Thanks for the stamp of approval! It would be good to get a few more pillory based 'action' sequences!
Whipped Women
Re: Whipped Women
Re: Whipped Women
Yeah pretty much. One of the perks of retirement.
Slave Rule #1- No matter how bad the pain is, it can always get worse
Re: Whipped Women
The wail tore Maribel from her sleep. She sat upright in her bed, heart hammering, the sound echoing again from the courtyard below. A familiar voice, keening in pain and anguish.
Gathering her nightgown and not stopping for slippers, she hurried down the stone steps and out through the side door. Mist clung to the gravel of the courtyard, the chill of dawn biting into her bare feet. There was her aging mother, straight-backed and severe, and beside her the estate’s groom, his face stony, holding the whip as though it weighed more than it should.
And in the middle of it all, hanging weak against the post was Agnes, Maribel’s lifelong chambermaid. The woman’s tangled hair hung loose, her shift dangled in rags from her broad, soft back. Her pale skin was already striped and pockmarked with dozens of deep and angry weals, some oozing. She trembled, breath hitching, shoulders drawn tight as though trying to disappear into herself.
“Stop!” Maribel cried out in shock. She ran forward, placing herself between Agnes and the others. “Mother, this is madness.”
Her mother’s eyes were cold and resolute. “Stand aside. The servant stole from the linen room. There must be consequences.”
Maribel stared unflinchingly back.
“Agnes has served us since before I could walk. You would have her punished like an animal?”
The groom shifted and grunted uncomfortably. I would never flog an animal like this, his expression suggested.
“Discipline is the spine of this house,” her mother finally said. “Without it, we are nothing.”
Tears blurred Maribel’s vision. “I would rather be nothing,” she said coldly, “than whatever this is.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. The mist thinned as the sun crept higher. The quiet was broken only by Agnes’s soft whimpers and groans. At last, her mother raised a hand. The groom threw the whip. Maribel’s shoulders sagged with relief.
“See that this does not happen again,” her mother said curtly, and swept away like a noxious wind.
With the ropes loosened, Maribel slowly and tenderly helped Agnes to her feet, wrapping a delicate arm around her maid’s trembling form. Even in her diminished state, Agnes was larger and heavier, and Maribel struggled to support her, but she didn’t complain. Agnes, after all, had supported her for her whole life. As they walked back toward the manor, the old stones seemed to remember, and to look on in judgment.
Credit: Mark Sessnatz
Gathering her nightgown and not stopping for slippers, she hurried down the stone steps and out through the side door. Mist clung to the gravel of the courtyard, the chill of dawn biting into her bare feet. There was her aging mother, straight-backed and severe, and beside her the estate’s groom, his face stony, holding the whip as though it weighed more than it should.
And in the middle of it all, hanging weak against the post was Agnes, Maribel’s lifelong chambermaid. The woman’s tangled hair hung loose, her shift dangled in rags from her broad, soft back. Her pale skin was already striped and pockmarked with dozens of deep and angry weals, some oozing. She trembled, breath hitching, shoulders drawn tight as though trying to disappear into herself.
“Stop!” Maribel cried out in shock. She ran forward, placing herself between Agnes and the others. “Mother, this is madness.”
Her mother’s eyes were cold and resolute. “Stand aside. The servant stole from the linen room. There must be consequences.”
Maribel stared unflinchingly back.
“Agnes has served us since before I could walk. You would have her punished like an animal?”
The groom shifted and grunted uncomfortably. I would never flog an animal like this, his expression suggested.
“Discipline is the spine of this house,” her mother finally said. “Without it, we are nothing.”
Tears blurred Maribel’s vision. “I would rather be nothing,” she said coldly, “than whatever this is.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. The mist thinned as the sun crept higher. The quiet was broken only by Agnes’s soft whimpers and groans. At last, her mother raised a hand. The groom threw the whip. Maribel’s shoulders sagged with relief.
“See that this does not happen again,” her mother said curtly, and swept away like a noxious wind.
With the ropes loosened, Maribel slowly and tenderly helped Agnes to her feet, wrapping a delicate arm around her maid’s trembling form. Even in her diminished state, Agnes was larger and heavier, and Maribel struggled to support her, but she didn’t complain. Agnes, after all, had supported her for her whole life. As they walked back toward the manor, the old stones seemed to remember, and to look on in judgment.
Credit: Mark Sessnatz
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