Disconnections

Victoria’s Tribication

by Eve Adorer

  Synopsis –

Barnmouth was a typical English mid-21st century town.....

  Victoria’s Tribication

by Eve Adorer

  Monday 12 May 2053.

  It didn’t look good. It decidedly didn’t look good.

  Victoria Lady Beaumont-Fortain read it over again.

  Spilling out of the waste basket under the ancient oak desk at which Victoria occasionally, if very rarely, condescended to sit and look at household accounts, were paper balls aplenty. Each snow-white bauble swiftly rough-formed by her pretty hands, as she raised her queenly head disdainfully, before bowling the pleas in the general direction of the trash can; displayed red print.

  Nudged by her completely-neatly pedicured big toe at the unconscious kick of her right foot, in her three-inch heeled sandals, an account displaying the letterhead of Fortfeel and Nathan, covering two-year’s back charges for grocery supplies, cannoned off another from Herrods, the Queensbridge Hondon department store, itemising unpaid items, even down to Victoria’s preferred brand of tampon. The latter then rolled along the carpet to score a soccer goal between Saxe and Saxe’s bill for the superb Siberian girlpee laid down in Victoria’s much praised wine cellar, and the bill from Demimonde Boutique, the size of which vastly contrasted the miniscule Parisian fashionhouse panties Victoria regularly wore from that very elite emporium.

  Had anyone been lucky enough to hear her, her honey-toned contralto upper-crust accent drawled under her sweet breath, in her erotic short-tongued diction: “Gwate heavens, how darr they? One will wite to the editor of ‘The Tames’ about this. These twadespeople are getting weally ite of hend!”

  But, as her stupendously attractive dark brown eyes and highly intelligent mind re-ran over the letter she still held: the first she had opened: one she had not yet thrown aside in disdain: the pretty, pretty devastating, twenty-one-year-old half-negress-half-white Victoria, pursed her potently pouting lips in their natural pose: a pose irresistibly proposing a passionate kiss.

  The letter she read, was in the long long-nailed fingers of her right hand. Her equally sweet left hand held a statement of account, hand written on velum in copperplate script with a fountain pen, if not indeed a quill.

  The letter and statement were from Clits and Co, the exceptionally exclusive private bank, Victoria’s personal bankers, calling her to an interview about the state of her account, at any time she might choose to appoint, within the next fortnight; or offering to send a Clits representative to her, anywhere in the world, if that was her preference. Discretion was, of course, unnecessarily assured: after all, Clits and Co were discretion personified.

  As she read the letter from her bankers for a second time, Victoria’s peripheral vision took in that her girlfriend, Acanda St John-Fortesque-Thomas, was now awake in the bed Victoria had left, to go for her daily five-mile run around the gardens of her home, two hours since.

  “One just caan’t bewieve this!” Victoria breathed, for Acanda to hear.

  “Yes, I know darling, you are incredible lucky to have got me into your bed”, Acanda giggled, as she stretched, and yawned into the four upright fingers she had raised to cover her mouth out of politeness.

  “This is not a joking metter Arcaanda. Cwits say one owes them five-miwwion. They are fwettening to hev one put in debtors’ pwison”.

  Acanda was about to continue her input to the exchange, by responding that she was not joking about Victoria’s good fortune, in having won the right to bed her, but realised the joke was already flat.

  Instead, Acanda remarked: “Don’t worry darling, you have Runkett and Runkett Attorneys on tap through me; if they’ll take a post-dated cheque of course”, meaning her latter gentle jibe as a reminder to Victoria, of how often Acanda had pressed her to deal with household accounts. Not just a reminder, in Acanda’s eyes, but a completely just reminder.

  Acanda was now out of bed and had a gentle hand on Victoria’s shoulder. For her part, Victoria scented the erotic perfume of Acanda’s unwashed naked body, and turned toward the exciting scent. Her nostrils flaring the better to enjoy the heady aroma: “Don’t shar yet darwing: I want to wick you cwean!”, Victoria purred, her gorgeous brown eyes shining with her daring and, as always, her vivacity.

  Acanda blushed at the thought of Victoria licking her all over, but still wanted Victoria to pay overdue attention to her mail, and not the attention due to her loving female: Acanda.

  “What’s that one falling off the edge there?” Acanda asked, drawing attention to the only letter left for Victoria still to open: this to distract Victoria’s and her own desires.

  Reluctantly, Victoria stood and reached over to where the latter letter had drifted, when she had taken her correspondence off the silver salver on which her maid had dared to bring it to her, and she – Victoria - thrown it down on her desk in annoyance.

  With the rose’s slow rising, so slow rose the rose’s hem, and a glimpse of the petal-filled sling of Victoria’s g-string, flashed compelling white between her immensely strong coffee-brown thighs.

  Taking the opportunity to escape from the escapade Victoria had proposed, and to remove the excuse for Victoria to be distracted by her presence, Acanda slipped into one of the en-suite shower cubicles in the bedroom, and squealed with joy as the cold water she habitually showered in to invigorate her day, hit her cleavage and then, as she opened the control, fanned out to play with her breasts, erecting her nipples joyfully stiffly, before she turned away and danced about in the chill, whilst palming shower jell with which to wash her lovely body.

  “It’s from the Girl-Poweese” Victoria uttered at just above a stage mutter.

  “Sorry darling?!” Acanda called, unable to hear above the noise of the jets from the power-shower now pummelling her eager nipples into sweet surrender once more.

  “It’s from the Girl-Poweese: the Girl-Poweese have witten to one!” Victoria” repeated, loud enough for Acanda to hear this time.

  “What do the Girl-Police want this time, Vicky?” Acanda responded distractedly, in a tone suggesting the matter must be trivial: such as yet another ponygirl parking misdemeanour. She, of course, knew that Victoria could wallpaper a banquet suite with the parking tickets slapped on her ponygirls’ thighs during this year alone.

  “One was supposed to hev been in court wast week!” Victoria responded, with a hint as much of annoyance as of surprise in her voice.

  A few moments later, as Victoria still sat, the still dripping-wet Acanda was leaning over Victoria’s shoulder, with her touchingly beautiful bare right breast touching its firmly erect nipple on Victoria’s shoulder blade, bare barely beneath Victoria’s white silk blouse.

As she glanced the date on the letter Victoria held: before snuggling into her towelling bathrobe: “Oh Vicky darling, just look at the date on that letter! And just how long have you had Clits’ statement for goodness’ sake!” Acanda cried in a voice of resigned loving despair.

  “One hesn’t weally wooked. The maids keep bwinging one the same wetters evewy day. One caan’t be expected to spar tame for such borwing twivia”, Victoria responded, but not entirely with her usual degree of detached confidence.

  “May I have a read?” Acanda enquired.

  In response, as she reached over her desk again, Victoria gave another flash of her daringly tiny, pristine white g-string, and the bipod that emboldened it so enticingly, and then passed Acanda a series of velum sheets.

  “No darling, your bank statement is entirely your affair, I was meaning, could I have a closer look at the letter from the Girl-Police”.

  Then, Victoria had not even resumed her seat before Acanda audibly muttered: “Good gracious Vicky, it really wasn’t two weeks ago that you were supposed to have shown up in court, it was two months ago. Clits and Co have taken you to court for non-repayment of debt. You are five times over your overdraft, and have been for five years, darling.”

  “They have given up on getting you to repay, and want you punished under the ‘Girls - Irrecoverable Debt Act’. Good G, Vicky, sweetheart, we need to get you a lawyer!”

  “Oh don’t wet us wowwy about thet. Thet’s a waw intwoduced for the wower orders, Arcaanda. One will speak to one’s momma. One is sure the countess will soon sort out this wickle nonsense.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that Vicky. Your momma voted in favour of the law. She made a much praised speech in support of it in the upper house of parliament. Her speech in the House of Ladies swung her a post in the government. Your momma is the Home Affairs Secretary darling. She is responsible for upholding the Girl-Laws, and that particular law not least among them!”, Acanda reminded.

  “But, Arcaanda, momma will not want to be embawwassed by seeing her daughter on twial. I caan’t imegine momma patting her government post to thet wisk. Jest think of the scarndal”, Victoria relaxedly outlined. And then, as with her pretty fingers she put quotation marks at both ends of her projected headline, Victoria recited her imagined: ‘Beaumont-Fortain Daughter in Debt Twial Scarndal- Heome Affarrs Secwetawy Forced to Wesign!’”.

  “You’d defend one in court wouldn’t you Arcaanda. At least you would give one a good charwacter weferwence?”, Victoria enquired with an appealing giggle, apparently now as suddenly relaxed about the threat of court, as Acanda was increasingly concerned about it

  “Runkett and Runkett Attorneys at Law at your service, if you insist upon it Vicky”, Acanda replied, distractedly.

  “But it had better not be me who defends you in court: I have only ever been a sleeping partner in that august institution”.

  “And which of those darwing wickle wedheads did you sweep with: Wunkett or Wunkett, or Wunkett and Wunkett?!” Victoria smiled as she giggled goldenly.

  “Oh wets not wowwy about it Arcaanda. One will defend oneself....”, she then added, with an authoritative tone, conveying finality.

.....................

  The mixed-race wonder of Victoria’s stunning negress-white beauty was shown off at its best by the ‘little black number’ that she had chosen to wear for her court appearance. And that descriptive definition did not apply to her panties alone.

  As she waited for her case to be called, Victoria was rather enjoying having her legs admired by the pink-uniformed Girl-Police officer in charge of the waiting area.

  Ordinarily, Victoria would have complained to the superiors of one of ‘the lower orders’ such as this policegirl; but the policegirl was rather pretty, and Victoria bored after an hour on a straight-backed uncomfortably firm chair.

  There was a lot of exposed leg for the young constable to be distracted by, and they were incredibly shapely.

  Victoria’s dress only paid lip service to touching its rear hem on the seat of her chair. Accordingly, through the silk of her tiny handmaid-made panties, her lick-lips serviced the seat, and were transferring a very erotic scent there.

  The short, white, seamed, shear nylon stockings Victoria wore, with their broad tops just above her knees as she sat, left an enormous expanse of bare milk-chocolate-brown thigh on display.

  The quarter-cups of her cantilevered bra, made her bosom ‘encountered on counter’, with the curved neckline of her dress allowing the fact that she was wonderfully well, twice over and twinly, blessed, to be extensively openly evident.

