Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Rape with beating, nice direction
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Liberty
- Thread starter King Diocletian
- Start date
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Garcia wished there was something he could do to stop this, but the processes were greater than him. He had no problem with torturing prisoners, with getting them to reveal details of their plans, encouraging them to hand over their fellow conspirators. He understood the need for strong government. But what they were doing to Hartmann was barbaric. The first time he saw her after the trial was the following morning, when she was being dragged, naked and shackled, along a corridor. She had a bag over her head, but her body was unmistakable, even when it was in the abused state it was. She looked desperately weak, there was bruising about her belly and her ribs, and her thighs were streaked with semen.
He followed as they hauled her limp form along to the tank, staring despite himself at her ass, knowing he’d see that flogged again before she died. He didn’t even know where the orders were coming from now: it was as though every part of the state apparatus wanted its own revenge on her. And the men, of course, were only too happy to oblige, especially if they got to rape a woman as beautiful as that as part of her punishment.
They opened the door and shoved her into the mesh gate. She yelped, clearly realising where she was, and showed some signs of fight. They pulled the sack off her head and her hair tumbled loose, but even as he was admiring how the dark tresses fell across her olive shoulders, the gate was opened and she was shoved through, stumbling and then falling heavily to sprawl on the tiles. She’d just started to push herself up when the water struck her, the four jests pummelling her so she fell again. She barely even curled up as the water hammered into her and after an initial gasp she lay silently.
Garcia glanced up and saw Diaz standing in the viewing gallery, arms folded, a look of satisfaction on his face. After ten minutes or so, they turned the hosepipes off, and her shivering sobs could be heard. “Get her on her feet and give her five minutes more,” Garcia heard Diaz order.
The soldiers rushed to where she lay, trembling on the tiles. One of them kicked her and she groaned, then by her hair and her arms they dragged her upright. She looked exhausted and stood uncertainly, shaking, arms half covering herself. The soldiers departed and the hoses were turned on again. For perhaps ten seconds she stayed upright, then fell, first onto all fours so her breasts hung down and then into a heap on the floor.
*
She looked so exhausted she could barely raise her head. Her wrists were cuffed behind her and, although her shirt had been returned, she’d still been wet when they’d put it on her so it clung to her body. She stood facing a desk where three officers sat. Diaz was one of perhaps a dozen observers as she faced this tribunal for offences committed within the jail.
“The evidence,” the colonel who sat in the centre said, “is indisputable. You have been convicted of gross insubordination.”
She barely glanced up. She knew her lot was agony. “You are sentenced to 250 strokes of the palmatoria.”
She sighed.
Diaz thought of how she had looked receiving 100 when she’d arrived, of her howls of pain, of how red and sore her buttocks had looked after the flogging, the heat that had come off them. This was magnificently harsh. He hurried along to get a good position.
He followed as they hauled her limp form along to the tank, staring despite himself at her ass, knowing he’d see that flogged again before she died. He didn’t even know where the orders were coming from now: it was as though every part of the state apparatus wanted its own revenge on her. And the men, of course, were only too happy to oblige, especially if they got to rape a woman as beautiful as that as part of her punishment.
They opened the door and shoved her into the mesh gate. She yelped, clearly realising where she was, and showed some signs of fight. They pulled the sack off her head and her hair tumbled loose, but even as he was admiring how the dark tresses fell across her olive shoulders, the gate was opened and she was shoved through, stumbling and then falling heavily to sprawl on the tiles. She’d just started to push herself up when the water struck her, the four jests pummelling her so she fell again. She barely even curled up as the water hammered into her and after an initial gasp she lay silently.
Garcia glanced up and saw Diaz standing in the viewing gallery, arms folded, a look of satisfaction on his face. After ten minutes or so, they turned the hosepipes off, and her shivering sobs could be heard. “Get her on her feet and give her five minutes more,” Garcia heard Diaz order.
The soldiers rushed to where she lay, trembling on the tiles. One of them kicked her and she groaned, then by her hair and her arms they dragged her upright. She looked exhausted and stood uncertainly, shaking, arms half covering herself. The soldiers departed and the hoses were turned on again. For perhaps ten seconds she stayed upright, then fell, first onto all fours so her breasts hung down and then into a heap on the floor.
*
She looked so exhausted she could barely raise her head. Her wrists were cuffed behind her and, although her shirt had been returned, she’d still been wet when they’d put it on her so it clung to her body. She stood facing a desk where three officers sat. Diaz was one of perhaps a dozen observers as she faced this tribunal for offences committed within the jail.
