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Ku Krux Klan
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
I first read that as 'The Checklists' -
of all the girls you two have got lined up
to die in slow and sadistic ways?
cute ... giggle snort
P
Pia
Guest
I've got a little list.... and they'll none of them be missed.... Chekists, Decemberists... they'll none of them be missed... once they've trudged over the Urals in winter..... they'll none of them be missed.... he he he....
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to suffer so ... trudging in the blinding wind and snow ... suffering unheard of indignities and brutality ... and never be missed ... how terribly sad.
Thessela
Beloved slavegirl
P
Pia
Guest
Ah, it's Ko-Ko, the Lord High Executioner of Titipu.
Normally I'd add a quip about adding verisimilitude to an otherwise dull and unprepossessing narrative.
But that is SO not true in this case!
KvK
Tribune
I believe the reference is to the movie Chekist http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0103949/ about the first incarnation of the Soviet secret police. It involves a Chekka death squad "sentencing" masses of people to death, then rounding them up, stripping them naked and shooting them in the back of the head.I first read that as 'The Checklists' -
of all the girls you two have got lined up
to die in slow and sadistic ways?
Naraku
Draconarius
9. The door slams shut as the last of my friends leave under guard for the mess hall. I look longingly in their direction, then return my attention to the Warden standing over me, flanked by two burly female guards in ill-fitting uniforms.
He leaves abruptly, saying he'll be right back. In his absence, I try smiling at the two matrons who stand guard over me. They remain stone faced.
I give up and close my eyes, trying to imagine myself somewhere else ... home in the Midwest, perhaps back in college ... fully clothed ... anything but naked.
After about a quarter of an hour he returns. "On your feet Moore!" he barks in my face while tugging at the chain attached to the iron collar around my neck. I smell liquor on his breath.
"Owwww, not so rough, I'm coming!"
"Shut up and follow me."
He leads me down a corridor, through an outside door, and out onto the parade ground. It's dark now. We head across, passing through a series of pale circular patches of ground lit by overhead lamps.
Along the way I hesitate a couple times, unsure of where this is heading, and wondering if I should risk asking. Each time I do, one of the matrons following behind is quick to give me a shove that sends me staggering forward.
We reach the other side of the parade ground and pull up in front of the two whipping posts I had seen when we first arrived. He steps aside and orders the matrons to secure my wrists to the irons dangling from the top of one of the posts.
These two amazons prove to be incredibly strong and despite my token resistance they have me strung up, arms overhead, facing the post in a matter of seconds.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" I stammer, throwing him worried glances over my shoulder, as one of the matrons forces my feet apart by kicking at my ankles.
"I've done nothing since I arrived to deserve any kind of punishment, if that is what you are intending."
"No, you are quite right Moore. It's not a punishment. Let's call it a pre-punishment ... a foretaste of what is to come if you ever dare to step out of line here. I know your type ... natural born troublemaker. Best to show your kind who is boss here straightaway."
"Look. I'll be good. I promise. Just let me down and let me go eat with the others. I'm starved. Nothing to eat since breakfast. What's for dinner anyway?"
I try smiling sweetly at him.
"Pea soup and dark bread, but the only thing you're gonna taste tonight Moore is the bite of my whip!"
One of the matrons pinches my nose, forcing my mouth open to insert a strip of leather. "Bite down on this and try to keep quiet," she instructs, "people are going to bed now."
Across the way, the door to the mess hall section of the main building flies open. The sound of voices and the clatter of eating utensils drift out as my "freedom rider" friends are led by guards across the parade ground to the nearest of the two barracks. They glance curiously at the sight of me me hanging naked from a whipping post before quickly turning their heads away.
When they are gone and the still of the night returns to the parade ground, the Warden jerks my head back by the hair, and grates, "one more thing, Moore, tell your friends when you see them again that any attempt to escape from here results in summary execution ... no trial, understand?"
To drive home the point, he twists my head in the general direction of the nearby gallows, its three empty nooses glowing eerily white in the lighting. Then he turns on his heel and paces off a set number of steps behind me. One of the matrons hands him a long leather whip.
He makes me wait ... a little psychological game ... forcing me time to think of what it will be like to feel the bite of his whip on my bare back.
The night is warm and humid. I am bathed in sweat. I see the blinking glow of fireflies in the darkness beyond the perimeter fence and hear the cacophonous sounds of thousands of chirping night insects.
It comes without warning ... the nearly simultaneous crack of the whip and the searing sting of hard leather slicing across my back at the shoulder blades. I jump and twist, bite down on the leather strip clenched between my teeth and grunt.
