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Traffic Violation Saturday

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A very good story, I was not aware of its existence.
I particularly like the matter-of-factly and almost friendly depiction of the punishment.
 
Zephirantes said:
A very good story, I was not aware of its existence.
I particularly like the matter-of-factly and almost friendly depiction of the punishment.
Click to expand...
Thanks for saying. It was a particularly fun story to write. And a nice example of how art seen here on CF can be inspiring.

(A short story in 3 parts, inspired by Welsh Webb's famous "Sunday in the Park" drawing.)
 
Barbaria1 said:
A short story in 3 parts, inspired by Welsh Webb's famous "Sunday in the Park" drawing.

Traffic Violation Saturday

Saturday dawned hot and humid ... a typical sultry day in July. I parked, got out of my car and made my way to Kellogg Park ... clutching my traffic violation warrant in my right hand.

Up ahead a queue was forming. Other violators like myself, all young women, were presenting themselves at the park entrance gate to serve out their sentences for various traffic miscues committed over the past couple of months.

Earlier that week I had gone to traffic court, having received a ticket for mistakenly driving the wrong way down a one-way street. It was my first offense and I was reasonably confident that I would get off easy. Perhaps just a small fine. But just to make sure, I took a friend's advice and wore my shortest skirt and heels. I was told the judge was a sucker for bare legs.

When it was my turn, I got up off the chair where I had been waiting, crossing and uncrossing my legs every time the judge looked my way, and strode casually up to the bench, taking care to swing my hips a little more than usual. The judge leaned forward and looked me over through half-lensed spectacles. A deep frown spread across his bewhiskered face.

"Ms. Moore? Barbara Moore?" he inquired, checking and rechecking the documents clutched in his hands.

"Yessir, that's me."

"Ummmmm ... let's see ... what was the violation?... here it is ... wrong way on a one-way ... is that correct, Ms. Moore?"

"Well, you see your honor, I am new in town and I got lost and didn't see the signs with the arrow," I explained, extending my right leg forward a bit and bending my knee provocatively.

"No excuse, Ms. Moore. Signs are signs. So, is this your first offense, right?"

"Yesssir!" I chirped brightly, anticipating sympathy and leniency. He kept looking at my legs, after all.

"Sentenced to 6 hours in Kellogg Park, Saturday next! Next case!" he muttered, banging his gavel.

I didn't budge.

"Move on, Ms. Moore."

"Wait a minute! That was my first offense! Don't you think 6 hours is a bit harsh? And, by the way, six hours of what?"

"Ms. Moore. Since the city instituted the new 'public shame sentence program' in Kellogg Park, traffic violations have been down 40%, especially among young women. Six hours is what you get. I can assure you that six hours will do wonders for that attitude! Now move on, and don't be late on Saturday! Reporting time is 9 am."

So there I was ... reporting on Saturday, as instructed, at precisely 9 am. The line was fairly long and moved slowly. The officer processing the violators was taking her time.

Bored, I turned to the girl behind me ...a sweet looking young blond.

"What did they get you for?" I asked conversationally.

"Parking in a no parking zone."

"How many hours?"

"Only four."

"Oh, I got six."

"Too bad, it's going to be a scorcher today."

I turned to the woman ahead of me, a brunette. who looked about my age.

"How many hours did you get."

"Two and a half, honey, for speeding ... how about you?"

"Six."

"Tough," she said, shaking her head. "You didn't wear a short skirt when you went to see Judge Hickcox, by any chance, did you?"

"Well, yes."

"Well, no wonder."

"Hmmmmmm How come there are only women reporting here today?"

"That's because men only have to pay a small fine when they get a ticket, honey. You really are naive, aren't you?"

I decided to keep quiet, wondering to myself why my friend advised me to wear a short skirt to court. Some friend!

I reached the head of the line by around 9:30. A frumpy looking matron in an ill-fitting police uniform looked up at me from behind a folding table heaped with white cardboard placards.

"Name?" she said.

"Moore, Barbara," I replied.

"Oh yes, first offense ... six hours."

"I guess."

She rummaged through the heap of placards on the table and grunted with satisfaction as she extracted one from the bottom of the pile.

She held it out and I took it in my hand.

In large block letters the writing on it declared: BARBARA MOORE, MOVING VIOLATION, SIX HOURS.

