Chapter One

That February night in 1702, the winter of the great snow, was cold enough to split a stone as the little gathering assembled clandestinely in the woods above the village of Pressignac to listen to the visiting pastor and recite psalms. They met secretly since after close on a century of religious freedom, the French Protestants had seen the Edict of Nantes revoked by the arrogant, short-sighted Sun King. Louis XIV. After smouldering a while, the revolt had broken out, bringing fire and the sword to much of the Cevennes.

The dragoons' sudden descent on the prayer meeting that night had afforded the pious congregation of parpaillots - the common appellation for the religious traitors - no chance of escape. It was clear that the royal troops had been aided by local Catholic informers who thereby received the usual monetary compensation and a share of what was in the humble cottages before they were burnt to the ground.

By the light of the moon and the flickering pitchblend torches, the posse had fallen on the group like wolves, separating the men from their women folk and promptly hanging the pastor along with the sentinels caught with arms in hand. The male contingent of prisoners was lined up under the holm oaks for immediate fettering and chaining of the necks and legs in preparation for the long journey south on foot to Ales Ninmes - where they would be formally sentenced in the square - and on to the coast and the galleys moored awaiting them at Sete, Grau du Roi and other ports. There in appalling, inhuman conditions, they would spend years of their life as His Majesty's convicts, rowing uselessly under the thud of the argusin's tawse. Those who failed in the week's journey on foot to reach the coast, were left to expire in local prisons or by the roadside. A fate almost preferable to being chained for years to the galley benches and oars.

The female captives that fateful evening would as usual be transported in tumbrils to the dreaded Tour de Constance at Aigues-Mortes, the royal prison overlooking the sea. Despite the overcrowding in the ghastly tower there was always room for new captives in its dark chambers of suffering: there the conditions and treatment of religious offenders were worse than for others, sufficient to cause them to waste away in despair. Only their prayers and psalms seemed to keep them alive. The whip also helped.

But prior to their conveyance south and in line with the Versailles dictate, the women had to be scourged. Thirty strokes apiece over the bare back, down to the hips.

Joanne and Martine were among the prisoners taken by the marauding dragoons that night. Being among the youngest, they were dealt with first. Stripped to the hips. Martine was dragged to the munition case the troops had unloaded from the baggage mules, bent over, a rough cord encircling the thighs and wrists, her breasts crushed brutally, to receive the lash. The dragoon corporal seemed to derive special pleasure from flogging females: the bulge in his breeches betrayed it. He looked forward to blooding the half-naked women and especially Martine with her well-fleshed body and swarthy skin. Sweeping her long, dark tresses forward to clear the shoulders, he whipped the eighteen-year-old ferociously; the youngster's shrieks echoed through the surrounding woods terrifying those waiting in line, guarded by the muskets and flashing sabres. When her turn came after Martine had been flayed and thrown aside, Joanne was hauled to the flogging block, her woollen smock being ripped from her shoulders. She positioned herself without waiting to be manhandled, descending her skirt well below her hips to the birth of her rear cleft to provide the man with a maximum of skin to mark. The flogger smiled at the gesture. Much would he have enjoyed opening up a naked arse but orders unfortunately confined him to the back and there, as orders prescribed, only down to the birth of the buttock crease.

Practically unattached, Joanne hoped to take the lashes stoically without struggling, stifling her cries; she even turned her drooping head to watch the fellow grease the ox hide - to enhance the pain. Then she gritted her teeth. Although now twenty-two and just married to the austere Jean-Jacques, the weaver, she had throughout her adolescence received the whip regularly from her parents at home for the least breach of discipline and, on those occasions, she was invariably stripped. Those whippings during her maidenhood had given her welts but also a strange pleasure that had her masturbating furiously when sent to bed. The orgasms steered her through waves of lascivious lust into a delirious aftermath as, with one hand, she fingered the imagined ridges of scarlet bruises over her rump and thighs and, with the other, punished her clitoris to bring herself off.

Preparing herself for the whip before countless eyes in the torchlit clearing, she felt her vagina starting to throb, her heartbeat quickening. Her sidelong glance caught sight of the lump in the dragoon's crotch. It was obvious the lout was taking his duties to heart and she was aware she was presenting him with one of the prettiest bodies in the Cevennes - the attendant priest, Father Delpuech admitted as much as he watched - and she found herself almost challenging the young dragoon to commence.

The scourge's fanged extremities bit in deep across the back, striking the swollen teats the flogger had been careful to draw out from under the crush of the thorax. The flagellation seemed endless as Joanne writhed not only in pain but with resentment that her buttocks were not bared for welting. Finally the last lash did curl round the waist close to the sloping rise of the rump but it merely sliced into the thin skirt drawn tight and wet over the trembling cheeks. When she rose unsteadily from her knees, she sensed blood had been drawn from somewhere round the ribs but far more manifest, at least to her, was the warm sex sap oozing from the bloated labia. The clitoris had during the first lashes shuffled off its protective sheath and Joanne knew it was rearing fully erect, begging for attention. Her breath had shortened under the force of the strokes that had crossed each other on the shoulder blades but she was gasping more from trying to control the weird sense of erotic pleasure she was experiencing. If only they had stripped her nude and hung her by the wrists from that nearby oak bough and flogged her back and front... had the young, sweating dragoon with the rigid cock thrown her backwards over the flogging case and ruthlessly slit her skirt, she would willingly have parted her thighs to be fucked and filled. But she was flung headlong to the side to sprawl in the gorse while the next victim was hustled forward. And the horse drawn tumbrils were already arriving to load the heretical - and hysterical - females once the lot had been scourged and chained. Only too soon would the hideous journey south to the Tour de Constance commence; and there endless incarceration awaited the impious Protestant females, even if they recanted.

