Pillory Stories

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Pillory Stories
An inmate applied with pillory and clit/breast-chain

Aren't there gradations of evil? Is evil a great perilous gulf into which one falls with the first sin, plummeting to the depth?



December 11, 2018


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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 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.
“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.”
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.
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!
“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.
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 p
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