Postulating Petronilla

[Peony]

The Girl

The beauty of unconsciousness...I’m imagining they’re looking at me laid out on my torture horse.

They think I’m blank...barely breathing...But how can they be so wrong?

I am fully conscious...it’s just my body that, for now, has unplugged from my mind...so no pain for now...but, if I want to I can imagine my pain and it’s just beautiful and just awful and I love being me here right now.


Because I’m outside my(self) body and I can look at me, stare down at my beautiful body, my pretty face...Look at my torn flesh and my bloody back and my cunt oozing crimson stained cum and my lips dripping spittle and drool and I look so lovely.

If I was that gorgeous body I would be so so happy...If I looked at that fucked over, ripped, tortured torso, those broken hands, I would be so full of envy. I would so much want to be that girl, tied and nailed onto that torture horse in that dank cellar. Waiting for the next whipping, the next bout of pain...waiting to be half-way through my penance, waiting for my death.

And knowing...I know...that it’s the certainty of my death, the death I have agreed to, that I have asked for, that makes my helplessness real and that elevates my suffering. And yes, I wish it could go on for ever, but yes, it’s the reality that it is coming to an end, slowly, agonisingly, that makes it real for me...

...And I know that for some of you, reading this, you probably wish now that you were me, just like I wish that I really was Petronilla...and maybe even one of you...you know...who is about to whip me...well, just watch and dream...it could be you..

And now I want it real again and I want my hurt and my pain and my body...

“Aiiiiiiiieeeee!!”

Yes!

Fuuuuccckkk!

My fucking body’s on fire!!

Soaking and burning!!!

And my pretty face...cum and blood and piss and I don’t care..

Aaaaaaaagh!!!! And now my fucking torn hands!

And I’m face down in the mess of water and piss and blood and he’s pulling it from me and my cunt is ripping and...

I watch him fix more nails...

And...

Lifting me gently, caring for my fucked up sweet broken body...FUUUCCCKKK!

Dropping me!

My fucking back!

I want this!

And...tying my legs...body on the nails..
They’re looking at me...My belly rising and falling as I gasp...my lovely breata, my pretty face, smeared in bloody filth...

And...I know...he has to...my hands...4 nails again...Sickening awfulness...my body heaves...

Not done...hooks...don’t mess my face!
My pretty nose...pulled open...little hurt swallowed in drowning pain...Up to me, tell myself...whatever you do, they do, just don’t move your head...

Nipples hard...tied and pulled outwards and down and weighted...shouldn’t this hurt me? It doesn’t...

I’m ready. Pulled open so they can see all of me. My back is ruined...Now they will ruin me everywhere...
I am ready. I want this so much...

 

[Fossy]

The Guy


The Parish of St Mary


I took my stance at the head once more, this time staring into Petra’s bloody pussy. We had not cleaned her, save for the swill of brine over the carvings in her back and bottom, and so as I looked along the stretched upper torso of our desirable captive I saw through to her blood and gore smeared face, into her open and painfully hooked nostrils, and I could see how her pulse was beating erratically, blood pounding at her temples.

“The blade,” I said simply to St Mary, offering her the knife. She, in turn, smiled at me and shook her head.

“All in good time,” she replied as she slipped her hand inside her jeans and played with herself. Turning to her victim, she smiled down at the trembling body and spoke. “Oh, my sweet Petronilla, what a sight you are … quite intoxicating!”

The third Parish stroked herself, her eyes fixed on Petra’s face, until her knees buckled and she was forced to seek support from her own nearby chair. Smiling broadly, St Mary extracted her hand and approached the demon whore.

“Please,” Petra begged through chattering teeth, though what she was begging for we could not tell.

“First, open wide, and clean me!”

With what appeared to be just a little reluctance Petra obeyed and flicked out her tongue to lick her assailant’s sticky fingers. St Mary pushed her digits inside, deep down the cunt’s throat and held them there while the girl choked. The smile on the face of the only female Parish told the room that she was savouring every moment of the bound girl’s discomfort.

With a laugh St Mary pulled her hand away and left Petra coughing and spluttering, unable to twist her head.

“Seek the confirmation …” she said to me, in a semi-religious tone. I nodded in acknowledgement.

“Petronilla de Meath, do you reject the devil and renounce all that he has possessed within you?”

No response, not even a docile mumble.

Then St Mary, staring at Petra’s naked breasts, firm and high even though pulled harshly sideways by the weights, held her hand out requesting the blade.

“So nice, it seems a shame to deface them in this manner.” But those words did not stop the knife point from pushing into the whore’s left breast, just underneath the nipple, where the weight pulled on the teat, to drag downwards in a straight line before curving back upwards into a sanguineous ‘D’.

“Fcckkkkkkk!” Petra groaned arching upwards as much as she could, unable to form the expletive properly.

The now oozing ‘D’ was followed by an equally seeping ‘E’ and then, with rivulets of blood running from the engraved mound of flesh, St Mary moved onto the right breast and began again.

The prisoner found her voice and screamed anew as the Parish carved out the ‘M’ and then the ‘O’ to finish with the ‘N’, by which time Petra lay still with her eyes rolled back into her head, mumbling incoherently.

‘DE … MON’ now adorned the whore’s chest.

St Mary, handing the blade back to me, quietly uttered the word with clear and obvious relish, leaving Petra in no doubt this time as to what the gory carving said.

Then the whipping began.

Fast, harsh strokes across both breasts had Petra screaming, as her shuddering body endured this new onslaught. Then, after, an indiscriminate assault the lashing ceased. St Mary stroked Petra’s face with a gentle hand as the whipped girl tried desperately to inhale gulps of much needed oxygen.

“You suffer so well, Petronilla, but you must know that only means more pain for you.”

I watched as Petra’s eyes went wide, hopefully filled with the terror I imagined.

Time and again St Mary took the ridged Snake Whip to the girl’s breasts, flaying the whittled-out letters, each one in turn, and the slut screamed in pain, but the attack continued until Petra’s chest was raw and bleeding.

Then I noticed that our captive’s reaction became confined to a gasp, her face still contorting with sudden pain, but her body barely moving.

St Mary raised her arm higher and slammed the whip hard across both breasts. The weights swung, pulling at the painfully extended teats, forcing a semi-lucid yelp out of Petra, her body jerking instinctively away from the impact. It sliced the skin clean through, leaving the areola raw, with blood surging painfully beneath the slowly accumulating streak marks of the snake whip.