  The poor girl left on guard over this, the last ‘case’ of the morning, hardly knew where to look. The gently rise and fall of Victoria’s bosom as she breathed, her long slim bare arms, the beautiful legs she kept crossing and re-crossing, at the visible risk of the challenge to her clearly displayed suspenders, being over-extended; or the stunning face with the brunette dreadlocks, the astonishing dark-brown eyes, and the irresistibly kiss posed kissable lips of the little round mouth, below her haughtily flared pretty nose.

  “Call Lady Victoria Cecile Jocasta Beaumont-Fortain!” came a distant cry.

  “Call Lady Victoria Cecile Jocasta Beaumont-Fortain!” came the same cry in a different voice echoing off court corridor walls, and thus getting closer.

  “Call Lady Victoria Cecile Jocasta Beaumont-Fortain!” said the policegirl’s duty companion, as she popped her pretty face around the waiting room door.

  Victoria was not about to let herself be instructed by these common ‘oiks’ in the jumped-up authority of Girl-Police uniform, so, without their bidding, of her own volition, she rose to the three-inch stiletto heels of her patent leather slingbacks, and began to glide her way to the court room.

  But she had not even made the waiting room door, which was being held open for her, before the policegirl who had been trying to avoid ogling her, quietly but firmly insisted: “The panties please”.

  “What doo you mean?!” Victoria responded testily.

  “The accused is not allowed to enter the Girl-Court wearing panties: it’s disrespectful”, the policegirl answered, in a whisper that would have won a world award for its polite discretion.

  “Do you want help with your suspenders?” the same charming girl then enquired.

  “No one does not, thenk you!”, Victoria replied.

  As Victoria reached up and demonstrated that she wore her panties outside her suspenders, the policegirl looked away out of consideration.

  A moment later, after they were handed to her, the policegirl felt their miniscule shining softness and fresh warmth in her fingers, and knew she must, but must, resist scenting Victoria’s musk in their gusset.

  “Hoity toity little tart ain’t she?” the room-watch policegirl heard her companion say, as they both watched Victoria’s divine rear undulate wildly, while she swung her hips to the courtroom.

  “No. She’s nice she is: she’s nice really”, the guard copette opined, even though she had no evidence bar Victoria’s evident beauty to guide her.

  “She can’t ‘elp ‘aving bin born a toff can she?”, she then added.

  “Dare you goes agen, Natana. Any girl wiv a knockout face, huge tits, a great bum, and gorgeous legs, and you’re a bleedin’ gonna: ‘ead over ‘eels in lurve!” her companion mocked, gently.

  “All I’m sayin’ is that I fink she’s nice really. I wouldn’t mind bein’ ‘er maid: dat’s for sure. Bet she’s really nice to ‘er maids an all....”

  “Stuff dat! Me, I ain’t bein’ nobody’s bleedin’ maid!” her companion responded, before prompting: “’Ere...let’s ‘ave a sniff of dem panties, an’ see wot a toff’s cunny smells like”.

.....................

  As Victoria entered the court, she found herself pulling down her dress’ hem with her lovely hands, because it was decidedly brief, and she with no briefs, and no ‘brief’ – the latter being British slang for a defending attorney – and thus feeling triply vulnerable.

  A curly-haired auburn beauty sat on the judge’s bench. An ethnically Asian Indian girl was the usher and court clerk. The latter led Victoria to the raised pedestal on which she must stand before the judge.

  “You must stand with your feet two-feet apart, one foot on each of the marks”, the raven-haired pretty Indian girl confirmed.

  “But....” Victoria exclaimed quietly.

  “No ‘buts’ I’m afraid”, the Indian girl whisper-instructed, as she smiled. And Victoria knew she must comply, even though she could feel her blush rising in parallel with the threat of increasing cheekiness in the rear view of her, as the hem of her micro-dress threatened to slide up her smooth buttocks and display her pouch’s gasping groove.

  From the rustling and whispers she could hear from behind her, Victoria was very aware that the view she was near to giving of the heaven between her heavenly legs, was exciting overwhelming interest among the women and girls on the public benches.

  “Give the court your name, address, and age please”, the flame-haired judge, a woman in her late thirties, and a model of model’s looks, instructed.

  “One is Wictorwia Cecile Wocasta Wady Beaumont-Fortain. One wesides at the Eld Hanting Lordge in the wiwage of Barnmouth-Megnar, cleose to the Ceounty Teown of Barnmouth, and one is twenty-one”, Victoria responded, with crisp monotone confidence.

  “Lady Victoria Cecile Jocasta Beaumont-Fortain...”, the gloriously golden-tressed judge began, before the disdainful, Victoria interrupted and corrected her.

  “One is not ‘Wady Wictorwia Cecile Wocasta Beaumont-Fortain’, the cowect form of addwess is ‘Wictorwia Cecile Wocasta, Wady Beaumont-Fortain’.”

  “In short, one is Wady Beaumont-Fortain, not Wady Wictorwia.”

  “Wady Beaumont-Fortain is the courtesy title of the eldest daughter of the Countesses Beaumont-Fortain: the daughter that will inhewit the title of ‘Countess Beaumont-Fortain’ under the waws of female-pwimogeniture.”

  “One’s dear momma is the pwesent countess, and has inhewited a title first awarded one’s famiwy, by Nell Quim, the mistwess and, later, wife of Queen Chawotte the Second, in sixteen forty fwee.”

  Attracted by Victoria’s horny contralto voice, and very appealing short-tongued pronunciation, the lovely judge allowed this to pass, she even corrected herself: “Victoria Cecile Jocasta Lady Beaumont-Fortain, at this stage I have to enquire if you wish to plead guilty as charged, or if you must be tortured until you do so. Which shall it be?” she asked, with a tone suggesting she was doing her duty despite it being more than a little disagreeable to her.

  Taken aback, Victoria speculated as she expostulated: “But surely one hes the wite to pwead nort guiltay, and to defend oneself in a twial!”

  “I am afraid not. Not where, under the Girls - Irrecoverable Debt Act, the debt exceeds established income savings and investments to the degree it does with yourself and Clits the bankers. I am surprised that a defending counsel has not apprised you of that fact.”

  “One is defending oneself”, Victoria responded.

  “But surely, you took advice before coming to court!” the judge asked, with evident concern.

  “Well, no: ectually one didn’t”

  “That is most unfortunate. But you are a fortunate young lady in one respect, in that your mother has agreed to repay your debt.”

  The look of relief that brightened Victoria’s gorgeous face was almost accompanied by her drawing her legs closed, so that she might walk out of the court. Of course she already knew that the countess had repaid her debt, and the interest on it; but to hear it confirmed in, and therefore acknowledged by the Girl-Court was still an immense relief.

  But, then again, she had caught in the judge’s tone, an indication that the sentence she had just heard from the chair was preliminary and introductory. Her relief was therefore short-lived. She soon discovered she had not been wrong in deducing the meaning of the intonation.

  “However, that does not mean that you are free to go”, the judge added: “Have you anything you wish to say in your defence?”

  “Well, ectually, no one hesn’t” Victoria responded, with a surprising hint of nervousness in her tone: surprising that is, because she was normally very self-assured.

  The judge looked at Victoria with sadness at the duty she had to perform next.

  “Then I am afraid that: Victoria Cecile Jocasta Lady Beaumont-Fortain, this court finds you guilty of wilful negligence of an unsustainable debt acquired in contradiction with the Girls - Irrecoverable Debt Act of 2051, and thus with the Girl-Laws. Accordingly, and allowing that the debt has been repaid by a third-party, it is the sentence of this court that, to make an example of you, and teach you an obviously necessary lesson, considering your huge debt and the more than considerable time for which it has been outstanding, you be taken prisoner, and thereafter hence from the prison, and tribicated for twenty-four hours.”

  “You caan’t do thet to one! Thet is a punishment weserved for the wower orders. One is of the wuling cwass. One is a wady, not a cormon wabourwer!...” Victoria found herself protesting in reflex.

  “I will not stand for any descent young lady. I therefore hereby add to your sentence that, the preliminary treatment before you are tribicated, will last double the time I had original decided upon. And if you even breathe the wrong way in response to that, I will double it again. Now: is here anything else you wish to say?”

  In the wise silence that followed, the judge scribbled and then passed a note down to the clerk of the court, before announcing from her high-backed high-up chair:

  “This court will recess until approximately 16.00 hours, when, as per our unfortunate duty, I, and the clerk of the court, must witness justice being carried out. By that time the young lady in the dock will, I trust, have already begun to learn the respect due to the Girl-Courts, and that the Girl-Laws apply to every female in this land, regardless of class background.”

.....................

  Victoria turned her head in blushing shame. She was now in an anteroom of the court proper, and being prepared for her ‘preliminary’. She had already suffered the indignity for her, of being girlhandled by the two Girl-Police copettes, whose duty it was to girlacle her and take her from the court to face and take the judge’s choice of punishment as the ‘preliminary’ to the rest of the tribication procedures.

  “Do you want the dress right off, in case there’s some blood?”

  “I weawwy don’t carr wewy much, one way or the otharr” Victoria replied bravely.

  “You’ll care right enough in a moment my darlin’. Still, ‘av it your own way.”

  “Lower the dress to ‘er waist and get her bleedin’ bra off Trisha. She ‘as to be fixed wiv ‘er back on the wall, so she can’t back off none. Bind ‘er at the shoulders standin’ to attention wiv dem pretty arms of ‘ers by ‘er side.”

  “Use the wall ‘oops, iver side ‘er neck, so ‘er ‘ead is ‘eld up, den at ‘er armpits, elbows and ‘er wrists, and also use a bit of imagination for a change eh. We’ll mek a good whipperette out of you yet my girl. Gord knows you’ve bin a bleedin’ apprentice for long enough by now!”

  These words were from Mandy Pierpont, the Barnmouth Civil and Criminal Girl-Court Torturette in Ordinary. Each Girl-Court had such an appointment.

  The strong forty-year-old, handsome woman, with brunette frisky-ponytailed hair and light blue eyes that sparkled with humour and apparent gentleness, knew, only too well, that there was fierce competition for such posts.

  Her place was up for its annual re-bidding in thirty days. She was probably only likely to keep her job by accepting yet another cut in pay.

