What a twist at the end. never saw that coming.
@Barbaria1 s main course?Punishment at the Academy.
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Discipline at Miss Waterfield’s Academy for Girls of a Certain Kind was strict. Hardly a day went by without the girls bending over, palms on the floor, knees straight, skirts hiked up, waiting for the whistle of the cane, the fiery lick of the whip, the slap of the strap or the painful impact of the paddle.
These two were double offenders. Not only had they spilt the tea they were serving to the Mistresses, but, much more seriously, they had failed the vaginal muscle control test. They had already received the punishment for the tea episode. Such a minor offence was worth a mere two dozen hard smacks with the paddle. Now they are waiting for the next, more serious punishment. Still bent over, unable to do anything to soothe their bruised bottoms, they can only listen to the sobs and fruitless pleas for mercy from the girl who was receiving a mere dozen of the cane for a minor misdemeanour.
Their buttocks clenched involuntarily each time the cane whistled, and impacted soft buttocks with a resounding crack. For Mistress Prentice, the Cane Mistress, that was merely a warm up for the serious work to follow. As de Valois sobbingly counted the fifth of her dozen strokes, Claire, who being on the left would receive the first strokes of their punishment, started to whimper.
Her bottom was already so sore! How would she ever survive forty eight strokes of that brutal cane?
Alice is looking very worried. She's seen me looking at her and reckons her next stop may be back in Khabadami or even St. Melanias!Displayed
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This was so much more difficult than she expected, even in her worst nightmares. She thought she was ready for this, the final step on her road to slavery. After all, she had freely made the decision to sell herself. Nobody had forced her, and in fact the dealer had tried her utmost to ensure that she knew what she was letting herself in for.
All the way through her training, she had been given many opportunities to change her mind. The trainer was so dispassionate. “You are to be slaves. Slaves are objects! You are no longer people, no longer human, you are things! Chattels! Possessions! Lower than animals!”
That was the worst! Being shown just how low her status was. Laura shuddered at the memory. She was in no way restrained. If she ran, or resisted, she would be expelled. She would be given a skimpy dress and put out in the street. To fend for herself.
She thought that was the worst she would have to suffer, the total humiliation of the act. Yet, this was worse! It was so final!
The room was dimly lit, except for the spotlights illuminating the platform she stood on. There were to be four showings that day. Perhaps, by the fourth, it wouldn’t be so bad. She could barely see the prospective buyer. He was merely a shape, sat in one of the comfortable leather armchairs arranged around the platform. She heard the dealer describe her. Her age, her height, her weight. Did she have to be so explicit? So personal? “She is very tight, front and back. Not a virgin, of course, but seldom used before her training. Her anus is very tight, but elastic, and well able to accommodate all but the thickest objects. Her vagina…” Laura let the words fade from her consciousness. What would he be like, this man who was wealthy enough to buy her body? Was he kind? Cruel? A total pervert? Would he require her to do the most disgusting, unnatural things? Lend her to others? Publicly display her? Pros…
She yelped as the dealer’s whip drew a line of fire across her back! She had missed the signal to remove the filmy wrap that tantalisingly hid her body. She removed it, revealing all to the gaze of the man. She knew her body was good. Her breasts were small, but beautifully shaped and firm. Her thighs were smooth and strong. Her pussy silky soft and smooth. She turned slowly, to show herself from all angles. He murmured a question, his voice deep and cultured.
“Of course, sir. You may touch her, penetrate her, do whatever you wish to ensure that she is of the required quality.” Laura shuddered. She wanted to protest, to run. This was worse than that day when she was shown that she was inferior to animals. She was rooted to the spot. She watched him approach, his shoulders broad, his walk powerful, confident. His hand on her breast was warm, strong. She wanted to cry! To protest! His hand slid down her body, found the softness, parted her lips.
She took a deep breath. Would she ever get used to this? Would she ever be able to accept that she was merely an object? Would she ever be able to reconcile herself to the fact that, to these people, she had no feelings, no emotions, no shame?
Why did it have to be so difficult? Becoming a slave?
