… Goes Unpunished
“Since today all of you are in their third week here,” Kandrin stated correctly during the little fall-in the next morning. From Eleven up to me, it was day 15. The others of my group have had a one day head start.
“As stressed various times in the past, bearing is crucial for a ponygirl. Every move and every pose are to be inherently sublime. After two weeks a certain grip on basic techniques as well as personal engagement to constantly better yourselves is expected. Therefore poor executions will not be tolerated anymore.”
Our group leader chose not to enlighten us when such things had ever been tolerated.
“Which means no more sloppy high steps, no more half-arsed head posture, and no more attempts to predict or counteract bit actions, just to name a few.”
I knew why Miss Cuntling was giving that little speech of hers. To pave the way for an even more excessive usage of posture collars, martingales and harsh bits.
Speaking of which, for breakfast a starving Eleven appeared unbridled for the first time since yesterday morning. The girl had worn the hateful bit for twenty-four hours straight – when it finally came out, it left the corners of her mouth black and blue and raw. So tender were her lips that she could not press them together without whimpering.
It was a bitter mockery that pony training had been rescheduled to be our first activity. As soon as we had bared ourselves in the tack room, her driving bit went in, seating itself hard against her wounds. It wasn’t even her standard bit, but a model with chafers. This was amongst the cruellest and most merciless maltreatments I had come across so far. I had witnessed ponygirls moan and groan, even yelp when being bitted. Not a few had shed tears upon feeling the oral torture device. I myself most certainly had developed an impressive range of sounds to welcome my personal curb bit. Eleven was screaming. No handler in their right mind would have bridled a pony in such poor a condition. Kendrick wouldn’t. But Kendrick wasn’t here. Kendrick had his day off. And Kandrin enjoyed the screams and begs far too much to show any lenience. Creepy Chap, in his capacity of being the assigned handler to Nine, Ten and Eleven, was happily following Miss Cuntling’s instructions. One strap after the other was buckled tight across the suffering girl’s head.
If only 1311 had been freed of her punitive headgear earlier, with a couple of unsupervised minutes left in the barrack! I still had that tube of ointment stashed away the lady doc had handed me after Miss C. had driven me with an ersatz bit made from barbed wire. The stuff would have assuaged at least the worst peaks of pain. But even that clemency was not granted to her.
I did have used the salve on myself, though – both due to its numbing effects and its slippery consistency. One could say many things about Seva Kandrin, but a habit of making empty threats was not amongst them. A “nicer” tail was awaiting me. Since my regular tail had already been extra-nice to my bum, I had taken what little precautions I had been able to take. The ointment wasn’t the most capable lubricant, and my anus had started to tingle the moment it had come in contact with it, but I had to prevent another dry-tailing at all costs. Whilst preparing in the washroom after the morning run, I had also pondered whether to loosen myself up back there. I knew my sphincter wouldn’t stay relaxed very long, even when fingered thoroughly. Hoping nobody would walk in on me, I tried it nonetheless. I managed to insert my index finger, slick with the salve, and wiggled it around once I had reached a halfway decent depth of penetration. There was nothing sexy about it, and any possible future joy of trying it out with a partner in bed was compromised by this very moment. It wasn’t even effective. The ring of muscles remained wire-tight, a neat ponygirl feature since it provided a strong catch for the plug. Any attempt to work my middle finger in as well turned out to be futile. I had at least managed to transport some wannabe lube further up my anal pathway, but I had no idea as to how long the stuff would keep its current viscosity, or how long it would take for it to be absorbed.
Now, some twenty minutes later, I wasn’t feeling very slippery anymore. The soothing effect had indeed shown up, yet not to the extent I had hoped for. When it was time to bend over, my mind was racing. Maybe that stuff worked wonders. Maybe Kandrin had been joking or just have forgotten about up-tailing me. Yeah, sure…
Already in most of my tack including the demanding reverse prayer, I couldn’t do much more than flinch when my group leader put her hand on my coccyx, using thumb and index finger to slightly part my buttocks.
