Whipping Girl

by Aishling Morgan

  Lalage tried not to smile at the memory of the dusky Sabina kicking in desperation as she was whipped with her head held well down into a chamberpot, but failed. Coralie had finished her prayers, and stood.

  ‘What of your morning devotions?’ she asked.

  ‘It will make us late,’ Benedicta answered, ‘and I’ll get caught.’

  ‘But Novice Corisande will punish you if…’

  ‘She will punish you if the chamberpot is not clean before she returns. Now come on.’

  Coralie gave a grimace, but picked up the great pot and joined the other two as they hurried out, along the corridor, down one stair, then another. Other girls joined them as they went, all Supplicants in their inadequate shifts, just sandals, or stark naked, most with the marks of punishment showing on their bottoms. Only a few nuns were about, Novices and the occasional Sister. At the ablution chamber, they found themselves at the end of a short queue. Lalage put her back to the wall, in silence, one eye on the black-and grey-robed figure of Sister Verena at the far end of the corridor. Not one girl spoke.

  In the three weeks since her arrival, Lalage had come to learn the complex system of rules by which the nunnery operated. Many were archaic, others contradictory, still others existed purely for the sake of stressing the hierarchy, with the Supplicants firmly at the bottom. Silence was among the most frequently broken, even the devout and timid Coralie talking in the dormitory when Corisande was asleep, although more than once it had led to impromptu spankings across the Novice’s knee.

  Nest appeared, looking slightly ill, her face and hair soiled, Lucilla’s chamberpot hanging from one hand. Lalage managed a sympathetic smile as the petite girl passed to join the rapidly lengthening queue. A Novice approached, to snap out an order.

  ‘First dozen! Be quick!’

  The first twelve girls hastily filed into the chamber, the last squeaking as the nun’s quirt caught her across the back of her legs. Lalage made a quick calculation and was relieved to find herself tenth in line. They moved forward, to wait again, until all twelve of the girls called in first had finished. As the last caught a whip stroke across her buttocks, the next group was called.

  Coralie hurried straight into the sluice room with her pot, Lalage and Benedicta taking their places at the wash stand, each with her own bowl of water. Lalage washed quickly, but was still splashing water onto her anus when Benedicta turned to her, speaking in a low hiss.

  ‘I must squat, or I’ll wet myself in service!’

  ‘Quickly then.’

  Lalage gave her bottom hole a last dab, rinsed her hands, and followed her friend to the sluice room. Taking up a pot, she pretended to busy herself as Benedicta squatted down over the trough, to release her piddle with a long sigh of contentment. Lalage pulled her eyes away before the sight of the yellow pee spurting from the tiny hole at the centre of her friend’s sex could begin to spark the lewd feelings which had become harder and harder to fight down. Since her severe caning, she had managed to resist temptation, save only for occasions when Lucilla had demanded she make a display of herself, something the Tesserette liked to watch while she indulged in her own shameless masturbation. Benedicta also masturbated, quietly, and late at night, making it ever more tempting to give in to the same lewd pleasure.

  Benedicta was quickly finished, and rose, smiling, to leave the chamber before the last of those girls charged with washing out the pots had finished her duty. As they left, the Novice called out the next twelve, only to exclaim in irritation as the last girl came out. Lalage jumped quickly forward to avoid the Novice’s whip, then hung her head and folded her arms in front of her, in the style intended to denote humility. Together, they walked around the cloister, ascended a flight of shallow steps and came out into the chapel close.

  Many other girls and women were in view, walking solemnly towards the great chapel, a building almost as large as the cathedral itself, and with a spire taller still, magnificent in the red light of dawn. None looked up at the great building, each studying the ground in front of her, lost in prayer or contemplation. At the very centre of the close stood a row of wooden pillories, most empty, some occupied by miserable, naked girls. Of the seven, two she knew as Novices, one was clearly still more senior, from her age, but all had been stripped naked, their right to modesty lost until their penance was complete. Benedicta nodded towards the eldest, a handsome, middle aged woman with a fine head of brown curls, heavy breasts and a full, womanly bottom, then spoke, in the quietest of whispers.