He works me over methodically, starting high and moving lower with each successive lash. He is quick too, scarcely allowing me time to catch my breath between lashes.
I dance about, twisting and turning, raising my knee, arching my back and slamming into the post as the brutal whipping continues.
By the fourth lash I spit out the strip of leather given to me by the matron. My screams and shrieks fill the night air and echo off the brick walls of the nearby buildings.
I faint, but am immediately revived when one of the matrons throws a bucket of chilled water in my face. The whipping resumes. All together I take more than a dozen lashes before he stops, tosses his whip on the ground and walks off.
The lights are on in the barracks. I can see my girlfriends at one of the windows. I can even make out, through teary eyes, the look of shock on their faces. Then the lights in the barracks go out and they are gone.
One of the matrons smears salve from a tube on my back, rubbing it into my raw whip-striped skin. She adjusts the chain attached to my wrist irons to give me a little more slack, and then leaves.
I spend the rest of the night suspended against the whipping post. Sleep is impossible. My back is on fire. My arms and legs ache from the strain.
Around midnight some of the male guards emerge from the mess hall, stagger over to me, bottles in hand, obviously stinking drunk. They paw and fondle my breasts, and rudely grope between my legs, laughing and joking among themselves.
Then they leave me, headed for the barracks. A great commotion breaks out inside. Helplessly I listen to peals of ribald laughter and catcalls mixed with much crashing about and the frantic cries of my friends.
I can only imagine what might be happening to them in there, and press my arms against my ears in a vain attempt to shut out their pleading and unanswered calls for help.
TO BE CONTINUED
He leaves abruptly, saying he'll be right back. In his absence, I try smiling at the two matrons who stand guard over me. They remain stone faced.
I give up and close my eyes, trying to imagine myself somewhere else ... home in the Midwest, perhaps back in college ... fully clothed ... anything but naked.
After about a quarter of an hour he returns. "On your feet Moore!" he barks in my face while tugging at the chain attached to the iron collar around my neck. I smell liquor on his breath.
"Owwww, not so rough, I'm coming!"
"Shut up and follow me."
He leads me down a corridor, through an outside door, and out onto the parade ground. It's dark now. We head across, passing through a series of pale circular patches of ground lit by overhead lamps.Along the way I hesitate a couple times, unsure of where this is heading, and wondering if I should risk asking. Each time I do, one of the matrons following behind is quick to give me a shove that sends me staggering forward.
We reach the other side of the parade ground and pull up in front of the two whipping posts I had seen when we first arrived. He steps aside and orders the matrons to secure my wrists to the irons dangling from the top of one of the posts.
These two amazons prove to be incredibly strong and despite my token resistance they have me strung up, arms overhead, facing the post in a matter of seconds.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" I stammer, throwing him worried glances over my shoulder, as one of the matrons forces my feet apart by kicking at my ankles.
"I've done nothing since I arrived to deserve any kind of punishment, if that is what you are intending."
"No, you are quite right Moore. It's not a punishment. Let's call it a pre-punishment ... a foretaste of what is to come if you ever dare to step out of line here. I know your type ... natural born troublemaker. Best to show your kind who is boss here straightaway."
"Look. I'll be good. I promise. Just let me down and let me go eat with the others. I'm starved. Nothing to eat since breakfast. What's for dinner anyway?"
I try smiling sweetly at him.
"Pea soup and dark bread, but the only thing you're gonna taste tonight Moore is the bite of my whip!"
One of the matrons pinches my nose, forcing my mouth open to insert a strip of leather. "Bite down on this and try to keep quiet," she instructs, "people are going to bed now."
Across the way, the door to the mess hall section of the main building flies open. The sound of voices and the clatter of eating utensils drift out as my "freedom rider" friends are led by guards across the parade ground to the nearest of the two barracks. They glance curiously at the sight of me me hanging naked from a whipping post before quickly turning their heads away.
When they are gone and the still of the night returns to the parade ground, the Warden jerks my head back by the hair, and grates, "one more thing, Moore, tell your friends when you see them again that any attempt to escape from here results in summary execution ... no trial, understand?"
To drive home the point, he twists my head in the general direction of the nearby gallows, its three empty nooses glowing eerily white in the lighting. Then he turns on his heel and paces off a set number of steps behind me. One of the matrons hands him a long leather whip.
He makes me wait ... a little psychological game ... forcing me time to think of what it will be like to feel the bite of his whip on my bare back.
The night is warm and humid. I am bathed in sweat. I see the blinking glow of fireflies in the darkness beyond the perimeter fence and hear the cacophonous sounds of thousands of chirping night insects.
