Bridewell

I hadn’t been to Bridewell for years. I’d gone quite a bit in my student days, always on a Friday (they did men on a Thursday), enjoying the sport with the other students, leering half-drunkenly at the breasts or buttocks of the whores and other miscreants as they were beaten.

I don’t know why Tobias suggested it that week – maybe somebody had tipped him the wink. We’d shared a dinner at his chambers, me, him and Henry, who’s a surgeon (I never quite ascended to their level and work in a government office). It was a bright autumn day but inside it was as gloomy as ever. We took our place in the public gallery that ran round three sides of the correction room, higher up than we’d gone when we were students. There was a group of students there, but only half a dozen. In our day there’d always be at least double that during term time, usually more. Other than that, the audience was the usual eclectic mix. A couple of priests, a few prostitutes there to support their friends, a few solitary men, a group of lads in their late teens – I wondered how they’d afforded entry fee – and three ruddy-faced old women who could be guaranteed to be the most vicious there. It was a little disappointing. There was room on the benches for maybe two or three hundred spectators and I was sure the crowd had used to be bigger.

What hadn’t changed was what we’d come to look at. In the centre of the hall was the bench, a length of polished wood perhaps eight feet long about three feet of the ground. At the far end, towards where the magistrates sat, there was a bar just above the ground to which the prisoners hands would be fastened and at our end were the leather cuffs to restrain the feet, with a broad leather strap to go over the waist. Nearer the magistrates bench was the A-frame, two eight-foot uprights angling away from us and together at the top, where there were cuffs for the wrists. There were cuffs attached to short chains at the base of each upright and a horizontal bar across the middle from which a thick belt for restraining the prisoner’s waist hung.

On the dark polished wood panels in front of the bench hung the implements. Even now they induced a shudder in me. Three pairs of straps of varying thickness. Three pairs of canes of varying thickness. And then, although it was hardly used, certainly not on women, were the two cats, fearsome whips comprising an 18-inch handle from which drooped nine tails of rawhide, each four or five feet long and enhanced with six knots at the business end. In a tall bucket nearby were the birches, freshly prepared for each session, bundles of a dozen or so switches each about a yard long.

The three magistrates filed in and took their placed on the bench, in the middle the chief magistrate, grey-haired and severe. Then the door in the corner opened, admitting the chill of outside and today’s victims in their coarse grey dresses, guarded by a number of beadles in their heavy blue jackets. I peered over, trying to see what we’d be getting a look at. My initial impression was disappointment. There were seven of them – a fairly standard number – but the three I could really see did little for me. Two women in late middle age and a younger one who was far too heavy-set for my tastes. I remember looking at Tobias, who had a strange grin on his face.

The procedure hadn’t changed. First they did the welcome floggings, beating those who were beginning their sentences (all prisoners were flogged on arrival – usually a low number with a light strap, just so they knew what would happen if they stepped out of line). After that they did the punishments for offences committed in the jail, and then they did the farewells, the severity of which depended on how well they’d behaved – most prisoners were spared them altogether.

The chief magistrate announced there were four welcomes, two punishments and a farewell. I settled back, feeling the familiar thrill in my chest. Even if you felt little for the victim you could still take something from their fear, imagine something a little more enticing that their flaccid bodies.

The name of the first prisoner was announced. It was the heavy-set one. Convicted of soliciting for a second time. Twelve months. Six strokes of the grade one cane on her buttocks. She was led to the bench and her wrists and ankles fastened. They pushed her dress up revealing stout legs and a large wrinkled arse. I wondered why I’d come, even if the sound of the cane whistling through the air, the grunts of pain and the cold counting of the strokes stirred something nostalgic within me.

Then it was one of the middle-aged women. Soliciting. Six months and six on her back with the grade one strap. Her look of humiliation as they peeled her dress down to bare her to the waist was something, but her breasts sagged badly. Nothing there for us, as I said to Henry. Tobias, though, still seemed vaguely amused.

The third one was better – a plump little blonde but young enough her breasts retained a pleasing ripeness. Vagrancy. Three months and four strokes of the grade one strap.

And then I saw her. She’d stayed back, hiding behind the other prisoners, something she was able to do because she was so petite. Mary Whittaker was her name, convicted of indecency. She was so terrified she had to be pushed forwards by the beadles. She was dwarfed by them in height and in girth. As soon as I saw her, I felt my heart contract. In her fear she seemed to struggle to understand she had to stand in front of the magistrates. She had dark eyes that glanced anxiously about. She was the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, her cheeks slightly flushed, her forehead smooth and round. She was, I guessed, 21 or 22. She did not, I thought, look a girl prone to indecency.

