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BARB’S DYSTOPIAN DOLCETTISH DEMISE
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
My vision for Rose
Rather this one. The others look too skinny to my imagination.Nice dystopian thinking anyway : concealing a homeland security force (FNPA) as a nutrition agency.
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
Attachments
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
On this topic
Two cannibals stumble on a body in the woods and immediately dig in from either end. One shouts in joy “I’m having a ball!” The other replies, “Boy, you eat fast!”
twonines
LIMERICUS
A man shipwrecked on a desert island eventually endears himself to the natives and they decide to admit him to the tribe. The chief explains that he must first pass an initiation test. The man is taken to a remote beach on which there are three huts. The chief explains that in the first hut there is a bowl of blood which must be drunk down in one, in the second hut there is a young gorilla whom he must wrestle and defeat and in the third hut there is a young virgin who must be deflowered.
The man enters the first hut and quickly drinks the blood. He then enters the second hut and is in there for some time, with some terrible grunts and screams being heard before he staggers out torn and bleeding, totters up to the chief and says "Now where`s this virgin I have to wrestle"
Last edited:
M
montycrusto
Guest
My vision for Rose
Both images work, each in there own special way.
10.
Cindy was rudely awakened by the sound of police batons banging against cell bars, as the jailers worked their way along the row of cells in which she and the other arrested protesters had spent what little was left of the night. Clearly they were to be given no rest. The terrors of the interrogations were about to begin.
Of those terrors she had been warned. Soon after arrival, she had been crammed into a cell, along with a dozen or so others. Paul Montague, one of the Hamilton graduates who had been a leader of the protest, had gathered Cindy and the other cellmates around him and told them in hushed tones what that morning might have in store for them.
He warned ... pleaded actually ... for everyone to resist. “Don’t give in,” he said, “don’t mention anyone’s name, keep repeating over and over again that you were exercising your right of free speech! Do this no matter what they threaten you with or do to you!”
But under questioning Paul was forced to admit that the interrogators could, in fact, do quite a lot ... including the use of torture methods ... because the State, in its infinite wisdom, had endowed the FNPA and the police with extraordinary statutory power to do whatever they pleased with those in their custody.
The jailers returned, opened their cell and ordered everyone out. Cindy fell in line with the others and their group was marched from the cell block to another wing of the building, in which the interrogators did their work.
They apparently had arrived early, for they were informed on arrival that they would have to wait their turn ... the interrogators having not yet finished with the last lot. So she and her cellmates were backed up against the corridor wall, and ordered to raise their arms so that their cuffed wrists could be attached to a long row of iron rings set high in the wall.
But that was clearly all a lie and a set up. As she waited, topless and arms-over-head, the sounds emanating from within the interrogation rooms directly across the way ... an unnerving mixture of shouts, thumps, crashes, screams, curses, and wailing ... left little doubt about what was going on behind closed doors and what horrors might be in store for those waiting their turn outside.
Earlier, Cindy had seen her friend, Paige, taken, along with the others from the cell adjoining hers. And she was almost certain now that the shrill cries of pain coming from behind one of the doors were none other than Paige’s.
And while she waited helplessly for the moment she would be taken into one of those interrogation rooms, Cindy rued the day that her good friend, Barb Moore, had convinced she and Paige to take Ms. Whitaker’s elective course on the emancipated American woman, and to become members of the after school study group, supervised by Ms. Whitaker, on civil rights and free speech. For it was in that very group that the plan to protest news of Barb’s selection for the annual cull was hatched ... a plan that had ended in bloodshed, arrest for the protesters, and for her present predicament.
It was not a matter of blaming Barb for what happened, for Cindy loved her dear friend Barb ... loved her in ways, as a matter of fact, that she had never revealed to Barb or to anyone else. She would do anything for Barb, and anything for their mutual friend, Paige ... hence her present dilemma. For to tell the truth, she had never felt that she had much interest in Ms. Whitaker and all her naively idealistic ideas about women’s rights. She had only become involved to please Barb.
After what seemed forever, but was probably only a few minutes, the doors to the interrogation rooms were flung open ... signaling the completion of the morning’s first sessions. Cindy and the others watched helplessly and with a growing sense of despair as the beaten and bloodied subjects of those sessions spilled into the hallway to be whisked away.
