The Trials of Pauline

Following many trials of sheer physical tolerance to a full range of tortures on her body, Polly is finally prepared for the ultimate punishment by the disciples of the Marquis de Sade in his temple. And to be reunited - briefly - with her father.

*

Polly and her friends enjoyed the freedom of the island the next day. Lucy and Marina had found a mutual delight in each other. The Eurasian girl was the perfect slave and Lucy her perfect mistress.

At the appointed hour, Polly was escorted to the small temple in the grounds of the villa, overlooking the bay. The sea was a deep blue. The housekeeper had dressed Polly in a pair of silk panties and a series of gossamer silk robes and veils, until she resembled a bride. Her hair was combed down her back, a ringlet of flowers was placed over the veils covering her head. The housekeeper, dressed all in black, and a butler also in black, walked before and behind Polly down the paths to the door of the temple.

Waiting there on either side of the door, were two tall figures in black tunics and hoods. Each carried a long horse-whip, thongs turned back in a loop, fastened to the stock. They entered the temple at Polly's side, her head bowed, escorting her to an altar on the centre of the circular room. It was covered with several velvet cushions all in white. Beyond the altar, Polly saw a beam hung with heavy chains, suspended some two metres or so from the floor. It sent a chill of fear down her spine.

When she reached the altar, she was turned to face the door. Through the veils, Polly could detect the semi-circle of men. All had white hoods over their heads and wore short white tunics, belted round the waist. The two black-hooded men, looking like executioners, stood on either side of Polly, the stocks of their long horse whips resting on the marble floor.

Polly was shaking with nerves. Her throat was dry, her knees like jelly. The anticipation of excruciating pain from one hundred lashes filled her with a thrilling foreboding.

Polly recognised the voice of Cronos. 'Oh, mighty Marquis de Sade, we thy servants, thy disciples, pay homage to your teachings of pain and punishment. We praise thy name and offer this, our slave, as a sacrifice to glorify thy name and teachings.'

Another voice took over the incantation. 'This young white virgin will be subjected to one hundred lashes in thy name, oh great one. Give her the strength, oh mighty Sade, to endure the punishment, so that we may rejoice with her in her pain.'

Polly thought she head heard that voice before. It was muffled by the hood, but it stirred in her mind. But, just then, a drumming started. A rhythmic beating. Polly's nostrils twitched as the smell of an aromatic incense permeated the air. A musk-like odour, sensual and pleasant.

The disciples then moved in single file to Polly's left. The first removed her floral coronet. Polly could see the gleam of fervour in the eyes behind the hood. The second disciple removed the veil from her head, draped down her back. Then the veil covering her face was removed. She could now see clearly the mocking look in the eyes, a look of triumph, which met her own. Five more hooded figures removed a veil from her shoulders until she stood naked apart from the panties. Each face behind the mask showed diabolical cruelty in the gleaming eyes.

No one had tried to touch her body in any lewdness. She was treated with the utmost respect. But Polly was under no illusion about their intentions. The eight men returned to their original positions in a semi-circle facing her, four each side of the central aisle. Beneath their hoods, all admired the beauty of Polly's perfect figure.

'It is right that such female perfection should be sacrificed to the Marquis.'

'Strike the gong. Bring on the instruments of torture.'

A gong sounded. Then, through the door came the butler carrying a wide silver tray. Polly face blenched as she saw the array of instruments on the tray. A thin crop, a tawse, a multi-twigged birch, a paddle, a simple willow cane, long and thin, a leather strap, encrusted with fine gold studs, a triple willow, three half-metre long thongs bound into a plaited handle, and the strong stalk of a rose with vicious barbs.

The butler passed round the semi-circle as each disciple selected an instrument of punishment. Polly was turned to face the altar by the two hooded guards. They pushed her body over the altar, each fastening a wrist to a ring set into the side of it. Her ankles were manacled to metal rings set into the floor at the base of the altar. Her pale bottom was exposed to their sadistic pleasure, smooth hairless genitals, pink and defenceless. The delicate folds of her inner lips pushed through to show themselves timidly.

Eight pairs of lips were being licked at the thought of thrashing such innocence. Polly's nerves were stretched to breaking point. Perspiration stood out on her forehead. Her body tensed against whatever indignity and punishment was waiting. A hundred strokes! With those awesome instruments! It wasn't possible! Her body would break.

