PAT JONES
Onlooker
It was an hour before closing, and we literally had to wake up the dozing old docent at the front gate to get admission to the old 19th century women’s prison. Dark, damp, and castle like, the first passage we went into led us down the stairs. We were now subterranean, with most of the lighting for the rooms coming from large barred windows 12 feet above our heads, as street level.
Our first stop was the property room, filled with rusty, industrial green shelves for the wooden boxes where the prisoner’s clothes were stored. There were long four shelves on each side of the main aisle, with each unit containing 4 shelves with about 12 boxes each. This meant there were almost 100 boxes in each aisle, and the aisles seemed to fade back into forever in the long, dark room.
“Geesh, this place is HUGE!” I gasped.
“A lot of naughty girls to punish,” he said, squeezing my hand. My macho boyfriend John, who at 25 works as a fearlessly aggressive prosecuting attorney, waded down 3 or 4 aisles in, and randomly selected one of the boxes off the middle shelf and opened it.
“You shouldn’t touch that!” I scolded.
“Relax, no one will know. I don’t think anyone’s been in this dump for years.” It was true. The site looked more abandoned than restored. There were jars in every room asking for donations and the place appeared to be crumbling around us. Somehow, that only made it look more authentic.
“Look, the box is deep enough to get all your gear in it,” John said casually, showing me the wide, deep box.
“Great,” I said, staring into the open pit of the wooden box. I felt a tiny twinge as I imagined my clothes in the wooden crate.
The next room was enormous, with the light streaming in from the windows from the interior alley far above our heads. There was an informational sign on the wall, which my boyfriend began to read, but my attention was drawn to the stocks in the front of the room.
It was a curious devise. It was a sort of table, and the prisoner would have to kneel on the wooden support to put their head and hands through the pillory that filled the base of the object. I undid the simple latching bolt and lifted the headpiece; it was ancient, but the hinge worked, and it seemed quite functional. My fingers trembled as I ran them along the sliding bolt.
If I knelt on the bench my bottom would be about 3 foot high and perfectly positioned for discipline. I felt a spasm of pleasure in my pussy at the thought. I often play spanking games with my dominant boyfriend, but something about this place was different. It was as if my prison fantasy and public punishment fantasies were now somehow real, or at least the movie set for them was.
John read the plaque on the wall. “It says the crowds used to “tip the whipper” to make sure he’d go hard on the pretty girls. Sally Fenton, 6 strokes of the cane for not going to church… Lisa Cantor, 21 strokes of the razor strop, for immodest dress, Charlotte Chambers, two-dozen with the birch for adultery. Gosh, Charlotte, by their standards, you’re guilty of everyone of these!”
“Yes too bad there’s no birches or canes,” I said dryly. Clearing his throat my boyfriend pointed at the corner behind me. I turned my head and was confronted by an arsenal of historic straps, paddles, and canes, hanging on the wall.
My boyfriend walked over and took one of the canes off the wall.
“Don’t!” I scolded, “Those are antiques. You’ll break them!”
I winced as he swished the cane through the air. WHOOSH! WHOOSH! “Seems pretty functional to me!”
He was right: the whippy cane seemed positively murderous. “These birches are fresh,” he said, picking up one of several bound rods out of a large metal bucket and shaking them. This brine hasn’t been here for 300 years.” Smiling at me John ran the wet birch rod through his hands. “Nice and whippy, and perfect for dealing with doxies, whores, and harlots,” he said. I blushed, and he laughed at my nervousness.
John exited the room, and returned with another randomly selected property box. Slipping off his jacket and shirt and dropping them into the box, he donned the black executioner’s hood hanging from the hook on the wall. John was wearing black pants and black sneakers and the hood covered his entire head down to his shoulders, with simply two slanted holes for his eyes. John works out everyday, and he looked incredibly hot – and authentic – bare from the waist up in his executioner’s hood.
“I AM THE LAW,” he said loudly, dropping his voice an octave for his new character, his dark voice muffled and distorted a bit by the hood.
I took several shots of my studly, hooded “executioner” holding birches, straps, and canes in various meaningful poses as he glared at me from his position next to the whipping bench. He was so hot! As we got more into our game, I felt the wetness growing between my legs.
