Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Those occasional blows to the sides of her breasts are wonderful.
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The Official At The Embassy
- Thread starter King Diocletian
- Start date
The Beast
Governor
They should hit her from side to strike breast. I don't know that elastic kind of cane which fit body to breast when someone hit the backside. The cane is not rubber.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Her body was still taut as the left-hander lashed her again, the crash horrible on the tense muscle. She slumped, shaking, head resting on her forearms. Her hair was soaked, each breath came as a moan. The right-hander whipped across her buttocks, a vicious slash that marked an instant welt across the already inflamed skin. They paused, the left-hander wiping sweat from his brow and exchanging a joke with his companion. I wondered if she were dying. Her hands trembled violently and she retched, heaving three, four times, thick white saliva spilling from her lips.
They paused to lift her, one of them quite clearly putting his hand between her legs as he forced her up again. She squealed and I looked at the judge, but his face was impassive. They set her on the post and one of the screamed in her face as she clung to the chains. Her lovely brown eyes radiated shame and hurt, her shoulders heaved and a bead of sweat dripped from a tendril of hair onto the post. The floggers took their positions again. She was hunched, terrified, her pale back welted and bruised, bleeding in several places, her buttocks and thighs striped and ridged. She still had 18 to go.
I walked back to the front, where Margaret still stood, her face stern. “This is awful,” I said to her and she nodded grimly. We watched poor Sarah, bent over the post, breasts quivering with fear, as they renewed their assault. A low slash across the bottom of her back that caused her to jerk up, teeth pressed together, her breasts exposed above her arms. Somehow she held on for three more, knocked left and right and back again as the floggers targeted her ribs and with them the sides of her breasts, blood now visible on the pale canes, sweat flying from her hair as her head was tossed from side to side, before a blow just at the base of her thighs caused her to collapse. She fell hard, chains jangling, knees thumping into the tiles, and slipped to hang to the right of the post as I looked at it, right arm stretched up, left awkwardly hooked between her head and the pillar, left breast visible beneath her armpit. There was a look of madness of her face, blood and sweat dripping from her, shoulders a terrible mess of pink, brown and black stripes, blotched with cuts and tears.
The judge raised a hand and the floggers stepped back. They were out of breath, sweating, and drank water, joking to each other. The judge ordered the local doctor to examine her. Was this it? Would they call it off? He gave her pulse a cursory check, then reached into the pocket of his grubby white coat and removed a small bottle of what I took to be smelling salts. Unfastening the cap carefully, he held it under her nose. She blinked, coughed and began to retch, the shudders passing through her body causing her to moan with the pain. Strings of saliva hung from her lips.
The judge said something and the doctor replied. I’m afraid I couldn’t make out the exact words, but he was clearly saying she was well enough to carry on. The guards pulled her up, shouting at her. “Fucking lazy whore!” I heard one say in English. She still looked dazed. Her eyes were wet with tears, her body wet with sweat, hair soaking, but she said nothing as they propped her up on the post once more.
The floggers took their positions, flexing the canes again as she stood, leaning on the post, head bowed, eyes shut. The right-hander struck hard at her buttocks. As spasm passed through her and she yelped. She shook violently, but somehow stayed upright. Another one to her buttocks, and then another. 50 lashes taken. I walked round again, unable to comprehend how she was still standing. Tears were dripping off her, shoulders heaving. The next lashed diagonally across her back. Her shoulders jerked back, her breasts shook and she fell, banging her torso against the post. They left her propped there for a downward cut that callously tore a strip of skin from just below her shoulder blade.
She roared in anguish but was too weak to move. Two more downward strokes followed, ripping away flesh. Blood oozed out as they pulled her up again. Somehow she stood, shaking, eyes wide as a flat blow clattered across the centre of her back, snapping her head and shoulders back. Fifty-five. Another lash just above her knees knocked her from her feet again. She knelt, head bowed, tremors passing through her, sweat and tears dripping onto the dusty tiles. Blood ran from her back. They lashed her again, on her buttocks. I saw the bruised cheeks absorb the full force of the blow, saw a little blood spray up.
