windar
Teller of Tales
Ever since I discovered them several years ago, I’ve really admired the artwork of the Russian artist, Andrew Wolkoff. I’ve posted quite a few in my thread https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/slaves-treated-very-badly.5588/page-3 They are simple drawings, no computer effects or AI, but very moving, at least to me.
I’ve often imagined what the back story behind some of them might be and since the artist doesn’t provide one, I decided to invent one.
By the way, I have not seen any new work by Wolkoff in quite some time, so if anyone knows what he is up to now, I would be very interested to hear.
Anyway, here is the story of Yelena Mikhailovna and her punishment as depicted by Andrew Wolkoff.
Yelena Mikhailovna couldn’t stop shivering. The high-ceilinged stone room in which she was locked was cold and she wore only a light blouse and a skirt. Her bare feet were almost numb from contact with the stone floor.
But, just as much, she was shivering from fear, because she was going to be flogged. She had never been flogged, so she didn’t know exactly what it would feel like, but she knew it would hurt. She had been there when they had brought her good friend Ekatarina Ivanovna into the women servants’ quarters after she had been punished for having clumsily broken a cup from the Countess’s favorite tea set.
Katya had been naked from the waist up, sniveling, her hair disheveled, her face streaked with tears. When they had lain her on the bed on her stomach, Yelena had been shocked by the appearance of Katya’s back. From the neck to the waist the skin was torn in horrible weals, more than Yelena could count, some still leaking red fluid.
When one of the older women had begun to dab at them with a cloth soaked in warm, soapy water, poor Katya had howled and writhed.
“Shh, my dear, hold still,” the woman had told her calmly. “We must clean you up.”
Katya had nodded and did her best to hold still, though she whimpered whenever the cloth made contact with a particularly sensitive spot. That was what awaited Yelena.
‘Why did I do such a stupid thing?” Yelena asked herself. She had been passing through the kitchen with her mop and bucket on her way to clean the main entrance hall of the manor house when she had seen it-the tray of pastries, luscious cigar shaped confections, filled with cream and fruit jelly and topped with chocolate.
She had finished lunch not long before, a meager soup of potatoes, carrots and some gristly meat, along with two-day old rye bread. She had stopped, put down the bucket and eyed the plate. There were dozens of pastries, eight lines filling the platter. ‘Who would miss one?’ she had thought.
She had looked around. The kitchen had seemed deserted. She had reached down and picked one up and taken a bite. It was fantastic! She had heard Father Pavel talk about Heaven and Hell at Sunday Mass and she imagined Heaven as a place where one could indulge in such pastries whenever one wanted to. She had swallowed the morsel hungrily.
Yelena had been just about to take a second bite, when she heard a sharp voice behind her. “What do you think you’re doing, you little thief?” the intruder shouted. It was Ludmilla Dmitrievna, the head cook.
Yelana turned around. Ludmilla was staring at her angrily, her hands on her hips. She was a plump woman of around fifty with a big nose and fat cheeks, like a squirrel. Yelena was sure that she ate pastries whenever she felt like it.
“I-I-I, I’m sorry,” Yelena had muttered. “I am so hungry and they looked so good.”
“Those are for the Count’s dinner party tonight. He and the Countess are entertaining important Army Officers from St. Petersburg. Those delicacies are for them, not a worthless scamp like you.”
She had taken hold of Yelena’s arm and begun dragging her out of the kitchen. “We are going to see Andrey Nikolayevich about this!” Ludmilla had exclaimed. Andrey Nikolayevich was the Manager of the Staff who served the Count and his domain.
“Please,” Yelena had begged. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it again. Andrey Nikolayevich will have me whipped. Please, have mercy on a poor peasant girl.”
“I should hope he will have you whipped, my girl. You need to learn not to steal,” the cook had replied coldly.
“But,” Yelena had started, then quickly realized the hopelessness of pleading.
They had marched down a corridor, turned right and marched down another corridor, stopping at a door with a brass nameplate that Yelena couldn’t read, but assumed it said Andrey Nikolayevich’s name.
Ludmilla knocked.
A deep male voice said, “Enter.”
Ludmilla opened the door and led Yelena in. The girl had never been in trouble before and, thus, had never been inside the Manager’s office. He sat behind a desk piled high with papers, writing in a large book. He barely looked up at the two women. “What is it?” he asked, continuing to write.
“I caught Yelena Mikhailovna eating one of the pastries that Anna Petrovna made for the Count and his guests,” Ludmilla said. Anna Petrovna was the baker for the Count and Countess.
He put the pen down and looked at Yelena. “Is this so?” he asked.
Yelena had considered denying it, but she knew that would only make things worse. “Please forgive me, Andrey Nikolayevich. I was so hungry and they looked so good. I promise I will never do anything like that again.” She began sobbing, her body shaking in fear and shame.
