PROLOGUE

 

The woman stretched naked on the flogging bench was the big-boned Irish girl called Bridget, a whore well passed her prime, rendered almost senseless by gin and opium. I guessed Mrs Bright would have had to help Bridget into position, probably with the assistance of the other tart, in anticipation of my arrival. She would have been too drunk to get in herself.

This wooden bench incorporated a pillory to hold the victim's head and arms in place and a bar at the foot which closed over her ankles. The bench stood on legs longer at the front so that it placed the victim at an angle, the girl's rump being in the perfect position for punishment by a man using downwards strokes of a birch or rod at a slightly oblique angle. Despite these built-in restraints, a thick leather encircled her waist to help hold her fast.

But I was not pleased. I had chided the Abbess before for presenting me with well-worn goods instead of fresh young flesh. Bright was reckoning that Bridget was so near the end of her life as a whore as to be almost expendable. I knew no matter how hard I birched her she would only emit pig-like grunts being so far gone with what she had taken to dull the pain. Not only that, but her body had taken so much punishment over the years that she no longer felt the full force of the birch. What was most annoying was that the Madam herself would have given Bridget the laudanum to help her through the ordeal.

I like to hear my victims struggle and scream- it is part of the fun.

The other tart in attendance was much younger, dressed in just a red corset and stockings held up by fancy pink garters, hence her hairy quim was visible. She was heavily rouged but her face was no mere mask, there was some life in her expression though I was more interested in her body which looked firm and voluptuous and, most importantly, she had a good round arse.

'Who is this girl?'

'This is Grace,' said Bright. 'Grace by name and grace by nature.'

'Put her up on the horse.'

Instantly the girl fell on her knees and begged Mrs Bright to spare her a flogging. I knew the girl's fear of replacing Bridget was based on my reputation as a severe flogger. All the harlots in the whorehouse knew I would draw blood and leave a girl badly marked. They would rather be fucked all day and all night in any or all orifices than endure a birching at my hand.

'Grace will please you in any other way you desire, Dr Maxwell. She will pleasure you while you flog Bridget.'

Mrs Bright calculated that she could not afford to have any of her younger girls damaged so much they would be unfit for work for several weeks.

'I'll pay you another guinea,' I said. 'Grace takes the birch and you provide another girl to attend to me, and not some gin-soaked strumpet.'

Grace made such a fuss that Mrs Bright had to slap her face to stop her caterwauling.

'You'll do what I tell you, girl.'

'You drive a hard bargain,' said Bright but she held out her hand for my coin.

Mrs Bright unbuckled the strap around Bridget and helped her out of the frame.

Meanwhile Grace sobbed as she undressed, her face was soon besmirched with tears and snot.

I always liked to be naked when I birched the whores and I knew Mrs Bright lingered to admire my manhood. As she expected, when I shed my clothes, my prick was already standing proud. I am a big man with a virile member.

Reluctantly, she left to fetch the bundle of birch rods and to summon another of her girls.

Grace was able to crawl into position herself and was soon offering me the pleasing sight of her dimpled bottom. While I waited, I kneaded the smooth white flesh which I would soon disfigure, relishing the symmetry of her twin orbs. Her body convulsed periodically with the force of her sobs and I resolved to give her more reason to make a commotion.

'This is Bessie,' said Mrs Bright when she returned with another slut.

I turned to see a plain looking girl with henna hair and a chubby body, wearing only her drawers: her naked bubbies, big and round, quivered as she came over to stroke my rampant cock. When I lowered her drawers to her ankles I saw her thick bush was black, confirming what I knew: that she dyed her hair that outrageous colour.

Mrs Bright had taken the birch bundle from its bucket of water and dried it off before handing it to me.

'Look after Dr Maxwell, Bessie,' she said as she left. 'And you Grace- be a good girl or I'll whip you myself.'

I swished the birch branches through the air so that Grace could hear their menace. They had had been well soaked and were suitably supple. In her favour, Mrs Bright knew how to prepare a good birch bundle.

