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Clotilda
The Victorian Era
by P.N. Dedaux


CHAPTER TWO: JUDICIAL

"It is winter, a cold time for madam to strip in," sneered the bewigged and red-robed judge from his seat of eminence, "see that you warm her shoulders thoroughly, Mr. Beadle. The cart's tail to Taunton and let's see if you feel so rebellious by the time you have made that little journey, lady."
The good woman so addressed bent her head. A modest seamstress, she had come to the assizes in her Sunday best: Her fault – she had been heard talking ill of the King at Sedgemoor. Two wardresses touched her elbows and, smiling to themselves, escorted her from the courtroom.
"Next," thundered the judge.
"Eustacia Shaw," called the clerk.
A big beefy milkmaid stepped forward next to the rail. She had been found unwittingly to have sheltered one of the soldiers of the fleeing Duke of Monmouth's Army. The soldier had bewildered and bedded her and though she was innocent of any complicity in the revolution she sensed vaguely she had sinned and stood before them all dazed rather than terrified. Her placid ruddy face seemed to excite the judge to further dilations of penalty, and much grinny nudging of elbows among the wardresses present with their prisoners.
"Have you aught to say why you should not be sentenced, girl?"
"No, Y'r Honor."
"Very well. Since there was mitigation in your case, we shall not send you to the cart, Eustacia. But you look as if you have good solid meat on your bones and could take a few lusty thumps. ..." The red-faced judge smiled at the titters round the court. "You will be conveyed from this place to the county jail which you shall not leave until you have received eighteen strokes from the bull's pizzle across your naked buttocks. Mark her down for eighteen of the best, Mr. Beadle. Next?"
It was 1685 and Judge Jeffreys was living up to his name. No sooner arrived in the little West country village than he had proceeded to sentence six to execution, over fifty to the American plantations, for supporting the luckless Monmouth. Now he was finishing the assize with his favorite work, sentencing women to the whip. Standing at the back between the wardresses Clotilda shivered in her skin; there were two more and then herself. The pizzle was a hideous punishment. She had neither had it nor seen it, but knew a girl who had-for picking pockets in an inn. She could not sit down for days. Moreover, the manner in which it was carried out ...
"Susan Brown."
The slim supple girl before the bar now was but sixteen, and sobbing already. The justice's bleary eyes twinkled.
"Do not think I shall be moved to leniency by your frail age, Sue Brown," he finally opined. "Vice begins young. You shall pay your penance with the rest, and hop a bit after, I don't doubt. Twelve strokes of the pizzle on the naked arse. Next?"
As the weeping girl was escorted out, a murmur passed through the courtroom. A sort of sigh arose as the next offender was brought forward. For this was none other than Widow T readle, a woman of social prominence and good works in the village. Admired and respected by all, she advanced on her own, frowning and composed, her glossy fair hair bound round her wide head in a bun at the back, the light catching its broad part in the center.
"Mistress Treadle," announced the clerk.
The silence then was pregnant, for this was a case of more than mere injustice, some vindictiveness was at stake somewhere, it was plain. Her fault was to have had a nephew, whom scarce she knew, in the rebel ranks. Judge Jeffreys nearly leered at her.
"Have ye aught to say?"
In a clear confident tone the woman replied, "I am totally innocent of any complicity in the insurrection, Your Honor." She said it in a manner as to express: An' ye know it, too.
The judge leant back with a little malicious chuckle.
"You have been found guilty by us and shall pay your due penalty, Mistress Treadle. You give your age as forty-five. Perhaps it has been too long since you have felt the rod, with your husband dead, too. Do you not think a touch of the pizzle to your so ample hindquarters might not drive out the seeds of rebellion once and for ever, ma'am?"
Suddenly he leant forward, brows bristly, and thunder on his forehead. In a tone of repressed fury he went on, "For you shall bare 'em, ma'am. You shall strip in the yard with the rest and go down on that bench and squirm your rebellious soul out as the whip cuts into your hams. And then you shall follow the cart with your arms tied to a hurdle and your big breasts swinging and bouncing as the lashes bite into your shoulderblades, for all to see. Oh Mr. Beadle, I urge to the utmost rigor with this woman. Take her to your prison and make her wish she'd never been born with a bottom. Let her feel the marks for a month. Marry but you shall get it, Mistress Treadle, and more than you bargained for. Now here is your sentence: You shall be taken from this place to the jail, not to leave there until you have had across your naked buttocks full thirty strokes of the bull's pizzle. On the morrow you will be whipped at the cart's tail from here to Teviot, market-place to market-place, and on the morrow after that from Teviot to c***d's Greene and from there back to here again, on the succeeding day. You will have one week in prison on bread and water to recover and reflect, then you will be released only after a second dose of thirty strokes at once followed by two hours standing in the pillory with bare bum for all to see. I wager that should cure you of your pride."
Throughout the dread peroration the woman had striven to preserve her mien. Finally, however, her mouth fell open, aghast, at the enormity of what she had to suffer, she shook her head from side to side, disbelievingly, and was led from the room in horror. Again the hum of murmurs succeeded her. Not an eye that followed the solid hemispheres moving under the soft material of that gown but imagined them rankly stripped and laid out on the whipping bench for the ministrations of the beadle. "Clotilda Bramble!"
She stepped forward, mouth dry. She had not realized she was so frightened; her big jugs juddered in front and would not seem to settle still. Her fair hair was done in a strong plait that hung like a rope down her back. She strove to straighten her broad, bony shoulders. Her only crime was to have conveyed a contaminated letter.
"What have you to say?"
"Ner-nothing to say, Y'r Honor. Only please, sir, spare me the pizzle."
There were chuckles round the court at this.
"Turn around," said Judge Jeffreys, "and, wardress, do incline her forward slightly. So. Yes. All right, now stand up and face me, Clotilda Bramble. You have good broad, even slothful hips and I see no occasion to let you off. You can expect no clemency from me. A sound thrashing never did a girl of your age any harm."
What was it going to be? How many, dear God, how many? Clotilda implored of the scrolled and aching ceiling.
"... and there be released after receiving twenty-five strokes of the pizzle across the naked buttocks. Next!"
She knew. At last she knew. Her legs felt liquid as the wardresses touched her, smiling slightly. She could feel every eye on her "lower person" as she left.