“What the fuck?! No way, you didn’t…!”
Upon donning a pair of those ill-boding examination gloves she shoved a finger through my sphincter to confirm her suspicion. After some seconds of very hard fingering she pulled out and brought the evidence to my bridled face. Her finger was carrying a faint shine and the distinctive smell of wound ointment.
“Trying to cheat, Seventeen? Or did your arse get wet for me all by its own?”
I clopped twice for “no”, knowing full well that I wouldn’t be able to hoof-talk myself out of this. With a coarse rag she roughly wiped off any residuals of the salve, then disposed of her gloves.
“Over the fence with her!”
One of the handlers made me rise and took hold of my reins. Maintaining an irresistible pull which buried the bit’s port into the root of my tongue, he led me out of the barn and towards the nearest corral. A floodlight was illuminating the area, for it was still way before dawn. Quickly the top-most rail from one of the fence segments was dismounted. Just like in preparation for my initial tailing on day two I was thrown over the fence, ankles soon secured to the ends of the spreader bar. Meanwhile the handler seizing my reins climbed over and ensured my staying in proper bad pony position from inside the corral.
With nothing but sand to look at, I began to grasp the dimensions of ramifications awaiting me. Miss Cuntling was about to have a field day, and everybody was invited. I heard her bellow commands at the other ponygirls to stay in a semi-circle and to watch closely lest they miss a valuable lesson. Two more handlers approached me. Each set a foot on the spreader bar, near the respective ankle cuff, to further immobilise me. Two pair of hands in leather work gloves pried my buttocks painfully wide apart. Drops of saliva fell into the sand below me. Why did she need three men to hold me down for tailing?
Kandrin’s dreaded riding crop found its target dead on. The leather connected directly to my unprotected anus, sending a blast of absolute agony up my body. A moment went by in which my synapses tried to form this overload into a processable sensation. Then I bucked and bolted like mad against the strong hands holding me down. My wounded sphincter clenched up, as if to drag the pain deeper into its flesh. Through my ear-splitting wail Kandrin delivered the second lash, hitting the exact same spot despite my insane contortions. Running out of air, I made a wheezing sound around the bit in my mouth. So great the force behind this abhorrent punishment was that my anal tissue was already swelling up from the first stroke. The crop did not fail to keep up the merciless rhythm of its mistress, searing my delicate opening again with its slicing tongue. Tears, spit and snot sprinkled the sand below my face. Farther behind the soil was wetted by squirts of urine. Through all my suffering I willed myself to pass out, but the blood accumulating in my head prevented this last escape. A new howl burst out of my reined-in mouth, both its shrillness and volume mirroring the devastating effect of the fourth impact. The handlers’ grip was unyielding, keeping my buttocks parted to the max and my skin taut like a drum, causing it to split under the terrible blows. I was ruined back there, I knew it. Kandrin was whipping my anus into disintegration. If there had been some part of my mind not engulfed in utter torment, I would have begged her for mercy, promised her anything, demeaned myself in front of all, offered what was left of my body for vilest things. The fifth lick came, the latest escalation of a hellish rim job. The pain, again inflicted on my tortured orifice full force and laid upon the anguish of the four previous lashes had my body contract so hard that the left handler lost his footing on the spreader bar. I twisted wildly on the rail, spraining half a dozen of muscles and nearly causing the curb bit to squeeze off my tongue.
Eventually the handler regained control over his site of me, but then let go again. So did his two colleagues. I slumped down the fence and towards the right, coming to rest on the ground in an awkward position due to the spreader bar and my back-prayered arms. Pain was pulsing through my body, radiating from my anus like ripples on the surface of a lake. Only vaguely I registered the outside world. Blades of grass tickling my cheek and nose. First patches of coarse sand beneath my shoulder. The warm puddle of piss under my thigh.
