Whipping Girl

by Aishling Morgan

  She gasped in pain as her bottom was thrust suddenly down on the phallus. The head went in with a pop and the fat shaft was sliding up her bottom, filling her inexorably, to make her passage bulge until she felt that not just her rectum, but her whole body was engorged with cock. Behind her, Sister Verena gave a snort of contempt.

  Lalage began to sob as she let her body settle fully on the phallus. From the first day Sister Verena had picked on her, and now would not even be fair in a test that was already unspeakably humiliating. She was sure she was going to fail too, with her clitoris giving all too familiar little jolts of pleasure as the scrotum met her quim. Taking hold of the horse’s neck, she glanced to the side.

  Sanchia was on her cock, muscular black buttocks spread wide over the saddle, her face set in angry determination. Beyond, the red-haired Chrysogon had also managed to fix herself in place, but the tiny Aphra, on the last horse, was still up on the cock head, and shaking her head in despair and pain. Sister Hawise moved towards her, frowning, and took her by the hips.

  ‘No!’ Aphra screamed immediately. ‘I can not! I can not, Sister! I am too small…spare me…please…I beg!’

  Sister Hawise gave a sceptical grunt, but ducked down to inspect Aphra’s anus. Sister Verena had also moved close, both women peering under the small girl’s bottom.

  ‘Is she lying?’ Elder Sister Aspasia demanded.

  ‘No, Elder Sister,’ Sister Hawise answered, ‘her reaction is genuine, be assured of it.’

  Elder Sister Aspasia gave a grunt that might have been amusement, then spoke again.

  ‘Let her down. If she tries that hard, she may yet prove useful. Aphra, go to my chambers. Kneel beside the door.’

  Aphra gasped as she pulled herself off the cock, gave a nod to the Sisters and a frightened look to the remaining girls, then waddled quickly away down the passage. Lalage watched her go with a mixture of regret and pity. Elder Sister Aspasia approached, gesturing to the Salvatoras.

  ‘One hundred motions, as before. Proceed.’

  Lalage tightened her grip on the horse’s neck as a Salvatora took hold of it. The cock in her bottom felt impossibly large, her quim impossibly sensitive, her clitoris as hot as her straining anus. She murmured a prayer, surrendering herself to the Lord’s will, and the horse began to rock.

  She was lost, immediately, the feel of the huge phallus inside her pushing everything else from her mind as her body began to bounce to the motions. She could do nothing, only cling on and let it happen as images of past sodomies forced themselves into her mind, Father Glauter treating her as if he owned her body and soul, the potboy Inez eager and dirty, the sacrifice of her anus to the good of the Order in Autuc…

  In every case they had seemed to fill her bottom to the brim. In every case it had sent her into a state of wild, uncontrolled passion, bucking and writhing on the cock inside her, to the men’s delight and her own utter shame. It was no different now, her body responding regardless of her state of mind. Already her anus had begun to twitch, her ring trying to tighten despite the massive load inside her. Already the jolts of pleasure from her clitoris were growing stronger. Her every physical reaction was making her want to give in mentally, leaving her feeling dizzy and weak.

  She cried out as her will broke. Immediately she was squirming on the huge cock in her rectum, wriggling and twitching, her breasts jumping, her hair flying around her head, her quim grinding furiously on the polished ridges of the scrotum. Spittle was flying from her lips, and juice splashing out around her quim as she bucked on the horse, frantic, urgent to get the rhythm exactly right, and finding it, to come in a welter of sweat and spit and juice, barely aware of where she was or what she was doing.

  As she came slowly down, so her shame and guilt and exhaustion welled up. She had failed utterly, coming on the horse with no more dignity than fat Rosabel, maybe less. Her legs were shaking, her eyes streaming tears as she hung her head in utter defeat. Voices came to her, and sounds, faint at first, the despairing yet ecstatic cry of one of the other girls as she came, Elder Sister Aspasia’s dry chuckle, then Sister Verena, speaking from directly behind her.

  ‘I had feared as much,’ the nun remarked casually, ‘from the moment I discovered that she was a sodomite. Few shake off such sins.’

  ‘Just so,’ Sister Hawise answered with equal indifference. ‘So, we have six. Elder Sister Amicia had hoped for seven.’

  ‘Six must suffice,’ Elder Sister Aspasia cut in, ‘it is essential to maintain our reputation for quality.’