  Meanwhile, making a good impression on the judges was important, as there were not many jobs in the outside world she could turn to. The judges, after all, were the electors. She managed to scrape a living this way. She’d been elected to the Barnmouth Girl-Courts five years running now, having been at Hondon Central for five years before.

  But Mandy had a sneaky feeling that her apprentice, Patricia Darnell, was going to compete the election against her. That was what competition was about of course. She had to train Trish, but in doing so, was metaphorically cutting her own throat. She, Mandy, knew the tricks of the trade, things the twenty-year-old Trisha never looked like learning. Where was the justice in that? Having your job under constant threat from a youngster, who was still wet behind the ears?

  Trisha was a looker with a great pair of legs though, and that went down fantastically with the judges come election time.

  Take the judge on the bench today. Justice Camalata Dupre. What a gorgeous redhead! There she sits dispensing moral judgements, and yet, if the rumours were true, she had slept with half the girls in the court. The officials that is, not the accused; at least not unless.... After all, word was that she liked to be groped by strangers, and that she’d been seen hanging around some notorious public lavatories, hoping some of the girls using them would ask her for a feel. She’d been let off though, because the first girl she’d gone into a cubicle with, had turned out to be a fellow judgette from another county: at least, that was the gossip.

This posh girl was the fifth to get this treatment this morning. Not the fifth posh girl, she was unique in that regard, just as her particular beauty: the wonderful beauty of a mixed-race girl, was also, unfortunately, far too rare. And this one was to go on to be tribicated: the first for a while.

  “Oh for gord’s sake Trisha, she needs a strap round ‘er tummy and ‘er ankles and ‘er knees fixed to some ‘oops as well. And, while you’re at it, get a cushion behind ‘er back, so as to get ‘er pushing those gorgeous tits out for us... That’s the nicest pair of melons as I’ve ever seen. Just look at the nips on dem. Dark chocolate nipples eh: fuckin’ ‘ell! She’s quite a beauty ain’t she.... quite a beauty?” Mandy continued.

  Victoria was bound to wall embedded hoops by silk ropes, with her back to the cold white tiles. She was stripped to her waist, with her expensive dress unzipped to hip level, and then taken off her shoulders and pulled down nearly to the top of her lovely bottom. She still wore her suspenders, stockings and three-inch heels.

  Her brassiere hung on a hook on the opposite wall. It and her panties were forfeit as trophies. Mandy and Trisha had the right to collect their choice of one trophy apiece, and sell them on O-Bey. They would be readily snapped up.

  The cost of Victoria’s punishment, including Mandy’s and Trisha’s wages, would be partly recouped by the exclusive movie rights that would be auctioned on O-Bey.

  Her mother knew, but Victoria herself was blissfully unaware of the network of fibre-optic cable ‘spy-holes’ through which her lovely face and body were being filmed from a vast multitude of angles, including the angle from which her cunt was being filmed up her skirt just now.

  Her mother was aware of the shame that the O-Bey sale would bring on the family; but her chances of the prime ministership depended upon showing she was without fear or favour in her present post of Home Affairs secretary, even with her own daughter. Justice must be done; unfortunately too for the countess and her daughter, it must also be seen to be done.

  Her chief torturer approached Victoria.

  “Well, now den Victoria....”, Mandy began.

  “One is Wady Beaumont–Fortain, if you don’t mind!” Victoria demanded, in a quite whisper, a near croak indicating her fear.

  “Well, now den ‘Lady Beaumont–Fortain’, if that’s how you wanna be called like....”, Mandy re-began.

  “Looks to me like you rubbed der judge up der wrong way, my little darlin’. She’s written ‘ere, as ‘ow you is to get an hour’s worf. Most of der prisoners only gets ‘alf dat normally.”

  “Let’s see now. At one every fifteen seconds, that’s four a minute, sixty minutes in an hour, means, two ‘undred an’ forty; an’ double dat, is near enough five ‘undred, which is pretty bleedin’ cruel if your asks me; but I’m afraid I ‘as me job to do sweetheart.”

  “Pwease don’t addwess one as ‘sweeheart’” Victoria responded bravely, with a definite tear of fear in her voice.

  “Sorry darlin’”, Mandy responded, innocent of the equal insult that Victoria heard in that form of address also.

  “What are you going to do to one?” Victoria’s dry throated voice quavered.

  “You is to be preliminaried darlin’” Mandy replied “You’re a nice big girl”, she then added, as if that were an explanation.

  “Look. Don’t tek dis der wrong way like, but, if you want me too, I can get you goin’ a bit darlin’. You know. I mean I can touch you up so as you gets a wet on. Dat way it don’t ‘urt so much see, or so der uvver girls tell me dat is”, Mandy offered in an offhand way.

  “Pwease don’t!” Victoria commanded, though her voice voiced fear instead of her usual confident superiority.

  “Suit yerself darlin’”, Mandy responded, indifferently.

  “It’s dem paddles! For gord’s sake Trish, we’ve bin using der same ones all bleedin’ week’! It’s this friggin’ judge’s favourite preliminary for big girls like thisun”

  “No, not der long ones. Dem wot looks like table tennis bats”, Mandy now called over to her apprentice, who thus brought two ripple-rubber coated ‘bats’ over, from a rack of equally evil looking equipment.

  “Now den Trish. Let’s go over dis yet agen. Dis ‘ere is your actual bat for dis particular job, see. You puts the little string ‘oop round your wrist, so as you can’t drop it. Do dat, and den weigh it in your ‘and. Like I said afore, it’s a bit ‘eavier than a bleedin’ table tennis bat cos it’s lignum or some such: ‘eavy wood to you an’ me...”

  “Now den. See. Goin’ over it yet agen, so as maybe you’ll learn summat abart it dis time. Dare’s nobbly rubber coating, same iver side. ‘Ow do your use it? Simple. You ‘its ‘er tit right on der nipple and smack it back into ‘er chest, so she looks like a boy for a millitick; den, when her lovely tit springs up and springs right out straight, like it will, you swing your bat up under it real ‘ard, and slap it up so bleedin’ ‘igh it goes over ‘er fuckin’ shoulder, or else it ‘its ‘er in der face.”

  “Poor little bitch ‘as got an hour’s worf to come.”

  “We’re boff right ‘anded, but I know wot I’m doin’, so you tek ‘er right tit like you ‘ave bin doin’ wiv der uvver girls afore now, and I’ll still do the leftun.”

  “Remember: turn and turn about is wot it’s all about. Minimum is, four times a minute each tit. An’ don’t ‘old back none. Judge ses she’s gotta ‘ave ‘er tits slapped about good an’ fuckin’ proper. You and me, our job is to slap ‘er fuckin’ tits right off of ‘er”.

  Lost in the world of repeated detailed guidance to her obtuse and rather hopeless apprentice, Mandy did not notice the tears that ran down Victoria’s lovely face as she listened to the terrible torture she faced.

  When Mandy did register Victoria crying, she realised tender feelings had not entirely left her, and tried to comfort the poor girl about to have her breasts ‘preliminaried’.

  “Sorry darlin’ but it’s got to be done: court order see”, she said, gently.

  “Will you make wuv to one first....?”

  “.....One means, will you wub one ap first, wike you said you would pwease..... ....Pwease!”, Victoria beg-whispered amid her tears.

  “You mean, stroke you and get a wet on for you?” Mandy asked, in order to be sure.

  “Pwease”, Victoria sobbed shame voiced.

  “I’m so sorry darlin’ we only got just the hour left now see, so we ‘aven’t got no more time left for dat anymore now....” Mandy answered sweetly, in apology.

Mandy then proffered a round rubber strip at Victoria’s profoundly beautiful lips.

  “Put dis atween your teef darlin’. It’ll give you summat to bite on, and ‘elp tek the pain away a bit. Us don’t want you screaming so as you end up biting your tongue now do us?” Mandy coaxed.

.....................

  Word that a girl was to be tribicated always created a sensation in Barnmouth.

It had even become a recent years’ tradition, for some of the final-year girls at the local school to take time off without permission, and go and watch. Their favourite ruse was to claim time in their dormitory for examination revision. When gathered there, they would draw lots for the two or three that would sneak out the tradesgirls’ entrance at the rear of the school. Those who remained would cover for the escapees.

  It was unlikely that their lecturers would check. They would be busy teaching class and keeping discipline with the other girls. But arrangements with matron, in which a few dollars crossed hands, ensured a phone call from the dormitory would secure her confirmation that: “Sure, the poor wee darlings are in the sick bay, here wi’ me. It’s running a wee fever that they are now. I strongly suspect that overexcitement from too much naughty thinking is behind it as usual. So as to keep their heat down, I hay got them all bare, and lying doon on their bellies and titties in a bath of cold water each. And to keep an eye on their temperatures, I hay gi’en each o’ them a thermometer apiece in their pretty wee bummies”.

  The risk the staff would visit the sick bay was thought minimal. It had never happened before. Matron was revered by the staff for her pure Scot’s honesty. Surely it would not happen now that the staff would check. At least so the escaped schoolgirls must hope.

  The girls who absconded risked being caned if found out of course. But an afternoon’s escape from the severe discipline of St Saviour’s was a joy.

.....................

  So terrible had been the pain, Victoria had bitten through the bar of rubber she had clenched in her teeth. The offered mercy of the gag to bite on, had lasted only four slaps of the heavy paddles, slaps that had smacked her magnificent mammaries into her face so that her gorgeous negress’ lips, so that those lovely lips, could have kissed them by turn, the slaps had been so savagely severe.

  The bitten-through gag had fallen from her mouth with her horrendous screams as her breasts had been smacked and thrashed as if indeed they were to be smashed off her body.

  No mercy had been shown. Her screams and screeches and pleas had echoed from the tiled walls of the cold torture room, and her cries of: “Pwease have mercy! Oh pwease, pwease, pwease stop!! Oh my bweasts! My bweasts! My bweasts!! Oh pwease!!! Oh pwease!!!!!” had had to be ignored if justice was to be served as severely as the court had ordered and therefore expected it to be.

  Her beautiful breasts were now two completely deep-purple and coal-black bruises. Blood seeped out of the milk-ducts of her nipples: that blood, the milk of inhumane unkindness. More blood was abundantly evident where the bats had been swung up to smash her tits toward the heaven from which such a beautiful girl and such a wonderful bosom must come, as if offering them up as gravity-defying sacrifices to the goddess who makes all girls, not only in heaven, but from pure heaven, and thus heaven’s presence on earth.