A deep gong sounded. A faint sing of the crop a split second before it reached her out-thrust buttocks. The barbs of pain cut cruelly into Polly's loins as she recoiled against the blow. The thin strip of leather bit into the silk of her panties for the second stroke. Polly tried to blot out the sensation of the sting exploding in her groin. She concentrated on the still reverberating sound of the gong. The fabric of her panties blunted the edge of the pang, though the insistent regularity of the slashes, aimed accurately across the cheeks of her buttocks, burned into her whole nervous system.

This was an experienced caner. The blows never fell on the same spot twice. That process would follow later. Grunts escaped Polly inevitably as the lashes tore at her buttocks, but she never cried out in pain. Then, to her great relief, Polly realised that the first ten strokes were finished. A sigh of relief escaped her. Even though the severity of the lashes had been restrained, the burning was spreading throughout her belly like a sea of pain. The reverberations of the gong died away.

'Praise be to the Marquis!' was shouted from behind her as eight voices rose together in worship of their idol.

The drum now started its rhythmic pattern of sound. Soft and menacing. After allowing her muscles to relax and recharge, Polly stiffened again. The next ten strokes would come any time. The wide tawse struck her a heavy blow across the back, jarring the breath from her lungs. Her waist, shoulders and upper thighs were beaten by the leather strap, its three thongs raising crimson weals over the pale flesh. The back and shoulders were bearable, but the pain from her fleshy thighs stabbed down her legs and into her groin.

Polly knew that the gusset of the silk panties would be darkened by the spreading stain of her secretions. The men would be aroused by the sight. But, so long as the panties remained covering her buttocks, she had some protection, however slight, from the harrowing blows. Polly concentrated her mind on her father, imagining it was he who was beating her. He would hold her tight afterwards. The fantasy raised her lustful response to the thrashing. Her first orgasm rattled through her blazing loins, giving some relief to the agony overwhelming her.

When she came back to reality, there was a pause in the punishment. Her breath was rasping in her throat, her body heaving.

'Praise be to the Marquis!' came the shout of worship.

There was silence. The heavy aroma of incense filled her nostrils. The gong reverberated softly. A side drum suddenly split the quietness. Loud and rousing. Polly tensed again. But she was unprepared for the barrage of lashes across her buttocks and thighs. It was the birch, cutting into her skin in quick successive lashes. Polly's mind went into orbit with excruciating anguish. Each lash sent bolts of pain shooting through her body.

She bit her lower lip to prevent her crying out. But her high-pitched moans and jerking limbs told their own story of suffering. The lashes stopped as abruptly as they started. Polly was swimming through a sea of red waves. Her whole body seemed to be swollen to several times its normal size. Her buttocks were numbed with a blazing ache. She had never experienced anything approaching this level of agony.

As her feeling returned in some slight measure, Polly became conscious of her rectum being stretched and entered. It could only be a penis, she thought. As her senses returned from the blanket of agony, the slow movement in and out, soothing away the scalding feeling, gave some solace. The indignity was of no consequence to her.

Relief was all she pleaded. Her breathing became regular again, matching the rhythm of the invader. Polly begged to herself for it to continue as long as possible. Some relief from the whipping, whatever it was, offered a little respite. The thrusting got more urgent, came to a climax. A flood of warmth inside her passage. The invader withdrew, leaving Polly rippling with her own minor orgasm, to a patter of applause vaguely in the recesses of her ears.

'Praise be to the Marquis!' came the shout.

How Polly survived the next punishment she would never know. All idea of time and place had deserted her. Wallowing in her bed of dull numbness, the paddle beat her flesh ruthlessly. She no longer counted the number of strokes. She no longer cared. Unconsciousness would be a welcome end to the punishment. But she remained acutely aware of her punishment, grunting as the paddle struck her raw flesh.

The shackles were released on her wrists and ankles. There was no longer any need for restraint since Polly was incapable of movement. She was turned onto her back, the skimpy panties, torn and shredded, dragged from her before she was gripped by the ankles and her legs lifted high and wide. This presented her inner thighs and genitals to the gaze of the assembly. Surely they'll not beat my tender secret folds, she thought. Polly watched in horror and disbelief as the long, thin willow cane slashed into her inner thighs. Excruciating pain racked her. Her scream could no longer be stifled. It was too horrific.

