SPOILS OF WAR
1 – The shadow of the Castle
Story by Gabriella Cianni and dofantasy.com
The small village of Baden-Holdein slept placidly. The first snowflakes were already falling weightlessly upon the uncultivated fields around the village…
It was a peaceful scene, but the eye was drawn, inevitably, up the cliff behind the village to the dark outline of the Castle.
From afar, in the neighbouring Corven, the bells of the small Church could be heard, tolling death. A rare calm, like the heavy silence before the worst storms, hung over that autumn night long ago.
Very close, too close perhaps, the howl of a restless wolf sounded clear in the frosty air.
The full October moon rose among the thick clouds and threw the impressive silhouette of the old Fortress onto the tiled roofs of the humble houses. The women poked at the fire, and the men hurried to bring the animals in. The children had long since gone to sleep.
Everything was quiet. No one suspected the tragedy which was being forged in the Castle of Baden-Holdein, and its grave consequences, above all for the neighbouring Corven, where the bells kept ominously tolling death…
Elisabeth, terrorized, was fleeing through the narrow corridor that led to her quarters.
Her heart beat crazily in her chest; she could barely breathe… Her entire body trembled with fear…
They were alone in the Castle… She and he. The prey and the hyena…
Her father wasn’t there, and neither was her lady in waiting. Rodrigo, the favourite, did not seem to hear her cries, and the guard would not come to her aid… The unclean beast that pursued her was the captain of the guard himself!
Elisabeth closed the door behind herself, fastened the bolt with trembling hands, and moved everything she could find to block the entrance: the bed, the chest, heavy chairs… Panic gave her the strength her arms didn’t have.
She feared that swarthy, close-bearded giant more than anything else in the world. His presence terrified her; his filthy stare froze her blood; his strong odour repulsed her.
Heavy boots could be heard on the other side of the wall. She had her eyes nailed to the door, and fear painted on her young face.
A sinister laugh gave her goose bumps.
As if the furniture were a castle made of playing cards, it all fell away…
Under the lintel appeared Orgon, the run-away slave; the quarrelsome, bloodthirsty mercenary; the now ambitious and evil Captain of the Guard of the Castle of Baden-Holdein… There, before the frightened girl, towered the impressive corpulence of more than six feet of robust muscles studded by the scars of a thousand battles.
There, a few steps away, spying her with lascivious eyes, rose her prophetic Destiny.
2 – Three months later
Story by Gabriella Cianni and dofantasy.com
Christmas Eve heralded the crudest winter of the century.
A frozen wind whipped the wall of the desolate Castle of Baden-Holdein, and snow covered the fields and the small town below.
By the light of the flames of the chimney in the Hall of Arms, events developed which would decide the fate of several generations on that side of the River. There began the reign of Orgon – the bloodiest, darkest reign that ever scourged the heart of Europe.
The silhouettes of the protagonists, crowded together at the fireplace, were thrown onto the high walls of stone. The cold penetrated the chinks in the windows, and the heat of the fire could barely be felt a pair of paces from the flickering light.
“Don’t force me against my will, father,” begged an enchanting girl.
“Allow me to intervene, my dear Elisabeth.” It was Rodrigo, a dark cleric, a political favourite and a counsellor of the ancient Holdein, who spoke. “Orgon only means to comply with his duty as a knight.”
“Knight! My God!” exclaimed Elisabeth with indignation. “How can you call him a knight? He is vermin! He raped me under the very roof that shelters him!”
“That’s not what Orgon affirms, my dear lady…”
“How dare you!”
“I regret uttering such words, but it is my duty to analyse the facts from all angles… The Knight Orgon affirms that it was you who succumbed to his charm. Furthermore,” added Rodrigo, directing himself to the elder Holdein, “we should not forget that your father named him Captain of the Guard, and therefore the arms and guard of the Castle are on his side.”
“You know as well as I, that my father did not give him that title. It was he who came to power by assassinating the faithful Rolando… And I dare say that he counted on your support, Rodrigo.”
“Daughter!” interjected the elderly Holdein. “I forbid you to speak to Rodrigo in this manner. May the ground give way beneath my feet if I cannot even trust one of my own!”
An embarrassing silence fell…
“And you, Rodrigo,” continued the ancient one, with a debilitated voice, “I will not tolerate you doubting the honour of my daughter.”
“Excellency,” the scheming cleric hastened to respond. “I would permit myself to doubt the virtue, nor the honour, of your daughter… I merely repeat the words of Orgon, and point out the precarious situation in this house.”
The storm suddenly whipped one of the windows open. There was a crash as the small alabaster window shattered and a chill wind filled the room.
The elderly Holdein stirred uncomfortably in his chair. He was the ghost of the energetic and powerful knight he used to be. He lived burdened by more than eighty winters, and by the gout that never ceased to torture him. What would become of the Castle and the small town when he died? What would become of his daughter, Elisabeth, alone and defenceless amid that pack of wolves?
Seated upon the rough oak chair which served as his besieged post, Holdein awaited death. His time had passed; he had lost the sequence of events; and all that remained for him to do was to impotently attend the treasonous plots that were forged around him. With strained dignity, he tried to ignore them. Among all the sinister people who surrounded him, two were particularly dangerous: the formidable Orgon, a violent being, ambitious and unscrupulous, and the scheming Rodrigo, an astute chaplain, not less ambitious and malevolent, capable of selling his own mother for a couple pieces of silver.
An entire world had died, and with it virtues such as loyalty, nobility and dignity… Now they were merely empty words. In their place were more fashionable terms: intrigue, betrayal, unmeasured ambition, and cruelty…
“Rodrigo,” he finally said, with the firm tone of other times, “My daughter shall not marry Orgon, but Lancelot. She shall live in his Castle at Corven. You shall go with her, and ensure that no ill befalls her.”
A sudden, frank joy lit up the face of the girl, who had scarcely heard her father’s ominous reference to future danger and misfortunes…
A grim, stingy smile twisted Rodrigo’s expression…
3 – Twenty years later, Corven falls…
Story by Gabriella Cianni and dofantasy.com
The dawn of that peaceful, summer day was breaking on the other side of the River. The torrid wind which had whipped the fields for seven days and nights was now calm, and dew glistened upon the levelled fields. The smell of burning impregnated the air. No bird sang.
Corven had been sacked the day before.
Hungry dogs marauded among the solitary streets and a cloud of noisy flies covered the corpses of the defenders. Alone, upon the bluff, resisted the castle, in the interior of which the terrified people sought refuge…
The bulk of the invading army had withdrawn outside the perimeter of the city. Only the impatient mercenaries surrounded the hill of the castle, which waited for catapults to breach its outer defences.
This proved unnecessary. Someone inside opened the gates.
The assault troops entered with mere blades. Few defenders remained inside – only the elderly, the women and the children. The mercenaries, drunken with violence and thirsty for revenge, set themselves upon the defenceless populace… Only the young men, the children, and, of course, the women of child-bearing ages, were captured and chained among the ruins of what had been the central plaza.
The pathetic scenes continued… Elderly people were dragged across the ground, tied to galloping horses; men were castrated and hung by the neck; women were raped; children were wrenched from the arms of their mothers and smashed against walls.
** NEW **
Posted April 12th, 2004
It was an orgy of terror.
