News at last! Don Alfonso Suarez sat in his cabin and listened intently while Pedro Montoya, one of the many spies he had seeded along the North African and Levantine coast told his story. He could barely restrain the impulse to leap from his chair with glee, but maintained his control. When the man finished, he said, "Fifty reales if what you say in true, Pedro, but fifty lashes and a hanging if you are wrong. Go below now and tell the bosun to find you a bunk. You stay aboard until I find out."

Suarez was the Captain-General of a ship commissioned by His Most Catholic Majesty, Charles of Spain to sweep the seas of the Moorish corsairs that so plagued the country with their predations on Christian shipping across the Mediterranean. For the past three years he had prowled the waters seeking them.

Many were just opportunists, hoping to catch a boat small enough that their own small crew could overpower and loot its equally small cargo. They steered clear of the larger cannon-armed ships and were vigilant in watching for Spanish frigates hunting them. Capture meant death or slavery, an often worse fate. But there were a few professional pirates with the skill and means to take all but the largest merchantmen. These were Alfonso's primary target. There was Ismael Abu-Bakr who had terrorized the Levant for years, but he was taken a few months ago by Captain-General Carlos Montoya and his Santa Catalina – may the Madonna rot them both – who had the incredible luck of catching him at anchor in Sidon. Most of the crew were ashore and so out of his grasp, but not Abu-Bakr who he took in chains back to Spain. Abu-Bakr was a proud Mohammedan heretic, not even a converso, so the Holy Inquisition required no confession to execute him at the next auto da fe, but at least his depredations were costly enough that he was publicly flayed before his burning.

The most bothersome of the Mediterranean pirates though was Stijn Janszoon, a corsair who had been operating successfully almost a decade. Since taking command, he was Alfonso's obsession. Janszoon was a Dutch Catholic originally recruited by the Knights of St. John, a military order of the Knights Hospitaller – the Templars on Malta. A skilled sailor, he was put to work patrolling the North African coast to protect Christian shipping and free captured Christian slaves, the very task Suarez now performed. By all accounts, it was a service he performed very well. Only the Hospitallers didn't pay for his services nearly as much as he could make preying on merchant ships – and the richest sailed under the flag of Spain.

There was more to the story that earned special enmity from the Inquisition, hidden facts and secrets Alsonso had worked to unearth. On one schooner the Dutchman took while still working for the Templars there was a passenger, Dona Ruth Cardoza, the daughter of a wealthy Jewish Andorran family. Sixteen with coal black hair and light olive skin, Janzsoon was smitten; as was the lovely young Jewess. Without permission from any social or religious convention, they eloped to Cyprus, paying both an Eastern Catholic priest and Hebrew rabbi to officiate. Less than a year later she gave birth to a daughter they named Sofia. Stijn doted on the little girl, calling her by the affectionate diminutive, FiFi. While Ruth's parents objected to her marriage a common sailor – let alone to a non-Jew – the little granddaughter's infectious personality soon captivated them as well. Ruth remained in Andorra, only seeing her husband long months between when he could get away from his ship. Astonishingly, it was a secret he kept hidden for years, even after his turn to piracy. He well knew the merciless savagery of the Inquisition and what they would do to his wife and daughter should they find out. So Suarez sailed and hunted, always praying to the Madonna that she would place the accursed Dutchman within his grasp.

Of course, he also had to serve the Mother Church, another duty he performed with enthusiasm, although not for the reason the Pope and priests thought. The ship he was given was christened Madre De Dios, the "Mother Of God," and surely no ship had ever been more inappropriately named. Not nearly as large as the massive Portuguese carrack with the same name that plied the oceans to and from the Far East, it was a small brigantine with two masts square rigged, designed for merchant work in the Mediterranean, but repurposed with a much different mission. Don Alfonso immediately modified it to new specifications: Benches and ports were added fore and aft of its cannon for oars, giving it the advantages of a galley as needed if the wind wasn't sufficient. By using lead shot instead of stones as ballast he was able to enlarge the gun deck between the main and the lowest that berthed crew and held stores without sacrificing stability. In it, under the bow and forecastle, he had eight cages mounted to the deck. Then aft of the small iron crates, he equipped it like one of the dreaded dungeons of the Inquisition, complete with rack, spiked iron chair, even a sharp-wedged oaken Spanish donkey. This devilish device he ordered mounted athwart the deck so the victim's body would sway back and forth on the edge to the rolling of the ship. The overhead was just high enough that prisoners could be spreadeagled upright to metal cuffs above and below with enough space to swing a short cat o' nine tails or cane. Its crew called it El Dolor, the "Misery," a much more apt name.

He began to patrol the coasts for the Barbary corsairs. With every one he captured, the officers would be taken below and tortured for any knowledge they might have on Captain Stijn Janszoon. While the pirates were his priority, the Dutchman in particular, he didn't limit himself to them. He would also attack simple Moorish vessels that had the misfortune to cross his path. Once captured, most of the crew were taken to the slave markets of Algiers or Tunis and sold, but a few, the pirate officers and younger women, were locked naked into the cages, taken out one by one to suffer torture at the hands of the ship's bosun, Juanito Gonzalez, the second mate under his command. His first name meant "little Juan," but like the ship on which her served, it was grossly inaccurate. Just the sight of the bosun was enough to inspire terror. Squat, barrel-chested, bald, and almost grotesquely muscled with a face that carried the evidence of countless waterfront brawls, he thrived on brutality and was merciless in its pursuit. Years before, he developed the tactic of ramming his right thumb into the mast to strengthen it, then filed the nail into a fearsome pointed and razor-sharp weapon. More than one pirate on the coast was missing an eye because he thought his brandished knife held trumps against the blade-less bosun. For days after a ship was taken, screams and maddened pleas could be heard by the crew from below.

With the winds of political change sweeping the land there was instability within the old social order – and fear. France warred with Spain. Both warred with Moorish North Africa with conflicting religions fanning the flames to ever greater extremes while wealthy mercantile families manipulated the leaders of all to their own desires. While land-rich, the Andorran Cardozas were on the edge between both religious factions and the French and Spanish royal machinations. As Jews, they were both reviled for their faith and envied for their wealth.

With a price on his head from all sides, Stijn was in a quandary. There was no way he could go to the peaceful vineyards of Catalonia to see and protect his family, but also no way he could remain at sea and hope for the best. So he sent a trusted man ahead with a small chest of money to bring his wife and child. The Cardozas fled to Renaissance Italy where they were safe. They begged their daughter and young Sofia to accompany them, but could not dissuade Ruth from rejoining her husband, despite the danger.

It was a dark night with no moon when the small boat brought it's precious cargo to the anchored ship. The captain and his lady Ruth embraced. "Is she safe? "Stijn asked. "Is my FiFi safe?"

"Yes, my beloved, we are both well – safe now that we are with you. I sent her to the small cabin beneath yours. She will come up to bid you a good night before going to bed."

Janszoon was sitting at his desk looking over a chart when there was a soft knock on the cabin door. "Enter." It opened and a young woman came through. Stijn looked up then jumped to his feet with a most sailor-like exclamation of surprise. "FiFi! What are you wearing? Look at you!"

"Oh, Papa! You are the one!" she said playfully. "I found these clothes in your own storeroom! I went looking for something to refresh my road clothes and found these." She lifted her arms and pirouetted with that infectious joy she always exuded. "Oh, Papa, they feel so loose, so free! I so hated those long fancy dresses. Please, Papa. Please can't I wear this?"

Stijn didn't know what to say. Where his daughter had unearthed the chest that held them, he couldn't imagine, but did remember the original owner, a lusty Venetian and one of the very few female corsairs. He had entertained her onboard a few years back. He heard she went down with her ship, trapped in shallows near the Balearic Islands. She had been a bold, even brazen woman and dressed in a way designed to both excite men and free her limbs for close-quarter fighting. While they looked very good on her they were scandalous on his darling FiFi. He decided to deflect the question.

"What did your mother say?"

"Oh, she hasn't seen it. She can be such a prude. It feels so nice, so . . . so happy." The young woman pirouetted again with her hands lifted high. "Oh please? Can't I wear this a little while? Just for one night? It feels so naughty. I will take it off in the morning before Mama sees it. But please let me wear it tonight. Oh, Papa, it feels so good!"

Amused, the man sat down and leaned back. "Oh, very well – but only tonight! And only in your cabin. Your mother would have my head, my HEAD I say, if I let you show up on deck dressed like that."

