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#1
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.
 
Joined
Aug 10, 2015
Likes
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Location
deviantart
#2
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.
wow! fantastic, sexy story!! Really enjoyed it :D Thanks for sharing :thumbsup:
 
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#7
I hadn't planned on continuing this story, but since you asked and it got such a nice reception from all of you, here's some more!

PRISON TOURISTS, PART TWO

The jar containing the collection of “whip tips” - cash to encourage my executioner to whip my bottom with no mercy - slowly moved around the room. I winced and my bottom cheeks clenched every time I heard the coins rattle as the jar was passed or a new coin drop in with the others.

John, ever thoughtful, laid the birch rod that would soon be used to skin my bottom across the small of my back, where it served as a constant reminder of torments yet to come.

The leisurely fund drive gave my Japanese admirers ample time to move around to the front to examine my face. Although I couldn’t see myself, I could feel the rivulets of terror sweat running down my face and the drool from the bit gag stuffed deeply in my mouth running down my chin. My admirer’s amused expressions made it clear that my face was almost as good a show as my widely splayed legs in back.

Three Japanese college girls moved around and nervously laughed, giggled and elbowed each other like silly geese as they snickered and pointed at me. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but one of the girls spread her legs to shoulder length and bent over while the other girls laughed.

Another girl wagged her finger in my face, making a “naughty, naughty” gesture causing her friends to burst into a fresh round of giggles. Her friend responded by pantomiming whipping a birch rod through the air, making a “Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!” sound for every stroke. Her friend responded by grabbing her bottom and crying out in mock agony, then dancing around as she mocked my upcoming agony.

The first opened her mouth into a stupid grin and waggled her tongue, mocking the absurd forced smile and drool dribbling down off of my putrid gag. Then she pointed at me, and scratched under her arm and made monkey sounds. Their cruelty and pleasure at teasing and taunting me knew no limits.

The gag itself created its own special torture. An old wooden stick wrapped in black leather and buckled behind my head, the putrid gag was well chewed and coated with the dried spittle and tears of countless girls who had ridden the whipping bench before me. With my tongue trapped underneath the bit my own spittle mixed with theirs to form a disgusting lather that washed back-and-forth across my tongue and into every corner and crevice of my mouth. The more disgusting it became, the more I chewed, and the more I drooled, making my suffering all the worse.

The pressure in my bladder was an additional torment. Being a guy John didn’t care that much where he peed, but as I was a bit more fussy I had skipped the chance to relieve myself in the public bathroom upstairs. Now the unbearable pressure in my bladder seemed to grow worse by the minute, and being bent over with my legs spread wasn’t helping me fight the urge to let loose. I desperately wanted to pee, but I couldn’t, not with with all these people watching, and laughing at me! I was now thirsty, desperate to pee, and drooling all at the same time.

Two older Japanese women moved in to replace the giggling Japanese teenagers. Unlike the girls, they were not laughing, and looked at me with anger and contempt.

“Amere-ikan pig whorrre!” one of the women said, cursing me in heavily accented Japanese.

“Slut! Whorrre!” her friend agreed. “Amere-ikan sluts wear short dress. Show legs. Show off.”

“Now spread legs!” her friend added, her voice oozing disgust. “Now you whipped, for bee-ing slut. Whipped for being naked! Whipped for being whorrr-e!

“Yes, whip naked butt good! Whip hard! You punished!” she said, holding up a bill and she intended to donate to make sure that I was properly punished and waving it in front of my face. “Now you suffer.”

Even as my butt cheeks clenched and unclenched in fear I totally understood their feelings. Around the world American women are held up as a standard of beauty, but with my fair skin and natural blonde hair it wasn’t surprising that older, foreign women who were viewed as less desirable – and who viewed American women as shameless sluts – would take a special delight in seeing me punished.

As a beautiful and wealthy blonde American girl I was now a stand in for every untouchable movie star the Japanese had lusted after or despised or envied. Fair or not, I was about to bear the brunt of centuries of accumulated resentments.

Despite the waves of humiliation crashing over me the psychology of the situation fascinated me. The expressions on the faces of the people watching me ran the gambit from nervously amused to delighted to vengeful, but not one of my admirers appeared to be in least bit sympathetic. At first I thought it was because they thought I was acting, but as they spat on me and cursed me and the tears ran down my face, it became clear that on some level each and every one of them was enjoying my suffering, or at the very least not feeling guilty watching it.

It was a case study in mob psychology. As a group they could do things and engage in cruelties that would be unthinkable to them as individuals. As a group they could laugh at me, tease me, and urge John to whip me without mercy. After all, everyone else was doing it, so it must be okay. Each new outrage lowered the bar still further.

The question was, how low could the bar go? I soon got my answer.