The Parish, now in full swing, plied the whip lengthwise across the middle of the girl’s breasts with an even louder and harsher slash. The cruel leather dug deeper into the tender skin which drove a fresh shriek of agony from Petra’s lips.

Twenty more brutal strokes fell, after which, what was left of Petra was something barely human.

“You are magnificent!” St Mary leaned in and pressed her mouth to the girl’s bloodied and tarnished face, giving her a hard, passionate kiss.

This time I had no need to call a halt. I let the embrace take its course and then the punishment of St Mary, the third Parish, was over.


To be Continued ...

 

[Peony]

The Girl

She's the third and she's lovely and I'm glad she wants to hurt me.

She stands looking at me from my cunt to my face and I try to look back as she fingers herself.

I can't allow myself to move. My body is howelling pain but my mind doesn't have the words...

I want to fuck her..."please...?"

She puts her soaking fingers into my open mouth...it's enough...I'm choaking on her juices...

And now she'll hurt me. More fantasy words and the knife is over my stretched out tits and

Fccckkkkk!

Yes!

I try to see her cutting...I can't...I can feel blood running over me...

I can see her whip...it's flying and tearing my tits and...

Ffffuuuuuccccckkk!

She wants to hurt me...She wants what I want...

fffffuuuuccccxxxxx!

So many!

She loves this like I do

Girls are so good at this.

I want to kiss her...

I love her so much...

 

[Fossy]

The Guy


The Parish of St Canice


As any semblance of consciousness came and went with tortuous regularity, it was easy to see that Petra’s spirit was already crushed and ruined by her ordeal. It was clear that, despite her desires, nothing in her experience or her young life gave her any basis to survive this assault on her body and mind.

She was no longer the diligent student, or the girl who talked of feminism and ‘the other’, damning misogyny with a roll of her eyes and a sharp whip of her tongue. She was no longer the woman who read and fantasised over being those unfortunates that had burned to death in times gone by. She was instead, so obviously, a thing in pain, in constant fear, maddened by anguish, her entire existence reduced to the next blow, the next cut, the next agony she would have to endure.

And it was beautiful …

I wanted to keep any description of the physical attributes of my Parishes out of the narrative thereby maintaining their ethereal image as a thing of spiritual enlightenment, performing God’s work by taking this demon whore and doing all that was necessary to rid the world of the devil’s spawn. But it is worth saying that St Canice was the biggest of them all. Some fat ladened his body for sure, but also plenty of muscle. His hair unkempt and his bearded face twisted with the pleasure this inquisition-like scene was giving to him … a pleasure that was also evident in the bulge at his groin.

The Parish of St Canice stood, but I bade him wait until I had taken another jug of brine and poured it over the carvings that St Mary had made into the girl’s breasts. It was interesting to see that the searing pain caused by the impregnation of Petra’s cuts and wounds with liberal amounts of salt was now a pain that she seemed to have some familiarity with, because whilst the bound whore groaned in obvious discomfort, no more did she howl and scream.

We waited until the saline liquid had run away, taking the blood with it to leave more pink streaks down the sides of her denuded body, and then I applied the petroleum jelly and the antibiotic cream as our prisoner almost purred into my touch.

Oh, why didn’t we just become a couple Petronilla. Just you and I, together for all time …

With this lament in my mind, I once more sought the confirmation.

“Petronilla de Meath, do you reject the devil and renounce all that he has possessed within you?”

There was no response. I didn’t expect any.

With a nod to St Canice, he raised his large bulk from the chair and moved to where Petra lay secured to the saw horse. She could not turn to regard him, the barbed hooks piercing her nostrils forbade it.

Upon request I handed the fourth Parish a cloth as he held up his whip for all to see, including the girl. He too had a knout, but the version wielded by St Canice was a single length of thick cable that was curled upon itself such that both ends were tied to the handle leaving a short-tailed loop with which to beat the cunt’s body.

It was not ridged nor infused with either metal or lead, but I knew this knout would hurt in the extreme, and my cock stiffened at the thought.

Back to the cloth … more a dirty rag really from the floor of my basement. But it served the same purpose as any other cloth when St Canice opened it out and draped over the soiled face of the bound girl.

With a grin, now unseen by Petra, he took out his semi hard, but still also part flaccid, cock, and wielded it like a weapon in his free hand. His height meant that he could stand at the girl’s head and let his shining purple head hover over her face.

Then the golden stream came forth.

He was waterboarding the whore with his piss.

She grunted when the first drops hit and then began to shudder and shake as the drowning sensation took over. Her nostrils were being held wide open and would easily fill with urine as would her mouth whenever she felt the need to breathe.

The five Parishes watching, along with myself, were stunned into an awed silence by the ingenious splendour of the scene.

Then he lashed down hard with the short-tailed loop-knout across Petra’s flat, strained stomach. Now her mouth opened, and, as the stinking stream of urine remained in full flow, she imbibed a throat full.

Coughing, spluttering, writhing and squirming Petronilla was in a shocking state, clearly unable to do anything about the myriad sources of discomfort, pain and torture that assailed her broken and emphysematous body.

Another lash, leaving behind a bruised layer of skin in the same looped shape as the whipcord.

And then again.

And again …

The girl gulped through the cloth and he pissed onto it, into her open mouth, while the short-looped whip fell with vicious regularity.

As the flow of urine began to slow to a stop, enabling the cock in question to be placed back inside its fabric cage, St Canice was able to focus fully on thrashing Petra with much harder force, and increased consistency. The cloth over the cunt’s face was heavy with urine and moulded now to the shape of her delicate and pretty features. But it was clear that she could not inhale properly and we didn’t want to kill her, not yet … that would be such an anti-climax.

At a signal from me, St Canice paused, his corded knout having left the latest loop mark across Petra’s tender stomach. With an acknowledging nod I moved to the whore’s head and lifted the urine-soaked cloth gingerly between my finger and thumb and handed it to the incumbent Parish. With a knowing grin he placed it over Petra’s nose, her nostrils wide open and flared by the fish-hooks, and squeezed it out, filling her nasal passage with his own foul-smelling piss.

Our prisoner coughed and spluttered, once more unable to breathe, whereupon St Canice picked up his lash and slashed down hard again.

A splutter … a retch, and fresh blood oozed from Petronilla’s nose where her struggling had pulled at the barb, and the bitter contents of her stomach flowed from the side of her mouth, bile that should really have been puked up, but, flat on her back she was in no position to do that.

