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The Lash Of Morality (Don Blane)

The Lash Of Morality by Don Blane

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    • Average 3.0 from 3 ratings

Neenah is a promiscuous girl in a Muslim nation, where any immoral behaviour is severely punished with public flogging.

But as long as she didn't run afoul of the law, she'd have only the pleasure of her many amours.

Unfortunately, she ran afoul of the law. More than once.

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 2 / 2012

No. words: 50600

Style: Male Dom - M/F, Fem Dom - F/F

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Chapter 1 - A new sect member

“Gnnngh!” The unhappy recipient of the lash uttered an involuntary response.
“Hold firm Neenah! Take the pain of the lash in the spirit with which it is delivered,” Marsha commanded in a low, almost reverent tone, but complying with that command was all too hard, especially when the next shot from the cat bit again.
Hiss, crack. This time Neenah kept her sickened agony to herself, merely gritting her teeth and shuddering under the murderous stripe.
“Ten!” Marsha toned. Curses to it all, she still had fourteen more lashes to take and already Neenah felt sick to her stomach and even a little dizzy. The bite of the lash took her over again, as it impacted across her shoulders with a wicked leather on skin rattle that five lashes make when working in unison. Neenah felt the hard, vicious cords bite into her back, felt again, the sharp, tough knots of the whip attack her already ravaged back.
“Aaargh…ugh!” Neenah fought to choke off a cry of pain and then remembering herself again, gulped at a new wave of nausea and stood firm for the next that would be struck across her from the other side. It came all too soon; the woman standing to Neenah’s right was due her strike. Both of the women whipping Neenah were themselves naked to the waist, wearing simply their loose, low-slung white Zouave pants that both she and Marsha wore too. Neenah stood bound to a wooden whipping pillory, an edifice constructed and reserved purely for fastening and holding women to be whipped. Neenah’s arms were raised to shoulder height and fully outstretched, fastened with cords about her wrists that were in turn fixed to the extremes of the whipping post. Her pretty face stood higher than the board against which she stood. She pressed her full, ripe breasts against the broad plank that was part of the post, she wanted to try and spare her breasts another sample of the whip-lashing effect of the cords swirling around her succulent back and ripping across the front of her body. The five corded cat-o’five-tails being used on her were long enough to do that and had already done so enough times to make her wince and cringe.
Although to all intents and purposes, the scene being enacted was every bit like one that might have been at the command of a Judge, Mullah or Cadi, on this occasion, none of those learned men had ordained a whipping for Neenah. No Mullah had demanded that Neenah be stood half-naked at the whipping post to suffer four and twenty from two women wielding judicial whips, trained to the task. No Judge had decreed that another stand aside as presiding officer and count on the lashes and no Cadi had decided that rather than inflict the whipping in the public street, Neenah could suffer her agony and humiliation behind the locked doors of a gaol or police cell. Had that been the case, the sight of a sweating, shuddering woman taking stripes from two half-naked beauties sweating copiously from their hard endeavours whilst a third, stripped to pants and skimpy bolero counting on those lashes would have been nothing in any way unusual in a Talasian ruled town of the Provinces. What was unusual, perhaps even fantastic was that Neenah had volunteered to stand where she now stood. She had willingly stripped to her loose, low slung Zouave pants and had hitched the waistband lower, to allow the two women whipping her, broad scope to flash their whips across her bare back. She had kicked off her sandals and stood willingly enough to the whipping post and allowed the two women to bind her arms outstretched. She was glad too that Marsha had been on hand to count the strokes on, for all four women were members of a sect that was prevalent enough in Provincial lands at that time in the middle of the Talasian rule, for they were members of a sect of flagellants. Specifically, they were all members of Marsha’s appointed white flagellants.
They were not the only flagellant sect in the Provincial town of Zephora at that time. Flagellant sects were springing up and dying back like crops in the fields then. In addition to the white, there was the brown sect, the grey, the blue and the red. All displayed their allegiance to their particular sect by the strident colour of the loose, floppy pants that was almost ubiquitous amidst the flagellant community, the loose, flowing Zouave pant.
“Fifteen!” toned Marsha and again, an agonising flash of pain blinded Neenah. Her body went taut again and Marsha gazed impassively into Neenah’s sweating, screwed up face.
“Oh, please God help me…!” Neenah groaned.
