AnimaSinistra
Governor
Sorry, I had to select your text and copy/paste it to a word processor because it's black on black...
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Saying Hello And Trying My First Test Post
- Thread starter robcurtis
- Start date
Sorry, I had to select your text and copy/paste it to a word processor because it's black on black...
it happened by surprise...................... cruel I think with nailsIt could be very interesting! Make propositions......
and a cruel whipping of a nude maiden
a cruel journey with that nude cutie to the executionsite
nailing her wrists with 15 cm long nails on the beam she carried to the site and ..............wait for it with fear just like N8dreams nice pic................y're next sweetie
Pooper
Magistrate
Thanks for you comment - you encourage me to post more often - So many thanks
Pooper
Magistrate
I had a similar problem when I joined.
I was advised to use the default white background (not so sexy but its what most members use).
You can switch by going to your Preferences menu and selecting the Default Style (rather than the Blackened style)
Thanks for your interest anyway - hope you liked the start of the tale.
With any luck Linda will allow me to continue the story as it is all about her
linda r
Governor
linda r
Governor
or dreamingof this one? (darkspot)
I believe mine would hang down much further! Oh, and do like my sweater...? ;-)
Attachments
linda r
Governor
Ok, then I'll just add on to the existing "Rack Torture" thread. No use clogging the forum with redundant subjects...but then, you can never have too many racks! ;-)
Attachments
linda r
Governor
42DDin my country people said: (Ze slaat je er mee c m de oren) think about it.........translation in a couple of days)
I'm sorry I would be nicely
linda r
Governor
Here is my first story. It tells of how I met my current husband, and it is 78% true. It's not "War and Peace", but every story has a beginning.
Chris and I met about twelve years ago, when we were both working for the season in Williamsburg, Virginia, as "Colonists". These were people (mostly actors) dressed in the authentic dress of the period, and who acted as if they really lived in the colonial village of Williamsburg in 1776, demonstrating different skills of the time: (weaving, farming, carpentry, baking, etc. etc.) He worked as a carpenter in a “Ye Olde Carpentry Shoppe”, and I was the hostess in “The Kings Arms Tavern"...a very nice place to dine.
So, one fine summer morning, I'm walking to work, and as I pass the “carpenter’s closet” (as he put it), my heel got caught in a hole in the cobblestone street and was snapped right off, which sent me sprawling with my feet in the air!
Of course Chris had seen me take the fall, and came rushing, no...He “sauntered” to my rescue.
We introduced ourselves, and after a brief review of the preceding moments, he gallantly offered to repair my heel.
I had time to spare, so we repaired to his shop, where I removed my shoe, and sat down on a bench to await its’ “restoration”. As I looked around at all the wooden artifacts around me, I was struck with a piece that stood right before me.
It was the bottom half of a set of free-standing foot-stocks.
Now I am a stocks fanatic, and have been since I was small, and my heart started to pound. I had never been this close to real stocks before, having only seen them in the town square, being used as “photo ops” for the tourists. These weren’t the same though, as they were made of thicker, heavier wood.
Chris, having his back to me as he sat at his bench, didn’t hear me quietly removed the other shoe, and place my ankles side by side into the half-moon shaped notches. I was slowly twisting and rubbing my feet together, imagining what it would be like to have the top portion lowered, and be locked into them, when he turned suddenly to give me back my other shoe. The look on his face was unmistakable as he stared at my bare feet and burgundy toe nail polish...he was a bare-feet-man.
I quickly removed my feet, put my shoes back on, stood up and offered to pay for the repair, but he would have none of it. As we chatted, I learned that he was a carpenter by trade, and had been there for the past two seasons. This was my first season, so he offered to take me on a tour of the village that afternoon when we both were off...show me the ropes, so to speak.