Stijn could only smile as his beautiful Sofia happily danced out of his cabin to her own. What a treasure she is, he thought. He bent back over the chart.

Then he felt a muffled thunk. A nothing noise, really, hardly worthy of the name. A bump. Yet a captain knows every tiny noise his ship makes. Every sound as the wind plays with the sails and the sea teases its hull, attuned to its every sigh and groan. Likely nothing, but still – something. He rose from his desk and, even as he reached for the door, it burst open, filled with Spanish soldiers brandishing pistols and cutlasses. "Do not," one commanded as he reached for the pistol he always kept on his desk. "Your ship is taken, Signor. My orders are to take you alive, but I will still be rewarded even if you are dead." Stijn held his hand above the weapon, then the moment passed and the Spanish men grabbed him. Then he heard frantic female screams from the passageway without. With a roar of rage, he lurched up only to have the back of his head hit with a pistol butt and then all awareness fade.

He came back to fitful consciousness as a bucket of water was dashed over his head. Stijn jerked back only to find his wrists locked into iron cuffs attached to an oar. He was also naked. He heard a throat clearing and looked up to see the face of a Spanish officer smiling down at him, the expected narrow face, the meticulously trimmed chin beard.

"Captain Janszoon, this is indeed a pleasure. I am Captain-General Don Alfonso Suarez, your host." He gestured at the oar bench. "I regret that I can not provide better accommodations. A mariner yourself, you recognize a galley when you see one. I had my ship modified to enable oars in addition to sails when the situation requires. Your ship's lateen rig let you sail closer to the wind than my square sails and the bay where you hide is surrounded by hills so not enough wind. Hiding in the very backyard of your pursuers was clever, even inspired. But for one of your crew you beached, I would never have found you. But find you I did. A galley doesn't require wind, does it? So I muffled my oars. A couple of small boats with crossbow men to take out your lookouts and here we are.

"Now you are wondering why you are up on deck and not locked in a cage below. Look around. I usually have my own men doing the rowing, but now I have a whole new group of volunteers – your crew. I should thank you for choosing this cove. Once I get out of this bay, with the oars and the sails, I should be in Barcelona by sunset where I shall present you to the governor who will reward me. Very handsomely, I would imagine. Oh, but look. The bench beside you is empty. That won't do, that won't do at all. I need to have every position manned for the best speed." His face broke into a big grin. "Well, 'manned' isn't really the right word. Or, at least the complete word." He turned and made a beckoning gesture with his hand. Stijn heard a cry, a woman's cry and looked back over his shoulder. A woman was being dragged along the deck, a naked woman. He groaned. No, oh dear God no. It was Ruth, his wife.

The nude woman was still sobbing as the huge man holding her yanked her to the oar station and dropped her down to the bench. It only took a moment to lock her wrists and ankles into the waiting shackles. She looked to her husband, whimpering in terror.

Suarez looked down at her, approving. Just shy of forty, he knew, yet but you would scarcely know it from her appearance. She was handsome in a slightly exotic way. An excellent body all around, too. Well fleshed, but not heavy. His gaze was especially drawn to her now exposed breasts. Despite her age they still possessed a fine shape, mature, but nicely formed. She must have been a rare beauty when she was young. But I don't really have to guess what she looked like then, he thought.

Just the night before, after the pirate ship was secured, two of his men had discovered Sofia hiding behind a coil of rope and brought her to him in what had been her father's cabin. He couldn't help staring as she struggled in their grasp. So this is the daughter, the misbegotten spawn of his heresy. She certainly isn't dressed the way I would have expected. The girl was still wearing the corsair outfit that had so surprised her father, a dark brown skirt sitting low on her hips. The middle from knees to upper thigh was cut away and adorned with a fringe of lace. Her midriff was exposed. The torso above was enclosed in a kind of bustier of the same dark cloth with straps rising over her bare shoulders. Black and white striped sleeves extended from upper arm to leather cuffs at the wrist. Under the corset she wore a white blouse with a fringe of lace that contrasted sharply with the dark brown – and that blouse was filled almost to overflowing by the young breasts beneath. Large and round like ripe melons, they strained the cloth that held them. The corset also had a wedge that rose up between them halfway to her throat that cupped the mounds, lifting and separating them provocatively. Alfonso could just make out the slightly raised points at their tips. Madonna! Just look at those tetas! Just the sight of them, still hidden by the bodice, had his sex stirring inside his trousers.

He was strongly tempted to dismiss the sailors so he could tear her clothes off and fuck her right here and now, or even better, have her taken to the gun deck of his ship and do it there. Nothing stimulated him more than inflicting torture on a nude young woman and this one promised superb amusement. He put the thought aside with a great deal of effort. Finding her was an unexpected bonus to the capture of his hated enemy, but perhaps he could use her to curry even more favor with the governor and some select – and powerful – nobles in Barcelona. And I know exactly how to do that. Yes, the more he thought about it the more he liked the idea.

"Take her to the Madre and lock her in the small guest cabin." He turned the full force of his stare on the two men. "But do not touch her, or abuse her in any way. If I find out you disobeyed my order, I will have Juanito teach you the meaning of pain before I hang you." He saw both faces visibly pale at the threat. They had heard the screams of mortal agony come out of the lower deck after a buccaneer ship had been captured, then seen the bosun emerge from the hatch, shirt and hands covered in blood. They would obey, alright. "Put the woman into a cage." He had plans for the strongest prisoners. The remainder would be taken to Algiers on the captured sloop and sold as slaves.

At the oar bench, the bosun eyed her hungrily. He reached down and and roughly groped her left breast, making her squeal in pain.

"Bastardo! Hijo de puta! Puta madre!" Stijn yelled at him. "Bastard! Son of a whore! Motherfucker!"

Alfonso heard him and said, "That is no way to speak to your hosts, Captain Janszoon. Gonzales! Show the captain the price of rudeness."

The large man released the woman's mound and took a whip from his belt, six thin sisal cords on a wood handle. It was periodically dipped in sea water to add weight and make the cords curl better over the skin. Raising his powerful arm, he brought it down four times to Stijn's back. The blows drew grunts, but no other reaction.

"I don't think that taught him the lesson, Gonzales," the Spaniard said. "Teach him that the price of disrespect earns other penalties." The brute smiled and then swept the whip twice across the woman's vulnerable bare shoulders.

"Ahhhhhh! Ahhhhh! Ahhhhh!" she cried in pain.

"There, pirate," Suarez barked. "Now you know that any further incivility will earn both of you punishment." He paused. "And I expect both of you to pull your oar well. My bosun here will keep you motivated. He is good at that." Gonzalez had been warned earlier to control his more bestial instincts with the Dutch captain and his woman. He wanted them – especially the man – to be fully aware during their coming ordeal.

"Well, it is time to get started if I expect to make Barcelona by sunset." He turned and walked aft to the quarterdeck. "Cast away!" he commanded. South by west, helmsman." The Spanish crew swarmed up the rigging to unfurl the sails. A few savage blows with the bosun's whip and the oars started moving. The Madre De Dios didn't have much freeboard to the gunwales, the distance from the water to the upper edge of the hull, so not much rise for the inboard position where Ruth sat.

Yet even with the ordered restraint, it was only five hours before Ruth was too weak to continue the grueling work of the forced rowing and the lashes she took. Juanito was able to encourage a little greater effort briefly when he employed the usually successful tactic of dousing her abraded and bleeding back with a bucket of sea water, but the effect was only temporary. The woman just wasn't strong enough for the arduous work of repeatedly pulling the heavy oar.

Alvaro expected it, of course. He watched the naked woman's body move, barely conscious, above the heavy oar while her husband tried to compensate by using his much greater strength to continue the rowing. Smiling to himself, he waited another hour before intervening. He walked to the bow above their bench and looked down. He clucked as if with disappointment. "Here I thought Jews could toil with the power of their almighty god. I guess I was wrong." He waved the bosun to him. "Release the Jew bitch," he ordered. "Even if she can't aid with the oar, she can still ride it." Gonzalez smiled. He knew exactly what his Captain-General meant. He too had been waiting for it.

