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Tortured Women

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I both dispute and resent the unspoken assumption that colour is necessarily “better” than black-and-white, or that black-and-white artworks are somehow “incomplete”
I agree, Monty! Everything has it's place and it's down to the discernment and skill of an artist. Use of light/shade/colour in the correct measure is hw an artist ensures the desired subject of the artwork is the focus.

Even in photography, sometimes a picture can be unquestionably enhanced by simply being in black and white.

"Schindler's List" springs to mind and demonstrates this point very well.

 
Raping and torturing their daughter in front of a friend

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Sentenced to be cut alive naked in front of the crowd. According to the tradition, the executioner begins with her breasts

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# 3 is so erotic. There is just nothing they cant play with. I need to try that one
Oooh yeah, I can’t even decide which victim I most want to be , but the one on the right is rather unique isn’t it… mmmm, so helpless and that hot metal (brand? Pincer?) gets inevitably closer as I shake in my chains…

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But the breaking on the wheel image is also excellent, again I love the chains, and my screams and feeling of helplessness as the mallet is swung towards another limb!

Fantastic image, @jucundus
 
I love a bit of Tibool! But “ probreunuco” or whatever his name is, who has digitally coloured some of them in, has not improved them at all.

Tibool was quite capable of producing works in colour if he wanted to (indeed, he did, under another name), but for these works he chose monochrome for artistic reasons. Instead of respecting that, some people think these pictures need “colouring in”. I would call that (at best) unnecessary, and (at worst) a perversion and betrayal of the artist’s creative vision.

Finally (and with apologies for the rant!) as an artist who works in black-and-white, at least in my non-vanilla work, I both dispute and resent the unspoken assumption that colour is necessarily “better” than black-and-white, or that black-and-white artworks are somehow “incomplete”, or that artists who work in black-and-white are hapless idiots just waiting for some brave colourist to rescue them from their monochrome predicament. All of these assumptions are wrong, and display a depressing level of visual and cultural illiteracy.

There was a guy on tumblr who used to colour in my works, never asked permission, just did it, and posted the results. If Tibool were still alive (which I happen to know he isn’t), he might feel the same way as I did. Anyway, done ranting, and thanks for posting, Gerembeau! Apart from the digital colouring, they’re great photomontages. :)
By the way, if you want to know more about Tibool, Link here
You probably don’t need my support, yet you have it. Imho certain b&w images by legends like Farrell or Tibool are some of the most erotic pieces around. There’s even stuff by some guy called Monte (something) that I truly enjoy, although someone needs to inspire him to new erotica as he’s not producing as much today as he once did- although I am in favour of sacrificing quantity In favour Of quality- and old what’s his name is capable of quality on his day!
 
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Surely that torturer should be wearing thick leather gloves while handling those red-hot pincers.. we wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt, now, would we?
some guy called Monte (something)
Let me know if you ever recall who that is…
:p
 
After a little whipping to show her how helpless she was, he lit a cigarette and told her about the temperature of the lit end a few seconds after he puffed it up--700 C or about 1300 F. Far more than the temperature to ignite gasoline. She refused to look, but he saw her breath catch and smiled. He told her how lucky she was that he hadn't rubbed her down with gasoline and slowly moved the tip closer to her breast. Her body tensed, and she closed her eyes, trying to prepare herself. After a few seconds, she opened them again. He was smiling at her, smoking the cigarette again. "I didn't want you to miss it," he told her. "Keep your eyes open." Her breath exploded out with a high-pitched whimper on the end of it. She shook her head back and forth, as he moved the tip closer again. "Keep watching," he ordered her, looking into her eyes, but her eyes were on the red tip moving closer and closer to her nipple. She tried to pull away, to roll her body even a little, but the position made it impossible. Just before he touched her, she closed her eyes. And then she screamed.
 

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Her body was still trembling when he took out another cigarette. "I'm sorry for the delay," he said. "For some reason they keep going out. I don't have any cigars here, so I have to keep lighting new ones." He moved the fresh cigarette toward her other nipple. "I think maybe if you lie still instead of arching your body like that," he told her, "I might not have to waste so many." A sudden rage took her, and she strained every muscle to its maximum trying to break the bonds on her wrists and ankles. He watched her with mean pleasure. "If you keep doing that," he finally told her when she had exhausted her struggles, "I might have to take a break and put something not so hot inside of you." She was crying helplessly. "Open your eyes, darling," he said gently. She opened them, tears rolling down her face, and watched him slowly place the tip of his new instrument against her other nipple. For several moments she fought the pain, a growl forming deep in her chest as he lifted, then pressed, over and over, keeping the hot tip alive longer, but finally the growl turned into a raw-throated scream again.
 

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She was lost for several minutes, deep within the pain. She could hear him moving near her, hoping without hope that he would release her, or perhaps just rape her. She knew how desperately men who had seen her naked body wanted her, but he seemed to have no interest in anything but hurting her, taking away the power she had when a man was in her. She heard him whistling softly to himself and opened her eyes. He smiled at her again. "Can't afford the cigarettes, darling," he chuckled. "You keep putting them out. But I really like how you dance when you're hot." He showed her a device with a wire running across her body to an outlet beside the table. "Do you know what this is?" he asked her. "It's used to melt metal--soft metal, like your skin." She could smell the heat coming off the darkened metal end. "It's much better than a cigarette," he told her, matter-of-factly. "I can control the heat better, and it won't go out like the cigarettes." Her eyes were locked to the iron as he moved it slowly down between her legs. "Even when you put it someplace that's getting very wet," he said as she desperately tried to close her legs even a little.
 

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She actually heard a sizzle as he pressed the iron into her delicate pussy. Just for an instant. And then she could hear nothing but her own ascending scream. Like a cowboy riding a bucking bronco, he held the iron in place as she desperately tried to get away from it. Finally she felt herself falling into a dark tunnel of unconsciousness where her body moved of its own accord but the pain was gone. Somehow, even in that blessed state of relief, she was aware of him finally taking her. He explored her slowly at first, shallow then deep, trying to awaken her. Before long though he was pounding to his own rhythm, but that didn't last long. Even unconscious, she smiled very slightly as she felt him fill her and groan in his own temporary helplessness. Then he was gone and she could rest.
 

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