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Turkish Delights

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32.
I can't bear to watch my new Dutch friend die in such a fiendish manner. I turn my head away, but not for long because I hear her murmur. It's faint, almost inaudible, but she is trying to speak. Her lips barely move. Her eyes seem vacant, yet I know she is trying to communicate with me.

I raise my head higher. Pain shoots through my back and my torn shoulder muscles and ligaments. I can see the full length of her naked body now. The blood runs in rivers down her legs and down the wicked impaling shaft of wood, half of which now appears to have disappeared inside her.

Yes, please say something to me dear Pia. I am so sorry we ended up in this mess together. If you have any last words, I want to hear them. Please be quick though; I am next and I know he is coming for me ... our time is nearly gone.
 
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31.
The reality is slowly waking in the brunette's mind. There had always seemed some way out. Release? Being found? Some way. Hope. But as he lowered the Dutch girl's cunt onto the blut point of the fork handle her eyes told him that last hope was fading.

The pain in Pia's belly is intense. With the rope slack her full weight is on the rounded fork handle, hard against her cervix; her body supported by the sheath of thin muscle that is her cunt.

Pia still dances her erotic steps. While her thighs hold she grips the handle for some respite. As they tire she locks her feet against the wood and pushes up as best she can. Relief from the slow, inexorable tearing of her cunt. Then ride the handle down as her muscles tire.

Push up, lock her thighs, tire and slip down those desperate few inches to pain. Up, hold, slip down. She has a rhythm. Slow and steady for now, while her strength holds. Slow and steady fucking the blunt spear in belly.

As the Dutch girl's body rises and sags on her shaft he grinds himself against Barbara's face; his fingers still tight in her hair. How long will Pia last? How long can she dance? His rasping breathing is quicker. How long can he hold?

With time Pia's rhythm changes. Her legs are tiring, thighs cramping. The strength to drive her weight up from the spear in her gut is weaker, her rests, if that is what they are, on the end of the handle are longer. But still she holds on.

It is well into the night now. He cannot let the women go much longer. They must be finished by the dawn.

Barbara feels his grip on her hair relax. The pressure of his hard cock against her face ease. She lets her head fall back, down between her stretched arms. She can see his boots. They take him towards the wall where he found the hay fork. The rattle of tools sorted. Then the boots bring him back.

Then they are beside Pia again and the brunette forces her tired neck muscles to lift her head, drawn to see what he is doing to her friend.

There is a heavy hammer in his hand. As Pia pushes herself doggedly upwards Barbara's eyes follow the hammer as he lfts it back then slams it against her friend's knee.

The Dutch girl screams, shrill, piercing at first then deeper, as her smashed leg loses grip and her weight falls. It is just a few inches but it is hard against the spear's blunt point. The deeper, visceral scream at the tearing of that muscle sheath in her belly.

He watches her for a while, standing between the two women. He looks at the horror on Barbara's face and in her eyes. The look in the Dutch girl's eyes is different. Her eyes are glazed. Her face seems different too. Calmer than the brunette's, lips parted, the tip of her tongue just visible.

Pia still fights, still pushes as best she can with one foot against the wood of the handle. Her dance had been even, rhythmic. Now it just macabre. But still she holds against the blunt spear that wants to run through her gut.

Wait until she makes that desperate thrust upwards, leg muscles taut, foot jammed hard against the handle. Crunch! The hammer slams the other knee. The piercing scream at the fire in her knee, then the deep, deep moan as her last grip gives way and she slips down, hard onto the end of the handle. The last muscles tear and the blunt spear begins its steady march up through her guts.

Pia's legs hang useless, down beside the hay fork handle. She makes a few desperate attempts to grip the handle but she cannot hold there. Barbara tears her eyes away. She cannot watch Pia's inexorable descent down that blunt wooden spear.