He ordered another sailor take hold of the end of the shank to keep it still, then unlocked the exhausted woman's wrists, but she was not removed. Instead a heavy bench was placed on the deck in front of the one she was on. He picked her up and sat her on it. Next he lifted her arms over the oar then tied her wrists so the rope crossed her stomach. Only then did the true horror of this new binding become apparent. Now the front of her naked body was exposed so when the oar was back at the finish of each stroke it faced the sky. The wood shaft pushed the against the shoulder blades to force her chest out and particularly offer her bare breasts to his attention. He laughed and reached for them again, squeezing each roughly. He spoke into her ear. "There signora, these fine tetas of yours aren't hidden by your arms any more. I've been looking forward to treating them to my whip and now here they are!" He made an evil snicker. "That pretty mico between your legs, too!" Stijn could only watch in anger while his wife was tied to the oar, biting his tongue for fear of earning her more abuse by insulting the beast or the gloating Spanish officer. There was no act too vile for these bastardos. Oh, dear God he prayed silently, please don't let her suffer this way. Please spare her this cruel indignity. But there would be no pity this day, from God or the Spanish animals.

"Release it," Suarez told the sailor and the blade was allowed to splash back into the water. The ship had never stopped moving during the change to Ruth's binding and the oar immediately moved back by the force of the water so the woman's breasts lifted upward. The bosun immediately swept the whip down so the thongs curled over and embraced the naked globes.

"AAAAAAARRRRRRRHHHHHHHH!" she screamed, wrenched back to full awareness by the hellish pain.

Stijn fairly rammed the oar back to its forward position so the woman's front could bend over hiding it from the whip. He used all of his strength to keep it there, the end lifted above the water. Gonzalez brought the cat across his back repeatedly, abrading the skin so the ends were wet with blood. He was doing it more out of his compulsion for brutality than to make the pirate resume rowing. He knew the end was inevitable. Finally Stijn roared with fury as his strength failed and the oar blade dropped into the water. The motion of the ship forced it back toward the bow and again presented Ruth's chest to the whip. Gonzalez struck immediately, straight across the middle of the helpless breasts again. WhisssttSCRACKT! "HEEEAAAAAAH! OH GOD! OH GOD, OH GODDDD!" Laughing, he swept a second stroke across them before her body bent forward. "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"

For the next few hours, their ordeal continued. The bosun turned the basic whip work over to the first mate. "Keep the corsair swine rowing, Raphael," he told him. "You can even give the bitch a couple on those plump tits, but that's all. The captain an' me be the only ones who gets to ruin 'em, comprende?"

The mate did as he was ordered. He relished the way the woman's fleshy breasts bulged before dancing on her chest to each lash, but still limited himself to three strokes on them. No one disobeyed the bosun if he wanted to live. And there was another, more inexorable, source of suffering for her. Under the bright morning sun, the woman's pale skin soon displayed its effect, blushing from the burning rays.

Two hours into the onerous ordeal, the bosun returned, standing above her. He had one more additional refinement to her torture he had been saving. Gonzalez watched and timed the motion, then when the oar was at its fullest forward reach and the woman's sweating naked body at its fullest vulnerable exposure, he swept the whip up over his head and brought the rope thongs down viciously, snapping his wrist back at the last moment so the ends exploded against the helpless flesh of her open labia. "HEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!" she shrieked, once again wrenched back to full consciousness by this new, even more intense sexual pain. He let the oar swing forward and back a few more times to let her experience the pain fully, then swept the thongs down again into Ruth's crotch to give the fleshy lips another the kiss by the whip. The way he snapped his wrist at the last moment focused the very ends into the feminine grotto while a momentary hesitation before dragging them back ensured that many of the dark pubic curls caught in the threads and ripped out by their roots. All the woman could do was shriek her agony to the uncaring sky. Incensed by this new horror, Stijn desperately rallied his remaining strength again to stop the blade, but the end result was only delayed, not ended. All too soon his arms failed and the inexorable drag of the sea drew Ruth's naked body back once more for the laughing brute's whip.

He held himself to only one more of the savage genital strokes before walking away. Incongruously for such a large man, the other pirate slaves heard him giggling almost like a little girl. Every so often he would return to administer one or two more lashes between Ruth's trembling thighs, sometimes adding another to the jiggling breasts for good measure. After a few hours, her chest and the vulnerable area between her thighs were raw and seeping blood.

As dusk approached, Don Alfonso strode indolently forward, the bosun right behind him. He looked down at the pirate captain who had so obsessed him and his lady chained to the oar beside him. The man's strength was spent, his back ravaged by the whip, unable even to lift the oar. The flesh was raw, bleeding down to the bench on which he sat to add to the dark stains of countless earlier victims. The woman beside him was even worse off. While the sisal cords had spread their assault between her back and front and she had received far fewer lashes, they had been to infinitely more sensitive parts. Even though her eyes were tightly closed, the way her body twitched and her pitiable whimpers showed that she was still aware. Regardless, it was obvious that both were at the limit of their endurance.

"Well, Juanito, I believe we have proof of the Madonna over this heathen belief. Look you, I do believe the bitch is asleep and the corsair isn't paying proper attention to me. You would think me a boring host. I am offended. Revive her, revive them both! I want them to hear this."

With the same surprising giggle, the sailor cast a roped bucket over the side, then dashed its seawater over the two naked prisoners. The man was able to hold his cry in check, but not the woman who screamed when the salty liquid flowed into the whip cuts and infuriated the raw nerve endings. Stijn turned his haggard face up to him, but Ruth's remained contorted, wild, unable to comprehend what was happening through the fiery pain afflicting her body..

"Come the morning," Alfonso said to him, "we will moor in Barcelona. Soon after I will hand you to the Holy Inquisition. The priests will decide what will happen to you for your many crimes." He paused a moment. "But they have no interest in your wife. She is mine to do with as I wish." He turned as if to leave, then stopped. "That doesn't mean I am finished with you, though. For three years you eluded me. Your every success was seen as my constant failures to catch you. The priests will decide your fate, but I will have my revenge first."

He looked to the man behind him. "She is yours, Gonzalez! Take her below and do as you will with her. After you have your fill of her you decide on those deserving to follow you. Some stout Spanish masts should keep her awake.

"But I want the bitch alive for the finish. I want her alive to the end. Should she die, the last man upon her will answer to the keel! Now go you and show her what a good Spanish cock feels like."

The brute directed the release of the woman's chains. "Take her below," he ordered two of the sailors. "I shall fuck her first. You, Raphael, as first mate you get her after me. Diego, you did well when we stormed the corsair ship, so you next. Then Jorge, Matias, Juan – you all fought well, you decide among you after Diego. Oh, and make sure Miguel gets a turn before she's ruined. He is old enough now and time he learned what women are for. Then the rest of the crew get their turn.

"But remember! The bitch lives until the Captain says otherwise. The price of forgetting that is a keelhauling. Now, boys," he continued, "A lusty bitch like this is a rare treat. You don't want to fuck it up for your shipmates, eh?"

The sun was just rising above the brigantine's stern when Stijn was awakened by a bucket of water dumped on him. He had been exhausted after the day of pulling on the oar and collapsed over it, but then the screams began, rising up through the hatch to the deck below, the screams of a woman in mortal agony. He wrenched at his shackles, bellowing with blind rage until the sailors beat him senseless to make the bellows stop. Brought back to painful consciousness, he looked up to see the Spanish captain standing there, gloating down at him.

"Good morning, Captain. So pleased to see you are back with us. Barcelona is just two hours ahead of us, and so all that soon I shall give you to the authorities. I have two final punishments for you. The first is for now. The second now, well that is for later, something special. For now I just want you to see this.

"Gonzalez, bring the bitch up! Let the corsair bastard see his heretic lady!"

Stijn heard a sound behind him and looked back. Oh, Christ, no! This couldn't be! Two sailors were carrying a load between them down the deck. Ruth, his love. Every inch of her nude body bore the evidence of hideous abuse. Every inch from neck to knees of what was once smooth pale skin was crossed by whip welts and weals, some dripping blood. Stijn could see bright red marks on what was once smooth pale skin left by hot irons and both nipples were gone, whether by knife or pliers. Once a beauty, her face was barely recognizable, beaten and bruised, all but unidentifiable into a parody of what it was. Even as he looked, he saw her nude body twitch. Oh, God, she was still alive. Oh, my wife, how I have failed you.

"Are the men satisfied, Gonzalez?" the Captain-General asked his bosun.

"Indeed, sir. Every one had his turn." He grinned, his few teeth a rictus. "Only Jorge died fighting for place, but he was always greedy. Madonna, even Miguel, the cabin boy, dipped his wick twice and he just fourteen – his first! – but he is young. She was sloppy by then, but he didn't seem to mind. Ah, to be his age again, eh?"

