I hadn’t been to Bridewell for years. I’d gone quite a bit in my student days, at all times on a Friday (they did men on a Thursday), enjoying the sport with the other students, leering half-drunkenly at the breasts or buttocks of the whores and other miscreants as they were beaten.

I don’t know why Tobias suggested it that week – maybe somebody had tipped him the wink. We’d shared a dinner at his chambers, me, him and Henry, who’s a surgeon (I never quite ascended to their level and work in a government office). It was a bright autumn day but inside it was as gloomy as ever. We took our place in the public gallery that ran round three sides of the correction room, higher up than we’d gone when we were students. There was a group of students there, but only half a dozen. In our day there’d at all times be at least double that during term time, usually more. Other than that, the audience was the usual eclectic mix. A couple of priests, a few prostitutes there to support their friends, a few solitary men, a group of lads in their late teens – I thought how they’d afforded entry fee – and three ruddy-faced old women who could be guaranteed to be the most vicious there. It was a little disappointing. There was room on the benches for maybe two or three hundred spectators and I was sure the crowd had used to be bigger.

What hadn’t changed was what we’d come to look at. In the centre of the hall was the bench, a length of polished wood perhaps eight feet long about three feet of the ground. At the far end, towards where the magistrates sat, there was a bar just above the ground to which the prisoners hands would be fastened and at our end were the leather cuffs to restrain the feet, with a broad leather strap to go over the waist. Nearer the magistrates bench was the A-frame, two eight-foot uprights angling away from us and together at the top, where there were cuffs for the wrists. There were cuffs attached to short chains at the base of each upright and a horizontal bar across the middle from which a thick belt for restraining the prisoner’s waist hung.

On the dark polished wood panels in front of the bench hung the implements. Even now they induced a shudder in me. Three pairs of straps of varying thickness. Three pairs of canes of varying thickness. And then, although it was hardly used, certainly not on women, were the two cats, fearsome whips comprising an 18-inch handle from which drooped nine tails of rawhide, each four or five feet long and enhanced with six knots at the company end. In a tall bucket nearby were the birches, freshly prepared for each session, bundles of a dozen or so switches each about a yard long.

The three magistrates filed in and took their placed on the bench, in the middle the chief magistrate, grey-haired and severe. Then the door in the corner opened, admitting the chill of outside and today’s victims in their coarse grey dresses, guarded by a number of beadles in their heavy blue jackets. I peered over, trying to see what we’d be getting a look at. My initial impression was disappointment. There were seven of them – a fairly standard number – but the three I could really see did little for me. Two women in late middle age and a younger one who was far too heavy-set for my tastes. I remember looking at Tobias, who had a strange grin on his face.

The procedure hadn’t changed. First they did the welcome floggings, beating those who were beginning their sentences (all prisoners were flogged on arrival – usually a low number with a light strap, just so they knew what would happen if they stepped out of line). After that they did the punishments for offences committed in the jail, and then they did the farewells, the severity of which depended on how well they’d behaved – most prisoners were spared them altogether.

The chief magistrate announced there were four welcomes, two punishments and a farewell. I settled back, feeling the familiar thrill in my chest. Even if you felt little for the victim you could still take something from their fear, imagine something a little more enticing that their flaccid bodies.

The name of the first prisoner was announced. It was the heavy-set one. Convicted of soliciting for a second time. Twelve months. Six strokes of the grade one cane on her buttocks. She was led to the bench and her wrists and ankles fastened. They pushed her dress up revealing stout legs and a large wrinkled arse. I thought why I’d come, even if the sound of the cane whistling through the air, the grunts of pain and the cold counting of the strokes stirred something nostalgic within me.

Then it was one of the middle-aged women. Soliciting. Six months and six on her back with the grade one strap. Her look of humiliation as they peeled her dress down to bare her to the waist was something, but her breasts sagged badly. Nothing there for us, as I said to Henry. Tobias, though, still seemed vaguely amused.

The third one was better – a plump little blonde but young enough her breasts retained a pleasing ripeness. Vagrancy. Three months and four strokes of the grade one strap.

