The cane whistled down, to land full across Coralie’s bottom, a fraction of a second before Sister Dorcas’ stroke caught Grainne. Both girls cried out in their pain, raising looks of disapproval among the assembled nuns. Again the canes struck down, and again the girls squealed, unable to control their reactions. Lalage watched with sympathy, but she was trying to fight down her own arousal by the time Coralie’s ample bottom had been decorated with twelve fresh cane cuts. Grainne’s caning paused, until Sister Etta could get into position behind Galiena’s well raised bottom, and then began again.
Each girl was given her full dose, methodically, efficiently, and without the slightest attention paid to her outcries. Soon all five bottoms were criss-crossed with scarlet lines, leaving four of the five snivelling tearfully and the tiny Armigel blubbering on her knees. As the two Salvatoras moved to unfasten the pillories, Elder Sister Aspasia held up the scroll once more.
‘To each of you, a place of honour is awarded. Armigel, you are allotted your requested place as Novice to the Library staff. Grainne, you are to be trained to serve in the Priory chapel. Coralie, Blessed Father Faramond Glauter has chosen you to serve at the altar…’
Again Lalage thought of Coralie’s buggered anus. Father Glauter was smiling, and as he stood to pass Coralie the hoodless grey robe she would wear until Initiation, the bulge of his erection beneath his own robes was unmistakable. Coralie bit her lip as she accepted the robe, but immediately bowed her head in submission.
As each girl took her robe she was led in among the gathered nuns by a Sister. Elder Sister Aspasia waited until the crowd was once more attentive before speaking again.
‘Certain others, although of lesser piety, have been chosen to serve in respect of their individual abilities, the Skilled Supplicants. Basilie, you are honoured to serve Mother Radegund.’
Basilie rose, to walk across to where Mother Radegund sat. Her head was hung and her hands folded in her lap, but her satisfaction showed in her stance. For a moment Lalage expected her to be taken by the Salvatoras and put in the pillory for a thrashing, but none of the black-robed nuns so much as moved. Taking her grey robe from an Elder Sister to the rear of Mother Radegund, Basilie melted in among the crowd of nuns.
‘Hosanna,’ Elder Sister Aspasia called out, ‘you are to serve Elder Sister Elkanah. Step forward.’
Hosanna came out from the rank of kneeling girls, both pleasure and surprise showing in her face. Elder Sister Elkanah was responsible for provisioning the refectories, and Lalage found herself wondering if the girl had been chosen for her common sense, or her willowy beauty. Certainly it was neither piety nor chastity, Hosanna having been pilloried for self-abuse in the Old House chapel.
Six more names were called out, each girl going to her allotted place and taking her grey robe. With thirty-nine remaining, Elder Sister Aspasia rolled up her scroll and turned to address them as a group.
‘Those of you who remain, consider your shame and hang your heads low. You are neither pious, nor skilled. In your sin you have failed yourselves, the Order, our Lady, and our Lord. Yet in her mercy, the Blessed Mother Berengaria Aesu forgives you, and allows you to prove your worthiness. Place your foreheads to the ground in supplication, those who I select may kneel up.’
Lalage went lower, pressing her forehead to the damp grass. The position left her bottom lifted, and her quim showing. Even as Elder Sister Aspasia stepped forward, she realised that they were to be inspected for signs of arousal at the sight of the pious Supplicants being caned.
The Elder Sister had taken a cane from one of the Salvatoras, and moved behind the line of girls. Lalage watched from the corner of her eye, her heart hammering as she tried not to think of Coralie being caned, or Father Glauter’s grotesque cock, or Baudus mounted on Lucilla…
Desperately, she began to mumble prayers, yet she could feel the dampness of her crease, and knew that her quim would be showing at least the first signs of arousal. Elder Sister Aspasia was coming closer. Easter stood, to move quickly forward to where a Novice held a pile of grey robes. Sabina stayed down, Elder Sister Aspasia moving on, to Nest. Lalage heard the tap of the cane on Nest’s bottom, and was filled with a sudden sense of loss as her friend rose, then despair as Elder Sister Aspasia moved on, past her, and past Benedicta.
