Jacob had been obsessed with Shannon Clarke from the first time he saw her, but the reason he decided to act so quickly was that Robertson was due to pass on his circuit of administering severe village justice; usually amputations or brandings, but also the occasional hanging or beheading.  There was also almost always a flogging or two in the larger towns.  Large and powerful, he was most famous as a master with the whip.  Robertson - the only name he used - was the son of the previous Executioner, a legendary axe-man and torturer, who was known only as Robert.  The name alone was never mentioned save in whisper or used to scare children from misbehaving.  The son was, if anything, larger and more physically intimidating than the father and added a fresh exuberance to the techniques taught him from youth.  He also adopted his father's habit of working stripped to the waist with the imposing black hood of his trade.  And Robertson would be passing through Hereford, just five miles away...

Even without his personal attraction, the choice of Shannon Clarke was obvious to Miller.  She was an orphan who made her way from dead parents in Ireland to a resentful aunt and uncle in Cornwall.  As soon as decorum allowed, they threw her out.  That was when she was sixteen.  She walked into Chatamway two lean years later and took a job at the local pub, The Stoat And Budgie.  From the first time she served him, Jacob could think of little else than getting her into his hands.  That she had deftly, yet firmly, let him know she wasn't interested only inflamed his need more.

The magistrate wasn't alone, of course.  Just the sight of Shannon Clarke would excite any man's desire.  A bit taller than the average English girl, her Irish heritage was obvious by the cinnamon shading in her long blonde hair and the joyous sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks and upper chest.  Beautiful with a heart-shaped face, most striking of all were her eyes, a bright blue that seemed to sparkle.  After years of toil to stay alive, she had broader than average shoulders supporting an unusually deep chest.  And that chest mounted spectacularly prominent declarations of her sex, filling the too-small white bodice with promises of the treasure beneath.  The blouse and an almost shorter than decent skirt was the price of employment and it quickly paid dividends as the Stoat's owner was soon seeing record profits when almost all of Chatamway's men were soon stopping there on their way home from the fields.  This did not go unnoticed by the good-wives of Chatamway.  Quietly, but from influential citizens, protests were lodged.  Seeing his opening, Jacob laid plans. One of Magistrate Miller's first acts after his election was to push for the construction of a raised punishment stage complete with an innovation found only in larger cities like London.  It was a rotating platform, a yard-wide disk mounted on a thick post.  Beneath the stage was a space just large enough for three boys to push a capstan that turned the platter above in response to thumps on the floor of the platform.

There was a carnival atmosphere in the morning after Mass let out and those released made for the village square.  The square was bustling with members of the church as well as dozens from the surrounding countryside.  They slowly jostled for position to watch the coming spectacle.  In a life of grueling daily toil, any distraction was welcome, but the public whipping of a young woman and not a man was an absolute treat.  Groups gathered, chatting, then reformed while the most eager moved to the best viewing spots, in front or up close around the sides and back.  The magistrate mounted the stage and the square went silent as the scramble for place became more energetic.  He looked to the jail and nodded.

The door opened and the deputies emerged, escorting Shannon Clarke between them to the platform wearing only her white under blouse and dark blue skirt.  Her wrists were tied behind her back and she was barefoot.  Her long copper-blonde hair was gathered and tied at the nape of her neck; it was standard preparation when a woman was whipped so it couldn't get in the way.  It also obscured their bodies from the spectators' view, which would hurt tips.  The people parted around her, accompanied by laughter and lewd comments.  The buzz died down when Shannon was led up the steps to the top of the platform.  The deputies walked her to the front of the stage and held her there on display.  Jacob Miller stepped forward, opened a document and read it to the audience.

"Shannon Clarke, barmaid, has been charged and found guilty of criminal enticement.  The law stipulates a punishment of fifty lashes across the back.  However, since I believe the woman acted out of ignorance and is truly remorseful, I am reducing her sentence to twenty lashes."  He recognized the immediate undercurrent of disappointment in the crowd, expected nothing else, but he knew how to play on their lust for violent entertainment and so enhance their contributions to the tip jars, one at each corner of the scaffold.  He played his first big card.  "Such lawful sentence to be carried out by the Honorable Robertson!"

There was a roar of approval as the burly executioner trod slowly up the stairs to the platform, all previous frustration forgotten. Silent, he just moved to the end of the stage and stood with arms crossed, a large, dark, and forbidding presence.  Exposed to the waist, he displayed a powerful physique, wide shoulders and muscular arms.  He wore the traditional executioner's black hood showing only his eyes and mouth, a deliberate tactic to terrify his victims.  Robertson appeared the very physical embodiment of pain.  Stories had spread about his cruelty and skill with the devices of torment.  A famous one was of a rich land owner who paid him to torture a young woman to death using his hands.  Instead of pummeling her with his ham-like fists, he instead used only his strength to torture her, bending fingers and toes backwards until they broke.  With a hand on elbow and wrist, he bent the arms back until both joints cracked apart.  Kneeling on the girl's thighs, he pulled her ankles up, destroying them then the knees.  Simple pressure skillfully fractured several ribs without puncturing the lungs, lungs she needed to bellow her agony.  In between the dislocations, he would grab the ends of the broken bones and grind them together, turning an agonizing ordeal into an excruciating one.  The story ended after her hip and shoulder joints were destroyed with the wretch still alive and not a drop of blood spilled.  He was paid double as a bonus by the landlord for the spectacle.  Viewing him in the flesh for the first time, the image evoked a frisson of fear even among the innocent.  Seeing that the man was ready, Jacob turned to the deputies.  "Secure the woman for execution of her sentence," he commanded.

The two men grabbed Shannon Clarke and forced her down to the small wooden platter.  Her legs were pulled apart and short leather straps buckled just behind the knees before replacing the skirt around her lower body.  A very short post was already mounted in front of her.  There were holes and eye bolts around the disk enabling different bindings to be varied easily, everything from pillory to tall whipping post.  This shorter one had been mounted just that morning.  In a moment, her wrists were locked unto leather cuffs on either side of it.  When they finished, Shannon's body was bent forward at the waist with her arms extended.  The lovely redhead lifted her head and looked at the crowd that had assembled around the stage.  She looked for a friend, someone, anyone that could stop this injustice, but while she saw many faces familiar from the pub, there was no friendship on them.  Instead there was eagerness at the prospect of such stimulating entertainment.  Worse, she saw lust in the eyes of the men and smug cruelty in those of their wives.

Without another word, Jacob pulled his knife and used the edge to cut her blouse from just beneath the collar to her waist.  He pushed the fabric apart and down, exposing the creamy expanse of her back, but stopped short of removing the entire garment, so her breasts remained hidden from the hungry eyes surrounding the stage.  He bent over until his mouth was near her ear.  "I remember yesterday night, so don't worry," he whispered.  "It will hurt very badly, so go ahead and scream if you must."  Please do, he hoped.  Prisoners were often gagged in the torture room -- the screams could get painfully loud in the confined space -- but here on the scaffold more and louder screams meant more coins finding the tip jugs.  The girl could only look up at him and swallow, trying to steel herself for the imminent ordeal.

Jacob came to her cell the evening before.  Even chained on the straw-covered stone floor, eyes swollen from weeping, she was still a beautiful girl who stirred his passion.  He went down to one knee in front of her.

"W-Why is this happening to me?  Why am I in this cell?" Shannon Clarke whimpered.  "I've done nothing.  What crime did I commit?"

"The offense is criminal enticement, that you deliberately used your appearance to seduce the men out of their hard earned wages.  But I don't believe you did anything wrong, my child," he crooned, gently caressing her face.  "I think it is just jealousy by the old women, but they pay my salary and I must do something.  I simply must, you see."  He squeezed a shoulder, as if to lend sympathy and strength.  He didn't mention that he created the "offense" specifically with her in mind.

Shannon's flesh trembled beneath his hand.  She didn't understand, at all, but she knew she was helpless to fight the injustice.  She was still an outsider and had no family or money.

