Whipping Girl

by Aishling Morgan

  ‘Tesserette!’ Corisande exclaimed in shock.

  ‘What is the matter?’ Lucilla answered. ‘Haven’t you seen a beaten girl’s cunt grow juicy before?’

  Corisande didn’t answer, but she was blushing, and looked away as Lucilla returned her finger to Benedicta’s sex, to rub on the taut, pearly white clitoris. Nest had hidden her face in her hands. Coralie was facing the other way and mumbling prayers. Lalage found her gaze fixed to Benedicta’s sex, which was wet with fluid, and found her own growing warm. Lucilla laughed and began to cane Benedicta once more, flicking the implement in with short vicious strokes, even as she masturbated the now fully aroused quim. Benedicta gasped once as the cane hit her, but no more. Again Lucilla laughed and began to work harder on her victim, both with cane and finger. Benedicta groaned, a sound of mingled despair and ecstasy, and then she was coming, her sex contracting, her whipped bottom cheeks tightening, her anus going into spasm, her mouth opening wide, drool running down over her upturned face.

  Lucilla laughed as she watched the hapless Benedicta going through orgasm, still using the cane, until at last her victim broke stance and collapsed. Benedicta fell sobbing to the floor, to squat down, her face in her hands, her thrashed buttocks wide to the room with the pink dimple of her anus on open view, still twitching. Lalage moved forward, to place her arm around the beaten girl’s shoulders, as she did so noticing that Corisande had left the room. Lucilla spoke.

  ‘You are funny, Benedicta…No, not Benedicta, I think. It is a saintly name, hardly appropriate for a grovelling slut like you. I shall call you…let me see…yes, Bendy, to remind you of how you must go over to take your punishments, which I am sure will be frequent. I shall name all of you in fact, let me see…’

  She looked around, her bright, pale eyes flicking from face to face, her mouth curved up in delight. Lalage watched in trepidation. Lucilla met her eye, and laughed.

  ‘You are easy. I shall call you Babbles, for your name. You, Nest, may be Mouse, which is perfect, and you, the little fat one who thinks she talks to the Lord…hmm, yes, Butterball will serve.’

  None replied.

  ‘So,’ Lucilla went on, ‘my maid. Not Butterball, no. Fat girls are invariably slovenly. Bendy who shows insufficient respect? Babbles, who is vain and arrogant? Hmm, it might be amusing to teach you the proper attitude to your betters…or it might be troublesome. No, I need a meek little thing, who will do as she is told without my constant effort. Mouse, it is to be you.’

  ‘Yes, Lady Lucilla,’ Nest answered quietly, bowing her head.

  ‘You see,’ Lucilla remarked, ‘by her attitude she avoids a whipping. It is a lesson you would do well to learn, Bendy. But then, perhaps you already have?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Lucilla,’ Benedicta answered.

  ‘Sullen, still?’ Lucilla said. ‘That will never do. You have been punished. You should be grateful for your correction. Evidently you still have to learn your place. Perhaps I should make you my whipping girl. Yes…’

  She broke off at the sound of footsteps. The door swung open, to reveal Corisande and two, huge, black clad women, one taller even than Benedicta, and broad shouldered, the other squat, but bulkier still. Both held canes, thicker, and twice the length of the implement which has been used on Benedicta. Even Lucilla’s face showed fear as all five girls backed hastily to the sides of the room. Corisande spoke, gesturing to Lucilla.

  ‘This is the Tesserette d’Ortaise, Sisters. Her sins ungentle language, the touching of unclean parts of another, improper conduct, lewd conduct, amoral flagellation.’

  Both Salvatoras turned to Lucilla, who took another step back. Her chin was raised, her expression defiant, but she was trembling. The taller of the two women spoke.

  ‘Your sins are grave, Tesserette d’Ortaise, and demand retribution. You must be punished. Moreover, as this is your first day, your punishment must be of unusual severity. It is kinder to pluck the bud of sin than take petals from the flower.’

  ‘To pluck the bud of sin,’ the squat Salvatora echoed, making the Symbol across her chest.

  ‘I…I am the Tesserette d’Ortaise St Seraphina,’ Lucilla managed, ‘of the highest noble blood, my father…’

  ‘Nevertheless, you must be punished,’ the tall Salvatora stated calmly. ‘By our penance our Lord forgives.’

