Whipping Girl

by Aishling Morgan

  ‘Lucilla!’ Lalage hissed. ‘To move a headstone!’

  ‘It’s already been moved, idiot!’ Lucilla snapped back. ‘Help me, will you?’

  Still shocked, Lalage hesitated, then ducked down to lift another headstone, even as she wondered why obedience to Lucilla’s orders came so easily. Lifting the stone, she shuffled sideways a few paces, to place it across the door. A second followed, and a third, Lucilla now watching from the side.

  ‘Strong little thing, aren’t you?’ the Tesserette remarked as Lalage propped the last stone into place. ‘That should hold. Now come on.’

  Lalage turned for the path they had made through the nettles, only to stop as Lucilla made for the stairs to the tower instead. The Tesserette beckoned, and as Lalage met her eyes, she caught a familiar and unmistakable gleam.

  ‘Come, little one.’

  Lucilla danced light-footed up the steps and disappeared through the arch. Lalage followed, again struggling with her emotions. She knew full well what Lucilla expected, and she was wet and ready, but she also felt thoroughly abused. Her bottom was throbbing with nettle rash. Her mind was full of thoughts of Baudus’ huge cock and what Lucilla had made her do.

  The thoughts became stronger as she entered the tower room, to the reek of goat. Lucilla was waiting, mouth slightly open, her nipples showing erect through her gown. Lalage stepped close, her resistance weakening as she was taken into Lucilla’s arms, then breaking completely as their mouths met. Lucilla’s kiss was fierce, as urgent as it had ever been, and Lalage found herself responding, returning the passion as she melted into her friend’s embrace.

  Abandoning herself to what she knew would happen anyway, she let herself be pushed down, slowly, to her knees, until she was kneeling on the hard cobbles of the floor, with her face at the level of Lucilla’s belly. Lucilla reached down, tugging up her skirt and slip without ceremony, to bare her neatly formed quim to Lalage’s mouth. Immediately Lalage buried her face in the warm, musky flesh, thinking how much better Lucilla tasted than the nuns as her tongue burrowed deep. Lucilla took hold of Lalage’s hair, gently but firmly, holding her in place.

  ‘That’s right, my little pet, just like that. No, you are not to touch yourself. Hold my bottom for me, and lick well.’

  Lalage obeyed, running her hands up the back of Lucilla’s thighs to take hold of the small, rounded bottom cheeks, squeezing, then slipping her fingers into the crease. Her smallest finger found Lucilla’s anus, and she burrowed inside, teasing the little wet hole as she licked.

  ‘Deeper,’ Lucilla demanded, ‘like the boys do to you, and in my cunt too. I’m no virgin, Lalage, you may touch as you please.’

  Lalage obliged, pushing her fingers up into Lucilla’s body, to stimulate her as she licked, ever more urgently. Soon Lucilla was sighing, then gasping as her grip tightened in Lalage’s hair. Lalage licked harder still, and pushed her fingers deeper into Lucilla’s holes, poking a second into the slimy, open anus. Lucilla groaned, and began to speak.

  ‘Yes…like so…I am nearly there…like that…Oh, Babbles, wasn’t his cock hard, and so big…imagine it, inside…filling you…lick harder, Lalage, on my bump…right on my bump, and put your fingers deeper, really deep, as if it were his cock…his big, beautiful cock…in my cunt…in…’

  She cried out, her thighs squeezing in Lalage’s face, her vagina and anus going into frantic spasm as she came. Lalage kept licking, and pushing with her fingers, until at last Lucilla’s tension began to slowly fade.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Lucilla sighed, ‘thank you, my pet.’

  Lalage moved back, smiling as she wiped Lucilla’s cream from her face. Lucilla responded, squatting down to share a happy, guilty look, then to kiss Lalage on the nose. They hugged, cuddled together, kissing, until Lalage, daring something unthinkable just days before, took Lucilla’s hand and guided it to her quim. Lucilla simply giggled, responding immediately as she began to masturbate Lalage, rubbing and fingering at her sex, and once more beginning to talk.

