tagBDSMJen and the Inquisition

Jen and the Inquisition



For the sake of our story, let us suppose that somewhere there exists a special, a very unique resort catering to a very particular clientele. The clientele are possessed of certain needs and desires which they don't generally share with their friends and neighbors, much less strangers. Most likely this establishment is located in a region with an equitable climate, not to mention a tolerant social climate. It might be housed on a sizeable estate, for insulation from the outside world is most desirable, and it probably has vineyards and olive groves between the main house and the county road, masking the buildings quite effectively from passing traffic.

The main house is, of course, a rambling Tuscan style villa, though it will long predates the current fad for all things Tuscan. There were other reasons than the whims of society at large that dictated the design of the main house. In keeping with the Italian theme, the resort might be named something like, shall we say, the "Villa di Dolore."

The estate itself stretches for a good distance beyond the villa, accommodating a substantial buffer zone between the areas used by the resort's members and the neighboring properties. There are long standing agreements with those neighbors to aid in preserving the privacy of the members. The neighbors hear nothing, see nothing and say nothing, for which they are suitably recompensed.

A glance at the clientele strolling the grounds would also lead one to believe that this is not an ordinary resort. One might think, at first, that they'd dropped in on a costume party. On second thought they might wonder just what sort of costume party it was, where so many costumes consisted of full leather or merely straps, or shiny chain, or were cleverly designed to expose those parts normally concealed. And the number of costumes that consisted of nothing but a coating of sunscreen and bits of body jewelry might be a bit surprising as well.

And if one were to observe the clientele at their recreation it would quickly become obvious they were not visiting the Marriott Scottsdale. Because the Villa caters to clients who have very special needs. For some it is a sort of mental dog run where they can let the hidden demons of their innermost beings off the leash in a safe manner. For others it is a place for getting in touch with their inner barbarian, which coincidentally is the title of one of the more popular classes offered by the Villa. For still others it is a place to explore their long suppressed fantasies and shed light on the dark corners of their psyches.

If this resort existed and one were to drop by on a typical summer weekend...


Jen reported to the Villa at the time instructed. The Handler took her down to the slave quarters and turned her over to the Preparers. They undressed her, bathed her and shaved her superfluous body hair. Then she was dressed in a loose smock of coarse material, undecorated and poorly fitted, a garment that might have come from any time period between the Middle Ages and the Reformation. Then they notified the Handler that she was ready.

The Handler entered the room where Jen waited and walked up to her. He carried something in his hand, something made of black cloth, apparently formless.

"Are you ready to enter your fantasy?" he asked. "Once we pass that door there will be no stopping until it's over." He paused. "Or until you give the safe word. Will you repeat the agreed upon safe word for me?"

Jen paused for a moment, briefly uncertain at what she was about to undertake. Then, having come this far she determined to go through with it.

"Any phrase indicating a confession, such as 'I'll sign', or admitting I'm a heretic," Jen said.

The Handler shook out the article in his hand. It was a hood. Gently he slipped it over Jen's head.

"This will help you make the transition," he said. "Just hold my hand and I'll lead you."

With that he grasped her hand and led her through the door. She felt a tug to the right and followed him. They went straight, turned again. Then straight again. Twice he slowed and warned her of stairs.

The loose smock with its rough fabric made her very aware of her naked body. With each step it brushed against her bare flanks. Her unsupported breasts swayed back and forth, her nipples beginning to harden from the stimulation. And also from the anticipation.

Jen was both proud and a little embarrassed of those breasts. At 35 and a mother twice they weren't what they had been. Before the children they'd been high, full and proud. Though they hadn't lost much of their fullness they hung lower than she liked and had a slackness that allowed them to flop around uncomfortably when unsupported. Still, the nipples, enlarged by nursing, stood out nearly level.

And her butt, once so trim and tight, now had that extra bit of fat that she'd never quite been able to loose. When she complained of it, her husband merely gave her a playful slap and said it gave her a feminine roundness.

