Forty-two and in trouble. Her husband has just left her destitute.
To pay the rent, and to feed her teenage daughter she has resorted
to one source – a man she once knew as a young girl. He paid women to be whipped.
It had been years since she had seen him,
but one phone call confirmed yes, he was still in business.
Their relationship had ended badly; he had used her in
a Cirque de Fouet (Whip Circus) in front of an audience of 1000.
It had gone badly. He had arrived drunk and began savagely beating her,
locked defenseless in a whipping frame; ignoring her screams and safe words.
Suffice to say she escaped with her life
that night and spent months recovering.
(Twenty-five years later, she still carried faint scars)
Now she needed him. She found him still in the same dingy office.
Yes, he remembered her (no mention of his having nearly killed her),
sure, he could give her some work, how broke was she? Absolutely broke?
Well you’re not as young and pretty as you once were.
She should be ready to accept a little money for a lot of whipping, okay?
They agreed to terms, a small advance kept the bailiffs at bay.
But now she had to go through with it.
That expression on her face is not one of pain or sufferance;
whereas the whip-marks she bears would have been sufficient
in earlier days, not tonight. No. Before this night is over,
the whip marks she bears now will be multiplied ten-fold... twenty-fold,
hardly a square inch of her torso, front & back, will be unmarked.
The expression on her face is one of sad resignation.
She has just learned her employer is going out
to round up six strong drinking buddies,
who will all have “a turn at her.”
She shouldn’t worry, she’ll get paid okay, maybe even a tip or two.
He also tells her he’s called her daughter to come and collect
her mother at midnight – six hours away!!
His parting words send a chill down her spine as he locks her in the cellar:
“You thought I’d forgotten you skipped out on me all those years ago?
No honey, get ready for some real pain. It’s going to be a long night!
The bullwhips are coming out of the closet and a lot of blood’s gonna flow!”
Her lover has telephoned to the Commander asking
that she be whipped twice on Thursday, once in the morning
after breakfast and again after her evening duties.
“Whipped severely” were his exact words,
"focusing on her breasts and front thighs"
so that the welts and bruises would display to their
best advantage on Saturday afternoon when he arrived.
On Saturday, she is not to be permitted any clothing (save for her collar, bracelets and anklets) but should remain naked in all public areas: library, garden, etc.
Thus any member, recognizing
what kind of girl she is and what should be done
with her could add to the whip-welts if so inclined.
Such member is invited - and encouraged - to punish
the girl with as much severity and force as he pleases,
up to her loss of consciousness, but no further.
"My master said you have a riding crop ready to be picked up?
And I'm to get a large bottle of iodine? And some surgical pads.?
'The basic breast package?' Is that what it's called?
And can you give me two extra-heavy canes? Yes, he said two,
in case one of them breaks."
…Soon as you’re ready, if you know what I mean, what you want to do
is give her a good dozen cuts with this heavy cane, across the top of her
cheeks right here. Hard as you can, mind you, then ram yourself into her anus!
(gif) She'll scream a bit but ignore her... Above all, don't get distracted.
Then, quick as you can, give her another six of the best – same place,
but even harder – if you’ve hit her hard enough she should go into spasms
and then faint. It’s the spasms you’re after. They’re amazing!
Okay, got all that? Don’t worry about the girl, she may fall unconscious, usually does,
and bleed a little, the Valet’ll clean her up. Give him fifty bucks tip? The girl’s on me! (gif)
NOTE: It should be noted that nothing I post on the Forums should be interpreted as advocating
violence against women. Never in a million years would I sanction that.
In fact if you look at the 60-odd stories I’ve posted in the last few weeks, the women
are universally portrayed as victims or - occasionally - complicit.
The men - 95% of the participants - are the villains of the piece(s).
The posts themselves are concocted around a picture (or two) found on the net.
They’re meant to be hard-edge little variety fables, to amuse, entertain or divert.
If you find them objectionable, I understand, but you don’t have to read them.
That being said… " Oh, there you are, I wondered where you’d gotten to.
Okay honey, break’s over, the man with the whip is waiting upstairs.
Let's go? Wow, are you earning your money today or what?
Will you look at those bruises, they’re rising beautifully!
And we haven’t even started on your front…"
NOTE: It should be noted that nothing I post on the Forums should be interpreted as advocating
violence against women. Never in a million years would I sanction that.
In fact if you look at the 60-odd stories I’ve posted in the last few weeks, the women
are universally portrayed as victims or - occasionally - complicit.
The men - 95% of the participants - are the villains of the piece(s).
The posts themselves are concocted around a picture (or two) found on the net.
They’re meant to be hard-edge little variety fables, to amuse, entertain or divert.
If you find them objectionable, I understand, but you don’t have to read them.
That being said… " Oh, there you are, I wondered where you’d gotten to.
Okay honey, break’s over, the man with the whip is waiting upstairs.
View attachment 702069
Let's go? Wow, are you earning your money today or what?
Will you look at those bruises, they’re rising beautifully!
And we haven’t even started on your front…"
Her name was Marie-Christine, she was the daughter of “The Commander”
of the post-war regime moderne at the Chateau Roissy.
(The chateau had been closed throughout the war as a matter of French pride.)
As Roissy was being prepared for its re-opening, Marie-Christine demanded to know
from her widowed father just what it was that kept him away from her for so many hours.
She was relentless, even although her father, with his impeccable connections,
had found her a place at the Sorbonne University, she refused to take it,
at least until she knew what he did while she was left alone with her governess.
Finally he relented, and offered her an agreement: he would take her to Roissy
and show her what happened there if she would cease her questioning forever.
No, it wasn’t enough, she wanted to takepart in what happened there!
Very well, if she wanted to take part, so be it. He demanded an unbreakable promise!
