LADY BARBARA MOORE WRAGG TO THE WHIPPING POST
Whispers in the scullery
Smiles on every floor
“Have you heard?”
Rumor all the staff
“They say that
Our Lady Barbara Moore Wragg
Is going to the post!”
“What’s M’Lady
Done this time?”
Lord Wragg, it is said,
Is just fit to be tied
About her bringing shame
Upon the family name.
Ahhh, it’s the price
That he doth pay
For marrying a girl
With the Moore family name
They’re nothing but trouble
That wild northern clan
Most unsuitable, everyone says
Consequences there shall be
For whatever she’s gone and done.
The rumor is she’ll be taken
Down to the village square
To stand before one and all
Bound to the whipping post
There to be publicly flogged.
Bared to the waist
Oh my! Oh my!
Most undignified!
A peasant girl perhaps
Or the village harlot, of course
But M’Lady? Oh no!
How very delicious!
The Constable’s said to be en route
With cart to lead her away
Will she be paraded?
Tits bouncing and swaying,
Clear to the village square?
Or will he have her ride?
Out of sight inside?
Quick! To the upstairs floor,
To take turns peeping
Through her bedroom door
Where her maid servant
Does help her prepare
For her coming ordeal
On the village square
Yes, she’s to be topless
M’Lady’s maid servant
Is right seeing to that!
Off with everything
From waist up!
Outer thing’s first
Then underthings
But that’s not all
Have a look-see!
There’s more to bare!
Lower she’s stripped
Onto M’Lady’s hips
So much to reveal
So shocking to see!
And in the distance
Bells are pealing
Heralding an event
That’s just never
Happened before
Lady Barbara Moore Wragg
Is going to the whipping post!
What has she done
To deserve such disgrace?
It’s not at all clear.
We staff do wonder
What it might possibly be
That has driven Lord Wragg
To demand she be whipped
Could it possibly be
An act of adultery?
Ironic if so, because
The good Wragg, himself,
No faithful hubby be.
Her sin must be flagrant
To not be overlooked.
But here is a theory
The staff does believe
That Count Monty Crusto
The guilty party be.
After all, wasn’t it he who at
Dinner last night slipped M’Lady
Glasses of wine three?
And took her to bed?
Why of course, he did!
And buggered her well
Again and again
Then that must be it!
Such sordid debauchery
Cannot be overlooked!”
And so with foreboding
Their mistress does wait
While the servants wait
Continue to debate
With growing anticipation
The whys and the wherefores
Of her coming fate
She stands by the window
Of her bedroom suite
Stripped of all garments
From her waist and above
She knows they’ll soon be
Coming to take her away
It’s now but a matter of time
Indeed, outside the manor
A madding crowd gathers
To witness the procession
Of Lady Barbara Moore Wragg
Led through the village streets
To that post on the square
To receive what’s coming to her
Out of her chambers
To the Manor’s front door
She’s hustled and rushed.
Shoved callously into the cold
And into the waiting hands
Of the village Constable,
Master Hiram Hanging Tree
Snowflakes are falling
A gentle breeze blows
M’Lady doth shiver
Goose bumps she shows
Upon her bared chest
With hardened nipples
So tumescently bold
Bound by her wrists
To the rear of the cart
She staggers and weaves
Stoically enduring the taunts
Of an eager and raucous crowd
That multiplies and grows
Every step of the way
Matrons, they glower
At such shockingly lewd display
Young hooligans, they revel
At Lady Bárbara’s total disgrace
While our leading lights endeavor
To raise their privileged noses high
Pretending that they know her not
At the waiting scaffold,
The village constable, Hiram Tree
Turns her over to Harsh Martinet,
Executioner extraordinaire,
Martinet bows deeply and says,
“So sorry to meet like this,
Lady Barbara Moore Wragg”
“Not at all to my pleasure,”
She retorts rather crossly.
“What are your orders,
If I may respectfully ask?