Actually, all I could think of for the rest of the day was those stocks, and later that night, when my shift at the restaurant was finished, I hurriedly went to see if his shop was still open. The doors were closed, yet a light shone from the side window. I tiptoed over, and peered in. There was Chris, leaning over a piece of wood, lovingly sanding it. It was the upper half of the stocks, and as he carefully slid it down, he matched it perfectly to its lower mate, the light shining through the four holes in its face. Then I saw him stoop as he did something to the other end with a screwdriver. He finished, stood up and opened the stocks, and I realized that he had put a hinge on one end. He reached for something metallic on the stool, and he went to the other side. With his back to me I couldn’t see what he was doing until he stepped aside. He had installed a latch on the other end, which would allow the stocks to be locked once they were closed.
I knocked softly on the door, half-praying that he didn’t hear me, or the sound of my heart as it slammed against my chest. After a few seconds, I began to breathe again, and turned to tiptoe quietly away.
I hadn’t gotten two yards when the door suddenly opened, and I saw my shadow thrown across the cobblestone street. I turned and saw Chris’ silhouette against the open door, like a jailer coming to fetch me from my dungeon cell, (yes, my imagination was definitely in fourth gear), and he softly bade me enter. I wanted to turn and run, but the sight of the stocks standing in the soft glow of his workshop called to me as nothing had ever done before.
I can’t explain it, and I found that my feet had a mind of their own as they propelled me into the shop, my heart beating faster and faster. He closed the door, and drew the curtains in front of the windows…we were alone. We stood awkwardly for a moment, exchanging pleasantries and inquiring how each others day went. He said that it was too hot during the day to really get any work done (remember, no air-conditioning back in Ye Olde Days), so he worked mostly at night, and all I could muster was in kvetching about “those tourists”. My mouth was dry as I casually remarked (or tried to) that it looked like he had finished his stocks. He said the basic construction was done, now he had to stain and “distress” it, so it looked like an antique; then quickly changing the subject, he asked if my heel had held up. My heart sank, and in a second I felt that my hopes were for naught, but at the next moment I suddenly said that it felt loose, and could he look at it again? I removed my shoe, handed it to him and sat myself down, as before, in front of the stocks. As he fiddled with it at his bench, I removed the other shoe and, once again…again, rested my feet, side by side into the half-moon shaped notches of the open stocks, They felt snug around my ankles, like they were made especially for me; not like the oversized holes in the ones in the Town Square. He all but gasped when he saw my bare feet front of him, and without a word, he slowly lowered the top half, and I got the unmistakable impression that he was savoring every second as the wood closed around my ankles, and he locked the latch with a snap. He then went to the wall, and retrieved a set of iron pillywinks, (shackles in Ye Olde Days), pulled my arms behind my back, and locked them about my wrists. My heart was beating so fast with excitement; I thought that I was going to have a heart attack.
I almost did when he produced an iron brank, (gag in Ye Olde Days), fitted the large leather gag in my mouth and fastened the metal cage around my head, locking the collar piece with a small padlock. He moved swiftly, putting out all the lights in his shop, save for one candle which he placed on his desk, casting an eerie shadow of me on the wall. I saw my silhouette, sitting, my feet sticking out of the thick shadow of the stocks and my hands fastened behind me. It was like being in a dungeon. Then, he gathered some things from his workbench, and sat down in front of me.
He started stroking, very lightly, the bare soles of my feet, and I began to giggle. He increased the stroking, and my giggling became more pronounced, and turned into full-fledged laughter when he changed from fingers to stiff feathers. My feet twitched, clenched and writhed as he tried everything from feathers to bristle brushes, to a small spiked wheel device called a “Whartenberg Wheel” used for nerve sensitivity. Well, my feet were sure sensitive to it, for as he slowly wheeled it up and down, it sent electric shocks down my feet, and sent me thrashing and gasping through the brank.
He paused, allowing me to catch my breath; my eyes were blurred with tears, the leather gag swollen with my saliva, effectively sealing my mouth! He leaned close to me, and asked me ever so gently if I had had enough.
I never thought that I would have this experience again, so I shook my head emphatically “No!”, then looked into his eyes, where I saw the candles reflection.
