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The Cane Mutiny

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7.

There is always a risk when one dreams of doing something for a considerable period of time, that when one actually gets to realize those dreams in real life, one will end up disappointed by the reality. Dean Windar had certainly dreamed of seeing Dr. Barbara Moore naked ever since the day, several years ago, when he had interviewed her when she was being hired as an Assistant Professor.

To be sure, he hadn’t imagined that he would realize this dream in a dreary locker room in a Female Corporal Punishment Facility, with a film crew, guards and his friend Judge Powers along with a few other DoC bureaucrats in attendance.

No, he had imagined it taking place in her cozy, book-lined apartment a few blocks from campus (no the Dean had never visited her there, but he knew from her file where she lived and had passed the building often, imagining her in there, undressing for her shower or cooking a wonderful dinner in the hope that the aroma would attract a passing Dean).

Or, perhaps, his initial introduction to the naked body of Professor Moore would be better occurring in one of the many inns, bed and breakfasts, ski lodges and cabins that dotted the mountains around Dorsbury. He imagined taking her vigorously on a bear skin rug before a roaring fire.

And of course, none of these trysts would involve any quid pro quo. She, a modern, independent and intellectually accomplished woman would earn her promotion by dint of hard work and accomplishment, not through sleeping with her boss. Any relationship between them would be based solely on mutual attraction.

Alas, though, none of this was to be. College rules strictly forbade any sexual dalliances between Deans and faculty and James Windar was not going to risk his job and pension regardless of how attractive Dr. Moore’s tight little ass appeared, at least as clothed in the skirts and tights she wore on campus.

And to be honest, he wasn’t all that sure that Dr. Moore found him attractive. He was, certainly, quite a bit older, even though he kept himself in very good shape, and she certainly never gave him the slightest reason to think that she wanted anything other than a professional relationship with him.

But, despite that, here he was, by grace of Dr. Moore’s foolish proclivity to protest any injustice, real or perceived, the recently-adopted laws of his state and his friendship with His Honor, Judge Marty Powers, about to feast his eyes upon Barbara Moore’s body and to watch its most intimate places explored by a dyke doctor.

His eyes were glued to her even as she hung up her winter coat and backpack and removed her nicely tailored jacket. He wondered idly why she had chosen such an outfit for an event such as this, but perhaps she had felt that having more clothes on might delay the inevitable.

After removing her boots, she paused, only to be hurried along by the no nonsense Sgt. Miller, who, only doing her job, of course, shouted at her, “Don’t just stand there, you stupid cunt! Take it off, NOW!” He had expected Dr. Moore to protest that she wasn’t stupid, something Dean Windar could attest to, but instead, she meekly unbuttoned and removed her blouse, folding it neatly and placing it in the locker.

Her skirt followed immediately after. That was the moment, with only a few garments remaining, that Dr. Moore chose to launch her verbal protest. Fortunately, his good friend Marty, intervened, making it clear to her that her statement would only be permitted once she had been thoroughly searched so that the safety of all of the attendees could be assured, in view of the dangerous nature of her beliefs.

Given little choice with so many guards ready to undress her in the roughest manner, she turned her back on the audience, reached behind her and undid her bra. Her smooth back and the little glimpse of her sides hinted at the delights that Dean Windar’s eyes would be treated to when the guards inevitably ordered her to turn around.

In the interim, the Dean had to content himself with the seeing her peel off her stockings. He thought he detected her cringe as she was forced to place her dainty bare feet on the rough, cold and dirty concrete floor.

This was the point at which poor Dr. Moore learned that beyond the eighteen lashes that Judge Powers had sentenced her to for her offense at the courthouse, she was going to receive an additional five for various and sundry acts of rebellion, such as arriving late, having an expired license and for her recalcitrant disobedience of a lawful order to strip. Dean Windar couldn’t say he was either surprised or in disagreement with the additional punishment ordered.

And now, in order to avoid incurring any further penalty strokes, Dr. Moore was obliged to turn and face her audience, clad only in a very brief thong. Dean Windar drew in a breath. Was he disappointed by the realization of his fantasy? No, not at all. She was lovely-her breasts, ample, but not excessive, her stomach taut.

