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Exposed Naked ... and Beaten

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Poet Laureate
Staff member
After lots of beatings and threats of more beatings in the Coffee Shop Dungeon,
and some luscious lashing in Julie's Late Night Cinema (thanks, Julie :-* )
I thought I'd start posting an account of my experiences in my 'near future' fantasy,
as a captive in The Interrogation and Punishment Centre for Girls...

'Exposed Naked on the Scaffold and Beaten'


Clattering on the metal grid woke me, I lifted my arms instinctively, guessing it was Inspection time – but no, the grid was unlocked, creaked open,
Guards grabbed my arms, hauled me up from the Punishment Pit and flung me on the concrete floor.
"Lie there bitch, don't you dare move!"
Kick in my belly, then he turned away. Cautiously I watched as they opened another grid, swung another girl up and out.
The sickness the belly-kick had started turned almost to vomit, I retched – it was Lucia! My poor little sister, pale, quivering...
"Up, sow!"
I scrambled to my feet, stood legs apart, hands behind, knowing my wrist-irons would be locked together.
As one Guard shackled me, the other did the same with Lucia. Her eyes met mine – stretched, terrified, her white face pale and hollow.
Whatever had the beasts done to her?

Our Guards, two each, seized our arms and jerked them up behind our shoulders, I'm used to such handling, but Lucia yelped. Our march began, stopping at each checkpoint as the ID codes on our wrist-irons were scanned, our whereabouts as ever closely monitored. It was still dark, dawn just beginning to lighten the eastern sky, but powerful lamps bathed every part of our route in harsh brightness, casting menacing shadows. Out of the Punishment Pit Compound, over the bridge from Tiger Cage Island, along the road where passers-by, mostly young military, ogled us two naked prisoners. Then up the long climb into the Punishment Centre. Death Hill, lined as ever with Crosses, some holding fly-crawling corpses, but on others the victims were still alive, one – a strapping youngster – freshly crucified and still yelling in wild agony as she swung her body frantically from the nails.

The stench from the Human Body Processing Plant filled our lungs as we reached level ground and approached the Parade Ground. At the top end, the four Punishment Scaffolds, each on high concrete platform, with the still higher Officers' dais between the middle two. Coming closer, I saw a group of men – two in uniforms, a third in a white coat, and two – stocky, muscular men – clad only in shorts and trainers. With them was a little Torturers' slavegirl in her white vest and red knickers. The men in shorts were both holding Whips, one a stiff, springy Sjambok, the other a weighted Scourge.
"Those are for me," I thought, a sick, sinking sensation in my insides.

We reached the men, stood 'at the ready', legs apart.
Our Guards used their control of our wrists to jerk us forward into low bows, then back upright again.
The tall, dark-haired Officer addressed me, his tone sharp, steely,
"Number and name!"
"34152 Eulalia Merida, Sir!"
"Repeat your confession!"
"Sir, I am an enemy of the State...",
I began the long list of crimes that I'd begged to be allowed to confess to between my screams in the Torture Chamber.
At the end of the list, "...and I deserve to be punished."
"You have completed the first part of your sentence, being imprisoned in a Punishment Pit.
Now it is my duty as Director of Punishments to order the second part:
that is, you shall be exposed naked on the Punishment Scaffold for as long as I determine, and receive as many strokes of the Lash as I shall order.
Do you understand and accept your sentence?"
"Yes, Sir, I understand and accept my just sentence."
"Very well, prisoner 34152 Eulalia Merida, I hand you over to the Chief Torturer, who will carry out your sentence."
My Guards forced me to bow again, this time to a giant of a man, in NCO's uniform, tall, broad and grossly fat,
I felt I was a tiny child again in his shadow. He was smirking at me.
"Welcome Eulalia! Now's your chance to show us what they taught you in that ballet school – I've been looking forward to watching you dance!"
He nodded to the Guard, who unlocked my wrist-shackles. Well-practised, I held out my wrists for him to check them.
He used his key to tighten them, enjoying my wince as the metal bit into my bone.
"Come on then, my pretty ballerina, up on stage!"

The Guards grabbed my arms and half drove, half carried me up the steps, though I wasn't trying to resist – no point.
As I reached the high Scaffold, the Chief Torturer indicated where I should stand with a cane he'd taken from the slave-girl, who shadowed his every move. I stepped onto the cross-bar at the foot of the Scaffold, lifting my arms in anticipation as soon as the Guards released them.
"Good girl!" he chuckled, "You know the drill!" He turned to the Guards, "Shackle her up!"
The Guards locked each of my wrist-irons to heavy chains that hung from angle-braces at either top corner of the Scaffold,
making sure they were equally placed so that I was made to stand with my arms stretched up in a wide V.
Now the slavegirl handed them a pair of ankle-irons, one of them knelt and started screwing them on me.

