T
The Fallen Angel
Guest
This was an old English tradition which has long since ceased to exist. On the first Sunday of Spring stroppy teenage daughters would be taken to the village green where they would be stripped and whipped. If it was a nice day then plenty of wine and roast ox would follow.
Story from Eulalia
Whipping Sunday
When you're going to be punished, you just get a letter – well, your parents get one – just a plain brown envelope from the Police HQ, "to the parent or guardian of ....". It tells where you have to report, and when.
Mum took me. It said wear light, loose-fitting clothing, and bring a towel. So I wore my lightest undies, ones I wear for dancing, and a summer dress – an old one from last summer, I said to Mum, I know it's going to get in a mess, it'll have blood all over it. That upset her, she was more frightened about it all than I was!
Anyway, we got up early. I had a quick shower, a pot of fruit yogurt, and off we went to catch the first bus. I felt a bit strange, dressed like we were going for a day on the beach, everyone else was on their way to work. A few guys eyed me, I could feel it, but most of the passengers were only half-awake.
It's quite a long bus-ride to Newton, nearly two hours. When we got there, I asked Mum if we could stop for a quick drink, she said okay but be quick, it'll only be worse for me if we're late reporting. I had a Coke, used the loo – didn't want to pee while I was being whipped!
Then we made our way to the Square. There was already quite a crowd, almost all men. We had to push our way through, trying to be inconspicuous, but of course they soon guessed I was the girl who was going to be punished, they were ogling me and even groping me as I wove in between them.
Your parents or anyone with you have to leave you at the barrier, they aren't allowed inside the enclosure. So I just gave Mum a quick hug, took the letter and showed it to the Guard at the gate, and he let me in.
It's a barbed wire enclosure, about 4' high, feels like you're in a cattle –pen, about 15 yards square, with the Whipping-Post on a stone platform in the middle. There was just a couple of Guards waiting for me.
"Get your clothes off!" one of them said. Not very subtle, I thought. I took my trainers off and my dress. I glanced at him. "Everything?" "Of course."
I must have been blushing, my cheeks were burning, and my fingers were trembling, I fumbled with my bra. I could hear the guys whistling and yelling things while I pulled it off, and pushed down my briefs.
There isn't anywhere to put your kit, you have to just leave it on the ground, beside the platform.
Naked now. I hadn't been naked in front of anybody since I was a little kid, now here I was in front of hundreds of people I didn't know – probably some I did too – cameras flashing, there were two TV cameras at the corners of the enclosure, they were already filming me.
I tried not to look at the crowd, or at the TV cameras. I turned round and looked at the Guard. "Untie your hair!" he said. I'd anticipated that, just tied it in a ponytail, so that was no problem, dropped the grip with my clothes.
He eyed me up and down. "Any jewellery?" I shook my head. "No, Sir." I wasn't stupid, I knew if I wore anything of value, I wouldn't bring it home again.
Some more men had arrived in the enclosure now. An important-looking Officer was with the Guard, glaring at me, as the Guard asked his final question, "Any tampon?" I burnt with embarrassment. I'd thought when the letter came and I learnt the date, "Oh shit..." Just my luck, that time of the month. "Well, take it out, you know they're not allowed." I bowed my head and felt between my legs, performing in public, on camera, the most intimate, private bit of a girl's sanitary routine. I pulled it out, there was a bit of blood on it. What shall I do with it, I wondered. The men – all of them – smirking down at me. I tossed it alongside my clothes.
The Officer spoke. "Lucy Carlesbury?" "Yes, Sir." "Do you know why you are here?" "Yes, Sir – to be punished.." "Punished for what?" "Er, for disobedience Sir ... and immoral conduct, Sir ... for wearing provocative shorts and corrupting Henry ...." A snigger from the crowd. "Whore!" He slapped my face. "You're a dirty little slut – aren't you, cow?" He punched me, on my right tit. "Y-yes, Sir ...I – I'm a whore...." "You're the kind of filth my men have to waste time dealing with, and I don't like my men having to waste time. So you're going to pay for it – do you understand, you slag?" He was clutching my throat as I gasped "Yes, Sir - I understand."
