The Mortification of Isabel (12 page)

“But I am my master’s guide dog,” I explained. “He cannot find his way without me.”

“Everyone will find his way here if he serves our master,” she said and indicated the figure on the cross with a wave of her hand and bowed her head respectfully at the same time.

She helped me to my feet and supported me as I swayed from side to side being so unused to standing.

“Mr. Povey will whip me if he sees me like this,” I pleaded.

“Hush, my child,” the nun said. “Mr. Povey understands what the rule is here.” She looked me up and down. “Poor naked creature,” she said pityingly. “We must find a habit to cover your nakedness so you do not encourage impure thoughts in your brothers and sisters.”

She reached for a white habit and placed it over my arm. “I am glad to see your private parts are shaved but we will need to remove the hair from your head as well. It will help you rid yourself of vanity and embrace the spiritual life. There is not much hair to remove.”

The nun lifted her wimple and showed me her head was bare.

It was at this moment that I thought of Povey’s story about Matilda. I had the strange feeling I was a character in his tale, not for the first time.

“Before you dress in your habit, I want you to put this on, my child.”

She showed me a belt made of intertwined sharp thorns and put it round my waist. “Worn under your habit it will act as a perpetual penance. I wear a cilice.” She lifted her habit high and I saw a spiked chain round her upper left thigh bearing cruel looking barbs and below the chain there were thin streaks of newly shed bright red blood on her unnaturally white skin. I had just a glimpse of her pubic region and saw she was shaved clean.

My thorns were already piercing my flesh and I wondered how long I would be able to bear the pain.

“I am Sister Agnes,” she said. “I’m told your name is Isabel?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Do you want to be known as Sister Isabel? You can take another name for your vocation.”

“Sister Matilda,” I said on an impulse. I had thought a great deal about her when reading her story back to Mr. Povey and she was never far from my thoughts. In a strange way I identified with her.

“Sister Matilda is a suitable name. There is one more thing before you put on your habit.”

Sister Agnes came close to me and placed her hands flat on my breasts almost as though in blessing.

“When girls have big chests we bind them flat under the habit. Can you imagine why?”

“No, Sister.”

“Because some girls flaunt their breasts which is another sign of vanity and because they can be a distraction to our brothers.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Your breasts are beautifully shaped, Sister Matilda and it not hard to imagine that men will look at you. Far better if they cannot see any womanly curves.” As she said these words she fondled my breasts and her piercing blue eyes held mine. My nipples became erect and there were fluttering feelings in my loins. Then she leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. “A great pity to cover such loveliness,” she breathed.

She first separated my breasts and flattened them out with her hands before tying bandages tightly around them and finally fastening the binding with pins.

Sister Agnes then took scissors and cut my hair as short as she could before using clippers to remove the rest. There was a small tap inside the cupboard and she filled a basin and brought it to me with a bar of soap and a razor. I knelt as she soaped my head and drew the razor back and forth until I was completed shaved. She took the opportunity to shave my mound and pussy as well, pinching my lips together to shave round them. I thought immediately about what John would feel about my new appearance before considering Mr. Povey and the girls.

When she had put everything away in the cupboard, Sister Agnes told me I still looked very handsome which I thought strange because her remarks fed the vanity she said should be suppressed.

She helped me into my habit and then we left the little dressing room to go out into the passage again. Agnes gently squeezed my fingers but the gesture of reassurance would have gone unnoticed by any passer by because our hands were concealed under the wide sleeves of our habits. There were others in the corridor, mainly pairs like us walking in the same direction, some dressed in the brown habits of the monks.

We congregated in a large room with trestle tables on all four sides.
   

Resting on the tables were whips with many tails exactly like the ones used in Mr. Povey’s club in
London
.

Once we were all assembled a monk cleared his throat to address us, saying he would explain some of the customs at Baildon Abbey.

“We are great believers in the spiritual benefits of flagellation,” he said and I looked round quickly in search of Mr. Povey. “We practise self-flagellation and we flagellate each other in the spirit of brotherly and sisterly love.” He pulled his habit over his head and stood naked before us, then came into the centre of the room where everyone could see. He held a whip in his hand which he said was called
The Discipline
(I remembered it from Laurence Povey’s story) and lifted it over his shoulder to strike his back again and again without flinching. Brother Anselm rotated his body so that we could all see the red stripes down his back.