Joanne tried vainly to catch sight of Jean-Jacques amid the men being manacled and lined up for their long trudge to the sea in the care of the royal guards. At home her man had been a solemn and unimaginative lover, hardly satisfying her sexually but finally agreeing to have his cock sucked in the makeshift bed when the parents had retired. The religiously stalwart weaver had learnt much from Joanne, not only in bed but from her dauntless tenacity in keeping the Genevan faith bright. And now, lost in the torch smoke and commotion, in a moment he would be on his way to the galleys and the whips wielded by the ship's argusin in charge of slaves - just as she and the pathetic, plump Martine along with the other females from Pressignac were doomed to the inferno of Aigues-Mortes and its gloomy cellars. There they would be far beyond the reach of the courageous Cevenol leaders, such as Cavalier, Séguier, Jacques Couderc, Roland operating in the Lower Cevennes, and Mazels, already dominating much of the High Cevennes - men who knew the terrain like the lines on their palms. Papist churches would continue to be burnt. The revolt against Babylon would become a civil war - and that despite the killings, the forced abjurations, 'conversions', and the clandestine emigrations to the safe places of the Refuge - Geneva, Zurich, Brandenburg, the Low Countries... The power of Queen Anne's England seemed ineffectual. And meanwhile the Tour de Constance, with its chains and visiting Jesuits out to proselytise, lay in wait for Joanne, Martine and the dozen other unfortunates huddled in a group, trying to cover their breasts and tensed bellies.

***

Amid the screams and piteous wailing, the prayers, the riveting of iron trammels and shackles and the thud of the ox hide on parpaillote hide, Francis-Etienne, Marquis de Lassignac sat patiently on his roan mare, watching the proceedings. His faithful valet, Coursel, had dismounted to hold the bridle of his master's mount and his own, awaiting the outcome of their mission. He recalled its origin and purpose only too clearly.

A week back, serving at table along with his scurrilous wife, Simone, and two half-naked wenches, he had been privy to the exchange between the Marquise Elodie and the great Marshal over the most sumptuous dinner the Château de Lassignac could provide. Appointed by His Sublime Majesty earlier that year, Claude Louis Hector de Villars, Grand Marshal of France, Prince de Martigues and victor over the Coalition at the recent battle of Friedlingen - only Marlborough was to defeat him - Villars detested his new duties. Being called to crush a rebellion of ragged, illiterate peasants was below his dignity but, as usual, he put all his energy into the task, murdering men by the hundred or despatching them to the galleys, flogging and imprisoning females and putting countless villages to the torch. Replacing his predecessors, de Broglie, the former Intendant of the Cevennes, and the uncompromising Captain Poul who had suspects broken on the wheel at Nimes, he laboured unceasingly towards ridding the realm of infidels. True, a multitude of abjurations, feigned for the most part, had been obtained through terror and torture but Versailles would require a further two full years to suppress the revolt, while France lost thousands of its most enterprising citizens to Protestant havens abroad.

The incident that night in the clearing near Pressignac had constituted one of the Marshal's more local victories compared with his great battles in Germany. His dreaded Cadets in their green tunics, marked with the Cross, fawn breeches and sloping leather boots, had sabred generously and surrounded the whole miserable bunch of parpaillots. The Marquise Elodie was proud to be his hostess at Lassignac, lodging him in luxury while he planned his further skirmishes and wrote reports to Versailles.

"I am sure, Marshal," Elodie had simpered with one of her more winning smiles, "you could see your way, should you fall upon a gathering of these rascals, to releasing one or two female heretics to our keeping." She would prefer pretty, well-built ones but did not say so. "We would welcome the chance to play our part in cleansing our region if you would agree to leaving a young parpaillote or two to us for conversion. Our dear Dom Anselme," she gestured towards the gaunt, tonsured Dominican seated at the end of the table, "would see to it in his own manner that the infidels are persuaded to abjure and of their own accord attend Mass in our chapel. After all, that is the object of your mission and it would contribute to His Majesty's crusade, would it not, Excellency?"

At the outset, Villars had demurred. By virtue of royal decree, all female parpaillote prisoners had to be deported as miscreants to the Tour de Constance, males to the gibbet, the wheel or the oar. On the other hand, he owed much to his hosts; their hospitality had been not only gracious but grandiose. They had gone to great lengths to make him comfortable and the château had been conveniently situated for directing operations. Being finally obliged to move north to organise greater battles, he felt he had to express his and the King's gratitude. After some soul-searching and deliberation and aided by the roast duckling, sweetmeats and Rhone wines, the noble warrior had agreed. A prisoner or two less in one of his conveyances south would barely be noticed. The decision lay in his own hands; after all, he was a Marshal of France. Moreover, a fuck with his hostess Elodie would not have come amiss. But alas, despite her smile, she lay beyond his reach.

***

Hence the Marquis's reminder of the agreement, as they stood amid the torchlit pandemonium of manacling, floggings and shrieks. With the Marshal next to him - they had ridden out together for the attack - Francis-Etienne de Lassignac made his choice without waiting for the conclusion of the beatings. He pointed with his riding crop to the blonde beauty - the same Joanne - and then quickly, reluctant to risk a change of heart in the Marshal, to the well-rounded Martine. Both girls had collapsed into the wet heather, sufficiently flagellated to prove their stamina, at least in the case of the blonde who, he considered, promised well, if not for conversion, at least for Elodie's enjoyment...

"In view of your august consent the other night, Marshal, I would petition the release to us of that fair-haired slut over there and that coarsely fleshed one groaning in the grass. They will do admirably. I assure you we shall have them converted briskly."