Among them was poor Paige, who on being literally booted from an interrogation room and collected by two matrons, looked up at Cindy ... with two swollen and blackened eyes ... and shook her head dolefully. Cindy watched, a lump rising in her throat, as her friend’s battered nude body was dragged down the hallway.
***********
Rose’s arms and back ached. The physical stress of hanging naked with arms stretched high behind her back was taking its toll. She didn’t know how much time had passed since her two interrogators, who identified themselves as Spencer and Murphy, had left her hanging in this torturously awkward position while they went for lunch, but it was fast seeming like an eternity.
Her morning session with the two officers had started out amiably enough. They both seemed kind, offering her a chair, a bottle of water and a couple of granola bars. The questions they posed at first, were not unlike those that Newman had asked in her apartment before she was detained.
But after awhile they began to dig deeper, asking pointed and leading questions about the potentially inflammatory things she taught her impressionable students in her course on the emancipated American woman, and whether she had, in fact, personally recommended civil disobedience to the student members of her extramural study group.
Fearing where such lines of questioning were leading, she began stonewalling, repeatedly saying “I really can’t answer that” to each new question.
At that point her interrogation morphed into a good-cop-bad-cop routine, with Spencer who seemed the more affable of the two offering kind assurances of understanding while Murphy became belligerent and rude ... culminating in him accusing her of attempting to seduce Officer Newman by luring him into her apartment bedroom and cavorting about nakedly right in front of him!
She reacted to that preposterous allegation angrily and had to be restrained by both men, who chose that moment to stand her up, strip her of her clothing and string her up, saying as they left for lunch that she had better think long and hard about how she would comport herself on their return.
Self pity invaded her thoughts as she attempted once again to find a position that relieved at least some of the extreme discomfort she was feeling. Scrabbling for leverage with her toes, she only succeeded in turning herself around a full 360 degrees, without finding any relief for her suffering. She simply couldn’t understand how things could have gone so terribly wrong ... how had she ended up in this predicament? Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so encouraging when the students talked with such idealistic enthusiasm of some day protesting to make a difference?
And, as she passed ... once again in her circumnavigation of the center of the room ... the mirror on the far wall, she wondered who might be looking through it. She had figured from the beginning that it was undoubtedly one of those mirrors through which people in an adjoining space could observe what was happening without being seen.
Was Newman there? Somehow she sensed he just might be. In her mind he seemed more of a decent type than either Spencer or Murphy ... especially Murphy!
And then the door to the room opened, and through it strode Murphy ... alone!
“Well, well ... look at you, Ms. Whitaker ... or ... let’s see ... it’s Rose, isn’t it? May I call you Rose? Such a pretty, name ... pretty like yourself, Rose ... lovely like you,” he said huskily as he he cupped and mashed each of her hanging breasts, in turn, up against her chest, and let them fall ... delighting In watching them bounce and wobble.
“Stop it!” she screamed.
“Why should I Rose? Don’t you realize I can do whatever I please to you. I could whip your sweet ass for instance. Or maybe apply electric shocks to your girly parts. Anything I please, to make you talk!
“Please, no. I’ve already told you everything.”
“And you know what, Rose? There’s nothing to stop me from fucking you right now if I wanted to do that ... nothing at all, Rose ... as a matter of fact, seen as we’re alone in here together, maybe I will just do that, Rose. Which hole would you prefer?”
“Oh, God .... nooooo!”
“Which hole, Rose?” he persisted, taking out his hardened member and waving it in front of her face.
“Nooooo ... please ... where is Spencer, where is Newman?”
“I don’t know Rose. Do you like the size of this? It’s very big and hard, yes? Where do you think you’d like me to put it? Why do you keep glancing at that mirror? Do you think maybe they’re watching us from behind it? One never knows does one, Rose?”
“Please!”
“You know, Rose, since you can’t choose, I’ll have to decide for you. I think I’d like to take you from behind, right up your sweet cunt!”
**************
For the sows of Unit 2-2 the day began before dawn when the barrack lights flashed on.
Awakened, Barb raised her head, rolled to the side of her bunk and looked down. Sue’s eyes were still closed. Kristin was out of bed doing sit-ups on the floor.
“Once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader,” muttered Barb, flopping over on her back and pulling her blanket over her head.
