The Witch must Atone and Burn

[Rupert_137]

I actually didn't want to write another witch story, but sometimes things turn out differently...

Isn't it enough, my witch trilogy, added by the sad story about the gruesome end of the brave Joan of Arc at the stake (Whom the Bell tolls)?
Yes, actually it's enough, but then I wrote another story for the German Conversation over Easter and I thought, why not for everyone?
I hope, after two years break of witchcraft from me, you will like this story too...

The Witch must Atone and Burn

A historical fantasy from the Teutoburg Forest

By Rupert based on an idea by Mikka Tornesch

(Original title: The Burnt Daughter / Die verbrannte Tochter)


​

Notes on the present story​

his story is based on an excerpt from the historical fantasy novel by Mikka Tornesch, which is entitled “The Burnt Daughter” / “Die verbrannte Tochter”. The text has been completely reworked, significantly expanded from the present excerpt and woven into an overall story, but it still adheres to the central theme of the original story. The location of the action and the main characters were adopted but many details were changed.

At Easter 2024, this story was published for the German readers of the Crux Forums (German Conversation). The story has now been translated into English for the whole forum and revised a little more.

​

What awaits you? A largely serious but at the same time fantastic witch story that focuses neither on the torture in the dungeon (some intense flashbacks) nor on the funeral pyre (the final countdown), but rather focuses on the painful and humiliating public penance of the young witch before her execution.

The actual story is divided into 12 chapters and starts tomorrow

 

[gerembeau]

Can't wait !

 

[messaline]

I was just posting another one, but a little ...

www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/sorceress.11181/#post-863874

 

[thecuriousone]

Curious

 

[Rupert_137]

I. Prologue - In the Dungeon

1. Dark Memories​

Dorothy, whose real name was Eta Dorothea Brand, sat huddled on some straw on the still hard floor of her gloomy cell. She was sentenced to a particularly painful death. Due to the power of men in the society in which she lived, added by the nefarious influence of her stepmother. Her accusation was of witchcraft! The law was strict and there were special regulations for witch trials that further limited her rights as defendant. Even a suspicion was enough to force confessions under torture.

All charges were based on her gender. As a woman, she was considered to be particularly seducable, even seducable by the devil. And with his help a woman was even capable of magic. But if she could really do magic, she would have freed herself, would have broken her chains, opened her prison...

Dorothy chained in tribulation​

There were a few more reasons that contributed to her misery and that of many other accused witches – but Dorothy didn't know anything about it. Widespread superstition, the lack of understanding of the processes in nature, a deterioration in the climate that frequently caused crop failures and hardship, not least the erroneous translation of the Bible, where among the crimes that deserve death, the 'sorcerer' (more male) suddenly became a 'witch' (purely female).

It was said that witches did their evil magic in secret, so there could be no clear evidence that an accident or a storm was caused by witchcraft. But because witchcraft was considered a great threat to humans and animals, hidden clues had to be followed up. And because all the witches lied during interrogation, they had to be tortured so that they would admit the 'truth', i.e. their guilt. What made things even more difficult was that the interrogators were also fighting the devil at every amicable or painful questioning...

A dream of being untroubled and free – unfulfillable for Dorothy​

Dorothy was a beautiful young woman who could expect a rich inheritance from her father. Unless she could be excluded as an heiress... And what would be a better way than to accuse her of being a witch. At that time, this was allowed to happen completely anonymously, without the denounced woman or the public knowing anything about the author of the malicious accusations.

Her misfortune and misery began shortly after All Saints' Day in 1652, when she was arrested by a witch commissioner accompanied by a few guards, locked in a dungeon and left alone in her distress. She only left her cell for her many interrogations.

In her cell she had to spend her days crouching on the floor and sleep her nights on the thin straw. A tiny window below the ceiling was barred and gave her only dim light, the cell door was made of solid oak, her right foot always hung on a chain that was anchored in the masonry. Now that it was winter, it was cold in her cell and she was only dressed in rags. She had to eat from a tin bowl and wash herself with the little water that was available to her in a jug and which she also had to use for drinking. She had to relieve herself over a piss pot that stood in a corner and, like the straw, was rarely replaced. Soon she felt so dirty. From a sheltered life, Dorothy fell deeply into misery.

The guards treated her in a derogatory way because she was considered a witch. At first they were very restrained, but gradually they lost their inhibitions. Soon she got special services – a little more bread, water for washing, fresh straw – only in exchange for Dorothy's favors. "Give me a witch's kiss… But don't dare casting a spell on me!", they demanded, or "Show me your naughty boobs!", "Play with you, witch!" This became the order of the day.

But the interrogations were much worse and filled her with fear… Always the same questions about when and where she met the devil and how she got involved with him. The demand to confess absurd things. The threat of torture if she wouldn't be insightful. And then the horrific agony when she was really tortured.

The frightened Dorothy is taken in for questioning​

Dorothy's pleas for her to believe that she never had anything to do with witchcraft and the devil went unheard. “You lie, for you bear the mark of the devil at your left breast, and you were seen gathering witch herbs in the forest and moor...” "Who saw me?" Her question remained unanswered.

“All witches claim their innocence, but in the end they confess,” it was said. "The pain will help you renounce the devil."
No, the pain drove her to despair.

 

[Loinclothslave]

But if she could really do magic, she would have freed herself, would have broken her chains, opened her prison...

That’s why witches must always be kept in irons- it’s well known a witch cannot cast any spell whilst in iron bondage

And because all the witches lied during interrogation, they had to be tortured so that they would admit the 'truth', i.e. their guilt.

Exactly right, it’s called justice and why there’s no falsely accused witches, they all confessed in the end

locked in a dungeon and left alone in her distress. She only left her cell for her many interrogations.

See, merciful inquisition gives her frequent workouts for her fitness

Now that it was winter, it was cold in her cell and she was only dressed in rags.

It’s normally cold in winter, you should have prepared by dressing in better rags

Soon she felt so dirty.

Dirty witches don’t deserve baths or a change of clothes

No, the pain drove her to despair.

At the bottom of the deep pit of despair she might be blessed to find acceptance of her fated doom!

———————————————

Bloody nice stuff, Rupert, I look forward to more. Did you really write this so fast in the lead up to Easter for a chat group? Impressive!

I’m of course reading this identifying as Dorothy!

 

[Rupert_137]

Did you really write this so fast in the lead up to Easter for a chat group?

Yes, I actually spontaneously rewrote the template - an excerpt from a 'historical fantasy' - into a new and complete story - why?
Just because someone in the 'German Conversation' wished 'a good story' again.
I know that was foolish...
There are stories I've started that I just can't finish because I think there's still something essential missing...
And then I see a picture (A Public Flogging) or read a text (this story) and spontaneously start posting a story that I never had planned.

With your short text excerpts you describe very well the vicious circle of witch hunts in the early Modern Period

It is strange how few people at that time realized that the devil did not seduce the women and turned them into witches, but that he had gained influence over the thoughts and actions of the inquisitors and witch commissioners!

 

[Loinclothslave]

why?

Because I think it’s quite amazing and you’ve done extremely well to do that almost on a whim!

Maybe I am also jealous!

—————————

Oh, it was a terribly vicious circle, self-perpetuating. I’m afraid history is far too full of examples of horrible injustices.

Great fuel for our specific dark erotic fantasies!

 

[Rupert_137]

2. Things are getting worse​

Things would get even worse now and the young woman was terrified of what to expect, even though she had already endured the cruel torture. And she wanted to live, not die – and she certainly didn't want to burn alive.

She knew that to curse loudly at this hour was to blaspheme God; that would be a great outrage. But fortunately no one could hear her inner voice, these cries of torment, suffering, distress; this roar for justice and for love. Soon her heart would stop beating because this was the day she was supposed to die. She would burn at the stake in a horrible way, but it wouldn't even stop there.