I noticed she was talking to me, and that the bar between my ankles had been removed. Obviously not a fan of ponies who are a bit slow in the head, Miss Cuntling hooked a finger in my nose ring and provided sufficient incentive to rise. I finally managed to get up onto my own two hooves, but only under much crying and whimpering. Every leg movement, anything that would cause my buttocks to shift or flex would scrape my punished anus. I had heart of pussy whipping, but this?! To even think of hitting a girl there? How sadistic must a mind be to even be capable of coming up with such a chastisement?!
“Try to be smart again, your cute little rosebud gets a full score of that.”
Not daring to look at anybody directly, I scanned the semi-circle of ponygirls. All of them were obviously shocked, some had tears in their downcast eyes. The sudden and violent display of corporal punishment had left an impression. Of course, Miss Cuntling wasn’t through with me by far.
“Bent over the fence again, and do not dare hesitate for even a split-second.”
I didn’t dare.
Nobody was holding me down or reining me in this time, but Miss Cuntling positioned herself behind me just as she had back in the barn, slightly to one side in case I kicked out. Again her left hand came to rest on my tail bone. I knew what she was holding in her right one now instead of the riding crop.
“Where were we?” she whispered.
Fitting me with the nicer tail. That was where we had been. With diabolical delight she forced me to feel its tip brushing across my anus, which was deeply bruised and nicked at several places. Up and down along my crack, teasing me, daring me to resist her. Oh, how I wanted to keep that wicked thing out of my body! But I couldn’t risk having my rosebud whipped again. After a minute of psychological torture she finally aimed the plug in earnest.
My sphincter, dry and tightened up again by Miss Cuntling’s earlier discipline, wasn’t capable of yielding to the vicious siege, thus prolonging my suffering. By applying more pressure and slightly varying the angle, Kandrin made first progress nonetheless. The well-known technique of rotating the plug back and forth to grind my anus open followed soon. My pathetic sobs were futile at best. At worst, they encouraged Miss C. to work me over even harder.
A hot flash of pain shot through my abdomen as something gave way and the bulb partially buried itself in my tantalised anal passage. It was what I would come to know within the next hour as a stage IV plug, the goose egg sized one, ranking before our standard models. The small strawberry types from the hoof glove fitting scene had been stage I. So far I’d never encountered stage II.
Another mighty twist-&-shove action forced the plug’s main body through my ring of muscles and into new rectal depths. The pressure in my intestines was unbelievable. My tormented sphincter closed around the stem, not as snappy as on earlier occasions, but with a tired-out attitude. Nonetheless it clamped tightly around the plug’s neck, alerting me to the fact that this new invader not only was thicker and longer, but also sported the same abrasive surface structure at this section as the chafers on my bit. I couldn’t tell right now how bad the knurled stem would hurt during high-stepping, but was positive I would find out in the near future.
Kandrin buckled and locked the crotch strap.
“Up, turn, and stay!”
I presented myself in a sorry stay position, crippled by some spontaneous abdominal cramps.
“1317 will be wearing the larger plug until her behaviour indicates she is ready and willing to re-integrate herself into our programme’s standards,” Miss C. announced to the gathered public. “Let this be a warning to everybody who intends to break tail discipline!”
With an imperious gesture she beckoned the other handlers to harness their ponies to the sulkies, keeping me for herself. I bet she had lady-juiced her panties over tailing me with a stage IV, an especially nasty one no less. And that bossy speech had been the coating, even allowing her to get in kinky terms like “tail discipline”.
Kandrin took my reins, but stopped in the movement to ponder over them for some moments.
“Eh, fuck it.”
She disconnected them form my bit, only to thread them through their respective hoops at the end of the shanks. I felt her hook the reins to a D-ring of the bridle, at the back of my head. Kandrin tugged at them experimentally, and immediately I experienced the wicked pulley effect she had created.