Just in case there's the odd bod out there who is ignorant of basic Swahili..."wazungu" is plural of mzungu which I think translates as "someone who speaks English". In that case isn't Prudence a mzungu?The Missionary’s Wife
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The early morning sun felt good on Prudence Makepiece’s naked body. She could not remember ever having been totally naked before, not even in her bedroom. Yet here she was, naked, exposed to the lecherous eyes of the “Ignorant, devil worshipping heathens” her late husband had so hated and despised! In a strange way she was relieved to be here, in this situation. She was certainly relieved to be clean, to be free of the crawling, itchy, biting vermin her husband had called “God’s creatures, sent to try our faith.”
Her husband, the much admired, fiery missionary her parents had married her to! Her husband, who had made their short marriage a misery! Her husband, who had shown his contempt for the “ignorant heathen” by slaughtering a pig in the mosque! Her husband, who had been torn limb from limb, literally, by the enraged community! Her husband, whose gobbets of flesh had been left for the stray dogs and the crows!
Her parents had been overjoyed when they told her that the sainted Reverend Makepiece, the devout missionary who had devoted his life to converting the godless heathen savages in Africa had chosen their eldest daughter to be his helpmeet and companion on his sacred mission. Prudence said nothing. Her parents had decided, and that was the end of it. The wedding was a sombre affair. She saw her husband for the first time at the altar. She knew that he was almost three times her age, but she was not prepared for the wild-eyed, bearded man, dressed all in black save for his white clerical bands, who was to be her husband. Neither was she prepared for the miasma of body odour that assaulted her nostrils, or the sight of the crawling vermin that infested his beard and his lank, greasy hair.
The marriage ceremony was brief. Hours later they were aboard the ship that would take her to Africa. Her introduction to her conjugal duties was painful and unpleasant. Reverend Makepiece, she had never learned his first name, had laid her down on her belly in the narrow bunk, lifted the back of her dress and her petticoats, and forced himself into her. It was painful and humiliating, but mercifully brief. Her attempt to wash herself had been stopped immediately! “That is a sinful practice, born of vanity. Once a year, on the celebration of His birth, is enough for any Christian.” The lesson had been emphasised with a dozen strokes of his heavy leather belt on the bare bottom he had so recently penetrated. Hardly a day went when he did not find her to be in need of chastisement. “The wife shall be in subjection to the husband” was his chant as he beat her slim body, a beating usually followed by the exercise of his ‘conjugal rights’.
The mission on the coast of East Africa was a filthy hovel on the outskirts of the prosperous town of Bagamoyo. Her husband soon succeeded in converting three young women to the true faith. They shared the cramped house with Prudence and her husband. Contrary to his insistence that any bodily display was sinful, the converts were allowed to wear their traditional clothing; cotton sheets wrapped around the waist, leaving breasts and thighs bare. Prudence was jealous of the converts when they went to bathe in the river, returning clean and gleaming. Her request to join them earned her a special chastisement! The Reverend spent many hours on their religious instruction, behind the closed door of his study, accompanied by grunts and squeals.
For more than a year Prudence survived his obvious insanity. He started berating her for her failure to conceive. “Be fruitful and multiply” he chanted as the belt raised fiery welts on her body. “Be fruitful and multiply” he grunted as she lay on her belly, submitting to his conjugal rights.
Then had come the day that he slaughtered the pig in the mosque. The Qadi had come to the mission accompanied by two strapping askaris. They had taken away the few bits of furniture that had any value, and the four women. The Imam wanted compensation for the sacrilege committed in his mosque! The Qadi’s wife had taken charge of the four women, soon to be sold as slaves. Prudence moaned softly as the iron collar was locked around her throat, as her filthy clothes were cut from her body and consigned to the fire. The old woman was appalled by Prudence’s state of filth. Language was a problem, but the managed to communicate. “Did you never wash?” Prudence blushed. “My husband did not believe in washing. He said it was sinful vanity.”
The old woman shook her head in disbelief. She called two slave girls, rattled off commands. Prudence wash washed, thoroughly, as she had never been washed before. Her wild, thick, lousy pubic bush was removed completely, her hair trimmed, her body oiled. She was dumbstruck by the way she was treated. The heavy iron collar she wore indicated her new status, that of a slave. Her husband had committed a disgusting sacrilege, yet she was treated well, pampered, even.