Another set of steps and a turn to the right. They stopped. Jen heard the creaking sound of old metal hinges, then felt a tug on her hand and took a few steps forward. Her hand was released. Then the sound of the hinges again and other metallic sounds. She suspected it was the sound of an antique key turning in an antique lock.

"Please count slowly to a hundred, and then you may remove the hood," the Handler said softly. Jen heard is soft footsteps retreating. She counted. With hesitation she slowly removed the hood and looked around her.

In the soft light coming through a small, high barred window she saw that she was in a stone cell. There was nothing else in it, no chair, no bed. Not even a pile of straw. Rusty bars blocked off the only exit, through a stone arch.

"What have I done?" she thought. "What will they do to me?"

All her life Jen had found images of ancient and medieval tortures strangely arousing. If the nuns at school had only known what images flashed through her mind when she read of the horrors inflicted on the martyrs, especially the female martyrs, they'd have been shocked out of their habits! Not that Jen really wanted to be shot full of arrows or boiled alive. Far from it. She was genuinely appalled at the horrible things people could think of to do to each other. And considering her Catholic upbringing it was particularly ironic that she should have developed such a fascination with the torments inflicted by the notorious Spanish Inquisition.

As terrible as they were such things had that horrible fascination of a traffic accident where you have to look, or the lurid tabloid account of some atrocity where you go back and reread the seamiest parts again as if you can't believe the monsters actually did such and such.

And there was another aspect to it. As she reached puberty and became more aware of her body and all the strange confusing things related to it, especially the sexual bits. She began to notice how often the victims were stripped and their most sensitive parts exposed to abuse. It was frightening, the idea of being so helpless and vulnerable. But there was an undeniable undertone of excitement, a very sexual excitement, to the images the stories of dungeons and torture chambers brought to her mind.

It was years after her marriage, and after the kids had arrived, when her husband had finally coaxed her into revealing her fantasies. She was afraid he'd be shocked and appalled but, thank God, he'd been mildly surprised and somewhat amused. He had his own peculiar fantasies that he hadn't dared tell her about. They had a good laugh at their deep, dark, dirty secrets that night before engaging in one of the steamiest of their love makings.

For a while they had played at some scenes, very mild, when the kids where away at the grandparents or at camp. And then he'd told her of a private club he'd heard about. A place called the Villa. Members went there to fulfill their darker fantasies. After finally making all the connections to the right people they'd gone a number of times as guests, observing some of the public sessions. After joining the Villa they'd gone to some of the frequent social functions which turned out to be mostly like any vanilla social function, except for the conversation occasionally turning to discussion of someone's new whip instead of his new chainsaw or her aerobics class. They took some classes, went to a few informal seminars. And one memorable Friday night they reserved a private torture chamber.

Then, with a little urging from her husband, Jen had gone to the Planners to discuss playing out a fantasy she'd long had.

"I want to be tortured by the Spanish Inquisition," Jen had said to the Planners. It sounded really strange, spoken aloud like that. Did I really say that, Jen thought to herself. And her next thought after that was "are they going to laugh at me?"

But they didn't laugh. Instead they asked her questions. How much did she know about the Spanish Inquisition? Were there any particular aspect, certain tortures that particularly excited her? After about twenty minutes and copious notes they penciled in a date. And this day was the date and Jen duly found herself waiting in a dungeon cell.

It was probably no more than ten minutes, but seemed much longer, when Jen heard the creak of a door opening. Two burly men, dressed only in short, tight leather pants and hoods, approached her cell. One fumbled briefly with a ring of gigantic keys, then opened the cell door. The other entered, holding out a pair of antique iron manacles.

"Hold out your wrists," he said gruffly.

Jen complied, holding her forearms out level in front of her. He snapped the manacles in place. Then, holding the short chain that connected the metal cuffs he led her from the cell, through a heavy wooden door and down a dark stone corridor. Passing through another heavy wooden door they entered the torture chamber of the Inquisition.