The distinctive change in tone remained whilst harnessing me to my cart. Had Kandrin acted coldly despotic in front of the group, she was now taunting. With false tenderness she brushed her fingers over my nipples. Thanks to the chilly air they were stiff ever since we’d left the barn and throbbed around the piercing rings. I couldn’t hold back a shudder.
“That gets you every time, …” she teased.
I liked her better despotic.
Clamps hurt more on hardened nips, especially if said clamps were nicely chilled as well. Which was the case with the pair Miss Cuntling used on me. The belled buggers literally chewed into my flesh. Of course my poor nubs were soon subjected to further torments by that bloody martingale. It was part of the wide and colourful array labelled “enhanced tack” I better got used to. So were the full blinkers, which soon left me blind and even more dependent on my driver’s commands. But Kandrin wouldn’t be Miss Cuntling if she would have left it at that.
“We’ve talked about your problem with head carriage, haven’t we?”
Stomp, I confirmed, although our talk had again been rather one-sided. On account of my allegedly poor bearing I was already embraced by the mercy of the martingale and the posture collar. Today Kandrin completed the trio by adding check reins.
Check reins were somewhat unique in that they incorporated the sulky itself into my posture training. Miss C. hooked them to the left and right of my bridle, but very high, thus creating plenty of leverage. Then back they went to anchor points on the cart’s front traverse. I was starting to loose count on how many belts, straps and laces I was sporting by now. The group leader readjusted my collar, as to freeze the position this newest addition was forcing my neck into. I was now looking about twenty degrees upwards, martingale tauter than ever. Even with the full blinkers removed, I wouldn’t be able to see what was in close front of me. The fact that the check reins had been at the ready all along told me that even without my self-lube stunt I would have been in for them.
“See? That’s how I like it.”
There was no way I could create any facial expression, blindfolded and with a steel rod pulling the corners of my mouth all the way back to my molars. But Miss C, emphatic as she was, sensed my plight.
“Oh, don’t worry yourself. The more you suffer now, the easier it will become later.”
I yelped as she playfully tugged at my tail.
“And soon you don’t have to go through those daily ordeals anymore.”
Not giving me the chance to reflect over that last comment of hers, she entered the sulky. A moment later her buggy whip sent me off by hitting the sweet spot where the thigh met the buttock. Hard to tell which one she loved the most: that whip, her riding crop, or the fancy spark stick…
The trot, being one of the more gentle gaits, shouldn’t pose a challenge for any ponygirl worthy of the name. My reality looked slightly different. Cramps had settled in my back, were gnawing at my shoulders, racing through my neck. The severe arch I was forced into put undue stress on my bad ribs. They radiated stinging pain, making it difficult for me to keep up smooth motions. Half the time I wasn’t even running straight ahead. Friendly yet firmly my driver helped me out by delivering corrective impulses via the now even sterner reins. Or, less friendly and more firmly, via the whip. And if the hardships of all my posture-improving accessories weren’t enough, the bigger plug was churning my rectum with every high-step. By now my flogged anus was obscenely swollen around the knurled stem, thus subjecting itself to pain you never want to know about. And unless you decide to sodomise yourself with an oversized round file, you won’t have the opportunity to experience it first-hand.
Unrelenting pressure against my palate reined me down to a halt. Kandrin got off the sulky and removed my blinkers. I didn’t recognise the steep glen, but deduced that I was south-west of the camp, yet still east of the river. I just could make out the castle ruin high above us. Further down of our position a small mountain torrent wound its path towards the main stream. The woods around us presented themselves mist-clouded, with the Deepfall roaring invisibly behind waving walls of fog. An early sun had heaved herself up over the tree tips, yet remained a mere astronomical concept covered by a grey veil.
“A run on a crisp morning like this does wonders to the stamina,” I was lectured, “and increases the pony’s natural resilience.”
