Logistics For Group Whippings

[Eulalia]

I don't think that's where we've reached 'broken' quite yet - that's more 'acceptant' - having watched, I see it's my place even if I'm trembling, and I want to do the best for my part. (Just like a certain Lulie MacAlister wasn't anywhere near broken when she stepped up for that whipping by the McRaes, wasn't she in fact more determined, although knowing 'broken' would be on its way...)
Broken comes when they drag me away from the post, roll me off the platform, dropping me onto the muddy ground churned up by the feet of the crowd, my blood mixing into the puddles of dirty water, then suddenly yanked by my wrists onto that wooden beam, roughly fixed with ropes, hearing someone rummaging through the tools... a nail placed... disbelief then realizing that for some, the whipping post was the measure of their punishment, for others it just now truly begins... I thought I'd somehow just barely got through something but that was nothing at all... absolutely nothing...

good point Malins - yes, resignation, submission to my fate,
isn't the same as being 'broken', it still entails courage,
even some traces of self-respect, 'broken' means I've lost any
free-will, even the will to participate in my own torment,
I'm just an automaton, a living toy in the hands of my tormentors.



That's a powerful image, I identify with it a lot,
perhaps on the borderline of being truly 'broken'?

 

[malins]

I said I was sorry

Oh goodnes it's OK.

You can run over me if you like.

What does that thing squirming in the muck want anyway.
It seems just a bit disappointingly impersonal to me, in my self-aggrandization, that all you do is turn a steering-wheel and floor the pedal and shift the gears and all that ever makes contact is goddamn rubber tyres and not skin-to-skin, but maybe that's just the point?

Callous and impersonal, that's how you break me. And now the music in my head is the fucking Pixies because of "won't you please run over me". - though "Debaser" might be the song to it...

 

[malins]

That's a powerful image, I identify with it a lot, perhaps on the borderline of being truly 'broken'?

If that was me it would be the moment I'm asking for it.
What I'm saying to him is,
That border, you know, what are you waiting for. I'm ready. How about you?

 

[Primus pilus]

If that was me it would be the moment I'm asking for it.
What I'm saying to him is,
That border, you know, what are you waiting for. I'm ready. How about you?

And when the gate creaks open and He crosses that border, when you hear His whip whistle and the fire as it rakes across that offered-up arse, what does Malin do?

She does not try to crawl away as best as those leg irons allow while He follows licking His whip around her thighs and buttocks? She does not writhe in the dirt, protecting one marked and bloodied piece of herself all the while exposing something more to Him to carve?

No. She is ready. And He is too.

But does she lower her head to the ground, letting her long hair fall forwards, leaving her back and arse and thighs and more all so perfectly exposed or does she kneel tall, her hands clasped behind her head, long hair raised clear, her back and her breasts presented, ready to receive what she desires?

It is never skin-to-skin. Not with Him. But it is so very personal, just as intimate.