“The evidence,” the colonel who sat in the centre said, “is indisputable. You have been convicted of gross insubordination.”
She barely glanced up. She knew her lot was agony. “You are sentenced to 250 strokes of the palmatoria.”
She sighed.
Diaz thought of how she had looked receiving 100 when she’d arrived, of her howls of pain, of how red and sore her buttocks had looked after the flogging, the heat that had come off them. This was magnificently harsh. He hurried along to get a good position.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
With King D, the whipmaster telling the story, two flogging should teach her a session
I love the story, king, keep it up!!
King Diocletian
Magistrate
So here she was again. How long was it since she’d arrived? Six weeks? Two months? Three months? She had no idea. But yet again she was naked, fastened down on the flogging bench for the worst punishment she’d ever heard of. 250 strokes. 250? Why couldn’t they just hang her? They approached, slapping the palmatorias against their hands. She shuddered and braced herself. Still within her there was the desire not to give them the satisfaction of seeing they’d beaten her, but she knew this was going to be hell. 100 had been awful and she’d been fresh then. This was going to be far, far worse.
“250 strokes,” said her torturer. “Proceed.”
She closed her eyes and told herself to block out the present. Then the leather slapped into her buttocks for the first time and she knew she couldn’t. The sting was instant, but it was worse than that. The pain seemed to cut through her, following the bruising from her caning. They delivered the strokes, as they had before, in batches of ten. By the time the first set had been delivered, she was in agony, squirming on the bolster, her breath coming in uneven spasms. And then they began again.
*
Diaz watched in rapt attention. He remembered her resistance the first time round, how she’d held off from screaming, had made a point of demonstrating her defiance. There was none of that this time. Almost immediately, she was twisting in the straps, her body jerking up at each stroke to give a fine view of her breasts bobbling on her chest, her face taut with pain. By the time she’d taken 20, she was yelling with pain. She sounded scared in a way he hadn’t expected, as though she knew the pain was going to get worse and worse and she didn’t know if she could take it. On it went: slap, slap, slap: 30 seconds for every batch of 10, then a 30 second wait for the next set.
She was soon thrashing and writhing, her buttocks scarlet. Her dignity had gone. This was just a victim, pathetic, beaten, broken, naked, screaming. After 30 strokes she was begging for mercy, by 50 when they paused to change the floggers, she was wailing semi-coherently, her body shaking, her breathing unsteady. Diaz watched the heaves of those smooth shoulders and stepped over to her. He grabbed her hair and pulled her up. Her eyes were red, her mouth covered in spittle. Her breasts trembled as she gulped for air. She smiled. “Just 200 more,” he said mockingly, seeing her fear and horror and shame.
*
Cabrera smacked the palmatoria against his palm. Hartmann was in a bad way. That first flogging she’d taken with stoicism; this one she was in clear distress, body trembling as she howled. Well, it served her right. 250 was an astonishing sentence – he couldn’t remember anybody having taken so many – but she deserved it. He waited for the doctor to give the go-ahead then he and Munoz stepped forward. She’d fallen calm, but her buttocks – still magnificently round and firm - were bright red with a slight purplish cast around the edges and it was clear that a slight touch would cause agony. And she still had 200 to go. Munoz began. Slap! Fifty-one. Keep the rhythm. Cabrera struck hard across the centre of her ass, enjoying the sight of the scarlet cheeks depressing and springing back with a wobble. She had a magnificent ass, whatever crimes she’d committed. He wondered what they’d done to her that the spark that had been so evident when he’d flogged her the first time has been so extinguished. He struck again, low, almost on her thighs, and saw the tremors of her flesh. She was tense, her breathing forced as though she were desperately trying to hold herself under control. His third stroke was good, the best yet, his wrists snapping at just the right point to send the palmatoria with maximum force into her left buttock. He was rewarded with a sharp slap and a yell of pain. “Fifty-six.”
By the time they got to 60, she was shaking. Well, if any bitch had ever deserved it, she had. Cabrera wondered if she’d have been put through quite so much if she hadn’t been so beautiful, if this monstrous flogging would have been ordered if her buttocks hadn’t been quite so alluring, but then she’d used her looks as she’d attacked the government. Would people have given her the information they did, would she have been given the air-time she had been, if she’d been fat or ugly? Anyway, his job wasn’t to think: it was to flog whoever they told him to flog and to do it professionally.
“250 strokes,” said her torturer. “Proceed.”
