THE GALLEY OAR

THE GALLEY OAR

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The Galley Oar.
Oliver David. All rights reserved.

PART ONE

The ride had been hard and they had almost reached safety. Prague was but a league away when the archers cut down her eight man escort. Those damned Turkish archers with their short bows and ferocious accuracy.

It was they who were responsible for this undignified flight. It was they who had determined the outcome of the battle against her husband’s forces. Their swift horses and their marksmanship had proved too much for the heavily armed mounted knights and their accompanying foot soldiers with their pikes.

Seeing their lords toppled so swiftly and in such numbers had sent a wave of terror through the foot who turned and ran in panic. It took but little time then for the Turks to turn rout into massacre. Her husband; the Lord Baltek, dear God she didn’t even know if he was alive or not. She prayed he was not a captive of the Turks. Their cruelty to their prisoners was legendary throughout the region. It had all been so different that morning.

The army of four thousand men at arms and eight hundred knights had ridden and marched from the city in a mood of confidence and carnival. With the warrior lord Baltek, her Baltek, at their head, how could they feel differently? His battle skills and leadership were without peer. Defeat at the hands of a few miserable Turks was an impossibility! That was why she and her attendant ladies had accompanied the army, had taken a vantage point on a hill overlooking the field, in confident anticipation of the spectacle of the defeat of their enemies.

The wagon in which the women had travelled was curtained with rich tapestry in her husband’s colours. Clearly visible from the battle field, they had not realised their danger until suddenly, a group of some thirty mounted Turks broke away from the main melee and began to gallop towards them. Her escort reacted swiftly, the wagon driver whipping his two horses mercilessly to get the heavy vehicle over it’s inertia and into motion. They drove hard, accompanied by the mounted escort and it was twenty minutes before their pursuers closed into bow-shot range.

Two volleys of arrows had ended the chase. The wagon halted. It’s driver dead. The horses exhausted. She stood now, with her ladies who were weeping in terror, in front of the wagon surrounded by grinning Turkish soldiers. Although she felt mounting dread she was determined not to show fear. Her position demanded no other demeanour.

She was Tatiana, the wife of the Lord Baltek, protector of the city of Prague. She was nineteen years old and in her prime of womanhood. Her long black hair had been braided and rolled, framing a face both arrogant and beautiful. Her eyes were dark and enticing, her nose aquiline above a sensual mouth that hinted of both passion and cruelty. She had led a pampered existence from the day of her birth in 1148. Her fathers estates were tended by thousands of indentured serfs who’s toils produced the crops that provided her family’s wealth. She wanted for nothing, her clothing was of the finest brocades from Flanders and Verona. The wide skirted gown she was wearing now cost enough to feed ten peasant families for ten years! She had known nothing but luxury and prestige all her life and her marriage to the famed Baltek had only served to heighten her sense of position and self-esteem. Her pride gave her courage and she glared defiantly at her captors.

Surely they would not harm someone of her obvious wealth and breeding. They would ransom her, of course! She felt a wave of relief roll over her and she raised her chin slightly higher.

A barked command brought the soldiers to silence and they parted to allow passage to a tall man who’s rich clothing identified him as a noble.A further command saw Tatiana and her women bundled into the wagon. Fresh horses were hitched and the wagon moved off accompanied and surrounded by the remounted and jubilant Turks.

They reached the castle as night fell and halted in the courtyard. Looking through the gap in the wagon’s curtains Tatiana saw the Turkish noble dismount and speak to a sentry at the great door.

The noble waited by the door until another man, clearly of equal or superior rank emerged and entered into conversation with the first who pointed at the wagon. The two men approached the wagon and Tatiana drew back away from the curtain which was suddenly torn aside. The second noble stared at the group of women and then centred his concentration on Tatiana, staring into her eyes as his face broke into a smile of such pure evil, that she felt as if her very soul had frozen. More orders were barked. The women were hauled roughly from the wagon each accompanied by two soldiers restraining them by the arms.

