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The Competition
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
A young monk in one of the competing parties stays in the background, acutely conscious of his physical arousal. The young women in front of him, naked, whipped, writhing sensuously - too much for a sexually inexperienced young man to handle! But he did not regret being chosen to come on this trip, not one bit!
With an effort he tears his eyes away from the scene, he see a young servant girl behind the Cardinal's party. She is spellbound, just as he is. Her face, her stance signal her intense interest in proceedings. A pretty girl, her eyes meet his across the room, across the spectacle that so enthralled them both . . . . . . . .
Last edited:
mongo
Governor
Kumbaya Lawd KumbayaAnd we all sang the songs of peace
We shall over cuhuhm, we shall overcome
We shall overcome some day
M
montycrusto
Guest
So remember, from now on, you can only move in diagonal lines.When I realised that I've become his bishop!
M
montycrusto
Guest
Beneath the vasty vaulted ceiling,
See the nubile novices kneeling
On the cold and polished stones,
While churchmen ogle from their thrones.
Four penitents await their purging,
Roped and ready for their scourging.
Throats half-throttled, nooses tight,
Whimpering with febrile fright,
Bucking, thrashing as they're flailed,
Their luscious flesh with whips assailed,
The girls are played like groaning fiddles
As the lash curls round their middles,
Striping midriff, rump and breast,
And so begins the second test.
mongo
Governor
Like BUNNIESAhhh, the side stories are multiplying
'See the nubile novices kneeling -
Monty knows just how we're feeling...'
it's very good, too -
nicely tripping trochees and delicate dactyls,
echoes of 'Hiawatha'
mongo
Governor
Bucking thrashing nubile novices......pardon my drool.....'See the nubile novices kneeling -
Monty knows just how we're feeling...'
it's very good, too -
nicely tripping trochees and delicate dactyls,
echoes of 'Hiawatha'
M
montycrusto
Guest
I think you've got the Wrongfellowechoes of 'Hiawatha'
mongo
Governor
B@aaaaaaaaaad! Bad bad badI think you've got the Wrongfellow
M
montycrusto
Guest
no refunds
M
montycrusto
Guest
"tripping trochees and delicate dactyls" I see Eu, what Eu did there....
Last edited by a moderator:
mongo
Governor
Ware the Pun Police sport
16. With the Cardinal's frenzied, nearly hysterical, "To the posts, to the posts! Scourge them, scourge them; make them bleed!" still ringing in my ears, I was hustled off by Ethelbert and Tuck to the nearest stone column and slammed, face first, against its cold hard surface.
As the two monks secured my wrists over my head, Thessela was dragged past, kicking and screaming, to be stood up against the next column. In a much more orderly fashion, Messaline and Eulalia took their places facing a pair of columns on the other side of the nave.
I shifted about uneasily, pulling experimentally on the irons holding my wrists, trying to find a comfortable position, tumescent nipples chafing against the coarse sandstone. The nuns and monks assigned by their teams to carry out the scourging of the novices took their assigned positions, while the assembled onlookers backed away to make room.
I turned my head to catch a glimpse of Sister Hilda standing behind me ... the polished handle of a knout held firmly in her hand, its long braided thong tipped by a wicked-looking knotted end, or "bite".
Waiting eagerly for the signal to begin, she flashed me an evil smile. I had been whipped before, by Hilda herself back at the Abbey, but never with an instrument as menacing in appearance as that which Hilda held in her grip. I knew this would be different. I looked around, seeking distraction ... anything that could take my thoughts away from the coming horror. I began scanning faces, many with eyes closed in prayer, but many more with faces painted in an unforgettable expression of highly aroused, almost rapturous, anticipation.
In particular I noticed a young nun, part of the Cardinal's entourage … tall and thin, black hair and brown eyes … drifting right and left behind the others, craning her neck for a better vantage point and staring intently at me ... or was it Thessela? This nun’s expression was certainly one of arousal just like all the others, but also somehow different, perhaps wistful or desirous of something more and personal.