"Good, good," Jacob said when she didn't reply.  "I know it is a hard thing to face, but perhaps I can make it easier.  As you know, the village magistrate imposes the punishment for crimes."  She looked up with sudden hope at those words.  Jacob rose, pulled her to her feet and unlocked the cuffs.  Shannon rubbed her chaffed wrists, but her lovely blue eyes were focused on him.  He was pleased to see the terror just beneath the gaze.  So far so good.  "Come, I want you to see something."  He took one arm, guiding her from the cell.   The way wasn't far.  He led Shannon Clarke to a thick door and guided her inside.  The chamber was low-ceilinged, dank, even darker than the one she left since there was no window.  There was also some smell she didn't recognize, a fetid miasma that made her flesh crawl.  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the flickering torchlight and then she gasped, instinctively stepping back and away from the horror she saw, but was stopped by the magistrate standing behind her.  A young woman lay face up on a small table, wrists and ankles bound to the corners.  She was totally nude.  The two deputies were there beside the torture bench.  She saw one take hold of a nipple and pinch it viciously, pulling and twisting while the victim's body squirmed on the dark wood.  He said something and the other clapped him on the back and laughed.

"Sarah Turner," Jacob said in her ear as he reached around behind to place his arm across her shoulders, holding her tightly beside him.  "The mayor's wife filed a complaint that the servant wench disobeyed her, was disrespectful.  Since there was no other witness, the judgment was easy, thirty-days imprisonment.  Poor girl, no one cared or even thought about her, so we have been entertaining ourselves with her.  No one will miss her.  My deputies are especially pleased.  We get so few attractive women here, you see."  He didn't tell Shannon that the only reason Sarah wasn't given a public whipping was the serendipitous availability of both the famous executioner, Robertson, and the complaints about her.  So he created a crime, wrote a law, and had her arrested.  Sarah would have served to entertain the villagers better than most, but he understood that Shannon together with the infamous executioner would yield much more in tips and he didn't want to dilute their enthusiasm before the new spectacle she made possible.  Then, too, his men weren't paid much, so Jacob let them play with her any way they liked.  It was just her misfortune to run afoul of a bitter old woman just before the stars aligned to make her public beating superfluous.

As Shannon's eyes adjusted better, she was able to make out more details.  A mounted basin held a bed of sullenly glowing coals with a few wood-handled rods stuck in the embers.  Besides the bench, she now saw a large X-frame and some kind of sharply ridged trestle further back.  A table near one wall displayed a variety of whips, blades, and pliers she could recognize along with other implements she couldn't, knowing only that they were there for some monstrous purpose.  A shiver ran through Shannon's body when she realized where she was.  The old torture room.  Largely forgotten over the years before Jacob Miller became magistrate, there were whispered rumors that he had restored it to operation.  Now she saw that those rumors were grim fact.  She was also able to make out more evidence of what had already been done to Sarah Turner.  The front of her helpless naked body was striated with welts, some bleeding.  There were also some darker, almost brown spots scattered across her form, spots Shannon quickly realized were burns left by red hot irons, the loathsome instruments of torture projecting from the brazier.  Sarah's body seemed to sparkle from the flickering torchlight reflecting the beads of sweat dripping from it.  Now Shannon Clarke could put a name to the foul smell in the room.  It was pain.  It was desolation and desperation.  It was the misery of countless victims absorbed into the cold stone walls over the years now leaching out.

Shannon watched in horror as an iron was removed from the coals, this one with a short curved blade.  The tip was such a fiercely hot yellow-white that the very air shimmered around it.  The man returned to the splayed young woman and lowered it toward her exposed sex.  Shannon couldn't look away as the glowing blade neared the inside of Sarah's right thigh a scant inch beneath the pouting lips of her pudenda.  The hooked edge pierced the flesh with a loud hiss and the man slowly pulled the blade down leaving a shallow cut almost to the knee, sizzling like pan bacon all the way.  The girl's reaction was immediate and violent.  Even held by the other guard, her nude body still convulsed furiously up off the bench.  She stayed that way a moment, her sweat shiny form arched taut and trembling before flopping back to the pitiless bed.  Shannon became aware of another sound besides the sputter of frying meat: frantic grunts like some muffled hog being dragged to slaughter.  It was then she noticed that Sarah was gagged, a plug stuck in her mouth and tied there, denying her even the pitiful release of screaming.  Her body wrenched at the ropes holding her limbs, thrashing on the wood like a thing possessed by demons.  Her head turned wildly side to side.  Shannon caught a glimpse of her face and was shocked by the look of hysterical madness in the bulging eyes.

Shannon felt Jacob's arm tighten around her shoulders and suddenly became aware that he had been talking softly to her almost since entering the dread room, slipping the words in through her horror.  Jacob was using a tactic he heard about from a visiting mountebank over ales, of how the scoundrel could get people to do things he wanted just by talking to them constantly with the right kind of voice.    

Jacob Miller kept talking, quietly and persuasively.  He felt Shannon Clarke's body trembling under his arm, but the girl was frozen with terror and didn't move away.  He raised his free hand gradually up to the top of her shirt.  His fingers caught the end of the first securing cloth strip and slowly pulled the knot open.  She gasped, but still didn't move.  His hand lowered to the next.  One after another, with almost infinite slowness, he untied the knots until reaching the final one above her abdomen.  Continually droning his words and moving with the same slow, but constant pace he tugged the left side of the blouse half out of her skirt and reached inside.  Shannon felt his hand touch her belly and her breath drew in sharply, but she couldn't move away, staring at Sarah Turner's agonizing torture just feet away in front of her.  His hand glided up over the ribs and ever so delicately cupped the breast.  Shannon shivered at the intimate touch.  Jacob was amazed by the feel and only just stopped the exclamation behind his lips that could break the spell.  He had worked too hard to get the wench into this state of impotent terror to lose it now.

Shannon was certainly terrified, but what she saw next twisted her gut.  The rod was replaced in the coals, then the guards busied themselves on the bench sides a moment then removed a section of it toward the bottom.  Now her entire lower body beneath the hips was fully available above and below.  Shannon couldn't believe her eyes when the one who branded Sarah's thigh dropped his pants and moved in close between her still spastically twitching legs.  Shannon got a glimpse of his engorged penis just before he thrust it viciously into the girl's cunt.  He immediately began pumping his hips back and forth in a bestial parody of making love.

Excited by the lurid tableau and feel of Shannon Clarke's soft breast, Jacob was thinking now of nothing but getting her alone.  He released the globe and turned her around toward the door.  Shannon's last over the shoulder sight of Sarah was of the second deputy lifting radiant tongs toward a nipple while the other continued his coarse fucking.

Jacob continued talking to her as he walked her back down the corridor.  He had never stopped.  "Such a thing need not happen to you, my lass.  No, not at all.  I can prevent that.  Yes, I can keep you out of that room.  Trust me.  I can save you from that horror.  Only me, only me, only me..."  

They were soon back in her cell and Jacob turned her to face him.  Damn, but she's beautiful.  A head shorter, she wouldn't lift her eyes to him.  She is shy, too, he thought.  Good.  Well, I've waited long enough.  I must see these tits!

Jacob dropped his hands to her hips and tugged the blouse bottom all the way out of her skirt.  Shannon's hands fluttered up, but he gently pushed them back down.  "Keep your arms at your sides," he said firmly.  "Just stand still."

He reached into the shirt with both hands, thrilling to the feel of her smooth warm skin.  He ran his fingertips up the inward taper above her hips until they brushed the prominent lower rib cage along her sides.  He pushed the cloth apart until the girl's breasts were exposed between them.  This time there was no stopping the low hiss of wonder.  Full they were, yet high and proud even without the supporting bandeau that most women needed.  He cupped one in each palm, evaluating their heft.  Even in the poor light Jacob could see that the skin was milky white and looked as silky as it felt.  At their summits above his hands sat the slightly ruddier nipples, broader than he expected.  He watched in rapt fascination as the centers grew out, enlarging into hard little nubs.  Shannon blushed furiously, mortified at her body's response.  Her breathing was rapid and shallow, her hands fluttering impotently by her hips.  He had been aware of a pleasurable swelling in his groin since the torture room, but now it was rock hard and throbbing almost painfully in reaction to the lubricious breast fondling.

Jacob stepped around behind and lifted his hands to her shoulders.  He grasped the top of the chemise.  He felt the girl's body tremble as he pushed the fabric aside and down over her arms, letting it fall on the dirty straw to leave her totally naked to the waist.  Shannon Clarke instinctively tried to cover her chest with crossed arms, but he pulled them firmly back down, the message obvious.  He moved his hands up to cup the globes again, this time from in back.  Jacob lifted them tenderly, exploring their heft.  The skin was silky smooth, yet with the soft elasticity of a pudding.  He took a moment to gently knead the breasts, but quickly sought out the nipples, using a thumb tip on each to teasingly flick the teats into even stiffer erection.  Jacob felt a sharp pang in his groin and decided he had waited long enough for the next stage of his pleasure.

