JustJJ
Governor
I’ve been lurking on the forums for some time and trying to think of creative ways to contribute to the discussion, and one thing I haven’t seen much of is the emotional journey the victim goes through. Of course for those who want it and those who don’t, the story would be completely different. But part of the humiliation is having no privacy with which to express the anger, the sense of injustice, the pain. I’ve noticed this is true of simple whipping videos: at the beginning the victim is yelling in response to each lash, but as each new stripe is added, there is more despair and length in each cry. This grows and then changes to weakness and desperation.
For your pleasure, a short story with myself as the victim, imagining the emotional journey I would go through while enduring whips until dead. This is highly graphic and gory due to the use of a flagrum, which may be a bit much for some readers.
-----------------------------------------
The posts first. I am spread between two of them, leather cuffs holding my wrists and ankles far apart, chains pulling my arms up and my legs wide. I am conscious of the way my breasts lift and fall with my anxious, short breaths. As my torturers finish securing my body in place, someone smacks my exposed pussy. I yelp and struggle. This position leaves every bit of me open for the whip to reach. To have one post to cling to, legs and arms together, would be a mercy compared to this.
The whips are designed to make me dance before caving to what is beyond what I can bear. I am barely aware of the crowd’s excited noise, squinting beyond the bright sunlight burning the coliseum sand. It makes the soles of my feet uncomfortable, and I am already hopping slightly to cool them.
My torturer is a woman in a soft purple tunic. She selects a long whip to start, the kind that snaps from afar. She walks in front of me and then backs up to stand several feet away, caressing my side with the whip to measure the distance. I begin to tremble and long for the feel of it, to know at last what it tastes like on my skin. She draws back and sharply cuts through the air beside me. I jump. The crowd the laughs and boos, complaining that it hasn’t struck me yet. I begin to twist helplessly.
The first lash lands right on the tender part of my lower belly. It does not draw blood, but it is sharp and the pain lingers and spreads. I cry out in surprise at the shock. The second hits my right nipple and leaves a slash across the breast, and I yelp because she has swung a good deal harder this time. I feel liquid releasing from the straight line that has sliced my skin. The third hits my left leg just above the knee, wrapping around the inside of my thigh. My vocalization has quickly changed from surprise to horror, as I realize that this is just the beginning.
Time passes. Only three so far. She walks around me and behind me. The crowd seems to have quieted to hear my cries. I hear it in the air and feel the fourth strike my lower back, just above my ass. I squeal this time, it hurts so much, and my voice catches a little as it spreads and I feel the blood melt down. She steps closer, and I feel the stiff part of the whip against the backs of my knees, spread apart. The fifth and sixth lashes wrap around each knee and I am brought down, hanging from my wrist cuffs, my stance weakened.
She seems satisfied with this, walks away, and returns with another whip. This one has many long, knotted strips of leather on it. I’ve only had a small taste so far, and I am struggling to regain my footing as my legs shake and welts form around my knees. My gaze is down at them when she grabs my face roughly, forcing me to look at the whip she is dangling in front of me. I shiver as she runs it over my breasts, letting each cool strand drape across my skin. She draws back and then strikes up between my legs. My scream is higher than my previous ones, and I fight to close my legs, but it’s no use. I am defenseless when the eighth lash digs into my cunt for the second time. I scream again, this time whimpering until I am cut off with the quick delivery of another lash, this one across both breasts. I realize that there is liquid trickling down my legs, and it’s moving fast, so it must be blood. I look down and see the scarlet droplets staining the bright sand, and everything spins. The tenth strike lands hard across my upper stomach and lower ribcage, making my cry halt in my throat as I gasp for air. I am still gasping as she walks around behind me again.
The whip comes fast, now, and another ten lashes are delivered with such force that I feel there is great anger being unleashed on my body. They land all over my back and ass and legs. I don’t have time to finish yelling between, I am being cut off by each lash. It makes my voice sound jolted. She stops, and I feel the blood drip in small fractions from all my freshly added marks. I feel the whip over my shoulder, and I look over shakily – it is being dragged over my breasts from behind. I wait, trying to catch my breath, but my fear makes me breathe in short gasps once again. The whip finally finishes its slow journey alongside my neck, and it suddenly strikes again between my legs. There is no surprise anymore in my cries, just pain. I bend and twist and squirm as the whip forces me to, my body reaching for the impossible – endurance.
I am weakened and defeated and I have lost count. The first half wouldn’t prepare me for the second anyway, because the whips of choice were growing more severe.
