"They get imprisoned there?" Henry enquired.
"Mainly short sharp shocks," Tom explained. "Months rather than years, so that their absences from society can be glossed over and scandal avoided, but plenty of stick to compensate. A tight caning on a bare bottom before breakfast every day for the more minor offences; public drug and alcohol abuse, unsuitable boyfriends, that sort of thing, with bare-backed floggings in the chilly dawn for those who have really let the side down; disobeyed their men, caused any kind of open scandal that has disgraced the family name. You know the sort of thing."
"And they'd take a girl from outside for a whipping?" Henry asked
"No problem," Richard assured him. "As I told you, I sent Meryl up a few years back. I could let you have the Company jet to fly her there one afternoon, they like to have them in overnight ready for the dawn parade, and she'd be back here the following evening. Make it a Friday and she could be the centre of the usual gathering in the Trident."
"Sounds good to me," Henry admitted, "and would answer one of her outstanding requests very appropriately I think. It's just about three years since she became a Sexton wife and she's been dropping large hints, almost nagging you might say, about doing something very special to mark the occasion. A judicial flogging in a prison yard might be just the thing."
"Yes, I think so too," Richard assured him. "Meryl was as supple as a glove after her visit."
"Then that's it then," Henry said decisively, "a bloody back for my lady in a cold yard. Quite Judge Jeffreys when you think of it. Thanks for the offer of the jet, Richard. That way, not only will we all get the benefit of her back while it's still hot, but I won't have to endure an empty bed for too long. I miss it when I don't have that hot little body against mine."
"Oh that's the least of your worries," Tom laughed, "Renee will be available, any time you like. Just give me the word; I know you've always fancied her. Actually, you'll be delighted with the substitution, I think. She fucks beautifully while, as to the back door, she's as sweet as a nut and as agile as a monkey. I'm prepared to believe she'd get a dead man to attention and milk him dry, if she could just get him started between those satiny arse cheeks of hers."
"That's extremely kind," Henry said gratefully. "But what about you?"
"Don't worry about me," Tom said with a grin of anticipation. "Bernard is away until the end of the month and he's asked me to keep an eye on Cleo for him; see she doesn't lack for anything while he's away. I'll wrap a nice whippy rod round that pert tight bum of hers to keep her lively for him and make sure she doesn't forget how to satisfy a man before he comes back."
"It's a deal," Henry replied.
As a result of this conversation, Jenny found herself, only a couple of days later, sitting with her hands cuffed behind her in the back of a prison van being driven up the long winding road to Marindorra by two smartly uniformed women guards.
Henry had given her but the briefest of details.
"I've always wanted to have you take a Judicial flogging," he had told her, "I'm given to understand that they still take a very tough line up there. They flog at dawn and I'll lie with Renee and think of you being put through it."
She'd talked at greater length with Renee.
"Promise me," she'd said, "that at dawn you'll roll on top of him and get him inside you. It won't be difficult; he'll be erect in seconds with your tits dangling in his face and your hot cunt swallowing his prick."
"Yes, I know Sexton wives aren't meant to do things like that," she had replied, when Renee had protested that it seemed a bit forward, "but he can whip your bum for you afterwards to pay you for that. It'll be nothing compared with what I'll be going through."
She hesitated a moment. "How many do you think I'll get anyway?" she asked.
"Not sure," Renee replied. "The last person I remember being sent for a flogging was Meryl, and she got two dozen. I think that would be about right."
"Jeez! As many as that? Alright, here's what you do. You wank on that rampant prick of his with that educated vagina of yours and see if you can get him off in twenty-four twitches, spaced out slowly like my flogging. You can do it, even after the kind of night you two will have spent together. Bring him off right on the last, just as I get my last lash. Promise?"
Renee had given her the promise she had begged for, and she had gone off to meet the plane Richard had so kindly lent to take her to her fate.