The sandstone steps of the dungeon were cold in the morning, eager to make her feel like she no longer had the right to live in a kind world. Barefoot, the battered woman climbed step by step out of her cellar dungeon. Up towards the light, into hopelessness. The coarse, dirty smock scratched against her sore skin. How she would have liked to take it off and replace it with one of her soft dresses. And yet she was afraid of the moment when the executioner would tear this shameful smock from her body and present her completely naked to the waiting people.

For a long time, in Altenbeken on the edge of the Teutoburg Forest, no woman had been brought to the place of execution to publicly humiliate and punish her, let alone to burn a witch alive. The bells had just begun to ring to announce the tenth hour of the morning. The condemned woman was sure that the place of execution would be crowded with spectators who wanted to see her. Two hours were allotted for the spectacle before her sinful body would be handed over to the cleansing fire at midday.

When the prison's front door was pushed open, the bright light blinded her. Because her eyes were used to the darkness, Dorothy had to squint. 'Was that the holy splendor of heaven or the glare of purgatory?' the young woman asked herself.

She stopped in surprise. A powerful blow to her buttocks with the shaft of a halberd sent her falling forward onto her knees. She almost screamed. A hand immediately clutched her hair. She was mercilessly pulled upwards. Her knees burned, torn and bleeding from the fall; her scalp ached from the brutal pulling on her hair. Moaning she carefully placed her first bare foot in the cold snow.

"Hurry up, witch, the hangman and the people are waiting for you!" The guards dragged her further.

It was January 7, 1653, the day after the Three Kings. The day of fulfillment of her fate, just four years after the end of the Thirty Years' War, which had devastated Germany but largely spared her homeland. Now the misery was over, or so she thought at the age of 17, but now she was 21 and everything was conspiring against her. Basically she had Christmas to thank for it, otherwise the executioner would have picked her up and executed her two weeks ago.

Dorothy Brand was a well-built, medium-sized young woman, born almost exactly twenty-one years ago. Not much was left of her beautifully rounded body after the long imprisonment and torture. Now she looked bruised and emaciated. Her tits had also become a little slacker, but they still pressed cheekily against the rough material. Hardly anything was visible of her soft, rounded cheeks. Her blue-grey eyes looked straight ahead, tired and fearful, as she was led to the witch's cart that was waiting for her. Her once sensual, soft mouth with wide, beautifully curved lips was rough and torn open at some places.

Dorothy knew she no longer looked beautiful like she used to and she was ashamed of it. But a witch wasn't allowed to be beautiful. Now she largely fulfilled the image people had of a witch. She was only made to this through torture and imprisonment in the dungeon, where she was locked up for weeks. The only pride they had left her with was her long, brown-blonde hair, which was now disheveled, greasy and hung in strands down the front of her breasts, which roots her smock didn't even hide. But her hair would soon burn at the stake. A horror for her, but a spectacle for the spectators.

They did not shave her head or her pubic hair because they found small, dark birthmarks on each of her breasts. These moles were immediately identified as unmistakable signs of the devil by the zealous witch commissionaires who carried out the investigation.

Two small marks on her breasts are enough to prove Dorothy’s guilt being kissed by the devil
Whoever searches... will find!​

“The devil kissed you there!” The usual needle test was not even carried out. “It may take years for the devil's mark to become completely bloodless and painless, and this witch is still young,” it was said. “A dark mark on both of her perky tits that’s proof enough!”

She was spared the painful witch pricking. Nevertheless, the important clue was found: the devil had marked Dorothy as a witch. Just as peasants marked their farm animals with a brand, so did the devil with his servants too, usually kissing them at intimate places, at least that's what people thought the time.

“Get off your clothes – everything!”

Even without a needle test, Dorothy had to endure a shameful strip search. She had to undress and present herself completely naked to the two witch commissioners, a torturer, a guard and a scribe. It was so humiliating and shameful.

Dorothy protested, but it was said: "As a witch you must not hide anything from us... and naked it will be easier for you to find the truth."

“Get off your clothes – everything!” Dorothy has to endure a very shameful examination​

She had to keep her hands over her head and her legs wide open. All eyes stared at her, fingers glided over her bare skin, especially on her sensitive areas: under her armpits, on her breasts, on her pubic mound, between her legs and her buttocks. Intrusive fingers squeezed her breasts, played with her nipples, pushed into her vulva; rough hands pulled her ass cheeks apart, they pinched her buttocks. Everywhere they looked for the mark that the devil had left on her body.

The inspectors quickly found the two moles at her breasts, but they took their time and continued looking and searching. They wouldn't be able to shamelessly examine a young witch like Dorothy again any time soon...

The young woman had previously been proud of her perky breasts, which pushed through every shirt with often hardened nipples that were sometimes clearly visible. She liked to play with these buds because they were so easily excited. And the small moles? She thought these little spots to be teasing.

But now she cursed these moles, as well as her pointy tits and cheeky nipples, which she couldn't control if she wanted it. Her nipples always hardened in the cool air, or when rough, intrusive men's hands played badly with her easily excited buds.

The small moles were considered evidence. But Dorothy secretly blamed her breasts altogether for her being accused and convicted of witchcraft.

Witch pricking with a long test needle to identify the mark of the devil on the body of a suspected witch


Matthew Hopkins' original witch-pricking pin, 15 cm long
(English witch hunter around the time of this story)​

 

[thehangingtree]

2. Things are getting worse​

Things would get even worse now and the young woman was terrified of what to expect, even though she had already endured the cruel torture. And she wanted to live, not die – and she certainly didn't want to burn alive.

She knew that to curse loudly at this hour was to blaspheme God; that would be a great outrage. But fortunately no one could hear her inner voice, these cries of torment, suffering, distress; this roar for justice and for love. Soon her heart would stop beating because this was the day she was supposed to die. She would burn at the stake in a horrible way, but it wouldn't even stop there.

The sandstone steps of the dungeon were cold in the morning, eager to make her feel like she no longer had the right to live in a kind world. Barefoot, the battered woman climbed step by step out of her cellar dungeon. Up towards the light, into hopelessness. The coarse, dirty smock scratched against her sore skin. How she would have liked to take it off and replace it with one of her soft dresses. And yet she was afraid of the moment when the executioner would tear this shameful smock from her body and present her completely naked to the waiting people.

For a long time, in Altenbeken on the edge of the Teutoburg Forest, no woman had been brought to the place of execution to publicly humiliate and punish her, let alone to burn a witch alive. The bells had just begun to ring to announce the tenth hour of the morning. The condemned woman was sure that the place of execution would be crowded with spectators who wanted to see her. Two hours were allotted for the spectacle before her sinful body would be handed over to the cleansing fire at midday.

When the prison's front door was pushed open, the bright light blinded her. Because her eyes were used to the darkness, Dorothy had to squint. 'Was that the holy splendor of heaven or the glare of purgatory?' the young woman asked herself.

She stopped in surprise. A powerful blow to her buttocks with the shaft of a halberd sent her falling forward onto her knees. She almost screamed. A hand immediately clutched her hair. She was mercilessly pulled upwards. Her knees burned, torn and bleeding from the fall; her scalp ached from the brutal pulling on her hair. Moaning she carefully placed her first bare foot in the cold snow.

"Hurry up, witch, the hangman and the people are waiting for you!" The guards dragged her further.

It was January 7, 1653, the day after the Three Kings. The day of fulfillment of her fate, just four years after the end of the Thirty Years' War, which had devastated Germany but largely spared her homeland. Now the misery was over, or so she thought at the age of 17, but now she was 21 and everything was conspiring against her. Basically she had Christmas to thank for it, otherwise the executioner would have picked her up and executed her two weeks ago.

Dorothy Brand was a well-built, medium-sized young woman, born almost exactly twenty-one years ago. Not much was left of her beautifully rounded body after the long imprisonment and torture. Now she looked bruised and emaciated. Her tits had also become a little slacker, but they still pressed cheekily against the rough material. Hardly anything was visible of her soft, rounded cheeks. Her blue-grey eyes looked straight ahead, tired and fearful, as she was led to the witch's cart that was waiting for her. Her once sensual, soft mouth with wide, beautifully curved lips was rough and torn open at some places.

