Boris Spider
Guard
Good stuff, KD. Pray continue!
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The Official At The Embassy
- Thread starter King Diocletian
- Start date
Jon Smithie
Tribune
Excellent beginning, KD! Personally, I don't care if you never get back to "Liberty." The level of humiliation and abuse had reached a point in that story beyond which I couldn't go, but that's personal preference. I really enjoy these shorter stories. I started reading this story with a sense of eager anticipation (Hey! another KD story!) and you don't disappoint. Personally, I really love it when you include the trial, that's one of my favorite parts: the innocent beauty caught in the toils of merciless, unjust justice. And you always describe the scene and the emotions so convincingly. You didn't include a trial in your last story, and I missed it, even though the description of the whipping was outstanding as always. Now I eagerly await the continuation of this story. You think maybe Sarah could be restrained (bound or shackled) in some awful stress position while awaiting sentencing? Le Craupadine, strappado, murgha, something like that? I think their God would want it that way.
I really admire your writing. As always, thanks for sharing your work.
I really admire your writing. As always, thanks for sharing your work.
The Beast
Governor
I'm agree with point of view that shorter KD stories are better
. I like trials too but without too much dialogue beetween judges in it what only slow down action. I rather prefer describing of beating from planning it - I'm bored of it.
windar
Teller of Tales
I'm with you Jon on Liberty and on this story. Less is more (or Moore). So my vote is that Sarah certainly receive her well-deserved flogging (since leaving the country before posting her thoughts should have occurred to her as it should have to Martha O'Donovan), but, please KD, no ridiculous over the top one. Just my opinion, of course.
Jon Smithie
Tribune
I've taken the liberty of nominating a few stars, starlets and models to portray Sarah Fleming in the upcoming film. Also, I've indicated some stress positions that could be inflicted upon Sarah as a sort of "penance" while she awaits actual execution of her sentence.
First off, this is how Sarah Fleming appears at the beginning of the story as described by King Diocletian; dressed demurely in a navy blue skirt and white shirt:
(Japanese model Yumi Sugimoto)
Now I realize Sarah is British and (I assume) occidental; still, I love the look.
My own first choice for the role would be Sarah Roemer. Not least because of the coincidence of the first name. I've heard this same thought expressed in many a crime and spy thriller: "Coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy." (Sherlock Holmes)
(Sarah Roemer as Scarlett Dowling in "Falling Up." Here as Sarah Fleming at an embassy function.)
And here awaiting punishment in Le Craupadine. (Sarah Blake of Hogtied standing in for Sarah Roemer as Sarah Fleming. See how that works?)
My second choice would be Alexis Bledel. I kinda have a thing for her anyway.
Here as Sarah Fleming receiving an update from the Embassy Official about the progress of the case against her. (Alexis Bledel as Ryden Maltby in "Postgrad." )
Here, as Sarah, doing some last minute shopping before submitting to house arrest at the Embassy per orders of the religious court. (Alexis Bledel as Beth Vest in "The Good Guy.")
Here, forced to stand in the Murgha position for "disobedience" and "belligerence" during questioning. (Unknown model.)
And here, bound by her wrists and stretched up on her toes in the public square, as an example to all blasphemers. (Julia I of MetArt.)
There are of course many other candidates on my "Potentials" list, all vying for a part that would make them a household name, just as "Fifty Shades of Grey" did for Dakota Johnson. Or at least she's a household name in like, North and South Dakota. However, as the site will only allow me to download ten images, I'll have to content myself with just two more:
The dark horse candidate, Kylie Quinn, a hardcore porn and bondage model. I recently discovered her on the Society SM site. I won't download bondage images of her since they're available only on the site. I think she's just as cute as a damn bug. And believe me, she looks great wearing nothing but rope.
And finally, the one KD had in mind all along anyway, Lol:
Keira Knightley is Sarah Fleming, trying to relax by the Embassy pool before trial.
First off, this is how Sarah Fleming appears at the beginning of the story as described by King Diocletian; dressed demurely in a navy blue skirt and white shirt:
(Japanese model Yumi Sugimoto)Now I realize Sarah is British and (I assume) occidental; still, I love the look.
My own first choice for the role would be Sarah Roemer. Not least because of the coincidence of the first name. I've heard this same thought expressed in many a crime and spy thriller: "Coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy." (Sherlock Holmes)
(Sarah Roemer as Scarlett Dowling in "Falling Up." Here as Sarah Fleming at an embassy function.) And here awaiting punishment in Le Craupadine. (Sarah Blake of Hogtied standing in for Sarah Roemer as Sarah Fleming. See how that works?)My second choice would be Alexis Bledel. I kinda have a thing for her anyway.
Here as Sarah Fleming receiving an update from the Embassy Official about the progress of the case against her. (Alexis Bledel as Ryden Maltby in "Postgrad." ) Here, as Sarah, doing some last minute shopping before submitting to house arrest at the Embassy per orders of the religious court. (Alexis Bledel as Beth Vest in "The Good Guy.") Here, forced to stand in the Murgha position for "disobedience" and "belligerence" during questioning. (Unknown model.) And here, bound by her wrists and stretched up on her toes in the public square, as an example to all blasphemers. (Julia I of MetArt.)There are of course many other candidates on my "Potentials" list, all vying for a part that would make them a household name, just as "Fifty Shades of Grey" did for Dakota Johnson. Or at least she's a household name in like, North and South Dakota. However, as the site will only allow me to download ten images, I'll have to content myself with just two more:
The dark horse candidate, Kylie Quinn, a hardcore porn and bondage model. I recently discovered her on the Society SM site. I won't download bondage images of her since they're available only on the site. I think she's just as cute as a damn bug. And believe me, she looks great wearing nothing but rope.And finally, the one KD had in mind all along anyway, Lol:
Keira Knightley is Sarah Fleming, trying to relax by the Embassy pool before trial.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
That night, I took my wife in my arms, thought of Sarah’s humiliation and had the best time we’d had in years. I visited Sarah the next day with Philip, my assistant. We were taken into a small, dusty room, the paint peeling from the walls, and told to sit on one side of the rough wooden table. We could talk to her but there was to be no physical contact and we couldn’t give her anything. A solider stood in each of the four corners of the room.