Then the second slash stung like a whole nest of wasps. Her whole genital area was burning with a fierce blaze. Unable to contain herself, her screams accompanied each lash. Her bladder finally burst. A golden fountain arched through the air, splashing against the marble floor, to the extreme delight of the onlookers. The willow was laid on with even greater force, cutting deep into the swelling flesh. Polly's humiliation went unnoticed by her tormentors.

Only when the golden flow had reduced to a trickle did the beating stop. Polly was hoisted into an upright position. Her head hung slumped onto her chest, her dull eyes watching as the guards held her up under her arms. The noise of rattling chains filled her ears. The arms and shoulders of the pain-racked body were forced horizontal against the cool wood of the beam, shackled to it by heavy chains. The two guards took an ankle each, pulling them apart as far as they could until Polly though she would be torn down the middle, before fastening them.

Polly was a sorry sight. The whole area of hips, waist, buttocks and thighs were a mass of swollen flesh, covered with weals, ridges of red flesh. Her hairless genitals pulled open between the stretched legs, their lips fully exposed, thick and enlarged with the beating. Red blisters stood out on the labia. The pale creamy colour of her belly and breasts were in stark contrast.

As the encrusted leather strap struck Polly's left breast, it swung away from the blow, reddening. The second blow came from the opposite side. Specks of crimson came up like pimples where the small, sharp studs bit into the breast. After ten strokes, Polly's breasts were as discoloured as her buttocks. She no longer cared.

'Praise be to the Marquis!' came the shout.

The triple willow cut into her upper arms and ribs. The almost unconscious Polly was only dimly aware of the anguish she was suffering. She thought she was in heaven. Her body no longer responded to the beating. When pain is all enveloping, the body responds very little to more of it.

'Praise be to the Marquis!'

After the wand of rose thorns had lashed her breasts, loins, buttocks and thighs, Polly's body was a mass of red beads. Torn and ripped. Trickles of blood seeped thickly over the bruised and cut flesh.

The beam hanging high behind the altar was slowly lowered, the shackles removed and Polly allowed to slump in a heap on the marble floor. The impassive, hooded men stood around her poor submissive figure. It no longer resembled a human being. It was a heap of twisted raw flesh, scratched and swollen, covered with bruises and weals. At a gesture from one of the disciples, each raised his tunic, took hold of his penis, each at various states of arousal. They splashed streams of urine over the body.

Polly felt nothing as the body was cleansed by the warm saline douse. After the men had emptied themselves fully, one of the brethren bent over the crumpled figure, wrapped a towelling sheet round her and carried her to the altar. A black attache case was brought in by the housekeeper. Polly was examined for some moments by the hooded man, using a stethoscope taken from the case. At last, he looked up at the others and nodded.

'This one lives,' he said softly. 'A courageous slave! Let the marquis reward her.'

Polly was brought round by some kind of smelling salts under her nostrils. All she could feel was the burning, scalding pain through her body. Her wilting figure was propped upright at the end of the altar. When her eyes opened with reluctance, she looked into the eyes of the hooded man facing her, gleaming with lust. Her gaze dropped to his loins, noticing that he, too, was aroused. His penis pushed at the white tunic.

Driven to a high state of arousal, Polly had an overwhelming desire to embrace it. The hooded brethren lifted her down from the altar, holding her in a kneeling position. Falling forwards, her knees widely parted, she fumbled impatiently under the tunic for the erect shaft. The phallus felt familiar, but her brain, muddled with agony, couldn't place it! It was handsome, straight and smooth. She knew she had to worship it.

Holding her hands together as if in prayer, she took the stiff shaft between the palms. With thumbs pressed into the underside of the penis, Polly studied the mauve, polished glans in a haze of lechery. Then, closing her eyes, she took it fully between her lips, slowly sucking on it with devotion and respect. It thrust in and out of her mouth. Even though she felt to be choking, fighting for air, losing consciousness, her hands embraced his strong thighs. The taught cheeks of the buttocks flexed. The penis drove hard, deep into her mouth.