Dew or drizzle lied cool on the exposed parts of my skin. My breath was steaming as I kept panting in the rapid rhythm of a well-driven mare. I knew and feared what was coming. Miss C. loved to perform a tack check during those precious pauses. First of all she took the bell clamps off. I howled as the circulation set back in, and she boosted the effect by manipulating my nipples. To her further delight and my additional anguish I wasn’t able to do much squirming in my tack, despite the extreme pain. Therefore it was just an end in itself for Kandrin to inspect all the buckles and belts. Bridle, yoke, waspie – nothing was left out. I wished she would loosen the check reins, but this was not to be. The final piece of equipment to be checked was located, as expected, between my buttocks.
Two fingers took hold of the plug’s base, where the tail emerged upwards from the L-shaped ferrule. Miss C. wiggled the invader in circular motions, thereby confirming some unhealthy anal fixation.
“There’s a bet going on whether your fellow filly Zero-Eight can take a stage VII plug unharmed.”
I must have looked puzzled, because Miss Cuntling took it upon herself to enlighten me on the classification of tail plugs. To preserve the mood, she kept playing with the one up my bum – maybe that was the reason of my puzzled look.
“I understand there are three possible outcomes: she takes it and closes up eventually; she takes it and stays open permanently; or she’ll rip. Odds are on that one.”
Kandrin intensified her ministration.
“Ever suffered a ripped sphincter? Fully torn, I mean?”
I double-stomped. Unnecessarily, I know, since she was on first-name basis with my arse by now. But I hoped it would end this WTF-heavy moment. Was she just trying to shock me, or did such dirty talk turn her on? And, maybe more important, was she making that shit up? True, the DACC staff was way too casual when it came to anal penetration – but intentionally destroying a girl’s rear for fun?
“I’m still not sure you’ve learnt your lesson today,” Kandrin came to the point. “So you better try really, really hard to convince me, or you will be test-driving every plug before it goes up Zero-Eight’s arse.”
She let go of my tail and blinkered me again. I steeled myself for the clamps, but screamed nonetheless as Miss Cuntling snapped them on. With my breasts now flattened by the unyielding backbend, my nipples were standing out even more prominently. Ere I could fully cope with the wild pain of re-clamped nips, she applied her whip, and off we went to meet with the rest of the group.
Provided the clock in the tack room showed the right time, it was 09:15 sharp when we arrived to get untacked. My tail was left for last, so I had to sit on it whilst removing my hoof boots. Not pleasant, let me tell you. When Miss Cuntling herself finally delivered me of my stage IV, it felt like a smouldering log was pulled through my sphincter.
They had left Ten in tack. Creepy Chap had tended to his other ponies, Nine and Eleven. The tall girl, though, remained near the door, loosely tethered to a wall ring. Best case scenario, she had “been volunteered” for some additional kink, like that hoof glove fashion show some days ago. Worst case scenario, she was in for another, more private stint.
Whatever the reasons, Tats wasn’t around for duties, which were a bit out of the ordinary. Barrack No. 4 had already been cleaned the other day, now it received the finishing touches. We gave the floor a final mop, carried matrasses and bed linen in, and generally making sure it could be commissioned. Of course this could mean only one thing – and it did mean only one thing: At about 10:00 the main gate opened to grant the bus access. It stopped at its designated spot behind the guard house. We sneaked up as close as we dared to catch a glimpse of the newcomers. As soon as the front door of the bus opened, the unwilling passengers were driven out under rude commands. So that was how I had looked like upon my own arrival. Fifteen cuffed and hobbled girls stumbled into a line-up, all of which wearing neon jumpsuits and dark hoods. One of the guards removed them in quick succession, allowing the new inmates to take a first look at the Deepfall Advanced Correctional Centre.
Welcome to the stud!