Four soldiers brought her in, wrists manacled behind her. She was wearing a dark grey dress that came down to mid-calf and accentuated her slenderness. They pushed her down into a chair facing us, unshackled her and, without a word, left. She rubbed her wrists mechanically then, finally, raised her head. Her eyes were ringed with red. She’d clearly cried a lot. She looked terrified.
“Are you all right?” I asked pathetically.
She gave a slight nod.
I told her there was no chance of a further appeal but that we were trying to apply political pressure to have the sentence reduced to the minimum possible. She nodded again. I asked her what had happened after they left the courtroom. Had she seen me? She spoke softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “They made me wait for ages then took me into a room and took the chains off,” she said. “There was a desk and a man behind it, lots of soldiers. They made me undress…”
Despite myself, I felt my cock begin to stiffen. “They searched me…” she went on.
“A cavity search?” It was important she thought I knew nothing.
He voice was uncertain as she answered, “Yes.” I thought of their hands poking her, prodding inside her. I was fully turned on. I made myself concentrate.
They’d given her the dress and then taken her to a cell. It was small and contained nothing but a narrow bed, a thin mattress and a blanket. “It was hot,” she said. “Really hot. I thought I might pass out if I didn’t get water. I banged on the door and asked and eventually a soldier came and slapped me and told me to be quiet.” When she needed to go to the toilet she had to do it in a drain at the back of the cell. So far, they’d left her alone other than bringing her water every now and again, and dinner and breakfast. The soldiers who’d brought had had taunted her, making the noise of a cane whipping through the air. They’d spat in her food.
There was nothing there we could protest about. I asked her about the cell, about the food. I told her to keep her spirits up, to try to exercise, to eat as much as she could. I asked again about health issues. What else could I do?
She asked me details. How would they flog her? What would it do to her? I had to be honest. I told her we had very little idea. She suggested apologising. I said we’d try that. I think even then I knew it was hopeless, that they’d decided that punishing the beautiful, delicate flower, this English girl, would be a message that they were serious, that they would apply the law to everybody. And of course it would be popular in the Republic: their government didn’t bow to the West.
I promised I’d try to find out more. I promised we’d keep working. There really wasn’t anything else we could do.
“Thank you,” she said softly as the guards shackled her again led her away at the end of our hour.
The sight of her leaving stayed with me, head slightly bowed, brown hair tumbling to her shoulders, her slender form accentuated by the rough dress, her ankles bare, her hands in chains. In bed that night I could think of little else, the little glance she gave, her big brown eyes red-rimmed as she looked back over her shoulder.
Four soldiers brought her in, wrists manacled behind her. She was wearing a dark grey dress that came down to mid-calf and accentuated her slenderness. They pushed her down into a chair facing us, unshackled her and, without a word, left. She rubbed her wrists mechanically then, finally, raised her head. Her eyes were ringed with red. She’d clearly cried a lot. She looked terrified.
“Are you all right?” I asked pathetically.
She gave a slight nod.
I told her there was no chance of a further appeal but that we were trying to apply political pressure to have the sentence reduced to the minimum possible. She nodded again. I asked her what had happened after they left the courtroom. Had she seen me? She spoke softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “They made me wait for ages then took me into a room and took the chains off,” she said. “There was a desk and a man behind it, lots of soldiers. They made me undress…”
Despite myself, I felt my cock begin to stiffen. “They searched me…” she went on.
“A cavity search?” It was important she thought I knew nothing.
He voice was uncertain as she answered, “Yes.” I thought of their hands poking her, prodding inside her. I was fully turned on. I made myself concentrate.
They’d given her the dress and then taken her to a cell. It was small and contained nothing but a narrow bed, a thin mattress and a blanket. “It was hot,” she said. “Really hot. I thought I might pass out if I didn’t get water. I banged on the door and asked and eventually a soldier came and slapped me and told me to be quiet.” When she needed to go to the toilet she had to do it in a drain at the back of the cell. So far, they’d left her alone other than bringing her water every now and again, and dinner and breakfast. The soldiers who’d brought had had taunted her, making the noise of a cane whipping through the air. They’d spat in her food.
There was nothing there we could protest about. I asked her about the cell, about the food. I told her to keep her spirits up, to try to exercise, to eat as much as she could. I asked again about health issues. What else could I do?
She asked me details. How would they flog her? What would it do to her? I had to be honest. I told her we had very little idea. She suggested apologising. I said we’d try that. I think even then I knew it was hopeless, that they’d decided that punishing the beautiful, delicate flower, this English girl, would be a message that they were serious, that they would apply the law to everybody. And of course it would be popular in the Republic: their government didn’t bow to the West.
I promised I’d try to find out more. I promised we’d keep working. There really wasn’t anything else we could do.
“Thank you,” she said softly as the guards shackled her again led her away at the end of our hour.
The sight of her leaving stayed with me, head slightly bowed, brown hair tumbling to her shoulders, her slender form accentuated by the rough dress, her ankles bare, her hands in chains. In bed that night I could think of little else, the little glance she gave, her big brown eyes red-rimmed as she looked back over her shoulder.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Ah, you know me so well...