Polly felt hands grasp her shoulders tightly, loins stabbing at her face. Lashing her tongue against the thrusting shaft, body trembling with sudden desire, Polly wanted his sperm! Her lord's seed. Her honey was seeping freely from her beaten, swollen vulva. The man's groin flinched and quivered, buttocks heaving out of control, threatening to pull his phallus from her eager mouth, sucking the life from him. Then, with a final bucking grunt, Polly felt the gush of hot fluid splash against the back if her throat.

In the midst of his distraction by the paroxysm of orgasm, Polly distinctly heard him cry out, 'Pauline!'

Only one person called her by that name! With a superhuman effort, she pulled herself up, grasped his hood and jerked it off.

'Father!' she cried in amazement, dropping the hood, sperm dribbling from the corners of her mouth.

Then Polly collapsed.

One of the large guards hoisted her over his shoulder to take her inert body back to the villa and security. She was placed on a special padded treatment table where she would be helped to recover.

As Polly lay inert in a fever of pain, she suffered a vivid nightmare, disturbing her sleep as her body slowly recovered from the sadistic punishment she had taken. So graphic was the dream that she later remembered every detail of it.

Polly found herself in a large dim cavern. Gaudy lights were flashing in and out. The air was smoke-filled and hot. There was a curious whining noise in her ears. In the middle of the cave she could just see a large steaming cauldron hanging from a large tripod over an open fire of blazing logs. Sitting round it on low stools were a group of people, men and women, dressed in medieval garb. Saxon-like costumes.

They were drinking from goblets, coarse laughter was echoing round the chamber. Female slaves, small and dirty, with matted hair, wearing skimpy rough tunics were going round the guests, filling the goblets from large stone jugs. Then Polly's attention was attracted to a large man who appeared through the smoke, wearing a horned Saxon helmet. A heavily studded, wide belt was wrapped round the waist of his leather tunic. His legs were encased in leggings, laced with cross gartering round his calves. On his right hand was a beautiful, tall lady wearing a fine silk gown. Her bright red hair was pinned up with rubies and pearls. Jewels were strung round her neck and wrists.

'Pay homage, serfs! Your Lord and Lady,' a loud voice echoed round the cavern. The chatter stopped as the guests stood, bowing and scraping before the noble couple.

'Praise be to the Marquis!' echoed round the cave.

The lord, with a cruel grin on his face, squeezed and twisted the breasts of each female guest as he sauntered into the room. They winced at his brutality. To Polly's amazement she saw that it was Ulysses! His lady, passing by the men, felt under each tunic, making sure they were not wearing anything beneath it, at the same time crushing his testicles in the palm of her hand. None dare cry out or complain for Polly knew instinctively that they would be castrated on the spot if they did. The Lord and his lady reached the centre of the cave, facing the fire, where Polly could see two wooden thrones. Gold goblets were handed to the regal pair.

Noticing Polly the lady came across to face her, standing meekly in a corner of the cave, watching the scene. It was Lucy! Her face was gleaming, her eyes bright with recognition. She leered at Polly with a mocking smile before dashing the contents of her goblet into Polly's face. It was then that Polly realised that she couldn't move. The wine ran down her face onto her white bride's dress.

'Bitch!' Lucy screamed with venom in her voice.

She then grasped the neck of Polly's dress in her hands and tore it savagely. The bodice ripped apart exposing Polly's white breasts, heaving with indignation. The whole dress was torn from Polly's shoulders leaving her naked from the waist up.

'So, you are my husband's new slave, are you? First, you must be crushed to his will. And to mine, serf!'

Polly was blindfolded before being led over the rough floor until she was eventually stopped and swirled around several times until she felt dizzy. Her arms were grasped easing her down to sit on a flat surface. Then her blind-fold was removed. The cave had changed. It was lit by large candles, lots of them, standing on a long table beyond the fire. Partly dazzled by the flames, Polly could make out some of the guests sitting grinning at the other side of the table. She turned to see who was holding her by the arms.

The sight of a witch, complete with large wart-encrusted nose, straggly hair and wide-brimmed hat, took her by surprise. A black cloak hung loose over a naked body. Her breasts were long, shrivelled bags, hanging low, crowned with huge, black, leathery nipples. At her other side stood a second witch of a similar shape. The witches leered at her, holding her arms firmly behind her.