These things are real. They never stick up ... They just point the way!
Where you lead, I will follow
Anywhere that you tell me to
If you need, you need me to be with you
I will follow where you lead
Oooooh - hot hot hot hot hot hot!!!!!me wandering in bazaars??... why not..???
View attachment 158186 ...What could possibly happen to me there?
View attachment 158188 ... all the guide books recommend it, don't they?
Please take me too!Where you lead, I will follow
Anywhere that you tell me to
If you need, you need me to be with you
I will follow where you lead
).
Very good. It's written like author survive it really. Maybe someone should write some story in Magnificient Century epoque. Barb Hattum in Sulejman harem, tortured by Hurrem cause her jelousySince reviving Barb's old stories seems to be the theme of the day, we thought we would share this one. A little while ago, we published a compendium of short stories by one or both of us on another site, under the title "Crime and Punishment". It included this one, which Barb wrote back in 2014 and which I added to. For extra points, see if you can tell where her part ends and mine begins without going back to the start of this thread (no blue italics to help
This pic was the one that inspired her story View attachment 520663
It was the summer of 1923. I went to the Middle East to join my husband who was serving there on a colonial posting with his regiment. I began my married life, reveling in my new name … Barbara Moore … but quickly found my days to be filled with boredom … he was always gone during the days, and to make matters worse, the sod rarely came home in the evening. My only escape from the dreariness of life was to wander daily in the bazaar … a place of constant activity and exotic delights.
I met a man there, a rakishly devil-may-care fellow from Australia, and then a very wild French woman. We would meet in the bazaar and then repair to the tea room of the Grande Londres Hotel. It wasn’t too long before the three of us were taking a private room in the hotel as well, and my boredom melted away… that is until he found out.
He was furious beyond reason and coldly turned me over to the local authorities, who were all too eager to try a pretty western woman for alleged promiscuity, find her guilty and sentence her to be publicly caned before a standing-room-only, all-male audience. Twenty strokes they said! I could hardly imagine what it would be like.
I spent the night in a cold dark cell and the next day was taken back to the Grande Londres Hotel … the scene of my crime … stripped completely naked and led to a stage in the hotel’s grand salon ... watched as I passed down the central aisle of the packed room by hundreds of darkly appreciative eyes.
Humiliated and frightened, I tried to cover myself, shielding my breasts and crotch as best I could with arms and hands. I waited quietly as my sentence was read, and tried to avoid eye contact with the mass of spectators, jostling with one another for a better look. Peering out across the smoke-filled room I saw the bastard, my husband, standing in the back with arms folded, a spiteful look frozen on his aristocratic face. I hated him.
Told to bend forward facing the jam-packed room, I obeyed, grasping the railing in front of me for support. A white robed man with a wicked looking cane took his position behind me. I sucked in my breath, spread my legs slightly as instructed, tightened my tummy, and waited … trembling, my dangling breasts swaying slightly.
The moment had come. I heard his robes rustle as he raised his arm. I closed my eyes. A tear ran down my cheek. A brief pause … absolute terrifying silence. Then the cane descended on my defenseless upturned bum with a zinging swish followed by a slicing whack of incredible force. I jumped, reflexively grabbed my stinging buttocks with my hands, and hopped about, breasts bouncing wildly.
Firm hands grasped my shoulders, held me still, and then forced me back down as a firm voice ordered me to resume the position for nineteen more……
Nineteen more … how would I ever stand such an awful torture when even one had hurt more than anything I had ever experienced ... more than anything I had ever imagined. Surely I would not survive a horror such as that. But what choice did I have?
If I had thought that the first cane stroke hurt more than it was possible for anything to hurt, I was wrong, for the second, landing upon flesh that had already been bruised by the first, was pure agony. I shot up, my whole body writhing in agony, forgetting my shame and displaying myself totally to the audience. Through the tears welling up in my eyes, I could see men laughing, pointing at me, poking their neighbors in glee at the ribald spectacle. I could hear the clink of china and silverware as waiters passed through the crowd, bringing tea, coffee and pastries to the eager guests.
“This is ghastly and inhumane,” I protested, “Surely, you cannot intend to give me eighteen more such awful blows?”
An unctuous looking man, corpulent, with heavily-oiled hair, made his way onto the stage. “Mrs. Moore,” he announced, “Do you think our justice system is a joke? Do you think twenty strokes does not mean twenty strokes? You have already abused the hospitality of our country with your disgraceful behavior. Now you dare to insult us further? I should double the sentence.”
“Oh, God,” I thought, “I doubt I can survive the eighteen remaining, but thirty-eight, that would be a death sentence. I sank to my knees, looking up at him imploringly. “Please, no,” I whispered, unable to speak any louder, “I can’t.”
