Juliette hugged the post. The pain was awful. Her whole torso felt like it was on fire. Another lash landed. She tensed. More agony seared through her. She felt sick. Her vision clouded. She was sweating, trembling. She was aware of the polished wood against her breasts. She began to relax. She pushed her head into the post. Her eyes were closed. She heard the call. “Twenty-eight.” She wasn’t even half way. This was impossible. After everything she’d been through, they’d still found a new way to hurt her. She’d be dead that afternoon. But that seemed a terribly long way off. She heard the terrible noise, the shuffle of feet, the whistle of the lash and new pain, terrible pain. She found herself shouting, looking up at the grubby ceiling, muscles tight. Stars danced before her eyes. She heaved, sliding her cheek to the left of the post, great spasms passed through her. The 30th reached across her, biting into her ribs, splitting the skin where it was stretched because of her slumped position. She roared with pain, leg flicking up, head rolling back. This was awful. This was the worst yet. She was aware of her crotch pushing against the post, her weight falling back. She felt faint. When she opened her eyes she couldn’t focus. She retched again.
Slowly she realised that she was still waiting. The next lash hadn’t arrived. She felt cold, intensely cold from the inside. A hand had her hair. What was happening? A man in a white coat was speaking to her. A small bottle was held under her nose. She coughed. Smelling salts. Did they still use them? She felt more alert. Half-way, she realised. This was a check at halfway. Another doctor took her pulse while the first one prepared a syringe. It was plunged into her thigh. “Keep you awake,” he said with a smile, slipping the bruised buttock. She shouted in pain. A water-bottle was held to her mouth. She drank, water dribbling down her chin, mingling with the drool. A hand reached between her legs and lifted her. Disgust, belatedly, assailed her and she squirmed. ”Stand up straight,” said a voice. She had little option. Her bonds were tight, her arms pulled out in front of her. Through the daze of pain, she felt an ache in her shoulders from the strain. Thirty more. Thirty. It was hideous.
They stepped back. It was beginning again. She pressed her forehead into the wood. Fall well. Don’t beg. Keep it together. The whistle, the strike, the pain. Her body tensing, leg kicking up, shudders rolling through her. Nausea. She hugged the post tighter. The pain, the pain. And more to come. Her body was slick with sweat, sliding on the post. Another lash. White lights spun before her eyes. Her breath was knocked from her. She retched and gasped for air. Her world was swimming. An ocean of agony. The stage felt unsteady beneath her feet.
Diaz folded his arms. What a triumph this was. Her screams rang through the hall. The screams that marked his victory. He had done this. He had taken this enemy and broken her. There was a lot of blood now but the floggers were relentless, the whips snaking out and tearing at her skin. The leather was stained now, blood spraying from the whips as they flashed through the air. The wet thud, the howl, the sobbing. Finally, her legs gave way and she slid down the post to hang by her wrists. Her screams, though, showed she was still conscious, still feeling it all. There was no let up. Forty-six, forty-seven. Others in the room perhaps felt he was going too far. Garcia, certainly, thought so, but he hadn’t been embarrassed on television by this woman. People would know now you didn’t mess with him. Word would leak out. His enemies would know they risked not just the noose but whipping, torture and humiliation. She had gone now. She was a carcass, hanging, trembling, screaming, too weak to stand but strong enough still to suffer.
Garcia thought of the stately, elegant woman she’d been when they’d arrested her, of how beautiful she’d been as he’d forced her to strip off the ball gown, and he looked at her now. He remembered the thrill of seeing her naked before him, than long, lean body with the full breasts and rounded cheeks. Now she was battered and bleeding, the smooth skin of her back ripped, her buttocks swollen and bruised, her face haggard with pain. Her legs were still impossibly long, wrapped awkwardly under her as they were, those powerful shoulders now taking all her weight.
Her cries were growing weaker, agonised sighs rather than screams. Each lash struck and her body jerked at the force but she was no longer flinching. The life was being drive out of her. Her head lolled back so they had to stop to move her pony-tail out of the way. The doctor approached and waved the bottle of smelling salts under her nose again. It was ridiculous. Why insist she feel this suffering? She would be dead in a few hours anyway. She retched noisily.
Waves of pain swept over her. Retching sent spasms of agony through her back. There were hands on her, lifting her up. She could feel them sliding on her wet body. They forced her to stand again, but her legs felt numb. Her forehead pushed against the wood. She looked down and saw her damp breasts flattened on the post, saw streaks of sweat, saw the lines of blood running down her legs, the floor at her feet stained red, smeared by her shuffling feet. She understood somehow that they hadn’t finished, that there were more lashes to come, more pain. She heard the whip. It hit her under her right shoulder blade. Her head flicked up and more agony was added. She felt her legs tremble. And there was more to come. More to come. She felt cold. She wept. Death could not come soon enough.
Still three more. Diaz folded his arms. He would enjoy these. There was blood, a lot of blood. From the left, shwack, into her left shoulder. A dull twitch as spray shot up, a moan, another flicker of her legs. The wait, the delay, letting her anticipate. Another blow, savagely hard, cutting across the centre of her back. Thicker blood. Blood running down her body, dripping from her. One to come. She was shaking, weeping, all control gone. The left hander, with noticeable effort, the tip of the whip tearing at her ribs. A half turn of the body, a gurgled scream. “Sixty.” Her body sliding down the post, hanging by her arms, whipped to within an inch of death. The flogging over. His victory almost complete.
.
