Whipping Girl

by Aishling Morgan

  She lowered the scroll, to tuck it into the folds of her robe and turn to the six girls. Her eyes flickered from one to the other, down the line, to settle on Lalage, Sanchia, then the bucket of dung. Walking close, Dorcas lifted the bucket. Lalage shut her eyes, unable to watch as the Novice was smeared, but wincing at the noise, the same revolting squashy sound she had heard so often, and so often giggled over with her friends. She remembered her own mixed disgust and delight as she had seen other girls dunged, and could barely believe her own reaction. Now she was next, and could find only sympathy.

  A sucking noise signalled the removal of Helewise’s face from the dung. Lalage tensed. The scent of dung grew suddenly rich. Her eyes sprang open in fear and panic, to find the bucket directly under her head, the surface black and lumpy, with steam rising gently from it. Dorcas’ hand closed firmly in Lalage’s hair.

  Lalage shut her eyes again an instant before her face was thrust firmly into the dung. She heard her own squashy noise, as her head was pushed well under. The thick muck rose around her ears, and further, until all but the back of her head was immersed. For a long moment her head was held in the filth, keeping her unable to breathe, not daring to resist, until panic set in. Even as she began to struggle, her head was jerked suddenly back, to pull free with another sucking noise. Immediately she was gasping for breath, only for her head to be pushed back into the bucket, filling her mouth before she could close it, and as quickly removed, to leave her gagging and spitting dung.

  Unable to see, her senses filled with the reek of dung, she gave way to her panic, wriggling and thrashing in the pillory, her fear of the cane rising to an unbearable, crazed terror as she waited for the stinging cuts. None came, Sister Dorcas waiting patiently until Lalage had begun to calm down, and had once more stuck up her bottom.

  Then it came, the tap of the cane on the cheeks, a moment’s pause, a sudden swish and a great burst of pain across her buttocks, sending her kicking and writhing once more. She was screaming too, and babbling for mercy as her self-control vanished completely. The second cut came in, to send her into a frantic, ludicrous dance, her legs kicking out one by one, her breasts and hair bouncing to the motions, bits of dung spraying from around her face. The third hit, and the fourth, each adding to her wild display, which was made more obscene and more ridiculous still as at the fifth she released a loud, bubbling fart.

  Sister Dorcas merely clucked in disapproval and went on with the caning, laying the strokes across Lalage’s dancing bottom with practised accuracy. Quickly Lalage lost count of the strokes, and awareness of anything but the relentless beating. Her flesh jumped and shook, welts rose on her skin, spittle ran from her mouth and mucus bubbled from her nose. Still the thrashing continued, stroke after stroke, on her legs as well as her buttocks, the tip of the cane whipping around to catch her hips or outer thigh as often as not.

  When the last stroke came, it was delivered full across her calves, to knock her to her knees. She stayed down, collapsed in the pillory, sweat and the juice from her quim running down the insides of her thighs, a long streamer of dirty drool hanging from one corner of her mouth. Pillory went on, Lalage now ignored as attention turned to Sanchia. Unable to open her eyes, she could only hang still, her head swimming with emotion. She listened to the swish and crackle of the birch as Sanchia was beaten, and the dark girl’s outcries, gasps and shrieks first, to be replaced by a low moaning. As it finished, Salvatora Dorcas gave a cluck of disgust.

  Only half aware of what was going on, Lalage hung slack in the pillory as one girl after another was beaten. Keziah took her strapping well, mumbling prayers to the sound of the meaty smacks of the leather on her bare skin, and taking each blow with a grunt. The Novice Oriana was far less dignified, whimpering and pleading, even offering information on the sins of her fellows in return for clemency. All of it was ignored, and she was given her twenty-four strokes, which left her sobbing and snivelling on her knees. Helewise was no better, crying even before the first stroke fell, screaming her pain out for the full thirty-six strokes, and ending up broken and blubbering, with long tear stains running down her dung-soiled face. Last came Sister Amya, who took the full sixty strokes of the strap across her ample bottom without more than a low gasp, and afterwards thanked the Salvatora for punishing her.