"Give me your hand," he ordered.  Shannon Clarke didn't offer her arm, but didn't resist when he took the wrist and guided her hand behind and down to his crotch.  His other hand preceded hers to tug open the belt and let his trousers drop to the floor at his feet.  The sensation when his turgid penis was finally released from its constriction was exquisite.  Jacob continued moving Shannon's hand down until it lightly touched the shaft.  He let out a low groan of delight from the marvelously erotic sensation.  She flinched at the sound, but the memory of Sarah having that glowing hot blade applied to her nude body was fresh and vivid in her mind, so she didn't resist when he directed her hand back to the rigid shaft.  He moved a bit to the side to better expose it and gently but firmly closed her fingers around it, then returned to the exploration of her breasts.  Shannon felt the rod throb and twitch in her hand as if with a will of its own.

She had seen a man's sex before, of course, but the only one erect like this was sweet Brandon's, a boy in her village.  A couple of years older than her, the first time he pulled it from his pants, she was embarrassed, yet fascinated.  He had guided her hand to it as this man just did.  The magistrate's rigid penis even quivered in her hand the same way.  She remembered learning to use her fingers to caress it base to tip, letting Bran's reactions guide her.  She was surprised when some kind of milky stuff spurted from the hole in its tip, but from the close-eyed look on Bran's face he clearly enjoyed it.  The third time they sneaked up into the hayloft, at his persistent urging, she allowed him to remove her blouse so he could fondle her naked breasts while she played with it.  He erupted much faster that time.  She had been slowly realizing the effect her growing breasts had on boys and began to see them not as an embarrassing and awkward inconvenience, but something amazingly powerful she could use.  In truth, Bran's caressing felt good to her, too, especially when his fingertips teased her nipples until they hardened and tingled.  She saw Brandon one more time, resisting his pleas to take off her skirt and panties so he could stick it inside her, but he settled easily enough for her hand and breasts again when she refused.  Then her parents got the cholera and died.

Shannon's breasts were even larger now than they had been in Ireland.  She knew from the leers and staring at the Stoat And Budgie that they continued to draw the attention of men.  The tips were very good and she felt glad they were there and so prominent.  No longer.  Now she wished she had never grown them.

The magistrate didn't know that he was feeling the same sweet sensations as some dirt farming Irish boy, nor would he have cared.  What he did know was that he wasn't going to be satisfied with a little hand play -- and he had power over her the Irish boy never dreamed of.  "That feels fine, lass," he said into her ear, "but it doesn't show me true remorse for your acts.  I need a stronger indication from you for that.  You understand what I mean..."

"N-No - I mean yes, yes!  I know what you mean, but I can't, I just can't!"  Her voice dropped, became pleading.  "I c-can't because I am virgin.  It would be a sin.  A sin.  I ..."

Shannon continued her desperate prattle, but Jacob stopped listening.  Virgin, eh?  Was it possible?  While not yet twenty, most girls wed years younger.  Like most Englishmen, Jacob held the Irish in contempt, but if their backward culture was responsible for providing this wench to him untouched, perhaps there was something to say for the wretched island after all.  He returned his full attention to the girl.  Her begging had increased in speed and volume, seeking any escape, but he stopped it.

"I respect your attitude, of course; I am a good Catholic, myself.  The blessed Madonna was herself eternally virgin.  Still, you must do something more to earn my mercy.  Something that might turn fifty lashes into only twenty-five, perhaps even less.  Some way ..." he left the words dangle, "some way that both preserves your purity and still gives me evidence of your remorse.  Some special way, perhaps?"  One finger moved up and delicately traced her lips.

Suddenly it dawned on her what the man wanted and gasped.  She had heard mention of it, and then with distaste.  A girl taking a  boy's thing in her mouth.  That they were said to love it only added to her revulsion.  Now, however, now she had to weigh that feeling against her situation, and the horror she had just seen inflicted on another young woman.  To spare herself that, well...  Unable to speak, her head nodded fitfully in assent.

Jacob sat down on the bunk and turned her about by the hips.  Her eyes were closed in shame, but she allowed him to draw her down to her knees in front of him.  He patted her cheek and she forced herself to open them and look at the twitching rod in front of her face.  Hard, rigid even, and insistent.  Shannon instinctively realized that this thing was deciding her fate, not so much the man.  Once again the image of Sarah Turner raped and writhing under torture made up her mind.  I can do this, she told herself.  To lessen the whipping and avoid Sarah's torture I can do this.  I must do this.

Jacob could see the thoughts whirling through her head and broke the internal debate.  "Come on then," he said, "or do you want the full fifty lashes?"  He saw her blue eyes open wide and a look of fear consume her lovely face.  Not trusting her voice, she just wrenched her head side to side in negation.  Jacob rested his back against the wall and spread his legs some more, lifting his hips, the rampant flesh demanding attention just inches from her face.

Shannon timidly reached up and took the shaft in hand again, stroking it lightly.  She scooted in closer and took hold of one of his knees while circling his erection just beneath the swollen glans.  She pulled down, drawing the skin taut all the way to the base.  Just as she was dipping her head to take it in, she saw a fat bead of clear fluid emerge from the engorged head, but he was already lifting it into her mouth.

In spite of her recent resolution, she jerked away, the thought of that shiny droplet entering her mouth too vile to accept.  "Very well, then," Jacob snapped.  "I see you do want the full fifty lashes."  He made as if to rise.

"NOOOO!" Shannon Clarke wailed in panic.  She had seen two of the public punishments, one a man, and was terrified by the whip.  Their suffering was ghastly and they had received only thirty strokes.  She pushed him back down.  "No, no.  Please.  I'll do it.  I'll do it!" 

The man leaned back and lifted his hips again, presenting his erection to her.  This time Shannon used both of her hands between his legs.  One circled and stroked it while the other played with the scrotum, something she remembered Bran loving.  This man dribbled that same clear liquid as she caressed it.  Nothing different, she tried telling herself.  No different than Bran.  Think of the whip.  And unbidden, think of Sarah...  She tugged the skin tighter.  Moving her fingers, she pulled gently on the sack, then slowly took the stalk into her mouth.  She was astonished by how hot the engorged head was.  Unsure of herself, she fell back to what she had done with Brandon, following the rod's response to her touches.  At the moment, it didn't seem that anything she was doing was wrong.  The man seemed to groan with equal delight whether she used her tongue or closed her lips and suckled like a nursing calf.  Jacob's hips ground on the bed from the exquisitely erotic sensations.  Suddenly he got an inspiration for a way to increase his enjoyment.  He pushed her away from his crotch, so the distended penis slipped from between her lips.  Shannon looked up at him, confused.  "Stand up," Jacob said with a throaty voice.  "Stand and bend over.  I want you to suck my cock like that."  Shannon was still baffled by the order, but rose as he ordered.  He pulled her in close between his knees.  Where his legs met, the rigid shaft pointed up at her.  Under the man's guidance, Shannon bent forward and placed her palms on his thighs for balance.  She lowered her head awkwardly until she could reach the twitching penis with her mouth.  It was clumsy, but she was able to get it into her mouth and start an inept up and down motion, although she couldn't get it as deeply inside, able to stimulate only the top half of it.

Jacob didn't notice the lack because he was fully enjoying his inspiration.  Standing and bent forward as she was, Shannon's full bare breasts were dangling free and available, something impossible when she was kneeling.  He spread his legs wider so he could slide his hands through the gap between her head and arms on either side.  He grasped the naked gourds.  The sensations rippling through his cock from Shannon's sucking and licking would have been sweet alone, but coupled with the exquisite fondling of her bare breasts they were sublime.  Jacob shut his eyes.  At this moment, his entire existence consisted of the intense sexual throbbing that radiated from his groin and the feel of the girl's elastic breasts in his hands.  The climax came quicker than he wanted, soon after his fingertips started playing with the stiff nipples.  He groaned with pleasure as the first molten ejaculation shot up the shaft and out.  Jacob's body tensed and he squeezed the dangling breasts harder.  The pulsing spurts coupled with his sudden violent grope made Shannon Clarke pull up and away.  There were a few more squirts from the tip, but Shannon was too busy gagging to notice.  She also didn't see the way his eyes narrowed when he stood and put his pants back on.  I'll remember this, that look said.

