME GO, PLEASE. NO! NO!
At every stroke her full and pale-fleshed hips rose. The torturers were unmoved by the woman’s cry’s. Her body jumped and quivered as if touched by fire. She tried to expel the swelling agony of each whip crack by surging her hips upward but this only made her soundly thrashed belly a better target.
The raised rod stripes across her bare breasts, belly and thighs were dangerously swollen. Again and again they lashed her with savage energy. Isabella felt the little trickles of blood run down her hips, momentarily gathering under the curves of her buttocks then running down the triangle.
One monk stooped and whispered in the woman’s ear, his hand lying against her bare hip. The two men behind Nola were pumping their gross pricks in the excitement of watching the woman tortured. They longed only for the woman’s thrashing to end so they could have their turn at the girl. The torturers finally took Isabella to the very last decreed stroke. They were reluctant to finish with her even then.
Her head fell back against the bench, barely conscious.
“I fear we must use stronger means of learning the truth. The rack!”
“So be it. But,” to the fat masked monk, “make certain she has the strength to endure it. We must have a confession.”
“You will, Holiness.”
Gesturing to his companion to bring a mug of mulled wine and spices, he tilted up Isabella’s lolling head and forced her to swallow several sips. It seemed to revive her, and she began to weep pitifully.
Then, untying her bonds, he helped her to sit up, her hands at once flying to cover her panting breasts, whimpering with terror, shaking.
And once again, the fiendish cruelty of the Inquisition that took such unholy joy in the merciless torment of a stripped, degraded, demeaned female in the sanctimonious name of salvation was exercised.
Then, as both men exchanged a knowing glance, they lifted her to her feet and forced her to the rack, stretched her out on the narrow plank, then swiftly corded her wrists and ankles. Each set of ropes were wound around a heavy wooden roller controlled by a windlass, and now both men stationed themselves, one at each end, holding the windlass handle and awaiting the sign. As the friar nodded, each gave his windlass a half-turn, and Isabella’s voluptuous naked body seemed to stiffen and immobilize, as her head rose, her mouth gaping in a wide ‘O’ of agony.
Chapter 5
“Confess, my daughter, spare yourself needless suffering,” the Grand Inquisitor spat, cupping his bony chin with one hand, leaning forward to study the mature enticing naked body that was stretched like a statue of marble on the rack’s horrid narrow plank.
Isabella’s fingers splayed out, clawing and writhing as she strove for endurance in the face of her torment; her swollen, welted, still inflamed buttocks ground down painfully against the rough surface of the plank to add further torment to her tortured body.
“I-I already told you…F-father…ah…oh, my bones ..a …ache…oh…mercy-pity-it is too much-I know no more that what- I-I’ve already said,” she panted her head feebly turning from side to side.
The cords of her throat stood out, pulse of her life beating rapidly, while the agitated surging of her superb bare welted breasts made the eyes of the masked beaded friar glisten with lust; he too leaned forward, avid to detail every nuance of the torture, and his eyes did not miss the cute girl, moaning softly now, head still bowed, arms painfully drawn up high behind her back, teetering on her toes.
“Soon, little girl, soon!”
The Grand Inquisitor nodded. The two men turned their windlasses, a creaking sound as another half-turn was registered. Isabella uttered a piercing, wordless shriek, her head again lifting, then falling back with a thud. One saw the stark outlines of her rib cages, and in the distended armpits, dank torture-sweat glistened. The hair on her cunt was soaked and her own urine, forced from her by the torture ran down the triangle!
Again Nola, aghast as the prolonged and sadistic torture of her helpless, innocent companion, cried out against her gag, twisting her flushed face towards the tribunal, as she continued to teeter on her toes to ease the now savage, muscle aching strain which the rope exerted on her shoulders.
“Confess! Throw yourself on the mercy of the Church which pardons sinners who repent their misdeeds,” the Grand Inquisitor urged.
“Ahhh-ohhh.I-h-hurt so-my God-I’m innocent-I swear I know nothing else-let me rest-oh my arms, my legs…it hurts,” Isabella whimpered.
Impatiently, the Grand Inquisitor made a sigh; both torturers turned the windlasses another half turn; a piercing shriek tore from the naked woman, her toes curled and clawed, her fingers twisted like talons, her body glistened with agony-sweat, and her head feebly turned from side to side, the eyes staring, enormously dilated, the skin along her ribs so taut one would believe it would burst like that of a ripe peach.
“Your Holiness, the next turn may do serious damage to the accused,” the torturer respectfully advised.
“Put her in the pillory, let her tread on nettles and gravel; this will chasten her defiant spirit till we are ready to proceed,” the Grand Inquisitor decreed.
“As your Holiness commands,” the torturer fawned on his master. He and his companion now eased the windlasses, hastened to cut the cords which cut Isabella’s wrists and ankles, and then he held a cup of strong wine into which a stimulant had been dropped to her lips and obliged her to gulp it down.