  ‘We should have, Babbles, shouldn’t we? He would look so beautiful on your back, Baudus, with your lovely bottom raised to take him in your cunt and your sweet face set in bliss…but no, with you that big cock wouldn’t be in your cunt, would it? No, he’d be up your bottom, well up your bottom, sodomising you as you rubbed at your little bump, just as I’m rubbing now, you wanton, hopeless little slut you…’

  Lucilla stopped talking and laughed instead, a clear, peal of joy as Lalage went into orgasm under her fingers. Her mind fixed on exactly the dirty fantasy her friend had put there as she came. Then there was shame, and guilt, and confusion, but less than before, far less, and easily assuaged in Lucilla’s comforting arms as they sank to the floor together.

  They stayed down, just cuddling, for a long while, as the golden rays of sunlight piercing the broken roof moved slowly across the floor, kissing occasionally, but neither saying a word. Finally Lucilla sat up, glancing around at the interior of the tower.

  ‘This is a wonderful place,’ she said, ‘and private, or as near as it is possible to be private in this dungpit of a place. Even when we play in my suite I find myself listening for footsteps. Corisande at least has learnt some manners, but that witch Verena comes in without so much as a by-your-leave. Only in the dead of the night do I feel secure. Here, I might also.’

  ‘What if a nun were to follow our tracks through the nettles?’

  ‘To find the tracks they would have to go in under the trees in the first place, that or see us go in. In any case, we could climb to the roof.’

  ‘It looks dangerous. I do not even feel safe beneath it.’

  ‘The boards are rotten, yes, but the beams are sound.’

  ‘And if they follow?’

  ‘We are caught. I am told to act my age. You are caned, maybe pilloried, but I doubt it. The thing to learn, Lalage, with punishment here, is that you are to be a nun. They will do nothing to mark you permanently.’

  ‘The blemish of the body reflects the blemish of the soul. The Lord takes only those in his unsullied image.’

  ‘Exactly, so there is only so much they will do. If you know you can take that, then there is no further need for fear.’

  ‘It is easy for you to be brave, Tesserette d’Ortaise.’

  ‘That does not alter the truth of what I say. We will go now, so that you can be at noon prayer, but you are to come back this afternoon and sweep out the goat dung and hair. We shall have our own private place, you and I, perhaps Mouse too, if she can overcome her fears. Just think, no magpies, no reason to mind my words, no stupid Axioms…indeed, anyone quoting an Axiom in here gets whipped with nettles and must kiss the others’ bottom holes.’

  Lalage found herself smiling despite her misgivings. Lucilla’s manner reminded her of a life which until then had seemed entirely lost, and she cuddled closer to her friend as a wave of homesickness washed over her. For a long moment they simply lay together, saying nothing, before Lucilla shrugged Lalage’s head from her shoulder to rise.

  They left the tower, laughing together until Lucilla motioned Lalage to silence as they approached the tended part of the graveyard. A pat to her bottom urged Lalage forward, and she went, stepping from cover to find herself just yards away from two nuns. One was in white with a black hood, Mother Radegund, one in pure white, the Blessed Mother Prioress Berengaria Aesu herself. Both were looking towards Lalage. She bowed and made the sign across her chest, walking forward with her heart hammering in her chest.

  She drew level with them, both still looking at her rather than the tomb they had been praying at. Still Lalage walked forward, hope rising, until as she reached the first of the raked gravel paths a sharp voice sounded behind her.

  ‘What are you doing here, child?’

  Lalage stopped, fighting down a sudden, sick feeling in her throat as she turned. Both nuns were staring directly at her stockinged legs.

  ‘Pray pardon, Blessed Mothers,’ Lalage answered, unable to bring her voice
above a whisper. ‘I am sent on an errand.’

  ‘Speak up, girl, I can barely hear you!’

  ‘I am sent on an errand, Blessed Mothers,’ Lalage managed, marginally more firmly, ‘by the Tesserette Lucilla d’Ortaise St Seraphina, for whom I am whipping girl.’

  ‘Very well, so why do you appear to be dressed as a jester for some lewd comedy?’ the Prioress asked.

  Lalage sought frantically for a convincing explanation.

  ‘Well,’ Mother Radegund demanded. ‘Answer your Prioress.’

  ‘I…no…’ Lalage stammered. ‘Yes, a jester…it is a device of the Tesserette d’Ortaise, to…to ridicule me…to belittle me.’

  ‘You mean to make you aware of your place?’

  ‘Yes, just so, Blessed Mother, to bring home to me my place, and how far it is below her own.’

  ‘I see. Well, you certainly look comic. And what errand are you sent on, in the graveyard?’

