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My Visit To Cruxton Abbey
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Naraku
Draconarius
Looks like they've come up with a way to boost rates for "The Bachelorette". I might tune in to see how the selection process works.
Far too many stories here never get finished, though I admit that I have trouble keeping up with them anyway!
This one left Barb feeling the kiss of the whip, its touch drawing out of her a howl of anguish. But we know, we believe, that she wanted this, deeply. We need to know, like Barb we need catharsis, let us know how the story ends and how it transforms the protagonists. For surely they are changed, some more than others, but they must be touched and changed in some way. Why else participate? Why else submit?
Uh oh. Something tells me that long ago kiss of the whip and howl of anguish may have been only the beginning!
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
While Barbara was unable to respond following the work Pilus performed on her body with that long whip Pp does have two more parts to her punishment that might tell something of the deep place to which He and His whips took her.
Posts written for her visit to Cruxton so long ago have survived.
It is unlikely that Barbara will be sufficiently coherent to respond but Pp will publish those two remaining parts over the next day or so.
Coherent or not, she will probably be able to continue to howl and/or make other appropriate noises
Coherent or not, she will probably be able to continue to howl and/or make other appropriate noises
And issue demerits, no doubt
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Pp is not so sure she will be issuing demerits here for a day or so WraggAnd issue demerits, no doubt
.
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Barbara's punishment began so long ago with Pilus's long whip
and then sat, languishing but never deleted, in Pp's folder is, finally, continued......
The Cat
One, two, three seconds pass before her screams ends though she writhes, as though still responding to the whip, for a few moments longer before the young woman's body finally relaxes and she sags, limp. Barbara is moaning, quietly now, her head hanging down, eyes closed.
There is a dull thump, the sound of something thrown on to the bed and her eyes open. The whip is there, beside the cat. The long leather that has begun her suffering and the short multi-tailed cat with its knot-swollen stands that will finish it.
Barbara senses him behind her before she feels him there, warm breath on her throat, chest against her back. And, lower, his bulging black trousers hard against the furrow that separates her tight little arse. His presence so close, so personal, so comforting that the woman leans back against him.
His fingers trace her welts, across her back, around her ribs. So gentle, so different from the way he touched her with his whip. He traces his way to the bites beneath her breasts before his hands cup them, lifting, squeezing gently. So firm Ms. Moore, skin so soft. Will the cat tear them?
He finds Barbara's nipples and rolls them between forefinger and thumb. Despite her pain and fear they respond to his touch. And will these respond to the cat's knots as they do now Ms Moore?
Please Sir. Use the cat now. Finish my punishment while I am still strong. While I can still feel.
She senses that his hands leave her reluctantly and wonders whether that will mean mercy but she doubts it will. There is tenderness there, yes, but he is professional here. He might play games elsewhere but not here.
He stands beside the ornate bed and, slowly, removes his dinner jacket, before reaching for the cat's short handle. As he takes up the cat he throws his discarded jacket in its place, beside the long whip, a message to Barbara that his efforts will increase.
One last hope of tenderness perhaps? The chains and manacles will not allow her to move sideways, closer to him, but Barbara leans forwards, offering her breasts, hoping that he might be gentle and just lay the cords across her as he did to allow her choice.
His first stroke is gentle enough. Backhand, from where he stands to her left, and the cords and their knots fan as they strike Barbara's breasts. So different from that first taste. Each cord stings and she feels every heavier knot thump, one by one, against her soft flesh. Her response is a squeal but she knows he is begining carefully.
The second stroke comes faster and the cords do not fan as far. The contact against her breasts is harder, less sting, and she feels the thump as cords and knots strike together. Then lower, across her belly, hard, and she feels it knock her breath through her diaphragm. Then lower, gentle again, cords fanning stinging her smooth mound, knots catching too low.
She tries to guess the next. Not there. No. Noooo. But the plea comes too late and the scatter of cords and knots across the tops of her thighs stings, knots flicking her mound and, lower, where her thighs are held spread and her cry is a plaintive noooooooooooo.
He touches her chin, lifting to face to his. Enough there Ms Moore? He doesn't need her nod.
The cat is brutal, designed to rip open skin then tear the flesh beneath. Barbara's breasts are already marked, a few droplets of blood oozing though. Her belly, too, a thin red trail beginning its way downards from her smooth mound.
