Due Process

(I am a HUGE history buff, and it will probably show in a good deal of my threads, like this one. I love taking historical events and making them even more...exciting.)

(for this, I'd prefer a guy who is dominating...keep in mind, he wants that confession by dawn...not to mention an obedient love slave )

--
It was the terrible Inquisition.
Though Isabella was and had always been a Catholic, she found herself at the mercy of the courts of the Roman Catholic Church of Spain.
She'd gathered from the soldiers who had captured her that she'd been turned in by Guillermo, a local aristocratic boy who was infuriated by her constant refusal to become his lover.
But that was history now.
She only drowsily recalled the events of the ensuing day: her stay in the prisons (she was quite lucky, however, for the soldiers had been instructed not to touch her lest they anticipated a hasty execution), her summons to the house of the local bishop...the rest drew a blank except faint glimpses and commands.
"Take her to my apartment...
"Clear the guards away...
"I shall extract a confession by dawn..."
She saw in her mind the appraising expression of the relatively young Bishop de Carmel when he watched her being carried up the stairs, her dark hair fluttering as she tried to wrest herself free, but then she drew blank.
--
It seemed she'd been sitting in the large apartment for ages, sitting in a stiff chair in a back corner, glancing around the otherwise ornate room: the elaborate canopy bed of crimson sheets and cushions, the large paintings of saints hanging on the gold-moulded walls, the many glittering jewels and metals shining at her from every inch of the room.
She had just rested her cheek on her hand, ready to doze in the warm glow of the setting sun, when the gilded door was thrust open, and he entered, shutting and locking her means of escape as he pulled toward her...

Isabelle

"Why did you bring up here? Why didn't you send me back?"

Bishop de Carmel

I looked at her eyes deeply, the innocence I did not care about. The sheets would be torn, the cushions stained, with blood, sweat, or more, I did not care. Guillermo said she could not be broken, but Guillermo is not I.

I pushed her back into the hard, wooden, chair. Oh, I could have done the same to her into the bed, but, as said, I am not Guillermo. I opened an ornate closet. It was given to me as a gift by my patron. I took out the silken cord and gently, firmly, tied her hands behind her back.

With one hand on the arm rest of the chair, and the other gripping tightly her chin, I told her to confess her sins to the church. It was inconvenient to let my fingernails grow a little long, but dig into her soft face did they, and seeing that small tear welling in their eyes was so worth it.

"I brought you here, dear child, so that you would confess. You shall be sent back once you admit your guilt. You read the Bible, don't you? Tell me what evil things you have done to men to arouse their desires and make them lust for your delicious soft flesh."


Scribe.

She was too shocked and exhausted to put up a struggle as she was shoved into the chair, but she squirmed while he tied her wrists, and continued uncomfortably as he trapped her in the seat.

She looked up at him with a questioning, anxious expression...What was he trying to do?

"Please...I have done nothing, you must let me go...I am innocent!"

She winced in pain as his nails bit into her cheek, his eyes boring into her, seeming to enjoy this little situation she was in.

"I...I know nothing of these accusations, Monsignor," she weakly protested.

against_thewall said:

"I...I know nothing of these accusations, Monsignor," she weakly protested.

Click to expand...

"Ah, but all that is important are the accusations themselves, little one." I loved how she squirmed in her seat, helpless, all mine. My rough fingenails cut into her cheek, delivering pain, and drawing a little blood. The droplet of red was another tear, so more would she shed this night.

"I shall be kind and lenient", I said, in a lecherous sarcasm. I resisted the temptation to lick the blood, taste her flesh. The warmth... the salt... I knew I would taste these sensations soon enough, through her blood. Through her sweat. Through more. She wore a loose... you would not call it a gown, hardly a dress. It was dirty grey, from dirt, or the cloth itself. The seams were sewn sloppily, by prisoners themselves, I mused.