Eight women in all were taken on that day to the county jail, where they were lodged overnight to be whipped the morrow morn. The grim abode, lit within by rush lights, was reverberating already to the exciting news and Clotilda, who was put in a cell with the snivelling Susan Brown, heard the wardress' whispers with a sense of sickening doom.
"There's to be a flogging tomorrow. Yes, eight of 'em, and one to get thirty."
"Lawks! she'll be raw as a beet after twenty!"
"The Judge knows what they like least, eh!"
"Sure to be plenty of spectators."
Clotilda passed a poor night, repeatedly awoken by the sobbing girl in the cot across from her. Once she upbraided the chit: "Oh for heaven's sake, stop whining, do. You're only getting twelve and I'm to have twenty-five."
"Hou-hou, it'll sting so!"
"How do you know? Have you had it before, then?" "Na. But I seen one."
And Clotilda left it at that. The next morning they were taken to ablutions with the other women prisoners. The woman washing next to Clotilda said quietly, "Are you the ones for flogging, then?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm sorry for yer. They say they've got Overseer Robinson in especial to do it. He's merciless, that one, what's more he enjoys doing it, too."
"Have you had it, then?"
"Several times. Try to relax and not clench the cheeks, it only makes it hurt more. Alas," she sighed, as she dried on a towel, "there is nothing one can do about it. 'Tis a brutal way to punish a woman. But none of us want to repeat it. I've had as many as fifteen and all I know is I'm keeping out of the way
_ „ I j_ m
on't." "I'm ordered twenty-five," said Clotilda hollowly.
"Then I'm truly sorry for yer," the woman repeated gravely. "Ye'll need all yer strength for that."
When she returned to her cell, food-gruel and warm milk-was brought to them by a cheerful wardress. Clotilda complained that she did not feel hungry.
"Nonsense. You mun't eat it all. 'Twill give you strength and, besides, there is something in't will help you void well, after. Come now, cheer up, you aren't going to be killed, quite." She walked up and down, rubbing her hands, as the two gloomily ate. "At the same time, you are going to be seriously hurt. We feel no pity for you here, nor should we. You have made your mistakes and have to learn your lesson. In fact, we shall most of us thoroughly enjoy watching your bottoms cut into by the whip, and writhing like the devil as you pant and gasp and, finally, shriek. For the pizzle always wins in the end. Mr. Robinson is expert in its use and will wrap it right round you. He takes his time, too. You, Bramble, are up for twenty-five, I think. He will draw that out for minutes and minutes. The first five will set the weals, and then he will work on that band, thickening it until it bursts; then just you wait to see what it feels like when the tip eats into raw skin. The pizzle is a bull's member, cut when the b**st is still warm, and stretched with weights. The tip may not be much thicker nor my finger but it's hard as stone and hurts like fury on the right. After ten you'll be howling. No, there's no doubt but that it's a very severe punishment. All the same, I have yet to meet a woman who wanted to come back for more."
After this crude commons Clotilda found it surprisingly easy to void in the rude bucket provided them; whether it was fear or the aperient nature of the gruel, she emptied herself almost embarrassingly. She was beginning to feel very frightened.
Shortly after, the eight culprits were assembled in a bare refectory room. Several wardresses were present, smiling and laughing amongst themselves, their animation a contrast to the dismal mien of the prisoners. Their hum of conversation ceased as an older woman, clad in black, with keys at her belt, strode in, close followed by another wardress with clothing on one arm.
"That is the Matron, or principal here," Clotilda heard hollowly from one of the criminals behind her. "And those are the flogging frocks."
The newcomer disposed of some instructions and then approached the sorry group. She too was smiling broadly, as if thoroughly enjoying herself.
"So. You are all for whipping and, if my records are correct, it is the first time for each of you. May it be a salutory lesson you will ever remember. You had better all make up your minds to some pretty sharp pain in the posterior. There's nothing you can do about it except grit your teeth and go through with it. By the end, if I know Mr. Robinson, you will be pretty sorry you ever entertained treacherous ideas. I don't promise you a picnic. It's bare buttocks and a bull's pizzle for one and all. Miss Rye, fit the frocks on them now."
"Yes, Matron."
The prisoners then doffed their garments and put on, in exchange, thin shifts of pale fawn merino. These sleeveless "flogging frocks" (as they were termed) were softly flared as to the skirt, which reached no more than just below the pubes.
There was merriment amongst the wardresses in their fitting. Young Sue Brown clearly did not mind the necessary exposure of her legs, while two others openly vied for beauty's crown in their novel costume. Clotilda sighed at such misplaced vanity as she smoothed down her skirtlet as best she might over her opulent crupper. Mistress Treadle, however, whose buxom seat was barely covered by the cloth, clearly deplored the succinct nature of their garment designed to shame.
"Ye needn't worry you'll be cold out there," called one wardress cheerily. "You'll feel a mite chilly watching, maybe, but then y'r turn'll come and the Overseer will warm you up. You'll be glowing like hot coals ere he's done."
"What, Matron?" said Mrs. Treadle then, "are we to be allowed nothing under, at least until the execution?"
The senior woman thus addressed turned angrily at this: "Shut your mouth, widow. Your pride will do you no good here. You are going to be whipped like the humblest farm-girl, my fine lady, and that means on the well-bared buttocks, in front of all. An' if I know him, Mr. Robinson will make your chastisement, as the gravest, the most atrocious. Just you wait and see. What is more," she railed on, "I would have you bear in mind that while I may not order pizzle strokes, which are the prerogative of the judiciary, as is the cart's tail, yet I am mistress of my domain, which is this prison. I can call out the birch on a female offender when I wish and make her rue the day, with a few smart ones on the bottom. An' if you're haughty with me, widow, I shall do it, too, and see how you like the flicks of my twigs on the bloody bum Mr. Robinson is reserving for you. I have half a mind to order you a clyster, put a few pints of hot oil up your anus, my good lady, and make you empty yourself in public, in the courtyard, in front of everyone. Oh, we know how to deal with pride here. Sisters Hutchinson and Ward, do you take this stuck-up widow to the infirmary and shave off every hair on her body. Only return her to me here entirely bald-bald above, bald before, bald under the armpits. Let her feel it, too."
"You may not," said Mrs. Treadle then, in a low shocked tone. "It is not in the order. It is surely not allowed."
"You wish to wager?" asked the mocking Matron. Advancing she laid a hand on the plump furry mound of the horrified widow before her. "This too. Bald-headed and bald-cunted. Every hair."
