Whipping Girl

  WHIPPING GIR

  Aishling Morgan

  Rover Books

  New York

  www.RoverBooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction.

  In real life, make sure you practice safe sex.

  This book is made available in electronic form by permission of VirginBooks by RoverBooks.

  www.RoverBooks.com

  First published in 2003 by

  Nexus

  Thames Wharf Studios

  Rainville Road

  London W6 9HA

  Copyright © Aishling Morgan 2003

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN 0-7952-0205-9

  DOI 10.1335/0795202059

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The author and publisher specifically disclaim any responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly, of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Other eBook Titles from RoverBooks

  One

  Lalage threw open the curtains, to stare thoughtfully out over the rooftops of St Quay. The room she had taken looked out across a jumble of red tiled slopes and faces of brick or brown stone, with the streets cutting between the houses in sharp gullies. Beyond stood the grand buildings of the port, the authority house, the courts, the marine barracks. Further, and higher still, was the cathedral, with the long black wall of the nunnery beside it. Beyond the wall, clustered buildings rose in tiers, crowning the rocky hill. She bit her lip and turned abruptly from the window.

  Her belongings lay in a trunk beside the bed in which she had spent the night, her purple edged cowl neatly folded on top. She knelt, to touch the smooth, heavy silk briefly, her face set in resignation, before she closed the trunk and twisted the key in the lock. Rising, she put her hand to a worn cloth bag, hesitated, paused to pull the bed clothes over the marks of the night’s soiling, and lifted the bag. Her mouth curved into a gentle smile at the memory of how Inez the potboy’s cock had felt in her bottom hole, and at how eager and grateful he had been to sodomise her, then set once more into determination.

  Walking from the room, she made her way downstairs, paid her score and left the Sea Lord. Outside was bright sunlight, reflecting on the water of the harbour and the sea beyond. Scattered clouds moved through the sky, white on blue, like the sails of the ships. The waterfront bustled with life, townsfolk, sailors both merchant and naval, soldiery. Lalage walked with her head down, the plain grey wool of her hood drawn tight around her face, her hand clutched tight to her bag. Few people so much as glanced at her.

  Turning from the front, she made her way through wide streets, past the tall yellow houses of merchants and minor nobles, two great mansions, the palace of the Cardinal of St Quay, and so to the sloping, cobbled way which led up to the nunnery gates. At the image of the Lady, beside the gate, she made a brief genuflection, and walked in, ignored by the bulky, black-robed woman in the gatehouse.

  Steps rose ahead of her, towards an arch set in a squat building of the same grey-black stone as the wall. Lalage mounted them and entered the arch, finding herself in a cool, dim space, with other arches making yet darker openings into the building to either side of her, and beyond, to a cloister looking out onto a sloping lawn. She hesitated, unsure which to take, then turned at the sharp click of iron on stone. A nun appeared, black-robed as before, and with a short, brown cane in one hand. The woman’s expression was stern and far from welcoming. Lalage plucked up her courage and spoke.

  ‘I pray pardon, Sister. I wish to make supplication…’

  ‘You are a Supplicant?’ the woman demanded.

  ‘Indeed, Sister…’

  The woman gave a sniff of distaste and reached out to take Lalage firmly by the arm. Lalage could only follow as she was marched through one of the arches, along a dim corridor, and pushed through another arch into a room.

  ‘One of yours, Verena, found wandering in the cloister,’ the black-robed woman announced, and turned on her heel.

  Lalage glanced around, taking in the high, glassless windows, the bare walls and the five other occupants of the room. Two were nuns. One was in black, as before, but with a grey hood to her robe, standing, with a quirt dangling casually from her hand, of the sort commonly used on dogs. The second was robed entirely in grey, and stood against the far wall, a book and a stylus in her hands. Two other girls stood to the side, both small, one petite, one plump, both wearing nothing but short cotton shifts. The last was seated in an ornate chair, a slender blonde girl, her face of exquisite delicacy yet haughty, even cruel, her poise absolute. Lalage quickly bowed her head to the nun.

  ‘Sister,’ she spoke quietly.

