## Archive-name: claudette4^6

From: Fanakapan <doneese@ix.netcom.com>

Subject: Claudette's Story 4/6

Newsgroups: alt.torture,alt.sex.stories.bondage

This document describes fictional events of explicit, sexual abuse, and is intended for mature readers only. If you are offended by such material, or prohibited from reading such material by local laws, delete this document before proceeding further.
This document is intended for personal entertainment and may not be used for commercial gain.

Claudette's Story
iv

"What is your name?"
Claudette stated her name.
"Where were you born?"
Claudette gave the name of a small town in the southern region of France. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-two."
"When is your birthday?"
"It was last month. The fourteenth."
"Ah! Bastille Day," someone remarked.
"Yes, Bastille Day," Claudette confirmed.
"Is that the natural color of your hair," a man asked. Claudette said that it was. "How often do you play with yourself?"

A pause followed before Claudette understood and found herself able form a reply. "I . . . don't remem . . .." Her voice trailed off. All around, faces were looking at her, waiting for her to continue. The question was repeated. Claudette's mouth went dry. She had known she would be embarrassed, yet had been caught off guard. She dropped her gaze to her lap and spoke softly. "Once, sometimes twice, a month." Low conversations broke out around her, but she was not able to make out the words. She sat motionless during the hiatus, keeping her gaze lowered, surrounded by a audience of a dozen or more people, not wanting to see the faces of these men and women who had gathered to watch her be humiliated. Her thoughts turned to the events of the past few weeks.
The time she had spent in the cell, with the man who had hurt her so badly, was a memory. Her breasts no longer ached. But any desire to return to that place would be a negation of sense and reason. In the days that followed her torture, and before the agony in her breasts had subsided, she resolved to acquiesce to any and all abject demands placed upon her. This decision was not an emergence of latent, masochism (she had truthfully confessed to the man that she was unable to bare the thought of pain), but a result of the torment she remembered suffering.

Since that time, Claudette had begun to learn the nature of the place in which she was incarcerated. She knew it as The Chateau, but its location, and even its extent were mysteries to her. She understood that her purpose for being there would soon be realized: that she would provide sexual services for those who were called Guests, but not until after she had been taught how to perform in a proper manner. Saddened beyond words at the prospect of being held against her will as an unpaid prostitute - a slave, in fact - she was, nevertheless, sexually experienced and wondered what more there could be to accommodating some unwelcome man beyond opening her thighs. Her chagrin grew replete after she had been told it was unlikely that sexual intercourse would appear often on her agenda: day-by-day she learned of new ways in which a beautiful young woman could provide pleasure of a concupiscent nature. Pleasure not only for men, but also for the cadre of women who sought entertainment at The Chateau. The appetites Claudette found so disgusting were indeed unnumbered and diverse. Exposing embarrassing facts about herself satiated some appetites, and, although not physically painful, was a degrading experience.
She sat on a high, chrome stool, wearing only shoes and a slim, velvet choker about her throat. One leg was crossed demurely over the other and her hands were clasped around her knee. Her hair, pulled back across her temples, had been tied in a knot at the back of her head and hung like a golden tail over her shoulder. Eyes that were accusing, but lips that had surrendered, created a face of such exquisite beauty that it enchanted. The skin, which had been powdered, radiated softness, but refused to shine in the strong light. On the other hand, her nipples, which had been painted with the same rubiate gloss that decorated her nails, were obdurate, and glittered.

The questioning continued with demands for details of her fantasies while masturbating. She supplied hesitant answers, not bothering to lie, aware that only her reluctance and obvious embarrassment bore witness to the truth of what she said. She explained that a man she had once known casually, but with no degree of intimacy, had impressed her sexually, and featured in most of her current fantasies. She divulged that, on an occasion, she had imagined watching him ejaculate into one of her brassieres. "And then?' a woman wanted to know.
"I . . . put it on," Claudette confessed in a whisper.
"Speak louder. Answer the question again. And look up when you reply," a voice demanded.
"I put it . . . I put the brassiere on," Claudette said in a voice that ensured everyone in the audience heard and understood. There were tears in her eyes by then. Inwardly, she screamed. She prayed for this mental torment to end.
"Why?"
Resigning herself to her fate, Claudette spoke slowly, admitting: "The idea excites me." "Do you also use a dildo to arouse yourself?"
"No."
"Then, how do you stimulate your vagina?"
"W- with my fingers . . . only."
"Explain how you do that. No. No. We don't to see you do it. Describe it to us."
"Your nipples are varnished."
"Yes."
"Does that excite you?"
"No. It irritates." Claudette added: "It's uncomfortable." "You mean it's embarrassing?" a man asked. Claudette hesitated before answering. "Yes," she said quietly. "It is embarrassing."
"Is your clitoris varnished, too?"
A pause; after which Claudette said that was so.
"Show us."

The mood of the questioning turned to menstruation and her feminine hygiene. Claudette was obliged to take her audience through the minutia of her period. The questions became unbearably intimate, eventually bringing Claudette to tears when she was obliged to describe in excrutiating detail how she applied her tampon. On several occasions after that she had to overcome sobs before she could continue. She was asked if her breasts and nipples became sore as that time of the month approached. She admitted they did and, when asked to explain what measures she took to relieve her discomfort, confessed that it was then that she masturbated.

Finally, the topic of sexual intercourse was broached. A woman asked Claudette to describe the entire coital sensation: of a penis entering her vagina; of its motion against her vaginal wall; of her breasts being fondled; of her nipples being suckled; and of semen being discharged inside her. And, of course, what she felt during orgasm. Time and time again, Claudette's description was deemed unsatisfactory, and she would be made to expand on the theme, to be more explicit. She was castigated for using clinical terminology, and, when she resorted to street argot, found that to be even less acceptable than medical jargon. She was urged to use nipple rather than teat or tit. Vaginal canal and cunt were unnacceptable alternatives to vagina. Labia and lips had to be replaced with the lengthy but more expressive 'larger (or smaller) folds of flesh at the entrance to my . . ." The inquisition seemed interminable to her, yet, like all trials, it eventually concluded. It left Claudette mentally dissected. She was drained, and ashamed. That night she cried herself to sleep suffering emotional pain, knowing that she was no longer a person, but a chattel whose responses to any carnal stimulus could be predicted.

This is the end of part four of Claudette's Story.

Last modified (12/24/96 14:15:23) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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