  ‘I…I…,’ Lalage babbled, realising that she had nothing to show for her supposed errand. ‘I was sent to find a tomb, and to copy the inscription…the tomb of the Blessed Patience…’

  ‘There was no such person, you little fool, “the Blessed Patience” is a saying, no more, a turn of phrase. She has sent you in among the nettles looking for a tomb that does not exist, doubtless with a whipping promised for failure. Well, the Tesserette is young, I suppose, and will have her little joke. We must not be too harsh on her. Still, I will not have my Supplicants looking ridiculous. What if a Priest were to see, or a lady sent up from the town for castigation, or benediction?’

  ‘I am truly sorry, Blessed Mother. I beg forgiveness.’

  ‘Granted, this once, for yourself. For the Tesserette’s somewhat childish behaviour, I feel a brief spanking would be appropriate. Do you not think so, Mother Radegund?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ the other nun agreed, with little effort to hide what was obviously relish in her voice. ‘Shall we take the little brat indoors?’

  ‘In a while, perhaps. What is your name, child?’

  ‘Lalage, Blessed Mother.’

  ‘Lalage, hmm…and has this lesson helped you to appreciate the virtue of humility?’

  ‘Yes, Blessed Mother.’

  ‘Then why did you not bend when I suggested that a spanking might be appropriate, or perhaps offer to fetch chairs to make our task more comfortable?’

  ‘I pray forgiveness, Blessed Mother. I will fetch chairs, directly…’

  ‘No, just touch your toes.’

  Lalage responded immediately, turning and bending to offer her bottom. Her stomach was fluttering, and she was thinking more of the sight her recently licked quim would make than of the coming pain. The two Mothers moved close. A hand touched her bottom, stroking gently over the crest of one cheek. Lalage swallowed hard.

  ‘You are a pretty little thing, aren’t you? Why is your bottom spotty?’

  ‘From the nettles in the wood, Blessed Mother.’

  ‘I am aware of this. What I doubt is that you have managed to speckle the most sensitive parts of your anatomy with stings, while leaving so much of your skin untouched.’

  Lalage could find no answer, and hung her head in submission, the urge to confess welling up inside her. The Prioress continued to stroke her bottom, thoughtfully, the strong fingers moving slowly lower, and closer to the open, sensitive crease between Lalage’s buttocks. Lalage closed her eyes, struggling to make her mind a blank, and praying for the rising excitement in her quim to go away. When the Prioress spoke it was sudden, and sharp.

  ‘You have been touching yourself, haven’t you?’

  ‘And using nettles to stimulate her cunnus, it would seem,’ Mother Radegund added.

  ‘Dirty child,’ the Prioress stated. ‘So, what is to be done with you?’

  ‘As you judge, Blessed Mother,’ Lalage sobbed.

  ‘As I judge, precisely,’ the Prioress answered. ‘Well, clearly a little spanking will serve no useful effect, not on a girl who teases herself with nettles for pleasure. I wonder, do you have any shame? Yes, I suppose you must, if the Tesserette d’Ortaise finds amusement in dressing you so. Otherwise, what would be the purpose?’

  ‘I suspect a somewhat deeper depravity,’ Mother Radegund remarked.

  ‘I also,’ the Prioress agreed. ‘So, Lalage, where is the Tesserette d’Ortaise at this moment? Speak the truth, child, or it will go very ill with you indeed.’

  ‘I…,’ Lalage managed, ‘I…’

  ‘I am here, Blessed Mother,’ Lucilla’s voice sounded from behind Lalage’s upturned head. ‘There is some difficulty?’

  Lalage immediately felt a great flush of gratitude and love.

  ‘There is some difficulty, yes,’ the Prioress stated. ‘Your little friend here has been caught in a lie. Will you be more truthful, Tesserette?’

  ‘I would hope that I am always truthful, Blessed Mother,’ Lucilla answered.

  ‘I am delighted to hear it. So then, perhaps you would care to explain little Lalage’s peculiar dress, why her buttocks are speckled with nettle rash, and why her cunnus is in a state associated with penance, and severe penance at that.’

  ‘These things relate together, Blessed Mother. I chose to punish her, as is my right. I felt that the application of nettles to her hindquarters was appropriate for her crime, to wit, failing to change the flowers in my suite this morning. The state of her cu…her cunnus is a consequence of her punishment, nothing more. I think, if you consult Elder Sister Aspasia, you will find that Lalage is considered…shall we say, over responsive?’

