Cruel Devices 3: Forbidden Punishment Collection (Extreme Dark Defloration Bondage)

  Cruel Devices:

  The Complete Collection

  Jacqueline D Cirque

  * * * * *

  Published by J D Cirque

  Copyright © 2014 by J D Cirque

  Note: All characters depicted are over 18 and not related by blood. All sex is consensual.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  PUNISHED AT THE STAKE

  Treading water is taxing my body. My skirts weigh me down, the ocean pulling at my legs. There’s saltwater in my mouth as I watch the ship that’s been my home for the last three months burn in the blackness.

  Before long the entire flaming wreckage is dragged into the deep. Only the odd fiery remnant remains skirting on the surface of the ocean.

  “Help!” I cry out, lungs stiff.

  There’s no response.

  I cannot be the only survivor, surely.

  “Is anyone out there?”

  The moon skits through the clouds overhead. The illumination only makes the scene more terrible.

  I swim to a barrel and tuck myself over it. My legs and arms burn from the effort of keeping myself afloat.

  Perhaps it would have been better to perish in the flames than be taken by a monster of the deep or left to drown, sinking into the ocean’s icy heart.

  The night passes with agonising tedium.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been out here clawing at the soaken surface of the barrel tight against my chest. The ocean swells and shifts below me as I rest my cheek on the barrel’s work surface and drift into a semi-sleep.

  As dawn spans out across the horizon I become aware of a tugging below.

  Water becomes waves and before I know it I’m fighting them, the barrel rolling away and my arms coming back into labour as I spin and see what I hope it not some strange mirage of figment.

  An island shaped like a top hat is before me.

  I swim harder, using the waves and tide to break into the whitewash.

  A beach looms, its pearly sands a beacon with the sun breaking at my back.

  I kick and struggle for it. I send a kind prayer to my nanny for teaching me how to swim all those years ago.

  “Rubbish,” my father had said. “She has no need for such skills,” but she’d taught me anyhow in the dam, both of us nude and free, splashing and laughing in what little sun could be found in the English summer.

  I wash up on the sand gasping, coughing up saltwater and brine as I flip onto my back and stare at the shifting clouds above lit orange, my feet lapped by the waves.

  I pick up the sand with my fingers and watch it drain through.

  Thank you.

  A shadow falls over me. At first I think it is a play of light, but when it deepens and I lift my head, all I can do is scream.

  A dark-skinned individual stands above me, naked but for the woven belt around his waist. His ebony member dangles freely between his legs, the eye of it pointing right at my face. In his hand is a spear, the sharpened point placed on my breast.

  I dare not move.

  He speaks, but I cannot make sense of the words. I’m versed in French and German, even some of the colony dialects, but this is different. The grunts and coarse syllables betray no meaning to my ears. Nothing, however, is welcome about his tone as the spear tip presses harder against the soft side of my bosom.

  “Please,” I repeat, “I have been shipwrecked.”

  My voice breaks and I sound weak. “I am Lady Elizabeth Carlton, passenger on the Continental.”

  The spear point lifts and I take in a breath.

  “Thank you.” I sit, my skirts heavy as I notice more natives arrive from the tree line.

  They come dancing down the beach, circling around me with clear curiosity. For all I know I could be the first white woman they’ve ever seen.

  Just keep your manners. Act cordial. It will see you through.

  The one who found me with the spear cries out and I jump, slapping his hand against his mouth to modulate the tone. It must be a communication of sorts.

  Two large men come forward and lift me under the arms to my feet. Others come forward and study me.

  One attempts to lift my skirts and I give a yelp, pulling away.

  He laughs, teeth shining like tiny teacups in his mouth.

  Another holds my face, squeezing my cheeks together and whipping my head left to right, screwing a finger into my ear. I’m not used to such violation, to such ease of touch, and my cheeks burn a bright and vibrant red.

  Held, I’m led towards the tree line as yet more natives emerge from the thick jungle beyond.

  Again, I try and reason with the men, but it becomes clear my words are falling on deaf ears. These brutes know nothing of such civilised language, pulling me roughly to and fro as we make our way through the jungle and its stifling humidity.

  I’m sweating profusely as we continue to walk, unable to pull my eyes from the naked natives that seem to swim through the jungle with such incredible ease.

  The saltwater has stiffened my clothes. It clots my pores, but I walk on.

  Eventually we come to a flat at the base of the mountain towering into the clouds above.

  It’s a village.

  As I take in the huts, the many colourful artefacts and alters, more native men come out and gather around me, male children and teenagers likewise without clothing bobbing beside me. The bold amongst them reach out to touch my skirts, my face, dancing away in laughter as their elders prod at them with the end of their spears.

  It suddenly occurs to me. Where are the women?

  I get my answer as I’m led down the side of the village into a dark hollow.

