Trina swallowed and said nothing; as Blush Coynte’s body shuddered in orgasm, her come poured over Trina’s frotting fist, and Trina’s own cunt sluiced with a torrent of slimy cunt juice as she moaned in the stabbing, swooning joy of her own climax. Keys rattled at the door and it was flung open. Surveying the two frotteuses were public servants Acajou and Felt, along with Prefect Funger and a tall, blonde girl, ripely fessed, massively teated and with smouldering grey eyes, no older than Trina, and whose regal carriage proclaimed her authority. Her waist narrowed to a taper over big, jutting buttock pears; she wore a white blouse and dark blue skirt, like the girls at the watch post, but her stockings were of pure nylon fishnet and in black. Her skirt did not billow but clung to her broad buttocks, revealing that she had no panties, and the skirt was smooth at the back with no bowstring. Her gleaming black pointed boots shone so brightly that they mirrored the pink and blonde of her naked pubis.
‘All rise for Mamselle Zealla Pure, chief officer of the committee of public safety,’ announced Prefect Funger.
‘Citizen Blush Coynte, the committee has decreed that you be transported to a place of execution and there hanged, until correction has been applied to your naked person. I order you to accompany public servants Acajou and Felt at this time.’
The blonde female spoke in a soft purr as Trina gaped in astonishment.
‘I believe the prisoner has been masturbating with the detainee. That is a serious offence.’
‘Oh!’ Trina gasped. ‘It was my fault, honestly. Don’t blame the kid, I mean —’
‘How reasonable of you to confess, mamselle,’ said the blonde. ‘Your chastisement shall be augmented after you are hanged.’
Acajou and Felt approached Trina and seized her arms.
‘Let’s go, Citizen Coynte,’ said Acajou.
‘Wait,’ Trina shrieked as they dragged her, wriggling, to the door. ‘I’m not Coynte, I’m Trina Guelph. I’m…I’m an illegal immigrant, that’s all. Blush, tell them who I am.’
‘Whoever the detainee is, she is naked and in shame,’ said Zealla Pure, ‘so her statements mean nothing until confirmed by torture. Citizen Blush Coynte was confined here wearing prisoner’s raiment, and the mamselle in prisoner’s raiment is therefore Citizen Blush Coynte.’
‘Yes, Mamselle Coynte,’ said Blush, ‘best take your punishment like a lady. Think of me, an unwilling spy for New Albion, tortured and screaming under the whip.’
Trina turned to Acajou and Felt, begging them to admit that they had delivered her here only an hour before.
‘Is that true?’ hissed Zealla Pure.
‘Our report, stamped by Prefect Funger, says we delivered a naked detainee,’ replied Felt, ‘so although the derrière welts of the nude female resemble those of Citizen Blush Coynte, scholar of New Arras, the prisoner for execution must be this one.’
Elvis Lesieur appeared at the door.
‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ cried Trina. ‘Tell these maniacs I’m Trina Guelph! Tell them I came in your boat this morning, please!’
Elvis tipped his peaked cap to the ladies.
‘All I had on the boat was a mail sack, Citizen Pure,’ he said. ‘Didn’t look to see if there was a mamselle inside.’
Everybody laughed, except Trina.
‘No…’ she sobbed as Acajou and Felt pinioned her hands behind the back of her neck.
‘Thanks for the diddle, New Albion spy,’ said Blush as Trina was dragged away. ‘How sweet, you already know Elvis.’
‘She’ll get to know him a lot better, Blush, in the next couple of hours,’ said Zealla Pure.
She turned to Trina, whose eyes were still staring at Zealla, a perfect lookalike for Kimmi Lardeau.
‘Elvis is our public hangman, you see,’ Zealla added.
From the Journal of Mlle Augustine Flageolet, anno 1760 4 To banish vice from polite society, we must remove the notion of cause and effect. Virtue does not produce happiness, nor crime punishment. Strokes descend on bare buttocks, as rain descends from the sky. Virtue is to accept and relish the inevitability of strokes, for why did nature create the sublime sculptures of a girl’s bare croup, if not to display it red and aquiver under flogging? If only Mme de Pompadour had prevailed, to preserve my academy from the viperish tongues of Flanders and Artois!