  With all six girls red bottomed and contrite, The Blessed Mother Berengaria Aesu stepped forward, to make the Holy Symbol, then give the ritual blessing of forgiveness. When she came to Lalage the finger stayed an inch clear of the dirty skin, and her voice seemed faint, as if coming from a great distance.

  The crowd began to disperse, hurrying for the refectories, to leave the punished girls to think on their sins and their throbbing posteriors. Only a few hung back, to inspect the girls in the pillory as they were kicked and slapped back into proper punishment position by the Salvatoras. These included Father Glauter, who went behind the girls. Lalage could not see him, yet it was all too easy to imagine, his pop-eyes bulging as he inspected her virgin quim and spread anus. Her fear grew once more at the realisation that he seemed to be paying particular attention to her, and further as he appeared beside her trapped head.

  ‘Look up, child,’ he demanded.

  With difficulty, Lalage raised her head. A sponge was pressed to her face, to wipe one eye, then the other. Her eyes came open, to find him staring down at her, his face red and sweating, his own eyes more protuberant than ever.

  ‘Thank you, Blessed Father,’ she managed. ‘Mercy is fine in the eyes of our Lord.’

  ‘You Lalage,’ he stated, ‘move me to sin.’

  ‘Blessed Father,’ she answered weakly, ‘how can this be, when I am helpless in the pillory?’

  ‘It is exactly your condition that moves me,’ he answered, ‘along with the charms of your body. Seldom have I seen so pert a cunt, nor so tempting an arsehole.’

  ‘This is no fault of mine!’ Lalage gasped.

  ‘Impudence, in one so recently caned? Extraordinary!’

  ‘No impudence, Blessed Father, simple truth. I am helpless, beyond guile, here through no choice of my own. I can not help the effect of my body…’

  ‘Not so. It is the eternal sin of the female to provoke lust in the male, so the Good Book says. You must know this, surely?’

  ‘Yes, Blessed Father,’ Lalage admitted.

  ‘Thus you are the cause of my sin,’ he went on, ‘and so sin yourself. My sin I shall repent of presently, meanwhile, it is only just that as your penance, you assuage my lust with your body.’

  ‘Yes, Blessed Father,’ Lalage sighed. ‘Do you intend to sodomise me?’

  ‘By nature! Would you expect me to make use of your cunnus, and thus commit sacrilege?’

  ‘No, Blessed Father.’

  ‘Then you may expect to be sodomised,’ he stated, and stepped away.

  Lalage collapsed to her knees with a heavy sigh. Sanchia had turned her way, and they exchanged looks of mutual pity, only to turn their faces quickly to the ground as Dorcas came round to the front of the pillories. The Salvatora paid little attention, merely completing her circuit of the pillories and returning to the chair she had set up at one end of the line. Shaking her hair from her eyes, Lalage settled down to the long wait she knew she had to endure, and the prospect of sodomy by Father Glauter at the end of it.

  The last of the nuns drifted away, leaving only the Salvatora and a Novice with a fan. The sun was already well up in the sky, and as it rose, so the day grew hotter, and stiller. Slowly the dung dried and cracked on Lalage’s face, while her thirst grew to rival the throbbing pain of her bottom and legs as a concern, and finally exceed it.

  Only after noon prayer was she given water, warm and tainted with the taste of the dung on her lips, but seeming sweeter than any she had tasted before. Despite that, she was back in a hazy, half-conscious state, her whole world centred on her body and the pillory which held her prisoner. Time passed, vaguely she was aware of sensation, or perhaps hallucination, as her whippe
d bottom was touched. She heard voices too, or thought she did, but did not reply, still vaguely aware that her release relied on total acceptance of her punishment, and obedience to the rules.

  Time seemed to slip, the heat of the afternoon giving way to evening, and cool dusk in jumps as she passed in and out of fainting. When at last the splash of water in her face roused her to consciousness, it was fully dark, with the convent bells tolling out the hour of midnight. The dung was sponged from her face, the bar of wood trapping her neck was raised, and she slipped to the ground. Strong arms lifted her. She was thrown over someone’s shoulder, and carried, to the sound of whispered conversation.

  ‘This one’s for the Father.’

  ‘No, the dark one, Sanchia.’

  ‘Both then, he was quite explicit in his instructions.’

