This is a really small one.Oh, okay.
Just this once.
You can have a small glass of Riesling on the House.
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Crisis at Cruxton Abbey
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Not at all. It's a very generous reward
HEY! That looks Moore like Chardonnay.Oh, okay.
Just this once.
You can have a small glass of Riesling on the House.
View attachment 1512032
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
I have heard somewhere, that the fine print of the working contract of female staff in Cruxton Abbey, forbids the staff members to keep a personal diary, specifically for writing down working experience into it.
The punishment is twenty lashes on the female staff member's bare body, in front of the other staff.
Perhaps, such disciplinary sanctions could be scheduled during the program, as extra entertainment for the onlookers!
Hearsay!!!! I don’t believe it, and I’ve still got a lot to say. Besides they’ll never find my diary as I have a secret place to hide it where no one would ever think to look! Hah!!!I have heard somewhere, that the fine print of the working contract of female staff in Cruxton Abbey, forbids the staff members to keep a personal diary, specifically for writing down working experience into it.
The punishment is twenty lashes on the female staff member's bare body, in front of the other staff.
Perhaps, such disciplinary sanctions could be scheduled during the program, as extra entertainment for the onlookers!
Barb, it was a bad idea to leave your diary in the wine cellar under Lord Wragg's Riesling shelf. Almost everyone at Cruxton Abbey has already read your literary masterpiece.
15.
IN MY BED, LATE ON A SATURDAY NIGHT IN AUGUST, THE EVENT CONCLUDED AND THE CROWDS GONE HOME (part 2).
Well, dear diary, I’m back. And quite disappointed. Turned out the beer garden was closed, so no food but I did manage to scavenge a half empty bottle of Riesling from a trash bin … hey, I’ve no pride anymore after this day … nothing is too low to go!
Now, where was I … oh yes … I was saying that my afternoon’s ordeal still wasn’t over yet, as we staff girls had yet to perform our roles in those so-called historical “whipped at the post” re-enactments scheduled for the latter part of the afternoon.
My part this time around was specifically designed for me by our talented “whipping post” impressario, @Harsh Martinet . In it he had me continue in my earlier role as the innocent young countess accused of cheating on her husband and forced to confessed to same while stretched to the limit on a torture rack lying alongside her ever faithful, red-haired confident, @ERIN the Brave .
The whipping post scene opened with me climbing aboard and standing proudly on a rickety farm cart pulled by a horse, requisitioned for the reenactment from the Manor stables. I wore only a flimsy chemise as I rode along, rather than the finery of the kind a lady of my standing would typically be wearing out in public.
The script called for the cart to follow a meandering course through the crowd, which fully caught up in the fun was loud in its booing and terribly vulgar in its shouted insults and taunts.
Having completed its circuit through the crowd, the horse and cart drew up before one of the several ‘French Premium’ wood whipping posts specifically erected for these re-enactments. I was ordered to step down and approach the post. @Harsh Martinet himself then directed the manner in which I was to be bound to it … ensuring that I was stripped down to the point where the flimsy little shift I’d been wearing hung precariously on my hips, and that my wrists were shackled to the post high above my head … forcing my breasts to come in contact with the rough unfinished wood … and forcing me to support myself up on my tippy toes.
And then the unthinkable happened, for I learned that tickets for the privilege of applying the leather to my bared back and chest had been, without my knowledge, made available to the crowd at £10 for three strokes, and that all ten tickets allotted for the event had been sold.
And so, dear diary, I had no choice but to stand there and endure thirty lashes at the hands of absolute strangers … as did most of the other staff girls being dragged to the other posts as I waited for my ordeal to begin.
While that turn of events gave me hope that my flogging might be amateurish and mostly ineffectual, as it turned out that was far from the case. For dear HarshMartinet took the time to helpfully advise each ticket holder, as he or she stepped forward, on the fine points of what they were about to do. Such as taking full advantage of the lash’s ability to wrap around my torso and strike at my breasts and belly as well as my back, to take their time and force me to dance about in dread anticipation of each stroke, and to use at least one of their allotted three to strike low with the object of forcing my shift to slip from my hips and fall to the ground around my ankles. The first to do so was promised an extra three strokes as a reward, and while the first three ticket holders failed to do so, the fourth did … and from then on my hips and tight little were fair game as well!
All in all, I was managing reasonably well until the very last ticket holder … a woman …. Think she said her name was @Kathy … from Newfoundland in Canada … insisted on laying all three of her lashes in an underhanded fashion between my legs!
But when it was over, I was released and allowed, along with my other staff sisters, a well earned rest, which we all gratefully used to get a shower, apply a few salves and lineaments where needed, and enjoy a spell of rest before being called upon to perform at the the grand events yet to be staged that evening.
And so off we went, one by one, as we were released from our respective whipping posts and allowed to clamber onto a field wagon pulled by a tractor to take us back to the big house. And, I must tell you, dear diary, we were all quite amazed, as we were trundled off, at the enthusiasm by which so many in the audience, both men and women, were stepping up to take turns at those whipping posts! I have to say, the Wragg’s day-long event had certainly attracted an “interesting” crowd!
But it wasn’t over yet, and dear diary, I’ve much Moore to relate regarding the evening events. But it will have to await my next entry as I seem to have a late night visitor rapping at my sleeping room door and I’d better go see who it might be.
TBC
IN MY BED, LATE ON A SATURDAY NIGHT IN AUGUST, THE EVENT CONCLUDED AND THE CROWDS GONE HOME (part 2).
