Unconquered (the true story)

[gerembeau]

Hello, this is the story of four French women deported to Louisiana in 1705 at the time of the forced settlement of this colony. It is inspired by a famous scene from the movie "Unconquered" that I saw when I was 14, the title translated into French version of the movie was "Les conquérants d'un nouveau monde", which of course gave the French title of the novel "Les conquérantEs d'un nouveau monde ».

You can read this text in English through the dedication and infinite patience of Eulalia, who spends dozens of hours on our texts to untangle the complexities and peculiarities of each language and restore the atmosphere that the authors wanted to create.

Will our four deportees get out of the clutches of the Indians, the French trappers, the revolting slaves and the French justice system?

Based on some true events.

Warning, M/f text/mutilating tortures, death
48 chapters, 34 588 words
Some illustrations by courtesy of Damian

 

[gerembeau]

UNCONQUERED (the true story)



La Rochelle, 30 July 1705

"ADELE BLANCHARD ? ". "Present! "

"CATHERINE DIEUMEGARD? "Present....". Catherine almost added "my Captain", in mockery, but she did not have the courage.

" MARIE LASSALLE?". "PRESENT. No pushing behind!" There was laughter in the crowd of chained girls.

" JEANNE LE LUDEC? ". " Here, m'sieu ". The inappropriate answer was met with a light blow of the cane, mainly meant to show the soldiers were still control of the herd of dirty and dishevelled women.

The air smelled of sea spray, but the whiff of brine barely dissipated the swirls of black filth that ringed the cheeks and ankles of these women of ill repute rounded up by the constabulary in all the cantons of France and Navarre.




It was necessary to populate the colonies by deportation of such bitches, destined to be bought for a fortune by old soldiers who had run off to become illicit traders in the wilds of Louisiana.

Condemned to populate the colonies by the Royal Edict of Louis XIV, they had preferred forced marriage with deserters from the army or the navy. They were waiting for them as their supreme reward at the mouth of the Mississippi, which was still called le fleuve Colbert. Anything was preferable to twenty years in the royal jails, their shoulders branded, rotting in putrid water among turds and rats.

Most of the girls had never seen the sea, and they stared at the salty, troubled expanse in disbelief, tugging their scanty, sea-breeze-swept shawls up onto their shoulders. The more pessimistic saw the sea as just another big greenish gob of spit on their sufferings, but others were seized with a renewed sense of hope. Maybe they would get a good number, their man would not be as brutal as the others, and even if they knew they could not dream of a nice guy, maybe he would at least take the time to make love to them with a modicum of attention ?

They were all dreaming of their destiny, massed on the quay in packs made up from the different provinces where they had been picked up.

 

[thehangingtree]

UNCONQUERED (the true story)


They were all dreaming of their destiny, massed on the quay in packs made up from the different provinces where they had been picked up.

Wonder short story, gerembeau!!!

 

[gerembeau]

St.Jean de Gardonnenque, June 13, 1705. Adele's fight

Adèle Blanchard thrust her hand forwards blindly to push back the suffocating darkness that enveloped her and the cobwebs embedded in her plaits. The smell of charred remains made her want to vomit. She stumbled on a straw hat - all too familiar - half burned and tumbled in the dust.

The missionaries in boots, as they were called by the Camisards, didn't trouble over details. They had set fire to the Camoulès cave at the bottom of the happy little Cévennes valley where the preacher Simon Abric and his followers had taken refuge. Then, solidly posted in front of the entrance of the miserable refuge, they had shot the Protestants like rabbits as they came out in a jumbled rabble, in a furious and disordered charge. When calm was restored, the dragoons quietly slashed the wounded and threw the bodies of the living as well as the dead back into the cave. Then they brought back more dried lavender bushes and some broken branches which they set on fire.

The scent of the burning Provençal herbs gave a tragic festive atmosphere to the massacre. Lieutenant Justin de la Mire d'Epoix appointed two men to keep watch, telling them to hide for the night behind a large, hundred-year-old cork oak on the edge of a small, shady hill overlooking the valley.

When Adèle left in the early morning, her eyes filled with tears, she did not see that she was being watched. She was still beautiful, despite her utter despair at her husband's tragic death; in her thirties, with her thick brown hair held in place with a mauve kerchief, and her aquiline profile that gave her the air of a fortune teller.

The dragoons followed her without her knowledge to the village of Valleraugue, not failing to observe from afar the slender figure that showed off a superb, sensually swaying bosom when she had to skip over a tree trunk or spring her steps across the stones set out to cross a stream

She had managed to clear her mind, to focus on the mission that awaited her in the village.

She contemplated for a moment the timeless beauty of the little village with its pink-ochre walls, preceded, like a first defence, by the drystone walls of the cemetery. The waves of small roof-tiles were shimmering in the morning heat, to the rhythm of the chirping of the cicadas.

When she arrived at the door of her modest townhouse, the third from the entrance to the big town, which was especially lively on this colorful market day - she was glad to be away from it every day - she gave four short, quick knocks, then three more spaced out. Only then did she enter.

Abraham Mazel was standing in the corner of the doorway. She closed the door quickly, and bowed devoutly to the leader of the insurrection, who had escaped from the royal prison just three days ago.

She swallowed and opened her mouth to tell him of the slaughter, but could not begin her sentence -the poorly closed door had been pushed violently open behind her.

She turned around.

The two dragons kept their triumphant moustaches despite the smudges of dust and leaves that sprinkled the halos of sweat on their royal blue battledress. Their stunned expressions lasted only a moment.
The sight of the hated uniforms turned her into a fury when she saw a musket pointing at the last hope of the Protestants,

"Run, Abraham, run! The young woman turned into a tigress, she grabbed a shovel and brought it down on the enemy's cap!"

The Camisard pushed back the wooden shutters forcefully and leapt out of the window while Adèle kept clinging like a harpy to the soldiers' limbs. When they finally managed to throw her down to the floor, dishevelled and half undressed, through the window they saw the back of the fugitive disappearing at the bottom of the garden. Knowing it was futile to try to track down a Camisard in the woods, they turned around, their eyes wild with rage.

Adèle was trying as best she could to pull her dress back together, but the damage was done, two heavy breasts were flapping out of the camisole, barely concealed by the purple neck-scarf, miraculously.

It was on her knees, begging the forgiveness of the men-at-arms, that she had to remain to receive the dicks of the soldiery between her fruity lips. She was happy to escape rape, for the dragoons took at face value the rumours of pox that the women of Cévennes let be spread about them.



To show her 'gratitude' and shorten her ordeal, Adèle conscientiously relieved, one after another, the foul-smelling members, not hesitating to flick away with her tongue the matter that was clogging their filthy foreskins, alternately jiggling the tip on the skin and the openings of the big, rustic glands.

When she felt it was time to relieve the vibrating shafts, she added the pressure of her fingers with the delicacy of a harpsichord-player. She pumped and then shamelessly drank the long streams of semen that cascaded down her throat, aware that she might well be saving her own life, as the dragoons would no doubt want to keep her in their barracks - for a rainy day ......

 

[gerembeau]

La Rochelle, 30 July 1705

While the soldiers were counting and recounting the meagre booty they'd extracted with much effort from putrid prisons, while keeping the young women grouped together with their bayonet-points, a hullabaloo arose from the motley crowd of onlookers.

The nobles who had rented rooms in the inns to enjoy the spectacle of the deported women hurriedly held handkerchiefs to their noses. Their perfumed rice powder barely masked the almost palpable stench that rose from a dark furrow slowly cutting its way through the crowd.

At the head of the column, mounted on a superb Arab half-breed, whose saddle was richly damascened with ruby-red gems, paraded a Saracen rider. He proudly held a carbine between his arms, its stock inlaid with shells. His long white jellaba fluttered in the wind like a flag announcing the coming of Ibn Saud - "On your knees, miscreants!" he seemed to command, with an eagle's eye.



He headed a long column of naked black men and women, mostly Kikuyu and Masai. They were not yet slaves, but they had lost their freedom about two months ago. The barbarian pirates who had attacked their camps surrounded them, occasionally stimulating the bowed bronze backs with tired whip-strokes, only from force of habit.

"We don't smell like roses, but they're a horror," Marie whispered to Jeanne.

The surging and murmuring of the crowd drowned her words, as Europe's leading slave port added a new convoy to its statistics.

"They're not going to travel with us, are they?" asked a fat, red-mouthed blonde naively.



Right in front of her, the dust-covered bodies slumped to the cobblestones as if in answer to her question. When the clanking of the chains had subsided, the crowd gazed silently at the large, beautifully formed bodies of the hunters of the savannah hunters. The women were beautiful too, some must evidently have been breastfeeding a couple of months earlier, their big eyes wept silently for the loss of their newborns who had been left behind. They knew full well that they had long since fed Simba's belly, but the thought of it helped them overcome their dread at the huge ornate houses, with yellow plaster between their half-timbered walls, so tall that they had to look up to see the nourishing sun.

The men were haggard, their pride bruised, warriors whose assegais had been powerless against the Moorish muskets. The girls gazed shamelessly at the large, dangling cocks that beat the dust.
"Gee, have you seen that one? "Catherine chuckled, elbowing her neighbour in the ribs. "I've seen a few in my life, believe me, but never one like that!" replied Marie. The big black man's eyes fell on them, caught by the intensity of their own gaze on the dark club that was swinging between his thighs. What he read in the eager eyes made him, who lived in the state of nature, strangely uncomfortable. He turned and spoke a few words to the nearest woman. The chief's wife sat up on her buttocks and pretended to swat them away with her hand like flies. She was beautiful, despite her opulent, sagging breasts, with a young, muscular body barely deformed by recent motherhood.