No one would have survived if it weren’t for the greed of Orgon who paid two silver coins for each captured woman and half as much for each man capable of working, and for each child. Later he would sell the disgraced survivors as slaves for twenty times as much. A profitable business for the coffers of the army, and a magnificent source of income to finance its bloody campaigns.
Except for the inhabitants of Corven, all had been lost. So much useless suffering! Weeks spent without food, with the water and the wells poisoned, with the wounded agonising in the streets… And so many dead!
From the height of the tower, the last bastion to fall, the sound of the invaders closing in and the cries of the people were heard getting closer and closer. Elisabeth and her two daughters hurried to change from their regal gowns into the rags of plebes. Escape was impossible, and they knew it; their only hope was to be confused with the rest of the populace and to be captured like simple village women – not as the wife and daughters of Sir Lancelot, who alone had dared combat the tyranny of Orgon the Usurper.
Wrapped in their cloaks, with the hoods dissimulating their noble tresses, and unadorned by any jewellery, the three women hurried through a secret passage which would take them outside the Castle.
When they emerged from the long tunnel, they were surrounded by fire and destruction. Horses kicked the frightened multitudes; axes and whips massacred and lacerated innocent flesh. The elderly were drawn and quartered in front of their offspring; babies were annihilated in the arms of their mothers; women were dispossessed of their clothing by lashes, then raped. Again, the astuteness of Orgon dominated the unleashed fury of the troops… The General offered three pieces of gold to whoever captured a virgin. Three gold coins were a fortune, equivalent to a soldier’s annual salary, so, before being raped, the captive girls – especially the young ones – were inspected in the most obscene manner.
Elisabeth and her daughters attempted to escape such infamy and arrive untouched at the central plaza, a place formerly reminiscent of happy times, knightly jousts and springtime feasts, but now of so much horror! The women, cornered as a separate group, pressed against each other on trembling and teetering legs, with their clothing torn to shreds. It was a small taste of what the future held in store for them…
Taking advantage of the confusion, Elisabeth and her eldest daughter, Shelma, managed to mingle among the other prisoners, but a horse appeared in front of Dalma, the smaller, younger sister, cutting her off from the others. Frightened, the girl raised her eyes. A thickly-bearded warrior looked down on her with a brutal glare.
He gave her no time to react. A cord cinched her waist and she was dragged her to the corner of the plaza.
Another assailant joined the first; they gagged her with a rag torn from her own dress, and tied her hands behind her back. While one of them held her arms, the other grabbed her by the hair, tore open her dress, and began fondling her… “Good catch!” he said. “Let’s go. Put her on the horse and let’s get out of here.” Dalma struggled like an animal… “Be still, you little vixen!” growled the soldier who had blocked her path, twisting one of her breasts. “Save your energy for later; you’ll need it!”
Rough hands grabbed her by the hair and waist, and raised her onto the horse. Dalma lay face down upon the beast, looking desperately at her mother, who saw her, but was unable to help and was swept away in a crowd of women fleeing the castle.
The two mercenaries mounted up and carried Dalma off, leaving the burning city at a gallop…
Other horsemen surrounded the terrified, captive women, and, making use of the whips they carried, they kept them together until the butchery ended and the shouting ceased.
The city had fallen, its defenders victims of the blade, its elderly with their throats slit, and its young, its women and children, converted into the slaves of the conquering army.
The battle had ended; the city had been destroyed, the spoils taken and the harvests levelled…
Such was the law of the strong.
Among so much desolation there came a distinctive sound, mingling with the cracking sparks from the burning wood and the screams of women. It was jangling of the ornate saddle and trappings of the Usurper (as Orgon was known) as he thundered into the plaza.
Orgon was unmistakable with his dark skin and Moslem aspect; his long hair and thick, black beard; his height, height; his disproportionate lips; his giant teeth that instilled such fear upon smiling; and his fierce, proud gait. It was a sight which to intimidate even the most hardened criminal…
Elisabeth trembled when she saw him. After fifteen years of her trying to forget the monster, there he was, the man who had raped her and engendered her eldest daughter. He who was guilty of her dishonour, of her daily nightmares, of her inner demons that never stopped torturing her and tarnishing, from the very first day, her marriage to the good Lancelot…
The Moor, at the reins of his bay horse, without armour, his bare body accented by his black cape, came to a halt in front of the captive women. His eyes scrutinised each of them, although there were almost a hundred of them.
Their glances crossed…
By the time the astonished Elisabeth noticed the Tyrant’s smile, it was too late for her to hide.
Two warriors opened a path to her and threw her under their leader’s horse.
Shelma tried to follow her, but the other women blocked her path.
“Rise, bitch of Lancelot, and submit to your new lord!” yelled Orgon.
Elisabeth raised her eyes and clenched her fists. The hood that protected her slid back, uncovering her exuberant and lustrous, jet black hair. The hatred and rage reflected in her face made her even more beautiful and desirable in the eyes of the Usurper.
“I curse the day you were born, Orgon. Only a disgraceful plot could explain your presence.”
The woman’s outburst didn’t appear to disturb Orgon; on the contrary, it seemed to please him.
“Take this bitch and chain her up in the pit. Tomorrow morning, at the break of day, I want her naked in my quarters!”
Orgon spurred his horse, and two of his henchmen took charge of the noblewoman who had been until that day, the First Lady of Corven. After placing her in heavy shackles, they placed her in one of the carts that carried the spoils.
A dozen men armed with whips took charge of the rest of the captive women. Zorba, Orgon’s lieutenant and most trusted henchman, directed the operations…
One by one, the captive women were taken before him. The ones he deemed worthy of the infamous commerce to which they were destined, were bound with their elbows behind their backs, a pole across the middle of their backs, and their hands tied in front of their waists. The ones he deemed insufficiently attractive, had their throats slit on the spot.
The confusion and restlessness created by what had happened to her mother prevented Shelma from taking note of the impious selection process until it was almost her turn. The wife of the master shoemaker preceded her. She was a tall, beautiful woman, but perhaps a bit too old for Zorba’s taste… To the young Shelma’s horror, at a mere gesture from the Lieutenant, one of the men decapitated her. The head, which Zorba himself kicked away, rolled heavily over the floor, sprinkling blood on the horrified girl and became part of a pile of mutilated bodies and skulls scattered amid a huge pool of blood.
Shelma, incapable of removing her eyes from the beheaded body which still trembled on the floor, the prey of macabre convulsions, hid her face under her hood, and began to recite prayers, convinced that her own hour had come. Someone pushed her from behind, and removed her cape, leaving her to the mercy of her examiner, who would decide her fate, whether it would be death or the most frightening slavery.
Shelma brought her arms up instinctively to her breasts, and lowered her gaze. She trembled like a leaf in an autumn wind.
Zorba, impressed, rose from his chair. The young woman deserved closer scrutiny… She was fascinating, disturbing… A hot, foreign, exotic beauty… She was very young, tall and svelte, but already with the features of a woman manifestly pressed against the simple dress which covered her.
