“And now
for you, my red-haired pretty,” Master Dickon softly growled as he stared
covetously at the trembling Ariel Clarisson. His assistant cut the bonds that
held Beatrice Digby's wrists to the crossarms and, forcing her to her knees,
the young assistant corded her wrists behind her back and left her there with Altea
to agonize and to sob heartrendingly at the torment of their young virgin
bodies ... and to expose, heedlessly now because the suffering was so great,
the dark gold and the jet black tufts of pussyhair which shielded their maiden
love centers.
“Come
along, Mistress Ariel,” Master Dickon chuckled in rare good humor, “you are the
oldest, you have the most strokes, and I shall honor you with the full strength
of my arm. Prepare her, Tom.”
The two
naked ladies-in-waiting who had already received their birching, Beatrice Digby
and Altea Talmadge, 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 to the gloating spectators, for not only had
shame crushed them but the atrocious pain of the flogging had attenuated their
sexual excitement.
She
stood, very pale, her head held high, as the young assistant executioner
approached her, cut the bonds at her wrists and then grasped her by her left
wrist to lead her to the post. “I won't resist,” she whispered, “just get it over
with as swiftly as you can, please.”
“I'm
sorry, my lady, my heart's not in this work. You and those two there are
quality, and shouldn't have to be treated like—well—low hussies,” Tom muttered
back. He made fast work of affixing her wrists to the metal rings set at each
end of the crossarm of the whipping post. Then, with an apologetic, “Forgive
me, my lady,” he set his hands to the neck of her black gown and ripped it down with
a brutal tug. Ariel closed her eyes and took a long deep breath to fortify herself.
She gasped again because the young assistant once again seized the tattered
gown at the hips and tore it down to her ankles, then tugged it off her body.
In order
to shorten the atrocious ritual of “preparation” for the birching, Ariel had
left off her stays and petticoats, as, indeed, had Altea, and Beatrice before
her. She, like they, wore just a chemise, and a thin camisole under it—a kind
of jacket with straps which covered the bosom and the back down to about the
midriff—her drawers, hose, garters and shoes. Now it was the time for the
chemise to be ripped off; and a gasp of admiration, loud enough to attract the
attention of the beautiful red-haired prisoner at the post, rose at the sight
of this voluptuous, lithe, graceful body so tautly presented with extended
arms, on tiptoe, all her fine, agile muscles quivering and in play, in this
scanty and provocative dishabille.
Charlotte
Sophia leaned forward over the windowsill to follow the stripping of this proud
vixen who, in her opinion, was the worst of the lot, the one who had instigated
this ridiculous trick which had so insulted her regal person. She wished she
had made it the cat-of-nine-tails instead of the birch, and doubted the number
of lashes instead of only twenty-three, one for each of Ariel's age. But at
least, she-thought grimly to herself, the little Dime would receive many
more lashes under the hot South Carolina sun, toiling on one of those cotton or
tobacco plantations. She had given orders to the Lord Chamberlain to see to it
that Ariel's indenture, even more that the lot of the other girls, be directed
towards one of the harshest task masters, so that Ariel might well expiate her
sin.
The young
assistant now ripped away the camisole, and an even louder gasp rose at the
sight of Ariel's magnificent titties, their dainty coral points stiffening with
the cool air of this cloudy May morning. What magnificent, erect and arrogant
globes they were, hard pears of pale creamy flesh flecked delicately with
myriad rosy nuances, that exquisite speckling which attested to
the natural tint of Ariel's hair and the pigmentation which supplemented it!
Her sweet
belly was flat, and the dainty niche of her navel was exposed, an adorable eye
which seemed to wink at the avid spectators, very narrow and deep, so furtive
that My Lord Bruce Warrington, the first comptroller of the Royal Treasury, who
had a penchant for thrusting his turgid penis into the bellybutton of his
concubines and there achieving orgasmic fulfillment, seriously doubted that the
sweet circumference of Ariel's navel would allow such introduction.