As he did so, I glanced down at a group of spectators who'd gathered to watch – off-duty Guards and young Cadets from the Officer School,
mostly men - mostly boys, indeed, scarcely older than me – though there were a few vicious-looking gloating women among them, too.
As I lifted my leg for the Guard to fit the manacle, my thighs rubbed together and I felt a strange, momentary thrill of pleasure in the sense of my nakedness attracting such attention, even at this hour before dawn!

With my ankles manacled, the Guards pulled my legs wide apart, shackling them to chains from braces at the bottom of the Scaffold's uprights,
so I was stretched in an X-shape, almost hanging by my wrists – hurting already as the tight irons pulled against the bones –
my toes just able to press down on the cross-bar beneath them. I could move my body and legs, but no way could I bring my thighs together.
The man in the white coat, a Medical Inspector of Punishment, examined me with a stethoscope, and felt my body, especially my throbbing abdomen. He then took a syringe from a holder in his pocket and jabbed the needle into my buttock – same procedure as I'd experienced before Torture sessions, God knows what they pump in us girl-victims, but it certainly isn't painkiller! He entered some data on his blackberry, and joined the Director of Punishments. They exchanged quiet words that I couldn't hear, but the DP's laughter made me shudder.

Next the Chief Torturer muttered something to the DP, then suddenly grabbed my long hair, tugged my head back, and used a knife from his belt to hack off my curls. Even my soft locks would not be allowed to get in the way of the whiplashes! I shivered at the feeling of coldness across my shoulders and neck. The slavegirl quickly gathered up my shorn hair and carried it away – there's a market for girls' hair, nothing is wasted!

Now, at the command of the DP, her Guards brought Lucia up and made her stand at the corner of the platform, where she must watch the first stages of my flogging before they take her to the neighbouring Scaffold. I tried to give her an encouraging smile, but her little face was rigid with terror –
that brave young gymnast, so unafraid of hurts and bruises, those monsters have transformed to a quivering little mouse!

The Officers withdrew up the steps to their dais.The Guards eyed me for a few moments as if enjoying their handiwork.
The Torturers stroked their Whips with increasing excitement all too visible in their shorts.
Now I was ready.

The Chief Torturer nodded to them,
"Okay, boys! Slow and steady, take your time!"
One of them, the one with the Sjambok, strolled round behind me. I heard the swish of the Whip and tensed sharply, the air whisked my bare back,
he was testing my reactions, teasing me...


Staff member
With fantasies like this, The Hanging Tree might be commissioned by the Higher Immoral Authory to capture and punish you....


Poet Laureate
Staff member
With fantasies like this, The Hanging Tree might be commissioned by the Higher Immoral Authory to capture and punish you....
Ah yes,THT, I know all too well just what the Higher Immoral Authority's got in store for me -
read on....

'Exposed Naked on the Scaffold and Beaten'


Aaaah! Like a red-hot blade slicing my skin, the first stroke of the Whip tore diagonally from under my right shoulder down to my left hip. I thought I was hardened to pain – after my ordeals in the Interrogation Centre and the Torture Laboratory, I imagined nothing worse could happen to me. I'd been whipped, of course, during those Torture sessions, and the vicious little 'keeper' Whips that the Guards and Cadets are allowed to carry – and use – at all times had become part of my life as a 'Killhope girl' . But there are always new refinements, new facets of pain, that the sadists can open up. This man that's whipping me's a professional, his Whip longer, heavier, than the Horsewhips used in the Torture Chambers, it licks right around me,
tearing into my flank, cutting a furrow all down my ready-scarred back. And, although I know there'll be much worse to come,
the first lash is the one you remember, the one that sets the benchmark for your pain...

A professional doesn't hurry. He pauses, ten, twenty, thirty seconds or more to let me experience the spreading pain, tense myself ready for the next blow. The second crossed over the first, from the back of my neck down to my right buttock. My reactive kick tugged my leg on its chain. Three! This time straight across my buttocks. I heard myself squeal. I was trying not to cry, trying to show Lucia how to be brave, I wasn't going to let these brutes break me, but my eyes were moist, my lips trembling. I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth, as the fourth and fifth lashes curled around my hips and ribs, making me gasp as air was driven from my lungs. Head bowed, eyes closed, I didn't see the Torturer move round to the side of the Scaffold.
His next stroke took me by shock, swung from in front to lay its furrow straight across the lowest part of my abdomen.
A huge, hideous shriek burst from my throat, quite uncontrollable. I heard shouts of delight from the watching crowd, applause from the Officers,
"Well done! That's got her going! Now let her feel the Scourge!"

Obeying the Chief Torturer's command, the Sjambok-man stood back, his partner walked around me, appraising, choosing his target. "Make her dance!" someone yelled from the Parade Ground. He obliged, the sharp-tipped thongs of his Knout on the backs of my thighs triggering my display of helpless kicking and twisting. The audience were getting excited, urging him on. His second blow ripped my buttocks. I swore – like in the Torture Chamber, I found swearing a way of fighting what was being done to me. But of course it just provokes them. He strolled round to face me.
I waited for the worst. His first shot from in front landed round my left flank, bruising my ribs –
horribly painful, made me twist my torso, but not what the audience wanted.