But what impressed Zorba the most was her face and the blonde, slightly curly hair which fell halfway down her back. A mixture of peculiar and explosive traits, inconceivable to the lieutenant who had only seen blondes of clear skin and blue eyes. This girl had dark skin, the colour of orange blossom honey, darker even than that of slaves who worked in the sun. Her eyes were green, the colour of emeralds, and her facial features were fascinating: slanted eyes; high, proud cheekbones; a nose timid but eagle-like; thick lips; a small mouth; and a high forehead – a face from which it was hard to look away.
Everyone became mute before such singular and startling beauty.
At a signal from Zorba, two soldiers bound her with her elbows behind a stake. Incredulous, the lieutenant raised his hand and caressed the girl’s skin.
“What is your name?” he asked as his jaw dropped.
Shelma failed to answer. Her terror prevented her from answering.
Zorba slapped her, first across her left cheek, then across her right cheek with the back of his hand.
Shelma, with her face on fire, hastened to answer with a timid voice. “Helena,” she lied.
Zorba grabbed the dйcolletй of her simple dress with both hands, and ripped it open down to her waist. Two full, young breasts, marvellously elevated, offered themselves to everyone’s view. Zorba hastened to prove the quality of so much beauty…
“Are you a virgin?” he asked, pinching her rosy nipples.
“Y-yes…” responded Shelma, finding it difficult to speak or swallow, afraid to die.
Zorba opened her dress even more, and caressed with his eyes her fine waist, the soft roundness of her belly and small navel. Something very powerful shook his viscera.
“Give three coins to whoever it was who brought her, and don’t lose sight of her,” he said to someone behind him. This little kitten shall be mine.”
Bound with her dress torn and with her breasts in the air, Shelma waited in silence, with bowed head, for the pathetic selection process to end. A cord around her neck fastened her to her companions in misfortune who, frightened, whimpered beside her.
When everything had finished, two dozen mutilated bodies lay scattered on the plaza. The rest, still alive, began the painful foot march to the dark Fortress of Baden-Holdein, the headquarters of Orgon and his henchmen, under the pitiless stimulus of the whip, with which the soldiers continued to punish defenceless backs, provocative buttocks and tired legs.
The soldiers, visibly disturbed by the beauty and helplessness of their female slaves, discharged their hatred and lust, whipping them without pity. Zorba rode his horse near Shelma all the way, kicking her with his boot and striking her with the end of his lance. From time to time, he bent down and grabbed her by the hair and kissed her mouth, his eyes shining with desire… “Hasten your step, little kitten, for a great reward awaits you at your journey’s end.”
Shelma, who walked with her gaze fixed on the naked back of the prisoner in front of her, cried and trembled with fear and rage. An uncouth village man, dirty and ignorant, but at the command of a platoon armed to the teeth… A brutal, violent yokel whom no one would prevent from submitting her to his unworthy caprices. Shelma prayed to God with all her soul that the shameful procession would never reach its destination.
My God! What sin had her people committed to deserve such chastisement?
Shelma wondered about the fate of her mother, who was now in the power of the man who didn’t even suspect that he was her father.
And Dalma? What had happened to her little sister? In the midst of the confusion in the plaza, Shelma had not seen her being captured, but she feared the worst!
A few leagues from the destroyed village of Corven, in a small farmhouse, which was the property of an elderly married couple, the Mathaus, Dalma won a dangerous game of Chess with Death. Around her, the Mistress of the Night took two new lives: those of Dalma’s aggressors.
The horseman who had captured her in the plaza had carried her across his saddle at a gallop, through burnt woods and destroyed fields. Dalma, furious, stoically endured the lascivious hands which continued to molest her all the way. Another horseman rode beside them.
It was probably by chance that they arrived at the Mathaus farm. Upon dismounting, the warrior who had Dalma, whom he placed on his shoulder, entered the house. There he tossed her onto the skins which served the elderly couple as their bed.
“Prepare food, old woman,” the soldier ordered without taking his eyes off his captive.
Dalma curled up in a corner, with her knees against her chest, attempting to hide her almost complete nakedness.
The old man observed her from nearby with his mouth agape.
The soldier approached her slowly, and turned her onto her back with his boot.
Dalma tried to turn back over, but the soldier stood with one heavy boot planted on her belly. The girl kicked and struggled; the pressure on her belly was intolerable. Conquered, she crossed her arms over her tits, closed her eyes, and waited for the inevitable. Her captor began to undress.
Then something unexpected happened. The other soldier appeared at the doorway, and the two soldiers began arguing about who should fuck her first. The shouting match became a fist fight; then daggers were drawn. Finally, the soldier who’d entered the house last lay dead in a puddle of blood, and the other, with a dagger stuck in his ribs, staggered outside.
Dalma, spurred by instinct, jumped on the agonising man and finished him off with the dagger in his wound.
Then everything was calm. The elderly couple who had witnessed these brutal events without intervening, consoled the girl, who began crying bitterly in a nervous fit.
“Come, come,” said Mrs. Mathaus, trying to calm the girl down. “You are a very brave girl. It’s over now. Calm down.”
Dalma, inconsolable and still gripping the dagger’s handle, hugged the old woman as violent convulsions racked her young body.
“I’ve killed him! I’ve killed him!” she sobbed.
The old man offered her a big cup of goat milk. “Tonight you’ll sleep in the stable,” he said. “There’s straw, so you’ll be comfortable.”
Dalma, continuing to embrace Mrs. Mathaus, sat at the table. Hiccups prevented her from drinking.
“Tomorrow, when you’ve rested, you can go home,” said the woman.
“I don’t have a home. I don’t have anywhere to go,” whimpered Dalma, a shadow of the resolved girl who had, instants before, killed the man who had attempted to rape her.
“Are you from Corven?” asked Mr. Mathaus with sudden interest.
Dalma nodded affirmatively.
“It finally fell?”
The girl lowered her gaze to the floor. “It’s all over,” she whispered.
She’d barely laid down on the straw in the stable when Dalma fell into a deep sleep. The tension of the long siege, the humiliation, the sacking of the castle, the flight, the frightening capture, the fighting and the deaths of her captors… So many nights without sleep! She was overcome by fatigue…
Someone was shaking her by the shoulders.
Dalma opened her eyes, still half asleep. The light of a lantern blinded her.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Kneeling beside her in moth-eaten pyjamas which reached his feet, Mr. Mathaus regarded her with the same eyes full of desire as the warrior who had captured her.
“If you’re nice to me,” he said, pulling back the blanket that covered her, “I’ll convince my wife to let you live with us.”
Dalma couldn’t believe her ears.
“You can’t fool me. I know what kind of girl you are,” added Mr. Mathaus, resting his hand on her calf.
“Leave me alone, old man!” she shouted, giving him a kick which knocked him to the ground. “You’re crazy!”
“Shut up, you stupid bitch! Shut up!” Mr. Mathaus muttered without changing his intentions. “If my wife hears you, she’ll kill us both!” But Dalma gave him another kick which left him curled up on the ground.
The old man, with his hands between his thighs, retired, cursing. Dalma rose and watched him until he entered his house.
Certain that the old man wouldn’t try anything again, she fell back and in a few moments fell fast asleep.
“You are infinitely more beautiful than I remembered,” said Orgon.
Elisabeth raised her head with all the pride that she could muster under the circumstances. She was standing completely naked before the Tyrant of Baden-Holdein.