A different whip is being gently run across my skin now, and it is the most terrifying one: the flagrum. Now it is time to wound and tear my flesh, starting from my shoulders and working down my entire backside. As I fight for breath and to hold myself up, I feel sweat beading up on my forehead and tears escaping my eyes, blurring my vision further. I am not ready. I will never be ready.
There is no point in begging for mercy. I have done what I have done and this is the punishment. I look into the clear blue sky and can hardly see it through my tears, which make everything glint in the hot sun. I realize I’m wet, and not just from blood. All of my skin is glistening with sweat now. My pussy is dripping wet, too, with blood and its own juices. My whole body is throbbing, it seems.
The flagrum makes the other two whips seem like tickling feathers. The weight strikes and bruises the flesh beneath the skin, while the bone smashes into it, and the glass cuts through. Every bit of it sinks in, and pulling back leaves gaping wounds. My scream this time is loud and pure, with nothing reserved. That was one shoulder. Then the other is made to match, and I can feel blood running down my back. The next two stripes land on my back and either side of my torso, wrapping and cutting into my ribcage and spine. My screams are so loud, I am putting my entire body into expressing the pain, but it is not enough. It does nothing to console me, to offer relief, but it seems my mind is convinced it might, and I cannot resist screaming.
When it is time to tear apart the tender part of my lower back beneath the rib cage, my torturer pauses. I can feel trickles of blood forming all around the curvature of my ass. I don’t realize I’m being allowed a moment to breathe, so I am fully aware of my punishment. The ground is spinning, I can’t feel my hands and feet anymore, I am breathing heavily through sobs as I shake uncontrollably. My arms and legs have been pinned into place long enough now that I have no sense of equilibrium. It is as I begin to calm down that she strikes again. The flagrum bites hard into my right side, tearing deeper because it is below the ribcage now. When it is drawn back, my scream lengthens and the glass and bone cuts away whole chunks of flesh. It strikes the spine in my lower back. I shriek and squirm, desperately arching to avoid its reach. Then it goes lower, and finds the sweet tender spot where my lower back meets my ass, and slices into it, too. I yell. My strength to scream is dwindling, yet this was the most painful impact yet.
When the flagrum cuts across my ass, I cannot help but try to avoid it, my body twisting away. I am powerless to escape, and my voice runs where I cannot. It destroys the skin and muscle, leaving open wounds to bleed. Then it finds another tender area, just at the very top of the back of my legs. My cries are weaker now, surrendering. She continues down my legs until I am unable to stand at all, and my knees buckle, dripping with blood, and the sand is wet and slippery with it now.
I am not just screaming or crying anymore. I am muttering between the lashes, abandoned and alone and tortured to death for entertainment, agonized and weakened cries responding to each lash. This is my end.
For your pleasure, a short story with myself as the victim, imagining the emotional journey I would go through while enduring whips until dead. This is highly graphic and gory due to the use of a flagrum, which may be a bit much for some readers.
-----------------------------------------
The posts first. I am spread between two of them, leather cuffs holding my wrists and ankles far apart, chains pulling my arms up and my legs wide. I am conscious of the way my breasts lift and fall with my anxious, short breaths. As my torturers finish securing my body in place, someone smacks my exposed pussy. I yelp and struggle. This position leaves every bit of me open for the whip to reach. To have one post to cling to, legs and arms together, would be a mercy compared to this.
The whips are designed to make me dance before caving to what is beyond what I can bear. I am barely aware of the crowd’s excited noise, squinting beyond the bright sunlight burning the coliseum sand. It makes the soles of my feet uncomfortable, and I am already hopping slightly to cool them.
My torturer is a woman in a soft purple tunic. She selects a long whip to start, the kind that snaps from afar. She walks in front of me and then backs up to stand several feet away, caressing my side with the whip to measure the distance. I begin to tremble and long for the feel of it, to know at last what it tastes like on my skin. She draws back and sharply cuts through the air beside me. I jump. The crowd the laughs and boos, complaining that it hasn’t struck me yet. I begin to twist helplessly.
The first lash lands right on the tender part of my lower belly. It does not draw blood, but it is sharp and the pain lingers and spreads. I cry out in surprise at the shock. The second hits my right nipple and leaves a slash across the breast, and I yelp because she has swung a good deal harder this time. I feel liquid releasing from the straight line that has sliced my skin. The third hits my left leg just above the knee, wrapping around the inside of my thigh. My vocalization has quickly changed from surprise to horror, as I realize that this is just the beginning.
Time passes. Only three so far. She walks around me and behind me. The crowd seems to have quieted to hear my cries. I hear it in the air and feel the fourth strike my lower back, just above my ass. I squeal this time, it hurts so much, and my voice catches a little as it spreads and I feel the blood melt down. She steps closer, and I feel the stiff part of the whip against the backs of my knees, spread apart. The fifth and sixth lashes wrap around each knee and I am brought down, hanging from my wrist cuffs, my stance weakened.