A few simple lashes,
I would presume,
Applied to my back?”
“Regrettably no!
For that would be
Far too mild for a Lady
Accused of adultery,
So wild and reckless,
With the infamous likes
of Count Monty Crusto
No it’s decreed to be
Forty lashes precisely
With a long single-tail
That will wrap around
Quite hard and fast
To grab and dig at
Your belly and breasts”
“Oh no! Please not that!
How utterly, utterly dreadful!
Certainly I don’t deserve that!
I admit that I was unfaithful
But what’s wrong with that?
Everyone does it, including my husband
We all know that!”
“But with the
Likes of Count
Monty Crusto?
Right under his
Lordship’s very nose?
How careless was that,
My dear Lady Wragg?
May I remind you
Highborn I am
Privileged and pampered
Free from reproach
Given every right
To do as I please
I offer no apology
You’ve no good answer, eh?
Then to the post with you,
Most surely you can see
The good citizens are waiting
And we haven’t got forever,
As it’s snowing and blowing.
A right miserable day!”
“And what should I
Choose to refuse?
I’m no commoner and
Think it quite unseemly
For these rustic villagers
To gather in their multitude
To witness my humiliation!
Surely, my good man,
We can agree that
This be best done,
If it absolutely must,
Well out of sight
And out of mind
somewhere more private?”
“Sorry, Lady Barbara,
In public, it must be
There’s deterrence value,
as you surely must know,
In staging floggings
Of the deserving, rich or poor
As a public show!
Now enough is enough
The crowd grows restless
We must proceed
Kindly step to the post
And raise your arms
For the shackles await
Your fine slender wrists
“Oh, dear God!
Those shackles …
They must be icy cold!
And this old post …
Is so terribly rough
See how its been stained
With some poor soul’s blood!”
“What did you expect,
My dear Lady Wragg?
We simply cannot afford
to pamper snd coddle
those whom we consign
To face and embrace
This old whipping post!”
Then from somewhere
In the surrounding crowd
There comes the cry,
“Come on now, mate!!
It’s damn bloody cold
Out here on the square
Do get on with the show!”
So, secured at last
Barbara faces the post
Arms stretched overhead
Forced onto her toes
Regretting ruefully that
She ever heard of
Count Monty Crusto!
Professional to the last,
Martinet duly takes
Several steps back,
And carefully uncoils
his prized leather whip,
Before dipping it’s tail
In a bucket of brine
Leaning well forward
He carefully studies
Her bared lovely back
The line of her spine
Her tiny little waist
The gathering of her
Shift about her slim hips
But he’s not satisfied
He shakes his head ruefully
No … this will not do!
There’s insufficient
Bare-naked flesh
To adequately absorb
So many strokes
He steps purposely forward
To take firm hold and lower
The folds of her gathered shift
Bit by bit, till precariously
The fabric barely clings
To the lovely curves of
Lady Moore Wragg’s hips
Satisfied, with the result
He resumes his position
And the expectant crowd,
In one thunderous roar,
Cries out “One!”
As the mighty Martinet
leans back to let one go
The bitterly cold air
On that village square
Resounds to the sound
Of the crack of the whip,
The smack of leather on flesh
And the thump of a body
Driven hard against the post
Followed by a cry
Of shock and anguish
From the trembling blue lips
Of Lady Barbara Wragg
As well as a further gasp
As the wicked ‘wrap-around’
Snatches at a tumescent nip.
“My God, but that hurt!”
She cries, turning to him.
“Must they all wrap
Around like that?”
“But of course they must,
My Dear Lady Wragg
Tis the Lord of the Manor’s command.”
“Well, tell him I’m through!
I’ve tales I can tell …
That he’d rather not have
Spread far and wide!
Yes! stories of debauchery
On a scale seldom heard
All under his Lordship’s roof
Yes, tales of stolen innocence
They were young virgins all
The most delicate flowers of
The Manor’s service staff
All forced to fornicate
Upon the Lord’s demand
Astride his four-poster bed!”
