Whipping Girl

by Aishling Morgan

  Sister Tryphena turned back to the class. She was smiling, now with no attempt to conceal her enjoyment of her power. Her eyes swept over the class, to rest on a girl at the back.

  ‘Rosabel, you have the poorest performance of all. Let us see if you can redeem yourself. From which line of which verse in Decretals does Beatus Bulla draw the forty-first of the secondary Axioms?’

  ‘Um…’ Rosabel replied.

  ‘Bench,’ Sister Tryphena said promptly, and Rosabel went to kneel beside Benedicta in the same rude pose, where she began to snivel.

  Without so much as a glance for the two miserable girls, Sister Tryphena continued. Lalage waited her turn, as girl after girl was questioned, invariably with the Sister’s favourites getting the easier questions, and even then not always succeeding. A row of ten naked female bottoms was presented along the bench before the Sister reached Lalage.

  ‘So, I understand our little sodomite has been spending her time in the library,’ the Sister said. ‘Let us see if she has achieved anything worthwhile, shall we?’

  Lalage stood up.

  ‘In the Book of Emancipation,’ Sister Tryphena stated, ‘what was revealed to the Prophet Adram that the people might not starve in the desert?’

  ‘Wild honey,’ Lalage answered, ‘our Lord led Adram to the nests, and because Adram had faith, he was not stung, and took up the honey…’

  ‘Exactly,’ Sister Tryphena broke in, ‘and how does Beatus Bulla infer his proscription on the consumption of honey by the laity from this, and by which Axiom?’

  ‘The Axiom states “Neither honey nor mead shall pass the lips of those impure”. Both these things derive from the bee, which was touched by our Lord in the time of the Book, and so the boons provided are suitable only for those who hold themselves pure for the Lord. This is one of a series of Axioms proscribing the use of fine foods to the laity. Others include wine made from grapes touched by the rich decay or from grapes harvested after the first frost, various spices, including…’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Sister Tryphena snapped, as an angry flush crossed her face.

  The Sister turned to another girl, then abruptly back to Lalage, now smiling.

  ‘A moment, Lalage. You use the word “fine” in relation to those things reserved to the priesthood. The word does not appear in the Axioms. Do you seek to imply that Beatus Bulla was merely attempting to ensure the supply of the best of the land to himself and his colleagues?’

  ‘Not at all, Sister,’ Lalage said quickly. ‘I merely…’

  ‘Do you imply greed on the part of Beatus Bulla?’ Sister Tryphena demanded.

  ‘No, I…’

  ‘Bench, Lalage.’

  Lalage opened her mouth to speak, but shut it hastily. With her resentment and consternation boiling in her head, she went to join the line of girls ready for punishment, kneeling beside Sabina. Behind her, Sister Tryphena chuckled.

  ‘Five remain,’ the Sister remarked, ‘so, what of you, Basilie?’

  The questioning resumed, one girl after another failing, until Coralie alone remained at her desk. Sister Tryphena was chuckling openly, and her movements had become agitated, sending Lalage’s apprehension soaring. A hard knot had formed in her stomach, and as the Sister spoke to Coralie yet again, it became tighter still.

  ‘Well, my dear, five correct answers. You are certainly my best scholar, yet I am concerned that you may become proud. One more question then. Which Axiom was revoked following the trial of the heretic Lasulus?’

  ‘The evil of the Beast equals the good of the Lord,’ Coralie answered promptly.’

  Sister Tryphena sighed.

  ‘Yes, my dear, I fear you are showing pride. Such knowledge is not for you, a mere Supplicant. Into line with you, beside the others.’

  Coralie’s fat little bottom was added to the line. Sister Tryphena went to her desk, Lalage watching in fear from the side of one eye as the nun drew out a thick leather strap. Lalage whispered a quick prayer and hung her head, trying to accept what was about to happen to her as just.

  Sister Tryphena began to walk up the line of girls, occasionally flicking at a bare bottom, or reaching out to pinch the soft flesh.

  ‘Excellent, a full house,’ she chuckled as she reached the end. ‘So, for your penance. Twenty strokes each.’

  Without another word she began to beat Coralie. Lalage watched from the corner of her eye, at once fascinated and repelled by the way the small, fat girl’s flesh bounced and wobbled to the smacks, her big bottom rippling, her breasts and hair jumping to each blow. The full twenty were given hard, to leave Coralie gasping and choking back her tears. Sister Tryphena was grinning.