And then I saw her. She’d stayed back, hiding behind the other prisoners, something she was able to do because she was so petite. Stephania Brusse was her name, convicted of indecency. She was so terrified she had to be pushed forwards by the beadles. She was dwarfed by them in height and in girth. As soon as I saw her, I felt my heart contract. In her fear she seemed to struggle to figure out she had to stand in front of the magistrates. She had dark eyes that glanced anxiously about. She was the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, her cheeks slightly flushed, her forehead smooth and round. She was, I guessed, 21 or 22. She did not, I wondered, look a girl prone to indecency.

She’d been sentenced to four months. I found myself disappointed. More time meant more chances to see her. Although it also meant her farewell flogging, if she received one, wasn’t too far away. But what would she take here? I wanted, for reasons I couldn’t articulate, to see her hurt. I was partly weighing up whether I’d rather see her breasts or her buttocks (breasts, definitely, for me), but was also hoping this might be a dozen or more.

It was six, with the grade one strap. On her buttocks. The lightest sentence feasible.

A beadle took each arm and turned her towards us. She looked so incongruous, bare from the knee down, impossibly delicate amid all the harsh brick and stern wood. She seemed almost numb with terror as they pushed her to the bench and made her lie down, fastening her wrists and ankles. Their hands went to the hem of the institutional grey dress. What a job! They pushed it up and I saw a pair of taut, slender thighs and neat round buttocks. They fastened the belt and I realised she was sobbing already.

The beadles who flogged her, both of them in shirtsleeves, were merciless. I couldn’t remember ever having watched a beating as closely, watching as the leather slapped the buttocks, causing them to tremble deliciously. Most prisoners tried to show some defiance, but she was squealing from the off, howling piteously by number six, by which time her bottom was pink, even more delicious than it had been when they began. As she was hustled to the other corner, I knew I’d be back the following week, just in case.

We stayed for the four remaining floggings. They were a disappointing batch: the other older woman getting 12 on her back with the grade two strap for insolence, a pox-raddled redhead getting six on her backside with the grade two strap for laziness and the least exciting farewell beating I’d ever seen, an obese blonde getting a dozen with the grade one strap on her huge buttocks. But it didn’t matter. We’d seen Stephania Brusse.

*

I became obsessed. I woke up whispering her name. There were times when I could think of nothing but her buttocks. I wanted to see her caned. I wanted to see her breasts. I wanted to see her birched. What on earth had she done? Why was she there? I asked Tobias, who denied any prior knowledge, although he too was obviously captivated by her. I’m not sure I believed him but he came back a week later – by which time I’d already sat through the desultory beating of six ageing prostitutes – with her story.

She was the daughter of a merchant, well-educated, destined for life as a governess, at least until she married. But the merchant had fallen on hard times. A friend of the merchant had offered to marry her, despite being 30 years her senior. When she’d turned him down, he’d accused her of offering to sleep with him for money. I thought what I could do. Could I get her out of there? Did I even want to get her out of there?

Gonna Bridewell on a Friday- alone – became my habit. I came to recognise the regulars. The two old women, who would shout out barbed comments occasionally. Some of those solitary men. The students. The whores with their shouts of support. Most of the time I was disappointed. I saw a buxom gypsy birched – which meant she was stripped naked – for brawling, 12 vivid streaks marking her tawny buttocks, and I enjoyed seeing a mousy girl caned on her back for repeated laziness. I saw the pox-addled redhead beaten twice more, not that I cared. It was the sixth week when I was finally rewarded.

It was a chill, damp day in early November. The benches were much fuller I noticed – and Tobias had come. I felt for prisoners shivering barefoot between the magistrates bench and the gallery. And then I saw her, cowering in the background. I thanked God and hoped it was a back-whipping. I realised then that word must have got around, that that’s why there was a crowd, that was why Tobias was there. He pointed out the governor of the jail in the front row down by the prisoners. Had he also come to see Stephania, my Stephania?

There were the welcome floggings to get through first: eight of them. How appropriate that the tension should be built up first. A series of minor strappings. One caning. And, finally, Stephania.