It comes without warning ... the nearly simultaneous crack of the whip and the searing sting of hard leather slicing across my back at the shoulder blades. I jump and twist, bite down on the leather strip clenched between my teeth and grunt.
He works me over methodically, starting high and moving lower with each successive lash. He is quick too, scarcely allowing me time to catch my breath between lashes.I dance about, twisting and turning, raising my knee, arching my back and slamming into the post as the brutal whipping continues.
By the fourth lash I spit out the strip of leather given to me by the matron. My screams and shrieks fill the night air and echo off the brick walls of the nearby buildings.
I faint, but am immediately revived when one of the matrons throws a bucket of chilled water in my face. The whipping resumes. All together I take more than a dozen lashes before he stops, tosses his whip on the ground and walks off.
The lights are on in the barracks. I can see my girlfriends at one of the windows. I can even make out, through teary eyes, the look of shock on their faces. Then the lights in the barracks go out and they are gone.One of the matrons smears salve from a tube on my back, rubbing it into my raw whip-striped skin. She adjusts the chain attached to my wrist irons to give me a little more slack, and then leaves.
I spend the rest of the night suspended against the whipping post. Sleep is impossible. My back is on fire. My arms and legs ache from the strain.
Around midnight some of the male guards emerge from the mess hall, stagger over to me, bottles in hand, obviously stinking drunk. They paw and fondle my breasts, and rudely grope between my legs, laughing and joking among themselves.
Then they leave me, headed for the barracks. A great commotion breaks out inside. Helplessly I listen to peals of ribald laughter and catcalls mixed with much crashing about and the frantic cries of my friends.
I can only imagine what might be happening to them in there, and press my arms against my ears in a vain attempt to shut out their pleading and unanswered calls for help.
TO BE CONTINUED
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Sometimes I try and imagine Barb fully clothed, too.
Then I give up and imagine something more likely, such as winning the lottery
A yet more remote contingency would be Barb writing a bad segment to a story....in several years of cfs I've never seen one and this was one of her best
Sometimes I try and imagine Barb fully clothed, too.
Then I give up and imagine something more likely, such as winning the lottery
A yet more remote contingency would be Barb writing a bad segment to a story....in several years of cfs I've never seen one and this was one of her best
Awwwwwwwwww... that was sweet ... all demerits wiped off your slate.
10. Daybreak at Crux Hill Correctional Farm ... The sky is clear, temperature and humidity already on the rise. I have been hanging the entire night from one of the parade ground whipping posts. Tired, sore and naked, I wearily greet the dawn.
There is activity in the barracks. The prisoners are being roused for breakfast, morning roll call, and work assignments. The women file out of one barracks, men from the other, all headed for the mess hall.
A pair of matrons stride purposely across the parade ground. They've come to take me down. One wraps her arms around me to keep me from falling while the other releases my wrists.
Tentatively I take a step forward, but am weak and in need of support. The matrons take me by the arms and steer me to and through the mess hall door; and then to a table already occupied by my friends, who promptly turn their heads away as though I have the plague.
"Hey, what's the matter?"
"Stay away from us Barb," says the nearest, "it's hard enough being here without your big mouth. You always make things worse for us."
She turns her back on me. I shrug and focus on eating as much as I can before they send us out to muster on the parade ground.
That morning ritual consists of everyone lining up in ranks and counting off. The Warden then comes out, swaggers up and down the ranks as if on military inspection, and then stands off to one side as one of the guards reports on prisoners who earned demerits the previous day.
Two are identified as deserving punishment, quickly hauled over to the whipping posts by the guards, given half a dozen lashes each while we all watch, and returned to the ranks. Bad memories of my own whipping during the night flash through my mind.
Work assignments are given out. I and the other six "freedom rider" girls are assigned to a road crew. We are put in chains, loaded into the back of a truck, driven several miles cross country to a stretch of road partially washed out in a recent storm, and set to moving and spreading gravel.
We work naked under the blazing sun under the watchful eyes of the guards. Sweat stings my eyes as I toil away, bent over my shovel, back still sore from my whipping during the night, trying to do as little as possible while still appearing to be working hard.
My breasts dangle and sway, much to the delight of the guards, as I spread gravel delivered to me in a wheelbarrow by some of the other girls. A passing motorist sounds his horn and grins wolfishly out the open window of his vehicle at the naked chain gang girls slaving along the side of the road.
The hours pass, the sun reaches its zenith, and just as I think I might pass out from heat and exhaustion the overseer calls a halt. We are loaded back on the truck and driven back to the "Farm" for lunch. In the mess hall the others still ignore me. Ostracized, I sit at my own table and eat alone.