Jean Renfroy d'Ormonville - porcine, with wrinkled cheeks, hollow chest and obscene belly - gave an impatient stroke with his cane on the boarding pontoon. The Arab prince dismounted, handing the reins to one of his guards. He followed the captain who preceded him into the cabin of the frigate. There would be no small profit for the old scoundrel, who had already been commissioned by the Royal Navy to transport the deported women, and who was going to put some butter on his bread by stuffing the holds with ebony.

He'd buy the slaves and sell them at three times the price to the rich planters of Louisiana. The time was not far off for a retreat to the manor in Touraine, whose title he coveted, along with the young, degraded, heiress.

 

[gerembeau]

August 1705, on the Batailleuse, the crossing between La Rochelle and the Americas

The discipline on board "La Batailleuse" was inflexible, as the girls soon found out. They had to stay confined in the bottom hold for most of each day. Still, they blessed their jailers for separating them from those they called "Saracens" - they didn't differentiate among men with dark skins. They were still troubled by the stench from the last voyage, although they'd had to scrub the floors for a whole day before the ship sailed.

They weren't aware that it was not for their comfort, but at the request of Etienne Ballancourt, the ship's chaplain, that they were being kept in isolation. He simply could not countenance promiscuity between ragged white women and naked savages who had not even been baptised.

Late in the evening they were allowed to breathe the air of the open sea to clear their bronchial tubes of the fug of the steerage. For the time being, on this first evening, they were by Marie's singing from below, redolent of Cassis* and the Calanques. Leaning on the gunnel, whipped by the sea spray which gave them an illusion of cleanliness, they dreamed of the courtesans of the past that this 'mistress of her trade' told them about.




Menton, the castle of the Marquis de Montadour, July 12, 1705. Marie's Tour de France.



Marie Lassalle's glorious thirties had visibly withered long ago, viewed in the long cheval-glass artistically decorated with tendrils covered in gold leaf. Sadly, she finished powdering her madonna-like face. The ex-mistress of the king stifled a brief sob while contemplating dispassionately her big, brown breasts, still firm, but flopping down on her sides under the weight of the years, too much kneaded, too much bitten, as if each kiss had stamped a tiny but indelible print. The future regent, Philippe d'Orléans himself, had let a flute of champagne flow between these magnificent breasts, the better to let his royal member slide into the deep chasm of her cleavage.

Alone, she readjusted her corset as best she could, before going down to mingle with the guests of the Marquis de Montadour.* She was happy to be allowed to participate in the ball, which gave her the illusion of recovering her splendour, as when the Regent had organized those fine autumnal fêtes champêtres in his hunting lodge in Rambouillet.



Where were all the girls of her generation now? She knew only too well. Like her, they were making the rounds of the high-class bordellos of France, wherever they were wanted, like a sort of apprentices training tour, except that it was they who were entrusted with the task of training the novices, before being thrown out, even poorer and more wretched.

Marie had let fortunes slip through her fingers, she had sold the jewels that had covered her alabaster shoulders to pay for partying with all the girls, for lavish trips to Italy.

Today, she was descending the staircase of a mean and miserly old provincial nobleman, who had picked her up at the Hotel de Luynes, seduced by the outstanding breasts that were the unique selling points of her trade. She was happy that the ball was a masked one, so she could hide the tears which were welling up from her lost past. She tightened her grip on her mask, and descended the monumental staircase majestically.

In spite of the season, a fire in the grate spread a pleasantly soft, enveloping heat. It was the main source of light, the marquis being mean with candles. The tall, wrinkled, stooped old man came to meet her with alacrity, abandoning the minuet which was engaging, to the sound of the strings and harpsichord of a famished quartet, about forty guests. The musicians were eyeing the buffet of perfectly presented poultry and game. They were hoping the dancers would weary soon, but the son of the marquis was tireless. He was a red-blooded giant, who had not spared a glance for Marie when his father had brought her back. He was spending the evening with a young gypsy woman with restless eyes and very dark skin, whose flamenco costume contrasted sharply with the discreetly comfortable attire of the local notables. The wives of notaries and shipowners pretended not to notice, each nursing the secret hope of seeing her heiress one day gaining a posh-sounding name, so they had to turn a blind eye to a few little antics...

Marie was not in her world, here among these narrow provincial bourgeoisie. She managed to hold her own by discreetly stifling a few yawns, and by remaining as evasive as possible about her past.



She took advantage of all the shadowy corners left by the flickering lights of the fire to hide for long minutes, reappearing as soon as the guests were occupied in a farandole.
She was grateful to the worn-out old baron for taking her discreetly to his room.

The Marquis de Montadour quietly went about his business with Marie's help. She had taken the habit to make him smell her pussy before pleasuring him mechanically with a little mouth-job, which was enough for the old goat to obtain a semblance of erection. Then, she impaled herself on his long member, shrivelled like a vine-stalk, straddling him carefully so as to maintain his tumescence. At the end of a few minutes, she knelt and, taking advantage of the breadth of her bosom, she squeezed the aged member tightly, licking the head of it, until it spread a thin seed on her tongue, stuck well out the better to receive it.

Montadour then scratched his testicles furiously, before falling asleep like a farmyard animal.

In the middle of the night, the usual vioent snoring awoke Marie again.

This time, unsettled by the bottle of Chambertin that she had taken too much pleasure in gulping down, she did not go back to sleep. Her throat was parched from the alcohol and the fire. She pushed back the arm that was imprisoning her breast, and got up to go in search of a jug of water.

Despite her cotton nightgown, she shivered on the stone staircase that led down into the cellars. Her bare foot almost slid on a slippery slab and she stifled a swear-word. She straightened up in front of a pair of doors and stood still. A slight sound to her left took away her decision, it would be easier to find a servant still up and about who could get her some fresh water - if he wasn't drunk.

She walked down the steps until she found herself in the deepest part, in front of the castle dungeon. She stepped forward to investigate how anyone could be in the old seigneurial prison at this hour. She lifted her head as soon as she had passed carefully beneath the iron portcullis that served as the dungeon door.

She had had time to see and take in everything. The bleeding mouth of the young gypsy girl was letting out awful moans, her tongue had been cut clean away with the pliers that were now working on the delicate brown tips of her small pear-shaped breasts. She was completely naked, as far as the massive body of the Count's son revealed. He had tied her up on a sort of crude wooden stand, her legs free but weighed down by weights attached to her ankles, so that he could enjoy the spectacle of her contortions.



A brazier filled with fire-reddened irons explained the charred scars that covered the girl's belly and vulva.

With her hand over her mouth, Marie jumped back when the marquis' son turned around for a moment. Her foot struck a bucket which rolled with fracas The sadist remained one short moment taken aback, it was enough so that Marie had the presence of spirit to close again violently the portcullis and to turn while ahanant the enormous key in the rusted bolt. She stared for a short moment at the mask of hatred that faced her and went up the stairs four by four.

Dawn appeared around five o'clock in the morning, promising another hot day.

Marie had been running for an hour at a loss of breath, her belongings taken from the Marquis' room, which she had not even taken the time to put on, often got caught in the brambles and she tore them off in a gesture of panic. From the top of the Malvoisine pass, she had seen torches lit in the courtyard of the castle and heard the frantic barking of the red and brown Great Danes that were the pride of the Marquis' pack.

Cabalou woke up slowly to the sound of the drums that carried the line of repentant penitents, whores and pickpockets to the colonies as if to the slaughterhouse.

Because of the heat, the column left early towards the Rhône where a convoy of boats was waiting for them. The inland waterway industry made a good profit from these transports whose safety was moreover ensured by the gendarmerie...

Marie hurried her steps. At the top of the hill she had just left five minutes earlier, three horsemen appeared between two rows of olive trees, forcing the pace.

With a sob of despair, Marie finished going down the slope and almost fell into the arms of a rubicund sergeant.

" To me, the guard, there is a daft tart who tried to escape! ".

 

[gerembeau]

August 1705-Louisiana, on the border of Choctaw and Natchez territory, south of Challeau Fort.

The young woman had been running since dawn. Since her escape from the cotton plantation. She had previously hidden dried pemmican, some corn, and a canteen of water in the trunk of a large cypress tree. She had left behind all the party dresses and corsets that had made up her wardrobe as a rich planter's wife, and put on a cotton shirt and sturdy work pants. She had tied her hair in a bun at the back of her neck, making room for her small shoulder-bag, which also contained a tiny pistol, her baptism certificate, some holy medallions, some jewellery and a few coins.

She rested for a while, catching her breath, leaning against the trunk of a tree, and after a few moments, resumed her flight, as gracefully as an elf, seeming to fly over the huge roots and glide down the slopes of wet soil.

When a clearing let a few rays of sunlight appear, she slowed her run to orient herself with her tiny silver compass. She was still on course, heading south to the Florida Parishes, to New Orleans, where she hoped to find a ship bound for France whose captain would accept her jewellery for the cost of her sea-passage.

This line followed the swamps that formed a natural boundary between Choctaw and Natchez lands, and it was the surest way to avoid them, even though neither nation was at war with the French.

For a brief moment she thought of the black slaves she was abandoning to their appalling fate, then she opened her eyes and convinced herself that she could do more for their sufferings in the salons of Paris than in the arms of her husband - the thought of which made her shudder, as she resumed her tireless race, like a pedigree mare on a steeplechase day at Longchamps.

