Boris Spider
Guard
King Diocletian at his best, setting the scene. 
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A Political Act
- Thread starter King Diocletian
- Start date
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
Oh whow, more than I expected!
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Ooops. Is it a Freudian slip if you're rubbish at typing?
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Father William sat in the front row of the stand. He felt a little confused. He had watched Isabel grow up. He’d known her as a little girl, reading her stories from the Bible. She’d been a bright child, eager to please and eager to learn. He’d given her religious instruction, leading her to confirmation when she was a blossoming girl of 12 or 13. He’d seen her grow into this beautiful young woman, admired her even. At night he’d been tormented by thoughts of her, of wanting her. He’d dreamed of her naked and now here she was, bare-breasted in front of him. He knew the sentence was right; blasphemers had to be punished, and yet he wanted to protect her. But at the same time he was enjoying seeing her shivering, seeing her pure skin and he knew he would enjoy seeing her beaten.
Isabel waited. Why was it taking so long? She was so cold, the morning air stinging her bare skin. She tried to stand back from the post, to keep the frosted surface from her breasts. She heard the command. Instinctively she flinched. She stared at the post, trying to blot out the people all around, trying to ready herself. She shifted her weight on her numb feet, set herself. There was a dull whistle, a thump and her torso lurched forwards, her head jerking back. Her chest hit the post and for a moment she was winded, the pain worse where her tender, cold breasts had bashed the wood than in her back. But then the sting began to permeate, a burning across her shoulder blades, worse on the left side. “One,” Sir Thomas said.
Tom looked at the streak Will had left. It was good, a ruddy pink on the pure paleness, nice and high. The key was to spread the initial blows, to cover the whole back: with the birch it was the repeated blows in the same place that hurt so you could gradually ramp up the pain. He waited, counting softly in his head. With servants you’d just thrash them, get it over with, but he understood this was an exhibition: flog her steadily, make every lash count. He got to thirty and struck her again, just lower than the first blow.
The bishop looked on impassively. He wanted her screaming. He wanted it clear that nobody challenged the church, wanted her howling and begging for mercy. So far, though, there’d just been two grunts, even if she was shivering and cringing there. The mob clearly felt something similar, shouting for her to be beaten harder. It was strange how interests intersected, he thought. It was clearly right that an enemy of the church should be punished like this but there was something strange about being allied with the gawping peasants who’d pushed their way to the front and were clearly just relishing watching a pretty girl being flogged.
Silence fell over the square. Isabel readied herself again. She heard the birch whip through the air, then clatter into her back, just below the last. She’d been expecting it, and was able to restrict herself to a sharp gasp. “Three!” came the call. The sting intensified slowly, the cold seeming to add to the throb. She clenched her teeth and breathed out slowly, looking up her bare arms. The pain was manageable, she thought, adjusting her position. She was an eighth of the way there and as the sting of the third blow ebbed she felt nothing more than a warm smart.
Maude was a little disappointed. She wanted Isabel screaming and begging for mercy, not just standing there yelping. She wondered if the beadle and his assistant were whipping as hard as they could. She watched carefully as the beadle ran in, three paces, and lashed her, low, just below the middle of her back. There was a crash and she head the individual twigs rattle as the birch struck. Isabel’s shoulders twitched back and for a moment her left breast was clearly visible to those in the stand. She gave a pained cough, a belch of steam from her mouth. Maude turned to the bishop. “Shouldn’t she be in more pain?” she asked. “Is the beadle going easy on her?”
“No, my lady,” said the bishop with authority. “The birch has a cumulative effect. It lures them in. They think they’re dealing with it and by the time they’re up to seven or eight they’re howling for mercy.”
Maude nodded. She hoped so.
Isabel waited. Why was it taking so long? She was so cold, the morning air stinging her bare skin. She tried to stand back from the post, to keep the frosted surface from her breasts. She heard the command. Instinctively she flinched. She stared at the post, trying to blot out the people all around, trying to ready herself. She shifted her weight on her numb feet, set herself. There was a dull whistle, a thump and her torso lurched forwards, her head jerking back. Her chest hit the post and for a moment she was winded, the pain worse where her tender, cold breasts had bashed the wood than in her back. But then the sting began to permeate, a burning across her shoulder blades, worse on the left side. “One,” Sir Thomas said.