It was a subdued rank who stood in their short frocks, bare of foot, when the protesting widow had been led out by the designated wardresses. They were made to perform sundry exercises, bending and stretching and squatting, the better, they were told, to limber up their flesh for the whip. Then each was individually "curried." This was an occasion for yet more merriment.
This instrument of the stable, the iron curry comb, was created for the coats of horses, not the posteriors of tender females, thought Clotilda as she saw the first girl treated with it. The comb was held at the base of the bared buttock-cheek and drawn briskly up, three or four times, by a wardress. The fatty mass tremored under this scratching which was designed to draw the blood to the surface and improve circulation in the network of nerves beneath the integument. It ruddied the whitest skin and left the whole bottom, Clotilda found in turn, tender and tingling- "nice and ripe for the whip," as her grinning "comber" told her.
Finally they were ready, seven pairs of female buttocks destined for a ration of excruciating pain, in order that the soul within might be improved. The Matron then lengthily described the nature of the ceremony before them, after which, at a signal, they were all marched out, along dismal corridors, to the courtyard where awaited their fate.
The sight drained the last strength from Clotilda's marrow. Here it was to happen, indeed. Here all was prepared to see justice was done-eight tender women put to humiliating and excruciating pain. The place reeked of pain and all color left the faces of the culprits, whom the wardresses now shepherded in a stone corridor giving onto the open, rectilinear court. Snow lay on the ground, but a hardy sun lanced its rays over the prison walls, striking on the far side, where a similar arcaded way contained the spectators of the day. Animation was in the air as several of these, mostly ladies, examined the grim whipping bench or playfully swung one of the heavy pizzles. Clotilda saw the Beadle, in his tall hat, as also a thin man clad in black who, it was told them, was the surgeon in attendance. There was another prison official, a young man with a slate in his hand--this, the wardress explained in a hush, was for counting off the cuts on, "so that none should get extra." But it was Overseer Robinson on whom every guilty eye was riveted, and around whom the women visitors chiefly gathered.
The whipper was a huge man in breeches and a leather singlet, thonged up the front and leaving his brawny arms bare. The man's coarse ruddy face was heavily mustached and spike-like hairs protruded from his chest. He gave the impression of immense muscular virility, a chained dog dying to be unleashed, Clotilda thought with a gulp, and wreak his vengeance on their shrinking flesh. He was demonstrating a pizzle to two eager-eyed ladies in lace bonnets, bringing it whacking down on the polished circular boss in the center of the bench with a ferocity of stroke that made Clotilda blink. It was over this boss, she knew now, they had to place their pelvis and it could be adjusted by a screw beneath.
"Good heavens, sir!" said one smiling lady with a flushed face. "How that must hurt!"
"It's pretty sharp," said the Overseer, his breath steaming in the cold air, "I admit. But the pizzle is an instrument that makes the pain at its worst come some ten seconds after the shock of impact. When it worries and eats in, that's when it does its best work. You'll see 'em, Ma'am. At first it's a good lively thong-cut, then they jump; after that they begin to squirm and wrestle with the pain in earnest. That's when the fun starts. After four or five they know they're done."
"I saw you flog that guardsman at Maidstone, Mr. Robinson," said one pretty, dark-haired woman of about forty. "You were magnificently merciless."
"Ah, that drummer lad, Ma'am. Yes, I recall. He could hardly walk away after."
The woman rose on tip-toe, to his ear. Placed near, Clotilda caught her whisper-"Be as strict with the widow."
"Oh I will, Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am"-for, before sidling bright-eyed away, the woman had slid a coin in his palm-"Oh do not fear, they'll all have had enough by the time I've done with them. A woman has more gluteal fat protecting her nerves ..."
"All too much, I fear, Mr. Robinson," said a small, dimpling blonde who, with her coin, and it was gold, hissed in his ear, "Draw it out well, sir."
"Can it be possible," grinned another stylish woman, inexpertly swinging one of the pizzles, "that a bull's member can be stretched as long as this? Why, it must be four feet, at least."
"It is, Ma'am," said the whipper, taking the round, rugous thong of a greyish hue from her and doubling it in two. "This is one of a pair I got fresh from the butcher this morning. He has stretched it a little thin, yet feel how hard it is at the tip. That is what catches them. This stinger is admirable for certain kinds of arses-if you'll pardon the expression, Ma'am-but when there is a lot of meat, for this widow here you mention, I shall take my tried-and-true." He pointed to another pizzle hanging from a wall-hook. "You'll soon see her move her jellies under that."
Jelly, thought Clotilda. It was what she felt. All sick and limp. She knew the rumor-that these village dames paid the judge to get him to order a prison whipping, which they could be present at, for following a cart's tail was not possible or even enjoyable for them. Now she was witnessing their heady excitement close to. Each one of them was smiling, aroused, eagerly anticipating the work of the whip on bare flesh. At that moment there was a stir their side of the yard. Widow Treadle was returned to their ranks, her bowed head entirely bald. She looked as she had been weeping. Sue Brown plucked weakly at Clotilda's hem-"I need to go."
"You'll have to hold it, silly," she hissed back. "You can't do it here."
A wardress went up to the Beadle. She had a smirk on her face. "The women for whipping are all here, sir."
"Are they?" He looked over, across the bench. "Ah yes, and not too eager for it, I do see. Very well, bring them on. Ladies, all spectators, I must ask you to retire to the corridor now, for the full administration of justice to be done."
All except the Beadle, surgeon, assistant, and Overseer now promptly retired, jostling and nudging each other, under the arcade opposite from that in which the culprits stood. Then Clotilda felt cold snow under her feet as they were led out by two wardresses.
The eight for chastisement stood in a row with their backs to the wall between the twin arcades, facing the foot of the whipping bench. To its right, at its head, stood the Beadle and his men. Alone on its left was the strapping whipper, making practise cuts.
Clotilda found herself one away in the rank from the spectators' arcade. Throughout the proceedings, until her rum to suffer came, she was subject to the constant whisperings and mutterings of these excited women. Though she stared sedulously ahead, trying with every pore to ignore them, she could not close her ears to their continual running commentary, which so intensified her humiliation.
"Which is she? . . . But they have shaven her head entirely . . . that will teach her to be so stuck-up, will it not? How lovely . . . her skirt barely covers her at all . . . which is the one for twenty-five, that Clotilda? Heavens, what a lovely rump ... so thick through . . . 'twill be a treat. . . Sssh, he's about to call out the first one."
"Eustacia Shaw," called the Beadle.