Another slash …

Then again …

More …

And more …

St Canice moved his arm with speed and precision, tearing at the whore’s guts, ripping her skin open …

And then it stopped.

“I’m ready,” was all the Parish said to me, but I knew what he meant. Handing him the small, razor-edged hunting knife, he took it and placed down his knout.

Petra was gasping, her diaphragm working overtime to expel unwanted liquid from her lungs and regain some semblance of natural breathing. But that effort was ridden completely rough-shod over when the Parish dug the knife’s point into the girl’s stomach.

She keened and wailed and pushed her abdomen upwards in a frantic and clear effort to rid herself of this new agony. But the large hand gripping the blade carved away.

A pull, dragging the knife in a curve, left a bloody ‘C’ in its wake. Petra groaned.

A similar motion but from a different perspective formed a ‘U’.

A new flood of sanguineous fluid flowed from Petra’s stomach over her groin and hips to drip copiously onto the floor, as St Canice carved a more linear shape. With the ‘N’ formed he moved to carve out the final letter. ‘T’

‘CUNT’

DEMON on her breasts and CUNT across her stomach.

I watched as Petronilla’s eyes closed and the punishment from the fourth Parish came to an end.




To Be Continued ...

 

[Loinclothslave]

Whew, this is intense! And still another Parish to be “walked through”? Petronilla only knows a universe of pain, yet her fate carries still greater suffering to come, before the inevitable, merciful flames!

 

[Peony]

The Girl

I'm sliding in and out ... My body allowing my mind only broken shards lucidity, half formed thoughts and questions interrupted by agonising pain...

I'm asking why... Why? Why choose this? Why not stop? Why not live?

I can't change...I am ruined. I am broken. There's only more pain and then...oblivion.

I don't want to change.

Gasp. Breathe. Let my body wrack me in pain. I want it. I never wanted anything mor...

Fu...ck! Something over my face. Cloth. Sound. Water...not water. Acrid filth filling my mouth and nose...Body heaving...no breath. Weights on my broken breasts ... the whip will come...on my belly....

I want to scream but I'm drowning!

He's cutting me...I can feel the knife making letters on my flesh...C...U....N......
T... Yes, I am. Fuck me...I am a filthy worthless pain slut. They know.

Whip me more!

Fuck! My face! Can't...nose full of metal and blood... want to vomit this filth...can't...FUUUUCCCCCKKK!

Killing me!

Mind...body...Where next? Cunt? Legs? Fuuuccckkk! Hurt me then!

Yes! Fuuuuccckkk! But don't stop...just hurt me!

 

[Fossy]

The Guy


The Interlude


A reminder of how pretty Pia was before she got what it was that she wished for ...


Brine was poured on the new body-carving and the girl gyrated with delightful eroticism for our pleasure as the salt bit into her open flesh.

Jelly and ointment were applied with relative comfort and calmness, but …

The tortuous punishment of Petronilla de Meath was taking its toll. Each of the six, plus myself, were feeling the strain. It was tiring whether we were executing the brutalisation of the young girl or simply observing it.

We needed a break.

Did Petra need a break? Who the fuck cares? She takes whatever we want to give her and whenever we want to give it.

“Should we pause, maybe take a breath of fresh air?” I offered, “… we can stroll outside into the yard,” which was accessible from the cellar directly.

The suggestion was well met, and suddenly it was easy to sense how filled the room was with the scent of extreme pain. Blood, bile, urine, bodily secretions … we needed to get out. All that was apart from St Canice.

“I will stay and fuck the cunt.” He said gruffly, simply, his words Neanderthal like in their savage tones.

I nodded, and as I pointed my finger to guide the remaining five outside into the cooler and much fresher air of the late morning, I stayed behind to witness the intent of the Parish of St Canice as he moved his bulk to the end of the saw horse where Petra’s pussy was exposed, thrusting upwards away from the jutting nails on the wooden surface.

For the first time since we switched her position. I noticed the amount of blood that had poured down the side of the horse and now dripped onto my basement floor. The thought of how ravaged Petronilla’s back had become was a source of stimulation in itself.

Not that St Canice required any more encouragement because his erection was thick and long, ridged with veins and ready to do its worst.

I watched Petra as she looked up at the looming figure between her spread legs. She offered no reaction … most probably seeing this as a welcome break from the rigours of our torture. But as the large left hands of the brutish man positioned his cock at the bloody entrance to her cunt, and the fingers of his right moved slowly along the length of the girl’s torn body towards her throat, her eyes told me that she had suddenly realised everything from now on was torture …

She groaned. It was the last sound she made because his thick fingers closed around her neck and squeezed as he thrust through the blood and juices, the gore acting as lubrication, and split her in two, impaled upon his cock.

Petra’s eyes widened as he thrust hard, fast and deep into her body, fucking her, screwing her for all he was worth.

Was this rape? We hadn’t sought consent, but would she have given it had we asked? I shook my head of these bizarre thoughts and left the scene of violation behind me as I moved to join the Parishes outside.

We exchanged very few words. A couple of them lit up a cigarette and the rest of us mooched around, breathing in the fresher air.

“How do we dispose of her?” The question was asked by St John, the Parish who had opened proceedings.

I nodded to acknowledge his question …

“Fuck you, little cunt … yes, yes, fuck yes!” A smile played on my lips as I heard the raucous cries emanating from inside the cellar’s open door, and I moved to close them out. Even though my yard was sunken to the levels of the basement surrounded by high brick walls, we did not want any passer by picking up suspicious noises.

“We torture her until darkness falls. Then we remove her from the horse and together we transport her to Highcliffe Woods under cover of darkness.”

St John nodded.

“And then we burn her to her final death.”

******

When we returned to the cellar, re-closed and locked the door, then took our places, St Canice was already seated. His softening bulge still evident inside his trousers … the stain of oozing fluid on the material confirming that he was sated.

Petra had been raped, violated, ravished … her neck bruised from his grip, and now lay on her back, facing the ceiling, eyes closed. She was breathing, but it was clear when I took my position again at the head of proceedings that she had been ripped apart by his monstrous cock. Her face was covered in his seed, and fresh blood from her already torn pussy now flowed from her ravaged slit along with more semen from his unsheathed cock.

Now we will begin again.


Petra ...



To Be Continued ...

 

[Peony]

The Girl

He soaks my bleeding body in brine. Another layer of pain, my body whispers to me... More pain...How long can it - can I - go on?

He sooths my burning cuts with a balm... Why? They are going to hurt me more, then they will kill me, burn me.

