Jon Smithie
Tribune
With apologies to P.N. Dedeaux, whose bull pizzle whipping of "Clotilda" I borrowed freely from (see Elephas' "Corporal Punishment of Women-Stories" thread) and with thanks to Praefectus Praetorio, whose invaluable suggestions made this a much stronger chapter, and ever mindful of Jackie's suggestion that I remember the mind set of the victim--I hope you enjoy. And if you don't, I hope you blame those I just named. 
“Warden Tompkins,” the Judge said, “This is the Reverend Hurst, who is sailing on to shepherd the souls in New South Wales. He was on Defiance with Miss Berkeley, and gave testimony against her. He has asked for an opportunity to offer up some words before you begin.”
The Warden touched his hat to the Judge and the clergyman.
“Aye, your Lordship. If it please you, first the doctor will inspect the prisoner, and then we’ll secure her to the hurdle before the Reverend speaks.”
Both Tompkins and the Judge noticed the Reverend Mr. Hurst staring at Mina.
“Mr. Hurst!” the Judge said sharply, “Is that quite agreeable with you, sir?”
“Yes, your Lordship, by all means,” he stuttered, blushing furiously. He got a grip on himself and said to the Warden, “It is our Christian duty to remind the benighted sinner that God cannot be mocked. As that young sinner is finding to her cost.”
He pointed at Mina, without looking, but then couldn’t help himself and gave the nude young woman an eager, if guilty, glance.
While the three men talked, an overweight, bleary eyed physician inspected Mina. The good doctor felt of Mina’s arms and shoulders, and made a show of looking at several of her whip cuts and her chafed and bloody wrists, and made sure to palpate her welted breasts. He looked in her eyes, and listened with a cylinder of horn to her lungs. Those who knew the doctor knew that he had killed more patients than he had cured. He was usually drunk, as he was now, but his imprimatur was needed for the punishment to continue.
Mina was disgusted by the overt fondling of the odious man. Her arms were pinned to her side by two soldiers, and in any case she was too weary and in too much pain to resist.
“She is sound. A healthy young woman. You may continue.” the doctor finally said.
The crowd cheered as Mina was escorted by four soldiers and the Sergeant of the Guard on her short journey to the hurdle.
“You two, hold her fast, if you please,” the Warden said to the two soldiers at Mina’s side. “And you, my lads, fasten her ankles to the legs,” he instructed the other two.
Atop the hurdle was a thick wooden bar, over which the person to be punished was bent. It had been worn smooth over the years of its use, and had a sheen to it, for it had been polished with the sweat of the many who had suffered on it. Darker, more sinister stains also blotted the wood, for those sufferers had lost more than sweat to the device. Noticing those stains, and fearing what they represented, Mina’s breath caught in her throat. The soldiers at her side held her still while the other crouched down, and spreading her legs to shoulder width, fastened either ankle to a leg.
“Now,” the Warden said, slapping the log, “Bend her right over, my lads, stretch her over!” Each took one of her wrists and pulled her over the bar. The first two soldiers fastened her wrists in the leather straps at the base of the legs. Mina grunted in discomfort. Stretched as tightly as she was, the bar pressed painfully into her stomach, making it difficult to breathe.
“Not so tightly, boys!” the warden said. “Slack her halyards a bit, give her some room to find her wind!”
As the soldiers eased up on the straps, Mina found, to her relief, that with the extra slack she could push up with her hands and the balls of her feet and raise herself an inch or so off the bar.
The Warden ordinarily preferred that a prisoner be bound and stretched tightly for a whipping, both because of the increased suffering of the position, and the increased accuracy of the whip strokes. But he had prepared a “surprise” for Mina, in the same sense that falaka had been a “surprise,” and was willing to sacrifice some accuracy for the pleasure of watching the pretty little slut wiggle about. And he expected to make her wiggle, right enough.
It was a strain to hold herself off the bar for long. Mina eased herself back down. As she settled on the bar she started to cry and tremble again in hopeless dread of the pain of this further torture that was to be inflicted upon her. Her jaws ached and cramped from from being splayed open, and her head felt like it was slowly being crushed by the tight head harness of the brank. But even with all the suffering and pain she was now in, she was fully aware of how shamelessly exposed were her most intimate parts in the frankly sexual position she had been forced to assume. The two fleshy globes of her buttocks were offered up in utmost vulnerability.