Tom looked at the streak Will had left. It was good, a ruddy pink on the pure paleness, nice and high. The key was to spread the initial blows, to cover the whole back: with the birch it was the repeated blows in the same place that hurt so you could gradually ramp up the pain. He waited, counting softly in his head. With servants you’d just thrash them, get it over with, but he understood this was an exhibition: flog her steadily, make every lash count. He got to thirty and struck her again, just lower than the first blow.
The bishop looked on impassively. He wanted her screaming. He wanted it clear that nobody challenged the church, wanted her howling and begging for mercy. So far, though, there’d just been two grunts, even if she was shivering and cringing there. The mob clearly felt something similar, shouting for her to be beaten harder. It was strange how interests intersected, he thought. It was clearly right that an enemy of the church should be punished like this but there was something strange about being allied with the gawping peasants who’d pushed their way to the front and were clearly just relishing watching a pretty girl being flogged.
Silence fell over the square. Isabel readied herself again. She heard the birch whip through the air, then clatter into her back, just below the last. She’d been expecting it, and was able to restrict herself to a sharp gasp. “Three!” came the call. The sting intensified slowly, the cold seeming to add to the throb. She clenched her teeth and breathed out slowly, looking up her bare arms. The pain was manageable, she thought, adjusting her position. She was an eighth of the way there and as the sting of the third blow ebbed she felt nothing more than a warm smart.
Maude was a little disappointed. She wanted Isabel screaming and begging for mercy, not just standing there yelping. She wondered if the beadle and his assistant were whipping as hard as they could. She watched carefully as the beadle ran in, three paces, and lashed her, low, just below the middle of her back. There was a crash and she head the individual twigs rattle as the birch struck. Isabel’s shoulders twitched back and for a moment her left breast was clearly visible to those in the stand. She gave a pained cough, a belch of steam from her mouth. Maude turned to the bishop. “Shouldn’t she be in more pain?” she asked. “Is the beadle going easy on her?”
“No, my lady,” said the bishop with authority. “The birch has a cumulative effect. It lures them in. They think they’re dealing with it and by the time they’re up to seven or eight they’re howling for mercy.”
Maude nodded. She hoped so.
Boccaccio
Governor
Another fine installment.
I wonder if it has occurred to Tom and Will that if they can make Isabel perspire enough, her moist breasts might adhere to that frosty post.
I've read a zillion flogging stories, but I don't ever recall, um, coming acrosss that motif.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
The upper part of Isabel’s back was almost entirely pink. Wat was proud of her. She’d held herself together well so far but he feared what was coming. All around him, people were jeering, joking about her nudity and urging them to make her bleed. What was wrong with them? He longed to wrap her in his cloak and carry her home. The left-handed one struck her, and although Isabel did no more than gasp, Wat could see it had hurt.
“Harder!” yelled Dick. “Make her scream!” He wanted to hear her howling and begging. Imagine that! An aristocrat begging for mercy! Actually, mostly he wanted to see her tits. He was too far away, really. He wished he’d gone closer. But then it wouldn’t have been as easy to get to the ale. But he at least wanted to hear her scream. The beadle waited. What a job that was! He drank in the tavern occasionally, told them about beating the bishop’s staff. Imagine that, that your job was to strip women to the waist, tie them up and whip them! Tom ran in, his breath steaming. He cracked the birch low, just above her waistline and she thrust provocatively into the post. Dick was struck by a fantasy of her jerking her pelvis like that at him. “Harder!” he yelled.
A quarter of the way there. Isabel was panting a little, breath steaming around her face. They’d worked carefully from the top of her back to the bottom, ensuring an even spread. The pain hadn’t been too bad, although the sting had been worsened by the cold. But she knew that the next blow would strike over flesh that was already smarting, and she knew that would increase the pain. What she hadn’t realised was how much. The lash landed across the centre of her back, the tips catching her left shoulder-blade. Her left leg kicked up, her head flew back and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She stood, staring at her bound hands, mouth open, the pain awful. When she finally relaxed, she whimpered, clenching her teeth, balling her fists and staring at the post, trying to will the pain to go away. The throb had only just started to subside when the beadle lashed her, the rattle of rods into her lower back thrusting her crotch against the frosted post and sending new waves of agony through her.
