TheLimey
Magistrate
Part 3 - A Whipping
It was closer to 10 than 11 of the clock when I rode into the town the next day, and it was as hot as it was the day before, with not a breath of wind. The Widow Cavendish would certainly have her share of suffering in any case, but in this heat it would be all the worse.
I tied my horse to the rail at the front of the courthouse, grabbed a canteen of water, and started around to the Eastern side, where the platform for both selling and dealing with slaves was situated. Before I reached the corner, the Sheriff came around it, fanning his head with a hat.
'Well met, Sir!' he said, as he saw me approach. 'I am just off to get myself some coffee whilst I can. If you are ready to take your place as my deputy, then please see Nate around the corner. We have set up some shade to the side of the platform for now, but I dare say Nate would like to refresh himself, having been out here all morning so far.'
'Of course, Sheriff, I'll gladly take watch whilst he does what he needs.'
He raised his fingers to his forehead in a form of a salute, and I took my leave, walking around the corner.
I couldn't help but stop as I rounded the building, my eyes drawn to the widow Cavendish. From this vantage point, I could see her left hand side, tied as she was with hands affixed to the whipping post, above her head, her back facing away from the building. She was no longer in black, instead wearing what looked like an off white chemise or shift, her hair disheveled, and hanging down around the side of her face.
As I got closer, I could see that the sun and the heat were having their way with her, for the chemise was sticking to her damply, the sweat making it translucent. The shade cloth was on the far side of the platform, and so I had to go around her back to reach it, and I thrilled at seeing that the chemise was her only clothing, her arse clearly showing where it stuck to her.
Nate was glad to get away for some time, as even with the shade, he looked worse for wear. Before he left, he pointed to a small bucket by the side of the platform.
'Water for the prisoner. There's a ladle in the bucket so you can serve her.'
I nodded and he went off, leaving me alone with the prisoner, except for a slow, steady stream of passers-by, who I knew would be looking over for now, but who would be in the crowd come noon.
I grabbed the bucket, and mounted the platform, wandering around to the front of the sweating Mrs Cavendish. Her head was hanging down, her brunette hair hanging down before her face. The chemise was missing some buttons down the front, revealing a section of her chest and cleavage, and I could see the sweat that coated her, dripping down between small, high breasts. I couldn't help but mutter 'Magnificent...: under my breath.
She stirred at this, lifting her head, so I coughed and held the bucket up for her to see. She nodded, and I held the label to her lips, letting her drink a couple of bowls, before she dropped her head again, with not a word being said.
-*-
It was getting close to an hour later when the Sheriff and Nate returned, along with another gentleman who carried a multi-tailed whip at his belt. I had spent the intervening time stood off to one side of the platform, where I could look at Mrs Cavendish's face through the sweat soaked curtain of her hair, anticipating how she would look after noon, naked and striped by the whip.
There was something else happening as well. Most of the time, Mrs Cavendish had her eyes closed, but every now and then her eyes fixed on me. I was expecting a look of hatred, but instead, I got a look I hadn't seen since India, and some of the women I had been with there. Fear yes, but also anticipation. As soon as she noticed I was looking, however, she would drop her face again.
The gentleman with the whip was introduced as a local overseer for a plantation, someone who knew how to wield the whip, and as he went off to one side to prepare his arm, I noticed that the area in front of the platform was starting to fill with people.
The Sheriff approached and handed me a small leather bag with straps on either side. 'Your job, Sir, will be to prepare the prisoner for the whipping, then stand on the other side of her, facing her. She will be given 25 strokes, or until she passes out, which ever happens first.'
He indicated the bag. 'You will gag her with this, and then strip her of her clothing, just the same way as if she was an escaped slave.'
I nodded severely, but inside I was smiling. At that vantage point, I could make certain of my.... suspicions, as to what was going through her thoughts.
At Noon, the Judge came around the corner, dressed in his robes. He mounted the platform, and held up his hands to silence the hubbub of conversation that had been going on for some time now.
'Gentlemen and Ladies, we are here to see justice done, as befitting the actions of one who wants to abolish the state of slavery. The Widow Cavendish is henceforth no more than the n---s that she wished to aid, despite the laws of this land. She will be whipped, will ride a rail along the pike, and then will be sold to the highest bidder this evening.'
He turned to the Sheriff and simply said 'Proceed'
On this, I took up a position behind her, grasped the collar of the chemise at the back and pulled, tearing it from neck to hem in one easy movement, revealing her sweat slick back to the crowd. I circled in from of her, then ripped at both sleeves, until the whole garment fell as wet rags about her feet, as the crowd gasped, and in some cases whooped and hollered.