After lunch I am assigned along with just the other six "freedom rider" girls to a special detail. We are given picks and shovels and marched out to a patch of open ground beyond the perimeter fence. Several elongated piles of dirt suggest the purpose of the place. We are ordered to dig seven fresh graves.
I start hacking at the hard sun-baked soil with my pick, my mind spinning with questions ... just as I am sure the minds of the other girls must be too. Seven graves? And what for? Who died? And is it just coincidence that we "freedom rider" girls number exactly seven?
Finally I can stand it no longer. I throw down my pick and turn on the red-necked overseer in the slouch hat, who has been standing behind me leering at the wiggling of my tight little ass as I dig.
"Listen you!" I shout, jabbing my finger in his startled face, "I want to know what's going on here! No one has tried escaping. The gallows are empty. Tell me just who these seven graves are for!"
Another guard comes racing up behind me, reaches out, grabs my arms and pins them behind my back. My pick falls to the ground. Before I can react I am spun around to face the overseer who has hustled over from where he had been leaning against a tree just moments ago.
"The Warden warned me about you," he snarls, glowering at me, "said you'd be nothing but trouble. Well missy, we don't take no shit here."
The other girls watch, leaning on their shovels, as he calls two of his men over.
"Clem, Jake," he drawls, "this little Yankee slut-bitch is done for the day. Take her over and put her in a box for the rest of the afternoon. The others can finish digging the hole she's started."
Clem and Jake take me by the arms and literally carry me, cursing, legs kicking, through the perimeter fence to the parade ground and over to one of the tall corrugated metal boxes that stand near the whipping posts.
Jake holds me in front of the box while Clem wrestles with the lock. Then the door swings open on its rusted hinges. A blast of super-heated air escapes.
"Now in ya go, drawls Jake giving me a shove, and watch out for the sides; they'll be hot enough to fry an egg on by this time in the afternoon. Be a shame to burn those nice titties."
I step into a cramped space no more than a couple feet or so on a side ... Just enough room to stand without touching the hot metal walls. The door slams shut. I hear the rattle of the lock outside and Clem and Jake jabbering at each other as they walk away.
It's dark inside. The air is stifling and reeks of rust and and a lingering stale smell of urine. I gingerly touch one of the walls with my toe and withdraw it quickly. Jake was right about the walls!
Hours pass. I feel faint. I call for help and am startled at how my voice reverberates inside the metal walls. No one hears me or cares. I want to move my limbs, but I can't. My body is covered with sweat. I have to pee. I have no choice. It runs down my legs.
End of the day ... I am close to fainting when I hear the sound of truck motors and voices. The work details are returning, the prisoners are mustering on the parade ground.
Someone is fiddling with the lock. The door opens. A hand reaches in, grabs me by the hair and pulls. I fall out and sprawl on the ground.
I lie there through the muster. The prisoners trudge off to the mess hall. I lift my head slowly, to stare at the Warden's polished shoes, and then up his trouser legs to his angry face.
"You never learn do you Moore?" he observes, shaking his head.
I groan and lay my head back down in the parade ground dust.
Turning to a couple of his men who stand expectantly by, he shouts, "Take Miss Moore down to the cellar, string her up by the ankles, and administer a flogging our little troublemaker is not likely to forget."
TO BE CONTINUED
There is activity in the barracks. The prisoners are being roused for breakfast, morning roll call, and work assignments. The women file out of one barracks, men from the other, all headed for the mess hall.
A pair of matrons stride purposely across the parade ground. They've come to take me down. One wraps her arms around me to keep me from falling while the other releases my wrists.
Tentatively I take a step forward, but am weak and in need of support. The matrons take me by the arms and steer me to and through the mess hall door; and then to a table already occupied by my friends, who promptly turn their heads away as though I have the plague.
"Hey, what's the matter?"
"Stay away from us Barb," says the nearest, "it's hard enough being here without your big mouth. You always make things worse for us."
She turns her back on me. I shrug and focus on eating as much as I can before they send us out to muster on the parade ground.
That morning ritual consists of everyone lining up in ranks and counting off. The Warden then comes out, swaggers up and down the ranks as if on military inspection, and then stands off to one side as one of the guards reports on prisoners who earned demerits the previous day.
Two are identified as deserving punishment, quickly hauled over to the whipping posts by the guards, given half a dozen lashes each while we all watch, and returned to the ranks. Bad memories of my own whipping during the night flash through my mind.