I am becoming Petronilla. She knew she was just the sub - substitute... she always had been. A nothing. A girl from nowhere. Not even her own name, just the one Kyltner had given her. Like the bastard her brother had given her. She was a pretty, silent substitute. She knew that they were angry, not with her, but with her mistress. That her pains for not for her. That they didn't even care about her.

But she would be their witch if that was what they wanted. They were going to kill her, once they had tortured her and raped her. She was going to die on the pyre. So she would own it. For once, she would be the one with agency. If they wanted a witch she would be the most terrifying witch they could imagine. She would confess beyond their imaginations. She would scream, but she would bear the torture. She would bear the humiliation. She would look them back in the eye and ask them, silently, what else could they do? She would let them chain her to the stake and let them light the fire, and she would smile at them. For once, people would look at her. Not Petronilla from nowhere, but Petronilla the witch of Kilkenny. They would remember her. She would exist for all time. Her torturers? They would remember her body, her blood, her moans. They would haunt them for the rest of their lives, but no-one would remember them.

I was becoming Petronilla.

I look over my ruined breasts and belly, oozing blood, torn, hurt beyond hope. They are leaving me. They are going... But I know they will return.

And the fat one? He's staying. He's going to fuck my torn apart cunt. He can. I was a better fuck once. When I was clean and pretty. Now I'm a filthy disgusting whore. My flesh is torn. My cunt is full of blood and cum and piss and filth. Filthy little cunt. Filthy little pain-whore. He can do what the fuck he likes. He can hurt me as much as he wants, because he's really hurting himself. And he sort of knows it.

He can smear my face with his cum and my blood and pull my mouth open and squeeze my neck until I can hardly breathe and my nose begins to tear and fill with blood where the hooks run through my body.

He can rape me. It's rape. He knows it and it disgusts him. Like the torturers of poor Petronilla, strong and beautiful and brave Petronilla. They can hurt her, they can hurt me. I can swallow the hurt and throw it back and make them eat it. He knows what he is. He knows I will die but I will be the only one who emerges from this... when? tonight? tomorrow? with my soul intact. I will die satisfied. They will find out that however much they hurt me, or another... however much they find a young girl to fuck and whip and torture, they will never, ever be satisfied.

He's sated. They are back. It will start again. I am glad. I am waiting. My body may look wrecked, but I am here, waiting. Waiting for more hurt.

I want them to hurt me well. I want them to kill me.

 

[Loinclothslave]

The Girl

He soaks my bleeding body in brine. Another layer of pain, my body whispers to me... More pain...How long can it - can I - go on?

He sooths my burning cuts with a balm... Why? They are going to hurt me more, then they will kill me, burn me.

I am becoming Petronilla. She knew she was just the sub - substitute... she always had been. A nothing. A girl from nowhere. Not even her own name, just the one Kyltner had given her. Like the bastard her brother had given her. She was a pretty, silent substitute. She knew that they were angry, not with her, but with her mistress. That her pains for not for her. That they didn't even care about her.

But she would be their witch if that was what they wanted. They were going to kill her, once they had tortured her and raped her. She was going to die on the pyre. So she would own it. For once, she would be the one with agency. If they wanted a witch she would be the most terrifying witch they could imagine. She would confess beyond their imaginations. She would scream, but she would bear the torture. She would bear the humiliation. She would look them back in the eye and ask them, silently, what else could they do? She would let them chain her to the stake and let them light the fire, and she would smile at them. For once, people would look at her. Not Petronilla from nowhere, but Petronilla the witch of Kilkenny. They would remember her. She would exist for all time. Her torturers? They would remember her body, her blood, her moans. They would haunt them for the rest of their lives, but no-one would remember them.

I was becoming Petronilla.

I look over my ruined breasts and belly, oozing blood, torn, hurt beyond hope. They are leaving me. They are going... But I know they will return.

And the fat one? He's staying. He's going to fuck my torn apart cunt. He can. I was a better fuck once. When I was clean and pretty. Now I'm a filthy disgusting whore. My flesh is torn. My cunt is full of blood and cum and piss and filth. Filthy little cunt. Filthy little pain-whore. He can do what the fuck he likes. He can hurt me as much as he wants, because he's really hurting himself. And he sort of knows it.

He can smear my face with his cum and my blood and pull my mouth open and squeeze my neck until I can hardly breathe and my nose begins to tear and fill with blood where the hooks run through my body.

He can rape me. It's rape. He knows it and it disgusts him. Like the torturers of poor Petronilla, strong and beautiful and brave Petronilla. They can hurt her, they can hurt me. I can swallow the hurt and throw it back and make them eat it. He knows what he is. He knows I will die but I will be the only one who emerges from this... when? tonight? tomorrow? with my soul intact. I will die satisfied. They will find out that however much they hurt me, or another... however much they find a young girl to fuck and whip and torture, they will never, ever be satisfied.

He's sated. They are back. It will start again. I am glad. I am waiting. My body may look wrecked, but I am here, waiting. Waiting for more hurt.

I want them to hurt me well. I want them to kill me.

Okay, we need a double love button or something, I think this has got to be the best chapter so far. Incredible twist, I love it, Petra becomes Petronilla and will haunt her torturers souls, whom shall forever remain nameless while the Witch of Kilkenny’s name shall live on in infamy forevermore!

 

[Fossy]

The Guy


The Parish of St Francis


Before the Parish of St Francis stands to take up his position, I once more seek the confirmation

“Petronilla de Meath, do you reject the devil and renounce all that he has possessed within you?”

At first there is silence. But then from somewhere the little cunt finds her voice. In quiet tones, devoid of energy she replies, “Fuck you, all of you …”

There is a sequence of nodding that takes place, smug looks taking over smirking faces. Petra has some fight still left inside, which is good. Far more satisfying when we finally break her into little, unrecoverable pieces.

St Francis rises and approaches. He wields a … wait, is that a … it is. St Francis carries a Bull’s Pizzle Whip. All six of us are awed by this. Rare in itself, this is a fine example. Made from the thick skin of a Bull’s Penis, the irony of it being used to assault and abuse a tied, naked girl is not lost on any of us. Dried, twisted and stretched this whip is around two feet long, small for a Pizzle Whip of this type, but as vicious as anything we have seen so far.

As if using the Pizzle on Petra is not enough St Francis has a creatively unique plan, over which he has clearly colluded with St Mary. The only female Parish stands and kneels by the side of the horse near to where the girl’s left hand is nailed, whilst St Francis moves to the end of the saw horse so that he can gaze upon the Petra’s lewdly thrusting groin. He held his hand out to receive the knife, handing to me temporary custody of his Bull’s Pizzle.