A hoarse growl made her turn around.

A hundred paces away, a huge black bear was following her trail. The beast was exceptionally large and moving very fast. With a gasp of horror, the young woman left the dry land without pausing to think, seeking her salvation in the lush vegetation of the swamp.

Soon, she found nothing but mud under her feet, and had to make her way over the gigantic blackened and torn tree trunks, felled by age or cyclones, which had been decomposing since the beginning of time. The smell of sweet acacias, ferns and mosses mingled with the stench of decay stunned her for a few seconds, then she stepped on more firmly. The darkness forced her to focus on the sinking stumps, which she had to avoid mistaking for the brown back of an alligator.

After a few minutes, the dreaded roar faded into the whispering of the swamp's secrets, punctuated by the splash of her footsteps in the puddles of silt near the farther shore. She was now in a jungle, pushing away thick vines in front of her face that disoriented her. She had to face the fact that she was lost, and the darkness was preventing her from reading her compass. She went on straight ahead at random, in the faint hope of finding a clearing at the end of the less dark side.

At the end of the day, she prayed that the opening out of the forest she saw would not lead her straight back to the plantation she had abandoned that morning. Then smoke from a fire stopped her dead in her tracks. She walked ahead very slowly, keeping under cover, her heart pumping wildly. Before she could make out their faces, she heard the voices of some trappers, and ran towards them with joy.

The three "coureurs des bois" slowly let down their weapons.

"Well, well, well, look what a pretty stray chick's come to visit us," exclaimed the one who was still holding her at gunpoint with a curious pistol combined with an hatchet.

The thought that she had had made a terrible mistake fleetingly crossed the young woman's mind when she saw a hand missing two fingers pointing a questioning index,

"And where does the young lady come from?"

She stepped forward to answer bravely,

"Gentlemen, my guide and I were attacked by the Indians, we were heading for New Orleans."

"GENTLEMEN? Ha ha ha - cop a load o' that, Breton ! Next she'll be calling you SIR!"

The young woman smiled at the three grizzly, scarred faces, hiding her fear, trying to take her eyes off a particularly hideous scar that tore into a hollow eye-socket.

Hastily she added, "I've money to pay you, you know, if you'll get me out of this swamp."

The wild men of the woods pricked up their ears. The man with the missing fingers stepped soundlessly around her, as the other two came near. Aware that she had made her second mistake, the young woman quickly added,

"I'm from Fort Challeau, I'm going to join my husband, he's the garrison commander in New Orleans."

The man with the pistol gave a wide grin that disfigured him even more.

"There ain't been no commander in New Orleans for a year."

The trapper with the gouged-out eye added,

"More like one of those whores from France. We'd best take her back to the fort straightway."



The young woman, retreating, tripped on a root and fell back. Her sudden vulnerability triggered the sequel without the trappers needing to consult one another. As she crawled hastily through the wet grass, slipping in the bog as she tried to get up, her half-open wet blouse pressed tightly over her brown areoles. As she felt herself lifted up abruptly by all four arms, held tight by her elbows, two of the human beasts facing her pulled on her pants. She struggled vigorously, but could not prevent the loss of all her underwear. Lying on the ground, her arms held down by two knees, she felt her breasts being painfully groped, while the trapper who had put down his weapon undid himself under her incredulous eyes. With a prolonged howl she refused to consent to the rape, but the man settled quietly between her legs and presented his member in his hand at the edge of her female part.

He manipulated himself for a few moments to force open the tightened cunt, then introduced himself with a single thrust, which tore a cry of pain from the young woman. She closed the eyes to pray for a short moment, refusing to admit this new misfortune. The man, who stank horribly like a rutting beast, growled for a few moments without being able to hold back for long. After a few fierce thrusts he flooded her, his hands tightening on her breasts, almost flaying them with his grip.



She reopened the eyes to spit in response to his contempt, but he had already slipped away to the mocking laughter of his companions. Her ankles were violently twisted to force her to roll over, she understood the reason why only when she felt a stick searching the edges of her arse.

It wasn't a stick, she let out a demented scream when a slimy tip intruded into her anus. She had never been visited on this side, and to her sodomy was at least as grave a sin as rape. She struggled desperately, but inexorably her thighs were loosened, and the ridged rod made its vigorous entry to her passage. Amputated stumps lifted her nipples that were pressing into the slimy soil, and this was her worst moment, for she fleetingly imagined that her tormentor was a leper.

She bucked like a horse, but the trapper controlled himself perfectly, mastering the jerks of her buttocks and containing his pleasure in spite of her contractions trying to expel him from her rectum. It lasted so long that she let herself rest on her belly, sobbing and defeated, while the erect member continued to come and go. Her hair-bun was brutally pulled back, and, after a wild cry, she was made to close her jaws on the edge of a pistol-handle.

The hideous, lustful gaze of the man with the hollowed out eye paralysed her. Unable to wait his turn any more, he plunged directly into her forcibly spread mouth. She could not vomit, because the two hands of the last trapper were tightly strangling her neck. Her mouth was raped at the same rate as her anus, and she received the hot spurts of cum together. The men stood back panting for breath, as she cried out, trying to pull her poor, torn clothes to her chest. A cry of surprise made her look up.

"Jesus Christ, guys, look at this." She tried to get up to take back her bag, but she was too weak, and a kick on her shoulder threw her into a fern-bush.

"You won't believe this! It's a real high-class society lady we've been having fun getting to know!" jeered the man with the missing fingers, aping a hand-kiss on her baptism certificate.

"Idiot! What are we gonna do now? D'you wanna to get the rest of your fingers chopped off, taking her back to the fort?".

With grim faces, the men consulted each other with their eyes.

"It's been a long time since we've been at war with the Choctaw, huh?"

They understood each other, and this wouldn't be the first time they'd set about committing such a horrible atrocity.

The young woman, who had recovered her strength, suddenly dashed off. Behind her, Three-Fingers Peter quietly undid a bow from the saddle of his horse. The battle-feathered arrow whistled for a moment before it struck her thigh.

When she awoke, she saw the ground before her, a mass of branches and leaves, through a bloody mist. A trail of fire encircled her skull, a pain beyond comprehension. She thought she had fallen on her head and the wound was bleeding profusely. Then she realized she was hanging upside down, her wrists and ankles bound together, from the low branch of a large cypress tree. She felt a wet cloth wiping her forehead attentively.



Then the men's legs parted, she had no strength to lift her head higher than their belts. When she saw the bloody trophy stuck in the ground at the end of a pole, she let out a long, animal howl. One of the trappers approached with a torch in his hand. He threw it into the kindling and returned to sit with the others.

The young woman's frightful twitching was the subject of bets, while the fire was meticulously tended. She became weaker and weaker, and her frantic swaying to keep her body from the licking of the flames became less and less. The abdominal wall broke, she just went on moaning incessantly as she was slowly roasted alive. Then it was the wind that moved her poor charred torso.

 

[gerembeau]

August 1705, on the vessel Batailleuse, sailing between La Rochelle and the Americas (II)

The Marquise de Brinvilliers retched loudly, "No, not agaiiiiin". She vomited a flood of water and bile, which did nothing to relieve her horribly distended belly. Her limbs were stretched to their limits, her body drew a right-angled Saint Andrew's cross, stretched to 45° above the straw protecting the floor from her vomit.



Etienne Ballancourt, the first assessor assigned to judge Thibaut de Varenfroy, was trying to conceal the disturbance caused by the pale, nude body stretched out to breaking point between the sandstone pillars, that oozed sulphur from the interrogation room. He took refuge in the jerky handwriting of a young sparrow, his quill was struggling to record the mostly unintelligible, gurgling utterances of the most famous poisoner in the kingdom.

She had already swallowed, or spat out, ten litres of polluted water. Her nostrils were blocked with oakum, her mouth spasmodically opened to suck in air whenever the infernal funnel was removed.

There came a moment when the arousing convulsions drove him to an excitement all too apparent, he was happy that his duty authorized him to remain seated, his sex stuck up against his belly and so remaining invisible.

The torturer lost his patience. He was a tall, muscular man, his face covered by a half-mask of oxblood-tinted leather that encircled angry eyes. He grabbed a judicial baton and appeared in the marquise's field of view.

"La Brinvilliers, for the last time, the name of your accomplices?"

Judge Varenfroy, President of the Special Chamber of Indictment, echoed him,

"Marquise, names! It's up to you to put an end to this barbaric torture."



The mouth of the fat shrew remained obstinately closed. Her tormentor raised the slender rod and brought it down violently on the ample breasts offered up to him. An "aaaaargh" of pure agony rose in the room, immediately blocked by a vicious blow struck right onto the navel, which was protruding from the belly, full as a wineskin. Etienne Ballancourt watched for the next blow, a brief breath ....

Thirty years later, these ungodly thoughts still swirled in his head, and their vigour fuelled his frantic masturbating. He had never been able to come so close to scenes of interrogation, as the workings of royal justice had become gradually less barbaric, but seemed to him simply feebler.

The herd of depraved females slumbering in the holds of the ship were stirring his blood more than they ought to have. Inwardly, he knew that when he asked for the position of Chaplain General for the Fort Chaleau sector that he was looking for contact with such as these. He felt ready for great adventures, during which he could at last achieve his full potential in evangelising these lost girls, those feathered savages who provoked little cries of fear of the noble ladies of the court.