"Tits! Tits!" they were yelling. He gave them a thumbs-up, turned back to me, grinning. "Ready, kid?"
I took a deep breath, lifting my breasts for him... The sharp tips of the thongs fell precisely across my soft flesh, biting deep. Blood spurted.
I was howling, tears pouring, all attempts at courage crushed. I sobbed, "Please, please stop, Sir – just for a moment, just a little rest..."
It was futile, of course, just what a Torturer needs to hear to heighten his cruel arousal. He thrashed the fronts of my thighs, and I swung, legs flexed, trying to absorb the pain. Then he aimed right at my pudenda. The blow sent me spinning, half delirious, a searing spasm tore through my innards.
I hung by my wrists again, twisting, writhing. What was tormenting me wasn't just the torn skin and bruising,
there were strange things, horrible things, happening inside me. I knew, all too well.

"Excellent!" cried the Chief Torturer, "She's going to make a feast of a victim for us!"
He turned to Lucia's Guards. "But now it's time to get her runt sister started. Bring her over to the East Scaffold."
Lucia was sobbing. As they hustled her past me, I whispered, "Be brave, Luci, be brave like Daddy!"
At once the Torturer with the Sjambok flicked it up between my legs, right into my groin. I jumped with a squeal.
"You'll pay for that, whore!" snarled the Chief Torturer, "And, what'll hurt you even more I know, your little sister's going to pay for it, too!"

I had to listen as they put poor Lucia throught the routine – number and name, repeat confession, sentence, handed over to the Torturers, up to the Scaffold, shackled in position. All the time, as blood oozed and trickled down my quivering trunk and thighs, a sharp, throbbing pain kept gripping my womb. The Chief Torturer was right. The sounds of Lucia's whipping, her helpless squeals and cries, were worse pain for me than anything they could inflict on my own body. I felt sick, tormented by my inability to save her. It seemed endless, at last the Chief Torturer called a halt. My Guards, who'd of course gone to watch, came back with the Torturers. They gave me another dozen blows, taking turns, keeping me leaping and twisting, yelping and squealing, to the slow, remorseless swish-crack rhythm of the Whip – truly, I was performing the hellish ballet the Chief Torturer had commanded!

At last they stopped, wiped their Whips lovingly clean, and gave them to the slavegirl.
A Guard stepped forward and knelt to release my ankles, so that I could stand, arms still raised and shackled, until the next bout of whipping.
The sun was just rising, I knew the hints of warmth just touching my sore breasts would soon turn to blazing heat –
the day's agony was only just beginning!


Staff member
As soon as Bethany is finished I should receive my commission from the Higher Immoral Authority....


Poet Laureate
Staff member
As soon as Bethany is finished I should receive my commission from the Higher Immoral Authority....
I'll be waiting for the night-time knock at my door -
better sleep in my undies from now on,
I know you won't give me time to dress when you come for me!


'Exposed Naked on the Scaffold and Beaten'


Guards and slavegirls came and went, taking little notice of us two naked victims on the Scaffolds. I couldn't quite see Lucia, the Officers' dais between us blocked the view, though I could see the top of her scaffold. I wanted to call to her, just to say something encouraging, but I didn't dare – if anyone heard, they'd punish her as well as me. The sounds and smells of the IPCG were the accompaniment to our ordeal – the scents of cooking bodies and rotting waste, the creaking of the Treadmill, the continuous rumble of trucks bringing waste to the Tip and human bodies to the Processing Plant and carrying away their slave-worked products, the cawing of crows, the endless chorus of high, thin shrieks from the Interrogation Centre behind me. My mouth grew dry, flies buzzed and crawled over me, lured by my pungent sweat and bleeding weals. I shook my head and jerked my body to try to shake them off, but of course I was helpless, they became a part of my Torture. The pain in my woman-parts throbbed, it seemed to rises in surges, then subside, then rise again, gripping the muscles of my abdomen in tight spasms. I knew what was inside me – while I was in the Punishment Pit, I felt sure my monthly bleeding hadn't come. But I knew that morning on the Scaffold that there was something strange, somethng horrible,
happening with what was in me – I didn't understand what it was, it frightened me almost more than the Whips.

After what seemed a long time, when my head was beginning to swim in the drowsy heat, a group of Officer Cadets came to view me. They stood by the Scaffold, whistling, jeering, displaying their bulging cocks under their flies. I'm well used to it, well used to being naked – that's one thing about life in the IPCG that hasn't been a problem for me: I was surprised, even when I was first stripped, how natural and normal it felt. Of course I was scared, knowing I was being prepared for Torture, but I felt no shame, no humiliation, just my terrible, delicious, vulnerability. And as for men and boys ogling me, their lewd insults, obscene gestures, gross manhandling, they're all part of being a Killhope girl, I quickly got accustomed to it. So if the sight of my bare, bruised and bleeding body pumped up big erections on some quite dishy-looking Cadets, I admit I felt a thrill of pleasure too. I didn't blush or try to hide anything, I turned myself towards them, let them drink in their fill of me – I'm betraying all my mother taught me about women's "rights",
I know, but I've learnt truths here about myself and about being a girl poor mummy couldn't ever have imagined!