At first nothing happened. Then in the silence a wardress whispered sharply, "Shaw."
The milkmaid stepped forward. Her snub, sullen face seemed expressionless and Clotilda felt bitter envy of her; for this common country wench, it was clear, the occasion was merely an unusually severe thrashing. The disgrace that vexed the higher-bom was scarcely felt in her.
The Beadle looked at his list. "Eighteen strokes on the naked buttocks."
At once two wardresses, both smiling, drew the girl forward by the arms and stretched her on the whipping bench. Short bars were bolted over her ankles and knees and wrists, holding them firmly down. Finally, another bar, padded, was bolted across the small of her back and this one screwed down until it could be seen biting into the flesh as it held the belly hard to the bench.
The skirt was then turned over this bar.
A sigh swept the spectators. It was a broad bulging pair that came to view; a sturdy placid seat, the flesh looked almost hard, blotchy from the cold or the currying, a buttock fully ready for the whip.
"You'd say two cushions stuffed with horse-hair ... a real country rump . . . that's what I call a common bottom, I hope he flogs it to blood, it's all they deserve, the traitors . . . but look how they're making it spread. ... "
A ratchet beneath the bench was being cranked by a wardress with a lever. The shallow boss was raised under the girl's hips, forcing up the buttock basin against the constricting bars, at knees and waist. The Overseer pronounced himself satisfied with the elevation of his fleshy target, whose full depth of rich meat could now be appreciated. He palped the cheeks with his fingers, feeling for the chink-bone or coccyx at the top of the crease. The milkmaid stared ahead, her face raised.
"What a sumptuous spread . . . Heavens, what a behind . . . d'ye think he'll bloody it by eighteen? My dear, those coquelot ribbons in your bonnet are too charming, did you purchase them in Milsom Street?"
Everything was ready. A tense silence fell on the court as the Beadle said, "Mr. Robinson, do your duty."
The girl, who had given up all hope, lay with her broad bottom exposed, her hands limp, her frowning face staring ahead. The Overseer measured aim, laying the snake of his whip across the crupper; then he stood back and swinging it almost lazily about his head brought it whistling down with all his strength upon the fatty parts before him. The pulpy whack of impact was close followed by a startled grunt- "Uingh!"-as the milkmaid's body tried to give a lurch. A darkening weal streaked either hind. Suddenly, after a few seconds, the girl hissed with an access of pain, her buttock cheeks cringing in against the boss. When she relaxed them, the Overseer hit again.
"OW!"
The frightful flogging continued. The man struck masterfully.
Watching him with horror Clotilda yet felt a faint grudging admiration at his expert sense of pain. He made the buttocks bound and rebound. Soon he had striped their whole lower surface and with each shot the girl was gasping out, "Yes, sir . . . yesss . . . yessss, sir!"
"That's the way to cure treachery," said a woman's voice nearby. "A few good ones like that where they do most good and see if she feels so rebellious a rozum tomorrow!"
"She hasn't had half yet and and just look at her right bummie. I wager he'll tap the ruby there soon."
"And won't want to use the milking stool tomorrow, neither. Ough! What a beauty. D'ye see how she tries to roll, and squeeze!"
"You couldn't get a penny 'twixt those cheeks, she's clenching so."
"OWWW, SIRR! AOWWW!"
Almighty God! thought Clotilda, watching. They could not fairly ask a woman to endure this.
For it was soon clear that a new intensity of agony had been achieved. The girl had wrenched round her raw face, watching the whipper with contorted coutenance, her mouth uttering coarse cries. The lash was cutting now into a band of empurpled bruise, all livid and lumpy on the right. Eight. . . nine . . . ten . . . eleven-the great maid made the bench shake under her desperate boundings.
Suddenly there was, as it were, a startled, nigh hysterical, yet satisfied cry from the spectators.
The last stripe had cut in so cleverly the hard tip had burst the turgid blister forming on the right. Blood spattered on the snow. The Overseer then calmly took from a steaming bucket a hard brush and proceeded to scrub the place with its bristles, thus opening and making more raw the wound. The girl shrieked her agony.
"Are they allowed to do that?" asked a timid lady's tone near Clotilda.
"Certainly, it is the Overseer's right to scrub. With the last Governor they used to be far more rigorous, and make them raw with the curry-comb first and rub salt in, too. They are growing soft. After all, she is a traitor to her King."
"You are right. Nothing is bad enough for them. But she will feel the stripes now, I wager."
As the whipper went for his pizzle again, Clotilda heard a gulp and a soft hushed rushing sound. She looked to her left. With a horrified look on her face Susan Brown was clasping and unclasping her hands. Between her feet the snow was melting, a small golden puddle forming. She had been unable to hold it in. No one seemed to notice for the nonce, however, as the whipping continued.
It did so with redoubled fury.
"Ah no, sir . . . not there, sir . . . AIIIIOWWW!" shrieked the girl as she twisted in terror and agony. "Dear God, sir, spare me there ... but whip up, sir, whip up! Good Sir Robert, knock!" This an impassioned plea for the Beadle's traditional tap with his stick to end the punishment. But suffer it to the full she had to, and did. The last strokes fell on wet flesh and she left blood on the bench when let up.
Two wardresses took her arms. Falling back, her skirt was instantly stained and stuck to her right cheek. She emitted a constant loud moan-"Ow-w-ow-ww!" as she was led slowly away by the smiling women, her hips writhing. Another wardress approached the Beadle.
"Good. That was fine whipping," Clotilda heard a-buzz in her ears now. "Now she knows what it's like to have a raw bottom beneath her. Did you see how stiffly she walked?"
" 'Twill last her well for a while. It is the only way to cure crime and stamp out dissent. A well-whipped buttock for each and every one of them. They've all got to get it and they know it, just look at them. But what is this? Another pisser?"
For Sue Brown had now been called out, and her crime discovered.
"I c-c-couldn't help it, sir. So c-c-cold!"
The Beadle was frowning and shaking his head; he had exchanged some words with the surgeon. Finally he said, "I cannot award extra for this. These are Matron's stripes, for pissing in prison."
A voice from within behind him, a woman's, cried, "But may not we see the birch strokes for this offense, given here before all, as she did it before us all?"
But the Beadle shook his head. "This is a Matron's matter and must be dealt with internally. But you, Mr. Overseer, I counsel the greatest severity in this case. You have twelve strokes across the naked arse. Make them felt, sir, as you never have before. It is a small bottom to work on. Cut into it where it joins the legs. No mercy, sir, no mercy."