The military head nodded gravely, summoning the colonel of dragoons to set the two women aside. Their condition hardly encouraged him to endorse the choice, for neither female seemed worthy of the assiduous attentions of the delicious Marquise; true, one was slender as a lily but the other was loaded with heavy breasts and a distinct over abundance of rump meat. Each in her own way would suit the Marquise admirably.

"If they will suffice, so be it. Thank you again for your gracious hospitality." With that, the Marshal rode off to supervise the departure of the male prisoners. He had avoided debate which he detested, and had contented his hostess; he recalled her impenetrable smile and how she had knelt beside him at Mass, exuding sweet odours of rosemary and tempting flesh. Moreover, the Dominican, Dom Anselme, with his heavy-lidded grey eyes had impressed him. The girls would be in the saintly hands of a staunch converter, certainly equal to those hard-working Jesuits sent to indoctrinate the misguided lodged in the Tour de Constance. Further, the girls had been officially well whipped and thus had received an important part of what Versailles required. "The bitches are yours," he said.

Delighted at his success, the Marquis issued his orders immediately Villars had cantered off. "Get those two sluts bound by the wrists, Coursel, and ready to run. And be quick about it, man. We have to be back before moon set." He watched his lackey plough his way into the mass of sobbing humanity to emerge, dragging the pair of half-clothed females after him by the hair. The Marquis took stock of what he had singled out; the blonde girl had neat, well-sculpted breasts and a slender waist and would certainly meet the Marquise's desiderata. As she approached the horses, he saw her more clearly; tall with long legs and a muscular torso she was surprisingly attractive despite the welts and trickles of blood. If what was visible of the body was anything to go by, Francis-Etienne foresaw the hips leading down to firm, rounded buttocks and powerful thighs, probably capable of withstanding much of the same punishment she had just received. Further, something told him she was no virgin, not that such criteria mattered where she was destined. On the contrary Lassignac was not a place where one met many virgins.

Then he studied the younger heretic. Certainly less erotic, the girl nevertheless presented truly prodigious udders with swollen teats that seemed to have become rigid in permanent erection upon the perfectly smooth areoles; they at least would please Elodie, for most of the slaves she had inveigled into the castle cellars always seemed to boast remarkably buoyant mammaries. And the bigger the better. Further down, the navel in the slope of the belly was profound as an inkwell. Although still clothed under the drenched skirt the arse seemed to match the volume of the breasts; again an asset for Elodie. Francis-Etienne considered he had chosen astutely enough under difficult conditions and given the need to decide with precipitation. Selecting slaves could be a delicate matter.

He encouraged the valet again. "Get them tied up to your saddle, man, and ready to move." The servant led the females to the rear of his gelding and roped their wrists to the long cords attached to his pommel. Both girls were barefoot, having lost their sandals in the chaos of the troops' descent and the whippings. As Francis-Etienne mounted, he saw their backs; the flagellation had indeed been thorough. The weals stood out like purple rods across the taut skin, glistening with sweat. He trusted that Elodie would not disapprove of his choice nor be disenchanted at their having been flagellated, for she much preferred her newcomers to be unblemished on arrival. But then what could a mere Marquis do faced with a Marshal of the Crown? Elodie would just have to accept the damage.

"Yer'd better keep up, whores," Coursel advised the two trembling figures, neither aware why she had been extricated from the group nor what was happening. Joanne even risked a wistful look behind at the colleagues being loaded into the carts and then readied herself for what lay ahead. Quite evidently they were to be towed into the night. barefoot and half-naked. "If yer fall, whores," the valet went on with menace, "yer'll be dragged through th' gorse an' brambles like bleedin' sows till the master says we reins in. An' yer'll get stripped nude an' belted till yer back on yer feet. Got it?" He tapped a black length of horsehide clipped to his belt. Joanne saw it terminated in a metal stub.

The excruciating journey to the castle commenced.

The shock on their wrists jerked the prisoners forward into a trot, their breasts swinging like the papist church bells at Ales. Less agile than Joanna, Martine had to run to keep up with the gelding, the cord tightening without mercy. Even when the soles of her feet began to bleed from the flint stones in the path, she somehow managed, breathless, to keep abreast of her companion who continued to exhort her softly with a prayer. The encouragement helped, for neither lost foothold for nearly a league through the thorns.

Then Martine stumbled over the hem of her drenched and tattered skirt and fell headlong to be dragged on her side until the mounts halted. The Marquis turned in his saddle and motioned to the valet. The man dismounted, approached the weeping girl lying in the snow and slush and used his whip. The half dozen lashes had little effect apart from marking Martine's bottom, denuded of the protecting skirt that had been ripped away in the haul across the stones. The valet tore the bedraggled material off the legs and threw it into the bushes: the winded girl lay naked in the snow, bleeding from the hip.

"On yer feet, whore!" Coursel yelled, flailing the buttocks. "Runnin' nude'll help. Or d'yer want us draggin' thee th'rest of th' way?" Another stroke of the rawhide slammed across the newly bared crotch. Joanne wondered just how much the beefy creature could take of the brute's service whip - the term the Marquis had used earlier in the clearing.

Martine barely succeeded in finding her feet, convulsed with shock and pain. And the trek continued but at walking pace. Again Joanne tried to console the wretched wench with Psalm 51, to no avail. The screaming gathered in force as the girl realised she was totally nude: her courage had ebbed to its limit. It was quite evident to Joanne that the youngster was a complete stranger to the scourge. The dragoon's atrocious strokes over the munition crate and now the valet's blows were probably the first the girl had received in her life; she imagined the trauma the poor thing was suffering.

Midnight had long since passed when the grotesque procession traversed the dark drawbridge of Lassignac and the prisoners crumbled into the slush of the courtyard under the lugubrious flicker of a torch burning in an iron wall bracket amid the ivy.