My gaze also came to rest on a young monk, part of the Scottish team, whose interest was directed not at me or at the other novices stretched against their sandstone columns, but at the tall nun.
And then there was the Cardinal himself, who in some ways seemed even more aroused by what was about to take place than anyone else. He strode back and forth, unable to hold still, agitated, restless, a dark red telltale stain spreading on the front of his robes.
All was in readiness. Bishop Wragg stepped forward, raised one hand to get everyone’s attention. All heads, including my own and those of the other three novices, turned toward him. He waited until the church was silent, save for Thessela sobbing to herself and muttering over and over, “Please, no. Please, no.” Then, bringing his hand down with a dramatic flourish, he shouted "Give them 30! Begin!"
I heard the nearly simultaneous crack of four whips and felt the first knotted “bite” of Hilda’s knout grab at my ribs and slice across my bare back. I winced and pressed myself tighter against the column. A moment later the second lash, ripped across my back in the opposite direction, the knotted tip tearing at the side of my left breast. I recoiled, throwing my head back in full-throated scream.
The scourging proceeded furiously; all four of us twisting and writhing under the relentlessly brutal assault. Our pitiful screams, shrieks and cries echoed off the stone vaulting overhead and reverberated through the great Cathedral’s cavernous interior.
My back was aflame with pain. Hilda was in her glory, expertly laying lashes up and down my bare back, ranging from shoulders to hips, and striking with such force that my body twisted from side to side, exposing my breasts, ribs and tummy to the occasional punishing strike. The light tan sandstone surface of my column was soon spattered with specks of blood.
After what seemed an eternity of pain and suffering, I took my thirtieth lash low across my as yet unmarked ass cheeks, the “bite” catching and clawing at the tender flesh of my inner thigh. Having crisscrossed my entire back with welts, Hilda was opening up new territory.
But then, mercifully, it was over. Friar Tuck was at my side, reaching up and releasing my left wrist. I swung around, hanging from my right wrist; my blood-streaked, ravaged back banging against and scraping painfully against the column.
Across the way, Messaline and Eulalia had also been left to hang from one wrist, heads bowed, panting, bodies covered with glistening sweat. One side of the Scot novice’s loincloth had come undone. The small cloth clung precariously to one thigh, just below her exposed sex, causing a Scottish nun to rush forward, falling to her knees and frantically attempting to retie the loose loincloth, presumably because the rules forbade its loss this early in the Competition.
The French girl seemed to have suffered terribly, perhaps more than anyone else. She seemed barely conscious, her breasts, hips and tummy were heavily scored with angry red lash marks; the column behind her smeared with blood from her scourged back.
Thessela sat forlornly on the floor at the base of her column, head between raised knees.
The assembly pressed in close, whispering excitedly to one another, as the Cardinal and his entourage moved from novice to novice, inspecting, awarding performance points to the respective teams for the brutality and efficiency of the scourgings.
I eyed him warily at he inspected me, poking at my wounds. I wondered what kind of score Hilda had earned for the Abbey at my expense. She stood nearby, proudly and expectantly, hands on hips, tunic open in front; chest heaving from her exertions. He nodded appreciatively in her direction and dictated a score to his aide.
Turning away from me, he came last to Thessela, sitting on the floor. He stopped, reached down, grabbed her by the hair, jerked her head back, gazed at her tear-streaked face, let her head drop, and grunted something to his closest aide, who scribbled a number in a small book, and closed it.
The Cardinal returned to his seat. Bishop Wragg took his place on the steps leading up to the choir, cleared his throat to attract attention, then pointed down the nave and called, “Approach”.
The crowd of assembled nuns, monks and priests, who had closed in to witness the scoring, now backed away and parted in order to make way for the Abbesses, who came down the aisle, robes swishing, holding in their hands four crowns of thorns.
Behind them trailed eight monks, lugging four heavy wooden crosses.