The Parish returned his attention to the helpless girl. Letting the knife trail over the smooth flesh of her thighs, he applied pressure to the skin. Slicing it open with ease, he looked down at St Mary and said, quietly, “Now”. As the knife carved the curvature of a capital ‘S’, the female Parish took the index finger of Petra’s left hand and bent the digit savagely backward, breaking it with a resounding crack.

The girl screamed and arched as much as she was able causing St Francis to pause before he could complete the ‘S’. He waited until she had calmed a little before returning to his fleshy canvas so that he could whittle the next letter, a more linear navigation that was about to end in a capital ‘L’ when again he said “Now”.

Once more St Mary, selecting the finger next to Petra’s thumb this time, brutally bent the finger upwards, breaking it easily resulting in another piercing screech from the tormented demon-whore.

St Francis returned to his work and began the next letter. The ‘U’ was finished before her gave the next command.

“Now.”

“No. Please.” The cunt had a voice, which was ignored.

“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, nghhhhhhhh!”

St Mary easily broke Petra’s little finger with a resounding snap.

The fourth finger went as the Parish completed his word with a capital ‘L’.

‘SLUT’ now adorned her left thigh and her hand from the same side hung useless with only the thumb still intact.



Petra whimpered. Snot blew out of her enlarged nostrils to mix with the clotting blood, the bubble bursting to slowly trickle onto her lips and into her mouth.

“You are a disgusting devil-whore,” St Francis said to the girl, whose body was trembling with the shock of what was happening to her.

Without further delay the Bull’s Pizzle was picked up and wielded with a savage flash through the air to test its flexibility.

Then, lash number one. The twisted Pizzle struck the girl’s left thigh, striping the flesh carving it open, a sharp snap taking her breath away.

Her eyes watered, and while she was still recovering from the first, the second came. Same thigh … same spot.

The fingers of her right hand flexed as much as they could, given the nail damage already inflicted on the Metacarpals, clawing into thin air.

Petronilla was still in the process of catching her breath when the third Pizzle stroke came, bringing a new wave of agony, this time to her right thigh. She cried out, her tightly bound body convulsing as she writhed on the wood, the Pizzle lacerating her skin, causing her to writhe on the protruding nails.

I heard the whip slash through the air just prior to the next stroke falling. Higher this time, almost clipping her labia. The whore howled in pain. Raw, Feral screams that pierced the room … like a serenade designed to reward our efforts.

Breath caught in her throat and she gagged on her own saliva, looking upwards, eyes darting trying to see the faces that were staring back at her.

I watched. My face impassive, but my groin stimulated beyond the bounds of decency.

Then came the next one, stroke seven I think, but cruelly, instead of pushing her over the edge into blissful unconsciousness, it seemed to revive her. Petra caught a shallow breath in her lungs and yelled louder than she had cried at any of the previous Parishes.

“Noooooooooooooooooo!”

Demented.

Wild.

Beyond the edge of reason.

Perfect little cunt.

“It’s not over yet devil-whore,” St Francis responded to her howl. Then the whip lifted again, and once more thrashed furiously down, welting the soft thigh, adding to the criss-cross of lash marks that the twisted Bull’s cock had inflicted.

“Enough.”

It was my voice that brought the punishment from Parish number five to a halt.


To Be Continued ...

 

[Loinclothslave]

Magnificent comeback, @Fossy - terrifyingly brutal as Petronilla’s fingers are cruelly broken with each letter of her new adornment “SLUT”

Then to use a bull’s cock whip to savage her inner thighs…. Be careful what you wish for, little witch!

 

[Peony]

The Girl

The usual garbage, the usual pantomime... Does it help them? Do they feel better for their pretence? Did Petronilla's torturers? They all know it's just a fantasy... Not so much for me... For me, my body, it's fucking real...

“Fuck you, all of you …”

I don't fucking care. They are doing what I want to my body. The pain is awful. I am afraid of the pain.... but I am not afraid of them. And it's my body... my body that's afraid of the pain. Me.... I'm not so sure... It's what I...

FUUUCCCKKKK!!!!!

The knife.... I knew it was coming... I can't sense the lette...

FUUCCCCKKKKK!!!! My fucking hand! She's breaking my.... My hand! The fucking nails! My fuc....

FUUCCCCCKKKK!!!!

I can see his whip... Shit, I love this whip... It's going to cut my legs in two! FUCK!!!! Did I ask for this? I think I did... I wanted this....

I can't breathe! Each fucking lash! My fucking body!!!!

“Noooooooooooooooooo!”

My body is shouting to stop!

They won't. They can't. They mustn't.

They must hurt me to death. Hurt me. Hurt me. Hurt my fucking body! Make me a bloody broken puppet. Make my body filthy with blood and snot and cum and drool and brine and piss. Make my eyes wide. Make my mouth open and gasp at the thinness of the air. Make me hurt so badly. Make me.... Make my body...

Make me hurt!

You are making me hurt so very well.... I will look so beautifully hurt when you chain me and burn me. I will look at you all and you will see. I will stare into your eyes and there will be nothing there. I will haunt your minds forever. I will be all you ever imagine. When you wake and when you sleep. I will be there. My broken bloody body. Always there... I will be gone. But I will be your ghost until you die. All of you. You fucking weak powerless bastards.

Hurt me then... Hurt me to death you fucking bastards. You fucking weak pathetic bastards. Look at this beautiful destroyed girl. You fucking weak bastards. Look at me!

 

[Fossy]

The Guy


The Parish of St Joseph


Petra was ruined. She was covered with obscenities carved into her flesh, her skin was covered with the lash marks from having been whipped ‘through’ and by. five so-called Parishes, the fingers on her left hand had been broken … not to mention toenails torn out, nostrils pierced with barbed hooks, hands nailed to wood, nipples weighted, pussy impaled on a nailed phallus … how was she still alive? In truth the whore barely was!

But there was still one more Parish to go. That of St John, and he had drawn the ‘long-straw’ because he got to pay particular attention to her pussy.

I called for the confirmation.

“Petronilla de Meath, do you reject the devil and renounce all that he has possessed within you?”

The sass had left her. The fight had flown … there was no response at all, not even a grunted whimper.

Nothing.

Good.