Master
Dickon, who was examining the remaining birch rods soaking in the two
brine-filled buckets in order to select a proper instrument for the fustigation
of Ariel Clarisson's behind, now called out in a low voice to Tom, “Don't rush
things so, man! Let 'em enjoy the baggage's bare skin! Let her wriggle about a
bit before you take down her drawers. You'll have a better tip for your work,
take it from an old hand at the trade!”
Ariel's
lovely creamy cheeks turned scarlet with mortification as she overheard this
obscene suggestion. She steeled her muscles as she pressed herself against the
rough upright post, finding that she had been bound so tightly at the wrists
and in such a pose that she had to exert all her muscular strength to stand on
tiptoe if she did not wish the tight cords about her sensitive wrists to chafe
and dig cruelly into the tender skin.
The
spectators could see through the tightly molding white batiste sheath of Ariel's
drawers the magnificent choreography of her buttocks, those solid and
enticingly contoured ovals with which her long, supple and beautifully
sculptured thighs merged in such harmonious juncture and it promised a highly
entertaining spectacle when the drawers should be removed and those pale white,
rosy-flecked bottom globes should quake and contract and jiggle and dance under
the stinging switches of the executioner's birch.
Ariel
Clarisson waited in a growing agony of suspense, praying that it would be over.
Half a dozen times she was on the point of crying out to the executioner to
begin the punishment, that it might be the sooner over. But each time she
checked herself, knowing that the malevolent Charlotte Sophia would only find
therefrom a sadistic delight in knowing her victim so afflicted by the mental
torment which always augmented the physical.
The cool
air laved her titties, flinting the coral buds in those dark-coral aurolae. As
she pressed herself, the sides of her titties rubbed against the rough wood,
reminding her of where she was and what awaited her, and she shuddered
violently at this foretaste of pain to come.
“Oh, God,
let it start, let it start before I cry out and shame myself before that
vicious sow! Ariel
thought as she prayed to retain her sanity in this awful moment of degradation.
And as if in answer to her prayer, she suddenly felt the strong fingers of the
young executioner's assistant on the waistband of her drawers. He pulled the
waistband open, grabbed the tops and then slowly peeled the garment down from
the glories of her jutting bottom ovals. Slowly, like a connoisseur delectating
over that Callyphygian regalia, Tom drew the sheath down inch by inch so that
those who watched might rhapsodize over the gradual unveiling of the firm,
quivering, satiny oval hillocks! Ariel tensed herself, and arched her loins
forward in an instinctive virginal attempt to hide the dark-red curls of her
maiden bush from those besmirching eyes. Now she felt her drawers slither to
her ankles, where they remained out of a refinement which the executioner
himself designated with a gesture of his hand.
And she
stood ready for the birch, naked to the stocking tops, the lovely, deeply
hollowed spinal column making her back a wonderful canvas of soft creamy flesh,
which culminated in those two temptingly ripe and firm, succulent bottom ovals
with their gradually broadening furrow hiding its mystery in the ambery-shadowy
groove which separated them.
All was
in readiness now, and the spectators were agog with libidinous excitement. For Ariel
Clarisson was the most beautiful of the trio, the oldest, the most courageous,
and, it was well known, the ringleader of all these merry pranks which had
finally boomeranged to bring her to this demeaning scaffold before the members
of the court and the royal household.
Master
Dickon rose, having selected the birch. It was a long and supple sheaf of
switches, about seven of them carefully selected and profusely twigged so that
the green buds would add additional sting to the tender quivering flesh of the
naked prisoner. He brandished it in the air, whistled it over his head, as he
slowly approached, with a heavy and ponderous dignity befitting his royal
service. Here, in his opinion, was a magnificent bottom on which to work, one
on which he could show the full gamut of his mastery. The girl's skin was
delicate and delightfully sensitive, he was certain. And now he took his place
at Ariel's left, his eyes feasted on the tensing ovals consigned to his
punitive arm, observing with a silence view the resilience of the flesh, the
contortions and the twitchings and palpitations which pervaded Ariel's naked
flesh and which, in his role of torturer and executioner, told him much about
the victim's temperament and her ability to withstand the flogging.