Jacob Miller saw that all was ready for Shannon Clarke's punishment to begin.  He stomped on the stage floor and nodded to the hooded executioner.  Robertson armed himself with a six-tailed cat of thin twisted leather thongs and stepped into position as the disk started turning under Shannon's kneeling form.

Robertson waited until the girl came around toward the larger front area where most of the audience stood.  In one rapid motion, he swung his arm quickly up and down, turning his wrist so the thongs spread across the broadest span of her back.  "OOOWWW!"  Despite her resolve, the pain of that stroke forced a sharp gasp from her lips.  Hearing the victim's first exclamation of pain excited the spectators who cheered for more.

The next three lashes followed quickly, each this time delivered when she faced one of the other primary directions so everyone around the platform could get a good view from their angle.  Robertson moved across the stage like a panther, always finding the best spot from which to attack Shannon's exposed skin.

Lash followed lash as the tall executioner expertly shook out the strands before launching new strokes across the girl's back.  He adjusted his delivery to have the thin strands land in a narrow band or spread their kiss from neck to hips, constantly varying the new pain even as it accumulated atop the old.  He also varied the timing of his blows, sometimes sweeping a second lash so quickly that the slaps of leather against flesh sounded almost like one.  Most of the time, though, he deliberately allowed the girl's body to make a complete rotation of the disk before administering the next blow.

After ten lashes were administered, Jacob Miller stomped the stage and the wheel slowed, stopped, then began turning in the other direction.  The big man moved to the other side of the platform.  He transferred the scourge to his left hand.  Being equally adept with either hand was a skill learned in childhood.

Shannon's flogging progressed at a deliberate pace.  The platter turned, Robertson brought his powerful arm down so the cat would sting and abrade the vulnerable white skin, all while the miserable girl squirmed in anguish.  The bootlace whip could lacerate the flesh into raw meat should he desire -- indeed he carried some with small metal hooks sewn into the strands for that very purpose -- but not today.  No, today the Executioner held his power, skillfully without appearing to do so.  Using all of his theatricality, he made it look as if he was using all his strength with every swing.  The strokes rasped the skin, leaving raw seeping weals behind, fiercely irritating, but no serious damage inflicted.  Robertson was pleased to see a sheen of perspiration on her back.

Only those lucky few up close to the stage could also see that gleam, but that didn't diminish the enjoyment of the rest.  When the leather thongs struck, she would often jerk her head up.  Even if her unavoidable yelps weren't loud enough to be heard by many, each agonized grimace on her lovely face was seen by all.

Chatamway's constabulary weren't the only ones to profit from the pretty redhead's public suffering. Mrs. Fotheringill's boarders were out in force. Her "boarding house" was nothing more than a low profile brothel serving the village and lands around. Even though most had worked the Saturday night before, she still had them all up early for the day's show. The strategy was simple: Mrs. Fotheringill released her drabs into the crowd where they would target likely customers. It was a basic truth that no man was immune to the sexually arousing sight of a young woman under the whip. Single men or those without their wives present were obvious targets. They would sidle up to one and furtively cup the front of their pants, evaluating the level of need expressed there. If the bulge was large, a few whispered words were usually sufficient to entice them to a secluded area behind the stage where a coin bought immediate release. With such a one as Shannon Clarke taking the lash, almost every concealed grope yielded proof of a robust tumescence there eager for relief. Only those too poor had to sadly decline. Many more, however, were happy to sacrifice and so business was brisk.

"And twenty!" Jacob announced loudly after the last.  The magistrate made a gesture and the deputies released Shannon's wrists from the post.  Her body immediately crumpled over to the side where she hugged herself from the pain and groaned.  Even the understandable sweat of enduring such a cruel beating only served to irritate the exposed nerve endings with its salt.  Now, though, now only one thought penetrated the suffering, the one thing she could hang on to in her misery.  It's over.  Dear god, it hurts, but it's over.  It's over.  It's over.  She was barely aware of the magistrate's voice behind her.  

There was a hush across the square when he raised his arms.  Shannon's back throbbed so much that she didn't hear the audience sounds growing around the stage, but Jacob did.  He deliberately delayed his words, ears pricked for the clink of coins into the iron bowls at each corner of the stage.  He had a few agents in the crowd waiting for the right moment.  CLINK!  "More, magistrate!  More, I say!" called one, echoed soon after by another paid tuppence supporter.  On the opposite corner was another coin fall and another exhortation for more punishment, this time with an call to those around him to contribute and the tinkles increased in frequency as did the catcalls.  A little money well spent on the shills.  Jacob waved his arms for silence.

"Good citizens of Chatamway," he called when they quieted, "you have seen this woman's just punishment for her crime.  However ..."  He paused, milking the moment. "However," he began again and immediately sensed a palpable increase in attention in the audience.  "However, even though just yesterday convicted of unlawful enticement, she still tried to entice me with her body to lessen her punishment the same day!  That very evening!  This contempt for the law must be disciplined severely, else I believe she would continue her lawless behavior!"  Laying on the stage, Shannon's head came up off the stage in confusion.  What was this?   "Clearly a more stringent punishment is required, so I have decided that she receive the full sentence of fifty lashes, thirty more strokes!"  A buzz of excitement rose around the platform, growing louder and threatening to overwhelm his pronouncement.  Jacob Miller raised his hands again to still the noise.  Time to play his second big card.  "Further, since she shamelessly used the udders she flaunts to beguile me, I order that the remainder of the lashes be applied to them!"  Without waiting for the effect that appalling declaration would have on Shannon, he turned to his waiting deputies.  "Secure the bitch!  The way I told you."  The square immediately erupted with loud cheering.

Shannon couldn't believe her ears.  More?  Thirty more?    Thirty!?  And where did he say?  No.  No, that couldn't be right.  Before she could fully grasp the moment, the two deputies took hold of her.  Squealing in panic, she was wrenched back upright to her knees.  They grabbed her wrists, pulling them back and apart behind where they were buckled inside leather cuffs chained widely apart to the disk.  The extreme separation pulled her shoulders back, but the chains were deliberately long enough that her upper body would remain erect and she could face her audience.  Her knees were still strapped to the platter, so she couldn't move her body save limited twisting or bending a bit backward.

While they were binding her, Shannon cried out continuously.  "W-what?!  Wait!  What is happening?!  What are you doing?  You don't understand!  It's over.  Don't you understand, it's over?!"  With no help from the crowd, she looked up to the magistrate.  "You promised that would be all!  When I, w-when I did what I did last night you promised!  Release me!  Please, oh please untie me and let me go!"

The guards finished and moved away to reveal Shannon to the crowd in this new position.  Although torn away in back, the blouse still covered the front of her upper body.  Even so, there was no hiding the way the mounds swayed beneath the fabric to her struggles.  Jacob came over and bent down so he could speak into her ear.  "I know what I promised, but that was before I discovered how exciting you were.  Your mouth was disappointing last night, but I know you will get better with time and proper motivation.  First, though, I'm going to sample your cunt."  Shannon's teary blue eyes opened wide and he saw the realization hit like a punch to the gut.  "They say virgins are sweet and juicy as a summer peach.  You will be my first and I couldn't have asked for a better."  There was confusion mixing with the fear in her eyes.  How could he . . ?  He answered the unspoken question there.  "Yes, that means I will also have to impose a jail sentence on you.  Only a fortnight, but two weeks should time enough for us to get fully acquainted.  We shall have such fun together, you and I.  But first the whip kisses your tits."  He reached forward and grasped the left mound over the damp shirt.  "I knew I would have them beaten from the moment I saw them.  You should have sucked me better when you had the chance."

"Nooooooooooo!" the cry of horror burst from Shannon's throat.  Her back still burned from its recent laceration and that was only twenty lashes.  Now she would receive thirty more of  the hideous leather caresses and on a much more sensitive part of her body.

Pleased with her reaction, Miller stepped back and turned to Robertson.  Raising his voice to carry across the square, he called, "Master Executioner, the slut is yours.  Teach her the price of her lewd behavior!"

Robertson stepped to the center of the stage amid a torrent of cheers and obscene catcalls around the square.