“So that is one way we can flagellate ourselves, perhaps the most straightforward way,” he said, pausing at last. “But there other ways which I will demonstrate.” He began to scourge his buttocks and his legs using side swipes with his whip until they were marked in the same manner as his back. He used his right hand and left hand alternately so that each buttock received equal treatment. There were some gasps when he deliberately whipped his belly and his genitals with considerable force.

“I want you all to undress, place your habits on the tables and pick up
The Disciple
nearest to you. Begin your penance as soon as you are ready in the manner I’ve shown you. Remember how much mortification of the flesh benefits the spirit. Through suffering we are made stronger and more whole.”

No one hesitated and I found myself as quick as the others to divest myself of the habit that I had only just put on.

When I looked round I saw other girls wearing spiked chain-link belts but could not see another belt of thorns.

I picked up the whip and used it on my back very tentatively at first then gradually with more force. The naked monk walked round observing our attempts and I noticed his cock was no longer dormant; it was half way to full erection but he seemed quite unflustered and without embarrassment.

He came to me to observe my attempts and I could see clearly his cock was still rising and there were angry red marks on the shaft and one welt across his heavy balls. The men’s hair, including their pubic hair had also been shaved off and the monk looked very plucked and bare.

He put his hand over mine and made me mime the sideways motion with the whip.

“That’s correct,” he said. “Now show me.”

Using my right hand to wield the whip, I raised my left arm high and pivoted so that I could whip my bottom more easily.

“That’s good,” he said. “I am pleased to see you are wearing the penitent’s thorns.”

When I swung the whip the thorns gouged my flesh more painfully but I managed to stifle any cries of anguish. Glancing at the monk again, I saw his cock was now fully up-standing and I was sure watching me had played a part. The more I lashed my now crimson cheeks the more he stared in fascination and I saw him begin to perspire. Perhaps the binding round my breasts made him use his imagination to wonder at their shape and size.

  
I looked round again when the monk had moved on and with a sudden shock realised I recognised most of the men in the room. They were the ones who had watched my exhibition with Fido at the club and who had whipped us when we were horsed by the servants. It was clear that they were much occupied with flagellation both in the giving and receiving. It is a fact of nature that the signs of sexual arousal in a man are more obvious than those displayed by my sex and I saw one or two of the self-styled monks had erections stimulated either by the act of flagellation or by watching others indulging in the act, perhaps seeing naked women abusing themselves was exciting for men. I am being disingenuous in making such an observation for honesty compels me to admit that I was excited by the sight of some of the men whipping themselves, especially those with the more appealing bodies.

There were some notable absentees from the tuition in self-flagellation for there was no sign of either Mr. Povey or Sister Agnes.

The monk in charge explained that we would now learn to flagellate our brothers and sisters. We must not hold back because of misguided notions of being charitable to our companions. The truth lay in the opposite direction. The more we chastised the flesh the more the spirit would thrive.

We must strike with all our force from love of our fellows.

He required us to walk round the room in procession with just enough space between us to wield our whips to strike the person in front of us. By chance I found myself between two men, one of whom had presided at the head of the table in the club.

We set off on an order from the monk and I immediately felt my bottom attacked by the man behind me with very severe lashes of his whip.

The man in front who I knew from the club was slim and well built with broad shoulders and back that tapered to a narrow waist. Here was a chance to gain revenge for the flogging he’d given me.

I drew back my whip and cracked it across his finely sculpted buttocks and saw him jump slightly. At almost the same second my breath was almost knocked out of me by a powerful blow across my lower back. The room was filled with the sound of whips landing on flesh as we progressed slowly in our strange procession and some of us, not all women, cried out as the thongs landed and some of us wept.

When this was completed a platform was dragged into the centre of the room and a kind of raised wicker bed with straps attached was placed alongside it. The presiding monk, Brother Anselm, invited anyone who was so moved to come forward and make confession before receiving absolution.

I found myself stepping out of the line and walking forward to stand on the dais. When I looked round at the expectant faces I wondered what had possessed me. The monk still had his whip in his hand and I knew the bed would play its part.