Moreover, Dean Windar was pleased to see that her body was clean, free of the tattoos and piercings that all too many women of the younger generation felt obliged to adorn themselves with. In his day, those had been limited to prison inmates and merchant marine sailors, but nowadays even college professors sported them, though, not, blessedly, Dr. Moore.

Her foolish attempt to keep her thong was immediately squelched by that devoted public servant, Sgt. Miller, in her own rough, but effective manner. Dr. Moore’s tears of shame at being fully naked in front of an audience and having the whole thing committed to a permanent video record only enhanced her attractiveness in the Dean’s eyes.

Her strip search was a necessary security precaution, including the invasion of her most intimate body cavities by the probing fingers of the lesbian doctor. Dean Windar idly wondered whether, had he chosen to go to Medical School like many of his undergraduate biochemistry classmates, he might have gotten a job such as hers. But alas, the penetration of Dr. Moore’s vagina and anus would not be his, at least not now, though he had something much better than fingers to use for that task should it come his way.

Suitably searched and found not to represent a security threat, Dr. Moore asked, “Now can I read my statement?”

Judge Powers nodded sagely and replied. “Yes, of course, Professor. Never let it be said that I didn’t keep my word.” She turned and padded back to her locker to retrieve her piece of paper, giving the Dean a close up view of her tight little ass as she passed.

Barb Cane Mutiny - 1 (21).jpg

Now, completely naked, she turned to face the camera and began reading:

Dear Sisters and Friends,

I stand before you this day as I report for my court-ordered caning of eighteen strokes at Women’s Correctional Facility #3. But, before I submit to this extraordinarily cruel form of punishment, I wish to exercise my right as an American citizen to speak freely and make a public statement ... a bold public statement ... exposing the appalling state of injustice and mistreatment experienced by women under a newly revised system of criminal justice, incarceration and punishment that has placed its faith in the revival of judicial corporal punishment as a deterrent to disobedience and crime among women, and has established expressly for this purpose newly constructed and staffed Women’s Correctional Centers, such as this one in which I am about to be brutally caned.

Here is my story. Three weeks ago to this day, I chained myself, along with two young female college students who bravely volunteered to join me, to the doors of Judge Powers’ courtroom. My purpose was to expose and publicize the appalling judicial record of courts such as his, which have over the past few years sent a highly disproportionate number of women to Correctional Centers to receive corporal punishments of the most brutally violent kind, with scant regard for their human rights, with extreme prejudice toward affixing guilt in crimes to which they had been accused, and without adequate legal representation, if they received any at all.

My own experience is a case in point. I was removed from the Judge’s courtroom by a squad of male police, who used unnecessary force, and treated me with absolutely no respect for my womanhood. I was manhandled and rudely groped, taken to a jail, where I was strip-searched, abused and left overnight cuffed to a utility pipe on a wall because they didn’t want to waste jail cell space on me. The next day I was hauled before Judge Powers, denied counsel or even the right to speak in my own defense, and duly found guilty of civil disobedience and sentenced, in the space of no more than a few minutes, under the recently enacted Women’s Correctional Punishment Law, to a judicial caning of no less than eighteen strokes, along with a large monetary fine to pay for inferred court costs and for the cost to the State of administering my judicial punishment.

But I speak to you today, not just about the injustice that I have received, but about and against the injustice to which all women in our society are currently subjected. This is not just about the legal system and the recent reintroduction of judicial corporal punishment, meted out specifically to women. This is about date rape, about marital abuse, about sexual slavery, about disproportionate pay for equal work, about board room inequities ... about all the injustices, inequalities, and humiliations that women typically experience today in our increasingly hyper-male-dominated society.

I speak therefore as a spokesperson for women everywhere. And I issue a clarion call to all my sisters and friends. Rise up! Pick up the fallen and trampled upon banner of women’s rights and equality! Speak out! Resist! Enough is enough! Do not allow the brutal punishment that I shall endure today as a martyr to our sacred cause be in vain!