"Very well. Over the side with the Jewess! We have sharks following and they must eat, too. They won't be long the way the bitch is bleeding. "

The sailors holding her went forward to ensure Stijn could see what came next. "Uno, dos, tres!" and they cast her naked body over the side into the water. A few went to the stern to watch, casting bets as to how soon the hunters of the sea would find her bleeding form, but had to return to their duties when the bosun yelled at them, bets forgotten. Regardless, it wouldn't be long.

A couple of hours later and Barcelona's port came into view. Soon the mooring ropes were cast and the ship was snug beside the pier.

"Liberty for all hands!" Suarez exclaimed from the poop to a cheer. "All ashore! Find your drink and your whores! Only you my faithful Gonzalez and Mate Allende must remain." He addressed those two, "I have a special task for you, one I am sure you will enjoy. But first send a messenger to the Governor with my letter. I shall await his response, but that should be quick in coming."

Captain-General Suarez himself stood at the head of the gangplank to welcome his guests. While of high social status himself as a descendant of an illegitimate son of Ferdinand I, those he greeted were among the premier Spanish grandees of Barcelona. First was the Governor and his wife, Don Diego Fuentes and the plump Dona Catherine. A beauty when she was younger, once married she had embraced the life of luxury he provided and was now almost as wide as she was tall. From elegant to elephant Alfonso laughed to himself. After them came Don Garci Lasso de la Vega and his lady, Dona Leonor. These two were a lucky catch, high up in the Spanish nobility who happened to be in Barcelona at the time.

The last to board was Dona Isabella of Castile herself, the king's royal emissary. Tall and slim, almost gaunt, she wore a dour look as if she had just eaten an unripe persimmon. It was said she never smiled. A fanatically zealous Catholic, she believed that the Holy Inquisition was commissioned by God Himself and overseen by the Madonna in its daily operation. Even the mass public executions, the hangings and burnings were called auto da fe, the "acts of faith," and she attended every one. She was a direct descendant of Isabella of Castille, Isabella I, the first Queen of Spain who made Tomas de Torquemada the first Inquisitor General. It was even rumored that she would often go down to the torture chamber in Seville to personally observe the questioning of suspected heretics. Many were Jews, but also some converso Moniscos, Mohammedans who outwardly converted to Catholicism, but secretly continued to practice their heathen religion. Looking at that maniacal face Don Alfonso could believe it. Not driven by sexual pleasure as he was, he had heard that she was even more cruel than the Inquisitors and their minions, the stolid brutes who administered the torments, urging them to ever more agonizing efforts.

Once the grandees were comfortable in their seats and had been provided with glasses of wine or chilled fruit sorbets for the women by their hovering servants, the Captain-General waved to a pair of waiting marines. The forward hatch to the gun deck was opened and they dragged Stijn up and out, his wrists and ankles enclosed in iron shackles chained together. To add to his enemy's humiliation, he was still naked. It was a bold gamble on Alfonso's part to so risk offending the sensibilities of the women, but they said nothing and he knew it had paid off. The soldiers roughly shoved him across the deck to the main mast where the chains were locked behind the main mast facing the stern. As soon as the marines stepped away, the Dutchman lunged toward the spectators turned toward the noble spectators fiercely as some beast, wrenching against the chains at them with wild eyes. All but Isabella instinctively recoiled from the violent movement – Dona Catherine even half swooned back into her chair, fanning her fat sweating face vigorously with her fan at the sight. A rope plug had been tied into his mouth so nothing but inchoate grunts of rage could come from him. Bald as the bosun and for the same reason. Head hair or beard could provide an enemy with something to grab during one of the ferocious deck fights that accompanied boarding. His face was frightfully discolored from bruises, evidence of savage beatings at the hands of his Spanish captors. One eye was completely swollen shut which only served to make the venom displayed by the other all the more intense. His pale skin was burned red from the day rowing in the hot Mediterranean sun. Alfonso cleared his throat to draw his audience's attention away from the pirate and addressed them.

"The infamous corsair, Stijn Janszoon," he almost purred. His voice then took on a superior, dismissive tone. "Scourge of the Coast. Demon of the Blue Sea. Admiral of the Dark One's own infernal Navy.

"Hah! No admiral as you see. Certainly no demon. I, I, a mere Captain serving His Majesty with the Madonna guiding me, took him. In addition, I captured his wife, the notorious heretic Jewess, Ruth, who regrettably perished sailing here to Barcelona – obvious testament to the weakness of her heathen beliefs in the face of our righteous ones. However," he continued, "I took another prisoner. Whose punishment you have been invited to observe." He stood back and waved one hand.

Two large sailors carried a short square length of wood to a spot in front of the watchers. They placed it over a waiting hole in the deck and dropped it in with a dull thunk. Iron flanges at the four sides were quickly anchored so it was rigidly set in place. Once mounted, the upright portion extended a few inches under four feet. At the very top and a foot down the sides in back were open iron shackles. Two more were attached to the post's base at deck level. While there was always a post available on Barcelona's public execution platform, this was something different, unassuming. Indeed, unlike the tall public post which was used to secure criminals for everything from the lash to flaying, this looked tame by its modest simplicity.

Captain Suarez didn't bother with the preparations going on behind him, watching instead the various expressions on the faces of the onlookers. Public displays of Catholic passion were nothing novel, even among the grandees. Whippings, even to death, were not all that rare. Lord Garci, he saw, had noticed the heavy straps lying on the deck and even yawned at the prospect of yet another simple flogging. Well, my Lord, you have underestimated me. Time now to show you how much.

"My Lords and Ladies, while the pirate captain, Janszoon shall, in due course receive his just sentence in the auto da fe, I would not think to impose on your busy lives and duties to observe a common penance. The corsair's guilt is irrefutable so no confession is necessary." He paused. "No, he is here for much the same reason as I have invited you, to witness the penalty of being a likely accessory to his offenses against king, country, and faith. He is here only to observe.

"No, I have invited you illustrious nobles to witness something else, not as extreme as his well-deserved death will be, but certainly worthy of your precious time." He gestured again and the two men went into and down the hatch, returning a moment later dragging a young woman between them. They marched her to a spot between the post and the seated spectators, holding her up before them.

The interest was immediate and intense. The girl wasn't tall, almost petite. She had shoulder length brown hair that framed a cute heart-shaped face, button nose, and bright eyes the same blue as the Mediterranean itself. A face worthy of notice from any man, but it was her dress that commanded the most attention, the same outfit that had so captivated him the evening before.

Suarez went right on with his commentary. "Before you stands Sofia Janszoon, the buccaneer's daughter. A princess of her vile race, I've been told, yet look you. Is this the attire of a princess? No, this is no modest and chaste gown, but the wanton outfit of a corsair harlot. Shoulders bared, belly – even navel exposed. Not only does her skirt – if I can even call it that – reveal her ankles and legs, but almost flaunts her very sex!" He paused. So scandalous was his graphic description that Dona Catherine was vigorously fanning her face again. The two men didn't need any such description. Their eyes told them everything they wanted to know. Her dark brown skirt was indeed cut away to above the knees – her upper legs visible. While the flashes of shapely white thigh as she minced in the sailors' tight grip were certainly titillating, every male gaze quickly fixed on her upper torso. The skirt and half-corset she wore exposed a flat muscular midriff. Even the straps running down her sides served to accentuate the scandalous way her shoulders were exposed. Even the striped arm sleeves contrasted in a way that enhanced the upper body.

He continued. "Despite her corsair garb, I have reason to believe that she may, may I say, not bear equal guilt as her father and his dead heretic wife. She must, of course, be punished to enforce the King's law, yet I have decided to be merciful, so under my military authority as Captain-General of his Majesty's ship Madre De Dios have determined that she should only receive a beating. You, as the governor and leading citizen of Barcelona, and of course you my Lady Isabella, have been invited to serve witness.

"I have considered the facts and weighed them. I believe that this punishment is fair – even lenient." He paused, milking the moment. "Although obviously mature, the girl is still young. In deference to that, I have decided that twenty strokes with the strap shall be sufficient for her most obvious crime of complicity until the Holy Offices of the Inquisition shall determine any deeper guilt and any further suitable sentence.