“I confess to the sins of pride, vanity and self-regard,” I began. “I am glad my breasts are bound because I thought them shapelier than those of other girls. I considered my skin to be softer and my face more beautiful. I am guilty of trying to tempt men to look at me and of taking pleasure when they do. When I was whipping my brother I confess I admired his naked body instead of having regard to his immortal soul. I was brazen enough to interest myself…”

“That is sufficient, Sister Matilda,” said the monk. “Lie face down on the bed.”

I stretched out over the wicker construction and another monk tied the straps at my wrists and ankles so that I was spread-eagled.

“Our sister has made confession of her manifold sins,” intoned the presiding monk. “She is remorseful and will receive absolution if she accepts chastisement. Who will step up to punish her so that she may be forgiven and her soul washed clean?”

When I heard footsteps I craned my neck to see who had volunteered to flog me. It was the man who had walked before me in the procession, the man who sat at the head of the table in the club, the man called Northam.

The wicker platform was adjustable and I found myself raised and presented at an angle which made it easier for the flagellant to whip me.

“Begin, Brother Roland,” the monk said, “you may flog her until I give the word to stop.”

My mind, though dominated by thoughts of the pain I had to endure, registered the first name of the man whose body I had so admired and who now had power over me. But I told myself I must be loyal to John. I tried to summon the feelings of willing surrender that overwhelmed me when John dealt with me.

Roland caught me across the fleshiest parts of both cheeks with his first stroke of the whip. He concentrated his lashes on my bum until it was on fire. Since my rear end would be crimson from the last flogging I wondered what colours he would paint there, purples, yellows, darker hues.

I had boasted of my fair skin. Not on this part of my anatomy, this seemed a target perpetually under attack, to think in military terms, constantly subjected to bombardment. Would I have repulsed the attack if I had possessed sufficient strength of arms? I was unsure, now that I knew the warm glow of pleasure that could come after the early pain. I knew by then there were worse things than being whipped on the bottom by handsome young men.

After the lessons in flagellation, Sister Agnes came to collect me and took me to her bedroom saying that Mr. Povey had given permission for me to stay the night. I was concerned and asked Agnes to confirm she was certain that Povey had approved.

“I would not tell you an untruth, sweet girl,” she said, kissing me on the cheek.

“No Sister, I didn’t mean to imply that. I am simply afraid of the repercussions if there was any uncertainty.”

“Does he ill treat you, Matilda?”

“He treats me like a dog,” I said simply.

“How dreadful!”

“No, I mean it literally. I act as his guide dog. I wear a collar and he puts me on a lead and I crawl on all fours and communicate exactly like a dog. I am not allowed to speak.”

“It is scarcely believable,” she said.

“There is someone here who can vouch for what I say.”

“Someone at Baildon Abbey?”

“Brother Roland.”

“Where did Brother Roland come across you?”

I explained about being taken to the club and the things that had happened with the group presided over by Roland.

“These other men you speak of are here tonight?”

“Yes, Sister. I saw them.”

“Are you sure you are not mistaken?”

“I am certain they are the same men.”

At this point Sister Agnes changed the subject saying I must be hungry and that she would bring soup and bread and cheese from the kitchens as it was too late to go to the refectory.

I was curious and looked out of Sister Agnes” room into the passage way which I found deserted. I walked quietly on bare feet a little way down the passage until from one of the rooms I heard the sound of a young girl’s voice pleading and sobbing at the same time, followed immediately by a sound like a pistol being fired.

I turned the handle and opened the door no more than a few inches. A girl about my own age was suspended naked from a beam, her wrists tied to rings and her body unsupported so that her feet danced on fresh air. I had time to see her body was cruelly striped with the marks of a whip or cane, before the door was opened wide and I was dragged inside.

“It’s that bitch of yours, Povey,” said the man who held me by my wrists.

“Escaped from her kennel,” said another of the men from deep in his armchair.

“Sister Matilda who whipped your arse for you, Northam, come to give you more.”

I looked round the room in panic. Two of the crowd from the master’s club were naked to the waist and were holding long canes as the naked girl swung back and forward between them. She looked like a servant and her rather lumpish figure dripped with sweat as she was suspended close to a roaring log fire. Her white habit lay abandoned on the floor.

Her tormentors looked indolent, sitting back in their armchairs smoking cigars and drinking Port. It looked to me as though they must have dined well after taking part in the flagellation lesson though I remembered Povey had not been there; probably his blindness made it impossible for him to participate.