Today, I had Annique Ducrueil lashed at the mainmast, fifty strokes on the bare back, with a stockwhip. Her offence was laziness in the furniture workshop. Whipping on the back is arguably less ladylike, hence more shameful, than strokes on bare nates, as it affords less occasion for delicious blushes and squirms. The delicacy of our pieces requires teamwork and, when we have access to the treasure of American hardwoods, our exportation of stocks, stools, racks, gibbets and other flagellant utensils must reap vast profits from the academic institutions of Europe, as well as discerning friends of the rod in the New World. I had her stripped to her petticoat, with her torso bare, and was interested that her nipples stiffened during her whipping, also that there was a damp stain at her crotch afterwards. Can corporal punishment have to do with voluptuous pleasure? In which case, where is the line drawn between punishment and delight? Annique’s skin was discoloured, but she did not shriek. Afterwards, I laced her in a green satin corset, fastening her waist to sixteen pouces, but the brave girl did not cry out. Suffering adds a poignancy to female beauty.
5
Melons Up
The sultry air matted Trina’s mane, damp with sweat, against her brow. Pinioned, she was unable to brush the locks away.
‘I believe your offence was wetting your palliasse, Mamselle Coynte,’ said Zealla Pure, striding in front of Trina and her guards. ‘Again… the rule book specifies a chastisement of pertinent flogging, but makes it a hanging offence for unreasonable repetition.’
‘I’m not Blush Coynte. You know I’m not, mamselle,’ Trina blurted, as she hobbled along. ‘Please tell me, do you have relatives named Lardeau?’
Zealla Pure stopped the cortege and smiled without replying.
They stood in the middle of Central Place, a large square, framed by the palace of justice, the courthouse, the academy of sciences and the Bank of New Arras, its hanging sign showing a girl in eighteenth-century costume, skirts and petticoats lifted, and a cane swishing her bare bottom, with an older inscription beneath: Banque du Nouvel Arras. The buildings drooped with kudzu vine and yellow Carolina jasmine, whose fragrance shimmered in the sweat-moist air, the creepers intermeshing and the plants rooting in the stonework. The group of girls attracted only mild or frightened curiosity from the numerous girls hurrying towards the square’s end, and dressed either in official uniform or else the flowing scholar’s robe that bared or modestly hid the unpantied croup.
In the centre of the square stood a plain rectangular frame of southern white oak, fifteen feet long and six high; from the crossbar dangled half a dozen sets of rubber wrist-cuffs, with one occupied. The exposed girl was nude and hung limply from her bonds, with both back and buttocks bearing stripes of recent flogging. Her body twirled and as her front swayed into view Trina saw big, jutting dugs covered in thick whipmarks; the belly too, with the same pink slashes covering the tops of the thighs, and the pubis itself, swollen and red under a thick, straggling blonde fleece, wet with the girl’s exudations. A low, mewling sob came from the paper bag that shrouded her head, with hanks of blonde mane clinging wetly, beneath the bag, to her wealed back and shoulders.
The robed girls lowered their heads as they passed the nude figure, but with quick looks at her weals and making wide eyes of fear. The officers, in white or grey uniform, ignored the flogged girl. From Central Place, a cobbled street led to a larger square, in whose centre stood a scaffold, dimly visible in the heat haze, and surrounded by a mass of girls — scholars, in white blouse and blue skirt. The shamed, with bottoms exposed, mingled with the modest, whose skirts were drawn tightly over their fesses, and around the crowd stood white-uniformed officers of the public watch, their whips uncoiled.
Zealla poised her cane over Trina’s buttocks, bared by the canvas shame dress. She nodded towards the hanging girl of Central Place.
‘Julie Pageant received a pertinent flogging this morning,’ she hissed, ‘for telling such lies. She was leader of a circle of lesbian frotteuses, disgraceful in a public servant, and foolishly tried to deny it. A normal sentence for unreasonable masturbation is fifty canestrokes on the fesses, but for conspiracy to masturbate she got one hundred lashes with a cattle whip, fifty on the back and fifty on the croup, and she only had enough strokes in the bank to buy thirty-two of them away. Blush Coynte is rich, but the foolish trull must forfeit her bank balance yet again. No currency can buy a girl off a public hanging. And you claim you’re not Blush Coynte? Your prison garb says you are, mamselle — reason says you must be. The maids expect to see a uniformed prisoner stripped and shamed, and they shall.’
Vip! Vip! Vip!
‘Uh!’ Trina grunted, as three cuts from the ashplant sliced fresh pink weals on her bare. ‘Piss on you, I’m Trina Guelph, you dumb fuck.’