Her arms were raised with her hands bound behind her, between her shoulder blades, by cords tied tightly above and below her breasts. Her rosy nipples, replete with blood because of the pressure of her bonds, bristled before the ardent stare of her interrogator.
“What a shame, these fifteen years wasted,” lamented Orgon, approaching the woman, who could smell his breath foul with wine and evil. “Fifteen years remembering your kisses, your caresses, and your cries!”
Elisabeth closed her eyes, trying to forget these very memories.
“It was fantastic! Although you didnТt have such a suggestive figure then, your ass was firm and delicious!” recalled Orgon, devouring her with his eyes. “Much more so than now, I suppose, after humping all these years as the whore you have become.”
ElisabethТs eyes reddened with rage and humiliation. Not even all those years enjoying the affection and love of her husband Lancelot could erase that terrible episode from her mind. There were always some nights when she would awake from the nightmares of herself flattened under the weight of OrgonТs giant frame, taking her again and again with all the brutality he had employed that bitter day which should never have dawned.
“Look me in the eyes, bitch!”
The sharpened point of a knife pressed under her chin forced Elisabeth to raise her eyes to the giant Orgon – to the face she saw in her nightmares, and the sickening look that awoke her each night.
Orgon came from the confines of the known world – from farther away than Turkey and the mythical Persia. He was a dark-skinned giant with Mongoloid traits and black eyes which instilled fear in those who dared endure his stare. Everything about him was disproportionate: his hands, arms, legs, feet, genitals… As a youth he had been captured and sold as a slave, but his strength and heartless prowess soon elevated him. Now he was the Usurper, the Tyrant, the insatiable scourge of that part of the world.
“What do you want me to do with you?” he asked.
Elisabeth continued to concentrate on her dignified silence. Orgon raised the sharpened dagger, obliging her to stand on her tip-toe.
“When I get tired of you, IТll give you to an ally in exchange for his loyalty. To Rodrigo, for example…”
The green eyes of the woman regarded him disconcertedly, suddenly shining with renewed rage. Now she understood! It was he who had opened the doors of the Castle.
“DidnТt you know, you poor imbecile? Ours is an old and productive alliance. You are only one miserable example. Furthermore,” he added with a smile that made her tremble, “on one occasion he confessed to me his debility for you and your eldest daughter.”
Elisabeth remembered the disgusting advances Rodrigo made toward her whenever her husband was away, and thought how stupid sheТd been for not incriminating him.
“Shelma is your flesh and blood, Orgon,” stated Elisabeth, breaking her obstinate silence with a grave voice. “You will not dare give her to this filthy traitor.”
Orgon, too affected by the womanТs nakedness, didnТt realise the import of her words.
“Praised be hell! Finally your highness has spoken! I was afraid that your jealous husband had amputated your shameless tongue. That would have been such a loss!”
“You were born accursed, Orgon. I curse the mother who bore you, you and all yours.”
Orgon grabbed her by the hair and twisted her head back.
“I could slit your throat right now,” he said, moving the knife he held beneath his prisonerТs chin. “But no, a bitch like you deserves something more subtle,” he added lowering the knife…
With a shove he hurled her against the window. ElisabethТs cry rent the air.
Before her eyes, in the patio of arms of the Castle of Baden-Holdein, the very place where she had been born and which had belonged to her family since before Orgon usurped it, everything had been prepared for a macabre ceremony.
A hundred rich men, many of them noblemen, crowded around the gallows where her husband, the conquered Lancelot, was about to be publicly tortured to death, bound naked on a millstone.
ElisabethТs scream caused them to glance up at the window, where they could see her bound naked. Behind her, penetrating her anus, stood Orgon.
This was the signal the executioner, the headsman, as he was known, had been waiting for.
A heavy mace shattered one of Sir LancelotТs ankles at the very moment when his wife was being raped where no one had penetrated her beforeЕ
Elisabeth, subjected by the hair in the TyrantТs hand, once again became the victim of the monster who had taken her virginity from her by force fifteen years earlier. Each blow of the mace, and each groan from Lancelot, was accompanied by a bestial thrust from Orgon which threatened to disembowel her.
The crowd shouted. The blood of the condemned sprayed the closest spectators. His agony was indescribable.
The executioner destroyed the bones of his victim with measured cruelty. He began with the ankles and worked his way up to the knees. Then he started at the wrists and worked his way up the forearms to the elbows.
This wheel was one of the worst punishments, and was reserved for assassins convicted of the most heinous crimes – never for an enemy conquered on the field of battle. But Orgon failed to understand the codes and ethics of war. This imbecile had dared to resist his ambition, so now Orgon avenged himself the only way he knew how: with the utmost cruelty. Later, he would do the same with the woman he was raping.
“Bid him farewell, you damn whore,” he said. “From now on it will be my balls youТll empty, not that dogТs!”
But Elisabeth didnТt hear, or even feel him. The horror of what she saw happening to her husband prevented it. That body bathed in blood, tied to a millstone in the middle of the patio, was the only thing she had loved in her life. Those crushed arms and legs; that unrecognisable face, contracted by pain; those agonising eyes which opened from moment to moment, ceaselessly searching for her beneath the lintel of the window…
Once again the mace fell, but this time the groan was even more heart-rending. So was the pelvic thrust Orgon gave Elisabeth, and she felt it this time, as the torturer smashed LancelotТs stomach and genitals. To the crowdТs surprise, Lancelot remained alive.
Elisabeth, her heart rent, cried out as loudly as she could:
СТI pledge my soul to Satan! May he wreak his vengeance upon you and your children!ТТ
It was the anguished cry of someone who awaited only a horrible death, who no longer hoped for anything, and who could only look forward to ending their days amid the most frightening torments. A sepulchral silence overpowered the Castle. The headsman looked up at ElisabethТs naked body in the window, where Orgon stood raping her from behind. Lancelot also tried to say something, but choked on his own blood. Orgon forcefully thrust his cock even deeper into the womanТs rectum. Elisabeth screamed in pain. СТDo you hear that, Lancelot? Hear how your bitch howls when a real man fucks her?” Orgon yelled furiously. “Tonight she wonТt even remember you anymore!”
These words, followed by OrgonТs laughter, made the blood run cold in the veins of all present. “Headsman!” yelled Orgon, still humping his prisoner. “DonТt bury that imbecile; just feed his body to the dogs, then bring his head to me.”
“NOOOOO!!! NOOOOOOO!!!” begged Elisabeth.
Orgon, giddy with lust and thirsty for revenge, pressed her against the window frame and continued fucking her, now with a diabolic rhythm. “Please,” murmured Elisabeth, with her arms twisted up behind her back and her entrails torn. “Please, Orgon, for whatever you want most, give him a sepulchre.” Orgon didnТt even notice. With his teeth clenched and his fists gripping the womanТs long hair, he rapidly approached the culmination of his barbarous pleasure. Elisabeth, who now felt the immeasurable pain, yearned for her husbandТs death as well as her own.
The headsman pulled Lancelot, who was still barely alive, off the stone, and tossed him onto the floor, then dragged him before his wifeТs grief-filled eyes to a nearby pit full of hungrily barking dogs. The headsman threw Lancelot into the pit without any compassion. The barking of the beasts, the screams of the condemned, and the grunts that accompanied OrgonТs orgasm resounded throughout the castle. Elisabeth looked through the curtain of tears that filled her eyes, at the puddle of blood, and found it hard to believe such acts of cruelty could have just taken place.