Gazing down at Mina’s splayed legs and naked buttocks, the Warden’s manhood stiffened, pushing at the crotch of his breeches. She was a criminal, and deserved to be punished. But more than that, he thought, despite her good breeding and hoity toity ways, she had, like most women; like all women! the morals of an alley cat and the lusts of a tavern strumpet. Why, he should punish the little whore himself! He had wielded the pizzle on more than a few occasions and knew how best to make it sting. He glanced resentfully over at Ebo. After all, it was not fit, not at all fit indeed, that a darkie should view a white woman’s bared cunt and arsehole. What’s right was what’s right: he had to protect the dignity of his race!
The Warden wrapped a slender leather thong low around Mina’s waist. Then he untied his own neckerchief from around his neck, and wedged one corner of it under the thong at her back, and pushed the other end between her crotch and the bar, so that it nestled into the crack of Mina’s ass, and covered the puckered hole of her anus and the gaping slit of her sex. He could claim that he did this to protect the white woman’s modesty, but of course he had an ulterior motive.
It was part of his “surprise.”
This surprise had also, like the falaka, been inspired by his travels in the navy. During a stop in Bombay, he had witnessed the punishment of an adulteress. The woman had been tied down over a hurdle, much as Mina was. The skirts of the adulteress's sari had been lifted, and what looked like the thick root of some sort of plant was held aloft by the darogah, the constable, who after saying a few words in the babble the wogs called a language, plugged it into her vagina, then carefully replaced her skirts. Within a few minutes the woman had been writhing and twisting and crying out, then soon enough screaming quite shrilly, while other men and women scorned and mocked her, or simply went about their business.
While his shipmates drank and whored, he had spoken to the Hindu innkeeper, who spoke English well enough to explain.
“Ginger root, Sahib,” the man had said. “Make her hot! Oh yes! Very hot! Here!” The man slid a bowl of powdered ginger that was on the bar. Tompkins had heard that some liked to sprinkle it over their beer or ale, but to Tompkins mind, no true Englishman would ever do such a thing. Nevertheless, it had become a popular drink, called “root beer.”
“Interesting,” he had said then. He had drunk his ale, and then strolled back out to see how the adulteress was faring.
The Warden had been equally interested to discover, in the very market that had been appropriated for Mina’s punishment, that there was a variety of African ginger, that if anything, was even more potent than the Indian.
The day before he had purchased the thickest, freshest “finger” he could find among the spice merchants, and had this morning, immediately before fetching Mina from her cell, pared it very lightly, just to reveal the skin of the root. This he had carefully wrapped in a bit of damp cloth, and put in his pocket.
The Warden removed the finger of ginger root unobtrusively, for the Warden did not yet quite trust the temper of the Judge. Before tucking the handkerchief between Mina’s legs, he twisted the thick root into her asshole. It was substantially larger than the opening, so he had to bear down on it. He could feel Mina’s gluteal muscles clench to oppose its entry, but he twisted it in, as though he were drilling a large screw into a small hole.
Mina instantly felt the awful intrusion of the large something being forced into her back passage. Gasping and whinnying in outrage and terror, she clenched her buttocks as hard as she could. She grunted in pain as it popped through her anal ring and entered deep into her rectum. She trembled and writhed, and bore down even harder to expel the intruder. Alarmingly, she felt a growing heat in her rectum and anus the harder she clenched.
The Warden reached under her stomach, pulled the neckerchief tight up into her crotch, and cinched it off to the thong in front. He gave Mina a hearty slap on the ass, and walking to the front of the hurdle, lifted Mina’s chin and looked into her wide, agonized, tearing eyes.
“You must not clench so,” he told her. “The more you clench, the more it stings. Perhaps, Miss Berkeley, you should have been nicer to me.”
The Warden winked at the Sergeant of the Guard and the detail of soldiers who had seen him insert the ginger root.
The Warden noticed that the Vicar had seen it too, and red faced, his eyes had settled with intense, and this time unabashed, regard on Mina.
Having prepared Mina to his satisfaction, the Warden escorted the Reverend Hurst to the edge of the platform. He held up his hand and shouted.
“Be silent and attend! Before the prisoner’s punishment continues, this good gentleman will favor us with a few words.”
The Warden bowed and touched his hat.
“They’re all yours, sir, but I recommend you not keep them too long.”
With a dismissive glance at the Warden, the Reverend Hurst turned his attention to the crowd. He introduced himself, and in a reedy and nasal voice, described his calling to New South Wales, and the responsibilities he would assume there. He told them that he had sailed with the young sinner who was even now being punished for her crimes against God and man, and that, in his poor opinion as a mortal, fallible man, she was highly deserving of it. With that, he launched into the main text of his homily.
“Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man, or a woman, soweth, that shall he, or she, also reap.”
He smiled grimly at his clever interposition of the feminine pronouns.
He proceeded to invoke God’s vengeance on all sinners, but returned several times to that species of sinner who mocked the Most High. He gave God’s grievances against them a full airing.
But, he finally assured the crowd in conclusion, “I am not the final arbiter, nor am I the Judge, for He who Judges with the final Judgement sits at the throne of Heaven. We should all anticipate that Judgement with fear and trembling. Let us go to God in Prayer.”
Some in the crowd bowed their heads and turned their inner gaze heavenward. Most did not. They turned their gaze to the young woman bent over the hurdle.
For most in the crowd, it was a far preferable vision, for she was moving in a lascivious dance. It looked for all the world like the young woman was spreading her legs and arching her back to present her buttocks in sexual invitation. Then, after a minute or so, she would rest her hips on the bar as the invitation was not immediately accepted, only to push her hips and buttocks up off the bar again in frank display, apparently in eager anticipation of that invitation being at any moment accepted.
In fact, the burning irritation of the ginger root had made Mina frantic. It had increased dramatically as the minutes passed. Mina had quickly discovered the truth of what the Warden had told her. The harder she clenched, the hotter she burned. For the tighter her sphincter squeezed the root, the more of it’s irritating resin was released into the lining of her rectum. She had found that by relaxing her sphincter, against her every instinct and inclination, the maddening burn was alleviated somewhat. And elevating her buttocks, and opening her legs to the full extent, seemed to bring a modicum of relief as well. She was no longer cognizant of how it looked.
The Warden had been observing Mina during the long minutes of the Vicar’s homily.
Ah yes! he thought, the little slattern is feeling it now. Just you wait!
The Reverend removed his hat and bowed his head. He graciously invited God to join them, and assured His Eternal Majesty that all those gathered before Him were devoted and righteous followers of His will.
Almost all of them, anyway.
The crowd was becoming restive. They had not come for a sermon.
“Will the fool never make an end?” mumbled the Sergeant of the Guard.
“All things must pass, Sergeant,” Tompkins said.
And even so, eventually, did the prayer of the Reverend Hurst.
Rounding the final turn, he called down the blessings of God on England, her people, and her Monarch.
“God save the King, and all those who enforce his justice. Amen,” he said.
“Amen, Reverend!” a less devout voice shouted. “Now let’s get on with it!”
“Indeed,” the Warden said. He had come to a decision.
As the Sergeant of the Guard escorted the Vicar off the platform and back to the Judge’s nearby carriage, where the Vicar and the Judge would watch the proceedings from its relatively more comfortable seats, the Warden walked over to Ebo.
The man had exchanged his rhinoceros hide whip for the shorter bull’s pizzle.
“I’ll take that.” The Warden told him. “I’ll do the work myself.”
“But judge say Ebo do it!” Ebo objected.
“Don’t argue with me, boy, or I’ll give it you on your bare arse!”
Ebo’s eyes flared with anger, and for a second, the Warden thought the man might strike him. The Warden had been in many fights in his life, and was afraid of no man, but if he were to be afraid of someone, it would be Ebo.
But the fire died, or at least was banked, as quickly as it had flared.
“Sure, boss, what you say.” Ebo said. And with exaggerated care, he extended the whip to the Warden, handle first.
“Mind yourself, Ebo.” The Warden said, snatching the whip from Ebo’s hand, and giving the black man a withering look.
Then he turned his attention back to Mina.
The bull’s pizzle was, as the name indicated, a bull’s penis, dried and stretched to make a whip about three feet long, thick enough at it’s base to get a good grip on, and tapering to a thinner tip. It was a frequently used chastiser of slaves, and feared more than any other device among them. The tip of the pizzle, when dried, hardened into a small knot, or “stone,” and drove the pain of the whip deep into the flesh of the sufferer.
The Warden measured his distance and stood over Mina a moment, pausing as his appreciative eye drank her in. He marked the curve of her gracile form from her feet, up her long, slender legs, over the perfectly rounded, slightly quivering globes of her buttocks and down her back, noting the dimple of each vertebra. Her lovely breasts dangled from her chest like ripe, firm fruit, trembling slightly. The Warden’s manhood had rarely been standing so proud.