If he let himself go those well-named blood knots would leave her belly and mound bloodied, turn her breasts to minced meat. He will use it hard but against more muscle. Her shoulders, upper back and that treasured tight little arse.
His hands tell him as he touches each woman. There is tenderness, yes, and the contact, the comfort as he pauses. But there is measurement, too, and judgement of what each can absorb, endure, and what each might desire too.
Not long now Ms Moore. Not long. Endure. And he releases the woman's chin and moves around the bed post, behind her, out of her sight.
There is no enticing hum like the long whip made as it looked for her. Just a whir as the tails spread, a thump as they crash across the woman's shoulders and, then, the burn as those knots rake down her soft skin. The cat targets both shoulders, right then left, its cords landing high on Barbara's should before raking downwards.
No pauses, no teasing, stroke after stroke after stroke and, as each stroke registers, as the pain reaches up into her mind, Barbara twists, so desperate to give her damaged flesh some protection.
The flogging across her shoulders does not last long and he has laid no more than ten but, to Barbara, it feels an eternity. She can feel small trails creeping down her back and she knows he has broken her skin and droplets of blood are coalescing into tiny rivulets.
But then he does pause, just for a moment, and Barbara waits. Waits. Her mind submerged now beyond the pain her body knows. Please. Please. Is that a plea to stop as her damaged body demands? Or is it that her mind wants, needs, more?
Then the raking begins across that tight little arse. Down from the left, up, down from the right, up. Stinging, ripping. And Barbara writes at his lashing. Her arms and shoulders are tiring but she still twists, turns, the chains at her ankles allowing an erotic dance choreographed to the hum of cat, the rattle of chains and her moans, deep, gutteral.
The woman is near the end now. Weakened by the punishment and her struggle against the manacles and chains. He must finish. And he drives the cat upwards, between Barbara's wide-spread legs.
The cords and their knots rake up her inner thighs then, concentrated, crash against her opened sex, tearing into her labia, in between as they part. She screams once more, one last time, her arms and shoulders fighting against her chained ankles. She holds there, rigid for a moment, before slumping, body finally limp.
and then sat, languishing but never deleted, in Pp's folder is, finally, continued......
The Cat
One, two, three seconds pass before her screams ends though she writhes, as though still responding to the whip, for a few moments longer before the young woman's body finally relaxes and she sags, limp. Barbara is moaning, quietly now, her head hanging down, eyes closed.
There is a dull thump, the sound of something thrown on to the bed and her eyes open. The whip is there, beside the cat. The long leather that has begun her suffering and the short multi-tailed cat with its knot-swollen stands that will finish it.
Barbara senses him behind her before she feels him there, warm breath on her throat, chest against her back. And, lower, his bulging black trousers hard against the furrow that separates her tight little arse. His presence so close, so personal, so comforting that the woman leans back against him.
His fingers trace her welts, across her back, around her ribs. So gentle, so different from the way he touched her with his whip. He traces his way to the bites beneath her breasts before his hands cup them, lifting, squeezing gently. So firm Ms. Moore, skin so soft. Will the cat tear them?
He finds Barbara's nipples and rolls them between forefinger and thumb. Despite her pain and fear they respond to his touch. And will these respond to the cat's knots as they do now Ms Moore?
Please Sir. Use the cat now. Finish my punishment while I am still strong. While I can still feel.
She senses that his hands leave her reluctantly and wonders whether that will mean mercy but she doubts it will. There is tenderness there, yes, but he is professional here. He might play games elsewhere but not here.
He stands beside the ornate bed and, slowly, removes his dinner jacket, before reaching for the cat's short handle. As he takes up the cat he throws his discarded jacket in its place, beside the long whip, a message to Barbara that his efforts will increase.
One last hope of tenderness perhaps? The chains and manacles will not allow her to move sideways, closer to him, but Barbara leans forwards, offering her breasts, hoping that he might be gentle and just lay the cords across her as he did to allow her choice.
His first stroke is gentle enough. Backhand, from where he stands to her left, and the cords and their knots fan as they strike Barbara's breasts. So different from that first taste. Each cord stings and she feels every heavier knot thump, one by one, against her soft flesh. Her response is a squeal but she knows he is begining carefully.
The second stroke comes faster and the cords do not fan as far. The contact against her breasts is harder, less sting, and she feels the thump as cords and knots strike together. Then lower, across her belly, hard, and she feels it knock her breath through her diaphragm. Then lower, gentle again, cords fanning stinging her smooth mound, knots catching too low.