  ‘That is Sister Frusannah, who was caught in abuse, with a full sized marrow if rumour is to be believed. Her face is to be smeared with dung and forty strokes of the cane applied to her fat behind.’

  Lalage felt a shiver go through her at Benedicta’s words, and tried to tell herself that it was not pleasure. The women had been in the pillories since before dawn, and would remain there after their punishments until the last light had faded from the sky.

  ‘And the others?’ she asked, immediately chiding herself for wanting more salacious gossip.

  Benedicta merely shrugged, but both had already angled their walk to pass behind the restrained women, not close enough to arouse comments, but enough to admire the line of bottoms, five pink, two dark, each with a furry quim peeping out from between tightly closed thighs. The sight left Lalage with a curious tingling sensation in her belly. It also set her nipples hard, to her embarrassment as they entered the great building to take their places, kneeling on the tiles of the nave, heads bowed, in a silence none dared to break.

  Time passed, the hush of the great chapel broken only by the soft noises of the gathering congregation, and the occasional quiet voice of clink of metal on stone from where the altar was being prepared. Lalage waited, letting her thoughts drift, to the nunnery, its workings, and how she might gain while keeping her punishments to a minimum.

  With the great chapel full, a white-robed man climbed to the pulpit, the Blessed Father Faramond Glauter, priest to the nunnery. Lalage kept her face low, not wanting to meet the pale, gooseberry eyes as he scanned the congregation. She knew his reputation, for giving severe punishments to girls for breaking the most obscure theological rules. He was also rumoured to take some of these luckless girls back to the house he occupied between the nunnery wall and the cathedral of St Quay.

  He began the familiar words of the morning service, his voice loud in the great, high space of the chapel, and seeming to take on a strange quality, and great authority. Lalage listened, following the responses by instinct, condemning herself for those sins unpunished, thanking the Lord for the penances given to her, stressing her own low status and unworthiness to serve.

  The Plea for Virtue passed, and the Awe, before Father Glauter reached the Ritual of Beatitude. Lalage waited, as the Prioress, the Mothers, the Elder Sisters, and so on down the ranks were given the Blessing, with the Father and his assistants, both men, mumbling out the same words over and over. At last her own turn came, to walk forward and kneel in a line of Supplicants, suddenly acutely conscious of her nudity as she found the priest’s protruding eyes staring down at her. For a moment she thought to sense a touch of lust in his gaze, before his eyes closed. He muttered the sacred words.

  ‘Take into yourself the body of the Lord, that your flesh become his flesh. Take into yourself the blood of the Lord, that your soul become his soul.’

  The bread and wine came to Lalage and she took a little of each, again uncomfortably aware of his gaze, which she was sure was flicking from her breasts in front to the swell of her bottom behind. When the last girl had taken her Blessing, she made the Symbol and returned gratefully to her place.

  Two more lines of Supplicants received the Blessing and the ritual was completed. Blessed Mother Albreda took the pulpit, to deliver a long, rambling and barely audible sermon, a fresh Plea was given, and final Awe and the service was complete. Lalage waited, along with the other Supplicants, allowing the nuns to leave in strict order of rank until at last all
were gone save those on duty in the chapel. Several of these carried quirts to hurry along laggards, or punish the over eager. Lalage made sure to rise with the others, and hurry for the door, sighing in relief as she came out into the chapel close unscathed.

  The sun stood well in the sky, above the roof of the Great House. A crowd had gathered around the pillories, making it impossible to see the seven girls due for punishment. From the familiar thwacks of wood on flesh and the pained squeals coming after each, it was clear that the punishment had already started.

  Lalage stretched up on her toes, eager to see who was being beaten, but could only make out the black hood of the Salvatora wielding the cane. Lucilla’s striking blonde hair was also visible, at the front, among the black and grey hoods of the nuns. Frustrated, she stood back. Catching a glimpse of a Sister to the side, she quickly adopted the attitude of humble meditation she was supposed to hold while dwelling on the sins of those being punished, and the consequences. Beside her, Benedicta watched the Sister sidelong, then quickly stretched up onto her toes.

  ‘Who is being caned?’ Lalage asked in a whisper as Benedicta dropped back. ‘Can you see?’

  ‘It is Sanchia,’ another girl hissed. ‘She swore at Sister Althea in the refectory, as she was beaten with a spoon. She is to be dunged.’