Andrey Nikolayevich leaned back in his chair. “This is very bad indeed. The Count and Countess are very anxious to make a good impression on these important guests. If they found out that I let you go, they would be very angry with me. You must be punished.”
“P-p-punished?” Yelena asked through her tears, knowing what the answer would be and dreading it.
“Yes,” the Manager replied, “You shall be whipped. That’s the punishment for stealing. “
“Oh, please, sir, don’t whip me! I won’t be able to stand it!” the distraught girl wailed.
.Andrey Nikolayevich shrugged. “That’s too bad. You should have thought of that before you stole.” He reached into a drawer in the desk, pulled out a key ring and stood. “Come with me,” he ordered. “Ludmilla Dmitrievna, you can return to your duties.”
He led Yelena outside, across a muddy yard to a small stone out building, a structure which every member of the Count’s household hoped they would never see the inside of. He unlocked the door and opened it. “Inside, you go,” he ordered. “Ivan Sergeyevich will be along to deal with you when he is finished with his other duties.” Ivan Sergeyevich was Andrey Nikolayevich’s assistant. It was he who actually administered the punishments as directed by his boss.
Yelena entered. She heard the door close behind her and the key turn in the latch. That had been several hours ago as best Yelena could tell. She had sat on the small bench against the near wall, shivering. She tried not to look at the long leather whip hanging from a peg on the wall and the shackles dangling from the ceiling, but her eyes kept drifting in their direction, seemingly beyond her control.
A few times, she had heard Ivan Sergeyevich’s voice. Her heart had begun pounding, expecting that this would be the moment of her suffering, but he had passed by on other business.
Now, she heard the key turning in the lock and she saw the door opening. Yelena saw Ivan’s large frame coming through the doorway. Her stomach fluttered-there could be no doubt that this was going to be the moment of truth she had been expecting most of the afternoon.
“So, this is the little pastry thief!” he announced. “What do you have to say for yourself, girl?”
“Please forgive me! I am so sorry for what I did.”
“Not as sorry as you will be soon, girl. Those pastries were for some of our Master’s very important guests, not for a little peasant like you.”
Yelena sunk to her knees. She knew it was hopeless, but she begged, “Please, Ivan Sergeyevich, I was so hungry, I couldn’t help myself. Have mercy on a poor girl!”
The large man looked down at Yelena. “Look at me, girl,” he said. Yelena looked up at him. “Don’t you think I know what it’s like? I was hungry, too, before Andrei Nikolayevich chose me to be his assistant. He will come and inspect your back after I’m done and if he’s not satisfied that you are well and truly punished, he will make me do it all over again. Your fate was sealed when you took that first bite of the pastry. Come now, it is time to pay for your sins. On your feet!”
Yelena rose slowly to her feet, feeling the cold from the stone floor rising up through her legs.
“Off with your blouse and be quick about it,” Ivan ordered.
Yelena hesitated. It was terribly shameful to expose her breasts in front of this man.
Ivan Sergeyevitch approached her. “Don’t make trouble. The sooner we start, the sooner we are done.”
Accepting what she knew she was powerless to change, Yelena began slipping her blouse off, exposing one shoulder to the chilly air. Ivan Sergeyevitch laughed. “Hurry up, girl. Don’t be bashful. Believe me, showing your tits is the least of your worries.”
“Quickly, girl!” Ivan Sergeyevich ordered. Afraid of antagonizing her punisher further, Yelena took a deep breath, pulled her blouse over her head and dropped it on the ground beside her. Ashamed and feeling even colder without her covering, she wrapped her arms around her torso.
Ivan Sergeyevich took one arm and led her to the center of the room to stand underneath the shackles which dangled from a solid looking chain that was attached to a ceiling beam. “Stay right there,” he ordered.
He walked over to the wall returned carrying a long length of sturdy leather that looked like it would tear her sensitive skin to pieces. She shut her eyes, too terrified to look at it.
“Open your eyes, girl and take a good look,” he ordered. “This is what our Master, the Count, prescribes for those who steal from him.”
Yelena forced herself to open her eyes and stare at the fearsome instrument. She shook her head, “Please, Ivan Sergeyevich, that will kill me.”
He laughed. “No it won’t, but you might wish it would.”
The, he walked over to the wall and turned the winch which lowered the chain so that the shackles dangled in front of Yelena’s face. He returned to her and took her right hand and fastened one of the shackles around it securely.
Yelena tried to tuck her other hand into her skirt, but Ivan Sergeyevich just smiled, took firm hold of it and quickly secured it into the other shackle. “You’re not going anywhere until we’re done, my dear,” he told her.