Maude felt a little more satisfied. Isabel was clearly suffering now. The left-hander lashed her, a few stray buds breaking loose as the twigs hit the curve of her upper back. At last Isabel yelled. It was a swallowed scream, her teeth clenched, but Maude could see clearly her distress, eyes wide, breath steaming in short pants as she twisted to the left before slowly straightening. “Nine.”
Sir Thomas could see blood clearly now, not much, but a few flecks on the mottled pink skin. The beadle struck hard across the centre of the back. Isabel bucked as the switches thrashed into her, both feet leaving the ground. She staggered as she came back down. “Aaaaarrgghhhh!” she yelled, sounding incredulous. And then again, “Arrrghgh.” “Ten,” he called.
The pain was terrible. It burned and burned. How could it suddenly be so much worse? She waited and waited, dreading the next one. She heard the whistle and flinched even before it crashed across her shoulders. Her fists clenched and she started at her hands. “Gaaaaaaaaarrrrrhhhh!” she yelled. “Ah! Ahhh! Aaahhhhhh!” Her faced was twisted; it was all she could do not to cry.
Simon was entranced. He was in the perfect position. He was side on and that meant he could see the power of the blow on her back but even better he could see her left breast as she twisted on the post. She’d been disappointingly calm for the first few so he just saw the side of her breast, sweet and smooth as that was, but now as she writhed, he got the full picture; the thin waist, the gentle curve of her chest and the nipple reddened by cold, standing out on the pale breast. He watched as the beadle measured his stroke. Isabel was shivering, fists clenched, staring up. The beadle, with calculation took three paces and thrashed her, low, just above the line of her britches. Her body tensed and she thrust with her groin into the post, shoulders rocking back to give Simon and those near him a clear view of her left breast. A shower of fragments of wood flew up on impact and floated gently down as she slowly relaxed, her head rolling to the left so her chin rested on her smooth shoulder. Simon saw her eyes, dark and intelligent and beautiful, usually so full of life but now emanating fear and pain and degradation.
“Harder!” yelled Dick. “Make her scream!” He wanted to hear her howling and begging. Imagine that! An aristocrat begging for mercy! Actually, mostly he wanted to see her tits. He was too far away, really. He wished he’d gone closer. But then it wouldn’t have been as easy to get to the ale. But he at least wanted to hear her scream. The beadle waited. What a job that was! He drank in the tavern occasionally, told them about beating the bishop’s staff. Imagine that, that your job was to strip women to the waist, tie them up and whip them! Tom ran in, his breath steaming. He cracked the birch low, just above her waistline and she thrust provocatively into the post. Dick was struck by a fantasy of her jerking her pelvis like that at him. “Harder!” he yelled.
A quarter of the way there. Isabel was panting a little, breath steaming around her face. They’d worked carefully from the top of her back to the bottom, ensuring an even spread. The pain hadn’t been too bad, although the sting had been worsened by the cold. But she knew that the next blow would strike over flesh that was already smarting, and she knew that would increase the pain. What she hadn’t realised was how much. The lash landed across the centre of her back, the tips catching her left shoulder-blade. Her left leg kicked up, her head flew back and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She stood, staring at her bound hands, mouth open, the pain awful. When she finally relaxed, she whimpered, clenching her teeth, balling her fists and staring at the post, trying to will the pain to go away. The throb had only just started to subside when the beadle lashed her, the rattle of rods into her lower back thrusting her crotch against the frosted post and sending new waves of agony through her.
Maude felt a little more satisfied. Isabel was clearly suffering now. The left-hander lashed her, a few stray buds breaking loose as the twigs hit the curve of her upper back. At last Isabel yelled. It was a swallowed scream, her teeth clenched, but Maude could see clearly her distress, eyes wide, breath steaming in short pants as she twisted to the left before slowly straightening. “Nine.”
Sir Thomas could see blood clearly now, not much, but a few flecks on the mottled pink skin. The beadle struck hard across the centre of the back. Isabel bucked as the switches thrashed into her, both feet leaving the ground. She staggered as she came back down. “Aaaaarrgghhhh!” she yelled, sounding incredulous. And then again, “Arrrghgh.” “Ten,” he called.
The pain was terrible. It burned and burned. How could it suddenly be so much worse? She waited and waited, dreading the next one. She heard the whistle and flinched even before it crashed across her shoulders. Her fists clenched and she started at her hands. “Gaaaaaaaaarrrrrhhhh!” she yelled. “Ah! Ahhh! Aaahhhhhh!” Her faced was twisted; it was all she could do not to cry.
