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The first text is the best whipping scene ever that I read in my life. Enjoy!
Whipping
Whipping
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Re: Whipping
Whipping
Author: whump-the-gun
He bit back a cry as a bright flare of pain lit in the corners of his vision, blooming from a painful twitch of his nerves beneath his flesh. Sparks spasmed in his skin, and he felt his body tense as a thunderclap of pain shuddered over his spine, sending tremors through his bones, into the tips of his fingers.
“One.”
He braced himself against the pole, feeling the cuffs chafe at his wrists as he gripped the wooden post as tightly as he could, trying to steel his frame for the next blow.
It felt just as bad as the first one, a brilliant lick of flame that snapped across his back. He gritted his teeth, feeling the wound burn on his skin, a vivid, scorching line that was painted from one shoulder to midway down his spine. He pressed the top of his head against the pole, setting his jaw.
“Two.”
And again, beneath his shoulder, a long stripe of keen, lurid pain that bit into his flesh. He shut his eyes, turning from the bright, yellow light that obtruded his vision, favoring the darker portion of the room. Pain danced across his nerves, scattering pinpricks of agony to the farthest reaches of his being. He gasped, immediately clamping his mouth shut and biting down on his cheek to muffle the sound. It was the first vocal reaction he’d given to the lashings.
“Three.”
He drew a breath, clenching his jaw and digging his fingers into the depressions of the coarse wood. He squared his shoulders, clamping his hands into fists and exhaling, arching his back in preparation and pressing his forehead to the pole.
His entire body jolted as the fourth blow hit, and he jerked forwards, towards the post in an attempt to recoil away from the lashings. He let his head fall between his shoulders, feeling the wounds at the top of his back stretch painfully.
Five, and the dizziness already pooling within his skull began to make itself known. His back was ablaze with pain already, the sear of the open skin raging in his flesh. The wounds were slick with blood or sweat, he couldn’t tell, and he could feel the raw flesh, scalding lines forming the start of a tentative, uneven latticework of cuts. He bit his tongue, feeling the hot buildup of tears pushing against the backs of his eyes, zeroing in on that one, tiny, zinging pain to try and divert his mind from his back.
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
He groaned, softly, biting his lip as his body convulsed in response, the handcuffs snapping into the wood as he tried, desperately, to pull away.
Make it stop make it stop make it stop gods make it stop
It was blinding pain, the brilliant, burning scald of each would leaping, angry, screaming in color, screaming in bold, bright, white. Fiery, sharp lines that streaked down and across his back, every strike just as fantastic and terrible as the last. His breath was hot, mingled with tears and sweat, and he whimpered, mumbling nothings, unable to restrain a cry as the eleventh, the twelfth, the thirteenth, the fourteenth hit, again and again, painting stark, sheer bands. He wanted to see. He was terrified to see.
There was a tiny, brilliant flame of panic glowing in his gut, and it jumped every time the whip touched his skin, fueled by fear and anticipation, wrenching a sob from his lips. The fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth were still sharp, still acute and clear, distinguishable from one another. His captor’s voice rang above him, counting, enjoying every moment, attacking from every angle.
The nineteenth blurred with the twentieth, but he heard the numbers, loud and clear, the only sound he could decipher over the ram of his heart against his ribcage. Everything was hot beneath his skin, and everything was cold where the air touched. He shuddered, weakly jerking away from the twenty-first blow. He tugged at the chain where it was linked to the post, his aching, burning arms screaming for release. He groaned, blinking away sweat or blood or tears– he couldn’t tell.
The lashes divided themselves into sections of pain as he forgot what numbers were, becoming nameless, quick bouts of pain. It was only on the fuzzy, gray edges of his subconscious that he heard the numbers– “twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five”– but even so, he didn’t register what they meant.
So on, they dragged– it could have been seconds, could have been hours, could have been one lash or twenty– he didn’t know. He just sat there and took it, crying, whimpering, groaning and screaming util his throat burned and he was unable to force out any other sounds.
But eventually, somehow, at some point, his captor stopped.
He lay there, slumped, shivering, waiting for the next blow to land as tears trailed to his chin, whimpering, lips moving weakly as he tried to form sound. Everything hurt, and his vision was rimmed with nothing, blurry gray that smears together what little he can see– the wooden texture of the post he’s chained to, the floor in front of him, the red of his blood against the darker tones of the ground.
Warm air against his ear, the back-and-forth stir of breathing. He struggled to ascertain what was causing it, battling to think clearly, until the low rumble of his captor’s voice hit him, too loud, to rough, too much.
“Darling, I fear I’ve lost count. What are we on again?”