The snow clouds had cleared but the moon had set; all that remained of the outside world was reduced to a sprinkle of frozen stars and the welts on the girls' backs. In the darkness a baying of bloodhounds greeted the Master of Lassignac and his trophies. As her breathing calmed, Joanne was half prepared to beg for mercy but thought better of it, as the portcullis screeched down behind the cortege. In the glimmer of the flambeau, the valet's whip still glistened with Martine's sweat. Circumstances were already bad enough.

The outline of a thin, cloaked female emerged from the keep, a second figure with a shawl drawn tight over her head following with a lantern held aloft. Having dismounted, the valet bowed while the Marquis - Joanne had by then identified the man from past hearsay at home - met the women and kissed the hand of what, again Joanne guessed, could be none other than Elodie Marguerite Helène, Marquise de Vonnange-Lassignac, about whom so many strange rumours had long circulated in hushed whispers among the peasants of that part of the Cevennes. All Joanne had gathered was that the Marquise should be avoided at all costs. Indeed, when on occasion the woman, smart in her black riding habit, rode through the hamlets with this valet of hers, the locals made themselves scarce, hurrying indoors. The second female was clearly a serving woman and ugly.

Roused from the warmth of her feather bed of Cevenol silk, her nightgown and wrap billowing in the night air like the clouds scudding above the château's turrets, Elodie made no attempt to hide her satisfaction at the sight. After welcoming home her spouse, she studied the shivering, begrimed figures on the cobbles, turning Joanne over with the toe of a golden slipper.

"But, treasure," she exclaimed in a tone of chagrin, "they've both been flogged! Surely, Francis, you could have avoided that. And this one's as thin as a hayfork just skin and bone. True I like them sleek but really..." The blue eyes flashed as they fell upon the sniffling Martine's striated carcass. "And this thing's been beaten raw! What a mess!"

"Well, that's all I could wrest from the Marshal's hold, dearest. It was by no means easy. And every female heretic has to be flogged before transport. You know that. And I could hardly obstruct justice, could I, angel? Believe me," he remonstrated gently, "they were about the best of the bunch and Villars was anxious to get the rest on their way south. I couldn't ask for a dozen or so females to be lined up and stripped for me to evaluate their bodies! Be fair, Elodie. And anyway, this one's not as skinny as you think." In his turn he jabbed a mudded boot into Joanne's belly. "She's really quite attractive for a serf. Then you've got this one to play with too." Martine yelled as the man's spurred heel grazed her thigh, leaving a thin line of rowel marks. "And she'll heal up soon enough."

"Probably," came the grudging agreement with a pout of the lovely lips, as Elodie turned to the shawled figure holding the lantern. "To work, Simone. Get them cleaned up, fitted with the leather straps and shaved in the usual way - armpits, vulva and anal divide, for me to examine them."

"And shear the heads. Madame?"

"If I wanted them bald, I'd say so, woman." her mistress snapped back. "And tomorrow get them crucified out wide by the legs for Anthea to do the piercing and ringing." A white hand halted the maid's objection. "No, Simone. I want Anthea to become proficient at piercing flesh. You'll use the holding cellar for preparing them." The night air was beginning to chill the noble limbs. She drew her silks closer around her resplendent form. "And you, Coursel, take them down below immediately. I don't want any dallying. It's late enough as it is."

The valet bowed. He was only too ready to rid himself of the blighted bodies. And, like his master, was ravenous. He began to release the ropes from the saddle. As he kicked the females to their feet, he sought directions as to bondage.

"Is it yer ladyship's wish to 'ave 'em strung up already by their's ankles?"

"No, you dolt. Once all that filthy mud and blood's been swilled off and they're shaved and manacled - the four limbs and throat, and riveted tight - chain them from the vault rings. They'll sleep well enough like that. I want them rested and attentive for the morrow. Now, shift your lazy arses and get these sluts down to the holding cellar."

"What's about supper, Madame?" the lantern bearer muttered cautiously. "Shall I have Florence prepare something?"

"Of course, wretch." Elodie had almost forgotten the four travellers had to be fed and especially her cherished Francis-Etienne who was probably famished; the valet needed soup too but the newcomers could wait. "Get that slut Florence out of her bag of hay where she's most likely being fucked to a wraith by that lout Brissac, and have her prepare a meal. You should have thought of it before, you idle bitch. That sort of sloth and lack of foresight merits twenty lashes on the trestles for you and that slut of a cook, Florence, and you know it. Move!"

Only too content to let his diligent partner take care of the preparation of the newly arrived slaves (such, they were told, was their ranking at the château), the Marquis looked forward to dining. At long last. Taking Elodie's frozen hand to escort her back to the porch and warmth, he heard Coursel seeking guidance again; he already held the two prisoners by the wrist cords, about to drag them to the cellar entrance at the far end of the yard.

"Is it Ma'me la Marquise's gracial wish," - Versailles French was not the valet's strongest point - "once these be swabbed an' fitted up wi' straps and all, I flog 'em? Like we's done wid t'other whore that come in three weeks back. I'll open up 'er arse meat."

"Thank you, Coursel, but no," his proprietress replied. "They seem to have had enough for one day. Just get them prepared." In point of fact, Elodie had planned to deliver the first whippings herself. Her husband nodded only to add: "He's had a hard evening dearest. Perhaps he could be given that lethargic bitch, Mariette, who's wearing herself out frigging down there in the cellars. It would be a compensation for him. And if I'm not mistaken, she's due anyway for punishment, no?"

"Very well," Elodie retorted, her beautiful, dimpled smile consenting. "Yes, she needs to be taught not to use her clit." She turned to Coursel. "You may use Mariette and give her as many lashes as you want, man. She deserves a hard breast flogging."