Simon was entranced. He was in the perfect position. He was side on and that meant he could see the power of the blow on her back but even better he could see her left breast as she twisted on the post. She’d been disappointingly calm for the first few so he just saw the side of her breast, sweet and smooth as that was, but now as she writhed, he got the full picture; the thin waist, the gentle curve of her chest and the nipple reddened by cold, standing out on the pale breast. He watched as the beadle measured his stroke. Isabel was shivering, fists clenched, staring up. The beadle, with calculation took three paces and thrashed her, low, just above the line of her britches. Her body tensed and she thrust with her groin into the post, shoulders rocking back to give Simon and those near him a clear view of her left breast. A shower of fragments of wood flew up on impact and floated gently down as she slowly relaxed, her head rolling to the left so her chin rested on her smooth shoulder. Simon saw her eyes, dark and intelligent and beautiful, usually so full of life but now emanating fear and pain and degradation.
Gibbs505
SERVORUM DOMITOR
And others!
King Diocletian
Magistrate
The bishop looked on with satisfaction. Isabel was trembling and her eyes ran with tears. She was learning that you couldn’t mess with the church. The beadle had stopped the flogging and was selecting a new birch for himself and his assistant. He was thoroughly competent, the bishop reflected, even if he did wonder sometimes whether he took rather too much glee in punishing his young female serving staff. Mind, there was something rather enticing about seeing Isabel like that, tied up and helpless, her left breast just peeking around the side of the post.
The beadle and his assistant tested the new birches. Isabel could hear them and was sickened by the noise. Logic told her that fresh branches would hurt more and her back was already aflame. She tried to compose herself but the pain was awful, the sting only slightly fading. She could feel sweat on her brow despite the cold and, when she glanced down at herself she could see her chest was damp, despite being goosepimpled and pink with cold. And her nipples were rigid, she realised, something that sent a flush to her face. It was humiliating enough to be half-naked without making it look like she was somehow aroused.
The birch Tom selected was heavy with buds. That was why he picked them in spring and preserved them through the year: more buds meant more blood. He gave Will a smoother rod; he didn’t think he could be trusted to deliver a heavily loaded birch. They took up their positions again, breath steaming as the exertion of the flogging raised a sweat. Isabel was hunched, head pressed against the wood, shoulders raised defensively, her back a livid pink with little spots of blood. There’d be plenty more by the time they’d finished.
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. She yelled, a note of surprise in the noise as her head flicked back and he saw the blood begin to rise. “Fourteen,” announced Sir Thomas.
This was better, thought Dick, draining his tankard. She was really squirming now. He watched Will, the lucky bugger, slowly set himself and then bounce in and hit hard with all his might, his feet leaving the ground. Isabel’s body jerked upright and she gave a proper scream. Dick cheered with the rest of the crowd. “Harder!” he roared. She seemed in real pain now, holding onto the post, head twitching round nervously as she waited for Tom. He stared, peering through the mist of steaming breath, trying to see her breast. A noble tit! Oh to be close and see them properly. Tom crashed the birch into her and she howled with pain. The crowd cheered its approval. Was that blood he could see? Had they actually whipped her to the blood?
Tom’s wife held a handkerchief to her lips and turned away, patting demurely at her upper lip. Part of her was disgusted by the spectacle, this pretty young girl being beaten half-naked in front of a baying mob. But on the other hand she was proud of her husband. It was clear he was better at wielding the birch than Will, who flew in and lashed low, the switches – which she knew her husband had cut and prepared himself – smacking just above her britches, on the slim, supple stretch between hips and ribs. She was thin, Tom’s wife though: she’d have thought a noble, with all that food, would have had rolls of fat, but not her. She had a long, narrow waist that as she squirmed under the birch that reminded her a little of an otter. And of course that was the thing: it was a noble Tom was flogging. It wasn’t some poor local girl who’d offended a grandee, it was a rich cow who thought she knew everything. It would do her good to be humiliated like this, to howl in pain with everybody staring at her pathetic little tits.
Tom flicked his wrists a couple of times, the switches rattling slightly, then he made his stroke, the calm purposeful steps, the powerful swing of the brawny arm, the snap of the wrist at the end. The buds crashed into the centre of Lady Isabel’s back. She yelled, head flying back, torso grinding into the post, blood splashing up. She fell to a pitiful whimpering, her body slumping to the left, head resting on her shoulder, so her left breast was clearly visible. “Sixteen!”