31a

He's going to kill me. He's going to kill us both. I know he is; he has no choice. This wasn't my plan when I booked the tickets, at least I didn't know it was my plan, but now I am here in the dark with ropes around me in this medieval place and he's hurt me and he's going to kill me. He's hoisted me up on my poor arms and I can feel the sweat on my body. He raises the fork towards me and opens my wounds. I feel my blood flow. I wonder if he will push it into my bellly? Will that hurt a lot? I remember pictures from my childhood. I wonder if I will take long to die. I want him to do it. I want him to, but he just pushes the forks into the ground. Now I understand. I am to be killed differently. He opens me and slowly lifts me over the wooden handle. I feel terror and a deep, trembling thrill as he widens me and lets me slide onto the rough wood. I can feel it inside me, pushing into me, ripping my sex. I never expected this, but I am so lucky. How could he have known? I feel for the other girl, we could have been friends. She must be looking at me making love as I die on this barbaric wooden post. I wonder what she thinks. She could never have known...
 
33.

She can't know how I feel. He can't know how I feel. The wood slips more deeply into me. I push up and down. I can feel the pressure inside, the burning tearing agony. I can feel my blood sliding down my legs. My vision is slipping away. I lift and fall and encourage my precious stake upwards into me. How could he have known? He couldn't have guessed. He couldn't have seen my library of books and my pictures, my visits to ancient churches and galleries, how I felt when I saw those images of saints - if they were saints, or maybe they were just girls the painters saw on the streets and fantasised about - their blood and their beauty. How could he have known? He's coming, like the Roman soldier. I know what will happen next and I breathe deeply, in expectation. How could he have known? I make an effort to see, open my glazing eyes wide. He raises the hammer and smashes into me and I arch in sudden agony, worse than any pain I have ever known and I drink it in and suck in air and my body shakes and I smile and see my useless mangled leg and I can hardly gasp, but I smile. He will break the other now, he has to. That is how it should be. I wonder what Barbs thinks when she sees me? Can she see me smile or does she just pity me? She will die soon too. How will she feel? Terror or fear or a sense of a life lost? I am embracing my stake, squeezing my bloody thighs and pushing pointlessly. Waiting for the inexorable moment that my legs give way. That pause, like a stricken vessel before the final plunge into the darkness of the ocean. That exquisite pause. And then sliding, slowly then faster, the wood ripping into me, deep inside me now, swallowing me in the depths of my own torture. I want to scream, but they will not understand. How could he have known? I want to scream. I look at her. I want to say something. I try to speak. The words will hardly come. I want her to know. I want her to know. I want her to understand why we are here. I want her to understand. I so wish she could understand; I so wish she could accept the beauty of our pain... I....
 
31a
This wasn't my plan when I booked the tickets, ...

I bet it wasn't....wouldn't have looked too good in the brochure.....

33.

He raises the hammer and smashes into me and I arch in sudden agony, worse than any pain I have ever known and I drink it in and suck in air and my body shakes and I smile and see my useless mangled leg and I can hardly gasp, but I smile. ...

Pk, there is simply no-one like you.

No-one.

:bdsm-heart:
 
34.​

Barbara knows that Pia is slowly dying as she slides down that wooden handle. The weight of her own body is driving that blunt spear up through her gut. In a few minutes the blunt point has penetrated the Dutch girl's belly, tearing through organs.

She is bleeding internally; at first there were just traces of blood where the handle entered her cunt but now she bleeds profusely. The blood flowing though is paler as it mixes with piss from a torn bladder and the fluid from her gut.

Then the handle is against her diaphragm and she struggles to breathe. If her body holds there she will slowly suffocate. If the point breaks through it will shred her lungs and she will drown slowly in her own blood. If it tears her heart or major arteries her death will come quickly. She gasps for what breath she can get, the gasps spaced with low, deep moans.

Fear grips Barbara. She can barely breathe. She knows she is next, knows that there is no hope and then he is standing over her. He frightens her but there is something different about him. She isn't sure but then realises that his breathing has steadied. The rasping breath that signalled his arousal has died.