“Let’s get some shots of you,” he suggested. In the stocks, with me. I’ll use my selfie stick.”
“My dress will get dirty.”
“The wenches didn’t wear dresses and slips, dumb-dumb,” he said, holding up the property box. “Look at the drawing on the wall.”
I’m a successful consultant who makes more money than my macho boyfriend, which he hates, and I hate it when he called me “dumb-dumb” since I know it’s his insecurity over the fact that I’m smarter and more successful than him. However something about the way my executioner was holding the cane made me loathe to argue.
Crossing the room I looked at the drawing on the display plaque. It depicted the room we were in now, in the 18th century. A large crowd was watching, and the executioner, wearing the hood, was holding an ominous whip. The woman on the whipping bench was entirely naked, her head locked in the stocks, and her legs strapped to the table with her bare bottom perfectly positioned for discipline.
“Everything in the box, wench!” my executioner barked, lowering his already deep voice even further for emphasis. “No need for finery here! Jewelry, too!”
“John, be serious. Someone will come,” I protested.
John broke character. “Charlotte, relax. No one has been in this dump in months. Besides, we’ll hear them and you can slip your dress back on. It’s not like anyone knows us here, or that old guy napping in the front is going to do anything.”
Truth. Ordinarily I would have turned him down but something about having him order me about in his black leather jerkin and executioner’s hood was so hot. I had a longtime fantasy about being punished in a woman’s prison, my bottom bare, the gentry staring at my naked bottom quivering under discipline. Now for a moment at least I could imagine my “good girl” persona. My fantasy could be real.
My breathing quickened and the butterflies in my stomach took flight as I nervously pulled my T-shirt over my head, all the while anxiously eyeing the door. In real life I’m quite modest, which is why this was so exciting. I felt so deliciously naughty! My exhilaration only grew John egged me on.
“That’s right, Lady Charlotte,” he said, adopting his deep executioner’s voice. “Down to the skin, wench, and be quick about it. You’ve been a VERY naughty wench and now it’s time for your tight little bottom to face justice. Living in sin with another man… public drunkenness… lewd language… The Judge ordered me to make those pretty bottom cheeks of yours dance, and I shall do as the law demands!”
I knew John did in fact think of himself as the law, and he knew just what to say to rev my engines. Despite the fact that we’d been living together for six months I blushed crimson as my “executioner” watched closely through the holes in his hood as his prisoner stripped “to the skin.”
When I was entirely naked and my clothes folded neatly in the old wooden box. I covered myself with my hands, embarrassed at the way the strange man in the hood was staring at my naked body.
Even with the hood on I could feel his disapproving glare. “Earrings, too” he said, in a tone that made it clear he was displeased at my “disobedience”. “And the watch. EVERYTHING in the box. NOW!”
When I dropped my diamond earrings and thousand dollar smart watch into the property box John tossed my purse inside latched it shut. The butterflies in my tummy took flight as he removed the box containing my purse, jewelry, cellphone, and every stitch of my clothing and exited the room to reshelve my property box in the next room.
I stood shivering naked in front of the whipping bench, covering myself as best as I could as the cold from the dirty stone floor leached through my bare feet and up my calves. My hand was covering my pussy, and as I slipped my fingers between my legs I gave my soaking wet pussy a good rub.
I was simultaneously humiliated, turned-on, and terrified, with my fear and embarrassment only adding to my excitement. Intellectually, I knew my clothes were only a few yards away, but emotionally I had never felt so naked, helpless, or exposed.
Biting my lip nervously, I gingerly walked across the filthy floor to peek around the corner and see where my clothes had gone. Unfortunately, by the time I got there they had already been “put away”, and as my eyes nervously and quickly raked over the hundreds upon hundreds of indistinguishable property boxes I felt a sudden pang of fear.
My old identity had been boxed and safely locked away alongside the thousand of prisoners who had preceded me. As per the executioner’s orders I had truly been “stripped to the skin” and my clothes and property were now GONE. I was now just another naked wench awaiting her punishment.
I felt myself blush as my hooded executioner’s eyes ran over my naked body. Trying to make awkward small talk, I lifted one of my feet. “Geesh, my soles are FILTHY”, I said, laughing nervously. “Any chance I might get my shoes back?”