  ‘Our Lord forgives,’ the other echoed.

  ‘No, I…it can not be…not me…,’ Lucilla stammered, retreating against the wall.

  ‘It shall be,’ the tall woman stated with absolute certainty. ‘Who is your whipping girl?’

  ‘Her…her,’ Lucilla squeaked, pointing frantically at Benedicta. ‘Whip her!’

  ‘She is heavily marked,’ the tall woman said doubtfully.

  ‘There is no mercy in the sparing of the rod,’ the squat one stated.

  ‘Her then!’ Lucilla babbled, now pointing at Lalage.

  Both Salvatoras turned to Lalage, their eyes fixing to her body as her stomach twisted into a tight knot of fear.

  ‘You are?’ the taller demanded.

  ‘Lalage…Sister,’ Lalage managed.

  ‘Her faults at first note are arrogance, lying, onanism and sodomy,’ Corisande added.

  The tall woman’s eyebrows rose a fraction.

  ‘She has been whipped, I see.’

  ‘But mildly.’

  ‘True,’ the tall woman answered, taking Lalage’s arm to turn her for the inspection of her buttocks. ‘So be it. Lalage, you are appointed whipping girl to the Tesserette d’Ortaise. In compensation for this honour you will go naked about your tasks. Give your shift to the other.’

  Lalage hesitated an instant, but had begun to peel off her shift even as the Salvatora released her arm. She was shaking, and she could feel the tears of shame and sheer consternation welling up in her eyes as she stripped, exposing herself to add yet deeper humiliation to her condition. Benedicta gave her a look of sympathy as the shift was passed to her, then relief as she quickly pulled it over her naked body. Lalage stood, nude and trembling.

  ‘Grave sins, Sister Marah,’ the tall woman stated.

  ‘Grave indeed, and manyfold, Sister Etta,’ the squat one replied.

  ‘Each, for a Supplicant, must earn a full dozen strokes.’

  ‘And twice over, for the commission of sin on the first day.’

  ‘Five sins, by twelve and by two. The award must be one hundred and twenty strokes. Stern, but just. Still, she may prove unable to hold herself.’

  ‘There is no mercy in the sparing of the rod.’

  ‘Indeed not. I merely suggest she be tied, so that we may go about our task without interruption.’

  ‘A wise thought, Sister Etta.’

  As she spoke, the taller of the two had reached into a recess within her robe. Lalage watched with frightened eyes as a long, black rope was revealed. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Sister Marah had moved to one of the heavy wooden pallets, and lifted it easily, to prop it against the wall. The blanket fell away, to reveal areas of dark discoloration in the pattern of a spread-eagled woman, the sweat, drool and juice of previous victims. Sister Etta stepped forward, to take hold of one of Lalage’s arms. Numb with shock and fear, Lalage allowed the rope to be twisted around her wrist and tied off.

  She was led, the Salvatora holding the rope, to the pallet, and pulled down, her bound wrist stretching out to the upper corner as her naked body pressed to the cool, hard wood. Her face met the wood, and she closed her eyes in prayer, her words quickly failing, to give way to an involuntary whimpering. With quick, practised efficiency, the Salvatoras tied her in place, spreading her four limbs and fixing each to a corner of the pallet. It left her spread, helpless, her buttocks ready for the cane, her quim on blatant display. The cane was tapped on the crest of her bottom.

  Lalage wet herself, urine spraying from her open quim, to splash, hot against the skin of her inner thighs and cascade down over the staves of the pallet, to the floor. She gave a broken so
b as it came, but made no effort to stop it, letting the full contents of her bladder trickle down, until a broad, yellow pool had formed between her feet.

  ‘Disgusting,’ Sister Etta remarked. ‘Have you no self control, girl?’

  Lalage could manage only a broken whimper in answer. Again the cane tapped her bottom, then lifted. Her muscles tightened, a last spurt of urine gushed from her sex, and exploded against the pallet, splashing her belly as her body was jammed forward by the impact of the cane. She screamed, only for the sound to be cut off in a grunt as the second cane caught her, lashing down from the other side. Words spilt from her mouth, a desperate plea for mercy, only to break off in a fresh scream as the first cane caught her again. A fourth stroke followed, immediately, a fifth, sixth, the Salvatoras applying their canes to Lalage’s writhing, squirming body in a relentless, exact rhythm, never giving her a chance to recover from one stroke before the next fell. Her screams, pleas and grunts were ignored as she was beaten, blow after blow landing on her blazing bottom, until everything else had been blotted from her mind.

