The Ultimate Submission (Jacqueline's Story)
By Gato Medio
Chapter 20

[Memories of Sainte Jacqueline]

I have successfully passed all the phases of my
purification and slave training. As promised, my Master
has accepted me back as soon as I was released from the
prison beneath the _Eglise Sainte Jacqueline_. My life is
back to normal - as far as a relationship consisting of a
Master, a Mistress and a slave can be called normal. It
is normal in the sense that my Master has returned to
using all three of my orifices and my Mistress allows me
to pleasure her with my tongue.

How long was I held captive in the cellar of that strange
church, in this dark place which looked sinister enough
to be called a dungeon? I can't say for sure. It could
have been two, maybe three weeks. One of the most
disturbing aspects of my imprisonment was that I lost any
notion of time. Being kept below ground, I was unable to
observe the cycle of the sun. I never knew whether it was
morning or evening, noon or midnight. Only occasionally
did I get a chance to see the daylight; not often enough
to have an idea of the passing of time.

Life at Sainte Jacqueline did not follow a regular
pattern which would allow me to count the days. Yes,
there were certain activities which were repeated
frequently, like meals, but even there the length of the
intervals between meals seemed to vary significantly. The
meals, regardless of whether they were given to me in my
cell or whether I took them in the refectory with the
other women who were held there, consisted of a thick
soup and chunky slices of bread. The ingredients and
flavour of the soup varied, but there wasn't any meal
which could be identified as breakfast, as the start of a
new day.

When I spoke of 'my cell' before, this may create the
impression that there was one place where I stayed
throughout my slave training. That was not the case. The
women who came there did not bring any personal
belongings with them and there was nothing which would
make a particular cell 'my' cell. Whenever the monks took
me back to be locked up, they put me into the first
unoccupied cell they found. The cells were similar in
size and all contained one bed as the only item of
furniture, but not all of them were in the same state of
preservation.

The further one went along the corridor, the worse the
cells got. In the worst cells the ceiling was gradually
disintegrating and it was not uncommon for some debris to
rain down onto the woman resting on the bed. The people
who had been in these cells before had taken advantage of
the brittle mortar and removed one or two bricks from the
cell walls to allow conversations between adjoining
cells. Some women reported that they had seen rats and
spiders in those decaying cells, but luckily I was never
disturbed by either of those animals.

Apart from meeting the other prisoners at mealtimes, we
were also brought together for our bath. There wasn't any
fixed time for washing ourselves. It seemed like we were
taken to the shower room at the whim of the Marquis or
some monk in charge. Sometimes there would be only a few
hours between baths, on other occasions it seemed like
several days passed before we were given permission to
clean ourselves. The explanation one of my fellow
prisoners gave me was that, whenever one of us became
'unclean' all of us were herded together to be cleansed.

The large, tiled hall where the bath took place had a
number of showers in a row along one wall. Before our
bath we were unchained and had to remove our clothes -
which wasn't necessary in my case. The showers, however,
were only turned on for a short while, just long enough
to allow us to wet our bodies. We were allowed a few
minutes to lather ourselves with the soap that had been
given to us, before one monk hosed us down with a
powerful jet of cold water. The first time the full force
of the water hit me, I almost lost my balance. Later, I
started to enjoy the treatment. I positioned myself to
let the full jet hit my breasts, my bottom and my pussy.

Sometimes, when the bath coincided with daytime, we were
lead out onto the patio afterwards, with our shackles
back in place, to dry in the sunshine. I remembered
Arlette and her seamless suntan; how I had envied her for
her uniform colour, how I had been waiting for the summer
holidays so that I would get an opportunity to achieve
the same uninterrupted suntan. Now it seemed that I would
spend my summer break in this training camp for would-be
slaves. I decided that this was the best opportunity I
could hope for and tried to get maximum exposure to the
sun. I thought about how surprised Arlette would be when
I'd meet her after the holidays and she'd see me all
tanned. I only didn't know how I would explain the white
patches the iron cuffs were leaving around my ankles and
wrists.