He shivered, slumped, head shaking slowly, uncertainly, trying to remember, to think… why did it matter? Why did… who wanted… what…
“Hm, that’s what I thought.” His captor leaned back, smiling. “Let’s start again, then, shall we?”
https://killian-whump.tumblr.com/post/1 ... 8/whipping
Author: whump-the-gun
He bit back a cry as a bright flare of pain lit in the corners of his vision, blooming from a painful twitch of his nerves beneath his flesh. Sparks spasmed in his skin, and he felt his body tense as a thunderclap of pain shuddered over his spine, sending tremors through his bones, into the tips of his fingers.
“One.”
He braced himself against the pole, feeling the cuffs chafe at his wrists as he gripped the wooden post as tightly as he could, trying to steel his frame for the next blow.
It felt just as bad as the first one, a brilliant lick of flame that snapped across his back. He gritted his teeth, feeling the wound burn on his skin, a vivid, scorching line that was painted from one shoulder to midway down his spine. He pressed the top of his head against the pole, setting his jaw.
“Two.”
And again, beneath his shoulder, a long stripe of keen, lurid pain that bit into his flesh. He shut his eyes, turning from the bright, yellow light that obtruded his vision, favoring the darker portion of the room. Pain danced across his nerves, scattering pinpricks of agony to the farthest reaches of his being. He gasped, immediately clamping his mouth shut and biting down on his cheek to muffle the sound. It was the first vocal reaction he’d given to the lashings.
“Three.”
He drew a breath, clenching his jaw and digging his fingers into the depressions of the coarse wood. He squared his shoulders, clamping his hands into fists and exhaling, arching his back in preparation and pressing his forehead to the pole.
His entire body jolted as the fourth blow hit, and he jerked forwards, towards the post in an attempt to recoil away from the lashings. He let his head fall between his shoulders, feeling the wounds at the top of his back stretch painfully.
Five, and the dizziness already pooling within his skull began to make itself known. His back was ablaze with pain already, the sear of the open skin raging in his flesh. The wounds were slick with blood or sweat, he couldn’t tell, and he could feel the raw flesh, scalding lines forming the start of a tentative, uneven latticework of cuts. He bit his tongue, feeling the hot buildup of tears pushing against the backs of his eyes, zeroing in on that one, tiny, zinging pain to try and divert his mind from his back.
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
He groaned, softly, biting his lip as his body convulsed in response, the handcuffs snapping into the wood as he tried, desperately, to pull away.
Make it stop make it stop make it stop gods make it stop
It was blinding pain, the brilliant, burning scald of each would leaping, angry, screaming in color, screaming in bold, bright, white. Fiery, sharp lines that streaked down and across his back, every strike just as fantastic and terrible as the last. His breath was hot, mingled with tears and sweat, and he whimpered, mumbling nothings, unable to restrain a cry as the eleventh, the twelfth, the thirteenth, the fourteenth hit, again and again, painting stark, sheer bands. He wanted to see. He was terrified to see.
There was a tiny, brilliant flame of panic glowing in his gut, and it jumped every time the whip touched his skin, fueled by fear and anticipation, wrenching a sob from his lips. The fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth were still sharp, still acute and clear, distinguishable from one another. His captor’s voice rang above him, counting, enjoying every moment, attacking from every angle.
The nineteenth blurred with the twentieth, but he heard the numbers, loud and clear, the only sound he could decipher over the ram of his heart against his ribcage. Everything was hot beneath his skin, and everything was cold where the air touched. He shuddered, weakly jerking away from the twenty-first blow. He tugged at the chain where it was linked to the post, his aching, burning arms screaming for release. He groaned, blinking away sweat or blood or tears– he couldn’t tell.
The lashes divided themselves into sections of pain as he forgot what numbers were, becoming nameless, quick bouts of pain. It was only on the fuzzy, gray edges of his subconscious that he heard the numbers– “twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five”– but even so, he didn’t register what they meant.
So on, they dragged– it could have been seconds, could have been hours, could have been one lash or twenty– he didn’t know. He just sat there and took it, crying, whimpering, groaning and screaming util his throat burned and he was unable to force out any other sounds.
But eventually, somehow, at some point, his captor stopped.
He lay there, slumped, shivering, waiting for the next blow to land as tears trailed to his chin, whimpering, lips moving weakly as he tried to form sound. Everything hurt, and his vision was rimmed with nothing, blurry gray that smears together what little he can see– the wooden texture of the post he’s chained to, the floor in front of him, the red of his blood against the darker tones of the ground.