It was uncomfortable in the back of the windowless van, with her hands fastened behind, and the journey seemed to take forever but then they were pulling through the high arches of the massive medieval gatehouse of the forbidding house of correction, every corner of its cold stone mass designed to impart an appropriate sense of doom to the sinners consigned to it.
Released from the van, she was marched, still cuffed, into a wing of the grim establishment with no delay for baggage as she'd been sent with nothing more than the clothes she stood up in. The guards knocked at an office door, marked Superintendent, and pushed her through it to stand before a heavy desk at which another uniformed woman sat working at papers. After a short pause the woman looked up to give the prisoner a searching glance.
"Are you the girl to be flogged?"
When she admitted she was, the official asked her a series of more or less routine questions, name, age, place of birth, etc., and the name of the person who had referred her to the correctional establishment.
"And what is the reason for your referral to Marindorra?"
She hesitated a moment. How did one describe the circumstances when they were not totally clear, even to herself?
"Preventive conditioning," she replied, "Mr Maltravers and I have been together for over three years now, for two of them I have been a Sexton Wife and it seemed an appropriate measure, given my demanding nature. Also," she added with a somewhat incongruous blush, given the circumstances, "I wished to make him a present."
The Superintendent looked up at her from her papers.
"Hmm," she remarked thoughtfully after a short period of reflection, "a trifle presumptuous on your part, I would say. Still no harm done. We can arrange for the fault to be corrected as part of tomorrow morning's proceedings."
Somewhat abashed Jenny asked if she night ask a small favour.
"I'm listening."
"When is dawn tomorrow, please?"
The Superintendent consulted a diary.
"0648. Why?"
"Mr Maltravers and my friend Renee will be thinking of me at seven. I would be grateful if it could be arranged that that is when I... that is... if it could actually be happening then. It would help if I knew they were lying there with me in mind."
"No problem. Now go with the sergeant. She will see to your preparation and medical. After we get the result of that you'll be informed of your sentence. You'll get some supper and then be put away for the night. You'll be called shortly before dawn."
The medical of course brought Greta, who grinned at her in recognition. Made to strip, her clothes taken away, Jenny lay on an icy cold plastic covered examination table while Greta minutely examined every inch and orifice of her body, before sending the sergeant off with a form for the Superintendent. While they waited, Greta gave her a coarse cotton gown, which, she gathered, would be her only clothing during her stay in Marindorra. The returned sergeant held yet another official form.
"The prisoner, being certified as fit in mind and limb, is sentenced to twenty-four strokes of the whip on her bare back. Sentence to be carried out at dawn tomorrow."
The officer consulted the paper afresh and spoke again. "In addition, to punish the presumption displayed by the prisoner, the whipping will be taken crotched, the size and nature of any additional features to be at the medical officer's discretion."
She had just time to observe Greta literally licking her lips in anticipation as sh
e was marched from the room to her solitary cell.
Dawn in the High Pyrenees came cold and dull, the sun not yet over the mountain rim that surrounded Marindorra. She was roused by the clang of the iron barred door as it was opened to allow in her early morning visitors, the guard and Greta.
The doctor carried a small bag which she laid on the plank bed that had served for the prisoner's night's rest.
"Get your gown off, girl," she ordered, "and come and stand here, with your legs apart."
Obediently she swung her legs off the bed, wincing at the feel of the icy flags under her bare toes and stripped the coarse garment over her head to stand quite bare where Greta indicated.
From the bag appeared two glistening yellow objects, rubbery looking, two-inch long, torpedo shaped horrors. She recognised them instantly as the twins of the horse suppositories she had had to endure on the 'treasure hunt' all that time ago.
"I won't be needing those," she protested, conscious that their use would mean immediate humiliation as the only toilet facilities in the bare, stone-walled chamber, more dungeon than cell, was an enamelled bucket over which she would have to squat with Greta and the guard looking on.
"When you're screaming under sergeant Liebvicz's leather you'll shit, just so long as you've an ounce of shit in you," Greta assured her. "Believe me girl, they all do, and I'm not having you mess up the place if I can help it, so bend over and pull your cheeks apart for me."