The tall brute stepped in close to the girl and his cruel dark eyes sought and held her terrified blue ones.  He reached forward with both hands and grasped the top of her blouse beneath the chin.  "I've been eager to see these tits of yours, piglet," he said so softly only she could hear.  "Magistrate Miller couldn't stop talking about them this morning at breakfast, but I have seen a lot of udders in my job.  I must say they look most promising the way they fill your shirt.  Well, it's time for them to greet the day and all their admirers.  Look.  Out there are a hundred of your neighbors who want to see what you've been hiding all this time.  Let's show 'em, eh?" Robertson wrenched his hands powerfully apart, shredding the blouse down the center, then tossing the sides apart and pushing the tattered sleeves down to pool around her hands.  His eyes returned to Shannon's chest and he paused longer than he usually did.  Well.  That fool magistrate didn't exaggerate them after all.  With a reluctance that surprised him, Robertson stepped away to allow the crowd a clear view of Shannon Clarke.  There was a moment of stunned silence as the assembled spectators took in the sight, then a roar erupted.

Robertson understood, even shared their enthusiasm.  The girl's lovely young body was now completely nude to the waist, exposing her torso all the way from the hem of her skirt beneath the petite navel up to her deliberately pony-tailed head.  At this moment, all attention was fixated on the captive girl's breasts.  Robertson could understand it.  Even with his years of  experience, he had never seen a finer pair.  They demanded his best efforts with the whip.  Every eye in the plaza was glued to the lusty display.

For her part, Shannon's rib cage and belly were working in rapid counterpoint as she sucked in air, but even that normal reaction only enhanced the way the globes swayed on her chest.  The strain inflicted on her shoulders arched her back, making it look like she was eagerly lifting and offering her mounds to the coming ordeal.  They thrust out with all the arrogance of youth, yet still trembled like a pudding to each struggle.  Shannon's now exposed flesh was the color of fresh cream, luminous in the bright sunshine.  The smooth white skin contrasted with the demure rose-pink of her nipples, the aureolas surprisingly broad.  Robertson was near enough that he could see the pale blue web of thin veins crossing beneath.  The back flogging made her sweat, but now that the still moist flesh was exposed to the cool morning breeze, goosebumps sprang up across the naked breasts, the aureoles crinkled, and the teats grew out into prominent points.  With knees bound a yard apart and wrists even farther apart behind her, Shannon Clarke was helpless to hide her body from the excited mob.  Indeed, the girl's desperate efforts to escape only served to make the full, lusty breasts frolic all the more enthusiastically on her chest, something she was oblivious to but of intense interest to the peasants and farmers crowding close to the stage for a better look.  Robertson knew he was likely the only one present looking at Shannon's face this moment.  He was delighted to see the shame rising above the misery -- and fear of what was going to happen next.  And deeper even than that fear was her intense embarrassment at the blatant way she was exhibited in front of all these people.  A vivid blush spread over her cheeks and beneath her throat across the upper slopes.  He watched how this made the freckles there slightly darker, something he found unexpectedly arousing.  A more experienced showman than the magistrate, he appreciated the effect of this more than the crowd.  It was a subtle quality, but profound in effect for him, the display of terror on a young girl's face.  

At the same time, Shannon was fighting her panic.  Throughout the painful back scourging, even after hearing the magistrate's shocking pronouncement, she tried convincing herself that this was still some punishment for breaking a law.  That she would accept it and never do the same again.  Indeed, she planned of leaving this village just as fast as she could.  That was before she was rebound and her breasts bared.  That was before she saw how prominently they were offered.  And before she had heard the obscene lust of an audience craving her agony.  Now she knew that this entire thing was staged for nothing more than the lascivious spectacle of seeing her breasts naked and tortured.  There was also the horrifying realization that this method of binding, rather than the standard whipping post, was specifically designed for that singular purpose.

Stripping female criminals nude to the waist for their punishment was a relatively recent development.  The standard preparation for both men and women only involved tearing the cloth apart to expose the back for the whip.  Once it became acceptable to cut away the entire shirt of the male victims, the females weren't far behind.  Even then, the usual binding was facing the whipping post.  A skilled flogger could extend the ends enough to reach the breasts, but only the outer curves.  But stripping the victims this way was a salacious thrill and so popular it soon became the standard.  The priests gave it tacit approval because it distracted the peasants from their daily misery.  Shannon's new binding and an extended sentence concentrated on the naked breasts it so tantalizingly presented was seriously extending the boundary of decorum, but rapidly becoming more frequent, even desired.  Robertson believed that it wouldn't be long before the victims were stripped completely naked for their punishments.  He was in favor of it, at least for the women.  He had accepted a few commissions when some petty noble paid to watch such a full body whipping and respected the enhanced effect that had on the wench's writhing and the visual impact of it.  Once the church was given authority over civil crimes -- as it had under Bloody Mary Tudor, God bless her -- again, the priests would go to their usual extremes.  Stupidly trying to live a life of celibacy inspired that among the younger ones while the money to be made drove the older bishops the same way.

The wooden plate began to rotate and he stepped away.  The movement shattered the air of stunned amazement and the square erupted with noise; applause, cheers, and raucous suggestions now that Shannon Clarke's topless body was fully displayed to them. "Ho there, Master Executioner!  There's a pair o' tits for you!  Worthy of 'is Highness they is!" yelled one loud male voice accompanied by cheers.

"Make the Irish cow scream, good Robertson!" called another.

The women in the crowd weren't shy about expressing their glee either, especially the older and ugly ones.  One such voice carried above the rest, full of cruel spite.  "Give them fat udders a good pounding!  Always flaunting them like she was royalty!  An' look at them paps, eh?  The way they stick out like a pair o' ripe berries makes a pretty target for ya!"

The rotation displayed all of her nude upper body to the spectators.  While her stunning chest was the clear favorite, there was no denying that her back was also fine.  Heavily striped and smeared with pink, the new binding so strained her shoulders that the muscles there and down her arms stood out in high relief.  A valley curved from the nape of her neck down her back over the spine until it vanished into the crack of her ass, just barely seen above the skirt.  Two dimples were clearly visible just above it on either side of the spine forming a dainty feminine triangle.  Shannon Clarke was a healthy young woman with a striking body, so the sight of her stripped to the waist and rotating on display stirred the erotic passion of all but the very young and the very old.

Jacob heard the welcome clink of coins dropping into the iron tip bowls.  He looked over the unusually large assembly and complemented himself again for his choice of performers, Shannon and Robertson.  While sometimes a source of personal pleasure, the job paid little so every chance to add to his purse was welcome.  As the local law, he got 75% of all gratuities, the rest divided between the deputies.  He would have to share his take this time with the big man, but nothing should put more coins in the jug than the whipping of this young woman's front and the famous Regional Torturer was the best man to do that.

The disk was up to speed now.  It was deliberately slow, about three revolutions a minute; the idea was to display the wretch fully for (hopefully generous) audience participation, even from the less desirable areas to the sides or behind.  Unlike Shannon's back flogging, this new binding and stripping her to the waist ensured that everyone got an intimate view of her now naked breasts.  Magistrate and Executioner stood at opposite ends of the stage while Shannon Clarke's topless form rotated between them.  This was the final appeal for incentive tips, so one used for all it was worth.  There were certainly no complaints from any of the observers at the extended view.

While Shannon's body turned for the excited audience,  Robertson looked over the assortment of whips he traveled with, glancing over at the girl a couple of times to help him decide on the instrument he would use on her breasts.  Let's see, he considered.  Extreme pain without lasting damage, welts, but no scarring cuts ...  His eyes kept returning to one particular whip.  Yes, this one, this one will do nicely.

A few aficionados of the public punishments noted the new weapon with approval.  It was a yard long strip of supple leather half an inch wide that ended in a tapered point.  Robertson knew he could appear to use more of his power with it, but still cause less damage.  Not that this poor bitch would appreciate the difference.  The magistrate told him about his plans for her earlier that morning and how he didn't want her body ruined, especially the breasts.  Well, he was an artist and knew how to inflict excruciating agony on female tits without destroying them in the process.  He was a professional, after all.

Robertson walked up to her side holding the whip folded over in one hand.  He looked down at the superb bare breasts, this time as a workman planning his task.  These were truly breasts to savor, and they would be breathtaking welted and oozing scarlet, but he doubted they would be exploited as they so deserved in this backward village.  Oh well, he was paid to be here and his cut of the tips should be substantial.  And it's not like this would be an unpleasant task, either.

