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Liberty

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The Beast said:
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.
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I very much disagree, my imagination is much better - and for the record I really like how KD is writing this story.
 
Boris Spider said:
I very much disagree, my imagination is much better - and for the record I really like how KD is writing this story.
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I also really like the writing. Again I express a wish that the front of her body suffer, it would allow more pain and damage before death.
 
Diaz placed his hands on her cheeks and lifted her head. Her eyes spoke of shame and terror. “Twenty lashes,” he said. “Now you’re getting what you really deserve. That ass of yours will be destroyed but I’ll always remember it.” He slapped her, a pointless addition of pain that nonetheless made a satisfying noise and provoked a spark of anger. The adrenaline shot, clearly, was livening her up. He stepped back, and the two floggers stepped forward, each holding a cane the diameter of a forefinger and about six feet long.


The right-handed one rested the cane upon her buttocks, itself enough to cause a gasp of pain and a tensing of her body. He heard her whimper as the cane touched the raw flesh, shiny now under the lights. The flogger stepped back, raised the cane and smashed it down. Her whole body seemed to spasm, jerking at the bonds. For a moment she made no sound. Diaz saw blood immediately. Then she gave an exhausted sigh. Each breath became an expression of pain and hopelessness. “One,” said Garcia. They waited, the only sound her moans. The left-hander struck low on her buttocks, as though deliberately avoiding the skinless area. Her body jumped, she howled and fell back, sobbing.

*

Cabrera had flogged countless prisoners. He’d beaten some of them so badly, he knew they’d never walk again. But he’d ever felt sorry for a prisoner before. What they were doing to this beautiful girl was inhuman. She deserved punishment, yes. Maybe she even deserved to hang. That they’d tortured her didn’t bother him. They needed the information. But to treat her like this after she’d given in, to destroy those buttocks, to ensure her final hours on earth comprised nothing but pain and degradation? That seemed wrong to him. He still beat her as hard as he could.


The skin had been raw before they’d begun, the buttocks terribly swollen from her strapping that morning. The lightest touch would have been agony, but these were horrible canes. Cabrera had never used a three on a woman before. They bruised and they broke the skin. If she’d been 100% fit, her buttocks still as smooth and springy as they had been on that first day, he’d have been interested in seeing the effect. But smashing cheeks that were already destroyed – what was the point?


She started off with screams and terrified writhing. He couldn’t imagine what the pain must be like. But by the time she’d taken a dozen, by which time her buttocks were a mass of blood, she was slumped almost still, too exhausted to do anything more than jump a little as the canes struck. She was weeping constantly, her spirit broken. Blood spattered with every stroke by the end, so the canes were pink, the area around her buttocks covered in a fine red gauze. When they’d finished, she lay semi-conscious, her back a firm expanse of tanned smooth skin, her legs as long and supple as ever, but her buttocks were ravaged. Cabrera felt as though he’d slashed a razor through a great painting.

*

Even as Juliette lay on the frame, her buttocks in more pain than she’d imagined possible, heart pounding, so exhausted that she barely even registered as their hands poked her genitals, she remembered his words. More fun. This flogging had been only a prelude: there was more to come. She wanted to die. The hands unfastened her and then cuffed her hands behind her. Had they no idea how weak she was? The hood was pulled over her head and as her breathing was impaired she wondered if this might be a way out.


She was hauled along the corridors, limp in their hands, blood dripping from the buttocks. She heard the clang of a gate and knew she was in the tank. The hood was yanked off and they left her, wrists shackled, sprawled on the concrete. The door slammed shut and she heard the bolt being slid home and then the water hit her. She was too weak to do anything other than lie there as four powerful jets hammered her naked body.


She lost consciousness. When she came round, she was lying face down on a bed, wrists and ankles fastened to the frame. The mattress, at least, was a comfort. She was naked, still, but some sort of dressing had been applied to her buttocks, which still throbbed, but perhaps not quite with the intensity of before. A drip led into her left arm. What was this? She couldn’t think. She just accepted the comfort. But slowly a sense of dread came over her. They were strengthening her for something more.