She was visibly shaking as she stood before the bench, although whether from cold or fear I couldn’t say. The magistrate skimmed the report before him, although it couldn’t have been unfamiliar to him. “Stephania Brusse,” he said, “For repeated laziness you will receive upon your naked buttocks four strokes of the grade three strap.” I hated him. The heavy strap, it was true, but on her arse and only four.

Still, she looked crushed as she was led to the bench, the blood drained from her face. As they fastened her, it was as though she was a rag doll, so little resistance did she put up. Her buttocks were as fine as I’d remembered them. The strap left purplish marks as it was applied, all too little. The crowd, though, was as animated as I’d ever known them, calling out the number of each stroke, clearly relishing her pain. When she was released, she shuffled to the corner, head bowed, face shielded by her soft brown hair. She hadn’t, I realised, made a sound. Prison was toughening her up.

I had lunch with Tobias afterwards. We agreed she was a delightful creature. The rumour in the legal profession was that the governor had propositioned her, promising her an easier time if she shared his bed, but that she’d said no. I didn’t say but I could tell we both wondered it: if she kept resisting we might see more of her on a Friday.

*

It was another month before she was there again. I say that as though it’s a long time but repeat floggings were rare. It was a raw, foggy day, cold enough I wore a muffler and a woollen overcoat. The benches were packed. The governor was in his position at the front right, which seemed to confirmed Tobias’s information was accurate. Henry had come this time as well. I saw her right away in the middle of a pack of 11 wretches, shivering and snivelling. Nine welcomes, one of an attractive blonde woman of about 30 who took a dozen on her back with the strap and would have had us talking for days had it not been for Stephania. Then that redhead getting a dozen with the cane.

Then Stephania, last again.

She stood, head down, staring at her feet, shaking. “Stephania Brusse,” the judge said, his nose red in the damp, breath steaming, “for insolence and insubordination, you will receive on your naked back” – my heart leapt – “20 strokes of the grade two strap.”

20! This was a serious beating.

She seemed almost senseless as the beadles escorted her to the frame, her bare feet dragging on the cold stone floor. As they fastened her ankles in the cuffs, I watched how she breathed, terror leading to a series of short shallow pants, clearly signalled by the cold air. They shoved her forwards, roughly so she leaned into the frame, and hooked the thick belt over her waist.

Then came the moment I’d been waiting for all those weeks. One of the beadles, a large red-faced man with gingery brown hair, unfastened the single button at her neck and peeled the two halves aside. A triangle of her smooth skin was revealed. Then he pushed the edges along her shoulders and yanked down, baring the upper half of her back. She give a frightened yelp. Another yank, and she was naked to the waist.

I was too straight on for a decent view of her breasts – a foolish mistake for which I cursed myself. I caught a glimpse of the edges and a flash of nipple as they cuffed her wrists and raised her arms until she was stretched on the frame. Her back was almost unbelievably slender, a virgin expanse of flawless skin, goosepimpled with the cold. The beadle brushed her soft hair over her shoulder. They stepped back, holding the straps – a short wooden handle, a hinge and three feet of deep brown leather perhaps an inch and half across. They were massive men, powerful men, used to wielding the straps; she was impossibly small and delicate. There seemed something preposterous that tools designed for use on the brawny backs of hardened men could be applied to her tender shoulders.

The mood of anticipation was extraordinary. 200, maybe 250, spectators all silent, staring at this gorgeous creature drawn out on the frame, waiting her punishment. When the first stroke came, it was almost a shock, the strap resounding against her skin. “One,” called the magistrate and I leaned forward to try to see the effect on her skin. At first there was only a vague pinkness, but I knew in time the marks would turn deep red. She had done no more than gasp at that first stroke and she was quiet after the second as well, head flicking back as the blow landed. How I envied the magistrate seeing the front-on view, breasts jigging as she jerked at the lash.

I don’t know if the third stroke was harder, but she gave a startled grunt and glanced back over her shoulder, a look of fury and terror on her face. I’ve heard long discussions about whether a beating hurts more on the back or the buttocks, and I see the arguments about the buttocks being a smaller area, but at least those initial blows at all times seem to provoke more reaction on the back, I suspect because there is less padding there. I also think the beadles get more force in their blows when aiming at the back, rather than the slightly awkward downward strokes to the backside.

