ianwarrick
Magistrate
I think she should also be fastened to a caning bench in her masters study bare bottom high for a thorough caning in front of all the servants
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mark sessnatz's Deviated Artworks
- Thread starter mark sessnatz
- Start date
I think she should also be fastened to a caning bench in her masters study bare bottom high for a thorough caning in front of all the servants
mark sessnatz
Tribune
Chiller 1
EXT. OLD CHURCHYARD - NIGHT.
The snarling, HOODED GHOUL hops down from his HORSE, drags the struggling GWENDOLINE over to a gnarled TREE and ties her to the trunk with ropes. He TEARS open the back of her sheer nightgown.
EXT. OLD CHURCHYARD - NIGHT.
The snarling, HOODED GHOUL hops down from his HORSE, drags the struggling GWENDOLINE over to a gnarled TREE and ties her to the trunk with ropes. He TEARS open the back of her sheer nightgown.
HOODED GHOUL
Your ancestors in the church once condemned me to torture and destruction! But no God nor grave could suppress my desire for vengeance!
From under his cloak, he reveals a long black WHIP.Your ancestors in the church once condemned me to torture and destruction! But no God nor grave could suppress my desire for vengeance!
HOODED GHOUL
And now, no God can save you from the suffering I have waited centuries to return tenfold!
He WHIPS Gwendoline across the back. She SHRIEKS in pain.And now, no God can save you from the suffering I have waited centuries to return tenfold!
HOODED GHOUL
And when I have finished with you-
He WHIPS her again!And when I have finished with you-
HOODED GHOUL
-I shall hunt down the rest of your kin!
He WHIPS her again!-I shall hunt down the rest of your kin!
HOODED GHOUL
Until every last one of your infernal bloodline-
And again!Until every last one of your infernal bloodline-
HOODED GHOUL
-is eradicated-
And again!-is eradicated-
HOODED GHOUL
-from Creation!
Again!-from Creation!
GWENDOLINE
Oh God! Mercy! Mercy, please!
Oh God! Mercy! Mercy, please!
mark sessnatz
Tribune
Tropical Plantation 9
"You must have forgotten I'm a grown woman now, Papa!" Rosemarie shouted, flushed and shaking. "I can do what I like with my evenings!"
Colonel Tom Westley slammed his fist down on the walnut writing desk and leapt to his feet as fast as his aging knees would allow.
"You may be grown in years, young lady," he bellowed, jabbing the stem of his pipe in his daughter's direction. "But you've all the respect of snotty little brat, behaving this way!"
"You don't frighten me, Papa!" Rosemarie insisted, though she had flinched noticeably when he had struck the desktop.
"You are forbidden from seeing that DeClancy boy and that's my final word!"
"I'll be attending the cotillion this Sunday and you can't stop me!" She turned on her heel and strode for the study door.
"Roger!" barked the Colonel, and his stocky black butler snapped to attention. "Stop her!"
Roger sidestepped and blocked the doorway. Rosemarie stared him down.
"Out of my way, Roger!" she commanded. He ignored her.
"Roger, take Rosemarie here out to the lawn. She's picked up a few too many airs and graces from those DeClanceys over the river!"
"Sir," said Roger impassively, and took hold of Rosemarie's arm. Rosemarie struggled feebly against his grip.
"Two dozen with the horsewhip ought to strike some humility back into her! See to it!"
"You must have forgotten I'm a grown woman now, Papa!" Rosemarie shouted, flushed and shaking. "I can do what I like with my evenings!"
Colonel Tom Westley slammed his fist down on the walnut writing desk and leapt to his feet as fast as his aging knees would allow.
"You may be grown in years, young lady," he bellowed, jabbing the stem of his pipe in his daughter's direction. "But you've all the respect of snotty little brat, behaving this way!"
"You don't frighten me, Papa!" Rosemarie insisted, though she had flinched noticeably when he had struck the desktop.
"You are forbidden from seeing that DeClancy boy and that's my final word!"
"I'll be attending the cotillion this Sunday and you can't stop me!" She turned on her heel and strode for the study door.
"Roger!" barked the Colonel, and his stocky black butler snapped to attention. "Stop her!"