She’d been sentenced to four months. I found myself disappointed. More time meant more chances to see her. Although it also meant her farewell flogging, if she received one, wasn’t too far away. But what would she take here? I wanted, for reasons I couldn’t articulate, to see her hurt. I was partly weighing up whether I’d rather see her breasts or her buttocks (breasts, definitely, for me), but was also hoping this might be a dozen or more.

It was six, with the grade one strap. On her buttocks. The lightest sentence possible.

A beadle took each arm and turned her towards us. She looked so incongruous, bare from the knee down, impossibly delicate amid all the harsh brick and stern wood. She seemed almost numb with terror as they pushed her to the bench and made her lie down, fastening her wrists and ankles. Their hands went to the hem of the institutional grey dress. What a job! They pushed it up and I saw a pair of taut, slender thighs and neat round buttocks. They fastened the belt and I realised she was sobbing already.

The beadles who flogged her, both of them in shirtsleeves, were merciless. I couldn’t remember ever having watched a beating as closely, watching as the leather slapped the buttocks, causing them to tremble deliciously. Most prisoners tried to show some defiance, but she was squealing from the off, howling piteously by number six, by which time her bottom was pink, even more delicious than it had been when they began. As she was hustled to the other corner, I knew I’d be back the following week, just in case.

We stayed for the four remaining floggings. They were a disappointing batch: the other older woman getting 12 on her back with the grade two strap for insolence, a pox-raddled redhead getting six on her backside with the grade two strap for laziness and the least exciting farewell beating I’d ever seen, an obese blonde getting a dozen with the grade one strap on her enormous buttocks. But it didn’t matter. We’d seen Mary Whittaker.

*

I became obsessed. I woke up whispering her name. There were times when I could think of nothing but her buttocks. I wanted to see her caned. I wanted to see her breasts. I wanted to see her birched. What on earth had she done? Why was she there? I asked Tobias, who denied any prior knowledge, although he too was obviously captivated by her. I’m not sure I believed him but he came back a week later – by which time I’d already sat through the desultory beating of six ageing prostitutes – with her story.

She was the daughter of a merchant, well-educated, destined for life as a governess, at least until she married. But the merchant had fallen on hard times. A friend of the merchant had offered to marry her, despite being 30 years her senior. When she’d turned him down, he’d accused her of offering to sleep with him for money. I wondered what I could do. Could I get her out of there? Did I even want to get her out of there?

Going to Bridewell on a Friday– alone – became my habit. I came to recognise the regulars. The two old women, who would shout out barbed comments occasionally. Some of those solitary men. The students. The whores with their shouts of support. Most of the time I was disappointed. I saw a buxom gypsy birched – which meant she was stripped naked - for brawling, 12 vivid streaks marking her tawny buttocks, and I enjoyed seeing a mousy girl caned on her back for repeated laziness. I saw the pox-addled redhead beaten twice more, not that I cared. It was the sixth week when I was finally rewarded.

It was a chill, damp day in early November. The benches were much fuller I noticed – and Tobias had come. I felt for prisoners shivering barefoot between the magistrates bench and the gallery. And then I saw her, cowering in the background. I thanked God and hoped it was a back-whipping. I realised then that word must have got around, that that’s why there was a crowd, that was why Tobias was there. He pointed out the governor of the jail in the front row down by the prisoners. Had he also come to see Mary, my Mary?

There were the welcome floggings to get through first: eight of them. How appropriate that the tension should be built up first. A series of minor strappings. One caning. And, finally, Mary.

She was visibly shaking as she stood before the bench, although whether from cold or fear I couldn’t say. The magistrate skimmed the report before him, although it couldn’t have been unfamiliar to him. “Mary Whittaker,” he said, “For repeated laziness you will receive upon your naked buttocks four strokes of the grade three strap.” I hated him. The heavy strap, it was true, but on her arse and only four.

Still, she looked crushed as she was led to the bench, the blood drained from her face. As they fastened her, it was as though she was a rag doll, so little resistance did she put up. Her buttocks were as fine as I’d remembered them. The strap left purplish marks as it was applied, all too little. The crowd, though, was as animated as I’d ever known them, calling out the number of each stroke, clearly relishing her pain. When she was released, she shuffled to the corner, head bowed, face shielded by her soft brown hair. She hadn’t, I realised, made a sound. Prison was toughening her up.