King Diocletian
Magistrate
I went back to see Aziz on the Friday morning. He’d told me to get there early. I thought I detected a slight smirk in his voice. He took me into the prison, where the cells were. We went along in a long, gloomy corridor, lined with strong doors reinforced with metal. “The solitary cells,” he said. He stopped at one, and flipped up the peep hole. I looked in. She lay on the floor, curled in a foetal position.
“Where’s her bed?” I asked quietly. I didn’t want her to know I was there.
“She was disruptive, so it was taken away as punishment.”
“Disruptive?”
“She accused the guards of putting shit in her food.”
He took me for tea. As he handed me the glass I asked how many lashes she would get. Aziz smiled. “Well,” he said, “I think six is probably the minimum, but if there’s to be a punishment, I think it should be a proper one, don’t you?”
I nodded. I didn’t know why but I knew I wanted to see her beaten savagely. The thought of it excited me. This part of me had lain dormant for years. It disturbed me but I knew I wanted to see her suffer and I wanted it to be protracted.
“One cannot influence the courts, of course,” Aziz went on. “But I have a sense they are concerned she should not be seen to be getting an easy ride because she is British or because she is a woman.”
“Quite so,” I said.
He led me along another corridor and onto another viewing gallery. Beneath, through a thick grille evidently designed to allow those above to see what was below while remaining invisible themselves, I saw a large room partitioned down the middle. On one side was a series of benches and pegs, on the other a tiled area and a wall set with shower heads. We’d been there a couple of minutes when Sarah, wrists cuffed, was led in by four grim-faced female guards. They locked the door then uncuffed her.
They shouted at her and gestured for her to strip. I knew Aziz was smiling at me as I stared at her peeling the prison dress off, revealing again her slender, lean form, thse thin upper arms, the freckle in the centre of her back. As she hung her dress on a peg, a guard grabbed her upper arm and shoved her through the opening into the showers. Their roughness delighted me. There was something about her naked beauty stumbling over the concrete that stimulated my core. I watched her wash under a thin trickle of water that clearly wasn’t very arm, trying to generate a lather from a green gel she’d squeezed from a dispenser on the wall. The guards mocked her, making the whistling noise of a cane with their mouths and then adopting attitudes of agony, heads thrown back. Sarah’s face was a blank mask.
“Where’s her bed?” I asked quietly. I didn’t want her to know I was there.
“She was disruptive, so it was taken away as punishment.”
“Disruptive?”
“She accused the guards of putting shit in her food.”
He took me for tea. As he handed me the glass I asked how many lashes she would get. Aziz smiled. “Well,” he said, “I think six is probably the minimum, but if there’s to be a punishment, I think it should be a proper one, don’t you?”
I nodded. I didn’t know why but I knew I wanted to see her beaten savagely. The thought of it excited me. This part of me had lain dormant for years. It disturbed me but I knew I wanted to see her suffer and I wanted it to be protracted.
“One cannot influence the courts, of course,” Aziz went on. “But I have a sense they are concerned she should not be seen to be getting an easy ride because she is British or because she is a woman.”
“Quite so,” I said.
He led me along another corridor and onto another viewing gallery. Beneath, through a thick grille evidently designed to allow those above to see what was below while remaining invisible themselves, I saw a large room partitioned down the middle. On one side was a series of benches and pegs, on the other a tiled area and a wall set with shower heads. We’d been there a couple of minutes when Sarah, wrists cuffed, was led in by four grim-faced female guards. They locked the door then uncuffed her.
They shouted at her and gestured for her to strip. I knew Aziz was smiling at me as I stared at her peeling the prison dress off, revealing again her slender, lean form, thse thin upper arms, the freckle in the centre of her back. As she hung her dress on a peg, a guard grabbed her upper arm and shoved her through the opening into the showers. Their roughness delighted me. There was something about her naked beauty stumbling over the concrete that stimulated my core. I watched her wash under a thin trickle of water that clearly wasn’t very arm, trying to generate a lather from a green gel she’d squeezed from a dispenser on the wall. The guards mocked her, making the whistling noise of a cane with their mouths and then adopting attitudes of agony, heads thrown back. Sarah’s face was a blank mask.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
I walked over to her and put a hand on her upper arm. Her wrists were still shackled behind her. “Miss Fleming,” I said. “Be strong. We’ll help you through this.”
She looked at me, and fixed her sad brown eyes on me. I felt a stab of desire. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”
“Is it bad in there?”
“I’m OK,” she said, and I admired her toughness.
“Food OK?”
She nodded. “It’s OK.” Interesting. Maybe she was just too scared to speak up.
The judge, that weary little man, walked in and we stood. He gestured for us to sit. There was no ceremony. “Sarah Fleming,” he said, “I have considered your case and your appeal carefully. The crime of seditious blasphemy is a serious one and merits appropriate punishment. Please stand.”
Uneasily she got to her feet. “I had initially thought a punishment of 40 lashes would be appropriate.” Forty! She swayed and I thought she may faint. “However–” I felt a moment of acute disappointment. “However, the fact of your appeal suggests you are not reconciled to your guilt. I therefore sentence you to 60 lashes.”
“No!” she shouted. Sixty! I was both thrilled and appalled. Already the order had come to take her away and the soldiers were upon her, hustling her out of the courtroom.
Sixty!
She looked at me, and fixed her sad brown eyes on me. I felt a stab of desire. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”
“Is it bad in there?”
“I’m OK,” she said, and I admired her toughness.