I reached up to her face, holding out the gag. 'Bite down on this. Don't let them hear you scream,' I said, and she opened up, allowing me to place it in her mouth, and the the straps around her head. As I finished, I looked down her body, seeing the movement of her chest as her breathing became more rapid, seeing the way her nipples became hard, and how the sweat was running over her stomach and down between her legs.
I stepped back, and set myself in a position to see her face, and again, I saw the look she had given me before, just before the first stroke whistled through the air and crashed across her back.
She tossed her head back, her hands pulling at the ropes holding her at the post. and the breath was driven out of her, but she didn't buckle, and I saw her steel herself for the next stroke, whilst a strange hush descended on the crowd.
The overseer was an expert with the whip, laying stroke after stroke in a slow, deliberate fashion, working his way up and down her her back and arse. By the 10th stroke, tears were mixed with the sweat that ran down her face, and her chest was heaving, as the air was driven out of her each time a blow landed.
As the count reached closer to 20, I could see her legs shaking, and she widened her stance, which caused her arms to stretch more, and her breasts to flatten against her chest a little. I noticed something else as well. She still swayed with each stroke, but I could see her push out with her hips, almost inviting the next stroke.
The overseer showed as little mercy to Mrs Cavendish as he would any escaped slave, and the final strokes were carefully placed as to wrap around her torso, snaking around to strike at her stomach and under her breasts, drawing trickles of blood from the cuts they left. At this, she screamed through the gag, and she scrabbled for purchase on the platform with her feet.
The overseer pulled out a knife, and cut the ropes that held her wrists to the post, and she slumped to her knees, her legs spread and her head and chest resting against the pole. I moved around her, seeing for the first time the mess of weals that crossed her back and arse, the trickles of blood and sweat that were now starting to snake around her torso, and drip into the platform beneath her.
Something else was dripping from her as well. From my vantage point, I could see threads of her own juices dripping from her cunt, and her inner thighs were slick with more than just sweat. As the noise of the crowd swelled again, I smiled to myself. Mrs Cavendish had a secret.
Nate came up with a large bucket of water, which he unceremoniously dumped on the Mrs Cavendish, and she moaned, then collapsed on her side, while the baying of certain members of the crowd grew louder. I caught snippets of conversation, whilst I worked to release the gag, snippets that declared that she had got what was coming to her, that she should get the same every morning for the rest of her life. I shut that out, leaning over and whispering into her ear as she lay on the platform.
'You bore that well... As if you were born to it...'
It was closer to 10 than 11 of the clock when I rode into the town the next day, and it was as hot as it was the day before, with not a breath of wind. The Widow Cavendish would certainly have her share of suffering in any case, but in this heat it would be all the worse.
I tied my horse to the rail at the front of the courthouse, grabbed a canteen of water, and started around to the Eastern side, where the platform for both selling and dealing with slaves was situated. Before I reached the corner, the Sheriff came around it, fanning his head with a hat.
'Well met, Sir!' he said, as he saw me approach. 'I am just off to get myself some coffee whilst I can. If you are ready to take your place as my deputy, then please see Nate around the corner. We have set up some shade to the side of the platform for now, but I dare say Nate would like to refresh himself, having been out here all morning so far.'
'Of course, Sheriff, I'll gladly take watch whilst he does what he needs.'
He raised his fingers to his forehead in a form of a salute, and I took my leave, walking around the corner.
I couldn't help but stop as I rounded the building, my eyes drawn to the widow Cavendish. From this vantage point, I could see her left hand side, tied as she was with hands affixed to the whipping post, above her head, her back facing away from the building. She was no longer in black, instead wearing what looked like an off white chemise or shift, her hair disheveled, and hanging down around the side of her face.
As I got closer, I could see that the sun and the heat were having their way with her, for the chemise was sticking to her damply, the sweat making it translucent. The shade cloth was on the far side of the platform, and so I had to go around her back to reach it, and I thrilled at seeing that the chemise was her only clothing, her arse clearly showing where it stuck to her.
Nate was glad to get away for some time, as even with the shade, he looked worse for wear. Before he left, he pointed to a small bucket by the side of the platform.
'Water for the prisoner. There's a ladle in the bucket so you can serve her.'
I nodded and he went off, leaving me alone with the prisoner, except for a slow, steady stream of passers-by, who I knew would be looking over for now, but who would be in the crowd come noon.
I grabbed the bucket, and mounted the platform, wandering around to the front of the sweating Mrs Cavendish. Her head was hanging down, her brunette hair hanging down before her face. The chemise was missing some buttons down the front, revealing a section of her chest and cleavage, and I could see the sweat that coated her, dripping down between small, high breasts. I couldn't help but mutter 'Magnificent...: under my breath.