Is it what Pia has suffered? Is it what he now accepts is simply their murder? She will never know.

He drags down another rope that runs over a beam 6 feet or so to the side of the bedstone where Barbara is still stretched taut. Her eyes follow his hands as he loops the end of the rope back on itself, down again, then slowly wraps the free end around and around and around the tripled section. When the wrapping is finished he tucks the free end through a small loop then snugs that loop tight.

Barbara has seen old cowboy movies on cable. She knows it as the classic hangman's knot.

He places the loop over her head and carefully arranges her matted dark hair so it is not caught between rope and skin; leave the hemp rope is rough against her neck. Despite her discomfort Barbara can feel it itch. As she shakes her head; the hemp chafes her neck.

That familar click of the ratchet but, after a slight tightening in her arms, the pressure slackens, a little more and there is movement in her shoulders but each little movement hurts as torn muscle burns. The same click on the windlass that holds her ankles and, finally, the bruising pressure of her cunt against that steel phallus is relieved.

As the ropes are untied from her ankles he wrenches one leg back and lifts it over the spindle. All Barbara can feel is the tearing in her hip. She does not notice his hands refit the ankle cuffs and the short chain the joined them.

He rolls over now and drags Barbara's arms behind her back and secures wrists and forearms with rope. She is surprised. His hands are rough but he does not let them dwell on her tight little arse. He does not caress her breasts as he did when she was bound to the chair. His breathing is steady, almost normal. What has happened to the sadistic arousal she felt in her hands in his room, that she felt hard against her face as he tore her shoulders and hip on the bedstone and flogged her breasts and belly?

Then the noose pulls firm at her neck. Just tension first then Barbara feels it tighten as her body is dragged across the bedstone. Her shoulders are dragged over the edge and she can feel herself being slowly lifted. As her weight is taken the rope creaks as it stretches. She twists her hips trying to support herself, trying to relieve the choking sensation at her throat. Then her hips slip from the bedstone leaving just her legs there.

He puts his weight on the rope and hauls her upwards, her legs leave the stone too and Barbara's body hangs from the noose.

There is a gurgling in her throat as she tries to breathe. Her vision is blurring and she can feel her eyes bulging as she fights for breath. Her neck muscles burning. She is close to blacking out.

Finally she feels a hard wooden surface against her heels. It is curved but she scrabbles her heels against it and is finally able to get her feet on top. She can feel a flat top with a sharper circular ridge under her toes. There is a little slack in the rope and Barbara looks down between her breasts, across the bright red welts that still show from his scourge.

She can see she has been hauled up to stand on top a wood barrel, about three feet from the stone floor. She knows very little about hanging but she does realise that the drop will never break her neck. There will be no quick, clean death. She will strangle. Slowly.

Barbara can see her friend Pia, her eyes glazed, head slumped, blood running freely around the timber handle that spears into her cunt and up through her gut to her chest. Her body sways a little as the fork moves a little on the prongs jammed into the crack in the floor. Her moans are low now. She is close to death.

Barbara looks for the bastard who had done this. The bastard who had taken them from that cell, first to interrogate them about a small bag with some white powder but who had turned that brief interrogation into sadistic torture. The bastard who had cum in her bound hands before he locked them away in darkness and isolation. The bastard who had brought them both to this final desecration.

She cranes her neck against the noose and her eyes finally pick him out. He is behind her, his boot against the top of the barrel.

She feels the barrel rock under her feet. Forwards. Back. Forwards. Back. Forwards once more and then there is nothing beneath her feet. Nothing.

She feels herself drop. Barely a foot and the noose at her throat stops her; hanging in the loop of rough hemp creaking rope.
 
35.