Roger sidestepped and blocked the doorway. Rosemarie stared him down.
"Out of my way, Roger!" she commanded. He ignored her.
"Roger, take Rosemarie here out to the lawn. She's picked up a few too many airs and graces from those DeClanceys over the river!"
"Sir," said Roger impassively, and took hold of Rosemarie's arm. Rosemarie struggled feebly against his grip.
"Two dozen with the horsewhip ought to strike some humility back into her! See to it!"
Klingsor
Spectator
Nice story… but she should hd to be whipped into surrender.
mark sessnatz
Tribune
Sisters of the Black Abbey
The devoted servants of the God of Night lived their entire lives within the impenetrable walls of the Black Abbey. Impenetrable, that is, unless the intruder was invited in.
Sister Alys knew the traveler who arrived with the storm was trouble. She knew the traveler was dangerous. And she knew, but would never admit, that it was the danger that she found attractive. Sister Alys had never felt attracted to another woman before. Or anyone, really. All she had ever known were her Sisters and her faith.
Alys invited the stranger in from the rain. She pleaded with Sister Katura and the other High Acolytes to shelter the woman for the night. Sister Katura eventually gave her reluctant blessing, cursing herself for always indulging her favorites.
Sister Alys and the stranger sat across from one another at the evening meal, and didn't speak much. Alys could feel Katura's eyes boring into her from the head of the table. But that night, they shared Alys' bed. The stranger took Alys into her arms and held her in ways Alys had never dreamed she could be held. Alys had never felt so warm.
The next morning, Alys woke to find the stranger had disappeared. She hurried out into the corridor, to find the Sisters gathered together, conversing in hushed, frantic voices. Sister Katura explained to Alys, with venom in her voice, that the ceremonial silver had been stolen from the sanctuary in the middle of the night. Alys' "guest" was a common thief, and for allowing the scoundrel into their sacred halls, Alys was to be severely punished.
* * *
According to the holy books, The God of Night was King of the Black Mountain, and he was attended by a royal court of 48 daemons. When the laws of the Sisterhood were broken, blood had to be repaid to each of the daemons, and to the King. Thus, 49 lashes of the Discipline was the custom.
Alys wept silently all the way out to the courtyard, but as they reached the place of penance, the tears stopped. He chest heaved with quick, panicked breaths. She became too afraid to cry. The sisters shackled her wrists to the sides of the pillar and, according to custom, cut the top of her robe and parted it, exposing her naked back. The destruction of her garment was part of the penance.
Alys strained her neck to see around the pillar. Sister Deirdre, who had always been like a mother to her, stood nearby, her eyes shut, lost in a meditative mantra. Sister Katura approached from behind, shaking out the long tails of the wicked black whip they called the discipline, a writhing hydra waiting to lick Alys' blood.
The Sisters invoked the name of the first of the daemons. The lashes began to fall. Alys clutched at the chains and choked back a scream.
The devoted servants of the God of Night lived their entire lives within the impenetrable walls of the Black Abbey. Impenetrable, that is, unless the intruder was invited in.
Sister Alys knew the traveler who arrived with the storm was trouble. She knew the traveler was dangerous. And she knew, but would never admit, that it was the danger that she found attractive. Sister Alys had never felt attracted to another woman before. Or anyone, really. All she had ever known were her Sisters and her faith.
Alys invited the stranger in from the rain. She pleaded with Sister Katura and the other High Acolytes to shelter the woman for the night. Sister Katura eventually gave her reluctant blessing, cursing herself for always indulging her favorites.
Sister Alys and the stranger sat across from one another at the evening meal, and didn't speak much. Alys could feel Katura's eyes boring into her from the head of the table. But that night, they shared Alys' bed. The stranger took Alys into her arms and held her in ways Alys had never dreamed she could be held. Alys had never felt so warm.
The next morning, Alys woke to find the stranger had disappeared. She hurried out into the corridor, to find the Sisters gathered together, conversing in hushed, frantic voices. Sister Katura explained to Alys, with venom in her voice, that the ceremonial silver had been stolen from the sanctuary in the middle of the night. Alys' "guest" was a common thief, and for allowing the scoundrel into their sacred halls, Alys was to be severely punished.