“He is Neenah, but your soul is bitterly tainted. Take the lashes my sweet one, God will help and guide you!” Neenah let out a wail of pain with her tears as the next ripped across her back. Marsha suddenly snapped at the girl who lashed her then. “Use that thing with a will! Anything less is blasphemy and I’ll take you to the mullah myself if I see or suspect it!” Marsha’s handsome features were lined with anger as she spoke.
Neenah, gasping with pain did not suspect for a second that the woman was whipping her with anything less than all her well-practised strength, she was feeling every cord from every whip stroke and everyone was creasing her to her very toes. She looked almost piteously into Marsha’s cold, impassive, dark eyes. Marsha was a stridently handsome woman. Twenty-six years old and senior member of the white sect, she was the unannounced sect leader and indeed, its founder member. She stood watching Neenah take her flogging with her arms folded and her legs parted proudly as she stared into Neenah’s shuddering, grimacing, sweating features. She knew better than all the rest what shattering agony Neenah was going through and she knew it was a bridge that had to cross to enter her own beloved sect.
The count rose inexorably and Neenah’s agony exponentially. By the time the count reached eighteen, Neenah was sure she was going mad with the torture. Every time the cords bit into her body, her pain crazed mind shouted at her.
‘Tell her to stop! End it now! Tell her you’ve had enough. Go, run from this mad-house and leave it forever,’ but somehow, for some reason, Neenah hung on, held her tongue beyond a groan, a yelp or a shout of pain. By that time, Neenah’s body was not her own, she had no control over it; it twisted this way and that in set, repetitive response to the way the whips were struck across her. She gasped, groaned, bent at the knees with her head back, but still Marsha stood implacable, watching, counting, merciless, yet not the instigator, counting, yet not calling on the stripes as an unstoppable duty. Neenah could stop this, Neenah could end it now. She heard twenty-two, but it was not a victory, it was a lament, lamentable that there were still two more of those dreadful, mind numbing, gut churning lashes to feel yet.
“The body does not matter Neenah, only the soul,” Marsha reminded her, but all that mattered was the blinding pain as that next lash slashed across her and bit into her and even the last lash was not a relief, for it too, still had its quota of torture to deliver and Neenah felt the grinding agony score across her lower back and winced as the knotted cords flew around her ribs and slapped in a sickening termination of biting knots at her stomach.
Marsha raised her hand in a silent command for the girls to stop, but there was no real need, their lethal cats were already hanging limp at their sides. Marsha stepped close to stare into Neenah’s sweating tear streaked face.
“Did you really think twenty four lashes were going to be easy Neenah, did you really? That’s silly; you know now,” she spoke quietly, but Neenah detected an almost mocking tone. “Cut her free!” she ordered and Neenah gave a gasp and a moan as she let her arms fall to her sides. “Can you stand?” Marsha asked, still with that hint of cynicism in her voice. Neenah gave a gulp and nodded.
“I feel sick…and a bit dizzy,” she admitted.
“Help her!” Marsha ordered and the two whippers, their own half-naked bodies sticky with sweat, took an arm each and helped Neenah to a couch. Marsha stood by her, seeming to tower over her as Neenah morosely took a sip from the goblet of water offered.
“You can bow out even now Neenah. You know that,” for a moment, Neenah almost imagined Marsha was trying to entice her to go down, not to accept the offer of being a member of the sect of the white Zouaves. “Now you know at least how hard it will be and indeed, it will get harder, many times. There is no shame in declining the offer.” Neenah knew that now she had endured the ordained twenty-four lashes, Marsha could not eject her from the sect but for some gross misdemeanour. Neenah looked into Marsha’s handsome, dark face and smiled.
“I’m in aren’t I mistress?” Marsha gave her a smile and nodded.
“You are Neenah. You did well, really!” Again Neenah heard the words, but read the comment. It was still mocking, telling Neenah that she was superior, she was better. “I will show you how I can take the lash myself soon enough Neenah, but don’t ever forget it is always your choice and your choice alone that will keep you in our beloved sect. Do not listen to anybody else who may try to cajole or entice you to stay should you wish to leave. There is no disgrace to going down. Marsha took Neenah’s sweaty, soft hand and kissed it lightly.
“You have endured the mandatory flogging. You are now a member of the flagellant sect of the white Zouaves. Bless you!


This was not of interest to me. 2 out of 5 (Chicagossl)

A bit on the dull side 2 out of 5

Don blane once again excels with this story of beautiful slave girls and cruel masters and mistresses all set against an oriental background.Unmissable. 5 out of 5 (tristan)

Author Information

Harems, torture and extreme pain abound in Don`s writings.


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