"Take the card and proceed down that path into the trees over there. A matron will be waiting for you. She will have you strip off everything but your panties. There will be boxes on the ground in which you can leave your clothing until later."

Dutifully, I followed instructions. The path led around a bend, and sure enough, there were boxes on the ground, already half full of women's clothing. A couple of the women who had been in line in front of me were there ... just finishing removing their clothes and moving on down the path.

A tough-looking matron stood behind the boxes, arms akimbo across her ample chest. As I came up she glared at me, and barked, "Everything off but your panties, and be quick about it!"

I sighed and began to strip, unbuttoning and removing my cotton shirt, then kicking off my sandals and wriggling out of my skinny jeans. I paused to tug up on the waistband of my black kinis, which had slipped down as I removed my jeans. Then I straightened up, reached behind my back and undid my bra. Holding one arm across my boobs, I scooped up my clothing and tossed them in an empty box.

"Move on. Down the path until you come to a clearing," the matron instructed. "And don't forget your placard!"

I scooped the card up off the grass where I had laid it and hurried off after the others who were long out of sight. As soon as I was out of the matron's sight, I slowed my pace. The path wound about along a lovely wooded ravine, with a bubbling stream. I paused to enjoy the tranquil setting, then continued on to where the path opened onto a grassy clearing.

As the clearing came into view, I gasped in astonishment. The grassy expanse was filled with row after row of upright wooden crosses ... a fair number of which were already occupied by the women who had preceded me.

Two men in police uniforms met me at path's end. One of them took my placard from me, glanced at it, and then informed me brusquely that I was to be crucified on one of the vacant crosses in the third row.

I looked at him blankly ... the full reality of what was in store for me sinking in ... then followed him docilely as he set off, the other officer falling by in behind me.

We circled around the left end of the first two rows, all of the crosses of which were already occupied by naked or nearly naked women struggling under the sun.. I recognized the brunette who had preceded me back in the registration line ... the one who said she got two and a half hours for speeding. A pair of officers were helping her up onto a cross and binding her in place.

"Good luck, honey!" she called cheerily as I passed by.

"This one is yours!" announced my first officer, pointing to the first cross of the third row. "Now be a good girl and back yourself up to it, so we can get you crucified."

I looked at it closely. It was constructed of heavy timber and permanently set in the ground in a concrete footing. Lengths of rope dangled from near the two ends of the crossbeam. Part way down the upright, an angled block had been bolted in place to serve as a foot rest.

Shaking my head in disbelief, I took my place with my back to the wood. It felt rough and splintery against my skin.

While one of the officers slid his hands under my arms, clamped them tightly against my ribs, and lifted me ... the other stepped up onto a wooden box, stretched out my right arm and bound it at the wrist to the crossbeam. Then he jumped down and did the same with my left arm and wrist.

Together they bound my ankles and secured them to the upright in such a way that my feet were precariously supported by the angled block.

As soon as they finished I slumped to a knees-bent position with arms outstretched, chest thrust forward, tight little pressed hard against the wood. I cried out, looking up anxiously at my straining arms and bound wrists. My chest felt constricted. I was going to have to push myself up to get air.

But before I could do so, one of the officers plopped the wooden box in front of my cross. Clambering up, he leaned into me ... I could smell alcohol on his breath ... even at this early hour! He produced a staple gun from his pocket and promptly secured my placard to the upright over my head.

Hopping down, he checked his watch, withdrew a pen from his pocket and noted the time on the upright of my cross just below my feet.

"It's ten o'clock," he said, grinning up at me, as I slumped back down after pushing myself up for a few gulps of air. "You got six hours up there, Barbara Moore. Your placard says you can't come down until four pm. They'll be opening the park gates at eleven and letting the crowds in to gawk. They're sure going to love watching you and your nice tits as you writhe and squirm about in the heat. It's going to be a damn beastly day to be up there. You'd better plan to pace yourself. Good luck to you."rrra

TO BE CONTINUED
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Geeee, Barbara - those cruxes are your faith, no, I will not write anything more!
Nicely written, even has some humorous approach and some fine observations
of how officials would go about that 'work', fully detached, cruel, in a way, just
because they don't care. Making remarks they believe are funny without noting
they are plain sadistic. That's the set of mind that allows them to do anything to
the convicts and go home and be a perfect stuffy. As things are, you should call
yourself lucky if your car doesn't get another ticket in the meantime or once the
ticket, always tickets again and again ... and once Kellogg Park would turn into a
repetition Kellogg's Park in endless circles.
Only rests one German (Bavarian) curse for this:
Jo, Cruxefix-no-amoi! Sacra-di!