By the time the Elder Sister had reached the end of the line, twenty-two girls remained kneeling on the turf. The others had gathered in a huddled knot beside the pillories, looking unsure of themselves in their grey robes, with their bare feet sticking out from below the hems. Most followed Elder Sister Aspasia with their eyes, back to where she had stood before.
‘Thus,’ she stated, ‘we make our final selection. Those seventeen I have chosen are to be trained to the supervision of our properties, our mills and our forges, our mission houses and our inns. Such tasks are not of the highest, yet they are worthy. In penance for your failure, each will receive a dozen lashes. In line. Touch your toes.’
The girls hastened to obey, with many sidelong glances to where the Sister Salvatoras Marah and Pentecost where standing with their whips coiled in their hands. In a long line, the girls bent to touch their finger tips to their toes, holding precisely still. The two Salvatoras came behind. One by one the robes were turned up, exposing bottoms so recently covered. The whips were uncoiled. One by one the girls were flogged, each cheeky bottom decorated with a dozen hard lashes, to leave their flesh striped scarlet and blotchy with purple where the stings had caught. Many ended up in tears, a few had to be held for their punishments to be completed. Only the big, muscular Easter took her punishment in stoic silence.
The whipped girls were left bending as Elder Sister Aspasia made a brief inspection of their bottoms, then allowed to drop their robes. All seventeen merged quickly with the crowd, and Lalage and the twenty-one others were left in their now ragged line.
‘Kneel up,’ Elder Sister Aspasia ordered as she came to stand in front of them. ‘You who remain here, you are the least among us. Yet for all your faults and sins, there is still forgiveness. To you are allotted the least tasks, yet still these are important. It will be for you to provide the bounties of the Lord to the Order, from our farms and our vineyards. For your failure, each will receive a dozen lashes, while your faces will be fouled with animal dung to mark your shame. Remain kneeling.’
Lalage swallowed, but there was relief as well as fear, her fate considerably less severe than she had expected. Watching sidelong, she saw Sister Etta appear from among the nuns, a steaming bucket in her hand. Sister Marah had gone behind them, quietly, and snatched Sanchia by the hair as the dark girl made to move away from the bucket. Sanchia spat a curse and began to struggle, flailing with her arms as Sister Etta brought the bucket close. It did no good, Sister Dorcas stepping in to help, catching Sanchia’s wrist with practised speed and applying an arm lock. The fury on Sanchia’s face turned to utter consternation, and the next instant her head had been pushed well into the dung bucket. Lalage winced at the now familiar squashy sound.
Sister Marah made a show of it, holding Sanchia’s head well under and moving it about by the hair. Only when the helpless girl had begun to thrash in blind panic for fear of suffocation did the Salavatora relent, pulling Sanchia’s head up, only to immediately thrust it back to ensure her victim got a good mouthful of dung. Finally Sanchia’s head came up again, dripping filth, her mouth open as she fought for air, pieces of dung falling from her lips.
The next girl in line took her dunging meekly, and was spared the worse cruelties of the process, simply having her face briefly dipped and pulled back, to leave her filthy, but less thoroughly fouled than Sanchia. Lalage waited, praying quietly as the dung bucket moved down the line, face after face pushed into the steaming brown slurry. Finally it reached her, Sister Marah took her hair, Sister Etta held the bucket up and her face went in with a squelch, to be held under for a second and pulled back. With her eyes closed, she could only wait, listening, as Benedicta’s head was, in tur
n, pushed down into the dung bucket, and then the last few girls in the line. Rosabel was last, and she broke into a squealing fuss at the last instant, a noise quickly stifled in the dung.
‘Heads down,’ Elder Sister Aspasia’s order came, an instant after the wet sucking sound of Rosabel’s head being pulled up.
Lalage knew exactly what the command meant, and pushed her bottom up and out even as her filthy face touched the ground. Again there was an awful moment of waiting, before the smack of a whip on naked girl flesh and Rosabel’s pained cry in response. She began to count, listening to each smack and each cry. The Salvatoras had started at the opposite end, and she knew that they would take turns to do the whipping, and to hold down the girls. With Rosabel finished and left sobbing into the grass, there were six more before her turn came.