He stood back and turned to the crowd. Through a microphone, he announced, "This female, known as Lucy Carlesbury, is a stroppy harlot who has been polluting our community and attempting to corrupt the morals of our boys. She is about to be taught an exemplary lesson, receiving the maximum tariff for an offender of her age, 75 lashes!"
The crowd gasped, and I nearly fainted. 75! I had expected 30, perhaps 40 at most. Oh God, 75's more than most men get – or can take! My legs were unsteady as I was made to stand at the foot of the steps up to the Whipping-Post.
Now I had to hold out my wrists for shackling. As I did so, I saw for the first time the Whips. Four men, each in Military sports gear, black lycra trousers, white vests, were each holding, indeed cherishing like a treasured possession, a vicious-looking lash, different in style, but all designed to bite into girl-flesh.
I shivered as the Guards fitted manacles. They clicked shut, but then were tightened with a key, I winced and heard myself yelp as they bit into the bone – my first cry of pain!
They led me up the steps onto the platform, stood me against the Whipping-Post. I'd seen it before, on shopping trips to Newton. It had been an object of fascination to a young girl. I'd imagined it was a historic monument, a reminder of the bad old days. It had seen good service, for sure. A sturdy pine-trunk, some fifteen feet high, still with its rough bark, though where I was standing, my excited breasts just touching it, it had been worn smooth by countless bodies writhing and twisting under the lash. My own skin was already shiny with sweat, ready to contribute my share of girl-polish.
I had to stretch my arms up along the sides of the Post. There's an iron ring high up on the far side of it. I had to stand on tiptoe for my shackled wrists to reach high enough. The manacles had chains on them which were run through the ring and locked – click! Now I'm helpless, the thought ran through my body, which quivered in realisation.
The crowd were quiet, the men stood back. For a brief moment – but it seemed an eternity – I was hanging there, feeling the warm dusty wind across my bare back, smelling the musty mixture of resin and human blood that had impregnated the Whipping-Post, which my girlskin pressed like a lover.
"Ready!" I heard a male voice behind me say, I glanced back and saw, standing at the corner of the platform, his long, black, woven-leather lash unfurled and swinging loose, a swarthy, fit-looking young man - wouldn't mind getting to know him, the thought flickered. I turned back to the post, bowed my head and closed my eyes.
I heard him give two – no three – practice swings, the thong whistled and cracked, my defenceless body leapt visibly each time in anticipation, and then he struck.
"Aaaaaah!" My whole body was thrown against the wood as the leather flashed across my shoulders and curled around my ribcage, snicking my right breast. There were to be many more, many worse, but the first blow is the one that sears into your memory as it cuts into your pristine hide. I moaned softly and braced myself for the second.
I'd been thinking on the bus as we rode towards the Place of Punishment this morning, I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to let them see any tears. Pathetic little fool! By the third lash, my eyes were overflowing, I was squealing like an infant.
Shoulders, back, buttocks, thighs, and the thong-tip embracing armpits, ribcage, waist, hips and loins. I was free to move my legs, I kicked and danced frantically, not in any attempt at self-defence, simply absorbing the blows, wrapping my thighs around the Post like a girl embracing a mighty man.
What can I say to girls like me who are summoned for Punishment? Don't try to play the heroine, don't even think of it. The Whip may seem a simple strip of leather, something you can cope with – forget it! When you're naked, every physical thing's your enemy, when you're chained to that Post, nothing can protect you. So don’t fight – you’ll only make it worse: just let the pain flow through you, conquer you. Scream! Scream all you want. It's what they want to hear, let them hear it.