Warm air against his ear, the back-and-forth stir of breathing. He struggled to ascertain what was causing it, battling to think clearly, until the low rumble of his captor’s voice hit him, too loud, to rough, too much.
“Darling, I fear I’ve lost count. What are we on again?”
He shivered, slumped, head shaking slowly, uncertainly, trying to remember, to think… why did it matter? Why did… who wanted… what…
“Hm, that’s what I thought.” His captor leaned back, smiling. “Let’s start again, then, shall we?”
https://killian-whump.tumblr.com/post/1 ... 8/whipping
На земле
Re: Whipping
Shameless Whump Lover
“How many was that?”
The question sounded like it came from underwater, but he’d heard it enough times to know what the other had said.
“Forty-” he hesitated, eyes closing as he braced his head against his arms, breathing heavily. His wrist were tied to the wooden post, holding him upright even though his knees had given out halfway through. Something trickled down his back, blood or sweat, maybe both. “Forty-si-seven. Forty seven.” Forty-seven fiery strikes down his spine from the stinging leather. At least, since he had been convinced to start counting.
“Are you sure?”
He scowled against the pole, wincing heavily since his face was hidden behind his arms. Pain crawled across his back, over his shoulders, around his ribs. Everything burned. He wasn’t sure. He had lost count at the tail end of thirty. That was after twenty “ones” that had been repeated, until he’d been started keeping count himself like they wanted. It was more around fifty or sixty in total, so no, he wasn’t fucking sure.
“Forty-seven” he repeated more firmly the second time, glancing over his shoulder to the one holding the whip behind him. Bad idea. His stomach rolled at the sight of blood splattered on the ground, darkening the brown leather of the whip. He waited, for some kind of noise, sound, confirmation from the other. They were silent for too long. Then the whip cracked, he snatched back a yelp, a broken cry escaping his breathless lungs.
“One-”
“Forty-eight-f-forty-six! I don’t fucking know! Stop-just stop!” He yanked against the ropes, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t do this again. He couldn’t keep doing this.
“One- come now, you know what to do.”
The whip snapped against his lower back and he arched forward, trying to escape its cruel bite.
“O-one,” he breathed back weakly, collapsing against the beam.
“Only forty-nine more to go. Try not to lose track this time.”
https://shameless-whumper.tumblr.com/po ... ng-prompts
“How many was that?”
The question sounded like it came from underwater, but he’d heard it enough times to know what the other had said.
“Forty-” he hesitated, eyes closing as he braced his head against his arms, breathing heavily. His wrist were tied to the wooden post, holding him upright even though his knees had given out halfway through. Something trickled down his back, blood or sweat, maybe both. “Forty-si-seven. Forty seven.” Forty-seven fiery strikes down his spine from the stinging leather. At least, since he had been convinced to start counting.
“Are you sure?”
He scowled against the pole, wincing heavily since his face was hidden behind his arms. Pain crawled across his back, over his shoulders, around his ribs. Everything burned. He wasn’t sure. He had lost count at the tail end of thirty. That was after twenty “ones” that had been repeated, until he’d been started keeping count himself like they wanted. It was more around fifty or sixty in total, so no, he wasn’t fucking sure.
“Forty-seven” he repeated more firmly the second time, glancing over his shoulder to the one holding the whip behind him. Bad idea. His stomach rolled at the sight of blood splattered on the ground, darkening the brown leather of the whip. He waited, for some kind of noise, sound, confirmation from the other. They were silent for too long. Then the whip cracked, he snatched back a yelp, a broken cry escaping his breathless lungs.
“One-”
“Forty-eight-f-forty-six! I don’t fucking know! Stop-just stop!” He yanked against the ropes, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t do this again. He couldn’t keep doing this.
“One- come now, you know what to do.”
The whip snapped against his lower back and he arched forward, trying to escape its cruel bite.
“O-one,” he breathed back weakly, collapsing against the beam.
“Only forty-nine more to go. Try not to lose track this time.”
https://shameless-whumper.tumblr.com/po ... ng-prompts
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Re: Whipping
Whump in the Night
“Twelve. Now, you know, Nicholas, that what you did necessitates punishment.” Crack. Blood splatters across the floor. “Thirteen.”
“Ye-es, sir.”
Crack. Someone sighs in frustration as blood splats in a thin spray across the neat paper on their clipboard. “Fourteen. And you understand that your punishment will well exceed your regular ten lashes.” Slash. “Fifteen. You will be healed by an asset after this, Nicholas, so don’t worry about not being useful. You will continue your rounds after this is done. Sixteen. Seventeen.”