Eating, taking a bath and basking in the sun did not take
up a great deal of time. A large part of the remainder
was taken up by the interrogation and discipline sessions
with the Marquis. The rest of the time I spent in my
cell, usually lying on the bed trying to get some sleep.

Sleep did not come easily in this underground world. Just
as I rarely saw the daylight, I never experienced the
darkness of night in any of the cells I was taken to. A
torch was fitted to the wall of each inhabited cell,
keeping it lit around the clock. The monks checked
frequently and replaced the torch when necessary.

But this was only one obstacle. The heavy chains didn't
make it easy either. They did not restrict my movements
excessively, but they felt heavy and uncomfortable,
particularly when they rested on my body, and any shift
of position in bed became difficult. It took me a while
to find a reasonably comfortable position for sleeping:
lying on my belly with my arms stretched out above my
head and my legs slightly spread, almost as if I had been
tied spread-eagled to the bed.

Another factor which kept me from sleeping were the
noises which resounded through the vaults of the
basement. There were the sounds of women being woken up
harshly to be taken to the Marquis, the sound of chains
dragging along the floor as the victims were lead through
the corridor, the sounds of whippings and canings, the
screams of the tortured women and later their quiet sobs
when they had been returned to their cells. Thinking of
these sounds, I trembled in my bones the first few times
the monks arrived to take me to the Marquis. Some time
later, I found out that these sounds came frequently from
a tape which had been recorded and was played on the
Marquis' request to keep us living in fear.

On the day of my arrival it was particularly difficult to
find sleep. So many things had happened to me in the
space of one day! And the fact that I had been locked up
in this cell meant that more things would be happening -
I just didn't know what they were. To add to my
excitement, my Master had declared that he would take me
back as soon as I was ready. I was determined to endure
whatever necessary to reach the point where I was 'ready'
- without really knowing what that meant - as soon as
possible.

Amongst the other prisoners I became known as 'the naked
girl', because I was the only one who wasn't allowed to
wear any clothes. All the others wore the shirt and skirt
made of sackcloth, except at bath-time and during
interrogation and punishment. It occurred to me that
their clothes were much better fitting than mine had ever
been.

At times, the Marquis decided to emphasise my nakedness
even more by fitting me with a device he called a 'cunt-
opener'. This consisted of four padded clamps which could
be attached to a butt-plug by thin silver chains. The
clamps were put on my pussy lips, two on each side. Two
of the chains passed around my hips; the lower two passed
between my legs to my rear, where they were pulled taut
and hooked to the butt-plug which was pushed into my
rear. This left my pussy lips pulled wide open with every
intimate detail on display. It also left me highly
aroused and, to my embarrassment, dripping wet. Walking
with this cunt-opener was extremely difficult. I had to
take cautious, small steps to avoid serious pain. Sitting
down was out of the question.

The Marquis seemed to get a kick out of fitting the cunt-
opener just before we would be called for a meal. I would
have to eat my meal standing up, displaying my wide open,
dripping wet pussy to my fellow prisoners as I ate. One
of them commented, "Your Master must love you very much,
if he has you treated like this."

Just like me, the other women had been brought to this
place by their male companions in order to be trained as
slaves. Some of them declared this fact proudly and
stated that they wanted to learn how to be good, obedient
slaves. Those were the ones who referred to their
partners as 'Master'. Others were reluctant to admit the
reason for their presence openly. At times they would
wonder aloud whatever had made them agree to undergo this
training and they often expressed doubts that they really
wanted to submit to their boyfriends or husbands so
completely and unconditionally.

The Marquis had quickly recovered his authority after the
humiliation he suffered at the hands of my Mistress. He
rarely wore the abbot's habit; most of the time he
appeared in civilian clothes. But he continued to
embellish his orders and pronouncements with references
to the devil, evil spirits, the virgin Mary and the need
to attain purity. I couldn't understand that the monks
didn't see through this mumbo-jumbo. From his actions it
was clear that he wasn't in the least interested in
purity - on the contrary. Or were his helpers not real
monks and just acted the part to create some kind of an
illusion? I never reached a conclusion on this question.