She closed her eyes and told herself to block out the present. Then the leather slapped into her buttocks for the first time and she knew she couldn’t. The sting was instant, but it was worse than that. The pain seemed to cut through her, following the bruising from her caning. They delivered the strokes, as they had before, in batches of ten. By the time the first set had been delivered, she was in agony, squirming on the bolster, her breath coming in uneven spasms. And then they began again.
*
Diaz watched in rapt attention. He remembered her resistance the first time round, how she’d held off from screaming, had made a point of demonstrating her defiance. There was none of that this time. Almost immediately, she was twisting in the straps, her body jerking up at each stroke to give a fine view of her breasts bobbling on her chest, her face taut with pain. By the time she’d taken 20, she was yelling with pain. She sounded scared in a way he hadn’t expected, as though she knew the pain was going to get worse and worse and she didn’t know if she could take it. On it went: slap, slap, slap: 30 seconds for every batch of 10, then a 30 second wait for the next set.
She was soon thrashing and writhing, her buttocks scarlet. Her dignity had gone. This was just a victim, pathetic, beaten, broken, naked, screaming. After 30 strokes she was begging for mercy, by 50 when they paused to change the floggers, she was wailing semi-coherently, her body shaking, her breathing unsteady. Diaz watched the heaves of those smooth shoulders and stepped over to her. He grabbed her hair and pulled her up. Her eyes were red, her mouth covered in spittle. Her breasts trembled as she gulped for air. She smiled. “Just 200 more,” he said mockingly, seeing her fear and horror and shame.
*
Cabrera smacked the palmatoria against his palm. Hartmann was in a bad way. That first flogging she’d taken with stoicism; this one she was in clear distress, body trembling as she howled. Well, it served her right. 250 was an astonishing sentence – he couldn’t remember anybody having taken so many – but she deserved it. He waited for the doctor to give the go-ahead then he and Munoz stepped forward. She’d fallen calm, but her buttocks – still magnificently round and firm - were bright red with a slight purplish cast around the edges and it was clear that a slight touch would cause agony. And she still had 200 to go. Munoz began. Slap! Fifty-one. Keep the rhythm. Cabrera struck hard across the centre of her ass, enjoying the sight of the scarlet cheeks depressing and springing back with a wobble. She had a magnificent ass, whatever crimes she’d committed. He wondered what they’d done to her that the spark that had been so evident when he’d flogged her the first time has been so extinguished. He struck again, low, almost on her thighs, and saw the tremors of her flesh. She was tense, her breathing forced as though she were desperately trying to hold herself under control. His third stroke was good, the best yet, his wrists snapping at just the right point to send the palmatoria with maximum force into her left buttock. He was rewarded with a sharp slap and a yell of pain. “Fifty-six.”
By the time they got to 60, she was shaking. Well, if any bitch had ever deserved it, she had. Cabrera wondered if she’d have been put through quite so much if she hadn’t been so beautiful, if this monstrous flogging would have been ordered if her buttocks hadn’t been quite so alluring, but then she’d used her looks as she’d attacked the government. Would people have given her the information they did, would she have been given the air-time she had been, if she’d been fat or ugly? Anyway, his job wasn’t to think: it was to flog whoever they told him to flog and to do it professionally.
. It's very stressing job.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Agreed that is is something of a repeat. But it serves to break the bitch. With King D you often get extended and sometimes over the top whipping (see Scapegoat and Miss Berkeley's Voyage). But he does it very well and I am enjoying the leisurely pace to her final torture and execution.Beating on butt is not that funny like on back or shoulders. Unfortunately in this story this kind of beating dominates. I think third palmatoria beating is boring. And all this week it will goes on, I suppose
.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
As the count neared 100, she broke completely. Diaz watched transfixed as she twisted and thrashed in the bonds, screaming and sobbing, begging and shouting. But the straps held firm, her buttocks positioned immobile for the punishment, and all her struggles did was to put on a delightful show for the audience as her hair tossed back and forth and her breasts danced on her chest. Each stroke caused her to buck, jerking up, screaming, tits bouncing.
The count reached 100 but for a time she kept moaning as though unable to believe there was respite. How long had it taken? He glanced at his watch. About 20 minutes, but that included the 10-minute break after 50. A doctor assessed her. She’d fallen quiet, head down, shoulders still shaking. It would take over an hour to complete the flogging, he calculated. God, to suffer like that for so long. He could barely keep the smirk off his face. Nobody deserved to suffer as much as she did, and he would enjoy another personal revenge that night. He imagined her hanging, buttocks purple as he grabbed them and forced himself inside her.