“Enough with that, M’Lady!
I’ve no time for hearsay
Nor does the crowd
The die has been cast
Now turn and face the post
Brace yourself and prepare
To receive lash number two!”
And so it was, in the dull,
And fading afternoon light
Of a most grey and cold
Typical wintry English day
That the punishment of
Lady Barbara Moore Wragg
Resumed in earnest
By the time it was over
Lady Barbara had endured
The full forty strokes
Her lovely bared back
Thoroughly marred with
A crisscrossed pattern
of welts and tiny cuts
Twice she had fainted
And was duly doused
Each time with
Buckets of brine
No mercy was offered
No quarter given
Till all forty delivered
But her suffering went
Far beyond that which
Martinet’s expert whip-hand
Inflicted upon her fair back
No, that was not all
For there was also the matter
Of that pesky ‘wrap around’
For twist and squirm
As she often did try
There was simply no escaping
That painful bite of the
Whip’s knotted end,
As it searched for and
Found her most tender bits
But with the show now over
The crowd quickly disperses
To the warmth of their homes
Or to the joviality and good cheer
Of the Cruxton Arms Pub
Where Harsh Martinet’s prowess
To be rehashed and discussed
Without the slightest dissent
The town’s wags all agree
That Lady Barbara Moore Wragg’s
Time at the whipping post
on that somber wintry day
Far surpassed anything ever
Witnessed in Cruxton before
And so it was that
In the warmth of that pub
Round after round of
Hearty toasts and huzzahs
Were paid to Lord Wragg
For ordering up such
A fine wintry day gift!
And off in a corner
Nursing a pint
Sits Count Monty Crusto
Counting the payout received
From the good Lord Wragg
For bedding Lady Barbara
And providing an excuse
Yes, for Lord Wragg
Had grown weary of
The incessant complaining
The pointed accusations
Of his nocturnal infidelities
Thanks to dear Monty, his friend,
Sweet revenge had been taken.
Whispers in the scullery
Smiles on every floor
“Have you heard?”
Rumor all the staff
“They say that
Our Lady Barbara Moore Wragg
Is going to the post!”
“What’s M’Lady
Done this time?”
Lord Wragg, it is said,
Is just fit to be tied
About her bringing shame
Upon the family name.
Ahhh, it’s the price
That he doth pay
For marrying a girl
With the Moore family name
They’re nothing but trouble
That wild northern clan
Most unsuitable, everyone says
Consequences there shall be
For whatever she’s gone and done.
The rumor is she’ll be taken
Down to the village square
To stand before one and all
Bound to the whipping post
There to be publicly flogged.
Bared to the waist
Oh my! Oh my!
Most undignified!
A peasant girl perhaps
Or the village harlot, of course
But M’Lady? Oh no!
How very delicious!
The Constable’s said to be en route
With cart to lead her away
Will she be paraded?
Tits bouncing and swaying,
Clear to the village square?
Or will he have her ride?
Out of sight inside?
Quick! To the upstairs floor,
To take turns peeping
Through her bedroom door
Where her maid servant
Does help her prepare
For her coming ordeal
On the village square
Yes, she’s to be topless
M’Lady’s maid servant
Is right seeing to that!
Off with everything
From waist up!
Outer thing’s first
Then underthings
But that’s not all
Have a look-see!
There’s more to bare!
Lower she’s stripped
Onto M’Lady’s hips
So much to reveal
So shocking to see!
And in the distance
Bells are pealing
Heralding an event
That’s just never
Happened before
Lady Barbara Moore Wragg
Is going to the whipping post!
What has she done
To deserve such disgrace?
It’s not at all clear.
We staff do wonder
What it might possibly be
That has driven Lord Wragg
To demand she be whipped
Could it possibly be
An act of adultery?
Ironic if so, because
The good Wragg, himself,
No faithful hubby be.