One girl in particular caught my eye. She was wearing a muzzle of some sort; a broad leather panel across the lower portion of her face, secured by a head harness. From the position of her jaw I hazarded the educated guess that the panel was keeping something in her mouth. When I had been transferred to this resort one of the guards in the bus had threatened me with a similar treatment unless I shut up. Seemed it hadn’t stopped at threats for her. The guard who had collected the hoods roughly pulled Muzzle Girl’s head forwards to unlock the harness. A pear-shaped bulb left her mouth, followed by thick strands of saliva. The guard grabbed her chin, visibly making her wince. I wasn’t able to hear what he was saying and didn’t need to. This was just a foretaste, missy. Keep that attitude up, and you will be sorry, bitch. Something in that neighbourhood. She starred at him in defiance, yet was smart enough to keep silent except for what I read as “Yes, sir!”.
Regardless of whatever attitude she might or might not have – judging by her physique she would make for a great ponygirl: long legs, slim yet toned body, nice tender lips.
The thought sent a chill along my spine. Having fifteen new girls standing there ready to be broken in under the whip was bad enough. The greater meaning carried by this reality was worse. Not only was the DACC programme continuing to run, it was expanding. That new batch hobbling off to medical exam, outfitting and presumably a motivating speech from Navier was Group 4.
Since they had arrived relatively late, the new girls hadn’t been processed by noon. They were therefore missing lunch, and so was Ten. I had a bad feeling about the latter, especially with yesterday’s experiences regarding Eleven. I was also dying to see the newbies up close. It wouldn’t be until the afternoon that I had a chance for that, and only on a dire occasion. An occasion I really should have seen coming.
If they had delayed Ten’s punishment so Group 4 could receive a welcome deterrence, they had made good use of the time. As she was marched towards the scaffold it was evident from her looks that the last couple of hours hadn’t been wasted on light conversation. With stiff motions and a pinched expression she climbed the structure.Just like on the day 1105 had been publicly flogged, all groups were assembled – thanks to our late afternoon stint having been rescheduled to the morning. And just like back then the newbies sensed something horrid was about to happen.
The rest knew it for a fact.
Ten had arrived fully clothed, only so the guards could make a show out of stripping her to the waist again. But before they would perform this noble task, the warden delighted us with another of her fine speeches. I refuse to recite. It was the same high-handed, egomaniacal bullshit as before. At the end Navier revealed Ten’s crime and sentence: interference with disciplinary correction – a dozen of the best.
My throat dried. Twelve lashes was an extremely severe punishment. Ten would not leave the scaffold conscious. As for the interference stuff, the warden expressed her resentment for tampering with 1311’s bridle. How it had come to her attention that somebody had tried to pick the locks and that the somebody in question had been Ten I knew not. But automatically I glanced at Sixteen.
On the platform the culprit was ordered to take off her hoodie and shirt. All over her upper body burns of spark sticks were scattered, yet concentrating around breasts and armpits. Kandrin – and no other was to blame – appeared to be a strong believer in the confession as probatio probatissima, however obtained. One guard secured the chain of Ten’s handcuffs high up to the whipping post, causing the slender body to stretch visibly and the bare back to be available for the grim things to come. His burlier comrade positioned himself and uncoiled the tool of punishment. As though it had a will of its own, a lust for blood and suffering, the great single-tail whip danced across the planks. I wondered whether the executioner was the same who had flogged 1105. I hadn’t formed memory of anything else than the girl’s anguish that day. He looked over to Navier. She had the lady doc and Miss Cuntling next to her, the latter not even trying to conceal her anticipation of Ten getting some new tats. The warden gave a short nod.
Already the first lash split her skin as the whip snapped across her right deltoid muscle. Like 1105 Ten sported no mentionable body fat to lessen the blow, it was pain to the bones for her. She managed to keep her silence, though, but the heaving in her flanks gave away the efforts it took her. Pressing her forehead against the wood, she braced herself for the next impact. His aim true, the guard laid the leather two fingerbreadths below the first line.
The third harrowed the flesh in the centre of her back, a long stripe ending in an immediately crimson mark right on the bow of her eighth rib.
Ten screamed and writhed at the post, then reverted to obscenities.