Minutes later the guards came through, ordering everyone up and out for morning roll call, after which wrist shackles were removed and they were lectured on what life would be like and what was expected of them in the days remaining before they would meet their end rotating on a spit.
A calendar was promised in the coming days that would pinpoint the scheduled roasting dates for specific ranges of ID numbers. Although shackles were no longer necessary for those who behaved, everyone was to retain their collars and ID number discs. Misbehavior of all kinds, they were sternly informed, would be be severely punished.
They were also told the daily routine would include specific meal times, work hours, leisure as well as exercise times. Everyone would be assigned to work details in the meat processing industry at Goose River Center, that is ... until their roasting date in the pits rolled around.
Dismissal for breakfast followed. Everyone was given the day off. Compulsory guided group tours of the roasting pits, over the course of the day, were assigned to all units.
Barb, Sue, Kristin and the three Grainger girls soon found themselves waiting in line for breakfast.
“Hope the food here is good,” chirped Kristen enthusiastically.
“Sure. A little extra fat might make those teeny boobs of yours roast better,” snapped Barb sarcastically.
“Same could be said for your flat butt!” retorted Kristin.
“Okay, don’t start, you two! We’re going to have to stick together ... you, me, and our Grainger friends, if my plan to save our skins is going to work,” said Sue nodding inclusively to the three girls standing behind Kristin.
“What plan is that?” asked the first of the Graingers.
“What’s your name, hun?” said Sue.
“Meg. Short for Megan.”
“Well Meg, I’m working on it and I’ll let you know soon as it’s ready.”
TO BE CONTINUED
Cindy was rudely awakened by the sound of police batons banging against cell bars, as the jailers worked their way along the row of cells in which she and the other arrested protesters had spent what little was left of the night. Clearly they were to be given no rest. The terrors of the interrogations were about to begin.
Of those terrors she had been warned. Soon after arrival, she had been crammed into a cell, along with a dozen or so others. Paul Montague, one of the Hamilton graduates who had been a leader of the protest, had gathered Cindy and the other cellmates around him and told them in hushed tones what that morning might have in store for them.
He warned ... pleaded actually ... for everyone to resist. “Don’t give in,” he said, “don’t mention anyone’s name, keep repeating over and over again that you were exercising your right of free speech! Do this no matter what they threaten you with or do to you!”
But under questioning Paul was forced to admit that the interrogators could, in fact, do quite a lot ... including the use of torture methods ... because the State, in its infinite wisdom, had endowed the FNPA and the police with extraordinary statutory power to do whatever they pleased with those in their custody.
The jailers returned, opened their cell and ordered everyone out. Cindy fell in line with the others and their group was marched from the cell block to another wing of the building, in which the interrogators did their work.
They apparently had arrived early, for they were informed on arrival that they would have to wait their turn ... the interrogators having not yet finished with the last lot. So she and her cellmates were backed up against the corridor wall, and ordered to raise their arms so that their cuffed wrists could be attached to a long row of iron rings set high in the wall.
But that was clearly all a lie and a set up. As she waited, topless and arms-over-head, the sounds emanating from within the interrogation rooms directly across the way ... an unnerving mixture of shouts, thumps, crashes, screams, curses, and wailing ... left little doubt about what was going on behind closed doors and what horrors might be in store for those waiting their turn outside.
Earlier, Cindy had seen her friend, Paige, taken, along with the others from the cell adjoining hers. And she was almost certain now that the shrill cries of pain coming from behind one of the doors were none other than Paige’s.
And while she waited helplessly for the moment she would be taken into one of those interrogation rooms, Cindy rued the day that her good friend, Barb Moore, had convinced she and Paige to take Ms. Whitaker’s elective course on the emancipated American woman, and to become members of the after school study group, supervised by Ms. Whitaker, on civil rights and free speech. For it was in that very group that the plan to protest news of Barb’s selection for the annual cull was hatched ... a plan that had ended in bloodshed, arrest for the protesters, and for her present predicament.
It was not a matter of blaming Barb for what happened, for Cindy loved her dear friend Barb ... loved her in ways, as a matter of fact, that she had never revealed to Barb or to anyone else. She would do anything for Barb, and anything for their mutual friend, Paige ... hence her present dilemma. For to tell the truth, she had never felt that she had much interest in Ms. Whitaker and all her naively idealistic ideas about women’s rights. She had only become involved to please Barb.