The naked buttocks clenched in a frenzied squirm and her legs danced, alternately stiffening and buckling, as her bare croup tried to dissipate its pain.
Vip! Vip! Vip!
‘Ah! No, please!’
The ashplant raised crisp, vivid weals on her naked ass-flesh. Vip! Vip! Vip!
‘Uhh…’
‘Who are you, malfeasant?’ Zealla said.
Trina shuddered in a choking sob; her loins and bare buttocks danced, her legs and feet jerking, with her toes tapping the ground as her jailers held her up by her pinioned arms. Vip! Vip! Vip!
‘Oh… oh… I’m — I’m Blush Coynte, OK? Anything, just please stop.’
Vip! Vip! Vip!
‘Oh!’ Trina wailed as her flogged bare fesses trembled and a hissing golden stream of piss spurted from her cunt, spraying the earth and soaking her canvas dress.
Zealla Pure wrinkled her nose and put away her cane.
‘Truants should not make unreasonable requests,’ she said daintily. ‘That malodorous display would earn you stripes, save that you are already beyond quota.’
Trina sobbed, trying to rub her buttocks, but was restrained by the jailers, who dragged her along the cobbles. They entered the second square, flanked by edifices of five or six floors in the Grecian style, which Zealla called Republic Place. She poked Trina’s anus with the tip of her cane, advising her to walk erect to her place of execution, on pain of further pertinent chastisement before her torture and hanging. Trina wailed and sobbed, but managed to steady herself and hobble upright.
Be cool. When this fucking misunderstanding is cleared up, I’ll be boss of these crazy bitches.
Elvis climbed on to the scaffold, where a watchmaid handed him a black canvas hood and a whip, consisting of a handle with a flail of knotted rubber thongs two feet in length. Elvis stripped off his shirt and gave it to the maid, who curtsied. Her motion caused her top shirt-button to pop and her bare breast spilled out. Elvis cupped the teat with a swift slap of his palm. He inclined, secured the shirt and packed the errant breast back in its covering, making sure to tuck it in firmly and rolling the maid’s flesh against the heel of his hand, which rubbed back and forth on her nipple. The maid blushed and Zealla Pure’s lip trembled; her nostrils flared as she turned her head away. The maid curtsied again.
‘I’m an American citizen,’ Trina wailed. ‘You can’t treat me this way. I demand to see the US marshal.’
Zealla smiled as Trina mounted the scaffold, stumbling up the steps and steadied by her guards beside the polished wooden rack. Elvis stood in front of her, tucked the handle of his whip down the front of his pants and released her wrists from their neck cuff. She wept copiously, screwing her fists into blurred eyes. Slowly, Elvis unfastened her prison tunic, finally ripping the cloth from her breasts and drawing a low wail from Trina as he bared her upper body. He took a teat in each hand and began to squeeze her breasts, kneading them painfully and drawing the nipple-flesh between his fingernails to pinch the nips to white buds. Trina trembled, but remained rooted to the spot.
‘No, don’t,’ she gasped, as Elvis pinched her teats harder.
‘Oh! You motherfucker, stop. You fucking bastard.’
Elvis grinned his lopsided grin, and reached behind her. With one pull, her skirt was undone, and fell to her ankles, revealing her nude buttocks, glowing with the weals from Zealla’s cane. Elvis stroked the jagged gashes of the canemarks, applying his fingernails to rake her sores and making her groan. He swayed his hips, so that the tips of his scourge dangled, brushing against Trina’s fleece and belly.
‘You motherfucker,’ she sobbed, ‘you motherfucker. Ahh!’
At her obscenity, Elvis dug his claws sharply into her cooze, and began to rake the inside of her slit.
‘Oh… oh… don’t…’
He plunged his fist inside her, penetrating her to his wrist. Trina widened her thighs to permit his penetration, and sobbed louder as his wrist quickly slimed with her cunt-oil. After two minutes of fisting her cunt, Elvis withdrew and held up dripping fingers. The crowd murmured excitedly, all the maids standing quivering to attention, arms rigid at their sides.
‘You bastard,’ Trina wailed.