They were taken to a descending flight of stone steps to the right of the main entrance which led to the main hall of the castle. The steps ended at an iron studded wooden door. They entered a plain stone room about 20 feet long and 16 feet wide with a rising flight of stairs leading to a trap door at it’s farthest end. The door slammed behind them and the five women were alone in complete darkness. Tatiana felt her way in the darkness to the steps leading to the trapdoor and mounted them.

She tested the door with her hand. It was solid and immovable. If she had known what awaited beyond it she would have been less eager to try to open it. This close to the trapdoor she could hear the distinct sound of merrymaking. It sounded very much as if a banquet was in progress. She could hear the ringing laughter of excited women.

Time passed. Maybe an hour. In the darkness one of the ladies in waiting sobbed quietly. Tatiana sensed, rather than heard, a change of atmosphere and rushed to the trap door. The sounds of merriment had been replaced by a buzz of anticipation.

A sudden loud rattling of whatever mechanism secured the trap door startled her and she fell back as the door crashed open. A lighted torch was thrust into the room, blinding them for a moment after the darkness. An order was shouted, repeated. They were to come out. Were they to be freed? Yes that must be it. A ransom has been demanded and paid! They mounted the steps, Tatiana leading and found themselves being pushed through a doorway Leading to a short vaulted stone corridor.

She could see figures waiting at the end of the corridor with light behind them and she could hear the murmuring of what sounded like many people. As she reached the end of the corridor she was grasped firmly by the arms and brought forwards into what was she realised, the great hall of the castle but she had never seen a castle decked out in the style of a moorish palace. She was amazed at the opulence of the silk wall hangings, the cushions, the divans And the people! The exotic Turkish clothing of the men! The scandalously brief and flimsy apparel of the women!

She turned her attention to the two men who held her, one on either side, by her wrists. They were dressed identically in short black leather kilts secured with a wide belt. they wore no other clothing. They were lean and extremely muscular. And she noticed, they were not Turks! They both had fair hair! A voice broke into her disorientation.

“You are the woman of Baltek?”

She had never heard a voice like it. A great rush of raw fear focussed her attention. The voice was soft, sibilant and knowing. It’s sound had a quality that sent something trembling in her belly and heightened all of her senses to a level beyond her experience. She was standing in front of raised dais topped with an ornate throne. The speaker was seated in the throne.

“You are the woman of Baltek”.

Not a question this time. An affirmation, tinged with a note of satisfaction. He was dressed in an ornate light blue silk robe secured at the waist by a crimson sash. On his head he wore a turban that matched the robe. A massive diamond surrounded by pearls adorned the turban. His feet were encased in soft crimson and tan leather slippers with pointed toes that curled up and over, ending in gold tassles. His finery was lost on Tatiana. She could not tear her eyes away from his face. His skin was dark, almost black but not as black as the two ringlets of his hair that had been carefully arranged on his forehead below the jewel in his turban and the waxed pointed beard on his chin nor as black as the glittering pupils of his almond shaped eyes which held her transfixed.

To her horror she could see that this man was capable of any level of cruelty and evil. He broke eye contact with her, to casually select a candied date from a tray of sweetmeats by his throne. She slumped suddenly in shock as she realised that when he had held her gaze she had strained up on tip-toe, every muscle in her body rigid. She looked round frantically twisting in the grasp of the men who held her. She saw her attendants at the back of the hall, their wrists roped together, like a string of slaves. Looking down she saw that the floor beneath her feat had been laid out like a giant chess board with black and white slabs of polished marble. At the four corners of each square, strong iron hooks each about four inches long had been let into the floor. She could not see a purpose for the hooks. He spoke again

“Baltek has caused me insult and inconvenience. He has fled like a coward. When he is caught. I will have him brought before me, stripped and flayed alive. My torturers are very, very skilled. They can make the process last a day and a night. He will die a million deaths and still beg for death.”

Tatiana was again transfixed by his terrible eyes. The word ‘Satan’ pounded through her mind.

“However” he continued “Baltek is not available. So how shall I provide amusement and diversion for my guests this night?”

The horror of her situation was dawning on Tatiana; she tried to struggle but to no avail. He spoke again. “Prepare her!” A sound above her made her look up. On a gantry just below the vaulted ceiling of the hall, two men, identically dressed as the first two, who still held her, were dropping four hemp ropes, two on either side of her, the ends of which just touched the chess board.