I took a jug of brine and poured it over Petra’s thigh. A convulsion, maybe two … possibly even a groan. But nothing more, so I applied the jelly and the ointment to help soothe her and ward off any infections for a little while … we only really needed a ‘little while’.

The Parish of St Joseph stood. With a malicious grin he showed us all his lash of choice.

A Sjambok. Wow.

I nodded. “Animal?” I asked.

“Rhino,” came the brief reply. It was a short-tail version, about two feet in length, much like the Pizzle, and great for close quarters whipping.

“Would you like the blade, St Joseph?” I spoke as ceremoniously as I could in my attempt to maintain the atmosphere.

“Yes … please.”

It was the cunt’s mound this time. Petra was smooth, shaven, an erstwhile surface of pleasure for her girlfriend, Esme, that had become a clean canvas for our perversions.

Without formality or delay, St Joseph cut into her flesh. The girl bucked and writhed, fish-hooks pulling at her nostrils, making them bleed again.

A Capital ‘B’ appeared and the demon-whore howled delightfully.

Followed by an ‘I’.

“Stop please, for God’s Sake stop …” We were really hurting the girl. Did she still want this? Had she thought it through? Well, it was too late now.

“It’s for God’s Sake that we will continue, Devil-Witch.” I replied.

When the ‘T’ was carved, its bloody release oozing from the gouge, her chest heaved and the girl groaned long and loud.

St Joseph moved quickly to the ‘C’ and was met with quiet whimpers as Petra’s body trembled from the shock.

A flesh-engraved ‘H’ completed the word.

He had carved ‘BITCH’ on her mound.

“That’s all you are Petronilla,” The Parish of St Joseph remarked, “… and animal bitch!”

And with that he returned the knife blade to me, picked up his deadly Sjambok, and lashed downwards between the girl’s open thighs into her bloody and protruding mound. He brought the whip down hard directly on Petra’s exposed pussy and clit.

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened, but no sound came. She seemed completely overwhelmed. Her pussy was already raw from her impalement upon the nailed phallus, and now it was striped with an agonising welt.

Then she shrieked, screamed, and pleaded. What the fuck … in … Gaelic, was that the language she was speaking in?

“Tha mi neo-chiontach yiu feumaidh mi stad no grodaidh tu uile ann an ifrinn”

(I'm innocent you must stop or you will all rot in hell)

Wow … it was like she was speaking in tongues … so wonderfully dramatic.

The Parish of St Joseph made her suffer. He lashed her over and over again. Her pussy was literally being destroyed. He paused, gasping for breath, but he wasn't finished yet. He had the finale to deliver.

Petra was in hell.

Without any further delay, St Joseph raised the sjambok high before bringing it down on Petra's right labia, not a hint of mercy given.

"Yahhhhhhhhhh! Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!"

If the whore’s shrieks were loud before, they were nothing compared to this. The next stroke came after the girl barely had time to catch her breath, this time on her left labia. The welts appeared immediately, showing cuts and abrasions where the Rhino hide had split her body open.

The strokes continued to alternate, carefully, but striking hard at her sensitive and swollen cunt. Finally, St Joseph tapped Petra's now-swollen clitoris with the whip.

"Last one from the Parish of St Joseph Petronilla De Meath."

And without waiting for a response, he brought the sjambok down on her exposed, and engorged clit.

Petra shrieked and screamed before falling silent, barely conscious, hardly breathing.


To Be Continued ...

 

[Loinclothslave]

Petra is no more, she is Petronilla now. The torturers are now under her spell, they do not realise it, as they will immortalise Petronilla de Meath once more, and suffer from obscurity in despair, knowing they had once touched the divine but condemned never to experience it.

 

[Fossy]

Today's chapter is the penultimate episode in this tawdry tale, one which has told us the story of a young, healthy student. The story of a girl who studied with conscience, enjoyed life with her adoring girlfriend whilst, all the while, imagining what it would be like to be ravaged ... Pia wanted to understand how it would feel to be cut open and put to death. One of her historical heroines was Petronilla de Meath and she so desperately wanted to become her ...

To say that Pia, our very own @Peony, is finding the going tough is an understatement. I posted yesterday and have done so again today. My delightful writing partner needs to compose herself, assess how she truly feels about this fatal turn of events and then tomorrow, after my finale post, she will provide a fitting epilogue. We hope you have enjoyed this journey. I called it a 'tawdry tale' at the beginning, but is it really as tasteless as it seems? Upon first reading then of course it is a story of extreme mysogyny; the abduction, humiliation and ravaging of a young, pretty student girl. What else could it be ... or is it more than that? Who really has the upper hand here? Which party truly gets what they want ...

Thank you all, as always, for your tremendous support.


The Guy


The Torture Continues


It’s November the 11th, and so the darkness closes in from around 4pm. But right now, it’s around lunchtime, 12:30pm to be precise, and so we have a while before we can transport Petronilla to Highcliffe Woods for her fatal finale. At least it’s not raining today like it was yesterday … wow, was it only the day before when I invaded Pia’s home? The night before in fact. Right now, it feels like I have never lived any of my life without her!

With the demon-whore bound and nailed to the saw horse I turn to all six of my Parishes and say, “Pizza for lunch?”

Nods all round and so I announce that we should eat upstairs away from the stench of the ravaged cunt.

“We should hurt her some more,” it was the huge St Canice who spoke up. “Leave her in pain while we eat.”

He was right of course. But first, and before we sorted out our lunchtime refreshments, I needed to treat her. It seemed kind of unnecessary given that in just a short passage of time Petra was destined to die one of the most horrible deaths imaginable, but at this moment I felt a sense of responsibility to preserve her for as long as we could.

And so, the brine was poured over her right thigh causing the familiar grunting judder of her convulsing body, followed by the ointment and petroleum jelly.

“Leave me with her.” The largest bulk of a Parish said. It was an instruction not a request. And so, as we all filed out to order Pizza St Canice was left in the cellar with Petronilla at his complete mercy.

******

The brute of a man did not bother to to join us for lunch, electing instead to stay in the basement, and by the time we returned, when I looked upon the basement room, I could see why.

The girl was no longer on the saw horse. Her hands had been ripped from the wood without any care or concern over the nails, and the barbs on the fish hooks had been torn out such that each side of her nostril cavity was ripped away.

She lay on the floor, her face beaten, nose broken and bloody. A bruise swelled under her right eye and a long cut, a gash really, ran several inches down her left cheek.

“You beat her?” I said, not really believing the brutality of what I was seeing.