“Food OK?”
She nodded. “It’s OK.” Interesting. Maybe she was just too scared to speak up.
The judge, that weary little man, walked in and we stood. He gestured for us to sit. There was no ceremony. “Sarah Fleming,” he said, “I have considered your case and your appeal carefully. The crime of seditious blasphemy is a serious one and merits appropriate punishment. Please stand.”
Uneasily she got to her feet. “I had initially thought a punishment of 40 lashes would be appropriate.” Forty! She swayed and I thought she may faint. “However–” I felt a moment of acute disappointment. “However, the fact of your appeal suggests you are not reconciled to your guilt. I therefore sentence you to 60 lashes.”
“No!” she shouted. Sixty! I was both thrilled and appalled. Already the order had come to take her away and the soldiers were upon her, hustling her out of the courtroom.
Sixty!
Jon Smithie
Tribune
I think we're missing a transition between the #30 and the #31 post, and I hate to miss anything. Sarah is in the shower and then we jump to the courtroom? Anyway, l'm looking forward to the continuation.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
I went to see her again on Saturday with Philip and Margaret. I’d done what research I could, not just talking to Aziz. It seemed it was very rare for women to be flogged at all and that 60 lashes was high, if not unprecedented for a single batch, although here were numerous cases of men getting hundreds, administered in blocks of 50 over a period of months or years. It seemed like the lashes would be administered to her back rather than her buttocks, although with the new regime it was hard to be certain. The canes were described as having to be as thick as a man’s thumb, although again we couldn’t tell if that was also true for women. Some sources suggested the floggers had to grip a copy of the holy book under their arms as they lashed the prisoner to restrict the force, but others didn’t. Nor was it clear whether she would be allowed to wear a dress. Certainly men were stripped to the waist. Did I think about seeing her breasts again, that freckle? I wish I could say I didn’t, but I did. She was the most desirable girl I’d ever met, of course I thought about it.
I told her all that and she sat quietly taking it all in, eerily resigned to what was going to happen. I had to be honest and admit our diplomatic efforts were failing. She nodded sadly. She seemed remarkably composed. I asked her to describe again what had happened after the sentencing, telling her I was looking for a loophole, a technicality we could use to gain a reprieve. I sensed Philip looking at me strangely. Perhaps he realised that I was doing this for my own benefit. But he said nothing.
She described the cell, the heat, the thirst. She described the room with the desk and the sergeant. The order to strip.
She described removing her shoes first, taking her clothes off slowly, her fingers stiff with tension, shaking so much she struggled with buttons. She was aware of everybody staring at her, or a silent anticipation in the room. She spoke of standing for a moment in her underclothes, terrified and humiliated, hoping for a reprieve then realising it wasn’t going to come and stripping naked. I made her explain how she’d unclipped her bra, the horror of the constant stares, of peeling down her panties. It was gratuitous; perhaps even she realised.
“Did you cover yourself?” I asked.
“Of course I did,” she said, voice wavering, the first sign of a loss of control.
“How?”
She looked away, biting her lower lip as she tried to hold back the tears. “I had my right arm over my… chest. And my left hand… down…”
I nodded with what I hoped looked liked sympathy. My cock was rock hard. “I was sort of bending forwards slightly… bending forward… backing away from them… and one of the soldiers slapped my bottom and I nearly fell… staggered forward and they pulled my hands away so they could all see me.”
I made her describe the search.
“They ran their fingers through my hair, looked in my nose, my ears, my mouth. The sergeant, he… he poked around… around… my breasts…” Instinctively I glanced at her chest, her gentle curves only hinted at beneath the dress. “Then they… they made me bend over… and… he…” She burst into tears. I wanted to hug her, but with no contact allowed I could only look on with concern and a raging erection. “He put his fingers… inside… front and back…” She broke down in sobs.
“What did you do?” I asked as gently as I could.
“I was crying. I felt so ashamed. And they were enjoying it. I knew they were talking about me. I understood enough of what they said.”
“Did you resist?”
“How could I? I was naked. There were 20 soldiers. They made me squat, made me jump.”
I nodded sadly.
“There are rats,” she said.
I winced sympathetically. There was nothing I could do. “We’ll keep trying,” I said, but we wouldn’t.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her that night. I prayed she’d be topless. I had to see those breasts again. I wanted to see her naked and beaten.
I told her all that and she sat quietly taking it all in, eerily resigned to what was going to happen. I had to be honest and admit our diplomatic efforts were failing. She nodded sadly. She seemed remarkably composed. I asked her to describe again what had happened after the sentencing, telling her I was looking for a loophole, a technicality we could use to gain a reprieve. I sensed Philip looking at me strangely. Perhaps he realised that I was doing this for my own benefit. But he said nothing.
She described the cell, the heat, the thirst. She described the room with the desk and the sergeant. The order to strip.
She described removing her shoes first, taking her clothes off slowly, her fingers stiff with tension, shaking so much she struggled with buttons. She was aware of everybody staring at her, or a silent anticipation in the room. She spoke of standing for a moment in her underclothes, terrified and humiliated, hoping for a reprieve then realising it wasn’t going to come and stripping naked. I made her explain how she’d unclipped her bra, the horror of the constant stares, of peeling down her panties. It was gratuitous; perhaps even she realised.
“Did you cover yourself?” I asked.
“Of course I did,” she said, voice wavering, the first sign of a loss of control.
“How?”
She looked away, biting her lower lip as she tried to hold back the tears. “I had my right arm over my… chest. And my left hand… down…”
I nodded with what I hoped looked liked sympathy. My cock was rock hard. “I was sort of bending forwards slightly… bending forward… backing away from them… and one of the soldiers slapped my bottom and I nearly fell… staggered forward and they pulled my hands away so they could all see me.”