The barrel beneath my feet tips away and I swing by my neck. Not much of a fall, but enough of a jolt for the hemp noose to bite deep into the sinews of my neck. I gasp and gurgle, and begin to buck and kick. In desperation I glance about as I rotate slowly on the end of my rope, looking this way and that, knowing not what I am looking for, but looking anyway.

Not too distant from me, Pia is in her death throes. Her naked body has slid well down the impaling handle of the upturned pitchfork. Half the length of the handle has disappeared inside her and the other half is covered in her blood. Her eyes are glazed over and she makes no sound other than a faint gurgling noise. Every few seconds her body twitches, and now and again a spasmodic jerk, but she is near the end of life.

I try to ascertain his whereabouts. He disappeared from my field of vision soon after kicking the barrel out from under me. I heard him grunt with satisfaction and I heard the sound of his boots on the floor, but he seems to have vanished. Then suddenly a flash of brightness; he has opened a door, briefly flooding the sawdust and straw strewn floor with a scudding shaft of light! The light is partially extinguished by his body as he passes through the door, which closes behind him with a bang. The room returns to semi-darkness. He is gone. We are alone.

I continue to rotate slowly. The rope on which I am suspended groans and creaks, and the noose around my neck tightens a little more each time I come around. The pain is awful, and the constant but hopeless struggle to draw air through my rapidly constricting air passage becomes the focus of my thoughts. I want desperately to relieve the pressure. But with arms bound behind my back, I can do little to stop the process of slow strangulation; and with my ankles shackled my kicks in search of footing of any kind are both feeble and ineffective.

My head bends forward with the pressure. I look down the length of my struggling nude body, past my swaying breasts with their tumescent, oddly excited nipples. A stream of sweat and drool glistens on my breastbone and runs down my tummy and over my right thigh. My hips are gyrating in and out, the gyrations punctuated by an occasional hard buck; my legs are shaking, almost a tremor. A stream of warm pee runs down my legs to spatter on the floor below.

I am well into what one might call the dance of death. I have read about near death experiences … when the mind experiences a certain sense of calm, filled with insights and impressions. I think I am in one now. Suddenly I think I have gained insights into both Pia’s and his behaviors.

It escaped me at first, but I now realize that Pia welcomed, even encouraged somehow the dreadful whipping she endured at his hands, as well as her death by impalement. I remember being mystified by how she failed to run earlier when she had the chance, and how she came forward arms outstretched as though she wanted him to kill her in the most gruesome way possible. Had I misjudged her? What was her real interest in me, why did she befriend me? What might have happened between us had we gone on with the sightseeing tour and gotten to know one another under circumstances different than meeting our deaths together in this old granary? She is an enigma to me, but at the same time I begin to feel a glimmer of understanding as well as the uncomfortable feeling that there might be something deep and sinister hidden inside both of us … something that his extreme brutality has awakened and aroused. I reflect back again on how oddly excited and erect my nipples have become, and I am suddenly aware now of that familiar tingling sensation of erotic arousal rising up inside me. Can I … can she … actually be enjoying this?

And then there is him. How odd the way he changed over time. At first he was the cold-hearted, purposeful professional interrogator … taking meticulous steps to ensure his prisoners’ senses of vulnerability … stripping away all clothing, providing humiliation and danger at the hands of his men, skillfully inflicting torture and pain under interrogation, playing his two victims off against one another. But then there was a certain almost indescribable tension that took over his being, almost as though he was fighting an internal battle of some kind … there was the rasping breath and the near orgasmic ejaculations as he pressed his member against my hands or later against my cheek … but never did he bring it to a climax; his excitement would just suddenly end, and he would back away. Then there was a third change. A cold almost mechanical demeanor seemed to take possession of him as he calmly and efficiently murdered us, each in a different way. There was no apparent professional purpose to his actions at this point; he was no longer interested in eliciting a confession, just a dutiful almost grudging carrying out of the means of death. It was almost as though he had completely lost interest and was just going through the motions.