The rising audience noise broke Shannon's trance and her entire consciousness focused immediately on her semi-nude vulnerability.  She looked down at her chest and felt a chill of horror seeing how much her breasts stuck up and out -- and they were to get the next thirty lashes.  Despite her shame, Shannon Clarke could not avoid the obvious way her now bared globes were offered to the crowd.  Up to this moment, she had been desperately clinging to the fantasy that this really was just a punishment, however unjust, for a crime.  Now it was impossible to continue that naive illusion.  She was stripped and bound this way for nothing more than lusty entertainment.  She lifted her head again, but didn't really see the sea of eager faces; her next sudden instinct was the frantic need to escape and she wrenched furiously at the wrist bonds.  Her cries alternated between protesting and pleading, but no one save the men on the platform could make out the words.  Just breathing was sufficient to make the succulent gourds tremble, so all her more vigorous struggles accomplished was to make the arrogant bare breasts cavort wildly on her chest and so spur even louder and more salacious reactions from the crowd.  Some of the lewd comments shouted from the audience penetrated her mind, almost all mocking her for the way her tits stuck out.  Many yelled recommendations, specific targets, but the one demand heard most often was also the simplest: "Make her scream, make her scream, make her scream!"  Despite the dire situation, an unexpected stubbornness rose up inside her.  No, she resolved.  I won't scream for you.  I won't scream no matter how much it hurts.

Robertson moved to the side and the crowd went silent in eager anticipation.  He stood patiently through three rotations, a full minute to increase the suspense.  He watched until Shannon's topless body moved around into position.  He took aim, lifted his arm, then twisted his broad shoulders to administer the first lash to Shannon's poised naked breasts.  The whip fluttered through the air to impact the upper slopes of both globes an inch above the broad pink aureoles.  The flogging cat just used on her back whispered through the air, its impacts crisp, but because of the flattened profile this new whip warbled as it flew and proclaimed its arrival with a louder moist SMACKT!  

"Unnnnhhhh," the grunt came unwanted, but it felt like a line of fire had been drawn across her chest and it was all she could do to suppress the shriek this harrowing new instrument desired.  Shannon wrenched at the cuffs in a wild attempt to escape the pain.  Robertson just waited until the disk came around into the same position, then launched a second lash across the melons, this one an uppercut to strike the bottom curves, lifting the globes and wrenching another grunt of pain from the agonized girl.  She heard the roar of approval from the crowd at the sight of her breasts leaping up from the impact, then wobbling back to their flawless teardrop shape.

Robertson was a professional and knew how to both maximize his victims' pain and milk the willingness of spectators to pay to see it.  The wealthy paid better, usually sour pinched noblewomen paying him to hurt servants -- or even family members who were always younger and prettier -- but the public work was his prime source of income.  He could already tell that this morning's take would be good and why not?  Shannon's fine young body was made for the punishment stage.  This lusty bint could make a fortune for the right promoter in London.  He parked that thought for future consideration, and returned his full attention to the task at hand.

SWACCKKT!  "Unhh."  SWACCKKTT!  "Ow, ow!"  SWACCKKKTT!  "Ahhhh..."  Robertson twisted his shoulders to deliver new lashes across  the proud bare breasts offered so perfectly to his whip, skillfully aiming the supple leather thong so it always found virgin flesh.  Thirty cuts wasn't an insignificant addition, especially focused on the breasts, but Robertson still wasn't going to waste a single one on anything except Shannon's thrusting mounds.

The lurid tableau continued in the bright sunlight.  Robertson was calculating with his aim, keeping to the upper slopes and round under curves, always finding untouched skin, yet avoiding the rose petal nipples.  He usually allowed at least a full rotation between strokes to prolong the spectacle.  Robertson had a plan, one that started to be evident by the ninth stroke.  Between the pattern of red stripes above and below, there was a horizontal band of untouched porcelain skin precisely and deliberately just as wide as the roseate paps.  Shannon couldn't see the effect, but it was increasingly obvious to the crowd and inspiration for a fresh batch of ribald observations.

On the tenth lash, Robertson finally gave the spectators what they had been demanding from the start.  Judging her rotation finely, his arm darted forward, but he pulled back at the very finish so only the final two inches impacted, but with fiendish effect.  For the first time, the stinging whip sought out one of her sensitive pink nipples.  From this side, it was the right one that offered itself as she turned to the front.  The leather struck the center of the aureole with a crisp SMACKKT! when the flat of the narrow strap flattened the hard teat.  The end clung to the inside curve, dipping its pointed tip into the cleavage just touching the sternum.  The girl's reaction was immediate.

"OWWWWW!  OWWWWW!  Please, oh please, no more, no more!  Please, I've done nothing to deserve this.  Please, no more.  My poor breasts burn, oh they burn so ..."  The only thing that surprised Robertson was how long it took before Shannon reached the "begging phase".  This outcry, though louder, still wasn't a real scream.  Even the first nipple stroke didn't get the desperate screeches he wanted.  I may have to increase my force a bit sooner, he thought.  So be it.  The bitch is strong.  Good, he liked a challenge.  He also knew that in the contest between will and whip, the whip always won in the end.

Writhing in pain, Shannon didn't notice when the wood disk holding her slowed to a stop and started to turn in the other direction.  The hooded brute shifted to the other side of the stage.  Now his strokes would be applied by his equally powerful left arm.  It was a skill his father made him learn and practice.  When rotating to the left, that tit's outer curve was especially vulnerable to the sharp darting tip, a fact vividly painted on that once pale skin.  Now reversed, the right gourd would feel more of the hellish bites from the sharp darting tip and its outer curve flush red like its mate.  There was one important exception to that, however, and so Robertson started the next ten lashes of the maid's breast torture with a mirror image of the preceding one, a perfectly timed stroke to give her left nipple its first caustic kiss of the morning, the thin point landing just opposite its predecessor between the mounds.

"AH, OOOOOOOOWWWWW!  It hurts!  It hurts!  Please, stop, stop ..."  No one except Jacob and Robertson heard her words as the roar of approval for this new attack drowned her pleas beneath it. "HAH!  HAH!  HAH!" Shannon gasped, fighting for the breath to endure the ferocious torment.  With the lovely girl now up to speed in the other direction, he left the nipples and returned his efforts to the rest of the globes.

Robertson performed for the crowd, employing a theatrical arm flourish before striking Shannon Clarke's helplessly presented bare breasts.  Those spectators standing behind him could see the play of powerful muscled flexing across his shoulders and back.  He worked on the upper slopes and under curves with obvious relish, aiming for those thin strips of white he left for this purpose, to savagely inflame untouched nerves.  The flying strap pursued the globes relentlessly, using the girl's own fierce struggles to escape its bitter sting to enhance her lusty performance.  He continued to skirt the nipples.

 Agonizing as these fresh strokes were, they weren't as bitterly painful as the two that struck her broad paps.  Shannon's body noticed the diminished intensity even if her mind did not.  Her squirming lost some of its frantic desperation, but to the delight of the crowd her body found a new motion in her struggle to endure the torture.  While the knee and wrist binding held her body upright, her hips could still move a little forward and back.  Wracked by the excruciating agony afflicting her tits, that was what they were doing now in a grotesque parody of lusty fucking.  The crowd immediately took notice of the lascivious grinding and unleashed a new wave of ribald comments.

"Look you," one burly farmer exclaimed, "the slut is hot as a bitch hound in the spring!"

A fat piggy-eyed woman laughed.  "She looks like a bride on her wedding night!  A few more good ones across those udders and I wager we will see what she looks like when she cums!"

Pleased with the new development, Robertson wasted no time continuing her motivation.  SWAPPPT!  The biting whip licked the aching under curves again, lifting the gourds to the delight of the spectators.  The lashes there felt worse than the ones on the tops to poor Shannon.  She struggled against the cords holding her wrists back and apart, desperate to free her hands and somehow protect her breasts from the caustic strap, an effort that served only to make them cavort all the more rousingly.

SWACCKKKTT!  SWACCKKKTTT!  SWOCKKKTTT!  SWACCCKKKTT!  Robertson varied his attack.  In the space of only half a rotation, when Shannon's body came around toward the front, four lashes attacked the poised naked breasts, only about two seconds apart.  The first three flailed the delicately rounded under curves, lifting the entire bulge on impact.  The fourth whistled out to strike just above the nipples while they were still leaping from them.  Each cut felt like a red hot razor drawn across the skin, but striking this rapidly merged them into a single exquisitely agonizing eruption of pain that built on the throbbing anguish already wrought by the previous impacts.