Once more the smacks and squeals started, and ended, and then there were five. Lalage swallowed hard, praying for strength, wishing that her stomach felt less weak and her bladder less full. With the third girl beaten and in tears, four remained, then three, and two, all the while Lalage’s stomach was fluttering and her bladder twitching. The girl beside Benedicta took it badly, whimpering even before the first stroke struck home, and blubbering openly before the last. As the first smack fell on Benedicta’s upended bottom, Lalage felt the movement of air to the whip, bringing her near to panic. Her teeth gritted, she fought to stop herself from making an unnecessary display, only for her bladder to betray her, bursting at the exact instant Benedicta yelped to her twelfth cut.
The Salavatoras waited calmly, watching as the urine gushed out behind Lalage onto the grass. She was crying before it had finished, her shame burning in her head at the thought of what had happened to her, and how many people had seen, including the two male priests. Not a sound was uttered, the crowd absolutely silent save for the sobbing of beaten girls and the hiss of her piddle. She knew they were watching though, in shock, or pity, delight or disgust, as the fountain of yellow fluid sprayed out behind her upraised bottom.
At last it ended, in a series of spurts and dribbles squeezed out in time to her broken sobs, but still dripping from her pubic hair as the first cut of the whip smacked into her bottom flesh. She screamed, her muscles jumping and a fresh squirt of pee erupting from her quim. The second cut came in. Again she screamed, and tried to rise, unable to control herself. A huge hand immediately took her by the neck, to press her dung smeared face into the ground, even as the third cut struck home.
Her legs kicked out at the pain, her knees slipping in her pee puddle to send her sprawling on the ground. An arm curled under her belly, lifting her easily, to hold her in place. The next cut struck, harder than before, to make her legs jerk and her bottom wriggle as she struggled in the Salvatora’s iron grip. The fifth hit her and she screamed and kicked out once more, then again at the sixth. At the seventh her control went completely, her legs kicking frantically and her head shaking from side to side in a desperate and futile effort to dull the pain. Stroke after methodical stroke fell, eight, nine and ten. Still she writhed and screamed, begging the Salvatoras for mercy and cursing them in the same breath, only for her words to choke off in a fresh scream as the eleventh cut caught her on the soft tuck of her buttocks. Even as her legs kicked out together, frog-like, the twelfth cut landed, full across her buttocks.
She was dropped immediately, and left sobbing in the puddle of her own urine, miserable, defeated and filled with a shame that grew suddenly more intense as she scrambled back into a kneeling position and realised that the juice from her quim was running down the insides of her thighs. She tried to hide it, closing her legs, but certain that every single watcher could see.
With her forehead pressed to the grass and the whip cuts burning on her bottom, she struggled to control her emotions. Slowly the relief that the whipping was over rose up through her panic and fear, along with the realisation that all her worst fears had been unfounded. She was not to be sold to men for the satisfaction of their lusts, she was simply to be sent to a farm, even a vineyard, work little different to what she had been used to before joining the church.
The last whip stroke cracked down across Sabina’s buttocks and the Salvatoras moved on, leaving her mewling softly to herself on the ground. Lalage stayed down, wanting to comfort her friend, at least with a look, but not daring to open her eyes. The smacks and squeals started again, seemingly distant now, as her sense of relief grew slowly stronger. She thought of being allowed to wear a robe again, and of being punished only when she had strayed badly, and of the taste of spice and meat and wine.
She stayed firmly down until the Salvatoras had reached the end of the line. Sanchia took her whipping in stony, defiant silence, and it was done, their punishment complete. Blessed Mother Berengaria Aesu rose once more, to say a prayer beseeching the Lord to accept the girls’ penance. No sooner had she finished than the clang of metal singled the arrival of Novices with buckets, this time of water rather than dung. Lalage waited patiently, until at last a wet sponge was pressed to her face. The dung was wiped away and her eyes came open, her vision hazy for a moment, then clear.
Already the crowd had begun to disperse, the two priests, the Prioress and the Mothers gone from their chairs. Most of the others were walking away or had their heads bowed in prayer. A few were still watching as the Supplicant’s faces were cleaned. Among these was Lucilla, and Lalage managed a weak smile for her friend.