Twenty feet above at the ceiling they were attached to four pulleys. The ceiling vault was criss-crossed by iron rods mirroring the pattern of the chess board below. On each rod ran a wheel attached to a hook to hang a pulley block. The rods running across the roof were at a higher level that those running from end to end allowing free passage of the wheels to any point of the roof. Tatiana was still staring upwards uncomprehending when she became aware of the two inner ropes being tied tightly round her wrists by the two men either side of her on the chess board. The man on her right looked up to the men on the gantry and spoke one word “Los.”

She gasped in surprise as the ropes attached to her wrists tightened under weight applied to the rope through the pulley system by the men on the gantry, lifting her arms high over her head and to the side like the letter ‘Y’. A buzz of excitement was now running through the hall which had been eerily silent while the terrible man in the throne had spoken his chilling words. What happened next shook Tatiana out of her shocked state even if she found it difficult to believe what they were going to do to her.

One of the two men with her on the chess board produced a short, curved knife which he inserted into the square neckline of her heavy gown and began to draw it steadily down in one long cut that sheared her clothing from neck to hem. Then, inserting the point of the knife between wrist and cuff, he slit her sleeves along the backs of her arms and the shoulders of the gown leaving just a few shreds of neck-band on either side.

He stepped back from her, looked at the crowd, then with one swift motion ripped the entire gown, under garments included, from her body leaving her so suddenly, shockingly naked apart from her silk hose that the entire audience let out a gasp of astonishment at his skill and also at her beauty! For beautiful indeed she was; her skin as white as alabaster, her waist slender, its curve running delightfully into smoothly rounded buttocks. Her breasts, surprisingly large for her slim frame but firm, high and beautifully formed with large dark and protruding aureola, now straining upwards as her arms were pulled by the ropes.

Quickly removing her stockings so she was completely naked they then attached the remaining two ropes to her ankles leaving plenty of slack. Finally looping each rope under a hook on the chess board two squares directly to her left and the other two squares to her right. The two then joined their companions on the gantry. At a signal all four men simultaneously took up slack and she was lifted clear of the floor in one fluid movement into a spread-eagled position facing the demon who sat on the throne.

He leaned forwards, scrutinising her naked, exposed body. A silence enveloped the hall. He spoke.

“You are about to experience pain beyond the capability of your mind to imagine. The man who will inflict this pain is a master, the master, of his craft. So great is his skill, his fame has spread beyond his native Prussia. I had him brought here, at great expense, for just such an occasion as this. The gentlemen who have secured you so beautifully displayed before me, are his assistants. He is called ‘Whipmeister’. Soon you will know why”.

He made a gesture with his right hand and Tatiana felt a fear, like no other, rise into her breast. Two more ‘assistants’, dressed like the others in short leather kilts, entered the hall . Between them they carried a large wooden chest which they placed before the throne where Tatiana could see it. They opened the chest. Tatiana’s eyes widened as she beheld a collection of what looked like dozens of whips of every conceivable type. One by one, the instruments of her forthcoming torment, were withdrawn from the chest and shown to her, close to her face. There were short whips, long whips, Many stranded whips, flat straps of tanned leather in many different widths, one in particular was ten inches wide and as long as the blade of a galley oar, it’s tan leather gleamed with a high polish. There were whips of many different materials. Plaited leather, cordage, fine bamboo, even silk. The now empty chest was removed from her sight. The whips were now arranged on a hanging rack that had been brought forward from somewhere out of her sight.

At an unseen signal the two assistants moved to either side of the chessboard. She could no longer see them. There was an excited shout in the hall and a mounting of tension.

From the rear of the room entered a tall figure wearing a full length, black, hooded cloak. He made his way to the dais and bowed before the seated figure who acknowledged the bow and spoke a single command, ” Begin”.

The Whipmeister raised his arms to the side and his two assistants came forwards to remove his cloak. As they removed it from sight he turned to face the bound, trembling Tatiana. He was huge. Almost seven feet tall with a huge barrel chest and the broadest shoulders Tatiana had ever seen. His massive arms were corded with muscle. He was dressed as his assistants but with the addition of a traditional executioners mask of fine black leather which covered his head and face, his skin gleamed with oil.