My executioner, not breaking character, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck as he walked past and pushed me forward. He pushed me rapidly through the door and toward the whipping bench, heedless of the little stones and bits of dirt that were stinging my feet at every step.
I knelt on the bench and as he raised the headpiece I obediently put my head and hands in the half circles, which soon became full circles as he brought the heavy wooden top bar down to imprison me in the stocks. The rusty old locking bolt was only an inch from my ear, and my clutzy boyfriend nearly broke it, having to put his full weight on it to force it ALL the way down! When it finally LOCKED into place it sounded to me like a guillotine falling, or the trap door of a gallows.
My executioner held up a leather bit gag. Worn and well chewed it was basically a short stick wrapped in leather, like something you’d put in a horses mouth, with iron buckles that connected it to an adjustable buckle strap. As he held it up my nostrils crinkled up from the stink of it.
“You are NOT putting that filthy old thing in my mouth,” I said flatly.
He said nothing, but simply laid the bit over the top of the stock so the buckle just barely grazed my hand. His silent message was clear. The bit might very well MIGHT go in my mouth if I didn’t please him.
I tried to lift my head or slide my hands back out of the wholes, but the heavy wood, which had been holding naughty girls for centuries, wouldn’t budge. I strained my tiny fingers to reach the locking bolt. It was achingly close, but not close enough.
In the next series of photos you couldn’t see my face, as I was kneeling and bent over, but when I spread my legs you could see everything else. As promised, my boyfriend took several wonderful shots of the birch, strop, and cane resting on the small of my back as I “awaited” punishment. Between shots, I rubbed my legs together as best as I could, with my boyfriend occasionally “lending a hand” without ever actually bringing me off, all the while scolding me in his deep baritone executioner’s voice as a “harlot”, “whore”, “doxy” and “strumpet”.
Executioners are not nice people.
John was right; I heard the chattering voices of the enormous tour group for a good five minutes before they reached our cell. It was more than enough time for me to retrieve my clothes and get dressed if we hurried. What we didn’t count on was the locking bolt on the stocks getting stuck.
“John, Get me out of here! NOW! I mean it. I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Maybe I should get one of those buckets to pee in because this bolt isn’t moving,” he said, breaking character as he strained to unjam the centuries old locking bolt, which was very much living up to the “locking” part.
“I have some tools in the car that will do it,” he said, breaking character. He sounded as panicked as I was, which wasn’t reassuring me.
“NO! You can’t leave me here like this! I’m stark naked!”
The voices were growing louder. From the din I’m guessing there were a lot of them, all babbling Japanese. Straining, John managed to work the bolt about half way up, but as we heard the group enter the property room he changed strategies. Abandoning the effort he pushed the old bolt down. Metal ground on metal as it slid into it’s happy place with a satisfying CLINK, followed by a sinister SNAP as he turned it, locking it firmly into place!
“What the hell are you doing?” I demanded.
“They’ll have cameras,” he said, calmly launching Plan B. But I’ll try to make sure they just photograph your bottom.”
“Cameras?” I sputtered. “Fuck you!”
He picked up the old leather gag. “I need to gag you, so you don’t say anything stupid. Pick your crime and sentence. We’ll pretend we’re doing a re-enactment. But I’m warning you: we’re going to have to make this look real.”
I closed my legs tightly together as they started entering the room. There were lots of OOHS and AHHS! and laughter and a steady stream of flashes from cameras.
“What’s your crime?” John asked, dangling the gag up so close to my mouth that the stink made me queasy. I stared at the old leather bit gag which would soon be between my teeth, struggling to remember which crime matched which sentence… I knew my next words would be important, and they would be my last words for quite some time.
John and I had been living together for six months. “Adultery?” I said tentatively.
My next cry was babble as he forced the bit between my teeth and I tasted the dried spit and tears of the thousands of whipping girls who had preceded me. I thought I was going to barf! My executioner pulled it back tight, forcing my face into a permanent, stupid smile.
Although I couldn’t see all of them, from the view of the few that peeked around the front to see my face and the sound of my voice I’m guessing there were about 40 people in the tour group. There were some older men and women, but there also seemed to be a lot of college students, or at least those are the ones who came around the front to see my stupid, grinning face.