  ‘He is a greedy old…, the Father. Hey, girl, wake up! You are to have the honour of the Blessed Father Glauter’s cock up your bottom.’

  The other laughed. Lalage said nothing, but let herself be carried, limp across the Salvatora’s shoulder, through darkness, then the light of oil lamps. At last she was thrown down on a couch, Sanchia beside her, and given water again. She slept, waking to the feel of fat fingers loitering in the crease of her bottom, an intrusion she was too exhausted and too broken to resent. Even when some greasy substance was smeared on her anus and the ring penetrated she did no more than whimper, and lift her bottom in mute resignation.

  Consciousness came again, seconds later, or hours, to a peculiar slapping noise punctuated by grunts and moans. She opened her eyes, to find herself on a huge bed, spread with an embroidered cloth and draped at all four sides. Beside her, Sanchia lay prone over a bolster. The dark girl was being buggered, the pasty, slack flesh of Father Glauter’s belly moving against the firm, dark roundness of her bottom, her mouth open and loose, with spittle running down her chin. Each push drew a muted grunt from her lips.

  He was looking down at Sanchia’s spread buttocks, gooseberry eyes fixed to where the pale flesh of his cock disappeared into the dark of her straining anal ring. Lalage moved, to ease the ache of her limbs, and immediately wished she hadn’t as Father Glauter’s eyes swivelled to look full into her own. He paused in his sodomy of Sanchia.

  ‘So you condescend to join us, Lalage,’ he grated. ‘Come here.’

  Painfully, Lalage crawled over, even as the priest put his thumbs to Sanchia’s bottom. Slowly he prised out his penis, the head coming free of her ring with a sticky sound and her hole closing with a soft fart. He reached out, to take Lalage by the hair, and before she could react her mouth had been filled with slimy, pungent cock. She sucked, abandoned to her fate, her head resting on the smooth skin of Sanchia’s bottom. He watched, chuckling from time to time, until he was satisfied that he was clean, when he pulled free, to hold up his erect cock for her to inspect. It was a huge, fleshy thing, the shaft fat and ridged with veins, the head yet fatter than the shaft, a swollen bulb, glossy with pressure and her saliva.

  ‘Have you ever seen a man in a state of arousal before?’ he demanded.

  For a moment Lalage thought to deny it, then nodded mutely. He gave no answer save a guttural noise that might have been disappointment. Once more it was thrust into her mouth, and she was held by the hair until he had satisfied himself and drew out. Pulling the bolster from beneath Sanchia, he nodded to her body.

  ‘Squat low over your friend’s back,’ he ordered, ‘as if you intended to defecate on her, and let your ring go slack also, in the same manner.’

  Reluctantly, Lalage obeyed the lewd instructions, mounting Sanchia with her knees well apart and her back curved in, to flaunt her bottom and make her anus available for sodomy. Behind her, Father Glauter climbed onto Sanchia, sitting on her bottom. Lalage shut her eyes as the fat cock head touched her skin, between her buttocks, then moved slowly down until it pressed to her greasy anus. She let herself go loose, as ordered, and pressure came immediately, her face screwing up as her anal ring spread slowly open to his cock head.

  With her buttocks held open so that he could see himself go in, he sodomised her, feeding his cock up bit by bit to the sound of her grunts and gasps. Finally, with her rectum bloated with penis, she was pushed down onto Sanchia’s back, her breasts squashing out, skin to skin. Father Glauter gave a contented sigh as he began to move in her gut, his penis pushing deep, his taut ball sack squashed to the rear of her sex.

  It seemed to go on for ever, the priest simply content with the feel of his cock in the hot, slimy interior of her rectum. His only movement was to let more of his weight come onto her back, and as he did so, so Lalage found her quim pressed to Sanchia’s spine. His belly was pressed to her whipped buttocks as well, hurting, until the pain gave way to a warm, sensuous arousal. By then her clitoris was rubbing on flesh, her pleasure rising beyond her control, and with a great wash of misery she realised that she was going to come under sodomy. Her quim tightened, her anus began to pulse on the intruding cock, and it was happening. She moaned, as much in despair at her own reactions as in ecstasy. Glauter called out, naming her a harlot and a slut, then promptly came up her rectum.