The fellow bowed to his considerate mistress; he felt he had earned a spot of pleasure. It was to him immaterial whether it was Mariette, who had graced the Lassignac cellars for a year now, or one of the newcomers. All he needed was a docile piece of sex chattel with swaying breasts and parted thighs for ten minutes. And a good fuck.

After a bath in the copper tub before the fire, Francis-Etienne recounted the foray in some detail. Sheltering the imperious marshal had paid off, as Elodie had believed it would. "Of course," Francis pointed out later, over the truffles, trout and mushrooms, "we'll be forced to let Dom Anselme try his hand at converting our two novices, sweet. We can't do otherwise when he hears they're heretics."

Elodie had to agree. "But I'm really not so passionately interested in their souls and abjuration, Francis, as you know. It's their bodies I'm after. And if these two, like the others down below, take to the whip and sex - even," she emphasised with her silver trencher, "if they do abjure and surrender to our demanding man of God - I'm not going to let them go free. I mean, if they perform as sex slaves should. You agree, of course."

The Marquis concurred. It would be foolhardy to liberate parpaillote slave flesh that had taken time to train up, even if it agreed to attend Mass and confession. Should, however, the new girls fail to meet Elodie's standards - and his own for that matter, equally stringent - one or both could be sent to the local Convent of the Annunciation to undergo special training that was mainly carnal; and then a decision could be made whether to recuperate or dispose of them. "We'll have to discuss the matter with Dom Anselme, of course." After a pause he felt constrained to add a proviso. "Elodie, we must not forget these two are our first parpaillots and requite careful handling."

The Marquise smiled. Her determination was well known; she would bring these two sluts to heel and then decide. "If they're sexually gifted as slaves and even if our sly monk converts them, then I'm damn well going to keep them for our own pleasure and that of the guests. And, Francis our dear guests really deserve some new flesh to work on."

Although some of Elodie's friends from surrounding Catholic strongholds and wealthy mansions were not among the Marquis's preferences, they amused him, played bezique and pinochle well and on occasions rode out hunting with him; apart from naked women writhing in bondage, stag and boar were his cardinal delights and venison at table had contributed to cajoling the valiant and illustrious Marshal to accede to Elodie's entreaty. But there were other guests, younger, highly licentious and devoid of the slightest sexual restraint, who had entered into firm friendship with him; rakes, whose visits to the château Francis enjoyed, for they often came accompanied by their equally debauched wives or mistresses and handsome lackeys with strong cocks, whips and instruments. Recreation.

***

The persecution of Protestants had reached its zenith and Lassignac kept its gates fast shut in fear of a Camisard attack, despite the growing successes of the dragoons and Cadets. To avoid the galleys, the seizure of property, harassment and the enforced billeting on them of the terrible dragoons (thugs who commandeered space, food, beds and women), a growing number of 'infidels' were abjuring. The fear inspired by this military scum was sufficient to drive whole villages into the hands of the priests; conversions, if not obtained under the scourge, were accelerated by the Conversion Fund, set up by Louis - 'God's Lieutenant' - and his servile ministers, whereby converts received cash compensation for abjuring. The edict of 1681, the year of Joanne's birth, had even authorised seven-year old children to opt for conversion, leave their families and claim protection from the Church. The kingdom of France seemed to have become mad.

Joanne, Martine and their strong-willed families had so far steered their perilous way through the persecutions until that fatal night. The girls had staunchly refused the blandishments of the foul black-garbed priest who had attended their flogging, his hideous mumbling continuing up to the last lash. Immediately the man knew they were destined for the château, he despatched a message to his Dominican colleague. Thus the prisoners of Lassignac had a double burden: to contend with the pressure to convert, and to survive the conditions of slavery imposed by the noble household. For her part, the Marquise was not interested in seeking conversion and left that to her hawk-nosed monk; it made little difference to her what beliefs her naked slaves professed in her dungeons as long as they responded readily and erotically to the whip. Joanne learned this on her first day.

The Marquise de Lassignac ruled more or less supreme, standing at the centre of her little universe, dominating and controlling it. What authority her twenty-three year old lesbian lover, Anthea, wielded stemmed directly from her. Yet, in the château's strict hierarchy, Anthea occupied a key position; it was she who discussed with Elodie the detail of forthcoming guest sessions and transmitted orders downward to the domestic level for the valet and his fellow workers to prepare the chambers, paraphernalia and victims for the periodic weekend celebrations, for which Lassignac was justly, if covertly, renowned. Elodie had full confidence in her beautiful, energetic bed companion who knew very precisely what entertained each of the more exigent guests who came for enjoyment; the pillories, the crucifixes in the form of a T or an X, the granite slabs and chairs, the constructions like door frames designed for breast torture, the single and double dildoes and, above all, the whips - Anthea knew them all. Her gift of invention enhanced the sessions to a degree that surprised even Elodie and her visitors. If occasionally the Marquise had to modify the girl's proposals, it was only to safeguard her slaves' well-being. They were not expendable as had been earlier victims Anthea had dealt with, such as the unfortunate case of the young beggar wench Elodie had offered her for her twenty-first birthday. Picked up by the diligent Coursel on a sortie to Ales after curfew, when the castle was running short of female whipping flesh, the prostitute had at first been delighted to be housed in the great castle but quickly changed her mind when Anthea had her to herself in a remote slave cell. "I trust this one's strong body and breasts will amuse you, darling," Elodie had said. "She ought to suffice for the time being."

Delighted, Anthea had stripped the slut naked and ordered special manacles and chains from Brissac, the castle blacksmith. She used her punitively and sexually to such a degree that the whore weakened fast. To Anthea's annoyance, Duby - such, Elodie recalled sadly, was the exhausted trollop's name - had to be consigned to the Convent of the Annunciation for rejuvenation; there, if punishment of whores was no less awesome, at least she would survive. But she never returned to Lassignac; Anthea was upset and became moody, deprived of a slave of her own and obliged to make do with the six resident females and one male in the lower dungeon. Then, like the strolling players arriving at Elsinore to distract the melancholy Hamlet, Joanne and Martine appeared out of the wintery blue to rekindle the young lesbian's enthusiasm.