Hands were on her again. She only had three lashes left to take but they wanted her standing. I saw a priest nod in approbation. She seemed dazed, swaying, clinging desperately to the chains. Her body was flushed, gleaming with sweat. There was no respite. A diagonal blow, angled slightly downwards. It dragged over the skin. She roared and fell again, legs buckling so she lay on her right thigh.
“Get up, whore!” they shouted and dragged her to her feet again. A blow to her thighs was clearly aimed at making her fall. She did, landing heavily on her knees, and as she knelt, leaning into the post, the final lash was delivered across her shoulders. She gave a great heave and slumped.
Even then there was no mercy. The judge pronounced the sentence complete and two soldiers stepped forward to release her. Once wrist was unfastened and she slid back, hanging by one arm from the post, swinging to face me, her breasts pert on her stretched torso. Her eyes barely flickered but she was still conscious. They dragged her away, legs trailing in the dirt, leaving a track of sweat and blood. I followed with Phillip and we were joined by Margaret and the doctor.
By the time we got to her, Sarah had been laid on a bench, arms and legs hanging limp on either side. She was in a terrible mess, her delicious skin blotched and marked, cut and torn and bruised. The freckle in the centre of her back had disappeared, covered in blood and bruising. Her wrists were red raw and her knees badly grazed. She was shaking even there, moaning softly. I knelt beside her and took her hand. She looked gratefully at me as our doctor began to apply antiseptics and balms. I looked at her breasts as they pushed damply into the wood. There were three clear welts where the cans had reached round and bitten into the soft flesh.
Slowly, methodically, the doctor applied various dressings and bandages as Margaret did her best to keep leering soldiers away. Sarah could barely stand his touch, flinching and sobbing as he meticulously cleaned each wound. Eventually he was satisfied and we wrapped her in a light gown he had brought. We loaded her onto a stretcher and carried her out to the ambulance. Margaret and Phillip accompanied her but I went back to see Aziz.
“Justice is done,” he said with a smile.
I nodded. “Is that it?” I asked.
“We need to arrange a hearing to confirm that she has been punished sufficiently. Shall we say three weeks?”
I nodded. I didn’t know what I wanted. Well, I did, if I could admit it to myself. I wanted Sarah Fleming and I wasn’t averse to seeing her flogged again.
“Do you think she was contrite enough?” Aziz asked, a twinkle in his eye.
I shrugged. “That’s a matter for your courts,” I said.
“I agree,” he said, clapping his hands together and ordering tea. “Perhaps a custodial sentence might not be such a bad idea after all?”
I nodded. I had done what I could.
They paused to lift her, one of them quite clearly putting his hand between her legs as he forced her up again. She squealed and I looked at the judge, but his face was impassive. They set her on the post and one of the screamed in her face as she clung to the chains. Her lovely brown eyes radiated shame and hurt, her shoulders heaved and a bead of sweat dripped from a tendril of hair onto the post. The floggers took their positions again. She was hunched, terrified, her pale back welted and bruised, bleeding in several places, her buttocks and thighs striped and ridged. She still had 18 to go.
I walked back to the front, where Margaret still stood, her face stern. “This is awful,” I said to her and she nodded grimly. We watched poor Sarah, bent over the post, breasts quivering with fear, as they renewed their assault. A low slash across the bottom of her back that caused her to jerk up, teeth pressed together, her breasts exposed above her arms. Somehow she held on for three more, knocked left and right and back again as the floggers targeted her ribs and with them the sides of her breasts, blood now visible on the pale canes, sweat flying from her hair as her head was tossed from side to side, before a blow just at the base of her thighs caused her to collapse. She fell hard, chains jangling, knees thumping into the tiles, and slipped to hang to the right of the post as I looked at it, right arm stretched up, left awkwardly hooked between her head and the pillar, left breast visible beneath her armpit. There was a look of madness of her face, blood and sweat dripping from her, shoulders a terrible mess of pink, brown and black stripes, blotched with cuts and tears.