“You will
count twenty-three, Tom,” he announced in his gruff voice. Ariel again drew a
long breath and tremblingly tightened her muscles, arching on tiptoe, her
calves and thighs quivering with the tension of her muscular resistance to the
rod. She bowed her head, as in meditation, her eyes tightly closed. But she
could hear the murmur of voices, unintelligible and yet, she knew, commenting
on her naked charms, speculating on her ability to endure the flogging without
crying out or pleading for mercy. And she knew that Charlotte Sophia was surely
still watching at that window, waiting to gloat on her torture. She would bite
her tongue off before she would utter a single supplication for leniency.
Master
Dickon was in no hurry. He had already demonstrated excellent skill with Ariel's
predecessor, and a glance at the still whimpering naked girl lying to one side
on the scaffold beyond the post told him that she, at any rate, had no reason
for complaining over her due. But this girl, the Lord Chamberlain had informed
him, deserved the full brunt of the rod, a chastisement that would be
unforgettable and recall to her, during her years of servitude in the colonies,
the crime of lese-majeste which she had dared against her sovereign to
whom she owed all fealty and respect.
“One!”
the executioner's assistant called out in a ringing voice.
Master
Dickon lowered the rod and studied the tensing creamy bottom before him. The
first cut had left thin parallel bright pink streaks over both cheeks of Ariel's
bare behind, and they were deepening now and darkening as the cool air caressed
the palpitating flesh. He could see how the muscles of her sinuous calves
flexed and shifted as she prepared herself for the next cut, and he smiled
dourly to himself. She was a proud upstart, a fancy, pampered vixen who
doubtless had never known such castigation. He would have her howling before a
baker's dozen, or his name was not Reuben Dickon. He did not doubt that this proud baggage
would be shrieking ere long.
Grinding
his teeth together, he stepped forward and sent the birch whistling across the
base of Ariel's naked behind. Again she jerked convulsively against the
whipping post, grinding her furry snatch against the chafing wood, her head
lifting a little, and her eyes opening under the ferocious stinging impact of
the switches on her soft sensitive skin. But this time she had been prepared
for it and she had-ground her teeth too to hold back any outcry. Nonetheless,
the uncontrollable shivering along her thighs and calves and into the cheeks of
her tightening buttocks told the executioner that she had not been impervious
to the stroke.
“Two!”
Tom announced.
There was
a long pause until the next stroke, and Ariel nervously shifted from foot to
foot, harassed by the stricture of her tender wrists against the cold heavy
iron rings at the cross-arm. She bowed her head, she drew several deep breaths
and prepared herself for the onslaught of that wicked, swishing rod. Out of
maiden modesty, she continued to contract the muscles of her bottom to hide the
shameful intimacy of the mysterious, shadowy crease between the oval globes.
Master Dickon smiled again. She was an obdurate piece, this one! And judging
from the way she squirmed and jerked that sweet arse of hers, he would wager
his entire fee for this morning's work that she'd never been so much as
bare-bottom smacked by her folks when she was a child. Else she would know that
the stiffening of the muscles only makes the rod bite the more greedily and
cause the more pain.
Then
suddenly he lofted the rod, waved it in the air, and brought it down with a
direct vertical sweep over the left buttock, the tips of the switches biting
against the tender side and the edge of the hipbone, the full impact of the
withes harshly stinging the plump firm curve of the summit. Once again taken by
surprise, Ariel Clarisson jerked convulsively, and turned her face slightly to
the left, as a stifled moan rose in her throat. Her nostrils flared and shrank
as she fought for breath, and she was forced to shift from foot to foot to ease
the now aching bite of the cords around her slender wrists.
“Three!”
Tom announced.
Instantly,
with hardly a moment of respite, Master Dickon whirled the birch above his
head, and then drove it down on the right buttock, in exact counterpart to the
previous blow. Ariel writhed and twisted violently from side to side, the firm
mounds of her bottom jiggling and quaking in this peroration, and again her
head rose, her eyes very wide now and blurred with tears, while a strangled
“Ohh!” was finally wrested from her as Tom called out the fourth stroke.