Orgon, his lust satiated and his thirst for vengeance quenched, pulled Elisabeth from the window and threw her to the floor. “Now you know how I treat anyone who provokes me,” Orgon laughed at his victim. Elisabeth closed her eyes. One brutal hand grabbed her by the hair, the other groped her breasts. A knee forced her thighs apart. A disproportionately large penis opened and filled her completely. All the nightmares which had overshadowed her marriage to Lancelot suddenly came back to life… By the time Orgon satisfied his lust again, Elisabeth had long since passed out…
Wrapped in the shadowy cloud that engulfed the Fortress, and from the trench which had been excavated behind the first defensive wall of Baden-Holdein, Shelma and her companions attended, in anguished silence, the bitter events which developed in the patio of arms. The Lady of Corven’s screams and curses, Lancelot’s cries, and the Tyrant’s laughter reached the narrow wooden cage which held the girls. None of them dared to console the unfortunate Shelma, who, with incredible fortitude, endured the agony of the man she believed was her father, and the humiliation of her mother. No one wanted to reveal her identity to the soldiers who guarded them. The caravan of slavegirls had arrived at dawn, just in time for the execution. The prisoners were then enclosed in an improvised cage, made from rough-hewn, chestnut tree trunks, and cords of esparto grass. The space was limited, and the captives, although exhausted, exerted themselves to stay in the middle, away from the goads and hands of the guards.
They were all on the verge of passing out from fatigue, and extremely frightened.
A half dozen guards surrounded the cage and observed them, burning with desire, some of them ostentatiously touching themselves. “I want the brunette in black; I like her tits,” said Tasio, a mercenary who had come from the south.
“I’ll take the blonde beside her – the tallest one, with the dark skin,” said another soldier, impressed by Shelma’s exotic beauty. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Zorba has taken a fancy to her,” Tasio disillusioned him.
“Son of a bitch,” murmured the disappointed soldier. Tasio opened the door, and the captives huddled together even closer than before. Bound as they were, it was impossible for them to attempt anything. Tasio made his way to the brunette, through the sweaty, panting, trembling bodies. Brushing against their warm flesh and smelling the scent of young women aroused him as much as he could be aroused. The girl, small and precious, looked around for help that would not be offered. Tugging the cord with which her wrists were bound in front of her, Tasio dragged her out of the cage. The other sentries closed in on her like hungry jackals. The men pushed her back and forth to each other, ripping her poor, rustic dress.
“You’re lucky we caught you,” Tasio told her, pinching her and caressing her lasciviously. “A couple more years of farming the land would have left you too withered to fuck!” The girl didn’t listen; she just tried to maintain her balance and keep from falling. She felt certain that if she tripped and fell, the worst would begin… The lecherous criminals would be on top of her like vultures on carrion. “Don’t worry,” he continued taunting her amid the laughter of his companions. “There will be no more farming for you. Whoever buys you will put you into a good use use… It will take you a lot longer to grow old, and all thanks to Orgon!” “Unless you’re purchased by a sick old man,” another man teased. “Or by a woman,” added yet another, very seriously.
Little by little the caresses became more violent and more fervent. The men became more and more aroused, and each time the girl was caught in their arms, she was retained and molested a little longer.
Tasio grabbed her by the hair, and, after savagely twisting her breasts, which were already swollen from so much abuse, he tripped her and threw her down. Lucia, as the unfortunate girl was named, fell on her face to the floor because she was unable to break her fall with her elbows around the rod across her back. Lying on her bare breasts, she looked ridiculous as she tried to avoid the inevitable. It was pathetic. The other prisoners contemplated the scene with their heads bowed in silence. Their young hearts were filled with both horror and indignation.
In their short lives, this was the first pillaging to directly affect them, and a cruel destiny had made them its victims. A heavy boot stomped on Lucia’s bare shoulders, pinning her to the ground. Tasio smiled. She wiggled her legs and tried to crawl away through the dirt, on her belly. Pompously and facing the rest of the prisoners, Tasio opened his pants and pulled out his erect, reddened penis. It was the first penis many of the girls had ever seen….
Tasio knelt between Lucia’s legs and spread her little buttocks to reveal the small, puckered orifice they concealed. This was exactly what he wanted. Amid the laughter of his companions and the silence of the captives, he pressed his glans, with premeditated cruelty, against the part of Lucia’s body where she least expected it. Lucia, who had seemed resigned to her fate moments before, suddenly began struggling violently.
“NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” the girl yelled, twisting, kicking, swallowing and choking.
Tired of her yelling, Tasio smashed her face on the floor, breaking her nose and filling her mouth with dirt. Placing all his weight on the girl’s buttocks, which he was prying apart with both hands, Tasio penetrated his victim and completely filled her rectum with one pitiless thrust of his pelvis. The other men applauded enthusiastically. Lucia, choking on dirt, her face bloody, barely whimpered.
The rest of the women, astonished and perplexed, continued watching the savage scene in mute horror. Fifty women, cruelly bound, seeking a false sense of security by huddling together, watched, terrified, as one of their own lay on the floor being tortured, flattened under the weight of the mercenary who made her his in the most humiliating fashion.
With a blank stare and his mouth falling open from time to time, the man humped his victim’s fragile body as brutally as he could. He hadn’t even bothered to remove his heavy chain mail suit, which protected him in battle , but which now tore the girl’s back.
Lucia, with her eyes popping out of her skull, could barely discern more than five pairs of boots belonging to the soldiers who stood around her impatiently waiting for their turn.
If she survived, they would stick her back in the cage to wait with the other women to be sold at a public auction. There, the other women, though impeded by their bonds, would tend her wounds. However, if her young body failed to endure all the punishment of being gang-raped, the same band of savages that raped her would toss her dead body into the pit where the dogs had been gnawing on Lancelot’s bones for several hours. The feasts of the conqueror…
5 – The victory celebrations
Story by Gabriella Cianni and dofantasy.com
“Are you certain it’s her?” asked Ursula, the strange woman Orgon claimed was his sister. “I can’t believe it, with her fame for being such an arrogant, high and mighty bitch!”
“It most certainly is her,” replied the traitor, Rodrigo, who had known Elisabeth since she was a child. “She is the First Lady of Corven, the one who won the admiration of the Court and all who knew her, whether peasant or noble.”
Orgon’s ostentatious laugh interrupted Rodrigo. “From now on this bitch will be no more than a freak show,” laughed the Tyrant. “I’ve always admired your pompous eloquence, Rodrigo, but this time you’re mistaken. This damn little fox was never a lady. On the contrary, she has always been the most lascivious of whores. I can assure you…”
This conversation was taking place in the capital room of the Baden-Holdein Castle, the same room Orgon had usurped years ago when Elisabeth’s father had died. Those present were celebrating with a banquet in honour of their leader’s most recent victory. They were the mercenaries who fought under the standard of the skull which formed the most formidable armed force anywhere along the river.
The long table, which was set up in the shape of a “U”, seated more than one hundred vociferous dinner guests. The meal had been excellent, and the wine flowed abundantly through all their veins.