She stirred at this, lifting her head, so I coughed and held the bucket up for her to see. She nodded, and I held the label to her lips, letting her drink a couple of bowls, before she dropped her head again, with not a word being said.
-*-
It was getting close to an hour later when the Sheriff and Nate returned, along with another gentleman who carried a multi-tailed whip at his belt. I had spent the intervening time stood off to one side of the platform, where I could look at Mrs Cavendish's face through the sweat soaked curtain of her hair, anticipating how she would look after noon, naked and striped by the whip.
There was something else happening as well. Most of the time, Mrs Cavendish had her eyes closed, but every now and then her eyes fixed on me. I was expecting a look of hatred, but instead, I got a look I hadn't seen since India, and some of the women I had been with there. Fear yes, but also anticipation. As soon as she noticed I was looking, however, she would drop her face again.
The gentleman with the whip was introduced as a local overseer for a plantation, someone who knew how to wield the whip, and as he went off to one side to prepare his arm, I noticed that the area in front of the platform was starting to fill with people.
The Sheriff approached and handed me a small leather bag with straps on either side. 'Your job, Sir, will be to prepare the prisoner for the whipping, then stand on the other side of her, facing her. She will be given 25 strokes, or until she passes out, which ever happens first.'
He indicated the bag. 'You will gag her with this, and then strip her of her clothing, just the same way as if she was an escaped slave.'
I nodded severely, but inside I was smiling. At that vantage point, I could make certain of my.... suspicions, as to what was going through her thoughts.
At Noon, the Judge came around the corner, dressed in his robes. He mounted the platform, and held up his hands to silence the hubbub of conversation that had been going on for some time now.
'Gentlemen and Ladies, we are here to see justice done, as befitting the actions of one who wants to abolish the state of slavery. The Widow Cavendish is henceforth no more than the n---s that she wished to aid, despite the laws of this land. She will be whipped, will ride a rail along the pike, and then will be sold to the highest bidder this evening.'
He turned to the Sheriff and simply said 'Proceed'
On this, I took up a position behind her, grasped the collar of the chemise at the back and pulled, tearing it from neck to hem in one easy movement, revealing her sweat slick back to the crowd. I circled in from of her, then ripped at both sleeves, until the whole garment fell as wet rags about her feet, as the crowd gasped, and in some cases whooped and hollered.
I reached up to her face, holding out the gag. 'Bite down on this. Don't let them hear you scream,' I said, and she opened up, allowing me to place it in her mouth, and the the straps around her head. As I finished, I looked down her body, seeing the movement of her chest as her breathing became more rapid, seeing the way her nipples became hard, and how the sweat was running over her stomach and down between her legs.
I stepped back, and set myself in a position to see her face, and again, I saw the look she had given me before, just before the first stroke whistled through the air and crashed across her back.
She tossed her head back, her hands pulling at the ropes holding her at the post. and the breath was driven out of her, but she didn't buckle, and I saw her steel herself for the next stroke, whilst a strange hush descended on the crowd.
The overseer was an expert with the whip, laying stroke after stroke in a slow, deliberate fashion, working his way up and down her her back and arse. By the 10th stroke, tears were mixed with the sweat that ran down her face, and her chest was heaving, as the air was driven out of her each time a blow landed.
As the count reached closer to 20, I could see her legs shaking, and she widened her stance, which caused her arms to stretch more, and her breasts to flatten against her chest a little. I noticed something else as well. She still swayed with each stroke, but I could see her push out with her hips, almost inviting the next stroke.
The overseer showed as little mercy to Mrs Cavendish as he would any escaped slave, and the final strokes were carefully placed as to wrap around her torso, snaking around to strike at her stomach and under her breasts, drawing trickles of blood from the cuts they left. At this, she screamed through the gag, and she scrabbled for purchase on the platform with her feet.
The overseer pulled out a knife, and cut the ropes that held her wrists to the post, and she slumped to her knees, her legs spread and her head and chest resting against the pole. I moved around her, seeing for the first time the mess of weals that crossed her back and arse, the trickles of blood and sweat that were now starting to snake around her torso, and drip into the platform beneath her.
Something else was dripping from her as well. From my vantage point, I could see threads of her own juices dripping from her cunt, and her inner thighs were slick with more than just sweat. As the noise of the crowd swelled again, I smiled to myself. Mrs Cavendish had a secret.
Nate came up with a large bucket of water, which he unceremoniously dumped on the Mrs Cavendish, and she moaned, then collapsed on her side, while the baying of certain members of the crowd grew louder. I caught snippets of conversation, whilst I worked to release the gag, snippets that declared that she had got what was coming to her, that she should get the same every morning for the rest of her life. I shut that out, leaning over and whispering into her ear as she lay on the platform.
'You bore that well... As if you were born to it...'
