Stripped And Punished Novels & Stories

"An offering. Do you feel how exposed you are? How completely you are given?" I could only whimper in response. The denial of my orgasm had left me raw, every nerve ending alive and begging. "You will be rewarded for your obedience," he said. "And punished for your greed. Both are pleasures here." I heard the sound of a belt buckle being undone. The soft hiss of leather being pulled through loops. My heart hammered against the bench. The first strike was not with the belt. It was with his open hand, a sharp, stinging slap across my right cheek. I cried out, the sound swallowed by the room.

For abandoning her. This was punishment, retribution. I am, after all, a sinner, and I deserved everything I got. The whip struck hard again. White dots danced in the corner of my eyes, and the copper taste of blood filled my mouth aside that, I didn't so much as flinch as the whips hit me. It was a punishment. It was what I deserved. The whips kept coming, I was bleeding all over. None of my wouldn't were fully healed nor halfway healed, ‐not even the split on my lips.

At Dorian. He’s standing on the far side of the platform, face pale, fists clenched. “I love you, Sophie,” he calls. It’s barely loud enough to hear, but she hears him. She nods, and in that moment, she is beautiful. Broken. Brave. The man’s voice booms again. “Sophie Ashbourne and Dorian Alaric, you are hereby stripped of your castes. You are omegas.” Cheers again. I want to scream. “And for your betrayal, you will be whipped with silver. Fifteen lashes. May your scars remind you of your sins.”

I watched as justice was done, my rage propelling every hit, every moment of punishment. "You will remember this day," I growled, my stare hard and unrelenting. "You will remember the repercussions of your deeds. And you will never forget the price you paid for attempting to destroy what is mine." When their punishment was complete, I stood back, my breath heavy with the weight of my rage. The guys lay battered and broken, their spirits crushed under the weight of their sins. They were no longer the fearsome people they previously considered themselves to be. They were barely relics of their old selves.

The Galante men unceremoniously dragged Monica away. Word spread quickly afterward. In a fit of rage, Enzo personally ordered her punishment. She was the woman who had destroyed everything he possessed. Monica's hands were severed. She was dumped into the city's filthiest red light district and left to fend for herself. After that, Enzo began trying to contact me like a madman. There were no more threats and no more commands. There were only relentless apologies, pleas, and confessions soaked in regret.

"Sure, I know and want it, sweetie. But he's not like Mikhail Winters" Aidan says making Philip gasp at the beginning of the phrase. "Aren't you ashamed of saying something like this?" The younger asked widening his eyes. "Why should I? Phil, I'm not pure like you" "How can I be pure while being a stripper?" He said with a smirk on his face. "You're just a stripper not a slut, you know nothing about naughty things, little Phil" The older said winking at him. "Shut the fuck up" Just when he closed his mouth the two males, Lewis and Winters, got to their table.

Without hesitation, he slapped me and locked me in my room without food for two days. This time, all because I opened a window, he was willing to condemn both our child and me to death. I didn’t know how long had passed when the cellar door cracked open, letting in a thin beam of light. For one desperate moment, I thought he had changed his mind. I struggled to stand… Only to see Celine, wrapped in a thick down coat, looking down at me from above, a smug smile playing on her lips. "Vesper, how did you end up like this?" she said in feigned surprise. "He was just too worried about me and acted impulsively when he punished you. Please don’t blame him."

I was most likely going to get branded. Branding was a harsh, humiliating public punishment where words like traitor, murderer, or slut were written on the forehead or hands. A hot iron was used to do the marking which left scars for life. But most branded criminals didn't really live a long life. Once everybody received a deterring message not to commit such crimes, the offenders were beheaded or hung within a few weeks of branding. Sometimes, the offender would commit suicide before the beheading.

They stripped me bare. It didn’t matter that I fought. I was weaker, slower, humiliated. They wiped my body down, rough and businesslike, their expressions blank. They dragged the cloth down my back, over the bruises. One poured water on my head like I was filth being rinsed out of the gutters. I breathed in short, ragged gasps—burning, helpless. This wasn’t cleansing. This was display. Like polishing a collar on a mutt before dragging it out before the pack.

There’s nowhere to hide. Training was also the only time until recently that I interacted with other members of the pack outside of those I lived with. It never went well. Nobody wanted to be paired with me, on a good week someone would be away and I would be allowed to practice my moves alone. On a bad week, I had to pair up with one of the other pack members. They hated being paired with me and when they fought me they would make it very clear just how much they hated it. They wouldn’t pull their punches or stop when they were supposed to, so I would come home with cuts and bruises all over my body.