Altea and
Beatrice watched from where they lay, their own pain momentarily forgotten as
they perceived the stoic courage of their dearest friend. And they, like the
spectators, gasped aloud as they saw the hooded executioner step back, the
birch extended horizontally in the air and then step forward to deliver a
sweeping slash over the base of both huddling naked creamy globes.
“Oh—ahh!”
Ariel Clarisson gasped aloud, and for the first time she glanced nervously back
over her shoulder to see the dread figure of the executioner.
Again
Master Dickon paused, lowering the rod to the floor of the scaffold while he
contemplated the effects of the first five cuts on Ariel Clarisson's naked
bottom. The weals were darkening now, and showed up in salacious contrast to
the pale creamy expanse of that magnificent behind which had not yet been
touched. He had made a kind of geometric pattern, with the two vertical cuts
barring each globe in a downward sweep, and then the three parallel strokes
across the tops of the hips, the very center of her bottom, and the base. Where
next the birch would strike that voluptuous backside of hers, there would be
intersecting streaks which would cut the finely grained skin and at last draw
blood, he knew.
But now,
to vary the fustigation, he raised the rod overhead and swept it around and
then from right to left across her bare shoulders. Ariel had not expected this
variation in the punishment; as a consequence, the bruising shock of the
switches falling en masse over her gracefully slim shoulders drove her
forward so that her titties mashed their impetuous crests against the heavy
wooden whipping post, and a barely audible groan of “Aahhh!” was torn from her
trembling lips.
“Six!”
the young assistant declaimed.
The
seventh blow followed at once, across the waist, and so adroitly placed that
the tips of the supple withes licked round Ariel's naked side and onto her
belly. Her face twisted with anguish, as her body convulsively jerked from side
to side and she seemed to arch her loins against the post as her head tilted
back, her eyes filling with tears, her nostrils flaring and a sobbing “Ohhh!”
announced her feverish discomfort. The streaks left by the switches on her fair
skin were bright under the cool air and the leaden sky, and they would darken
with the caress of the air upon the sensitive flesh. The executioner's
assistant announced the seventh stroke.
Now
Master Dickon contemplated the gracefully chisled thighs, wonderfully supple
and lithe, admiring the dainty pale blue rosette garters adjusted at the
stocking tops to keep the girl's hose without wrinkle on those long lovely
legs. He would make them caper before the count had reached the twenty-third
stroke! And to that end, slowing raising the rod, he cut from right to left
across both naked upper thighs, just below the base of that jutting vulnerable
and already piteously welted backside.
“Ohh my
God, ohh!” for the first time Ariel Clarisson cried out and shrilly under that
furious slash. A woman's thighs are often more tender than her bottom, and the
proud coppery-haired lady-in-waiting had never before known the ignominy or the
burning bite of the punitive rod on her fair skin. She executed an awkward jump
from foot to foot, almost like a grotesque peasant dance, her naked titties
jiggling, her quivering bottomcheeks jouncing and contracting voluptuously, and
the murmur of the spectators grew louder as they delectated over this visible
weakening under the lash. They longed to see the blood flow, longed for
desperate cries for mercy, longed to watch her naked, gloriously exciting body
jump and twist and jerk and then finally, frantically, seek to evade the
furious slashes of the birch. There was no pity in their hearts for Ariel
Clarisson; she was now only a naked, female body sentenced to be whipped,
condemned to be degraded for their pleasure, and they were impatient to have
her taste the full lees of the bitter draught of suffering and ignominy. Master
Dickon was perspiring under his hood, and he examined the rod, which had begun
to fray. Many green buds and a few twigs lay scattered on the floor of the
scaffold around the whipping post. He cast aside the birch and walked back
toward the two buckets of brine to select another, meanwhile gesturing to his
assistant to bring him a flagon of ale which had been placed by a guardsman on
the edge of the scaffold near the steps. He found another rod as supple and as
murderously flexible, swishing it about in the air, and then replaced it in the
bucket while he strode back to quaff his ale. Ariel bowed her head and groaned
aloud, desperately praying for strength for the remainder of her lashing.
Fifteen more lashes, fifteen horrid biting kisses of that fiendishly stinging,
burning rod. And an eternity of despondent shame and degradation as her body,
unable to do her bidding longer as her will weakened before the onslaught of
pain and suffering, twisted and jerked like a puppet to the tune which the rod
would call.