Bessie followed me and stroked my buttocks as I positioned myself carefully, then reached round to handle my balls and run her fingernails down the length of my upright shaft. I pushed her away to make room for the serious business of flogging.

I could smell Grace's sweat, a sure sign of her terror, and my tool twitched and stiffened still more. I like to flog a sweaty female body.

I raised the birch bundle to shoulder height then sent it whistling through the air to strike the girl's fleshy arse. Grace's body shuddered; a few seconds of silence passed followed by a scream that reverberated round the room and shocked Bessie so much that she cried out in sympathy.

'Ohhhhh! Poor Grace! She is so distressed!'

The force of my strokes left small shreds of bark in the wounds that now emblazoned her virgin cheeks. Her first taste of the birch! I could see from the smooth whiteness of her behind that she had not been flogged before. Mrs Bright's girls offered many services but few of them were required to endure flagellation; they were more likely to dish it out to their clients than they were to receive it.

In respect of whipping, my motto was: it is better to give than to receive.

Grace was weeping so bitterly she could scarcely catch her breath. I could see her body tense up in anticipation of another stroke so I made her wait, turning around to squeeze Bessie's paps. Then I thrashed the backs of Grace's thighs and legs with rapid strokes until they were covered in crimson stripes. By this time, my muscular body was gleaming with sweat, so copiously that drops dripped on the boards below me. It's my belief that flogging a tart is the best form of exercise and tones up the muscles marvellously.

When Grace was able to get her breath back she begged me to stop but I ignored her heartfelt pleading as easily as I disregarded her screams. A girl's entreaties are nothing to me. When I paused, Bessie got on her knees and licked my bollocks, feigning great eagerness to pleasure me.

Again, I pushed the tart away to return to my task.

I birched Grace's back with even more force, delighting in the pattern of red lines I created with my artistry. I used the bundle of twigs with such force that pieces flew into the air but in the main they held together. Whatever was said about Mrs Bright, she knew her business in terms of the tools of her trade. She knew exactly how long to soak birch and hazel rods to have them fit for their purpose.

I paused again to let the pain take its toll on Grace's twitching body. In truth my right arm was tired but would recover quickly. Grace continued her weeping and wailing.

This interval gave me time to thrust my purple headed member into Bessie's face to signal my desire to have it sucked. The girl shuffled forward (still on her knees) and spat on the swollen helmet as if to cool a burning ember, before closing her mouth over my throbbing shaft to begin her work. As her head bobbed up and down, I let the birch rest on her bare back; every now and then I encouraged the kneeling girl with a swift stroke though not with the same force as I'd used on Grace. Nevertheless, these reminders of the presence of the instrument of chastisement had the desired effect for Bessie sucked, licked and slurped with greater urgency.

When I felt I might be about to spend, I pulled away.

I ordered Bessie to help me free the recumbent Grace from the bench and turn her round so she lay on her back, her head placed in the pillory once more, her ankles locked under the bar at the foot. She moved stiffly, clearly in agony, and needed two people to manage her. If she thought this activity signalled respite from her torture, she was mistaken.

For the hapless Bessie this new position meant she could now see what was being done to her unless she closed her eyes.

Her heavy dugs flopped to opposite sides and left a considerable chasm of white flesh between, putting me in mind of a sow about to feed her piglets.

When she saw me raise the birch again she beseeched me not to lash her breasts.

'Sir, No, I beg you. Please spare my bubbies!'

They were ripe fruits and obviously the whore's principal assets which gave me even greater incentive to attack them.

I now encircled the bench so I struck different parts of her tits as I delivered strokes of the birch while on the move. Grace's cries were even more heart-rending (and made Bessie weep in sympathy) as the twigs struck such tender parts. Her whole body twitched and convulsed as the blows rained down. Bessie joined in Grace's entreaties to stop which earned her a dose of the same medicine while I hardly halted my stride.

After that it was my pleasure to fuck both the whores.