The first time the Marquis called for me was still on the
day of my arrival - or was it already the morning of the
next day? A monk I hadn't met before came to my cell and
ordered me to get up. When I didn't follow his order
quickly enough, he pulled me up and dragged me behind him
along the corridor. My body was still partly covered by
the hardened wax the other women had poured on me. Some
of it started to flake away as I moved, but the wax was
completely incrusted in my pubic hair and it would take
some time for the last trace to disappear.

The vault where the Marquis was waiting was similar to
the other compartments in this basement, except that it
was much larger and contained a number of contraptions
along with a massive desk. I did not understand how many
of these gadgets worked, but there was no doubt about
their ultimate purpose: to help in disciplining the
trainee slaves. Together with the large number of ropes,
chains and other implements attached to the walls and
hanging from the ceiling, these devices gave the whole
vault the air of a torture chamber.

Meeting this man so soon after he had been humiliated by
my Mistress made me wonder whether he would take revenge
on me. As I checked his face to see what mood he was in,
he became visibly angry.

"How dare you look at me? Don't you know that slaves are
not allowed to look at their superior's face. Look down
at the floor at once!"

"I'm sorry," I said, realizing that I had been guilty of
a gross offence.

"I'm sorry, what?" the Marquis barked.

"I'm sorry, Sir," I said, recognizing a second offence in
less than two minutes.

"Fetch Yolande," the Marquis ordered the monk who had
brought me.

While he was waiting for Yolande to be summoned, the
Marquis made me kneel on a low, padded bench; he unlocked
the chain which linked my wrists in front of me,
refastened it behind my back and attached it to my
collar.

When the monk returned, followed by a woman whom I
assumed to be Yolande, the two men removed her chains,
made her strip naked and then tied her to one of the
contraptions I had seen but not quite understood. It
looked like a large tree trunk, inclined at an angle of
45 degrees. The woman had to place her knees on a wooden
board at either side of the trunk and spread her legs
wide to straddle the large wooden pole. As her upper body
was tied to the trunk her ample breasts were squashed
against the wood.

Without any prior warning, the Marquis took a cane and
hit the woman's bottom repeatedly with fierce energy. The
woman cried out as the cane hit her backside, but did not
seem to suffer a lot. Her ordeal wasn't over when the
caning stopped. The Marquis took a short whip and hit her
back until it was covered with red stripes. The cane
marks on the woman's bottom also started to swell.

I had watched the scene with astonishment. As the Marquis
turned towards me I quickly lowered my eyes and
concentrated on a spot on the floor right in front of me.

"Your Master has put restrictions on the punishment you
may receive. I'm not permitted to spank you or use the
cane or whip to discipline you. However, letting your
offences go unpunished would undermine my authority. I
have therefore decided to punish this wench in your
place. Whenever you step out of line, she'll be
castigated. I have already punished her for your first
two offences. If you disobey the rules again, she'll
suffer the consequences."

This declaration upset me more than any threat to punish
me severely for any offence I'd commit. I didn't want
anybody else to suffer because I did something wrong. I
thought of arguing, discussing, pleading with the Marquis
to punish me in spite of my Master's prohibition, but
that would constitute another break of the rules - slaves
only speak when they're given permission - and would
result in even more punishment for poor Yolande. Instead
I took great care to answer all the Marquis' questions to
his satisfaction, obey all rules and demonstrate complete
obedience. But even so, my whipping girl had to endure
another caning and a further round of lashes with the
whip. Yolande didn't hide her pain, but didn't utter any
sound apart from her involuntary cries and sobs.

When my first session with the Marquis was over, he
ordered me to watch as he brutally fucked Yolande's ass.
Yolande screamed as her attacker's cock pierced her
unprepared ass, but took the abuse without further
complaints. He explained that this wasn't a punishment
for anything I had done wrong, but, as she had already
been brought from her cell, he had decided to give her a
special treat. At the time, I considered this an
expression of his cynical character, but later I found
out that Yolande did in fact consider it a special favour
to have her ass fucked.

After Yolande had been lead away, sobbing, with the
Marquis' cum dribbling from her rear hole, I considered
the moment right to broach the subject of my punishment
with the Marquis.