It was a large stone walled chamber, broken periodically by stone columns. Sconces in the walls and on the pillars held torches that proved the only light other than that from a scattering of candles. Jen shot glances to either side as she was led forward. In the alcoves beyond the pillars were the shadowy outlines of various apparatus. See couldn't see clearly enough to make out exactly what they were. Then they stopped suddenly before a figure in monk's robes seated at a rough wooden desk. He looked up from a stack of papers. Under the hood he wore a mask. Slowly he placed one paper before her and proffered her a quill pen. The paper had what appeared to be Spanish written in a bold, florid hand. There was a line at the bottom of the page.

"Jennifer Sanders," the monk said in a commanding voice. "This is the confession of your heresy. Sign it and it will go easy for you."

Jen almost broke out laughing at the cheesy melodrama of it. But she choked the laugh down and tried to get her mind into her part. She had signed up to be tortured after all.

"No," she said firmly. "I will not sign."

"You'll regret this, girl," the Inquisitor said, with convincing menace in his voice. He addressed the two torturers. "Strip her and examine her." Turning back to Jen he said "You must be naked when we conduct your inquisition. We may be denied access to no part of you."

One of the torturers grasped the fabric of her smock at the neck and ripped the full length of the sleeve. Then he ripped the other and let the garment slip to the floor. She stood utterly nude before the Inquisitor, even the thick growth of black hair that normally concealed her sex was gone. She was suddenly very aware of the pouty fullness of her lower lips.

"She may have the Devil's Mark on her," the Inquisitor said. "Check her thoroughly."

One of the torturers now grasped her breasts, lifting them and inspecting them. Jen was sure he was grinning behind the hood. The other torturer came up behind her and seized her under the arms. Then he placed one of his legs between hers and forced her legs apart. He was a good bit taller than she was. He braced her butt against his thigh and pulled her upper body back, forcing her belly forward. The first torturer bent over, slid two fingers into her slit and spread the labia, exposing her clit. He gave the region a good looking over. Standing again, he suddenly he grasped her by he back of the neck and, his partner releasing his grip, forced her to bend over at the hips. The other torturer first inserted two fingers roughly into her vagina, then spread her butt cheeks and inspect her anus. The suddenness, the rudeness of it all made her draw her breath in. They treated her with no more respect than if she were ewe in the marketplace.

"No sign of the Mark, Inquisitor. She is fit to undergone the question," one of the torturers said.

"Very good. You may begin persuading her," the Inquisitor said. "A touch of the lash may reduce her obduracy."

The two torturers seized Jen's upper arms and walked her a few paces to a side chamber. One of them then went to a pillar where a small windlass was mounted. He tripped the catch, then started turning the crank. A chain descended from the ceiling above Jen. When it dangled before her face the torturer set the catch. Then he picked up a pair of cuffs, a type she recognized as suspension cuffs, from a hook on the pillar. Jen's wrists were strapped into the cuffs which were then hooked to the end of the chain. He returned to the pillar and retrieved another pair of cuffs. These were strapped around Jen's ankles, then hooked to a ring set in the floor.

The torturer returned to the windlass. He began turning the crank, more slowly than necessary so Jen could contemplate what was happening. Slowly her arms were pulled up and over her head. She grasped the thick leather straps connecting the cuffs to the hook, as she'd been told to do in a class on suspension. More and more of her weight was borne by her arms and shoulders. She went up on the balls of her feet, then on tiptoe trying to reduce the strain. Then even her toes were off the floor. For half a minute she swung freely as she continued to rise, then she felt the cuffs tighten up on her ankles as she was stretched between the overhead chain and the ring in the floor.

The Inquisitor approached. He stroked her breasts, belly, thighs, as if checking that the tension was correct. He finished by sliding two fingers into her cleft, working them back and forth several times. Jen somehow suspected that that wasn't a normal practice of the Inquisition. But she certainly wasn't going to complain about it.

"Begin," he said, stepping back.

She heard the footsteps as one of the torturers took up position behind her. She braced for the cut of the whip. She was surprised when she felt a hand smack into her right buttock and then the left. He alternated from one to the other, gradually increasing the force. There was a pause. She jerked violently as she felt the first stroke of the whip. And she was a bit surprised. The first stroke landed across her shoulder blades. She had expected them to go for the obvious, more sexual target of her butt. Then she thought of the drawings she'd seen of women thus suspended and whipped. The back seemed to be the usual target in those. After all, they were merely inflicting pain, not trying to stir up masochistic urges. Several more strokes landed across her shoulders and middle back.