Thank you.

Dean Windar couldn’t resist clapping as she finished, in which he was joined by Judge Powers and Richard Morgan.

“Bravo, Dr. Moore!” he shouted. “You have made Dorsbury College proud with your eloquence. I have no doubt that speech will go down in history with such classics of protest and those of Gandhi and Dr. Martin Luther King.”

Sue and Beth, it must be said, seemed less impressed. They each took hold of one of Barb’s arms turned her around and marched her out of the room and down the corridor, with the cameraman trailing close behind, his camera, Dean Windar couldn’t help noticing, pointed straight at her ass.

At the head of the corridor was a door marked “Punishment Room,” which Officer Timmins opened with her card key. They marched Barb inside. Dean Windar and the judge hurried through the door, which Richard Morgan kindly held open.

The room was fairly large and higher ceilinged than the changing room. It was dominated by a large and very solid looking frame, painted an institutional blue color, to which Sue and Beth summarily marched Dr. Moore, giving her no opportunity to stage a final resistance.

Barb Cane Mutiny - 1 (24).jpg

Sue quickly pinned her to the wood with her heavy, muscular bulk, while Beth knelt and fixed sturdy leather straps around her ankles. Then, Beth went around the front of the frame, while Sue pushed down on Moore’s lower back, until she was bent at a 90 degree angle at the waist, her hips pushed against the crossbar on the near side, while her hands were forced to grip the cross bar on the far side.

Beth attached Barb’s wrists to the far crossbar, while Sue completed the restraints by cinching a padded belt tightly around her waist. Dean Windar couldn’t help noticing that the bent over posture not only made Barb’s tight little ass a perfect target for the cane, which the very brawny shaven headed gentleman, who was clearly the George whom Sue had referred to earlier, was brandishing menacingly, but also fully exposed her vagina and anus, which were pulled open by the stretched position.

“Alright,” Sue announced, indicating a row of folding chairs, placed conveniently near and to the side of the frame for good viewing, “If you all would take a seat, we can get underway.”

“Can we have a few minutes to set up the lights in here?” the lighting technician asked.

“Sure,” Sue replied. “Take your time. The dumb bitch of a Professor can contemplate the pain she is about to experience, which is most well deserved, in my humble opinion.”
 
Last edited by a moderator:
windar said:
7.

There is always a risk when one dreams of doing something for a considerable period of time, that when one actually gets to realize those dreams in real life, one will end up disappointed by the reality. Dean Windar had certainly dreamed of seeing Dr. Barbara Moore naked ever since the day, several years ago, when he had interviewed her when she was being hired as an Assistant Professor.

To be sure, he hadn’t imagined that he would realize this dream in a dreary locker room in a Female Corporal Punishment Facility, with a film crew, guards and his friend Judge Powers along with a few other DoC bureaucrats in attendance.

No, he had imagined it taking place in her cozy, book-lined apartment a few blocks from campus (no the Dean had never visited her there, but he knew from her file where she lived and had passed the building often, imagining her in there, undressing for her shower or cooking a wonderful dinner in the hope that the aroma would attract a passing Dean).

Or, perhaps, his initial introduction to the naked body of Professor Moore would be better occurring in one of the many inns, bed and breakfasts, ski lodges and cabins that dotted the mountains around Dorsbury. He imagined taking her vigorously on a bear skin rug before a roaring fire.

And of course, none of these trysts would involve any quid pro quo. She, a modern, independent and intellectually accomplished woman would earn her promotion by dint of hard work and accomplishment, not through sleeping with her boss. Any relationship between them would be based solely on mutual attraction.

Alas, though, none of this was to be. College rules strictly forbade any sexual dalliances between Deans and faculty and James Windar was not going to risk his job and pension regardless of how attractive Dr. Moore’s tight little ass appeared, at least as clothed in the skirts and tights she wore on campus.