The crowd roared their appreciation. With a lithe motion he stepped to the whip rack and selected a whip. He turned. She saw that he had selected the broadest strap, the one that reminded her of an oar blade. He swished the strap before her a few times, checking it’s feel, adjusting his grip on the plaited handle. The strap was four feet long and almost one third of an inch thick. She noticed how supple it was. He stepped to her left and behind her out of her line of sight. He looked to his assistants, the two on the chess board, the four others overhead in the gantry, checking their readiness. They nodded their acknowledgements. As the Whipmeister drew back the mighty strap for his first blow the assistants in the gantry increased their pull on the ropes.

Tatiana felt herself stretched to complete immobility. The blow, when it landed, was delivered with such force that she was driven forwards almost twelve inches in spite of the tension in the ropes. Landing clean across both buttocks, with a report like a cannon shot, it drove every breath of air from her lungs. She emitted an inhuman bellow combining shock, pain, outrage and disbelief at what was being done to her. She hung limply in her bonds which had slackened slightly. She gasped for air, unable yet to scream, her body gleamed with her sweat, her hair which had come unbound was sticking to her back and forehead.

One of the assistants stepped forward with a knife and cut her hair off at the nape of her neck. Nothing could be allowed to impede the course of the whip. Now feeling the full pain from her tortured buttocks she dropped her head back only managing the beginning of a scream when the ropes tightened once more and the second blow arrived, again across her buttocks with equal force to the first. The pain she experienced from this second blow landing on her already outraged crimson flesh of her buttocks made her eyes bulge and the world exploded into white lights.

She could hear someone faraway screaming. The next two blows were to the small of her back and across her shoulders. Now she was shrieking uncontrollably, crying, begging them to stop. They had only just begun. She had no way of knowing that the agony she was suffering under the ‘galley oar’ strap was nothing compared to what was to come. The blows continued until ever inch of her back from neck to ankles had received two strokes from the strap and was a uniform shade of red. She had fainted twice, but bitter herbs were burnt under her nose to revive her. When they started on the front of her body she thought she would go mad.

The pain caused by this monstrous strap to her sensitive breasts and belly sent her into paroxysms of shrieking, raving and praying to God to let her die. Her tormentors were far too clever to let her die. Now that back and front had received equal treatment, the purpose of the hooks on the chess board and the movable pulley connections in the ceiling became clear. Moving with the trained precision of experienced sailors, letting out and pulling in rope, altering rope anchorage points in floor and ceiling they were able to suspend Tatiana in a great variety of positions designed to allow the strap access to every square inch of her body. Thus the insides of her thighs and the tender flesh of her under arms was subjected to the same savage treatment as the rest of her reddened body. They had her now on her back on the chess board, the ropes on her wrists looped through hooks in the floor above her head.

Her feet were raised steadily until she was stretched rigidly at an angle of forty five degrees to the floor. The blocks her ankle ropes were attached to were then pulled to new anchorage points at opposite sides of the ceiling. This drew her legs as far apart as was anatomically possible, forming a ‘T’ with her torso.

The Whipmeister stepped between her legs. Using a knotted cord he carefully measured the external dimensions of her vagina. Stepping to the whip rack he selected a strap that matched his measurements exactly. The strap was three feet long and four inches wide and of the same material as the ‘galley oar’ She was whimpering and semi-conscious.

The vicious stroke he applied downward to her helpless and most tender part of her body brought her to full consciousness immediately. She screamed with a volume and with such anguish that people in the room were forced to cover their ears. He applied a further two strokes, with equally satisfying results. When she regained consciousness, she had been returned to the ‘X’ position.

Bitter herbs were once again being burnt under her nose. Wine was poured into her throat to revive her. She groaned as waves of pain washed over her. Every part of her skin felt on fire. The Whipmeister stood before her very close to her. He was looking deep into her eyes as though looking for a sign. H e nodded, satisfied with what he had seen in her eyes. Turning to the throne he spoke for the first time.