Isabel was breathing hard, steam billowing from between gritted teeth, her face showing a look of intense concentration as she tried to prevent herself breaking down completely. Maude was delighted. The girl’s left breast was fully exposed, the nipple erect in the cold, and she was clearly in a lot of pain. The crowd was entranced, delighting in her pain. And Maude couldn’t fault the floggers. She saw the effort on the face of Will as he lashed hard, the rods making a satisfying crack as they struck across the top of her back. Isabel tensed, her fists clenching as she let out an agonised gasp. “Seventeen.” Isabel grimaced, face contorted as she tried not to howl. Maude could almost see her waiting to beg for mercy, the struggle inside her written across her annoyingly pretty face.
Tom was clearly the better flogger, though. Maude watched the way he snapped his wrist to generate more power, the birch clattering into Isabel’s shoulders. She roared in pain, fists clenched, the muscles in her arms standing out. There was a look on her face not just of pain but of horror, agony, shame and fear combined. Maude could almost see her mind working as she took a deep breath and straightened her back, as though to set herself for the final quarter of her punishment.
The beadle and his assistant tested the new birches. Isabel could hear them and was sickened by the noise. Logic told her that fresh branches would hurt more and her back was already aflame. She tried to compose herself but the pain was awful, the sting only slightly fading. She could feel sweat on her brow despite the cold and, when she glanced down at herself she could see her chest was damp, despite being goosepimpled and pink with cold. And her nipples were rigid, she realised, something that sent a flush to her face. It was humiliating enough to be half-naked without making it look like she was somehow aroused.
The birch Tom selected was heavy with buds. That was why he picked them in spring and preserved them through the year: more buds meant more blood. He gave Will a smoother rod; he didn’t think he could be trusted to deliver a heavily loaded birch. They took up their positions again, breath steaming as the exertion of the flogging raised a sweat. Isabel was hunched, head pressed against the wood, shoulders raised defensively, her back a livid pink with little spots of blood. There’d be plenty more by the time they’d finished.
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. She yelled, a note of surprise in the noise as her head flicked back and he saw the blood begin to rise. “Fourteen,” announced Sir Thomas.
This was better, thought Dick, draining his tankard. She was really squirming now. He watched Will, the lucky bugger, slowly set himself and then bounce in and hit hard with all his might, his feet leaving the ground. Isabel’s body jerked upright and she gave a proper scream. Dick cheered with the rest of the crowd. “Harder!” he roared. She seemed in real pain now, holding onto the post, head twitching round nervously as she waited for Tom. He stared, peering through the mist of steaming breath, trying to see her breast. A noble tit! Oh to be close and see them properly. Tom crashed the birch into her and she howled with pain. The crowd cheered its approval. Was that blood he could see? Had they actually whipped her to the blood?
Tom’s wife held a handkerchief to her lips and turned away, patting demurely at her upper lip. Part of her was disgusted by the spectacle, this pretty young girl being beaten half-naked in front of a baying mob. But on the other hand she was proud of her husband. It was clear he was better at wielding the birch than Will, who flew in and lashed low, the switches – which she knew her husband had cut and prepared himself – smacking just above her britches, on the slim, supple stretch between hips and ribs. She was thin, Tom’s wife though: she’d have thought a noble, with all that food, would have had rolls of fat, but not her. She had a long, narrow waist that as she squirmed under the birch that reminded her a little of an otter. And of course that was the thing: it was a noble Tom was flogging. It wasn’t some poor local girl who’d offended a grandee, it was a rich cow who thought she knew everything. It would do her good to be humiliated like this, to howl in pain with everybody staring at her pathetic little tits.
Tom flicked his wrists a couple of times, the switches rattling slightly, then he made his stroke, the calm purposeful steps, the powerful swing of the brawny arm, the snap of the wrist at the end. The buds crashed into the centre of Lady Isabel’s back. She yelled, head flying back, torso grinding into the post, blood splashing up. She fell to a pitiful whimpering, her body slumping to the left, head resting on her shoulder, so her left breast was clearly visible. “Sixteen!”