After what seemed forever, but was probably only a few minutes, the doors to the interrogation rooms were flung open ... signaling the completion of the morning’s first sessions. Cindy and the others watched helplessly and with a growing sense of despair as the beaten and bloodied subjects of those sessions spilled into the hallway to be whisked away.
Among them was poor Paige, who on being literally booted from an interrogation room and collected by two matrons, looked up at Cindy ... with two swollen and blackened eyes ... and shook her head dolefully. Cindy watched, a lump rising in her throat, as her friend’s battered nude body was dragged down the hallway.
***********
Rose’s arms and back ached. The physical stress of hanging naked with arms stretched high behind her back was taking its toll. She didn’t know how much time had passed since her two interrogators, who identified themselves as Spencer and Murphy, had left her hanging in this torturously awkward position while they went for lunch, but it was fast seeming like an eternity.
Her morning session with the two officers had started out amiably enough. They both seemed kind, offering her a chair, a bottle of water and a couple of granola bars. The questions they posed at first, were not unlike those that Newman had asked in her apartment before she was detained.
But after awhile they began to dig deeper, asking pointed and leading questions about the potentially inflammatory things she taught her impressionable students in her course on the emancipated American woman, and whether she had, in fact, personally recommended civil disobedience to the student members of her extramural study group.
Fearing where such lines of questioning were leading, she began stonewalling, repeatedly saying “I really can’t answer that” to each new question.
At that point her interrogation morphed into a good-cop-bad-cop routine, with Spencer who seemed the more affable of the two offering kind assurances of understanding while Murphy became belligerent and rude ... culminating in him accusing her of attempting to seduce Officer Newman by luring him into her apartment bedroom and cavorting about nakedly right in front of him!
She reacted to that preposterous allegation angrily and had to be restrained by both men, who chose that moment to stand her up, strip her of her clothing and string her up, saying as they left for lunch that she had better think long and hard about how she would comport herself on their return.
Self pity invaded her thoughts as she attempted once again to find a position that relieved at least some of the extreme discomfort she was feeling. Scrabbling for leverage with her toes, she only succeeded in turning herself around a full 360 degrees, without finding any relief for her suffering. She simply couldn’t understand how things could have gone so terribly wrong ... how had she ended up in this predicament? Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so encouraging when the students talked with such idealistic enthusiasm of some day protesting to make a difference?
And, as she passed ... once again in her circumnavigation of the center of the room ... the mirror on the far wall, she wondered who might be looking through it. She had figured from the beginning that it was undoubtedly one of those mirrors through which people in an adjoining space could observe what was happening without being seen.
Was Newman there? Somehow she sensed he just might be. In her mind he seemed more of a decent type than either Spencer or Murphy ... especially Murphy!
And then the door to the room opened, and through it strode Murphy ... alone!
“Well, well ... look at you, Ms. Whitaker ... or ... let’s see ... it’s Rose, isn’t it? May I call you Rose? Such a pretty, name ... pretty like yourself, Rose ... lovely like you,” he said huskily as he he cupped and mashed each of her hanging breasts, in turn, up against her chest, and let them fall ... delighting In watching them bounce and wobble.
“Stop it!” she screamed.
“Why should I Rose? Don’t you realize I can do whatever I please to you. I could whip your sweet ass for instance. Or maybe apply electric shocks to your girly parts. Anything I please, to make you talk!
“Please, no. I’ve already told you everything.”
“And you know what, Rose? There’s nothing to stop me from fucking you right now if I wanted to do that ... nothing at all, Rose ... as a matter of fact, seen as we’re alone in here together, maybe I will just do that, Rose. Which hole would you prefer?”
“Oh, God .... nooooo!”
“Which hole, Rose?” he persisted, taking out his hardened member and waving it in front of her face.
“Nooooo ... please ... where is Spencer, where is Newman?”
“I don’t know Rose. Do you like the size of this? It’s very big and hard, yes? Where do you think you’d like me to put it? Why do you keep glancing at that mirror? Do you think maybe they’re watching us from behind it? One never knows does one, Rose?”
“Please!”
“You know, Rose, since you can’t choose, I’ll have to decide for you. I think I’d like to take you from behind, right up your sweet cunt!”