It was clear that none would be shown. Bolted to the bench the girl exposed a liquid, muscleless little bottom, a little larger than might have been expected and perfectly round. She too appeared to have given up all hope and lay waiting for her pain with a tremoring body, as her executioner made his preparatives. The ladies pronounced themselves fully satisfied with the target.
"A nice firm little pair."
"Positively made for the whip. ..."
"So young, so vicious."
The Overseer stood back, whirled his whip above his head and brought it snapping down across the young rump. A violet weal jumped up on either hind. The girl gave a shrill squeal, more one of startled surprise than of pain at first. She screamed at the second but now that the punishment had begun her mind calmed and she took it exceptionally well, albeit wriggling her lively behind a lot toward the end. Indeed after the twelth had fallen the Overseer said gruffly, "Mr. Beadle, sir, I claim another cut. She was wriggling so there was no getting at her." The surgeon was consulted and extra given ("A butcher's," laughed one woman from the side). When she was let up the poor girl surprised and amused all by breaking from the wardresses and, mewling with pain, her face scarlet, running barefoot through the snow to the far end of the court, clasping her welted hinds in her hands; there she danced her pain to the delectation of all. In fact, the wardresses did not attempt her recapture for several seconds. The display was clearly a joy to the entire assembly. No blood had been drawn.
While Sue Brown was led out at last, and preparations made for the star performer of the day, Clotilda became increasingly conscious of the ladies under the arcade. This was now buzzing with their excited comments. Their arms lolled over the stone as they hung on each other to get a better view. A lace handkerchief fell in the snow. Clotilda found their gloatings more and more an irritation, more and more humiliating.
"But look at that one's bubbies. You would say udders, just."
"Such huge jugs and a-wobble all the time. Helen, do look at her nipples."
"Heavens! Her c***dren will know they've something in their mouth when they give suck."
"She looks to be in milk now."
Clotilda was aware of one of them trying to catch her eye. She kept staring stolidly ahead, to where the whipper was taking practice cuts with his pizzle on the wooden boss and making reports like pistol shots; but at last she glanced. Slightly behind the others a richly dressed lady was grinning at her; she had a red face and was mouthing a message to Clotilda. She kept rubbing her hand over her skirt behind and working her lips. . . . they seemed to be saying Cunt full of cock. . . . Cunt full of cock. ... But now there came a hush. The Widow Treadle was before the bench, head high even though shaven.
"Thirty strokes across the naked buttocks," said the Beadle with relish, after consulting his list.
This time the two wardresses, both smirking, took her wrists and before laying her on the bench carefully lifted her frock before-to show the bald pubis to all. The woman made a ducking motion and was clearly heard to say, "You do not have to do that." She was bolted down most strenuously and the boss beneath her screwed high, so that she had to camber back her loins most painfully.
Obviously intending to keep her dignity as well as she could, the woman stared expressionlessly ahead, only the color of her cheeks, contrasting with her shaven pate above them, testimony to the shame of her exposed buttocks.
These were magnificent cheeks of a soft downy white, with deep dimples each side; full of fat they were not yet flabby, being exceedingly broad at the base. The Overseer began his palping of them. The widow closed her eyes. The man grasped great fistfuls of the bountiful bum and rolled them in his palms, showing to all the intimacies of the anal divide. But when his finger roved down this the woman turned her head sternly to the Beadle: "Sir! This is not written. He does not need to do this to me."
It was the master surgeon of the prison who answered: "He is merely feeling where the flesh is fullest, Madam. You are to receive thirty strokes, the weals will be deep; this is in your own interest."
"Nor will she be looking forward to her second ration of thirty after this one, sir, I assure you," said the Overseer, going to a steaming bucket around which the snow had thawed. He drew out of it a toughly bristled brush, another item of stables rather than boudoirs, and roughly scrubbed up the fat of the cheeks with it. This caused the woman some pain. Screwing up her face she made second appeal: "Sir! Aaah! This rigor is not warranted. Ouch! We were put to the curry within. This is-hou!-cruelty, sir. Call your man off."
"He is teaching her to criticize him," said a lady in the arcade by Clotilda.
"What a heaven-sent pair; and to think they will get thirty. I have never seen a thirty."
Silence fell. The Overseer stood grimly back, pizzle-tip bending at the snow. The woman sank her head between her arms, where it lay like a ball. For a moment she looked all arse. Thwllllck!
With a whirr of air and a bloated whack the tough whip fell, streaking a weal full across the halves. These seemed to bound, the woman gasped, but that was all.
"Now she knows what the pizzle is like."
"Twenty-nine to come, Venetia!"
The second "sighting" stroke thumped down, somewhat lower. Again the buttocks bounded, this time cringing in for some seconds after.
"She will sing soon. Do not worry, he will make her sing."
The intense silence in the snowy yard was interrupted by another pulpy thwack. Everyone was watching the victim with bated breath, to see when she would start to crack. The Overseer hit with all his strength, grimacing and showing his teeth as he whacked in, seeming to stun the flesh there. After the fifth the woman's head slowly came up; she stared ahead, frowning, her jaw muscles standing out as she gritted teeth to bear it.
Thwacllk!
The man grunted as he hit, lunging with all his might. Her grunt answered his--"Uingh!"
Her feet twisted in. After the seventh there was a broad band of purple weal across her cheeks, a thick, blood-clotted bruise on the right. She shook her head from side to side, as if wondering.
"This is excruciating," she was heard to say.
With great effort she took two more, then cried out "Ow!" in a high, almost c***dish tone that caused much laughter.
"And not a third done," said a woman near Clotilda.
"She is squirming nicely now."
"Just wait until he taps the ruby."
At this point the Overseer deemed it necessary to raise the boss. He screwed it up higher, pushing the wide bum further apart and arching the back. The widow panted. With haggard face she turned to the Beadle.
"Sir! It is breaking my back. I cannot move from the strokes, in any case."
No answer was given her. She sank the billiard ball of her head between her arms.
"That will teach her to clench. She may not squeeze in now, Maud, just you see."
"And he can work lower, too."
"I do not think I can wait any longer. I shall have to come, and soon."
"I am saving it for the one with the titties."