The judge raised a hand and the floggers stepped back. They were out of breath, sweating, and drank water, joking to each other. The judge ordered the local doctor to examine her. Was this it? Would they call it off? He gave her pulse a cursory check, then reached into the pocket of his grubby white coat and removed a small bottle of what I took to be smelling salts. Unfastening the cap carefully, he held it under her nose. She blinked, coughed and began to retch, the shudders passing through her body causing her to moan with the pain. Strings of saliva hung from her lips.
The judge said something and the doctor replied. I’m afraid I couldn’t make out the exact words, but he was clearly saying she was well enough to carry on. The guards pulled her up, shouting at her. “Fucking lazy whore!” I heard one say in English. She still looked dazed. Her eyes were wet with tears, her body wet with sweat, hair soaking, but she said nothing as they propped her up on the post once more.
The floggers took their positions, flexing the canes again as she stood, leaning on the post, head bowed, eyes shut. The right-hander struck hard at her buttocks. As spasm passed through her and she yelped. She shook violently, but somehow stayed upright. Another one to her buttocks, and then another. 50 lashes taken. I walked round again, unable to comprehend how she was still standing. Tears were dripping off her, shoulders heaving. The next lashed diagonally across her back. Her shoulders jerked back, her breasts shook and she fell, banging her torso against the post. They left her propped there for a downward cut that callously tore a strip of skin from just below her shoulder blade.
She roared in anguish but was too weak to move. Two more downward strokes followed, ripping away flesh. Blood oozed out as they pulled her up again. Somehow she stood, shaking, eyes wide as a flat blow clattered across the centre of her back, snapping her head and shoulders back. Fifty-five. Another lash just above her knees knocked her from her feet again. She knelt, head bowed, tremors passing through her, sweat and tears dripping onto the dusty tiles. Blood ran from her back. They lashed her again, on her buttocks. I saw the bruised cheeks absorb the full force of the blow, saw a little blood spray up.
Hands were on her again. She only had three lashes left to take but they wanted her standing. I saw a priest nod in approbation. She seemed dazed, swaying, clinging desperately to the chains. Her body was flushed, gleaming with sweat. There was no respite. A diagonal blow, angled slightly downwards. It dragged over the skin. She roared and fell again, legs buckling so she lay on her right thigh.
“Get up, whore!” they shouted and dragged her to her feet again. A blow to her thighs was clearly aimed at making her fall. She did, landing heavily on her knees, and as she knelt, leaning into the post, the final lash was delivered across her shoulders. She gave a great heave and slumped.
Even then there was no mercy. The judge pronounced the sentence complete and two soldiers stepped forward to release her. Once wrist was unfastened and she slid back, hanging by one arm from the post, swinging to face me, her breasts pert on her stretched torso. Her eyes barely flickered but she was still conscious. They dragged her away, legs trailing in the dirt, leaving a track of sweat and blood. I followed with Phillip and we were joined by Margaret and the doctor.
By the time we got to her, Sarah had been laid on a bench, arms and legs hanging limp on either side. She was in a terrible mess, her delicious skin blotched and marked, cut and torn and bruised. The freckle in the centre of her back had disappeared, covered in blood and bruising. Her wrists were red raw and her knees badly grazed. She was shaking even there, moaning softly. I knelt beside her and took her hand. She looked gratefully at me as our doctor began to apply antiseptics and balms. I looked at her breasts as they pushed damply into the wood. There were three clear welts where the cans had reached round and bitten into the soft flesh.
Slowly, methodically, the doctor applied various dressings and bandages as Margaret did her best to keep leering soldiers away. Sarah could barely stand his touch, flinching and sobbing as he meticulously cleaned each wound. Eventually he was satisfied and we wrapped her in a light gown he had brought. We loaded her onto a stretcher and carried her out to the ambulance. Margaret and Phillip accompanied her but I went back to see Aziz.
“Justice is done,” he said with a smile.
I nodded. “Is that it?” I asked.
“We need to arrange a hearing to confirm that she has been punished sufficiently. Shall we say three weeks?”
I nodded. I didn’t know what I wanted. Well, I did, if I could admit it to myself. I wanted Sarah Fleming and I wasn’t averse to seeing her flogged again.
“Do you think she was contrite enough?” Aziz asked, a twinkle in his eye.