Once
again, Ariel could tell by the taut silence around her that the birch was about
to resume its hellish work. And even as she thought this, the ninth stroke fell
solidly across the center of her bottomcheeks, the twigs whisking round towards
her tender groin, delivered with full force, and driving her with a spasmodic,
wrenching lunge of her naked body against the whipping post. “Oh God, oh God!
Give me strength!” she cried aloud, raising her tear-drenched eyes to the
cloudy sky above, and her fingers clawed the air as she uncontrollably jerked
at her bound wrists. The muscles of her bottom spasmed, as did those of her
thighs and calves, and for a moment the streaked and quivering bottom ovals
formed a rigid mass of tender flesh furiously resisting the pitiless cruelty of
the lashing.
“Nine!”
Tom pronounced.
Without
respite, Master Dickon whirled the rod about his head, stepped forward and sent
it sweeping over the very same spot where the previous stroke had bitten.
“AAARRRHHH!!!
OHH, HOW IT TEARS MY POOR FLESH!!! HAVE PITY ON ME!” Ariel Clarisson
screamed, in her exorbitant agony. She had ground her pussy against the
whipping post, and now she twisted and rubbed herself as if in the salacious
act of onanism, while her naked titties heavingly flattened against the
unyielding wood, her head fell back, her eyes widely dilated and blinded with
tears, and she shifted from foot to foot in a desperate attempt to find some
solace in the cruelly constrained position which made her so vulnerable to the
wickedly whistling birch.
All that
she could think of was that thirteen more blows of that terrible rod remained,
and that already after ten her bottom and shoulders and thighs felt scorched,
and her muscles were aching from the repeated stress she placed upon them in
preparing herself to meet .the burning shock of those licking, searching withes
which curled around her tender flesh so pitilessly.
With it,
too, was the frantic and desperate wish to conceal as much of her private
person as she could from these jeering eyes, and that was why she rubbed her
pussy and flattened her titties against the whipping post. But oh, if they
would only untie her wrists, she would gladly hug the post and bear the
thrashing courageously, for her wrists ached so cruelly and she was sure the
skin was broken from the twisting of the thin strong cords into her flesh as
she writhed and jerked under the blows from Master Dickon.
The eleventh
lash was atrocious. She heard the whistling Huishhh and immediately
pressed herself forward, but that still did not give her defense enough against
the horrid pain. It was like a scalding douse, applied horizontally just below
the plumpest curves of both bottom summits, and it made her cry out hoarsely
again, wordlessly, for she had rebuked herself for calling for mercy after the
previous stroke. Her ears were buzzing and her temples were pounding as she
heard Tom call out “Eleven!”
And now
again without respite, hardly had his last syllable echoed into silence, than
the birch resumed its diabolical torment of her tethered naked body, sweeping
from on high and diagonally from right to left down both shuddering and welted
bottomglobes.
“Oh how I suffer!” she cried aloud in her despair, knowing even as she
uttered the words that Charlotte Sophia was relishing them, mocking her
suffering, gloating over it and yearning for more to be inflicted.
“Twelve!”
the executioner's assistant called out.
Once
again Master Dickon lowered the birch, studied it critically, and then moved
back to the edge of the scaffold to stoop, retrieve his flagon, and to empty
it, almost in a single draught. Refreshed, he set it down with a clatter and
then returned to the whipping post. Ariel had turned her head over her shoulder
to follow him and when her eyes met his hooded face and she could see the
glitter of his beady eyes through the slits in that hood, she uttered a
groaning sob and quickly bowed her head and closed her eyes, trembling fitfully
as she strained on tiptoe. The muscles of her calves ached furiously, and her
kneehollows felt weak and trembling. But above all else was the flaming fury
which these last few cuts attacking her naked posterior had inflicted.
She heard
him chuckle. It was with satisfaction, for he had his purpose. He had made this
baggage, this flouncy lady-in-waiting to a queen, wriggle and cry out for
mercy. The eleven remaining blows of the birch would make her grovel. Before he
finished, she would babble that she would even give her body to him if he would
suspend the birch. And this would be his final triumph before his sovereign.