  As her torturers untied her, Victoria was a shivering sobbing wretch, and had to be held from falling to the floor, to which her two tormentors actually now let her slide, since Victoria’s lovely legs gave way.

  “Don’t forget, you mustn’t show ‘em any kindness Trish, no matter ‘ow you feels about it!” Mandy reminded her apprentice.

  “Give us dat bucket ‘ere will yer?” Mandy then requested, before lifting the receptacle in question, and dashing Victoria, with a single douche of its ice-cold contents over the mesmerising dreadlocks that coiled siren gorgon on her head, leaving the poor girl gasping like a landed fish with the chilling shock.

  Droplets from this sudden sousing splashed onto Victoria’s thighs, bare above her stocking tops, milk-chocolate-brown soft and supremely smooth: Mandy could not help but feel aroused by the little diamonded pearls that turned to tributaries like tears contributory to worshipping the wonder of Victoria’s superb legs.

  Mandy’s erotic arousal must have an outlet, and came in anger: “Get ‘er stripped right off now. Sod der bleedin’ dress. She ‘ad ‘er chance to ‘ave it saved. Use a fuckin’ knife to get all of ‘er close off on ‘er. Judge wants to witness der start of ‘er bein’ tribicated come 4.00 o’ clock dis afternoon. Musn’t be late, else it’ll be you an’ me boaf outofa a fuckin’ job...”, Mandy directed.

  “Bring dem dare clogs ‘ere”, she then instructed.

  The dazed Victoria knew what was coming this time. Till just now, and being on the receiving end of an endless-hour of its horrible violence, she had been ignorant of the choice of what her preliminary punishment was to be. Ignorance had therefore been, to a degree, comparative bliss. But she too had gone to St Saviour’s Girls’ Academy, and she too had sneaked out to witness a tribication with her fellow eighteen-year-old virgin school chums.

  As she rose, now completely naked, to her feet and was obviously about to run anywhere she could to escape, the quick-witted Mandy, grabbed a blacksnake, and whipped the screaming Victoria back to the ground again, with three savage strokes on her back, which curved into a beautifully arched bow to try and escape the brutal blows, before the poor girl fell and slithered over the still wet white tiles of the floor on the perfect soft smooth complexion of her right thigh, and then lay in a foetal-curled heap, sobbing with the fire-fierce pain from the furious lashes.

  “Sorry abart dat, little lady, but we can’t ‘ave you trying to escape none; as if you could any’ow!”

  “If you is lookin’ to get some fresh air doe, dare’ll be plenty for you when we got you clogged up like you ‘as to be,” Mandy speculated, with a hint of cruel enjoyment at the fate she must bring to bear on this lovely creature.

  “Now den, we wanna make you look a treat for all dem girls out dare waiting to see you. You ‘as got a great pair of legs, darlin’. We’ll get you clogged up and see what day looks like den, eh”.

  It was to the apprentice Trisha that the duty of fitting the tribication clogs was to fall. She had to learn how to do it. This would be her first as a practitioner of tribication, but she had witnessed three in the last six months.

  The economy was in recession. You could always tell. When the banks were feeling the pinch, the number of girls tribicated, as a warning to others not to get in a position where they were unable to repay debt, went up. When the number of girls being tribicated for debt reached its peak: that was the time to buy shares.

  The second Wall Street crash, the one in 2029, had seen girls being tribicated at a rate of over ten a month. Victoria’s grand-momma had been among those wise enough to snatch up shares in the 2030s, and, when the economy subsequently recovered, found she had doubled the Beaumont-Fortain fortunes by so doing.

  For her namesake, the present Victoria, misfortune lay immediately ahead.

  The clogs were crude. Each consisted essentially of two heavy blocks of wood. The blocks on which the victim had her feet initially placed, were shorter than the blocks that would fit over the top of her feet. The latter had two central and a dozen small edge-located pre-drilled holes in them.

  Victoria sat on her flawless bottom on the lucky floor, with her right ankle held in the very strong grip that a woman as fit as Mandy could bring to bear. Her right foot was squarely placed on one of the shorter blocks.

  Of rough hewn wood, replete with its own supply of splinters, the lower block was some six inches square in cross-section. Her big toe was at the end but not over the end of this block. She wiggled and curled her toes in anticipatory fear.

  “Pwease don’t do this to one. One can make you beoth wewy wich if you let one geow!” Victoria tried, her intonation already signifying she knew the plea was hopeless.

  “Make us both rich if we lets you go, darlin’? An’ where is you to get der money from den? Ain’t you bein’ tribicated fer debt, or ‘as we got der wrong girl yet agen, eh?!” Mandy mocked, finding sexual excitement in the power she had over this stunning beauty, and yet also needing to be brutal to overcome her passing desire: that desire being to let Victoria free for free.

  The top side of the clog had been crudely hollowed to cover over the victim’s – in this case Victoria’s hallowed - foot. Other than for that scooping out, it was of the same six by six cross-section of the lower clog half. Trisha located it so that Victoria’s big toe was beyond its end, in contrast to the lower half, where the end of Victoria’s big toe coincided with the end edge of the block.

The upper half of the clog went up as far as a bootie would cover on Victoria’s slender ankles and shins. Indeed, the hollow that had been crudely scooped in it allowed it to half-wrap her ankle and shin.

  Victoria’s heart-rending screams echoed from the cold cruel virgin white tiles of the non-acoustic walls. And that was only from the driving in of the first nail.

The top half of the clogs would be initially nailed to the lower with two nails, one through each of the main central pre-drilled holes in the tops: those holes being just forward of the ankle, and just aft of the toes. Victoria’s tears and incoherent pleas from her agony as the nails were hammered right through her pretty little feet may, perhaps, therefore be understood.

  Experience had shown that the nails through the feet alone could not be trusted. More nails were therefore driven in, along the side edges of the upper, as if hammering down a coffin lid over Victoria’s dainty foot, to thus keep the tortured foot securely sandwiched.

  Despite her feelings of sympathy deriving from the magical beauty of this particular girl: the sensational loveliness of her half-cast negress-white features, and divine brown complexion, and her queenly spirit, Mandy found her usual sexual arousal in the nailing being completed on Victoria’s left foot, and knew it would overcome her conscience when Victoria was made to stand.

  “Stand up you fuckin’ whore!” she commanded through her gritted teeth.

  It was not that Victoria would not obey that command. She reflexed to obey, but found she could not.

  “Get the bleedin’ whip Trish. This little slag seems to fink she’s still der one in charge ‘ere.” Mandy sneered.

  Her terror of more pain from the blacksnake spurred poor Victoria, who struggled first to kneel, and then to put one foot, or rather, one set of toes on the ground.

  Her squeals of agony as she made herself rise on that one brutally nailed foot, her left foot, that one set of toes, her left big toe primarily, were only exceeded by those she emitted when she put more weight on those toes, that one big toe, in order to rise on her right foot also.

  Now she stood and her torture was complete. Her pretty feet, her feet nailed into her clogs, pointed straight down as if heaven were to be found under the ground, and her toes were curved under the top wooden blocks, now become the front blocks of her nailed-on clogs.

Not only did she stand putting all her weight on the nails driven through her feet, and on the viciously bent forward big toes of her twice nailed feet, but she did so with those toes being pressed down upon and crushed by the front block of her clogs. Meanwhile, the rear clog block, provided a heel that kept her erect, and the extra length of the front clog block, some small distance up her shins, aided that. The result was that Victoria’s superb legs were shaped as only heaven could provide. They were heaven’s own transport transported to heavenly shape by this brutal torture.

  “Fuckin’ ‘ell Trish, just look at the fuckin’ legs on ‘er! Even the bleedin’ pope ‘erself ud wank ‘erself off if she saw dem legs!”

  “Dis un‘ll break all der records on O-Bey: you mark my words. No wonner dey gev it exclusive rights like. At a fousand dollars each friggin’ download, nice little earner all round the bleedin’ world dat is, I shouldn’t wonder.....” Mandy speculated, as Victoria’s helpless tears flowed.

  “’Ere: tell you what. Let’s mek it last longer eh. Let's give the bitch a fuckin ‘obble” Mandy decided, as her honey flowed into her knickers at her enjoyment of Victoria’s stupendously shapely legs, and of the agony she was inflicting on the beauty, the beauty standing in the clogs nailed to her lovely feet.

  “Dat’s a bit cruel innit Mandy?” Trisha dared to intervene.

  “You ain’t der one in charge ‘ere yet me gel. And dissun ‘ere certainly ain’t in charge o’ nobody no more. So I’ll ‘old ‘er and you put this ‘ere on ‘er big toes.

Toe cuffs dey is, wiv a chain atween der cuffs. Wiv dem on, an’ allowing fer der width of ‘er clogs, she’ll ‘ave der equal of a one-inch ‘obble chain. Dat’ll slow der little slag down a bit woan’it? Spect it’ll tek ‘er a bleedin’ week to walk to the town square wiv dem on ‘er”.

  It would take poor Victoria almost as long as that to walk, to stumble, to stagger, to nearly tumble, crushing her big toes with every agonising step in her nailed on torture clogs, to the huge log that already awaited her convenience, and her as its means of conveyance.

  That log, comprised a ten foot long rough hewn tree trunk, with a downward-running round, broom-handle-broad, T-forming upright. It had been readied earlier by Mandy and Trish. It had taken the full strength of both those women to put it between the Y-topped telescopic upright supports that presently held it at the ready.

  Just because the pretty little half-negress licked her gorgeous lips to moisten them, it did not mean she wanted to be a walking kiss: but she was. As she made the miniscule steps her toe-hobble would permit, Mandy and Trisha were mesmerised by her legs, her incredibly strong incredibly shapely legs.

  When, at long last, Victoria reached the log, in order to go just beyond it, she need only bow her head in a nod. That was all she had to do, and thus all she did.

  Then Mandy aligned Victoria in front of the log, so that the ‘broom-handle’ upright ran down between Victoria’s shoulder blades. And Victoria must bow submissively once more, as Mandy bade her back up so that she was bent with the huge tree trunk across her delicate feminine shoulders, with her gorgeous dark brown eyes staring their terror at the floor.