TO BE CONTINUED
mongo
Governor
[QUOthat's justarbaria1, post: 214453, member: 13545"]
16. With the Cardinal's frenzied, nearly hysterical, "To the posts, to the posts! Scourge them, scourge them; make them bleed!" still ringing in my ears, I was hustled off by Ethelbert and Tuck to the nearest stone column and slammed, face first, against its cold hard surface.
As the two monks secured my wrists over my head, Thessela was dragged past, kicking and screaming, to be stood up against the next column. In a much more orderly fashion, Messaline and Eulalia took their places facing a pair of columns on the other side of the nave.
I shifted about uneasily, pulling experimentally on the irons holding my wrists, trying to find a comfortable position, tumescent nipples chafing against the coarse sandstone. The nuns and monks assigned by their teams to carry out the scourging of the novices took their assigned positions, while the assembled onlookers backed away to make room.
I turned my head to catch a glimpse of Sister Hilda standing behind me ... the polished handle of a knout held firmly in her hand, its long braided thong tipped by a wicked-looking knotted end, or "bite".
Waiting eagerly for the signal to begin, she flashed me an evil smile. I had been whipped before, by Hilda herself back at the Abbey, but never with an instrument as menacing in appearance as that which in Hilda held in her grip. I knew this would be different. I looked around, seeking distraction ... anything that could take my thoughts away from the coming horror. I began scanning faces, many with eyes closed in prayer, but many more with faces painted in an unforgettable expression of highly aroused, almost rapturous, anticipation.
In particular I noticed a young nun, part of the Cardinal's entourage … tall and thin, black hair and brown eyes … drifting right and left behind the others, craning her neck for a better vantage point and staring intently at me ... or was it Thessela? This nun’s expression was certainly one of arousal just like all the others, but also somehow different, perhaps wistful or desirous of something more and personal.
My gaze also came to rest on a young monk, part of the Scottish team, whose interest was directed not at me or at the other novices stretched against their sandstone columns, but at the tall nun.
And then there was the Cardinal himself, who in some ways seemed even more aroused by what was about to take place than anyone else. He strode back and forth, unable to hold still, agitated, restless, a dark red telltale stain spreading on the front of his robes.
All was in readiness. Bishop Wragg stepped forward, raised one hand to get everyone’s attention. All heads, including my own and those of the other three novices, turned toward him. He waited until the church was silent, save for Thessela sobbing to herself and muttering over and over, “Please, no. Please, no.” Then, bringing his hand down with a dramatic flourish, he shouted "Give them 30! Begin!"
I heard the nearly simultaneous crack of four whips and felt the first knotted “bite” of Hilda’s knout grab at my ribs and slice across my bare back. I winced and pressed myself tighter against the column. A moment later the second lash, ripped across my back in the opposite direction, the knotted tip tearing at the side of my left breast. I recoiled, throwing my head back in full-throated scream.
The scourging proceeded furiously; all four of us twisting and writhing under the relentlessly brutal assault. Our pitiful screams, shrieks and cries echoed off the stone vaulting overhead and reverberated through the great Cathedral’s cavernous interior.
My back was aflame with pain. Hilda was in her glory, expertly laying lashes up and down my bare back, ranging from shoulders to hips, and striking with such force that my body twisted from side to side, exposing my breasts, ribs and tummy to the occasional punishing strike. The light tan sandstone surface of my column was soon spattered with specks of blood.
After what seemed an eternity of pain and suffering, I took my thirtieth lash low across my as yet unmarked ass cheeks, the “bite” catching and clawing at the tender flesh of my inner thigh. Having crisscrossed my entire back with welts, Hilda was opening up new territory.
But then, mercifully, it was over. Friar Tuck was at my side, reaching up and releasing my left wrist. I swung around, hanging from my right wrist; my blood-streaked, ravaged back banging against and scraping painfully against the column.
Across the way, Messaline and Eulalia had also been left to hang from one wrist, heads bowed, panting, bodies covered with glistening sweat. One side of the Scot novice’s loincloth had come undone. The small cloth clung precariously to one thigh, just below her exposed sex, causing a Scottish nun to rush forward, falling to her knees and frantically attempting to retie the loose loincloth, presumably because the rules forbade its loss this early in the Competition.