The hot excited whispers, the tense giggles, irritated Clotilda. Two more cuts ripped in and, indeed, it appeared that the woman was now deprived of control of her gluteal masses. After each stripe the cheeks spasmed involuntarily, writhed fattily together, then slackened, limp, for the next belting crack. The man was not merely whipping with severity, he was cutting in with single-minded ferocity.
"Haaa!" The raucous pant at the next brought her head up, mouth open, saliva on her chin. Again she shook her head, wonderingly. "Cutting me in two ... he does not have to strike as hard as this. Is there no mercy left in the world, sir?"
As if to show her the meaning of the term her executioner brought down a jelly-juddering slasher of a stripe; the tip broke the blister on the right and a fleck of blood popped onto the snow. A sigh of satisfaction, even some faint claps, came from the arcades. Clotilda watched with widening, horrified eyes.
"Now he'll make her jump a bit, you watch!"
"Aaaaargh-naghkkkk!"
Her feet writhed in, her hands fluttered like fettered pigeons before her, and she cried loudly through the next three stripes. Right beneath her the broad band of bluish flesh was turning livid, lumpy, and enrawed on the right.
"Mercy! Oh God! This is agony!"
After one pitiless stunner the Overseer then took his pizzle at each end and bestrode the bench above her thighs.
The whispers augmented-"Now he is going to saw her, oh what heaven this is, Belinda."
"I'm soaking, too."
Suddenly an a****l cry, shocking in its intensity, resounded through the court. "GOWWWW!"
Holding his pizzle across the length of her chief weal the whipper had rapidly drawn its rigous length to and fro across the rump, like a man drying with a towel. This energetic sawing tore off the thin integument of the weal and made all raw and moist.
The woman shrieked.
"SIRRR! It is not allowed ... it is not permitted . . . such rigor is not written . . . HOUUUU!"
The whip thrummed.
"GAOWWWW!"
From this point the punishment reached another level of intensity, it was plain. The pizzle whipped into wet flesh. The buttocks jumped, squirming madly. Insane tremors possessed the body. The feet beat against the benching, the hands scratched it to blood before, the bald head rocked like that of one demented. The pizzle kept up its pounding, pitiless work, the intervals ever longer. Blood oozed over the right side, then trickled in the crease.
"He is coming again ... ah, sir, kind sir ... AAARCH! I am in hell, I cannot stand another . . . oh God, merciful father, not another . . . AAAOO0-WWWWYOW!"
"This is what a whipping should be," said a voice. "They should all have had it like this, and more."
At the twenty-third the man "sawed" again, slightly lower down. A wardress administered smelling salts. With a vulgar motion the Overseer spat on his hand, and began again.
The last strokes recorded on the slate fell on slack flesh. The woman's head was between her arms again. A weakness seemed to have taken her. Her buttocks gave convulsive jumps but her lungs allowed her no air to bellow with. The last cut fell, as powerful as the rest, the Overseer stood back and wiped the sweat off his forehead: "Now see if you can stand up after that, Ma'am."
Indeed, the wardresses, still grinning, threw the bolts and stood aside as if to watch. Moaning dully, the woman did not move. Her swollen, tumefied buttocks twitched and shuddered, as though a sea of ants surged just beneath their skin. The bloody weal across their base oozed gently.
"Stand up, woman," said the Beadle. "You have had your score."
Her dazed face rose. With immense effort she half-rolled off the bench, pitched into the snow where she knelt, panting, her tunic skirt still high. For full a half minute, while she gathered strength like some stunned ox, the spectators saw her thus, the great breadth of her arse punctuated by the hairless vulval slit which bisected the grim wealing.
"Help me up," she said at last. "Ach, what he has done to me. . . ."
"Come, Madam. Rise. You have had but your deserts, and will profit by a sore bottom for a few days."
Weakly she stood up. Two wardresses took her arms. She limped off with them, her rucked skirtlet still high behind her and causing some merriment in the arcades.
The sunlight in the yard was swimming. As if dazed by the white snow Clotilda stood with a knuckle in one eye. For a second she seemed not to see. But she could hear. From a far distance the Beadle was saying, "Well, girl, what are you waiting for. Come and get your medicine."
And a woman's voice from the side cut in, "I have never seen one less anxious."
"Come, Clotilda Bramble, the time of retribution has arrived. Twenty-five strokes across the naked buttocks."
Then the gloating wardresses seized her and again, as if in great haste, stretched her on the bench. Clotilda felt the cold bars at ankles, knees, and wrists-then the heavy padded one fell on her waist. It took her breath away. Her skirt was raised upon it. She was bare. Then the ratchet of the boss was turning beneath her. The wardress working it whispered in her ear, "Pretty traitor, say your prayers; this pizzle is the toughest I e'er seen."
"Spread her well, Sister," said the Overseer. "This one has more strength in her hams and I mean to take her full across their width."
"I'll spread her for you, Mr. Robinson."
"Ow!" said Clotilda. Her back felt arched beyond belief; warm beneath her mons, the boss thrust up her loins painfully. She felt herself pouting upwards for the whip and at the same time realized that the bar at her back deprived her of all control of her pelvic basin. Her buttocks were limp masses.
The Overseer scrubbed them hard, then palped them with calloused fingers. Then he laid the pizzle athwart her crupper. Its tip felt wet. There was a pause, a quick and brutal ripping of the air and Clotilda heard herself call out, "AOW!"
"Now it has begun," said a laughing voice. "What a bound!"
The first stroke had fallen across the full breadth of her girth and, as promised, its excruciating pain and bum only came to her some ten seconds after the meaty impact. She tried to bury her head. Merciful Heaven! Twenty-four more. She counted to five and then lost count, realizing that the enormity of physical suffering had brought her soundly to her senses, was making her live in a new and terrible way, with an intensity in every fiber of her being She felt the helpless masses of her buttock cheeks churn and writhe of their own accord, under no known impulsion of hers. He had welted her right across them, even rather high, and, as she awaited with starting eyes the next drubbing whack, part of her horribly admired the monster thrashing her. Something instinctive in her knew that he was perfectly punishing her. She was sweating and panting by now and suddenly she heard herself shout. A ferocious slash had bitten into her bum at its most tender spot; she felt a trickle from her right cheek. She was aware of the satisfied murmurs from the spectators, the stifled clapping of gloved hands.
"Bravo, Mr. Robinson!" said a woman's voice. "That is the way to treat traitors. Now she will feel the tip properly."
"It is a superb weal," said another. "I declare I have never seen its rival. You would say he has hit each one on the same place. So pulpy. And but two inches wide, I'd wager."