  The next girl in line was beaten, and the next, each given the exact punishment regardless of how much she squealed or whether she cried. Some were stoic, others had to be held by their hair or the back of their shifts before they could be finished with, but all received the full twenty strokes. When Lalage’s turn came she set her jaw, determined to show fortitude, but she was soon squealing and kicking her feet with as little dignity as any. By the end she had had to have a hand twisted into her hair to hold her in place.

  The last two girls were beaten and Sister Tryphena stood back, eyeing the sixteen naked, spanked bottoms with a quiet smile. Most of the girls were snivelling, some crying openly.

  ‘Come, come,’ Sister Tryphena said. ‘There is rejoicing in penitence, as Beatus Bulla tells us. Now then, putting your abysmal scholarship to the side for one moment, let us consider you. We have sixteen naughty bottoms, all smacked, and all smacked evenly. But there is a difference, is there not? Some of you truly do rejoice in your penitence. Others do not. Among you are future fine nuns, a Prioress even, who knows, although I for one would be greatly astonished. There are also those who will never achieve. I always like to pick out the slovens and the preeners, the greedy and the envious, the sullen and the wrathful, and of course, the harlots.’

  She began to walk up the line again, once more pinching at the bare red bottoms, also touching, to stroke the beaten flesh or run a nail between the open cheeks into the sweat slick creases between. As she went, she talked.

  ‘Most of these faults can be corrected, save only for harlotry. Among sixteen, I would expect perhaps one or two of real purity, those who will in time become Elder Sisters or even Mothers. Most will strive, yet fail to meet the harder tests at Initiation. A few of you, perhaps as many as two or three of the sixteen, will fail utterly. Those will be disgraced. Which of you, then shall it be?’

  She had come to stand behind Lalage, who felt her stomach knot harder still, and was wishing fervently that her sex felt less urgent. Sister Tryphena spoke again.

  ‘Ah, yes, Lalage, the sodomite. Shall we see if you have yet learnt to curb your foul habits?’

  A fingertip touched Lalage’s anus, which automatically opened.

  ‘No, clearly not,’ said Sister Tryphena. ‘Dirty child. For you there is little hope.’

  The fingertip continued to tickle, and as her sweaty anal ring opened in helpless response Lalage realised she was to be penetrated and humiliated again. Sure enough, the finger burrowed in, deep up her bottom, to rummage in her rectal cavity. After a while it was pulled out. Lalage shut her eyes tight and opened her mouth in preparation for her shaming.

  Nothing happened. After a moment Lalage cautiously opened one eye and peeped to the side. Sister Tryphena was considering the rows of girls, her beady little eyes moving from one bare quim to the next. She spoke.

  ‘That is one harlot, unless she saves herself by the most extreme diligence. Who, I wonder, are the others? Sabina, whose cunnus drips with fluid after a mere twenty strokes of the strap? Rosabel, who lacks the sense to control her feelings?’

  She stepped quickly behind Rosabel, and pushed the finger she had just inserted into Lalage’s bottom to the girl’s mouth.

  ‘Suck,’ the Sister ordered.

  Rosabel’s face screwed up in misery, but her mouth came open, to take the
dirty finger and suck on it. Sister Tryphena stood still, waiting until Rosabel had finished her task before pulling out the finger and speaking again.

  ‘Wanton, as I suspected. Any girl truly worthy would have showed more reluctance. Still, you are perhaps not incorrigible, and might make a Novice in the stables or kitchens, perhaps out on one of the farms.’

  The Sister moved on, leaving Rosabel biting her lip in shame, with heavy tears rolling down her plump cheeks. Sister Tryphena gave a low chuckle and stood back, to once more admire the line of sixteen beaten bottoms before she spoke again.

  ‘Very well, you may go about your morning tasks. Tomorrow you will be tested on the lives of the blessed. You may remain here a moment, Coralie, my dove.’

  Lalage rose gratefully from her punishment posture and joined the other girls as they trooped from the room, leaving only Coralie on the bench. As Lalage left, she saw the teacher’s hand close on one chubby red bottom cheek. In the cloister, Benedicta fell into step beside her.

  ‘Every time!’ Lalage complained. ‘She wants me to learn to be pure, and every time she puts a finger up my bottom! Is it surprising I respond?’

  ‘You are lucky, it was I who had to suck the finger!’ Rosabel stated. ‘How she hates me!’

  ‘No,’ Benedicta said, ‘she does not hate you. She simply finds you an easy mark for her cruelty. I am puzzled though. We take tests and undergo trials at Initiation, and our abilities determine our future, yes, but how does she mean harlots?’ Benedicta asked.