Defeated, she bent over from the hips, reaching behind to grasp her tight twin buttock halves and pull them apart to reveal the rimmed and partly open anus that Greta herself had created there. She tried not to react as the first of the deadly inch-diameter suppositories pushed its way past her reluctant sphincter but couldn't quite suppress an involuntary clenching of her buttocks.
"Keep still," Greta growled, rewarding her with a stinging slap on one tender cheek.
Both barrels loaded, she was set to exercises designed to make the burning fluid washing her guts out as quickly and effectively as possible. And only when her sphincter was almost turning itself inside out in its contortions, was she allowed to run to the bucket and void the contents of her bowel noisily and humiliatingly into it.
By the time she had mastered her spasming belly, Greta was holding a solid leather belt with a chain and other daunting objects hanging from it. She had enough experience now to know that this was a crotch strap, and that she would be wearing it for her whipping.
It was not an ordinary - if such a term was justified - instrument either. The crotch chain itself was not unusual, that is to say it was a chain with medium sized square links which, she was very aware, would cut into a girl's tender parts like a knife if pulled really tight. With Greta applying it, she was quite certain it would be. The rather less common feature was the pair of plugs through which the chain was threaded. The anal plug was short, thick and smooth, little to complain of for a girl of her experience with an educated sphincter, well used to accepting some very significant male organs, but the vaginal plug was a different matter. Apart from its size, which was considerable, it was covered with a series of short studs. Not sharp, it was true, and unlikely to cause any serious injury of themselves, but obtrusive enough to guarantee considerable pain when trapped against the fat dildo in her rectum. Unless she could remain totally relaxed under the whip, she was going to come away from Marindorra with a sore belly as well as a sore back.
Obediently she parted her legs and bent her knees slightly to allow Greta to nose the horror between her plump labia, unaccountably glistening with female dew already, despite her knowledge of her coming fate or, could it be, because of it? She grunted sharply as Greta began the slow and painful process of driving it deep into the tender but muscular tube. When it was home, she bent forward submissively to grant Greta easier access to her rimmed rear crater, pulling the cheeks wide apart once more to accept the monstrous intrusion of the anal plug equally deep into her rectum. Plug and studs jostled each other deep in the hot humid reaches of her belly. If she thought she was suffering then, it was twice as bad when Greta hoisted the crotch chain as tight as a clipper's forestay, adding the pain of its angular links cutting into her soft vulva to the current and potential anguish in her guts.
Greta smiled evilly at her handiwork and invited her to resume her gown.
"It's time," the guard said, pinioning her arms behind her again, then pushing her through the door of the cell.
It was a long, cold walk in bare feet down the icy stone corridors that led to the prison yard, and not a particularly comfortable one. With the monstrous plugs churning within her gut and the cruel chain chaffing on her clit and her coccyx, she could only move in a painful shuffle, legs wide spread and waddling, urged on by the guard pushing on her back to hasten her progress. The yard itself was even worse; first cobbles, then cutting gravel that had her wincing at every step until she could reach the relative safety of the platform around the post to which she would be fastened to be whipped.
The welcoming party was as sparse as the yard was Spartan. The Superintendent and a male official, at least she assumed he was an official; in this strange world he might just as easily have been a merely curious spectator come to enjoy the invigorating sight of a woman flogged naked at the post. Did he perhaps have a woman of his own for whom he was contemplating such treatment? Besides these two, the only other person awaiting them was a large woman with brown skin, a prison officer it would seem, since she wore a regulation skirt and boots but, for this occasion, only a very skimpy singlet top, behind which her huge pendulous breasts swung freely even when she was at rest. Jenny could imagine how they would fly as the woman did her duty, for the thick black leather snake she was drawing through the fingers of one hand told without doubt just what her duty would be at this dawn execution. This monumental member of the female sex could only be Sergeant Liebvicz, under whose leather girls screamed and shat themselves. Springing from the platform by her side was the tall thick column of the whipping post itself, black oily looking timber, greased by the sweat and tears of the innumerable females who had pressed their tender bodies against its rough sides under the agony of the lashes to their naked backs.