"Yet, by wearing this shameless attire, her very appearance is an affront to decency and so, of course, to you all. So I have decided that her ordeal must reflect it and teach her proper decorum. My two most trusted men, Bosun Gonzalez and First Mate Allende shall administer that instruction before you.

"Secure the bitch for her punishment," he commanded.

The two named men grabbed Sofia's arms from the common sailors and pulled her back toward the stake. Well versed in their commander's methods, they also played briefly to the audience, leading her before it. Then, suddenly and roughly, they turned her about so her back was to the post and she faced toward the audience. The young woman was shocked at this sudden change, yet could hardly grasp the implication as her buttocks were pushed back against the short wood column.

They yanked her arms back and down, quickly locking her wrists within the lower shackles. A moment more and those at the top were locked about her elbows. They had to pull the joints painfully together to get them connected. Finally they knelt down to secure her ankles, still wearing the soft leather calf-length boots, to the cuffs at the base of the post. Finished with the binding, they stepped back to reveal the girl to the watchers. Suarez sometimes employed this stubby device with men. Its low height forced the victim to hunch forward and present the back with skin stretched to enhance the pain. Yet Alfonso had created it with quite another application in mind, one he had been waiting to put to use on a suitable victim, a female worthy of the imagination that thought of it. But even he never hoped that its first such subject would be so magnificently endowed and promising of sport. Well, no reason to delay any longer. Time to see what the ripe young girl had to offer to the spectacle he planned.

Alfonso stepped up until he was standing very close to her. Sofia looked up into his dark eyes, shocked by the cruelty and lust she saw in them. He didn't say a word, just reached up and grasped the top of the blouse and pulled down. He was surprised by the way it resisted, testament to the resilience of the flesh beneath. Even so it yielded to the next tug, hanging up briefly at the furthest reach, then the globes beneath literally popped out above and were at last fully exposed to him. He couldn't help hesitating to stare down at the now bared breasts. They were beautiful – and what was about to happen would only make them more so. He gave in to the powerful urge to touch the distended naked globes and his hands rose to cup them. Warm and supple in that enchanting way unique to a female's breasts, the skin was smooth as the most expensive silk. He forgot about the onlookers behind him as he fondled them. His touch wasn't coarse, but rather that of a lover. Indeed, at this moment he did love her, not as a mate, of course, but as a source of erotic pleasure. The girl squirmed against the post trying to move her breasts away from the caressing fingers, mewling in indignation at the intimate touch, but the effort was futile. Indeed, her wriggling only served to excite him even more in anticipation of how that movement would enhance the lasciviousness of the coming spectacle.

Quietly enough that only she could hear, he crooned,"When I first saw you, my pet, I knew these would be superb, but the reality exceeds even my imagination – and I have seen many. In a moment my two men are going to beat them with instruments designed to cause them extreme pain. You will scream, you will plead, you will even beg for death rather than endure one more stroke. That escape shall not be granted you.

I will tell you something more, in confidence as it were. Later this very day, when you are still moaning in pain below, I shall have you brought before me and stripped totally nude. Then your body will be tortured in ways you can't even imagine for nothing more than the enjoyment I take from doing so. And afterward – perhaps even during – your suffering, I will fuck you." He saw the stark horror, even revulsion, as his soft words penetrated into her mind, unable to comprehend how even this justifiable reaction served to further arouse him.

"No, oh no. You can't mean that," she whimpered. "I have done nothing, nothing to deserve that. No man could be that base. Please, let me go. Let me go, let me go, let me go."

"Let you go? Oh, no, piglet. Your suffering now will give me power I want; and base? A child like you doesn't even understand the word." Finally remembering where he was, he reluctantly released them and stepped back to display her to the spectators.

There was a moment of silence punctuated by a couple of barely audible gasps. Bathed in the bright morning sun, Sofia's upper body exceeded all expectations. Indeed, even while covered the lush mounds beneath the bodice had drawn attention, now completely exposed they commanded it. The brown bands descending from her shoulders acted like the frame around a painting as did the bustier. Even large as they were the girl's youth and the fabric half circles cupping beneath kept them perched high and proud, slightly separated. The mounds maintained their round feminine shape with no sag over the heaving rib cage beneath. At their furthest reach sat the nipples, broad as gold doubloons, yet their hue was that of a newly blossomed rose contrasting exquisitely with the flesh that surrounded them. Even as the nobles watched, a light breeze crossed the deck, caressing the coronas with its cool moist breath. At its feathery touch, the areolas crinkled and the tips grew out into hardening points out from the disks. Hidden from the sun all her life, the surrounding skin was a pale cream white color. Only Suarez was close enough to note that it was also slightly translucent so he could see a faint tracery of light bluish veins beneath. Even more provocatively, the gentle wind caused the surface to erupt in a rash of tiny goosebumps across the fine-grained satin flesh. The combination of all of those uncontrollable reactions enhanced her look of delicate femininity. Knowing what was about to happen, Suarez gloated inside. He had watched – even inflicted – many breast whippings over the years. Indeed, few activities excited him more. Yet never had he such a pair as these under the leather. Superb, proud – even arrogant in their youthful exuberance, they seemed to ask for, no demand the lash! Well, my beauties, you shall get what you beg for. Oh yes, my pet, they shall get what they so richly deserve.

Finally the situation broke through Sofia's mute horror. "Oh, please," she cried, "this is wrong! This is shameful! No woman should be exposed this way in public, in front of strangers! Cover me! You must cover me! Please, it is indecent! In the name of God, you must cover me!"

Alfonso would do no such thing, of course. He was complementing himself on his – reluctant, true – decision to forego stripping her when she was brought before him the day before. Her reaction now, in front of the powerful grandees, would not have been nearly as extreme and spontaneous had he given in to that urge. It added a level of piquancy to the scene that would have been missing otherwise.

He addressed those seated, "Since the lash must always be applied directly on bare skin, that punishment shall be administered to those portions of her body now exposed." Those portions were, of course, Sofia's stunning naked breasts.

At these words, Sofia's pleading abruptly ceased. She couldn't believe her ears. Her mind could scarcely grasp the hideous reality of what that meant. Her head arched back, lovely face to the sky. No, oh dear God, no, not that, almost anything but that. Her chest had started developing when she was only fifteen, embarrassingly large by eighteen, and only stopping a year ago at twenty. Beside the unexpected size, it also amazed her how they also increased in sensitivity as they grew. Just the minor sensation of a silk dress sliding over them made her nipples rise up hard and throb with delight. Sometimes when laying in bed at night, she couldn't keep from fondling them, caressing the mounds and teasing the erect pink tips. At such times her loins would get hot and wet. Extending one hand down to the slippery lips would increase the sweet sensations and make the breasts even, incredibly, even more pleasurably responsive. As she got older, the combination increasingly brought her to a convulsive reaction that stunned her with its intensity. And now, now, those same supremely sensitive globes were facing the ghastly torture of being beaten with heavy straps. Oh God, oh God, how will I endure this . . .

While Sofia was fearfully anticipating what was to come, the two men readied themselves for the task.

They removed their shirts to free up their arms. The massive barrel chest and muscles of the bosun was especially intimidating. At the sight, Lady Catherine fanned her face again. The backs of both were heavily scarred from previous encounters on the receiving end of the cat for infractions of the strict rules of shipboard service. Alfonso found it a curious fact that many of those who had already been tortured sought out the opportunity to administer torture themselves. He would have thought that having endured the pain and degradation they would feel pity, even empathy, and shunned the job. He had never felt the lash, of course. In his own case he recognized that his motivation was purely sexual, unlike the two men. The bosun he knew was equally happy to torture men as women, while the first mate merely did as ordered.

It was different for him, he knew. When he was still just a lad on the brink of manhood his father had made him watch the punishment of criminals in the Suarez castle dungeon, he first noticed – couldn't ignore – the way his young penis grew erect in his pantaloons, painful yet intensely pleasurable at the same time. When he became the Don, and could sentence prisoners to it, he relished the power. He indulged himself, even going to lengths to find reasons to condemn young women to torture. He discovered that raping their bleeding nude bodies after their suffering engendered a powerfully erotic delight he couldn't, or wanted to, resist. He knew it was unusual and didn't understand why it was, but didn't much care and thanked his powerful position that allowed him to indulge it.

The bosun and mate picked up their weapons and moved to their places, just before and to either side of the helpless girl. Sofia's deep turquoise eyes flicked back and forth between them, focused on the fiendish instruments in their hands.