And to be honest, he wasn’t all that sure that Dr. Moore found him attractive. He was, certainly, quite a bit older, even though he kept himself in very good shape, and she certainly never gave him the slightest reason to think that she wanted anything other than a professional relationship with him.

But, despite that, here he was, by grace of Dr. Moore’s foolish proclivity to protest any injustice, real or perceived, the recently-adopted laws of his state and his friendship with His Honor, Judge Marty Powers, about to feast his eyes upon Barbara Moore’s body and to watch its most intimate places explored by a dyke doctor.

His eyes were glued to her even as she hung up her winter coat and backpack and removed her nicely tailored jacket. He wondered idly why she had chosen such an outfit for an event such as this, but perhaps she had felt that having more clothes on might delay the inevitable.

After removing her boots, she paused, only to be hurried along by the no nonsense Sgt. Miller, who, only doing her job, of course, shouted at her, “Don’t just stand there, you stupid cunt! Take it off, NOW!” He had expected Dr. Moore to protest that she wasn’t stupid, something Dean Windar could attest to, but instead, she meekly unbuttoned and removed her blouse, folding it neatly and placing it in the locker.

Her skirt followed immediately after. That was the moment, with only a few garments remaining, that Dr. Moore chose to launch her verbal protest. Fortunately, his good friend Marty, intervened, making it clear to her that her statement would only be permitted once she had been thoroughly searched so that the safety of all of the attendees could be assured, in view of the dangerous nature of her beliefs.

Given little choice with so many guards ready to undress her in the roughest manner, she turned her back on the audience, reached behind her and undid her bra. Her smooth back and the little glimpse of her sides hinted at the delights that Dean Windar’s eyes would be treated to when the guards inevitably ordered her to turn around.

In the interim, the Dean had to content himself with the seeing her peel off her stockings. He thought he detected her cringe as she was forced to place her dainty bare feet on the rough, cold and dirty concrete floor.

This was the point at which poor Dr. Moore learned that beyond the eighteen lashes that Judge Powers had sentenced her to for her offense at the courthouse, she was going to receive an additional five for various and sundry acts of rebellion, such as arriving late, having an expired license and for her recalcitrant disobedience of a lawful order to strip. Dean Windar couldn’t say he was either surprised or in disagreement with the additional punishment ordered.

And now, in order to avoid incurring any further penalty strokes, Dr. Moore was obliged to turn and face her audience, clad only in a very brief thong. Dean Windar drew in a breath. Was he disappointed by the realization of his fantasy? No, not at all. She was lovely-her breasts, ample, but not excessive, her stomach taut.

Moreover, Dean Windar was pleased to see that her body was clean, free of the tattoos and piercings that all too many women of the younger generation felt obliged to adorn themselves with. In his day, those had been limited to prison inmates and merchant marine sailors, but nowadays even college professors sported them, though, not, blessedly, Dr. Moore.

Her foolish attempt to keep her thong was immediately squelched by that devoted public servant, Sgt. Miller, in her own rough, but effective manner. Dr. Moore’s tears of shame at being fully naked in front of an audience and having the whole thing committed to a permanent video record only enhanced her attractiveness in the Dean’s eyes.

Her strip search was a necessary security precaution, including the invasion of her most intimate body cavities by the probing fingers of the lesbian doctor. Dean Windar idly wondered whether, had he chosen to go to Medical School like many of his undergraduate biochemistry classmates, he might have gotten a job such as hers. But alas, the penetration of Dr. Moore’s vagina and anus would not be his, at least not now, though he had something much better than fingers to use for that task should it come his way.

Suitably searched and found not to represent a security threat, Dr. Moore asked, “Now can I read my statement?”

Judge Powers nodded sagely and replied. “Yes, of course, Professor. Never let it be said that I didn’t keep my word.” She turned and padded back to her locker to retrieve her piece of paper, giving the Dean a close up view of her tight little ass as she passed.