  ‘Into line then, into line,’ the nun replied, her voice brusque, the quirt twitching in her hand.

  Lalage hurried into place beside the two small girls, glancing to the nearer, who returned the look of a frightened mouse. The nun stepped towards them, even as another girl entered, tall, with a mop of tawny curls and an expression of sulky resentment. The nun waited a moment as the newcomer joined the line, then spoke.

  ‘I am Sister Verena, Junior Preceptress, and responsible for you. You will address me as Sister. Present yourselves. You excepted, by nature, Tesserette d’Ortaise.’

  She gave an obsequious bow to which the willowy blonde girl responded with a tiny inclination of her head.

  ‘Well?’ the Sister snapped.

  Lalage glanced to the girls at either side of her, who returned tremulous looks of their own but failed to move. Gingerly, she stepped forward. The Sister’s gaze moved to her.

  ‘Do not look smug, girl. There is no virtue in boldness.’

  ‘I beg pardon, Sister,’ Lalage answered. ‘Iam Demoiselle Lalage Vergelesses, of Autuc, in the north. My family is landed, and seek the blessing of a daughter in Holy Order. Thus I wish to make supplication to Our Lady of St Quay.’

  ‘Evidently, or you would not be here, stupid child. By what right do you wear a grey cowl?’

  ‘I have nothing beside, Sister. Is it not a modest garment, Sister?’

  ‘It is the privilege of Initiates, as is modesty. Remove it.’

  ‘But, Sister…’ Lalage began, only to break off in a squeak of pain as the woman’s quirt lashed out to strike her hip.

  ‘Silence!’ the Sister snapped. ‘You will speak when spoken to, and at no other times. Remember, silence becomes the humble.’

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ Lalage answered.

  ‘Repeat the Axiom,’ the Sister demanded.

  ‘Silence becomes the humble,’ Lalage said quietly, lowering her eyes to the floor.

  ‘Good. Now remove your cowl, and give me that bag. A Supplicant comes in but her shift.’

  Lalage grimaced but moved to obey, her eyes flicking uneasily to the little quirt in the Sister’s hand. It was short, merely a foot length of braided leather on a handle of polished wood, yet her flesh still stung were she had been struck.
The blood rose to her cheeks, her embarrassment stronger by far than when she had stripped for the potboy’s attentions.

  Beneath the cowl she wore only a loose chemise of cheap, threadbare cotton, which did little to conceal her breasts, and was sufficiently short to leave her bottom cheeks peeping out beneath the hem. As she came bare the Sister gave her a look compounded of amusement and disdain. Lalage passed the cowl across and hung her head, staring at her feet as she struggled to contain her humiliation. The Sister spoke again.

  ‘Here, as a Supplicant, you hold no title, nor family name. From this moment, you are Lalage, pure and simple. Do you understand, child?’

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ Lalage answered quickly.

  The nun responded with a grunt and turned to the tall girl who had arrived last.

  ‘You also are over dressed. Remove it.’

  The girl hesitated, glancing down at her simply cut garment of plain blue wool. Sister Verena lashed out with the quirt, wrapping it around the girl’s thigh to catch one buttock. The girl squeaked, and anger showed briefly in her eyes before she spoke.

  ‘I pray pardon, Sister, but I am naked beneath…’

  Her statement ended in a fresh squeal as the quirt once again caught her, low, across her legs. She bent, her face colouring rapidly to a rich pink as she lifted her skirt up, her blushes hidden even as her body came on view, long legs, muscular buttocks, firm belly and high, heavy breasts. The dress came off, leaving her nude but for her boots, and with her expression sulkier still as she folded her hands across the thick bush of her pubic hair in embarrassment.

  ‘Well?’ Sister Verena demanded.

  ‘I…my name is Benedicta,’ the girl said. ‘Iam sent that my family may gain the blessing of a daughter in Holy Order.’

  ‘Then where is your gratitude for this honour?’ the Sister snapped.

  ‘I…am grateful,’ Benedicta managed.