“Then get back over to the bar immediately,” he ordered in a cold steely voice. “I will brook no more disobedience from you.” He barked a command in Arabic, words I didn’t understand. Two large men, dressed in long flowing robes like the man who was caning me, mounted the stage and strode purposefully towards me. Each one took an arm and began moving me towards the railing. I could smell garlic on their breath. The one who had my right arm managed to reach his greasy fingers out and fondle my breast as he escorted me to the spot where I would suffer the rest of my punishment.
When we had reached the railing, they yanked my arms down, causing my body to bend sharply at the waist. Each held one of my hands firmly against the railing. There would be no more jumping up to relieve the pain. I would have to bear the rest of my sentence virtually immobilized and helpless.
I heard the Whoosh of the cane and felt the pure fire burning deep into my flesh, the heat radiating seemingly throughout my body. I howled in distress. The blows came more rapidly, since there was no longer any need to wait for me to regain my position between each one. The pain and futile struggles against the two powerful men left me breathless, unable even to utter the pleas for mercy that, of course, would have been disregarded even had I been able to form the words.
Then, the blows stopped. I had tried to count through the blinding pain, the idea that each stroke taken meant one fewer remaining the only comfort available to me, and I didn’t think that I had received the full complement of twenty. In fact, I doubted I had gotten more than nine or ten. Was it possible that they had decided to have mercy on me? Were they afraid that I might expire under the torture, resulting in some kind of international scandal?
However, the two gorillas still held tightly to my arms, suggesting that my hopes were in vain. I craned my neck as far as I could to try to see behind me. The caner had placed the instrument of my chastisement on the floor and was accepting a glass of tea and a pastry from one of the waiters. Soon, refreshed and reinvigorated, he picked up the cane and swished it a couple of times through the air.
The remainder of my punishment was pure agony. I would have gladly pleasured every man in the room, from the most unwashed to the most educated and aristocratic in order to reduce my suffering by even a few strokes, but no such option was offered to me.
Finally, at long last, the blows ceased. The two men holding my arms released their grip and I sunk to the floor like a limp doll, where I lay, my head resting against my folded arms, sobbing quietly, lacking the strength to move.
After several minutes, I gathered the strength to look up. The room was almost deserted…only one person remained…my husband, now standing at the foot of the stage, glaring up at me coldly, holding the clothes that I had been stripped of before my punishment.
He threw the garments up on stage. “Get dressed!” he hissed. “You’ve embarrassed me enough already.”
? Good plot?
From my perspective, lashes is one of those things where it is definitely better to give than to receive.That's just one of the more interesting booths in the bazaar..... 10 lashes for $50, step right up gentlemen ...
A piece for the next Cruxer's Digest.Since reviving Barb's old stories seems to be the theme of the day, we thought we would share this one. A little while ago, we published a compendium of short stories by one or both of us on another site, under the title "Crime and Punishment". It included this one, which Barb wrote back in 2014 and which I added to. For extra points, see if you can tell where her part ends and mine begins without going back to the start of this thread (no blue italics to help
This pic was the one that inspired her story View attachment 520663
It was the summer of 1923. I went to the Middle East to join my husband who was serving there on a colonial posting with his regiment. I began my married life, reveling in my new name … Barbara Moore … but quickly found my days to be filled with boredom … he was always gone during the days, and to make matters worse, the sod rarely came home in the evening. My only escape from the dreariness of life was to wander daily in the bazaar … a place of constant activity and exotic delights.
I met a man there, a rakishly devil-may-care fellow from Australia, and then a very wild French woman. We would meet in the bazaar and then repair to the tea room of the Grande Londres Hotel. It wasn’t too long before the three of us were taking a private room in the hotel as well, and my boredom melted away… that is until he found out.
He was furious beyond reason and coldly turned me over to the local authorities, who were all too eager to try a pretty western woman for alleged promiscuity, find her guilty and sentence her to be publicly caned before a standing-room-only, all-male audience. Twenty strokes they said! I could hardly imagine what it would be like.
I spent the night in a cold dark cell and the next day was taken back to the Grande Londres Hotel … the scene of my crime … stripped completely naked and led to a stage in the hotel’s grand salon ... watched as I passed down the central aisle of the packed room by hundreds of darkly appreciative eyes.
Humiliated and frightened, I tried to cover myself, shielding my breasts and crotch as best I could with arms and hands. I waited quietly as my sentence was read, and tried to avoid eye contact with the mass of spectators, jostling with one another for a better look. Peering out across the smoke-filled room I saw the bastard, my husband, standing in the back with arms folded, a spiteful look frozen on his aristocratic face. I hated him.
Told to bend forward facing the jam-packed room, I obeyed, grasping the railing in front of me for support. A white robed man with a wicked looking cane took his position behind me. I sucked in my breath, spread my legs slightly as instructed, tightened my tummy, and waited … trembling, my dangling breasts swaying slightly.