I made her describe the search.
“They ran their fingers through my hair, looked in my nose, my ears, my mouth. The sergeant, he… he poked around… around… my breasts…” Instinctively I glanced at her chest, her gentle curves only hinted at beneath the dress. “Then they… they made me bend over… and… he…” She burst into tears. I wanted to hug her, but with no contact allowed I could only look on with concern and a raging erection. “He put his fingers… inside… front and back…” She broke down in sobs.
“What did you do?” I asked as gently as I could.
“I was crying. I felt so ashamed. And they were enjoying it. I knew they were talking about me. I understood enough of what they said.”
“Did you resist?”
“How could I? I was naked. There were 20 soldiers. They made me squat, made me jump.”
I nodded sadly.
“There are rats,” she said.
I winced sympathetically. There was nothing I could do. “We’ll keep trying,” I said, but we wouldn’t.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her that night. I prayed she’d be topless. I had to see those breasts again. I wanted to see her naked and beaten.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Another great story. Reminds me of the caning in interrogation 1. But 60! Wonderful!
King Diocletian
Magistrate
It was about 9am when I arrived at the prison with two other embassy staff – Philip and the formidable Margaret – and a doctor. Margaret had arranged for a local private hospital to provide an ambulance. It was already stiflingly hot, the sun beating from a cloudless sky. We were shown through to the courtyard. I’d expected something larger but it was just a square perhaps 40 yards by 30, hard mud baked by the sun and covered in a loose shale. Towards one end, on a small paved square was a thick concrete post perhaps three feet high with chains bolted to the top. There were already a number of soldiers there, and a couple of politicians I vaguely recognised. I saw Aziz and greeted him, but not too cordially.
Gradually the courtyard began to fill up. It was horrendously hot. I was glad I’d worn my straw hat, but I was sweating profusely. At about five to a group of senior priests arrived. Everybody gathered around three sides of that paved section. On the other side, that nearest the prison building, was a table with three chairs behind it. Just after ten, an officer, the judge and a man in a doctor’s coat came and sat down. A soldier placed beside them a tall bucket from which a sheaf of canes protruded. I felt a tightness in my chest: this was actually happening.
A large pair of double doors in the prison wall opened. Two soldiers emerged in their pale brown uniforms. Behind them came Sarah, looking terrified, clad in her grey dress with her wrists still manacled behind her. What had she gone through? What must it have been like, sitting on the floor in her cell overnight, waiting for this? A soldier held each arm, pushing her forward, making sure fear never made her stop. Behind them were three more pairs of soldiers. Ten guards for a slight woman in chains. They paused alongside the table. The judge made a pronouncement in the local language, announcing her sentence. A soldier unfastened her wrists, although the two holding her didn’t release their grasps for a second. She kept looking around, eyes darting this way and that as though seeking an escape. But there was none.
Another soldier, almost causally, unfastened the button at her neck. They were going to strip her. Barely had the thought formed in my mind than three of them had whisked the dress over her head. There was an appreciative murmur from the crowd. She was naked, shockingly white in the brightness. They pulled her forward to the post, her face a mask of shock. Her body seemed unnaturally thin alongside the uniformed burliness of the soldiers. One of them gave her a sharp shove to the shoulder and she yelped, stumbling slightly. Her breasts were delightfully pert, smooth and rounded and capped by deep red nipples that poked upwards.
There was laughter. I was surprised. I wondered if I’d misheard, but one of the soldiers said something and there was a guffaw. I’d imagined this would be a solemn event, one following sacred law, but the soldiers were clearly mocking her. She looked petrified, glancing around all the time as they grinned at her. They fastened her wrists to the chains in the post. There were thick leather cuffs at the end, each fastened by two buckles. She stood looking blankly at her hands as they fixed her, the post coming to a little above half way up her thighs so her narrow strip of pubic hair was clearly visible. She looked pathetic, vulnerable, her slender body pale in the sunlight. The back of her slim forearms rested on the post, the length of the chain forcing her to stoop slightly. I couldn’t, at that moment, have thought of a more erotic sight.
Aziz appeared beside me. “As the sentence is 60 lashes,” he explained, “they will be spread across the whole of the back of her body, from neck to knees.”
I nodded.
“And so she must be naked. It’s a mercy, really.”
Two soldiers stepped forwards and removed their jackets. They rolled up their sleeves and selected canes. She watched them, horror radiating from her eyes. They were big men, muscular men. They took the canes with an obvious expertise, weighing them in their hands, flexing them. They were perhaps four or five feet long, pale and whippy, as thick as a thumb. Part of me pitied her, feared for her. Another part of me couldn’t wait to see this. One of them swished the cane through the air in front of her. She flinched at the whoosh it made and there was more laughter. I could see her jaw tense, her lower lip trembling. They walked behind her, appraising her, making comments I couldn’t fully understand. Her hands lay open on the post, back slightly rounded, body bent slightly at her narrow hips.
Gradually the courtyard began to fill up. It was horrendously hot. I was glad I’d worn my straw hat, but I was sweating profusely. At about five to a group of senior priests arrived. Everybody gathered around three sides of that paved section. On the other side, that nearest the prison building, was a table with three chairs behind it. Just after ten, an officer, the judge and a man in a doctor’s coat came and sat down. A soldier placed beside them a tall bucket from which a sheaf of canes protruded. I felt a tightness in my chest: this was actually happening.