  Lalage looked up, and realised to her surprise that the horses had stopped. Nor had she been the first to come. Sabina was already dismounted, and stood back in the shadows, her face set in resignation as she soothed her anus with a finger. The others still sat their horses, Asenath looking exhausted but relieved, Chrsyogon biting her lip as she lifted herself off her phallus, Sanchia angry. Elder Sister Aspasia spoke again as Lalage began to lift herself off the phallus.

  ‘Asenath, Chrysogon, go to your dormitories, and think long and hard on how close you came to disgrace. Tomorrow you become Initiates, yet there is much to be done in the control of your lust. Sabina, Lalage, Sanchia, stand with the others. Quick now!’

  Cocking her leg high, Lalage lifted herself clear of the phallus, wincing as it left her anus, which closed with a lewd bubbling sound. As her feet touched the ground she realised how weak she felt, but managed to stand, then walk, hobbling over to stand beside the other girls. Rosabel took her hand and they exchanged a look of sympathy. Elder Sister Aspasia stood a moment, watching the two successful girls retreat, then turned to the others. She was smiling, but without a trace of warmth, as her eyes flicked between them before she spoke.

  ‘You six then…hmm…Sabina, I knew you would come to this the day I met you. You are a natural slut, and could never have hoped to enter the church. The same is true of you, Rosabel, who are little better than an animal, with your coarse bodily responses and your greed. And Lalage, what were you thinking of, to enter our Holy precincts with your filthy habit? Better you had confessed to your parents and gone to a brothel in Autuc. What of you Ysemay? Did your time with Father Glauter really make you so lewd, or have you always been a slut? I suspect the latter. And Ginevra, with your foul and blasphemous tongue and pathetic pretence of modesty. You are no better than the others! Nor are you, Sanchia. How stubborn you were in your sinful pride, and look were it has led you. So, you who have failed, and so marked yourselves as unworthy to become brided to our Lord, or to enjoy the protection and nurture of the Order…’

  ‘If we are to be expelled, Elder Sister Aspasia,’ Sanchia interrupted. ‘You need merely have the Salvatoras escort us to the door.’

  ‘Still defiant?’ Elder Sister Aspasia answered, raising one eyebrow. ‘Have you no sense of shame girl? Evidently not. No, Sanchia, you are not to be expelled. That statement was merely a sop for those who overcame the iron horses. When I said that you have forfeited the protection and nurture of the Order, I was perhaps being over profound, referring to your immortal soul alone, at least, in a sense.’

  She chuckled. Rosabel threw Lalage a puzzled look. Sabina spoke.

  ‘What is to be our fate then, Elder Sister Aspasia?’

  ‘You will find out soon enough,’ the nun answered. ‘Sister Hodierna, the chalice.’

  Sister Hodierna stepped from the shadows. In her hands she held a wide brass chalice, filled to the brim with some dark fluid on the surface of which the reflected torch light danced and flickered. Elder Sister Aspasia took it and stepped close to the girls, offering it to Sabina, who shrank back, deep fear showing in her eyes.

  ‘Do not worry, girl, it is not poison,’ Elder Sister Aspasia chuckled, ‘merely a draught of bitter aloes, such as our Lord refused when he hung dying. In accepting it you renounce all right to Supplication, thus…’

  ‘Do not drink, Sabina, it will send you to sleep!’ Sanchia urged.

  Elder Sister Aspasia raised a hand. Immediately, t
wo Salvatoras came forward, to grab Sanchia’s arms. Sanchia fought back, struggling so furiously that two more of the big, black-robed nuns had to join in.

  ‘Silence her,’ Elder Sister Aspasia instructed. ‘As she still refuses to be meek, even in disgrace, she will take her draught in reverse. Sister Hawise, the pump.’

  One of the Salvatoras holding Sanchia laughed. All four together moved forward, to drag their victim towards the iron horse she had so recently dismounted. Still she struggled, thrashing and kicking as she was bent over the horse’s rump, also cursing, only to shut up abruptly as her open mouth was jammed down on the phallus. It went in, her eyes coming wide in dismay even as a firm grip was taken of her hair. Held down with the big wooden cock in her mouth and a nun on each limb, she could only wriggle in consternation as her thighs were hauled apart to spread her buttocks out across the horse’s rump.