“Come in, good people of the village,” the executioner growled in his deep baritone. “Come and witness the punishment of this shameless whore. Justice must be seen to be done.”
The tour group leader translated it for the eager crowd. There was some laughter, and flashes from cameras.
An older woman (from the sound of her voice) said something, and the tour guide translated. “What are those straps for?”
There was a pause. John brushed my naked calf as he reached down at picked up the brown leather buckle strap, examining it as he noticed it for the first time. I screamed into my gag as he grabbed my ankle, pulling my leg sharply to the right as he buckled it tightly to the old wooden frame. My left ankle was next, and as John left me no slack whatsoever my legs were now widely splayed open. There were some whistles and catcalls behind me as my exposed sex came into view. I blushed anew as I felt the cold damp air rush over my exposed pussy and bottom hole.
Reaching between my legs, John rubbed my pussy as he pronounced my sentence to the crowd. “Charlotte Chambers, you have been caught living in sin, fornicating with a man not your husband. See? Even now the slut’s pussy is wet and juicy!”
There was nervous laughter and murmurs from the crowd as John showed them his wet fingers. I felt like I was going to vomit into my disgusting gag, and I was fighting the urge not to pee. I had never felt so naked, exposed or turned on in my life.
“The court has sentenced you to two dozen strokes of the birch, on your bare bottom, as punishment for your strumpetry.” Acting like the law itself, the sanctimonious bastard who had been fucking me for the last six months retrieved the birch rod out of the bucket in the corner, baptizing my naked bottom with little droplets of brine as he SWISHED it through the air.”
The translator dutifully translated as John teasingly scratched my bottom. No one was coming to my rescue; indeed, from the smiles of the people who peeked around to see my face and laugh at me it was clear that everyone was enjoying my distress. Everyone but me, of course.
I heard some coins CLINK into the tip jar as the crowd, echoing the days of yore, tipped the executioner to ensure that the strokes would be laid on smartly. I chewed on my gag and fought the overwhelming urge to pee as I felt my muscular executioner graze my bottom with the sharp buds of the birch rod as he waited impatiently for the tip jar to be passed around the room. Waiting was agony, but I knew the punishment was going to be even worse.
Our first stop was the property room, filled with rusty, industrial green shelves for the wooden boxes where the prisoner’s clothes were stored. There were long four shelves on each side of the main aisle, with each unit containing 4 shelves with about 12 boxes each. This meant there were almost 100 boxes in each aisle, and the aisles seemed to fade back into forever in the long, dark room.
“Geesh, this place is HUGE!” I gasped.
“A lot of naughty girls to punish,” he said, squeezing my hand. My macho boyfriend John, who at 25 works as a fearlessly aggressive prosecuting attorney, waded down 3 or 4 aisles in, and randomly selected one of the boxes off the middle shelf and opened it.
“You shouldn’t touch that!” I scolded.
“Relax, no one will know. I don’t think anyone’s been in this dump for years.” It was true. The site looked more abandoned than restored. There were jars in every room asking for donations and the place appeared to be crumbling around us. Somehow, that only made it look more authentic.
“Look, the box is deep enough to get all your gear in it,” John said casually, showing me the wide, deep box.
“Great,” I said, staring into the open pit of the wooden box. I felt a tiny twinge as I imagined my clothes in the wooden crate.
The next room was enormous, with the light streaming in from the windows from the interior alley far above our heads. There was an informational sign on the wall, which my boyfriend began to read, but my attention was drawn to the stocks in the front of the room.
It was a curious devise. It was a sort of table, and the prisoner would have to kneel on the wooden support to put their head and hands through the pillory that filled the base of the object. I undid the simple latching bolt and lifted the headpiece; it was ancient, but the hinge worked, and it seemed quite functional. My fingers trembled as I ran them along the sliding bolt.
If I knelt on the bench my bottom would be about 3 foot high and perfectly positioned for discipline. I felt a spasm of pleasure in my pussy at the thought. I often play spanking games with my dominant boyfriend, but something about this place was different. It was as if my prison fantasy and public punishment fantasies were now somehow real, or at least the movie set for them was.