Well, dear diary, I’m back. And quite disappointed. Turned out the beer garden was closed, so no food but I did manage to scavenge a half empty bottle of Riesling from a trash bin … hey, I’ve no pride anymore after this day … nothing is too low to go!
Now, where was I … oh yes … I was saying that my afternoon’s ordeal still wasn’t over yet, as we staff girls had yet to perform our roles in those so-called historical “whipped at the post” re-enactments scheduled for the latter part of the afternoon.
My part this time around was specifically designed for me by our talented “whipping post” impressario, @Harsh Martinet . In it he had me continue in my earlier role as the innocent young countess accused of cheating on her husband and forced to confessed to same while stretched to the limit on a torture rack lying alongside her ever faithful, red-haired confident, @ERIN the Brave .
The whipping post scene opened with me climbing aboard and standing proudly on a rickety farm cart pulled by a horse, requisitioned for the reenactment from the Manor stables. I wore only a flimsy chemise as I rode along, rather than the finery of the kind a lady of my standing would typically be wearing out in public.
The script called for the cart to follow a meandering course through the crowd, which fully caught up in the fun was loud in its booing and terribly vulgar in its shouted insults and taunts.
Having completed its circuit through the crowd, the horse and cart drew up before one of the several ‘French Premium’ wood whipping posts specifically erected for these re-enactments. I was ordered to step down and approach the post. @Harsh Martinet himself then directed the manner in which I was to be bound to it … ensuring that I was stripped down to the point where the flimsy little shift I’d been wearing hung precariously on my hips, and that my wrists were shackled to the post high above my head … forcing my breasts to come in contact with the rough unfinished wood … and forcing me to support myself up on my tippy toes.
And then the unthinkable happened, for I learned that tickets for the privilege of applying the leather to my bared back and chest had been, without my knowledge, made available to the crowd at £10 for three strokes, and that all ten tickets allotted for the event had been sold.
And so, dear diary, I had no choice but to stand there and endure thirty lashes at the hands of absolute strangers … as did most of the other staff girls being dragged to the other posts as I waited for my ordeal to begin.
While that turn of events gave me hope that my flogging might be amateurish and mostly ineffectual, as it turned out that was far from the case. For dear HarshMartinet took the time to helpfully advise each ticket holder, as he or she stepped forward, on the fine points of what they were about to do. Such as taking full advantage of the lash’s ability to wrap around my torso and strike at my breasts and belly as well as my back, to take their time and force me to dance about in dread anticipation of each stroke, and to use at least one of their allotted three to strike low with the object of forcing my shift to slip from my hips and fall to the ground around my ankles. The first to do so was promised an extra three strokes as a reward, and while the first three ticket holders failed to do so, the fourth did … and from then on my hips and tight little were fair game as well!
All in all, I was managing reasonably well until the very last ticket holder … a woman …. Think she said her name was @Kathy … from Newfoundland in Canada … insisted on laying all three of her lashes in an underhanded fashion between my legs!
But when it was over, I was released and allowed, along with my other staff sisters, a well earned rest, which we all gratefully used to get a shower, apply a few salves and lineaments where needed, and enjoy a spell of rest before being called upon to perform at the the grand events yet to be staged that evening.
And so off we went, one by one, as we were released from our respective whipping posts and allowed to clamber onto a field wagon pulled by a tractor to take us back to the big house. And, I must tell you, dear diary, we were all quite amazed, as we were trundled off, at the enthusiasm by which so many in the audience, both men and women, were stepping up to take turns at those whipping posts! I have to say, the Wragg’s day-long event had certainly attracted an “interesting” crowd!
But it wasn’t over yet, and dear diary, I’ve much Moore to relate regarding the evening events. But it will have to await my next entry as I seem to have a late night visitor rapping at my sleeping room door and I’d better go see who it might be.
TBC
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Migoz2
Senator
'One should always have something sensational to read in the train.'
I bet you an entire crate of Riesling that it's not a raven
The Story of "O" is a child's reader compared to Barb's life.
"NeverMoore."
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
I was rather thinking, she keeps it behind her collection of hideous shoes!
One cannot tell that being a female staff member at Cruxton Abbey is a boring job!
Mikerytel
Senator
Wonder who the mystery person is. Hopefully it's @ERIN the Brave looking for post torture rack fun
No gratitude ,, just ATTITUDE!!!
Kathy
Terra Nova Tramp
@Barbaria1 Thank you for including me
bindhertocross
Magistrate
Here are a couple of candid photos...the first is of Barb getting annoyed at the thought of riding in the cart, just after this shot, she hauled off and kicked me in the nuts.
The second is when she was being loosened from the whipping post and staring at Kathy for her three underhanded strikes to her pussy.
The second is when she was being loosened from the whipping post and staring at Kathy for her three underhanded strikes to her pussy.
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
And then the unthinkable happened, for I learned that tickets for the privilege of applying the leather to my bared back and chest had been, without my knowledge, made available to the crowd at £10 for three strokes, and that all ten tickets allotted for the event had been sold ...
... hmmm sorry about that Barb. A little side revenue earner that Mr B and I dreamt up. Maybe we should have briefed you first
... hmmm sorry about that Barb. A little side revenue earner that Mr B and I dreamt up. Maybe we should have briefed you first
Mikerytel
Senator
Afterward
Ms.moore spoke
My tits are bright red.
While Kathy watched
As her clitoris started burning