Now, completely naked, she turned to face the camera and began reading:

Dear Sisters and Friends,

I stand before you this day as I report for my court-ordered caning of eighteen strokes at Women’s Correctional Facility #3. But, before I submit to this extraordinarily cruel form of punishment, I wish to exercise my right as an American citizen to speak freely and make a public statement ... a bold public statement ... exposing the appalling state of injustice and mistreatment experienced by women under a newly revised system of criminal justice, incarceration and punishment that has placed its faith in the revival of judicial corporal punishment as a deterrent to disobedience and crime among women, and has established expressly for this purpose newly constructed and staffed Women’s Correctional Centers, such as this one in which I am about to be brutally caned.

Here is my story. Three weeks ago to this day, I chained myself, along with two young female college students who bravely volunteered to join me, to the doors of Judge Powers’ courtroom. My purpose was to expose and publicize the appalling judicial record of courts such as his, which have over the past few years sent a highly disproportionate number of women to Correctional Centers to receive corporal punishments of the most brutally violent kind, with scant regard for their human rights, with extreme prejudice toward affixing guilt in crimes to which they had been accused, and without adequate legal representation, if they received any at all.

My own experience is a case in point. I was removed from the Judge’s courtroom by a squad of male police, who used unnecessary force, and treated me with absolutely no respect for my womanhood. I was manhandled and rudely groped, taken to a jail, where I was strip-searched, abused and left overnight cuffed to a utility pipe on a wall because they didn’t want to waste jail cell space on me. The next day I was hauled before Judge Powers, denied counsel or even the right to speak in my own defense, and duly found guilty of civil disobedience and sentenced, in the space of no more than a few minutes, under the recently enacted Women’s Correctional Punishment Law, to a judicial caning of no less than eighteen strokes, along with a large monetary fine to pay for inferred court costs and for the cost to the State of administering my judicial punishment.

But I speak to you today, not just about the injustice that I have received, but about and against the injustice to which all women in our society are currently subjected. This is not just about the legal system and the recent reintroduction of judicial corporal punishment, meted out specifically to women. This is about date rape, about marital abuse, about sexual slavery, about disproportionate pay for equal work, about board room inequities ... about all the injustices, inequalities, and humiliations that women typically experience today in our increasingly hyper-male-dominated society.

I speak therefore as a spokesperson for women everywhere. And I issue a clarion call to all my sisters and friends. Rise up! Pick up the fallen and trampled upon banner of women’s rights and equality! Speak out! Resist! Enough is enough! Do not allow the brutal punishment that I shall endure today as a martyr to our sacred cause be in vain!

Thank you.

Dean Windar couldn’t resist clapping as she finished, in which he was joined by Judge Powers and Richard Morgan.

“Bravo, Dr. Moore!” he shouted. “You have made Dorsbury College proud with your eloquence. I have no doubt that speech will go down in history with such classics of protest and those of Gandhi and Dr. Martin Luther King.”

Sue and Beth, it must be said, seemed less impressed. They each took hold of one of Barb’s arms turned her around and marched her out of the room and down the corridor, with the cameraman trailing close behind, his camera, Dean Windar couldn’t help noticing, pointed straight at her ass.

At the head of the corridor was a door marked “Punishment Room,” which Officer Timmins opened with her card key. They marched Barb inside. Dean Windar and the judge hurried through the door, which Richard Morgan kindly held open.

The room was fairly large and higher ceilinged than the changing room. It was dominated by a large and very solid looking frame, painted an institutional blue color, to which Sue and Beth summarily marched Dr. Moore, giving her no opportunity to stage a final resistance.

Sue quickly pinned her to the wood with her heavy, muscular bulk, while Beth knelt and fixed sturdy leather straps around her ankles. Then, Beth went around the front of the frame, while Sue pushed down on Moore’s lower back, until she was bent at a 90 degree angle at the waist, her hips pushed against the crossbar on the near side, while her hands were forced to grip the cross bar on the far side.

Beth attached Barb’s wrists to the far crossbar, while Sue completed the restraints by cinching a padded belt tightly around her waist. Dean Windar couldn’t help noticing that the bent over posture not only made Barb’s tight little ass a perfect target for the cane, which the very brawny shaven headed gentleman, who was clearly the George whom Sue had referred to earlier, was brandishing menacingly, but also fully exposed her vagina and anus, which were pulled open by the stretched position.