“I did, and I fucked her ...” A glance down at Petra’s leaking pussy showed us all that what St Canice said was true, he had raped our prisoner once again.

Petronilla lay unmoving. She was still alive because her chest moved, but her breathing was laboured and shallow. When I had first broken into her home, I had found a pretty girl. Full of life, with friends, a girlfriend even, a normal student. Except she wasn’t normal, not at all. She wanted this … all of it. The pain, the death and the debauched stimulation that it brought. And so now she was just a thing. A non-human, a recipient for our violence, a repository for our desires … in short, we had turned Pia into Petronilla the monster.

“We have left Pizza for you,” I said, the words coming out in the most bizarre context imaginable.

“I’m fine,” was all he said, “This whore satisfied my hunger.

St Canice was pure evil.

I nodded and then placed the cordless head and body shaver that I had acquired during lockdown when all the barbers shops were closed, onto the top of the saw horse.

“Get her up, we need to shave her head.”

The docile whore was raised into a sitting position. Her eyes opened, but then immediately drooped into a semi-closed position.

I took a position behind her, her head caught between my knees and I switched the razor on. It took me less than ten minutes to shave away of her hair. When I say ‘all’, there was a few tufts left here and there, after all I wasn’t trying for a pleasing look aesthetically speaking, and so I left them there.

Now Petra was bald … a further humiliation.

“Let us tar and feather her,” St Mary spoke up.

To be fair that would have been true reflection of the sufferings of Petronilla, but …

“I have no tar, and no feathers, and so …”

“If you have a means of heating it, I have a bag of pre mixed roofing tar in my van which is parked outside.”

St Joseph was clearly a man prepared for every eventuality.

And so within thirty minutes of that conversation Petra let out a silent yell, then quickly closed her eyes and her mouth as tightly as she could to prevent any of the boiling foul liquid being poured over her head to coat her bald pate and face, passing into them

Then she opened her eyes.

St Canice had his face to hers, his eyes looking directly at her, an insane glint mocking the girl, gleeful at the terrible pain he was about to inflict.

Picking up the red-hot poker that we had heated with my propane blow torch, he lowered the searing iron rod onto her scalp. Petra was unable to remove herself from this latest terrible trauma, unable to stop the panic that manifested in her eyes.

“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, noooooooo!” She started to scream. She screamed and then screamed some more. For Esme, for her mother and father, for God to save her.

Feral, wild, animalistic … she was no longer human.

I stood to look down on the frantic girl with the sizzling, smoking scalp and once again picked up the ceremonial theme.

“Petra, you seek salvation from God and He hears your prayers, but there is no escape from God’s vengeance!” I said in a sanctimonious tone. A nod to St Canice and once again he pressed the poker to the burning and exposed flesh of Petra’s scalp.

The time was now 2:30pm.

We had just a short time to wait …



To Be Continued ...

 

[Fossy]

The Guy


Burning at The Stake


It was barely 3:55pm when we parked at Highcliffe Woods. The seven of us, six Parishes and myself, had driven in 2 cars. Petronilla was transported, shrouded in a blanket with her wrists cable tied behind her back. There was no need whatsoever for the security of tying her but … well I guess I was a belt and braces man after all.

The thing about 3:55pm on November the 11th was that it was still light, and so we decided to stay inside our cars, parked on the deserted wasteland to the East of the woods, for a short while longer until it became properly dark. This was the entrance to choose for a discreet visit to Highcliffe as the undergrowth was pretty dense for a dog walk or a relaxing stroll, not that anyone would be considering such a promenade as darkness fell.

The chirping and squawking was loud and Petra heard the noise, and, dragging the heavy laden lids free from their sticky encumbrance she looked out of the window. Outside, immigrant starlings, here for the Winter, fluttered around the wooded area, their feathers flapping as they moved with energy and speed. Petra, her bald head covered in thick tar, ridged by the searing burns form the poker, blinked, looking at the birds, her eyes like two beacons of life in the deathly landscape presented by the remnant of her abused head.

“A last look at the earth’s natural beauty huh Petra?” I said, my tone neither mocking nor sincere. She watched carefully, her swollen eyes widening and her bent nose sniffing quietly through the pin prick of an aperture that remained as a usable nostril. Was that emotion? Was she regretting this decision to consent to her own demise?

The sight of the birds was awaking something inside her. Suddenly the starlings were joined by a larger bird; a magpie. The magpie was chasing them causing frantic motion out of sync with what should have been the secure calmness of night’s fall. Petra blinked several times, her eyes not understanding. She stared, as the smaller bird’s song was not sweet music but a scream of distress.

“They are you, sweet Petronilla, a starling caught by Magpies …” The unusually prophetic and poetic words escaped my lips as I made the demon-whore’s fate all too clear.

Darkness fell and we got out of the cars. Petra was in no fit state to walk unaided and so we virtually carried her the distance into the undergrowth, our way forward lit only by the torch light from our cell phones.

We allowed the girl the comfort of a blanket to cover her abomination of a body but she was other-wise naked and bare footed. St Francis carried the broom handle, whittled to a point at both ends so that it could be buried into the ground whilst at the same time impaling Petra by the cunt.

I carried a bag inside of which was a variety of ropes, ties, tape and nails and the gun with which to fire them. We need just to find the right tree. Thin enough to crucify her on, yet thick enough to hold her, and isolated enough to make sure the blaze was contained. We only carried several small extinguishers and a couple of fire blankets in case the flames got out of hand.

We walked for several minutes, maybe fifteen or more before the tree of choice presented itself.

“Here you will die Petronilla De Meath," I announced in hushed tones.

It took only two of the Parishes to lift the ruined girl to the tree. There was no resistance, no panic, just a constant pathetic whimpering.

“It is for God’s mercy, and for your soul, we must do this thing.” I continued with my ceremonial pronouncements.

As Petra’s arms were pulled high, I moved to the tree and fired threes nails into her right palm and two through her wrist. She jerked and groaned, but made no attempt to pull her limb away. As her left hand was moved to the side of her right, I repeated the process, nailing that hand and wrist also to the tree. Then, to be certain that she could not tear herself free, I pulled heavy rope several times around the trunk securing her arms. I then did the same at her neck and stomach. The thick cord was pulled so tight that her body indented around it, and I knew the mercy was that she could already barely breath.

Petra was stuck fast to the trunk, any sort of escape now impossible as her head lolled to the front drooping onto her chest.

I stepped away allowing St Francis access. The two Parishes that had helped to mount Petra now hoisted her legs upwards and pulled them apart whilst the sharpened broom handle was pushed hard into the soft ground.