Or was it the light that was in his eyes…
You know the times when you are absolutely, positively, most sincerely, and completely certain that this was a defining moment in your life? This was one of those moments. I realized in a nano-second that this was the man for me. One with whom I can explore this part of my sexuality. One who would be as excited as I am about Dungeons and Torture chambers…just imagine! I realized that I would have to act fast if I wanted to ah…secure this position. So I just kept shaking my head. He responded by procuring a ladder from the corner, setting it up astride me, and climbing up a short distance until he retrieved a length of thick chain from a hoist on the ceiling. He then climbed down, and attached the end of chain to the top of my brank. He returned the ladder, and then went to a wheel on the wall which the chain was wound around. He turned the wheel, and the chain ascended up towards he ceiling, and I whimpered as he continued to stretch me by the neck until I was almost lifted off the bench.
Then he started on the soles of my feet with a riding crop. He spanked them lightly, at first, then gained strength and intensity until I was crying fully, and pleading for him to stop. He did pause to let me breath, as he tied my toes together, and secured them to the handle on the top of the stocks. He continued to torture my reddened, sensitized feet for the better part of an hour, alternating from tickling to spanking with everything from a crop to a paint stirrer.
I was in agony and ecstasy at the same time.
After what seemed hours, he released me from my fetters (bondage in Ye Ole’ Days), opened the stocks, sat down on the open end, put my feet in his lap, and massaging them tenderly while I dried my eyes, and took massive gulps of water. I then began to rub my feet together, spreading and flexing my long toes. His eyes were wide, and his breathing became shallower as I slowly rubbed his growing errection up and down with my heels. He unfastened the top button of his pants and pulled them opened, and I slid my feet inside, sandwiching his cock between my long, soft, silky-smooth soles. I began to stroke him, with one foot pressed against the outside part of his cock, holding it steady, while the top of the other was sliding up and down the underside of his shaft, flicking at that hyper sensitive spot just under the lip of the head.
His eyes closed, his breathing coming shorter, harder, as I rubbed faster and faster. He came…or rather exploded, spraying his jism all over my feet, not to mention everything else. He was panting, gasping for air; which I took as a good sign.
Then I suddenly leaned over and kissed him; long and lovingly.
We became more than friends, and saw each other when we weren’t working, indulging in other “Medieval Re-Enactments” after hours in the privacy of his shop. We parted company when the season was over, and corresponded over the next three years via mail (real mail). It truly was a long distance relationship, for I was in New York, while he was in Ontario. However, we did manage to visit each other, and I spent wonderful Christmases with him and his family.
It took a full five years to really “get together”...but in that one evening in his shop, the seed was sewn...and the rest is history…or herstory, whichever side of the stocks you are looking at.
Linda
Chris and I met about twelve years ago, when we were both working for the season in Williamsburg, Virginia, as "Colonists". These were people (mostly actors) dressed in the authentic dress of the period, and who acted as if they really lived in the colonial village of Williamsburg in 1776, demonstrating different skills of the time: (weaving, farming, carpentry, baking, etc. etc.) He worked as a carpenter in a “Ye Olde Carpentry Shoppe”, and I was the hostess in “The Kings Arms Tavern"...a very nice place to dine.
So, one fine summer morning, I'm walking to work, and as I pass the “carpenter’s closet” (as he put it), my heel got caught in a hole in the cobblestone street and was snapped right off, which sent me sprawling with my feet in the air!
Of course Chris had seen me take the fall, and came rushing, no...He “sauntered” to my rescue.
We introduced ourselves, and after a brief review of the preceding moments, he gallantly offered to repair my heel.
I had time to spare, so we repaired to his shop, where I removed my shoe, and sat down on a bench to await its’ “restoration”. As I looked around at all the wooden artifacts around me, I was struck with a piece that stood right before me.
It was the bottom half of a set of free-standing foot-stocks.
Now I am a stocks fanatic, and have been since I was small, and my heart started to pound. I had never been this close to real stocks before, having only seen them in the town square, being used as “photo ops” for the tourists. These weren’t the same though, as they were made of thicker, heavier wood.
Chris, having his back to me as he sat at his bench, didn’t hear me quietly removed the other shoe, and place my ankles side by side into the half-moon shaped notches. I was slowly twisting and rubbing my feet together, imagining what it would be like to have the top portion lowered, and be locked into them, when he turned suddenly to give me back my other shoe. The look on his face was unmistakable as he stared at my bare feet and burgundy toe nail polish...he was a bare-feet-man.