Orgon presided over the ‘agape’, and looked magnificent in his campaign dress uniform. To his left sat Ursula, and to his right Rodrigo, the traitorous cleric who had given him Lancelot and all his people.
They were served by an entourage of slave-girls from the castle. There were also beautiful girls captured in previous campaigns, or purchased from other warlords or travelling merchants. All of these girls were very beautiful and in the prime of their life, and waited on the tables barefoot and topless. The only thing they wore were translucent silk scarves around their hips, tied below their navels, but leaving their legs exposed. These fragile knots were the only defence permitted to them. This fragile silk was the only thing between their pussies, any hair of which had been removed, and the ardent stares of the drunken soldiers.
The coming and going of such suggestive young women in the torch light, undoubtedly contributed to the sexual tension and arousal in the air.
But the target of all the commentaries, where all eyes, without exception, were focused, was the silhouette which rose before those presiding over the banquet. Together with the decapitated head of Sir Lancelot, hung the Lady of Corven, the woman whose beauty was a legend, suspended naked from the ceiling by her wrists, with her feet a palm’s length from the floor and her ankles tied at opposite ends of a wooden stake so as to prevent her from closing her legs.
Her splendid body hung slowly turning at the end of cord, affording each of the spectacle’s witnesses a perfect view of it from all possible angles. A hooded headsman, armed with a whip, lashed her body every time Orgon raised his cup. Thus had it been arranged. Elisabeth, who already had her back and buttocks covered with welts, endured the humiliation and punishment with composure. No scream, no protest, no plea, even though her entire being rebelled against the injustice of such an outrage, before the abominable treason, and before the vile commentaries of the conquerors. Only a painful sob escaped her throat whenever the slow turning of her body brought her face to face with her husband’s skull, its face contorted in his final expression of agony.
What do you plan to do with her, brother?” asked Ursula. Orgon raised his cup thoughtfully to his lips…
Thweeeeeeeppp! SMAAAAAACK! The lash bit into the back of the narrow waist, and wrapped itself like a snake completely around the abused body of the conquered woman. The braided leather penetrated her flesh. The headsman waited a few moments before pulling the whip away, little by little, causing his victim to continue her endless rotation. “I haven’t decided yet, my dear sister. I enjoy watching her suffer in her stubborn silence, and stupid dignity.” Orgon rested his cup on the table, but didn’t remove his hand. “I want to break her, little by little, until she is obliged to grovel at my feet, and beg for mercy… Then I’ll throw her to the dogs.”
“To the dogs?” repeated Ursula, surprised that her brother didn’t have other plans for such a beautiful woman.
“Yes, I’ll throw her to the dogs. This harlot doesn’t deserve the air she breathes, let alone the privilege of serving as my slave,” Orgon asserted, raising his cup.
Thweeeeeep! SMAAAAAAACK! The tremendous lash fell high on her back, and the end of the whip reached around to martyr her prodigious breasts, just under the nipples, which happened to be pointing toward the delighted presidency at that moment.
“Aaaaagggghhhh…!” The moan was rewarding. A seemingly limitless wound lay drawn on the delicate, sensitive skin. Contrary to what Orgon intended, his threats relieved the prisoner. Far from being terrified by hearing her own death sentence pronounced, Elisabeth was glad to realise how close the end of her torment was. Finally, she would be permitted to rejoin the late Lancelot in another life. Nothing, except learning the uncertain fate of her daughters, held any interest for her in life.
“I applaud your decision,” intervened Rodrigo playing with one of the servant wenches. “It is just and wise, but I wonder if His Excellency doesn’t indulge himself too much with this woman, who is without a doubt the one who incited so much ire against you.” Intrigued, Ursula and Orgon just stared at him. Elisabeth closed her eyes; she knew too well the twisted mind of this scoundrel.
“By Satan, don’t hold back! Speak, Rodrigo!”
“Throwing this harpy to the dogs would be a way of alleviating her punishment,” said the political favourite, running his eyes over Elisabeth’s body. “Don’t forget, gracious Lord, that first she repudiated you, then later she raised arms against your army, causing much pain and suffering among your hosts.”
Rodrigo stopped speaking to gauge the effect of his words on the Tyrant. Orgon listened with interest, although it disturbed him that someone should remind him that Elisabeth had rejected him fifteen years earlier.
“A wise decision,” continued the favourite, “which would fulfil the secret aspirations of your subjects, would be to sell her to the military brothel. That any simple soldier or a humble peasant could enjoy a lady of such elevated lineage, is a dream that only the greatest and most powerful leaders could make a reality.”
Elisabeth’s blood froze. She hated that traitorous pig, Orgon, his sister Ursula and all that hoard of drunks who filled the noble capital room of the castle where she was born.
“I believe that’s a magnificent idea, brother,” Ursula quickly added. “That way your men could each get their own revenge for all that they suffered and lost during the siege, thanks to this harlot…” Orgon signalled one of his bodyguards. A deafening gong reclaimed the attention of everyone in the banquet hall.
Orgon stood, jumped up onto the table, and approached his prisoner…
…Everyone remained silent. The Tyrant grabbed her by the hair, and shook her, showing her to everyone there. Elisabeth felt the heat of all those stares puncturing her naked flesh. “This,” he said, striking the suspended head of Lancelot, which also hung before everyone there, “this is what happens to the enemies of Orgon the Invincible. And this,” he added, indicating Elisabeth, “is an enemy of Orgon and of all of you, his loyal servants.”
Those in attendance nodded their indignant assent. “You all know I’m talking about the so-called Lady of Corven, a prostitute of the worst kind, a witch who, with her spells has extinguished the lives of our companions, dried up the wombs of our women, annihilated our children with atrocious diseases, and destroyed our fields and cattle with terrible plagues.” The men were becoming irritated and started to murmur. Orgon paused a few moments before continuing his harangue. “And I, your leader, who have led you to so many victories, ask you, does this harpy deserve death?” “Let her die!” came the unanimous response.
“Burn the witch, Orgon!”
“Kill her now!”
“Let her blood flow!”
Orgon raised his hand; the hall became quiet. “Do you think she’s sorry? Does she beg your forgiveness?” Orgon reached for his headsman’s whip.
“Come now, you whore, beg for forgiveness for your Satanic deeds!” Elisabeth closed her eyes and squeezed her jaws together.
Orgon gripped the whip backwards, and used its butt end to probe the anus he had savagely raped the night before, during Lancelot’s execution.
Elisabeth felt the wood. “NOOOOOOOOO!” she yelled, trying with all her might to avoid another penetration, which would be even more painful than the first. But she was unable to prevent the obscene intrusion. Her sore sphincter gave way to the obscene intrusion, and the wounds in her rectum were reopened. “NOOOOOOOOOOO!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “You see?” Orgon asked his mercenaries as he forced the butt end of the whip as far up Elisabeth’s ass as her anatomy would permit.
“Finish her off!” “Burn her!” “Kill her!” “Throw her to the dogs!” “Put her on the wheel!” Orgon raised a hand to calm his audience back down. Beside him, Elisabeth twisted and turned, trying to remove the intrusive object that filled her rectum.