  ‘I do not know,’ Rosabel admitted.

  ‘Nor I,’ Lalage admitted thoughtfully.

  Rosabel moved on as Lalage and Benedicta stopped to wait for Coralie in an archway, so that they could retreat quickly if Sister Tryphena also came out. Bells tolled out the quarter hour, then the half before Coralie emerged, flushed and smiling nervously as she fell into step beside them as they started back towards the Great House.

  ‘What happened?’ Benedicta demanded.

  ‘She spoke to me of my future, and what I might achieve by diligence,’ Coralie answered, ‘and she scolded me for my pride.’

  ‘No more?’ Benedicta demanded.

  ‘She stroked my bottom as she spoke,’ Coralie admitted.

  ‘You remained in punishment posture?’ Lalage queried.

  ‘Yes,’ Coralie said quietly.

  ‘With your shift up over your head, I suppose?’ Benedicta stated.

  ‘Yes,’ Coralie sighed, ‘and yes, she touched herself as she touched me, and spoke of the punishments allotted for the sin of pride, in great detail, until she was satiated.’

  ‘She would go in the pillory if we were to report her,’ Benedicta said with satisfaction.

  ‘No,’ Lalage answered. ‘She would deny it. Even if all sixteen of us gave our word hers would be believed, as a Sister. It is us who would end up in the pillory.’

  Coralie nodded agreement. Benedicta grunted. For a while they walked in silence, each alone with her thoughts, Lalage trying to fight down the sexual urges that had been building up in her all morning.

  ‘What are your duties this morning?’ Coralie enquired brightly. ‘I am to polish silver in the senior refectory.’

  ‘I also,’ Benedicta answered, ‘although I don’t see why you are so happy about it. How could a job be more dull? And six cane cuts for failing inspection!’

  ‘It is an honour,’ Coralie replied earnestly. ‘As to the punishment, do not forget that penance is the consequence of sin, and sloth is a sin. By nature we must be punished if we show insufficient zeal.’

  ‘That is absurd,’ Benedicta answered. ‘Zeal is the same as diligence, and diligence is the virtue reserved for Sister Salvatoras, to which we are not entitled. How can they punish us for failing to show something to which we are not entitled?’

  ‘The ways of the Book are often enigmatic,’ Coralie answered.

  ‘You and your Axioms,’ Benedicta snorted. ‘What of “Let the Book be always your guide, for it and it alone gives a clear path”. That contradicts your one!’

  ‘Not at all,’ Coralie answered, ‘the Book provides clarification in all matters, to those with the knowledge. Until such time as we acquire that knowledge, we are certain to make errors, for which it is just that we be punished.’

  ‘Zeal and diligence are not the same,’ Lalage sighed. ‘Diligence is the energetic response of the heart to our Lord’s commands. Zeal is simply care to maintain proper conduct, which includes the immaculate polishing of silverware, and perfection in all other tasks we may be set. It is not a virtue, but the mere absence of sin. The Salvatoras follow the commands of the Lord. We follow the commands of our betters.’

  ‘So it was the command of the Lord for Sister Dorcas to place a candle in my bottom hole as she whipped me last week?’ Benedicta demanded.

  ‘The Lord moves in mysterious ways,’ Coralie answered.

  Benedicta merely snorted.

  ‘It probably did you good,’ Lalage laughed. ‘You should not complain about the polishing anyway. I am down to assist the garden servitors.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ Benedicta agreed. ‘I swear they take pleasure in making sure we get as dirty as possible.’

  ‘Do not use oaths!’ Coralie hissed.

  ‘I did not use…,’ Benedicta retorted, and went abruptly quiet as they came into the corridor to find Novice Corisande just yards away, walking towards them.

  The nun immediately slapped Benedicta’s face, then Coralie’s.

  ‘Silence is sacred!’ she hissed. ‘Lalage, you are to assist Nest with the preparation and service of lunch for Tesserette d’Ortaise. You other two, be about your work.’

  ‘Yes, Novice Corisande,’ Benedicta and Coralie chorused.

  The three others turned down the passage, Novice Corisande hustling the Supplicants along with little slaps and pinches to their buttocks and upper thighs. Lalage paused a moment on the stairs, grateful to be spared her duty in the garden, which meant back-breaking work and frequent humiliations, but frightened by the alternative. With no choice in any case, she continued up the stairs.