Ohhhhhhhh, now the noose has tightened almost to the point where I am about to lose consciousness. My calm reverie is broken, my senses refocused on the immediate reality of my situation. I panic, renew my feeble efforts to somehow twist or kick myself free. I am slipping away fast. My tongue is protruding; I know my eyes must be bulging … I am shaking uncontrollably. I see lights, then blackness, then lights again, then ……
 
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35.

The barrel beneath my feet tips away and I swing by my neck. Not much of a fall, but enough of a jolt for the hemp noose to bite deep into the sinews of my neck. I gasp and gurgle, and begin to buck and kick. In desperation I glance about as I rotate slowly on the end of my rope, looking this way and that, knowing not what I am looking for, but looking anyway.

Not too distant from me, Pia is in her death throes. Her naked body has slid well down the impaling handle of the upturned pitchfork. Half the length of the handle has disappeared inside her and the other half is covered in her blood. Her eyes are glazed over and she makes no sound other than a faint gurgling noise. Every few seconds her body twitches, and now and again a spasmodic jerk, but she is near the end of life.

I try to ascertain his whereabouts. He disappeared from my field of vision soon after kicking the barrel out from under me. I heard him grunt with satisfaction and I heard the sound of his boots on the floor, but he seems to have vanished. Then suddenly a flash of brightness; he has opened a door, briefly flooding the sawdust and straw strewn floor with a scudding shaft of light! The light is partially extinguished by his body as he passes through the door, which closes behind him with a bang. The room returns to semi-darkness. He is gone. We are alone.

I continue to rotate slowly. The rope on which I am suspended groans and creaks, and the noose around my neck tightens a little more each time I come around. The pain is awful, and the constant but hopeless struggle to draw air through my rapidly constricting air passage becomes the focus of my thoughts. I want desperately to relieve the pressure. But with arms bound behind my back, I can do little to stop the process of slow strangulation; and with my ankles shackled my kicks in search of footing of any kind are both feeble and ineffective.

My head bends forward with the pressure. I look down the length of my struggling nude body, past my swaying breasts with their tumescent, oddly excited nipples. A stream of sweat and drool glistens on my breastbone and runs down my tummy and over my right thigh. My hips are gyrating in and out, the gyrations punctuated by an occasional hard buck; my legs are shaking, almost a tremor. A stream of warm pee runs down my legs to spatter on the floor below.

I am well into what one might call the dance of death. I have read about near death experiences … when the mind experiences a certain sense of calm, filled with insights and impressions. I think I am in one now. Suddenly I think I have gained insights into both Pia’s and his behaviors.

It escaped me at first, but I now realize that Pia welcomed, even encouraged somehow the dreadful whipping she endured at his hands, as well as her death by impalement. I remember being mystified by how she failed to run earlier when she had the chance, and how she came forward arms outstretched as though she wanted him to kill her in the most gruesome way possible. Had I misjudged her? What was her real interest in me, why did she befriend me? What might have happened between us had we gone on with the sightseeing tour and gotten to know one another under circumstances different than meeting our deaths together in this old granary? She is an enigma to me, but at the same time I begin to feel a glimmer of understanding as well as the uncomfortable feeling that there might be something deep and sinister hidden inside both of us … something that his extreme brutality has awakened and aroused. I reflect back again on how oddly excited and erect my nipples have become, and I am suddenly aware now of that familiar tingling sensation of erotic arousal rising up inside me. Can I … can she … actually be enjoying this?

And then there is him. How odd the way he changed over time. At first he was the cold-hearted, purposeful professional interrogator … taking meticulous steps to ensure his prisoners’ senses of vulnerability … stripping away all clothing, providing humiliation and danger at the hands of his men, skillfully inflicting torture and pain under interrogation, playing his two victims off against one another. But then there was a certain almost indescribable tension that took over his being, almost as though he was fighting an internal battle of some kind … there was the rasping breath and the near orgasmic ejaculations as he pressed his member against my hands or later against my cheek … but never did he bring it to a climax; his excitement would just suddenly end, and he would back away. Then there was a third change. A cold almost mechanical demeanor seemed to take possession of him as he calmly and efficiently murdered us, each in a different way. There was no apparent professional purpose to his actions at this point; he was no longer interested in eliciting a confession, just a dutiful almost grudging carrying out of the means of death. It was almost as though he had completely lost interest and was just going through the motions.