But my mind was wandering. I did see a poorly sewn seam ending close to her neck. Between my sharp fingernails, I easily cut the thread. Once. Twice. Again. Slowly. I quietly spoke into her ear. "My dear, you poor thing. You are covered in dirt. Head to toe. I suspect you are dirty down there, too, hmmm??"

"No, my Monsignor," she faintly spoke, turning her head away."

"Look at me," I said, gripping the fabric and slowly tearing it down. My hands felt to the valley of her breasts, not groping, just feeling. "Oh, my, my love. Your heart. It is racing. Your breasts, they are growing hard. Are you, my dear, becoming aroused?"

Her breath was growing shallow. Her breath, warm. I had only torn her gown above her breast. But it was enough. My fingernails made painful circles in her flesh. Then pressed into her flesh. A line in red, another, another.

"Adultery, my dear."


Scribe.

She again winced, this time letting out a little yelp as his nails cut thin red lines into her skin.

Her cheeks were a bright pink from her humiliation- never had a man seen her like this.

And it was only when it was pointed out to her that she realized how dirty her rag-of-a-dress was, how long she'd been down in the prisons...

how long she had gone without human contact, so that now even as his nails stung her, she felt the unfamiliar pangs of something else too...

Her breasts seemed tender, but her nipples firm; her breathing was shallow and hard; and she could not explain it, but she felt an urgent need to close her legs tightly away from him.

At the words he whispered in her ear, her eyes grew wide in shock and embarassment- her bishop wa saying these things to her!

"No...sir, please..." she continued to beg, still squirming in the seat

"Squirm all you want, my dear." His whispers sofltly reach her ears. His fingers slowly reach down to her nipples, squeezing the tips, soft, then hard. She realized these were the same fingers, whose sharp fingertips drew blood just before.

The space between her legs... he did not touch her there, but as he slowly touched her breasts, they began betraying her. Her legs were closed, but the space felt warm, wet, wanting. His hands slowly travelled down her rags, she could feel his fingernails through them. She cried in revulsion and shock, as his terrible hands then crept up her thighs.


Scribe.

"Monsignor, you can't!" she cried, struggling desperately, trying to escape his touch.

But the hands continued their torturously slow path up her legs, caressing the smooth skin and making her jump slightly at the sting of the nails combined with the unexpected yet still unwanted tender touch...

"No, please, anything but there!" she pleaded, her eyes downcast and teary while watching his fingers slide under the thin rag covering her thighs, feeling their every move as they came closer to her core, her shame...

He could feel her wetness, the hairs above her loins wet with want. His fingertips began massaging her mons, her sensitive nub erect, hard.

"Confess... confess..." he breathed, as his mouth travelled down her neck, biting through the dirty fabric. His teeth bit on her nipple. "Confess to your sins, wretched woman, or I shall make you scream even more. The chair may be hard of wood, but what I shall do next will make you wish you had stayed there..."


Scribe.

Her eyes followed the hand beneath the thin linen, watching as it slid between her legs, then up again, then back into her slit.

"No...I can't...I'm...I'm innocent..." she breathed, each word seemingly punctuated with a panting, ragged gasp from her humiliation, her stress.

She cringed to feel his fingers working in her channel, teasing in her shamefully wet folds.

But she could not bring herself to admit, to confess to something of which she knew she was innocent.

"Innocent? INNOCENT???" he yelled, pushing the chair with force. Isabella's frail body slid across the floor. "You are a dirty DIRTY woman!" he said. "You have a body that tempts men. You lie to me." He paused, breathing heavily. He loosened his collar, and took off his cloak.

"I see your legs refuse to budge. Perhaps I shall make it easier to do that. But I shall not use delicate soft cord", he said, taking out coarse rope. Holding her fast, he bound her ankles, rope biting into her feet.


Scribe.

She blushed brightly at the thought of being wanted by men.

"Please...I am not dirty...this is not my sin..." but her protests were lost in a cry of fear as she was pulled from the chair, her ankles painfully bound.

