Monday, December 21, 2009

Inquisition: Bastinado

I love Madrid, the center of so much, the focus of so many. Spanish women have a fiery way about them, one that leads them to defy just authority and seek out evil paths for their own personal gain.

She was a young woman of about 18 or 19, adult but as yet unblemished by the ravages of childbirth. Long, wild, raven black hair hung in soft, large waves about her face and over her shoulders. Her legs were strong, breasts well formed and her waist thin. Her face reminded one of an angel, with smooth skin that curved over high cheekbones and dark eyes that flashed with light.

She cast a spell over me, for when I first saw her I could think of nothing but her. I wanted her, needed her as I had never needed another woman. She stood in chains before the magistrate, protesting her innocence with a pride that made her even more attractive to me. When she was remanded to my custody for interrogation, my heart beat faster knowing that the path to my possession of her was before me.

Resisting the pull of the guards, she fell to the ground and was dragged out of the hall by her chains. I followed, considering what technique I would use with her. I wanted her body to remain intact, her face in shape, her spirit and life to continue. A good choice – designed to extract the needed confession which would make her completely mine – the bastinado.

Deep in the bowels of the prison, she was dragged down a dark hall, lit only by torches positioned every 20 feet or so. Passing various heavy wood doors, I heard someone call out, whether in pain or in desperation I could not tell. Some other prisoner sensed our presence and begged for mercy which would never come. This was not the place for mercy, it could be smelled in the greasy, soot filled atmosphere and seen on the blackened stone walls.

A chamber at the end of the corridor was reached and as we dragged her inside the torchlight revealed simple stocks in the middle of the floor. As the woman began pleading rather than protesting innocence, the door was closed and I turned to tearing her clothes from her body, ripping material and exposing more and more flesh with each yank. She tried to hold on to the material as best she could but eventually there was a heap of cloth on the ground, and she stood naked before us, skin glistening with sweat in the red torchlight.

Grabbing her by legs and arms, she was lifted twisting and struggling into the air and then placed on the seat before the stocks; to call it a seat is perhaps an injustice, for it was actually a simple thin wooden board, set parallel to the stocks. The board would press into her buttock, causing increasing discomfort in a manner similar to the wooden pony, but less damaging.

Her legs were pulled in front of her and quickly locked in place. She wriggled and pulled, but there was no chance of escape. Yanking her legs back and trying to get free was amusing to watch for a while, for she had a truly beautiful body and was showing us its fine lines with every strain of muscle.

The poor victim’s feet extended out from the wooden stocks, held still and ready for the torture to begin. We gathered the remains of her clothing into a pile beneath her feet, and added some small kindling wood. A torch was removed from the wall, and the cloth began burning. The smoke was choking, and as the fire began to swell I left the room for a little open air in the corridor.

We stood outside as the flames from the cloth surrounded and caught the wood as well; and the woman began to cry out as she realized what was happening. The heat from the small fire was beginning to be painful, and it was time to return to observe, and enhance the pain until it became agony.

More wood was added until the flames licked at the soles of her feet. As the flames came close to her flesh, the girl began to scream in earnest. Her hands were chained behind her back, and her beautiful breasts were moving, up and down, bouncing with her panicked breathing, struggles and screams.

It was time to begin interrogation. I obtained a piece of heavy wood, and placed it between her feet and the flames of the fire below. The girl sobbed, unable to react at first but eventually returning to begging for mercy.

My response was clear. “You may have mercy; but it is in return for your complete confession.”

“NoooOOO! I am innocent, I can not confess that which I have not done!” The girl became defiant in a moment, the anger in her beautiful eyes flashing out at me. I felt the desire for her rise within my loins immediately. I caressed her black silky hair for a moment, placing it in order behind her shoulder so to expose her beautiful Spanish face.

A staff was brought in, and I considered it a moment before taking hold of it, positioning myself at her feet and then swinging it firmly against them. A loud cracking noise indicated a good solid blow had landed squarely on her soles, and she yelped in pain. A second stroke brought a subsequent yelp. I repeated the strokes, again and again.