She knelt in front of the old woman, the wife of the Qadi. “My Lady, you treat me kindly, despite my husband’s crime, and” she touched her collar, “my new status.” The old woman smiled. “My child. You did not commit the blasphemy; it is no fault of yours. You will suffer for it, nevertheless. It is not easy, being a slave. The Prophet (PBUH) spoke on the subject of slaves. “Fear God in the matter of your slaves. Feed them with what you eat and clothe them with what you wear, and do not give them work beyond their capacity. Those whom you like, retain, and those whom you dislike, sell. Do not cause pain to God’s creation. He caused you to own them and had He so wished He could have caused them to own you.” She paused, “It is God’s will that you are a slave, and I am free. Some day, it might be different.”
Prudence sobbed; it was so long since anyone had been kind to her. The woman lifted her to her feet. “Come, I must examine you. It is required.” Prudence squirmed with embarrassment as the hands touched her, sometimes intimately. “Spread your legs.” A finger probed between her lower lips, deeper, the old woman’s eyes widened! “You are a virgin? Intact? Yet you are married.” She smiled, “were married.”
Prudence was confused. “My husband, he didn’t enter me that way. He took his conjugal rights there.” She touched her anus. “Is that not the usual way?” The woman burst out laughing! “The way of the infidel is indeed strange! Do you not know about your body? Did your mother not teach you?” Prudence shook her head. “She said my husband would teach me my conjugal duty.” “And you did not wonder why you remained barren?”
She stayed in the house for several days, dressed as the other slaves in a soft cotton wrap, her breasts bare. The marks of her husband’s belt on her body faded, she was, strangely, happy. One day the Qadi beckoned her. “My child, tomorrow you are to be sold. The others are already gone. They are strong, fecund girls. They will be good workers and breed well. You,” he paused, “you are different. A wazungu, young, amazingly a virgin. You will be sold in the square by the ocean. You will be naked, completely naked.” He looked vaguely embarrassed. “I am sorry, it is the custom.”
The breeze off the sea was cool, making her nipples hard. Strangely, it felt good to be naked, to be shown to these men. The qadi and his wife had been kind. Surely the man who bought her would be equally so. She remembered the words of the Prophet. Perhaps it would be better to be a slave to these people than to be married to a missionary.
Artwork by Julie and Melissa
Am I not allowed a small grammatical slip? She is indeed mzungu. I have, over the years, been given many derivations of the word. Not all of them are very polite! I am fortunate to be accepted, and am generally called' babu', which means grandfather, in Bagamoyo.Just in case there's the odd bod out there who is ignorant of basic Swahili..."wazungu" is plural of mzungu which I think translates as "someone who speaks English". In that case isn't Prudence a mzungu?
Also if she is fecund then she is quite capable of producing an abundance of offspring. How many offspring equals an abundance? I have no idea. Great story and pic
Brilliant story !!Public Entertainment
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The crowd loved it!
There is nothing quite like the crucifixion of a pretty girl to get the crowd on their feet. The carnifex and his men knew how to get the crowd going, knew exactly how to raise the blood lust of the masses, both nobles and commoners. The girl was young, pretty, spirited and defiant. Perfect!
Her actual offence was irrelevant. In fact, all she had done wrong was not to show sufficient enthusiasm for one of her master’s more extreme perversions. A simple whipping would have sharpened her attitude. Instead, he had brought her, struggling and spitting curses, to the aedile responsible for arranging the games. “I want her nailed. Early in the day. No broken legs, nothing to ease her suffering.” The girl spat at him, a great gobbet of slime that hit him unerringly in the eye. “Fuck you, you fucking pervert! I hope your miserable cock rots off!” The aedile managed to hide his smile. He shared her opinion of his fellow senator, and, after all, she had nothing to lose.