I shrugged. “That’s a matter for your courts,” I said.
“I agree,” he said, clapping his hands together and ordering tea. “Perhaps a custodial sentence might not be such a bad idea after all?”
I nodded. I had done what I could.
The Beast
Governor
Flogging after 3 weeks for not healed body - very interesting
. I hope our sick narrator will lose his position if Sarah will die. And of course he deserve for it. I like all these sadist in KD stories, but they should get own punishment for this kind of sick perversions - it's lacking element in this stories
.
. I hope our sick narrator will lose his position if Sarah will die. And of course he deserve for it. I like all these sadist in KD stories, but they should get own punishment for this kind of sick perversions - it's lacking element in this stories.
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
A detailed and exciting description of the flogging of poor Sarah, KD.
My idea too!
I like all these sadist in KD stories, but they should get own punishment for this kind of sick perversions - it's lacking element in this stories
My idea too!
Jon Smithie
Tribune
Another vivid, convincing, and brutal punishment story by KD. I didn't think I would continue after the previous chapter, it was a little strong for my taste; but just when I think I'm out, KD pulls me back in. The man can write. I've read stories that feature more horrific punishments and tortures; actually, I've written a few; but none that affect me like KD's. I agree with The Beast and Loxuru; I really wish the narrator could pay for acceding to and being so complicit with Sara's punishment. He's such a contemptible shit! In fact, I think it would have been really cool if the official at the Emabassy were an attractive woman, who felt a little threatened by Sarah, or jealous of her. Then maybe somewhere along the line she could fall foul of the religious authorities herself and get a taste of what Sarah's getting. But I don't anticipate KD writing a story from a female POV, and I don't think he writes these stories as morality tales, lol.
The Beast
Governor
I wonder if these Arabs, seeing the pleasure with which our ambassador has attending of these penalties, will not blackmail him in the future. And that is probably no good for British politics. In that cause he should be dismissed, but it's a task for other mabalady workers to report to their superiors
.
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
When reading the flogging scene, the whipping scene of Amy Heshket's character in 'Dead but Dreaming' came up to me (although that was depicted much 'cleaner' than the damage done to Sarah's body in this narrative).
There is something 'exotic' in a storyline of 'publically whipped or executed in a country far away' (where other laws and other habits constantly hold a trap for a foreigner).
Actually, a female narrator would have been driven by other incentives indeed. She has diplomatic immunity, but she could be caught on the act (staged if necesaary for framing her- it is not a morality plot, right). Her diplomatic protection is taken away, and we have another nice flogging (and now, I am complicit to her punishment
).
There is something 'exotic' in a storyline of 'publically whipped or executed in a country far away' (where other laws and other habits constantly hold a trap for a foreigner).
Actually, a female narrator would have been driven by other incentives indeed. She has diplomatic immunity, but she could be caught on the act (staged if necesaary for framing her- it is not a morality plot, right). Her diplomatic protection is taken away, and we have another nice flogging (and now, I am complicit to her punishment
).
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
I found it a wonderful story.
Is more coming, KD?
Is more coming, KD?
King Diocletian
Magistrate
No, that's the end. Decide for yourselves what happens to Sarah.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
I know what happens to her and it isn't pretty!
Thanks for an excellent story.
The Beast
Governor
I hope this is not the end and one day you'll write final chapter Sarah story. And I hope this decision about not ending this story is not a result of our critics about lack of morality in your stories. You write great stories and I'm a big fan of them
.Is there any chance to end your big camp story in nearly future? It is going to big, cruel punishment of four girls after trying to escape from camp and everyone want read about it, I suppose
.
xso
Tribune
Thank's for a very good story!
I enclose a clip of the previously shown Gif.......short but I think it gets you in the right mood..........to be taken away by the female guards.....whipped....and if I was the director the next step would be a prison crucifixion.....(reminds of my story 'Jessica Christ')
http://motherless.com/1A47E20
pontiopilato
Governor
I figured she would follow Juliette(?)to the gallows. Seems natural enough considering how impertinent the local powers that be think she is to have flogged her like they did.