  Mandy now tied Victoria’s right wrist with a silk rope, took the slender arm out parallel along the underside of the log, passed the rope around the log, and then tied the loose end of the rope to Victoria’s right wrist again, preparing this first of Victoria’s lovely arms, as if she were being crucified. Preparing little Victoria to bear on her shoulders the cruel reality of a burden proportionately greater than the mythical Atlas herself had borne up.

As she tied Victoria’s equally slender left arm at the wrist to the log, and Trisha ensured Victoria’s curls would not get caught up, Mandy continued her enjoyment of her job, by taunting Victoria, who was now readied to carry her truly massive burden across her slim shoulders.

  “You know what comes next doncha darlin’?”

  “Oh pwease doen’t do this to one! One will never ever wift such a big twunk. One is only a wickle girl. One is not swong enough to wift it! One will never be able to cawwy a whole twee wike wiss....”

  But these words, in Victoria’s erotic short-tongued contralto, were punctuated with a period full stop when Victoria moaned at the tightness Mandy imparted to the final knot at her left wrist.

  Within her sight so that she must know the alternative, both Mandy and Trisha each grasped a multiply-knotted-lash: a rough-rope cat o’ three tails apiece.

Each of the six equidistant knots on all three of the tails of these particular whips, each tail of which ended in such a knot, glinted, as each and every knot had had a steel nail twisted in it. Each of these nails was bent around on itself, so that it could not escape the knot, and bent around on itself such that, the point that would do duty if the nail were used to hammer into wood, was available to kiss Victoria’s bare flesh if she were unlucky in the blows the brutal device would impart.

  “Lift it! Lift it you fuckin’ whore!!” Mandy hissed through gritted teeth, as she readied her whip for the gentle Victoria.

  The perspiration that ran down lovely Victoria’s troubled temple testified that the poor little girl was trying.

  “Not good enough bitch! Lift it you fuckin’ slag, or I’ll whip your gorgeous bum”

  “Pwease wet one twy again. One is twying: one weally is twying wewy hard!!” Victoria begged.

  “Lift it you filthy piece of shit!!!”

  With superfeminine effort, in response to Mandy’s inhuman and inhumane threats, Victoria just managed to lift the log a millimetre’s millimetre off the supports, and found that, in that very instant, those same supports clanged and clattered as they were kicked to the ground, and she left bearing her unbearably cruel load standing on her crushed big toes in the crude wooden clogs nailed to her dainty feet.

  She staggered but managed to stay upright on her beautiful beautifully-stretched legs, screaming with the pain of the additional weight bearing down on her nailed feet and her big toes: her toes already crushed by her own magical one-hundred-pounds of pure girl.

  “Oh....... pwease!!....One is too wickle to cawwy such a big twee!!! One is only a wickle girl!!”, she gasped almost inaudibly, knowing it would make no difference.

  “Get used to it whore. It’s a mile to the town centre and that’s precisely where you is goin’, tree an’ all! So get fuckin’ walking, you filthy turd of shit!!”

...........................

  At that very moment, the judge that had sentenced Victoria, happened in.

  Concerned that Justice Camalata Dupre may have overheard, and with her, Mandy’s own, re-election chances in mind, Mandy apologised: “Excuse me ma’am. I didn’t realise as ‘ow you was dare, see. Sorry about dem words just now, but sometimes it be necessary to urge the prisoners on a bit.”

  “Oh that’s quite alright Pierpont. I was getting a little concerned, because there is quite a crowd waiting out there. You’ve never been late before. It’s only a few minutes though, and I can see that you have done your usual excellent job with the prisoner.”

  “Looks like her breasts took quite a paddling in the hour I instructed she endure: quite a paddling indeed.”

  “It were ‘bout five-hundred ma’am”, Mandy informed.

  “Each?” the judge enquired, seemingly casually.

  “Oh no ma’am, it were around two-fifty on each tit”

  “Oh”, the judge responded, with an intonation indicative of decided disappointment.

  “I’ll get out of your way now then Pierpont. But how long till she’s in the square would you imagine?”

  “I’d fink ‘bout an ‘our ‘an an ‘alf to two hours or so ma’am”

  “As long as that?”

  “Oh yes ma’am. She tried to escape so we put an ‘obble atween ‘er big toes like”

  “I see...........”

  “.........I’ve booked dinner at 7.00 tonight with my wife. It’s our wedding anniversary, so I do so hope I can witness the tribi in good time for my ponygirl to still get me home to Barnmouth-Magna for a quick shower and change?”, the judge mused.

  “We’ll make sure der little bitch don’t slack none ma’am”, Mandy assured.

  Suitably reassured that she could escape from duty for the day, early, as intended, and having, as intended by her visit, urged haste, Justice Camalata Dupre remarked, as she graced out of the torture chamber: “It’s a terribly hot afternoon for her. Still, the Girl-Laws are the Girl-Laws, and she has been a very naughty girl.....I’ll see you at the square in a couple of hours at most then...”

...........................

  While this conversation took place, Victoria had already begun her walk under Trisha’s order. She knew her fate. She had begun her walk: that, after all, was what her beautiful legs were for. But you could hardly call the agonising shuffle at a tortured snail’s crawl a walk, even though it was the best she could do.

  Her body glistened with perspiration from the strain of the unbearable weight she bore on her shoulders, on her nailed feet, and on her crushed toes, which were already bruised and bleeding from this horrible torture.

  “You is gonna ‘ave to go faster dan dat you fuckin’ slag!” Mandy cursed, as she nodded to Trisha to be ready to whip Victoria if Victoria dared to slack.

...........................

  The uniform of St Saviour’s Academy was all white, even, of course, down to the girls’ knickers. The three little angels who had sneaked out of school to witness Victoria’s tribication, would have stood out in the crowd for that fact alone: the white uniform that is, not, of course, their well hidden school-issue knickers.

  Factors that would also have distinguished these schoolgirls from the other women and girls gathered to enjoy the spectacle Victoria would provide over the next twenty-four hours, were their very exceptional prettiness, and that one was honey-blonde, another a brunette negress, and the third a gorgeous redhead.

  You would, of course, be right to remark that there is nothing unusual about those points in a world blessed with the presence of many pretty girls. But the reason it is remarked, is that, in their uniform, you would never have known which was which. For each St Saviour’s girl wore a head-to-toes white cotton burkha, and saw the world through blue, brown, and green eyes, respectively, entirely without you or they being able to even know that they were so coloured, when seeing them in uniform, for even their pretty eyes were covered over by the muslin gauze through which they gazed at the world via the thus covered letterbox-slot sized gap in their head cowls.

  As if this were not enough to protect their perfect complexions: to shade themselves from the sun, in their white gloved hands, each held aloft an opened white parasol.

  Even with holding their parasols aloft though, their arms were not revealed as the gloves they wore went up to their armpits inside the long sleeves of their all enveloping gowns.

  On the very tips of their toes in heelless white ballet shoes beneath their gowns, in order to train their legs; to protect their virtue, and keep their lovely legs demurely together, they wore a two-inch hobble-chain at both their ankles and, in the form of leather garters, just above their pretty knees.

  Each and all were there to enjoy their escape from the school, five minutes wiggle from where they now stood, and, of course, Victoria’s suffering. But each and all knew that they could not afford to get excited, as their panties would be inspected at bedtime, before they were chained in their beds for the night. And, if there was the slightest evidence that they had oozed any ‘naughty-cream’, as these girls would call it among themselves, it guaranteed a severe spanking from the head girl, on the bare bottom.

  As close companion schoolgirls will, they chatted as if the world belonged to them, and there was nobody else around.

  “I’ve heard that it’s Vicky Beaumont-Fortain. I was in love with her when she was in the sixth, and I told her so as well!”, a girl called Bethesda announced, with bright confidence.

  “Did I tell you that I saw her nude in the bath once?!” she then added.

  “Oh Bethesda Morton-Fortesque, you are a little fibber!” Nelanima Foston-Palmer challenged.

  “Cross my heart and hope to die if it isn’t true! She’s got gorgeous tits”, Bethesda replied.

  “I always say, that where tits are concerned, anything more than a handful is a waste”, the third girl, Penelope Dupre, opined.

  And all three immaculately intact virgins giggled, because all three were covering for the fact that, they had never touched, or ever been touched by another girl, except in the sense of their hearts and schoolgirl crushes, and would certainly never ever have dared to touch themselves in any naughty way.

  Then, Bethesda looked up and pointed: “Oh golly! Oh gosh! She’s coming. Oh they’re whipping her! Look! Over there! Oh how horrible. How can she be expected to carry that huge tree trunk on her shoulders like that? Oh, I can’t watch, I can’t watch, they’re whipping her and whipping her. It’s too cruel!”

  “You can hear her screams! Oh the poor girl! She’s running with blood and they keep whipping her and whipping her whipping her and whipping her!”

  “Oh look at her back! What have they done to her back? Oh it’s so cruel. She can hardly walk with that huge log on her shoulders and they keep whipping her and whipping her. She can’t go any faster! Must they keep whipping her and whipping her so hard?”

  “Oh the poor girl.. the poor poor girl. Oh god just look at the whips they are using on her! Oh her back!! Oh I can’t look! Oh can you see her back?! They’ve whipped the skin off her back! And still they keep whipping her and whipping her and whipping her and whipping her and whipping her and whipping her...”

  Bethesda’s eager commentary was as accurate as it was unnecessary, because Victoria was being whipped past the very spot where the three schoolgirls stood.

  “Keep moving!!” Mandy cursed for the umpteenth time before she again flogged Victoria’s already completely raw back, followed by Trisha lashing her in turn.

  “Give her one for me!” Bethesda then called, belying in an instant all the sympathy she had seemed to show before: before, that is, she had creamed blushmakingly copiously in her knickers.

  “Whip her thighs! Whip her thighs!” she then added, flushing English Rose pink beneath her burkha at the same instant as she creamed some more at ogling the fit strong shapely beauty of Victoria’s legs.

  The sight of poor Victoria’s slow struggle under her immense burden had whetted all three girls, and dampened the gussets of all three’s knickers.

  It was just after Victoria had struggled past, that Bethesda’s eyes were drawn to her own gown, and, even through the gauze through which her sparkling blue eyes must gaze at the world, noticed that its pure crisp white had been spattered with spots of Victoria’s blood.