Isabel was breathing hard, steam billowing from between gritted teeth, her face showing a look of intense concentration as she tried to prevent herself breaking down completely. Maude was delighted. The girl’s left breast was fully exposed, the nipple erect in the cold, and she was clearly in a lot of pain. The crowd was entranced, delighting in her pain. And Maude couldn’t fault the floggers. She saw the effort on the face of Will as he lashed hard, the rods making a satisfying crack as they struck across the top of her back. Isabel tensed, her fists clenching as she let out an agonised gasp. “Seventeen.” Isabel grimaced, face contorted as she tried not to howl. Maude could almost see her waiting to beg for mercy, the struggle inside her written across her annoyingly pretty face.
Tom was clearly the better flogger, though. Maude watched the way he snapped his wrist to generate more power, the birch clattering into Isabel’s shoulders. She roared in pain, fists clenched, the muscles in her arms standing out. There was a look on her face not just of pain but of horror, agony, shame and fear combined. Maude could almost see her mind working as she took a deep breath and straightened her back, as though to set herself for the final quarter of her punishment.
Boris Spider
Guard
"You like this." - You bet I do.
Boccaccio
Governor
Wasn't the song "I Saw Her Standing There" on the album "Meet the Beadles?"
Boccaccio
Governor
All good things must come to an end, Derek the butcher's boy supposed, but as his manhood hardened, he hoped against hope that the lovely prisoner might, in the depths of her suffering and humiliation, utter some vile denunciations of church or state. Were she to do so, he reasoned excitedly, the bishop and Sir Thomas would have little choice but to direct Tom and Will to turn the too-proud young woman around and apply their talents to the front of her lovely body, especially her petite chilled-nippled breasts.
The birch might be too harsh for such delicate treasures, the butcher's boy mused, but a switch, a belt, or even the tough leather reins of a horse, might be used to punish her insolent imprecations ....
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King Diocletian
Magistrate
“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.”
“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.”
I edited your first sentence. The rules don't allow minors...
Boccaccio
Governor
"Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!
Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back;
Thou hotly lust'st to use her in that kind
For which thou whipp'st her."
reads one of the finest passages in King Lear.
In Act IV, the once imperious monarch, chastened by filial ingratitude and half maddened by the elements, finds his humanity on the storm-drenched heath.
~~~~~~~~~~~
And yet, and yet.... What is it within our hearts and minds that makes many of us want to extend our tremblng hands toward the flames of fantasy cruelty, hoping to feel the warmth, yet recoiling from the reality of the fire itself.
I will never understand it.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Hah! Very good.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Isabel waited. She was unbearably cold. Her back smarted from neck to waist. Now the flogging had stopped, she was suddenly acutely aware again of her nakedness. She could feel the crowd staring at her breasts, feel her cheeks flushing with shame. What were they doing? She didn’t dare raise her head, just stared at the base of the post, waiting for them to untie her so she could put her clothes back on. Then suddenly they were there, four guards. Two shoved her roughly against the cold wood; the other two cut her bonds.
She stumbled away from the post, lowering her arms quickly and wrapping them across her chest. She heard boos from the crowd and laughter. She couldn’t stop shivering, her skin covered in goosepimples, nipples hard. She stood on the platform, uncertain. Where were her clothes? She sniffed, glancing around her. The crowd seemed impossibly huge: everywhere she looked, she saw grins, fingers pointed at her. She tried to fight her anger, to tell herself that they believed her a blasphemer, but a part of her was disgusted: these people she’d done so much for now jeering and taunting because the priests had had her flogged.
She heard Sir Thomas’s voice, booming in the still air. “The prisoner will now be displayed in the stocks for two hours.” Where were her clothes? A hand slid between the upper part of her left arm and her body and she recoiled instinctively. The fingers gripped hard, pressing into the bicep. “Mark well her bloodied back,” Sir Thomas went on, “and see the wages of blasphemy.” Another hand took her right arm and pushed her forwards. With a sudden moment of horror, she realised they weren’t going to return her clothes. They were going to put her in the stocks bare-breasted.
She struggled, twisting to free herself from the grip of the guards, while still clasping her hands to her chest. “You can’t do this!” she shouted. “You can’t do this! Give me my shift! You can’t do this!” Her outburst alerted the mob to what was happening, and there was a great roar of excitement. She was hustled down the steps. She turned and saw Maude. “Please!” she shouted. “Not this!” But Maude simply looked on impassively and Isabel knew this had been her decision. The church might have forced through the birching, but this humiliation was her doing.