A large pair of double doors in the prison wall opened. Two soldiers emerged in their pale brown uniforms. Behind them came Sarah, looking terrified, clad in her grey dress with her wrists still manacled behind her. What had she gone through? What must it have been like, sitting on the floor in her cell overnight, waiting for this? A soldier held each arm, pushing her forward, making sure fear never made her stop. Behind them were three more pairs of soldiers. Ten guards for a slight woman in chains. They paused alongside the table. The judge made a pronouncement in the local language, announcing her sentence. A soldier unfastened her wrists, although the two holding her didn’t release their grasps for a second. She kept looking around, eyes darting this way and that as though seeking an escape. But there was none.
Another soldier, almost causally, unfastened the button at her neck. They were going to strip her. Barely had the thought formed in my mind than three of them had whisked the dress over her head. There was an appreciative murmur from the crowd. She was naked, shockingly white in the brightness. They pulled her forward to the post, her face a mask of shock. Her body seemed unnaturally thin alongside the uniformed burliness of the soldiers. One of them gave her a sharp shove to the shoulder and she yelped, stumbling slightly. Her breasts were delightfully pert, smooth and rounded and capped by deep red nipples that poked upwards.
There was laughter. I was surprised. I wondered if I’d misheard, but one of the soldiers said something and there was a guffaw. I’d imagined this would be a solemn event, one following sacred law, but the soldiers were clearly mocking her. She looked petrified, glancing around all the time as they grinned at her. They fastened her wrists to the chains in the post. There were thick leather cuffs at the end, each fastened by two buckles. She stood looking blankly at her hands as they fixed her, the post coming to a little above half way up her thighs so her narrow strip of pubic hair was clearly visible. She looked pathetic, vulnerable, her slender body pale in the sunlight. The back of her slim forearms rested on the post, the length of the chain forcing her to stoop slightly. I couldn’t, at that moment, have thought of a more erotic sight.
Aziz appeared beside me. “As the sentence is 60 lashes,” he explained, “they will be spread across the whole of the back of her body, from neck to knees.”
I nodded.
“And so she must be naked. It’s a mercy, really.”
Two soldiers stepped forwards and removed their jackets. They rolled up their sleeves and selected canes. She watched them, horror radiating from her eyes. They were big men, muscular men. They took the canes with an obvious expertise, weighing them in their hands, flexing them. They were perhaps four or five feet long, pale and whippy, as thick as a thumb. Part of me pitied her, feared for her. Another part of me couldn’t wait to see this. One of them swished the cane through the air in front of her. She flinched at the whoosh it made and there was more laughter. I could see her jaw tense, her lower lip trembling. They walked behind her, appraising her, making comments I couldn’t fully understand. Her hands lay open on the post, back slightly rounded, body bent slightly at her narrow hips.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
The judge gave the order to proceed. The left-handed one, a shaven-headed leering man, went first. His stroke was beyond belief. He actually took a run up. Three paces, a slight jump, and a ferocious lash that struck across the middle of her back with a sickening whump. I was standing at about 10 o’clock as she looked, so her body slightly blocked my view, but the power was obvious. She jerked forwards, breasts bobbing, her eyes wide but the only noise she gave was a slight cough. It was as though she was stunned by the force of the blow. There was a gentle “Oooh” from the crowd, as though it too was startled by the violence of the stroke, then the judge called ‘One!” in the local language. I thought she might collapse, but she just straightened slightly, face blank.
The right-hander flexed the cane. He flicked his wrists slightly, sending a ripple down the cane, the tip shaking violently. He strode in deliberately and lashed hard, across her shoulder blades. Her head jerked up, eyes bulging, but she remained silent, mouth opening and closing in apparent disbelief. They waited between strokes, toying with her. The wait was hideous. She seemed to be in shock, standing still, slightly hunched, palely beautiful. I started to move around. Arousing as the sight of her breasts was, I wanted to see what the canes were doing to her back.
She was astonishingly slim. I was side on to her when the fourth struck. The cane was so flexible that the tip reached round and bit into the skin of her ribcage. She gave an agonised gasp. It sounded almost as though she’d strangled a laugh, but she was trembling and I saw a little bead of blood begin to run down her flank. Her skin was so pure as to be almost luminous, her delicacy extraordinary: she was the picture of Englishness. The fifth was laid diagonally across her back. I saw how the muscles contracted, saw her flinch. She shouted this time, a desperate shout of, “No!” as her shoulders jerked up and her breasts trembled.
I was shocked by the severity of the welts. I suppose I’d expected smooth lines, but these were savage blows that left ugly wheals, pale stripes marked either side by jagged lines of deep red across that pale slender back, opening out into great blotches. Already there was blood. The sixth almost knocked her off her feet. She gave an agonised gasp, head snapping up. Her fingers clutched at the air and she seemed unable to breathe. There was more ribaldry from the soldiers and they seemed to wait even longer before the seventh was delivered, a terrible blow just above her waistline. I was struck by something I’d read in researching her punishment about the dangers of lashes inflicted around the kidneys, but they didn’t seem to care.
Her back seemed incredibly tiny, too small a canvas to take these blows. The eighth struck obliquely down, ripping off a patch of skin perhaps two inches in diameter. I heard the crowd’s shudder first, then her shriek of anguish. There was open laughter from the soldiers. I felt suddenly I needed to see her face, to understand her suffering. I hastened round towards where the judge sat, counting the lashes. She was propped forward on the post, the backs of her forearms resting in the top of it, hands shaking, face uplifted, eyes closed. The ninth blow was aimed low, cutting across the middle of her thighs. It was the worst scream yet. Her knees buckled, which seemed to emphasise her slightness. Her hands grasped the chains and she looked up, desperately, shaking. I saw thw priests huddled together, talking, discussing her, one of the grinning broadly at the spectacle. The next blow was aimed in almost the same place. Her fingers clawed at the far side of the column, pulling herself up slightly, torso hunched over the post so her breasts hung down deliciously. There was laughter from the soldiers, clearly appreciating the change of angle.