After twenty years spent languishing in the shadow of the splendour of Madame de Maintenon as her confessor, the Jesuit was already dreaming of his triumphant return to the court of the Sun King, savouring in anticipation the glory that would accompany him with stories of his journey to the country of the 'Flatheads' (Choctaws).

He had taken up the habit of discreetly spying on the four girls who gathered every evening under the shrouds of the great yard-arm. While the other tramps were pacing the deck looking for a chance to sin, the four most beautiful females on board were accustomed to sit on piles of ropes and exchange their confidences, which sometimes gave rise to high-pitched laughter.

Convinced that he would hear of some venial peccadillo, or even better, some real sin, Father Ballancourt's custom was to stand un-noticed in the deckhouse overlooking the little group. This gave him an advantageous view of the large cleavages that the almost tropical humidity encouraged to gape open. He was listening with the most lively interest to the start of the story of the redhead, whose green eyes aroused his feelings. His tall, slender body, which gave him the appearance of a lustful heron, leaned forward, all ears ...

 

[gerembeau]

The White Ladies' convent. June 8, 1705. Catherine's journey into adventure ...

The venerable Abbess Telchilde de Montessus (mount to suck, Catherine always quipped), did not leave it to any of the senile sisters to flog the nubile posteriors entrusted to her holy care.

The reputation of the White Ladies' convent for subduing unruly young girls, had spread beyond the borders of the département for a quarter of a century.

Her last night of debauchery at the Faculty of Medicine, having climbed the forbiddingly high walls, had earned Catherine the right to find herself, four months ago, on a shivering morning, naked in the inner precinct of the old convent building.

She had to undress in front of the whole congregation.

The other novices, who were half-awake and blinking sleepily, and the silver-haired nuns, had been hastily assembled in the cloister on that cold February morning. Catherine had come out of the cloister-walk in a shapeless linen shirt that barely concealed her figure, too shapely for the solemnity of the place. She first undid her wimple before slowly letting down the rough garment. She managed to transform her punishment into a shocking exhibition before the stone body of the crucified Christ perched on a large column in the middle of the cloister garth. Her nudity fully revealed, her deep, thick, tawny bush, and her over-endowed mammaries, made her the blasphemous incarnation of a pagan deity of lust and debauchery.

Two years earlier, Mother Superior's experience had warned her that this redheaded devil of twenty-two springs, who was now staring at her brazenly, would only bring her trouble. But how could she resist the royal annuity that accompanied the letter of cachet brandished by a mysterious masked knight in a black doublet who came escorting this wild woman? It ensured the future of the little Ursuline congregation while the insolent young brat, whose saucy antics had all but besmirched the court, was kept confined.

Aware of her distinction, the only too well-born Catherine was nevertheless as much loved by the other novices, whose idol she was in secret, as she was loathed by the nuns, old bigots, jealous of her expensive possessions, of the quality of her education and, above all, of her too perfect body ornamented with desirable freckles.

At last they were going to enjoy their revenge at the hands of the Reverend Mother Telchilde.

With her arms tied to the sandstone crucifix, Catherine seemed to be imploring Jesus, and her "haw!" of pain thrust her body lasciviously against the finely carved column.

The crop swung a second time, abandoning the curvaceous back to fiercely whip the bountiful buttocks.

"Aaaaa!" Catherine choked to diminish the pleasure of the old magpies croaking behind her. Two deep welts drew parallel stripes across her shoulders and her lascivious rump.

She liked to cheer up the sweaty, rancid atmosphere of the penitential cells with bons mots like "it's better to be confessed by the priest than undressed!" which raised waves of suppressed giggles in the ranks of the young girls. Today, she had to use all her strength not to arch her back too much under the repeated floggings, which found her kidneys, brushed the flanks of her torso, and marked her milky skin with bloody streaks.



Telchilde de Montessus seemed possessed by a frenzy of hatred, frantic to break the courage of the insufferable mademoiselle. But her strength failed her just before Catherine would let out a howl like a wild beast to cry for mercy. So Catherine had added more strength to her legend, none of the young novices could have resisted for anything like so long the bloody kisses of the riding-crop brandished by the abbess like a madwoman.

She was taken back and kept in isolation in her cell all through winter and spring. Then, on the morning of the fifth of June, she was woken up early by the Mother Abbess, who had a letter which she was pleased to read to her.

'My dearest sister, I have only a few moments to write this letter to you with the help of our good Cunégonde, our old nurse, the only person I can trust. I was married by force to the Baron Loupiac, they drugged me to make me say "yes". When you read this letter, I will be on a royal corvette, on my way to the Americas. Alert the Chevalier de Castelnau, and tell him that I shall never love anyone but him. I hate the baron, and his son, I won't ever become one of those planters' wives. I would rather jump overboard, or flee to the Indians - God rest my soul - than become his wife.

Your loving sister Louise.'

Catherine looked wide-eyed, distraught - Baron Loupiac was ugly, old, and he had a reputation as a sadist.

"I must join her," she said softly, as her mind cleared.

With a dry, wicked laugh, Telchilde de Montessus added,

"Little wretch, it's only the girls of ill repute who are offered such a voyage by our beloved King Louis, whom God preserve!"

Three days later, Catherine was fleeing, and, ragged and dishevelled, she had insinuated herself as naturally as could be among a convoy of deportees.

 

[gerembeau]

August 1705, on La Batailleuse, en voyage between La Rochelle and the Americas (III)



On the twelfth day of the crossing, the girls noticed a sudden slimming down of their rations. The usually barely edible ships' biscuits were obviously rotten. They could hardly cope with the dried hams, which were more resistant to the atmosphere of decay, they could hardly digest as water was in short supply: the most thirsty were reduced to moistening their lips with the morning dew which dripped down from the sails.

Judging by the triumphant belly of Renfroy d'Ormonville, not everyone was tightening his belt in the same way. A delegation of the most brazen hussies were roundly rebuked with buckets of wastewater poured over them from the officers' mess cabin.

Little did the girls know that revolt was rumbling in the holds: the blacks had not been fed at all for three days. Had they known this, they wouldn't have troubled in vain to seduce the cooks in search of extra food. It wasn't that the cooks were sailor queens, wanting the wind from astern - no, the situation was far too serious: this scoundrel of a captain had broken into the stores in the after-hold, as usual. He always had the same sinister plan in reserve ...

One late afternoon, the orlop-hold was stirred by an uproar. Slowly, as if emerging from hell, blinking in the shimmering sunlight, the black herd appeared on deck. The girls gathered in a crowd, out of curiosity, not without a hint of pleasure at seeing that others were even worse off than they were.



About twenty slaves, men and women, who seemed to be in very poor shape, were hauled by the sailors from their brothers and sisters. After briefly, cynically palpating them, the ship's doctor, who had long since tossed his Hippocratic oath overboard, separated them into two groups.

The Maasai chief, whose enormous sex was the first thing the girls first noticed, stepped forward and roared in his language. Behind him, the big blacks stood up. Exhausted as they were, they were on the verge of rebellion, ready to die if necessary, even the women.



Ashaina, the wife of the chief who had looked down on the girls on the boarding platform, stepped forward in turn, ahead of her man, to the foot of the poop deck, where Renfroy d'Ormonville and his officers were on parade.

Things began to move fast when a gigantic net, heavily weighted with anchors, dropped from the highest yard-arms to encircle the Africans in a shapeless bundle. As they struggled, with futile contortions that only had the effect of imprisoning them all the more inextricably, five of the leaner blacks, who had been left aside, were tied to an anchor that two sailors then hoisted with a gasp to the edge of an open hatch. But just as they were about to tip it into the ocean, they were assaulted by a black Juno: Ashaina couldn't let her best friend go, so weakened as she was that she wasn't even protesting at her obvious fate. She grabbed the long cutlass of a fifty-year-old sailor whose reflexes were too slow to turn around quickly enough.

Under a sky that was turning inky in the face of so much horror, the girls screamed together in terror as the other sailors rushed at the fury. Every blow she had struck with the broad cutlass was deadly, and it was only when she was stunned by a spar that the black tigress collapsed. After throwing her into the hold, the sailors removed the bodies and forced the girls to wash the bloodstains off the deck.



When they had finished, shaking with disgust, the crew set about completing their grim task. The slaves in the pitiful coffle that would make up for the missing food-supplies vanished one after another into the ocean, which was surging with the beginnings of a storm.



The slaves' limbs were usually broken with sledgehammers to loosen their claw-like fingers on the minimal hold offered by the gun ports. The bloody bodies being thrown out attracted two great white sharks, and more than one was promptly crushed by the powerful jaws of the sharks before drowning.



The band of survivors remained apathetic and silent, powerless in the tangle of knots and meshes of the great lead-weighted net. Only the leader, a tall colossus with bulging torso, looked with concern in the direction of the steerage where his companion had disappeared. He growled "ASHAINA!"

At last the tropical storm broke, dark and violent, which eased the tension. The providential torrents were collected by the sailors in all the containers they could find. The slaves and the girls straightened up to commune together in quenching the same thirst, their arms and mouths wide open to embrace and suck in the cataracts of water that showered down on them like a gift from heaven.

Then, finally quenched, the clouds vanished, and the girls became aware of their soaked clothes that exposed them to the eyes of savages that most of them could hardly distinguish from legendary gorillas. With a mixture of confusion in the face of some manhoods that were unfurling majestically, and of shame before of the priestly black of Father Ballancourt's cassock, the girls regrouped to go and dry themselves.