I had lunch with Tobias afterwards. We agreed she was a delightful creature. The rumour in the legal profession was that the governor had propositioned her, promising her an easier time if she shared his bed, but that she’d said no. I didn’t say but I could tell we both thought it: if she kept resisting we might see more of her on a Friday.

*

It was another month before she was there again. I say that as though it’s a long time but repeat floggings were rare. It was a raw, foggy day, cold enough I wore a muffler and a woollen overcoat. The benches were packed. The governor was in his position at the front right, which seemed to confirmed Tobias’s information was accurate. Henry had come this time as well. I saw her right away in the middle of a pack of 11 wretches, shivering and snivelling. Nine welcomes, one of an attractive blonde woman of about 30 who took a dozen on her back with the strap and would have had us talking for days had it not been for Mary. Then that redhead getting a dozen with the cane.

Then Mary, last again.

She stood, head down, staring at her feet, shaking. “Mary Whittaker,” the judge said, his nose red in the damp, breath steaming, “for insolence and insubordination, you will receive on your naked back” – my heart leapt – “20 strokes of the grade two strap.”

20! This was a serious beating.

She seemed almost senseless as the beadles escorted her to the frame, her bare feet dragging on the cold stone floor. As they fastened her ankles in the cuffs, I watched how she breathed, terror leading to a series of short shallow pants, clearly signalled by the cold air. They shoved her forwards, roughly so she leaned into the frame, and hooked the thick belt over her waist.

Then came the moment I’d been waiting for all those weeks. One of the beadles, a large red-faced man with gingery brown hair, unfastened the single button at her neck and peeled the two halves apart. A triangle of her smooth skin was revealed. Then he pushed the edges along her shoulders and yanked down, baring the upper half of her back. She give a frightened yelp. Another yank, and she was naked to the waist.

I was too straight on for a decent view of her breasts – a foolish mistake for which I cursed myself. I caught a glimpse of the edges and a flash of nipple as they cuffed her wrists and raised her arms until she was stretched on the frame. Her back was almost unbelievably slender, a virgin expanse of flawless skin, goosepimpled with the cold. The beadle brushed her soft hair over her shoulder. They stepped back, holding the straps – a short wooden handle, a hinge and three feet of deep brown leather perhaps an inch and half across. They were huge men, powerful men, used to wielding the straps; she was impossibly small and delicate. There seemed something preposterous that tools designed for use on the brawny backs of hardened men could be applied to her tender shoulders.

The mood of anticipation was extraordinary. 200, maybe 250, spectators all silent, staring at this beautiful creature drawn out on the frame, waiting her punishment. When the first stroke came, it was almost a shock, the strap resounding against her skin. “One,” called the magistrate and I leaned forward to try to see the effect on her skin. At first there was only a vague pinkness, but I knew in time the marks would turn deep red. She had done no more than gasp at that first stroke and she was quiet after the second as well, head flicking back as the blow landed. How I envied the magistrate seeing the front-on view, breasts jigging as she jerked at the lash.

I don’t know if the third stroke was harder, but she gave a startled grunt and glanced back over her shoulder, a look of fury and terror on her face. I’ve heard long discussions about whether a beating hurts more on the back or the buttocks, and I see the arguments about the buttocks being a smaller area, but at least those initial blows always seem to provoke more reaction on the back, I suspect because there is less padding there. I also think the beadles get more force in their blows when aiming at the back, rather than the slightly awkward downward strokes to the backside.

By six lashes she was shouting in pain, and the welts were clear. They seemed to be flogging her more slowly than usual, taking their time to aim the strokes, make sure they were delivered with full force. And these were two strong beadles. I know the theory that the sound of the lash is lost energy, but there was something fearful in those slaps that boomed around the hall. By 10 her back was pink from neck to waist.

I could have watched her twitching and cringing all day, her head bobbing between her arms, that slim waist writing against the belt. She was tougher now than when she’d first entered the prison, there was no doubt of that, but by 15 she was sobbing piteously, each new blow bringing a mewling. By 20, the welts were livid, dark against the general pinkness.