The floggers went up again, the next blow crashing into the area just below her armpit, hitting her arm as well. She was knocked sideways, spittle flying from her mouth, but somehow she stayed up. The same place on the other side and she staggered back. Then they went low again, just below her buttocks and, as the count hit fourteen, she slowly subsided, falling to her knees. There was laughter. I suspected they’d bet on who would be the first to knock her down. But there was no respite, a fearsome blow across the top of her shoulders knocking her sideways, before a matching blow going the other way flattened her completely so her hung by her wrists, body limply dangling, her legs splayed on the tiles.
The right-hander flexed the cane. He flicked his wrists slightly, sending a ripple down the cane, the tip shaking violently. He strode in deliberately and lashed hard, across her shoulder blades. Her head jerked up, eyes bulging, but she remained silent, mouth opening and closing in apparent disbelief. They waited between strokes, toying with her. The wait was hideous. She seemed to be in shock, standing still, slightly hunched, palely beautiful. I started to move around. Arousing as the sight of her breasts was, I wanted to see what the canes were doing to her back.
She was astonishingly slim. I was side on to her when the fourth struck. The cane was so flexible that the tip reached round and bit into the skin of her ribcage. She gave an agonised gasp. It sounded almost as though she’d strangled a laugh, but she was trembling and I saw a little bead of blood begin to run down her flank. Her skin was so pure as to be almost luminous, her delicacy extraordinary: she was the picture of Englishness. The fifth was laid diagonally across her back. I saw how the muscles contracted, saw her flinch. She shouted this time, a desperate shout of, “No!” as her shoulders jerked up and her breasts trembled.
I was shocked by the severity of the welts. I suppose I’d expected smooth lines, but these were savage blows that left ugly wheals, pale stripes marked either side by jagged lines of deep red across that pale slender back, opening out into great blotches. Already there was blood. The sixth almost knocked her off her feet. She gave an agonised gasp, head snapping up. Her fingers clutched at the air and she seemed unable to breathe. There was more ribaldry from the soldiers and they seemed to wait even longer before the seventh was delivered, a terrible blow just above her waistline. I was struck by something I’d read in researching her punishment about the dangers of lashes inflicted around the kidneys, but they didn’t seem to care.
Her back seemed incredibly tiny, too small a canvas to take these blows. The eighth struck obliquely down, ripping off a patch of skin perhaps two inches in diameter. I heard the crowd’s shudder first, then her shriek of anguish. There was open laughter from the soldiers. I felt suddenly I needed to see her face, to understand her suffering. I hastened round towards where the judge sat, counting the lashes. She was propped forward on the post, the backs of her forearms resting in the top of it, hands shaking, face uplifted, eyes closed. The ninth blow was aimed low, cutting across the middle of her thighs. It was the worst scream yet. Her knees buckled, which seemed to emphasise her slightness. Her hands grasped the chains and she looked up, desperately, shaking. I saw thw priests huddled together, talking, discussing her, one of the grinning broadly at the spectacle. The next blow was aimed in almost the same place. Her fingers clawed at the far side of the column, pulling herself up slightly, torso hunched over the post so her breasts hung down deliciously. There was laughter from the soldiers, clearly appreciating the change of angle.
The floggers went up again, the next blow crashing into the area just below her armpit, hitting her arm as well. She was knocked sideways, spittle flying from her mouth, but somehow she stayed up. The same place on the other side and she staggered back. Then they went low again, just below her buttocks and, as the count hit fourteen, she slowly subsided, falling to her knees. There was laughter. I suspected they’d bet on who would be the first to knock her down. But there was no respite, a fearsome blow across the top of her shoulders knocking her sideways, before a matching blow going the other way flattened her completely so her hung by her wrists, body limply dangling, her legs splayed on the tiles.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Soldiers hastened forward. They shouted at her and hauled her up, their hands on her arms and torso, groping where I longed to explore. I looked at Philip, who had followed me as I’d walked around. I wondered what he thought, if he was getting the same thrill at seeing her naked, humiliated, dominated like this, but his face was blank. Realising I was looking at him, he shook his head. “It’s barbaric,” he said. I nodded.
They began again. I circled back behind her. It was unimaginably brutal. There was no, I don’t know, finesse, just strong men hitting a frightened young woman as hard as they could with terrifying weapons that streaked through the air, flexing alarmingly. I began to wander back to see the damage to her back and buttocks. She was struggling, roaring now with pain, shaking terribly. She clung to the far side of the post, bent almost at ninety degrees, breasts pushed into the stone. Her position seemed to invite lashes to her buttocks and they delivered them. By the time I was behind her again the count was at twenty-four strokes. Her buttocks were streaked scarlet, her thighs marked with three clear stripes. Her back, meanwhile, was in an even worse state, reddish-purple lines mixing with blotches of bruising and patches where the skin had broken and blood was oozing out. They were destroying her.
The left-hander swept in again, crashing his cane down on her back, which was almost parallel to the ground. You could hear the air being driven out of her and her legs twitched. There was more laughter and I realised it was the sight of her most intimate areas that had provoked it. The right-hander laid one hard on her shoulders and I saw a spray of blood flick up. Her legs trembled and I suspected she was about to fall, but the left-hander made sure with a ferocious drive into her lower thighs.