I let my whole body writhe and hurl, tugging at the chains, clutching at them, gripping till my nails were bleeding. And I bit – chewed at the wood of the Post. I wasn't the first to do that, the wood where my face was, and higher up where adults and taller youngsters had been, the bark had been bitten like woodland trees in winter are bitten by deer.
The Torturers worked it rotation, each delivering half a dozen lashes, the sixth invariably being especially vicious, drawing my sharpest shrieks and liveliest leaps. The audience were obviously delighted, they were cheering, urging my Tormentors on.
After I'd had, I don't know, perhaps 18, they made me turn round, crossing my arms as they stretched above me up to the chains, facing outwards, so I could see the massive crowd now packing the large square, giant screens displaying my nakedness in all its feminine detail.
The mob were tense with excitement as the hefty, oriental-looking Torturer inspected his prey. He lifted his Whip and flicked my teats with the handle. For all my agony, my breasts were firm, my nipples standing to attention, I was experiencing that strange arousal that I'd discovered in my fantasies and secret games when I imagined being naked, vulnerable, suffering martyrdom.
He stepped back, swung his Whip, and laid the thong straight across my pert adolescent breasts, the crowd roared, I yelled out and kicked wildly. He spotted a target and thrashed my thigh, then paused and watched me as I struggled to come to terms with the pain in my poor breasts. Then he suddenly flicked the lash upwards, catching me between my thighs, cutting right into my pussy-lips. As I twisted in frantic agony, he quickly followed with another across my triangle. I was wailing, every part of my female anatomy was throbbing with torturous pain mingled with wild, erotic excitement.
After this, there was an interlude. My Torturers refreshed themselves with cans of beer, the crowd continued to enjoy the sight of my full-frontal nudity, now decorated with red weals across my breasts, pudenda and thighs.
When they were ready to resume, I was allowed to turn and face the Post again. It was almost a kindness to be flogged on my firm back, though the Torturers were skilful in ploughing fresh furrows to cut across earlier ones, ever exacerbating the excruciation.
And it wasn't long before they scarcely needed to touch my quivering skin with the kiss of leather to start me squealing. When you're being whipped, girls, your body’s your own worst enemy, the pain you’ll mostly cause yourself, through your tense, terrified anticipation, your fear of where the next stroke will cut. Yes, I quickly learnt the victim’s role.
I was made to turn and be lashed again from in front fairly quickly in the second round, two of the Torturers were using stiff, springy whips which were lighter and less bruising than the big bullwhips they'd started with, but they cut all the more sharply, and they used them with precision on my tits – cutting into my right nipple – and my pussy – slicing into the crack, carving my lips. They had me dancing deliciously, kicking, writhing, leaping, the crowd was in ecstasy.
During the third round, I was growing unbearably weary, my body exhausted by the pain and constant beating. But it's my curse to be fit and healthy, they knew I wasn't going to faint or loose consciousness. Although brutal, they're skilled practitioners, avoiding the blows that could cause life-threatening internal injuries.
But in the final round, I was made to turn forwards yet again, and they were clearly not concerned if they caused permanent damage to my female machinery, indeed it could have been their deliberate intention, to wreck my chances of bearing and nursing any babies. Blow after blow was carefully aimed at my lower abdomen, at the pubic mound, between my legs at my vulva, and again and again cross my breasts.
Blood was spurting from my cunt, my breasts were half-flayed, scraps of skin hanging down with fatty ooze mingling with thick blood to dribble down my front. I was screaming hoarsely, writhing weakly, unable to do more than absorb the shocks and allow the pain to surge through me.
At last, the four Torturers stood back, and the Officer approached with his own short, sharp dog-whip. He glared at me, I hung my head submissively, "Sir," I whispered, "I'm sorry."
He swung the whip, the thong cut across my face, catching my right eye. He flicked again, cutting my lip. I howled, begging him to stop. He thrashed harder, blood cascaded down my left cheek.