John read the plaque on the wall. “It says the crowds used to “tip the whipper” to make sure he’d go hard on the pretty girls. Sally Fenton, 6 strokes of the cane for not going to church… Lisa Cantor, 21 strokes of the razor strop, for immodest dress, Charlotte Chambers, two-dozen with the birch for adultery. Gosh, Charlotte, by their standards, you’re guilty of everyone of these!”
“Yes too bad there’s no birches or canes,” I said dryly. Clearing his throat my boyfriend pointed at the corner behind me. I turned my head and was confronted by an arsenal of historic straps, paddles, and canes, hanging on the wall.
My boyfriend walked over and took one of the canes off the wall.
“Don’t!” I scolded, “Those are antiques. You’ll break them!”
I winced as he swished the cane through the air. WHOOSH! WHOOSH! “Seems pretty functional to me!”
He was right: the whippy cane seemed positively murderous. “These birches are fresh,” he said, picking up one of several bound rods out of a large metal bucket and shaking them. This brine hasn’t been here for 300 years.” Smiling at me John ran the wet birch rod through his hands. “Nice and whippy, and perfect for dealing with doxies, whores, and harlots,” he said. I blushed, and he laughed at my nervousness.
John exited the room, and returned with another randomly selected property box. Slipping off his jacket and shirt and dropping them into the box, he donned the black executioner’s hood hanging from the hook on the wall. John was wearing black pants and black sneakers and the hood covered his entire head down to his shoulders, with simply two slanted holes for his eyes. John works out everyday, and he looked incredibly hot – and authentic – bare from the waist up in his executioner’s hood.
“I AM THE LAW,” he said loudly, dropping his voice an octave for his new character, his dark voice muffled and distorted a bit by the hood.
I took several shots of my studly, hooded “executioner” holding birches, straps, and canes in various meaningful poses as he glared at me from his position next to the whipping bench. He was so hot! As we got more into our game, I felt the wetness growing between my legs.
“Let’s get some shots of you,” he suggested. In the stocks, with me. I’ll use my selfie stick.”
“My dress will get dirty.”
“The wenches didn’t wear dresses and slips, dumb-dumb,” he said, holding up the property box. “Look at the drawing on the wall.”
I’m a successful consultant who makes more money than my macho boyfriend, which he hates, and I hate it when he called me “dumb-dumb” since I know it’s his insecurity over the fact that I’m smarter and more successful than him. However something about the way my executioner was holding the cane made me loathe to argue.
Crossing the room I looked at the drawing on the display plaque. It depicted the room we were in now, in the 18th century. A large crowd was watching, and the executioner, wearing the hood, was holding an ominous whip. The woman on the whipping bench was entirely naked, her head locked in the stocks, and her legs strapped to the table with her bare bottom perfectly positioned for discipline.
“Everything in the box, wench!” my executioner barked, lowering his already deep voice even further for emphasis. “No need for finery here! Jewelry, too!”
“John, be serious. Someone will come,” I protested.
John broke character. “Charlotte, relax. No one has been in this dump in months. Besides, we’ll hear them and you can slip your dress back on. It’s not like anyone knows us here, or that old guy napping in the front is going to do anything.”
Truth. Ordinarily I would have turned him down but something about having him order me about in his black leather jerkin and executioner’s hood was so hot. I had a longtime fantasy about being punished in a woman’s prison, my bottom bare, the gentry staring at my naked bottom quivering under discipline. Now for a moment at least I could imagine my “good girl” persona. My fantasy could be real.
My breathing quickened and the butterflies in my stomach took flight as I nervously pulled my T-shirt over my head, all the while anxiously eyeing the door. In real life I’m quite modest, which is why this was so exciting. I felt so deliciously naughty! My exhilaration only grew John egged me on.
“That’s right, Lady Charlotte,” he said, adopting his deep executioner’s voice. “Down to the skin, wench, and be quick about it. You’ve been a VERY naughty wench and now it’s time for your tight little bottom to face justice. Living in sin with another man… public drunkenness… lewd language… The Judge ordered me to make those pretty bottom cheeks of yours dance, and I shall do as the law demands!”