She tries to guess the next. Not there. No. Noooo. But the plea comes too late and the scatter of cords and knots across the tops of her thighs stings, knots flicking her mound and, lower, where her thighs are held spread and her cry is a plaintive noooooooooooo.
He touches her chin, lifting to face to his. Enough there Ms Moore? He doesn't need her nod.
The cat is brutal, designed to rip open skin then tear the flesh beneath. Barbara's breasts are already marked, a few droplets of blood oozing though. Her belly, too, a thin red trail beginning its way downards from her smooth mound.
If he let himself go those well-named blood knots would leave her belly and mound bloodied, turn her breasts to minced meat. He will use it hard but against more muscle. Her shoulders, upper back and that treasured tight little arse.
His hands tell him as he touches each woman. There is tenderness, yes, and the contact, the comfort as he pauses. But there is measurement, too, and judgement of what each can absorb, endure, and what each might desire too.
Not long now Ms Moore. Not long. Endure. And he releases the woman's chin and moves around the bed post, behind her, out of her sight.
There is no enticing hum like the long whip made as it looked for her. Just a whir as the tails spread, a thump as they crash across the woman's shoulders and, then, the burn as those knots rake down her soft skin. The cat targets both shoulders, right then left, its cords landing high on Barbara's should before raking downwards.
No pauses, no teasing, stroke after stroke after stroke and, as each stroke registers, as the pain reaches up into her mind, Barbara twists, so desperate to give her damaged flesh some protection.
The flogging across her shoulders does not last long and he has laid no more than ten but, to Barbara, it feels an eternity. She can feel small trails creeping down her back and she knows he has broken her skin and droplets of blood are coalescing into tiny rivulets.
But then he does pause, just for a moment, and Barbara waits. Waits. Her mind submerged now beyond the pain her body knows. Please. Please. Is that a plea to stop as her damaged body demands? Or is it that her mind wants, needs, more?
Then the raking begins across that tight little arse. Down from the left, up, down from the right, up. Stinging, ripping. And Barbara writes at his lashing. Her arms and shoulders are tiring but she still twists, turns, the chains at her ankles allowing an erotic dance choreographed to the hum of cat, the rattle of chains and her moans, deep, gutteral.
The woman is near the end now. Weakened by the punishment and her struggle against the manacles and chains. He must finish. And he drives the cat upwards, between Barbara's wide-spread legs.
The cords and their knots rake up her inner thighs then, concentrated, crash against her opened sex, tearing into her labia, in between as they part. She screams once more, one last time, her arms and shoulders fighting against her chained ankles. She holds there, rigid for a moment, before slumping, body finally limp.
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Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Holy shit !!!!!!!!!!
Most estates employ a Master of the Hounds.Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Holy shit !!!!!!!!!!
Only Cruxton employs a Master of the Cat.
And Barb thought this had all been forgotten about, and so, without Madiosi, it would have been!
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
A catastrophy or is Barbara catatonic?I seem to have gotten myself into a catastrophic situation here
.Patients with catatonia may experience an extreme loss of motor control. Catatonic patients will sometimes hold rigid poses for hours and will ignore any external stimuli......except that carefully applied by someone skilled
. Patients with catatonic excitement can suffer from exhaustion if not treated .
I don't know, what a part of the story and what not!
PP make you a textfile for me? With numbers and *** (three stars) inter the parts/chapters.
Some sort of hat, at least, perhaps...We usually dress up a little more than that when Royalty visit
Nice to see this one start up again. I'd forgotten it.
Some sort of hat, at least, perhaps...
Nice to see this one start up again. I'd forgotten it.
Easy to say from where you are
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
Barb catatonic?A catastrophy or is Barbara catatonic?
Patients with catatonia may experience an extreme loss of motor control. Catatonic patients will sometimes hold rigid poses for hours and will ignore any external stimuli......except that carefully applied by someone skilled
Hard to believe.
Yes. It is.Easy to say from where you are
I am, I believe, elsewhere in the house, "entertaining" Thessela. She may have the same thoughts as you to the reboot of this thread, I suppose. I don't think she even got a four-poster.
Yes. It is.
I am, I believe, elsewhere in the house, "entertaining" Thessela. She may have the same thoughts as you to the reboot of this thread, I suppose. I don't think she even got a four-poster.
Wragg maintains a fully equipped dungeon in the cellar