After completing the sentence, the beadles slowly returned the straps to the rack, leaving her sobbing, head flopped forward between her arms. I prayed they wouldn’t cover her before releasing her. I was desperate to see those breasts. They unfastened her wrists, making little effort to disguise their own interest in her chest. Her arms fell uncertainly to hook over her breasts as they loosened the belt and then released her ankles. Perfect. They grabbed her arms, pulled her from the frame, spun her around and threw her down. She fell to her knees facing me, her arms falling to reveal slightly larger breasts than I was expecting, although they were far from huge, ripe and smooth and pert, nipples erect in the cold.

There was a moment of silence broken only by her sobbing, then the two old biddies began taunting her.

“Look how she shows herself off, the whore!”

“Shaking her tits for favours. She disgusts me!”

She seemed stunned, eventually raising her arms to protect herself. Her dress had slipped slightly but eventually, her back clearly extremely sore, she managed to pull it up with one hand, keeping the other high to defend herself. By then there were ribald comments from all round the gallery. I just stared in silence. I wanted to see her suffer. I wanted her flogged some more. I wanted her humiliated further. Eventually the beadles helped her too her feet and fastened the dress but for two or three minutes I’d been able to gaze on her shame.

*

For the next week I could think of nothing but her. The moment when she’d fallen and looked up, as though straight at me, arms still low, breasts hanging from her chest, eyes red with tears flickered in my consciousness 10, 20, 50 times an hour. I went to Bridewell on the Friday, chest tight with anticipation. She wasn’t there. I left before the beatings. She wasn’t there the following week either. I felt almost physical pain. And then, on the Monday, Tobias and Henry came to my office. They were grinning, laughing at some private joke, and urged me, though without giving an explanation, to leave my work and join them.

I did, of course, and realised we were headed to Bridewell. As we got to the stern gates, Tobias bade me merry Christmas. He’d arranged a tour. We wandered through the bricks halls where the prisoners worked. Huge fires burned in grates at either end but they were still chilly. We rushed through the men’s section to the room where the women laboured. Some wore grey smocks, some their own clothes, all laboured with large mallets, beating hemp on stout wooden blocks. It was dull, hard work. We lingered over a couple of younger prisoners. The mousy girl I’d seen caned looked broken, grey-faced and exhausted. The pox-addled redhead spat at us, and took a blow with a cane from a jailer for her trouble. We stood for three or four minutes watching the attractive blonde labour. But we were only there for one girl. She was in the middle of the hall, as far from the fires as was possible, mechanically hammering away at her hemp.

Up close, she was even more beautiful than I’d realised. She was doll-like in her perfection, small and perfectly proportioned. Her skin, even after three months in prison, radiated a warm translucence. She’d tied her hair back to work, revealing a lovely slender neck. She had a beauty spot on her cheek that captivated me. Yet this wasn’t ordinary desire. I would have enjoyed an hour with her in some back room had that been possible, but more I wanted to see her thrashed. She glanced up at us as we arrived, but turned immediately away and concentrated on her work. The combination of the cold and the hard physical work gave her cheeks a lovely glow. Every time she brought the mallet down, it was possible to see the movement of her breasts beneath her smock.

We watched the several minutes during which time she became increasingly self-conscious. I realised after a time that Tobias had vanished. When he returned, it was with a warder. “Laziness again, Miss Whittaker?” he said with a sneer. “I warned you what would happen.”

At last she looked up. I felt my heart flicker with anticipation. She had the most gorgeous deep brown eyes. “Please Mr Barraclough,” she began, but he’d already taken hold of her arm.

“Put down the mallet,” he commanded and then led her through the hall. We followed. Tobias had clearly tipped the warder and I wondered what punishment we were about to witness. We passed along a gloomy corridor then came out into a cold room without even the comfort of a fire. A terrible engine occupied one wall: the treadmill. There were three prisoners working it already. They paused as Mary was ordered up onto the platform. She gripped the handrail impassively, as though she had become used to this punishment and then they all began to walk, bare feet pushing on the paddles. There seemed something absurd about setting such a delicate creature on such a huge mill.

Her legs seemed too short for the steps required. I watched those dainty feet against the rough wood. I saw how the muscles in her calves bunched. I noted the press of her buttocks against the back of her dress. I wanted her naked. Henry handed me a bottle of claret he’d brought with him. We sat on a bench alongside the treadmill, gazing at her efforts. She was soon sweating despite the cold, clearly struggling to maintain the pace. After a few minutes a warder came to release one of the other prisoners. Tobias had bought her half an hour, he said, but for two shillings we could make her stay there for a full hour. I was already reaching for the money when she began to beg. She stared at me with those lovely brown eyes and, panting, whispered, “Please, sir… I can’t take more. Please.”