Both held stout leather straps two feet long attached to wooden handles. As they twitched in their hands, she noticed that they had been modified by being split down the middle so they were actually two supple belts paired closely together. For most punishments, especially to disobedient sailors, the multi-thonged cat was used. The strap was reserved for the fleshy parts of female prisoners, the thighs, buttocks, and breasts since it wouldn't shred the skin and lessen their sale value. Years earlier, the bosun was downing drinks with a Northern barbarian sailor who told him of the way they altered the tool they used to discipline recalcitrant woman slaves, how it magnified the pain of the strokes much as the cat did over a single-tail whip. He called it a tawse. Both men saw the increased horror in her lovely blue eyes and smiled. Damn straight you should fear them, they were created to make pretty little bitches like you scream.

While they swept the instruments through the air to loosen them, a marine stepped up to stand beside the rail, a youth wearing a snare drum over his shoulder. Alfonso moved beside him where he could announce the count. He took a moment to assess the preparations. Satisfied, he nodded to the drummer. "Begin."

The youth lifted his drum sticks and began a brisk rolling tattoo on his instrument. It continued for several seconds, then suddenly stopped with a final harder beat. The massive bosun immediately swept his arm forward to deliver a harsh horizontal stroke that burst against Sofia's poised left breast an inch beneath the nipple. Instructed by the Captain-General in advance, he knew he couldn't use all of his great strength, but there was still more than enough power that this first stroke landed with sufficient force to lift the soft globe down onto her chest and the tender flesh bulged out above and beneath the wicked leather. SCRACCKKKT!

The response was immediate and explosive. Sofia's eyes opened wide, her head tilted up, and she gave full vent to her agony. The sudden pain that afflicted her breast was beyond belief.

"AAAAAAAARRRRRRAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" The Captain-General was pleased to see that there was no battle between will and whip from this lovely young wench. Such an early and vocal reaction to the strap would please the assembled nobles. Stubbornness in a woman was only welcome down in the gun deck's torture center where he could relish the moment when it would, inevitably, shatter in the face of his ever increasing torments.

"One," he announced. He nodded to the boy beside him and the drum roll started again.

Twenty seconds of the beat then there sounded the last harder pop. Scarcely had the noise ended when the mate standing to her left swept his strap to strike that side's breast an equal distance above its aureole. "AHHHHHHHHHH! OH GOD, OH GOD, OH GOD! IT HURTS! OH DEAR GOD IT HURTS!"

"Two."

The boy beside him didn't need an order this time and returned to his drum. Tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a tat-a-TAT! SWACCCKKKT! The bosun's strap flew out to pound Sofia's right breast down from above so the lower curve bulged out beneath it drawing another ragged scream from her throat. Her body wrenched against the iron cuffs holding her arms behind her, desperate to free her hands and soothe the globes, to cover and protect them from the excruciating agony. In vain.

"Three."

Strikes four, five, and six followed, each to the nearest breast and each evoking its own wail of misery. It was obvious that the two men were employing a deliberate pattern designed to magnify the effect of their strokes; one savaging a lower curve alternately with the other attacking the upper slope.

There was nothing the girl could do to escape the ferocious pain afflicting her sensitive breasts. Once, when a child, she had carelessly spilled a pan of hot oil upon her arm. The pain was intense and however much she tried to comfort it, she could not. But that was a limb, and a single accident. What she was experiencing now was not only deliberate, focused on two of the most sensitive female parts of her body, but repeated over and over and over again, each stroke more agonizing as it built upon those before. It felt as though the entirety of her aching breasts were being bathed in that same bubbling grease. And almost worst of all was the hideous anticipation of the next soon to come and the knowledge that there would be more even after that.

Again the drum – that damned drum – rolled again, then when it stopped there sounded a simultaneous SMACKKKT! SWACKKT! as the bosun's stroke rose from beneath to punish the girl's lush right under curve at the same instant as the mate's blow pounded the upper slope of the left breast, both quickly withdrawn leaving the mounds juddering on her chest.

"Seven." Alfonso said.

There was some commenting by the onlookers behind him he didn't miss – even expected. "The strokes are defined by the drum roll, my Lords," Alfonso commented in explanation to the onlookers. "Whether one or both instruments land at a time, it is still only a single stroke by the law."

Sofia could barely grasp those words when the drum beat abruptly quit again and the two heavy leather belts attacked her poised bare breasts again, this time a reverse as the mate's rose to lift the left globe while the bosun's slash pounded the top of the right one down.

"Eight."

"EEEEEEEEAAAAAARRRRRRAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"

Too soon, all too soon, the drum stopped. SMACKKKT! SMACKKKKT! the two flat leather belts flew out to attack Sofia's bare breasts. This time, for the first time, directly across the very middles to flatten the nipples against her chest. Gonzalez added the fiendish wrist twist he knew at the moment of impact so the straps parted that tiny little bit to separate, catch, and nip the flesh, only this time so the very tip of her nipple was grasped between them, adding a separate painful pinch to that most sensitive female nubbin. It was missed by the observers, but produced an especially high-pitched wail in response.

"Nine!" This time the captain's count carried an exuberance not there before.

For stroke ten they changed the attack again. This time the two burly sailors moved to the very front of the bound young woman, yet still slightly off to either side. The timing tattoo sounded, perhaps a bit longer this time before stopping. Scarcely had the final beat faded when the two men brought their straps down in simultaneous vertical slashes from above to flatten the helpless naked breasts against her chest from collar bone down to rib cage. Suarez was perhaps the only observer who knew what to look for and – there it was! – and only he appreciated its effect. The skilled application with the tawse parted the straps slightly the instant before impact just that extra little bit that the two parallel belts captured the erect tip of the girl's nipple so it showed as a pink nub between the dark leather. The split was only momentary so they pinched, then tugged the delicate flesh painfully away as the tawse retreated to leave the teat even harder and more painfully erect. If there was any argument regarding how there was a brief interruption between the two impacts, it wasn't expressed by the nobles. The way the topless young woman was squirming in agony at the post captured all attention.

"HEEEEEAAAAAAARRRHHH!AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!" Sofia wailed in agony, her torso writhing against the short post in the frantic, yet useless attempt to escape the savage pain afflicting her breasts. "AAAAAHHHHHhhhhhnnn." The wail finally faded. Sofia's body uncontrollably twitched to the limits the cruel binding allowed. Although the morning air was still cool, the flesh above the bustier was gleaming with perspiration from the work of enduring the hellish agony. Such effort was draining and she couldn't help but sag a bit, her head lolling down toward her chest.

Alfonso raised his hand, halting the action. He glanced back to the watchers. The governor and Count de la Vega were also sweating, perched forward on their seats, and both of their wives were flushed, Dona Catherine's fan in rapid motion before her plump face. He even thought he detected a slight color on Dona Isabella's face beneath the hard bright eyes.

He returned to Sofia Verszoon and bent forward to more closely inspect her chest. In just the few moments since he held up the beating, the sheen of sweat had become bright beads that reflected the morning sunlight. What had so soon before been milky-white skin was now visibly flushed scarlet across their centers. They looked for all the world like the target of archers. The miserable girl's bare breasts presented much the same coloration with distinct circles starting with the darkest bulls-eyes in their centers, then the slightly lighter red surrounding them, a blushing that extended out from that, and finally the still creamy white to accentuate the colored rings. Not quite perfect circles – these were a bit flattened at the top as the straps focused on the most sensitive parts, the bottom curves and the middles that held the nipples, barely touching the upper slopes – but the comparison was still close. A discerning eye – such as Alfonso possessed – could make out the slightly darker lines from the edge of the mate's belt and the additional center stripe created by the bosun's split tawse. The brutal beating had savagely inflamed the skin, yet there was no real damage done. He was pleased to see that the final strokes of the straps had the desired side effect of aggravating the nipples, especially the right one. Even so, both tips were now swollen like a pair of ripe berries, taut and red. For the moment ignoring the noble audience, he lifted his hands to cup the flushed globes. The skin radiated an unnatural heat from the slapping leather, a common yet invariably exciting result always wrought by the straps. He moved his thumbs up to lightly brush the erect teats back and forth. Sofia's eyes stayed closed, but her head lifted a bit and she emitted a low groan of pain in response to this intimate touch. Rewarding, but still not as intense as he wanted. Well, he knew how to fix that. He walked back away from the post.