Next they lifted her from the bench and led her to a section of the damp stone floor where, on the stone, a bundle of freshly picked nettled lay, while the second torturer took a metal ewer and dumped its contents onto the nettles; pebbles, sharp bits of gravel and thorns.
He moved to the rear of the dungeon to bring back the pillory, a square wooden board, quite heavy, with three clamp-holes cut in it; unlocking it, he placed Isabella’s neck in the middle, wider hole, then dragged her wrists up to lock them into the two smaller holes at each side. Finally, a pair of ankle-stocks were fixed to her bare ankles after he had lewdly and lingeringly stroked her legs and whispered obscene comments about what he would do to her naked ass later. Both men then lifted her, crying and incoherently sobbing and pleading for pardon, so that she stood on the nettles and pebbles. The pillory was attached to two ropes which hung from the ceiling. His companion, a squat, burly fat monk, now produced a short thick leather strap, and, standing behind the victim, applied five slowly spaced, vigorous, smacking cuts across the ripest curves of her spacious ass, already so piteously streaked by the darkening welts of the birch.
Isabella struggled, shrieking, all her vocal powers restored by the atrocious multiple agonies she experienced; her reaction under the strap was to shift her already stung, pricked and bruised bare feet, her naked breasts heaving madly, jiggling in all their lush, mature resilience as she forced herself to stand relatively motionless, the welts from the strap far more agonizing than the sting of the nettles which her bare feet crushed.
Chapter 6
The bearded, masked Inquisitor now leaned over to whisper to the Grand inquisitor at his right, and the latter nodded, then addressed the still gagged, helpless Nola. “My daughter, I trust that what you have seen and heard has convinced you on the wisdom of not daring to defy the Holy Inquisition nor its procedures against all heretics and the defiant and lawless of our unenlightened society. I therefore call upon you to confess your sins and to ask humbly for the forgiveness of Mother Church. I now turn you over now to this monk.” With this sanctimonious speech, he rose and left the dungeon, hurrying to satisfy his sexual hunger on some naked boy in a nearby dungeon. The masked robed man remained with the four torturers. Isabella’s moans and whimpering sobs continued as the tortured naked woman tried to ease the pangs of her burning feet by shifting herself from foot to foot incessantly, a maneuver which accentuated her sumptuous breasts.
Now Nola began to tremble, finding herself alone with the unknown Inquisitor and the four grim-faced cowled, robed monk-torturers, with her companion naked nearby and undergoing pitiless torment. One of her two guards, a bald, fat man, now approached her and removed the gag.
“Oh my God,” she panted, trying to twist her tear-streaked, pale face towards the pulpit in the shadows-the Grand Inquisitor had blown his candle out as he departed the scene. “I swear I have done no treason nor offense to His Majesty or to the Holy Church.
“But you stand accused,” came the resonant voice of the masked friar. “And by the rules of the Inquisition which blessed Friar Torqumada has inscribed for us, his servants, to follow, you must prove your innocence of such charges before we can deliver you from the burden of accusation. You have defied the will of the King by refusing the offer of the Conde as your guardian. That is wilful insolence and disregard for solemn authority. You must learn humility and obedience, my child. To that end, since you persist in your flouting of our questions and even our right to ask them, I have no recourse but to turn you over to the executioners of the civil guard, who have the temporal authority over you once we have consigned you to them. A last time, Nola, will you repent your insolence and admit your heresies.
No reply.
A vicious little smile curved the fat lips of the monk. “So be it, my child. Let the question begin with having her stripped, then show her the implements of torture.”
All four torturers now approached the writhing, strappado-bound captive and, without bothering to untie her wrists and ease the frightful torment of her unnaturally lofted arms and pain-racked shoulders, began to rip off her gown, her petticoats, her slippers, stockings and chemise.
Now, to add to her shame, one of the men seized her underwear by the waistband, began to force them down from Nola’s virginal legs, till at last, despite her frenzied kicks and shrieks of indignation, they lay in a twisted heap around her slim ankles.
Pulling them off, the brute straightened, rubbing her legs and pale buttocks with rough probing hands, whispering obscenities. Another pinched the nipples on her boyish chest. His three colleagues grasped her roughly, one drawing her arms behind her back once he had untied her wrists, the two others each gripping a dimpled ivory shoulder, and then, naked, the young girl was forced to walk past the whipping bench, the rack and the pillory.
Meanwhile, Isabella still tried frantically to ease the burning of her bare tender feet; the ankle stocks hampered her, but desperately she managed to lift one foot for an instant before setting it down, then lifting the other, continuously whimpering and uttering plaintive sobs and cried.
“Now, child, you have seen some of the devices by which we extract humility and penitence from our errant subjects. These men will not be awed by the fact that you are a twelve year old girl; will you spare yourself shame and discomfort by kneeling now and making honest confessional of your disobedience?”