The taciturn girl drew up her plans carefully, realising she would have to watch her step with the Dominican. Changing her crinolines, silks and powdered peruke for the polished riding boots, thorax strappings and black gauntlets, she decided to go down to the holding chamber to view the two newcomers who were chained stark-naked to the wall.

Discussions with Elodie later on led to the decision to separate the pair, once they had been shaved, flesh ringed and permanently manacled. The blonde Joanne was to remain in the holding cellar for a bout of deportment training under the whip while the heavily-fleshed and less attractive Martine would join the permanent cohort below.

"But first, Anthea, my precious," Elodie insisted, aware of her lover's impatience, "we must have them prepared - the usual seven rings firmly inserted. I don't want them tearing out at the least tug. Oh, by the way, darling, I've changed my mind. I want Simone to do the piercing, after all, but I'll leave you to supervise it. You see, Simone is an expert with the awl so I suggest she deals with this flesh rather than you. But make sure either Coursel or Brissac's present. Slaves tend to become somewhat recalcitrant and unruly when they know they're about to be skewered. We've had problems in the past so see to it the bodies are well chained beforehand."

Anthea gave Elodie a disappointed pout. Thus far she had attended and witnessed only one piercing session, that of the sallow-skinned Dalinde just a month or so ago, and the writhings and screams remained a vivid memory. Secretly, she would have loved to carry out the puncturing herself but agreed it was probably better left to the domestic who was used to it, as to castrating heifers and muzzle-ringing bulls in the castle farm.

The procedure was set for the following afternoon after the neophytes had been scrubbed clean and allowed a moment of rest, prior to the trauma of ringing. Subsequently the inspection by Elodie herself and possibly her husband, if not out hunting, would take place. If they passed scrutiny, the girls would join the contingent for use as sex slaves.

Deservedly, the household had slept soundly until late morning when Simone took up to the bedroom freshly baked bread, honey and hot chocolate (now a popular beverage being imported from the new French possessions in west Africa). The maid was not at all surprised to see that the Marquis, despite the hectic night, had already left for the hunt; her sumptuous mistress lay still asleep in the dishevelled bed, with Anthea lying naked next to her, the hands cupping Elodie's breasts - a charming portrayal of lesbian adoration. Simone drew back the rich Aubusson curtains to flood the chamber with the light of spring, the snow on the battlements beginning to melt at last. Waking leisurely and refreshed, Elodie gave orders for the kitchens, including what was to be fed to the bevy of slaves, now increased by two - they being given hot soup and suet to fortify them. Slave induction tended to be exhausting for novices unaccustomed to piercing and the whip.

"I want the two new ones readied for fitting the straps and rings, Simone, and..."

"Coursel's down there, Madame, preparing for the riveting too," the servant put in with a curtsey. "Both 'ave been scrubbed and strapped down ready for skewerin'. Bressac's sorted out the rings and tools. Does yer Grace wish us to proceed as ordered?"

"Of course woman. See to it Coursel chains the sluts tight over the slab. I want them extended to the full reach of the tendons, to avoid that annoying tussling like the last time. And tell him there's not be any flogging, particularly between the thighs, until the Marquis and I have appraised their bodies and stamina. They'll be on the wall chains in the holding cellar, I suppose?"

The hard-featured servant nodded. "Of course, Madame. By the necks to opposite walls. But soon they'll be spread on the slabs. But the younger bitch keeps moanin'."

"She'll have full reason to moan very soon. You may go."

Elodie turned to her lesbian treasure, admiring the firm breasts. "What a treat to wake up and find you next to me, all wet and sticky. You were simply delicious last night. Pity Francis was too done in to fuck us more than twice. He likes slaves more than us."

Hours later, the remains of the extravagant lunch cleared away, Elodie again kissed the young woman on the lips, cupping a hand over her sex pouch through the silks. "All right. I can see you're dying to get down there to watch the piercings. I know how you like that part of the proceedings. There's no need for you to change into that martial outfit of yours, my sweet. Just go down and enjoy it as you are. You look so pretty in that dress and narrow waist. Being arrayed like that, you won't be able to frig that riotous clit for once will you? So, off you go."

Anthea needed no encouragement. She left in a whisper of silk and perfume.

The spiral stairwell leading into the funereal depths always excited her; the silence reigning amid the guttering tallow seemed even more charged with significance than when the passages rang with the screams of slaves writhing under the leathers and implements. What she was about to watch sent a tremor through her body, causing her nipples to harden. Excited, she entered the stifling cellar. It smelled already of scared female flesh.

What met her eyes was more exciting than she had expected. In the glimmer of the candles positioned round the two slabs of basalt, the totally stretched bodies shimmered with oil and, she guessed, the chill sweat of terror. Coursel stood beyond the superb, elongated length of the blonde bound to the nearest block, checking how much further the prisoner's arms could be bent backwards over the far margin of the stone without luxation. At the other slab, Simone was wrenching Martine's freshly-riveted ankle straps back to lock them to U-bolts halfway along the base of the block. The nude's rump lay crushed over the near edge, the tensed thighs completely parted to reveal the umber slot and pubis, still protected by its swathe of dark curls that was no longer wanted.