The guards began forcing a way through the crowd. Isabel wrapped her arms as tight about her as she could, even as the two men shoved her forwards. Suddenly the mob was all around. She could feel the heat coming off them, smell the sweat. A fat man with terrible teeth tried to force his way between the guards. “Show us your tits!” he yelled. There were cheers. “She hasn’t got any!” came another shout, this time from a woman. There were peals of laughter. “Body like a boy!” came another shout.
This was what she’d feared. Rationally, she didn’t care her breasts were small. They were right for her slim frame; they made riding a horse easier. And why should she care what they thought anyway? But here, as she shivered half-naked, the insults touched some deep-rooted insecurity. The smallness of her breasts made them easier to cover, and yet she hated the mockery of their size. She could feel her cheeks burning as she pulled back, only to be forced forwards by the guards, the strain sending new waves of pain through her smarting back.
She’d never been as scared: all these wild faces, grinning and leering, the guards having to fight their way through. What if they overpowered the guards? What then? The mob terrified her. She clutched her upper arms, determined to hide her breasts. Her back was stinging dreadfully. She felt something wet land on her shoulder. She looked at the spittle with horror, the white bubbles clinging to her smooth skin, the temperature slowly dropping. She pushed tight to the guards in front. “Protect me!” she yelled. “Protect me!”
She stumbled away from the post, lowering her arms quickly and wrapping them across her chest. She heard boos from the crowd and laughter. She couldn’t stop shivering, her skin covered in goosepimples, nipples hard. She stood on the platform, uncertain. Where were her clothes? She sniffed, glancing around her. The crowd seemed impossibly huge: everywhere she looked, she saw grins, fingers pointed at her. She tried to fight her anger, to tell herself that they believed her a blasphemer, but a part of her was disgusted: these people she’d done so much for now jeering and taunting because the priests had had her flogged.
She heard Sir Thomas’s voice, booming in the still air. “The prisoner will now be displayed in the stocks for two hours.” Where were her clothes? A hand slid between the upper part of her left arm and her body and she recoiled instinctively. The fingers gripped hard, pressing into the bicep. “Mark well her bloodied back,” Sir Thomas went on, “and see the wages of blasphemy.” Another hand took her right arm and pushed her forwards. With a sudden moment of horror, she realised they weren’t going to return her clothes. They were going to put her in the stocks bare-breasted.
She struggled, twisting to free herself from the grip of the guards, while still clasping her hands to her chest. “You can’t do this!” she shouted. “You can’t do this! Give me my shift! You can’t do this!” Her outburst alerted the mob to what was happening, and there was a great roar of excitement. She was hustled down the steps. She turned and saw Maude. “Please!” she shouted. “Not this!” But Maude simply looked on impassively and Isabel knew this had been her decision. The church might have forced through the birching, but this humiliation was her doing.
The guards began forcing a way through the crowd. Isabel wrapped her arms as tight about her as she could, even as the two men shoved her forwards. Suddenly the mob was all around. She could feel the heat coming off them, smell the sweat. A fat man with terrible teeth tried to force his way between the guards. “Show us your tits!” he yelled. There were cheers. “She hasn’t got any!” came another shout, this time from a woman. There were peals of laughter. “Body like a boy!” came another shout.
This was what she’d feared. Rationally, she didn’t care her breasts were small. They were right for her slim frame; they made riding a horse easier. And why should she care what they thought anyway? But here, as she shivered half-naked, the insults touched some deep-rooted insecurity. The smallness of her breasts made them easier to cover, and yet she hated the mockery of their size. She could feel her cheeks burning as she pulled back, only to be forced forwards by the guards, the strain sending new waves of pain through her smarting back.
She’d never been as scared: all these wild faces, grinning and leering, the guards having to fight their way through. What if they overpowered the guards? What then? The mob terrified her. She clutched her upper arms, determined to hide her breasts. Her back was stinging dreadfully. She felt something wet land on her shoulder. She looked at the spittle with horror, the white bubbles clinging to her smooth skin, the temperature slowly dropping. She pushed tight to the guards in front. “Protect me!” she yelled. “Protect me!”
Boccaccio
Governor
While I confess that I am an unregenerate admirer of ripe-breasted women, Isabel's petite treasures are very tempting.
I'm hoping that our talented author gives them they attention they deserve....