Then, he walked over to the wall and began turning the winch. Yelena felt her arms being lifted until they were straight over her head. Her whole body was stretched out, defenseless against whatever Ivan Sergeyevich would do to it.
“Now prepare yourself, girl,” he warned.
I’ve often imagined what the back story behind some of them might be and since the artist doesn’t provide one, I decided to invent one.
By the way, I have not seen any new work by Wolkoff in quite some time, so if anyone knows what he is up to now, I would be very interested to hear.
Anyway, here is the story of Yelena Mikhailovna and her punishment as depicted by Andrew Wolkoff.
Yelena Mikhailovna couldn’t stop shivering. The high-ceilinged stone room in which she was locked was cold and she wore only a light blouse and a skirt. Her bare feet were almost numb from contact with the stone floor.
But, just as much, she was shivering from fear, because she was going to be flogged. She had never been flogged, so she didn’t know exactly what it would feel like, but she knew it would hurt. She had been there when they had brought her good friend Ekatarina Ivanovna into the women servants’ quarters after she had been punished for having clumsily broken a cup from the Countess’s favorite tea set.
Katya had been naked from the waist up, sniveling, her hair disheveled, her face streaked with tears. When they had lain her on the bed on her stomach, Yelena had been shocked by the appearance of Katya’s back. From the neck to the waist the skin was torn in horrible weals, more than Yelena could count, some still leaking red fluid.
When one of the older women had begun to dab at them with a cloth soaked in warm, soapy water, poor Katya had howled and writhed.
“Shh, my dear, hold still,” the woman had told her calmly. “We must clean you up.”
Katya had nodded and did her best to hold still, though she whimpered whenever the cloth made contact with a particularly sensitive spot. That was what awaited Yelena.
‘Why did I do such a stupid thing?” Yelena asked herself. She had been passing through the kitchen with her mop and bucket on her way to clean the main entrance hall of the manor house when she had seen it-the tray of pastries, luscious cigar shaped confections, filled with cream and fruit jelly and topped with chocolate.
She had finished lunch not long before, a meager soup of potatoes, carrots and some gristly meat, along with two-day old rye bread. She had stopped, put down the bucket and eyed the plate. There were dozens of pastries, eight lines filling the platter. ‘Who would miss one?’ she had thought.
She had looked around. The kitchen had seemed deserted. She had reached down and picked one up and taken a bite. It was fantastic! She had heard Father Pavel talk about Heaven and Hell at Sunday Mass and she imagined Heaven as a place where one could indulge in such pastries whenever one wanted to. She had swallowed the morsel hungrily.
Yelena had been just about to take a second bite, when she heard a sharp voice behind her. “What do you think you’re doing, you little thief?” the intruder shouted. It was Ludmilla Dmitrievna, the head cook.
Yelana turned around. Ludmilla was staring at her angrily, her hands on her hips. She was a plump woman of around fifty with a big nose and fat cheeks, like a squirrel. Yelena was sure that she ate pastries whenever she felt like it.
“I-I-I, I’m sorry,” Yelena had muttered. “I am so hungry and they looked so good.”
“Those are for the Count’s dinner party tonight. He and the Countess are entertaining important Army Officers from St. Petersburg. Those delicacies are for them, not a worthless scamp like you.”
She had taken hold of Yelena’s arm and begun dragging her out of the kitchen. “We are going to see Andrey Nikolayevich about this!” Ludmilla had exclaimed. Andrey Nikolayevich was the Manager of the Staff who served the Count and his domain.
“Please,” Yelena had begged. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it again. Andrey Nikolayevich will have me whipped. Please, have mercy on a poor peasant girl.”
“I should hope he will have you whipped, my girl. You need to learn not to steal,” the cook had replied coldly.
“But,” Yelena had started, then quickly realized the hopelessness of pleading.
They had marched down a corridor, turned right and marched down another corridor, stopping at a door with a brass nameplate that Yelena couldn’t read, but assumed it said Andrey Nikolayevich’s name.
Ludmilla knocked.
A deep male voice said, “Enter.”
Ludmilla opened the door and led Yelena in. The girl had never been in trouble before and, thus, had never been inside the Manager’s office. He sat behind a desk piled high with papers, writing in a large book. He barely looked up at the two women. “What is it?” he asked, continuing to write.
“I caught Yelena Mikhailovna eating one of the pastries that Anna Petrovna made for the Count and his guests,” Ludmilla said. Anna Petrovna was the baker for the Count and Countess.
He put the pen down and looked at Yelena. “Is this so?” he asked.
Yelena had considered denying it, but she knew that would only make things worse. “Please forgive me, Andrey Nikolayevich. I was so hungry and they looked so good. I promise I will never do anything like that again.” She began sobbing, her body shaking in fear and shame.