The moment had come. I heard his robes rustle as he raised his arm. I closed my eyes. A tear ran down my cheek. A brief pause … absolute terrifying silence. Then the cane descended on my defenseless upturned bum with a zinging swish followed by a slicing whack of incredible force. I jumped, reflexively grabbed my stinging buttocks with my hands, and hopped about, breasts bouncing wildly.
Firm hands grasped my shoulders, held me still, and then forced me back down as a firm voice ordered me to resume the position for nineteen more……
Nineteen more … how would I ever stand such an awful torture when even one had hurt more than anything I had ever experienced ... more than anything I had ever imagined. Surely I would not survive a horror such as that. But what choice did I have?
If I had thought that the first cane stroke hurt more than it was possible for anything to hurt, I was wrong, for the second, landing upon flesh that had already been bruised by the first, was pure agony. I shot up, my whole body writhing in agony, forgetting my shame and displaying myself totally to the audience. Through the tears welling up in my eyes, I could see men laughing, pointing at me, poking their neighbors in glee at the ribald spectacle. I could hear the clink of china and silverware as waiters passed through the crowd, bringing tea, coffee and pastries to the eager guests.
“This is ghastly and inhumane,” I protested, “Surely, you cannot intend to give me eighteen more such awful blows?”
An unctuous looking man, corpulent, with heavily-oiled hair, made his way onto the stage. “Mrs. Moore,” he announced, “Do you think our justice system is a joke? Do you think twenty strokes does not mean twenty strokes? You have already abused the hospitality of our country with your disgraceful behavior. Now you dare to insult us further? I should double the sentence.”
“Oh, God,” I thought, “I doubt I can survive the eighteen remaining, but thirty-eight, that would be a death sentence. I sank to my knees, looking up at him imploringly. “Please, no,” I whispered, unable to speak any louder, “I can’t.”
“Then get back over to the bar immediately,” he ordered in a cold steely voice. “I will brook no more disobedience from you.” He barked a command in Arabic, words I didn’t understand. Two large men, dressed in long flowing robes like the man who was caning me, mounted the stage and strode purposefully towards me. Each one took an arm and began moving me towards the railing. I could smell garlic on their breath. The one who had my right arm managed to reach his greasy fingers out and fondle my breast as he escorted me to the spot where I would suffer the rest of my punishment.
When we had reached the railing, they yanked my arms down, causing my body to bend sharply at the waist. Each held one of my hands firmly against the railing. There would be no more jumping up to relieve the pain. I would have to bear the rest of my sentence virtually immobilized and helpless.
I heard the Whoosh of the cane and felt the pure fire burning deep into my flesh, the heat radiating seemingly throughout my body. I howled in distress. The blows came more rapidly, since there was no longer any need to wait for me to regain my position between each one. The pain and futile struggles against the two powerful men left me breathless, unable even to utter the pleas for mercy that, of course, would have been disregarded even had I been able to form the words.
Then, the blows stopped. I had tried to count through the blinding pain, the idea that each stroke taken meant one fewer remaining the only comfort available to me, and I didn’t think that I had received the full complement of twenty. In fact, I doubted I had gotten more than nine or ten. Was it possible that they had decided to have mercy on me? Were they afraid that I might expire under the torture, resulting in some kind of international scandal?
However, the two gorillas still held tightly to my arms, suggesting that my hopes were in vain. I craned my neck as far as I could to try to see behind me. The caner had placed the instrument of my chastisement on the floor and was accepting a glass of tea and a pastry from one of the waiters. Soon, refreshed and reinvigorated, he picked up the cane and swished it a couple of times through the air.
The remainder of my punishment was pure agony. I would have gladly pleasured every man in the room, from the most unwashed to the most educated and aristocratic in order to reduce my suffering by even a few strokes, but no such option was offered to me.
Finally, at long last, the blows ceased. The two men holding my arms released their grip and I sunk to the floor like a limp doll, where I lay, my head resting against my folded arms, sobbing quietly, lacking the strength to move.
After several minutes, I gathered the strength to look up. The room was almost deserted…only one person remained…my husband, now standing at the foot of the stage, glaring up at me coldly, holding the clothes that I had been stripped of before my punishment.
He threw the garments up on stage. “Get dressed!” he hissed. “You’ve embarrassed me enough already.”
From my perspective, lashes is one of those things where it is definitely better to give than to receive.
I read an article that suggested that the old bazaars in Abu Dhabi, Dubai, and other cities in the Emirates were being destroyed by developers because they weren't modern, much to the distress of tourists.
Fun vignette, Barb - fits the picture very well.
but................we will start again 1..................17 ..... oww ... 18 .....ahhhhh..... 19 ........ gasp, just one more ....
Not only one I think
.
but you start your counting with it every time againNot only one I think