She did not resist as the hangman’s maids bound her wrists and ankles to the rollers at each end of the rack. Trina’s screams and frantic wriggling as a new, terrified jet of piss burst from her cunt made the crowd buzz. Elvis donned the black leather hood, and stood over Trina with only his eyes and mouth visible. The two sweating, braless girls in public servants’ uniforms stood beneath Zealla at either end of the rack, grasping the driver wheels. The rack was stained with fluids of previous victims.
‘I am the US marshal,’ said Zealla. ‘Carry out sentence, Citizen Lesieur.’
Trina screamed and pissed herself once more, very heavily, as she was strapped down. Elvis gave the order to crank up the rack. Ratchets squeaked; Trina stretched herself fully, as if to charm away the pain for as long as possible. Elvis’s eyes were lazy slits, staring at the driblets of golden fluid from Trina’s gash.
‘Ahh!’
Her spine and legs stretched, bones cracking, and the pain seeped into her body.
‘Ahh! No…’
Her teats stretched to tight melons, billowing in the languid breeze above her chin. Her breath came in furious, frightened gasps.
‘Oh, please, enough,’ she groaned. ‘Whip me then. Please whip me and have done with it.’
Zealla stared down at her.
‘Not until you confess,’ she murmured.
‘OK, I confess,’ sobbed Trina, rattling at the ropes which bound her. ‘Anything. I’m guilty. Just please, oh please, get this nightmare over with.’
‘A detailed confession,’ said Zealla, ‘or you’ll find your nightmare is only beginning.’
‘Ahh!’ Trina screamed as the rack creaked tighter; her spine arched and her gaping cunt, between thighs bound apart, dribbled hot come into the crack of her ass.
Zealla put a finger to her anus and scratched her, which made Trina moan, then lifted the finger, glistening with Trina’s dripped cunt-slime. She put the finger into the back of Trina’s throat, ordering her to suck her own juice.
‘The only way you may persuade us you are not Blush Coynte,’ she said, ‘is to describe your true self. From your reactions to chastisement, it seems you are that most despicable of creatures, a submissive pervert. Confess fully to your nature and we may believe you are not Citizen Blush Coynte, not even a New Albion spy, merely a deluded enthusiast of pain, who imagined she would enjoy our reasonable punishments. Such a confession means baring youself, intruder. Every detail of your perverted history — otherwise, Blush Coynte you shall remain.’
A hangman’s maid, on signal from Zealla, upended a squirming cloth bag into Trina’s cunt. From the bag spilled clams, flicking from open shells, and scuttling spider crabs. Trina screamed, as her cunt was invaded by the crustaceans, a
nd the maid clamped her gash-lips tight shut with a two-inch-long iron cunt-clamp.
‘Every detail. Now,’ Zealla snapped.
Trina began to sob her story, including her mission to New Albion, and insisting her predicament was a terrible misunderstanding, but fervently agreeing her perverted nature might be responsible. She blurted her games with Kimmi and Allan and everything before that, her cruel and dominant sex practices with males. She insisted that the truth would prove her no submissive but a tyrant, a dominatrix. Her cunt-basin wriggled from the cargo in her pouch, with her wet ass thumping the base of the rack, as the crustaceans fought inside her cunt. Trina shrieked as shell splinters ripped her gash-meat, and mingled fluids dripped from her squirming slit. Scholars and watchmaids craned to hear Trina’s words. Their arms twitched at their sides, clutching skirts and knotting the fabric into balls, wet with perspiration. The maids scratched themselves at their half-bared breasts or in the cracks of their asses, shifting on trembling legs.
‘For one so bold, you seem to fear pain,’ said Zealla.
‘I hate pain. I do hate to be hurt, so very much.’
‘Do the crusties hurt?’
‘You know they do.’
‘A rhetorical question. And another: what if your story is a lie, presenting yourself as cruel and unreasonable simply to get the flogging you crave?’
‘You’re crazy! Who would want this — and whipping? I can’t believe it. Oh, please, mamselle, enough.’
‘Why, no maid wants whipping,’ said Zealla, ‘which is why they like to watch. It could be them…’
The girls turned the rack; Trina’s back soared in an arch and she screamed. Droplets of her torturers’ sweat landed on her face and belly. Zealla sniffed and turned her head in disdain. Upon her orders, Trina’s jaws were forced open and a shaven tennis ball wedged between them, the gag fastened around her nape by a tight rubber cord.
‘Mmm, mmm,’ she gurgled, as the rack notched tighter, splaying her ribs hard against her skin and stretching her teats to envelopes.
Belle Submission Page 8