* * *
According to the holy books, The God of Night was King of the Black Mountain, and he was attended by a royal court of 48 daemons. When the laws of the Sisterhood were broken, blood had to be repaid to each of the daemons, and to the King. Thus, 49 lashes of the Discipline was the custom.
Alys wept silently all the way out to the courtyard, but as they reached the place of penance, the tears stopped. He chest heaved with quick, panicked breaths. She became too afraid to cry. The sisters shackled her wrists to the sides of the pillar and, according to custom, cut the top of her robe and parted it, exposing her naked back. The destruction of her garment was part of the penance.
Alys strained her neck to see around the pillar. Sister Deirdre, who had always been like a mother to her, stood nearby, her eyes shut, lost in a meditative mantra. Sister Katura approached from behind, shaking out the long tails of the wicked black whip they called the discipline, a writhing hydra waiting to lick Alys' blood.
The Sisters invoked the name of the first of the daemons. The lashes began to fall. Alys clutched at the chains and choked back a scream.
mark sessnatz
Tribune
Tropical Plantation 10
As you approach the plantation manor, you become aware of rhythmic gunshot-like cracks and a female voice screaming desperately. Rounding the bend in the drive, the scene emerges, a young woman, her ragged garment torn from her back, slumped over the post to which she was chained as a fearsome bullwhip cut across her naked back again and again.
"Her brother done run off," said the carriage driver, noticing you staring. "She helped him get over the river. The Big Man found out and, well..."
The woman on the post howled in agony as the whip came down again, her voice hoarse and weak. Her smooth brown skin glistened with sweat, mingling with the blood that wept from the stripes across her back. She was young. A grown woman, but no older than your fiancee back on the mainland. You lower your eyes.
As you approach the plantation manor, you become aware of rhythmic gunshot-like cracks and a female voice screaming desperately. Rounding the bend in the drive, the scene emerges, a young woman, her ragged garment torn from her back, slumped over the post to which she was chained as a fearsome bullwhip cut across her naked back again and again.
"Her brother done run off," said the carriage driver, noticing you staring. "She helped him get over the river. The Big Man found out and, well..."
The woman on the post howled in agony as the whip came down again, her voice hoarse and weak. Her smooth brown skin glistened with sweat, mingling with the blood that wept from the stripes across her back. She was young. A grown woman, but no older than your fiancee back on the mainland. You lower your eyes.
Holy heck, this is reaching white hot level of erotic for me, like the branding iron I am secretly hoping will be applied to my flesh….
Oh my God! The discipline… Yes, oh please yes! No wonder they would need to chain me before tasting that. Is there a way to volunteer as a penitent slave?
As you get closer, in between the loud whip-cracks and her screams, now becoming hoarse, you hear a strong voice keeping count:
“131…132…133…”
You can’t help yourself but say “oh dear Lord, I know she’s only a slave but surely it’s high time she was given a little mercy?”
As the carriage driver explained the crime, you hear the whip continue although the slave’s screams are silent. As the count continues, “143… 144…” you hear a chuckle from the whipmaster, scoffing at your naivety…
As you walk on towards the manor, a tear rolls down your left cheek…
Oh my God! The discipline… Yes, oh please yes! No wonder they would need to chain me before tasting that. Is there a way to volunteer as a penitent slave?
As you get closer, in between the loud whip-cracks and her screams, now becoming hoarse, you hear a strong voice keeping count:
“131…132…133…”
You can’t help yourself but say “oh dear Lord, I know she’s only a slave but surely it’s high time she was given a little mercy?”
As the carriage driver explained the crime, you hear the whip continue although the slave’s screams are silent. As the count continues, “143… 144…” you hear a chuckle from the whipmaster, scoffing at your naivety…
As you walk on towards the manor, a tear rolls down your left cheek…
mark sessnatz
Tribune
Maybe other plantations offer mercy.
And skinning of bare buttocks with paddle with holes
I’m not interested in merciful plantations, can you please direct me to the cruelest ones?
Me neither
argyll1968
Condemned
I just dropped into the forum and I am enjoying Mark's pictures banned from DA and some others I didn't know before. Looking forwards to more pics and thanks a lot!