Tuesday, 18 March 2014
The Birchings Continue...
Altea was punished here. Why not download this and add your own ideal pics for Beatrice.
Just as with Altea, Beatrice's dress and chemise were ripped from her body, and then her camisole. A gasp of admiration greeted the appearance of her naked breasts with their soft, pink, crinkly nipple buds and their wide, dark-coral circles which limned those succulent titties.
She knew the futility of pleading to retain her drawers, but all the same she could not refrain from bursting into poignant tears when the young assistant ripped that final veil from her as she stood there, arching on tiptoes to ease the strain on her arms and shoulders, naked save for stockings, rosette garters and shoes, at the whipping post.
Beatrice's bottom was magnificently rotund in its exuberant but flawlessly proportioned contours. It was a bottom that fairly cried out for the rod, and Master Dickon deliberated over it for a considerable period of time before he finally walked to the buckets and selected the instrument he meant to use on Beatrice's naked posteriors.
Beatrice seemed to try to hold her breath, and she clenched herself tightly and arched herself forward, so the dark golden curls which hid her plump, soft, virgin cunt could be hidden by the whipping post. But she could not control the sporadic agitation of her naked titties, which rose and fell with increasing turbulence as she heard Master Dickon move about her.
For her broader, rounder bottom, he had selected a heavier birch. Placing his hand on the nape of her neck, he growled, “One and twenty, and you shall count them yourself to see that I'm accurate, wench!”
Laying the rod across the broadest part of Beatrice's behind, the Executioner kept the poor girl in suspense a long moment, until he finally drew back his arm and dealt her a sweeping cut across the top of her thighs. Beatrice had not been expecting this, and the atrocious burn and agony of that perfidious cut drew a scream of pain from her, as she tried uselessly to jerk free. The second lash caught her across the shoulder blades and drew a strangled scream and a convulsive twisting about of her naked body. But Master Dickon had been jesting when he had told her to call out the count: it was his own official task to make sure the royal edict was carried out to the letter.
“Two!” he announced. Then, leaning toward the whimpering Beatrice, “I'm going to make that bottom of yours jump my girl. It's a superb backside, made for a good birching. I warrant, had your mother and father dealt you such when you were a child, you would not be here then dawning!”
Before the unfortunate, naked blonde could speak, Master Dickon had applied the lash squarely across the base of both huddling bottom globes. Beatrice Digby lunged forward with a choking cry, twisting her face over her shoulder to stare piteously at the executioner, while her fingers clawed the air.
One could hear the panting, heavy breathing of the spectators in the loges and in the windows beyond the scaffold. Master Dickon showed his full artistry now. Sometimes he would prolong the moment of waiting to a full minute, while poor Beatrice Digby whimpered softly, “Oh, my God, finish it, finish it!”
Again, he would lay two or three quick lashes on without pausing, but each attacking her at a different vulnerable and tender area of her pink-sheened body. One blow bit against the middle of her backside, the tips of the switches whisking round to sting her flanks. The very next, with scarcely any pause, slashed diagonally from left to right over the huddling hillocks of her underbum. A third, with hardly a pause, attacked the upper curves of her shuddering thighs. She began to caper from foot to foot, desperately trying to escape the burning lashes of the birch.
By the tenth lash, her cries were louder and shriller than poor, weeping Altea's. Out of the first ten strokes, Master Dickon had laid six over the jutting roundities of her velvety smooth bottom-globes. Their contractions, their yawning and shrinking uncontrollably, provided a salacious treat for the lusty males in the eager audience. And for the executioner himself, as well, for though Master Dickon was a bachelor and shunned by women who knew his occupation, there were times when he would journey to some remote village in the provinces to carry out the execution of some notable culprit, and then he would act the gallant with some none-too-discerning tavern wench or farmer's daughter.
His eyes blazed with lust through the slits of the hood and he resumed Beatrice's flogging. The last ten cuts were mercilessly prolonged to almost a full minute between stripes. Nine of them fell on that shuddering, welted, squirming, jerking bare bottom, and the last slashed across the tops of Beatrice's straining and flexing thighs, tearing from her a veritable yell of frantic, intolerable suffering.
Sweat glistened on her welted body as she sagged from the whipping post, head bowed, knees bending. Her buttocks were livid now, the stripes turning from crimson almost to purple. The birch rods were frayed and a profusion of twigs lay scattered on the floor beneath the writhing, inflamed burning bottom.
The two naked ladies-in-waiting who had received their birching, Beatrice Digby and Altea Balmadge, lay on their sides, their wrists bound behind their backs, naked except for their hose and garters and shoes, to one side of the whipping post. Their groans and tears and lamentations could be heard in the uneasy silence of the royal court yard. And now it was the turn of the ringleader, the beautiful twenty-three-year-old Ariel, whose temperament was as fiery as her hair and who now would be called upon to prove her courage. She could see the eyes of the spectators greedily staring at the two squirming, shamefully naked bodies, she could see the creamy skin of Altea marked with the now livid welts of the birching, and the soft pink skin of Beatrice, that exquisite blonde with such a gentle and docile nature, angrily striated. They were past caring now that they showed their pussies and bumholes to the gloating spectators, for not only had shame crushed them but the atrocious pain of the flogging had attenuated their sexual excitement.