Ohhhhhhhh, now the noose has tightened almost to the point where I am about to lose consciousness. My calm reverie is broken, my senses refocused on the immediate reality of my situation. I panic, renew my feeble efforts to somehow twist or kick myself free. I am slipping away fast. My tongue is protruding; I know my eyes must be bulging … I am shaking uncontrollably. I see lights, then blackness, then lights again, then ……

"Going through the motions?" Maybe, but what a visceral story this has been!

Thank you, all three!
 
. I want to scream, but they will not understand. How could he have known? I want to scream. I look at her. I want to say something. I try to speak. The words will hardly come. I want her to know. I want her to know. I want her to understand why we are here. I want her to understand. I so wish she could understand; I so wish she could accept the beauty of our pain... I....

Ohhhhhhhh, now the noose has tightened almost to the point where I am about to lose consciousness. My calm reverie is broken, my senses refocused on the immediate reality of my situation. I panic, renew my feeble efforts to somehow twist or kick myself free. I am slipping away fast. My tongue is protruding; I know my eyes must be bulging … I am shaking uncontrollably. I see lights, then blackness, then lights again, then ……

And, with those final words from Pia and Barbara, Pp is left to draw a line under this story.

It began as things often do with a brief commentary from Barbaria on a image of a woman being herded into a cell in another thread. She left her commentary in a way that it could be continued and Pp decided to add a reply. It soon took on a much longer life and it found its own place.

As Barbara had left a friend in the cell Pkin was soon co-opted and became in integral part of the story.

Our thanks to those who found Turkish Delights and joined us for the journey. Thank you for encouragement and support.

Some aspects were difficult to write. Pp might talk about those later. While the story has ended there is no reason why rational discussion should not continue for a while. Please contribute if you wish but, please, keep that to the subject matter and the writing.

Pp will add a pdf version in a day or two.

Barbaria, Pkin and Pp. May 2015​
 
Very intense. I think the real strength of the story is the three different points of view from the three different writers. The other point I note is that the women are in first person, while the torturer remains a bit "disguised" in third person. Very effective to focus on the women's ordeal. Applause! :)
 
And, with those final words from Pia and Barbara, Pp is left to draw a line under this story.
Some aspects were difficult to write. Pp might talk about those later. While the story has ended there is no reason why rational discussion should not continue for a while. Please contribute if you wish but, please, keep that to the subject matter and the writing.
Barbaria, Pkin and Pp. May 2015​
An amazingly powerful story Pp, and I enjoyed both Pkin & Barbaria's thoughts on what happened. You, Pp, wrote in the 3rd person, so we never got any insight to the man's thoughts. Barb pondered long and hard. Did you have any motive or backstory in mind for why the man did all this? Was he just a sick bastard?
OS
 
An amazingly powerful story Pp, and I enjoyed both Pkin & Barbaria's thoughts on what happened. You, Pp, wrote in the 3rd person, so we never got any insight to the man's thoughts. Barb pondered long and hard. Did you have any motive or backstory in mind for why the man did all this? Was he just a sick bastard?
OS
If you give Pp a few days he will try to gather those thoughts together.
 