  Utterly broken, all dignity gone, she squirmed her body against the urine soaked pallet, squealing out her emotions to her silent audience. Her bottom was pushing in and out to show off quim and anus, her hair flying around her head as she shook herself in a desperate effort to dull the pain. Tears burst from her eyes, to pour down her cheeks and spatter the wood in front of her face at each impact. Still the cane strokes landed, one after another, until she had lost count. Her legs went, and she was hanging from her arms, her body flat to the pallet. She lost control of her anus, emitting a loud fart, to draw disgusted comments from the Salvatoras, although neither so much as slowed the pace of the awful beating.

  Her body was wet with sweat, her thighs and belly with urine, her face with tears, and drool and mucus, her fluids adding to the marks left by those who had been whipped before her, who had cried out their agony and shame onto the same hard pallet. As the beating went on, another fluid was added, the juice from her quim, leaking from the virgin hole to be smeared up between her lips as her body jerked to the blows. More came, dribbling down the already slick skin of her inner thighs, and dripping from lips of her sex.

  ‘Wanton!’ Sister Marah exclaimed in shock and a disgust yet deeper than when Lalage had urinated or farted.

  ‘Vile!’ Sister Etta added, and the cane whipped down across the back of Lalage’s thighs.

  Lalage screamed with fresh vigour at the sudden, biting agony, not on the burning ball of her bottom, but on cool, unmarked skin.

  ‘Her legs only,’ Sister Etta stated. ‘We shall have no such wanton behaviour here.’

  ‘No, mercy! I can’t help…’ Lalage panted, and screamed again as the next cut was delivered full across her thighs.

  The scream ended in a choking burble, only to rise again as another cut came in, harder and lower still. Her eyes came wide, her vision hazy with tears and dancing with red spots as she struggled to remember a prayer. None came, only fresh agony as the whipping of her thighs went on, blow after cruel blow. A red mist came up to blot out her vision, turning to black as she gave a last, agonised cry and her senses began to slip away.

  It stopped, suddenly, without warning. Sick and dizzy, close to fainting, Lalage forced herself to look round. The terrible canes trailed limp in the Salvatoras’ hands, their expressions blank as they inspected the mess they had made of her bottom and legs. Sister Etta turned to Lucilla.

  ‘I trust you are suitably chastened, Tesserette d’Ortaise?’

  Lucilla nodded.

  ‘Then let there be no repeat of this incident, or harsher penalties must be imposed. The fool alone gives the same penance for a repeated sin.’

  ‘The fool alone gives the same penance for a repeated sin,’ Sister Marah echoed, and stepped close to tug open the knot which held Lalage’s left wrist to the pallet. As her bonds came free, she slumped down, kneeling in the pool of her own urine, her head hung in utter submission. Her bottom and legs were burning, her mind a whorl of powerful and confusing emotions, but she said nothing, did nothing.

  Without another word, or a glance for the girl they had just beaten to the edge of fainting, the two Salvatoras walked from the room. Still Lalage stayed down, the others watching in horrified silence. Finally Lucilla spoke.

  ‘Why are you gawking like so many imbeciles? Haven’t you seen a beaten girl before? Into my suite, all of you, you also, Novice Corisande, if you would. I need my furniture moved to a more felicitous arrangement. Lalage, you will clean up your piddle, wash yourself and then come to assist. Nest, I need flowers, in tones of blue and yellow to set off my hair. You will fetch these…’

  Her voice grew faint as she entered her suite. The others followed, Nest closing the door, to leave Lalage staring down into her pee puddle, where her tear stained face was crudely reflected. Her buttocks and thighs were on fire, the welts fusing to an overall, burning pain made worse by her own sweat. Misery, humiliation and self-pity warred in her head, but they were not the only emotion. Nor was her whipped flesh the only part of her body on fire.