Her sin must be flagrant
To not be overlooked.
But here is a theory
The staff does believe
That Count Monty Crusto
The guilty party be.
After all, wasn’t it he who at
Dinner last night slipped M’Lady
Glasses of wine three?
And took her to bed?
Why of course, he did!
And buggered her well
Again and again
Then that must be it!
Such sordid debauchery
Cannot be overlooked!”
And so with foreboding
Their mistress does wait
While the servants wait
Continue to debate
With growing anticipation
The whys and the wherefores
Of her coming fate
She stands by the window
Of her bedroom suite
Stripped of all garments
From her waist and above
She knows they’ll soon be
Coming to take her away
It’s now but a matter of time
Indeed, outside the manor
A madding crowd gathers
To witness the procession
Of Lady Barbara Moore Wragg
Led through the village streets
To that post on the square
To receive what’s coming to her
Out of her chambers
To the Manor’s front door
She’s hustled and rushed.
Shoved callously into the cold
And into the waiting hands
Of the village Constable,
Master Hiram Hanging Tree
Snowflakes are falling
A gentle breeze blows
M’Lady doth shiver
Goose bumps she shows
Upon her bared chest
With hardened nipples
So tumescently bold
Bound by her wrists
To the rear of the cart
She staggers and weaves
Stoically enduring the taunts
Of an eager and raucous crowd
That multiplies and grows
Every step of the way
Matrons, they glower
At such shockingly lewd display
Young hooligans, they revel
At Lady Bárbara’s total disgrace
While our leading lights endeavor
To raise their privileged noses high
Pretending that they know her not
At the waiting scaffold,
The village constable, Hiram Tree
Turns her over to Harsh Martinet,
Executioner extraordinaire,
Martinet bows deeply and says,
“So sorry to meet like this,
Lady Barbara Moore Wragg”
“Not at all to my pleasure,”
She retorts rather crossly.
“What are your orders,
If I may respectfully ask?
A few simple lashes,
I would presume,
Applied to my back?”
“Regrettably no!
For that would be
Far too mild for a Lady
Accused of adultery,
So wild and reckless,
With the infamous likes
of Count Monty Crusto
No it’s decreed to be
Forty lashes precisely
With a long single-tail
That will wrap around
Quite hard and fast
To grab and dig at
Your belly and breasts”
“Oh no! Please not that!
How utterly, utterly dreadful!
Certainly I don’t deserve that!
I admit that I was unfaithful
But what’s wrong with that?
Everyone does it, including my husband
We all know that!”
“But with the
Likes of Count
Monty Crusto?
Right under his
Lordship’s very nose?
How careless was that,
My dear Lady Wragg?
May I remind you
Highborn I am
Privileged and pampered
Free from reproach
Given every right
To do as I please
I offer no apology
You’ve no good answer, eh?
Then to the post with you,
Most surely you can see
The good citizens are waiting
And we haven’t got forever,
As it’s snowing and blowing.
A right miserable day!”
“And what should I
Choose to refuse?
I’m no commoner and
Think it quite unseemly
For these rustic villagers
To gather in their multitude
To witness my humiliation!
Surely, my good man,
We can agree that
This be best done,
If it absolutely must,
Well out of sight
And out of mind
somewhere more private?”
“Sorry, Lady Barbara,
In public, it must be
There’s deterrence value,
as you surely must know,
In staging floggings
Of the deserving, rich or poor
As a public show!
Now enough is enough
The crowd grows restless
We must proceed
Kindly step to the post
And raise your arms
For the shackles await
Your fine slender wrists
“Oh, dear God!
Those shackles …
They must be icy cold!
And this old post …
Is so terribly rough
See how its been stained
With some poor soul’s blood!”
“What did you expect,
My dear Lady Wragg?
We simply cannot afford
to pamper snd coddle
those whom we consign
To face and embrace
This old whipping post!”
Then from somewhere
In the surrounding crowd
There comes the cry,
“Come on now, mate!!