When evening came, it was Jeanne's turn to tell her story. Ballancourt had perched himself on the poop-deck without the knowledge of the little group, as was his custom.

 

[gerembeau]

Pontcallec, The White Horse Inn, May 10, 1705. The misfortunes of Jeanne.

The fallow deer turned a quarter turn on its spit. Robert Mallet, for twenty three years the landlord of the White Horse Inn, took the knife and deftly carved a portion of the roast that had been seized at just the right moment. He looked thoughtfully at the sharp blade, and wished with all his heart that he would not have to use it tonight....

The sturdy innkeeper bravely made his way to the soldiers' table. The four Swiss guards in their colourful costumes had already downed a dozen bottles of Chablis, and were laughing louder and louder as they threw the dice. Robert knew from experience that gambling and drinking inevitably ended in a brawl or a duel, and he always kept a leaden mallet ready under his bar, ready to fly to the rescue of his furniture and to drive off the drunkards.

It was not, however, the good-natured escort party, but the nobles they accompanied, that were worrying him.

"Be sweet to a rogue and he'll beat you, beat a rogue, then he's sweet".

Baron des Touches let his eleventh pitcher of Burgundy drop heavily. His face was crimson. He was of the minor judicial nobility, which always led him to overdo it on his nightly escapades with his old accomplice, the Count of Rohan. The terracotta pitcher rolled slowly to the edge of the oak table and shattered on the floor tiles with a crash. The two nobles burst out laughing.

"God's bollocks! Isn't there a fancy woman in this shithole to take care of two gentlemen of quality? Answer me, you dumb bugger!"

Robert prayed to heaven that Suzon and Félicie would arrive as soon as possible.

By an ill stroke, the door opened to reveal the prettiest young girl the inn had ever welcomed. Enguerrand des Touches opened his mouth which drew a mute "Oooh!"

Jeanne was in the full flowering of her eighteen years, a laughing mouth framed by two mutinous dimples, deep green eyes which seemed to be set within a cascade of honey curls, falling on a pretty bosom - a little on the large side, but admirably curved.

Without seeming to notice the effect that her intrusion had triggered, Jeanne sat down with a sigh of relief near the door and put down her wretched baggage. Her father had been unmasked as a crooked smuggler and was awaiting trial in the stinking cellars of the prison in Nantes. She made the trip every two weeks, but without the least hope of escaping the isolation that had been fated for her since her mother's death. Salt smuggling was one of the crimes most severely stamped upon, Gaël le Ludec would end up in the galleys.

She was stirring these sad thoughts when two ladies of the night made their entry, their faces hidden by coarse scarves. They untied them, revealing the faces of depraved old women, worn by both time and orgies, with deformed bodies. Had it not been for their outrageous make-up and the assurance of their brazen gait, they would have passed for tough old country-women looking for a stopover.

Robert was relieved for the moment that they headed without hesitation towards the two men's tables. Suzon sat herself on the lap of a soldier, who deserted a game of Lansquenet, and staightway began a snogging bout, while Félicie passed by the young stranger to lean over the two seated squires. He realised his troubles were not over when Des Touches, without a glance at the udders invitingly exhibited, pushed the old whore aside. Without saying word, shrugging her shoulders, she went to join her friend, whose high-pitched laughter was betraying the stimulation of her vulva under the investigating finger of the mercenary.

Amaury, eleventh count of Rohan, commented sententiously with a sibylline wink:

"My friend, you are quite right: one should never trust rotten apples!"

Des Touches was no longer listening to him. He got up, knocking over his seat, careless of adding to the ongoing noise. Jeanne would have liked to disappear into a mouse hole, she was well aware of being the object of all the company's attention - everyone had fallen silent, observing the staggering progress of the fat man, his face even more crimson than his doublet. The decayed teeth and the drunken breath caused Jeanne to cringe instinctively as Des Touches leaned over her.

"Hullo, my lovely! It's not becoming to remain alone in a place of such ill repute."

He laughed...

"Come and join the table of two gentlemen ... LANDLORD! Wine for the lady.... and for us too, by God!"

He grabbed Jeanne's arm in a gesture that was meant to be gallant, and was surprised by the resistance she put up. He pulled harder, but Jeanne arched her back against the table. It was the sleeve which yielded, leaving the perverse aristocrat flat on his bum, legs in the air.

His face livid with rage, he got up and swore in the deathly hush,

"God's blood, the devil take me if I don't get my cock in the maidenhead of this saucy minx here and now! Am I not the liege lord of the place?"

At this display of authority, the men-at-arms pushed away the whores who were clinging to their tunics, to quickly seize Jeanne. Robert Mallet could not find the courage to intervene, Des Touches was the lord of the manor, and woe betide anyone who got in his way.

Exhilarated at the idea of the impending rape, all the women lent their assistance enthusiastically with the stripping of the young girl flung back on the table.

"By the devil, it is time this chick had a taste of the cock, she's ripe for it, it would be a sin to deprive her of it!" chuckled Suzon

"God, she's well split, my prince, you can see for yourself this beautiful lump that's hiding such fleshy lips!" added Félicie.

In truth the virgin's perfect body was filling them with envy and regrets, they were pleased with the idea of seeing her desecrated in a few moments' time.

Jeanne was screaming so loudly, her cries were piercing through the scarf gagging her mouth. With her arms bound X-wise, and being held firmly by two Swiss guards, she could not prevent her ankles from being promptly tied to the legs of the table.

Des Touches unlaced himself slowly, he had muddled his fastenings when he had pissed his wine half an hour earlier. Suzon came boldly to his aid, kneeling down to release the equipment caught up in his hosiery. For a few moments she contemplated a member whose vigour was becalmed in the mists of alcohol.

"To work, Felicie, you get the little one ready, while I'm frigging His Majesty!"

Felicie walked her experienced fingers through the golden fur like a field of wheat, it took no time at all for a well of hot liquid to ooze forth, to the great distress of the poor virgin, who moaned as she sensed the shameful betrayal by her own body being witnessed by all these rough sailors, low-life women and brutish mercenaries.

Meanwhile Suzon was vigorously manipulating the member with its nondescript brown colour, smelling like a fishmonger's stall. She had sniffed others before, thank God, and she did not hesitate to suck from time to time on the virile glans despite its foul odour.

When she felt that the noble climax was close, but also in danger of flowing away for good, she gently guided the dilated cock straight towards its target. The cry of torn shame would have made a beast shudder, but Destouches was a nobleman, and thus above such considerations. All that mattered to him was to have restored the 'droit de seigneur' in his domain.



He lowered his great paws onto the firm breast offered up to his lust, and kneaded the delicate bubs with his outspread hands, tugging on the pearly tips. He pushed for a few moments, finding his way into the now-lubricated but exceptionally narrow passage of the virgin. When he had eased himself in, despite her pitiful jolts which only served to fan his heat, the villainous ramrod did not delay in assaulting the fragile hymen. After two more vigorous thrusts, the last rampart gave way under a flood of semen that the libertine ejaculated, uttering a grunt of satisfaction which echoed for all the world a boar mounting a sow.



He got up without a glance for Jeanne, while his henchmen released her like a bag of potatoes. Jeanne got up slowly, as if she were awaking from a nightmare. The game of dice resumed as if nothing had happened. Suzon undertook to clean with her mercenary tongue the threads of sperm lost among Des Touches's hairs.

He had turned his head back to drink from the pitcher. He only saw at the last moment the innkeeper's cleaver in a hand that was about to loose all innocence. Suzon just had the time to shift her head, to let the broad, sharp blade fall on the penis, still erect under her caresses. A stream of blood gushed out from the severed member, while Destouches fainted. After a first stupefied moment, Suzon and Félicie hastened to tie up the bloody stump that was emerging from the crotch.

Rohan quickly took charge and lectured them all:

"Nothing has happened tonight. There will be no scandal. You, you're leaving tomorrow for the Americas, the colonies will give you some training for life'.... and you'll surely be safer there than here. Go, take her to Nantes, present her to the provost with my compliments!

 

[Rupert_137]

A very complex story with many parallel storylines and full of vicious human actions...
In the end, the cruelties of some wild tribes can hardly be more frightening...
I'm curious to see when the many storylines - or at least part of them - will be brought together.

 

[gerembeau]

A very complex story with many parallel storylines and full of vicious human actions...
In the end, the cruelties of some wild tribes can hardly be more frightening...
I'm curious to see when the many storylines - or at least part of them - will be brought together.

That's why I needed 48 chapters. - One more thing, 20 years separate first and second part, I wrote the end because I knew that Eulalia would be enough kind to translate the full text.
I'll be off this we.

 

[gerembeau]

August 1705, on the Batailleuse, the crossing between La Rochelle and the Americas (IV)

Early the next morning, the girls were awakened by the gloomy beating of a drum. Two warders squeezed in between their palliases, rousing up with their truncheons those bums that did not shift fast enough.

Still numb from sleep, they had to go back up on deck, rubbing their eyes under the low sun. Those who took the time to shiver with shock were brutally pushed aside with the warders' sticks to let those behind emerge.

Catherine first noticed a young officer in uniform by the gunwale, in charge of recording the daily life of the frigate in the logbook, but then Adèle distracted her attention with a nudge towards the frightful scene unfolding on the bridge.

Jean Renfroy d'Ormonville had every intention of setting a terrible example for the rest of the voyage.

On the bridge, amidships, the black queen was hanging by her feet, splayed between two lowered yardarms. Her wrists were tightly bound as well to two rings fixed on either side of the hatch, and her limbs, horribly stretched by the rolling vessel, presented a tragic Saint Andrew's cross enschrined between the two white sails that swung over the deck.