Shannon Clarke's responses were increasing as well, keeping pace with the pain.  She no longer limited her pleas to the torturer, or even Magistrate Miller who ordered the ordeal.  No, now she also appealed to the crowd, even the Madonna, anyone who might hear and help her.  "S-Stop, stop hurting me!" she cried.  "I don't deserve this!  Please stop, I've done nothing, nothing, noth . . !"  The whistling leather struck again mid-word, snaking over the upper right and lower left curves, just skirting the areoles.  This lash seemed to embrace the girl's proud breasts, more caress than slap, but Shannon's flesh knew different.  "N-N-No!  Stop, please stop hurting me!  Ah, my breasts, my poor breasts hurt so!  Please, I beg of ..."  SWACKKKTTT!  Robertson stepped around, sweeping the leather up and over his head to inflict an opposite diagonal across the girl's chest, "...youUUUUUUU . . !"

Robertson worked both victim and crowd expertly.  He would often swing the twisted leather strip up around over his head in a flourish before sweeping it out to kiss the trembling bare breasts, watch her react with his audience, then send the merciless whip out once more to burst against the proffered globes on some untouched spot to their loud approval.

Shannon Clarke's misery rose with every new slash across her breasts.  The pleas were more garbled now.  Even if the words (other than simple ones like stop, please, mercy, and, always, no more) became more incoherent, there was no misunderstanding the accelerating panic driving them.  Enjoyable as the task was, Robertson was still getting irritated.  He knew the pain must be intolerable, yet she refused to give him the kind of shrieks he wanted, the maddened up from the gut kill me screams.  Well, you will, piglet, I promise you that. Robertson had been counting to himself, so as soon as he reached twenty he simply stopped, although he allowed the girl to continue turning.  It was a planned break.  After receiving twenty across her thrusting naked breasts, the accumulated pain kept Shannon Clarke's body writhing frantically on the disk, but she was weakening from the protracted ordeal.  Giving her a brief rest now would enhance her performance at the end.  Balancing that with the need to maintain the crowd's feverish passion was another skill his father taught him. He need not have concerned himself in this case.  Every spectator was staring at the stage with rapt attention.  While Shannon Clarke's body turned, the effects of his methodical whipping became more manifest, the weals vivid and rising up from the skin.  The second ten had worked relentlessly on the tits, enlarging the red welted area top and bottom, and accentuating the pale band across their middle.  The effect was striking, both for the way it displayed the inflamed bruising above and below and at the same time emphasizing the delicate pink nipples, declaring the starring role they would play in the finale.

Robertson decided to give the peasants a treat, telling the magistrate to stop the disk.  Folding the strap over again, he approached the squirming girl.  He used the end to play with the welted globes, lifting the under sides so they bobbled up and down, spurring more raucous laughter and lewd comments from the spectators.  He was pleased to see that a couple of his strokes had left taut purplish blisters behind them.  These, he knew, were exceptionally sensitive, especially when burst by a following lash.  He had some straps specifically designed with holes drilled through the leather to produce them.  That wasn't his goal today, but any little thing that increased the bint's suffering was a bonus.

Robertson let the welted gourds settle down, although they still trembled from her rapid gasping.  He had another trick to raise her agitation.  He stared down into her lovely blue eyes, now filled with agony and streaming tears, while he lifted the loop end to the nipples.  He spent a moment rubbing it over the aureoles, but quickly moved to the rigid teats.  He flicked the nubs about, teasing them.  Shannon Clarke groaned in dread.  The brute's message was horribly clear: Now the whip would return to her delicate nipples for the finish.  Each had taken only one cut, nine lashes ago, but Shannon remembered how much more bitter their sting was.  The nipples had grown in sensitivity while the breasts grew in size.  This intimate play was just one more loathsome demonstration that her torture was more to stoke the observers' coarse sexual arousal than some legal punishment.  He stopped and returned to his place.  The crowd quieted down in eager anticipation as the disk began turning again.  It had been an exhilarating show, so they knew the finale would be memorable.

The wait was brief.  Robertson had Shannon's body turn only once.  When it came around, the disk suddenly stopped.  The mammaries were still quaking when Robertson swept a crisp horizontal stroke that found the upper half of the aureole a hair's-breadth above the erect teats, then immediately another to the lower semicircle just beneath the tips, and a third directly across the middle of the nipples, flattening the distended peaks down into the paps.  WHAPP!WHAPP!WHAPP!, the three lashes struck so quickly they sounded almost like one.

The sudden rapid agony so focused on Shannon's sensitive nipples finally broke the girl's resolve, so bravely maintained.  This attack was simply too hard, too focused, too intense; just too much pain too fast to endure in control any longer.  "ARRRRRHHHHH!  AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!  NO MORE, AHHH NO MORE!  OH, MADONNA, NO MORE!"

Robertson was pleased.  The girl's strident wails were louder than he would have thought possible even with that deep rib cage.  Perhaps it is better if they hold their voices until the end, he considered, if it produces such a powerful soliloquy as this.  This bitch's nipples are marvelously sensitive.  I wonder how much louder I can make her with the next bit.

Planting his feet, the hooded man sent a crisp stroke out toward the left mound, but this time he finished with a sharp snap of his wrist.  The motion made the pointed end bite into the rounded outer curve, for the first time cracking the soft skin apart.  Not waiting for a reaction, he walked quickly behind the captive and swept a vertical cut down over her right shoulder, using the same wrist snap so the tip bit into that tit's bulging underside.  A fast sideways step and an identical stroke found the same place on the left mound.  With no interruption, he emerged on the other side of the stage, changed hands, and swept the whip to sink its sharp fang into the tender flesh halfway down the right's outer curve.

Even as he was circling Shannon to administer the fourth skin-splitting cut, the previous blows were calling attention to themselves in a graphic way.  Bright red spots appeared at the tiny rips, beading up until large enough to dribble over the curve.  The last of this set was the most visual when the whip deliberately found one of the dark red blisters which burst in a puff of blood.

Completely broken, the anguished young woman shrieked her intolerable suffering out over the rapt spectators, scream after scream, interrupted only as long as it took to suck in another deep lungful of air and vent her agony again.  There was no longer even an attempt at control.  Shannon Clarke was completely mastered by the pain inflaming her chest.

Robertson paused briefly to permit the tendrils of blood to ooze a little farther down the side and bottom of her naked breasts, bright wet scarlet against the overlaid pattern of darker weals around them.  The crowd was almost as frenzied as the victim, their latent sadistic lust released by the sight of blood.  He held only until Shannon caught her breath slightly, then narrowed his eyes and sent a high stroke out toward the right breast.  He judged the moment and repeated the wrist snap.  Breaths held across the plaza, so almost all heard the distinct crack! when the sharp leather point burst against the very tip of her nipple.  A tiny droplet of red immediately appeared, but he was already moving for the next lash.  He took quick aim and launched the leather strip to repeat the same fiendish sting on the turgid right teat.

"HEEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHH!  HAAAAAHHHHHHH!  NO MORE, N-NO MORE!  MY BREASTS BURN, THEY BURN!"  Then, finally, came the words Robertson had worked for through the previous forty-nine lashes.  "K-KILL ME!  THE PAIN, OH THE PAIN!  K-KILL ME!  Please, please just kill me and let it end, let it end!  PLEASE LET ME DIE!  LET ME DIE!"  When the victim begged for death he knew he had done his job.

There was an immediate growing noise, and not due to the artistry of those blows.  The new stings were sharper, tiny pinpricks of caustic acid and Shannon couldn't control her body, thrashing against the chains holding her hands behind her, impotent to protect her throbbing breasts, or even just hold and comfort them.  The men on the platform could see raw abrasions on her wrists where the straps held them.  The twisting and bucking set her tortured breasts into a frenzied dance on her chest, lifting, dropping, and bouncing side to side.  At one especially violent lurch, the dribble of blood emerging from the right teat flew off.  A moment later the next spasm caused ruby droplets thinned by sweat to fly from both under curve and nipple of the heaving left globe.

The reaction from the crowd was immediate and raucous, cheering the new development.  Jacob heard and smiled to himself.  There was nothing like the sight of blood to inflame an audience.  The raw scrapes across the girl's back had earned some appreciation, but even when they realized the girl's breasts would feel the lash, none really expected they would actually see them bleed however much they called for it.  It was Robertson's suggestion.  "Have no fear, magistrate," he said over breakfast when asked about the potential damage.  "I can make the holes so small they will heal completely in a day or two.  I ain't never," he added around a mouthful of eggs, "ruined any tits I didn't mean to.  And trust me, your farmers will fucking love it."