Work assignments are given out. I and the other six "freedom rider" girls are assigned to a road crew. We are put in chains, loaded into the back of a truck, driven several miles cross country to a stretch of road partially washed out in a recent storm, and set to moving and spreading gravel.
We work naked under the blazing sun under the watchful eyes of the guards. Sweat stings my eyes as I toil away, bent over my shovel, back still sore from my whipping during the night, trying to do as little as possible while still appearing to be working hard. My breasts dangle and sway, much to the delight of the guards, as I spread gravel delivered to me in a wheelbarrow by some of the other girls. A passing motorist sounds his horn and grins wolfishly out the open window of his vehicle at the naked chain gang girls slaving along the side of the road.
The hours pass, the sun reaches its zenith, and just as I think I might pass out from heat and exhaustion the overseer calls a halt. We are loaded back on the truck and driven back to the "Farm" for lunch. In the mess hall the others still ignore me. Ostracized, I sit at my own table and eat alone.
After lunch I am assigned along with just the other six "freedom rider" girls to a special detail. We are given picks and shovels and marched out to a patch of open ground beyond the perimeter fence. Several elongated piles of dirt suggest the purpose of the place. We are ordered to dig seven fresh graves.
I start hacking at the hard sun-baked soil with my pick, my mind spinning with questions ... just as I am sure the minds of the other girls must be too. Seven graves? And what for? Who died? And is it just coincidence that we "freedom rider" girls number exactly seven?Finally I can stand it no longer. I throw down my pick and turn on the red-necked overseer in the slouch hat, who has been standing behind me leering at the wiggling of my tight little ass as I dig.
"Listen you!" I shout, jabbing my finger in his startled face, "I want to know what's going on here! No one has tried escaping. The gallows are empty. Tell me just who these seven graves are for!"
Another guard comes racing up behind me, reaches out, grabs my arms and pins them behind my back. My pick falls to the ground. Before I can react I am spun around to face the overseer who has hustled over from where he had been leaning against a tree just moments ago.
"The Warden warned me about you," he snarls, glowering at me, "said you'd be nothing but trouble. Well missy, we don't take no shit here."
The other girls watch, leaning on their shovels, as he calls two of his men over.
"Clem, Jake," he drawls, "this little Yankee slut-bitch is done for the day. Take her over and put her in a box for the rest of the afternoon. The others can finish digging the hole she's started."
Clem and Jake take me by the arms and literally carry me, cursing, legs kicking, through the perimeter fence to the parade ground and over to one of the tall corrugated metal boxes that stand near the whipping posts.
Jake holds me in front of the box while Clem wrestles with the lock. Then the door swings open on its rusted hinges. A blast of super-heated air escapes.
"Now in ya go, drawls Jake giving me a shove, and watch out for the sides; they'll be hot enough to fry an egg on by this time in the afternoon. Be a shame to burn those nice titties."
I step into a cramped space no more than a couple feet or so on a side ... Just enough room to stand without touching the hot metal walls. The door slams shut. I hear the rattle of the lock outside and Clem and Jake jabbering at each other as they walk away.
It's dark inside. The air is stifling and reeks of rust and and a lingering stale smell of urine. I gingerly touch one of the walls with my toe and withdraw it quickly. Jake was right about the walls!
Hours pass. I feel faint. I call for help and am startled at how my voice reverberates inside the metal walls. No one hears me or cares. I want to move my limbs, but I can't. My body is covered with sweat. I have to pee. I have no choice. It runs down my legs.
End of the day ... I am close to fainting when I hear the sound of truck motors and voices. The work details are returning, the prisoners are mustering on the parade ground.
Someone is fiddling with the lock. The door opens. A hand reaches in, grabs me by the hair and pulls. I fall out and sprawl on the ground.
I lie there through the muster. The prisoners trudge off to the mess hall. I lift my head slowly, to stare at the Warden's polished shoes, and then up his trouser legs to his angry face.
"You never learn do you Moore?" he observes, shaking his head.
I groan and lay my head back down in the parade ground dust.
Turning to a couple of his men who stand expectantly by, he shouts, "Take Miss Moore down to the cellar, string her up by the ankles, and administer a flogging our little troublemaker is not likely to forget."TO BE CONTINUED
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"This Barb Moore doesn't seem to get the trouble she's in" the warden says. "Perhaps we need to take her to one of our rallies."
"But boss she could identify us to the Feds."
"I said take her to the rally. I didn't say anything about bringing the nigger lover back."
let's hope he was just idly musing...View attachment 319346 This doesn't bode well
Celticvirgin
Tribune
Fuck Barb theyre gonna kill ya sweetheart. Xxx