Sadistically,
he extended the rod of switches, and laid them solidly across the base of that
magnificent and now cruelly streaked bare bottom. Ariel caught her breath, and
gave a sobbing little whimper as again she stiffened herself and arched tightly
against the post, her pussycurls rubbing convulsively in her agitation. Her
teeth were chattering now, and a cool wind from the northeast had come up, but
it did not sooth the furious smarting and burning of her whipped bare bottom.
Swishhh! The thirteenth stroke was given
after a pause of thirty seconds, during most of which time Master Dickon had
kept the rod pressed against the area he had selected for his cut. But it was
backhanded, from left to right, with the full strength of wrist, and his
dexterity made her cry out again, hoarsely and wordlessly, once again turning
her tearstained contorted face back over her shoulder to implore him with her
agonized eyes.
Now he
paused again, and with his left gauntleted hand rubbed his sweating forehead.
He would have preferred to have been stripped to the waist, even cool as it was
for a May morning, but it had been the edict of the Lord Chamberlain that he
would wear this funeral garb to strike terror in the hearts of the young
culprits.
Ten more
lashes, Ariel
thought to herself, Oh, dear God in heaven, give me strength, or let me
faint under the birch so that I am not conscious of my shame and my suffering.
But he
let her agonize there for a full minute before he applied the fourteenth stroke
of the rod, and this one too slashed across the base of her bottom but from
right to left.
Her call
was raucous, and her body clashed against the wooden post as she lunged
forward, twisting her hips, rubbing her pussy furiously and lewdly against the
chafing wood. Her fingernails dug into the post, as she jerked at her wrists,
and the cords had bitten so deeply so that the flesh was bluish and swollen.
“Fourteen,”
Tom enumerated in a clear voice.
Only nine
left now. If only he would whip her somewheres else, she prayed. But Master
Dickon wished to crown his handiwork with so able a thrashing as would send
this arrogant and fancy jade off to the colonies with a bottom well marked to
show her future master what an undisciplined baggage she was. Swiftly this
time, the fifteenth lash was delivered, over the tops of Ariel's squirming
hips, and a sobbing wail was torn from her, as she seemed to shift from foot to
foot in a jerky, dance-like step that drew coarse jeers and hoarse, lascivious
comments from the gaping audience.
Again she
raised her eyes to the skies, but there was no sun to shine upon her. The air
was cooler now, but again it could not alleviate the agony of her burning
bottom. Even to move from foot to foot was torment, even to stress her muscles
of calves and thighs cost her acute torture as the muscles of her bottom
twitched and contracted, sending frightful new waves of suffering through the
now livid, violently striated flesh. Only here and there, in obscenely pale
patches, could untouched flesh be seen on the shuddering oval cheeks of her
naked behind.
By way of
raillery at her weakening to his strength, Master Dickon applied the next blow
squarely across the middle of her naked bum, and she twisted frantically,
shaking herself as if to disperse the burning fury of the switches; her head
turned to one side, and a sobbing cry of “Oh God, oh God, pity a helpless girl
who suffers beyond her due!”
And from
the second floor of the palace, Charlotte Sophia gloatingly cried out, “You
have not yet begun to know what suffering is, you shameless young Dirne!
Master Dickon, I wish to see the blood spurt from that waggling backside!”
The
hooded executioner turned and bowed, saluted with the frayed rod. Casting it
aside, he went to the brine-filled buckets and chose a bulkier birch, swished
it in the air, and then planted himself to the left of the now sobbing,
writhing, half-fainting red-haired prisoner.
With all
his strength, he now delivered each of the remaining cuts, with hardly a pause
between each, across the broadest curves of those bewitchingly impudent,
resilient hillocks of Callyphygian beauty, and under each Ariel Clarisson
shrieked like a lost soul, capering, dancing from foot to foot, twisting her
ravaged, teardrowned face back to implore mercy, sobbing, groaning through her
choking plaints, as blood pearled indeed from the many savage crisscrossings of
the striata dealt by those biting switches.
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