She lay on the tiles, legs slightly bent, hips just sustained from the ground by the way her arms hung from the chains. Her back was bent concave, breasts pushed out and stretched. They gave her three more lashes in that position, each crashing fearfully into her pale back, the muscles twitching and contracting. She was sobbing, head resting on her right arm, the strength seeming beaten from her.
At 30, they paused and a doctor examined her. I looked across at our doctor, who stood next to Margaret and was shaking his head sadly. But the local medic, after a cursory check of her pulse pronounced her fit to continue.
Two soldiers lifted her, murmuring insults I couldn’t hear. She groaned as they got her to her feet, clutching the chains, leaning on the top of the post. Two different floggers stepped forwards with fresh canes. The others returned to the group of soldiers, taking their congratulations, slapping hands, joking. Sarah looked dazed, staring blankly at the ground a few yards in front of the post. The new floggers flexed their canes, swished them, taunting her. Then at the judge’s order they began again.
There was no let up in the savagery. Vicious blow followed vicious blow, knocking her one way then the other. It was brutal but I was turned on by it, this ridiculous sight of a slim pale girl being subjected to the most ferocious punishment by huge men. She began to retch, fingers desperately clutching at the post. They paused, and then the right-hander delivered a blow with obvious relish to her upper thighs. There seemed to be a particular delight among the soldiers for that lower stroke. She clung desperately to the chains, her knees knocking together, her ungainliness making her seem somehow even more vulnerable. The next, the 38th, smashed into her buttocks, drawing blood, and with a gasp she collapsed.
She knelt briefly, arms up as though in prayer, a slash down her back flaying a broad strip of skin from her left shoulder-blade. Her head tipped back, mouth wide in silent agony, hair spilling over her back as she leaned away from the post, knees pressed hard against it. Her breasts in that pose looked exquisite, raised in the sunlight, gleaming with sweat. The right hander whipped round under her arm-pit, the tip of the cane biting into the side of her right breast. She roared in pain, body snapping into alertness.
They began again. I circled back behind her. It was unimaginably brutal. There was no, I don’t know, finesse, just strong men hitting a frightened young woman as hard as they could with terrifying weapons that streaked through the air, flexing alarmingly. I began to wander back to see the damage to her back and buttocks. She was struggling, roaring now with pain, shaking terribly. She clung to the far side of the post, bent almost at ninety degrees, breasts pushed into the stone. Her position seemed to invite lashes to her buttocks and they delivered them. By the time I was behind her again the count was at twenty-four strokes. Her buttocks were streaked scarlet, her thighs marked with three clear stripes. Her back, meanwhile, was in an even worse state, reddish-purple lines mixing with blotches of bruising and patches where the skin had broken and blood was oozing out. They were destroying her.
The left-hander swept in again, crashing his cane down on her back, which was almost parallel to the ground. You could hear the air being driven out of her and her legs twitched. There was more laughter and I realised it was the sight of her most intimate areas that had provoked it. The right-hander laid one hard on her shoulders and I saw a spray of blood flick up. Her legs trembled and I suspected she was about to fall, but the left-hander made sure with a ferocious drive into her lower thighs.
She lay on the tiles, legs slightly bent, hips just sustained from the ground by the way her arms hung from the chains. Her back was bent concave, breasts pushed out and stretched. They gave her three more lashes in that position, each crashing fearfully into her pale back, the muscles twitching and contracting. She was sobbing, head resting on her right arm, the strength seeming beaten from her.
At 30, they paused and a doctor examined her. I looked across at our doctor, who stood next to Margaret and was shaking his head sadly. But the local medic, after a cursory check of her pulse pronounced her fit to continue.
Two soldiers lifted her, murmuring insults I couldn’t hear. She groaned as they got her to her feet, clutching the chains, leaning on the top of the post. Two different floggers stepped forwards with fresh canes. The others returned to the group of soldiers, taking their congratulations, slapping hands, joking. Sarah looked dazed, staring blankly at the ground a few yards in front of the post. The new floggers flexed their canes, swished them, taunting her. Then at the judge’s order they began again.
There was no let up in the savagery. Vicious blow followed vicious blow, knocking her one way then the other. It was brutal but I was turned on by it, this ridiculous sight of a slim pale girl being subjected to the most ferocious punishment by huge men. She began to retch, fingers desperately clutching at the post. They paused, and then the right-hander delivered a blow with obvious relish to her upper thighs. There seemed to be a particular delight among the soldiers for that lower stroke. She clung desperately to the chains, her knees knocking together, her ungainliness making her seem somehow even more vulnerable. The next, the 38th, smashed into her buttocks, drawing blood, and with a gasp she collapsed.
She knelt briefly, arms up as though in prayer, a slash down her back flaying a broad strip of skin from her left shoulder-blade. Her head tipped back, mouth wide in silent agony, hair spilling over her back as she leaned away from the post, knees pressed hard against it. Her breasts in that pose looked exquisite, raised in the sunlight, gleaming with sweat. The right hander whipped round under her arm-pit, the tip of the cane biting into the side of her right breast. She roared in pain, body snapping into alertness.
The Beast
Governor
Sarah will remember this experience to rest of her life. Of course if she will survive. Very good story.
I wonder what will be after her punishment. Maybe Sarah should stand an activist fighting for women's rights and show everywhere her back, how Muslims are bestial. Of course we should read the descriptions of these presentations, which will also confirm the narrator
.
. I wonder what will be after her punishment. Maybe Sarah should stand an activist fighting for women's rights and show everywhere her back, how Muslims are bestial. Of course we should read the descriptions of these presentations, which will also confirm the narrator
.