“You fuckin’ bastard! You fat sack of―”
The next stroke was delivered with a considerable offset to the left, placing the whip’s tip neatly against the inner edge of Ten’s left scapula. The skin popped open, allowing the first of many bloody spots to appear. Both her cries and cusses became more desperate as her body convulsed under this latest assault. The swearing might act as a coping technique, but it wasn’t helping her cause in the long run. Not only would one be far more eager to beat the crap out of their victim if they were advised to “suck shit-cocks”, such phrases were also casting a damning light on the DACC’s reputation. We cannot have that in front of new participants, now can we?
In accordance with her superior Kandrin took immediate actions. In a matter of seconds she had bitted Ten with a spiked mouthpiece on a simple yet sturdy strap. She used most of her body weight to draw it tight and buckle it in the nape of Ten’s neck. I wouldn’t put it beside her to always have a spiked bit at her just in case, but my money was on the guess that Miss C. had hoped for Ten to become vocal under correction.
Because a mouthful of metal thorns didn’t harshen things up enough, they fixed her fetters even higher on the post, further increasing the strain on her arms and the stretching of her skin, making it so much easier to split. Ten’s shoulder blades jutted out dramatically, as if any hint was needed as to how stressful her enforced pose was. The girl’s front was pressed tightly against the beam, taking away the possibility of moving with the whacks to lessen their effects.
“Anew,” warden Navier ordained.
The tortured girl threw her head back as the single-tail slashed in an acute angle across the two angry lines already carved into her shoulder area. This first lick, which should have been the fifth, was followed by one to the small of her back, slamming her into the timber. Ten’s scream, although distorted by the spikes, was chilling. Witnessing this strong, tough young woman being destroyed one lash at a time sickened me to the core and would become one of my most haunting memories.
The terrible whip cracked again, and again, and again. Her contortions were painful to even watch. Ten’s back cramped up in twisted arches as welts, swollen up and already weeping, now burst under the renewed attacks. Small rivulets were running freely along the decorated lines of her body. As the leather tongue took another deep bite at her midriff, Ten pushed out a mindless howl which quickly degenerated to a gurgling noise. Red foam dripped off her chin.
The executioner had paused a moment longer after this ninth stroke to reposition himself. Having lost count or even the concept of counting, his victim allowed herself to slump down. Unexpected and unprepared for, the next hit got her, meeting no muscle tension that could have provided at least a minimum of protection. Ten roared into her gag with newfound breath, but fell into a hoarse screeching as more and more of her back turned welted, then raw, then bloody. With no mercy gash was piled upon gash, and as the tremendous pain accumulated into agony, her legs finally gave way. Her head remained fully back-bent, with red lines from the ripped corners of her mouth across her cheeks to the ears, following the strap that was holding the punishment bit in.
Twelve lashes in, the lady doc moved into action to check up on the savagely flogged prisoner. With gloved hands she took Ten’s pulse, pried a set of eyelids open and palpated her devastated back. The dark inkings in her skin were disrupted by bloody ditches. Where two crossed, the flesh appeared to be sliced into a hellish pattern. The lady doc raised Ten’s head, and the girl was able to hold it up, although lolling it around. The medic broke an ammonia capsule under her nose, and Ten jerked into a semblance of consciousness. Being ethically in the clear, the lady doc gave her go to proceed.
A fine spray flew up as the next two smacks raked the already bloody area of her upper right back again. Ten reacted to the excruciating pain with a strange holler, uninterrupted yet staccato-like in itself. Blood was running down her buttocks and thighs. On her right, the site that had taken more damage, it had reached the hollow of the knee. Her back was a mass of swollen, mauled flesh, the elaborate tattoos utterly unrecognisable. For the fifteen’s time the great single-tail whip cracked with sadistic pleasure, laying itself vertically across Ten’s kidney area. She made wheezing sound, too exhausted to cry out her suffering.
The executioner finished with a long forty-five degree kiss, all the way from right shoulder to left waist. This time Ten did not respond at all.