“Alright,” Sue announced, indicating a row of folding chairs, placed conveniently near and to the side of the frame for good viewing, “If you all would take a seat, we can get underway.”

“Can we have a few minutes to set up the lights in here?” the lighting technician asked.

“Sure,” Sue replied. “Take your time. The dumb bitch of a Professor can contemplate the pain she is about to experience, which is most well deserved, in my humble opinion.”
Click to expand...

Oh Barb, such intelligence and, as the Dean himself said ... remarkable eloquence. But does our poor, hapless heroine realise that she is simply offering herself for further punishments by advocating so vehemently for seditious action against the Authority's judicial process, a process that no doubt has been contributed to by the most senior official figures in the region, including some of those present today. I fear for her well being both mental and physical, because the administering of the eighteen core plus five ancillary strokes that have already been assigned to her nubile form, compounded by the sheer provocation of her bound position, will undoubtedly fuel more than enough lust leading to a heightened desire through which even worse torments will be inflicted upon the rebellious Asst Professor ...

I for one, cannot wait. Another superb piece. Thank you.
 
windar said:
Dean Windar couldn’t help noticing that the bent over posture not only made Barb’s tight little ass a perfect target for the cane, which the very brawny shaven headed gentleman, who was clearly the George whom Sue had referred to earlier, was brandishing menacingly, but also fully exposed her vagina and anus, which were pulled open by the stretched position.
Click to expand...

Couldn’t help but notice, my ass!!!! :mad:

Look who wrangled himself a prime spot from which to watch, :confused:

Geez :facepalm:
 
windar said:
7.

There is always a risk when one dreams of doing something for a considerable period of time, that when one actually gets to realize those dreams in real life, one will end up disappointed by the reality. Dean Windar had certainly dreamed of seeing Dr. Barbara Moore naked ever since the day, several years ago, when he had interviewed her when she was being hired as an Assistant Professor.

To be sure, he hadn’t imagined that he would realize this dream in a dreary locker room in a Female Corporal Punishment Facility, with a film crew, guards and his friend Judge Powers along with a few other DoC bureaucrats in attendance.

No, he had imagined it taking place in her cozy, book-lined apartment a few blocks from campus (no the Dean had never visited her there, but he knew from her file where she lived and had passed the building often, imagining her in there, undressing for her shower or cooking a wonderful dinner in the hope that the aroma would attract a passing Dean).

Or, perhaps, his initial introduction to the naked body of Professor Moore would be better occurring in one of the many inns, bed and breakfasts, ski lodges and cabins that dotted the mountains around Dorsbury. He imagined taking her vigorously on a bear skin rug before a roaring fire.

And of course, none of these trysts would involve any quid pro quo. She, a modern, independent and intellectually accomplished woman would earn her promotion by dint of hard work and accomplishment, not through sleeping with her boss. Any relationship between them would be based solely on mutual attraction.

Alas, though, none of this was to be. College rules strictly forbade any sexual dalliances between Deans and faculty and James Windar was not going to risk his job and pension regardless of how attractive Dr. Moore’s tight little ass appeared, at least as clothed in the skirts and tights she wore on campus.

And to be honest, he wasn’t all that sure that Dr. Moore found him attractive. He was, certainly, quite a bit older, even though he kept himself in very good shape, and she certainly never gave him the slightest reason to think that she wanted anything other than a professional relationship with him.

But, despite that, here he was, by grace of Dr. Moore’s foolish proclivity to protest any injustice, real or perceived, the recently-adopted laws of his state and his friendship with His Honor, Judge Marty Powers, about to feast his eyes upon Barbara Moore’s body and to watch its most intimate places explored by a dyke doctor.

His eyes were glued to her even as she hung up her winter coat and backpack and removed her nicely tailored jacket. He wondered idly why she had chosen such an outfit for an event such as this, but perhaps she had felt that having more clothes on might delay the inevitable.