She revealed to the envy of the women and desire of the men the bushy curls around her slit, where the mascara colour of the stretched larger lips contrasted with the carnation-pink exposed within. Her hair swept the ground as she struggled violently to escape her fate, only achieving the rhythmic rocking of her generous boobs. All the men seemed hypnotized by the ballet of the long brown teats that would not stay still, the breasts that undulated gracefully from her mouth to her shoulders, and their hard members seemed to be seeking their place in that soft sheath of flesh.



The Africans had been placed on one side of the deck, the crew in formation around them, their fingers on their muskets, and the girls were placed in a perverted manner exactly opposite the victim.

When they were seated, with resigned expressions and reproachful eyes, they awaited the sentence that Renfroy d'Ormonville was about to pronounce. A grunt diverted their attention. Ashaina's companion was struggling on the dock, hands tied, mouth gagged, iron halter around his neck, with all the fury of a male who wants to protect his female. His formidable convulsions to escape his bonds were strangling him, with his exertions, a huge vein appeared vividly on his temple as he fainted.



Catherine smiled at Jeanne to comfort her. The youngster rolled her eyes appalled, she had never witnessed a public execution, nor even the least corporal punishment, for she shunned the kind of spectacle, which the city mobs feasted on.

Marie and Adèle, more hardened, were nevertheless shocked to hear that Ashaina was to be whipped to death. All the girls were stunned, they had thought that the young black girl would be whipped and perhaps hanged, gasps arose at the mention of the iniquitous punishment.

The girls drew back together as the bosun whistled his whip. The leather thong, hard and thick, was finely fashioned, its edges as sharp as metal. Renfroy d'Ormonville ordered them to come closer again, if they did not want to take the chief's wife's place.

The bosun circled around the exposed vulnerability that was offered to him. He could have put an end to the young woman's sufferings with twenty well struck blows, but of course he intended to prolong her agony for the greatest pleasure of the crew.

The firm and muscular buttocks suffered the first impact.

SMACKKT!

"UUHHHNN!"

"Well, he's not a nice guy, that bosun," Catherine made a grim effort to laugh, with a lump in her throat, but her joke fell sadly flat among the girls. The bosun landed three well-directed blows, without ploughing them into the firm hemispheres. He came closer and caressed the texture of the skin with his expert fingers to see how well it resisted. Ashaina bit her lips to avoid giving the white pigs the pleasure of her tears.

SWACKKT!

HUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNN! AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

Three more blows followed on her thighs, drawing deep welts across her distended limbs. Catherine closed her eyes for a brief moment, noting the livid tint of Jeanne's complexion. The bosun smoothed his moustache as he turned towards the officers' line-up, looking for a sign of approval. Renfroy d'Ormonville waved his hand to continue.

The supple belly, then the sculptural shoulders, furrowed themselves under two pitiless lashes, which nevertheless granted a remission for the bruised love-spring of the superb slave. Ballancourt, alongside Renfroy d'Ormonville grinned, and the girls hated him forever for it.

"HIEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"

The breasts bounced violently under the first impact, which married them together with the same kiss. The executioner of the foul task struck three times across them, without trying for the moment to mutilate the massive tits. Nevertheless, all the girls brought their hands to their breasts to better protect them.

"AAAAAOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWW."

The tenth lash on the bouncing buttocks caused Ashaina to faint for the first time. A sailor came forward with a sponge soaked in sea water and vinegar. He waved it over the unfortunate woman's face, then dripped it over her nostrils until she emerged from the salving oblivion choking horribly.

SCRACKKKT! "IIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"



The beautiful, horribly chastised body was spraying out drops of blood and sweat that flew through the air, radiating the scene with a fantastic aura. The long bloody trails stood out in contrast to the azure of an idyllic sky. The powerful thong sank relentlessly into the tender flesh of the wildly swaying mammaries, blasting the delicate areolas whose tips were withering.

SWACKKT! "OOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWW"

The Africans were intoning a chant from the depths of time, more like a hoarse whisper that rose from the depths of their chests and passed through their closed lips, as it spoke of death, courage and rebirth.

The black girl's muffled burbling made it clear that she had bitten her tongue but could not choke on her own blood. The girls were livid. The bosun accelerated the rhythm and the power of his blows so that the tortured one could be suitably mutilated before dying. Striking this time the compliantly offered bases of the big, jolting udders, he applied himself to detaching them from her trunk with a few well struck blows. The blood splashed those who were in the first row. Jeanne fainted in Catherine's arms, her face stained with vermilion drops. The other girls, pale as death, were no better.

A deep rattle raised the despoiled chest, while the sex-lips and clitoris of the unhappy girl were chopped up small under the merciless lash.

The whip was raised for the last time as the bloody statue swayed limply with the rolling of the ship for a few more moments.

The prisoners, struck dumb by the shock, returned to the holds under the cries of the gulls who were looking for some appetizing carrion. However, it was the two great white sharks that were following the frigate that were satiated

 

[gerembeau]

August 1705-Louisiana, on the Choctaw lands, three days' march from Challeau's fort.

The thick mists half-hid the ghostly outlines of the teepees. The tops of the huts, dimly lit by a half-moon, stood out like a pile of branches washed up by the sea.

An arrow whistled softly through the still night before it fell gently in front of the Choctaw camp. Pellets from a large, ripped tobacco pouch rolled across the grass. Two dogs stood up, ears at the alert, before sniffing out the subtly poisoned meat. Soon there were half a dozen of them tasting the deadly bait.

After an hour, their convulsions ceased.

Jack the Hatchet, so called because of his curious pistol with its axe-like handle, put his index finger to his mouth, then raised it and waved it in concentric circles. A hundred trappers and militiamen from Fort Challeau rose silently from the tall grass where most had been dozing. They shared scarred faces, shaggy beards, and fur hats with beaver tails that fell over their brown skin jackets or plaids.

They knew that most of the tribe's warriors had left the day before for a retaliatory raid against the Natchez, who had stolen a dozen ponies from them. The leftovers of the war party, old or wounded warriors, put up little resistance. After a few shots and sabre strokes, the noise giving just the illusion of a skirmish, silence fell.



Cries and pleas rose up among the sounds of running. Many of the papooses found their salvation in their small size, which enabled them to escape unseen into the mist that was clinging to the bushes. Squaws who lived in the more distant teepees were able to accompany them and hide in the nearby forest. All those who remained were slaughtered with clubs or axes to save gunpowder - all but a dozen of the most beautiful squaws among the survivors from that first assault.

The trappers tore off the skin dresses, threating the girls with their muskets. The dark young women had to reveal the secret of their coppery femininity with tears, their breasts hidden under their long jet-black hairs, their hands resting on their dark slits. Some of them stood straight and proud before the pale faces, but had no choice but to submit when the trappers led them with the flat of their swords into the horse pen. They untied the reins of the horses they were going to steal, from a long wooden beam laid horizontally on two logs. Then they forced their captives to bend their torsos over the beam, their arms stretched out along the thick tree trunk, their breasts hanging down. They then began to restrain their arms securely where they were stretched out along the beam. The young women, painfully conscious that they were shamelessly offering to the eyes of the vile race the spectacle of their most intimate passages, were sobbing with shame and terror.

At the same time, a body stumbling on a wounded leg rose slowly from among the corpses that dotted the clearing. A trapper bent over him to scalp the well-built youngster alive, but one of the Natchez scouts warned him in a throaty voice to stop, and quickly called to Three-Fingers Peter, Jack the Hatchet 's second-in-command, in his own dialect.

Little Feather, who had miraculously escaped the first massacre, owed his life to the man who had recognized him as the son of the Choctaw chief. He was left, with a good escort, to limp back to join the horses, as the trappers were certain to get a good ransom from the heir of Brown bear.



After this interruption, the trappers and militiamen, French and half-breed, took the time to snatch a few swigs of moonshine, the wine-flask held with elbows raised repeatedly moistening throats made thirsty in the fight and the first rays of the sun. They were in good cheer, chanting bawdy songs with obscene words and laughing heartily to celebrate their triumph and anticipate the rape of the Indians about to commence.



The squaws still had to be firmly secured to the thick fir log. Each trapper, who had a few thick carpenter's nails among his belongings stepped forward. One after another, the terrified young women experienced the ordeal of a rusty spike being placed on either breast, sadistically caressed and stretched in preparation, then of a heavy mallet held up for an interminable moment, before feeling the excruciating pain that transfixed the flesh of their bosoms. Each blow dug a little more deeply into the fragile globes, and the shock-waves exacerbated the additional pain. The excruciated screams drowned the colonialists' cries of vengeance.

"It's your turn now, you bitches! Your men will know they don't get to touch white women with impunity!"

It was Jack the Hatchet who had uttered these words, brandishing the portrait medallion of Louise.

The punitive expedition shed their lower garments, except for half a dozen lookouts. When one man had finished, another dropped his pants right behind a screaming woman. Many were also penetrated in their behinds, and some, with their faces distorted by tears of immeasurable pain, were forced to suck the foetid members covered with their own shit and ejaculations, dribbling and retching in disgust. The less fortunate were mercilessly straddled and pulled back viciously, tearing their poor breasts still more. The sex-hungry beasts would lift them off the ground with powerful blows that made them lose their balance as they moaned. After so many rapes flooding their secret cavities, with streams of sperm slithering down their thighs, when the last ones mounted them they did not feel any more sensations, and had to be stimulated vigorously, tearing their mutilated mammaries even more, as the men felt their dilated slits tightening deliciously on their tumescent virility.