“Never-your can kill me, but never!” Nola panted.
“Child, we shall not kill you; the Inquisition commits no such crime against its misled children. But we shall chastise you as you merit, much as we would a naughty, headstrong child who will not listen to the wisdom of her elders.”
He made another sign and the four men dragged her towards a second pillory set on a low wide dais; two of them opened the device while the other two bowed her head and placed her wrists inside the cut-out yoke-holes; then the head piece was put down and locked, and Nola found herself standing virtually on tiptoe, her long thighs nervously shaking and shifting uncomfortably as she tried for a secure balance.
Chapter 7
At another sign from the bearded Inquisitor, one of the torturers advanced, carrying a strap about two feet long, with a double thick short grip, and about half an inch wide and half again as thick, its last five inches split down the middle to form two finger-like thongs.
Now, as Nola groaned and twisted, he drew back his right arm, posed the strap in the air, then swept it vigorously across the upper curves of her bare ass.
Nola cried out, sucking in her breath and squirming at the initial burning kiss of the leather strap which smacked with a loud indecent impact against the resilient flesh of her buttocks.
“Still haughty and rebellious, my child? Alas, you do not help your case by such continued defiance. It must be thrashed out of you entirely.” the Inquisitor declared.
The torturer stepped back, studying the contours of the young girl’s buttocks, then directed his strap over the base of both cheeks framing her ass with two bright red streaks. Once again the angry ‘Smackk-thwackk’ of the strap rang out in the dungeon, and Nola”s intake of breath together with the stiffening of her thighs showed her pain. Now, relaxing her muscles somewhat, she let the men see the quaking agitation which surged through her naked buttocks, though she fiercely clenched her long thighs trying to hide the most intimate nook of her virgin body.
The masked friar’s eyes narrowed and glittered with an evil joy to see the young child undergoing such degradation. He liked the young ones the best and his prick surged as he imagined the punishment they would inflict on her naked body. The torturer eyeing him, grinned knowingly. He liked interrogating young girls and his prick was hugely erect and his hairy balls hung heavily. He then inflicted a third, then a fourth stroke, both with all his might over the ripest curves of Nola’s naked ass.
“Ohhh-ohhh-stop, you can’t, please don’t-” she groaned, shifting from bare foot to foot and again wrenching at her yoked wrist and neck; all to no avail. She could hear Isabella’s incessant wails and pleading, now babbled pleas for mercy; and she arched her hips towards the pillory post, wanting to hide her hairless pubis from these barbarous men.
The fifth lash stung her bare ass an inch below its ripest contours; it wrenched a sobbing gasp “Ohhh!” from her tightened lips, and her eyes opened, widened, and began to fill with tears.
A pause now, and then, with rapid, short-ranged strokes, the torturer began to flog Nola’s buttocks, directing the lashes haphazardly all over the virgin ass cheeks. This flurry was agony for the young girl; she could not anticipate where the next stroke would fall, and the way she had been placed in the yokes, forced to strain on bare toes, augmented her suffering.
Now a longer pause, and the men listened with perverted pleasure as she strove to collect her poise, retrieve her courage and endurance to remain stoic.
Then again the strap swung out, curling wickedly around the top of her right hip, with an angry ‘Smackkk’. “Aiiiii! Ohhh, it hurts!” Nola cried out as she struggled in the pillory.
‘Thwack-crack’ the strap whistled over the other hip, the two ‘fingers’ curling in towards her tender pubic area.
“Ohhh God-no-no-stop-I implore you-it is unjust.”
‘Crack-thwack-smackkk’. Thrice the torturing strap flailed her lower buttocks, and the girl staggered as the angry red marks blazed on her virgin flesh, profaning her body. Again her agonized cry rang out, and Isabella, despite her own unending torment, echoed it with a piteous.
“Oh have mercy, Father, do not torture Nola so horribly-I implore you! Be merciful!”
“We are merciful!” the bearded friar replied, “She is being punished as a child should be. It is to humble her to respect authority, the more necessary since she no longer has parents to undertake this duty.”
And the strap resumed its hellish work, biting with brutal impact against first one buttock, then the other, or across both, in diagonal slashes. Nola shrieked aloud in despairing agony and kicked and danced, unconsciously exposing the pink soft cleft of her virginity to the gloating eyes of the five men.
A long pause now, during which Nola’s choking, agonized sobs rang out; then again the angry ‘crack-thwack-crack’ of the strap resumed with vertical strokes as the torturer made his two-thronged weapon flagellate the young girl’s violently streaked and swollen buttocks.
“Are you ready to kneel and beg forgiveness?” The bearded friar hoarsely demanded.
