Helena Robertson - Mousse

Barral stood by her side, his stick in hand, and the monk sat behind the young woman facing the bare round buttocks.

Then, while he was touching with his hands the bare flesh, he confessed her, making her admit little by little all her menial sins, and insisting on the sexual caresses that she had either received or given.

Then the monk said:

“For your penitence, my child, you will offer the sacrifice of your modesty, and then later, you will receive on your colossal ass, the punishment that it amply deserves. After, and only after, will you be authorized to be purified by us all.”

He got up and they freed the girl. She got up, blushing under the shame, and took a look at her captors. They were all holding whips.

The monk ordered: Take your dress off.”

She looked at him, and remained motionless. A cry. Barral had just stroked the bare behind. She moved away, and backed against a pillar. They raised their whips: “No… No… Not that, I will do whatever you want me to do…”

And, breathing heavily, she unhooked the front of her dress, let it slide, revealing the round shoulders, the muscled arms, the rather thick legs. She remained with only a short white linen blouse, all embroidered, and so transparent that one could see the brown flowers of her teats.

“Lift your shirt and show your belly.”

She looked at the monk, hopeless; two more blows reached her between her thighs, then crying, she took the material between her fingers, and lifted it up. The men could see the velvety pubis, the thick fur of ebony black hair.

“Higher…”

Facing the raised sticks, the girl lifted her shirt higher, and they could all contemplate the round belly, the deep navel. They left her in that posture for a long time, and then the monk ordered:

“Take it off…”

A stick whistled in the air. The bride shivered, and her shirt fell around her ankles. She was then completely naked except her white stockings, her white gloves, up to the forearm, and her white veil. A rare vision. Voluptuously, they contemplated her. She was expecting the end of her torture, her eyes closed.

The monk looked at Barral who showed him the rope hanging from the ceiling. They came to the girl, and before she could only react, they fastened her wrists in two leather bracelets. She was then like a pink Y hanging from the ceiling. Her breasts, propped up by this pose, were even more suggestive.

They came to her.

“No, no, please let me go. I refuse. No. Aaah.”

She could not help crying under the odious caress of the hands on her breasts, on her buttocks, on her cunt. They were sucking at her nipples and caressing her between her legs. She was shivering and trembling, trying to free herself from the ropes that were holding her prisoner. But in vain. She kicked the monk with one foot; he came by her and gave her a couple of severe blows, then he put her ankles in two other leather bracelets that were tied to the ground. Now she was like a capital X, completely open, offered to the desires of her tormentors.

“Ah, you are like a wild horse, eh? Your breasts are sensitive? I am going to harden that flesh then…”

They both came, Barral and the monk, and took a breast in hand. A continuous lament filled the room, that had Janine shivering in her closet. The woman was twisting in the ropes that were maintaining her and the men were pressing her teats in their hard and nervous hands. They shook them, pulled at the ends, pressed the globes, lifted-the whole globe by the nipple. The pain must have been insufferable to judge from her cries. The tortured flesh was lapped, whipped, pinched, squeezed. Then they stopped and looked at her shivering body.

“Now little girl, is one getting wiser? Now you are ready to receive the caress that will transform your horrible teats into real breasts.”

Barral takes a cat o'nine tails in hand. The monk sits by the two country men, completely loaded and not realizing what is happening. Barral then raises his arm, and methodically starts an intense beating of her breasts. The young bride tries to escape, but in vain. One can see the muscles shiver under the contraction at each blow.

The lashes are encircling the globes either from the bottom to the top or vice versa; the flesh shivers and undulates under the blows. Barral feels that he is reaching the limit that he cannot pass without it being dangerous for the girl. He stops. He takes one of the brown, erected nipples between his lips, but then turns to his friends:

Those ain't big enough yet.”

“We will have to elongate the things,” replies the monk.

“Very well,” says Barral and he takes a pair of tweezers-the old type used for laundry- and he attaches them to the nipples. The woman screams under the squeezing of her delicate flesh. In vain; they are all admiring the show of that woman with her breasts stretched by the action of the tweezers.

Barral feels a sadistic pleasure in pulling at the wooden things, and stretching the solidly maintained nipples to make the treatment more painful. The woman is moaning, her temples are painful under the blood pressure suddenly increased by the pain in her breasts. Barral takes the tweezers away and watches the color come back to the painful extremities.

“Those aren't really long enough,” says the monk who knows Barral's passion.

“I know a way,” replies Barral. He takes two thin ropes ending with a loop. Quickly he encircles the nipples, and then, squeezing the flesh by pulling at the rope, he tightens his grip on the teats. Holding the ropes, he pulls slowly. The breasts are stretched monstrously; the girl looks in complete horror, at her distended bosom that elongates more and more. Now the breasts are nearly completely horizontal, held by the tips. As Barral pulls harder, the pain gets more violent, and she cries, twisting her tortured torso. But Barral now turns the ropes and the breasts are undulating under the action of his hands, like two puppets.

But now the girl is hollering, and after two more violent shakes Barral leaves the breasts and unhooks the two ropes, deeply pressed into the teats. He sucks at the breasts for a long time, while his hands are caressing the girl's sex, and deeper, between her legs. She quivers. His finger had just touched her virginity. He does not insist, but keeps sucking at the teats, and looks at them.

“But those ain't got no holes in them. I will have to do that right now, or you could not feed your coming sons.”

Horrified she sees him take the needles…

Then one by one, Barral takes the needles, each tipped with an artificial pearl, and he sticks them in the woman's nipples, not deeper than a couple of millimeters. The pain is not too violent for the woman after all the other tortures that her breasts have undergone. But she keeps her eyes closed and sighs slowly. There are already twelve needles in the right nipple. Barral now comes to the other one. There is hardly a drop of blood. He is, doubtless, an expert.

Moving backwards, Barral contemplates his work, and says to the monk, “Now it is your turn to inflict on that young child the last chastisement that she deserves.” And he gives him the cat o'nine tails. Then raising his arm high over his head, the monk gives the bottom a hard beating and soon enough the result comes. She undulates in the most suggestive way. But Barral gets up, and gets a mirror that he places, slightly sideways, under the bridged legs. They can all then contemplate her most intimate parts, offered and distended by the pose that she is obliged to endure, a pretty virgin's slit with the pink lips shaded by the pubic hair, slightly parting in the middle of her buttocks.

And while the whip caresses the bottom, reddening under the correction, the little mouth seems to open and implore in the language of virgin cunts, some mercy from her tormentors.