Dorothy knew she no longer looked beautiful like she used to and she was ashamed of it. But a witch wasn't allowed to be beautiful. Now she largely fulfilled the image people had of a witch. She was only made to this through torture and imprisonment in the dungeon, where she was locked up for weeks. The only pride they had left her with was her long, brown-blonde hair, which was now disheveled, greasy and hung in strands down the front of her breasts, which roots her smock didn't even hide. But her hair would soon burn at the stake. A horror for her, but a spectacle for the spectators.

They did not shave her head or her pubic hair because they found small, dark birthmarks on each of her breasts. These moles were immediately identified as unmistakable signs of the devil by the zealous witch commissionaires who carried out the investigation.

View attachment 1460466
Two small marks on her breasts are enough to prove Dorothy’s guilt being kissed by the devil
Whoever searches... will find!​

“The devil kissed you there!” The usual needle test was not even carried out. “It may take years for the devil's mark to become completely bloodless and painless, and this witch is still young,” it was said. “A dark mark on both of her perky tits that’s proof enough!”

She was spared the painful witch pricking. Nevertheless, the important clue was found: the devil had marked Dorothy as a witch. Just as peasants marked their farm animals with a brand, so did the devil with his servants too, usually kissing them at intimate places, at least that's what people thought the time.

“Get off your clothes – everything!”

Even without a needle test, Dorothy had to endure a shameful strip search. She had to undress and present herself completely naked to the two witch commissioners, a torturer, a guard and a scribe. It was so humiliating and shameful.

Dorothy protested, but it was said: "As a witch you must not hide anything from us... and naked it will be easier for you to find the truth."

View attachment 1460467
“Get off your clothes – everything!” Dorothy has to endure a very shameful examination​

She had to keep her hands over her head and her legs wide open. All eyes stared at her, fingers glided over her bare skin, especially on her sensitive areas: under her armpits, on her breasts, on her pubic mound, between her legs and her buttocks. Intrusive fingers squeezed her breasts, played with her nipples, pushed into her vulva; rough hands pulled her ass cheeks apart, they pinched her buttocks. Everywhere they looked for the mark that the devil had left on her body.

The inspectors quickly found the two moles at her breasts, but they took their time and continued looking and searching. They wouldn't be able to shamelessly examine a young witch like Dorothy again any time soon...

The young woman had previously been proud of her perky breasts, which pushed through every shirt with often hardened nipples that were sometimes clearly visible. She liked to play with these buds because they were so easily excited. And the small moles? She thought these little spots to be teasing.

But now she cursed these moles, as well as her pointy tits and cheeky nipples, which she couldn't control if she wanted it. Her nipples always hardened in the cool air, or when rough, intrusive men's hands played badly with her easily excited buds.

The small moles were considered evidence. But Dorothy secretly blamed her breasts altogether for her being accused and convicted of witchcraft.

View attachment 1460468
Witch pricking with a long test needle to identify the mark of the devil on the body of a suspected witch

View attachment 1460469
Matthew Hopkins' original witch-pricking pin, 15 cm long
(English witch hunter around the time of this story)​

You are awfully mean to her

 

[Rupert_137]

You are awfully mean to her

That's not me, that was the time back then, the bad superstitions...
... and in this story an evil stepmother again

At this point, an apology to all loving stepmothers who adore all their children.
But they didn't know that back then either...

 

[Rupert_137]

The blonde Witch​

At this point I remembered a short text that I had written on another occasion about a cruel witch pricking test...

Even back then, causing pain to another person for your own pleasure was considered evil and reprehensible... But if she was a witch and the torturing also served the purpose of collecting evidence, then things looked completely different, right? And how about taking this opportunity to expose this woman, to touch and examine her most intimate body parts? Something that would otherwise be completely immoral and unthinkable... A really good idea, wasn't it? And this idea led to a very special witch test, pricking with a long needle!

Pricking a suspected witch with a long needle (needle test) could actually only inspire the perverse fantasies and desires of the witch hunters, inquisitors or witch commissioners, because it certainly couldn't provide convincing evidence: every deep stick bled and hurt!

So the inspectors wisely refrained from pricking witches – as in my story – or they deliberately cheated. I would like to introduce you to this short episode as a parallel and alternative addition to my story.

3. A Question of Guilt (alternative chapter)​

The young woman denied all allegations, but since she was accused of witchcraft, she had to undress completely in front of the men to present herself for an in-depth examination. Totally nude she looked down in shame.

Suddenly she heard the witch hunter and self-proclaimed inquisitor say, “We'll start by looking for the mark of the devil on your sinful body... To do this, I 'll pierce a needle deep under your skin and see if it bleeds. Every witch has to overcome this; we call this witch pricking or the needle test.”

The young, blonde woman felt fear rise in her body when she saw the long needle on the table, while the man stared at her flawless naked body. There were no noticeable marks to be seen. But suddenly his eyes fell on her well-filled breasts. At the top of her right areola, there was a small spot. 'This is it, the devil's mark,' he thought to himself... 'Yes, of course, on her tits!' But as an experienced witch hunter, he also knew that he had to proceed with care and consideration.

"Flawless, bare skin everywhere, it seems to me that the devil has hidden his mark well...” He began to smile. “But you can be sure, I’ll find the mark of evil on your body!"

He looked at her with piercing eyes. "Let's start with your heavy boobs, I'm almost sure the devil kissed your proud tits..."

“Oh no, please don’t stick the needle into my tender breasts, they are very sensitive!”

The Inquisitor grinned. “Should I spare your boobs? How stupid do you think I am? I can see in your eyes that you have something to hide in your perky tits... and I see your puffy nipples sticking out cheekily – that’s a hint. I’m sure you’re an evil witch and I’ll prove it!”

“You won’t prove anything,” the young woman hissed desperately.

“And yet I'll do so! You can be sure I will prick your tits with the needle extra deep and frequently” he said cruelly.

"Prepare yourself well, it will always hurt, just not where the devil kissed you."

She shook her head helplessly.

“Now tie the girl to the frame, men. The blonde witch will definitely not like what happens next... But it must happen, we need a proof."

She was carefully tied to a frame; only a little later she saw the terrible, long needle in the Inquisitor's hand, slowly approaching her left breast. She felt helpless.

"Let's start here... But I have to prepare your soft breast well so that the tender flesh will readily accept the needle."

The next moment, the young woman felt a strong hand brutally squeezing her delicate breast, followed by a prick from the tip of the needle on the underside of her left breast. She sighed and felt the first tears, but then she gritted her teeth.

Seconds later he pricked brutally and deeply into her sensitive breast. She flinched, jerked wildly at her bonds, then her shriek echoed through the chamber.

The man pulled out the needle with a jerk, she gasped and groaned, breathing frantically, but her red blood dripped from the small yet deep wound.

Many more stitches and all sorts of screams and wails followed. Her tender breasts soon filled with pain as they rebelled against the mistreatment.

“Ow, it hurts so much, please don’t prick my poor boobs anymore!”

But her requests went unheeded; the Inquisitor smiled and whispered to her, “I certainly won't grant your wishes, witch.” The next time he squeezed the selected right breast even harder and pricked the needle even deeper into her highly sensitive tissue. She screamed out her pain and again her blood dripped from the puncture site.

The man thought to himself: “Her tits are beautiful and exciting, they are sensitive and they fill my hands… Her boobs are so soft and yielding, and yet when I squeeze them viciously they become hard as an apple. Her big tits are just created for the long needle. It's so much fun to prick the probing pin deep into her hardened tissue, even if it is laborious work. But I'm rewarded to see the blonde witch winding, to hear her screaming and moaning as the needle penetrates deeper and deeper into one of her breast... And yet I can't let my feelings guide me, I'm a witch hunter, I have to find the devil's mark!”

His instincts as a witch hunter told him that the devil had hidden his mark on her luscious breasts, and his pride as an inquisitor demanded that he be right. So he continued to focus entirely on her boobs, even though he was aware of the risk.

Again and again he pricked his test needle deep into her soft tits, sometimes on the right and sometimes on the left. He hadn't missed the small, dark mole on the edge of her right areola, but the accused witch was bleeding there too.

