Boris Spider
Guard
King Diocletian at his best, setting the scene.
all waiting expectantly for the pubic punishment of a beautiful noblewoman.
Ooops. Is it a Freudian slip if you're rubbish at typing?Oh whow, more than I expected!
She tried to stand back from the post, to keep the frosted surface from her breasts.
And others!Simon and I are really enjoying this!
Will swept in and lashed at the middle of her back. Isabel stiffened, fists clenching, a pained grunt leaving her lips. Her head rested now on her left bicep. She glanced back at Tom and he saw the fear in her eyes, tears welling. Serve her right for being so arrogant, he thought, and contemplated the back, reddened but still silkenly beautiful after 13 lashes. He picked a spot just above her right shoulder blade and struck powerfully. The lash felt right; he knew he’d made good contact, something confirmed by her reaction.
as she took a deep breath and straightened her back, as though to set herself for the final quarter of her punishment.
I edited your first sentence. The rules don't allow minors...“Harder! Harder!”
“Make her beg!”
Wat looked at the two boys, still in their teens, who stood by him. How could they be so cruel? He looked at his lady, shivering half-naked on the platform, her skin pale against the darkness of the wood, areas of her back painfully red. She was brave and he admired her. He’d seen men sobbing at the post, and they didn’t have the humiliation of having their breasts exposed. He just wanted to hug her and hold her. He looked at her long smooth arms and imagined them wrapped around himself and he hated himself for it because he knew he was simply doing what every other man in the square was doing: fantasising about her. It’s just he was doing it with love and they with hate.
The left-hander swung in. His blow was hard across the base of her back. Her shoulders were tossed back as her waist drove forwards and he saw her left breast lift and fall, trembling at the impact. The boys jeered as she screamed. “Look at her tits shaking,” one said with a leer.
“They’re tiny,” said the other. “My sister’s got bigger tits than that.”
“Your sister doesn’t look like that.” They laughed, making the crudest of gestures with their hands.
A woman, maybe 50 years old, clipped one of them across the top of the head. “Show some respect, lad,” she said. “She’s being birched for blasphemy - not for your sordid fun.”
They giggled. “Leave them be, woman,” said a red-faced older man. “They’ll not see noble flesh bared for the lash again.”
*
Isabel stared at the post. The sting was terrible, her back throbbing with pain. But worse was the knowledge of them all staring at her, seeing how she handled pain, seeing her taken to the limits of her endurance. She was determined not to break down but it was hard, desperately hard. The switch clattered into her shoulders again. Her head jarred back, her chest driven into the wood, damp now where her writhing had melted the ice. Her breasts ached with the cold and she felt shame at the erectness of her nipples, exposed for all to see. “Twenty.” She could feel the odd warm trickle of blood running down her back now, gathering in the waistband of her britches. She felt exposed and very, very alone. Tears began to roll down her face.
The deacon couldn’t have had a better view. He could see her pain clearly – and see those lovely gentle tits clearly, or the right one at least. She was suffering badly and he was loving it. He watched as the flogger closer to him drew back the switch and struck her, the power transferring from his shoulders into the switches and then, with a wonderful damp crash, striking across the centre of her back. He saw her cringe, the pain radiating through her face as her eyes closed and her lips turned down, a sharp yelp coming from her throat before her mouth opened and, jaw still tight, she began gulping in air, her eyes wide, chest heaving so her breast quivered, the nipple angry, red and erect in the cold. Her fists clenched and slowly relaxed, arms tight to the sides of the post as she shook with pain, fear and cold. “Twenty-one.”
Maude was satisfied. The girl was in hell now, whimpering, clearly dreading the next stroke. She wished she’d got her begging for mercy, but this cowed, pathetic figure was good enough – and it would get better when she was put in the stocks. The beadle took aim and thrashed the birch across her shoulder blades. He’d clearly paced himself: it was a ferocious blow, the switches snapping against Isabel’s skin. She yelled in pain as her body tensed and for a moment it looked as though her knees may buckle. For a time each breath came as a pained gasp but slowly she righted herself and straightened her legs. Her tongue flicked out, she dipped her head, closed her eyes and then, with what was clearly a great effort of will, readied herself for the next stroke.
The abbot glanced at the bishop. The red-faced fool was gawping as if he’d never seen a naked breast before. He turned back to the action and watched the left-hander smash his birch into the girl. He supposed there was something erotic about the way her body danced in the cold, but that was of little concern to him. What was important was that, at last, the church was hitting back. The flogging of a blasphemer shouldn’t be a one-off spectacle, he thought: it should happen regularly. Let the people know what God demanded of them; let them see what His justice might be like.
Her back was on fire. It felt raw from neck to waist and she dreaded the next blow. Isabel wanted to sob, to break down, to let her legs give out and hang but she was determined they wouldn’t break her fully. Gritting her teeth and pushing her lips together, she straightened her back, bending her arms slightly. It was horrendously cold. Her feet were numb, her skin goosepimpled and it was all she could do to prevent her teeth chattering. She heard the birch swoosh through the air. Instinctively she tensed and the twigs smashed into the base of her back. She thrust forward, stomach striking the cold post. Her face creased. “Twenty-three.”
Tom waited. The final blow. His breath steamed around him and he could feel his chest damp with sweat despite the cold. He looked at the trembling girl, her back a raw pink, covered in scratches and oozing blood in patches. It was such a clever instrument, the birch, he thought. She was in clear pain and the blood always looked good but in a month it would be unlikely she’d bear any sort of scar. Where to place it? Low, he thought, on that waspish waist, the bumps of her vertebrae seductive above the britches, just where the last strike had landed. That would make it sting. He steadied himself and flew in. The rhythm was perfect. The twigs swooshed into her, smooth and fast, small fragments breaking off at the impact, which seemed to echo round the square. She yelled, body flung forward into the post, and for a moment he thought she would collapse, but she stayed upright, panting for breath, shoulders hunched. “Twenty-four.”
Tom waited. The final blow. His breath steamed around him and he could feel his chest damp with sweat despite the cold. He looked at the trembling girl, her back a raw pink, covered in scratches and oozing blood in patches. It was such a clever instrument, the birch, he thought. She was in clear pain and the blood always looked good but in a month it would be unlikely she’d bear any sort of scar. Where to place it? Low, he thought, on that waspish waist, the bumps of her vertebrae seductive above the britches, just where the last strike had landed. That would make it sting.
Lady Isabel was pale as a ghost
As she haltingly strode toward the post
She’d insulted the church
And would now feel the birch
But she endured the pain better than most.
Rationally, she didn’t care her breasts were small. They were right for her slim frame;