The doctor pronounced her fit and, returning to the original floggers, they began the third set of 50.
*
Garcia was appalled by what they were doing to her. When she’d arrived, he’d enjoyed the 100 strokes she’d been given. Even that had been gratuitous, but she was strong and the beating perhaps softened her for the interrogations. But this was a mindless, savage revenge. She’d lost, she knew that. She’d been tortured and humiliated and they would kill her in three days. Putting her through a flogging like this was unjustifiable. He saw Diaz almost salivating as she bucked and screamed, twisting desperately to try to escape the lashes, each batch of ten a new level of agony, each break another hell of anticipation. Had he ever seen a man given 250? He had no idea, but he knew that if he had it would have been conducted in an atmosphere of grim brutality, whereas here there was a palpable excitement as Hartmann writhed naked, her spectacular buttocks reduced to swollen mounds of torment.
“128, 129, 130,” he said mechanically.
They paused but her howling went on for several seconds before she fell still, gasping for breath, half-sobbing. They began again, merciless, relentless. She tossed her head and her shoulders, arms, legs, waist pulling at the bonds, desperate for relief but unable to find it, her buttocks exposed to the lash. They were an even deeper shade of red, almost visibly glowing. By the time they got to 150, her voice had almost given way, her screams more of a rasp.
*
Juliette slumped over the bolster, spittle, snot and tears covering her face. She was shaking, her buttocks burning, like no pain she’d ever known. Was it worse than the electricity? Perhaps not, but it went on, and was getting worse and worse. She was nauseous, her throat sore, and she felt desperately weak, body damp with sweat. The doctor inspected her, the lightest touch of his fingers a fresh torment. He checked her pulse and then, to her horror, although shed expected it, pronounced her fit to take the next 50. 100 lashes more. 100! Although she knew it would do no good, she heard her voice hoarsely begging for mercy.
Soldiers checked her bonds. The leather was damp now with her sweat. Her breathing was laboured, her buttocks so sore the slightest breath of air caused her to twitch. Then they began again, that firm, unbearable slap on the right cheek and a fresh explosion of pain. Her head and torso flew back and she howled. She felt her breasts bounce and, as she slumped back, she caught a glimpse of Diaz smirking. How she hated him. But almost before she could process the thought, the palmatoria had landed from the right and the fire was burning again in her left buttock. And then the right and then the left. She was writhing and screaming, aware even through her agony of the sexualisation of the punishment.
*
Cabrera smashed the palmatoria down again, watching the quiver of the firm red buttocks. He’d never seen an ass like that, and he’d never seen one punished like that. The skin was beginning to blister, and her thrashing around was so violent that even with her bonds he wasn’t always easy to hit the exact target. She was suffering horribly, but it wasn’t his job to judge that. It was his job to beat her as hard as he could.
His arm was beginning to ache. He rarely had to deliver even as many as 20 in the same day and he was already up to 32 on her. He struck again. 180 came the count and he had a few moments to recover. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his cuff. She was shaking and whimpering and he realised a little urine had leaked from her. Then they began again. 181, 182. Her screams, perhaps were diminishing, her writhing becoming less violent as her strength was sapped.
There was a damp sheen to her buttocks by then as the fluid that had begun to form in the blisters was released. He wondered if she would bleed. Her ass-cheeks were a vivid magenta, horribly swollen. She was bucking on the bolster, rather as though she was fucking. 190. Only five for him to give. He redoubled his efforts. Her screams sounded increasingly desperate, and yet at the same time distant, as though her mind was losing its grip on what was happening. 200. He was panting as he stopped. There was, he saw, a small patch of blood in the centre of each buttock, where the skin had simply worn through.
He clapped his palmatoria against his palm and was a little surprised to discover how warm it was.
The count reached 100 but for a time she kept moaning as though unable to believe there was respite. How long had it taken? He glanced at his watch. About 20 minutes, but that included the 10-minute break after 50. A doctor assessed her. She’d fallen quiet, head down, shoulders still shaking. It would take over an hour to complete the flogging, he calculated. God, to suffer like that for so long. He could barely keep the smirk off his face. Nobody deserved to suffer as much as she did, and he would enjoy another personal revenge that night. He imagined her hanging, buttocks purple as he grabbed them and forced himself inside her.
The doctor pronounced her fit and, returning to the original floggers, they began the third set of 50.