How long till she died? She’d lost track. She wanted nothing now but the noose. She’d never thought she’d long for death but the pain and humiliation was too much. She drifted again into unconsciousness.
 
Whatever it takes to keep her stimulated and aware while Diaz has his "fun"... It must be brought to bear. Whatever it costs her to bring Diaz his satisfaction, she must be made to pay it!
 
This was his masterpiece. He’d fuck her later, but this was the climax of what Diaz had planned and he was looking forward to it. Was it a risk? Perhaps, but who really was going to report him? He’d arranged an alibi anyway. Plausible deniability. And the men would enjoy this. The punishment room was full – a handful of his political friends but mainly soldiers. Garcia was there, looking disapproving.


They dragged her in, naked of course, shackled and hooded. When the hood was removed, he was struck by how exhausted she looked, cheeks hollow, eyes rimmed with red. “Unchain her,” he said. “I think we can probably overwhelm her if she acts up.” There was laughter. Many of the men had been there when she’d been tortured or flogged, but for some it was a first sight of Juliette Hartmann, the great crusading journalist and, weakened as she was, it was still a compelling sight, her breasts still high and firm, her stomach still impossibly taut, her legs still impossibly smooth and long.


“You believe in freedom, Miss Hartmann?” he said as she was brought before him.


She looked dazed and said nothing. He slapped her. “I said, do you believe in freedom?”


“Yes,” she croaked, her eyes never leaving the floor.


“And your father is American I believe?”


“Yes.”


“Then we will dress you as the statue of liberty. That would be appropriate, don’t you think?”


She didn’t react, standing still head bowed. A soldier gave her shoulder a brusque shove and she staggered a couple of paces forwards.


“Go ahead,” he said to the soldiers behind her.


They took a stars and stripes and draped it over her left shoulder, pulling it round and under her right armpit, tying it off so it mimicked the statue’s robes. It was a shame to cover her nudity, but Diaz suspected being wrapped in the flag humiliated her more. There was more laughter, more jeers. Then, the coup de grace: a crown of barbed wire. It was a hideous device: four circles just wider than her head, with the wire then wrapped cruelly round the circle, each new loop perhaps an inch from the last. As he took it from a box, holding it carefully, she saw her shudder and her head dropped.



He handed it to a soldier who wore gloves. He walked behind her as the other guards pushed her to her knees. He yanked her hair so her head tipped back, then smoothed the hair from her face. With great consideration, he lowered the crown onto her head, pressing it first against her lovely clear forehead and then pushing down at the back. It was just the right size, the barbs pricking her skin but not digging too deep. There was more laughter as they pulled her to her feet. Already blood was bubbling where the spikes dug in.


They made her clamber onto the desk, two soldiers standing on it to haul her up. She moaned as her buttocks were pushed by soldiers below. A picana, unconnected to a generator, was thrust into her right hand. “Hold it up,” Diaz said, “like a torch.” She looked at him with infinite sadness then raised her right arm. They gave her a clipboard, making her hold it in her left hand. “Read!” he commanded. It was as though she couldn’t quite understand the instruction. She just stood, blood running over her forehead, right arm lifted.


“Read!” he shouted.


She looked baffled for a moment and then saw what was on the clipboard. The corners of her mouth bent down and she began to cry. A soldier with a small cattle-prod pressed it to her calf. She shrieked and would have fallen but for the two soldiers who stood alongside her. “Read it!”


The two soldiers hopped down as she began. “The history…” she said haltingly, “of man’s…”


“Louder!” There were hoots and jeers. “…inhumanity to man… is long…. and grim, but what is happening…”


Blood ran down her face. She tried to blink it away but it stung her eyes. It dripped onto the flag. She kept reading. Her legs felt weak. Her right arm ached. What else did they have lined up for her?