  “Oh golly! I’m for it now. When the head girl sees this I’ll get my bummy caned for sure!”

  “Get a fuckin’ move on you filthy slut!!!”, Mandy was heard to shout as she whipped Victoria yet again.

  As Victoria struggled along to the town square, with the huge tree trunk across her shoulders bearing down on her nailed feet and her crushed big toes as she made her one-inch steps in her cruel hobble, the full brutality of her whipping showed.

  Her back was indeed raw, her buttocks close to being flogged to red meat, and her legs, her wonderful thighs and legs, ran with the trickles of blood that caressed their perfect shapely curvy contours. Her screams of pain as they flogged her and flogged her and flogged her, were now hoarse, and blood also trickled from her lovely lips, because, amidst her total agony, she had bitten her tongue.

  “Get a fuckin’ move on you fuckin’ slag!!!”, Mandy was heard to shout again as she whipped Victoria yet again.

  And amidst that sight of savage cruelty, an innocent schoolgirl’s voice was heard to ask:

  “Did you hear that language? Did you hear that language?! Did you hear what that woman with the whip was saying, so that anyone could hear? I’m going to find out her name and report her. She’s only a public servant. She ought to be fired. It’s completely horrible to hear words like that being used in public. I will tell my momma about this!” Penelope Dupre, the daughter of Justice Camalata Dupre, insisted firmly, accompanied by a tiny stomp of her en-pointe pretty right foot.

  “I’m with you on that!” Bethesda agreed emphatically, then she turned to feast on the spectacle of Victoria’s punishment.

  “Oh their spitting on her! Those horrible girls in the crowd are spitting on her. Oh that’s just so gross?”

  “Oh! Oh my gosh! Oh golly gosh! She’s peeing herself! Oh look! Look!! She’s peeing all down her legs. Look the wind has caught it and she is doing a peepee down those gorgeous lovely legs, both legs!”

  “Oh how gross. I think she deserves what she’s getting if she’s like that. It’s disgusting! Oh the shame of it! The shame of it! And to think she was once a pupil at the Acad’!!!”

  “Oh do stop prattling so Bethesda. We need to hurry down to the square if we are to see her getting tribid and you know how long it takes us to walk in our chastity hobbles!”

  At this reminder from Nelanima Foston-Palmer, the trio of delightful maidens began their tiptoe trot, their parasols aloft to further protect complexions already protected by their burkhas.

  And under their all-enveloping burkhas, as none would ever admit to the other, all three still wore their pure white standard school issue knickers of course, but pure white knickers now sporting significantly saturated gussets....

.............................

  Victoria nearly fell. On the edge of the concrete slabs of Barmouth Town’s market square, Victoria nearly fell. It was four in the afternoon. She had been whipped every step of the way to where she now stood, every step with her nailed feet on her crushed big toes in her tribication clogs for two whole hours and one long mile she had been flogged.

  Her huge burden forced her head down. A few in the crowd took a further chance to spit on her. Many of these had been Victoria’s servants at some time.

  “Pwease may one hev a dwink? One is tewiby wursty” she begged

  “Not unless you got any piss left in you, after you pissed yersen just now. Ain’t gonna waste good water on you, dats for certain sure!” Mandy answered.

  Victoria nearly fell. Victoria nearly fell again. Mandy and Trisha had untied Victoria’s wrists. Further helpers, further torturers had taken the huge log off her shoulders, and carried it over to where it would be raised as the crossbar on two eight to nine feet high tree trunk uprights, eight or so feet apart, already and permanently concreted into the town square centre.

  At the relief from her agony, Victoria moved to squat on her haunches and rub the pain from the torn muscles in her pretty arms.

  “Geddup you fuckin’ whore! Nobody said as ‘ow you could tek a bleedin’ rest did dey?! Mandy cursed.

  “Sowwy” Victoria whispered sweetly, rising and raising her sweet head, only to have someone in the crowd press forward, and spit on her lovely negress’ lips.

  “Not ‘arf as sorry as what you will be in a bit from na” Mandy gloated.

   “Ready!” came the call from the region of the uprights, and the dazed Victoria looked at her fate. The log she had carried had been lifted by a crane, and was now across the two uprights, resting in grooves made in the uprights for that purpose.

  Down from the centre of the horizontal log, the round wooden ‘broom handle’ that had been between Victoria’s shoulder blades as she bore her huge burden, now pointed down like the up-stroke of a capital letter ‘T’.

  As Victoria’s terrified eyes looked lower, she saw two more ‘broom handle’ diameter rods. These pointed up from the ground in the middle under the long ‘broom handle’ that hung down from her log.

  These ground-upwards rods, mounted in the concrete in the manner of the tree trunk uprights, leaned-in toward each other. Victoria’s eyes closed to take away the horror of what she saw next. But, still there when she opened them again, was the fact that each of the round ‘broom handle’ uprights, were ringed horizontally, twenty-four inches below from their rounded tops, with a ‘necklace’ of six one-inch long shining steel spikes, like a wicked choker around them.

  “Pwease don’t do this to one! Pwease! Pwease!! Pwease!!” Victoria begged, but she could see that the white silk rope harness had already been tossed over the crossbar, and was only too aware, that Mandy and Trisha were tying her arms doubled: that is, tying her with her wrists fixed to their respective upper arms.

  Long ends of loose white silk rope trailed like the train of a virgin bride from these ties, and the ties themselves, the ties holding Victoria’s slender wrists just above her sweet biceps, were like chocolate box bows, their long ends being the means of slipping these bows open at some time: perhaps to present the delicious confection that was the light chocolate brown Victoria it seemed.

  Now, on her right wrist, nearer her hand than the ropes tying her arms folded double, Mandy clipped one cuff of a handcuff set, leaving the other open: the open cuff being of an enormous size compared with Victoria’s femininely fine wrists. She then used another set for Victoria’s left wrist, leaving the far larger cuff at one end open in like manner.

  “Come on den, you little horny whore. We mustn’t keep your lovin’ audience waitin’ must we? For hexample, in’t dat your girlfriend over dare?”

  “Come to watch an’ enjoy it she ‘as! You fuckin’ bet she ‘as!! Bet she’s as big an whore as what you is, you filthy slag!” Mandy taunted, driven by sexual heat inflamed by Victoria’s beautiful body and Mandy’s enjoyment of torture.

  Mandy had spotted the clearly distressed Acanda St John-Fortesque-Thomas readily. Mandy hated her. She knew her by sight, because Acanda had had some involvement with a law firm, Runkett and Runkett. She, Mandy, had been interviewed for a security job at their Hondon headquarters, and been rejected by the haughty but very lovely St John-Fortesque-Thomas. Mandy’s hatred of ‘hoity toity toffs’ had only increased from then and there onwards.

  At mention of the name, Victoria’s lovely head turned to find Acanda in the crowd. The helpless Acanda watched weeping silently at a distance.

  Unable to see Acanda, Victoria assumed her torturer was just being cruel. But the hope that Acanda was organising an appeal against completion of her sentence momentarily crossed Victoria’s mind, before she realised that it was, of course, impossible, and therefore a ridiculous thought.

  Victoria was being dragged toward her fate on her nailed and bleeding feet.

When she was under the crossbar, Mandy cut the chain between the cuffs hobbling Victoria by her big toes.

  “Pwease! I beg you! Pwease deon’t do this to one!” Victoria pleaded.

  “Save your bref darlin’. You is gonna need it!” Mandy sneered spurred on by the pulsing of her clitoris.

  A confusion of organised ropes hung from the crossbar. The first seemed the most terrible. They comprised a noose: two nooses: two nooses being necessary, for this was a noose-bra.

  Mandy’s enthusiasm matched the loving care with which she helped each of Victoria’s wonderfully huge breasts through its individual noose. She then took ropes attached to each outer side of each noose, and fixed them behind, in the middle of Victoria’s brutally whipped back, by inserting a wooden peg into the two steel rings these ropettes ended with, so the ropettes joined as one, in the manner of a brassiere strap.

She then checked the short ropettes that connected the two nooses at the front: the two ropettes in Victoria’s cleavage between the insides of the nooses: these ropettes also being fastened together by the insertion of a wooden peg in their end rings.

  The holding pegs, front and back, had a steel ring in their tops. Mandy inspected the security of these pegs, to be sure they would not slip out unbidden. And then she made sure the loose nooses of the bra were lightly gripping the bases of Victoria’s beautiful bosom.

  The long ropes that rose from the top of these nooses were already slung over the crossbar, and trailed back down to the ground behind Victoria. The long loose ends presently waved and wandered a little in a cooling breeze from the town’s harbour area.

  As two long ladders were being placed against the crossbar, front and back of this soccer-goal style gallows, and checked for safety, Mandy and Trisha slipped another rope, separate and independent from the noose ropes, around Victoria’s soft shapely middle, tying it at her back like a slip knot lasso.

The loose end of this white silk rope was also pre-slung over the log that poor Victoria had been forced to carry under the lash, and, like the noose-bra ropes, dangled behind where, truly terrified and petrified, Victoria now stood.

  Although many in the crowd had witnessed a girl being tribicated before, this confusion of ropes and rods still amazed them.

  The prospect for confusion also concerned Mandy, who was to operate with the non-too-bright Trisha on the ground, while two other torturettes went up the ladders to do their part, and two more were ready near the upright inward leaning ‘broom handle’ spitefully spike-necklaced rods.

  “Just make fuckin’ sure your pullin’ on der right bleedin’ rope Trish, or we’ll fuck der ‘ole fing up! Mandy reminded her companion.

  Mandy left the loose end of the rope tied around Victoria’s magically slim middle and pre-slung over the crossbar, in Trisha’s safekeeping while she went to Victoria to taunt her for the last time.

  Victoria was now standing under the ‘broom handle’, that formed the upright of the ‘T’ with the log she had borne as its cross-member. Indeed, this ‘broom handle’ was right in front of her pretty nose and could have touched her chin. She was also standing between the two inward facing spiked-collar uprights.

  “Okay sweetheart: get your fuckin’ gorgeous mouf aroun’ dat!” Mandy ordered, indicating the down-hanging wooden rod.

  Victoria made a last plea with her soulful dark-brown eyes.

  “Get that fuckin’ pole in your fuckin’ mouf, or I’ll slap your friggin’ face till it looks like your fuckin’ back!!

