Before The Clamoring Throng by Lizbeth Dusseau, D/s M/f, Bondage and Whipping
A tale of Old World justice as an adulterous wife faces humiliation and public punishment

“What is this!” the magistrate’s great body swooshed through his chambers with the skirt of his judicial robe whipping like the cloak of death. His imperious eye glared at the accused, inspecting her nose to toes, noting specifically her odd attire.

       “She’s been arrested for adultery,” the Captain of the Guards answered. Snapping the heels of his black boots together, he saluted the Judge.

       The magistrate looked perplexed. “Have I tried her for any crime?” he wondered.

       “No, no yet, sir.”

       “Then put her in some clothes,” he scowled darkly as the woman clutched the two sides of the cloak together to cover her nakedness. “You’re premature to discard her garments before the trial. This is shameful.”

       “Yes, sir,” the starched officer snapped, as he remained dutifully at attention.

       Annoyed, the magistrate grumbled, “Go now!” as he shooed them off.

       Grabbing the accused by her makeshift attire, the Captain of the Guards whisked her with him out the door.

Two hours later, the formal proceedings began. Marie Jolie Gabrielle Antoinette stood before the magistrate in a court filled with gawking gossip-seekers. There were no seats in the Judge’s chambers—as defendants spent little time before the magistrate under such circumstances. At least now, the accused was properly clothed, and handsomely so. She was beautifully dressed in an emerald gown. The color of her broad satin skirt dappled glimmering in the torchlit room. Her low bodice revealed the white flesh of her bosom as it graciously heaved with every measured, anxious breath she took. A thin film of perspiration covered her skin, which only made her look more gloriously seductive to the eye of a lecherous man. Her lips were dabbed with pink, her cheeks pinched and flushed, and her incorrigible green eyes sparked with a flirtatious luster, as though she had plans to woo the Judge.

       He was impressed; but grumbling under his thick beard.

       “The accused’s name?”

       “Marie Jolie Gabrielle Antoinette Gilbere,” the bailiff announced.

       “And her crime?”

       “Adultery.”

       The man stared out at the crowded room. “What’s happened here? Has this province run amok? Are there no true and honest women anymore?” He waited for an answer, as if someone was supposed to reply.

       “I couldn’t say, sir,” the gawky prosecutor finally spoke up.

       “And you, woman! What have you to say for yourself?”

       “I’d beg some mercy from the court and a conference with my husband,” Jolie replied, in a genuine effort to sound sincere, even contrite.

       “Is the husband here?” the magistrate searched the room, finally seeing a man of obvious wealth step from between two guards.

       “Gilbere? That you?” the Judge squinted to see the aging, but dapper looking gentleman. His waistcoat was of the finest cloth, his necktie silk, and his manicured hands ringed in gold. He had a courteous bearing, though a little severe, and an eye that could not look at his wife with anything but complete contempt.

       “Yes, sir, it is Antonious Gilbere.”

       “It is your wife who stands accused? What do you say to that?”

       Jolie looked back longingly at her husband, finding nothing but a cold stare as she sought his mercy. “That she be delivered to this court for trial as an example of the rampant unfaithfulness that plagues this region,” the stern husband replied.

       The magistrate nodded. “You are offended?”

       “Deeply.”

       “My condolences to you, my friend,” the Judge said with some real sadness in his gravelly voice.

       Gilbere nodded and the Judge returned his eyes to the faltering woman.

       “Please, husband, if I could have just a few minutes of your time, alone.”

       “My time for you has expired,” he replied coldly.

       “Sir, please,” she cocked her redhead cutely, as she might have early in their marriage when they still had a marriage in more than name. She offered him a sighing smile that dripped with gracious sweetness.

       “Don’t demean me further with your theatrics, Antoinette. I am not moved nor amused by your cloying antics.”

       “But just one word alone. Please.” Her eyes looked so pitiful.

       He was deaf to her pleas. “Deal with her as you will, Antheus,” Gilbere declared to the Judge. He turned on his heel and strode from the room.

       A roar of amazed gasps rose noisily from the audience.

       Boom! The magistrate rapped his thick staff on the chamber floor to quiet the chattering gawkers.

       “Cage her in the square pending trial. I’ll read the case before the public tomorrow, four o’clock.” He banged his staff again. “Now, clear out!”