I knew John did in fact think of himself as the law, and he knew just what to say to rev my engines. Despite the fact that we’d been living together for six months I blushed crimson as my “executioner” watched closely through the holes in his hood as his prisoner stripped “to the skin.”
When I was entirely naked and my clothes folded neatly in the old wooden box. I covered myself with my hands, embarrassed at the way the strange man in the hood was staring at my naked body.
Even with the hood on I could feel his disapproving glare. “Earrings, too” he said, in a tone that made it clear he was displeased at my “disobedience”. “And the watch. EVERYTHING in the box. NOW!”
When I dropped my diamond earrings and thousand dollar smart watch into the property box John tossed my purse inside latched it shut. The butterflies in my tummy took flight as he removed the box containing my purse, jewelry, cellphone, and every stitch of my clothing and exited the room to reshelve my property box in the next room.
I stood shivering naked in front of the whipping bench, covering myself as best as I could as the cold from the dirty stone floor leached through my bare feet and up my calves. My hand was covering my pussy, and as I slipped my fingers between my legs I gave my soaking wet pussy a good rub.
I was simultaneously humiliated, turned-on, and terrified, with my fear and embarrassment only adding to my excitement. Intellectually, I knew my clothes were only a few yards away, but emotionally I had never felt so naked, helpless, or exposed.
Biting my lip nervously, I gingerly walked across the filthy floor to peek around the corner and see where my clothes had gone. Unfortunately, by the time I got there they had already been “put away”, and as my eyes nervously and quickly raked over the hundreds upon hundreds of indistinguishable property boxes I felt a sudden pang of fear.
My old identity had been boxed and safely locked away alongside the thousand of prisoners who had preceded me. As per the executioner’s orders I had truly been “stripped to the skin” and my clothes and property were now GONE. I was now just another naked wench awaiting her punishment.
I felt myself blush as my hooded executioner’s eyes ran over my naked body. Trying to make awkward small talk, I lifted one of my feet. “Geesh, my soles are FILTHY”, I said, laughing nervously. “Any chance I might get my shoes back?”
My executioner, not breaking character, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck as he walked past and pushed me forward. He pushed me rapidly through the door and toward the whipping bench, heedless of the little stones and bits of dirt that were stinging my feet at every step.
I knelt on the bench and as he raised the headpiece I obediently put my head and hands in the half circles, which soon became full circles as he brought the heavy wooden top bar down to imprison me in the stocks. The rusty old locking bolt was only an inch from my ear, and my clutzy boyfriend nearly broke it, having to put his full weight on it to force it ALL the way down! When it finally LOCKED into place it sounded to me like a guillotine falling, or the trap door of a gallows.
My executioner held up a leather bit gag. Worn and well chewed it was basically a short stick wrapped in leather, like something you’d put in a horses mouth, with iron buckles that connected it to an adjustable buckle strap. As he held it up my nostrils crinkled up from the stink of it.
“You are NOT putting that filthy old thing in my mouth,” I said flatly.
He said nothing, but simply laid the bit over the top of the stock so the buckle just barely grazed my hand. His silent message was clear. The bit might very well MIGHT go in my mouth if I didn’t please him.
I tried to lift my head or slide my hands back out of the wholes, but the heavy wood, which had been holding naughty girls for centuries, wouldn’t budge. I strained my tiny fingers to reach the locking bolt. It was achingly close, but not close enough.
In the next series of photos you couldn’t see my face, as I was kneeling and bent over, but when I spread my legs you could see everything else. As promised, my boyfriend took several wonderful shots of the birch, strop, and cane resting on the small of my back as I “awaited” punishment. Between shots, I rubbed my legs together as best as I could, with my boyfriend occasionally “lending a hand” without ever actually bringing me off, all the while scolding me in his deep baritone executioner’s voice as a “harlot”, “whore”, “doxy” and “strumpet”.
Executioners are not nice people.
John was right; I heard the chattering voices of the enormous tour group for a good five minutes before they reached our cell. It was more than enough time for me to retrieve my clothes and get dressed if we hurried. What we didn’t count on was the locking bolt on the stocks getting stuck.
“John, Get me out of here! NOW! I mean it. I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Maybe I should get one of those buckets to pee in because this bolt isn’t moving,” he said, breaking character as he strained to unjam the centuries old locking bolt, which was very much living up to the “locking” part.