After removing her boots, she paused, only to be hurried along by the no nonsense Sgt. Miller, who, only doing her job, of course, shouted at her, “Don’t just stand there, you stupid cunt! Take it off, NOW!” He had expected Dr. Moore to protest that she wasn’t stupid, something Dean Windar could attest to, but instead, she meekly unbuttoned and removed her blouse, folding it neatly and placing it in the locker.

Her skirt followed immediately after. That was the moment, with only a few garments remaining, that Dr. Moore chose to launch her verbal protest. Fortunately, his good friend Marty, intervened, making it clear to her that her statement would only be permitted once she had been thoroughly searched so that the safety of all of the attendees could be assured, in view of the dangerous nature of her beliefs.

Given little choice with so many guards ready to undress her in the roughest manner, she turned her back on the audience, reached behind her and undid her bra. Her smooth back and the little glimpse of her sides hinted at the delights that Dean Windar’s eyes would be treated to when the guards inevitably ordered her to turn around.

In the interim, the Dean had to content himself with the seeing her peel off her stockings. He thought he detected her cringe as she was forced to place her dainty bare feet on the rough, cold and dirty concrete floor.

This was the point at which poor Dr. Moore learned that beyond the eighteen lashes that Judge Powers had sentenced her to for her offense at the courthouse, she was going to receive an additional five for various and sundry acts of rebellion, such as arriving late, having an expired license and for her recalcitrant disobedience of a lawful order to strip. Dean Windar couldn’t say he was either surprised or in disagreement with the additional punishment ordered.

And now, in order to avoid incurring any further penalty strokes, Dr. Moore was obliged to turn and face her audience, clad only in a very brief thong. Dean Windar drew in a breath. Was he disappointed by the realization of his fantasy? No, not at all. She was lovely-her breasts, ample, but not excessive, her stomach taut.

Moreover, Dean Windar was pleased to see that her body was clean, free of the tattoos and piercings that all too many women of the younger generation felt obliged to adorn themselves with. In his day, those had been limited to prison inmates and merchant marine sailors, but nowadays even college professors sported them, though, not, blessedly, Dr. Moore.

Her foolish attempt to keep her thong was immediately squelched by that devoted public servant, Sgt. Miller, in her own rough, but effective manner. Dr. Moore’s tears of shame at being fully naked in front of an audience and having the whole thing committed to a permanent video record only enhanced her attractiveness in the Dean’s eyes.

Her strip search was a necessary security precaution, including the invasion of her most intimate body cavities by the probing fingers of the lesbian doctor. Dean Windar idly wondered whether, had he chosen to go to Medical School like many of his undergraduate biochemistry classmates, he might have gotten a job such as hers. But alas, the penetration of Dr. Moore’s vagina and anus would not be his, at least not now, though he had something much better than fingers to use for that task should it come his way.

Suitably searched and found not to represent a security threat, Dr. Moore asked, “Now can I read my statement?”

Judge Powers nodded sagely and replied. “Yes, of course, Professor. Never let it be said that I didn’t keep my word.” She turned and padded back to her locker to retrieve her piece of paper, giving the Dean a close up view of her tight little ass as she passed.

Now, completely naked, she turned to face the camera and began reading:

Dear Sisters and Friends,

I stand before you this day as I report for my court-ordered caning of eighteen strokes at Women’s Correctional Facility #3. But, before I submit to this extraordinarily cruel form of punishment, I wish to exercise my right as an American citizen to speak freely and make a public statement ... a bold public statement ... exposing the appalling state of injustice and mistreatment experienced by women under a newly revised system of criminal justice, incarceration and punishment that has placed its faith in the revival of judicial corporal punishment as a deterrent to disobedience and crime among women, and has established expressly for this purpose newly constructed and staffed Women’s Correctional Centers, such as this one in which I am about to be brutally caned.