  Lucilla was in her bedroom, lying on the bed in a gown of blue silk. Nest knelt on the bare boards of the floor, naked. Lalage gave a respectful nod to Lucilla and knelt down beside Nest.

  ‘Did you see the pillory?’ Lucilla demanded.

  ‘Not well,’ Lalage admitted, ‘only afterwards, when the crowd dispersed.’

  ‘You missed a fine show. The look on fat Frusannah’s face before it was pushed into the dung pail was comic, and afterwards, with the slime dripping from her face as they caned her. Perfect!’

  ‘The service was fine, I felt,’ Lalage said hastily. ‘The choir sang well.’

  ‘The service was a bore, as always,’ Lucilla answered her. ‘Worst of all was the sermon. Doesn’t old Mother Albreda drone? And it’s not as if you can hear what she’s saying anyway.’

  ‘Blessed Mother Albreda is the most wise of women!’ Nest said in shock. ‘In her words are four-score and three years of wisdom, and her learning…’

  ‘Shut up, Mouse,’ Lucilla interrupted, ‘or I will have the entire dormitory passage fill a pot and push your stupid head into the contents. The sermon was incomprehensible, and would have been deathly dull even had we been able to hear. I’m tired of all this mummery, anyway. I want a story. At Ortaise we had a jester, a ridiculously fat girl with breasts like melons. My sisters and I used to paint them green, with her nipples as the stalks…So who will give me a story?’

  ‘The Book has many fine stories,’ Nest suggested, ‘and each teaches us an important lesson.’

  ‘More mummery, with their stupid morals and tedious virtues,’ Lucilla answered. ‘I want something exciting, something dangerous, and dirty too. You, Lalage, everyone knows you are a sodomite. Who buggered you, the boys on your father’s farm, some lecherous old priest? Tell me.’

  Lalage found the blood rushing to her face, and hesitated, desperately seeking a way out of explaining h
erself.

  ‘Tell me!’ Lucilla demanded.

  ‘I…I…,’ Lalage stammered. ‘It is a dull story, and vulgar. At our stables, in the manse at Autuc, is a great stallion, Grey Cloud…’

  ‘You took a horse, in your anus!’ Lucilla exclaimed.

  ‘No!’ Lalage gasped back, her face growing hotter still. ‘I did no such thing!’

  ‘A shame!’ Lucilla laughed. ‘That I would like to see. How you would whimper, and rub at your dirty little cunt! Go on.’

  ‘I used to like to ride Grey Cloud,’ Lalage went on, ‘who was reserved for my father’s use alone. To ensure the silence of the stable boys, I would…make myself pretty…tease, perhaps. They would tease in return, and each time I returned from a ride, I…I would grow moist, and…and I lost control. There were three. They took turns with me, but saved my quim.’

  ‘Vulgar indeed!’ Lucilla snorted. ‘Sodomised by the servants, the thought of it! Better you had had the horse, who at least sounds a noble beast.’

  She laughed and moved into a more comfortable position on the bed, relaxed. Lalage felt a surge of relief.

  ‘So they continued to sodomise you?’ Lucilla asked.

  ‘Often,’ Lalage admitted, ‘each time I rode and they could safely take me.’

  Lucilla chuckled and rolled onto her back, folding her hands across her stomach as she stared up at the ceiling. Throughout the story Nest had kept silent, kneeling to one side with her head bowed and her fingers working nervously in her lap. Her face was pink, but her nipples were hard.

  ‘Amusing,’ Lucilla stated suddenly. ‘See if you can do better, Mouse. If you do not, I shall have Babbles whip you. Should you succeed, she will be the one with a hot arse. You are from Graitac, aren’t you? Was there not a witch trial?’

  ‘There was!’ Nest answered, suddenly enthusiastic. ‘My father supplied the timber for the scaffold, and had every detail. Aglaia Fost, the witch was called. She was old, as old maybe as the Blessed Mother Albreda, and a widow of forty years, holding an estate of rich land. Her neighbour, Baptist Piate, was the accuser. He had seen some terrible things! She had a great black bird as her familiar, a raven, in whose mind she would ride, to sew evil among the people. Worse, the Beast would come to her, in the form of a monstrous black goat. He would mate with her, in a glade in the woods, where she had set up a heathen altar. She would dance naked, in a frenzy of limbs. She would kneel, with her head to the altar, for the goat to mount her. She would drink the urine and eat the dung of the goat in an abomination of the Ritual of Beatitude…All this, Farmer Piate saw.’