  Sister Verena merely grunted, and moved to the nearer of the small girls.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I am Nest,’ the girl replied, speaking to the floor, her voice almost inaudible. ‘I am of a merchant family, fallen into poverty through the vagaries of nature…’

  ‘Nature?’ the Sister cut in. ‘You do not mean Mother Nature, I trust?’

  ‘No…I…,’ Nest stammered. ‘No, Sister, I meant only…’

  ‘There is but one Lord, our Lord,’ Sister Verena interrupted. ‘Bare your buttocks.’

  ‘I…Sister, I beg!’ Nest squealed.

  Sister Verena’s hand shot out, to catch the girl by the ear, to twist and pull, jerking her forward, around, and down. Nest squealed again, a wordless cry of panic as she was forced to bend and the cheeks of her bottom were revealed beneath the hem of her shift, round and pink. Again she squealed, in pain, as the quirt lashed down, hard, and full across both buttocks, the tip catching her thigh, to leave a thin, red welt terminating in an angry purple blotch. A second cut struck in, a third, and more. Nest’s squeals grew louder and more pig-like as she began to dance on her toes, legs kicking wide to show off a dark, well furred quim and the rude, brown dimple of her anus.

  Twenty hard cuts had been delivered before Sister Verena let go of the girl’s ear. Nest was whimpering, her face tear streaked, her bottom and legs a discoloured mess of welts and bruises. Free, she got quickly back into line, to stand downcast, still snivelling. Sister Verena moved to the little fat girl at the end of the line.

  ‘My name is Coralie, Sister,’ the girl said quietly.

  ‘And your reason for making supplication?’ Sister Verena demanded.

  ‘I am called, Sister,’ Coralie answered.

  ‘You have heard the voice of the Lord?’ the Sister demanded, her tone menacing.

  ‘No, not at all, Sister,’ Coralie answered quickly. ‘Never could I be worthy, I merely…’

  ‘Very well,’ Sister Verena interrupted, ‘but beware of hubris, for which you would be well whipped. I might still.’

  ‘I am humble, Sister,’ Coralie said. ‘Yet should it prove necessary to further humble me, I meekly submit to justice.’

  Sister Verena seemed to hesitate, the quirt twitching in her hand, clearly deciding if she should whip Coralie. Lalage fought down an unworthy rush of pleasure and expectation at the thought of seeing the fat little buttocks exposed and beaten, keeping her gaze directed firmly at the floor. The Sister stepped back, to cross her arms behind her back and lift her chin, studying the five girls before her for a long moment before speaking once again.

  ‘Are you all aware then, that you have chosen the highest path a woman can take?’

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ Lalage replied, in time to the whispered agreement of the others, except for the seated girl, who was studying the perfectly manicured nails of one elegant, white hand.

  ‘And that,’ Sister Verena went on, ‘should you be accepted, and achieve Initiation, you will become the brides of our Lord, dedicating your lives to His service?’

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ four faint voices replied.

  ‘Is it not arrogant to aspire to such exalted status?’ the Sister asked quietly.

  There was silence. Lalage bit her lip, her buttocks twitching at the thought of the quirt. Sister Verena went on.

  ‘Should not arrogance be punished?’

  Lalage swallowed hard, already imagining the humiliation of her exposure and the sting of the lash. Coralie answered.

  ‘Arrogance should be punished, Sister, as should all sin, of thought, word and deed. I beg penance for my arrogance, Sister.’

  ‘And you shall receive it, in abundance,’ Sister Verena answered. ‘If, that is, you achieve acceptance as Supplicants. This is by no means certain. For one, the pure alone may come to know the bliss of communion with our Lord. If you prove impure you may seek admittance to an order of lesser sanctity than this, or, should you be of sufficient diligence, you may become a servitor here.’

  She turned to the seated girl, again giving an obsequious bow before speaking.

  ‘By nature, Tesserette d’Ortaise, your own purity is beyond question, while as a Scholar, there is no call for your participation in what you might find a distasteful and vulgar display…’

  ‘Not at all, good Sister,’ the blonde girl replied. ‘Pray proceed.’

  Sister Verena replied with another bow and turned back to the four other girls, speaking.