I quickly removed my feet, put my shoes back on, stood up and offered to pay for the repair, but he would have none of it. As we chatted, I learned that he was a carpenter by trade, and had been there for the past two seasons. This was my first season, so he offered to take me on a tour of the village that afternoon when we both were off...show me the ropes, so to speak.
Actually, all I could think of for the rest of the day was those stocks, and later that night, when my shift at the restaurant was finished, I hurriedly went to see if his shop was still open. The doors were closed, yet a light shone from the side window. I tiptoed over, and peered in. There was Chris, leaning over a piece of wood, lovingly sanding it. It was the upper half of the stocks, and as he carefully slid it down, he matched it perfectly to its lower mate, the light shining through the four holes in its face. Then I saw him stoop as he did something to the other end with a screwdriver. He finished, stood up and opened the stocks, and I realized that he had put a hinge on one end. He reached for something metallic on the stool, and he went to the other side. With his back to me I couldn’t see what he was doing until he stepped aside. He had installed a latch on the other end, which would allow the stocks to be locked once they were closed.
I knocked softly on the door, half-praying that he didn’t hear me, or the sound of my heart as it slammed against my chest. After a few seconds, I began to breathe again, and turned to tiptoe quietly away.
I hadn’t gotten two yards when the door suddenly opened, and I saw my shadow thrown across the cobblestone street. I turned and saw Chris’ silhouette against the open door, like a jailer coming to fetch me from my dungeon cell, (yes, my imagination was definitely in fourth gear), and he softly bade me enter. I wanted to turn and run, but the sight of the stocks standing in the soft glow of his workshop called to me as nothing had ever done before.
I can’t explain it, and I found that my feet had a mind of their own as they propelled me into the shop, my heart beating faster and faster. He closed the door, and drew the curtains in front of the windows…we were alone. We stood awkwardly for a moment, exchanging pleasantries and inquiring how each others day went. He said that it was too hot during the day to really get any work done (remember, no air-conditioning back in Ye Olde Days), so he worked mostly at night, and all I could muster was in kvetching about “those tourists”. My mouth was dry as I casually remarked (or tried to) that it looked like he had finished his stocks. He said the basic construction was done, now he had to stain and “distress” it, so it looked like an antique; then quickly changing the subject, he asked if my heel had held up. My heart sank, and in a second I felt that my hopes were for naught, but at the next moment I suddenly said that it felt loose, and could he look at it again? I removed my shoe, handed it to him and sat myself down, as before, in front of the stocks. As he fiddled with it at his bench, I removed the other shoe and, once again…again, rested my feet, side by side into the half-moon shaped notches of the open stocks, They felt snug around my ankles, like they were made especially for me; not like the oversized holes in the ones in the Town Square. He all but gasped when he saw my bare feet front of him, and without a word, he slowly lowered the top half, and I got the unmistakable impression that he was savoring every second as the wood closed around my ankles, and he locked the latch with a snap. He then went to the wall, and retrieved a set of iron pillywinks, (shackles in Ye Olde Days), pulled my arms behind my back, and locked them about my wrists. My heart was beating so fast with excitement; I thought that I was going to have a heart attack.
I almost did when he produced an iron brank, (gag in Ye Olde Days), fitted the large leather gag in my mouth and fastened the metal cage around my head, locking the collar piece with a small padlock. He moved swiftly, putting out all the lights in his shop, save for one candle which he placed on his desk, casting an eerie shadow of me on the wall. I saw my silhouette, sitting, my feet sticking out of the thick shadow of the stocks and my hands fastened behind me. It was like being in a dungeon. Then, he gathered some things from his workbench, and sat down in front of me.
He started stroking, very lightly, the bare soles of my feet, and I began to giggle. He increased the stroking, and my giggling became more pronounced, and turned into full-fledged laughter when he changed from fingers to stiff feathers. My feet twitched, clenched and writhed as he tried everything from feathers to bristle brushes, to a small spiked wheel device called a “Whartenberg Wheel” used for nerve sensitivity. Well, my feet were sure sensitive to it, for as he slowly wheeled it up and down, it sent electric shocks down my feet, and sent me thrashing and gasping through the brank.