Tara and her family had been among the thousands of slaves taken when the Icenii were conquered. She had sold for little, so great was the supply of Celtic flesh on the slave market. Her owner had a large number of slaves, most of them young and female, although he did not eschew an attractive male, especially if he was effeminate. His parties and orgies were legendary! He was always looking for new ways to titillate his depraved friends.
The carnifex looked appreciatively at her tight body when he signed for her. He and his team would enjoy their duty! The law was clear, no virgin could be executed! He smiled at his team, revealing yellowed stumps and missing teeth. “About as much chance of this one being a virgin as I have of modelling for a statue of Apollo!” He laughed raucously at his own joke. He dodged the dollop of spit with the ease of long practice. There wasn’t much else the girl could do, with her hands tied tightly behind her. He patted her bottom. “Nice ass, kid. I bet you’ve been fucked there often enough. I’m taking first dibs on her ass, boys!”
Tara walked tall and proud into the arena where she would die. She was stiff and sore from a night of gangrape, yet showed no sign, other than the trickles of semen still leaking from her body. She was determined not to give them what they wanted. She would not scream; she would not beg! The carnifex smiled his jagged smile as he watched the girl walk to the whipping past. This one had guts! Guts and pride! He called the two men assigned to whip her aside. As always, one was right handed, the other left handed. “Now listen, boys, I don’t want this one broken by the whip. I don’t want her weakened. I want her back flayed, so that it is raw flesh, but I don’t want deep damage. You know how to do that!” The men nodded. Strip the skin off. Create a vast area of exposed nerve ends so that it would add to the agony as she danced. Don’t damage the muscles or sap her strength.
Tara tried to remain impassive as the two men slowly, methodically stripped the skin off her back. They took their time, stopping often to examine their work, allowing the pain to spread, the shock to wear off. Her lips were bloody as she bit them to hold back the screams, letting out no more than soft moans, almost inaudible. She couldn’t stop her muscles jumping, her feet trampling the bloody ground to mud. When they untied her, she stood straight, ignoring the raw agony from her flayed back. One of the whip men smiled at her, giving a slight nod of approval. He wasn’t quick enough to dodge the gobbet of bloody spit that hit his face. He smiled as he wiped his face. “I’ll say this for you, girl. You’ve got balls!”
She left a trail of scarlet droplets as she walked, erect, to the patibulum lying in front of the already erected stipes. She could not stifle a scream as one of the men tripped her, her raw back slamming into the rough earth in front of the cross. Her cross, the place of her death. Two men took her arms, spreading them out on the patibulum. The carnifex knelt beside her right hand, the heavy hammer in his hand, two thick, square cut spikes in his mouth. He adjusted the position of the hand. He wanted her to be able to dance for a long time. Not because he hated her, on the contrary, he admired her, but this was showbusiness, and the crowd wanted a good show. The arms had to be at exactly the right angle, allowing her to pull herself up to breathe. Not too wide, but wide enough to show off her pert little tits to best advantage.
His blunt, calloused finger prodded her wrist. Again, placement was important. Not only did he have to ensure that the spikes did not tear out, but he wanted the spike to trap the nerves between iron and bone, guaranteeing maximum pain as she hung from her wrists. The girl’s eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, watched his every move as he found the perfect spot. He saw her jaw work. “If you spit at me, girl, I will very slowly break every bone in your hands, after I’ve finished nailing your arms.” His voice was soft, almost gentle. Her eyes widened. He looked at her once more. “I like you, girl. I think you are very brave. But I have a job to do. My job is to make you hurt. To make you hurt and ensure that you keep hurting for a very long time.” The hammer swung, hard. The spike smashed through bone, pulverising nerves, missing almost all the blood vessels. Her scream echoed off the stands of the arena, cutting though the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd. The pain was beyond anything she could have imagined. Her body arched! The man holding her left arm was jerked form his position, the arm flailing free. Her right arm was going nowhere! The spike had penetrated all the way and was embedded in the wood of the patibulum. He stepped back, let her roll over, long, shapely legs kicking wildly, her left hand cradling the mangled wrist now joined forever to the unyielding wood of the cross. She cried and cursed, bloodcurdling curses. He left her for several minutes, admiring the play of muscles in her tight bum. He had enjoyed her several times, each time between those firm cheeks. Finally, he nodded to his men.