Throughout it all, Stijn had been wrenching at the chains holding his arms behind the mast, his eyes furious at the torture of his daughter, but only managed to abrade his wrists raw against the thick ropes. First his wife so savagely tortured, raped, then discarded to the sharks, now his sweet FiFi subjected to this cruelty. Ah, God, I know I have offended thee. I know I have been a criminal. But let me pay for those sins, not these who had nothing to do with my acts! Suarez saw and understood the emotions behind that tormented visage. Yes, you shall pay, but not by my hand. The Holy Inquisition shall deal with you. I can't give you the death you so richly deserve, but I can do this to hurt you. You caused me embarrassment by your continued success, well now you learn the price of that. He turned back and addressed his onlookers.

Drawing attention to the way the girl's head now drooped toward her chest, Suarez said, "Look you, the bitch naps. I think she is bored. An insult to the just labors of these agents of her betters. Very well then, we must see to it that she is fully awake for the completion of her punishment. I can see by her lassitude that the straps didn't teach her the seriousness of her crime and her grievous offense to His Most Catholic Majesty the King. Therefore the remainder of her punishment shall be in extremis."

Most of the onlookers didn't understand what that phrase meant, but the Governor and Dona Isabella did; both had observed Inquisition interrogations where it was referred to as the Question Extraordinary to contrast it with the Question Ordinary. Those two witnessed every public punishment as a requirement of their office – and were often the ones who ordered that enhancement. All of those enhanced techniques involved some kind of maiming: eyes put out or limbs broken on the civic platform, while the privacy of the torture chamber allowed often grotesque genital abuses such as being bound to the spiked chair while a flame was kindled beneath the holes in its seat. It was a deliberate tactic to raise the level of pain from the merely agonizing to the excruciating. Clearly none of that would happen here in front of the genteel watchers. With only the wretch's breasts exposed, it was curious how Suarez would implement the in extremis order, but whatever it was, it was sure to be interesting. This curiosity was further piqued when they heard the Captain-General order, "Bring the brazier forward."

The two floggers left their places, returning shortly carrying the thing between two wooden staffs. It was simply a shallow dish, mounted on a pedestal located at the bottom of a rising framework of four metal bands. These were held in place by other vertical flanges that flared out above and below the bands like the drooping petals of a flower. The dish was filled with a bed of burning coals roiling the air above it from the intense heat and already glowing a dull red. They set it down a few feet to her left side where she could see it. Dropping the handles, they stepped away. Alfonso reached into his tunic and removed a small instrument, a three-inch long skewer set into a short wood handle. He stuck the sharp tip into the bed of embers. Even without seeing that he came prepared with the pointed tool, the simple fact that the coals were already hot and ready in the brazier was ample proof that he planned on subjecting the girl to in extremis torture from the start, whether swooning from the pain of the straps or not. Sofia had sensed the movement and watched the man's preparations. She understood immediately what they meant for her. He was going to brand her helpless and aching bare breasts! She groaned in stark horror.

After a couple of minutes, he removed it and inspected the glowing red tip. He looked to her and almost imperceptibly shook his head before placing it into the coals again for several more seconds. Terrified beyond words, all Sofia could do was stare at the shimmering coals and the handle projecting from them. This time when he removed it the final inch glowed a bright radiant yellow easily visible to the audience even in the bright sunlight.

He immediately grasped the right breast while the lancet was at its hottest, squeezing the globe to hold it steady and present the nipple. His eyes focused on the tiny indentation in the center of the hard teat. What a perfect target, he thought. Almost as if created just for this. Before the instrument lost any of its fierce heat, he stabbed the hot needle into the dainty hole.

The skewer hissed and created a brief puff of steam as it fried nerve endings already aggravated by the straps. The shriek of ghastly agony was so loud it shocked those watching. Suarez basked in the sound, still holding the breast.

Then he returned the now cooled instrument to the embers again. Sofia was still convulsed with agony as she saw him look at the left nipple suggestively. The helpless beauty could only stare and watch the skewer heat up again. Now she knew the hideous pain it caused and could only beg for a mercy she would not receive.

"No, no, no, please," she babbled in terror. "No, please, not again, not that again! Oh, it hurts, it hurts so. Please, oh please please please, not that again! The pain, oh the pain. You can't know, you can't know. No woman should have to endure such horrible pain. Please, I beg you, not again, oh not again. In the name of God, you mustn't! PLEASE! Not that again. Oh, please not that again!"

The man understood very well how much it hurt; he had watched – and administered – the torture too often not to appreciate the effect these minuscule implements had when used on the most sensitive parts of a captive's naked body. The straps were bad he knew, the thumbscrews and knee crushers were worse, but nothing, nothing created the same level of instant, consuming anguish as the touch of red hot metal on flesh.

All too soon for the miserable girl, the man withdrew the cruel instrument from the shimmering coals again. Without realizing they were doing so, both the governor and Don de la Vega slid forward in their chairs in eager anticipation. Light on his feet with the grace of a fencer, he used that same skill to move to her left side, sweeping the glowing ash away, then pierce that breast's tip. Even as the puff of steam was dissipating in the air her scream of agony ripped from her throat. "AAARRRAAAHH!" The pain of her recent beating had been horrible, but spread across a wider expanse of flesh. This new attack was not only much more intense, but savagely focused on a smaller, yet infinitely more sensitive part of her body. During those private, intimate times in her bed, she had been amazed, shocked even, at how sensitive the rigid tips of her nipples had become. How exquisitely responsive and the way just teasing them added to the pleasure between her thighs. Now that very responsiveness was being used, exploited, to cause her unimaginable suffering.

The assault was a quick one, not from any mercy, but the simple knowledge that the needle lost its power to hurt quickly and any longer insertion could easily have the effect of reducing further responsiveness if the nerve endings within the teat were charred beyond sensation. The immediate reaction was as rewarding as the first. Sofia's head arched back, her open mouth contorted as she shrieked in agony. "HEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHH! AAAAAHHHHHH! OH, GOD, OH GOD, OH GOD, THE PAIN! THE PAIN! PLEASE, I BEG YOU! MERCY! MERCY! I'VE DONE NOTHING, NOTHING TO DESERVE THIS PAIN. AH, MY BREASTS, MY POOR BREASTS! IT HURTS! OH GOD, IT HURTS!"

As the frenzied reaction to her nipple burning diminished, Suarez leaned forward to speak softly into her ear. "I know it hurts, puta, but it also makes those cute little berries of yours even more sensitive for the end of your punishment. You thought what your tetas have suffered so far was bad? They were as the caresses of a lover compared to what comes next."

He tossed the skewer to the deck and gestured for the brazier to be removed. Both had performed their task admirably. Yet he wasn't quite finished. Speaking out loud, but not turning to the nobles, he said, "My lords, my ladies, Dona Isabella, the decision to invoke in extremis punishment is never done lightly, but neither can it be administered in half measure. Therefore, in addition to the red hot needles, the remaining ten strokes shall be administered with the rattan canes."

Already forewarned, the two sailors had returned from removing the brazier with the new implements in hand. The rods looked tame, but were deceptively fearsome instruments in effect. Imported from Southeast Asia, they were two feet long, just under half an inch in diameter, and had been soaked in brine to add flexibility. Delivered with enough force, they could slice the skin like knives, although not today. It didn't matter, Sofia would scarcely notice the difference.

"Ten more strokes, Master Bosun, Master Mate," he commanded. His eyes dropped to the sweat-sheened mounds quaking before him. His men had been accurate with their strokes. The mounds were almost unmarked beneath her neck, starting only halfway down the upper slopes, the most vivid marking just above and beneath the round pink areolas, so the more serious effects were limited to the fronts and the rounded lower curves; in effect framing the disks above and below with flesh infuriated by the straps. The mounds were almost unmarked beneath her neck, starting only halfway down the upper slopes, the most vivid marking just above the round pink areolas, so the more serious effects were limited to the fronts and the rounded lower curves; in effect framing the disks above and below with flesh infuriated by the straps. The tips were even more pronounced. Even before their piercing with the hot steel the girl's teats had swollen from the impact of the straps, but now they were significantly larger; two bloated protuberances that stuck out hard and red as ripe currants. Just before turning away, he brushed a fingertip across the rigid tips, gratified by the sharp inhalation of pain even that feathery touch invoked. He turned away and repeated, "Ten more strokes to her haughty breasts. As she saw fit to snooze following your earlier efforts, I recommend that you pay special attention to the bitch's nipples. My minor preparation will help, but your skill with the cane will make sure she truly regrets her crime." He paused again. "I want to hear the bitch really scream."