Progressively, one woman, then another, finally all, finished on the ground, inert, dead or almost so.

They were carried, unconscious or moaning, into the large central teepee where the Choctaw held their council. A few branches were thrown in, a torch followed, and the grim pyre engulfed the testimony of the barbarians.

The survivors hid on the edge of the first groves of the pine forest and waited for the departure of the long column before silently approaching the remains of their camp.

 

[gerembeau]

August 1705, on the Batailleuse, the crossing between La Rochelle and the Americas (V)


The girls were viewing with horror the bloodstain that was spreading on Jeanne's dress. The young girl, still unconscious, was being shaken with spasms, her forehead bathed in sweat that Adèle was tenderly wiping away.

"She’s pregnant, for sure, what a pity," observed Adele sadly.

"It'd be no loss to get rid of that cur's brat," snapped Marie tartly.

"What do we do now?" Catherine was looking at her shyly.

"What do you think? If I'd birthed all the brats I've carried, my teats would be hanging on the floor! Don't worry, I know the game. Leave me alone now."

The girls went out and, after they'd had a meagre supper, took advantage of the afternoon of freedom on deck that the captain had granted the deportees to recover from their terrible morning. Adèle and Catherine took in the fresh air, hoping that Jeanne's recovery would mark the end of their respective ordeals. At one point, Catherine put her hand above her eyes, "Look, it looks like an eagle, what is it doing here?"

She cried out at the top of her voice, and everyone looked up in amazement without seeing anything in the infinite blue, no-one had such good eyesight as hers.

At the end of the evening, Adele and Catherine saw their friends appear with relief.

Father Ballancourt was biding his time. Posted as usual, he was furiously scratching his arse, having spent the afternoon farting while he was walking.

Marie was supporting Jeanne, and sheltering out of sight below the poop deck.

Although very pale, Jeanne had the strength to smile, before announcing,

"That's it, he's gone. It was horrible, poor thing!"

She took a deep breath, and Marie took her place,

"it's just a clot of blood, basically, that's all it is".

The girls sympathized with her, embracing her,

"It's not your fault ... and, anyway, it's better this way."

Marie added, "And how would you have raised him? You'd have never found a husband, having been had."

A more marked, though muffled, creaking of the sails made them raise their heads. They did not discern anything notable, and started to chatter again, happy at the idea of turning the page on the tragic crossing.

Like a devil out of a box, Ballancourt appeared in the middle of the scene. His eyes revealed an evil joy, and before they had even heard him speak, the girls knew that the personification of new misfortunes was standing before them.

"YOU!"

"YES, YOU!"

"Fallen woman," he resumed in a more subdued tone, addressing Jeanne, pleased to see that the girls were terrified, "Are you even aware of the gravity of your sin? Life is a gift from God, and you have just committed a murder!"

Jeanne fell to her knees, clasping her hands together in silent prayer. Gloved hands placed firmly on the girl's shoulders lifted her up ungraciously.

"Father, it's not my fault."

"SILENCE, impure daughter, you will be tried for child murder as soon as we are ashore!"

Marie was too well aware of the consequences of such a trial to remain silent. She interposed herself vigorously,

"Father, believe us, it was almost aborted, it would have made a monster, not a creature of God!".

"That was not for you to judge. Shut up, all three of you, or I'll have you tried for complicity, too."

The girls exchanged a look of dismay, and the same idea crossed their minds, of throwing the hysterical old fool overboard. Catherine glanced over the shoulder of the fanatical priest, and as Mary crouched behind his back, she threw both her arms forward.

It was at this moment that the lookout shouted "LAND AHOY!"

Ballancourt let out his last scream as he toppled headlong over the side, arms spread wide as if for his final flight. The girls stepped back in horror, putting their hands to their mouths to stifle screams, for they had not really wanted this.

On the deck, a sailor attracted by the scream saw Marie straighten up and lean against the rail...

 

[gerembeau]

August 23, 1705, Fort de Challeau in the morning

"Aaaah" "Noooo" "Enough...." "Kill us instead" "GET ME OUT OF HEEEEERE"

One after another, the shrill cries of the girls drowned out the insistent "smack!" of the lashes on the red-marked skin of their sweat-shiny backs.



The soldiers took turns to extract the confession of each of the deportees, hung by their wrists, their feet only just resting on the ground, as their fingers clutched to relieve the pain.

A heavy odour of piss, dirt and blood mingled together enwrapped, in an almost palpable way, each body stretched to the maximum. The bouncing buttocks were twitching, sometimes soothed by a few caresses when the overly excited soldiers felt the need to relieve themselves, after having dug their filthy fingers into the hairy mounds to pull out some hairs.

With the agreement of General Chereau, commander of the fort de Challeau, Renfroy d'Ormonville was permitted to conduct the interrogation of the suspects, and he stimulated the soldiers with vigour to obtain confessions. After three hours of fruitless questioning, he obtained the agreement of the chief torturer for clamps to be applied to the rebellious breasts.

It was of course Marie who was chosen first, as her opulent breasts swaying with each stroke had titillated the soldiers, each in turn having moved forward one step further, so that the whipthongs extended their reach around the side of either breast.



Some of them had not hesitated to grasp the majestic globes firmly and roll the glands between their fingers, pulling the skin by the nipples and pinching the areoles between thumb and forefinger. The savage fists had drawn pleas and tears from Mary's piercing eyes. The smell of cum now mingled with the surrounding foul odours.

A pair of solid wooden boards secured at each side by a wing-screw were presented to Mary's under her nose. She pulled back instinctively as far as her bondage would allow.

"No, not that, not that...!" Her voice trembling slightly, she knew she could not resist this ordeal for long.



She closed her eyes, feeling her nipples being tugged roughly between two strong fingers, till her heavy teats were set delicately the onto the first board. Then she opened them again abruptly as she felt the icy touch of metal pressing on her right areola. She yelped in pain as her breast was suddenly pulled forward. The pliers had bitten into the tender flesh and the red mark was clearly visible on the milky skin. She felt the upper plank capture her breast as a skilled hand made several turns of the screw holding the two planks tightly against her chest.

It was the turn of the other breast a few seconds later to be stretched even more violently, tearing from her a roar of pain that made the other girls turn pale at the end of their ropes.



Renfroy d'Ormonville had offered payment to assist the torturer, so the latter stepped aside, weighing his well-stocked purse before sitting down to enjoy the looming scene.

The protruding globes were like two huge, hard pumpkins turning purple. Mary thought bitterly that she had regained the breasts of her twenties, but that thought instantly escaped her as the first stroke of the large paddle slammed savagely into her breasts, which were too hard to cushion the impact.



"Noooo, stooooop, it hurts toooo ...""

Renfroy d'Ormonville took advantage of the particular way her breasts were presented to strike with all his migth at the areolas projecting from the constricted mammaries. From purple, the skin changed to crimson, and drops of blood soon began to spread over her fleshy belly.

"I can't .. not this ... I'm going to die!"

At a snap of his fingers, two soldiers grabbed the screws and gave two more turns. All the males in the audience were struck by the incredible elongation of the protruding glands, whose tips seemed almost like arrows aimed in their direction.

This time, Renfroy had grabbed a baton and was striking the breast tips alternately to bring them down towards the deck. This game lasted a good fifteen minutes without tiring the soldiers, whose mighty laughter drowned Marie's howls of a wounded beast.

The late hour was conducive to the first puffs of tobacco, and the lids of the pipes gave out a familiar sound that added to the pleasure of witnessing the torture of a beautiful, mature woman.

But when Marie saw that eager fingers were touching the screws again, she shouted at once,

"Enough, enough! I confess, it was me who made that vile priestling fall into the drink!

She had taken time to think.

She knew that she could not endure any more torture. She had reviewed her life, realized that she could not bear the fate that awaited her much longer, and that her young friends could still be saved from such a fate. She was simply hoping for a quick death as she spoke these words.

 

[gerembeau]

March 5, 1705- Louisiana, the French encampment on the border of the Natchez territory, east of Fort Challeau.


Lord Wilkinson was the 'king' of the English trading-post established in a no-man's-land, midway between Charleston, English, and New Orleans, French. The peace between them was precarious; his unofficial mission, entrusted to him by her Majesty Queen Anne, was to shatter it.

Trade in skins was flourishing, and some French trappers did not hesitate to sell them to the highest bidder. Lord Wilkinson paid well, with the ulterior motive of a getting return on the investment one day.

He was riding thoughtfully ahead of two wagons towards a small French camp at the extreme edge of his zone of interest. The modest-sized troop that accompanied him, made up of aides-de-camp and clerks, but also a dozen heavily-armed redcoats, was trotting quietly at the pace of the heat-stressed horses.



The camp was not very far away when the English heard shouting, outbursts of laughter, and shots. Before they could see the camp, Lord Wilkinson raised his hand to slow the troop down. The soldiers put their hands on the triggers of their muskets, and advanced to the front.

There was no sign of hostility, the tents and rectangular marquees were empty, and no-one was paying any real attention to the remarkable arrival of the Hudson's Bay Company. For all the trappers were massed at the edge of the bayou, and the laughter and loud comments blended into a cacophony that frightened the horses.

The density of the crowd made it impossible for Lord Wilkinson to see the cause of all this uproar. With two of his closest aides, having left his guard on the alert and ready to intervene, he shouldered his way through the crowd.