*
Garcia was appalled by what they were doing to her. When she’d arrived, he’d enjoyed the 100 strokes she’d been given. Even that had been gratuitous, but she was strong and the beating perhaps softened her for the interrogations. But this was a mindless, savage revenge. She’d lost, she knew that. She’d been tortured and humiliated and they would kill her in three days. Putting her through a flogging like this was unjustifiable. He saw Diaz almost salivating as she bucked and screamed, twisting desperately to try to escape the lashes, each batch of ten a new level of agony, each break another hell of anticipation. Had he ever seen a man given 250? He had no idea, but he knew that if he had it would have been conducted in an atmosphere of grim brutality, whereas here there was a palpable excitement as Hartmann writhed naked, her spectacular buttocks reduced to swollen mounds of torment.
“128, 129, 130,” he said mechanically.
They paused but her howling went on for several seconds before she fell still, gasping for breath, half-sobbing. They began again, merciless, relentless. She tossed her head and her shoulders, arms, legs, waist pulling at the bonds, desperate for relief but unable to find it, her buttocks exposed to the lash. They were an even deeper shade of red, almost visibly glowing. By the time they got to 150, her voice had almost given way, her screams more of a rasp.
*
Juliette slumped over the bolster, spittle, snot and tears covering her face. She was shaking, her buttocks burning, like no pain she’d ever known. Was it worse than the electricity? Perhaps not, but it went on, and was getting worse and worse. She was nauseous, her throat sore, and she felt desperately weak, body damp with sweat. The doctor inspected her, the lightest touch of his fingers a fresh torment. He checked her pulse and then, to her horror, although shed expected it, pronounced her fit to take the next 50. 100 lashes more. 100! Although she knew it would do no good, she heard her voice hoarsely begging for mercy.
Soldiers checked her bonds. The leather was damp now with her sweat. Her breathing was laboured, her buttocks so sore the slightest breath of air caused her to twitch. Then they began again, that firm, unbearable slap on the right cheek and a fresh explosion of pain. Her head and torso flew back and she howled. She felt her breasts bounce and, as she slumped back, she caught a glimpse of Diaz smirking. How she hated him. But almost before she could process the thought, the palmatoria had landed from the right and the fire was burning again in her left buttock. And then the right and then the left. She was writhing and screaming, aware even through her agony of the sexualisation of the punishment.
*
Cabrera smashed the palmatoria down again, watching the quiver of the firm red buttocks. He’d never seen an ass like that, and he’d never seen one punished like that. The skin was beginning to blister, and her thrashing around was so violent that even with her bonds he wasn’t always easy to hit the exact target. She was suffering horribly, but it wasn’t his job to judge that. It was his job to beat her as hard as he could.
His arm was beginning to ache. He rarely had to deliver even as many as 20 in the same day and he was already up to 32 on her. He struck again. 180 came the count and he had a few moments to recover. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his cuff. She was shaking and whimpering and he realised a little urine had leaked from her. Then they began again. 181, 182. Her screams, perhaps were diminishing, her writhing becoming less violent as her strength was sapped.
There was a damp sheen to her buttocks by then as the fluid that had begun to form in the blisters was released. He wondered if she would bleed. Her ass-cheeks were a vivid magenta, horribly swollen. She was bucking on the bolster, rather as though she was fucking. 190. Only five for him to give. He redoubled his efforts. Her screams sounded increasingly desperate, and yet at the same time distant, as though her mind was losing its grip on what was happening. 200. He was panting as he stopped. There was, he saw, a small patch of blood in the centre of each buttock, where the skin had simply worn through.
He clapped his palmatoria against his palm and was a little surprised to discover how warm it was.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Die in 3 days? Can we look forward to her being abused all that time? Yummy!
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Diaz could see the spots of raw flesh. Good. It was supposed to destroy her. The doctor checked her over. “We’ll need to disinfect that later,” he said, “but she’s fine for now.” It hardly mattered if she wasn’t: they’d be hanging her soon enough. The beating began again, the familiar rhythm of 10 strokes then a pause, her howls starting loud and fierce and gradually diminishing. Soon, she wasn’t even thrashing, her body slumped limp over the bolster, hair damp with sweat, her screams reduced to a continual low moan. 229. 230. A shudder past through her and she pissed herself. He’d have her flogged for that later, he decided, watching as the urine splashed through the slats on the frame and onto the floor. The raw spots had grown to about two inches in diameter. They’d literally whipped the skin off her ass.
As the trickle of piss slowed to the odd drip, they began again. For two or three strokes there were screams, before they too subsided to sobs. There was no resistance any more. 238, 239, 240. She lay limp, too exhausted to thrash, shivers wracking her body, her once beautiful buttocks swollen and bloodied. And her punishment was only just beginning. There was far more he’d put her through before the release of the noose.