"I don't want to be different from the other slaves. It
won't help me learn to be obedient if I don't get
punished when I don't live up to your expectations. If I
cannot be spanked, whipped or caned, I'm sure you can
think of other ways of disciplining me."

I realized that I was giving him carte blanche,
permission to do with me whatever he wanted. But then,
the fact I was here meant that my Master had already
given him that permission.

The Marquis did not react. I had expected an outburst of
anger about my insolence, but he just seemed to ignore my
plea. When the monk returned to take me back to my cell,
the Marquis finally reacted. "Wait," he said to the monk,
"Bring back Yolande."

I didn't know whether that was a good or a bad sign. My
fears were confirmed when my fellow prisoner was strapped
once more onto the punishment device and subjected to
another caning.

"This was the punishment for your presumptuousness, for
talking without permission," the Marquis told me. "Here
is your chance to redeem some of the pain you have caused
her: Lick her feet clean."

I was eager to follow his order and to show that woman
how sorry I was for being the cause of her suffering.
Perhaps too eager. As I moved forward to touch Yolande's
feet with my mouth, I fell over. With my hands chained
behind my back, I wasn't able to break my fall. I fell
flat on my face, or rather it was my breasts which took
most of the impact. I moaned as I hit the ground, but I
quickly struggled back onto my knees and started to clean
Yolande's feet with my tongue. Like all prisoners, she
wasn't allowed any footwear and as a consequence a crust
of dirt had formed on her feet. I didn't mind. I had come
here to learn to be a slave and this was my first chance.
Maybe in future my Mistress or my Master would order me
to perform this service for them.

I bathed Yolande's feet with my saliva and removed the
wet dirt with my tongue.

"I have considered your plea and I will think of ways to
punish you," the Marquis informed me as I was licking.
"But this won't change my decision as far as Yolande is
concerned. Whenever you disobey the rules, she'll pay for
it."

The Marquis probably knew very well that seeing someone
else suffer as a result of my actions would have a much
bigger impact on me than if I were simply punished
myself. I would try to be a perfect slave so that poor
Yolande wouldn't be castigated through my fault.

                         -----

I met Yolande again when I joined the other women for a
meal some time later. They were sitting around the large
wooden table in the refectory. As it happened, a place
next to Yolande was free and I promptly occupied it. At
first I didn't know whether it was okay to speak to her,
but when I saw the other women engaging freely in
conversation, I told her how much it had upset me to see
her punished for my offences.

"Don't worry 'bout it," she said, "That's what I'm here
for. I want to learn to accept rough treatment without
complaint. But compared to my husband the Marquis is a
gentleman."

Her statement surprised me. A far as I was concerned, the
Marquis was the most sadistic human being I had ever come
across. If she called him a gentleman, then her husband
had to be a real monster. I asked her what her husband
had done to her to deserve such a judgement.

"I'm not allowed to talk about it. Not to anybody. Let's
just say, I didn't mind what the Marquis did to me and it
wouldn't bother me if he did it again right now. It all
helps me to accept pain as part of my life."

"But if your husband is such an animal, why don't you
just ditch him."

This time it was her turn to be surprised. "Well, I don't
know what exactly your arrangement is, but I assume there
is someone who brought you here for a purpose. Would you
just ditch him because you don't like the way he treats
you or how they treat you here? I guess the answer is no.
I guess you'd say you love him too much. In any case,
that's my reason."

When I told her that I had a Mistress as well as a Master
and that, yes, I loved them too much to object to my
treatment, Yolande became very compassionate. "That must
be terrible," she said. "I guess they try to outdo each
other, each one abusing you more than the next."

"So far, I have only very little experience," I admitted.
"I don't know what it's going to be like when I'm
finished here, but I wouldn't call it terrible, not in
the least. I think it's going to be wonderful. I don't
mind what they'll do to me or if they're going to compete
with each other. All I know is that I love it when I get
punished and abused."

After this conversation, Yolande and I became close
friends, as far as friendship was possible in this kind
of place.