I handed the money over and she closed her eyes. “Bastard,” she hissed. Or at least I thought she did. She was so out of breath, it was hard take out against the sound of the wheel. But I drew the warder’s attention to it. He nodded. “Insolence is treated very seriously,” he said, with a half-smile that I hoped meant a flogging. She knew we were discussing her, of course, but she remained fixed on the wheel, her teeth visibly gritted.

By the time they finally released her, she was shaking, muscles clearly exhausted, sweat running off her face. As the warder led her past us she shot me a ferocious glance. But I knew that on Friday I’d watch her being flogged.

*

It was snowing, proper Christmas weather. There were only three prisoners there that Friday: court hadn’t sat all week so there were no welcome beatings, and if there was anybody being released they weren’t being given a farewell flogging. Word, though, had clearly got out that Mary would be beaten so the galleries were packed. It was bitterly cold in there and the three prisoners shivered pathetically by the door.

The magistrate was clearly in a bad mood. The first woman, who was probably around 50, took six with the cane on her buttocks. Then there was a slightly younger woman got 10 on her back with the strap. Then Mary.

She stood, demure and contrite before him. The sense of anticipation was almost unbearable. She was shaking, teeth chattering. “Mary Whittaker,” he said, “I find me hear before me for a third correctional sanction. You are incorrigible. The reports says you have been lazy and insolent, that you insulted a visitor tp the prison. I’m afraid your punishment must be severe.”

She glanced away. There was part of me wanted to run down there and sweep her up in my arms, but the bigger part of me just wanted to see her sobbing in pain. “You will receive upon your naked buttocks 24 strokes of the birch.” She gave a squawk of terror. I felt a warm glow of satisfaction. This would be real suffering. The pain of a birching was cumulative, blows on the same patch of skin building the agony. And, even better, the convention of birching meant she’d be completely naked.

Two beadles hastened to her. She stood helpless, head bowed, as they fiddled with the buttons on the back of her dress then yanked it down. I saw the slender back and, for a moment, the dress seemed to pause before sliding off her, pooling at her feet. They spun her round and gave her a shove towards the bench. She stumbled forwards, arms loosely clasped in front of her, knees turned inward. She looked up at the galleries, corners of her mouth turned down, tears welling in her eyes. She looked genuinely pathetic, shivering with the cold. Her arms didn’t even protect her chest, as though, uncertain whether to cover her breasts or her cunt, she covered neither. That image of her, half bending forwards, brown-nippled breasts loose, would stay with me forever.

The beadles took her arms and led her to the bench. She was quite naked as she walked towards us, small and vulnerable, her skin impossible pure, breasts just quivering in the cold, her pubic hair a neat triangle. I remember why we’d always taken these seats: when birchings happened it was the best view. I remembered, suddenly, a large-breasted brunette who’d taken a dozen when we’d been students. We’d talked about her for months, hoping she’d return. She never did. But she was no Mary. Steam billowed from her mouth and that of the beadles. It was dreadfully cold even in my warm coat; what it must have been like naked I dreaded to think.

They paused and, as though decided abruptly to accept her fate, she swung a leg up and lay on the bench. Taunts rang out as they fastened her wrists and ankles, then fixed the thick belt over her waist. “Warm the whore up!” shouted one of the old women. “I’ll warm her up!” said a student to general laughter.

The beadles went to select their birches and she was left, visibly shaking, right cheek pressed to the bench, eyes closed. Her buttocks, flat and smooth, were perfect, little mounds that would soon throb scarlet. They were meticulous, or at least seemed so, taking out birches, flexing them swishing them through the air. They were perhaps a yard long, made of half a dozen switches bound at one end with a pair of ribbons perhaps eight inches apart. They’d been stripped of their twigs and buds, but there were still enough knobbles to bite.

Each took two and returned to their positions, thrashing them through the air as they approached Mary, eliciting a whimper from her lips. Otherwise she was silent and still. “Make the bitch bleed!” somebody shouted. Why did she arouse such hostility? Was it just because she was so slight and pretty, so defenceless?

The first beadle lay the birch upon her buttocks. I watched how the switches spread out a little over the smooth skin. The room fell silent. I had done this – or helped at least. I had played my part. He stepped back, raised his brawny arm above his head, and lashed down. The power was terrible. He was a strong man and the birch crashed into the cold skin, the noise startling in the silence. I was watching so intently I saw the switches bite, saw the flesh pushed down, saw it spring back. At first, there was nothing but a scattering of pink dots.