She seems satisfied with this, walks away, and returns with another whip. This one has many long, knotted strips of leather on it. I’ve only had a small taste so far, and I am struggling to regain my footing as my legs shake and welts form around my knees. My gaze is down at them when she grabs my face roughly, forcing me to look at the whip she is dangling in front of me. I shiver as she runs it over my breasts, letting each cool strand drape across my skin. She draws back and then strikes up between my legs. My scream is higher than my previous ones, and I fight to close my legs, but it’s no use. I am defenseless when the eighth lash digs into my cunt for the second time. I scream again, this time whimpering until I am cut off with the quick delivery of another lash, this one across both breasts. I realize that there is liquid trickling down my legs, and it’s moving fast, so it must be blood. I look down and see the scarlet droplets staining the bright sand, and everything spins. The tenth strike lands hard across my upper stomach and lower ribcage, making my cry halt in my throat as I gasp for air. I am still gasping as she walks around behind me again.
The whip comes fast, now, and another ten lashes are delivered with such force that I feel there is great anger being unleashed on my body. They land all over my back and ass and legs. I don’t have time to finish yelling between, I am being cut off by each lash. It makes my voice sound jolted. She stops, and I feel the blood drip in small fractions from all my freshly added marks. I feel the whip over my shoulder, and I look over shakily – it is being dragged over my breasts from behind. I wait, trying to catch my breath, but my fear makes me breathe in short gasps once again. The whip finally finishes its slow journey alongside my neck, and it suddenly strikes again between my legs. There is no surprise anymore in my cries, just pain. I bend and twist and squirm as the whip forces me to, my body reaching for the impossible – endurance.
I am weakened and defeated and I have lost count. The first half wouldn’t prepare me for the second anyway, because the whips of choice were growing more severe.
A different whip is being gently run across my skin now, and it is the most terrifying one: the flagrum. Now it is time to wound and tear my flesh, starting from my shoulders and working down my entire backside. As I fight for breath and to hold myself up, I feel sweat beading up on my forehead and tears escaping my eyes, blurring my vision further. I am not ready. I will never be ready.
There is no point in begging for mercy. I have done what I have done and this is the punishment. I look into the clear blue sky and can hardly see it through my tears, which make everything glint in the hot sun. I realize I’m wet, and not just from blood. All of my skin is glistening with sweat now. My pussy is dripping wet, too, with blood and its own juices. My whole body is throbbing, it seems.
The flagrum makes the other two whips seem like tickling feathers. The weight strikes and bruises the flesh beneath the skin, while the bone smashes into it, and the glass cuts through. Every bit of it sinks in, and pulling back leaves gaping wounds. My scream this time is loud and pure, with nothing reserved. That was one shoulder. Then the other is made to match, and I can feel blood running down my back. The next two stripes land on my back and either side of my torso, wrapping and cutting into my ribcage and spine. My screams are so loud, I am putting my entire body into expressing the pain, but it is not enough. It does nothing to console me, to offer relief, but it seems my mind is convinced it might, and I cannot resist screaming.
When it is time to tear apart the tender part of my lower back beneath the rib cage, my torturer pauses. I can feel trickles of blood forming all around the curvature of my ass. I don’t realize I’m being allowed a moment to breathe, so I am fully aware of my punishment. The ground is spinning, I can’t feel my hands and feet anymore, I am breathing heavily through sobs as I shake uncontrollably. My arms and legs have been pinned into place long enough now that I have no sense of equilibrium. It is as I begin to calm down that she strikes again. The flagrum bites hard into my right side, tearing deeper because it is below the ribcage now. When it is drawn back, my scream lengthens and the glass and bone cuts away whole chunks of flesh. It strikes the spine in my lower back. I shriek and squirm, desperately arching to avoid its reach. Then it goes lower, and finds the sweet tender spot where my lower back meets my ass, and slices into it, too. I yell. My strength to scream is dwindling, yet this was the most painful impact yet.
When the flagrum cuts across my ass, I cannot help but try to avoid it, my body twisting away. I am powerless to escape, and my voice runs where I cannot. It destroys the skin and muscle, leaving open wounds to bleed. Then it finds another tender area, just at the very top of the back of my legs. My cries are weaker now, surrendering. She continues down my legs until I am unable to stand at all, and my knees buckle, dripping with blood, and the sand is wet and slippery with it now.
I am not just screaming or crying anymore. I am muttering between the lashes, abandoned and alone and tortured to death for entertainment, agonized and weakened cries responding to each lash. This is my end.