"As many thick by tomorrow, Venetia."
"Dear God!" beseeched Clotilda with chattering teeth. "How many more to go?"
The young man frowned at his slate. "There have been s*******n. There are eight to fall."
"That is a tolerably severe bruise," said the surgeon, advancing a pace.
"Do you mean to intimate, Doctor," said the Beadle, "that leniency should be used? We were charged to treat these traitors severely, thrash them thoroughly."
"Sir, sir, good Sir Robert," Clotilda clamored, her feet tattoing, "remit the rest. I am in HELL!"
"These are but crocodile cries," gruffly interjected the Overseer. "This is a fat rump and 'twill do no lasting harm. But let me work that strip for you with these last and ye'll have one traitor less in England."
"It is a severe weal," persisted the surgeon, peering over the striped bottom.
"A surface graze, sir," sneered the Overseer. "I must be allowed to do my job."
"All the same, I counsel other disposition of these final stripes. The nerves are so aroused that it will hurt her just as much to whip down on the thighs. Four to each side, Mr. Robinson."
"All on the right, sir."
"Four left, four right, if you please."
With a spitting curse the Overseer stationed himself at Clotilda's head. He was clearly furious as well as in full rut, for before her eyes now she could see his stained breeches a'bulge with his manhood. From this position he took a pace back and whipped the pizzle with all his strength down over her right cheek.
"GAOWWWWWWRR!"
It was the hardest stroke she had had. The thong whistled down her thigh, its stony tip eating into the tender flesh of her upper leg. Breathless, Clotilda's open mouth sought air in panic. This way was much much worse. The angry Overseer was out to make it living hell for her, indeed.
"Tighten her more, Mistress. Get her right up forme now."
The ratchet of the boss creaked again. Clotilda couldn't breathe. A second slash down her left thigh ended excruciatingly behind the knee.
"Oh this is perfect," said a bystander. "She is feeling the full length of the whip now. And see how he is hitting now."
Two more on the right, two on the left, then a final belting crack on each. It was over.
Clotilda was helped up by the wardresses. Her legs were quivering like a randy mare's, but yet felt stiff as stilts. Racking moans shook her body. She wrung her head from side to side.
In the corridors through which she was taken one of the wardresses at her side taunted, "D'ye feel like betraying your King now, Miss Bramble? You're lucky you don't have to go out at the cart's tail tomorrow with Mistress Treadle."
One they passed grinned and rubbed her backside significantly.
But two elderly women prisoners shook their heads.
"They do not need such severity. Look at her bum; she has been cut to ribbons, quite." With the exception of the widow, who was taken to a cell, the seven sufferers were laid out on straw mattresses in an upper dormitory; they lay on their bellies, groaning and breathless, while salve was put on their wounds. Once two rich ladies came in and examined the weals. Clotilda felt cold fingers on her richly purple thigh-welts. A wardress told her the women had paid handsomely for the pleasure. After an hour's repose all seven were given back their clothes again, but for young Susan Brown, the pisser, who kept on her flogging frock. Then, still aching and leaden-buttocked, they were escorted back to the refectory room. Shortly the Matron came in, jingling her keys. She was smiling.
"So now you fine ladies have tasted our good prison pizzle and know what it is to have an arse," she began. "Feeling a little less uppity now, I'd wager. Mr. Robinson worked you all well, and now you know what to expect if you come within these walls again. For I know how to deal with women. I have some seventy under my care here now and I can bare the bottom of any one of them. Only yesterday I had a woman of fifty, a grandmother, sobbing in here like a schoolc***d. Ask about, question my prisoners. They will tell you I know no pity; I mean to show you so 'ere you leave. Stand out, Sue Brown."
The lissom little thing, still in her abbreviated flogging frock, stepped forward from the rank. Now that the worst of her suffering was done she had caught hold of herself, and appeared tearfully resigned.
"I am mistress of this prison and consider your pissing in it an insult."
"Please. An' I could not help it, Ma'am."
"You must learn to hold your water like a woman."
"Sister Rye, what do we do with pissers here?"
"Bare their bottoms and thrash their bottoms," came the grinny reply.
"Sister Hutchinson?"
"Master Birch on the buttocks seems to work wonders, Matron."
"Give this chit a dozen, but first duck her in horse-piss."
Pitifully pleading, the girl was seized by both arms and dragged to a steaming bucket or small barrel. Her dark head was ducked and ducked again in the foamy brew; finally she was held under till she writhed and kicked, to be let up soaked and gasping, half drowned.
Before the facing wall there was an iron bar, thigh-high; in front of it a small slotted pillory for head and hands was latched within a frame, adjustable. Sue Brown bent over the bar, her ankles shackled to either strut, forcing wide her legs. Hem high she showed how brutally welted had been her light liquid hinds. The pillory was lowered, and head and hands guillotined within.
"Gag her," said the Matron, glancing up at a barred window. "We don't want that soft-hearted Surgeon in here."
A thick sponge was forced vertically into the widely opened mouth, a wet rag wedged in on that, and the whole strapped grimly tight behind her head. The girl panted, her eyeballs bulged.
One said softly, "It will be torture to whip her so, Madam. You do not know how tender ..."
"Silence!" roared the Matron. A wardress strode. It was Rye, lean birch in hand and pure fury in her eye. The twigs whistled, flicking cleanly across the shelf of the speaker's fleshy bosom. She ducked with a cry and another cut striped her neck.
"Now," said the Matron. "If you have never seen a salmon leap you may learn now. We know no silly mercy here. If I had my way, each one of you would be reporting here daily for a dose like this, till you saw reason. Proceed, Mistress."
Silence raged in the long room as the woman addressed her rod in measuring quiver to the poor wounded buns. Then the first hoarse whistle of her twigs broke it, the withy limbs clipped in. The buttock cheeks knotted energetically, the girl gave a grunt. The thrashing continued so, in drear silence punctuated by the frightful flaying strokes, the wet mewling from behind the gag. Clotilda saw the Matron stiff as a sentry, hands fisted at her side. She nodded her smiling face after each punishing welt. At last it was done and the sufferer led from the room by the junior wardress, Hutchinson.
The Matron looked at the remaining six as if seeing them for the first time. "You are dismissed," she said curtly. But at the door Clotilda turned. "Miss Bramble, you may stay." Her jaw slacked. "I have done nothing."
"It is what you are going to do about which I wish to apprise you." The Matron gave a chuckle.