75. Punishment complete. I was released from the iron ring, fell to my knees, blood spewing from my lips, my sight dimmed, my hair ragged with sweat and gobbets of blood draped over my bleeding face.
They made me hold up my arms so they could unlock and remove the manacles. After that, a sharp kick set me crawling across the platform, I staggered down the stairs, and crawled again to where my clothes lay.
I found the towel I'd brought, wiped myself with it, soaking up as much as I could of the blood that was still oozing from my wounds, especially those just inflicted on my face. No-one gave any help, there was no medical attention, not even a drop of water to drink or to wash myself.
Eventually, I pulled on my dress – no point in bothering with undies, I'd be too sore to endure them and they'd only be soaked in blood. I wrapped them up in the bloody towel along with my hair-grip, and - yes - even the dirty tampon (I'm still on camera, Guards still watching, better take no risks) Put on my trainers, got to my feet and staggered drunkenly to the gate, where the Guard let me out.
Mum was waiting, she hurried me through the dispersing crowd – many youths whooped and jeered as they saw me, then suddenly a group of toughs, big, burly men, blocked our way. One of them dragged Mum aside, the others pulled up my dress, found I was naked under it, gloated at my whip-shattered body.
I don't know how long they held on to me – probably only a few minutes, but it seemed they'd never let me go, I was terrified they were going to rape me, I knew the police would turn a blind eye. A crowd gathered around, cheering and urging them on. But something restrained them, at last Mum and I were allowed to make our way to the public toilets, where at last I drank some cold water and had a rudimentary wash.
Then we had to hurry to catch the last bus back home. The driver wasn't keen to even let me aboard, Mum assured him I'd sit on layers of plastic bags and my towel so as not to bleed on the upholstery. Passengers scowled when they saw me. They knew very well what I was – a stroppy teenage slut who'd got what she deserved on Whipping Sunday!
As Eulalia has pointed out there would often be more than one whip at work on the unfortunate girls. Particularly naughty ones would be strung upside down with a tormentor to the front and rear as shown in this pic kindly sent to us by our time traveling Polly Perkins who says she is also enjoying the stories greatly.
Story from Eulalia
Whipping Sunday
When you're going to be punished, you just get a letter – well, your parents get one – just a plain brown envelope from the Police HQ, "to the parent or guardian of ....". It tells where you have to report, and when.
Mum took me. It said wear light, loose-fitting clothing, and bring a towel. So I wore my lightest undies, ones I wear for dancing, and a summer dress – an old one from last summer, I said to Mum, I know it's going to get in a mess, it'll have blood all over it. That upset her, she was more frightened about it all than I was!
Anyway, we got up early. I had a quick shower, a pot of fruit yogurt, and off we went to catch the first bus. I felt a bit strange, dressed like we were going for a day on the beach, everyone else was on their way to work. A few guys eyed me, I could feel it, but most of the passengers were only half-awake.
It's quite a long bus-ride to Newton, nearly two hours. When we got there, I asked Mum if we could stop for a quick drink, she said okay but be quick, it'll only be worse for me if we're late reporting. I had a Coke, used the loo – didn't want to pee while I was being whipped!
Then we made our way to the Square. There was already quite a crowd, almost all men. We had to push our way through, trying to be inconspicuous, but of course they soon guessed I was the girl who was going to be punished, they were ogling me and even groping me as I wove in between them.
Your parents or anyone with you have to leave you at the barrier, they aren't allowed inside the enclosure. So I just gave Mum a quick hug, took the letter and showed it to the Guard at the gate, and he let me in.
It's a barbed wire enclosure, about 4' high, feels like you're in a cattle –pen, about 15 yards square, with the Whipping-Post on a stone platform in the middle. There was just a couple of Guards waiting for me.
"Get your clothes off!" one of them said. Not very subtle, I thought. I took my trainers off and my dress. I glanced at him. "Everything?" "Of course."