The crowd waited, their voices stilled for that moment of anticipation.
“God save the King!” the Warden cried.
Then he slashed down with the whip.
OVER A HURDLE
As the crowd filled in the market area, Judge Higgens’ carriage pulled around behind the platform. The Judge and a conservatively dressed, doughy faced gentleman in a clerical collar dismounted from the carriage and approached the Warden.“Warden Tompkins,” the Judge said, “This is the Reverend Hurst, who is sailing on to shepherd the souls in New South Wales. He was on Defiance with Miss Berkeley, and gave testimony against her. He has asked for an opportunity to offer up some words before you begin.”
The Warden touched his hat to the Judge and the clergyman.
“Aye, your Lordship. If it please you, first the doctor will inspect the prisoner, and then we’ll secure her to the hurdle before the Reverend speaks.”
Both Tompkins and the Judge noticed the Reverend Mr. Hurst staring at Mina.
“Mr. Hurst!” the Judge said sharply, “Is that quite agreeable with you, sir?”
“Yes, your Lordship, by all means,” he stuttered, blushing furiously. He got a grip on himself and said to the Warden, “It is our Christian duty to remind the benighted sinner that God cannot be mocked. As that young sinner is finding to her cost.”
He pointed at Mina, without looking, but then couldn’t help himself and gave the nude young woman an eager, if guilty, glance.
While the three men talked, an overweight, bleary eyed physician inspected Mina. The good doctor felt of Mina’s arms and shoulders, and made a show of looking at several of her whip cuts and her chafed and bloody wrists, and made sure to palpate her welted breasts. He looked in her eyes, and listened with a cylinder of horn to her lungs. Those who knew the doctor knew that he had killed more patients than he had cured. He was usually drunk, as he was now, but his imprimatur was needed for the punishment to continue.
Mina was disgusted by the overt fondling of the odious man. Her arms were pinned to her side by two soldiers, and in any case she was too weary and in too much pain to resist.
“She is sound. A healthy young woman. You may continue.” the doctor finally said.
The crowd cheered as Mina was escorted by four soldiers and the Sergeant of the Guard on her short journey to the hurdle.
“You two, hold her fast, if you please,” the Warden said to the two soldiers at Mina’s side. “And you, my lads, fasten her ankles to the legs,” he instructed the other two.
Atop the hurdle was a thick wooden bar, over which the person to be punished was bent. It had been worn smooth over the years of its use, and had a sheen to it, for it had been polished with the sweat of the many who had suffered on it. Darker, more sinister stains also blotted the wood, for those sufferers had lost more than sweat to the device. Noticing those stains, and fearing what they represented, Mina’s breath caught in her throat. The soldiers at her side held her still while the other crouched down, and spreading her legs to shoulder width, fastened either ankle to a leg.
“Now,” the Warden said, slapping the log, “Bend her right over, my lads, stretch her over!” Each took one of her wrists and pulled her over the bar. The first two soldiers fastened her wrists in the leather straps at the base of the legs. Mina grunted in discomfort. Stretched as tightly as she was, the bar pressed painfully into her stomach, making it difficult to breathe.
“Not so tightly, boys!” the warden said. “Slack her halyards a bit, give her some room to find her wind!”
As the soldiers eased up on the straps, Mina found, to her relief, that with the extra slack she could push up with her hands and the balls of her feet and raise herself an inch or so off the bar.
The Warden ordinarily preferred that a prisoner be bound and stretched tightly for a whipping, both because of the increased suffering of the position, and the increased accuracy of the whip strokes. But he had prepared a “surprise” for Mina, in the same sense that falaka had been a “surprise,” and was willing to sacrifice some accuracy for the pleasure of watching the pretty little slut wiggle about. And he expected to make her wiggle, right enough.
It was a strain to hold herself off the bar for long. Mina eased herself back down. As she settled on the bar she started to cry and tremble again in hopeless dread of the pain of this further torture that was to be inflicted upon her. Her jaws ached and cramped from from being splayed open, and her head felt like it was slowly being crushed by the tight head harness of the brank. But even with all the suffering and pain she was now in, she was fully aware of how shamelessly exposed were her most intimate parts in the frankly sexual position she had been forced to assume. The two fleshy globes of her buttocks were offered up in utmost vulnerability.