The marketplace bustled with frenzied animation. The smell of fresh fish mingled with the aroma of wine, while dust and grime covered everything with a layer of silt, muting colors with the stains of living. Portly men and tall ones, with wives of similar or opposite build strolled through the alleys and lanes, looking into bins of fruit—oranges, grapes and pears—into barrels of fresh-baked bread, at jars of pickles and enormous wheels of cheese.

       For the amusement of this carnival, street musicians played pipes and stringed instruments. A joker or two juggled bottles and apples, while a mellow singing songstress climbed the high pitches of her favorite aria—all this while the magpies of dissent and debate argued politics and reform. Emotions swelled and emotions ebbed as the hours passed, and marketers entered and disappeared, and were replaced by another assemblage of humankind, there to make wagers, buy their stores, and catch up on the scandals and calamities springing from this tiny corner of the earth.

       There was a new felon in the square. Marie Jolie Gabrielle Antoinette Gilbere had been delivered to her cage at ten that morning, thrust into an iron-barred crate where she’d remain until the following afternoon. While her trial was still a day away, she was already on trial before the leering masses. They passed by her new home to see the noblewomen in satin green attempting to fend off the glaring gazes and the merry chatter that accompanied their interest in her. They pointed, jeered and ridiculed the lady in the fancy dress. A few young boys threw rotten fruit that got hung up on the bars. Pieces landed on her clothes, soiling her skirts; and when she tried to close her eyes and close out their taunts, they banged at the cage with sticks and spit and called her names—like whore, trollop, harpy, bitch.

       The worst of the harassment occurred late in the morning and early in the afternoon when the marketplace was the busiest, packed with human flesh looking for a few thrilling moments to take home and dwell on for the week.

       Later in the day, once the children were gone, a few middleclass ladies came to haughtily inspect the adulteress. Their sneering judgment was a reflection of their mirthful occupation with the demise of noble ladies. There had been three in three months to amuse their minds and add to their prattling conversation.

Later… the gavel banged on the massive rostrum, quieting the clamoring crowd. They were obnoxiously loud for a gentle afternoon, but that was the way of public trials in this jurisdiction—they’d become events of huge proportion. People loved spectacle, the human drama, the anguish, and especially at this time, the titillating scandal surrounding these odd rites. With the roar reduced to a murmur of noise, the bailiff signaled the beginning of the prosecution. On cue, the magistrate appeared with his thick, black judicial robe swishing like a sad but mighty sail, hung in the air by a healthy wind.

       The accused had been taken from her cage and was now standing upright in the box.

She had been demeaned, abused, scorned and spit on. She’d been defeated. Though that was the night before… not now. Now, she stood proudly—without the haughtiness common in her bearing, like what she’d witnessed from many of her censors—but with a noble mien, as if she’d tapped into a power beyond herself, and beyond these horrendous proceedings.

       “The accused is being tried for adultery. And how does she plead?”

       “She pleads for mercy from the court,” her defender declared.

       “What witnesses are here to substantiate the accusations?” the Judge asked the prosecutor.

       “Her consort is unavailable for questioning, but we have two others who will substantiate the charges.”

       “And who are they?”

       The prosecutor stepped aside to introduce his witnesses.

       First, the Captain of the Guards testified to the defendant’s seizure—that the accused was found naked in a man’s bedchamber on the morning of her arrest. He rattled off the information without emotion, the first nail in the lady’s coffin. With no questions from the defender, he was excused.

       “And who is next?” the Judge asked.

       “The lady’s maid,” the prosecutor revealed.

       Jolie’s eyes opened as she heard this astounding surprise… and even more so when she watched from her box, as Jacqueline LaPierre, her innocent and virtuous maid appeared before the crowd looking as though she’d chased a nightmare through a patch of briars. Her beautiful dark curls were now a rat of tangles, her face tearstained and drawn; her eyes wild with panic. She was so unlike herself, when her buoyant grin and sunshine face could perk the hearts of those in mourning. She was mourning herself, appearing as though she’d lost her most precious prize.

       “Ah?” the magistrate looked up with interest as the struggling woman was led to the center of the platform.

       Jacqueline tried shaking off the guard whose fingers clutched her arm. But he wouldn’t budge.

       “What have you to say for yourself?” the Judge asked.

       “I have nothing to say, sir,” she spat out defiantly. Having gathered her courage, she looked less frightened and a good deal more certain of herself.