The other women treated me with suspicion. It had somehow
become known that I wouldn't be subjected to the same
punishment they received. They didn't think that the fact
I had to stay naked at all times compensated for this
privilege. They considered me a bibelot, a pet slave,
someone whose Master wasn't really serious about
discipline. The more sceptical ones assumed that I had
struck a deal with the Marquis, that I was spying on them
and would report their trespasses to him in exchange for
lenient treatment.

There was a constant flux of women arriving and leaving.
Inmates who reached the end of their training disappeared
and new trainee slaves took their places. There were
never fewer than seven or more than ten women in the
group. The newcomers treated me the same way they treated
the other women; with awe and respect. And when Yolande
reported about the punishment I was receiving, nobody
doubted that I was genuinely committed to becoming a
slave.

Yolande became a constant presence during my sessions
with the Marquis. Although she had assured me that she
didn't mind being castigated, I did my best to obey all
the rules and followed the Marquis' orders without
hesitation. But the Marquis saw it as his right - or
duty? - to punish us and he did so with or without
reason. Yolande was tied to a variety of implements and
had every imaginable part of her body whipped, caned or
otherwise tormented. Even though I received my own
punishment, I couldn't stop thinking that I was the cause
of her suffering. I felt dismayed to hear her scream and
sob, always wishing I could complete my training soon so
the Marquis would no longer have a reason to castigate
her.

There was one particular form of punishment which caught
my attention. Yolande was tied onto two large wooden
beams which crossed each other to form an X. The Marquis
walked around the contraption and whenever he felt like
it, he would whip her with a cat o' nine tails; her
breasts, her belly, her thighs and eventually her pussy.
Yolande screamed when the lashes hit her tender sex, but
she assured me later that this was just an involuntary
reaction. The pain wasn't worse than any of the other
whippings she received.

What fascinated me about this scene was that the crossed
wooden beams were exactly like those I had seen in a
picture in Charlotte's collection of magazines. Yolande
wasn't exactly the young, fragile girl on that picture,
but seeing her punished that way reminded me how I had
wanted to be in that girl's place. Now I wanted to be in
Yolande's place, I wanted to experience the feeling of
the lashes raining down on my breasts and on my pussy.
But the rules were that I could not be whipped and I knew
there was no point in begging, or even in disobeying the
Marquis in the hope that he would lose his temper and
whip me.

My own punishment consisted of being tied up in the most
uncomfortable positions the Marquis could think of. One
way was to make me lie face down on his desk, tie my
wrists to my ankles and than hoist me up so that I was
suspended belly down. Then the Marquis would tie another
rope around my waist and pass the end between my bottom
cheeks and between my legs. He would hold the end of that
second rope in his hand while he sat at his desk and
conducted his 'lesson' with me dangling from the ceiling
like some badly constructed model airplane. Whenever he
considered it appropriate he would pull on the rope which
passed between my legs. It would cut deep into my groin
and make me swing like a pendulum in the air. Whenever my
body swung away from him, the Marquis would jerk again on
the rope, this time crushing it against my ass and pussy.
The sudden, violent sensation never failed to make me cry
out in pain.

This was one of his more gentle forms of playing with me.
One of the more cruel forms was to suspend me by my
wrists from a pulley that was attached to the ceiling and
then fix a thick, coarse rope to two hooks on the
ceiling, one some distance in front of me, the other one
some way behind me, so that it passed between my legs.
When I was pulled up all the way to the ceiling, that
tackle would swing loosely between my knees. At his whim
he would suddenly let me drop. The rope between my legs
would break my fall abruptly, cutting deep into my pussy,
crushing my clit and punishing my ass. The pain this
caused was almost unbearable. It felt like I was being
cut into two parts by the rope. The Marquis would pull me
up again and later, when I least expected it, send me
crashing down once more.

Initially I tried to stifle my screams, I wanted to show
that, as an obedient slave, I was taking my suffering
without complaints. But the Marquis considered this an
act of defiance. He enjoyed hearing his victims' screams
as a measure of his power and skill. He got infuriated
when a victim refused to voice her pain. As soon as I
realized this, I gave free expression to my suffering -
and there was no need to fake any pain I didn't feel. My
screams were particularly desperate when the Marquis used
his rope tricks after I had been wearing the cunt-opener
for some time. The coarse rope cutting into my highly
sensitive pussy caused an excruciating pain which made me
squeal like a stuck pig.