  The terrified Victoria bent her head back, and took the wooden broom handle rod into her mouth, and gagged when it touched the back of her throat.

  The gloating crowd, hitherto a murmuring distracted mass, now focused its attention. Seeing that there was now some action, they jeered.

  “’Ere darlin’ you can get your tonsils round my clit like that any time yer like!” came a ribald call, followed by loud laughter.

  Victoria’s lovely eyes now looked up to heaven, and she felt the rope around her belly tightening as it was being pulled, by Mandy and Trisha in combination.

  “Hup she goes!” came the same mocking voice.

  “Hey darlin’ you can teach me all abart fellatio after dis!!” and more laughter followed.

  But poor Victoria was oblivious to the laughter because she was being hauled aloft by the rope around her soft belly, and the rod that had just been in her mouth as far as the back of her tongue, was now going slowly down her throat. And she was gagging choking coughing and struggling for air, as they hauled her higher and higher and her throat took more and more of the rod down toward her stomach, as her lovely nostrils flared in her fight for air.

  The sound of Victoria retching as the rod went further and further and further down her thus raped throat, turned Mandy on. She was enjoying this. She loved tribication. She loved girls with big tits. She wondered what they fed the girls on at St Saviour’s Academy. All the girls seemed to come out of there with huge tits. Maybe it was that total abstinence – “absti wotsit” as Mandy would call it. ‘Never even kissed, none of dem’. Tribication was a punishment reserved for girls with big tits. So, since the girls coming out of St Saviour’s all had massive tits, it must follow that many of them would end up like this little slag.

  Mandy now recalled herself. “She high enough yet!” she called to the girls on the ladders, only to be answered by being able to see for herself that the girls in question were clipping the hitherto open ends of the cuffs, already on Victoria’s wrists, around and over the tree trunk crossbar.

  Those same girls then slung the chain of another set of cuffs over the crossbar, and clipped their hitherto opened ends, to the metal hoops in the tops of the peg in Victoria’s cleavage, and the one joining her ‘bra-strap’ in the middle of her back.

  Mandy was thus assured and watched the girls slide down the ladders and take the ladders away.

  She therefore now turned to the girls on the ground struggling to arrange the two upright broom handle rods: the two wooden rods with the spiked collars two-feet down from their top ends.

  “Up a bit more please Mandy!” the rear girl called, and Mandy and Trisha hauled Victoria higher and more rod went deeper down Victoria’s choking gagging retching throat, tearing her guts, as her pretty tongue fellated this brutal intruder in a helpless fight to stop her throat being further raped.

  “Get your fuckin’ legs apart you filthy whore! Mandy cursed at Victoria, who obeyed, to a loud cheer from the crowd, watching with glee, as the upward pointing broom handle rods were arranged and entered into Victoria’s anus and cunt.

  “That’s it done!” came the call from the rear ground girl. “Lower her a bit so she’s got a taste of four-inches or so.”

  As she was duly lowered so that she was penetrated less down her throat, but now had four or five inches apiece of rod up her bum and cunt, the unlubricated Victoria let out a gargle of pain.

  “She’s got fucking beautiful legs. Do you always choose them for their legs Mandy?” the ground girl asked as she walked over to Mandy and Trisha.

  “Never mind ‘er fuckin’ legs just na Nilana. You and Clitoria get ready to tie off dem tit-noose rope ends, after me an’ Trisha ‘ave lowered the slag, and see ‘ow much ‘er cunt and bum swallow afore we gets to where der pegs might get pulled out by der slung-over chain...... ‘Old ‘em tight. We only wants another couple of inches up ’er, and we can tie dem off ready for der slag’s final drop.

  A minute later, the tit-noose ropes were duly tied off at the ground as if the peg-ropes of a marquee. Mandy and Trisha then let the belly-tied-haul rope slowly slacken, and listened to Victoria’s gargled gurgling scream, as her weight was now taken by the tit-noose ropes, and her body slowly lowered and her nooses tightened and strangled her tits, and four or five more inches of ground fixed rod went up her cunt, and four or five more up her bum, and her body was threatening to pull the pegs out of her noose-bra.

  The chain slung over the crossbar, the chain that was attached either end to the pegs in the noose-bra, front and back, was now very tightly braced. Victoria grabbed the chains of her handcuffs, feeling the burning agony from her arms tied bent: her arms tied with bows at her wrists.

  “Fuckin’ perfick! Fuckin’ perfick dat is!”

  To be sure it was so, Mandy walked under the suspended Victoria and inspected her penetrations. She then looked up and admired the huge bulbous mounds formed by Victoria’s already strangled tits.

  “Fuckin’ perfick! Fuckin’ perfick!” Mandy repeated, before she called over to Trisha to cast aside the haul rope that ran over the crossbar and around Victoria’s tummy, thus leaving the thrice penetrated Victoria hanging only by her strangled breasts in the noose-bra, her beautiful sweat-bathed body shining in the hot sun, as her pretty hands clung to the chains of her wrist cuffs: cuffs she gripped for comfort that they prevented her falling further.

  The three times penetrated tit hung Victoria: the nearly tribicated Victoria, moaned and choked and retched as she struggled to breath, with the downward facing shaft in her mouth, still hideously pushing down and distending the lower lining of her stomach, it was so very far down her throat.

The pain from her breasts was agonising. So too was the pain from the steel cuffs cutting into her slender wrists, and the ropes tying those wrists to her upper arms at the top of her feminine biceps.

  The steel cuffs at the wrists of her bent arms: the cuffs were locked around the crossbar, and the sweet one-hundred pounds of her pretty body was the mass that was already strangling her tits, and would further do so, but for the fact her gentle grip on the crossbar hung cuffs counterbalanced her.

  “Well, suppose we gotta offer der last bit to der fuckin’ crowd as usual”, Mandy declared, her voice showing her disappointment she was not allowed to finish the job herself.

  “Please may we have that honour madam?” a sweet schoolgirls voice, that of Bethesda Morton-Fortesque, suddenly enquired though the hood of her school uniform.

  “And if I may have the honour also......Mandy isn’t it? If I may also have the honour Mandy..... My momma is a judge, and I promise I’ll put in a good word for you Mandy”, Penelope Dupre added for her part.

  “You sweet little things don’t wanna get mixed up in sommat like dis, do yers?” Mandy asked, her voice reflecting her enjoyment of knowing the lovely creatures in the burkhas were complete innocents, even though they looked from their height that they must be at least seventeen or eighteen.

  “Oh yes we do” Penelope responded brightly. “She must have been very naughty indeed for them to tribi her. The Girl-Laws are very strict, but equally fair. If she has been that naughty she deserves all she is getting: that’s what I say.

  “Are you going to whip her some more, and can we watch from close to please? Bethesda suddenly asked, even to her own surprise.

  “Well: no little lady. You see we don’t wanna be cruel to ‘er does us?” Mandy responded, and could not understand why the two schoolgirls began to giggle uncontrollably.

  Bethesda then giggled, struggling to get the exclamation out, even when she had managed to catch her breath: “Not cruel?!. No: of course not!” she added, before the two girls giggled uncontrollably once more.

  “Gerronwifit!!” came an older woman’s voice from the crowd.

  “Yea!” came another girl’s call: “I’ve got to get home to get my wife’s dinner ready. Dat fuckin’ tart up dare ud ‘ave a bleedin’ maid to do dat for ‘er! I ain’t never ‘ad one o’ dem!”

  Mandy recognised the prospects for the scene getting ugly, and noticed several Girl-Police constables on their radios, perhaps seeking to deploy reinforcements.

  “Okay, little ladies, you can ‘ave the ‘onour of startin’ the naughty girl’s twenty-four ‘ours”, Mandy conceded.

  The two sweet schoolgirls passed the gruff Mandy their dainty parasols to hold the while.

  Mandy blushed with embarrassment, but continued her duties.

  “You see dese two ropes ‘ere. Each of dem leads up to der bows tying the little bitch’s – oh sorry bart dat – Er.....I means der naughty girl’s wrists to her upper arms. See how she’s grasping der chains what is ‘anging darn from der crossbar like, well just watch what ‘appens when you undoes dem bows”

  “When you does dat, she better ‘old on tight, cos when you tugs the two bows undone, ‘er arms will unfold, and she’ll ‘ave two choices: ‘old ‘erself up, or let ‘erself slide down, tek the rods up ‘er cunt and her bum, and ‘ave ‘er tits hung good and proper, cos the tit ropes ‘ave got plenty of stretch left in dem, believe me”.

  “’Er arms is very pretty, but not very strong: so I don’t reckon she’ll be able to ‘ang on very long.”

  “My bet is she end up wid der spikes up ‘er front and back in less dan a minute.”

  “And will you whip her after that?” asked the ever-eager Bethesda.

  “Well, we might in der mornin’ if she seems to be enjoyin’ ‘erself”, Mandy assured, still puzzled by this schoolgirl’s enthusiasm for flogging.

  From the sound of Victoria’s retching, Mandy knew there was a possibility Victoria might pass out, so she gave each schoolgirl a wrist-bind rope-end apiece, and reminded them that they must pull at one and the same time, before adding:

  “Be sure you don’t ‘urt your pretty little ‘ands now”

  The ropes pulled, Victoria’s arms were suddenly free for their full length, and she as suddenly fell, and the two up-from-ground rods rushed up her cunt and bum.

  “’Aul yerself up darlin’ if yer don’t wanna get double what for!” came another crude shout from the crowd.

  The terrified Victoria was only too aware of the double penetration and her lovely dark-brown eyes still looked to heaven with the third penetration down her throat.

  With her pretty arms she desperately pulled on the cuff chains she was grasping.

As she fought not to let herself be ripped on the spikes she knew awaited her, her tongue eagerly fellated the unyielding lover down her throat, tasting the salt of her own blood where they had whipped her with this rod part of the huge burden on her shoulders.

  In her terror she gripped the chains as hard as she could in her pretty little hands and tried to stop her weight taking her down on her other two unyielding lovers: the uprights.

  As the crowd jeered and cheered and whooped and slow-handclapped, Victoria fought to haul herself up and kicked her gorgeous legs to get herself off her cunt and bum penetrations.

  But her lovely arms were not strong enough and her body weakened by her brutal whipping, and the penetrations were already too far up her, for her to kick her beautiful legs and lift herself free from them.

  The inevitable happened within the minute that Mandy had predicted.