It’s damn bloody cold
Out here on the square
Do get on with the show!”
So, secured at last
Barbara faces the post
Arms stretched overhead
Forced onto her toes
Regretting ruefully that
She ever heard of
Count Monty Crusto!
Professional to the last,
Martinet duly takes
Several steps back,
And carefully uncoils
his prized leather whip,
Before dipping it’s tail
In a bucket of brine
Leaning well forward
He carefully studies
Her bared lovely back
The line of her spine
Her tiny little waist
The gathering of her
Shift about her slim hips
But he’s not satisfied
He shakes his head ruefully
No … this will not do!
There’s insufficient
Bare-naked flesh
To adequately absorb
So many strokes
He steps purposely forward
To take firm hold and lower
The folds of her gathered shift
Bit by bit, till precariously
The fabric barely clings
To the lovely curves of
Lady Moore Wragg’s hips
Satisfied, with the result
He resumes his position
And the expectant crowd,
In one thunderous roar,
Cries out “One!”
As the mighty Martinet
leans back to let one go
The bitterly cold air
On that village square
Resounds to the sound
Of the crack of the whip,
The smack of leather on flesh
And the thump of a body
Driven hard against the post
Followed by a cry
Of shock and anguish
From the trembling blue lips
Of Lady Barbara Wragg
As well as a further gasp
As the wicked ‘wrap-around’
Snatches at a tumescent nip.
“My God, but that hurt!”
She cries, turning to him.
“Must they all wrap
Around like that?”
“But of course they must,
My Dear Lady Wragg
Tis the Lord of the Manor’s command.”
“Well, tell him I’m through!
I’ve tales I can tell …
That he’d rather not have
Spread far and wide!
Yes! stories of debauchery
On a scale seldom heard
All under his Lordship’s roof
Yes, tales of stolen innocence
They were young virgins all
The most delicate flowers of
The Manor’s service staff
All forced to fornicate
Upon the Lord’s demand
Astride his four-poster bed!”
“Enough with that, M’Lady!
I’ve no time for hearsay
Nor does the crowd
The die has been cast
Now turn and face the post
Brace yourself and prepare
To receive lash number two!”
And so it was, in the dull,
And fading afternoon light
Of a most grey and cold
Typical wintry English day
That the punishment of
Lady Barbara Moore Wragg
Resumed in earnest
By the time it was over
Lady Barbara had endured
The full forty strokes
Her lovely bared back
Thoroughly marred with
A crisscrossed pattern
of welts and tiny cuts
Twice she had fainted
And was duly doused
Each time with
Buckets of brine
No mercy was offered
No quarter given
Till all forty delivered
But her suffering went
Far beyond that which
Martinet’s expert whip-hand
Inflicted upon her fair back
No, that was not all
For there was also the matter
Of that pesky ‘wrap around’
For twist and squirm
As she often did try
There was simply no escaping
That painful bite of the
Whip’s knotted end,
As it searched for and
Found her most tender bits
But with the show now over
The crowd quickly disperses
To the warmth of their homes
Or to the joviality and good cheer
Of the Cruxton Arms Pub
Where Harsh Martinet’s prowess
To be rehashed and discussed
Without the slightest dissent
The town’s wags all agree
That Lady Barbara Moore Wragg’s
Time at the whipping post
on that somber wintry day
Far surpassed anything ever
Witnessed in Cruxton before
And so it was that
In the warmth of that pub
Round after round of
Hearty toasts and huzzahs
Were paid to Lord Wragg
For ordering up such
A fine wintry day gift!
And off in a corner
Nursing a pint
Sits Count Monty Crusto
Counting the payout received
From the good Lord Wragg
For bedding Lady Barbara
And providing an excuse
Yes, for Lord Wragg
Had grown weary of
The incessant complaining
The pointed accusations
Of his nocturnal infidelities
Thanks to dear Monty, his friend,
Sweet revenge had been taken.