**************
For the sows of Unit 2-2 the day began before dawn when the barrack lights flashed on.
Awakened, Barb raised her head, rolled to the side of her bunk and looked down. Sue’s eyes were still closed. Kristin was out of bed doing sit-ups on the floor.
“Once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader,” muttered Barb, flopping over on her back and pulling her blanket over her head.
Minutes later the guards came through, ordering everyone up and out for morning roll call, after which wrist shackles were removed and they were lectured on what life would be like and what was expected of them in the days remaining before they would meet their end rotating on a spit.
A calendar was promised in the coming days that would pinpoint the scheduled roasting dates for specific ranges of ID numbers. Although shackles were no longer necessary for those who behaved, everyone was to retain their collars and ID number discs. Misbehavior of all kinds, they were sternly informed, would be be severely punished.
They were also told the daily routine would include specific meal times, work hours, leisure as well as exercise times. Everyone would be assigned to work details in the meat processing industry at Goose River Center, that is ... until their roasting date in the pits rolled around.
Dismissal for breakfast followed. Everyone was given the day off. Compulsory guided group tours of the roasting pits, over the course of the day, were assigned to all units.
Barb, Sue, Kristin and the three Grainger girls soon found themselves waiting in line for breakfast.
“Hope the food here is good,” chirped Kristen enthusiastically.
“Sure. A little extra fat might make those teeny boobs of yours roast better,” snapped Barb sarcastically.
“Same could be said for your flat butt!” retorted Kristin.
“Okay, don’t start, you two! We’re going to have to stick together ... you, me, and our Grainger friends, if my plan to save our skins is going to work,” said Sue nodding inclusively to the three girls standing behind Kristin.
“What plan is that?” asked the first of the Graingers.
“What’s your name, hun?” said Sue.
“Meg. Short for Megan.”
“Well Meg, I’m working on it and I’ll let you know soon as it’s ready.”
TO BE CONTINUED
Last edited:
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
As I said before, a stupid course.
True of most of these empty-headed bimbo protestors, I expect.
Lord, Barbara! What an intense chapter. Just when the fate of one victim becomes unbearable, another begins to suffer! Love it.
M
montycrusto
Guest
Finally, Murphy asks a question that actually matters. And Rose is helplessly bound in strappado, stripped naked, and about to be firmly fucked..
What a chapter; what a story!!
twonines
LIMERICUS
Just when it seemed it couldn`t get any better, you have done it again.
Servus Venandi
Magistrate
I'm not sure these Grainger girls are going to prove the allies Sue is hoping for.
Also, poor Rose, but classroom activism is a serious problem.
Also, poor Rose, but classroom activism is a serious problem.
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
'Wisdom'!
Like 'smart'! When the State starts using such language, you better draw your gun!If you don't wanna end up roasted!
How empathic!
Cheerleader meat = premium quality!
Says the food!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
I have been immensely enjoying this story. But something has seemed familiar, disturbing. In the middle of the night I awoke suddenly and realized what it was!
Barb has stolen the whole plotline. Shame on you, Barb!
Really? I’ve never seen that movie!
can I be sued?
What’s the penalty for that?
It’s what????
oh shit!!!
M
montycrusto
Guest
Possibly..but, if you remember, the plot of Chicken Run was entirely ripped off from (sorry I mean “an homage to”) The Great Escape...which was undoubtedly based on something else, and so on back to The Epic of Gilgamesh.I have been immensely enjoying this story. But something has seemed familiar, disturbing. In the middle of the night I awoke suddenly and realized what it was!
Barb has stolen the whole plotline. Shame on you, Barb!
Barb’s version would probably be called The Epic of Girl-ga-flesh
twonines
LIMERICUS
You have to hope that PrPr is not the trial judge, otherwise you won`t be sitting for a while!Really? I’ve never seen that movie!
can I be sued?
What’s the penalty for that?
It’s what????
oh shit!!!
Possibly..but, if you remember, the plot of Chicken Run was entirely ripped off from (sorry I mean “an homage to”) The Great Escape...which was undoubtedly based on something else, and so on back to The Epic of Gilgamesh.
Barb’s version would probably be called The Epic of Girl-ga-flesh
I appear to be surrounded here on this thread by smart asses who are only interested in violence being done to my ass!