“Prisoners are beaten as a matter of course, with flat leather paddles called palmatorias, canes and cruel bullwhips.” They enjoyed that, her tormentors. “They are stripped and humiliated.” Cheers. “Torture is commonplace.” A roar. “I have spoken to a dozen victims, men and women.” Wolf-whistles. “Who describe being ducked in icy water...” Laughter. “Being hung by their wrists for hours…” Cheers. “And, worst of all, being strapped naked to a bench while an electric prod is applied to their genitals.” She broke down in tears at that. It wasn’t the worst of all. Worst of all was them holding a heated iron in your rectum, was thrashing you when you were already half-dead, was continuing the ice baths and the electric shocks day after day. Worst of all was being raped by your enemy. Worst of all was being stripped and flogged and paraded like a toy. Worst of all was reading your own fine words while dressed up as the Statue of Liberty.
 
King Diocletian said:
This was his masterpiece. He’d fuck her later, but this was the climax of what Diaz had planned and he was looking forward to it. Was it a risk? Perhaps, but who really was going to report him? He’d arranged an alibi anyway. Plausible deniability. And the men would enjoy this. The punishment room was full – a handful of his political friends but mainly soldiers. Garcia was there, looking disapproving.


They dragged her in, naked of course, shackled and hooded. When the hood was removed, he was struck by how exhausted she looked, cheeks hollow, eyes rimmed with red. “Unchain her,” he said. “I think we can probably overwhelm her if she acts up.” There was laughter. Many of the men had been there when she’d been tortured or flogged, but for some it was a first sight of Juliette Hartmann, the great crusading journalist and, weakened as she was, it was still a compelling sight, her breasts still high and firm, her stomach still impossibly taut, her legs still impossibly smooth and long.


“You believe in freedom, Miss Hartmann?” he said as she was brought before him.


She looked dazed and said nothing. He slapped her. “I said, do you believe in freedom?”


“Yes,” she croaked, her eyes never leaving the floor.


“And your father is American I believe?”


“Yes.”


“Then we will dress you as the statue of liberty. That would be appropriate, don’t you think?”


She didn’t react, standing still head bowed. A soldier gave her shoulder a brusque shove and she staggered a couple of paces forwards.


“Go ahead,” he said to the soldiers behind her.


They took a stars and stripes and draped it over her left shoulder, pulling it round and under her right armpit, tying it off so it mimicked the statue’s robes. It was a shame to cover her nudity, but Diaz suspected being wrapped in the flag humiliated her more. There was more laughter, more jeers. Then, the coup de grace: a crown of barbed wire. It was a hideous device: four circles just wider than her head, with the wire then wrapped cruelly round the circle, each new loop perhaps an inch from the last. As he took it from a box, holding it carefully, she saw her shudder and her head dropped.



He handed it to a soldier who wore gloves. He walked behind her as the other guards pushed her to her knees. He yanked her hair so her head tipped back, then smoothed the hair from her face. With great consideration, he lowered the crown onto her head, pressing it first against her lovely clear forehead and then pushing down at the back. It was just the right size, the barbs pricking her skin but not digging too deep. There was more laughter as they pulled her to her feet. Already blood was bubbling where the spikes dug in.


They made her clamber onto the desk, two soldiers standing on it to haul her up. She moaned as her buttocks were pushed by soldiers below. A picana, unconnected to a generator, was thrust into her right hand. “Hold it up,” Diaz said, “like a torch.” She looked at him with infinite sadness then raised her right arm. They gave her a clipboard, making her hold it in her left hand. “Read!” he commanded. It was as though she couldn’t quite understand the instruction. She just stood, blood running over her forehead, right arm lifted.


“Read!” he shouted.


She looked baffled for a moment and then saw what was on the clipboard. The corners of her mouth bent down and she began to cry. A soldier with a small cattle-prod pressed it to her calf. She shrieked and would have fallen but for the two soldiers who stood alongside her. “Read it!”


The two soldiers hopped down as she began. “The history…” she said haltingly, “of man’s…”


“Louder!” There were hoots and jeers. “…inhumanity to man… is long…. and grim, but what is happening…”


Blood ran down her face. She tried to blink it away but it stung her eyes. It dripped onto the flag. She kept reading. Her legs felt weak. Her right arm ached. What else did they have lined up for her?