As Jenny stood panting from the exertion of climbing the steps while cuffed, and handicapped by the bruising columns thrust up her vagina and rectum, the Superintendent formally recited her name, offence and sentence.
"...preventive conditioning... twenty-four strokes... naked back... crotched."
"Is the prisoner fit and ready?" the Superintendent enquired of the white-coated doctor.
"Fit for all punishment," Greta replied, "with an anal plug and vaginal discipline."
"You're a rigorous cat, Greta," the Superintendent said indulgently, "but it's within your rights. Very well, we may proceed. Carry on Sergeant."
Liebvicz stepped forward and removed the steel manacles, substituting wide leather cuffs with solid steel rings through which a length of tough rope was threaded. She passed the rope through an iron ring, set high on the post, and hauled on it until her victim was forced up onto her toes. With the rope cleated fast to hold the straining girl in position, the Sergeant bent and fastened the cuff of a spreader bar to one ankle, then drew the other ankle out to the far end of the bar, forcing Jenny to strain even higher on her toes. With the bar now dropped into a clamp at the foot of the post, the figure to be flogged was stretched as taut and trim as on a classic triangle.
There remained only one further act before the execution could proceed. The coarse prison gown was held at the shoulders by two studs. Sergeant Liebvicz unsnapped them and peeled the gown down to the victim's waist, leaving her whole upper body bare, her unprotected breasts rubbing on the rough surface of the post, the nipples hardening instantly with the combination of the freezing chill of the dawn air and the harsh frictioning of the grainy wood. She moaned softly at this new soreness to add to the
anguish in her belly from the clashing dildos in her bowel and cunt.
"Ready Ma'am!" the Sergeant barked.
"Proceed."
As if on cue, the prison clock, set high above the great gateway, struck the hour. As the first chime rang out the lash fell across her straining shoulders.
It was incredible, unbearable, quite unlike anything she had endured before, a line of fire across her back, pure pain with no sensual element to relieve its awful bite. A woman can always, even in the worst extremity, commute some of her agony into sexual stimulation if the whip is applied to her buttocks, so intimately connected to her genitals and the seat of her sexuality between her legs. But the lash of leather on her bare back is pure punishment, with no mitigation. Even a thrashing on the breasts, sensitive as they are, can hold an erotic element to take some of the edge off the agony but a flogging, the whip laid across her naked shoulders, is hard for even the most experienced woman to endure.
She choked on her pain, swallowing the scream that strove to escape, letting only a strangled gasp bubble from her throat. Her body tensed with the pain, and the spiked shaft within her vagina reminded her instantly of its presence.
As she waited in rising pain for the next blow to fall she had a sudden mental picture of Renee climbing onto Henry's rampant prick, taking it into her body and milking it with strong contractions of her well-trained vaginal muscles. When the leather cracked across her shoulders the second time, she clenched down deliberately against the spikes, imagining herself in Renee's place, the beloved penis deep inside her. The wave of pain she provoked seemed to cancel out some of the worst of the lash by tapping into the sexual charge building in her belly.
Sergeant Liebvicz was working her way slowly down the stretched white back, laying the strokes on in shallow vees from alternate sides. The first strokes had been high up, traversing the whole width of the shoulders, the weight of the blows throwing the victim against the post, her breasts slapping on the rough timber. When it was new the post itself must have been an instrument of torture, its rough hewn surface driving evil splinters into the soft defenceless breasts driven against it by the heavy blows of a judicial flogging. Even now its surface was ridged and grainy. Before the countless girls who had preceded her on this penitential pilgrimage had removed the splinters with their bare breasts, each touch of the wood must have been agony itself and the pain of the spiteful punctures an enduring torment for hours or even days until they could be removed from the tender tit flesh. The slight abrasion they now caused was almost welcome in its sensual connotations.
Painful Prize Page 21