“She is prepared.” She could not comprehend the meaning of the words. She felt as if she had been beaten to within an inch of death. ” Prepared for what? To die? Oh please, God let it be so. ” Her confusion must have been evident. The man in the throne spoke again ” Did you think that was all? Did you really think that in the presence of the Whipmeister you only receive a few blows from the broad strap? Let me explain. The broad strap is merely a means of preparing your flesh for the more subtle and exact techniques in the use of the other whips. This is where the Whipmeister made his name. He can produce more varieties of pain from your nerve endings than there are stars in the heavens. He can raise you to peaks of agony that will have you teetering on the edge of madness. He can bring you levels of sexual sensation you never dreamed existed, spending your fluids again and again.

Then quickly to another level of torment worse than the last. Ah, we have an interesting night ahead of us. Don’t you think so” She looked over to where the Whipmeister was selecting his first whip. She began to scream uncontrollably as the enormity of what was to come filled her mind with primal terror. His selection is made. He nods to his assistants. The ropes tighten. Her journey into the depths of hell begins

PART TWO. The wooden fruit.

He whipped her mercilessly, with fiendish method and precision. The beautiful and proud Tatiana, 19 year old bride of Baltek, the Protector of Prague. Captured following the defeat of her husband’s forces by the Turks and now a captive of his cruellest enemies. She had been stripped, bound at wrists and ankles and spread-eagled upright by ropes suspended from pulley blocks on the ceiling and looped through iron hooks embedded in the paved marble floor of the main hall of this captured stronghold. Her humiliation, in being displayed naked before the gathering in the hall, was in itself a torture. No man, save her husband, had ever beheld her naked before. Yet here she was, being devoured by the eyes of at least a hundred men. And women! For the eyes of the women were full of predatory greed and lascivious pleasure in the anticipation of what was to come.

Her torturer. The ‘Whipmeister’; a giant of a man, hugely muscled, had ‘prepared’ her body for the torment by systematically beating her all over with a ten inch wide leather strap shaped like the blade of a galley oar. The pain he had inflicted with this instrument had almost driven her into total insanity and she had screamed time and again for merciful death to overtake her, to release her from her agony; in vain. The ‘Galley Oar’ had left her flesh crimson, her every nerve ending on fire, horrifyingly sensitised. From neck to feet, no square inch of her was untouched. The torturer’s assistants had skilfully rearranged her posture for each stroke of the massive whip by taking in and releasing the ropes that bound her so securely, so helplessly.

When the true whipping began, the very first stroke threw her mind to a new level of disbelief at the intensity of pain that can be inflicted on a human body. She did not see the blow coming. She could not, she was still in a spread-eagled position held by the four ropes but now angled forward at an angle of 45%. The Whipmeister stood behind her, between her spread legs, holding a multi-tailed whip of flat leather strips. He drew the whip back behind him, paused momentarily, then brought it down in a ferocious overhand strike, at the same time, stepping forward with his left leg to increase the speed of the impact. As the pointed tips of the multiple strands made contact high on her shoulders, he drew his arm down and back quickly, delivering the devilish lash equally across her entire back and buttocks. Then, with the dexterity born of years of practice, he sent an equally powerful, under arm stroke, up between her legs, thrashing her breasts, belly and vagina. So swift and flowing was his action, the sound of the two lashes almost blended into one. The gasp and subsequent roar of approval from the assembly in the hall was almost drowned out by the inhuman screaming of Tatiana. He waited until her screaming had subsided to mewling sobs before he delivered the next double stroke as skilfully as the last. A great spray of sweat flew from her body as the blow landed, her lips were drawn fully back from her teeth. Her eyes bulged in sheer dementia and the sound she emitted was the snarling of a crazed, wild animal, driven past the bounds of reason. Again he waited for the screaming to subside. A longer wait, this time. The third stroke. Tatiana went into a paroxysm of convulsion, her tortured body quivering and twitching within the confines of her bonds, her eyes rolled up into their sockets so that only the whites could be seen, as her mind frantically fought to escape from this hell.

They revived her again, poured wine into her drooling mouth, repositioned her in her bonds and the ‘Whipmeister’ resumed his work. Now was the time for his speciality. The small whips. The subtle whips. The whips of strange and exotic materials. Of silk, bamboo, ivory and hessian. Whips applied with cunning and an intimate knowledge of human anatomy. Whips to produce a range of sensations; from the ultimate of physical and mental pain to the most acute sensual pleasures.