Domodamn-no
 
Domodonno said:
Geeee, Barbara - those cruxes are your faith, no, I will not write anything more!
Nicely written, even has some humorous approach and some fine observations
of how officials would go about that 'work', fully detached, cruel, in a way, just
because they don't care. Making remarks they believe are funny without noting
they are plain sadistic. That's the set of mind that allows them to do anything to
the convicts and go home and be a perfect stuffy. As things are, you should call
yourself lucky if your car doesn't get another ticket in the meantime or once the
ticket, always tickets again and again ... and once Kellogg Park would turn into a
repetition Kellogg's Park in endless circles.
Only rests one German (Bavarian) curse for this:
Jo, Cruxefix-no-amoi! Sacra-di!

Domodamn-no
Click to expand...
Thanks Domo. I’m pleased to know you liked the story.
 
.. Takes me till 10:45 h to come back with pincers, then I had to watch that fat matron ..
ah, now she's got busy with one of the waiters, my chance to rush over the grass, get
behind you climb up and
- creack! and creack! ooh-wow hold it, I grab your arm, can you keep holding the cross
bar for a moment?
and -crear-crar-crack! Pew - hard stuff!
No-no, just grab your things and run - here! behind the bushes ..
Domo

(sorted out some typing arras)
 
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Barbara has won a price by the tourist industry:
One week in Arabia all-around service in a first-class hotel, flight by Emirates coming and going
first class - inclusive of your personal servants in the form of two young foreign girls (not from
this country - cannot be! especially not for non-believing guests, yes you can treat them like it
is noted in the Koran, whip or cane, as you please, except for no cutting anything whatsoever)
And we will bring and take your car in a cargo plane, too.
Happily looking forward to days of warmth and sunshine (both abundantly) Barbara takes her
car from the airport (w-what car do you actually .. no, don't let me be div ..) notices: Gee, traffic
is about as dense as back in - oh, brake! hell, idiot! and another! .. anyways where now is the
hotel? One glimps at the map .. eeeh - uahh! brake sharp and turn right ways a bit. Gaius Krassus!!
Where do they learn to drive anyways?
Before Barbara can start away from the traffic circle, she notices one policeman in immaculate
but surly way too hot uniform signaling a "stop" to her and, oh, then it comes to her "Ah, I might
as well ask him" he arrives at her open left window and snarls: "AsSalem alaikum! Lady, WHERE is
your man?" "My man?" Barbara is surprised "but I am on holiday, won a ticket by Emirates - just
for me, uhm, alone!? Did I do something wrong?" The sinistre look darkens a further shade: "No-
maam, you reacted cool and direct like a man, that's why I ask you again: "Where is your man?"
the man brought out - now with angry-sounding emphasis. One of her expectations has turned
out true: it's hot, like in a steel oven! The police man's uniform is closed to upmost knob.
A colleague arrives - the two talk in Arabian, three to five times as fast as in English, the second
one bows down takes a dubious look inside the car, barks "Open the trunk!"
Not wanting to leave the car Barbara hands them the key, they go back, "krshlshls-rack" trunk lid
opens. Both bow into the space for a while, mumbling, then the trunk lid comes down "wwhack".
in the slow gait of police all over the world (we know you have to wait for us, so we take our time)
they come back forward and synchronously they lean on the left and right window board, the left
original policeman - or was he the second - sums up "Maam you've been driving without your
man with you, it doesn't help, you managed to react correctly to the speeding one (but he was a
man and a believing one too), women are not allowed to be able to drive in the first place! Come
with us, you may just leave the car, we scrap hundreds each season. We will clarify this at the police
station.
Now, what do you think about where this will end?
Well, where else?

Oh, Barbara, I must get a world atlas where they have the counties indicated without any cruxes
at all and then the hardest part is to convince you to move there and never leave safe territory!
Domo
 
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