Beyond the breathtaking sweep of the hollowed bellies rising to the rib cages, the slaves' breasts rose vertically, the engorged areoles crowned with swollen teats - even Martine's nipples were reacting. The sight made Anthea glance at the crotches, from the blonde one's sex folds the pale tip of what had to be a really stalwart clitoris emerged almost provocatively. But the other slave remained torpid, her sepia labia still glued together. To Anthea's mind the drab needed stimulating - a dozen lashes of the quirt there across the fat vulva; but Simone sought quite the opposite; piercing slave flesh and fitting the rings required docility on the part of the slave. Precisely to that end, the two servants passed broad straps over the chest, belly and thighs of each nude, buckling them tight. If before there had been the risk of a heave or jerk, now the bodies were absolutely rigid.

Simone's depilations of males or females were always flawless, that Anthea knew as she watched the woman working up her lather in the soap mug and daubing the sexes and armpits. Soon each girl's succulent pubic hump bulged enticingly, freed of hair, curving down to the lips of the vulva slit, ready to be perforated, the bodies slick with sweat. Coursel laid the array of open metal circles on each slave's belly for the cunt and nipple rings to be threaded through the flesh and clamped. From the pocket of her greasy leather apron, Simone brought out her saddler's tools, one straight, the other a curved sewing awl which Anthea knew was used for piercing the slippery root of the clitoris.

"Which tits yer want t'do first?" the valet asked, disinfecting the tools and a pair of crimping pliers in his urine. His wife motioned towards Martine. "Better get this drab fixed," she said, "before she 'ollers 'er bloody 'ead off." They used the vernacular together.

"Want me to flog 'er senseless first? Or gag 'er?"

"Won't do no good." The maid turned to Anthea. "That's if Mam'selle don't mind the yells that's comin'."

The onlooker shook her head. "I'm used to it, Simone. Proceed."

Indeed the brawny bitch did howl as Coursel hooked the flat-nosed tongs over the nipple and stretched it. As if jabbing a sow's ear, Simone drove the awl through, widening the aperture with a turn of the wrist. Amid deafening shrieks, the other teat and then the four labia were holed, then he drew out the puny sex button for Simone's curved instrument to perforate what there was of it. She wiped off the beads of blood for her husband to thread the rings through and clamp them solid with the pliers. By the time they had finished with Martine, the girl had passed out, sparing everyone, including Joanne, her demented yelling. Then, with only sharp hisses of pain, Joanna underwent the same ordeal, the torture of her tumescent sexual extremities causing only a litany of sharp cries. Unpredictably, she discovered herself savouring the erotic humiliation that was reducing her to slavery; the weight made her vulva flutter and ooze, as one of her most secret yearnings came true.

Collecting her tools the maid remarked on Joanne's courage. "By all the saints, this one'll make a tidy slave, Coursel. And she's got a great body t' whip and fuck."

Before Coursel had released the bodies, Anthea approached Joanne to finger the sex rings. The cluster gave her, too, an exotic thrill. Burrowing in amid the dangling metal, she thrust her gloved hand up into the vagina; hot, seething with viscid sap, the tube gripped her; feeding her thumb through the clit ring, she felt the metal jerk. It was one of the most extraordinary sensations Anthea had experienced. Circumstances, alas, did not allow her to take matters into her own hands; otherwise she would have whipped the blonde beauty where she lay, straddling the face to be tongued and brought to orgasm. Instead, she walked slowly to the reversed head and made Joanne lick her glistening fingers. But she did not wait to see the shuddering bodies manhandled back to their wall chains to recover from the shock and residual pain throbbing at the seven points. She required relief.

She made for the steps leading down to the lower cellar, feeling her way along the masonry in darkness. After a perilous descent, she entered the dungeon, her crinolines and farthingale hoops rasping against the doorjambs and causing the candles to waver in surprise. But it was Therèse, lounging behind the bars and playing with her sex rings, who received the real surprise. The key grated in the rodded gate and Anthea released the chain from the neck of the startled whore. Her sisters held their breath.

"Out there, scum, and over the torture trestle, arse well up, legs wide!" The voice was strident enough to drain the blood from the cheeks of the perpetually welted brunette, as she scrambled out to obey the summons. Bending over the bar, Therèse watched the slender, evil figure cross to the whip rack and seize a knotted cat-o'-nine-tails; she knew what was coming. In her brief time at Lassignac, she had had it across the thighs, buttocks, belly and once over her breasts - everywhere, from the valet, Elodie and countless guests. But never from the pampered beauty standing there, shaking out the lashes that could either take one to orgasm or reduce one merely to tears. Therèse feared this time it would be a flood of tears. Sex was beyond reach, faced with Anthea.

She spread herself out over the wooden crosspiece, grasping the uprights, her legs parted to their extreme reach with only her toes for purchase. Without a further word, Anthea flogged the rump with a ferocity that cut the victim's breath. Around the tenth lash, Therèse's stamina failed her. Weeping, she begged to be spared. "I've... already had..." Schlack "two flagellations... today, mistress." Schlack "Ahh, God!... And I've... paid for... my faults... too" Schlack! Again, up into the crotch... "out in the... yard. Pleeese!"

"Get that split arse out further, slut! You owe me more than faults. You owe me whatever I want to give you, bitch. It was to be twenty but as you can't hold your tongue until I need it, I'll give you ten extra, you wimp. That's what an arse is for." Schlack!

Anthea took her to well over the usual thirty, desisting only when blood was drawn. Therèse sank to her knees, her breasts sagging, the rump seething. She could not take any more, even if it meant the torture closet...

"Get up, bitch!" came the command, "and on your knees, there." The whip pointed to the terrifying flogging frame, halting the slave's heart. Cumbrously, the flayed nude crawled across the straw-littered flagstones, not daring to touch her bleeding rear, until she was facing the young fury leaning against the frame, her stockinged legs apart, the lace and crinolines lifted in both hands, baring the hot apex of the thighs.