Sprawled before him, she hardly knew what to do, what to think.

He scared her, he made her flesh sting...yet for some reason, as she lay there, she felt her core grow even more moist while he looked at her with scorn and contempt...

She kept her eyes focused on the far wall, refusing to look at him as he finished tying off the coarse, painful rope that burned as it tightened against her

Monsignor tore part of her rags off. While most of her backside was still covered, part of her back exposed. She could hear him tearing her rags into strips, "Oh god, what would he do next", she thought.

He then blindfolded her eyes. The filthy cloth covered them, forcing them closed. He squatted down, caressing her hair. She could hear him walking across the room, and heard him searching for something in his cloak. "Found it", he said.

He squatted again, and shoved the rough material under her nose. "Smell this, dear harlot. They are my gloves. They are as dirtry, retched, and filthy as you are. Tell me. Tell me what you think I shall do with it. Perhaps if you are right, I shall be more merciful with you..."



Scribe.

She shrieked as her dress was torn away, her eyes covered so that she was plunged into an awkward darkness, her ears strainging to hear everything he was doing.

She grimaced as the gloves were waved in front of her, completely caught off guard.

"I...I don't know, Monsignor...please...stop this..."

Even behind the blindfold her eyes filled with tears, filled with fearful anxiety of what would happen.

The thought of confession slipped through her mind, but still she could not bring herself to do it, even in her panic and vulnerability...

She felt him pressing the stained glove on her cheek. On the other, his hand. The gloveless hand caressed, the gloved hand roughly pressing into her cheek. He lifted her head, she could barely stand. He turned her around, pressing her back against his body. He was fully clothed, yet could feel his hardness through his coarse pants. The ungloved hand held her fast against him, the gloved one pawing down her loosely clothed body. He kneeled down, and she could not help but kneel down with him, her legs spreading apart.

"You must be so wet there," he softly spoke, scornful in her ear. His encrusted gloves began rubbing, mixing dirt with her wetness. "You are a dirty, dirty, woman..."


Scribe.

"No...no..."

She knew it was true. She had felt herself growing moist with each passing minute, every painful second she spent in this captivity.

But she had to deny it...she was not dirty, she was a good woman...

Yet here she was, pressed to a man, the bishop no less, his wretched glove churning the slick wetness between her folds, making her body quiver shamefully in his grip.

She threw her head back, tried shaking off the odd sensations passing through her, not wanting them to affect her, desperate to pull away from him, from his whispers, his intruding fingers...

The dirt and soil of his gloves mixed with her juices. His hips bucked against hers, himself gasping for air. He pressed her to the floor again, his weight on top of hers. The rope bit her hands... her feet... and he raised his glove to her face.

"Smell it, you slut. Tell me you are a sinful woman..."


Scribe.

She could hardly admit it even to herself, but she knew it: he was slowly breaking her.

She had to deny it...she was not dirty!

But as he held the glove under her nose, she could smell herself...she realized how wet, how humiliatingly aroused she had become.

She could feel the tightness of her nipples pressing against the dirty linen, the heat and wetness between her thighs, the tingle up her back as he pressed firmly against her.

Perhaps she was dirty...

She remained silent, tears still streaming from under the blindfold at her torment...

She had become aroused, at the smell of her juices, the dirt, and God knew what on his glove. It made a foul aphrodisiac, and he wanted her to have it.

"Does that not smell sweet, my love? Wish to taste it?" She said nothing. Refusal to speak? Tacit acceptance? "Well, then, taste it. Taste the dirt and your juices on my glove." She felt his finger pressing into tongue. She would almost gag, but she wanted to do more with it instead.

His other hand teashed her pussy. She was crying, but from humiliation, torture, and desire. Face down on the floor, her bent knees kept off the floor her bottom. He started to rub his hardness, into the spot between her ass and pussy. "Tell me..." he said. "Tell me that you want it..."

He did not ask for a confession this time. It was eleven o'clock.



