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Turkish Delights

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thehangingtree said:
Tree has a question...

If your hands are not bound why don't you take the blindfold off???
Click to expand...

Good point...how do you think I was able to write that post?;)

Seriously, Tree reveals (astounding!!:rolleyes:) that he can really read, that he can really think, that he has caught Barb in an "inconsistency":oops:...

...will have to edit that to say instead the my "wrists are bound and chained to my ankles."

Memo to one of the mods...please fix.
 
Jollyrei said:
It's okay, really. I've read so many threads and stories where Barb is doing things, or having things done (more to the point) that I don't know where I am anymore. Might as well just read it again. :)

Simple souls, us barbarian chieftains.
Click to expand...

Concentrate...you can do it Jollyrei....;)
 
Barbaria1 said:
Good point...how do you think I was able to write that post?;)

Seriously, Tree reveals (astounding!!:rolleyes:) that he can really read, that he can really think, that he has caught Barb in an "inconsistency":oops:...

...will have to edit that to say instead the my "wrists are bound and chained to my ankles."

Memo to one of the mods...please fix.
Click to expand...
Should we fix it or leave this glaring error there to embarrass Barb???

When I watch a movie I always look for 'continuity' gaffes. Two of the best examples are both Steve McQueen movies...

In "Bullitt" the Charger loses seven hubcaps from four wheels and during the chase the Mustang and Charger pass the same blue VW Beetle at least 4 times!!!

In Le Mans when Steve wrecks the Porsche 917 they used a reproduction Ford GT 40 chassis with a 917 body on it but didn't bother to paint the chassis to match the Porsche's Gulf Oil colors nor match the bottom of the car numbers to those on the Porsche's body!!!

I have watched all the 'Back to the Futures' more times than I care to count and never found a 'got you' moment. A work of art!!!
 
thehangingtree said:
Should we fix it or leave this glaring error there to embarrass Barb???

When I watch a movie I always look for 'continuity' gaffes. Two of the best examples are both Steve McQueen movies...

In "Bullitt" the Charger loses seven hubcaps from four wheels and during the chase the Mustang and Charger pass the same blue VW Beetle at least 4 times!!!

In Le Mans when Steve wrecks the Porsche 917 they used a reproduction Ford GT 40 chassis with a 917 body on it but didn't bother to paint the chassis to match the Porsche's Gulf Oil colors nor match the bottom of the car numbers to those on the Porsche's body!!!

I have watched all the 'Back to the Futures' more times than I care to count and never found a 'got you' moment. A work of art!!!
Click to expand...

And how many times now have I crashed your Mustang?
 
20.​
That first evening, after he had flogged the Dutch woman and ground himself to climax in the American's bound hands, his men had moved the woman to the old grain store behind the border post while he had taken himself to that quiet bar to bring himself down from the highs of his sadism.

The old structure was built of stone and has crumbled in places but repairs with rough cinder blocks have made sure it still holds strong and any sound from inside is deadened almost completely.

Access is through a heavy timber door into what was once an overseer's office. Beyond that, separated by rough timber bulkheads are four bins where grain was once stored. The bins have been fashioned into isolation cells, rough stone floors, stone and cinder block back walls, rough timber to each side and at the front. Only a small observation hatch in each heavy timber door.

The stonework and heavy timber muffle sound, preventing communication between the cells. The bins are never cleaned. The quiet with the dust and grit, the hot days and cold nights create an intense feeling of isolation.

The women were confined in separate cells, iron cuffs locked around each ankle, a heavy chain joining the cuffs. Their wrists are manacled and a short chain joins the wrist cuffs to the chain between their ankes. They were blindfolded and a thick strap around the blindfold and locked behind their heads prevents them from working the blindfold loose.

The chains give them a little freedom to explore their cells in the darkness. To look for escape that does not exist.

Beyond the cells is a wider space where the mill once worked. The old bedstone is still in place and the timber structures that supported the driving mechanism still remain. The spindle is still locked into the centre of the bedstone. Ropes still hang there, running up over pulley blocks. If the rope did not look as fresh or the blocks so well-oiled they might have been from the time the mill still ground the rough flour.