She agreed.
That next Sunday morning Marie-Christine learned the truth about Chateau Roissy.
After touring the chateau (and witnessing women interacting with new members)
her father took her into his study.
“Well, you swore you would take part?” he challenged her,
as he reached into his
desk and brought out a short, iron-hard bullwhip.
She blanched, but made no argument, and began to undress.
Her father whispered sadly and softly to her'
"How sad, your perfect skin will never be perfect ever again."
Twenty-five minutes after this photo was taken, Marie-Christine, naked and unconscious,
her entire body covered in bloody welts, was carried into her father’s dressing room
to be administered to by a waiting doctor.
The story has an ending. Marie-Christine stayed at the Chateau Roissy for
six months, revealing to no one the nature of her relationship with the Commander.
During this time, she amassed a small fortune with which she opened
a couture house on the Ave George V.
Also during this time, on at least five occasions, Marie Christine was summoned
to the Commander’s study where, if eavesdroppers are to be believed about the
volume of the screams, she would be savagely whipped by the Commander;
so severely in fact, two Valets would have to transport her to the local clinic
where, after transfusions, she would spend at least a week recovering.
Safety First He asked her to look in the mirror, she did.
He asked her if she wanted to remove her nipple rings? Why? She asked. Because I’m going to whip your front, ‘from neck to knees’ I believe is the jargon?
Actually, I’ll be focusing on your breasts, and, well, your nipples.
(He smiles and shuffles his feet in schoolboy embarrassment.)
Sorry, but your nipples will be what I’m aiming
at mostly and I don’t want the nipple-rings to cut you. I’ve been cut before. My nipples will heal. Perhaps, perhaps not. I’ll be using a Gladiator’s Barbed Whip.
(The girl gasped and staggered back a step. The member continued calmly):
I made a reservation months ago, today was your first available appointment.
I spoke with the desk when I arrived, the session has been approved by the
Master on duty and the fees paid. I might add the surcharge was… substantial.
The girl is weeping quietly, trying to speak. He asks her what she’s trying to say.
She says simply that the fee reflects the fact that the victim
of a barbed whip session will most likely be out of commission
for several months with a resulting loss of income to the house.
But the Chateau divides the fee with the girl, don't they?
And there’ll be a physician on call, will there not? The physician is only there to make sure you don’t kill me. She shivers, stands silent. The nipple rings? She shrugs: May as well leave them. After you’re finished
with me I wouldn’t be able to get them back on anyway…
“Fear” - Definition This girl agreed with her date to drive out to the old quarry and have some fun.
She’d had a few drinks, enough to make her relax and let him tie her up
to a wire fence, just for fun… But now she realizes she can’t move.
She asks where they are. Someplace where no one can hear her;
she could scream her lungs out, nobody’s within miles… God! He’s cutting her clothes off! He's stripped her naked!
She doesn’t have to ask what he’s planning to do to her,
she can see the half-dozen vicious-looking whips
he’s just taken from his trunk.
He chooses the big bull-whip, practices a few swings and cracks! The cracks are as loud as rifle shots as he advances towards her.
That expression on her face.
That’s the definition of Fear.
"The Whip, the Whip!"
"No, no Not the Whip!"
"The Whip, The Whip!"
"No, No!"
"The Whip, The Whip!"
"No, anything but the Whip!"
"Anything????"
"The Whip, The Whip!"
Her name was Marie-Christine, she was the daughter of “The Commander”
of the post-war regime moderne at the Chateau Roissy.
(The chateau had been closed throughout the war as a matter of French pride.)
As Roissy was being prepared for its re-opening, Marie-Christine demanded to know
from her widowed father just what it was that kept him away from her for so many hours. View attachment 702281
She was relentless, even although her father, with his impeccable connections,
had found her a place at the Sorbonne University, she refused to take it,
at least until she knew what he did while she was left alone with her governess.
Finally he relented, and offered her an agreement: he would take her to Roissy
and show her what happened there if she would cease her questioning forever.
No, it wasn’t enough, she wanted to takepart in what happened there!
Very well, if she wanted to take part, so be it. He demanded an unbreakable promise!
She agreed.
That next Sunday morning Marie-Christine learned the truth about Chateau Roissy.
After touring the chateau (and witnessing women interacting with new members)
her father took her into his study.
“Well, you swore you would take part?” he challenged her,
as he reached into his
desk and brought out a short, iron-hard bullwhip.
She blanched, but made no argument, and began to undress.
Her father whispered sadly and softly to her'
"How sad, your perfect skin will never be perfect ever again." View attachment 702281
Twenty-five minutes after this photo was taken, Marie-Christine, naked and unconscious,
her entire body covered in bloody welts, was carried into her father’s dressing room
to be administered to by a waiting doctor.
The story has an ending. Marie-Christine stayed at the Chateau Roissy for
six months, revealing to no one the nature of her relationship with the Commander.
During this time, she amassed a small fortune with which she opened
a couture house on the Ave George V.
Also during this time, on at least five occasions, Marie Christine was summoned
to the Commander’s study where, if eavesdroppers are to be believed about the
volume of the screams, she would be savagely whipped by the Commander;
so severely in fact, two Valets would have to transport her to the local clinic
where, after transfusions, she would spend at least a week recovering.
After which she'd repair to the Sorbonne,
and at the Café de Flore, even Sartre was enraptured and de Beauvoir wide-eyed in wonder
as Marie-Christine discoursed on the existential authenticity of being whipped,
'On n'est jamais aussi libre que quand on soit esclave, et fouettée!'
Happy to report the young lass is up on her feet again... View attachment 686040
I popped my head in the dungeon Training Room
where she was in the sixth hour of her daily 10-hour
training regimen.
N.B. (Not hard to find the Training Room - follow the screams.)
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