“I, Orgon the Invincible, put her at your disposal in the Troop Brothel. There each of you will be able to chastise her for one silver coin.” The shouts of jubilation filled the banquet hall as Rodrigo smiled and surreptitiously sought a conspiratorial glance from Ursula. “And now, my valiant soldiers,” Orgon added, stepping away from Elisabeth and letting her turn with the grotesque whip stuck in her ass. “Your leader offers you another surprise.”
The women who had been captured in the taking of Corven appeared in a side door, still bound with their elbows behind bars across their backs and their wrists under their breasts. Driven by team leaders with whips, they jostled together, frightened, in front of the tables. The hubbub intensified.
The men tumultuously left their seats and threw themselves on the helpless, unfortunate girls. There weren’t enough girls for all of the men, so their emotions were fierce. Fights broke out. The cries of the slave-girls and the roar of the combatants, drunken with wine and lust, were joined by the sound of drums.
Unscrupulous mercenaries, violent beings who wandered around the countryside for months without seeing a pretty woman, now discharged their enforced continence on the daughters and wives of the conquered army. Some of the men had enough money to buy one of the unfortunate girls and take them to war, but experience had shown this wasn’t wise. Some troops had been murdered by their fellows for the sake of their slave-girls.
Sordid scenes of sex and violence had begun. Miraculously, little Lucia, who had survived being brutally gang raped by the sentries, was now found being nearly strangled and straddling one of the most brutal warriors, known as Murdoc. This man was penetrating her and entertaining himself by sucking and biting her breasts. His brutal hands felt her sensual body up and down, seeking not only pleasure, but also to inflict pain on the terrified girl. In the heat of his passion, Murdoc slid his arms under her thighs, and, grabbing her by the waist, he forced her pussy to open even wider, and penetrated her as deeply as he could. Her eyes opened from time to time, but her cry was drowned out by that of her big sister, Santa, who was being raped by two of those savages at once.
Flattened between their sweaty bodies, which smelled of alcohol, Santa balanced, suspended in the air. The man at her back had her by the hair with both hands, and the man in front by her thighs. Both men were penetrating her at once, trying to press their penises together within her soft interior. Beside her, a beautiful brunette woman with dark eyes fought for air as she knelt between the large thighs of a fat, repulsive mercenary. The man was gagging her with his monstrous penis. Bound as she was, this woman served as a mere toy which he easily controlled with his hands entwined in her thick hair.
“Wait, you fucker!” another soldier said as he grabbed the woman by the waist and penetrating her with his mace. “I’m going to make her comfortable for you!” With all the perfidy with which he was able, the new assailant began violating the poor, unhappy woman with the artefact’s thick handle. Her choked cries only served to give more pleasure to the man whose dick was down her throat. “Three months sleeping in the field,” he bellowed. “Three miserable months of our lives! Now you’re going to pay for it!”
Among this confusion, one of the captives elbowed her way to the Lady of Corven. She was a tall blonde with dark skin and green eyes. She was Shelma. “Mother!” she cried as if she’d lost her mind. “Shelma, no…!” But it was too late. Orgon grabbed the girl by the hair and embraced her. Shelma shrank back like a furious tigress, but she was bound. “Well, well. So this precious kitten is your daughter?” Rodrigo, who quickly joined them, assented. “She is her eldest, Excellency. The bitch had yet another offspring.”
The Leader inspected the newly arrived guest before ripping her dress, after her companions had helped mend it somewhat. Her young breasts trembled with exquisite fluidness. Although not fully mature, they seemed ready to burst at any moment. The nipples, which were pink and perfectly shaped, as well as erect, due to the fury which had possessed the girl – went well with the amber skin of the breasts they accentuated.
“Leave her alone, Orgon! She’s also your daughter!” Shelma, disconcerted, just looked at her mother, then at Orgon, who regarded her in a way that made her ill. Suddenly, it seemed she understood, and her whole world crumbled.
In another instant, in a fit of rage, she threw herself on the giant who was responsible for so much of her disgrace, and she bit his arm. Orgon, who had her by the hair, shook her like a doll, then forced her to her knees at his feet.
“Rodrigo!” Orgon barked. “These rags are unworthy of my daughter. Have her bathed, perfumed, dressed, and brought to my quarters.” “NOOOOOOOOOOO!” objected Elisabeth yet again, as she had countless times that evening. “Mother!” Shelma cried as her eyes, wide with fear, transfixed Elisabeth while two soldiers dragged her, between them, from the room. From one of the far ends of the table, Lieutenant Zorba observed all this with a sombre countenance. That girl had been destined to be his kitten…
The party continued until well after midnight. By dawn, the exhausted bodies of the soldiers and the slave-girls lay on the floor where they’d passed out. Only the snoring of the satiated soldiers and an occasional sob here and there interrupted the stillness of the night. Total calm seemed to reign throughout the castle, except for one set of rooms on the first floor: Orgon’s quarters.
At midnight, the Leader of Baden-Holdein went to his room, accompanied by the traitor Rodrigo. Shelma, with her hair clean and her body perfumed, dressed in the most luxurious and provocative gown, awaited them, bound to a pillar. The men approached her.
Shelma, struggling to free herself from the cords that bound her, had torn her delicate gown. “Undoubtedly, Orgon,” Rodrigo assured him, “she is your daughter. Lancelot accepted her mother – that whore! – even though this little kitten was already scratching the insides of her belly.” Shelma regarded the traitorous cleric with evident disdain. She had never liked him, and always mistrusted the way he grovelled. “I’ve seen many half-breeds before, said Orgon, “but never one who could compare to this girl!
The Moor raised his hand and caressed the soft skin of the daughter he’d just become acquainted with. This first contact with her father caused Shelma to cringe. His hand was rough and sweaty. Orgon parted her thick, blonde hair, caressing his daughter’s delicate ear and neck.
“She’s very beautiful,” said Rodrigo, rubbing his hands together. “She has the same eyes as her mother and her sister.”
“They are those of an enchantress…” Orgon pointed, his stare fixed on the girl. “Where in the hell is her sister?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I have not seen her among the prisoners. Maybe she escaped or was killed.”
“Have her found, Rodrigo, and make sure no one disturbs us for a couple of days.”
The cleric retired with ostentatious reverence, but not before casting a wicked smile at the helpless girl he was leaving in a butcher’s hands.
“Are you glad to make your father’s acquaintance?” asked Orgon as he freed her from the post. The moment she was free, Shelma tried to run for the door through which Rodrigo had exited. Orgon took one step, and grabbed her by the hair.
“That’s not the way, my dear daughter,” he told her, dragging her to the opposite side of the bedroom, to a door which led to a room without furniture or windows, and the floor covered with softened hides. A pair of oil lamps illuminated the instruments of torture which hung on the walls. Shelma escaped her father’s grasp, and sought refuge in the farthest corner from the door.
Orgon closed the bolt, and hung the key on the thick, gold chain which adorned his neck. Little by little, he closed in on his daughter; with one knee slightly flexed, he forced her back, neck and palms against the wall. Her green eyes flashed with anger in the light of the flame. Orgon regarded her with contentment, and devoured her with his eyes… She was disarming. Her adolescent breasts were pressed against each other at the hem of her dйcolletй. Her shiny, bare, brown legs seemed to stretch forever beneath her torn skirt. Her narrow waist seemed to scream for an embrace. She had been dressed like a courtesan for this encounter with her father – like a whore in a brothel.