While the youths were enjoying me, the Torture Squad returned, a new team, new shift on duty. The Medical Inspector examined me, pressing my womb – he must know what's going on inside me, surely he can't allow them to go on whipping me? But he declared me "fine!", the Guards locked my legs apart again, and the Torturers prepared to do their worst. Half a dozen lashes each round my flanks, loins and thighs set me screaming and kicking again, tearing open the wounds they'd inflicted earlier, then the Chief Torturer came down from the dais. He gave an order to the slavegirl, who hurried away and soon returned with a bundle of canes in a tall bucket. She drew one out, wiped it with a cloth, and handed it to him. I heard him swish it through the air, it made a piercing whistle. Then he used it on my bum – a sharp, cutting pain made me leap in the air with a roar. He strolled round in front and laid it viciously across my breasts, twice, enjoying my animal squeals. The next blow was right on my womb, raising my inward pain to a new pitch. He called for a fresh cane from the slavegirl – they evidently kept them in water for maximum suppleness - and applied it progressively lower – my pudenda, the fronts of my thighs, then the backs of my legs and up to my buttocks again. I yelped and danced for him,
he was laughing, delighted. Strokes on my armpits and sides of my breasts, then another right across them, completed this second bout of flogging,
leaving me twitching and shuddering in pain as they turned their attention to Lucia.

When they'd got her squalling lke a baby, they were satisfied. Another check by the MI, then again, our ankles were freed, another long wait under the now fiercely blazing sun. Not long after they'd left us, there was strange activity – a tractor with a trailer delivered some large rolls, a gang of slavegirls (red knickers, Punishment Section) set to work unrolling them: laying across the head of the Parade Ground a red carpet!
I was used to the knowledge that everything that happened in the IPCG was insane, but this seemed a new dimension of lunacy.
When the carpet was laid across the ground in front of the Punishment Scaffolds, with a piece leading up to the steps at the foot of the one I was on, the slavegirls departed and officers and Cadets in smart uniforms started to gather.
Eventually, The Commandant, Major Astiz himself, came out on the dais, with other senior Officers, all in full dress uniform.
They stood there, chatting. At one point, he looked across at me and made some remark to the Director of Punishments, who smiled and nodded.

Suddenly, around the corner of the V-section ("pets'") dormitories, a large, gleaming car swept on to the Parade-Ground, coming to a halt beside the red carpet. The assembled Officers and Cadets all stood to attention, "pet" slavegirls in crisp white dresses threw themselves to the ground, kneeling with their foreheads touching the earth, arms stretched out in front. Major Astiz walked down the steps from the dais to stand by the car, as the door was opened by a leading Cadet. Out stepped – I gasped, felt physically sick at the sight of him – The Governor of Elmeda, Colonel Piniero himself!
Not only him, he was followed by a plump, expensively (though tastelessly) dressed woman, no doubt his wife,
and two fat, pig-like children, a boy about twelve and a girl a year or two younger. Their over-fed, rosy faces and podgy bodies seemed to belong to a different species from the gaunt, pale slaves of the IPCG. Major Astiz saluted and welcomed the party.

After a few words, he led them towards my Punishment Scaffold. As they approached, I heard what he was saying, "We have two young ladies here for you to meet, Sir – we've been keeping them in the Punishment Pits as we thought they'd be of particular interest to you, Sir."
"Oh yes, they're a frisky-looking pair of fillies for breaking – who are they, why are they here?"
"Sir, these are the whelps of Santiago Merida..."
"Merida! The loony libertarian who thought he could abolish slavery! Well, well, I am indeed delighted – good work Astiz!"
"Thankyou Sir. This" – they were climbing the steps now – "is the elder, Eulalia."
"Eulalia, ah yes." He came towards me, his piggy eyes taking in not just my face but all my naked, bruised and bleeding body. I was quivering as he took hold of my chin and peered into my eyes. "Yes, Eulalia, I remember you. Your State Ballet School prize-giving..."
Indeed, I remembered him too – his clammy handshake, those lustful eyes scanning us schoolgirls like cows in a cattle-ring.
Why did Dad trust him? I certainly didn't!
"I remember your little speech," his face curled in a sneer, " 'New dawn of liberty', all that drivel. You fancied yourself, didn't you, in your prefect's badge and your little short skirt?" He was flicking my nipple. "I like the look of you better the way you are now!"
I was longing to spit in his face, but my mouth was dry of spittle – God knows what horrors they'd have inflicted on me if I had spat!

