darkside99
Magistrate
If you have a youtube account you can search 'portuguse love letters' you should get access to the film
good luck!
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Confession
- Thread starter darkside99
- Start date
If you have a youtube account you can search 'portuguse love letters' you should get access to the film
good luck!
JimOregon
Magistrate
I enjoy reading various accounts of historical torture methods and from what I have read the interrogations during the Inquisition period were prolonged for months and even years. Many of the victims were priests and religious who opposed the dealings of the Church in Rome. The following is a short story of several writings.
The horsemen came to the convent and removed Sister Sarah who had been reported to be speaking against the Church even though the only evidence against her was a for Ed confession of another religious under interrogation. They took her to the monastery and locked her in a basement cell for several days. Eventually they drug her to the large interrogation room in the basement where several priests and a few nuns sat around tables with the Cardinal. Sister was told of the charges against her and demanded that she confess. She refused because she was innocent. Next they tied her to a low whipping post facing the tables and stripped her garments to her waist. The one of the priests began whipping her bare back. After a lengthy period she was again asked to confess and refused. She was untied and returned to her cell for her to consider her decision.
A week later she was returned to the room and after refusing to confess she was tied to ropes hanging from the ceiling and raised up. She was stripped naked this time and weights were attached to her ankles, thereby stretching her skin tight across her rib cage. The priests and even some of the nuns enjoyed viewing her naked, stretched body. Again someone volunteered to whip her and then they left her hanging for three days. When they all returned she confessed to the crimes she didn't commit and was sentenced to be burned at the stake in the public square.
But her suffering was not over because then the Cardinal demanded that she named others who were opposing the Roman Church. She knew of no one but she eventually named Father Jim. The Father was immediately captured and brought to the interrogation room. When he didn't confess he was stripped naked and stretched on the rack. When he still didn't confess red hot irons were applied to his chest and between his legs. He confessed but then had to name others who opposed the Church.
And the interrogations continued...
The horsemen came to the convent and removed Sister Sarah who had been reported to be speaking against the Church even though the only evidence against her was a for Ed confession of another religious under interrogation. They took her to the monastery and locked her in a basement cell for several days. Eventually they drug her to the large interrogation room in the basement where several priests and a few nuns sat around tables with the Cardinal. Sister was told of the charges against her and demanded that she confess. She refused because she was innocent. Next they tied her to a low whipping post facing the tables and stripped her garments to her waist. The one of the priests began whipping her bare back. After a lengthy period she was again asked to confess and refused. She was untied and returned to her cell for her to consider her decision.
A week later she was returned to the room and after refusing to confess she was tied to ropes hanging from the ceiling and raised up. She was stripped naked this time and weights were attached to her ankles, thereby stretching her skin tight across her rib cage. The priests and even some of the nuns enjoyed viewing her naked, stretched body. Again someone volunteered to whip her and then they left her hanging for three days. When they all returned she confessed to the crimes she didn't commit and was sentenced to be burned at the stake in the public square.
But her suffering was not over because then the Cardinal demanded that she named others who were opposing the Roman Church. She knew of no one but she eventually named Father Jim. The Father was immediately captured and brought to the interrogation room. When he didn't confess he was stripped naked and stretched on the rack. When he still didn't confess red hot irons were applied to his chest and between his legs. He confessed but then had to name others who opposed the Church.
And the interrogations continued...
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
And the snowball rolls and grows.....Now Father Jim is in trouble, too!
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
The interrogator knows from Barbara's pain-wracked prayer that she is probably innocent but he knows the Inquisitor is set on seeing the woman tortured to a confession. He looks to the red-robed Cardinal, "Your Emminence?" A curt nod, "continue!"
She is weak now, her torn shoulders agony. He could continue to inflict small tortures, each painful, excruciatingly so, but not fatal, not immediately.
He could apply vicious hooked rippers that would shred her breasts, the "pear" that would rip open her sex or her anus as it was screwed wider, heated irons to her flesh, even thrust into her sex or anus too. He has any number of tools and devices to use.
But he seen her reaction as the priests and other witnesses revelled in his abuse of the woman. He knows she is humiliated by their arousal. It is time to inflict both humiliation and excruciating torture together.
He grasps Barbara's bound wrists and drags the brunette to her feet, screaming again as pain burns though her dislocated shoulders. She sobs as he forces her across beside a tapered wooden block placed atop a rough wooden stand. The frightening Judas cradle and she sags in fear.