  ‘And absurd leg wear?’

  ‘An old pair of my stockings, which I allowed her to spare her feet the nettles. She is my maid, on occasion, as well as my whipping girl. I can not have her limping.’

  ‘I see. An interesting explanation, which contradicts her own in just about every particular. One of you is lying, or both.’

  ‘It is interesting,’ Mother Radegund commented, ‘how often the whipping girls assigned to Scholars of high nobility become infatuated with the very person you would expect them to resent the most. Instances of lewd behaviour have been common, down the years.’

  ‘I suspect that is where the true explanation for this lies,’ the Prioress answered. ‘So, Tesserette d’Ortaise, do you wish to confess your guilt, or continue to lie and worsen the consequences?’

  ‘This evening,’ Lucilla remarked, as if to herself, ‘I must remember to write to my father…’

  ‘No such recourse will be necessary,’ the Prioress answered. ‘Your rank protects you, also, to an extent, your status as a Scholar. I can only hope that you will feel proper remorse at the punishment of your fellow sinner, and so gain penance yourself.’

  ‘And Lalage?’ Lucilla queried.

  ‘Tomorrow’s Pillory,’ the Prioress answered.

  * * *

  Lalage hung in the pillory, her neck and wrists trapped beneath the heavy wooden block. She had been locked into place even as the bells chimed midnight, one of a line of six miserable, shame-faced girls, all nude, all silent in their fear and regret. For a while she had stood, buttocks raised to be the highest part of her body, the position she knew was required for punishment. Quickly it had become too painful, and when Sanchia, who hung in the pillory to her side, knelt down, she followed suit. The Salvatora set to guard them had already been asleep.

  Dawn found her stiff muscled and dizzy with fatigue, her sense of time and space hazy. The booted foot of the Salvatora roused her, followed by a bucket of cold water dashed in her face. By then the toll of bells had become a distant background noise, while the singing from the chapel had seemed more distant still, and quite detached from her coming punishment.

  With her face and hair dripping wet, she looked up, to find herself surrounded, the pillories ringed with robed figures, faces indistinct beneath hoods of grey and black. She had not seen them gathering, and it took a moment to sink in, along with the implications. She was to be punished, forty-eight stroke
s of the cane, once her face had been immersed in the steaming bucket of cow dung that stood to one side.

  As her fear began to build, so her senses cleared. She became aware of Father Glauter, at the front of the crowd, running his horrible eyes over the six naked girls in the stocks, his lust poorly concealed behind an expression of sanctimonious disapproval. Lalage thought of what she had heard about his habits, and shivered. Beside him was Mother Keturah, her broad, heavy jawed face dim within the confines of her hood. A Salvatora approached the Mother, who nodded. The expectant hush Lalage had heard so many times before fell over the crowd as the Mother began to speak.

  ‘Sisters of Our Lady of St Quay, we gather here, this morning, to observe the penance of our fellows, those who have failed themselves, our Lady and our Lord. In love and compassion we bring to them repentance, and thus forgiveness. Sister Salvatora Dorcas, pray read out the roster.’

  The Salvatora she had spoken to stepped forward, to unroll a parchment and begin to read.

  ‘Six among us are brought to Pillory this morning, each to receive punishment in accordance with the law, and to the decision of the Elders. They are, Sister Amya, who must receive sixty strokes of the leather strap for indolence and greed…’

  Lalage glanced at the plump, good-natured face of the woman beside her. Fear showed in the rounded features, but also resignation, expectation even, revealing that for her, the coming punishment was the catharsis the Church claimed. The Salvatora was still speaking.

  ‘…Helewise, who must receive thirty-six strokes of the cane for allowing her face to be glimpsed by workmen along the southern wall, and is also to have her face smeared with dung for this lewd display. Novice Oriana, who must receive twenty-four strokes of the cane for failing to maintain proper authority over her charges in dormitory. Supplicant Keziah, who will receive twenty-four blows of the leather strap for persistent lateness at ablutions. Supplicant Lalage, who must receive twenty-four strokes of the cane to atone for the sin of the Tesserette Lucilla d’Ortaise St Seraphina, a further twenty-four strokes of the cane for deceitfulness, and will have her face smeared with dung for presenting herself in a manner likely to bring ridicule on the Order of Our Lady of St Quay. Last, is the Supplicant Sanchia, who must be whipped with birch for her constant refusal to show proper humility to her betters.’