“Prisoners are beaten as a matter of course, with flat leather paddles called palmatorias, canes and cruel bullwhips.” They enjoyed that, her tormentors. “They are stripped and humiliated.” Cheers. “Torture is commonplace.” A roar. “I have spoken to a dozen victims, men and women.” Wolf-whistles. “Who describe being ducked in icy water...” Laughter. “Being hung by their wrists for hours…” Cheers. “And, worst of all, being strapped naked to a bench while an electric prod is applied to their genitals.” She broke down in tears at that. It wasn’t the worst of all. Worst of all was them holding a heated iron in your rectum, was thrashing you when you were already half-dead, was continuing the ice baths and the electric shocks day after day. Worst of all was being raped by your enemy. Worst of all was being stripped and flogged and paraded like a toy. Worst of all was reading your own fine words while dressed up as the Statue of Liberty.
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good chapter...
 
Another shock. She felt she would collapse at any moment. Her buttocks burned with a worse pain even than the first electricity, even than the skewer in her ass. And it was all made worse, so much worse, by the way they had defiled everything she held dear: the flag, her journalism, the notion of liberty itself. “Who knows what drives these men?” she went on. “What is it that enables them to place aside usual modes of behaviour and commit these despicable acts?” She looked down on a sea of laughing faces. “What justification exists in their minds for their crimes? All that is sure is that they have become barely human.” They hooted in mockery.


Hands clawed at her. They pulled her down from the desk, tore the flag from her so she was naked but for her crown. The cattle-prod was jabbed into her ribs. She felt the familiar internal burn, the tightness of her muscles, the inability to breathe. Her eyes closed. What was next? A mass rape? They held her arms and legs, but her agonised buttocks and lower back were on the ground. She opened her eyes. Grinning, jeering faces everywhere. Some spat.


She saw Diaz, smiling. A soldier approached. He held in his hands four round tubs. What was it? It looked like… it was… supermarket pate. What were they going to do…? And then she understood. She felt sick. “No!” she shouted. ”Please!”


“Barely human,” Diaz said, smirking.


Another guard stepped over her, clamping his knees to her waist. The first soldier removed the lid from the first tub, the peeled back then silver foil. He dipped his hand into the pate. She could smell the slightly foetid meat and felt waves of nausea rush over her. He rubbed it over her genitals, smearing it on her perineum, pushing it deep inside her.


Diaz grinned, cock hard. This was magnificent. She was sobbing and screaming, blood running down her face, all dignity gone. The soldier backed away, having clearly relished his task. Diaz saw the grey sludge liberally applied over her pudenda, matting the thin strip of hair, packed deep inside her. Then they brought in the dog.


It was a huge German Shepherd, eyes a little rheumy, drool already hanging from its large mouth. He saw the long white incisors and for a moment was concerned that this might be a step too far, but then he saw her fear and shame and knew they were right.


The dog looked a little confused, panting, glancing about, clearly disconcerted by the number of people, but the noise of laughter. A soldier led him forward on a lead and suddenly he caught the scent of the pate. His ears stiffened slightly and he advanced, seeing the screaming girl but not really understanding, the advanced, nose twitching until he located the source of the smell between her legs. “Nooooo!” she screamed. ‘Please, no!” The dog glanced about and then, realising nobody was going to stop him, pushed his nose into her crotch. She kicked, trying to free herself, but the soldiers held her tight. The dog reached out its tongue and licked. She squirmed in humiliation.


Juliette felt the tongue touch her, felt its rough dampness, felt the panting breath of the dog. She could see their laughing faces, hear their taunts as the dog licked her. They were filming her on their phones. Her buttocks were still agony, every movement sending spasms of pain through her but she would have taken another 250 lashes in that moment if they’d taken the dog away. This was the most degrading thing that had ever happened to her, far worse than everything she’d been through. The dog pushed deeper, probing inside her. She wanted to be sick. She twisted but they held her firm and her gyrations only increased the pain in her ass. She felt the teeth on her skin, but she would rather have been bitten that this, as the dog sought every last fragment of pate. The tongue was rough, reaching deep inside her, scraping over the abrasions form the wire-wool which still hadn’t entirely healed. Finally, it was over and the dog backed off. And then they approached with more tubs of pate.
 
This only took 45 minutes. There should be a lot of pain left!
 