"Please, please. No. Not that." The interrogator leans closer, "then confess." "But I am innocent. My God knows. Why won't you believe me?"
He loops a rough hemp rope around her ribs and knots it behind her back. The rope runs up over a beam. Barbara feels herself hauled upwards, the rope tearing as it drags up over her breasts then under her armpits. She sees the dirty, stained wood of the cradle, old blood and the piss and shit of the damned. She sees it the sharp edges that will tear her open.
He pulls on her legs and guides her body over the sharpened tip then lowers her towards it. "No, no, please. Don't tear my womanhood." The interrogator snarls back, "it isn't going in your cunt heretic. It is going up your arse!"
Barbara feels his fingers in her furrow as he positions her anus over the tip then its savage penetration as she is lowered onto the device. She tries to grip the tapered block with her thighs, to clench her buttocks, to stop its invasion but she is weak from pain. With her wrists still bound behind her and her torn shoulders she can do nothing as her own weight slowly, inexorably, forces the wood into her arse.
The interrogator runs his hands down one legs and Barbara feels rough rope around her ankle. As she looks down she sees him tie a sack filled with earth to the rope. Then her other ankle, another sack and their weight forces the tapered block deeper, tearing her anus open, its edges cutting the sensitive skin.
She sobs, her body convulsing with a deep burning, tearing pain. The invasion is slow but relentless. Tearing her anus and rectum apart.
Barbara looks at the watchers. She can see them lean forward, wanting to be closer, their eyes on her opened legs, looking up into her sex. She burns with humiliation even as she suffers the agony.
How long has it been? An hour, two, three? Barbara no longer knows. She is submerged in a world of burning, tearing agony. Moaning, barely enough strength to sob. Her blood coats the wood along with the shit from her torn bowels.
"End this. Pleaseeee?" "Then confess heretic. Confess."
And she does. The witnesses are brought close to her. They hear her agonised confession. "I am a heretic. I have rejected the articles of faith. I confess."
The rough rope takes her weight and she is hauled up from the spike, more tearing as it is slowly withdrawn.
Dumped onto the cold stone she can see soft red slippers inches from her face. "Barbara Moore, you have confessed to the mortal sin of heresy. You will be punished with the heretic's brand, scourged to expunge your sin. And you are condemned to be burnt at the stake in the hope that the fire will purify you."
Well, what else could I do? Would anyone else have done less? The pain was unbearable. I had to confess, say anything to make it stop.
The executioner knew exactly what he was doing. He instinctively knew that a tight little bottom like mine would be no match for the Judas. No one, and I do mean no one, could ever imagine what it was like to have that thing inexorably pushing it's way deeper and deeper inside me, to feel my blood flowing in rivulets down its tapered dark stained surfaces, accompanied by the disgusting slime of my own excrement.
Nor can anyone truly imagine how humiliating it was to see friends and neighbors watching so intently and lustfully each and every one of my futile attempts to resist the inexorable intrusion of the impaling point ... to see them smile each time, poke each other and exchange knowing looks as I wriggled and twisted my body and pressed in with my thighs against those tapered sides, breasts bouncing and swaying, labia neatly spread ... wet and pink, shamefully exposed to their rapturous gaze.
The humiliation was every bit as awful as the pain ... and the demonic attention given to the whole proceeding by the Cardinal .... beady eyes and thin lips .... topped it all. What kind of Church is this? What kind of God would ever sanction such beastly inhumane behavior on the part of his own stewards on earth?
My faith is shattered by forever by what is being done to me this day in His name. I was never a heretic. My confession was a false one ... wrung from me through pain and humiliation. But most surely now, I know no God, and I shall defiantly believe and proclaim loudly, as they brand and scourge me and lead me naked and shamed to die at the stake, that theirs is the Church of the Devil!!! And they shall be damned forever more.
What can I say? Writing of immense power from Pp and Barbaria!
How could even Barb resist such torture? How could any so called "Man of God" inflict such terrible agonies? How could he not believe a girl so sweet and innocent and lovely as Barb?
Oh, help! There I go again
I get like this when CF writers hit top gear
How could even Barb resist such torture? How could any so called "Man of God" inflict such terrible agonies? How could he not believe a girl so sweet and innocent and lovely as Barb?
Oh, help! There I go again
I get like this when CF writers hit top gear
darkside99
Magistrate
What can I say? Writing of immense power from Pp and Barbaria!