She fought them, her strength almost superhuman, then, suddenly, the fight went out of her. She lay on her bloody back, panting, letting out little moans as he drove the spike in her right wrist home with two sharp taps, the head of the spike resting almost gently against the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. Her blue eyes followed him as he went to kneel beside her left wrist. The defiance was gone, now. It had been replaced by pain. Pain, and the realisation that her young life would end here, end in a sea of pain, for the amusement of the crowd.
The carnifex positioned the arm, found the spot, and placed the spike. Her eyes followed his every move. “How many people have I nailed to crosses?” He mused. “Hundreds.” Men, women, and Jupiter preserve him, not a few children. Many had fought, strong men had tried to rip their arms free of the spikes, but at some stage all of them looked like she did now. Resigned. Frightened. Desperate. In Pain.
Three quick strikes of the hammer. The spike driven home. Her screams were continuous now, her body arching, her heels drumming on the ground made muddy by the blood from her back. He watched her as his men attached the ropes to the centre of the patibulum, running them through the grooves at the top of the stipes. Her eyes followed them as she sobbed softly, then widened as she realised what would happen next. “No…No…Please gods…No. You can’t! Please?” her eyes were desperate, begging. “Please no! I’ll die!” Amazingly, her lips twitched in a smile, a smile full of pain, yet a smile that made her beautiful. “No, I won’t die, will I, carnifex. You are too skilled at your work. I won’t die! I will hurt, hurt more than I ever thought possible, for a long time! Hurt while I pray for death.”
She shrieked as the ropes tightened, as the patibulum started to move, as the strain came onto her wrists, as her flayed back was dragged across the rough ground of the arena. Her legs tried to find purchase, to lessen the strain on her wrists. The patibulum hit the stipes, jarring her, sending more spikes of pain through her body, then started to lift. “No!” She screamed! “No!” She scrabbled her legs underneath her, taking some of the strain off her wrists. Her knees straightened, she stood on tiptoe! “Nooooooo! Oh gods! Nooooo!” Her feet left the ground, all her weight now suspended from the spikes piercing her wrists. “No!!!! Mother! Help me! No!!! Let me down! Let me down!”
She kicked her legs wildly, then tried to get a grip on the wood of the stipes, to take some of the weight off her wrists. The roar of the crowd was like a solid thing! The executioners watched, a few of them remembering the pleasure they had enjoyed between those thrashing legs. The carnifex stood with folded arms, a little smile twitching his face. He had plenty of time. She stopped kicking, hung from her wrists, sobbing bitterly. He waited, winked at one of his men. Watched as she struggled to breathe. “Please!” She gasped. “Please! Nail my feet! Please! I must…” She struggled for breath. “I must breathe.”
He stroked his chin, thoughtfully. “Remember when you spat in our faces? Did you think that would go unpunished?” Her face crumpled. “Please! I’m sorry! Please!” He nodded. “Okay, boys! Feet on the sides, soles flat against the stipes.” He smiled. “We might as well let her spread those lovely thighs wide open for us one more time. And the crowd will enjoy watching her pussy gape.” There was no fight in her now, as they spread her thighs wide, placing her feet ready for the spikes. She screamed as the first one penetrated, screamed even louder as the carnifex missed the spike with his second blow, smashing all the bones in her toes and foot. The second foot was nailed without mishap. He stood back and watched as she started her agonised dance. Blood from her flayed back stained the stipes, she fought to stand, taking deep breaths.
The carnifex watched her for a few minutes. A good, professional job, as always. Slaves were coming on to prepare the ring for the gladiatorial bouts. His men gathered their tools. “A denarius she lasts more than two days.” One of them offered. There were no takers. “She is strong, that one, and brave,” someone muttered.
“What a waste! What a fucking senseless waste of a good cunt! The carnifex growled, his voice trembling with rage and pain. “Fucking bastard! He should be up there, not her! What a fucking waste!” He looked around at his men. “Wine! I need wine! Lots of it! Fuck them all! What a fucking waste!”
Artwork by Damian.