The French girl seemed to have suffered terribly, perhaps more than anyone else. She seemed barely conscious, her breasts, hips and tummy were heavily scored with angry red lash marks; the column behind her smeared with blood from her scourged back.
Thessela sat forlornly on the floor at the base of her column, head between raised knees.
The assembly pressed in close, whispering excitedly to one another, as the Cardinal and his entourage moved from novice to novice, inspecting, awarding performance points to the respective teams for the brutality and efficiency of the scourgings.
I eyed him warily at he inspected me, poking at my wounds. I wondered what kind of score Hilda had earned for the Abbey at my expense. She stood nearby, proudly and expectantly, hands on hips, tunic open in front; chest heaving from her exertions. He nodded appreciatively in her direction and dictated a score to his aide.
Turning away from me, he came last to Thessela, sitting on the floor. He stopped, reached down, grabbed her by the hair, jerked her head back, gazed at her tear-streaked face, let her head drop, and grunted something to his closest aide, who scribbled a number in a small book, and closed it.
The Cardinal returned to his seat. Bishop Wragg took his place on the steps leading up to the choir, cleared his throat to attract attention, then pointed down the nave and called, “Approach”.
The crowd of assembled nuns, monks and priests, who had closed in to witness the scoring, now backed away and parted in order to make way for the Abbesses, who came down the aisle, robes swishing, holding in their hands four crowns of thorns.
Behind them trailed eight monks, lugging four heavy wooden crosses.
TO BE CONTINUED[/QUOTE]
Now thats just KNOUT gneiss
16. With the Cardinal's frenzied, nearly hysterical, "To the posts, to the posts! Scourge them, scourge them; make them bleed!" still ringing in my ears, I was hustled off by Ethelbert and Tuck to the nearest stone column and slammed, face first, against its cold hard surface.
As the two monks secured my wrists over my head, Thessela was dragged past, kicking and screaming, to be stood up against the next column. In a much more orderly fashion, Messaline and Eulalia took their places facing a pair of columns on the other side of the nave.
I shifted about uneasily, pulling experimentally on the irons holding my wrists, trying to find a comfortable position, tumescent nipples chafing against the coarse sandstone. The nuns and monks assigned by their teams to carry out the scourging of the novices took their assigned positions, while the assembled onlookers backed away to make room.
I turned my head to catch a glimpse of Sister Hilda standing behind me ... the polished handle of a knout held firmly in her hand, its long braided thong tipped by a wicked-looking knotted end, or "bite".
Waiting eagerly for the signal to begin, she flashed me an evil smile. I had been whipped before, by Hilda herself back at the Abbey, but never with an instrument as menacing in appearance as that which in Hilda held in her grip. I knew this would be different. I looked around, seeking distraction ... anything that could take my thoughts away from the coming horror. I began scanning faces, many with eyes closed in prayer, but many more with faces painted in an unforgettable expression of highly aroused, almost rapturous, anticipation.
In particular I noticed a young nun, part of the Cardinal's entourage … tall and thin, black hair and brown eyes … drifting right and left behind the others, craning her neck for a better vantage point and staring intently at me ... or was it Thessela? This nun’s expression was certainly one of arousal just like all the others, but also somehow different, perhaps wistful or desirous of something more and personal.
My gaze also came to rest on a young monk, part of the Scottish team, whose interest was directed not at me or at the other novices stretched against their sandstone columns, but at the tall nun.
And then there was the Cardinal himself, who in some ways seemed even more aroused by what was about to take place than anyone else. He strode back and forth, unable to hold still, agitated, restless, a dark red telltale stain spreading on the front of his robes.
All was in readiness. Bishop Wragg stepped forward, raised one hand to get everyone’s attention. All heads, including my own and those of the other three novices, turned toward him. He waited until the church was silent, save for Thessela sobbing to herself and muttering over and over, “Please, no. Please, no.” Then, bringing his hand down with a dramatic flourish, he shouted "Give them 30! Begin!"