How could even Barb resist such torture? How could any so called "Man of God" inflict such terrible agonies? How could he not believe a girl so sweet and innocent and lovely as Barb?
Oh, help! There I go again
I get like this when CF writers hit top gear
Great writing Barbaria and Primus Pilus!
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Thanks darkside. You provided the inspiration. And Pp's poor subject adds that special extra that can only come from the victim.
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
A pleasure Wragg. Someone to give the inspiration in a topic and then Barb's victim's insight but an audience helps it too.What can I say? Writing of immense power from Pp and Barbaria!
How could even Barb resist such torture? How could any so called "Man of God" inflict such terrible agonies? How could he not believe a girl so sweet and innocent and lovely as Barb?
Oh, help! There I go again
I get like this when CF writers hit top gear
And we should all try to write - everyone encourages, Pp hasn't found anyone yet who doesn't do that.
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Barbara lies on the cold stone floor of the church, still naked, nothing to soften the pain from cold of the stone. Her shoulders, dislocated, are so painful but even they do not burn like the searing agony she feels in her arse and bowels where blood still seeps from her torn anus. She feels it pool beneath her, sticky on the stones.
From where she lays she can see the shoes of the the witnesses that were called from the square to attest to her confession. People she thought she knew. People she was surprised to see become so aroused by the terrible abuse she suffered. That they can see the damage to her body, the blood that seeps from her arse, her abject disgrace destroys what is left of her being.
But, when the interrogator's rough boot jams her head hard against the floor she remembers that her suffering has not ended. There are soft red slippers close to her face too.
Through the haze of pain Barbara can hear the Cardinal's harsh voice, "there. On her right cheek. Brand her with the mark of the heretic."
The rough boot rolls her head on the stone until her right cheek is uppermost. Even through vision blurred with tears and dirt and grime she can see an iron rod coming closer, its end crowned with a single letter......H.....glowing red, shimmering with heat.
Barbara feels some precious warmth as the iron nears her face then another searing agony as the brand touches her cheek. She is too weak to move but a scream still breaks from her lips.
And, as her scream fades, she can hear the harsh voice count.. ...slowly, so slowly...........1, 2, 3 ............. the brand burning the heretic's mark deep into her cheek.
Her mind is blank. She feels nothing. Oblivious to her surroundings.
Shoes and boots? Whoever thinks much about what people wear on their feet? But as I lie naked and bleeding, shoulders painfully dislocated, on the cold flagstones of the church's torture dungeon, people's feet are all I can really see and I become intensely, but strangely, interested in the appearance of their footwear.
The witnesses are all wearing typical townsfolk footwear; leather shoes with decorative buckles for the men, dark pointed-toe slippers for the women ... none of of what they wear is new looking, it's thoroughly scuffed and soiled, ordinary, anything but new. The Cardinal is more interesting.....his feet are shod with bright red, elegantly made, effeminate-looking slippers ... distinctively different and classy ... but on closer inspection, his slippers are also worn and soiled, and low and behold the left one has a hole in it through which I can see his big toe and its disgustingly discolored nail. Even the high and mighty, the divine servants and protectors of the Church and the spiritual faith and daily morality of God's people, have holes in their shoes! A smirk crosses my face with this thought.
But it's the footwear of the interrogator that now grabs my attention ... a pair of heavy leather boots, one of which, without warning, is suddenly slammed down hard on my head, pinning it to the floor. I cry out in pain at the force of the blow. Through the haze of my pain I hear the Cardinal's harsh voice, "There. On her right cheek. Brand her with the mark of the heretic." I roll my eyes in wonder....is there to be no end to my suffering and humiliation?
Skillfully the interrogator uses his boot to turn my head over and expose my right cheek. The heavy boot immobilizes my head. I am to be branded! I suck in my breath as the glowing red-orange tip of a branding iron, shaped as the letter "H" comes into my field of vision. I stiffen and shudder as it comes ever closer, slowly, inexorably...radiating heat that seems to sear my skin even before contact is made. I want to move, escape somehow from what is about to happen, but I can't. The pressure of the boot...that damnable bit of footwear... intensifies. I feel as though my skull will fracture.
I suck in my breath, my mouth filling with strands of my disheveled brown hair. I cough to expel the hair. I try to move my body, perhaps kick out, but I am too weak. The red-hot iron comes closer. I close my eyes and then it happens....I scream as I have never screamed before....a loud animal-like howl that breaks into a high-pitched shriek that reverberates off the dungeon's stone ceiling. The scream from my lips dies away as quickly as it started. Silence, except for the hissing sound near my ear of flesh burning. Someone is counting .... 2, 3, 4. My God, I want to die.