Their faces, dumbfounded or hilarious, showed no reaction whatever to his shoving, so fascinated were they by the spectacle of a young, black, female slave, naked, being offered to the alligators.

Aliyah was in her nineteenth year when Jack the Hatchet had bought her for 30 sous off a Nantais slaver at the Fort de Challeau the previous week. However, she still had a baby face, though it contrasted with her voluptuous breasts, which seemed to be beating time in the tropical humidity.



The whole assembly were laughing at Jack the Hatchet, who had only managed to save his cock at the price of a twist to his kidneys that was still making him feel sick. Although deprived of food for three days and loaded with heavy chains, the beautiful slave had waited patiently for her opportunity, to be presented with a thick, oozing dick, on which her jaws had slammed, though she hadn't been able to close them completely more than a few centimetres along.



"Look at the cannibal, she's the one who's going to get eaten now", yelled a fat trapper, brandishing a bottle. "You'd have done better sucking Jack, his cock isn't the rottenest one here, you know", added a saucy slag and everyone laughed in chorus, each looking for another joke to throw in.

Jack the Hatchet did not laugh. Concentrating on his efforts to prolong Alyah's torture, he did not even hear most of the mockery, focusing his attention on letting the rope that was supporting Alyah over the bayou come down from the great oak-tree millimeter by millimeter.

The young Negress, her wrists and ankles tugged together behind her back, was hanging by her limbs heavy above the murky waters. When calm gradually settled, a waiting silence allowed the lapping of the water and the squealing of the red-tailed hawks to be heard.

Alyah too was watching for the slightest sound, holding her breath and coping with her discomfort. She was acutely aware of the effect the erotic swaying of her breasts could have on the males in the audience, but she didn't care, careful to test how far her fingers could work their way up the thick rope, past the sailor's knot, to get as far as possible from the tree trunk that was heading her way.



In earlier times, the Natchez had practised ritual sacrifice by feeding the particularly voracious gators in this bayou.

The tree trunk suddenly snapped, revealing a long jaw with long, wide, tapered fangs, well-accustomed to sumptuous feasting.



Jack the Hatchet had taken his measurements remarkably well, for the saurian's teeth missed the sumptuous teats offered to its appetite by only a few centimeters.

Aliyah let out a cry of despair when she felt the rope slacken slightly. But no matter how desperately she contracted her body, pulling back her strong chest, her breasts seemed to be making an offering to the ancient gods of the bayou.

The gator's leap stunned the trappers; it had risen almost to its full length as it rose up from the water, and the agonizing scream accompanying a few drops of blood chilled even the most hardened of the "wild men of the woods".

Alyah cried out with a heart-rending supplication, "Missié, Missié, I’ll suck well! Im begging to be forgiven! Missié, Missié, please unhook me, I'll be a good slave, I'll do anything you want!"

She flung about frantically in all directions, letting fly drops of blood fly from her slightly ripped right breast, which excited the gator.

Then Jack the Hatchet loosened the rope a few more centimeters.

An inextinguishable howl continued long after the monster had taken a large part of the left breast.

Alyah could no longer control her bladder and a stream of urine mingled with the river of blood that sprang from what had been a large pink areola encircling a lovely, much-cherished, caressed, and often-licked piece of breast.

She had no time for any more pleading, crazed by the savour of the torn nipple as soon it was swallowed, the gator straightened up once more and, with a prodigious jump, swallowed the right breast as a child gobbles up an egg.



Jack the Hatchet became aware that the butchery was no longer arousing the crowd, which was beginning to disperse. He cut the rope with a sharp, accurate blade, then stayed a long time to contemplate the feast of the gators while they cleaned the carcass with great growling and gnashing of teeth. He caught himself regretting his revenge for a moment - after all, he could undoubtedly have succeeded in breaking her by starvation, and thinking of the fellation he could have ended up enjoying made him, for a brief moment, hard.

He was pulled out of his reverie by a dry instruction,

"Whoa, you, man with the rope. I'm Lord Wilkinson. We need to talk"

And so Jack the Hatchet betrayed his side.

 

[gerembeau]

September 13, 1705, Adèle in the hands of the Choctaw

The Choctaws, about ten of them, had appeared out of nowhere. The panicked horses had galloped off, but stalled with a whinny when a thick tree fell across the narrow path. Emile straightened up, brandishing his rifle, but after the first salvo from the old blunderbuss he could only grasp his dagger for a moment before he was pierced by several arrows.

Adèle quickly got off the cart that was to lead her to brighter skies, with the promise of a kind husband and a long lineage of Camisards. But the Choctaw were on their own territory, and Adèle could not fool them as she had done in her time with the royal guards.

The Indians were whooping with joy, and one of them waved Emile's scalp before her horrified eyes. The wagon was full of food and tools, the woman was beautiful, the scalp would testify to their courage and make a beautiful offering to the great Manitou.

It was a long walk through the woods. Adèle had been stripped of her shoes to prevent her from running away, and her feet often snagged the roots of cypress and pine trees despite her treading warily. In the heat of the day she was not wearing much, and she made a point of showing as little flesh as possible, worried that the lustful glances of the braves would be directed more and more often at her firm bosom, which was nevertheless swaying gracefully to the rhythm of the terrain.

When evening came, she was tied with her arms folded back on the trunk of an oak tree. She had first been allowed to eat and drink, but she was wondering if she would manage to fall asleep. She didn't have long to wonder.

Gathered in a circle around the fire, the Indians pulled out from their fur saddlebags some small square pieces of wood inlaid with carvings, and rolled them across a large buffalo hide spread out on the ground. Laughter arose, cheers of astonishment, and shouts of anger too. The fire was rekindled and the game continued. As the time wore on, one by one the Choctaw left the circle. Eventually there were only two.

Adele wondered what was at stake in such a game for the losers to be in such a bad mood, one of them even kicking a tree-trunk, which made him wince in pain, to the laughter of the other braves.
She watched with more interest as the game approached its end, the two finalists seemed unable to detach themselves with each roll of the dice. Then one of them, after his throw, looked up at her and grinned. The other Choctaw stood up and muttered. Then Adele had the brutal revelation of what would be the winner's prize.

He was a proud warrior, unquestionably the most handsome man in the group. Adele thought to herself that she could have landed worse. She had enough experience to know that submitting, and even, if need be, feigning pleasure, could only make the rape more bearable for her.

He smelled strongly of tallow, smoke and wet leather. But his hard torso, his bulging muscles, his strong arms and his hard hands that held her breasts firmly to ride her like a mare aroused her powerfully. She soon felt a thick, perfectly rigid member rubbing over her buttocks, eagerly looking for the first hole to lodge in. Adele was not embarrassed by sodomy, she came from a line of women schooled in the only possible contraception at the time, but she wanted to take her pleasure too. She tightened her anus firmly, opening her legs wide to aid penetration into her vagina. She had felt two enormous testicles beating her buttocks, and was starting to get wet.

The brave sank without effort, surprised and slightly disappointed by the little resistance shown by his captive, whose wrists remained bound to the tree-trunk.



Conscious of this moment of hesitation after the penetration, Adèle tightened her legs and contracted her vagina as if it had been moulded around the sex of the savage. Energized by the intense pressure, the phallus found all its vigour, and impaled her, butting into the collar of the cervix. After some vigorous thrusts, he withdrew, and Adele could find her own pleasure only by imagining the long spurts of creamy cum spreading in her womb.

 

[gerembeau]

August 28, 1705, on the road to the Loupiac plantation

Baron Loupiac had the most sinister reputation in Louisiana.
Catherine, however, had not hesitated for a second to join the convoy of slaves purchased at auction the day before by his steward.
Young and beautiful women like her had no trouble selling for 30 sols for a year's service, with room and board guaranteed. It is true that they were quickly taken out of the kitchens to replace the ebony wood that warmed the beds of the rich planters.
Catherine knew how to escape this fate since her sister had married Loupiac. And it would not take her long to think of a plan that would allow them to return to France.
Snapping out of her thoughts, she looked back at the convoy of slaves, spurred on by the whips of the plantation guards. She had neither disdain nor compassion for them, she looked at them for what they were, slaves promised to an unenviable fate, but for whom she could do nothing, and she finally looked away when she saw that the great Ashanti chief whose wife had been horribly executed was staring at her.

September 6, 1705-Louisiana, the French camp on the border of the Natchez territory, east of Fort Challeau.

The camp had grown since the end of the winter, and there was no shortage of domestic chores. Some of the female deportees were assigned to tanning skins, others to preparing meals or casting lead for musket balls, but they all knew that they had to prolong their labours into the night, satisfying the needs of the trappers - every night, as they were fewer in number, and a rota of duty had the tacit agreement of the small community.

Jeanne had not so far played her part in this sharing around of the nocturnal escapades, and the other women were holding it against her with heavy hints. However, she did not feel compelled, for the night-workers were rewarded with a penny, and in a sense she was not competing with them, she was simply not of the same world.

Every morning she worked hard to be accepted by the whores and harlots, who were upbraiding her mercilessly all day, jealous of her beauty and her perfect body, which was gradually recovering from the abortion. However, she hated the acrid, sour smell of the tanning vats filled with urine and faeces used essential for preserving the fur-skins.

The workshop overlooked the river in which Alyah had been fed to the crocodiles, and Jeanne was glad she had not had to witness the scene, she who was on the edge of discomfort when she had to walk past the moose and caribou skins stretched out between stakes.