Diaz would never forget the look on her face: the horror, the shame. She still wore the crown, her buttocks were still raw and she writhed in indignity, trying to free her arms and legs, sobbing as the soldier packed her cunt with more pate, smearing it over her, reaching round even to her bloodied backside. He would still fuck her later, but he would make a point of doing it doggy style.


He’d never seen anybody so humiliated. She wasn’t just embarrassed, it was as though her world had collapsed. She was naked, surrounded by laughing, jeering faces, convulsing with sobs as the dog lapped at her. He wondered if she derived any pleasure from that, if there was a chance her shame could be increased by her body responding but as she dry-heaved in self-disgust he knew there wasn’t. It clearly hurt, as well, as the tongue reawakened the agonies in her raw buttocks. Finally the dog raised his head, drool dripping from its muzzle, tail wagging, although even in its delight it seemed to know that there was something wrong, as though it wondered if it might perhaps be about to be told off. The dog’s day, though, was about to get even better.


Juliette was in a daze of shame. What could they do worse than this? She curled on her side, cheek pressed against her upper arm to keep the barbs from pressing into her scalp. She was sobbing uncontrollably, the sense of violation far worse than mere rape had been. She felt hands on her pulling her up. She saw boots and uniformed legs, then grinning faces. The crown was yanked off, causing more blood to drop down her face. She felt a great heaviness inside, a crushing sense of humiliation.


They pushed her to her knees. Her buttocks raged in pain. “The dog’s shown you a good time,” a voice said. “It’s only fair you pay him back.” There was laughter. She didn’t understand. They shoved her onto all fours. She heard their jeers, but in her numbness she still didn’t grasp what was happening. She saw Diaz’s smirking face. A stun gun was brandished in front of her. They were threatening her, she knew, put she didn’t grasp what they wanted. They dragged her forwards and she saw the dog, tongue hanging out, tail wagging.


“Give him a blow job!”


Nausea exploded in her gut. Surely not. They couldn’t make her do that. Not even them. This couldn’t be real. But it was. The stun gun was pressed against her neck. She hesitated. Suck a dog’s cock or take electric shocks. But she knew it wasn’t a choice. Resist and they would just hurt her more and still make her do it.


She crawled forwards, feeling the roughness of the concrete on her knees, feeling the pain in her ass, feeling their eyes all over her. She knew she was blushing. After all she’d been through, she was still embarrassed. She saw mobile phones and knew they were filming her. She felt the heat of the dog’s breath, and shuffled round. She heard their jokes as she worked out the logistics, then slid underneath. Guards held the dog still. She looked at its ugly pink penis. She swallowed. How could she do this? She tried to compose herself.


“Kiss his balls!” The stun-gun jabbed at her ribs.


She stretched up and kissed the tight little scrotum. The dog gave a strange whimper. He was baffled. She had to be careful, she knew. She kissed the scrotum again and then, giving in, ran her tongue up the short stubby cock. The taste was the foulest thing she’d ever known. How could she do this? How? Blood ran down her forehead. Her stomach revolted, but fear kept her going. She could sense the dog’s unease. “Go on, whore! Show him a good time!”


She took the cock between her lips. The dog barked in what she thought was alarm and she stroked his flank, trying to calm him. She worked her tongue around the rubbery shaft, heart pounding as she fell into a deeper sense of shame than she’d known possible. She heard their laughter and their jeers, but all she could see was the sparse fur of the dog’s underbelly. It didn’t take much. The cock stiffened. The dog, after another whine, gave in to instinct and humped vigorously. All she had to do was keep her lips still. Within a few seconds, she felt a hot spurt. She forced herself to swallow. She knew that’s what they’d demand. Then revulsion overcame her and she fell away, retching, sobbing, sprawled on the concrete, surrounded by their leers and jokes.
 
Such sweet humiliation. She is broken, shamed and hurt. But she needs a lot more before the end.
 
King Diocletian said:
Diaz would never forget the look on her face: the horror, the shame. She still wore the crown, her buttocks were still raw and she writhed in indignity, trying to free her arms and legs, sobbing as the soldier packed her cunt with more pate, smearing it over her, reaching round even to her bloodied backside. He would still fuck her later, but he would make a point of doing it doggy style.