Repeated strikes against flesh and muscles, penetrating to the bone beneath, builds pain. The pain from the strikes accumulates and becomes agony, and after twenty or thirty strokes of the staff, the condemned girl was screaming hysterically. The constant beating of her feet had produced huge red and black welts. I was certain I heard a bone crack during the last stroke. If she did not confess soon, more of her bones would be broken.

I was tired, and rather than hand the staff to one of the others, we added some fuel to the fire and removed the wooden shield so that the flames could lick her damaged and bleeding feet once again. Blood from her ankles, where her struggles had torn the flesh against the wood of the stocks, mixed with blood from her beaten soles. As the flames rose, this blood sizzled, bubbled and evaporated.

The smell was unmistakable. It began with the scent of the burning wood, but soon a pungent smell of boiling, burning blood was added. Finally, the smell of cooking flesh was added. The raven haired vixen that had enchanted me had grown hoarse from screaming, and as her flesh began to burn the searing pain overwhelmed her and she fainted, falling backward so that her head and upper body hung down behind the narrow board which dug into her buttocks. Her black hair hung down and brushed the floor below her.

I covered the fire once again with the wood shield, as there was no point in further damaging her as she was unconscious. Instead, water was brought, and poured over her naked form stretched and bent backwards behind the stocks. Twice, a bucket was dumped on her, and at the third time she regained consciousness. We assisted in raising her to a sitting position, and then gave her water to drink. She thanked us, foolishly believing we were extending some kindness (in fact, it does no good to have a prisoner faint or die before a confession is obtained, and I wanted her to remain healthy for my own purposes later).

Once again, I queried her, “Are you ready to confess? To accept that you have bewitched men, including the lord chancellor, and seducing him away from his wife? Will you confess that you are a witch of hell, a worshiper of the devil? Confess!”

Her fevered eyes looked at me with bewilderment, and she replied in a rasping voice “I can not confess, for I know not what I am accused, and can not confess to something that is a mystery to me!”

I could see she was no longer defiant, but was still unwilling to confess as she must. I could also tell that she was getting close, losing her will to resist and would soon give the confession that was required. Some additional persuasion would be required, but we would not be long.

The wood was removed, and the heat from the flames brought a gut wrenching scream from her that echoed down the corridor, coming back to us from the rounded stone walls and ceiling. Her naked body writhed with her involuntary spasms as she tried to pull her feet away from the stocks.

A metal poker was placed in the fire to heat and we sat watching the flames die down so they no longer directly touched her blackened and blistering flesh. The iron poker rested in the coals, and in a few minutes was glowing red.

I removed the poker and raised the glowing end to where the girl could observe it closely. She shrank back, and cried out “I will confess, I will confess! Please, in the name of mercy do not touch me with that, I will confess to all!”

I slowly moved the poker back to her feet and pressed it against them, where her flesh sizzled and smoked as her body jerked and convulsed in agony, screaming once again filling the room. Switching feet, I continued the torture, until the iron lost much of its heat.

Her hands were unchained from behind her back, and the document thrust in front of her. “Make your mark!”

She made a shaking scratch on the paper and slumped forward, sobbing and nearly fainting.

“Name the other witches!” I cried out to her. “Name the members of your coven, so that they can be brought to justice!”

“NO! I will not commit others to this hell!”

“Very well!” I yelled in her face, “Then your hell shall continue, until you die and descend to your demon master’s hell! But that may be a very, very long time!”

With this, I took up the rod and swung it at her feet again, producing a loud crack as more bones were broken. She screamed out, released the contents of her bowels over the floor below her, and began babbling names. With each stroke of the rod and crack of new broken bone, another name was revealed. I swung the rod down in her shin where it protruded from the stocks; more names were produced. The shin bone cracked and one last name came from her lips before she fainted once again.

Further attempts to revive her with water failed. She was released from the stocks, the pulp that was once her feet slowly sliding down to the floor, joining her inert body. She was dragged to a cell, where I instructed her feet should be wrapped with medicinal herbs. The jailer looked at me as if I were crazy, for as badly as her feet had been mangled, there was no way she would live without their being removed. However, I explained quickly that I had certain specific, private plans for her and wanted her healthy and intact for the next several days. After this time, they could remove whatever body parts they wished, as she was executed.

I went home, and rested well that night, dreaming of the young woman’s wet body, laying on the floor of the cell, ready for me to take in any way I pleased in the morning.