She regained a little strength during the pause, but only enough to moan a couple of times as the assault was renewed. By the 250th, she seemed barely conscious, right cheek pressed into the slats, drool coating her lips, snot oozing from her nose. They’d barely finished when he suggested the doctor apply some iodine. Garcia, he knew, disapproved, had developed some sympathy for the girl, but he didn’t care any more: he would make her suffer.
Garcia nodded at the doctor who took a bottle from his bag. ‘Iodine,” he said, “Is a little old-fashioned. But this antiseptic will work. He tipped some onto a swab and touched it to her bottom, first at the base, where the skin was merely swollen and red. Diaz saw her eyes open wide as she realised what was about to happen, but she no longer had the strength even to pull at her bonds. As the antiseptic touched raw flesh, she howled, a deep rasping cry from the depths of her soul. She twitched against the straps, but there was no strength left in her: a flogging that had taken an hour had exhausted her. The doctor was implacable, patting his swab across her buttocks, broken skin or not, as though death to her screams. When he’d finished he put two fingers to her neck and checked her pulse. “She’ll be OK,” he said. “Give her a little while to calm down.”
As the trickle of piss slowed to the odd drip, they began again. For two or three strokes there were screams, before they too subsided to sobs. There was no resistance any more. 238, 239, 240. She lay limp, too exhausted to thrash, shivers wracking her body, her once beautiful buttocks swollen and bloodied. And her punishment was only just beginning. There was far more he’d put her through before the release of the noose.
She regained a little strength during the pause, but only enough to moan a couple of times as the assault was renewed. By the 250th, she seemed barely conscious, right cheek pressed into the slats, drool coating her lips, snot oozing from her nose. They’d barely finished when he suggested the doctor apply some iodine. Garcia, he knew, disapproved, had developed some sympathy for the girl, but he didn’t care any more: he would make her suffer.
Garcia nodded at the doctor who took a bottle from his bag. ‘Iodine,” he said, “Is a little old-fashioned. But this antiseptic will work. He tipped some onto a swab and touched it to her bottom, first at the base, where the skin was merely swollen and red. Diaz saw her eyes open wide as she realised what was about to happen, but she no longer had the strength even to pull at her bonds. As the antiseptic touched raw flesh, she howled, a deep rasping cry from the depths of her soul. She twitched against the straps, but there was no strength left in her: a flogging that had taken an hour had exhausted her. The doctor was implacable, patting his swab across her buttocks, broken skin or not, as though death to her screams. When he’d finished he put two fingers to her neck and checked her pulse. “She’ll be OK,” he said. “Give her a little while to calm down.”
Boris Spider
Guard
-> Should be "deaf", but a minor niggle - especially compared to what the young lady's going through. ;-)
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
There was far more he’d put her through before the release of the noose.
Just as I hoped. Keep it up King!
Just as I hoped. Keep it up King!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
And her punishment was only just beginning
Words to come by.
Words to come by.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Juliette groaned. Hadn’t they done enough to her? Wasn’t this punishment enough? Perhaps the electric shocks had hurt more, had been more terrifying, but this flogging, endlessly drawn out, the pain building and building and building, somehow seemed worse. If she would be dead in two days, why not now? Why do this to her, to leave her drained and in agony, every drop of energy beaten form her body?
Soldiers unfastened the straps that held her down, but she had no strength left to react. She was limp. Unbound, she simply lay on the bolster too exhausted even to wipe the snot and tears from her face. Their hands were upon her again, lifting her off the bench, hauling her by her arms to the door. “Stand for inspection,” the officer said. “Legs straight, hands on your knees. You remember the position.”
But as soon as they let go of her arms, she fell to the floor and lay, sprawled on the concrete. “Note the prisoner has refused to stand,” the officer said wearily. “She will take 10 punishment strokes for that with the cane.”
More beating? It was unreal, but for now she hardly cared. As hands pulled her up, she heard Diaz’s voice. “She also urinated, Colonel Garcia.” Garcia? That was his name. Well, it hardly mattered now.
“And a further 10 strokes for soiling the punishment bench,” Garcia said in a tone of voice that suggested he had no great desire to see them inflicted.
Two soldiers held her, one on each arm, a hand on her elbow and another under her armpit, sustaining her enough, her legs trailing on the floor, that the audience could examine her as they left – staring at her bloodied buttocks, but also fondling her breasts, generally poking and prodding her, mocking and humiliating. By the end, another guard had joined them, a hand in her hair making sure her head didn’t just fall limp.