  Sister Hawise appeared, grinning. In her hands she held a long, brass syringe, ending in a rounded nozzle. Pushing two fingers between Sanchia’s half-open buttocks, she spread them wide, stretching the black girl’s still sloppy anus open to show off the glistening pink flesh at the centre. Placing the syringe to the messy little hole, she pushed. The brass nozzle disappeared up Sanchia’s bottom. Sister Hawise depressed the plunger, and Sanchia’s eyes went wider still as her rectum filled with fluid.

  Even with the plunger fully depressed, Sister Hawise kept the nozzle in Sanchia’s bottom hole, while the four Salvatoras tightened their grip against her crazed struggles. Dark fluid was oozing out of Sanchia’s well buggered anus around the nozzle, and she kept fighting, but as Lalage watched, her struggles grew slowly fainter. At last she gave up and went limp. The nozzle was pulled out, and fluid immediately spurted from her anus, catching Sister Hawise’s robe. Sanchia was pulled up, but still held. She was clearly unsteady, and her face had grown slack.

  ‘You see, she is merely sleepy, nothing more,’ Elder Sister Aspasia stated. ‘Now, Sabina, will you drink, or is it necessary to use the pump for you also?’

  Sabina took the cup immediately. She put it to her mouth, sipping, then taking a gulp at a warning look from Elder Sister Aspasia and swallowing it down.

  ‘Do not be afraid,’ Elder Sister Aspasia said as she took the chalice back from Sabina.

  There was cruelty in the nun’s voice, and a suggestion that she was trying to hold back laughter. The chalice was passed to Rosabel, who was shaking as she took it, but put it to her lips and drank without hesitation. Sabina settled to her knees as the cup was passed on to Lalage. She took it, to gingerly sniff the contents. Whatever it was smelt rich and fruity, like the strongest of red wines. Still she hesitated, watching the now limp Sanchia.

  ‘Pump,’ Elder Sister Aspasia stated calmly.

  ‘No…’ Lalage managed, even as powerful hands gripped her arms.

  Elder Sister Aspasia deftly retrieved the chalice, stepping aside as Lalage was pulled forward and dragged across the iron horse.

  ‘I’ll drink…I’ll drink,’ she managed, only to be forced to open her mouth as her head was pushed down on the phallus. It went in, plugging her throat and filling her head with the taste of grease and her own bottom. Immediately she was gagging, then her stomach tightened in reaction, bile filling her throat even as her buttocks were spread behind. Her anus gave to the nozzle and fluid was squirting up into her rectum, filling her as she struggled, pop-eyed and gagging, her bulging cheeks purple.

  The instant her head was released she came off the cock, gasping and spitting, too far gone to worry about the pressure building in her bowels as she was pumped up with the dark fluid. They had let go of her, but the nozzle was still up her bottom, and it didn’t really seem to matter. Nor did anything else. As the nozzle was pulled free and the contents of her rectum squirted out onto the floor behind her, she merely giggled. Helping hands lifted her to her feet, and she stood, watching calmly as Ysemay drank from the cup.

  Ginevra was pumped and made to drink from what she expelled, to punish her for her blasphemy. Lalage watched the girl’s humiliation with a happy smile, and giggled when her friend’s bottom was penetrated and when the dark fluid erupted into the chalice. The sight of Ginevra’s face as she was presented with the cup and her nose held to make her drink it seemed funnier still.

  Somebody took her arm. Another smacked her bottom, to set her stumbling down the corridor. Others came behind, walking past stone arches barely seen, then raw rock lit red and orange by torchlight, so that she began to wonder vaguely if she was being taken directly to hell.

  Eight

  Lalage awoke to bright sunlight and a shock of guilt at the thought of being late for the daily routine. An instant later she remembered what had happened, the tests of Supplication, her failure, her fear as she was given the cup, being held down over the iron horse, the long tunnel she had been sure led to Hell. She was not in Hell. Relief flooded through her, only to give way to concern. She was not in the dormitory, but in a room far different.

  In place of the bare stone walls and beams of age blackened wood there were brightly coloured drapes and painted plaster. Paintings showed vivid and erotic scenes. One was of a girl mounted by two burly men, one in her mouth, one in her vagina. Another was of naked women apparently being sold in some sort of market. A third showed an orgy scene, with women, men and several dogs in a tangle of cocks, quims and breasts.