On these occasions, the Marquis would thank me cynically
for having challenged him to find a way of punishing me.
He was delighted with the 'rope tricks' he had invented
and told me that I had become his favourite plaything.

                         -----

The purpose of the 'lessons' was to teach me how a slave
was expected to behave, feel and think. It wasn't simply
a case of telling me, but of conditioning me so that the
desired reactions would happen as a spontaneous response.
My behaviour had become close to perfect, but the Marquis
was convinced that my mind still harboured thoughts which
had no place in the world of slavedom. He suspected that
I still felt I knew best what was right for me, that I
still pursued my own pleasures rather than those of my
Masters, that I still had my own ideas about what was and
what wasn't right for me to do.

During my first session, while I was kneeling on the
padded bench, the monk who had brought me grabbed my
breasts from behind and played with my nipples which
promptly hardened. After the Marquis had watched the
scene long enough he told the monk to stop and then asked
me what I felt.

"I feel aroused, Sir, but also ashamed."

"Why do you feel ashamed?" he wanted to know.

"Because my lust can be aroused so easily, Sir. I feel
that I should only get excited when my Master touches
me."

"The only reason a true slave feels pleasure is because
she pleases her Master," the Marquis lectured me. "Your
Master has delivered you into my hands, therefore
whatever pleases me, pleases your Master. And if it
pleases me to let this monk play with your tits, then you
have reason to feel pleasure. Your pleasure does not
depend on how you feel about what happens to your body,
but on how your Master feels about it. If it pleases your
Master to have you stand in a corner and ignore you, then
you will feel happy that your Master has gone to the
trouble of making you stand in a corner. If it pleases
your Master to let some stranger whip your cunt, then you
will be delighted to have your cunt whipped.

"Quite clearly you think that you're something special,
better than the rest. You consider it a waste of your
physical assets to let you simply stand in a corner. You
feel entitled to being used in a more satisfying way -
more satisfying to you, not to your Master. This idea
that you have the right to be treated in a certain way
stands in the way of you ever becoming an obedient slave.
You have to free yourself from vanity, arrogance and
pride.

"You consider yourself very important, whereas a slave's
prime characteristic is humility. You need to understand
that you are insignificant to your Master and to
everybody else."

The Marquis was right as far as my vanity and pride were
concerned. I was proud of my body and the pleasures it
could give to others and I made sure that I always looked
my most attractive. I did not think that appreciating
one's own qualities amounted to being arrogant. I did not
consider myself better than the other prisoners and would
have been pleased to submit to their desires if the
opportunity arose. But I definitely couldn't bring myself
to indulge in this insignificance business. If I was that
insignificant to my Master, then why had he sent me here?
Wasn't my Master paying the Marquis' probably quite
sizable fee so that I would be of service to him in the
future?

After all, my Master had often told me how much he
enjoyed my company, how good I made him feel. My
Mistress, amongst other women, had told me that I had a
golden tongue. I took that as a sign of appreciation. I
wasn't insignificant to those people. I had a place in
their lives. Yes, my place was that of a slave, someone
who obeys and follows orders, someone who had duties but
no rights. I could accept this, but insignificance? No.

Of course, I couldn't tell the Marquis that I disagreed
with his point of view. Slaves aren't supposed to have an
opinion. As far as he was concerned they weren't even
supposed to think on their own.

The Marquis would return frequently to the subject of my
insignificance. He would give me sentences to repeat,
like 'I'm as insignificant as a breadcrumb which dropped
onto my Master's lap' or ' I'm as insignificant as a
speck of dandruff on my Master's collar'. He would insist
that I repeat them over and over like a litany while he
tightened the rope he had fastened between my legs or
stretched me on the rack. He also told me to meditate
about my insignificance and come up with similar
sentences of my own. If my sentences did not reflect the
right degree of humility, if I did not produce enough of
them, or if my tone of voice was not humble enough,
Yolande would be whipped.

