#strappado

Isn’t she so pretty 😍🥀

M shape suspension with butterfly chest harness and a cheeky strappado.

Instagram:

🪢: @cinnamon_living

Masterlist

He has a name now! (Thank you @anarlossethedunadan!)

Contents: sleep deprivation, torture, stress position, beating with a metal rod, royal whumpee, defiant whumpee, multiple whumpers

The young king tried to sleep, uncomfortable though his bonds and the cold stone floor were. But every few hours, as best he could guess, a guard or soldier came by, banged loudly against the bars of the cell, then left. It seemed he would not be allowed to sleep.

Eventually, the soldiers from before came, stopping at his cell. He tried to get to his feet, face them standing, but his exhaustion coupled with having his hands bound behind his back threw off his balance. He was yanked up and dragged down the hallway, not allowed to walk on his own. He glared at them.

“I can walk, you know.”

They ignored him.

They hooked his bonds to the same device as before. He tried to steel himself for the pain, but the wrench of the chain on his already tender and aching arms forced a cry from his throat.

Bent over, shoulders aching as he tried to hold what he could of his weight on his tiptoes, he found himself again wishing he had just been executed.

The general took the lead this time. He grabbed the young man’s hair, forcing him to look up. “Let us start simply. Tell me your name, boy.”

The young king hesitated. He did not want to give them any satisfaction of answers, yet was refusing to answer something they already knew really worth the pain they would enact if he did not speak.

He saw the general prepare to strike him and he choked out, “Cinn. My name is Cinn.”

The blow came anyway, the impact radiating through his body. He gasped in pain.

“Wrong. You have no name, until you choose to beg for the name of ‘slave’.”

Cinn clenched his jaw. Hot tears pricked at his eyes but he met the general’s icy glare with his own. “My name is my own, and I know it whether you recognize it or no.”

That was most certainly not the answer the general sought. He held out his hand and a soldier — the one who had lost his brother — handed him a metal rod. The soldier’s smile looked almost giddy in anticipation.

Cinn tried to brace himself but he had no leverage. The first blow hit his ribcage, hard, and he felt something crack. He screamed. The next blow hit his legs, then across his spine.

The blows after the first were measured, not dealing debilitating injuries, yet each made his body jerk in pain. His vision began to dance with dark spots.

A blow struck his right arm, wrenching it harder against the ropes. His shoulder flared in agony.

Then his left was struck, and with a sickening pop it dislocated again. His cry of pain was a strangled howl. Tears streamed down his face beyond his control.

Suddenly the suspension slackened and he was dropped again to the floor. The soldier came over, pressing a knee heavily against Cinn’s back. He grabbed the young king’s arm and re-located it roughly.

“Look at me,” the general commanded from above him.

Cinn strained to look up.

“What is your name?”

Cinn spat a gob of bloody saliva at the general’s foot. “Cinn.”