       “You know nothing of this woman’s infidelities?” he probed.

       “I will say nothing to accuse milady.”

       “Nothing?”

       “That is right, sir.”

       “Are you aware of the penalties for refusing to testify?”

       “I don’t care about your penalties. I care about my mistress.” She stood more proudly the more she spoke.

       The magistrate eyed the woman circumspectly. “You say you are the accused’s personal attendant?”

       “Aye, I have been so for three years.”

       “Then you’d be privy to her personal business.”

       “I suppose I might.”

       “Then I suggest you speak of what you know, or the court will find a way to make you talk.”

       “I say nothing, sir. Not a word.” She put her foot down hard as she made her point.

       The Judge’s eyes flashed angrily. “Put her to the post!”

       Jacqueline flinched, but did not object as she was handily taken to the whipping post and strung up to the top so that she had to stand on tiptoe.

       “On her bare back,” he magistrate nodded to the Captain of the Guards, “with the bullhide flogger.”

       “Nooooooooooo!” Jolie shrieked. “I will not have her whipped!”

       The Judge turned his keen eye on the accused. “You have no say.”

       “Should I confess to the crime will you release her?”

       “Is that what you’re doing?” he asked.

       “No, milady, please. I can take the pain,” Jacqueline cried.

       “No, you will not!” Jolie answered. “Release her and I will tell you anything you want to know.”

       The crowd stirred excitedly as the argument continued; but now was hushed to a stray cough, or a whispering parent silencing their child. In the middle of the throng, a tiny baby squalled; but he, too, was quickly quieted, forced to his mother’s teat where he happily consumed his dinner. All were focused on the tense moment between the Judge, the accused and the unhappy witness.

       “You’re prepared to testify against yourself?”

       “Only if this woman is freed. She is innocent in these matters and I wish no harm to come to her.”

       “Please, milady no!” Jacqueline shouted. “They will murder you!”

       “No, Jacqueline, they cannot kill me.”          

       “But…”

       “Silence, wench!” the magistrate declared. “Captain, set the witness free.”

       “I think we should detain her should the accused have lied to us.”

       “The accused has already condemned herself. Let the woman go.”

       Jacqueline breathed defiantly, as she was released from the whipping post. Her entire being burned with indignation, but she would not say a word—not when her mistress had so determinedly put her body in place of hers. She cast a scornful glance at the magistrate and his court, offered the same to the crowd, and then a compassionate glance toward her lady. She wanted to speak again.

       Jolie shook her head, ‘no’ and then smiled. “I’ll be all right,” she mouthed silently.

       No, she wouldn’t, the sad maid understood, but there was no dissuading her mistress when her mind was set.

       “Tell your tale, ma’am,” the Judge ordered.

       “I have no tale to tell, sir. I am guilty as I have been charged, of carrying on a sexual liaison with a man who is not my husband. I pleaded for mercy when this trial began, I plead now.”

       “You have justification for your behavior?”

       “Nothing but a loveless marriage.”

       “That is no excuse for fornication,” the magistrate decided.

       “Then I am guilty, sir.”

       The gavel landed with a thud to quiet a crowd clamoring for revenge. The commotion died and the magistrate spoke again.

       “The accused has been found guilty of adultery. She is to be stripped, caged for humiliation and then publicly flogged. Following this sentence, her husband will determine her fate, and his wishes will be carried out. Captain, you may proceed now.”

       Jacqueline had disappeared, her husband had fled the scene long ago—having been little more than a tentative passerby—and Prince Tasio by design had never showed. Jolie was utterly alone hearing the sentence passed, but was strangely at peace.

Pulled from the box, Jolie stood before the crowd to be humiliated, to be stripped of her garments and paraded naked through the marketplace as she was returned to her cage. This was a daunting moment. Fear seeped through every pore. Her nerves were mangled. But oddly, her body was jumping with excitement as the Captain of the Guards stood behind her and cut the neck of her dress in three places with his knife. Then, reaching around, with a hand on either side of the low-cut bodice, he ripped the emerald satin from her, exposing her breasts to the gaping eyes of the impatient crowd. They leered, jeered and laughed, as the once proud noblewoman was displayed before them.

       Jolie quaked to her core, while she bit her lip trying to avoid the great embarrassment this exposure caused.