I heard the nearly simultaneous crack of four whips and felt the first knotted “bite” of Hilda’s knout grab at my ribs and slice across my bare back. I winced and pressed myself tighter against the column. A moment later the second lash, ripped across my back in the opposite direction, the knotted tip tearing at the side of my left breast. I recoiled, throwing my head back in full-throated scream.
The scourging proceeded furiously; all four of us twisting and writhing under the relentlessly brutal assault. Our pitiful screams, shrieks and cries echoed off the stone vaulting overhead and reverberated through the great Cathedral’s cavernous interior.
My back was aflame with pain. Hilda was in her glory, expertly laying lashes up and down my bare back, ranging from shoulders to hips, and striking with such force that my body twisted from side to side, exposing my breasts, ribs and tummy to the occasional punishing strike. The light tan sandstone surface of my column was soon spattered with specks of blood.
After what seemed an eternity of pain and suffering, I took my thirtieth lash low across my as yet unmarked ass cheeks, the “bite” catching and clawing at the tender flesh of my inner thigh. Having crisscrossed my entire back with welts, Hilda was opening up new territory.
But then, mercifully, it was over. Friar Tuck was at my side, reaching up and releasing my left wrist. I swung around, hanging from my right wrist; my blood-streaked, ravaged back banging against and scraping painfully against the column.
Across the way, Messaline and Eulalia had also been left to hang from one wrist, heads bowed, panting, bodies covered with glistening sweat. One side of the Scot novice’s loincloth had come undone. The small cloth clung precariously to one thigh, just below her exposed sex, causing a Scottish nun to rush forward, falling to her knees and frantically attempting to retie the loose loincloth, presumably because the rules forbade its loss this early in the Competition.
The French girl seemed to have suffered terribly, perhaps more than anyone else. She seemed barely conscious, her breasts, hips and tummy were heavily scored with angry red lash marks; the column behind her smeared with blood from her scourged back.
Thessela sat forlornly on the floor at the base of her column, head between raised knees.
The assembly pressed in close, whispering excitedly to one another, as the Cardinal and his entourage moved from novice to novice, inspecting, awarding performance points to the respective teams for the brutality and efficiency of the scourgings.
I eyed him warily at he inspected me, poking at my wounds. I wondered what kind of score Hilda had earned for the Abbey at my expense. She stood nearby, proudly and expectantly, hands on hips, tunic open in front; chest heaving from her exertions. He nodded appreciatively in her direction and dictated a score to his aide.
Turning away from me, he came last to Thessela, sitting on the floor. He stopped, reached down, grabbed her by the hair, jerked her head back, gazed at her tear-streaked face, let her head drop, and grunted something to his closest aide, who scribbled a number in a small book, and closed it.
The Cardinal returned to his seat. Bishop Wragg took his place on the steps leading up to the choir, cleared his throat to attract attention, then pointed down the nave and called, “Approach”.
The crowd of assembled nuns, monks and priests, who had closed in to witness the scoring, now backed away and parted in order to make way for the Abbesses, who came down the aisle, robes swishing, holding in their hands four crowns of thorns.
Behind them trailed eight monks, lugging four heavy wooden crosses.
TO BE CONTINUED[/QUOTE]
Now thats just KNOUT gneiss
Thessela
Beloved slavegirl
“Please, no. Please, no.”
It is no good, the whip cuts despite my plea.
Oh God(dess)! Each lashing is worse than the one before.
I see the young woman next to me, struggling with her own agony.
Strength, I wish her strength!
I have none left.
But I feel so alive to the sensation!
It is no good, the whip cuts despite my plea.
Oh God(dess)! Each lashing is worse than the one before.
I see the young woman next to me, struggling with her own agony.
Strength, I wish her strength!
I have none left.
But I feel so alive to the sensation!
mongo
Governor
Y÷eeeees! Oh yes