His men have instructions to feed them twice a day and to help them squat over a bucket. Fed with scraps and held by men while they shit and piss adds to the humiliation. It is made worse by the sweat and dust. The men will not utter a greeting, not answer a question, never use a name.

Each evening he has come to the grain store to watch them. To take pleasure in their slow degradation. To feel himself aroused by the power he has over them. To watch them regain strength to endure his sadism again.

It has been seven days now, seven evenings spent watching. He would take this further but there are questions being asked. Families know the women are missing and bulletins have been posted. There is no record of them here but their movements will be tracked through. Someone will know they boarded that flight.

It is time to go back to them. Another session with them tonight after the tiring heat of the day, their minds still struggling with the isolation, the fear of what more will come.

He visits the border post first and retrieves a few things from the interrogation room. The shorter red hide whip and the multi-tailed scourge he used on the Dutch woman and the short stock prod with the shiny barbs he applied to the America’s breast. The rest of what he will use is all in place in the old mill.

Darkness has fallen as he enters the grain store. The heavy timber door swings silently on well-oiled hinges and there is just a faint click as the latch drops in place as he locks it behind him.

It is cool inside now and the only light is from a few dim bulbs inside the entrance and in each of the small cells. The light casts the shadows of the beams across the rough stone floor.

As he opens the door to each of the cells there is a metallic clank as the bolt is pulled back. The faired Dutch woman, Pia, does not look up. She seems cowed, perhaps resigned to what fate holds. The dark-haired American, Barbara, is different. Her face turns directly at him, her eyes cannot see but still seem to search for him. She hasn’t suffered as the fair one has. She is frightened but still has some spark, some thought of freedom.

His hands are clenched into fists and he can feel the muscles in his forearms tense as he clenches them tighter. His breathing deepens, the feeling is rising within him.
 
Last edited:
Primus pilus said:
20.​
That first evening, after he had flogged the Dutch woman and ground himself to climax in the American's bound hands, and had taken himself to that quiet bar to bring himself down from the highs of his sadism, his men had moved the woman to the old grain store behind the border post.

The old structure was built of stone and has crumbled in places but repairs with rough cinder blocks have made sure it still holds strong and any sound from inside is deadened almost completely.

Access is through a heavy timber door into what was once an overseer's office. Beyond that, separated by rough timber bulkheads are four bins where grain was once stored. The bins have been fashioned into isolation cells, rough stone floors, stone and cinder block back walls, rough timber to each side and at the front. Only a small observation hatch in each heavy timber door.

The stonework and heavy timber muffle sound, preventing communication between the cells. The bins are never cleaned. The quiet with the dust and grit, the hot days and cold nights create an intense feeling of isolation.

The women were confined in separate cells, iron cuffs locked around each ankle, a heavy chain joining the cuffs. Their wrists are manacled and a short chain joins the wrist cuffs to the chain between their ankes. They were blindfolded and a thick strap around the blindfold and locked behind their heads prevents them from working the blindfold loose.

The chains give them a little freedom to explore their cells in the darkness. To look for escape that does not exist.

Beyond the cells is a wider space where the mill once worked. The old bedstone is still in place and the timber structures that supported the driving mechanism still remain. The spindle is still locked into the centre of the bedstone. Ropes still hang there, running up over pulley blocks. If the rope did not look as fresh or the blocks so well-oiled they might have been from the time the mill still ground the rough flour.

His men have instructions to feed them twice a day and to help them squat over a bucket. Fed with scraps and held by men while they shit and piss adds to the humiliation. It is made worse by the sweat and dust. The men will not utter a greeting, not answer a question, never use a name.

Each evening he has come to the grain store to watch them. To take pleasure in their slow degradation. To feel himself aroused by the power he has over them. To watch them regain strength to endure his sadism again.

It has been seven days now, seven evenings spent watching. He would take this further but there are questions being asked. Families know the women are missing and bulletins have been posted. There is no record of them here but their movements will be tracked through. Someone will know they boarded that flight.