Wardress Rye, having set down her verge, closed the door and approached. She appeared to be trembling. She put her hand on Clotilda's right ham and Clotilda winced.
"He gave you something to sit on, yes? You will take your carriage ride back standing?"
She looked from one to the other of them. The Matron, too, had come close. Clotilda saw her corrupt face, the down on her upper lip.
"You have a tolerably sore bottom, Bramble?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"And would like to keep it from further harm, I suspect. Strip off."
"To your shoes and stockings."
Clotilda only hesitated briefly. Once more she removed her gown and shift. She stood naked before them but for buckled pumps, her thin white stockings gartered on plump thighs. The wardress was behind her. She held a heavy iron bar, perhaps four foot in length and provided with straps at each end. Kneeling, she strapped Clotilda's ankles in these, forcing her to stand widely straddled.
"What are you doing to me? Please."
"They ought to order the curry for them afterwards, Matron, as well. That would make this pair tingle."
"It was the ones on the thighs did the work."
"Please. What ... I have paid my penalty. ..."
For Clotilda found her arms gripped behind her back, two leathern cuffs buckled above her elbows and joined by a short strap that was tightened, arching back her shoulders, throwing out her bulging bosoms. She was helpless, scared.
The Matron plucked her right nipple, squeezing it and then twisting.
"It is a custom among us that when an Overseer comes in especially for a flogging to reward him for it." She paused. "Mr. Robinson asked for you."
"Asked for me?"
There was silence. "To have you," the woman said drily.
Sudden understanding flamed in Clotilda. Her face blazed. "No, you cannot ... it is not permitted. I shall complain "
"To whom?"
"To my Judge." There was a laugh. "If there is an ounce of justice left in the realm ..."
"Don't be silly, c***d. He won't touch your maidenhead. If you still have one. He prefers to satisfy himself in another manner."
"What manner?"
"You will find out."
But she knew.
"Come, girl." They were grinning by the open door. Clotilda could only advance slowly, one foot at a timt, lugging the heavy bar. She saw the flagged, sun-dappled corridor she had come down. It was deserted of prisoners or wardresses now; she saw an open door at the end, low of lintel, flames from a brazier dancing within. The Matron pointed.
Clotilda turned her brimming orbs. "As you are a woman, I beg you-spare me this indignity."
The briny birch whined into her tender rear-spheres. Excruciating pain lashed through her. She squealed, arching, her free fingers and hands fluttering like stricken birds either side her waist.
"By Heaven, Hutch, I have a taste to birch this one in any case."
Clotilda lurched forward. It was colder in the corridor. Her buckled shoes rang as she slowly, nakedly, legs held open, advanced. And as she went to her destiny the figure of the Overseer became ever more distinct in the rampant shadows beyond that door. He was waiting for her alright. He still wore the thonged singlet which finished! his waist, his springy chest hairs protruding above. Below the waist he was bare, it was increasingly plain, and it was below the waist that Clotilda, melting within, was looking.
His muscular thighs were astride and between them rose or roared up, licked by the shadows of the brazier's rosy flames, the iron crowbar of his manhood, belly high already , its cobra head blood- engorged, slick, and slightly throbbing at sight of its victim.
Clotilda shuddered, moistening viscously within. Gast's had been like that, just as great. Barreling into her from above. It came back now, clear across the centuries. Distantly a bell rang in the prison. Like her cry within the atrium. The Roman steward, grinning, curly-haired, surprisingly young, standing between her spread legs on the bench, caressing his balls. Valeria saying gently, "Draw your knees up, Clotilda, it will make it easier for yourself. Besides, you will be able to see better."
See! She had seen, she had felt, the thick shank, turgid tool, moistened with saliva, quivering with anticipation, eye a-leak, slide suddenly into her quaking gluttonous tunnel. The fat glib tongue at her pit had felt the rub, the sensuous slide, the first pistoning shrugs and she had gritted her teeth at its giving. Her knees jacked up to her armpits.
"NNNggggg!"
Again the gut-wrenching spasm clutched her; upon the rugous hide her doubled body writhed, her head rolling, dizzied with ecstasy. Yess-ecstagony! Dimly she was aware that her captors were chuckling, that the pillar of stony, glowing flesh was slid, streaming, from her.
"An extraordinary bedewing, my lady."
"These Brits are passion personified." Clotilda felt her head lifted. Valeria hefted her by the hair face-on to the wide raw pulsing bulb of the thing that had speared her. Its shiny sides were literally dripping. "Taste yourself, princess."
At first she resisted, then he thrust, her lips clothed the bobbing prong. Her face was full of absolute maleness, she had to suck her cheeks to breathe, she felt the seething of its root upon her teeth, as Valeria gently rocked the back of her head to and fro. When the man withdrew it from her, it made a clam-like suctioning sound from her lips.
"A minute more," said the matron with a laugh, "and it would only have come out after a few good swallows, I suspect."
The handsome young steward leant forward, lowering it vertically at the puffy moss-lips and placing his hands either side her on the bench. He recoiled with a curse.
"By Bacchus, this pelt is thorny."
Instead, he put his hands upon her aching breast-masses. The now slickened and almost puce-colored k**ney-head aimed itself down and sat itself in her. He began a steady prodding of the elastic membrane.
"Hm, a tough one, milady."
"As painfully as possible, please."
He withdrew, raised himself a tiptoe. Clotilda whimpered abjectly at the dreadful poised piston. Then it was lanced utterly into her with a shocking driving screwing lunge she felt at the back of her head. It was then she yelled.
"Come in, me dear," said Overseer Robinson at the iron-bound door. It clanged shut behind her. Definitively. In the dancing shadows from the brazier Clotilda looked about, dazed. The length and strength of his erection appalled her. Her knees melted. The cowled head seemed to be pulsing at his navel.
"Please," she whispered, fettered.
He slapped her right rump, meatfly, and she squeaked.
"Sorry if I had to tender them a bit, missie, but you must admit ye feel less treacherous now. Heh? Heh?" He tweaked a thumb-thick nip. "The pizzle was a good 'un and there was no sense in not letting you feel it. Those cheeks'll heal but I wager if we meet again, me gel, you'll know who's master. Come now and we'll make all better for you." "Unnnhhh!"
Clotilda found herself flung over a refectory table. Her legs were held wide behind her, her welted rear parts quivered like the flesh of mussels wrung from a shell.
"Please not in the ... . not up the ..."
Lightning volted through her.