  The swish and smack of the caning stopped, as did the girl’s yelps. There the clang of metal on metal, once, a pause as the crowd fell absolutely silent, and a soft, squashy noise. Somewhere a Supplicant gave a giggle, quickly stifled. Lalage and Benedicta exchanged a look of disgust.

  There was a pause, and once again the sound of wood on flesh started up, and fresh cries. Lalage closed her eyes, praying, and wondering why her quim felt so urgent. She tried to turn her mind away, to her work, but failed, and stood listening as each girl was beaten, with her sex growing more and more to seem the centre of her body. Sister Frusannah came last, and at the squelch of her face being pushed into the dung, Lalage felt a sharp twinge from her quim, like the echo of a climax.

  Sister Frusannah was caned, taking all forty strokes in stolid silence, and at last thanking the Salvatora who had beaten her for the penance. Finally, the Prioress herself stepped forward, to forgive each of the punished girls. The morning’s Pillory complete, the crowd began to disperse towards the refectories, slowly, many, like Lalage and Benedicta, waiting for a chance to view the seven punished girls.

  As before, all seven were bent to the pillories, each with her neck and hands trapped in the device and her bottom the highest part of her body. Unlike before, each bottom was now marked with a fresh set of cane cuts, while Sister Frusannah and Sanchia had their faces fouled with dung. One of Sanchia’s eyes was closed, and Lalage quickly flicked away a piece of dung to let her open it.

  ‘Be careful!’ Benedicta hissed. ‘What is it…“Who lessens the penance of another must need take it upon themselves”.’

  Lalage moved quickly away, just catching Sanchia’s sad but grateful smile. No nuns were near, but her heart was hammering until they had reached the shelter of the buildings. Walking quickly, they made their way to the common refectory, to join a long line of fellow Supplicants, beside Sabina, whose dormitory was close to their own. Lalage acknowledged the girl with a nod, then craned up on her toes to peer into the hall itself.

  Long tables ran the length of the room, in four rows, each with benches of plain wood to either side. Many of the places were already occupied, by Supplicants, in shifts or stark naked, most barefoot, and each with a bowl of grey gruel in front of her. Several Novices and a pair of Sisters walked along the aisles, each with her quirt, with which they would occasionally flick at a passing bottom as the girls hurried to their places.

  More girls joined the queue behind them, including Coralie. They moved forward, until Lalage was at the door of the hall, when a hush fell over the refectory. Nervous looks were cast to an archway in the far wall, where a single figure stood, black robed, but with the white hood that denoted an Elder Sister. Sister Althea hurried to the arch, bowed and spoke briefly to the senior nun. After a moment the Elder Sister raised a hand, pointing to a strikingly pretty, golden-haired Supplicant at a nearby table. The girl saw, and immediately hung her head, as if to avoid attention, only to squeal as Sister Althea took her firmly by the ear.

  The girl was pulled up, her half-eaten gruel abandoned on the table. For a moment her face was visible, showing an expression of near panic as she was dragged across to the Elder Sister and set on her way with a quirt cut to her bottom. Without another word the Elder Sister turned away, to disappear into the darkness of the arch with the golden-haired girl trailing forlornly behind.

  ‘An Elder Sister!’ Coralie whispered from where she had been peering out from beneath Lalage’s arm.

  ‘What does she want with the girl?’ Lalage asked. ‘Had she done something wrong, something terrible?’

  ‘That was Elder Sister Aspasia,’ Sabina said quietly. ‘The girl will be back in a week or so, wiser, a little sore in places.’

  ‘She has been chosen for service then? But why not a Novice? Why…’

  ‘Service, yes, of a sort to gratify lust, with her head strapped between old Aspasia’s thighs and her arms bound behind her back.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nonsense! How can you say this of an Elder Sister?’

  ‘Easily. I was chosen myself, in my first week. Each week she takes a new girl, to use until she grows bored. Protest, and you will find yourself in the pillory with your head shaved and three pounds of dung balanced on your bald pate.’

  ‘That is not just!’