Devoid, as usual, of any trace of knickers (a habit Elodie had tried to correct, along with her depraved lesbian's overindulgence in wearing a 'chastity' belt fitted with an internal dildo and clit rasp), the divinely elegant thighs and auburn-haired crotch stared out at the flagellated slave girl. Therèse knew immediately what the bitch wanted.

"Tongue me, slut. Lick till I come. If you stop, I'll thrash those flabby breasts until you wish you'd never had a pair." The tone had become guttural, hoarse and even more threatening than before. Relieved not to be chained to the frame and breast-whipped, the slave nudged her well-trained tongue into the wet, hirsute slot and flicked hard.

Watched by her nervous companions beyond the bars, she did what she could with the remainder of her energy, straining her head upwards and holding the slim thighs with hands that, strangely, remained free - an unbelievable privilege at Lassignac for a slave in the presence of an owner or a visiting dominant. The tongue lapped, curled and sucked desperately, the girl almost suffocating in the torrid downpour of mucilage.

Anthea's response began as a baying, like that of a dying animal, then mounted into a wild screech that penetrated the far reaches of the dungeon. The watchers behind the grating knew her potency but were surprised. For Therèse's sake they hoped there was not much more in store for their nut-brown teammate.

"Don't stop, you... you whore slag... or I'll..." The breathless, incoherent threat trailed off to join the echoes as the slithering tongue lapped faster, scouring the seething vaginal sheath and clit until the slave could no longer fight the lunges into her face. The convulsing, spasming creature clutched the whore's hair by the handful, almost tearing out tufts as the orgasms exploded, the crotch slamming the face awash with discharge. A volley of three more consecutive gushings submerged Therèse in thick sexual juice that she had barely time to swallow down before she found herself enshrouded within the descent of the perfumed underskirts. Panting and assuaged, Anthea sent the slave sprawling.

"Now, back to your chains, whore." No more than a murmur, the order consoled Therèse; she hoped it was over, for the dreaded whip still dangled dangerously, if irresolutely, from the exquisitely boned hand in the kid glove.

Under the rippling layers of soft silk, the slave girl kissed the embroidered slippers, as a slave had to do, hastening back beyond the bars to clip herself to her slave chain.

The iron gate slammed to, the key rasped and the contented one was gone.

"You must try to contain your lusts a little, darling," Elodie prompted her lover a while later. Her valet reported everything very promptly to his august owner. "But never mind. I want you to stand by in case you're needed to deal with our blonde newcomer, that is it you still have the energy! And this duty is, if I may say, official. You see, I have to allow our dear Dom Anselme have his way once in a while. He insists or trying to get our blonde charmer - the one we've just ringed - to abjure. A noble aspiration. Whether he will succeed is another matter. Anyway, he proposes to do it in the chapel rather than, say in one of the torture closets where he would have more privacy. Now, Anthea, you know," she lowered her voice a shade. "I am not particularly concerned over her religious beliefs but we have to content this sanctimonious chaplain of ours." She paused, hoping Anthea was listening. "I want you, my treasure, to do the honours in the chapel. I'm sure you'll relish it. But just remember, this session is under Anselme's guidance."

"What, pray, am I to do?" Anthea had no affinity with the gaunt Dominican but had to admire his shrewdness. Working with him was no great pleasure although admittedly he flogged and fucked admirably and she had learned much from watching him at work.

"It's very simple," the Marquise went on. "He has chosen to convert the blonde infidel first and then start on the other. Should there be problems - and, Anthea sweet, I'm certain there will be - he intends to flog the girls into the Faith. But he's unwilling to sully his holy hands with whips in chapel. So we've decided that, if necessary, you should do the whipping, prior to vespers, rather than the uncouth Coursel or Simone - although they, as you know, flagellate laudably to the blood when given the chance. So, Coursel will prepare the prie-dieu and the cords and you, with Anselme's concurrence, may choose the whip you think will help the girl to abjure. I have my doubts about the whole affair but it will provide you with useful practice. By the way, I think it would be correct, dearest, not to be too naked. I know you prefer nudity but remember you'll be on holy ground."

Anthea nodded. The prospect delighted her. To whip a slave, whatever her religion, in the chapel of all places, excited her, even if the lugubrious, morbid Dominican was involved. Moreover the duty would excuse her from confession for some weeks and that too pleased her, for a tête-à-tête with Dom Anselme was trying; his bony hands fumbling her nipples, the confessional stall rendering lower contact difficult. Moreover, the man's cock, straining under the cassock, hardly attracted her. Even Coursel's was finer.

"Now, angel, run along," her lover concluded, "and try not to masturbate too much, darling. You'll wear yourself out. A clit needs repose, you know." She caressed the girl tenderly, not far from the spot in question, and gave her a kiss, but only on the mouth.

The beautiful youngster could hardly believe her good fortune as she mounted the stairway leading to the bedrooms. She had been chosen to assist in the questioning of a prisoner! Knowing Dom Anselme, she was sure he would order the whip, whatever the outcome of the interview. The only drawback lay in the place. Anthea would have much preferred the cellar or a secluded precinct; the chapel was so funereal and forbidding.

For a moment she stood by the casement, looking out over the still snow-smudged hills of the Cevennes, wondering when she would be needed in the chapel. If she had understood, Elodie was to inspect the newcomers first. Life was becoming exciting.

She strolled over to the rustic sideboard and took out her personal scourge. Slowly and affectionately, she let the six black thongs run over her glove, feeling the tight knots; the weight, balance and texture pleased her and the colour went with the high boots she would wear. Her cheeks flushed, her vagina swelling again. She stripped off, spread out across the bed and, gasping, brought herself off savagely with the phallus-shaped haft of the whip. It was almost as satisfying as flogging a female slave... Almost? Nonsense - there was nothing to equal flagellation. Nothing. As this newcomer, Joanne, would discover.