But they weren't going to disappoint her after all. After a few strokes were delivered to the backs of her thighs they started in on her butt. At first it was painful, some strokes almost to her limits, but then she distracted herself by closing her eyes and assembling in her mind the image of what the scene would look like if she could step out of herself and watch from over the whip wielding torturer's shoulder.

The torment didn't seem to last long. Indeed, Jen was getting into a state where she was kind of hoping it would continue for a while longer. But then she heard the Inquisitor's command to the torturer and the whipping ceased.

Jen was lowered until her feet again touched the floor. Her ankles were released and she was slowly lowered some more, until she was standing freely, legs slightly spread. As her arms came down to shoulder height one of the torturers released her from the rope. But he left her wrists bound in the cuffs. She felt a certain exhilaration as she caught her breath. She'd endured the first torture. In truth, in wasn't much worse than a flogging she'd received at a play party, but this was a flogging by The Inquisition, in a dungeon and that made it a bit more special.

The Inquisitor circled her, examining the stripes inflicted.

"Good, good," he said. "A good start. As you can see, heretic, we can and will inflict increasing amounts of pain on you if you continue your obstinacy. Which will it be, then? Sign the confession or undergo the strappado?"

"I'll not sign anything," Jen said defiantly. She was trying to remember what exactly the strappado was.

"Very well, we must do what we must to bring you to your senses," he replied. He turned to the torturers. "Subject the heretic to the strappado."

One of the torturers unfastened the suspension cuffs from Jen's wrists. Turning her sharply around he crossed her wrists behind her back and bound them together. Meanwhile the other torturer had gone back to the pillar where the windlass was mounted. He tripped the catch and began turning the handle. The rope that had suspended her for the whipping was lowered even further. Jen was positioned below it and forced to bend forward. Her elbows were pulled towards each other and bound with a leather strap. The rope was tied under the leather strap and the slack taken out of it so that Jen could feel a slight upward pull on her arms.

The Inquisitor came over to stand before her. The torturer at the windlass stood ready with his hand on the crank. At a signal from the Inquisitor he began to turn the crank. The pull increased on Jen's arms increased sharply. She came up on the balls of her feet trying to relieve the strain. The torturer continued turning the crank. She was forced to bend even further forward as her arms were pulled back and up. And she continued to rise. Her toes barely touched the floors now, and her shoulders were being twisted cruelly in a direction they weren't meant to twist. She didn't know how she would be able to stand it if she was fully suspended.

But she found out a moment later as her toes cleared the floor and she was hanging, swinging free, bent forward. She began to worry that her shoulders would be dislocated. A friend had once suffered a dislocation. He described it as excruciatingly painful. And he was someone who prided himself on his stoicism.

"Stop," the Inquisitor told the torturer at the crank. "Lower her down."

Jen was relieved to hear that. The strappado had been starting to look a bit more strenuous than she'd bargained for.

The Inquisitor came to face Jen. "In a normal inquiry we would hoist you up to about ten feet, then let you drop a foot," he said. "Then we would hoist you up again and drop you two feet. And so on until you talked."

Jen shuddered at the thought of the pain and the damage that would cause.

"But I think," the Inquisitor said, turning to the torturers, "that a heretic so recalcitrant as this one requires a more stringent form of the strappado."

The rope was lowered until Jen's feet were back on the stone floor. One of the torturers stood by to support her until she was able to stand again. Then the rope was unfastened from her elbows. A wide leather belt was brought. The torturers fastened it around her waist, buckling it in the back. In the front a large iron ring had been positioned where the buckle would normally have been. The rope was now passed first between Jen's forearms and then taken between her legs and tied to the iron ring. With the rope fastened the torturer at the winch slowly began turning the crank again. His partner ensured that the rope was seated correctly as the slack was taken up, splitting her lower lips.

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byAubreyWylde© 0 comments/ 76757 views/ 16 favorites

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