Eventually only Diaz and Garcia were left. The soldiers threw her down and she lay on the concrete, too weak to move, aware of how awkward her position was, of how cold the concrete against her breasts and belly, how her buttocks were still in agony. It felt as though her mind were shutting down.
The next she knew, her wrists were being shackled behind her. A cage had been brought, placed in front of her and opened, the top hanging away from her from three strong hinges. It was formed of thick wire, 18 inches square in cross section and perhaps a foot longer than that. They forced her in, pushing her into a kneeling position. She saw a small arc had been cut from the top of one of the ends and covered with leather and that it matched a similar section cut from the lid. They forced her shoulders down so she was a compressed Z-shape, rested her neck on the leather and slammed the lid so her head was outside the cage. The rest of her was squashed tight, the pressure on her knees unbearable.
She was helpless. Her neck was pushing uncomfortably on the leather. Diaz laughed and bent down, patting her head, ruffling her hair as it fell over her face. “Good girl,” he said. She didn’t even have the energy to hate him.
They lifted the cage up and clipped it onto a small trailer, then he took a dog lead, lifted her hair out of the way and fastened it around her neck. He patted her again and scratched the back of her neck. Then he pulled, and she was dragged along by the neck, his pet. Fury welling inside her, she wept again. For about quarter of an hour he dragged her back and forth in corridors, bouncing her down stairs, all the while jeering at her before finally she was taken into a small cell. The wheels were removed and clips were fastened to the four corners at the end from which her head protruded and she was lifted so she hung, about four feet off the ground. Her weight, having pressed painfully on her knees, was now taken by her feet and, cruelly, her savaged buttocks.
Diaz stood before her, a smirk on his face, then gave the cage a push. She swung back and forth, enhancing the pain in her buttocks, the sense of being trapped. “Another flogging this afternoon,” he said, pushing her again. “And then more fun.”
They pushed her a few more times then filed out, leaving Juliette hanging, alone. How could they do more to her, how? She had never thought it possible she could be desperate for death, but she was now. She had less than two days left to live, and she knew they would be filled with nothing but pain and humiliation.
Soldiers unfastened the straps that held her down, but she had no strength left to react. She was limp. Unbound, she simply lay on the bolster too exhausted even to wipe the snot and tears from her face. Their hands were upon her again, lifting her off the bench, hauling her by her arms to the door. “Stand for inspection,” the officer said. “Legs straight, hands on your knees. You remember the position.”
But as soon as they let go of her arms, she fell to the floor and lay, sprawled on the concrete. “Note the prisoner has refused to stand,” the officer said wearily. “She will take 10 punishment strokes for that with the cane.”
More beating? It was unreal, but for now she hardly cared. As hands pulled her up, she heard Diaz’s voice. “She also urinated, Colonel Garcia.” Garcia? That was his name. Well, it hardly mattered now.
“And a further 10 strokes for soiling the punishment bench,” Garcia said in a tone of voice that suggested he had no great desire to see them inflicted.
Two soldiers held her, one on each arm, a hand on her elbow and another under her armpit, sustaining her enough, her legs trailing on the floor, that the audience could examine her as they left – staring at her bloodied buttocks, but also fondling her breasts, generally poking and prodding her, mocking and humiliating. By the end, another guard had joined them, a hand in her hair making sure her head didn’t just fall limp.
Eventually only Diaz and Garcia were left. The soldiers threw her down and she lay on the concrete, too weak to move, aware of how awkward her position was, of how cold the concrete against her breasts and belly, how her buttocks were still in agony. It felt as though her mind were shutting down.
The next she knew, her wrists were being shackled behind her. A cage had been brought, placed in front of her and opened, the top hanging away from her from three strong hinges. It was formed of thick wire, 18 inches square in cross section and perhaps a foot longer than that. They forced her in, pushing her into a kneeling position. She saw a small arc had been cut from the top of one of the ends and covered with leather and that it matched a similar section cut from the lid. They forced her shoulders down so she was a compressed Z-shape, rested her neck on the leather and slammed the lid so her head was outside the cage. The rest of her was squashed tight, the pressure on her knees unbearable.
She was helpless. Her neck was pushing uncomfortably on the leather. Diaz laughed and bent down, patting her head, ruffling her hair as it fell over her face. “Good girl,” he said. She didn’t even have the energy to hate him.