       However, the unveiling was not finished. The Captain of the Guards reached in and cut her skirt with his knife, ripping the beautiful garment into shreds. Tossing the pieces at the crowd, horny young bucks surged toward the platform to claim a fragment of the lady’s attire and a better look at her creamy white thighs and the pink triangle of curls at her crotch. Every bit of cloth from her outer garments to her underclothes disappeared, pocketed by a throng that relished each indignity perpetrated on this disgraced woman.

       Marie Jolie Gabrielle Antoinette was not without feeling—though she did her best to disguise the horrible sensations the unmasking produced. Her insides ground as though sharp-toothed dragons were having a vicious war. One dragon wished to die, while the other laughed in its face. Despite this miserable consequence the strangest feeling of thrill brewed within. If it would have served her purposes, she might have shook her fist in their faces. Instead, she remained calm to the insistent crowd who wanted more of her to revile. But there was no more. Her face, her breasts, her pussy and her ass, all her privates were available for their inspection. She had no more they could take from her.

       “String her up now!” the crowd shouted. “String her up!”

       She was to be taken to her cage—lodged there for several hours to be jeered at and further humiliated. But the crowd would not allow that. They wanted more.

       “String her up!” they cried in passionate unison.

       String her up, yes. But that was not all they wanted. The throng rushed forward wanting to take her from the platform and stone her. The kill was in their blood; their history filled with adulteresses punished by a painful death for illicit fornication.

       The gavel sounded. Then the Judge’s staff followed, pounding against the floorboards of the stage. The crowd fell back, but just a step, while they lowered the volume of their insurgent message a few degrees in volume.

       “String her up!” the Judge’s voice rang out loudly. He was just one step away from giving her to the crowd—a sacrificial lamb for their lust to feed on. But this was a civilized country, which had pulled itself from the dark ages of its history. They should be counted on to see these trials through with some decorum, some decency. No, he would not make a mockery of progress letting his own urges get the better of him and the mob have her. “String her up!” he repeated, to get the roused Captain of the Guards moving quickly. He would quell the frenzy with the first stroke of the lash.

       Jolie was manacled at the wrists, her wrists then attached to a free-hanging hook high above her head. Unlike the way Jacqueline had been bound to a whipping post, there was no post to comfort this criminal. Almost as if she hung suspended, her body was accessible on all sides to the assault of the punishment.

       Two executors appeared on the platform, each armed with the implements of her torture. They appraised her, both carefully strolling around her body, both viewing with delight her pendulant breasts and their tiny nipples, seeing the glorious taper of her waist and how her luscious buttocks bloomed like two full petals of a summer rose. There would be lots of flesh to punish here. Jolie’s thighs were resplendent, quivering, and beauteous. How would they look marred from the cuts of a lash? Her appeal as a woman was clearly apparent now. To cause her death would defeat the purpose of such womanliness. Her charms could be enjoyed now in a way few would ever see in such a gratifying manner.

       One executor held a two inch wide strap, the second held a flogger with six dozen falls of braided leather. They began in tandem, one on either side of her, lashing at her body with subtle easy blows at first and working their way up to hard-hitting strikes against the soft surface of her skin. From breasts, to belly, to thighs in front; from shoulders to buttocks to thighs in the rear. They began with a moderate rhythm, then increased their intensity as they moved around her, the strap now in front and the flogger behind.

       The pain bit, but not viciously to start. This simple pace was almost too good to be true. Though it didn’t last. What sensuousness erupted from her desirous body made her arousal soar in delightful anticipation as her mind disengaged. But then the punishment stung, and stung more, as her tormentors paced around her delivering blows she could not absorb and love. If they paused, she might retrieve some of the pleasure; but then it was gone, as the executors revived themselves and worked her body harder still.

       A whip appeared in one man’s hand, replacing the single strap. Continuing his task, this new implement nipped bites in the victim’s reddened skin. Then, it swooshed through the air and landed just short of cutting the skin… She jumped lively with every cut, dancing as if delighted—or when anguished, as if she could run away.

       Stopping to appraise his target, the executor sneered bitterly, then cracked the whip through the heated air at full force—the cracker hitting nothing but the steamy emptiness. But the crowd gasped. In turn, the bound beauty jolted defiantly at the sound alone. But realizing that her body had not taken the blow, she eased and held on, gritting her teeth, sure that the next crack would tear her flesh away. Her punishment was just beginning.