  Exhausted by her struggles, and weakened by her flogging, Victoria gave way to her fate, and, to the loudest cheer yet from the crowd, she slid down onto the poles, up her cunt and up her bum, and screamed as the spikes entered her and ripped her till they caught up enough of her torn flesh to stop her slide, and her arms were at full stretch.

  In the same instant as the mass of her shapely body began to fall to test the stretch available in the anchored noose-bra ropes, her fall caused the slung-over chain to rip the pegs out of the front cleavage and rear ‘bra-strap’ ropettes of her noose-bra, and the nooses were now free to fully throttle her breasts.

  In consequence by the time her arms stopped her fall, she had fully strangled her breasts, and felt the agony as her teats opened, and the blood that her paddling had beaten out of her before, now trickling once again, like red milk from the nipples of her brutalised bosom.

  Victoria was now fully tribicated. She was three times penetrated and hanging by her tits. Thus she must stay now for twenty-four hours, her slightest move, even her gentle breath, ripping her cunt and anus more.

  To relieve her agony, she would struggle to haul herself up by her wrist cuffs, knowing all the while that she could not hold herself up for long, and gargle and scream as she had to let herself go, and the spikes around her rigid-lovers, front and rear, ripped her anew, even while her mouth and throat were still being deep-fucked by the rod hanging down from the middle of her gallows’ crossbar.

.......................

  The spectacle of Victoria’s final rape being over, the chill of dusk and the dampness of dew began to fill the air. The delinquent schoolgirls had long since crept back to their dormitory. The housewives had gone home to greet their tired wives when they returned from their toil in factory and office.

Victoria’s former servants, those she had fired, and that had been among the first to spit on her as she walked on her nailed feet, were now in the shadows of the doorways in the pink-light district, offering their bodies to the dozen-strong gangs of wealthy girls starting out for a night on the town, and intending to end up at the 96 Club, where they hoped to pick up one of the pretty chicks that could be found there, and share her between them in some all-night bedroom wrestling.

.......................

  In a corner tower of St Saviour’s Academy, a white clad figure made its stealthy way to the window it knew looked out over the town’s market square.

She was not disappointed at the view.

  Her nerves highly tensed, she ducked aside when she saw the lone Girl-Police officer, left to keep vigil over Victoria’s suffering, seeming to look her way. Then she told herself not to be so silly, ‘as if that policegirl can see me all the way over here’.

  The girl: the tribicated girl was beautiful. Her legs were lovely. The girl sneaking a distant look at the hour-glass shape of the tribicated Victoria, slowly disappearing into the post sunset dusk, was not going to admit to herself that it was the torture that excited her.

  She had never done this before, and knew it was terribly naughty.

  How good it had been of matron to cover for her. Now she was actually here though, the excitement at the thought of doing it, had gone, and the longed-for chance of doing it, for the very first time she had ever dared, even when she had had a chance to, made her so nervous she was sure she would not enjoy it after all.

  But these punishments did not happen that often in modern times. The crush she had had on Victoria, when Victoria had been at the academy then came back to her mind. And Victoria’s cruel laughter when she had declared how much she loved Victoria, also came back to memory.

  And, suddenly, the sight of the site of Victoria’s savage torture, became the sight of the site of Victoria getting what she deserved for spurning her. And the girl’s excitement came back at the thought of that. And that excitement grew as she decided that she would enjoy Victoria suffering for her rejection in its fullest way.

  And her hand, with its glove removed, had already raised the hem of her burkha, and was daringly in the top-front elastic of her knickers, and touching the soft curls she found there; before a cool voice from behind made the hair on the back of her neck suddenly stand up on end.

  “Morton-Fortesque, what are you doing?!”

  “Nothing head girl: nothing Fraser: really and truly nothing!” Bethesda answered, her voice giving away the lie.

  “I hope not Morton-Fortesque. I sincerely hope not.”

  “We’ll let it go this time. But next time, I’ll have you punished and expelled, do you understand?”

  “Yes Fraser. Thank you Fraser”, Bethesda answered, and wiggle-trotted quickly out of the room.

  The head girl listened to Bethesda’s rapid en-pointe steps as the would-be naughty girl made her way back to the elevator. She then moved to look out of the window herself.

  So that was Victoria Beaumont-Fortain getting what the haughty bitch deserved, for stealing Acanda St John-Fortesque-Thomas, when Acanda, Victoria and Emily had been at the Academy together.

  Emily Fraser, the St Saviour’s head girl was going to enjoy this, to its full. She had already taken off her knickers before coming to the tower.

  She would take her time with her enjoyment of Victoria’s torture.

  That time and enjoyment began with the sensuously slow rolling off of the long glove on Emily’s lovely slim delicately freckled ghost white long right arm....

.......................

  Till the equally red orb of the rising sun turned to its warming yellow, and dawn broke, with Victoria half through her twenty-four hours of agony’s agony, the infrared cameras overcame the darkness, to record her torture for O-Bey.

  The breeze that had tugged at the glory of her dark-brown dreadlocks intermittently all the long cold night, had dried the sweet sweat with which her beautiful body had shone with a reflecting halo till dusk the previous day.

  The cold night: a night that had threatened the delirium of hyperthermia as further punishment, had taken due toll on her.

  To go to bed naked was Victoria’s norm, but this night this delightfully dusky maid had only worn her dried perspiration from dusk to dawn, instead of her usual thousand-dollar an ounce Denel ‘No 69 Parfum’.

  An early to rise, and thus duly wise fly, landed on her lovely face.

  Its lowly little mass had been more speedily warmed by the rising sun, than would be Victoria’s wonderful one-hundred pounds of total femininity.

  It had scented the dried blood from her multiple upon multiple lashes. It paused for a moment as if to decide whether left or right was the more beautiful: a completely impossible choice, because there was no choice between such wonders; and decided it would go to the left nipple, to which it then flew and settled.

  But it was as if in that pause, it had contacted headquarters, because, one by one, its more lazy hitherto bedbound companions joined it, and Victoria’s body once more became a seething mass of buzzing crawling flies, on her nipples, her breasts, in her cleavage, on her raw back, her savagely whipped bottom, in and out of her cunt, and enjoying, not least, the welts on her stupendous thighs.

  All night long, Victoria had never closed her eyes. Her exhaustion was only outmatched by her thirst, and her wonderful dark-brown soul lanterns looked up to heaven for some solace and succour, knowing she would get none and none.

  Her body, her wonderful body, her wonderful nut-brown body, could not help but be the epitome of eroticism, whether stationary or as she moved, as she did now, in order to try and find a less agonising position within the minimality of choices she did not even really have, with her three love orifices filled with two-foot deep penetrations.

  She was, of course, well able to hear. In her mind’s ears she could still recall the whistle of the whips as they had driven her to where she now hung, tribicated in accordance with the Girl-Laws.

  Her own cries of pain when those whips had bitten into her bare flesh, had seemed like they were emitted by someone else; but the evidence that they had indeed been hers, were her raw back, and her as nearly red-meat-matching buttocks, over all of which the flies now crawled, and the blood from her nipples, where dozens of the flys’ snouts sucked, and thus suckled on her gentle, brutally strangled, breasts.

  The peaceful sounds of the dawn over Barnmouth were lost to her. The tinkle of their neck-bells as the girloxen were driven to the barns for their tits to be milked, the eager pitter-patter of the hand and knee pads of the pet bitches being taken for their morning exercise by their mistress’ maids, the sound of the siren that signalled the end of nightshift for the girls whose lovely legs pedalled dynamos to keep electricity provided, the clip-clop of a ponygirl’s hooves, and her sigh as the single shaft of the cart she was to pull, was pushed up her cunt to shackle her and start her day, and the clang of the churns full of fresh girlpee from the factory-farming sheds where the bacchanalia-girls were constantly hopper-fed with grapes and drips of distilled water; all these familiar sounds were lost to her.

  The commonplace sounds of the dawn in the town all around the square where she suffered, were lost to the pretty ears of the incredibly pretty Victoria.

  So too, was the dawn chorus of the waking birds. So too also therefore, the more raucous cries of the seagulls that patrolled the cliffs above the shingle shore of this seaside town, and flew ‘combat patrol’ over the blue waters as the fishing girls pushed out their boats to take their nets to sea once more.

  The gulls marked the town, and were such a part of its history, that they even featured on the Barnmouth coat of arms.

  That coat of arms, comprised a shield supported at its sides by two naked girls: one a curly-haired white redhead, the other a tight-curl headed Nubian negress. The head of a blonde beauty peeked prettily centrally over the shield’s top.

  The shield itself depicted, on a sand-gold ground, a single gull representing the sea, standing proudly, with a fish in its beak to represent the town’s fishing industry, on the middle of the back of a naked negress, who crawled on all fours, to represent the bitch kennels, with her tear-drop breasts dripping two pear-shaped droplets of milk, to represent dairy farming, while she read a book on the ground before her pretty face, to represent education, and St Saviour’s Academy, the historic and world-famous girls’ school in particular, as she knelt over a wavy blue band below her, representing the navigable River Barn, with a small sailing ship depicting the town’s cargo port, the port where surplus English girls were exported to work in mines, or as ponygirls on foreign farms.

  As if mistress of all she surveyed, one of these gulls, as she flew up the river, spied Victoria’s station, and decided it was an ideal high-cliff-akin place to land, in order to consider how to start her day.

  Her webbed feet thus soon took perch at the midpoint of the cross-bar of Victoria’s tribication scaffold, but only briefly.

  She had spotted the sparkle from a fish’s gills in the warming morning sun, and thus she rose and flew off toward the sea and food, aided aloft by a soft zephyr, which also toyed with Victoria’s curls.

  But in rising, she, the gull, defecated, and the globule of her white and green guano, caught by the same soft comfortingly warm morning’s dawning’s breeze, landed, as if with intended accuracy, on the rod being fellated by Victoria’s tongue, the rod deep down her throat, and then slowly slid, and then more rapidly dropped, directly into Victoria’s mouth, and just as directly onto the middle of her hungry and thirsty tongue......

  ......Immediately following the very instance of that very incident, as she tasted the seagull’s shit on her tongue, the still savagely tribicated Victoria Cecile Jocasta Lady Beaumont-Fortain, minimally minutely orgasmed, and then began to cry for despair of true deliverance....