  ‘Purity, by nature, must be proven beyond doubt. Face the wall. Set your legs apart. Bend at the waist. Take hold of your ankles.’

  Lalage felt the blood rush to her face at the command, and hesitated, only to turn quickly as Sister Verena’s eyes hardened and the quirt came up. She bent down, to clasp her ankles, her legs set apart, as burning shame spread through her mind, worse than when she had displayed her bottom for sodomy the night before. Her head hung, she closed her eyes, unable to watch as the Sister stepped close to them. Beside her, Benedicta gave a muted sob.

  ‘Virgo intacta,’ Sister Verena stated, addressing the second nun, ‘although the cunnus is loose and large, which signifies poor moral rectitude. Mark her as suspect of onanism.’

  ‘Onanism, Sister?’ Benedicta asked. ‘I do not understand, and how can I help the shape of my cunt?’

  ‘Vile girl!’ Sister Verena roared, lashing out, to lay her quirt across Benedicta’s legs with all her force, hard enough to send the girl sprawling forward, off balance.

  ‘I…No!’ Benedicta squealed as she went down, then screamed in pain as the lash cracked down on her naked buttocks.

  ‘Filthy…filthy…filthy…’ Sister Verena screeched as she lashed furiously at the writhing girl’s bottom. ‘How dare you use such a vile word? How dare you?’

  Benedicta squirmed frantically away, struggling to escape the shower of whip cuts as the nun continued to scream at her. Sister Verena was red faced with fury, and showed no signs of stopping, until the Tesserette gave a gentle cough. At once the whipping stopped, to leave Benedicta curled up on the floor, whimpering, her buttocks and thighs cr
iss-crossed with welts.

  ‘Your pardon, Tesserette d’Ortaise,’ Sister Verena said, ‘but I will not have such vile language used. This is the House of the Lord, Benedicta! A place of worship, of virtue, of gentleness, not of vulgar depravity! Now get up!’

  Benedicta rose unsteadily, her hand going straight to her hurt bottom.

  ‘Place your hands on your head and stand in the corner,’ Sister Verena ordered.

  The whipped girl moved to the corner of the room, her face set in a sulky pout as she turned it to the wall, to stand with her beaten flesh on show to the room. Lalage tensed as the nun moved behind her. Like Benedicta, she let out a little cry as a finger touched her sex, to trace a circle around the tight membrane of her hymen, and poke briefly into the tiny central hole.

  ‘Virgo intacta,’ the Sister remarked, her finger leaving Lalage’s sex, only to touch again, on her anal ring.

  Once more Lalage cried out, a broken sob, her humiliation reaching a fresh peak as she felt her anus open in involuntary reaction to the touch.

  ‘Do I detect laxity of the expulsive orifice?’ Sister Verena demanded. ‘Are you addicted to sodomy, girl?’

  ‘No, Sister! I…’ Lalage managed, and squeaked as a thick finger was pushed firmly into her anus. ‘Ow! Sister!’

  ‘Sodomised, I am certain,’ the Sister remarked, her finger probing deep into Lalage’s rectum, ‘recently, and I suspect frequently. The orifice opens by instinct. What of this, girl? Do not think to deny your sin!’

  ‘I…I was taken,’ Lalage extemporised frantically, ‘on the way to St Quay…by four men…they…they sodomised me!’

  ‘Liar!’ Sister Verena snapped.

  The intruding finger was pulled suddenly from Lalage’s bottom. She screamed as the quirt whipped down across her buttocks, once, twice, and a third time, to leave her whimpering miserably into the curtain of hair that hung down around her face.

  ‘Would you be virgin if four men had taken you on the road?’ Sister Verena demanded.

  Even as the nun spoke, she had ducked down, to present her dirty finger to Lalage’s mouth. For an instant Lalage hesitated, unable to make herself take the finger in her mouth, before her fear of the quirt overcame her disgust. Her mouth came open. The finger went in and she began to suck, her face screwing up as she took in the acrid taste of her own bottom. The Sister watched with an expression of both revulsion and contempt, then rose and spoke again, angrily.