By six lashes she was shouting in pain, and the welts were clear. They seemed to be flogging her more slowly than usual, taking their time to aim the strokes, make sure they were delivered with full force. And these were two strong beadles. I know the theory that the sound of the lash is lost energy, but there was something fearful in those slaps that boomed around the hall. By 10 her back was pink from neck to waist.

I could have watched her twitching and cringing all day, her head bobbing between her arms, that slim waist writing against the belt. She was tougher now than when she’d first entered the prison, there was no doubt of that, but by 15 she was sobbing piteously, each new blow bringing a mewling. By 20, the welts were livid, dark against the general pinkness.

After completing the sentence, the beadles slowly returned the straps to the rack, leaving her sobbing, head flopped forward between her arms. I prayed they wouldn’t cover her before releasing her. I was desperate to see those breasts. They unfastened her wrists, making little effort to disguise their own interest in her chest. Her arms fell uncertainly to hook over her breasts as they loosened the belt and then released her ankles. Perfect. They grabbed her arms, pulled her from the frame, spun her around and threw her down. She fell to her knees facing me, her arms falling to reveal slightly larger breasts than I was expecting, although they were far from massive, ripe and smooth and pert, nipples erect in the cold.

There was a moment of silence broken only by her sobbing, then the two old biddies began taunting her.

“Look how she shows herself off, the whore!”

“Shaking her tits for favours. She disgusts me!”

She seemed stunned, eventually raising her arms to protect herself. Her dress had slipped slightly but eventually, her back clearly extremely sore, she managed to pull it up with one hand, keeping the other high to defend herself. By then there were ribald comments from all round the gallery. I just stared in silence. I wanted to see her suffer. I wanted her flogged some more. I wanted her humiliated further. Eventually the beadles helped her too her feet and fastened the dress but for two or three minutes I’d been able to gaze on her shame.

*

For the next week I could think of nothing but her. The moment when she’d fallen and looked up, as though straight at me, arms still low, breasts hanging from her chest, eyes red with tears flickered in my consciousness 10, 20, 50 times an hour. I went to Bridewell on the Friday, chest tight with anticipation. She wasn’t there. I left before the beatings. She wasn’t there the following week either. I felt almost physical pain. And then, on the Monday, Tobias and Henry came to my office. They were grinning, laughing at some private joke, and urged me, though without giving an explanation, to leave my work and join them.

I did, of course, and realised we were headed to Bridewell. As we got to the stern gates, Tobias bade me merry Christmas. He’d arranged a tour. We wandered through the bricks halls where the prisoners worked. Enormous fires burned in grates at either end but they were still chilly. We rushed through the men’s section to the room where the women laboured. Some wore grey smocks, some their own clothes, all laboured with large mallets, beating hemp on stout wooden blocks. It was dull, hard work. We lingered over a couple of younger prisoners. The mousy girl I’d seen caned looked broken, grey-faced and exhausted. The pox-addled redhead spat at us, and took a blow with a cane from a jailer for her trouble. We stood for three or four minutes watching the attractive blonde labour. But we were only there for one girl. She was in the middle of the hall, as far from the fires as was feasible, mechanically hammering away at her hemp.

Up close, she was even more gorgeous than I’d realised. She was doll-like in her perfection, small and perfectly proportioned. Her skin, even after three months in prison, radiated a warm translucence. She’d tied her hair back to work, revealing a lovely slender neck. She had a beauty spot on her cheek that captivated me. Yet this wasn’t normal desire. I would have enjoyed an hour with her in some back room had that been feasible, but more I wanted to see her thrashed. She glanced up at us as we arrived, but turned immediately away and concentrated on her work. The combination of the cold and the hard physical work gave her cheeks a lovely glow. Every time she brought the mallet down, it was feasible to see the movement of her breasts beneath her smock.

We watched the several minutes during which time she became increasingly self-conscious. I realised after a time that Tobias had vanished. When he returned, it was with a warder. “Laziness again, Miss Whittaker?” he said with a sneer. “I warned you what would happen.”