Two lashes in rapid succession get blood dripping down Nick’s chin as he bites into his lip. Deep groans escape him, but he works hard not to yell. More signs of weakness after today’s failure would be… bad.
“Eighteen. You allowed a witch to escape her cell.”
“Yes, s-sir.”
The next strike of the whip almost makes him yelp. That would have been humiliating. That wouldn’t have been directly punished, but it would have been noted in his file. He doesn’t want embarrassing notes in his file, he’ll just have to hear them being read back to him at the end of the month.
“You didn’t want to hold her down, so you loosened your grip. Hesitated. She managed to escape your hold and run out. That’s what you reported to your superior.”
“Ye-, nnhh! Yes, sir.”
“Nineteen. She’s been killed. Shot. The hallway is being scrubbed as we speak. Twenty. Nicholas, you lost us a witch today. You hesitated, so she’s dead. She won’t reveal any information to us. Twenty-one. Nicholas, how many lashes should you get for losing us a witch?”
“I - I - hnnggh… I don’t know, sir.” A shudder of horror runs through him against his will at the thought of her falling to the floor, suddenly a corpse, blood on the wall. He got her killed because he didn’t want to bruise her wrists.
“Twenty-two.” This time, Nick screams, horror welling up in his chest and choking him and exploding with the wave of pain that just keeps building and building and refuses to crash. “You’ve taken twenty-two lashes. I think you should take fifty for this mistake. And next time it happens, it shouldn’t be counted at all. You should be whipped until there is nothing left to whip. Twenty-three.”
Nicholas sobs. Bellows at the strike of the whip, and sobs. “Y-yes, yes, sir.”
“I’m glad you agree. Twenty-three.”
“You - you miscounted, sir, it’s - hnnnnngh!”
“Twenty-three,” His superior repeats dryly, on the twenty-fifth lash. Another strike, and Nick howls in agony. “Twenty-four.” Crack, sob. “Twenty-five.”
https://go-whump-in-the-night.tumblr.co ... lood#notes
“Twelve. Now, you know, Nicholas, that what you did necessitates punishment.” Crack. Blood splatters across the floor. “Thirteen.”
“Ye-es, sir.”
Crack. Someone sighs in frustration as blood splats in a thin spray across the neat paper on their clipboard. “Fourteen. And you understand that your punishment will well exceed your regular ten lashes.” Slash. “Fifteen. You will be healed by an asset after this, Nicholas, so don’t worry about not being useful. You will continue your rounds after this is done. Sixteen. Seventeen.”
Two lashes in rapid succession get blood dripping down Nick’s chin as he bites into his lip. Deep groans escape him, but he works hard not to yell. More signs of weakness after today’s failure would be… bad.
“Eighteen. You allowed a witch to escape her cell.”
“Yes, s-sir.”
The next strike of the whip almost makes him yelp. That would have been humiliating. That wouldn’t have been directly punished, but it would have been noted in his file. He doesn’t want embarrassing notes in his file, he’ll just have to hear them being read back to him at the end of the month.
“You didn’t want to hold her down, so you loosened your grip. Hesitated. She managed to escape your hold and run out. That’s what you reported to your superior.”
“Ye-, nnhh! Yes, sir.”
“Nineteen. She’s been killed. Shot. The hallway is being scrubbed as we speak. Twenty. Nicholas, you lost us a witch today. You hesitated, so she’s dead. She won’t reveal any information to us. Twenty-one. Nicholas, how many lashes should you get for losing us a witch?”
“I - I - hnnggh… I don’t know, sir.” A shudder of horror runs through him against his will at the thought of her falling to the floor, suddenly a corpse, blood on the wall. He got her killed because he didn’t want to bruise her wrists.
“Twenty-two.” This time, Nick screams, horror welling up in his chest and choking him and exploding with the wave of pain that just keeps building and building and refuses to crash. “You’ve taken twenty-two lashes. I think you should take fifty for this mistake. And next time it happens, it shouldn’t be counted at all. You should be whipped until there is nothing left to whip. Twenty-three.”
Nicholas sobs. Bellows at the strike of the whip, and sobs. “Y-yes, yes, sir.”
“I’m glad you agree. Twenty-three.”
“You - you miscounted, sir, it’s - hnnnnngh!”
“Twenty-three,” His superior repeats dryly, on the twenty-fifth lash. Another strike, and Nick howls in agony. “Twenty-four.” Crack, sob. “Twenty-five.”
https://go-whump-in-the-night.tumblr.co ... lood#notes
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Re: Whipping
What a useful forum! I'll have to improve my English because of you. Blinskiy fig 
Пусть за меня волнуется море