“This is quite a surprise, don’t you think? One moment you’re the daughter of that coward, Lancelot, and the next you’re the daughter of the victorious Orgon, the Lord of Baden-Holdein.” Shelma didn’t answer, although the shameless mention of the man she had believed was her father did bring a tear to her eye, alerting the Tyrant to the pain his words caused her. Orgon continued with his soliloquy, pressing himself further and further upon the anguished Shelma. “And a well educated daughter owes obedience and respect to her father,” he added. “Aren’t you going to kiss your father?” he asked, leaning with a hand on each side of the girl’s head. Shelma lowered her eyes to the ground and pressed herself even more tightly against the wall, denying his request imperceptibly with her head. An instinctive fear – that of a trapped female – prevented her from moving or even speaking.
“Educating one’s children is the first duty of a good father, as is obedience the first duty of a good daughter.” Orgon leaned on his forearms and moved his hip forward, pressing himself against Shelma. The girl turned her face to one side, and stood on tiptoe to avoid as much contact as possible with the body which kept coming closer to hers.
“Kiss your father,” he ordered, lowering his head until his lips brushed against her ear. The girl’s soft fragrance finally sent him out of his mind, so he began planting wet, lascivious kisses on her neck. This sudden assault shook Shelma out of her passivity, and she began defending herself by punching and biting him. The man angrily stepped away from her, and the girl took advantage of this opportunity to run to the opposite corner of the room, where she assumed the foetal position on the floor.
Orgon went to the wall where the instruments of torture were hanging, and grabbed a long bamboo cane with his right hand, and a fearsome, braided leather whip with his left. “I’m going to teach you to obey your father,” he threatened with his teeth clenched. “On your feet!” he ordered, cracking the whip against the wall, mere inches from the girl’s face.
Shelma, startled by the violent sound of the whip, hastened to obey, with her eyes fixed on the whip. “Move to the centre of the room!” The girl advanced hesitantly, protecting herself by crossing her arms and lowering her head. “Hurry up!” yelled Orgon, striking the floor with his whip. “Lower your hands!” Her arms fell to her sides. “Look at me!” Shelma raised her head, humiliated. Tears filled her eyes, but she resisted the urge to let them fall. “Pay attention, because I’m only going to explain this to you once…”
Shelma couldn’t bear her father’s perverted stare, so she looked back down at the floor. Orgon raised her head back up with the whip handle. “I’m going to give you a series of orders which, as a good daughter, you will obey instantly. If not,” he brandished the cane and the whip, “one of these will repeat my instructions more forcefully, until you learn to obey. Understood?” Shelma, her head elevated by the whip handle at her chin, lowered her gaze without responding. “Do you understand?” Orgon asked again, brushing the cane against her thighs. “Yes,” murmured Shelma. “Yes, what?” “Yes, sir,” mumbled Shelma, humbled, but with her voice full of rage.
Orgon raised the cane and struck her calves. Shelma clenched her teeth. She hadn’t expected such swift, intense pain. It stung barbarously, but no cry escaped her throat. “That was your first mistake,” he reprehended her. “From now on you will call me ‘father’. All right?” “Yes, father,” said Shelma with hostility. “Very well, daughter,” Orgon congratulated her while walking slowly around her. “Will you also agree with me that a father and his children should become well acquainted?” Silence. “Answer!” The whip struck the floor near Shelma. “Yes… Father,” she forced herself to say. “And that a daughter shouldn’t keep secrets from her father?” “No… Father.” “Very well, then,” said Orgon, stopping in front of her. “Then you will now show your father how you were created.”
Shelma bit her lips and clenched her fists. It didn’t take much imagination to guess what Orgon’s next order would be. “Strip! Strip naked!”
Shelma opened her mouth to speak, but the whip struck twice, once beside each of her feet. With trembling hands, Shelma unfastened her dress. Orgon took two steps away from her and began staring at her contentedly. The dress fell to the floor, and all that remained on Shelma were her blouse and shoes, which she hesitated to remove. “The blouse!” ordered Orgon impatiently. Shelma became as red as a tomato, but she obeyed. Disgusted, she noticed the reaction her nakedness caused in her father: his agitated breathing, his lascivious stare, and the immense bulge which swelled between his legs, and assumed each moment dimensions more and more gigantic.
Orgon, on the other hand, couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have made such a surprising acquaintance. The girl, who did indeed appear to be his daughter, had the kind of body about which he had always dreamed, but had never found.
She had a body that was sensual and round in all the right places, especially on her large, full breasts. Despite their size, they were tense like the skin on a drum and asking to be kissed. She had too a slender waist; and full rounded hips… She had long, slender legs. Her body, fresh and young, appeared soft and flexible, with shiny skin like the reflection of the moon and the colour and fragrance of cinnamon. She was like a dream he had previously thought unattainable… She was generous in her womanhood. Every curve of her lovely body promised pleasure…
Without waiting to be told, Shelma removed her panties and her shoes. “Is this what you wanted, father?” she asked, outraged. “May I get dressed now?”
“Don’t even think about it, my dear daughter!” responded Orgon. “It’s not right for clothes to cover so much beauty!” Shelma raised her arms instinctively to hide her breasts. “Walk over to the wall,” ordered Orgon, pointing to where the instruments of torture were. “Take the collar and put it on.” It was a leather dog collar, with a buckle and a loop for a chain to be attached to it. Shelma fastened it. humiliated. She had stripped naked, so why not wear a collar?
“Attach the leash, and bring me the other end of it.” The strap was about three yards long. When she went to give it to her father, he forced her to do so on her knees. “This is splendid! Besides being my daughter, you will also be my obedient little puppy. You will be inseparable from your father, wherever he may go, always at the end of this leash. And now, rise and kiss your father on the mouth.”
That was too much. Shelma, suddenly overcome by fury, lunged at the man who degraded her, trying to scratch his eyes out. Orgon eluded her, and she fell to the floor. Before she could get up, the cane fell with inaudible force on her buttocks. Shelma sprang to her feet impulsively, and clambered against the wall, trying to avoid another similar blow. But Orgon kept whipping her buttocks and thighs mercilessly. “Stop!” “Stooo-ppp!” “STOOO-PPP!” Guiding her with the leash, and continuing to whip her, Orgon obliged her to run around the room, uselessly fleeing the bite of the whip. He took delight in watching her young body with its full, bouncing breasts, as she ran with the agility of a frightened cat.
“Please stop!” “Stop!” “Pleeeease!!!” Orgon detained himself. The girl fell to the floor with her hands pressed against her stinging flesh. “Rise and kiss your father!” This time Shelma didn’t let him repeat the order. With her cheeks wet with tears, she rose and, keeping her hands on her buttocks, she closed her eyes and offered her lips to her father. “What are you waiting for?” asked Orgon with a resounding slap. He wanted to humiliate her as profoundly as he could. Shelma rose on tiptoe and kissed him with her full lips – only for an instant, and with her lips closed, afraid she would be grabbed and raped. But nothing happened. When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the cynical smile on her father’s face, who observed her as if having fun. “Now that I know how you are made, it’s only fair that you may also become familiar with the man who gave you life, so…” Shelma closed her eyes before he could finish the sentence. “Undress your father!”