"I take it she's been tortured?"
"Of course, Sir. As well as the usual procedures in the Interrogation Centre,
I supervised her receiving some advanced treatment in my private Torture Laboratory."
"Well done, Astiz, you've always been our expert in cracking open the mouths of obstinate young vermin."
"Thankyou Sir, it's a service I perform with pleasure!"
Piniero began feeling my body with his thick, greasy hands.
"I see your boys have left something in her," he said, poking the small but definite bulge in my lower abdomen.
"Yes, Sir. It will have been after she was sentenced –
the Guards have licence to use girl-convicts it whatever ways they choose before they take them to the Punishment Pits."
"That's right, that's how the little cockroaches should be treated.
Still, mind you get this thing out of her, we don't want any grubs of Merida's bloodline crawling out into the world!"
"We certainly shall Sir. Usually when they've been been electrically tortured in their genitals either they don't conceive or they abort spontaneously –
I certainly got the probe well up her and gave her some good big shots of power-pain,
but this cow's got a sex-system that seems to keep working whatever we do to it."
"She must have got it from that whore of a mother."

The whole family was listening to this discussion of my gynaecology, and fingering me now as if I were some exotic specimen. The daughter was fascinated by the vivid crimson and purple marks on my breasts; her mother asked Astiz to tell her how they'd given me them.
As he spelt out in detail what whiplashes, red-hot needles and pincers, and electrical terminals, can do to adolescent breasts,
the horrible child was giggling with delight, her brother throbbing with obvious enjoyment.

Now two little slavegirls in smart white tops and shorts appeared. They threw themselves down on their knees, heads bowed low, and offered up a pair of shiny black whips. "Sir," said Major Astiz, taking one of the whips and offering it to the Colonel,
"We would like you to accept an example of the work of our whip-making workshop.
This is a genuine rhinoceros-hide Sjambok, with its handle bound in real girlskin."
"I am most grateful. It is a beautiful work of craftsmanship. I shall treasure it – and I shall certainly use it!"
Astiz lifted the other whip, and waved the two slaves away. "May I offer you, young Master, Sir, a Cadet's whip.
This, too, has a handle bound in real girlskin."
The plump boy grinned and took his present with delight, his parents looking on with pride as he received this symbol of his manhood.
"Thankyou, Sir," he mumbled, quite embarrassed at the attention.


Poet Laureate
Staff member
Whoops! If you're viewing 'Blackend', you'll need to click on that word at bottom left-hand corner of your screen, and select 'default' from the style chooser, then you'll be able to read Exposed Naked and Beaten part IV in black on white. Enjoy!


Poet Laureate
Staff member
'Exposed Naked on the Scaffold and Beaten'​


There were presents for the women, too. Another pair of "pets" brought a girlskin bag containing a woven girls' hair shawl for the Colonel's wife, and a set of little dolls in a box for his daughter. They were dressed in the various uniforms of slaves in the IPCG, and of course their skin was real girlskin, their hair real girls' hair. The child's chubby fingers handled them with glee.

"Well young man" said the Colonel to his son, "I think we should take the opportunity to try out these fine instruments. Have we permission to use them on this disgusting creature?" He waved his Whip towards my body. "Of course, Sir. The Guards will shackle her legs apart for you. Perhaps the ladies would like to observe from the dais?" The party withdrew up the steps, leaving me with the Colonel and his son brandishing their magnificent new Whips in readiness. I suddenly felt the full sense of utter defeat and humiliation that had been inflicted on me – everything Dad and Mum had fought for, everything they'd brought Lucia and me up to believe in, was destroyed and trampled on, the man Dad thought was his friend was now revelling in his total triumph, Lucia and I are being dragged through the depths of suffering simply to gratify this monster and proclaim his victory with our screams and cries. I hung my head, closed my eyes – however hard I tried, I couldn't stop tears trickling down my cheeks.

"Stand well back, give yourself plenty of room. Swing with the whole your body, not just your arm. Don't aim at her, aim through her – you're going to slice her like a piece of steak! And feel hatred, real hatred, for this crawling maggot that was bred to infect and corrupt our glorious country!"

So instructing his son, the Colonel demonstrated with a lash across my shoulders, the long, mighty whipthong curling round under my armpit to cut the edge of my breast. I heard myself shriek – their was a viciousness, yes, real hatred, in that blow which no professional Torturer could match. He gave me a couple more, just as evil, around my loins, then ordered the boy to begin. The child's Whip was shorter and lighter than the father's, but it cut like a hot blade, right across my buttocks. My squeal blended with whoops of glee from mother and sister. "Good start boy!" cried the Colonel, "Make the filly dance!" The little beast obeyed with evident relish, stroke after stroke streaking around my hips, loins and thighs. "Take your time," I heard his father advise, "let her feel the pain of every lash flowing through her, let her tense herself ready for the next one – you can make a girl torture herself with terror if your timing's right!"

The son then asked, "Can I whip her tits, Dad?" His sister's cry of delight when she heard this echoed across the Parade Ground. "Of course you can." They moved around to face me, the Colonel roughly lifting my face to gloat at my tears. "Enjoying this are you, Eulalia? You always wanted to be a little heroine – you aren't looking very heroic now!" He kneed me in the groin as he spoke, then stepped back to give his son a clear view of my breasts, already crimson-striped and oozing blood. Resignedly, I lifted my chest and threw back my head. I've no choice, I thought, may as well offer him my targets. His lash was perfect, it fired from me a great, deafening shriek, my legs and torso reared and hurled, unable to resist the agony that burnt through my whole body. "Well done! Well done indeed!" The Colonel patted his son's shoulder in pride, his mother and sister were whooping with glee, the applause of the Officers was more than mere politeness.