  Lalage was still coming, the contractions of her anal ring milking his sperm up her back passage even as he swore and cursed her for her wantonness. He finished, still muttering obscenities as he pulled his cock free from her anus and crawled round to thrust it into Sanchia’s mouth, then Lalage’s. Her bottom hole was still pulsing as she sucked, sperm squeezing out of the little buggered ring, to dribble slowly down over her virgin quim and into the soft valley at the top of Sanchia’s buttocks.

  Six

  After the experience of Pillory and being sodomised by the Blessed Father Faramond Glauter, Lalage made every effort to mend her behaviour. Week by week, month by month, she managed to reduce the frequency of her punishments. Still she found herself kneeling on Sister Tryphena’s bench most days, and bending for the application of a quirt or cane to her naked buttocks perhaps once a week for some real or concocted sin, usually of Lucilla’s. She also spent more and more time in Lucilla’s bed, or between her thighs on the floor.

  Intimacy also grew between the four girls in the dormitory, until the interactions between them had become as much a matter of personality as of rank. Novice Corisande’s authority declined, with the more forceful personalities of Lucilla and Benedicta coming to the fore. Initially this caused tensions, but when Corisande finally attempted to exert her authority physically, she ended up across Benedicta’s knee, bare and howling as her bottom was spanked up to a rosy glow. Despite her outrage, Corisande did not report the incident, and from then on the girls did as they pleased in the dormitory.

  Lalage continued to be summoned to Father Glauter, for him to ease his cock up her back passage or in her mouth, frequently both. She accepted the treatment meekly, and quickly learnt that by taking her own orgasms while he was up her bottom, she could claim that it was done simply to make her body react for his greater pleasure.

  Occasionally they would visit the tower, either Lalage and Lucilla together, or more, sometimes all five girls. If Lucilla was in the right frame of mind, such visits would end with the girls taking turns to lick her, or each other as she watched. Lalage and Nest accepted this happily, Benedicta with a resentment that softened quickly when she discovered that once excited, Lucilla was happy to return the favour. Coralie alone found it hard to cope with, doing as she was told, and reaching orgasm as often as any, but filled with shame and guilt afterwards. This reaction only encouraged Lucilla, who came to make Coralie her special pet.

  With the leaves in the little wood beginning to brown and fall, it became plain that their sanctuary was going to be considerably less safe during the winter. Lucilla, determined to make the best of what time remained, demanded the service of all four of them for the afternoon and told each to come to the tower separately. Lalage arrived to find Nest bound on the floor, her face set in pained ecstasy as Lucilla and Benedicta plucked the hairs from her
pubic mound. Knowing full well that her choice would be to join in or be given a similar torture, Lalage set to work. A half-hour later Nest reached orgasm with her pubic mound as bald as an egg and Lalage’s face buried in her quim. Thoroughly aroused, Benedicta took her pleasure of Nest, while Lucilla and Lalage crawled head to toe, licking and tickling at each other until both came. With the warm, clear afternoon slowly giving way to a chill evening, they returned to the Great House, with Lucilla and Benedicta exchanging cruel ideas on what ought to be done to Coralie for failing to come to the tower. Novice Corisande was in the dormitory, but not Coralie.

  ‘Where is the Butterball?’ Benedicta demanded.

  ‘She has been greatly honoured,’ Novice Corisande answered. ‘She is to be maid to the Blessed Father Faramond Glauter.’

  ‘Poor thing!’ Lalage exclaimed.

  ‘Why so?’ Corisande asked in shock.

  ‘Why so?’ Lucilla echoed. ‘Because he is the very vilest of sodomites, that is why so. Do you know nothing?’

  ‘These are the most horrid rumours, and quite untrue!’ Corisande exclaimed.

  ‘When she comes back she will be waddling like a duck,’ Lucilla stated. ‘Ask Babbles, or would you care to place a wager on it?’

  ‘From wealth all evil flows,’ Corisande quoted. ‘I have no money, as you know, Lady Lucilla.’

  ‘Another black mark against this place. A caning for the loser then?’

  ‘This is sinful, Lady Lucilla, both to wager, and to misuse an instrument of penance.’

  ‘Oh for the Lord’s sake!’

  ‘Make no oaths of the Lord’s name.’