Staring at the trembling naked breasts with his piggish little eyes, the bosun drew back his powerful right arm holding the rod, waiting eagerly. Tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-TAT! The instant the final beat sounded, he swept his arm forward to deliver a vicious horizontal stroke to the near globe's broad disk, driving the soft flesh down and almost burying the rod from view. As it came away the flesh bulged back out then shook as though the soft gourds were filled with pudding.

"EEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!" The girl's head snapped back as she wailed her agony to the sky. As sore as her breasts were from the straps, this new sensation caused by the rattan was worse, oh so much worse. Her father wrenched furiously at the chains holding him to the mast, able only to make anguished grunts of impotent rage from beneath the gag at the sight of his beloved FiFi suffering this hellish torture.

"Eleven," Alfonso called out.

The drum roll repeated, then as soon as it stopped the mate launched his stroke to Sofia's proffered naked breasts an equal distance above the areolas, forcing them to bulge again in a slightly different manner, although the way the breasts cavorted when the rattan retreated was equally vigorous as was the desperate shriek of agony that followed.

"Twelve."

It was clear now that the focus would be on the very fronts of her breasts. No longer would they bother with the upper slopes – although the more sensitive lower curves wouldn't avoid their attention.

Indeed, the bosun's next stroke caressed both naked globes just above where they rose above the rib cage, digging into the flesh and lifting them both into the dance of pain he relished.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHAAARRRRRHHHHHHH! OH GOD, OH GOD, IT HURTS! IT HURTS! IT HURTS MEEEEE! STOP, PLEASE STOP, HURTING ME SO! I've done nothing, nothing to deserve this pain! PLEASE! NO MORE!"

"Thirteen."

Now that the men had been set free will to go for the targets that so invited their attention, they laid on with a fiendish will. There was no longer the sham of simultaneous strokes. Number fourteen cruelly sought out the tender bottom curves, slightly higher toward the round paps. The miserable girl's wails of agony excited them – what they did for the nobles who were watching the punishment, they didn't care. Beating a young woman's haughty tits was fun and the pair this wench sported was worthy of their best efforts.

"Fifteen."

The drum stopped. This time to the aureoles themselves, crossing the disks above and below just shy of the bloated teats. Even firm and projecting arrogantly up and out from the tight binding as they were, they still proclaimed their superb elasticity by cavorting wildly on her chest. Even once the frantic immediate recoil subsided, Sofia's body continued reacting. Desperately trying to endure the excruciating searing agony afflicting her bare breasts, her upper body shook to the scant limit allowed by the wrist and elbow shackles. It did no good, of course, yet the girl couldn't prevent it, unaware that even these feeble efforts to escape the pain only served to enhance the erotic image her trembling female flesh presented to the onlookers.

"Sixteen."

The men went back to the tender coronas, only from a different angle, this time diagonally in turn so each struck a top and bottom beside the rigid tips.

The semi-nude girl shrieked her agony to the world at every lash. Her maddened pleas of, "No more, no more!" and now even "K-kill me!" went unheeded. SCRACCKKKT! SWACCKKKTT! Again the canes cut the air to strike the girl's poised bare breasts. "HEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! OH GOD, OH GOD, OH GOD STOPPPPP!

"Seventeen."

Inexorably, relentlessly, the drum rolls, slashes, and count went on. The drum that only served to interrupt the pain, prolong the anticipation and then, with its cessation, announce the next savage agony. Only Alfonso, the drummer, and the two whippers were close enough to see the sweat splash from her skin above and below the canes when they struck.

Now the men knew that there was only three more to administer. They knew that this final trio were the last they would have to torment the writhing bitch's magnificent breasts on their most sensitive parts. The drum tattoo stopped.

WHSSSACCCT! SMACCKKKKT! Each again crossed the very middle of both shaking mounds, savaging the girl's once rose-pink areoles, a hair's-breadth closer so the canes actually brushed the erect shafts.

"HIIEEEEEEEEE! EEEEEEE! OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD! NO MORE, PLEASE GOD NO MORE! K-K- KILL ME! NO MORE! OH LET ME DIE! IT HURTS, IT HURTS! OH, LET ME DIE . . ."

But there was to be no pity, no mercy. No reprieve. Certainly no death. Suarez was watching the effect of every stroke. The miserable girl's bare breasts presented a remarkable display. The earlier bulls-eye appearance was still there, now more pronounced in coloration after the added blows, but the most vivid change was the new pattern of darker brick-red weals left by the canes. Even after only a few minutes, some of the welts were already rising up hard above the skin and turning an angry plum color.

"Eighteen."

With only two remaining, the men finally went to the very middle of the mounds, the very center of the nipples themselves, their rattan canes seeking the bloated teats and pounding them down into the soft globes and distorting them. For these final lashes they knew that there was no longer any restraint on the force they could use, so each was applied with a full twist of their powerful shoulders.

Nineteen!" Even Alfonso could no longer restrain his excitement at the end of the savage beating, eager to see the final lash.

The Cardozas placed a high value on education, so when she was still a young child they paid for tutors to teach her. One had been a rabbi, an old and learned man, but they also knew that the Christian Jesuits were very good and so employed one of them, as well. Both, of course, wanted to also imbue their own religious beliefs along with languages, the classics, and mathematics. The priest told her about Hell while the rabbi discounted it as nothing but a myth used to control the ignorant. She knew now that both were wrong. Hell did indeed exist and, at this moment, it was eternal, but one need not be evil, it wasn't reserved for any afterlife, and you weren't sent there by God. No, Hell existed in life and nothing more than a Spanish ship's captain could send you there.

The two men, now sweating themselves from the effort – although not as much as their victim – delivered their final attack, one after the other, once again directly across the center of the nipples to flatten the tips down into the ruddy disks.

"AHHHHHHHHHH! ARRRRRHHHHHHHAAAHHH! AAAHHHHHHH!" the young woman shrieked, head tilted to the sky. Suarez was gratified to see that these last two strikes rewarded his hopes as the force of the blows finally cracked the flesh within the burned nipples open. So ferocious were they that tiny points of shiny red blood timidly emerged from the swollen teats, a final gleaming testament to her agony.

"And twenty!"

After the final count, the men dropped their rods to the deck. Sofia's topless body hung, twitching, on the short post. Still conscious, all her mind could comprehend was pain. Her poor bare breasts were consumed by pain, every nerve screaming, as if they were immersed in boiling, bubbling oil. Pain, all concentrated in her chest, was her entire existence. The Captain-General returned to her. His eyes focused on the heaving naked breasts.

The magnificent globes were brilliantly discolored, a variegate display of angry reds and vivid scarlets. Even more pronounced were the horizontal cane welts that bisected them, rising up into hard ridges above the skin turning even darker shades of purple and plum. Fiendishly beaten by the rattan canes, the girl's bloated nipples oozed small droplets of blood from the tips that slowly seeped down to the paps. Her topless body trembled on the post, gasping, head down, tears streaming down her cheeks. Pain. Pain, nothing but pain.

Now that the primary entertainment had ended, the nobles rose and milled about on the quarterdeck. Dona Isabella standing away and aloof as always. Alfonso bowed to the men and and kissed the ladies' hands. The governor drew him aside. "Captain-General," he said in a whisper, "That was truly a memorable display of the king's justice at work. Severe, yet tempered with mercy. Never have I seen a more efficacious or – if I may say – a more stimulating one. Before you . . . ah . . . hand the wench over to the Inquisition, perhaps you could have me come aboard and witness your . . . ah . . . personal questioning of her? Eh? For what she might know about the other pirates. Serving both king and church in that way could further your career. Eh?"

Alfonso, of course, understood all too well. Sharing a bed with that whale he was now shackled to could not be very stimulating. Well. This was one card he could delay playing. He had his own plans for the girl first.

"Of course, Excellency, yet I must first confer with the Inquisition's agent aboard, Father Gomez. As you know," he added slyly, "he is the supreme authority in all matters religious. I am just a cog in the secular machine that serves the Church. Rest assured, Governor, just as soon as he is satisfied with the Church's desires in this matter, I shall send for you."

Even as the man walked away, Alfonso gestured the bosun over to him. He spoke quietly to the man. "Once I have escorted these people down to the dock, you release her from the post. Take her down to the gun deck and lock her into a cage. Allow her to redress herself."

"But the priest, captain," the bosun began. "He said . . ."