“The devil is trying to fool me,” the man thought.

He continued working with his needle until the young woman was exhausted and consumed by pain. It wasn't just the many needle pricks that drove her to despair, but also the frequent pressing and squeezing of her sensitive breasts. She begged and pleaded for him to stop.

“Look at how cowardly your tits are when I prick them with the needle without pushing, they just give in! But your boobs are even big enough to take the whole needle. Only if I squeeze your tits hard I can force them to bravely face the needle,” the witch hunter told enthusiastically but without pity.

When he noticed that the attention of the blonde witch and her observers was waning, he finally exclaimed triumphantly: “Look here! A dark spot and a puncture, but no blood, no pain... So close to her puffy nipple, right on the edge of her areola... This is the unmistakable sign of the devil!” he straightened up and looked at the scribe. “We've proven it, she's a witch!”

She felt neither pain nor pricking... The blonde woman shook her head in disbelief, but then she shouted angrily, "This is fraud, this is a lie!"

"No, you're the one lying here!" he shouted back. “You're a witch ... and that's the proof.” He pointed his finger at the small punctured mole on her right breast that was no longer bleeding.

Of course the inquisitor cheated because this blonde woman was a witch and in league with the devil. He had an unerring instinct for witches. She had to confess and had to be burned at the stake to save her village from further terrible disasters. But only if there was clear evidence he was allowed to torment this busty, blonde witch through every level of torture until she confessed. That's why he was even allowed to cheat in battle with the deceitful devil who obviously had hidden his mark too well on her body. And the eager man couldn't possibly prick her flawless skin everywhere.

As a precaution, he had already pierced this special spot on the edge of the areola and discreetly removed her blood with his fingernail. The final, insidious prick was only hinted at, the clever deception of an experienced witch hunter.

Her protest couldn't help the young, blonde woman, because a prick into the devil's mark was always numb and without blood, which is exactly how you could recognize the mark.

"It should be clear to you now, witch, that you're not getting out of here without a confession... And the devil is banned down here by the cross of the Lord, he won't help you anymore."

The young, blonde woman felt deep fear and despair. Of course she was innocent and she wouldn't confess to absurd lies, but how was she supposed to endure the horrific torture that was about to follow? And there would be no mercy...

TThe witch hunter was proud and pleased with his successful trick. “That was treacherous? No, not more treacherous than the devil!”

How right he was, because the devil himself had whispered this evil deception to him...

END

Disrobing a Witch to Search for the Mark of the Devil (painting)
​

Conclusion

Whether with or without witch pricking... As we have seen, the question of guilt is decided either way to the young woman's disadvantage.

After this little excursion to the 'Blonde Witch', let's get back to Dorothy and her fate in the main story.

Embarrassing and painful examination of a witch – needle test (painting).
Unfortunately, in historical pictures like this we only see the exposed back of the witch...​

 

[Rupert_137]

4. Feel the Whip and sense the Pain​

Before her arrest, Dorothy Brand was a smart and thoughtful young woman who didn't believe everything people said. That's why she suspected that these birthmarks were just a fake clue, one that was sought at all costs to incriminate her. The fact that she was supposed to burn as a witch was the result of a lot of superstition and an intrigue that was spun against the daughter to eliminate her as her father's heir.

And yet she could never completely banish the supposed curse that her pointy tits with their small birthmarks had brought upon her from her consciousness. Once, when she was about to be tortured again because she was 'hardened' – that's what it was called when she refused to confess – the torturer pressed the mouth of a vicious, cold pair of pliers intimidatingly against her left breast.

“Confess or I’ll have to chew your tits with them,” he said threateningly. In desperation, she suddenly shouted, “No, not those horrible pliers... whip my boobs!" And at that moment she thought, “my cheeky boobs have brought me here and showered me with so much misfortune… They deserve the pain!”

The torturer looked puzzled at the witch commissioner. “Yes, whip her tits! The pliers on her breasts are reserved for public penance when she has confessed!”

“Whip my boobs!” Dorothy provokes the torturer and the interrogator​

Back then, Dorothy's tender breasts were whipped with a thin leather cord as a punishment for her impudence and as a way of bringing her to her senses until her boobs were covered with red-purple welts and burned like fire, her left nipple even started bleeding.

"Oh dear, my breasts have never hurt before as under these lashes."

Nevertheless, she gritted her teeth and wanted to defy the torture. Soon she could no longer suppress her screams and in the end she only uttered a painful moan. But when her tormentor finally stopped, she shouted, still angry at herself: "Keep whipping my tits, I'm not confessing!"

The torturer looked at the witch commissioner again in disbelief, but he nodded again. "The devil gives her strength to conquer the pain, but we have to break Satan's power here... Keep whipping her boobs, get a stronger strap!"
And turning to Dorothy he said, "Feel the whip and sense the pain."

So the torturer continued to beat her sensitive breasts mercilessly, which were helpless at his mercy. He whipped her tits until they had turned completely unnatural in color and Dorothy was moaning and panting in pain, finally begging for mercy.

The commissioner looked with satisfaction at the panting woman, whose face was marked by pain, whose breasts were covered in red-purple welts as they rose and fell with the victim's hectic breathing.

“Do your tits hurt now? … Oh, I hope so! … Did you think the devil would take away your pain? … You will have to realize that the devil never keeps his promises, he will not support you here, he will not save you either,” he triumphed.

"Keep whipping her tits, she must feel how much it hurts to defy us," the man said cruelly. "Take a light leather belt that bites deeper into her soft curves!"

The torturer took a belt and whipped Dorothy's tits again. Luckily for her, it was still soft leather. But the belt broke through her boobs up to her rib bones. The intense pain drove the air from her lungs, so instead of screaming loudly, she gasped for air and just moaned.

"Aim for her nipples, which she extends to us so cheekily, they are particularly sensitive!"

It was horror, but the young woman had to endure it. She knew, this time she had provoked it herself. But would the brutal pliers in her flesh have been better?

"Confess or feel the pain!" How many times had she heard that?

Dorothy startled, her cart bumping over the cobblestones. How was she supposed to get through the indescribable horror, the funeral pyre and the threatened torment beforehand in order to pay public penance?

She thought about how she was prepared for the first torture, lying completely naked on the stretch bench, her arms stretched over her head, her legs wide open. The ropes were holding her body, but they did not drag her limbs. Unlike today, there were only a few pairs of eyes on her naked body back then. Nevertheless, her most intimate and sensitive body parts were completely unprotected and exposed to brutal tools. And her nipples were hard with excitement, as if begging for the torturers' attention. That made her angry.

All around her she saw whips, pliers, claws and embers, as well as even more vicious torture devices, the purpose of which she didn't immediately recognize. She trembled with fear that replaced her anger. Back then, she tried to imagine herself lying naked by a lake, washing her sweaty body in the fresh water, exposing her delicate skin to the warming rays of the sun instead of opening herself up to the instruments of torture. That had helped her relax, to control her fear for a moment... until a brutal pain suddenly ripped her from that illusion.

Cooling the sweaty body in fresh water, lolling the tired body in the sun...
Opening sweet, tender and excitable flesh to water and sun, instead of torture...
But unfortunately it is an illusion, the cruel reality was completely one other.​

The torturer had begun to beat between her open legs with a heavy leather belt, her pussy was instantly raging.

"Ow, ouch… It bites… It hurts so much! Please don't whip me between my legs."

“You can stop the pain and torture at any time if you look within yourself, renounce the devil and confess,” said the witch commissioner in a calm voice.

What an insidious seduction, she would later suffer much greater torment and death for a short-term relief from the pain. But Dorothy didn't fall for that.

Soon she had endured the first dozen lashes between her legs, moaning in agony of pain, gasping for breath, her thighs shaking and twitching uncontrollably. Her pussy had turned purple, was swollen and burned like fire. But because she showed no 'insight', the beating continued. But she had to blame herself for this because she was 'hardened'.