“Remove your habit, Sister Matilda, “and that appalling bandaging. Let us see your boobies, girl. I warrant they are as round as ripe melons.”

I obeyed instantly though I found it difficult to reach the pins that held my binding and one of them unfastened me at the back.

“Ripe melons, indeed, Northam. As weighty as any in the market,” said Povey. “I cannot see them but I like their heaviness in my hands, firm and full yet giving.”

“You’re a lucky man, Povey,” said Northam. “Her tits are of generous proportions yet they do not sag as many of their size do.” He came to me and smoothed his hands over my breasts. “Though I detect they have felt the kiss of the lash on occasions.”

“More than once but I prefer to whip her arse,” said Povey.

They discussed their preferences as though comparing wines while I stood before them blushing yet not daring to hide any part of my body. I was aware any such coyness on my part would result in a thrashing.

“Depilation suits her,” said Northam. “You get a splendid view of her pussy lips, large and luscious as they are. I’d swear they are pouting, the saucy madam.”

“Let us see the arse that Povey dotes on,” said one of the men who had not spoken before.

Northam and one of his cronies lifted a table close to the semi-circle of chairs and made me kneel upon it. He pushed my head down and told me to raise my bottom, and then spread my cheeks so that my anus was exposed to their view.

“Like a tiny rose bud waiting to flower,” said Northam stepping back to appraise me.

  
 
Some cool object was thrust into the orifice to the accompaniment of much laughter and I winced with the suddenness of it rather than with pain for truthfully there was none.

From their remarks I realised that a thick candle had been inserted.

“Lighten our darkness,” said one.

Northam took a taper to the fire then lit the wick of the candle.

“Turn down the lamps so we may see the full effect,” he ordered and one of his lackeys obeyed which created an aura of soft candlelight around me. Although the candle stuck out at an angle rather than being fully upright, after a time the wax ran down the shaft onto my flesh causing me pain and I had to endure a steady drip as the whipping of the suspended girl was resumed. The table on which I was kneeling was moved to give the floggers enough light to do their work.

Their captive, who I learned was called Sister Imelda, screamed loud enough to raise the alarm but no one came to her rescue.

I wondered if I had been missed by Sister Agnes and whether she would search for me.

I was aching all over my body by the time the candle was removed and I was allowed to come down from the table. I watched Imelda collapse in a helpless heap when her hands were freed, and her body convulse with the effort of her deep, heart-rending sobbing.

One of the men dared Roland Northam to take Imelda’s place and allow me to flagellate him as I had done when Brother Anselm had given us tuition. It seemed from their conversation that Northam was known to like receiving whippings as well as giving them.

Northam insisted on turning the dare into a bet and soon there was a heap of gold sovereigns on the table I had just vacated.

The bet was that Northam would win if he could endure five minutes of flogging on his bare backside with the same cane as was used on Imelda’s body. I wondered if the wager had arisen partly because some of his cronies wanted to see him hurt as Northam liking the lash- no doubt in small doses. I remembered with pleasure the sight of his tight buttocks as I flagellated him before and was not averse to a repeat performance though it was likely there would be a price to pay.

When Northam stripped I saw again how beautiful his body was for a man not in the first flush of youth; he was lithe and muscular with no superfluous flesh, his belly flat and firm, ribs showing slightly, strong legs and trim buttocks. His figure was not unlike John’s though John had the more handsome face and was fair whereas Northam was dark with more body hair.

His friends tied his wrists to the rings and left him hanging. One of the group set his pocket watch, a half hunter, on the table and another handed the cane to me.

“Don’t be overawed,” he whispered to me. “Give his hide a good tanning.”

It was a strange feeling, though not displeasing, having the man, clearly my social superior, hanging there looking so vulnerable. I walked round him and looked at his reproductive equipment. In this respect he could not hold a candle to John. Northam’s cock was probably around average in length and his balls firm enough but John was extraordinary in size and virility with balls like a bull’s.

Northam’s backside which I had flagellated vigorously a short time before now had few marks upon it. The cheeks were hairy on the underside, the hairs wet with sweat, and in the deep cleft between his buttocks but otherwise white and smooth and ready to be marked again.