Gazing down at Mina’s splayed legs and naked buttocks, the Warden’s manhood stiffened, pushing at the crotch of his breeches. She was a criminal, and deserved to be punished. But more than that, he thought, despite her good breeding and hoity toity ways, she had, like most women; like all women! the morals of an alley cat and the lusts of a tavern strumpet. Why, he should punish the little whore himself! He had wielded the pizzle on more than a few occasions and knew how best to make it sting. He glanced resentfully over at Ebo. After all, it was not fit, not at all fit indeed, that a darkie should view a white woman’s bared cunt and arsehole. What’s right was what’s right: he had to protect the dignity of his race!
The Warden wrapped a slender leather thong low around Mina’s waist. Then he untied his own neckerchief from around his neck, and wedged one corner of it under the thong at her back, and pushed the other end between her crotch and the bar, so that it nestled into the crack of Mina’s ass, and covered the puckered hole of her anus and the gaping slit of her sex. He could claim that he did this to protect the white woman’s modesty, but of course he had an ulterior motive.
It was part of his “surprise.”
This surprise had also, like the falaka, been inspired by his travels in the navy. During a stop in Bombay, he had witnessed the punishment of an adulteress. The woman had been tied down over a hurdle, much as Mina was. The skirts of the adulteress's sari had been lifted, and what looked like the thick root of some sort of plant was held aloft by the darogah, the constable, who after saying a few words in the babble the wogs called a language, plugged it into her vagina, then carefully replaced her skirts. Within a few minutes the woman had been writhing and twisting and crying out, then soon enough screaming quite shrilly, while other men and women scorned and mocked her, or simply went about their business.
While his shipmates drank and whored, he had spoken to the Hindu innkeeper, who spoke English well enough to explain.
“Ginger root, Sahib,” the man had said. “Make her hot! Oh yes! Very hot! Here!” The man slid a bowl of powdered ginger that was on the bar. Tompkins had heard that some liked to sprinkle it over their beer or ale, but to Tompkins mind, no true Englishman would ever do such a thing. Nevertheless, it had become a popular drink, called “root beer.”
“Interesting,” he had said then. He had drunk his ale, and then strolled back out to see how the adulteress was faring.
The Warden had been equally interested to discover, in the very market that had been appropriated for Mina’s punishment, that there was a variety of African ginger, that if anything, was even more potent than the Indian.
The day before he had purchased the thickest, freshest “finger” he could find among the spice merchants, and had this morning, immediately before fetching Mina from her cell, pared it very lightly, just to reveal the skin of the root. This he had carefully wrapped in a bit of damp cloth, and put in his pocket.
The Warden removed the finger of ginger root unobtrusively, for the Warden did not yet quite trust the temper of the Judge. Before tucking the handkerchief between Mina’s legs, he twisted the thick root into her asshole. It was substantially larger than the opening, so he had to bear down on it. He could feel Mina’s gluteal muscles clench to oppose its entry, but he twisted it in, as though he were drilling a large screw into a small hole.
Mina instantly felt the awful intrusion of the large something being forced into her back passage. Gasping and whinnying in outrage and terror, she clenched her buttocks as hard as she could. She grunted in pain as it popped through her anal ring and entered deep into her rectum. She trembled and writhed, and bore down even harder to expel the intruder. Alarmingly, she felt a growing heat in her rectum and anus the harder she clenched.
The Warden reached under her stomach, pulled the neckerchief tight up into her crotch, and cinched it off to the thong in front. He gave Mina a hearty slap on the ass, and walking to the front of the hurdle, lifted Mina’s chin and looked into her wide, agonized, tearing eyes.
“You must not clench so,” he told her. “The more you clench, the more it stings. Perhaps, Miss Berkeley, you should have been nicer to me.”
The Warden winked at the Sergeant of the Guard and the detail of soldiers who had seen him insert the ginger root.
The Warden noticed that the Vicar had seen it too, and red faced, his eyes had settled with intense, and this time unabashed, regard on Mina.
Having prepared Mina to his satisfaction, the Warden escorted the Reverend Hurst to the edge of the platform. He held up his hand and shouted.
“Be silent and attend! Before the prisoner’s punishment continues, this good gentleman will favor us with a few words.”
The Warden bowed and touched his hat.
“They’re all yours, sir, but I recommend you not keep them too long.”
With a dismissive glance at the Warden, the Reverend Hurst turned his attention to the crowd. He introduced himself, and in a reedy and nasal voice, described his calling to New South Wales, and the responsibilities he would assume there. He told them that he had sailed with the young sinner who was even now being punished for her crimes against God and man, and that, in his poor opinion as a mortal, fallible man, she was highly deserving of it. With that, he launched into the main text of his homily.
“Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man, or a woman, soweth, that shall he, or she, also reap.”
He smiled grimly at his clever interposition of the feminine pronouns.
He proceeded to invoke God’s vengeance on all sinners, but returned several times to that species of sinner who mocked the Most High. He gave God’s grievances against them a full airing.
But, he finally assured the crowd in conclusion, “I am not the final arbiter, nor am I the Judge, for He who Judges with the final Judgement sits at the throne of Heaven. We should all anticipate that Judgement with fear and trembling. Let us go to God in Prayer.”
Some in the crowd bowed their heads and turned their inner gaze heavenward. Most did not. They turned their gaze to the young woman bent over the hurdle.
For most in the crowd, it was a far preferable vision, for she was moving in a lascivious dance. It looked for all the world like the young woman was spreading her legs and arching her back to present her buttocks in sexual invitation. Then, after a minute or so, she would rest her hips on the bar as the invitation was not immediately accepted, only to push her hips and buttocks up off the bar again in frank display, apparently in eager anticipation of that invitation being at any moment accepted.
In fact, the burning irritation of the ginger root had made Mina frantic. It had increased dramatically as the minutes passed. Mina had quickly discovered the truth of what the Warden had told her. The harder she clenched, the hotter she burned. For the tighter her sphincter squeezed the root, the more of it’s irritating resin was released into the lining of her rectum. She had found that by relaxing her sphincter, against her every instinct and inclination, the maddening burn was alleviated somewhat. And elevating her buttocks, and opening her legs to the full extent, seemed to bring a modicum of relief as well. She was no longer cognizant of how it looked.
The Warden had been observing Mina during the long minutes of the Vicar’s homily.
Ah yes! he thought, the little slattern is feeling it now. Just you wait!
The Reverend removed his hat and bowed his head. He graciously invited God to join them, and assured His Eternal Majesty that all those gathered before Him were devoted and righteous followers of His will.
Almost all of them, anyway.
The crowd was becoming restive. They had not come for a sermon.
“Will the fool never make an end?” mumbled the Sergeant of the Guard.
“All things must pass, Sergeant,” Tompkins said.
And even so, eventually, did the prayer of the Reverend Hurst.
Rounding the final turn, he called down the blessings of God on England, her people, and her Monarch.
“God save the King, and all those who enforce his justice. Amen,” he said.
“Amen, Reverend!” a less devout voice shouted. “Now let’s get on with it!”
“Indeed,” the Warden said. He had come to a decision.
As the Sergeant of the Guard escorted the Vicar off the platform and back to the Judge’s nearby carriage, where the Vicar and the Judge would watch the proceedings from its relatively more comfortable seats, the Warden walked over to Ebo.
The man had exchanged his rhinoceros hide whip for the shorter bull’s pizzle.
“I’ll take that.” The Warden told him. “I’ll do the work myself.”
“But judge say Ebo do it!” Ebo objected.
“Don’t argue with me, boy, or I’ll give it you on your bare arse!”
Ebo’s eyes flared with anger, and for a second, the Warden thought the man might strike him. The Warden had been in many fights in his life, and was afraid of no man, but if he were to be afraid of someone, it would be Ebo.
But the fire died, or at least was banked, as quickly as it had flared.
“Sure, boss, what you say.” Ebo said. And with exaggerated care, he extended the whip to the Warden, handle first.
“Mind yourself, Ebo.” The Warden said, snatching the whip from Ebo’s hand, and giving the black man a withering look.
Then he turned his attention back to Mina.
The bull’s pizzle was, as the name indicated, a bull’s penis, dried and stretched to make a whip about three feet long, thick enough at it’s base to get a good grip on, and tapering to a thinner tip. It was a frequently used chastiser of slaves, and feared more than any other device among them. The tip of the pizzle, when dried, hardened into a small knot, or “stone,” and drove the pain of the whip deep into the flesh of the sufferer.
The Warden measured his distance and stood over Mina a moment, pausing as his appreciative eye drank her in. He marked the curve of her gracile form from her feet, up her long, slender legs, over the perfectly rounded, slightly quivering globes of her buttocks and down her back, noting the dimple of each vertebra. Her lovely breasts dangled from her chest like ripe, firm fruit, trembling slightly. The Warden’s manhood had rarely been standing so proud.
The crowd waited, their voices stilled for that moment of anticipation.
“God save the King!” the Warden cried.
Then he slashed down with the whip.
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