From then on, they took turns, two or three lashes each, time and again, front, back and sides, aiming mainly low around my legs, loins and lower abdomen, with a few more to my breasts and even my face and neck. I was desperate with pain, squealing and howling like a pig in the slaughterhouse. I wished so much I could be calm, display some courage, show contempt for these vile sadists, if only to honour my parents, but no – I was utterly humiliated, my conquerors dancing in triumph around me, I was forced to play my part, my dance of helpless submission.

At last the Colonel called a halt, they stood watching me, writhing, weeping, while they grinned triumphantly and the audience applauded. "You're a born flogger, my boy," said the Colonel, the boy puffed up with conceit, "We'll leave this worm wriggling like bait on a fish-hook and see what we can do with the piglet!"


Staff member
heeuuuhh a new avatar and the old one???????????????


Poet Laureate
Staff member
heeuuuhh a new avatar and the old one???????????????

The old one got buried by the volcano that put a stop to all our Crucifying for nearly a week :(:(:(
but I'd been thinking it was time for a change, so I didn't try Resurrection -
hope you like the new me, Hansi!
You of course never change...;)


Tribunica Potestas
Hi folks,
Don't forget to click on the "Like" if you see something you like. Theyr'e a bit like merit marks we used to use at school and Eulalia's writings certainly deserve a "Like" or two..:).....wish there were more smilies but I bet IM has had enough for one day.


Staff member
The old one got buried by the volcano that put a stop to all our Crucifying for nearly a week :(:(:(
but I'd been thinking it was time for a change, so I didn't try Resurrection -
hope you like the new me, Hansi!
You of course never change...;)
sure:eek: and yes i.m senior now:p


Staff member
Hi folks,
Don't forget to click on the "Like" if you see something you like. Theyr'e a bit like merit marks we used to use at school and Eulalia's writings certainly deserve a "Like" or two..:).....wish there were more smilies but I bet IM has had enough for one day.

:) ;) :( :mad: :confused: :cool: :p :D :eek: :oops: :rolleyes:
enough ?????????????????????? grin



Poet Laureate
Staff member
Ta for the 'likes' - or 'licks' of the lash?​
A shame I can't give you both a smily kiss or hug now.​
I suspect our progress up the hill from 'Condemned' to 'Imperator/rix' or whatever​
may be influenced by our trophy score in the new system.​

But I'm not an 'Onlooker', I'm still -​


Poet Laureate
Staff member
Here's the next part.
I see my footnotes have survived -
the old Forum stripped them out.
Hope this earns me a few 'Likes'!

'Exposed Naked on the Scaffold and Beaten'


The pain and despair left me oblivious, I was hardly aware of Lucia's screams as the evil pair wrought their vengeance on her young body. At last, the whipping ceased, and the party moved away into the Interrogation Centre, heading no doubt for a guided tour of the Torture Chambers. Cadets unshackled my ankles, slaves rolled up the red carpet, normal life on the Punishment Scaffold resumed.

The sun was high now, beating down directly on my sore and bleeding breasts and abdomen. Clammy sweat surged down my face, shoulders and torso. Flies, gross black beasts as big as my nipples, crowded along the streaks of bleeding weals, I could feel their mouth-parts sucking at me. The pain within me was heaving and gnawing with ever-increasing intensity, aroused and encouraged by the Colonel and his son's targeting of my lower body. At times, my head swam and I became delirious, but the pain brought me back again and again to conscious thought, focused on the sense that something cataclysmic was building up inside me – it can't go on growing worse and worse, surely it's going to kill me?

Yet time passed slowly, very slowly, like the drips of sweat falling from my thighs to the platform. At last the familiar hooter roused me. Soon girls began running onto the Parade Ground, positioning themselves breathlessly 'at the ready', hands behind backs, legs apart, at their appointed positions, squad by squad, each in their distinctive uniform, from the crisp white tennis dresses and trainers of the most privileged V-Section "pets"[1] to the scanty patch of a scarlet thong that is the only garment of a P-Section "condemned"[2]slave. All so familiar, the midday shift-change.

The Director of Punishment arrived on the dais and delivered a short speech, ordering the hundreds of slave-girls to pay careful attention (if they couldn't see us clearly, they could watch live closeups on huge screens alongside the Parade Ground and hear our screams through loudspeakers) while "Eulalia and Lucia, daughters of the traitor Merida and his whore of a wife, are given the treatment they well deserve as enemies of the State!" A Cadet locked my legs apart. A single Torturer had mounted my platform, brandishing a heavy bullwhip. He gave me an almost affectionate smile, as though he were about to give me the attentions of a lover. I responded with a glance of resigned complicity. "Whip them!" commanded the Director, and the blows began to rain. I was past screaming now, I just gasped and grunted at each shock of pain. This Torturer was the methodical kind, working first down my back from shoulders to legs, then my front from breasts to thighs, with a final sharp flick into my groin.