Scribe.

She could hardly believe the torture she was being put through...

She could not ask for this..sshe was good....she was good...

yet, Oh! He was pressing more firmly against her, pushing himself against her most sensitive places, disgustingly yet effectively demanding her acquiescence.

As the taste of herself and the foul grime of the glove filled her mouth she grimaced, so sure she could not give in to this...

But even as she thought it, she let out an unmistakable whimper of need...

Oh, how she wanted to disown her traitorous body!

Still behind her, with his gloved hand, he turned her head, while bucking his hips into her rump. She bit down on the glove -- in defiance? Or in denail of her need? He began forcing his lips on to hers, placing his tongue into her mouth, tasting her saliva, mixed with the grime of the glove. The pain on his gloved finger was terrific, and made him even greater with arousal.

His ungloved hand fingered her pussy. Her juices flowed over his hands, the only clean part of their bodies. Somehow, he managed to free himself from his breeches. His penis was rubbing against the crevasse of her bottom, oozing a slight wetness.

"Oh, no, no!" she cried, blind in her darkness. "Oh please do not take me between my legs!"

"Then," he breathed, hissing "then I shall have your precious bottom..."


Scribe.

She gave a shriek, more of a squeak, of fear. She could hardly think straight in her panic...her teeth loosened their vice grip on his finger in an attempt to protest, to beg for her innocence...

But any pleading was cut off again when he pushed his tongue once more between her lips, muffling her anxious cries and whimpers as she felt his swollen, throbbing member push against her...

and humiliatingly arouse her even more, as her slit glowed brightly from the heat it gave off, her clit positively swelling in unwanted pleasure while her worked against her, slowly driving her into a disgraceful frenzy.

Finally she managed to murmur, between her sighs and gasps, "No...please...not....not..."

"No??? NO???" he said, plunging his cock into her anus. "Perhaps I will NOT give your snatch the release it wants, but surely I shall have my pleasure."

Pumping into her, Isabelle felt herself being torn from inside. She was facedown on the floor again, blindfolded, her hands tied with sash behind her back. Her backside was raised off the floor, her feet tied with rope. The force and pain of his prick alone made her delirious.

She could barely think, when he began frigging her again. His prick disgracing her bottom, his fingers slipping into her crotch. Her clit could not be satisfied with fingers, when she knew of a cock in her ass.

It was difficult to think. It was not difficult to moan.


Scribe.

Her scream of shock and pain echoed in the elaborate chamber as he pierced inside her.

She felt filthy, based...and thrilled at the same time.

Her cries and tears slowly faded and gave way to her moans, partially muffled against the floor but still quite audible to her captor, who continued to pound her with vigor while teasing into her folds with his fingers.

Her clit was positively pulsing as he tugged it, then roughly shoved two fingers inside her tight channel, only to pull them back out, rub her own wetness into her flesh and do it all over again, making her writhe and buck, limited as she was, against his invasions...her body was clearly demanding more, no matter what she wanted to tell him.

Finally, overwhelmed by this first experience, she hit her climax, spilling over him while letting out a loud cry of terrific pleasure, shock and embarassment.

There was no hiding her spasms, the fluid pouring over his fingers, her total submission...

As the Bishop frigged his screaming captive, he continued to pound his tool into her hole. He could feel her tightness gripping his hard shaft. Himself near orgasm, he then groaned as his cum started to flood her body. His fingers felt her bucking under them, juices flowing. Then, as his cock began to wane, he let go of her, her body naked on the cold cement floor.

Silent minutes later, as she was growing colder and colder, she heard his voice. "Isabella. Perhaps I should lift your blindfold? I have entered your dirty disgusting body, and have proof of your filth on my cock." She then felt his penis next to her cheek. Soft and warm, she could feel it slowly hardening against her.

"Or perhaps you wish to destroy the evidence?" he said.

OOC: atw, Lemme know if we're getting into a little too extreme territory. *hugs*


Scribe.