Nothing more seemed to be expected of them, and Lalage climbed cautiously to her feet. A Novice had dropped a grey, hoodless robe beside her, and she picked it up. Lucilla started towards her, signalling Lalage to walk behind her. Standing, Lalage craned her head back, to make a rueful inspection of her welts, then fell in behind Lucilla. She was badly marked, with long red welts and purple blemishes where the sting of the whip had caught her, to leave her skin smarting and tender. It hurt, yet far less so than the caning she had received on her very first day, while her arousal was softening the pain.
‘You see,’ Lucilla remarked as they reached the cloisters to find themselves alone but for other Supplicants, ‘you are to go to a farm, as I predicted. Aren’t you going to put your robe on?’
‘I…I suppose so,’ Lalage answered.
She pulled the shapeless garment on over her head. The rough cloth started to itch immediately, especially where it touched her welts, while, when a Sister appeared along the cloister she felt an immediate rush of fear and guilt. Lucilla laughed, the Sister immediately turning them a stern look, only to look away as she saw the Tesserette.
‘You can’t be punished now, little Babbles,’ Lucilla said, ‘at least, not for inappropriate modesty. Come, up to my suite, I shall order wine of Ortaise for my noon meal and we may share a glass. Benedicta, you also.’
‘My head still aches from last night,’ Lalage complained.
‘But less than your bottom from this morning!’ Lucilla joked. ‘Come, but go to the ablutions first, you still smell of dung, and there is some in your hair. Join me presently.’
She made for the stairs, leaving Lalage and Benedicta to join others of their group who were making for the ablutions room, Sabina, Sanchia and Rosabel. Two Novices were visible in the passage, and they stayed silent, but began to talk again while washing, with the gush of the pumps to hide their voices.
‘I was to be a Salvatora!’ Benedicta complained.
‘I also!’ Sanchia added. ‘Several times Sister Verena has implied as much.’
‘I expected no better than the farms,’ Rosabel whined, ‘yet I tried, didn’t I? Why do they have to whip us so? My bottom hurts, and this awful robe makes…’
‘Do not complain!’ Sabina interrupted. ‘A dozen cuts and a dunging, what of it? I thought we would get twice the lashes, our heads shaved, and dung on top of that.’
‘I thought they meant to make us harlots,’ Lalage added, ‘and to brand us with hot irons, like they do to cattle, to mark us in our shame.’
‘Branded harlot is only an expre
ssion, stupid,’ Sanchia answered her. ‘Besides, it would be gross heresy to make us harlots.’
There was a murmur of hopeful agreement among the girls. Lalage dunked her head in the basin of water she had pumped for herself, the sound of the girls’ voices dying as her ears went under water. Using her fingertips, she began to massage the dung out of her hair.
‘…is there no chance for redemption?’ Sabina was asking as Lalage lifted her head from the water. ‘Are we marked as low status for life?’
‘How should I know?’ Sanchia answered. ‘The magpies tell us nothing, and to ask a simple question is to risk the whip, for impudence, or ignorance, or whatever it might be.’
‘It is possible for any nun to change her service, at any time,’ Lalage answered. ‘The Prioress, for instance, served as clerk to a Mother as a Novice, became responsible for the provisioning ledgers as a Sister, served as Preceptress, then in Mother Radegund’s place before her elevation. More typical is Mother Keturah, who was marked as a Salvatora since Supplication, came to lead them as Elder Sister and now is responsible for all matters of discipline as Mother. Still, for those working on the farms there is little chance for change, and few achieve a rank higher than Sister.’
‘With this knowledge, why are you not a clerk yourself?’ Sabina demanded.
‘Because she is a slut,’ Benedicta pointed out. ‘They hate sluts.’
‘Elder Sister Aspasia hates sluts?’ Sabina demanded. ‘She makes good enough use of us…them, and is she any better, with her head cage and her chamber pot and her curious tortures?’
Lalage shrugged.
‘These are the privileges of being an Elder,’ Benedicta said. ‘So much is clear.’
‘What happens now?’ Rosabel queried. ‘Is there work, or noon service?’
‘Neither,’ Lalage answered, ‘we are supposed to mediate on the virtue of Modesty until Initiation tomorrow. That is why we have been given robes. Lucilla…the Tesserette d’Ortaise, has promised us a glass of wine in her suite. Join us, and I will show you a little trick to ensure that we have more than a bottle between us.’
Whipping Girl Page 18