In his quest to humiliate me, the Marquis used a number
of methods. After each lesson he ordered me to clean
Yolande's feet with my tongue to show that I was not only
his slave but her servant as well. He also made me lick
his sperm off her body and out of her pussy or ass
whenever he had used her to satisfy his lust. More and
more often I had to parade my wide open pussy in front of
the other women at meal time. When he didn't fit me with
the cunt-opener, my meal was served in a bowl on the
floor of the refectory and I had to eat on all fours,
like a dog.

He expected that this treatment would lower my self-
esteem and would break my rebellious spirit. I did not
consider any of this worthy of deep reflection. It was
what I expected my future to be like. When I thanked the
Marquis on these occasions for preparing me so thoroughly
for life as a slave, I really meant it. It wasn't an
attempt to please him so that he would be less severe
with me.

Seeing that I put up with this humiliation without
batting an eyelid, the Marquis thought up another scheme
to make me feel disgust for myself. One day, a monk
arrived in my cell with a large jug of water and ordered
me to drink it all. He watched impatiently as I drank the
liquid, one glass after another until the jug was empty.
As soon as I had finished, the monk left but came back
after a few minutes with another jug and insisted that I
drink the second one as well. Then he left without saying
a word.

I felt bloated and wondered what the reason behind this
strange request was. Some time later, when I already felt
the urge to relieve myself, the monk returned and took me
to the Marquis' cabinet. On the way we met Yolande who
was escorted by another monk. I found out later that she
had also been given two jugs of water to drink.

The 'torture chamber' was crowded. To my surprise I saw
that all the other women had been assembled there. They
were chained to each other, forming a circle. Some of
them were also chained to the wall. There was a monk
standing behind each prisoner.

My guardian lead me to the centre of the circle where a
large plastic sheet had been placed on the floor. I was
ordered to lie on that sheet and Yolande was placed on
top of me in a sixty-nine position. The monks tied us
securely so that we were unable to move our heads away
from each other's pussy. Then the Marquis ordered us to
lick each other.

I hadn't experienced any sex in the traditional sense
since my Master had fucked me the day I arrived at Sainte
Jacqueline, as part of my 'exorcism'. The touch of my
fellow sufferer's tongue soon had me swoon with delight.
As I relaxed my muscles to allow her tongue to slip
further along my slit, it became increasingly difficult
to hold back all the liquid inside me. I decided to
concentrate on licking Yolande's pussy. 'One good deed
deserves another', I thought. I could hear how much my
efforts pleased Yolande, but her approaching orgasm
caused her to open the floodgates and she showered my
mouth, my face, my hair with her urine.

This was what the Marquis had intended when he made us
drink an unusually large amount of water. He wanted to
humiliate me by being pissed on in front of the assembled
prisoners and monks, and having to swallow Yolande's
urine. He expected that I would loathe myself after such
an undignified experience. It had exactly the opposite
effect from what the Marquis had intended. It turned me
on. I climaxed and, like Yolande, was no longer able to
hold back my urine. Yolande, lying on top of me, was in a
more favourable position. The ties gave her enough
freedom to move her head to the side if she wanted to
avoid contact with the urine that was welling out of me.

But the Marquis wouldn't allow it. I could feel his whip
thrashing down on Yolande's back. "Drink her piss, you
disgusting slut!" he shouted. "Both of you! I want you to
sate yourself on each other's piss."

Turning to the others he crowed, "Look at these filthy
bitches, drinking each other's piss. What Master would
want such despicable creatures as slaves? Just look at
these disgusting pigs, wallowing in their own
excrements!"

Most people wouldn't dream of drinking someone else's
urine or even getting into contact with it. It wasn't
something I had ever thought of as a way to spice up my
sex life. The idea of someone pissing all over my face,
and a great deal of it running into my mouth had never
attracted me. I still don't think there is anything
particularly sexy about urine. But when I found myself in
this situation where the Marquis ordered us to drink each
other's piss, when I felt his whip hit Yolande's back
just in case we were considering disobeying him, I felt
aroused by the command. I decided to indulge in this
perverse pleasure and opened my mouth wide to receive the
stream of warm liquid squirting from Yolande's pussy.