  My throat tightens as I see rows of cages, some stacked upon each other. Behind each set of bamboo bars is a female – nude, dirty, their yellow eyes piercing through the darkness.

  One cage sits alone to the side and I’m led over to it. The gate is unlocked and opened, but before I’m placed inside the natives around me kneel.

  A large man steps before me. His body consists solely of ebony, hardened muscled. He’s marked with what appears to be self-inflicted scarring. It’s patterned on his chest and around his groin. His cock hangs below monstrous and I avert my eyes. He takes my face roughly and turns it towards him, his dark eyes searching my own.

  I don’t know what to think of this man, this seeming leader of these animals. His fingers curl at the corners of my mouth as he holds it open, looking over my teeth, down my throat as his cock brushes against my skirts.

  He gives a whistle, a hoot. Someone tosses a knife into the air and he catches it without even looking, twisting the blade against my bodice and sliding it slowly upwards towards my throat.

  “Please!” I beg, the world suddenly paling. “I am a Christian, from England. I mean you no h
arm. I beg of you, let me live.”

  Nothing. The brute does not acknowledge my words. Instead, he takes hold of the top of my bodice with one hand and uses the knife to cut right down the centre of my dress, running through my skirts, slashing and hacking away at the cloth until it streams in tatters from my body.

  I struggle to cover my modesty as he takes hold of my underwear and pulls the banding wide, pulling until it snaps against me and I am exposed fully to the eager throng.

  “No, please!”

  I cry as he continues to pull and cut away the remnants of my clothing and undergarments until I am as naked as the day I was born, the jungle air thick on my skin as hot tears fall from my face.

  There is no more use trying to argue, to save myself. I must accept my fate.

  The brute pulls my hands away from my breasts and pubis, examining me with keen eyes. There’s a twitch at the side of his mouth, a smile perhaps or something far more sinister as with another whistle two men leap up and force me into the cage. The bamboo door swings closed behind me as I sit in the corner, knees pressed against my chest and the damp dirt cold under my buttocks as I moan and whimper.

  The men come together in front of the cage. I cannot make out what they’re saying. Everything consists of nods, sharp gestures with the hands and a series of clucking sounds.

  Finally, it seems like a consensus has been met and the men move from sight to leave me cold, alone and afraid in my cage.

  I look to the other cages on the far side, but their occupants have drifting into the recesses of their prisons, into the darkness and gloom that pervades this cursed island.

  You should never have stepped foot on that boat, I tell myself. You should have forced him to come to you.

  I collapse down and curl up in the dirt. I fold myself into a ball. I wait.

  *

  I do not see the male villagers until night has fallen and an orange flow can be seem emanating from the foliage towards the mountain.

  I spot torches making their way in a snake-like procession towards us. It’s accompanied by a mono-tonal chanting.

  The men arrive and I notice they wear odd headdresses, animal heads, their bodies streaked with white paint and covered in tattoos.

  They proceed towards my cage and I press further against the back of it.

  The door is unlocked, swinging open as hands reach inside and pull me screaming and kicking from my hold.

  I struggle but soon give in, letting them pick me up amongst them, hands on my feet and wrists, as I’m held aloft and led back towards the village.

  I’m shaking, terrified, unable to believe my end has come to this.

  I look around, bare breasts swaying back and forth as I’m marched into the centre of the village and what appears to be a large stake driven into the ground.

  The men place me down. My skin brushes against their own, ghostly in the light of the torches.

  They’re all here, what I imagine to be every man in the village gathered around the perimeter as I’m led to the stake and lifted down.

  It is only now I realise the true horror in store for me.

  There’s a thunderclap overhead as a group of men hold my back against the stake, pulling my arms hard until the joints at my shoulders stretch. I wince as they bind my hands tight together with hempen twine behind the back of the stake, pulling and pulling until my spine is pressed so hard against the wood I am quite sure it will leave an indent.

  When they are satisfied I cannot move, bound to the stake as I am, they file away in a central line.

  View unobstructed, I see that ringed around me is firewood, stacked a foot or so high but oddly with a cleared path down to the middle towards me and a certain circumference around my immediate position left bare.

  One man walks toward the outer pyre and lowers his torch.

  The thought of being burned alive shocks me. I scream, but it does not stop the torch touching down into the sticks and fire bursting to life.

  It spreads fast, soon ringing right around my body as the flames twist and shift in front of my eyes, heat building against my skin.

  What is their intention?

  Do they wish to slowly roast me, feast on my flesh?

  I begin to sweat heavily. My hair flattens against my brow and cheeks as I struggle against the twine.

  Down the central path that has been left open before me comes a lone figure as the rest of the village watches on through the flames.

  As he comes closer I realise it is the leader, the chief. His scarred body is fearsome in the ginger light as he moves with the sly padding of a jungle cat.