"It must be clear to you that we have to attack you by torture at the most sensitive areas of your sinful body, only in this way can we defeat the devil who has taken possession of you." It was absurd, it was so unreal, and yet it was it cruel reality.

The devil didn't just have to be driven out of her pussy with pain, her breasts had to be freed from Satan too, which he had still visibly kissed. Undoubtedly, the devil had also sucked on her nipples, which always stood up so cheekily... It was actually believed that even a virgin could give the devil her witch's milk if he sucked on her breasts.

To drive the evil out of her breasts, Dorothy's perky tits were beaten with a whip bundle. The short leather cords were soft, but as a bundle they worked her breasts over a large area and to the depths. These at the time 'virgin lashes' on her sensitive boobs shouldn't destroy her breasts but were supposed to hurt badly ... and they really hurt terribly. She had no idea what to expect. Every clap of the whip bundle on her boobs made her flinch and the brutal pain made her yelp like a kicked dog.

The torturer whipped with a lot of force, he wanted to defeat Dorothy as quickly as possible. Her defenseless breasts changed color and began to swell, filling with throbbing pain.

The torture was interrupted after the twelfth lash to ask her if she wanted to confess. 'My boobs deserve this pain,' it occurred to her even then. Strangely, this gave her strength to push through the pain.

Dorothy stand firm. “There is nothing to confess, I am not a witch, these are all malicious accusations and lies.” “Still so much defiance? We have to force you to find the truth... The pain will help you break away from the devil."

Her tits trembled with every lash of the straps, but the soft curves gave way, as if willingly accepting the leather. But the delicate skin began to burn like fire and her breasts soon rebelled with furious pain deep inside.

​

Never before could she have imagined that her breasts and pussy would hurt so much, nor could she have imagined that, as a woman, her most sensitive body parts would be targeted to torture in order to force confessions that were absurd lies.

“Do you want to confess?” Feeling weak and panting, she just shook her head.

 

[Rupert_137]

5. Varieties of Torture​

“Whips and straps are not serious torture, they are just meant to help you to reflect,” she was told. And because she didn't want to reflect and remained unreasonable, the real torture had to begin. First her thumbs were brutally crushed in a vice between two iron bars until her blood dripped out. She tried to clenched her teeth tightly, but finally she had to scream out the terrible pain. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she looked in horror at her stiff, bloody fingers. Since then she has not been able to bend her thumbs again without pain.

But things got even worse: her hands were tied behind her back and she was pulled up by her arms to the ceiling, where she was left hanging in agony. And finally her tormentors made her swing up and down and hung weights on her feet.

It was hell, the pain exploded in her shoulders, her joints cracked, she couldn't even scream, she couldn't breathe. Dorothy panicked; she thought she would be torn apart. To this day, her shoulders hurt every time she moved her arms. And yet she remained steadfast. “The devil has hardened her,” it was said. "Take her back to her cell, we need to take more time."

This is how confessions were extorted: The young witch was hung by her arms tied behind her back and pulled down by her legs with weights
– strappado, an incredibly painful torture –​

Her thoughts were flying, the horrific events that had brought her on her final journey to the pyre did not leave her alone. The witch's cart on which she was crouching was still rumbling over the cobblestones of the small town of Altenbeken to the prepared place of execution. Dorothy didn't want to look at the many onlookers who accompanied her on her way to execution.

She closed her eyes, images from within her mind flooding her spirit. Suddenly she felt fear and terror again. There were footsteps, her cell door was thrown open, it was the evening after her first torture. Her spanked pussy burned, her whipped breasts throbbed, her limbs ached; she just wanted some peace and quiet.

Four rough men stormed into her cell, her two torturers and two guards. They laughed maliciously and someone said: “We have to cleanse you of the devil.” Instinctively the young woman sensed what was about to happen to her. She felt very scared and begged the guys to leave her alone.

Dorothy is violated by guards and torturers in her prison cell;
she has to experience the horror of how rape is used as torture​

“We’ll leave you alone, witch. But first we have to train you well... But I'm sure you'll like it, all witches like that!" He laughed badly. "And we have to break your will so that it’s easier for you to renounce the devil."

Although she could hardly defend herself after the terrible torture, two guys grabbed her ankles and pulled her thighs apart. A third grabbed her wrists, pulled her arms over her head, and pinned her to the cold floor. Now she was completely helpless against the fourth man. He tore open her linen smock, illuminated her body with a torch and said with a grin: "I see that your hot pussy is already eagerly waiting for hard men's cocks and your tits are impatient to feel rough hands."

"Oh no, please don't do it..." She looked pleadingly at her abuser. "No, please don't!"

"Don't be like that, witch... We're always better than devils and demons," more laughter.

He threw himself on top of Dorothy, forced his hips between her thighs and pushed his cock into her pussy, then he raped her without pity. Soon she felt his insistent hands on her whipped boobs. The others watched and cheered on their comrade. It was so disgusting, humiliating and painful for the young woman.

Then the guys took turns; every time one of them had flooded her lap with his filthy sperm, they swapped positions. Dorothy stared apathetically at the ceiling and yet she was suffering terribly.

The next man pushed his unwashed cock deep into her vagina, then his thrusts began, fast and hectic until he groaned. The third raped her with slow but dep and brutal thrusts, as if he wanted to impale her. All guys raped her completely without feeling, she was just fuck meat.

As she moaned in pain, one shouted, “Listen to the horny witch moaning in pleasure!”

It wasn't just her sanctuary that these men desecrated, it was also her whip-marked breasts, which they squeezed and kneaded as if they were bread dough.

“Oh your boobs are hot as hell,” one shouted. Of course, her whipped tits were still hot and highly sensitive to any rough treatment. And the guys kept pinching and biting her swollen nipples, which had particularly suffered from the leather strap. It was like a continuation of the torture. And that's exactly what the guys threatened at the beginning, “We have to break your will!”

“You are a wicked witch, you deserve the pain,” one said, tweaking her nipples, pinching the sensitive buds, twisting and elongating them. Her nipples responded with violent protest.

“Well, do you like that?” She shook her head and her tears flowed. “Don’t act like you’re suffering, of course you like this as a witch!” He laughed.

The men reeked of sweat, smelled from their mouths, while their hard cocks entered her deeply and began to ravage her sanctuary. Rough hands abused her bruised tits, intrusive mouths bit and sucked on her swollen nipples. Dorothy just hoped she'd finally gotten through it.

When all four men had finally raped her, they simply left the abused woman lying in the cell. But they threatened: "We'll be back, witch!" And someone called out to her, "You should be grateful to us, we have cleansed your sinful womb of the devil!"

Cum was pouring out of her lap in streams. She felt abused, defiled and dishonored inside and out... This was almost worse than the pain that throbbed deep inside her belly, that burned fiercely in her vagina and her spanked labia, that flooded her boobs. The young woman moaned and cried; she had never felt so miserable before.

Dorothy desperately tried to complain to the witch commissioners about the abuse by the men in her cell. But the told her, “You are a witch, you have lost your honor, so you have to tolerate it... But as we heard, you are no longer a virgin, although you are unmarried. Did you commit fornication only with the devil, or with other men too?”

"No, no... Not the devil!" She just stuttered. She had made a mistake, she recognized it immediately. But the commissioner didn't let up: "Who else did you commit fornication with?" She didn't want to betray her lover from back then, but any silence would burden her even more.

"With a stranger... it's been a few years ago... it happened in a weak hour..."

"A foreign man in a weak hour and of course you can't remember his name... Don't lie to us, witch, it was the devil!", the commissioner triumphed.

 

[Rupert_137]

6. Eventually being Broken​

And the guys came back. The evening before the decisive torture where she was broken. Six men crowded into her cell. This was definitely agreed upon with the inspectors, it was part of her torture and that's how she felt about it. The rapes were intended to weaken Dorothy’s will, to make her weak and submissive before the final torture.

And so it happened, one after the other raped her on the straw. The first three threw themselves on top Dorothy to fuck her, for the next two she had to squat down to be desecrate from behind like a bitch. At least she didn't have to look at these guys. She endured everything and didn't fight back because she knew, it would take even more strength and pain if she would not submit.