I must have been blushing, my cheeks were burning, and my fingers were trembling, I fumbled with my bra. I could hear the guys whistling and yelling things while I pulled it off, and pushed down my briefs.
There isn't anywhere to put your kit, you have to just leave it on the ground, beside the platform.
Naked now. I hadn't been naked in front of anybody since I was a little kid, now here I was in front of hundreds of people I didn't know – probably some I did too – cameras flashing, there were two TV cameras at the corners of the enclosure, they were already filming me.
I tried not to look at the crowd, or at the TV cameras. I turned round and looked at the Guard. "Untie your hair!" he said. I'd anticipated that, just tied it in a ponytail, so that was no problem, dropped the grip with my clothes.
He eyed me up and down. "Any jewellery?" I shook my head. "No, Sir." I wasn't stupid, I knew if I wore anything of value, I wouldn't bring it home again.
Some more men had arrived in the enclosure now. An important-looking Officer was with the Guard, glaring at me, as the Guard asked his final question, "Any tampon?" I burnt with embarrassment. I'd thought when the letter came and I learnt the date, "Oh shit..." Just my luck, that time of the month. "Well, take it out, you know they're not allowed." I bowed my head and felt between my legs, performing in public, on camera, the most intimate, private bit of a girl's sanitary routine. I pulled it out, there was a bit of blood on it. What shall I do with it, I wondered. The men – all of them – smirking down at me. I tossed it alongside my clothes.
The Officer spoke. "Lucy Carlesbury?" "Yes, Sir." "Do you know why you are here?" "Yes, Sir – to be punished.." "Punished for what?" "Er, for disobedience Sir ... and immoral conduct, Sir ... for wearing provocative shorts and corrupting Henry ...." A snigger from the crowd. "Whore!" He slapped my face. "You're a dirty little slut – aren't you, cow?" He punched me, on my right tit. "Y-yes, Sir ...I – I'm a whore...." "You're the kind of filth my men have to waste time dealing with, and I don't like my men having to waste time. So you're going to pay for it – do you understand, you slag?" He was clutching my throat as I gasped "Yes, Sir - I understand."
He stood back and turned to the crowd. Through a microphone, he announced, "This female, known as Lucy Carlesbury, is a stroppy harlot who has been polluting our community and attempting to corrupt the morals of our boys. She is about to be taught an exemplary lesson, receiving the maximum tariff for an offender of her age, 75 lashes!"
The crowd gasped, and I nearly fainted. 75! I had expected 30, perhaps 40 at most. Oh God, 75's more than most men get – or can take! My legs were unsteady as I was made to stand at the foot of the steps up to the Whipping-Post.
Now I had to hold out my wrists for shackling. As I did so, I saw for the first time the Whips. Four men, each in Military sports gear, black lycra trousers, white vests, were each holding, indeed cherishing like a treasured possession, a vicious-looking lash, different in style, but all designed to bite into girl-flesh.
I shivered as the Guards fitted manacles. They clicked shut, but then were tightened with a key, I winced and heard myself yelp as they bit into the bone – my first cry of pain!
They led me up the steps onto the platform, stood me against the Whipping-Post. I'd seen it before, on shopping trips to Newton. It had been an object of fascination to a young girl. I'd imagined it was a historic monument, a reminder of the bad old days. It had seen good service, for sure. A sturdy pine-trunk, some fifteen feet high, still with its rough bark, though where I was standing, my excited breasts just touching it, it had been worn smooth by countless bodies writhing and twisting under the lash. My own skin was already shiny with sweat, ready to contribute my share of girl-polish.
I had to stretch my arms up along the sides of the Post. There's an iron ring high up on the far side of it. I had to stand on tiptoe for my shackled wrists to reach high enough. The manacles had chains on them which were run through the ring and locked – click! Now I'm helpless, the thought ran through my body, which quivered in realisation.