For the next hour a complex ballet was played out before the fascinated and increasingly aroused spectators. The assistants sprang about like acrobats, working their cunning rope webs, twisting Tatiana into an endless series of strange and complicated bodily positions that presented different parts of her anatomy to their master, who administered carefully judged blows and strokes of various intensity, drawing from his victim an eerie music of shrieks, groans and moans of pleasure. He knew all the secret places of her body better than she did.

He used his knowledge to control her totally, both physically and mentally, for Tatiana, as a person, had ceased to exist. She had become someone, or something else. She was in a maelstrom of sensual experience, totally disorientated by the violent and swift changes to her body posture, not knowing where the next sensation would assault her or whether it would be pain or pleasure or both. At one point he had drawn a silken cord flail across her back and it had felt like the caress of an angel’s wing but when it was drawn away it left fingers of molten lava on her flesh that drove her into shrieking hysteria. He had used a short springy rattan cane, topped with a small ivory ball, to deliver sharp blows to the nerve centre located within the small triangular muscle just above the cleft of her buttocks, creating agonising muscle cramps in various parts of her torso, according to where exactly he struck and with how much force. He used the same instrument on the soles of her feet, again with surgical precision, that threw her into a series of intense convulsions. He moved about with a lithe grace that belied his bulk. He was tireless in the pursuit of his art. He was doing what he was born to do.

Tatiana had no notion of time. Her identity had gone, but as the beating continued another doorway within her mind was being dragged open. Something was happening to her that was outside her experience. A lassitude and acceptance of her pain was transcending all else. She started to feel an unfamiliar but not unpleasant tingling that seemed to begin somewhere low down in the small of her back. Suddenly, as a firm whip strike coursed across her swollen buttocks, the tingling rushed, like a bolt of lightning, in both directions along her spine, simultaneously bursting into her brain and her loins, causing her to release a moan of desperate need unlike any sound she had so far emitted. As the next stroke struck, her buttocks involuntarily rose to meet it and her shriek had an edge to it that her torturer had been waiting to hear.

The ‘Whipmeister’ took a step back and motioned to his assistants. They quickly brought her to the forward leaning spread position. Moving swiftly he removed a coil of silk cord from his whip rack and held it up to be seen. The fifteen feet of cord terminated in four carved wooden fruit at six inch intervals on the last two feet of line. The largest, at the extreme end was a lemon. Six inches back was a clementine, followed by a plum and finally a large grape. The fruit were smooth and highly polished. He lowered the fruit into a jar of oil held by one of his assistants and approached the now limp and gasping figure of Tatiana hanging from her ropes. Stepping behind her, he used one hand to spread her buttocks and with the other he steadily worked the oiled wooden lemon past her sphincter and into her anus. Using an inch thick ivory rod he pushed the fruit deep into her rectum and then fed the other fruit inside her one by one, finally forcing the last, the grape, deep into her. Finally he produced a ball of bees’ wax mixed with alum which he also pushed firmly into her rectum. The powerful astringent effect of the alum immediately caused her rectum and sphincter to tighten dramatically so that she could not possibly expel the invaders within her bowels. Stepping round to face her, he now drew the line between her widespread legs and carefully led it between the now dripping lips of her labia. She moaned as his fingers opened her to place the line. He allowed a half-smile to cross his face as he pulled the line up over her belly, through between her sweat soaked and swollen breasts and tossed the remaining length over her left shoulder, allowing the last few feet to drop behind her. Reaching beneath her suspended body, he retrieved the end of the line, once more drawing it towards him again between her labial lips. He slowly drew the cord tight, causing it to force it’s way higher into her vagina and exerting a downward pull on the smallest of the wooden fruit in her rectum. At this new internal sensation, Tatiana’s eyes bulged wide open and she uttered a strangled cry. The ‘Whipmeister’ nodded to his assistants who stood behind her. They began to beat her buttocks and back in a slow, measured rhythm, using short leather floggers. With a similar instrument, the ‘Whipmeister’ began to beat her breasts, alternating his strokes between left and right, in time with the whipping of her back. Then he began to increase his pull on the silken cord causing the first wooden fruit, the grape, to begin its slow, inexorable journey down her anal canal towards her tight, tight sphincter.