Finally, it was the last guard's turn. Her pussy was already burning, but Dorothy thought she was almost over it. But the disgusting guy demanded of her: "Open your ass for me, witch!"

"Oh please, don't, this is a grave sin," the young woman pleaded.

"A grave sin? That's what you say as a witch?" All the guys laughed.

"Now don't act like a virgin... submit or I'll force you!"

And the men knew what they had to do. One grabbed her hair and pushed down her face, two others grabbed her nipples from either side, twisting, pinching and tweaking them to make Dorothy submissive. Two more just watched, but the sixth slapped her buttocks loudly with the palm of his hand and demanded, "Stick out your ass, witch!"

Suddenly he grabbed her hips and pushed his hard cock against her tight asshole. "Come on, open up, or I'll have to hurt you!"

Another pinched a nipple to emphasize the man's demand. “Okay, I’ll try,” she gasped.

Her pussy had been overflowing for a long time, but her ass wasn't lubricated at all. She was completely inexperienced, she felt fear and reluctance, but she pushed hard and tried to open her sphincter.

"That’s good... You're a nice witch... Open your ass, push even more!" And again her nipples were squeezed and twisted.

The guy squeezed and rammed, but her asshole was still too tight. "Damn witch open up or I'll bump a club up your ass!"

Someone showed her a baton. "Will you like it if we use it to open your butt?"

"Oh no, please not ... I'll try again!"

Dorothy was desperate, her whole body was tense and that made it so difficult to open up where nature intended only in the other direction.

She tried to relax, then pushed with all her might, her butt actually opened up.

​

With one vicious thrust the rapist tore her sphincter completely open and brutally penetrated her intestines. It hurt so much, she screamed out loudly.

"That's it, witch, yes you have to scream!"

Soon she was smeared with her own blood, but what followed was simply cruel. Dorothy felt like she was being impaled... And it wasn't just very painful how he sodomized her, for her it was against nature. Again her whole body tensed violently, making her suffering even worse.

Half mad, she somehow got through it. The man gasped, then groaned, withdrawing from her bowels. And a little later all the guys were gone. She curled up on the straw like a toddler, cried and sobbed, and later kept waking up with a startle.

In the morning she felt like a heap of misery and completely worthless. She felt torment deep inside her. Her whole body was trembling as if from a fever, and yet she was taken away to be questioned and tortured.

When asked, as usual, whether she wanted to confess, Dorothy remained silent. “Then sit on the witch's trestle, maybe you'll find back to your language again.”

She had to sit with her legs spread on the pointed edge of a torture device, also called a Spanish horse, which was invented specifically to torture women. Therefore, the inspectors called it the witch's trestle.

While the hard and pointed top edge pushed itself cruelly deeper and deeper into her abused and still swollen pussy, she had to endure endless questions, all of which she had already heard so often.

Soon Dorothy begged and pleaded to be let off the terrible trestle.

​

Without pity, the witch commissioner spoke to her, "The hard edge between your legs will help you to remember things you don't want to remember... Tell us when you met the devil first time and we'll give you relief."

Finally, her strength was gone. In her distress she said that the devil had once appeared to her in a dream, but that she chased him away... Of course that didn't help her, on the contrary!

“At least you now admit that you had contact with the devil,” the interrogator noted happily.

One torment was replaced by another. She was led to the ladder, where her feet were tied at the bottom and her arms - tied behind her back - were pulled to the top. Then the rope with her hands was slowly pulled up higher. It began to tug in her joints, then to hurt, finally her shoulders rebelled with exploding pain. It was a horrible strappado she had to endure.

What was she still fighting for? For her honor, which she had long since lost? For her life that was no longer worth anything? To avoid the funeral pyre, only to endure further torture?

Dorothy was broken, she was finished, she couldn't fight anymore.

“I confess,” she cried desperately. “I am a witch!” But her interrogators were still not satisfied with that. They wanted detailed confessions. The torturers held a torch under her tits and burned her armpits. And so Dorothy confessed absurd things. In her distress, she described with great imagination how she had sex with the devil in the forest, how she became submissive to Satan, how she offered her breasts to the monster...

​

“And now confess what evil crimes you have committed on behalf of Lucifer!” She didn't want to, but she had to, because the young woman was still hanging in agony on the stretch ladder. And so she confessed everything the commissioners wanted to hear and more nonsense that was put into her mouth.

She didn't want to think about torture and abuse anymore, but she couldn't get away from it. Dorothy was sure that she was now pregnant from all the rapes; she just felt it. Her unborn child would die with her in the flames of the pyre. That was blatant injustice. And yet, it was not a child of love, but of violence; she didn't want to carry her baby to term.

 

[Rupert_137]

II. The Witch has to atone

7. Humiliation and Judgment​

Suddenly the poor young woman was torn from her gloomy thoughts and thrust into the hardly less terrible present. An executioner had jumped onto her witch cart, pulled her up from her knees and a second guy was pressing against her bottom from behind. As soon as Dorothy stood upright, the coarse, scratchy penitent's robe was grabbed by the hem and pulled over her head. She was to be presented to the people completely naked and defenseless on a cold winter day.

For getting into a good position - good for the onlookers, a disgrace for themselves - she was placed with her back against the vertical wooden pole mounted on her cart. Her hands were tied behind the pole; her ankles were secured with ropes to the iron rings that were anchored in the floor of the cart. This forced her to open her thighs in a shameful manner. In this way she was tied to a kind of traveling pillory.

Dorothy realized she was no longer a young woman, she was a witch who had confessed to all the accusations. And she was still considered a threat to the people of this city.

The witch with a raven, naked and in chains​

So fixed, she could hardly move. The worst part was the embarrassment of her nakedness, especially because she couldn't close her legs, allowing the mob to ogle her boobs and even most intimate area. Dorothy wasn't given even a shred of honor. Witches have no honor whatsoever, she reminded herself.

But in this position she exposed her most feminine and sensitive body parts not only to everyone's eyes, but also to the executioner's red-hot pliers. And the enthusiastic crowd could watch her being tortured.

As the witch's cart, pulled by a donkey, slowly rumbled on, the humiliated woman's gaze went skyward. There were seven ravens circling high above her. “Caw” and “kraa” the black birds croaked. She knew only too well whose messengers they were. The devil wanted to take her soul. She had not served Satan, and yet he sent his messengers to her as if to spitefully tell her, „If you have confessed to being a witch, then you belong to me, even after your death.”

And so someone from the crowd called out, „Look at the ravens, they come to serve their mistress, the witch!”

Now Dorothy was completely naked and defenseless in the winter cold, her limbs were shaking and her whole body was covered in goosebumps, which made her feminine curves - bottom and breasts - appear even firmer and more attractive. The cart rocked past the Church of the Holy Cross, where a sack was placed over her head so that her evil eyes could not desecrate the sacred place. She could hardly breathe, the swinging on the post made her feel nauseous and she was relieved when she was freed from the bag. Doing this she had to look again into the eyes of the many spectators who showed hatred, anger or malice.

The Holy Cross Church in Altenbeken today​

She reached a narrow cobblestone street that led to the market square and thus to her place of execution. Street boys ran alongside her, spit on her, others threw stinking horse manure as well as rotten fruit and spoiled vegetables. Stones and harder projectiles were forbidden; after all, the witch was supposed to be punished with pain for her atrocities in a completely different way. Some boys sang self-composed mocking songs in which they demanded that the witch should burn to ashes while the air should be filled with the smell of her burnt flesh.

Tears welled up in Dorothy's eyes. She knew many of these rascals; she had never done anything bad to them, but they still wanted nothing more than her cruel death, just like all the other people, who had gathered to witness her suffering as an evil witch.

At first the boys aimed their stinky bullets at her legs and ass, but they became more and more naughty, aiming at her tits and finally at her pussy. When she was hit on her right breast by a horse apple, it wasn't just stinking and humiliating, it really hurt. But the successful thrower danced with pride and joy and got applause. The next fecal projectile went between her legs, very close to her pussy. Dorothy cried out briefly and gasped intensively.