He’d never seen anybody so humiliated. She wasn’t just embarrassed, it was as though her world had collapsed. She was naked, surrounded by laughing, jeering faces, convulsing with sobs as the dog lapped at her. He wondered if she derived any pleasure from that, if there was a chance her shame could be increased by her body responding but as she dry-heaved in self-disgust he knew there wasn’t. It clearly hurt, as well, as the tongue reawakened the agonies in her raw buttocks. Finally the dog raised his head, drool dripping from its muzzle, tail wagging, although even in its delight it seemed to know that there was something wrong, as though it wondered if it might perhaps be about to be told off. The dog’s day, though, was about to get even better.


Juliette was in a daze of shame. What could they do worse than this? She curled on her side, cheek pressed against her upper arm to keep the barbs from pressing into her scalp. She was sobbing uncontrollably, the sense of violation far worse than mere rape had been. She felt hands on her pulling her up. She saw boots and uniformed legs, then grinning faces. The crown was yanked off, causing more blood to drop down her face. She felt a great heaviness inside, a crushing sense of humiliation.


They pushed her to her knees. Her buttocks raged in pain. “The dog’s shown you a good time,” a voice said. “It’s only fair you pay him back.” There was laughter. She didn’t understand. They shoved her onto all fours. She heard their jeers, but in her numbness she still didn’t grasp what was happening. She saw Diaz’s smirking face. A stun gun was brandished in front of her. They were threatening her, she knew, put she didn’t grasp what they wanted. They dragged her forwards and she saw the dog, tongue hanging out, tail wagging.


“Give him a blow job!”


Nausea exploded in her gut. Surely not. They couldn’t make her do that. Not even them. This couldn’t be real. But it was. The stun gun was pressed against her neck. She hesitated. Suck a dog’s cock or take electric shocks. But she knew it wasn’t a choice. Resist and they would just hurt her more and still make her do it.


She crawled forwards, feeling the roughness of the concrete on her knees, feeling the pain in her ass, feeling their eyes all over her. She knew she was blushing. After all she’d been through, she was still embarrassed. She saw mobile phones and knew they were filming her. She felt the heat of the dog’s breath, and shuffled round. She heard their jokes as she worked out the logistics, then slid underneath. Guards held the dog still. She looked at its ugly pink penis. She swallowed. How could she do this? She tried to compose herself.


“Kiss his balls!” The stun-gun jabbed at her ribs.


She stretched up and kissed the tight little scrotum. The dog gave a strange whimper. He was baffled. She had to be careful, she knew. She kissed the scrotum again and then, giving in, ran her tongue up the short stubby cock. The taste was the foulest thing she’d ever known. How could she do this? How? Blood ran down her forehead. Her stomach revolted, but fear kept her going. She could sense the dog’s unease. “Go on, whore! Show him a good time!”


She took the cock between her lips. The dog barked in what she thought was alarm and she stroked his flank, trying to calm him. She worked her tongue around the rubbery shaft, heart pounding as she fell into a deeper sense of shame than she’d known possible. She heard their laughter and their jeers, but all she could see was the sparse fur of the dog’s underbelly. It didn’t take much. The cock stiffened. The dog, after another whine, gave in to instinct and humped vigorously. All she had to do was keep her lips still. Within a few seconds, she felt a hot spurt. She forced herself to swallow. She knew that’s what they’d demand. Then revulsion overcame her and she fell away, retching, sobbing, sprawled on the concrete, surrounded by their leers and jokes.
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King D,
I have to write and tell you how much I have enjoyed your body of work.

I have read hundreds of BDSM stories and yours are the class of the group. State of Emergency One (SOE1) is the best I've ever read. The girl is so cute and sexy and vulnerable and her slow destruction is so cruel!! Scapegoat is a close runner up.

Your tastes and mine differ somewhat (you destroy back and buttocks, while I would like to see more hurt to the tits and belly) but the stories are very arousing. Didn't mean to fawn, but had to tell you and encourage you to keep giving us more.

BTW is there a complete listing or collection of your online work?
 
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