Tatiana had never experienced orgasm. Her strict Catholic up-bringing had left her totally unaware of the concept of female sexual climax. She enjoyed love-making with her husband but Baltek was skilled in the arts of war, not in the arts of the bed chamber. Their brief, frantic, couplings had always left her feeling unfulfilled and confused. She had never masturbated, believing as she did that such acts were a mortal sin. She was therefore totally unprepared for the feelings that began to wash over her as the whips and the slowly travelling grape began to drive her to the brink. As the wooden grape began to spread her sphincter and emerge she passed the point of no return. She began to buck and writhe wildly in her bonds, thrusting her buttocks and breasts to meet the whip blows, savouring the sweet, sweet agony they brought, welcoming each blow as the unbelievable pleasure in her loins increased. The steady pull on the cord was now bringing the wooden grape upwards, parting the swollen lips of her vagina which was now flooding with her lubricating juices. The measurement of cord between the wooden fruits had been carefully contrived. Just as the next fruit, the plum, emerged through her sphincter, the grape touched her clitoris and began to travel up and over the sensitive organ. With a wail of anguish and triumph that shook the rafters of the hall, Tatiana reached orgasm, a spectacular spray of liquid bursting from her convulsing vulva. Wave after wave of the most intense pleasure swept through her lust maddened sex as she rode her first climax like a wild horse. Now the third fruit was emerging from her arsehole, which was in a state of uncontrollable spasm, as the second fruit broached the entrance to her vagina. Her uterine walls began a series of rapid contractions causing waves of rippling convulsions to run up and down her vulva. Her vaginal lips were frantically trying to capture the tantalising plum, to pull it inside her, to devour it, but it refused to be captured and rode steadily across her protruding erect clitoris driving her into an orgasm that eclipsed the first in it’s intensity. Her demented shrieks rent the air as a further gout of fluid erupted from her loins and her writhing within her bonds became maniacal. She had reached a multiple orgasmic plateau, thrusting her pelvis forward madly as climax after climax flowed through her. Her heart was racing at a rate that would surely kill her as the final fruit, the lemon, left her anal canal and the clementine approached her clitoris, now purple and protruding. She was frantically gasping for air, her face and neck almost black, her blood vessels and sinews swollen like ships’ cables as the multiple orgasms no longer came in sequence but flowed together like a tidal wave. She went rigid in her rope prison and her entire body began to quiver like a plucked bow string. They had stopped whipping her now, the entire company in the room fascinated by the sight of this beautiful young woman, driven to insanity and to the edge of death by orgasm, suspended in an increasing convulsion, her face a mask of tension and ecstasy, her love juices still running from her tortured sex.

The torturer turned to face the Turk in the throne. “Sire?” The Turk pondered for a moment then he spoke, “Save her. A woman who can climax like that will make an interesting contribution to my harem.”

The ‘Whipmeister’ signalled to his men. They brought the still convulsing, twitching Tatiana’s legs forwards and he stepped between them. The wooden lemon still dangled from it’s cord, level with her gaping vagina. He inserted the lemon into her and, using his ivory rod pushed it slowly into her uterus. As the fruit went deep inside her Tatiana’s head fell back and she uttered a long, drawn out, deep throated roar that no one in the room would ever be able to forget. As the lemon reached her cervix and pushed insistently at the entrance to her womb she collapsed limp and unconscious, hanging from her wrist and ankle ropes.

They lowered her gently to the floor and untied her. At a command, female attendants rushed forward, bearing her up and wrapping her in a soft towelling robe. “See that she is well cared for.” The Turk ordered. As they made to carry her away she came to semi-consciousness and spoke a word. The Turk was too far away to hear what she said although he knew she had spoken. The ‘Whipmeister’ however, was close enough to hear. “What did she say?” demanded the Turk.

The ‘Whipmeister’ shook his head in perplexity. “She said, more, Sire. MORE!”…….

To be continued………

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