       While the flogger continued to prime one side of her body, the whip made blade-like cuts to the roughed and tender surface. Their combined method made her mad with fear—at the same time, curiously desirous of more. The pain no longer mattered. Her body had been lifted from the anguish, delivered into another state of feeling where all her senses melded together and each new strike brought more sensate wonder.

       She took pride in her ability to contain her cries. And as her breathing deepened, she believed the punishment could last forever in this blessed way.

       This was a foul thing for a condemned woman to assume. Her executors understood their power to raise such feeling in some women—and they knew the path beyond that.

       The whipmaster, sporting an evil grin, reared back as he’d done before and let the whip fly forward, wrapping the side of Jolie’s hip. The frayed end cut like the blade of a knife.

       “Eeeeeeawwww!” she shrieked.

       The whip wrapped her other hip.

       “Eeeeawwwww, noooooooooooo!” she bellowed from a deeper well of passion.

       This pain did not diminish, it didn’t die away, didn’t ease in seconds as the other blows did, but lingered long, biting and cutting, as if there were teeth burrowing into her insides.

       The sharp snaps continued to places more used to pain, and her breathing and fear abated for a time. But then the pace picked up with strikes snapping off her back and ass in a frenzied rhythm. Faster, sharper, meaner… more and more so that she was delirious and crying for mercy, wailing for the end. 

       The crowd quieted as the merciless punishment continued, as if they were so mesmerized by the awesome nature of this spectacle that they could not believe the horror of it, or the beauty of that horror. It struck even the hearts of brave men, and wounded the souls of women unused to witnessing such abject woe. Would it be them next convicted of an inconsequential crime?

       Suddenly, without warning, the punishment stopped.

       An uneasy quiet reigned. For minutes, not a murmur, not a single cough, or sigh, or whisper issued from the audience. There was not a single sound from the victim—nothing until the executors shuffled off the platform and disappeared with their whips and floggers.

       The victim, the beautiful Marie Jolie Gabrielle Antoinette, hung limp, not fainted, but barely conscious. She paid no mind to the flies that buzzed the air or the chill that rippled against her skin. Her flesh was stained with the consequences of her lust, streaked with red, and a few fresh dabs of blood where the whip had broken the skin.

       In time these wounds would lessen, the red would fade and the welts diminish. Some would bruise to leave lingering remnants, and feel tender to the touch for many days. Some red splotches would remain as well, and over time fade to the natural creamy pink of the lady’s skin. Her limbs would ache, her shoulders feel tight; and because she’d been so strained in the position, her wrists would bear a few scars until they also recovered.

       Whatever be the lingering vestiges of her ordeal, however, the worst of it was over for her body. That would recuperate in time. What was left to scar her more intently was the abrupt change in her lush and cultured life… and that change had only just begun.

 

The Saga of a Naughty Lady by Lizbeth Dusseau     Reviewed by Shana Wynn, Copyright (c) 2004 The Saga of a Naughty Lady…aah…and how lusciously naughty she was!  The story begins with an affair of a red bottom and ends with an affair of the heart and soul as well. It tells the story of the wanton Jolie from the hands of her strict lover to the collar and chains of her dream Master. Found out as an adulteress she is sentenced to be caged and whipped before a crowd of jeering townspeople.  She is then sentenced to five years servitude to Sir Marcus Roger.  This begins her arduous journey through submission. She is sold, kidnapped, and ultimately enslaved by the cruel and fascinating Patrick.  Locked in his tower she learns herself, serving with his other women she learns humility, and in his collar she learns her place at his feet.  I have been reading erotica for a long time.  There are books that catch your attention because of a scene or two, that make your heart pound and awaken all your darkest fantasies. Then there are books that involve you in their story from start to finish.  This story is both, every scene beautifully crafted, every dark desire you ever had put to pen and paper.  A beautiful story you will read from cover to cover and never have to skip ahead to “the good parts”. If being on display for a group of Masters, knowing you will be over each of their laps while the rest watch your every squirm, makes you weak in the knees you will love this book like I did!  Judicial punishment, display, slavery, enemas, slave training and more all within these pages exquisitely described and lovingly detailed.  In a word, breathtaking!  I am still on fire!    Reviewed by Shana Wynn Knight