  For a long moment she held herself back, only for her will to break, suddenly. With a tortured sob she let her hand slip between her thighs, to find the wet mush of her sex. She was dripping juice, her hole agape, her lips puffy and swollen. For a moment she touched her hymen, supplicating herself as she stroked the taut membrane, and praying for forgiveness for what she was about to do. Then her finger had gone to her clitoris and she was masturbating, rubbing frantically at the tiny bud. Her bitter shame rose higher still as she thought of the abuse she was inflicting on herself, which she had before, so often, and which she knew she would again.

  Her humiliation at her own weakness rose with her pleasure, one linked to the other, intertwined. She thought of her last orgasm, masturbating as the pot buy grunted his way to climax up the sloppy hole between her spread buttocks. She thought of how Benedicta had come under Lucilla’s fingers, in the same helpless blend of ecstasy and shame now burning in her own mind. She thought of her whipping, how she had been tied, how she had wet herself, spraying the floor with the urine she now knelt in as she masturbated. She thought of the merciless cane strokes, of her pain, of the way they had beaten her legs when she had begun to juice.

  Lalage cried out for her Lord as her climax rose up to overwhelm her. Her head came forward, her body slipped down, into her dirty puddle and she gave in completely, writhing in her own urine as she brought herself to an unbearable peak of ecstasy under her own fingers. She was screaming, clutching at her breasts, slapping her smacked bottom in the wet, drumming her feet on the floor, until at last her ecstasy began to fade and pure shame rushed in to fill the space.

  Her eyes were closed, her hair spread out in the pee puddle, caring only for her thoughts, until a gentle cough brought her to her senses. Lucilla stood in the door to the suite, her exquisite face set in amused contempt.

  ‘A slut. I might have known.’

  Two

  The sound of the clamour bell finally broke through Lalage’s dreams. Stiff, she rolled over, only to wince as her tender bottom came into contact with the hard wood of the pallet. She had been punished the evening before, after service, simply whipped across a Sister’s knee and soundly spanked on her bare bottom. It had hurt, delivered on marks only two days old from a caning, with those in turned applied before her bottom had recovered from a session under Sister Verena’s quirt. All three beatings had been the result of Lucilla’s behaviour, and it seemed that the more Lalage was beaten, the more eager the Tesserette became to see it done again.

  She sighed as she propped herself onto an elbow. Outside it was still dark, with the first flush of dawn just colouring the eastern sky. Opposite her, Benedicta lay curled on her side, her inadequate shift ridden high to reveal the pink tuck of her bottom and the split purse of her sex. Coralie was already up, praying beside her bed. Nest, like Lalage, was propped on one elbow, yawning. Corisande was gone. />
  Lalage lay back, wondering if the pleasure of a few minutes more rest was worth arriving late for her ablutions, which meant queuing in the passage, naked as always, and dirty, if warm, water to wash in. Beside her, Nest rose. Like Lalage, she was nude, Lucilla having decided it was preferable. Also like Lalage, her neatly rounded bottom bore both bruises and welts, mostly the result of retribution for failing to meet Lucilla’s exacting demands.

  The two girls exchanged a look of sympathy and a little fear as Nest gingerly pushed open the door to the suite. As it closed, Lalage pulled herself to her feet, to stretch, then pad across to the huge communal chamberpot. Setting her legs to either side of it, she squatted down, spreading herself before releasing her straining bladder into the pot beneath. Fluid swirled into fluid and she sighed in relief, letting it all go before she began to push out the contents of her bowels.

  Lucilla’s voice sounded from the suite, sharp and angry, then again, demanding. Nest answered, faint, pleading, the response the sharp smack of leather on flesh, then a peculiar squashy noise. Lalage shook her head and pushed again, trying to ignore the distressing noises from the next room. Benedicta was awake, and trying to make some order of her tousled curls with her fingers.

  ‘Again?’ she asked.

  ‘Again,’ Lalage confirmed. ‘Poor Nest.’

  Benedicta nodded heartfelt agreement and climbed to her feet, to adjust her shift in a hopeless attempt to cover her buttocks. Lalage released her bottom and stood.

  ‘Are you coming to ablutions?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll pee in the trough.’

  ‘One day you will be seen, and caned with your head in a pot, as they did to Sabina.’

  ‘She’s a fool, not to ask a friend to watch. No surprise Sister Verena caught her. It was funny though, to see!’