My attention returns to what I can clearly see, head pinned to the floor. Just inches away, the Cardinal's toe wiggles. How strange, I think...did he enjoy my branding? Is his toe laughing at me, or it responding to my nakedness? Is it a surrogate for something else? Slowly my interrogator removes his boot from my head. My body relaxes slightly. I try to turn my thoughts from the awful pain of my branded cheek and focus my attention on the cooling sensations of the cold stone floor. Fearfully I await what comes next ...
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Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Pp is so moved by your response Barb. Such detail from the victim at what he is writing. Such pathos for Barbara's suffering. But the notes on the shoes reflect what so many say, that in deep suffering the trivial can be enhanced, become important.
But she will suffer a little more. Pp is moved, but not end it. Not yet.
Oh, what a genius detail this is! He might be a bastard, but he can't afford decent shoes and badly needs someone to cut his toenails!
Wragg would cut them nice and short. Just below the knee, I think.
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
After her branding, the Cardinal, the priests and the other witnesses had left. She was alone with the man who had inflicted such brutality. She lay on the floor pushing her savagely scorched cheek against the cold stone in a vain attempt ro ease the burning pain.
When her interrogator had packed his vicious implements, coiled his ropes and roughly wiped the worst of her blood from the wood of the cradle he came close and squatted beside her. She feared more pain but he thrust an arm under her chest and lifted her almost gently to her feet.
He supported her body with his left arm around her, flattening her breast and gripping firmly under her armpit and she heard a quiet, "try to relax Barbara. Relax." Then she felt a harsh wrench on her right arm and a sharp pain followed by relief in one torn shoulder. He changed his grip, "relax. Relax," and, after another sharp stab, some relief flowed through her left shoulder.
With a bucket of water and a few rags he roughly scrubbed some of the dirt and grime from her body then, more gently, wiped most of the congealing blood and shit from her arse and from between her legs. Then he lifted her in his arms and carried her battered body back down to the cell under the church, chained her once more to the wall and threw an old grubby cloak over her.
When he did, her pain-lined face smiled gratitude to him. It was so often like that he thought, he could abuse their bodies and their minds so terribly that they would say anything in return for a brief relief, even if that meant, ultimately, more punishment then execution. But show them the slightest tenderness and their gratitude at that faint mercy was immediate, heart-felt.
It is dawn now. The cloak he left her has slipped off during the night and Barbara huddles against the wall, her arms wrapped around her ribs, trying to keep some warmth but desperate to prevent any movement that might send more through her torn shoulders. There is burning in her arse too. Stretched and torn, yes, but the beginnings of infection.
She knows he will come for her again soon. To drag her naked into the town square. To scourge her as the Cardinal has ordered, to expunge her sin. The slight mercy he showed her gone, brutal once more.
I am too tired and wretched to do or say anything at this point, but mystified at the interrogator's unexpected acts of kindness and tenderness. I realize that he is a complicated man, capable of so many things .... even contradictory things. Did he mean to be so kind, or was it just another way of inflicting torture...psychological rather than physical? I will never know, and probably shouldn't care.
Whatever he did, I have gained from it some welcome relief from the excruciating pain caused by the dislocation of my shoulders. And I am grateful for the grubby cloak to ward off the cold damp of the long night. But I know that next time he and I meet he will hurt me with the same calculated professional purpose that he displayed today, and he will not shrink from being brutal, and do so without a shred of compassion for my suffering.
I find it impossible to sleep, chained to the wall like this. The burning pain in my tight little, but now horribly torn, arse is worrying, although in the larger scheme of things I suppose it doesn't really matter. Tomorrow they will execute me in the town square and my humiliation and suffering will come to an end.
Yet, I want to live and have hope. Surely, there is some way that my sentence might be reversed come morning. If the Cardinal is truly a man of faith and mercy, his conscience should be prodding him by now to reconsider. He knows full well that my confession was made under extreme duress. And the townspeople, my friends and neighbors, know deep down that I am not a heretic. Perhaps my family will pay a bribe to set me free. I have heard the Church is not above accepting money to insure salvation or to save a loved one from destruction. Yes, I will hope for a better morrow. I feel it.
But for now, there is nothing to do but listen to the scurrying noise of the rats, try to ward off the penetrating cold, and wait.