A short time later, the rocking witch cart with Dorothy at the pole turned into the market square. A breath of cold fresh air immediately blew towards the condemned woman, at least the alley's smell of rubbish, horse manure and rot disappeared, but this made her feel even colder. The market place itself was full of people. It was the biggest crowd she had ever seen, People particularly crowded around the pyre that has been erected and around the pillory.

Flying traders and sutlers pushed their way through all the people. A wide variety of food, sweets and cakes, hot and cold drinks were offered. It became soon clear to Dorothy that her punishment and execution would turn into a public festival.

The market square of Altenbeken today, the monument is a reminder of the time when iron was cast there​

In the outer ring of the square, on the other hand, there were stalls where beer and wine were tapped, suckling pig was cut or cabbage soup was offered for sale. Basket weavers, seamstresses, felt shoemakers and tinsmiths also offered their wares at small stalls, while shaving brush makers, pharmacists and glove makers paraded through the crowd with their baskets on their backs and on their forearms.

Near to the execution site a juggler was offering his skills, and at the foot of the prepared stage musicians were playing peasant and hiking songs. In short, on the occasion of a witch burning, people ate, drank, bought, talked and amused themselves...

While the large market place radiated joy and comfort, the naked witch was already half frozen in the cold. After a few meters her cart stopped. Men, women and children crowded around the cart so that Dorothy was afraid that cocky boys would jump up to her. Everyone looked at her with greedy eyes, delighting in her nakedness and helplessness.

What might people have been thinking? Even though she is young, this wicked witch deserves all her torment and the death... And once she is burned, she will never be able to send her evil curse against us again... And it would be an exciting spectacle. That was a reason to celebrate and be happy, right?

Dorothy’s judgment​

Suddenly something significant happened, the judge, with a black hat and dressed in a burgundy long winter coat, stood next to her witch cart on a small pedestal and cast disdainful glances at Dorothy, then turned his gaze to the audience and solemnly unrolled a long parchment. He stood there dignified, cleared his throat and started reading.

“Dorothy, the unmarried daughter of the paper miller Jacob Brand here from Altenbeken, confessed to being a witch." There was a loud boo from the audience.

The judge waited a moment and continued. "The witch ist supposed to atone for her terrible sins and heinous crimes with the bite of the red-hot pliers before she is burned at the stake." There was enthusiastic applause.

"The verdict was issued and confirmed by His Eminence, the Most Reverend Prince-Bishop in Paderborn.” The people applauded again.

“Now executioner, do your duty and heat the wicked witch with the embers of your pliers, it seems, she’s already freezing,” somebody shouted from the crowd. But Dorothy sighed and thought to herself: "Oh please, not the red-hot pliers!"

With the horrifying certainty of the bestial pain her tormentors would soon cause her, the condemned woman stared at the glowing brazier in which several tongs were already prepared for her, their vicious mouths glowing orange-red.

The judge was not deterred. He began to read aloud Dorothy's confessions, extracted under torture, in which she revealed that she had met the devil in the forest and that she had given herself to Lucifer at her father's watermill in a disgusting way. There were more of angry boos.

The judge continues to report how Dorothy became a servant of Satan and a witch; and how she only admitted her serious sins under severe torture because she wanted to continue serving the devil.

Finally, the judge read out the crimes that Dorothy had to confess: With help of her evil sorcery, she was responsible for the bad harvest two years ago, for the fire of a barn last year and for the deaths of several newborn babies, as well as for serious accidents over the last few years. There was a loud roar of angry shouts of abuse against the witch.

 

[Rupert_137]

8. Time to forgive and to atone​

After the judge was reading the accusations from her confession, Dorothy was asked to forgive all her tormentors and slanderers because all her misery was her own doing. Dorothy knew this was coming and she also knew the answers she had to give now.

“Are you ready to renounce the devil you served, Dorothy?” The judge asked her.

“Yes, I'm breaking away from the devil.” It was the least of a problem for her to break away from Satan, even if she hadn't gotten involved with the devil at all.

“In front of every man and women here as a witness, do you promise to forgive and hold no grudge against all the people who accused and denounced you of being a witch, because it was their duty to report you?" This was her worst humiliation, to publicly forgive those who had maliciously denounced her as a witch.

"Yes, I forgive", she said quietly. "I haven't heard anything," the judge asked back. "Yes, I forgive", she shouted.

"Do you promise to forgive all, who had to question you embarrassingly to force your confession ... and all those who will judge and punish you, as it’s their duty?”

“Yes, I forgive all my tormentors and judges.” She spoke loud enough for everyone around her to hear.

It was incredibly humiliating for the completely innocent young woman to make these admissions and promises public after being falsely accused and tortured into making her false confessions. But she also knew that this was the only way to still receive mercy.

“It is good that you show understanding, even if you are a witch,” the judge shouted to her and the crowd. “Now it's time for the executioner to begin your penance with the red-hot pliers.”

People were openly gloating, but for Dorothy this was a violent shock that made her despair. She had been betrayed, there was no mercy despite all her humiliating admissions. A witch could be lied to; she could never expect mercy. But her slanderers, tormentors and judges should be able to sleep peacefully, that was all that mattered.

The starting signal for penance for the witch tied to the post was given by two short chimes from the tower clock at half past ten. Everything was planned perfectly. Dorothy felt a deep sense of fear because she knew that burns were incredibly painful. How much worse did it have to be if the wounds were burned deep into her flesh with red-hot pliers?

For the intended punishment, the executioner untied the unfortunate woman's hands behind the post and tied them above her head to a prepared iron ring. This new position made her youthful breasts even firmer and a little less perky, but her hard erected nipples were now even more provocative.

The witch's new positioning was immediately greeted with an enthusiastic hoot. But now she was to suffer pain. The executioner took a pair of particularly powerful torture tongs, the mouth of which glowed deep red, and with them he climbed into her witch cart. Suddenly there was an excited calm, everyone wanted to see and hear what would now happen on behalf of justice.

The tall, strong man was hiding his face under a hood, he seemed frightening to Dorothy, but her fear increased when he first held the vicious pincer mouth very close to her cheek so that she felt the heat. A little later he pretended to bite into one of her soft boobs. He alternated between both of her tits. She shook her head in desperation feeling the glow.

Torture pliers for various purposes​

This was too much for the young woman, who had not found an opportunity to relieve her bladder that morning. She lost control and there was a strong splashing between her legs. The executioner quickly jumped aside and a gleeful laugh erupted from the audience. There was some mean mockery too.

“Look how the witch pisses herself in fear when it comes to her proud boobs!” someone shouted.

The executioner claimed this small victory for himself. But then he took advantage of her distraction and bit the disgraced citizen's daughter deeply into her left thigh with the first set of red-hot pliers.

Dorothy convulsed wildly, pulling at her chains as she felt the searing metal in her flesh. A little later the pain came, it became more and more furious, almost robbing her of all her senses - followed by her horrific screams that echoed across the market square.

Some of the onlookers wanted to cover their ears, but the majority were happy about the torment that the witch had to endure before their eyes. They applauded loudly, stamped their feet on the floor, clapped their hands to the beat of her shrill screams.

Dorothy remained hanging on the post, exhausted and gasping for breath, but the pain in her thigh continued to rage. The executioner gave her time to calm down and savor her penance.

“Her tits! Burn the tits of the devil's whore, burn her boobs!" An old market woman barked as the executioner finally reached for the second pair of tongs whose mouth had been in the glowing coals. With that he approached the pain-stricken woman at the post on the witch cart.

“Oh no, not the breasts please,” Dorothy pleaded with the gloomy man beneath his hood. “Still proud of your tits, witch? Come on, now it’s your boobs’ turn!”

She stared, eyes wide, at the glowing jaws of tongs approaching her right breast. “Hold still!” the hangman shouted. “Otherwise I’ll rip your tit apart with the pliers.”