“Oh-oh-God-I can’t bear it-mercy-”
“You do not answer.” He raised his voice, and the fat monk once again sent the strap hurtling over the girl’s livid ass.
“Yes, Yes, I will submit-anything to stop the pain-oh, how it hurts me-enough-mercy!” Nola shrilled as she lunged against the post, fingers clawing the air.
At the friar’s sign, two of the torturers unlocked the pillory, then dragged the sobbing, broken girl toward her interrogator. His eyes feasted on the bare flesh between her thighs, at the pink nipples on her boyish chest, at the tremors which rippled through her thighs.
“Now say ‘I swear to obey and to accept the Conde de Castlemar as my guardian.'”
Slowly, dully, her face twisted with pain, Nola raised her head and then her eyes widened and she recoiled with a cry. “It-it is you-”
Chapter 8
“You-you are not the Inquisitor-you-you are the wicked evil man who tried to force me to accept you as my guardian!” she cried out.
He straightened, took off the mask, and bowed sarcastically.
“Yes, it is I, Pedro, Conde de Castlemar, your guardian-to-be and your destined master. Do you accept?”
“Nooo! I was weak-I did not know it was you-whip me to death if you want, I will never agree!” She struggled to rise but the monks held her.
“We shall return to you pretty friend, child,” he said. “You will hear but not see her ordeal. Perhaps it will bring you to your senses.” Then, turning to the grinning torturers, he directed,
“Place the discipline helmet on this disobedient child and suspend her. Then take Isabella to the horse! Any you can have Nola for the night. Break her. I’ll be back in the morning to claim my prize. She had better be ready. Do what you must.”
The four monks eyes shone with pleasure. A night with Nola and Isabella. The things they would do, the commands they would make the naked woman and girl obey. It was almost enough to make their gross pricks gush gooey slime.
In vain, Nola tried to struggle; the four men easily overpowered her and forced a black leather helmet over her contorted tear-stained face. The helmet has a small cutout for her nose, but at the place for the mouth was a ball gag which they forced into her mouth and made her cheeks bulge.
This done they carried her under a pulley rope. As three of the men held her upside down, the fourth tied her ankles to one of the pulley ropes. Her wrists were bound together, then the pulley rope was pulled upwards and Nola hung upside down, blindfolded, gagged, but able to hear whatever took place in this unholy dungeon where powerful men of medieval Spain plotted with the Inquisition to allow them to use its inhuman methods to gain their own perverse desires.
Leaving Nola hanging, whimpering, feeling the blood rush to her head, the four torturers released Isabella from the stocks, then dragged her towards a platform on which stood a wooden horse, with a sharp edged wooden triangle; lifting her, they straddled her over it and set her down so that pussy rested hard on the sharp edge of the triangle; swiftly they attached her. Mounting a ladder, one of the torturers bound her wrists behind her back, crossing one over the other, then cording her elbows together, then roping her ankles to her wrists and finally letting down a noose-halter from the ceiling and fitting it around her neck. One monk tied heavy weights to her knees.
Chapter 9
“Aiii-oh take me down?” Isabella at once shrieked, trying to arch her cunt off the horse, for already the pressure against her clit and labia caused extreme pain.
“Listen to her, Nola,” the sadistic monk mocked before the swaying, masked, naked girl who hung upside down before him. “Take pity on her.”
“Ahrr-ohhh, God-spare me any more torture-oh, mercy-I’ve done nothing. I didn’t hear her say anything! Pity! Please!” Isabella wailed as the weight tied to her knees mercilessly compelled her to sink down again, the sharp horse cruelly biting into the tender flesh of her pussy and the noose tightening around her neck.
“There, you see, Nola?” He paused, and, seeing no movement from the agonized young girl, continued. “We are going to put Isabella back on the rack, and this time hot irons will be applied to her belly, tits and cunt and she will appear in Madrid, naked, to be whipped by the monks with all to see, then consigned to the convent of the Ursulines for life.”
“Oh, save me, Nola, oh don’t let them do that to me, have pity!” the frantic woman wailed.
But Nola did not respond.
“No, please don’t do it, I’ll tell everything,” Isabella screamed. “She is a heretic. She denounced the Church and the King many times. I’ll tell. I’ll heard her.”
“Oh, no! she’s lying,” Nola yelled. “Don’t listen to her, I didn’t, I didn’t.”
The perverted monks grinned at each other with perverse satisfaction. This was what they wanted. One against the other. Now they could apply hideous torture to both victims to ‘find out the real truth’. And now that there was ‘evidence’ there was no restriction against sexual interference. Heretics did not have the protection of the Church against rape.
And the young age of the girl would not save her from anything now. They did not have to be careful with her. It was going to be a long rewarding night.
Thus it was in the fifteenth century, under the authority of the Holy Inquisition; that a woman and child of noble birth were taught the pitiless, age-old lesson of subjugation by the dominant, all-powerful male.
THE END