Mrs. Fotheringill had worried a bit when the breast whipping got fully underway because, even while undeniably and fiercely aroused, no man wanted to leave the square and miss any of it.  She paid regular bribes to the magistrate and today would be a very good day for both of them.  She was still weighing her profit/loss when the first blood was seen on Shannon Clarke's tits.  That was the deciding vote in her mind and so she turned her "boarders" loose.  Now a fast grope and whisper, a surreptitiously exchanged coin, and suddenly a kneeling woman was pulling your dick out and sucking till you blew.  If an observer knew what to look for (and cared at all) they could follow the trails through the crowd, the tracks read on faces contorting in almost painful pleasure.  It was outrageous activity in public, yet so intense was the focus on Shannon's spectacular ordeal that no one seemed to care.

Now Robertson signaled to Jacob and the disk mounting Shannon began turning again.  It was a final display of sadistic entertainment presented to an eager audience.  Despite having endured forty-nine lashes, the young woman's body was remarkably undamaged, only the vividly striped and now bleeding breasts showing the marks of the fiendishly concentrated assault there.  And even they were only welted and a little swollen from the inflamed tissue.  She was still beautiful and none watching seemed to mind the grimace of suffering on her face.  The miserable girl writhed frantically, too crazed with torture to understand there was no escape.  Nothing existed in her mind but the excruciating waves of pain surging through her breasts and the panicked desperation to somehow protect herself from any more.  All the while Shannon Clarke howled and babbled, venting her intolerable suffering, pleading for pity, and now even death rather than endure another moment of excruciating awareness.

Robertson allowed only two rotations before she came to a stop again facing the crowd.  She was still consumed by agony, but coming to a halt made her open her eyes and look to where the muscular torturer stood.  The whip was flitting like an insect in his hand, the very tip decorated with red.  His eyes captured hers and he smiled.  "Just one more, piglet.  Can you guess where the final lash will kiss them?" he said.  She saw his gaze shift minutely down to her chest and knew, with absolute certainty, where this final lash would strike.  Her body tensed and even before the impact she started wailing, "NOOOOOO."  Robertson twisted into his motion.  Finally using his full power, the whip sliced the air with a high pitched fluting, then SMACKKKT!, the leather strip exploded against the very middle of both breasts to pound the bleeding teats down into the aureoles one last time.  While she was turning, beads of glistening scarlet emerged from the tips, the one on the left just starting to ooze down the aureole.  The rotation stopped just as the whip struck, the fiendish impact producing a fine spray of sparkling red blood.

After the ghastly and protracted punishment, this final searing agony shooting through her nipples broke her from reason.  She was shrieking like a fiend from Hell, but didn't know it.  All around her cheers and catcalls rose to a crescendo, but she didn't hear them.  The wood disk she was bound to started turning again, but she didn't feel it.  Her half-nude body was squirming in the sun like a worm on a griddle, but she didn't know that, either.  Shannon Clarke's entire being, body and soul, was reduced to her breasts.  Savagely beaten, vividly discolored and swollen, they throbbed, they burned, and worse; sensations that felt like knives slicing the skin or red hot needles stabbing the flesh all fighting at once to claim dominance.

This time they just let her turn.  Gradually her gasping slowed and the physical tension collapsed into intense fatigue.  Loud sobbing replaced the squeals.  Shannon wilted down on her knees, shoulders heaving.  Then Jacob's voice penetrated with the order to release her.  Over, over, over, the word repeated in her mind.  It was the same relief she felt following the back flogging only more primal now after the vicious whipping of her breasts, the word reduced to its essence.  Over.  Over.  She sagged down on the disk, dripping sweat.  No longer inspired by the whip, her heavily welted bare breasts ceased their wild dance, now only quivering to the rapid breaths.

It was now that Robertson delivered a totally unexpected bonus to the aroused spectators.  He kept this final stroke secret from everyone, even the magistrate.  He went into sudden motion, swinging the whip over his head then whistling out toward the trembling girl.  There was no warning, no possible preparation when the stinging lash returned fiendishly to the middle of the nipples, pulling back after impact to also abrade the teats.  Shannon was completely shocked by the attack.  Her body had almost relaxed, drooping toward the stage, release imminent, when the unexpected, impossible lash tortured her agonized nipples again.

"HAAAAEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!  NO MORE, OH SWEET MOTHER NO MORE!  NO MORE!  NO MORE!, HAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!  K-KILL ME!  OH, MADONNA, LET ME DIE, LET ME DIEEE..."

Shannon Clarke's body jerked up on her knees with such a violent lurch that blood and sweat flew from her body, reflecting the bright sunlight in a sudden, sparkling corona.  That exciting halo faded as quickly as did her last strength and she wilted down to the limit of the chains, her sweat-slick form shaking if just finishing a ten-mile run.  Although briefer in duration, the ordeal just ended was far more arduous.  The shrieks that once dominated the village square were now reduced to heaving whimpers of abject misery.  It barely registered when the deputies unbuckled her wrists and then the knees.  Shannon flopped down to her side.  Her body curled into a fetal position, hugging her chest and groaning in anguish.

Robertson stepped away.  He returned the whip, its end shiny red, to the other instruments of pain on the table, then stood with powerful arms crossed facing the crowd again.  Silent, massive, terrifying.

Magistrate Miller heard the tinkle of a few more coins adding to the take, not as many as he hoped after this superb finale, but he could understand it.  They, like he, were still stunned by the viciousness of the sadistic spectacle.

Yet the beating was over and Jacob knew it was time to wrap up.  "Get up, bitch!" he barked at the girl cringing at his feet.  "Up, up, up.  It is time to start your imprisonment."  He nudged Shannon's shivering body with one boot, but all that accomplished was to make her agonized mewling louder.  He made a motion to his deputies.  One lifted a pail that had been sitting on one corner of the stage.  He doused the contents over the girl's trembling form.

The bucket was filled with strong brine.  The salty water found every abrasion and rip in her skin, instantly inflaming the raw nerve endings.  "HAAAAHHHHHHH!  HAAAHHH!  HAAAHHH!  HAAAHHH!  N-no more, no more, no more," she cried.  Though no longer bound to the disk, Shannon's body remained atop it.  Even though no lashes were landing, her body still wriggled under the insidious chemical attack.

One of the deputies pushed the girl roughly off the platter to the stage.  Prods and kicks drove her crawling to the steps and slowly, agonizingly down to the ground on her hands and knees.  The spectators moved back to give her room, but still stared in rapt attention.  It was here at the foot of the stage that Shannon's strength finally failed completely.  When further kicks did no good, the two men bent and picked her up between them.  They carried her to the jail, head lolling and arms hanging limply beneath her.  Despite the withering agony, she hadn't been able to fall into blessed unconsciousness, but was just physically exhausted by the protracted sexual torture.  The hideous burning in her chest continued unabated.  Neither man could keep his eyes away from the heaving bare breasts inches from their eyes.  Laid and overlaid with welts, a myriad of angry reds and purples, this close they could see how the older and more violent strokes caused their weals to rise up as hard lines on the once smooth skin.  Then she was inside and the heavy iron door clanged shut behind, leaving her to the next horror.

An hour later, Jacob met with Robertson at the Stoat And Budgie, the same pub where the unfortunate Shannon Clarke used to work.  No one sat near them, fearful of the big man who had just dealt out such a hideous beating.  Even without the black hood, his face inspired terror; there was something in the eyes that reflected the countless agonized victims he had tortured.  Jacob handed Robertson his fee and percentage of the tips.  The big man opened the pouch and spilled a few of the coins into his hand, judging the weight of the rest.  "A most profitable day, Magistrate Miller.  Not bad at all for a bunch of peasants.   Your choice of 'criminal' was excellent, also.  I commend you on knowing that only an artist should paint that canvas.  Those Irish tits were the finest I've had to work on in a long time, perhaps ever.  Almost good enough that I would have whipped them for free."  He chuckled.  "Almost.  I do my job to get paid.  A man's got to eat and tomorrow's another day."

Jacob was pleased at the praise, but still had something important on his mind.  "The girl is okay, though?  There seemed to be a lot more blood than I thought when you mentioned it this morning.  Are the tits okay?  That was a really harsh beating.  I didn't want them damaged so soon."