“I have some tools in the car that will do it,” he said, breaking character. He sounded as panicked as I was, which wasn’t reassuring me.
“NO! You can’t leave me here like this! I’m stark naked!”
The voices were growing louder. From the din I’m guessing there were a lot of them, all babbling Japanese. Straining, John managed to work the bolt about half way up, but as we heard the group enter the property room he changed strategies. Abandoning the effort he pushed the old bolt down. Metal ground on metal as it slid into it’s happy place with a satisfying CLINK, followed by a sinister SNAP as he turned it, locking it firmly into place!
“What the hell are you doing?” I demanded.
“They’ll have cameras,” he said, calmly launching Plan B. But I’ll try to make sure they just photograph your bottom.”
“Cameras?” I sputtered. “Fuck you!”
He picked up the old leather gag. “I need to gag you, so you don’t say anything stupid. Pick your crime and sentence. We’ll pretend we’re doing a re-enactment. But I’m warning you: we’re going to have to make this look real.”
I closed my legs tightly together as they started entering the room. There were lots of OOHS and AHHS! and laughter and a steady stream of flashes from cameras.
“What’s your crime?” John asked, dangling the gag up so close to my mouth that the stink made me queasy. I stared at the old leather bit gag which would soon be between my teeth, struggling to remember which crime matched which sentence… I knew my next words would be important, and they would be my last words for quite some time.
John and I had been living together for six months. “Adultery?” I said tentatively.
My next cry was babble as he forced the bit between my teeth and I tasted the dried spit and tears of the thousands of whipping girls who had preceded me. I thought I was going to barf! My executioner pulled it back tight, forcing my face into a permanent, stupid smile.
Although I couldn’t see all of them, from the view of the few that peeked around the front to see my face and the sound of my voice I’m guessing there were about 40 people in the tour group. There were some older men and women, but there also seemed to be a lot of college students, or at least those are the ones who came around the front to see my stupid, grinning face.
“Come in, good people of the village,” the executioner growled in his deep baritone. “Come and witness the punishment of this shameless whore. Justice must be seen to be done.”
The tour group leader translated it for the eager crowd. There was some laughter, and flashes from cameras.
An older woman (from the sound of her voice) said something, and the tour guide translated. “What are those straps for?”
There was a pause. John brushed my naked calf as he reached down at picked up the brown leather buckle strap, examining it as he noticed it for the first time. I screamed into my gag as he grabbed my ankle, pulling my leg sharply to the right as he buckled it tightly to the old wooden frame. My left ankle was next, and as John left me no slack whatsoever my legs were now widely splayed open. There were some whistles and catcalls behind me as my exposed sex came into view. I blushed anew as I felt the cold damp air rush over my exposed pussy and bottom hole.
Reaching between my legs, John rubbed my pussy as he pronounced my sentence to the crowd. “Charlotte Chambers, you have been caught living in sin, fornicating with a man not your husband. See? Even now the slut’s pussy is wet and juicy!”
There was nervous laughter and murmurs from the crowd as John showed them his wet fingers. I felt like I was going to vomit into my disgusting gag, and I was fighting the urge not to pee. I had never felt so naked, exposed or turned on in my life.
“The court has sentenced you to two dozen strokes of the birch, on your bare bottom, as punishment for your strumpetry.” Acting like the law itself, the sanctimonious bastard who had been fucking me for the last six months retrieved the birch rod out of the bucket in the corner, baptizing my naked bottom with little droplets of brine as he SWISHED it through the air.”
The translator dutifully translated as John teasingly scratched my bottom. No one was coming to my rescue; indeed, from the smiles of the people who peeked around to see my face and laugh at me it was clear that everyone was enjoying my distress. Everyone but me, of course.
I heard some coins CLINK into the tip jar as the crowd, echoing the days of yore, tipped the executioner to ensure that the strokes would be laid on smartly. I chewed on my gag and fought the overwhelming urge to pee as I felt my muscular executioner graze my bottom with the sharp buds of the birch rod as he waited impatiently for the tip jar to be passed around the room. Waiting was agony, but I knew the punishment was going to be even worse.