They waited. There was plenty of time. By the time the left-handed beadle applied the second stroke, there was a vivid pink stripe across the buttocks widening from an inch and a half at the left edge to perhaps three inches on the far right. How long had he waited? Thirty seconds? Forty? Long enough that the anticipation had built on the galleries. God only knows what she was going through. She remained silent for the second blow, though, only a slight gasp leaving her lips. The third drew a yep, though, and, by six she was shouting in pain. By then her buttocks were bright pink.

They maintained the leisurely pace, something that clearly disturbed her. Between each blow she began looking around anxiously. What she was hoping to see I have no idea. There was no mercy there. The lash landed, she shrieked and then slowly her pained breathing subsided. By eight strokes there was blood. By ten she was howling, head snapping up at the impact, muscles taut. She lay panting, waiting for the next stroke, clearly in agony, clearly dreading it. I desired her more then than at any moment and I wanted to see how much more she could suffer. The beadle was pitiless. Her scream was terrible. Her whole body bucked. Oh, to be underneath her at the moment, to feel her petite frame jerking in agony! I’d never felt anything quite like this. Slowly, her muscles relaxed. She was begging for mercy, although her words were incoherent behind her sobs. The twelfth landed and she was halfway. Her buttocks were red, speckled with blood, with deeper wheals just to the outside centre of each cheek where the tips of the birches had really bitten.

There was no respite. They took up fresh birches, although there was little evidence of wear on the first pair. The lashes, delivered slowly, methodically, continued. Her screams reached a new pitch, her pleas for mercy became more desperate, the smear of blood across her buttocks became thicker and redder it took longer and longer after each blow for her to fall still again and then, after 18 or 19, she began to weaken. Her howls lost their intensity, her thrashing against the straps became less frenzied. She was exhausted, no longer tensing at each lash, slumped like a beautiful doll on the bench, so that by the 22nd there was only a slight grunt at the stroke to show she was still conscious. Her breath came in uneven pants, revealed by the fine cloud of steam above her head, a contrast to the stern steady puffs of the beadles. The 23rd whipped down, there was a fine spray of blood and she gave a low keening whine. A tremble ran through he body. Her shoulders heaved. The left-hander laid on the final stroke and she gave a noise like a retch, shuddered and fell still.

The beadles unfastened her but she didn’t move. She was conscious but seemed dazed, whimpering softly to herself. They took her arms and lifted her, their hands moving, just as mine would have done, to support her under her armpits where their fingers could play on the outside of her breasts. Her legs seemed numb, trailing on the floor but, cruelly, they released her so she fell, sprawling on the floor. That was another image that would stay with me forever, her naked body, huddled on the cold stones, left breast just visible, head slightly raised, eyes red-rimmed, terrified and ashamed, hair carressing the top of her tender back, and her buttocks a violent scarlet, streaked with purple bruising and spattered with blood.

They pulled her to her feet and seemed to be ensuring we all got a view of her nudity, turning her so she was front-on to me, nipples hard in the frigid air, before roughly pulling the smock over her head. She seemed stunned still, as though unable to move of her own accord, sniffling and sobbing as they hastened her to the other two prisoners in the corner. As she went, I realised her dress was sticking to her raw buttocks.

*

It was the end of January before she appeared in the punishment room again: her farewell flogging. I had little doubt it would be good – they only bothered with the farewell beatings when they wanted to teach the prisoner a lesson. Almost certainly a caning, maybe another birching. The governor, I saw, was standing at the corner of the gallery, arms folded, face grim.

There were a bumper crop of women there. It was one of the best days I’d known in there. Eight introductory floggings, including one very pretty woman with dark curls who squealed splendidly as she took a dozen with the cane and four young whores having their shoulders warmed with a dozen from the strap. She was serving a six-month sentence. Two punishments: half a dozen with the heavy strap for a moderate-looking woman of about 30 and half a dozen with the birch for a voluptuous brunette in her forties.

Mary was the only farewell. She stood uncertainly in the familiar position, clearly dreading what the magistrate would announce. The galleries were packed again. Everybody wanted to see her. Most, surely, hoped for a birching so we’d see her naked one last time.

