Punished In The West Indies
This is a passage from The Tutor’s Bride by Martin Pyx, featuring some scenes of creative colonial justice on an unspecified British island in the West Indies. I can’t be certain, but this might have been the first true flagellation porn book to have fallen into my horny hands in early adolescence:
He abruptly seized command of the party and motioned them back toward the stone building. “I mustn’t delay the consummation of justice. I have adjudicated some heavy measures, which wait on my inspection.”
A blue-black beauty barely beyond twenty years stretched her legs to their fullest on the Prussian slats. The angled wedges sat in a horizontal frame, their upper edges eating fiercely into the young woman’s calves, thighs, and substantial fundament. The twelve flat stones piled with care upon her lap aided the effect.
Her thumbs had been wired to her gaudy brass earrings, allowing her elbows to reach protectively, like wings, over her gourd-heavy bosoms. A heavy perspiration ran from her face and throat, onto the mammary masses.
An Army female warder with corporal’s stripes menaced the teats with a willow cane, its last twelve inches split into four light wands. The edges appeared razor-honed.
“She appears uncomfortable.” Lady Morgan leaned forward, still in Sir George’s grip. “Deucedly. The peeled stalk of the pepper plant inserted, so.” The magistrate gestured sparsely.
“What was her crime?” The coffee-skinned warder had encouraged the elbows to part, exposing the twin gloves, their nipples thick as black bullets. The cane flashed, its four tips carving into a ripe supper, humming their relish. Bubbies shaking, the woman blubbed, her sobs bouncing her upon the agonizing slats.
“Crime?” Sir George considered the question. “Surely the sentence had some cause … oh, a case of assault. Some acrimonious altercation over a male companion shared by two women. A broken bottle was employed, to some intimidating effect, but with no physical damage.”
“She attempted to stab another woman?”
The split cane lashed the pectoral flesh in turn. Puffed tracks sprung up, bold and aching, as the nipples leaped and shivered.
“Hmmm. No, no, the other woman was assailant. This one was guilty of provoking speech. Her attacker is at hard labor, with thirty strokes of the birch instead of her supper Mondays and Thursdays for, hmmm, three months?”
“Fifteen weeks, Sir George,” the colonel supplied. “With a stiff ‘Welcome’ and ‘Farewell’ of fifty strokes, before the Palace of Justice gate, that came to the thousand cuts you deemed appropriate.”
“Quite so, quite so. Dangerous things, broken bottles. It wouldn’t do to mar such young loveliness.”
They passed on as the four ends caught the underside of a breast, lifting it on tines of flame.
Her shoulders pressed on a fiber mat, a woman held her long white legs and bottom in the air, kicking as if propelling an aerial bicycle. Her blonde hair dropped loosely behind her. A loin covering of spikey red leaves crushed into tender areas as the thighs worked. The punitive garment extended between the legs, onto the raised buttocks. At frequent intervals, a battledore paddle encouragingly drove the thorned leaves into her soft skin.
Setting aside the paddle, a bored matron picked a dipper of thick amber liquid from a glass jar. She poured it over the gaps in the leafy mesh, finishing generously between the thighs.
The woman on the mat squirmed, her lips wide in pain’s rictus.
“Continue!” The paddle spanked her scratched and seared bottom.
The sharp reek from the pepper oil stung Lady Morgan’s wrinkling nose. The round paddle-flat punished the inflamed backside as the woman’s heels tossed.
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