Andrey Nikolayevich leaned back in his chair. “This is very bad indeed. The Count and Countess are very anxious to make a good impression on these important guests. If they found out that I let you go, they would be very angry with me. You must be punished.”
“P-p-punished?” Yelena asked through her tears, knowing what the answer would be and dreading it.
“Yes,” the Manager replied, “You shall be whipped. That’s the punishment for stealing. “
“Oh, please, sir, don’t whip me! I won’t be able to stand it!” the distraught girl wailed.
.Andrey Nikolayevich shrugged. “That’s too bad. You should have thought of that before you stole.” He reached into a drawer in the desk, pulled out a key ring and stood. “Come with me,” he ordered. “Ludmilla Dmitrievna, you can return to your duties.”
He led Yelena outside, across a muddy yard to a small stone out building, a structure which every member of the Count’s household hoped they would never see the inside of. He unlocked the door and opened it. “Inside, you go,” he ordered. “Ivan Sergeyevich will be along to deal with you when he is finished with his other duties.” Ivan Sergeyevich was Andrey Nikolayevich’s assistant. It was he who actually administered the punishments as directed by his boss.
Yelena entered. She heard the door close behind her and the key turn in the latch. That had been several hours ago as best Yelena could tell. She had sat on the small bench against the near wall, shivering. She tried not to look at the long leather whip hanging from a peg on the wall and the shackles dangling from the ceiling, but her eyes kept drifting in their direction, seemingly beyond her control.
A few times, she had heard Ivan Sergeyevich’s voice. Her heart had begun pounding, expecting that this would be the moment of her suffering, but he had passed by on other business.
Now, she heard the key turning in the lock and she saw the door opening. Yelena saw Ivan’s large frame coming through the doorway. Her stomach fluttered-there could be no doubt that this was going to be the moment of truth she had been expecting most of the afternoon.
“So, this is the little pastry thief!” he announced. “What do you have to say for yourself, girl?”
“Please forgive me! I am so sorry for what I did.”
“Not as sorry as you will be soon, girl. Those pastries were for some of our Master’s very important guests, not for a little peasant like you.”
Yelena sunk to her knees. She knew it was hopeless, but she begged, “Please, Ivan Sergeyevich, I was so hungry, I couldn’t help myself. Have mercy on a poor girl!”
The large man looked down at Yelena. “Look at me, girl,” he said. Yelena looked up at him. “Don’t you think I know what it’s like? I was hungry, too, before Andrei Nikolayevich chose me to be his assistant. He will come and inspect your back after I’m done and if he’s not satisfied that you are well and truly punished, he will make me do it all over again. Your fate was sealed when you took that first bite of the pastry. Come now, it is time to pay for your sins. On your feet!”
Yelena rose slowly to her feet, feeling the cold from the stone floor rising up through her legs.
“Off with your blouse and be quick about it,” Ivan ordered.
Yelena hesitated. It was terribly shameful to expose her breasts in front of this man.
Ivan Sergeyevitch approached her. “Don’t make trouble. The sooner we start, the sooner we are done.”
Accepting what she knew she was powerless to change, Yelena began slipping her blouse off, exposing one shoulder to the chilly air. Ivan Sergeyevitch laughed. “Hurry up, girl. Don’t be bashful. Believe me, showing your tits is the least of your worries.”
“Quickly, girl!” Ivan Sergeyevich ordered. Afraid of antagonizing her punisher further, Yelena took a deep breath, pulled her blouse over her head and dropped it on the ground beside her. Ashamed and feeling even colder without her covering, she wrapped her arms around her torso.
Ivan Sergeyevich took one arm and led her to the center of the room to stand underneath the shackles which dangled from a solid looking chain that was attached to a ceiling beam. “Stay right there,” he ordered.
He walked over to the wall returned carrying a long length of sturdy leather that looked like it would tear her sensitive skin to pieces. She shut her eyes, too terrified to look at it.
“Open your eyes, girl and take a good look,” he ordered. “This is what our Master, the Count, prescribes for those who steal from him.”
Yelena forced herself to open her eyes and stare at the fearsome instrument. She shook her head, “Please, Ivan Sergeyevich, that will kill me.”
He laughed. “No it won’t, but you might wish it would.”
The, he walked over to the wall and turned the winch which lowered the chain so that the shackles dangled in front of Yelena’s face. He returned to her and took her right hand and fastened one of the shackles around it securely.
Yelena tried to tuck her other hand into her skirt, but Ivan Sergeyevich just smiled, took firm hold of it and quickly secured it into the other shackle. “You’re not going anywhere until we’re done, my dear,” he told her.
Then, he walked over to the wall and began turning the winch. Yelena felt her arms being lifted until they were straight over her head. Her whole body was stretched out, defenseless against whatever Ivan Sergeyevich would do to it.
“Now prepare yourself, girl,” he warned.