Very intense. I think the real strength of the story is the three different points of view from the three different writers. The other point I note is that the women are in first person, while the torturer remains a bit "disguised" in third person. Very effective to focus on the women's ordeal. Applause! :)
An amazingly powerful story Pp, and I enjoyed both Pkin & Barbaria's thoughts on what happened. You, Pp, wrote in the 3rd person, so we never got any insight to the man's thoughts. Barb pondered long and hard. Did you have any motive or backstory in mind for why the man did all this? Was he just a sick bastard?
OS

Two very thoughtful comments that have hit on the same feature of the story. I found the comments interesting. To be honest, the fact that both women wrote in the first person, and the torturer in the third person was not something I had not thought about at all until Jollyrei and old slave commented on it just now. It certainly wasn't by design on my part, yet it happened and was effective in that a running theme throughout the story was Barb's confusion and concerns about just who he was and what his intentions were. She never knew for sure, even in the end, exactly who that man was as he disappeared through the granary door, nor did she ever know how in his mind he defined his relationship with his two hapless victims.
 
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Very intense. I think the real strength of the story is the three different points of view from the three different writers. The other point I note is that the women are in first person, while the torturer remains a bit "disguised" in third person. Very effective to focus on the women's ordeal. Applause! :)
An amazingly powerful story Pp, and I enjoyed both Pkin & Barbaria's thoughts on what happened. You, Pp, wrote in the 3rd person, so we never got any insight to the man's thoughts. Barb pondered long and hard. Did you have any motive or backstory in mind for why the man did all this? Was he just a sick bastard?
OS
Two very thoughtful comments that have hit on the same feature of the story. I found the comments interesting. To be honest, the fact that both women wrote in the first person, and the torturer in the third person was not something I had not thought about at all until Jollyrei and old slave commented on it just now. It certainly wasn't by design on my part, yet it happened and was effective in that a running theme throughout the story was Barb's confusion and concerns about just who he was and what his intentions were. She never knew for sure, even in the end, exactly who that man was as he disappeared through the granary door, nor did she ever know how in his mind he defined his relationship with his two hapless victims.
Pp's thanks to Jollyrei and old slave for those observations and comment and to Barb for hers too.

Firstly, Pp (I) writes everything here in the third person. That is quite deliberate as a way of carefully keeping cf as seperate as possible from the world Pp (I) lives in. It is even more important in writing a story where the women are treated as sadistic a way as they were here. Using the third person adds that valuable layer of insulation.

This all began with a short commentary from Barb on a single image. This is the third or fourth story we have done like this. They have no pre-conceived plan and we just let them develop as we explore our thoughts. The character Pp writes can change as the story proceeds.

Look at the executioner who whipped fat slave girl, Barbaria and messaline, look at the interrogator who tortured, and finally burnt at the stake, the young woman in a thread call "Confessions". In each case he changed as he inflicted the torture. When he whipped the three women he became emotionally worn down, when he tortured the young woman before burning her he developed empathy with her and gave her the garotte as a quick death then treated her remains with reverence.

In another where Barb wrote on an image of a Lady Barbara spreadeagled in chains above a small fire, Pp took up her whipping to extract a confession the answer to which he already had. He whipped her most thoroughly as he was requested but, in the end, gave up the answer himself rather than forcing it from her and removing that last tiny piece of her being.

In all of those he developed some attachment to the women.

It is likely that he would have also developed that attachment here too. As noted, this story had no plan at all though it did change direction when Pp's collaborators, Barb and Pkin, both asked for particular deaths. From that moment his part became much harder to write and you should see how he went from being extremely aroused by what he was inflicting to feeling nothing at all. In the whipping of Pia and the racking of Barbara he was so aroused but, in the impaling of Pia, he took himself too far and became numb to their suffering.

Writing those murders - that is what they were - as descriptively as was necessary became so very personal to me that, in the end, the only outcome was that he would simply walked out the door. As I was numbed so was he. It took not a little quiet support from Barb to get those last few episodes written.

It is quite a challenge emotionally to write stories such as this and the one that developed in "Confessions". Pp would urge everyone to "ava bloody go" in Australian vernacular. He will guarantee you will look on images here differently after you have invested the emotional energy in writing like this.
 
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