“Mary Whittaker,” the magistrate intoned in the silence, “this, I hope, is your final time before us. You will be released from prison on Monday but it has been decided that you will receive one final flogging to remind you of the error of your ways. You have been before me on three separate occasions to be punished, yet I fear I have been too easy on you.”

Too easy? This was suddenly very interesting indeed. “It is to my grave disappointment that I learn your attitude has shown no significant improvement over the past four weeks. If two dozen with the birch doesn’t get through to you them I’m afraid I have no option but to impose the most severe sanction.”

In the silence I heard her whimper. Everybody seemed to sense what was coming. “You will receive,” the magistrate said, “upon your naked back 18 lashes of the cat o’ nine tails.” Her legs gave way as the room burst into an excited hubbub. The cat simply wasn’t used on women. And when it was used on men, which was infrequently, it was rare for the sentence to be more than a dozen. This wouldn’t just hurt her; it would scar her.

The beadles pulled her to her feet and stripped her. It was obvious this time they were showing her off, roughly shoving her between them and hauling her round in a narrow circle, holding her arms tight so she couldn’t protect herself. She looked pathetic, terrified, vulnerable, feet skittering on the floor, unable to find her footing. They acted as though she was fighting them, the truth was that she was too weak, too scared to react. They shook her, making sure she felt the full humiliation of her nakedness, her breasts wobbling on her chest. Her buttocks, I saw, still bore the marks of the birching.

She was dragged to the frame and fastened, arms pulled high above her head with a menacing rattle of chain that seemed incongruous next to her slightness. Even as the beadles took the cats from the rack she was sobbing and whimpering. Whatever hardness prison had given her had left. The gingery one, the right-hander, swept her hair away from her back. It seemed impossibly small and smooth: there was something monstrous about the prospect of these hard whips, that would rip apart the broad muscled backs of tough men, being used on a target that small, that perfect. The right-hander drew his fingers through the whip, making sure none of the knots had become tangled. He took his position behind her. She was shaking, muttering to herself. He raised the lash high, and brought it down with obvious effort, striking on a slight diagonal from her right shoulder towards her waist. There was a shlack of leather of taut skin, a gasp as the breath was knocked out of her and, instantly, a swathe of her back was pink. Her fingers had splayed, her head had rocked back and for a moment she seemed frozen. Then there came an agonised roar, a shriek of pain and terror that went on and on. “One,” the magistrate announced calmly.

The horrified sobs continued. The left-hander, moving the right-hander slightly out of the way, waited for perhaps a minute before unleashing the second lash. It slashed hard across the pink band. Her scream this time was instantaneous and already there was blood, her tender skin helpless ripped by the 24 knots. She was shaking and bawling, a pitiful spectacle. I think it was at that moment I reached the peak of my obsession with her. She was so delicate, so pretty, so overwhelmed.

The flogging went on, merciless on her wretched frame, rasing welts then bursting them. The blood ran freely after half a dozen lashes. Exhaustion had set in by the time they’d reached halfway. She was shaking violently by then, shivering as though freezing cold – although for the time of year it was actually quite a mild day. A dozen would have ruined her. The final six were gratuitous. She fell limp for them, head hanging back, twitching up at each blow, the muscles in her arms taut. Twice they had to pause to push her hair forwards. Her back was a mess, oozing blood that sprayed up when the cats struck. The beadles were admirably professional, delivering each blow with precision and power. By the time they’d finished she was only semi-conscious, her back a mangled mess, small strips of skin hanging loose. When they loosed her, she collapsed, falling to lie naked on her back, utterly exposed, delectable and defeated. They had to carry her back to her cell.

*

That was the last time I saw her. I thought of her often, neat and perfect and beautiful, with her sweet round breasts and slender waist, terrified and sobbing, ashamed and in pain. She haunted me for years. I’d thought of waiting outside Bridewell when she was released, but what was I going to do? She knew I’d got her the birching; she’d have no interest in me. And what was I going to say? Come and stay with me: I’ll give you board and lodging if I can spank you twice a week?

Maybe I could have manufactured an incident that would have secured her another few months in jail, but I lacked the nerve for that. I thought often about how I might have achieved that, or of tracking her down, but then that summer, in August, Tobias told me she’d died. It turned out she’d been arrested again, convicted of theft and sentenced to be transported. The official story was she’d died of an infection on the ship, but the truth, Tobias told me, was that she’d died on the grating taking a fourth flogging in the space of three weeks. I only wished I could have seen them.