When the flow from Yolande's pussy had ceased, I resumed
licking her and brought her to another satisfying orgasm.
I was pleased to notice that she was following my example
and was working her tongue deep inside my slit. We paid
no attention to the Marquis' pontifications as he talked
contemptuously about us, calling us scum, piss-guzzling
whores, the lowest of the low.

In the end he called the monks, one at a time, to step
forward and empty their bladders over the two already
piss-drenched women. As I felt the liquid splatter on my
body and face I wondered whether the monks too had been
given an extra ration of water to drink.

I considered this treatment and the Marquis' verbal abuse
part of being a slave. Slaves couldn't expect fair, even-
handed treatment. But I didn't take any of it to heart.
Deep down inside I knew that I had handled the situation
he had put me in very well. I felt that my behaviour
deserved respect; I was proud of coping so well with even
the most extreme demands.

                         -----

I had two reasons to obey the Marquis and do whatever I
could to please him. The first was to protect Yolande
from his brutal attacks, although he had often enough
demonstrated that exemplary behaviour did not protect
either of us. He didn't need any justification for
punishing any of his slaves.

The second reason was that I wanted to return to my
Masters as soon as possible. I wasn't exactly desperate
to get away from Sainte Jacqueline because of the
treatment I suffered at the Marquis' hands; I was simply
eager to start my life as my Master's and my Mistress's
slave.

When Yolande left - slaves who had reached the end of
their training would disappear suddenly, without prior
announcement - the Marquis did not appoint another woman
as my whipping girl. Maybe he thought I was getting
enough punishment of my own, maybe he just changed his
tactics.

Often, when I was called to his chamber, the Marquis
would simply tie me up and suspend me from the ceiling
while he dealt with another woman as part of her regular
training session. This way I got to witness the kind of
punishment he handed out when he had free choice and no
restrictions were imposed. I saw women throw themselves
at his feet, begging for mercy, imploring him to spare
them any further punishment. I also saw that the Marquis
enjoyed the power he wielded over those women, but he
never gave in to their pleas. On the contrary, those who
begged for mercy were certain to incur the Marquis's
wrath and would be subjected to the most brutal treatment
he was capable of.

I thought about what would happen to those women after
they were returned to their Masters. They would be
trembling in their bones, eager to satisfy every wish of
their Masters, living in fear that they might be sent
back for another turn at Sainte Jacqueline. I thought
about how little this had in common with my idea of
submission. I was looking forward to fulfilling my
Masters' every wish; not out of fear, but because I loved
them. For the Marquis, a slave's mission was to please
her Master, whether this happened out of love or fear
didn't matter to him.

No matter how cruelly he'd tie me up, how awkwardly he'd
suspend me, how much he'd  punish my pussy with his
coarse ropes, how long he'd keep my pussy lips pulled
apart so that they hardly ever closed, even when I wasn't
wearing the cunt-opener, it would have never occurred to
me to beg the Marquis for mercy. My Master had brought me
here to have me trained as a slave. How could I expect
the Marquis to do anything but the complete job on me?

I never managed to develop any positive feelings in
relation to the Marquis. But just as I needed to lace my
pleasure with pain in order to reach maximum fulfilment,
just as I needed someone to submit to, there had to be
some people who got a kick out of administering this
pain, of dominating and humiliating others.

I accepted that there was a need for people like the
Marquis. The only disagreement I had with his behaviour
was that he did not care whether his victims accepted his
treatment or were horrified by it. In fact, to plead for
mercy was to ensure that one would experience the full
brutality the Marquis was capable of. Because of this
character trait I had to admit that he had chosen his
name well. And these women did not want pain, I was sure.
Why did he not simply refuse to take them on? Why did he
not point out that they weren't really suitable and would
never make good slaves - slaves who wanted to suffer to
achieve pleasure?

I concluded that the Marquis and I were really made for
each other - a slave who did not feel any affection for
her torturer and a Master who was never fully satisfied
by the behaviour of his slave.

                    To be continued