“No, God, no please …” Petra found pathetic words of entreaty, begging us not to … but we did. Slowly she was lowered onto the wooden spike as it breeched her already torn and despoiled labia and pushed its way into her womb.

"Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!"

Now she yelled and screamed forcing me to tape her mouth shut, leaving her wide eyes and muffled grunts to manifest the extent of the pain she now felt.

Bundles of kindling were thrown around the base of the trunk as we left Petra’s legs raised from the ground so that all her weight fell onto the spike, but free from their own bondage. We did not secure her ankles in any way – she was going nowhere anyway.

The demon-whore struggled weakly with the ropes, but not in any meaningful way, as petrol was doused around the kindling.

A match was lit by St Mary, who had asked for the honour, and now she looked at me for the nod which I duly gave. The only female Parish paused, considered, and looked up at Petra for a moment.

We all saw the girl’s eyes open wide, looking brighter than they had since she first arrived at my house, her stare direct and intrusive, thanking us and condemning us with the same gaze.

Then her body jerked, as if she was trying to pull free. I frowned, surely God could not be so cruel as to restore Petra at this time? The idea that she should be in her right mind to endure what was to come was … fascinating.

Surely not?

But then the girl sighed and, despite her bondage, sunk and inch or two as the wooden spike found its way through another portion of her internal organs.

Then St Mary dropped the match into the kindling.

Petra screamed into the tape gag as the flames grew high immediately, burning the kindling in seconds. It took only minutes for the flames to reach higher up and lick at her feet, lighting the broom handle, which allowed the fire to navigate its way towards her cunt.

Petra tried to twist away from the fire as it grew towards her, struggling against the ropes, her screams still muffled by the thick wad of duct tape.

The girl turned her tar-blackened face away from us, and her head fell once more, this time onto her shoulder. The flames were truly at her feet now. They burned up her legs, engulfing the broom handle. The smell of flesh burning was a clear and overpowering stench, as we all watched, awestruck by the scene unfolding before us.

The flesh on her feet was gone, and the meat of her body was next. The fire was kind as a cloud of smoke took her momentarily from our vision, fumes which I knew would hasten her death.

The pyre rose high in salvation, and the heinous vapours were sucked inexorably into Petra’s lungs. Her face fell forward, as with no more ceremony, death finally came over her.

The flames made full use of her body now, quickly covering all of her, feeding off her limbs and extremities, curling and blackening the skin, pulling back the lips and skin around the eyes, until the skeletal frame broke and slumped further down the tree.

I did not speak to anyone else while she burned. Instead, I simply watched with silent, resignation as she was put to the flames. At the end, I sighed, feeling genuinely emotional. Before turning to the six and saying …

“Let us all testify that God’s will was done here today. Rest in peace Pia.”



And so it came to pass.
A fitting epilogue will now be provided by our delightful victim ...

 

[Peony]

The Girl

My body... My body... you were once so pretty... Now you are just a vessel of pain, of hurt. You are nothing but pain. You have stopped, long ago now, being able to distinguish those new hurts... The knife, the whip... The pain on my body, inside my body... Shoved and torn and beaten and burned with something awful and ripped and...

My mind... So separate now... floating... Watching... Agonies and horrors and filth. Watching... Silent... I let my body scream and cry and whine and whimper and drool and cry... I leave that to my fucked-up broken bleeding abused body...

My mind... Petronilla's mind... We are dancing together... We are dancing as one...we are inside each other...

And my body? My wreck of a body... Insensible, destroyed... Naked...Broken... Carried... Lifted...Nailed... I know they are nailing me... My open arms spread wide, fixed... My head slumped, blood oozing from my ripped nose...My mouth open, panting in short breaths of air... My cunt fixed on a sharp spike... Another torment... Oh how they torment me...

And Petronilla, can you see me now? Am I you? You didn't suffer like this, did you? A short torture on the strappado, your fingers broken in the vice... And then you taunted them with your tales of witchcraft... And they took you outside and whipped you behind a cart... Through the parishes of Kilkenny... down rutted lanes... It sounds so far, but really it wasn't... Long enough though to tear the white skin of your back to ribbons, to cut your sides and your breasts... And they pulled your long, red hair over your white white shoulders and spat into your green green eyes and soon you were there, at the stake. And they lifted you, half-naked, onto the trivet. And they wound the chains around your ankles and thighs and waist and beneath your arms and fixed your bleeding wrists behind you and you gasped as they pulled the little three-legged stool away and your body hung two foot from the ground and your ruined back jerked down the rough wood of the stake. And they were all there... Everyone who had ever known you... Staring at your beautiful young body, at your lovely face, at your red red hair... And you looked at them and they were afraid... But you were not. You feared the pain, but not those who had come to kill you and watch you be killed... Now you could gaze at them and at their fear... And the fire was lit... and flames licked your bare feet and turned your shift to ashes and rolled up your legs and over your belly and the heat lifted your hair and it flew above you and the fire devoured you... Slowly... and your screams of agony terrified them and they saw bats and flies and horrors swirling in the air above the market place and ... and it lasted two long hours... and you became blackened and your limbs melted from you and your breasts swelled and burnt and your head rolled backwards and sideways and your eyes still gazed out and somehow, somehow, you smiled... And then your lips were gone and your face was gone... and you were bones and ashes...

And you? You vile people who have done this to me? Yes, yes, I wanted it... But did I want you to do it like this? This was your trip, more than mine... You pieces of filth... You could have hurt me so beautifully... You could have burned me so beautifully... Instead...This? Used, beasted... You didn't make this beautiful... You didn't make yourselves better... In that filthy cellar, on this tree, you just became the worst yous you could be... And now your game is over... You will remember me and be fearful... You will never sleep easy or dream well... My pain, the pain I so wanted... It was finished for me too long ago... My body became pain and one pain became another pain and another and the pain stopped being beautiful and now my journey is almost done...

My body makes one last effort... Raises itself on the nails... The fire encircles me... I take one long, last look and...

I fall...

And the spike pushes deep into me, and I open my mouth and swallow the fire and...

I breathe the fire out like a dragon, like a devil, like a witch...

And I cry out:

"ESME!!!!!!"

And I am no more. It is over.

 

[Fossy]

I'm delighted to announce that due to the usual excellent support offered by @Madiosi, "Postulating Petronilla", the tale from @Peony and I is now available in the CF archive.

Postulating Petronilla Full Illustrated Story