  Sabina gave a cluck of derision and stepped forward to take her portion of gruel. Lalage followed, and together they took their bowls to a vacant section of table to eat the watery porridge in silence beneath the watchful eyes of the nuns. For once, Lalage was grateful for the rule against idle gossip, as it allowed her to think, and imagine what the golden-haired girl would shortly be going through. If Sabina was telling the truth, it implied the girls were made to put their tongues to Elder Sister Aspasia’s quim, an act sufficient to bring accusations of not just obscenity, but of heresy and paganism. Involuntarily, she found herself wondering how it would feel, and taste, to lick another woman’s quim, a thought that sent a shiver the length of her spine before she bit it down in shame.

  Her gruel finished, she waited for the others before making an exit as rapidly as she could without attracting attention. Already the bells calling them to study could be heard, and she hurried, along with the other Supplicants, walking as fast as decorum allowed, to the long line of classrooms that opened onto one side of the cloister. Sister Tryphena was already there, and rose as Lalage hurried to her desk.

  Sabina had been following Lalage, and moved quickly toward her desk, only for a bony hand to lock on her wrist. With a single, practised motion, Sister Tryphena sat back on her stool and drew Sabina across her knee. The girl managed only a single, choking sob as she was upended and a leg curled around the inside of her knee, to hold her helpless and spread her buttocks to the class. Lalage sighed in relief as the dark lips of Sabina’s quim came on view, along with the still darker dimple of her anus. Then the spanking began and the dusky girl’s bottom was bouncing to hard, rhythmic slaps, delivered without a sound from the Sister, but a series of gasps and little, pained squeaks from the victim.

  ‘Sloth is a sin greatly to be deplored,’ Sister Tryphena stated, but a vicious little smile gave the lie to the severity of her tone as she let go of Sabina.

  Sabina sat down heavily on her bottom, but got up quickly, to scurry to her desk, with one hand rubbing ruefully at a rosy cheek. Sister Tryphena ignored her victim completely as she turned to the class.

  ‘Today, we shall continue to delve into the mysteries of the Good Book, with particular attention to the Axioms, and how Beatus Bulla derived them from earlier texts. Coralie, my dear, confirm the sanctity of silence.’

  ‘Yes, Sis
ter Tryphena,’ Coralie answered immediately. ‘The Blessed Bulla cites “Silence is sacred” as an Axiom of the primary category. His proof is drawn from many passages, initially the silence of the new made firmament in Creation 1:6 and Creation 3:12, subsequently in the silence of the people as they fled the Memphian tyrant, Emancipation 12:1 through to 14:7, also…’

  ‘That will do very well, thank you, my dear,’ Sister Tryphena interrupted, ‘your learning is exceptional, but beware the sin of pride. Now, let me see, perhaps one of those pupils who have proved less diligent, who must have every chance to prove their worth. Yes, Benedicta, derive the Axiom “Blessed are they who attain the seven virtues”.’

  Benedicta threw a despairing glance at Lalage and stood, her hands folded over her belly, her fingers intertwining as she spoke.

  ‘The derivation, Sister Tryphena, is from…is from…er…Deliverance, when King…King Haidrat gives over the crown to the Prophet Zullah?’

  Sister Tryphena sighed.

  ‘On how many counts is it possible to be wrong, Benedicta? Firstly, the Book of Deliverance was written over a thousand years before our Lord defined the seven virtues. Secondly, the Prophet Zullah was not given rule, but governance. Thirdly, this was done not by Haidrat, but by his son, Haisat. Fourthly, the Axiom derives from the pronouncement of she whose name you are so unworthy to bear, Sancta Benedicta, on her accession to Prioress of this very nunnery. Do you know nothing, girl?’

  ‘I am sorry, Sister Tryphena,’ Benedicta mumbled.

  ‘Bench,’ Sister Tryphena stated, a single word that sent the blood straight to the girl’s cheeks.

  Benedicta left her desk, to walk slowly between the rows of girls, each pair of eyes following her with mixed apprehension and pleasure. A low bench ran the length of one side wall. It was bolted to the floor, and set a foot or more back from the wall. Kneeling, with her hands and forehead pressed to a line drawn on the wall, Benedicta was forced to adopt a pose both lewd and vulnerable. Her bare bottom showed beneath her shift and the lips of her quim were poking out between her thighs.