It is time to go back to them. Another session with them tonight after the tiring heat of the day, their minds still struggling with the isolation, the fear of what more will come.

He visits the border post first and retrieves a few things from the interrogation room. The shorter red hide whip and the multi-tailed scourge he used on the Dutch woman and the short stock prod with the shiny barbs he applied to the America’s breast. The rest of what he will use is all in place in the old mill.

Darkness has fallen as he enters the grain store. The heavy timber door swings silently on well-oiled hinges and there is just a faint click as the latch drops in place as he locks it behind him.

It is cool inside now and the only light is from a few dim bulbs inside the entrance and in each of the small cells. The light casts the shadows of the beams across the rough stone floor.

As he opens the door to each of the cells there is a metallic clank as the bolt is pulled back. The faired Dutch woman, Pia, does not look up. She seems cowed, perhaps resigned to what fate holds. The dark-haired American, Barbara, is different. Her face turns directly at him, her eyes cannot see but still seem to search for him. She hasn’t suffered as the fair one has. She is frightened but still has some spark, some thought of freedom.

His hands are clenched into fists and he can feel the muscles in his forearms tense as he clenches them tighter. His breathing deepens, the feeling is rising within him.
Click to expand...

rod-serling1.png This evening ladies and gentlemen, we enter the twilight zone. Evening falls and what awaits are poor imprisoned tourists? What will transpire amidst the dimly lit dusty interior of that old granary somewhere in Turkey? They will feel pain, their minds will be played with ... that is for certain. But how ... settle back and wait....all will be revealed before the night is over. Dah dah dah dah.
 
21.
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I have been fed my second meal for the day, and held over that stinking bucket for a second time. The day is done, the night has fallen. The stiflingly stale air in my cell is turning cold and I shiver as I try to find a comfortable position on the hard stone floor. The shackles and chains make it difficult to ever be comfortable.

I always know when the wooden door to my small cell opens because the bolt makes a metallic clank and I can feel a rush of dusty air waft over my naked body. Tonight that familiar clank startles me. I raise my head from where it rests on my knees and look up in the direction of the sound. It's him. I know it must be. I cannot see him through the blindfold, but I can feel his presence... it is as though a spirit of evil has entered the cell ... silent, brooding, threatening.

My ears pick up the sound of his breathing. There is a slight rasp to it that I remember well from when he leaned over me to whip poor Pia and pressed his hardened member against my bound hands. It's a rasp that suggests some kind of deep feeling ... perhaps lust or sadism, I don't know....but I hear it now. The cell is filled with tension, an unspoken and understated tension ... but it is there nonetheless and it envelopes me and fills me with dread.

Something is about to happen. I cannot hide. I cannot flee. I am completely at his mercy. Why doesn't he say something? What is he waiting for? I start to shake, to tremble uncontrollably....Oh my God....please, please ... going to pieces ... losing it in front of him ... and he must be enjoying it ... his breathing is quickening ... just a matter of time.
 
22.​
I have no idea how long I have been in this place or what it is. My body is still so sore from the whipping. I can hardly move myself, my limbs have become stiff from the heavy irons on my wrists and ankles and somehow the blindfold he has locked over my face seems to make even breathing hard. The air is sometimes hot, sometimes so very cold. I suppose that is night falling in this place, whatever it is. Beneath me I can feel rough concrete or stone that has been worn down over time and everywhere the ground is covered in little grains of something that become so irritating as I try to shuffle my position, chaffing at my already-tortured skin. I feel filthy and sweaty and humiliated. They humiliate me every day as they come into my pit and lift me over the hole where I am forced to defecate and pour water into my mouth and over my breasts, stinging me again where the skin is torn and my body is caked in dried blood. I have nothing to think of; my mind is turning over a book of empty pages. I am here for no reason and no-one knows about me apart from her and them and I am all alone. I stare at the darkness of my blindfold and rock to and fro very slightly and remember the whipping and the burning pain of the lash. And now the door is pulled open and it is him, I know it is him and he is standing there and deciding. A part of me is so glad he has come to visit me again after all these days alone.
 
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