It was those last three or four strokes, on my most tender parts, that brought a sudden, new dimension of internal agony. I started rearing and heaving helplessly, feeling a quickly-increasing straining and burning right in my uterus, blood spurting down my thighs. Suddenly a Medical Inspector leapt down the steps from the dais and hastily examined me. The DP joined him. No words passed between them, the MI just looked at him and nodded. He dismissed the parade, the slave-girls ran off to their appointed labours, the men remained gathered around me, watching, dispassionately, my shuddering, sweating body.

Soon the girls of the incoming shift arrived and formed ranks. The DP returned to the dais, the MI and the Torturer stayed with me. The DP's speech was slightly different this time, promising the slaves that "We're expecting Eulalia to give us a very special show, something to remember!"

Again the Torturer proceeded systematically. I hung, passive, feeling very sick and weak, my lower body jerking in response to his lashes almost independently, as though it was no longer connected to my brain. But the pain in my sexual parts surged more and more severely, I sensed a downward pressure, something forcing its way thhrough me. After the scheduled ten lashes, the torturer paused, the MI examined me again, crossed to the dais and spoke to the DP. "Six more!" the DP ordered, "All lower front."

It was the next stroke that brought the eruption. I let out a huge scream, hoarse, hopeless. Something warm and slithery burst between my thighs and slurped to the platform. Pain tore through the muscles around my genitals. I writhed in agony for some unimaginable time before the second lash came, the men watching eagerly, excitedly. There was an audible gasp of horror around the Parade Ground, a few girls were sick or fainted – I glimpsed their Overseers dealing with them savagely, but my mind was in turmoil. Then four more, all exacerbating the new focus of torment in and around my birth-passage. There was indeed, something special, something exquisitely cruel, in this experience of girl-pain. I felt the whole of my sexuality invaded by a merciless, unbearable torment – my entire womanhood being sacrificed to the masculine power of the State.

Suddenly, I heard the voice of the Commandant. He had appeared on the platform, congratulating the Director of Punishments and the Torturer. "The Colonel and his family watched from the balcony. I need hardly tell you, they are delighted!" He turned to me, tugged my hair to jerk back my head. "Don't imagine it's going to stop now, slag – things are only just starting! Hey!" – he turned to the DP – "Dismiss the kids, we'll give this slut a few more to please the Colonel!" The DP read out the list of girls who had to report to the Gymnasium for Punishment,[3] they ran nervously to the Stripping Room,[4] the remainder then departed to the canteen window and the dormitory blocks, shocked and subdued by a new horror beyond all they'd witnessed in their slave-lives at the IPCG.

Now the Officers returned to the dais, the Torturer stood back and took aim again. Once more, a blow across my lower abodomen provoked a great spurt of blood between my legs and a shriek from my lips. I was writhing so vigorously, I was seriously hurting my own arms, but there was nothing I could do to save myself. I screamed for mercy, but another lash bit between my thighs, making me kick furiously in spite of the chains. Another, and another. Astiz called a halt – I was shrieking continuously, twisting and squirming, totally possessed by pain.

[1] Personal slave-girls of senior Officers, typically daughters of parents who have "disappeared", or even girls spotted and snatched off the streets by predatory Military Security Police squads and despatched to the IPCG on trumped-up charges.

[2] A girl under sentence of death slaving on the Treadmill to build up her muscles for Crucifixion.

[3] To receive punishment for failing to fulfil work quotas or for misbehaviour. Slaves are given 'punishment points' for such reasons, and at the end of each after-work Parade, the dozen or so with the highest totals at the time are ordered to the Gymnasium to receive a corresponding number of lashes.

[4] The area immediately inside the IPCG entrance, where slave-girls and prisoners prepare for Punishment or Torture. It is surrounded by a mesh cage through which IPCG staff and members of the public can watch them undressing.


Staff member
And now I'm very still and yes i like it

and now i''m looking football Brazil - Netherlands;)


Poet Laureate
Staff member
Thanks for the "likes" :)
Here's the last part - at least, the last part of Exposed Naked and Beaten
There are other stories or poems of mine from the same grim fantasy,
I'll post them someday if you like...

'Exposed Naked on the Scaffold and Beaten'


When my ankles were released, I was able to kick freely, so I danced – and how! A wild, mad frenzy of balletic agony, hideous for me, delightful no doubt to my watching Captors. Eventually I was left alone, with a red-knickered Punishment-Section slave[1] cleaning up all that had burst out of my body, scooping it into a bucket, scrubbing the stained crossbar and platform, carrying the stuff away to the Human Body Processing Plant – nothing is wasted!