They lifted the cage up and clipped it onto a small trailer, then he took a dog lead, lifted her hair out of the way and fastened it around her neck. He patted her again and scratched the back of her neck. Then he pulled, and she was dragged along by the neck, his pet. Fury welling inside her, she wept again. For about quarter of an hour he dragged her back and forth in corridors, bouncing her down stairs, all the while jeering at her before finally she was taken into a small cell. The wheels were removed and clips were fastened to the four corners at the end from which her head protruded and she was lifted so she hung, about four feet off the ground. Her weight, having pressed painfully on her knees, was now taken by her feet and, cruelly, her savaged buttocks.
Diaz stood before her, a smirk on his face, then gave the cage a push. She swung back and forth, enhancing the pain in her buttocks, the sense of being trapped. “Another flogging this afternoon,” he said, pushing her again. “And then more fun.”
They pushed her a few more times then filed out, leaving Juliette hanging, alone. How could they do more to her, how? She had never thought it possible she could be desperate for death, but she was now. She had less than two days left to live, and she knew they would be filled with nothing but pain and humiliation.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Lets see some pain on her tits and belly. Why should her butt have all the fun?
DarknessMonger
Magistrate
Or since she rejected a dinner they should offer her a barbeque instead
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Garcia looked on with pity as they pulled the girl from the cage. She’d cramped up after three hours in there and looked half-mad with pain, her eyes wide with terror. She was back in the punishment room, ready to be caned, hard strokes to be delivered to buttocks that were already red and weeping. Mercilessly, the soldiers dragged her to the bench and strapped her down. To say she fought them would be an exaggeration for she was too weak for that, put she resisted as best she could, long limbs flailing in the grasp of the guards.
“What grade of cane are you going to use?” Diaz asked.
Garcia was a little startled by the question. For twenty strokes, he would usually use a grade two, otherwise there was a risk of permanent damage. “Two,” he replied.
“Only a two? I’d like to see a five.”
Garcia was sickened. Diaz’s lust for revenge was something he’d never witnessed before. “Sir,” he said cautiously. “Twenty strokes of a five even on fresh buttocks would be extremely severe. After the flogging she took earlier…”
“Make her suffer,” he said. “Let her know she’s lost.”
“She may not walk again if we give her twenty with the five.”
“Then we’ll carry her. So long as she’s still alive when they put the noose round her neck.”
Garcia walked over to Hartmann, who lay whimpering on the bench. It wouldn't be Diaz who'd carry her. He touched the raw, swollen buttocks, drawing a shudder of pain. He remembered vividly how beautiful her buttocks had once been, their firm smoothness as he’d inserted the heated skewer. “Doctor?” he asked. “What do you advise?”
“I’ll give her a shot of adrenaline,” he said. “That’ll make sure she feels them. Then use a heavy cane if you wish, but they’ll draw blood almost immediately. This skin will split.”
Reluctantly, Garcia nodded. He would substitute a three for a five and Diaz would never know.
“What grade of cane are you going to use?” Diaz asked.
Garcia was a little startled by the question. For twenty strokes, he would usually use a grade two, otherwise there was a risk of permanent damage. “Two,” he replied.
“Only a two? I’d like to see a five.”
Garcia was sickened. Diaz’s lust for revenge was something he’d never witnessed before. “Sir,” he said cautiously. “Twenty strokes of a five even on fresh buttocks would be extremely severe. After the flogging she took earlier…”
“Make her suffer,” he said. “Let her know she’s lost.”
“She may not walk again if we give her twenty with the five.”
“Then we’ll carry her. So long as she’s still alive when they put the noose round her neck.”
Garcia walked over to Hartmann, who lay whimpering on the bench. It wouldn't be Diaz who'd carry her. He touched the raw, swollen buttocks, drawing a shudder of pain. He remembered vividly how beautiful her buttocks had once been, their firm smoothness as he’d inserted the heated skewer. “Doctor?” he asked. “What do you advise?”
“I’ll give her a shot of adrenaline,” he said. “That’ll make sure she feels them. Then use a heavy cane if you wish, but they’ll draw blood almost immediately. This skin will split.”
Reluctantly, Garcia nodded. He would substitute a three for a five and Diaz would never know.
The Beast
Governor
Typical KD conversation. One want to make girl very hard suffering, another has an objection. But in the end she gets the most brutal form of beating
. For story like that should be made pictures how looks belt, canes or other implements in different grade. It would be better to illustrate the issue than rest it to imagination reader.
. For story like that should be made pictures how looks belt, canes or other implements in different grade. It would be better to illustrate the issue than rest it to imagination reader.