She could already feel the heat and gasped, "Please don't!" "Come on, pull yourself together, witch, it's time for your penance." He deeply bit her breast with the scorching pliers, mercilessly and with routine.

Dorothy suffers cruel bites from pliers whose vicious mouths glow.
She’s even bitten on her breasts with powerful pliers, much to the delight of the audience.​

She heard it hissing and the smell of grilled meat immediately hit her nose. At first she only felt the pinching of the pliers, but immediately she also felt her breast was burning inside. The effect of the glowing iron only became apparent a little later, but it was all the more brutal. The pain swelled in her viciously tortured boob and began to rage and roar. Her shrill screeching turned into a wild roar that made many onlookers shudder.

“Listen to her screams, she's really a witch,” someone commented.

“Anyone who doesn't faint from this pain is a servant of the devil!” an old woman exclaimed, looking around hastily for confirmation. Everyone agreed that she was right. Many cheered and delighted in the cruel public torture of a witch. But other spectators looked really shocked.

Three bites with the red-hot pliers were planned at this point. On the third attack, the executioner pinched her belly and seared her flesh there. Again the smell ofher grilled meat and overheated fat rose as Dorothy writhed in agony at the pole.

This time too, the screams of the tormented woman caused mostly joy.

“Burn her naughty nipples, brand the witch's sinful sex,” the impatient, nagging woman spoke up again. “Punish the wicked witch before our eyes, executioner! Burn her there where she gave herself to the devil. We want to hear the flesh sizzle inside her crotch!”

Dorothy was frightened, where did all this hatred come from, where did this superstition come from?

The executioner looked questioningly at the judge. He shook his head. The man in the wine-red winter coat clearly stuck to the dramaturgy he had developed. The young woman's sinful pussy and her sensitive nipples should only become the focus of her torture at the worthy conclusion.

Even if the judge spared her this ordeal for the moment, Dorothy knew that today the red-hot pliers would not only burn into her pain-filled breasts, but also singe her nipples. Her buds were already poking out excitedly again, as if they were begging for the bite of the tongs. Her most tender sanctuary did not beg, but she had to expose her pussy with open legs to every nefarious attack. And even this attack would come. Although the pain inside her scorch meat was already raging like hell.

 

[Rupert_137]

9. No Pity, no Mercy​

First of all, her cart continued to rumble across the market square around the pyre. Until the clock struck three times, a quarter to eleven. The creaking wheels stoped and once again three malicious pliers were waiting for Dorothy in the embers.

A farmer, dressed in his holiday suit turned to the executioner shouted loudly, „It is time to punish the witch's diabolical slit with the red-hot tongs, where she got involved with Satan!”

He was joined by woman at his age who was carrying in her hands a large wicker basket filled to the brim with apples that she wanted to sell. This farmer's wife gave Dorothy a withering look and demanded of the torturer, "And don't forget the breast ripper for her witch tits!"

The judge didn't like the audience's interference in the punishment. Emphatically he shouted into the crowd, "The executioner is doing his duty here, the witch will suffer appropriately, but everything follows the orderly sequence!" In this way he calmed the people and at the same time stirred things up the voltage.

The sensation-hungry people were satisfied with his announcement. The man in the wine-red coat gave the signal to begin the second pincer torture. Dorothy was now better prepared for the torment she would endure, and yet, the pain was monstrous. She gritted her teeth in determination.

She wanted to beg for mercy. But she realized that this was pointless. The time of her penance would only come to an end with the twelfth strike of the church tower clock. Time moved inexorably forward, salvation was approaching, although the young woman had wanted something other than to find herself in the flames of the funeral pyre. She could only hope to meet a quick end in the flames and somehow survive the torture first.

Dorothy was bitten on her left arm first, followed by a searing bite into the right side of her belly. The horrific events repeated themselves: first her tender flesh hissed, the smell of grilled meat rose; moments later the pain flared up, swelling until she couldn't bear it anymore. And so her screams rang across the square, already a bit hoarse, but particularly as an attraction for those spectators who were further back.

The martyred woman roared, moaned and sobbed. In desperation, she threw back her head to beg God. But the cruel torture continued. One last bite with the red-hot pliers was still pending. Dorothy hoped her breasts would be spared this time, but then she saw the prepared pliers in the executioner's hand and she suddenly whined. Filled with pain, where did the tears of her grief come from? She didn't know because she couldn't expect any pity.

​

The executioner probably saw her tears, but what he did was his paid work. "Of course they all scream, but have you ever seen a witch crying about her boobs?" He thought to himself. Was it the roaring pain or the grief for her beautiful tits that he had to destroy? It wasn't his job to answer that question.

“Don’t complain, show some pride, witch,” he said to her. "Accept your fate, you have a big audience... As a witch you have no right to intact breasts. You know full well that I must punish both of your tits... Because they are so sensitive and because they are so dear to you... Do you accept?"

She shook her head in despair. “Please don’t,” she pleaded.

"Come on, present your uninjured breast to me... as a sign of the last honor you have left as a witch"

She saw the horrible pincer mouth that could bite and pinch. “But please not with these pliers,” she tried to avert fate. “Yes, I chose exactly these pliers for your soft tits.”

Instead of begging and fighting, she suddenly nodded very thoughtfully. He carefully opened the jaws of the pliers over her left breast, with the pointed claw at the top that she could see. She only twitched briefly when he briefly touched her skin with the searing metal on the underside.

Dorothy's left breast gets also bitten with the torturer's red-hot pliers
​

Moments later, when the executioner squeezed the handles tightly, he sent Dorothy to hell.

Instantly the biting and scorching jaws raged inside her left breast, just above her heart; little later the pain raged. It was indescribable agony that she was experiencing; it was pure cruelty to inflict this punishment on her.

She screamed and roared with the last strength she had left. Her screams finally faded away, but she was still panting as the cart creaked into motion again. At least she realized that it was not the executioner and his tormentors who were to blame for her ordeal, but rather the witch commissioners, the judge, and the audience who enjoyed her torture.

Suddenly seven ravens scattered with a screeching warning call that announced a more powerful enemy from the air. Dorothy blinked through her tears and saw a pair of eagles circling high above the market square. The kings of the air had chased away the competitors for her body as their prey. The majestic birds were the rulers of the sky. The victim tied to the post could not escape her sharp eyes.

'I have to disappoint you birds', the woman on the witch cart thought cynically. 'They won't hang me or wheel me... They will burn me... And the flames won't allow any bird to access to my tender flesh'

Suddenly she recognized a white bird among the black ravens that had retreated and were now flying lower over the market square. 'Strange!', she thought despite her pain; she had never seen a white raven before. Was that a sign? If so, what did it mean?

Dorothy was still struggling with the pain that was eating away at her. She only saw the many people around her dimly, while she caught snippets of their excited conversation here and there, but more often had to hear people's angry mockery. She couldn't really understand why publicly tormenting a young woman had much entertainment value, especially when most of them could only hear her screams from a distance. Some spectators even traveled from Paderborn and elsewhere just to witness the burning of a witch.

Well, there would be more to see later, even much more than at a beautiful Easter fire...

 

[Loinclothslave]

That breast torture scene was harrowing, I se suck pity for Dorothy now…

 

[Rupert_137]

That breast torture scene was harrowing, I se suck pity for Dorothy now…

I feel pity for Dorothy all the time...

In fact, in the short excerpt from the novel that I used as a model for the story, the condemned woman is continuously tortured with red-hot pliers at the market square for a whole hour (not every quarter of an hour), and in the end everything interesting her body posses as a woman is cut off...
But don't worry, I changed that!
The main difference, however, in the novel everything is just mentioned and not described. For me this is rushing for effects and trivializing at the same time.
I bother to describe the cruel tortures as they actually were. I try to avoid exaggerations (which in this specific case would lead to the victim bleeding to death before the pyre is lit) as well as trivializing perspectives (what fun the spectators had - only her begging and screaming is described, not her suffering)...
And finally, I try not to portray the executioner as completely callous. I like it when he communicates with the victim and thinks about what's happening. Because who would be closer to the action than the condemned and the executioner?