  The chief makes his way towards the pyre. The deep scars on his chest stand out in the firelight, his cock a solid bar rising high up his chest. It’s the length of a cutlass, more, a fearsome appendage far greater than any I’ve borne witness to before.

  “Please!” I cry, but he makes no acknowledgement of my pleas as he walks past the perimeter of the fire and towards the stake.

  The villagers begin to cheer and whoop. Drums are beaten as the chief stops before my body. He looks me over.

  I watch the way his inky eyes pause on my nipples, falling down my chest to rest on the sparse thatch of fleece that hides the vee between my legs.

  I’ve seen diagrams of erections in medical books, but the reality is frightening. I can’t imagine how such an organ could possibly fit inside a woman.

  The chief pulls a small knife from the leather belt around his waist and the whooping increases in intensity. His eyes widen as he steps closer.

  I only hear the first swipe of the knife. He slashes quickly, the blade swishing through the air.

  A moment later the sting arrives as I look down and see a thin line of red opening across my chest. The blade has barely touched me, only fleeting enough to draw blood, but already my head swims and dips with wooziness as the fire continues to rage around us and sweat drips freely from my brow.

  Ffffwit – The chief slashes away in an arc and I scream as another line of red brightens across the body of my breasts, running right under my nipples. Thin trails of blood run down my skin as the blade moves again and another line opens up just above my sex.

  My head lolls, heavy.

  If I am to die by the blade, let it be quick.

  But the chief pockets away the implement and smiles, pleased with his handiwork.

  He reaches up and squeezes my breasts. I buck and twist against the stake, ashamed as he manhandles me. His fingers pull and rub at my nipples until they betray me, standing as hard, dark knots. A pang of pleasure runs from the sensitive buds directly to my sex, moistening below against my will.

  The brute is not gentle, knows not of the art of seduction, but his hands do the required job.

  He lifts my breasts up and lets them fall down, watching with curiosity, weighing and kneading them as a pearlescent dot of clear fluid bubbles at the tip of his cock.

  My fate is sealed. There can be only one outcome.

  He roughly grabs the underside of my thigh and lifts one leg high until my sex splits and opens.

  Tears flow hot down my face as his body comes against me, his coffee-coloured skin leathery and warm against my pale flanks. The head of his cock presses into my abdomen as he licks the side of my face, my tears swept away by the porous surface of his tongue.

  He lifts my leg higher, holding it under the knee and spreading my cunt wide as he squats, lowering his cock and placing it at the heated entrance to my sex. It sits in the folds as he raises his hand and everything falls silent. The villagers watch mute, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the deep thumping of my heart as it threatens to abandon my body.

  “Please,” I whisper to the chief, eyes blurry, “I am a virgin.”

  It doesn’t matter. He thrusts upwards, parting my folds and skewering my maidenhead fast to plunge deep into the wet passage beyond.

  I shriek in pain, the burning sting as my innocence is lot to this creature of the wilds.


  He pulls back and thrusts upwards again, the twine biting hard into my wrists as I lever upwards, my foot leaving the ground as he manages to stuff almost half of his length into my tiny hole.

  He is massive inside me, a rigid length stretching and filling me. He pulls himself free and thrusts forward, down and up, down and up as my sex slowly begins to expand, soaking wet as he drives yet more of his length inside.

  There’s a lurid, squelching sound as he defiles me, his head against my shoulder as he grunts and heaves, balls swelled thick and ripe as plums, swinging against my thigh as he presses my knee higher still and my leveraged sex allows even more of him into its waiting depths.

  I give in. I let him fornicate away, using me as if I’m little more than a common street walker, distending and widening my womb with his cock until pain gives way to pleasure and I can no longer make the distinction between them as his pace quickens.

  A drumbeat starts up, a gentle thud, thud, thud to match the timing of his thrusts.

  He is an animal, snorting and biting down into my skin as he fucks me, finally bottoming out in the deepest recesses of my cunt until I’m quite sure his cock will soon break through my stomach and ruin me. By some miracle I swallow his beast. I take it whole even as it presses out my very skin.

  His hands fall to my buttocks. He squeezes his fingers into the supple cheeks, hammering me relentlessly against the stiff stake at my back, each thrust shaking it in the ground as I’m pummelled.

  My core swells with sensation, the top of my sex heated as he comes against me, pubis matted to my own with sweat and the secretions of my sex.

  “No, god,” I whimper, but he does not listen. There is no blinding flash of lightning to save me, even as dark clouds begin to brew overhead.

  Why, why me?

  My questioning goes unanswered as the beast grips me tighter and his fingers cleave into the crack between my cheeks. They seek out the twisted pucker there and I gasp aloud, unable to comprehend why my body betrays me so.

  It stirs, builds, the drum beating faster and the villagers just silhouettes through the flames as the beast impales my flesh.