He paused, allowing me to catch my breath; my eyes were blurred with tears, the leather gag swollen with my saliva, effectively sealing my mouth! He leaned close to me, and asked me ever so gently if I had had enough.
I never thought that I would have this experience again, so I shook my head emphatically “No!”, then looked into his eyes, where I saw the candles reflection.
Or was it the light that was in his eyes…
You know the times when you are absolutely, positively, most sincerely, and completely certain that this was a defining moment in your life? This was one of those moments. I realized in a nano-second that this was the man for me. One with whom I can explore this part of my sexuality. One who would be as excited as I am about Dungeons and Torture chambers…just imagine! I realized that I would have to act fast if I wanted to ah…secure this position. So I just kept shaking my head. He responded by procuring a ladder from the corner, setting it up astride me, and climbing up a short distance until he retrieved a length of thick chain from a hoist on the ceiling. He then climbed down, and attached the end of chain to the top of my brank. He returned the ladder, and then went to a wheel on the wall which the chain was wound around. He turned the wheel, and the chain ascended up towards he ceiling, and I whimpered as he continued to stretch me by the neck until I was almost lifted off the bench.
Then he started on the soles of my feet with a riding crop. He spanked them lightly, at first, then gained strength and intensity until I was crying fully, and pleading for him to stop. He did pause to let me breath, as he tied my toes together, and secured them to the handle on the top of the stocks. He continued to torture my reddened, sensitized feet for the better part of an hour, alternating from tickling to spanking with everything from a crop to a paint stirrer.
I was in agony and ecstasy at the same time.
After what seemed hours, he released me from my fetters (bondage in Ye Ole’ Days), opened the stocks, sat down on the open end, put my feet in his lap, and massaging them tenderly while I dried my eyes, and took massive gulps of water. I then began to rub my feet together, spreading and flexing my long toes. His eyes were wide, and his breathing became shallower as I slowly rubbed his growing errection up and down with my heels. He unfastened the top button of his pants and pulled them opened, and I slid my feet inside, sandwiching his cock between my long, soft, silky-smooth soles. I began to stroke him, with one foot pressed against the outside part of his cock, holding it steady, while the top of the other was sliding up and down the underside of his shaft, flicking at that hyper sensitive spot just under the lip of the head.
His eyes closed, his breathing coming shorter, harder, as I rubbed faster and faster. He came…or rather exploded, spraying his jism all over my feet, not to mention everything else. He was panting, gasping for air; which I took as a good sign.
Then I suddenly leaned over and kissed him; long and lovingly.
We became more than friends, and saw each other when we weren’t working, indulging in other “Medieval Re-Enactments” after hours in the privacy of his shop. We parted company when the season was over, and corresponded over the next three years via mail (real mail). It truly was a long distance relationship, for I was in New York, while he was in Ontario. However, we did manage to visit each other, and I spent wonderful Christmases with him and his family.
It took a full five years to really “get together”...but in that one evening in his shop, the seed was sewn...and the rest is history…or herstory, whichever side of the stocks you are looking at.
Attachments
No need to go to that trouble, you can change your preference as Pooper said,
or you can toggle between 'blackend' and 'default' by clicking on the left-hand end of the bottom bar on any page,
or just running your cursor over the text will highlight it in a contrasting colour and usually make it readable.
AnimaSinistra
Governor
Thank you Eulalia, kind as always! Fortunately I liked Pooper's story and saved it in my word processor!
A great piece of writing Linda, I look forward to lots more!
The word pillywinks appeals to me. In my Scots language, and in the Oxford English Dictionary, it's
'an instrument of torture for squeezing the fingers, supposed to resemble the thumkins or thumbscrew'
(and the OED supports this with several grim citations from Scottish trials of the 16th century,
they seem to have favoured the pillywinks for women, the butis on the legs for men)
It seems the word came to be used for instruments of restraint rather than torture across the Atlantic.