The crowd were quiet, the men stood back. For a brief moment – but it seemed an eternity – I was hanging there, feeling the warm dusty wind across my bare back, smelling the musty mixture of resin and human blood that had impregnated the Whipping-Post, which my girlskin pressed like a lover.
"Ready!" I heard a male voice behind me say, I glanced back and saw, standing at the corner of the platform, his long, black, woven-leather lash unfurled and swinging loose, a swarthy, fit-looking young man - wouldn't mind getting to know him, the thought flickered. I turned back to the post, bowed my head and closed my eyes.
I heard him give two – no three – practice swings, the thong whistled and cracked, my defenceless body leapt visibly each time in anticipation, and then he struck.
"Aaaaaah!" My whole body was thrown against the wood as the leather flashed across my shoulders and curled around my ribcage, snicking my right breast. There were to be many more, many worse, but the first blow is the one that sears into your memory as it cuts into your pristine hide. I moaned softly and braced myself for the second.
I'd been thinking on the bus as we rode towards the Place of Punishment this morning, I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to let them see any tears. Pathetic little fool! By the third lash, my eyes were overflowing, I was squealing like an infant.
Shoulders, back, buttocks, thighs, and the thong-tip embracing armpits, ribcage, waist, hips and loins. I was free to move my legs, I kicked and danced frantically, not in any attempt at self-defence, simply absorbing the blows, wrapping my thighs around the Post like a girl embracing a mighty man.
What can I say to girls like me who are summoned for Punishment? Don't try to play the heroine, don't even think of it. The Whip may seem a simple strip of leather, something you can cope with – forget it! When you're naked, every physical thing's your enemy, when you're chained to that Post, nothing can protect you. So don’t fight – you’ll only make it worse: just let the pain flow through you, conquer you. Scream! Scream all you want. It's what they want to hear, let them hear it.
I let my whole body writhe and hurl, tugging at the chains, clutching at them, gripping till my nails were bleeding. And I bit – chewed at the wood of the Post. I wasn't the first to do that, the wood where my face was, and higher up where adults and taller youngsters had been, the bark had been bitten like woodland trees in winter are bitten by deer.
The Torturers worked it rotation, each delivering half a dozen lashes, the sixth invariably being especially vicious, drawing my sharpest shrieks and liveliest leaps. The audience were obviously delighted, they were cheering, urging my Tormentors on.
After I'd had, I don't know, perhaps 18, they made me turn round, crossing my arms as they stretched above me up to the chains, facing outwards, so I could see the massive crowd now packing the large square, giant screens displaying my nakedness in all its feminine detail.
The mob were tense with excitement as the hefty, oriental-looking Torturer inspected his prey. He lifted his Whip and flicked my teats with the handle. For all my agony, my breasts were firm, my nipples standing to attention, I was experiencing that strange arousal that I'd discovered in my fantasies and secret games when I imagined being naked, vulnerable, suffering martyrdom.
He stepped back, swung his Whip, and laid the thong straight across my pert adolescent breasts, the crowd roared, I yelled out and kicked wildly. He spotted a target and thrashed my thigh, then paused and watched me as I struggled to come to terms with the pain in my poor breasts. Then he suddenly flicked the lash upwards, catching me between my thighs, cutting right into my pussy-lips. As I twisted in frantic agony, he quickly followed with another across my triangle. I was wailing, every part of my female anatomy was throbbing with torturous pain mingled with wild, erotic excitement.
After this, there was an interlude. My Torturers refreshed themselves with cans of beer, the crowd continued to enjoy the sight of my full-frontal nudity, now decorated with red weals across my breasts, pudenda and thighs.
When they were ready to resume, I was allowed to turn and face the Post again. It was almost a kindness to be flogged on my firm back, though the Torturers were skilful in ploughing fresh furrows to cut across earlier ones, ever exacerbating the excruciation.