I drew back the cane and struck him hard then worked up a steady rhythm. The man with the half hunter called out when each minute had elapsed and after the call of three, Northam’s buttocks were criss-crossed with ugly welts. He had begun to grunt and groan with the pain and I wondered if he would stay the course. His friends were not greatly encouraging but that is the nature of a wager. They kept asking him if he was ready to give up and exhorted me to lay it on with greater force.

When inadvertently I hit the backs of his thighs he cried, “My arse, woman, strike my arse!” which brought laughter from his friends.

By the time four minutes was called, Northam was screaming with pain and his dignity was deserting him. He called me a bitch and a whore and cursed me roundly.

He ordered me to stop before the allotted time had passed though he could not have missed his target by much. His friends applauded and let him down gently, offering commiserations and praise for his valiant effort. Someone produced a flannel and washed down his buttocks where some of the welts had split with the force of one placed above another.

I saw him look daggers at me and knew he would take his revenge in full measure.

The sight of his friends scooping up the sovereigns added to his fury.

Northam did not bother to dress as he turned to deal with me; his body gleamed with sweat as yet more logs had been tossed on the fire and the room was sweltering. He asked his cronies help him move the table under the rings and I was made to perch upon it. Chains were lowered on pulley wheels so that my wrists were manacled high above my head and my feet were attached to other chains widely spaced which brought my feet up to the same height leaving my bottom just touching the table, my legs open wide in a great v-shape and my pussy fully exposed. I shuddered despite the heat, knowing where he was going to direct his whip or cane.

 
He produced a gag comprising a ball which filled my mouth attached to straps which tied tightly at the back of my head.

Then pegs were clamped on my nipples and lastly a hood was placed over my head.

The way I was trussed up made my body arch slightly backwards thus pushing my shaved pussy further forward as though inviting the attentions of instruments of correction. I am aware my quim-lips are rather prominent and remembered what Northam had said about them pouting. Every man jack of them had a full view now. Not a shred of dignity remained.

The sensation of being
a thing
or
nothing
returned to me, the feeling I had experienced before when John had dealt with me, a state of mind which was frightening and thrilling at one and the same time. The darkness induced by the hood added to my feelings of isolation and disorientation. I was suspended in a different world from that inhabited by the owners of the muffled voices I could hear which seemed so far away.

But there was nothing ethereal or unreal about the pain when it came. Northam had picked up a whip in place of the cane and curled the lash over my vulva making me bite hard on the ball gag. I could tell he was still furious that he had lost his bet and suffered a loss of face in front of his friends and there was real venom in the way he lashed me. It was no accident he caught my pussy lips, he was deliberately whipping my slit. I wondered how he would have felt if I had flogged his cock or aimed every stroke to cut him across his balls. He found it hard enough to endure when his buttocks were whipped.

I knew they would hear muffled sounds from inside the hood and was glad they couldn’t hear me give full vent to my anguish. It would have been impossible not to cry out when the whip was so intimate with me, actually parting my outer lips on some occasions, almost forcing its way in like some cruel lover.

When Northam gave my pussy some respite it was to thrash the insides of my thighs, another tender place, from behind my knees all the way up to the fleshier parts closest to my bottom.

My belt of thorns dug into my flesh as I swung on the chains adding to my suffering. I was in as much agony as Povey’s Matilda. It had struck me that he was probably writing about events that had taken place here at Baildon Abbey rather than pure fiction. I had thought his descriptions were the product of a fevered and corrupted imagination when I had read them back to him now I was convinced they were thinly disguised accounts of what happened at Baildon Abbey

Eventually I was released from my chains and my upper body lowered onto the table. At first I was too sore to move and this left me with my legs splayed. I must have looked every inch the whore, body bathed in sweat, face covered, nipples clamped, legs open as if craving the attentions of a man’s rigid cock. Northam entered me first, leaning over me with a hand on the table each side of me, pushing hard between my throbbing lips, bringing me more pain. I was dry at first but my juices began to flow as he rogered me with vigour, grunting as he did so, and when he had come he was replaced by one of his friends for they were forming a queue to fuck me and I was powerless to prevent them.

***

The next day Sister Agnes took me to another part of the Abbey to an upstairs room which looked out over cloisters. Going to the window as she bade me, I could see nuns perambulating in pairs, one in each pair ahead of the other. I was surprised to see they were naked and were engaged in flagellation but even more amazing was the fact that one woman in each pairing wore a massive dildo.