Here is my story. Three weeks ago to this day, I chained myself, along with two young female college students who bravely volunteered to join me, to the doors of Judge Powers’ courtroom. My purpose was to expose and publicize the appalling judicial record of courts such as his, which have over the past few years sent a highly disproportionate number of women to Correctional Centers to receive corporal punishments of the most brutally violent kind, with scant regard for their human rights, with extreme prejudice toward affixing guilt in crimes to which they had been accused, and without adequate legal representation, if they received any at all.

My own experience is a case in point. I was removed from the Judge’s courtroom by a squad of male police, who used unnecessary force, and treated me with absolutely no respect for my womanhood. I was manhandled and rudely groped, taken to a jail, where I was strip-searched, abused and left overnight cuffed to a utility pipe on a wall because they didn’t want to waste jail cell space on me. The next day I was hauled before Judge Powers, denied counsel or even the right to speak in my own defense, and duly found guilty of civil disobedience and sentenced, in the space of no more than a few minutes, under the recently enacted Women’s Correctional Punishment Law, to a judicial caning of no less than eighteen strokes, along with a large monetary fine to pay for inferred court costs and for the cost to the State of administering my judicial punishment.

But I speak to you today, not just about the injustice that I have received, but about and against the injustice to which all women in our society are currently subjected. This is not just about the legal system and the recent reintroduction of judicial corporal punishment, meted out specifically to women. This is about date rape, about marital abuse, about sexual slavery, about disproportionate pay for equal work, about board room inequities ... about all the injustices, inequalities, and humiliations that women typically experience today in our increasingly hyper-male-dominated society.

I speak therefore as a spokesperson for women everywhere. And I issue a clarion call to all my sisters and friends. Rise up! Pick up the fallen and trampled upon banner of women’s rights and equality! Speak out! Resist! Enough is enough! Do not allow the brutal punishment that I shall endure today as a martyr to our sacred cause be in vain!

Thank you.

Dean Windar couldn’t resist clapping as she finished, in which he was joined by Judge Powers and Richard Morgan.

“Bravo, Dr. Moore!” he shouted. “You have made Dorsbury College proud with your eloquence. I have no doubt that speech will go down in history with such classics of protest and those of Gandhi and Dr. Martin Luther King.”

Sue and Beth, it must be said, seemed less impressed. They each took hold of one of Barb’s arms turned her around and marched her out of the room and down the corridor, with the cameraman trailing close behind, his camera, Dean Windar couldn’t help noticing, pointed straight at her ass.

At the head of the corridor was a door marked “Punishment Room,” which Officer Timmins opened with her card key. They marched Barb inside. Dean Windar and the judge hurried through the door, which Richard Morgan kindly held open.

The room was fairly large and higher ceilinged than the changing room. It was dominated by a large and very solid looking frame, painted an institutional blue color, to which Sue and Beth summarily marched Dr. Moore, giving her no opportunity to stage a final resistance.

Sue quickly pinned her to the wood with her heavy, muscular bulk, while Beth knelt and fixed sturdy leather straps around her ankles. Then, Beth went around the front of the frame, while Sue pushed down on Moore’s lower back, until she was bent at a 90 degree angle at the waist, her hips pushed against the crossbar on the near side, while her hands were forced to grip the cross bar on the far side.

Beth attached Barb’s wrists to the far crossbar, while Sue completed the restraints by cinching a padded belt tightly around her waist. Dean Windar couldn’t help noticing that the bent over posture not only made Barb’s tight little ass a perfect target for the cane, which the very brawny shaven headed gentleman, who was clearly the George whom Sue had referred to earlier, was brandishing menacingly, but also fully exposed her vagina and anus, which were pulled open by the stretched position.

“Alright,” Sue announced, indicating a row of folding chairs, placed conveniently near and to the side of the frame for good viewing, “If you all would take a seat, we can get underway.”

“Can we have a few minutes to set up the lights in here?” the lighting technician asked.

“Sure,” Sue replied. “Take your time. The dumb bitch of a Professor can contemplate the pain she is about to experience, which is most well deserved, in my humble opinion.”
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Another brilliantly combined pair of episodes, how cruel to let Dr. Moore regain her dignity and some pride with her statement just before her spirit is about to be broken by a cruel flogging.
 
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