And it wasn't long before they scarcely needed to touch my quivering skin with the kiss of leather to start me squealing. When you're being whipped, girls, your body’s your own worst enemy, the pain you’ll mostly cause yourself, through your tense, terrified anticipation, your fear of where the next stroke will cut. Yes, I quickly learnt the victim’s role.
I was made to turn and be lashed again from in front fairly quickly in the second round, two of the Torturers were using stiff, springy whips which were lighter and less bruising than the big bullwhips they'd started with, but they cut all the more sharply, and they used them with precision on my tits – cutting into my right nipple – and my pussy – slicing into the crack, carving my lips. They had me dancing deliciously, kicking, writhing, leaping, the crowd was in ecstasy.
During the third round, I was growing unbearably weary, my body exhausted by the pain and constant beating. But it's my curse to be fit and healthy, they knew I wasn't going to faint or loose consciousness. Although brutal, they're skilled practitioners, avoiding the blows that could cause life-threatening internal injuries.
But in the final round, I was made to turn forwards yet again, and they were clearly not concerned if they caused permanent damage to my female machinery, indeed it could have been their deliberate intention, to wreck my chances of bearing and nursing any babies. Blow after blow was carefully aimed at my lower abdomen, at the pubic mound, between my legs at my vulva, and again and again cross my breasts.
Blood was spurting from my cunt, my breasts were half-flayed, scraps of skin hanging down with fatty ooze mingling with thick blood to dribble down my front. I was screaming hoarsely, writhing weakly, unable to do more than absorb the shocks and allow the pain to surge through me.
At last, the four Torturers stood back, and the Officer approached with his own short, sharp dog-whip. He glared at me, I hung my head submissively, "Sir," I whispered, "I'm sorry."
He swung the whip, the thong cut across my face, catching my right eye. He flicked again, cutting my lip. I howled, begging him to stop. He thrashed harder, blood cascaded down my left cheek.
75. Punishment complete. I was released from the iron ring, fell to my knees, blood spewing from my lips, my sight dimmed, my hair ragged with sweat and gobbets of blood draped over my bleeding face.
They made me hold up my arms so they could unlock and remove the manacles. After that, a sharp kick set me crawling across the platform, I staggered down the stairs, and crawled again to where my clothes lay.
I found the towel I'd brought, wiped myself with it, soaking up as much as I could of the blood that was still oozing from my wounds, especially those just inflicted on my face. No-one gave any help, there was no medical attention, not even a drop of water to drink or to wash myself.
Eventually, I pulled on my dress – no point in bothering with undies, I'd be too sore to endure them and they'd only be soaked in blood. I wrapped them up in the bloody towel along with my hair-grip, and - yes - even the dirty tampon (I'm still on camera, Guards still watching, better take no risks) Put on my trainers, got to my feet and staggered drunkenly to the gate, where the Guard let me out.
Mum was waiting, she hurried me through the dispersing crowd – many youths whooped and jeered as they saw me, then suddenly a group of toughs, big, burly men, blocked our way. One of them dragged Mum aside, the others pulled up my dress, found I was naked under it, gloated at my whip-shattered body.
I don't know how long they held on to me – probably only a few minutes, but it seemed they'd never let me go, I was terrified they were going to rape me, I knew the police would turn a blind eye. A crowd gathered around, cheering and urging them on. But something restrained them, at last Mum and I were allowed to make our way to the public toilets, where at last I drank some cold water and had a rudimentary wash.
Then we had to hurry to catch the last bus back home. The driver wasn't keen to even let me aboard, Mum assured him I'd sit on layers of plastic bags and my towel so as not to bleed on the upholstery. Passengers scowled when they saw me. They knew very well what I was – a stroppy teenage slut who'd got what she deserved on Whipping Sunday!
As Eulalia has pointed out there would often be more than one whip at work on the unfortunate girls. Particularly naughty ones would be strung upside down with a tormentor to the front and rear as shown in this pic kindly sent to us by our time traveling Polly Perkins who says she is also enjoying the stories greatly.