  She was not alone. Sanchia lay sprawled across a bed similar to the one she was on, and stark naked. Ysemay was also with them, lying on the floor as if dumped. Lalage sat up, slowly, taking in her surroundings open mouthed. She knew she was not in the nunnery, if only from the buzz of sound audible through the room’s single window. When she stood to peer out, she found herself looking down on a narrow, cobbled street from four storeys up in the face of a red brick building. Higher buildings across the street blocked her view, but she could smell the sea air, while the cries of gulls mingled with those of people, so she guessed she was still in St Quay. Below, outside the door of the house she was in, hung a sign, the scarlet oval of a brothel.

  Suddenly she felt weak. Standing back from the window, she sat down heavily on the bed. Her worst expectations had proved correct. For her failure, for her ungodliness, she had been taken and sold to one of the notorious brothels of St Quay. Slowly the realities of what was coming to her sank in. Her virginity would be taken, perhaps in public if the rumours were true. Her precious maidenhead gone, she would be put to the use of sailors, soldiers and anyone else would could afford a few bice for the pleasure of her mouth or quim.

  The thought set her shaking. Once more she glanced to the window, through which a patch of blue sky could be glimpsed. So often she had done the same in the dormitory, watching clouds or birds and thinking of freedom. Now it was worse, her body no more than a bauble for men to play with. She bit her lip, trying to remember who she was, and not to cry.

  Voices outside the door made her turn. The end of a key appeared in the lock, turning, even as the handle was pushed down. The door swung open. Three women walked in. Lalage immediately recognised Elder Sister Amicia, only the big woman no longer wore the black habit and white hood of her rank. In its place was a voluminous dress of peach coloured satin, cut low to reveal a deep pink cleavage, and lavishly decorated with bows, puffs and silk roses. The others were bigger still, in black dresses, and stood with brawny arms folded across their chests. Lalage could only stare, as the dreadful implications of Elder Sister Amicia’s dress slowly sank in to her.

  ‘We…the Order runs this…this place?’ she managed. ‘I…I am to be a harlot, for the Order?’

  ‘That is right, a harlot,’ Elder Sister Amicia answered, ‘and a fitting role it is too, for a wanton little baggage like you. Now come on with you, there is work to be done. Wake these two up.’

  The two big women, obviously Salvatoras of a sort, stepped forward, one to kick Ysemay into wakefulness, the other to roll Sanchia off the bed, so that she landed with a bump on the floor. Bo
th came awake groggy and confused, neither resisting as they were dragged to their feet and pushed from the room.

  Elder Sister Amicia led the way down a flight of stairs and into another room, no less garish than the first. The other three girls who had failed the test were there, Sabina looking sulky, Rosabel and Ginevra openly scared. Two other women were present as well, both big, both busty, both in gaudy finery. Elder Sister Amicia went to stand between them, facing the line of frightened girls. The Salvatoras moved behind.

  ‘Welcome, girls,’ Elder Sister Amicia began, her voice full of false jollity. ‘First, I shall make some introductions. To my left is Sister Hope, to my right, Sister Morna, but, by nature, these are not the titles you will address us by. A simple Ma’am will do. We three are charged by the Order with a most important task, to make use of those girls who are unfit for Holy Orders.’

  ‘As harlots?’ Sabina managed. ‘Selling the gift of the Lord?’

  ‘Silence!’ Elder Sister Amicia shouted, her friendly manner dropped on the instant. ‘You are unworthy, a slut, fit for nothing better than harlotry! Speak another word…’

  She broke off, to turn and snatch an orange from a bowl of fruit behind her. Two quick steps took her to Sabina, even as a Salvatora applied an arm lock. Sabina’s squeal of shock was abruptly stilled as the orange was forced between her jaws, leaving her gaping and wide eyed, with the fruit protruding absurdly from her mouth. Elder Sister Amicia continued her speech.

  ‘Each of us commands a house, and we shall now select among you, two girls to each house. First, know that your failure does not mean you are excused those punishments by which the Sisters of St Quay have tried so hard to keep you from your present, sorry condition. However, they will be somewhat different. The majority of our visitors consider bruising to the buttocks and legs unattractive, so you will seldom be given more than an admonitory spanking. A minority enjoy inflicting it themselves, but they more than others dislike the evidence of previous disciplinary attention. This, indeed, illustrates an important thing about men. Each likes to imagine himself the first, a bather in unsullied waters, as it were…