The sun was cooking us now, my mind was wandering with pain, loss of blood and dehydration, but consciousness would not leave me. I felt utterly defeated, the way I did that dreadful night in the Torture Chamber when they finally broke me and I begged to be allowed to confess to being an enemy of the State, knowing full well the consequences of that... My arms and shoulders ached from the strain of my writhing, they made me think of that girl being crucified – I could see the Crosses on Death Hill in the distance, beyond the Parade Ground, only their backs, not the bodies on them, they were turned like me towards the sun. She must be suffering agonies equal to mine – surely they couldn't be worse? I even envied her - at least she knows she's going to die, pretty soon. Lucia and I are condemned to be kept alive, so that these monsters can squeeze every last drop of pleasure from our degradation and suffering, from their total triumph over our parents, their ideals, and their daughters' bodies.

From time to time, Medical Inspectors came and checked me. It seemed incredible that I was not receiving urgent medical treatment, but they complacently entered notes on their netbooks and left me to continuing suffering. Occasionally I heard a clink of chain, a little gasp or moan as poor Lucia moved on her Scaffold. I hoped she was lapsing into unconsciousness, but of course our Torturers are expert in ensuring that even their yougest victims remain alert and aware of their agony throughout their ordeals.

At last the sun sank towards the horizon, crows began to flock for their evening feed over the Crosses on Death Hill. Only then was a slave-girl sent with a baby-bottle of water for us to suck from. She was a pretty young Torturers' "pet", with long fair hair and blue eyes that showed real care as she offered the teat to my parched lips. I admired her – to be a Torturers' slave, she must have experienced Torture herself, yet she had not yet been hardened to the endless spectacle of suffering that is the life of a Killhope girl.[2]The water and the evening cool brought only small relief, this was the time of day when the little biting insects swarmed in their thousands, finding every sensitive weal on my whip-reddened skin, while my whole body was now tossed by continual waves, no longer of sharp pain, but of a deep, dull ache.

At last the hooter summoned the girls for the evening shift-change. Eight hours must have passed since the climax of my ordeal. When all was ready, the Director announced that Lucia and I were going to receive a further instalment of our Punishment. I gasped in horror, I could not believe that they would inflict yet more blows on my ravaged body. Indeed, they attended to Lucia first. As they lashed her, she screamed vigorously – it distressed me, of course, yet I felt some gladness that her cries still sounded so strong and, yes, angry! "Go on, kid!" I muttered through gritted teeth, "Show 'em what you're made of – don't let them win!" But soon they'd got her yelling and shrieking like a banshee, then they crossed the dais and came to me.

The Medical Inspector felt my body, checked my heartbeat and blood-pressure. I heard the Director say, "Well? How many more can she take? She's got to have at least twenty more than her sister, she's only ten ahead now!" "Oh yes, Sir, she can take a good dozen more, but not on her abdomen." "Okay, let's make her dance – Torturers, give her twelve on her legs!"

They didn't bother to shackle my ankles, I was too weak to kick hard, and they wanted to enjoy my skipping and cavorting. I closed my eyes and bowed my head. The strokes around my thighs, the backs of my legs, my shins and calves, made me gasp and sob – again, I hadn't the energy to scream like Lucia. In spite of their orders, they laid the occasional cut across my breasts, my pudenda and in my groin, and these drew especially sharp squeals. And I danced, just as they wanted, throwing my legs back and forth, twisting my hips, swinging from the chains, using up what little reserves of energy remained. The DP urged them on, "That's good! Real sexy, keep her swinging!"

At last it was over. The Parade was dismissed. When the incoming girls were lined up, they were treated to a repeat performance, both from Lucia and from me. After that, we were examined again by the MI, and left, exposed...

Lucia was released about midnight. Half-conscious, I heard the sounds of her shackles being unlocked, her Guards bullying her as she shuffled, sobbing, past my Scaffold. They kept me up all the night, through the early morning shift-change, and until the sun rose again. Only after I'd been exposed for well over 24 hours did Guards come and unlock my wrists. I flopped to my knees, they kicked me and hauled me to my feet, dragged me down the steps, around the side of the Punishment Gym, and across to the Medical Care Unit. In there they swung me up and tossed me onto a trolley, handcuffed me to the end-rail, and left me to be attended to by uncaring military medics and half-qualified orderlies, until they bring me to a state when I can endure the next descent in my long pilgrimage through the depths of Hell...

[1] One sentenced to "Rigorous and Punitive Hard Labour" having confessed under Torture to a supposedly serious offence (like reading a girls' magazine from before the date of the Military coup).

[2] A girl rounded up in "Operation Killhope", the Military Régime's campaign to stamp out any prospect of freedom ever returning, by enslaving or executing even the children of their political opponents.


Tribunica Potestas
Of course!!!...........please post your other stories and poems...just don't run out of them. Could you post this story as a PDF? When a story is finished I think it a good idea to publish it as a PDF. That way people in a hurry can download it easily and read it at leisure.


Poet Laureate
Staff member
PDFs are above my pay-grade! I should be able to upload the Word docs.


Staff member
PDFs are above my pay-grade! I should be able to upload the Word docs.
i'll make a pdf and send it you by e-mail

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