I heard the babble of Japanese gibberish behind me, then the tour guide’s voice. “We touch?” tour guide asked. “In Japan we not see… yellow? How you say?”

“Blonde pussy?” John said, helpfully said. “You want to feel up her blonde pussy?”

I tensed as every nerve in my body seemed to catch fire. I knew that historically women in prisons such as this were abused horribly, and rented out to visitors by the guards, for a price. I knew my lawyer boyfriend knew this, and that he was a stickler for historical accuracy. I literally held my breath as I waited to find out just how far he would push things.

“Money talks” he chuckled, shaking the noisy tip jar.

Fuck! I screamed into my gag, and strained futilely against my straps and wooden yoke holding my head and hands in place. The two Japanese women in front of me smiled vindictively. “See? Whore excited! Whore want pooh-sey finger-ered!”

“Now Whore get pussy finger-ered!” her friend added gleefully. Before the old Japanese crone walked away in disgust she further showed her contempt for the blonde vixen kneeling before her by leaning forward and spitting directly in my face. Catching me right on the forehead there was nothing I could do as it slowly dribbled down the bridge of my nose. Her friend, actually following suit, cleared her throat, catching me with a huge wad of greenish lung candy which dribbled down my nostril and into the top of my gag, and from there into my open mouth.

My helplessness to defend myself from the women spitting on me was secondary to the helplessness from the probing Japanese fingers curious to explore my wet, blonde American sex. My first few female “customers” were tentative, giving me a quick rub and squeeze and laughing at my wetness before pulling their hands away.

My luck quickly changed when a man, quite old based on the sound of his voice and the feel of his wrinkled fingers, slowly cupped my soaking wet sex in my hand. He examined it closely, commenting loudly in Japanese as he spread my pussy lips and fingered me. He gave my clit a much appreciated and very commanding rub. Despite my shame I pushed back against his hand, moaning with pleasure into my gag as I humped his withered old fingers like a 100 peso puta.

After bring me achingly close to orgasm, he stopped suddenly. Withdrawing his fingers laughed and gave me a sharp SPANK across my naked ass. Everyone laughed.

The old man set the pace, and soon an endless parade of Japanese fingers took their time cupping, laughing, commenting on, probing, and pleasuring my sex. The pressure in my ballooning bladder grew as I fought the urge to pee on the hand of my endless parade of admirers, even as each caress brought me that much closer to orgasm.
Each molestation ended with a sharp SPANK across my defenseless backside, and laughter from the crowd.

Behind me, John was helpfully teaching his Japanese customers the proper slang to describe the juicy blonde American pussy served up hot and fresh for their fingering pleasure:

“Poooh-sy!”
“Gash!”
“Hun-ey Pot! Hun-ey Pot!” (A particular favorite that caused much giggling and laughter as the tour guide explained it.)
“Tart”
“Trawl-up!”
“Box”
“Twat!”
“Beaver” – (Two college boys standing in front of me made buck teeth with their fingers and laughed as it was explained to the them.)
“Cooch-ie!” (More laughter)
“Snatch!”
“Cooter!”
“Cha-cha!” (Laughter as the crowd chanted it over-and over - I think they liked the sound of it!”
“Kitty!”
“Muffin!”
“Hoo-hoo!” (Laughter and chanting, again!)

John also took the time to teach them the words to describe the CONDITION of my pussy, with the tour guide helpfully translating as everyone laughed at me.

“Mushy”
“Sloppy”
“Soaking”
“Wet Beaver”
“Hot, Split, Wet Beaver”
“Stinky finger” (Much laughter as it was explained)
“Randy”
“Hot”
“Juicy”
“Frisky”
“Wide On”

My torment was unspeakable. I could feel the green goober from the old Japanese woman floating around in my mouth, and with each bite down the taste of the gag only got worse. The pressure in my bladder felt like a water balloon about to burst. In front of me, I had people laughing or pointing or spitting on me, and behind me I had people groping and fingering my shamefully wet sex as they openly discussed my arousal in the most shameful terms possible.

“Steamy clam!”
“Wet fish!”
“Sloppy pooh-sy! Sloppy pooh-sy!”

I was totally and completely helpless. With no way to free myself, I did the only thing a girl in my situation could do.

I orgasmed.

Then I orgasmed again.

Then I orgasmed a third time.

I thought I was going to faint. I have no idea how I didn’t pee. The pleasure crashed over me in waves, and I kept pushing back, shamelessly humping the fingers behind me even as flashbulbs went off and I sensed countless camera videos of the quivering blonde pussy pulsing and quaking through multiple orgasms.

I am quite certain they would have fingered my wet pussy all day - and I would have orgasmed on command! – but once again, the stakes raised.

A teenage boy’s heavily accented voice rang across crowd. “Can we FUCK pussy?” he asked. “We pay. We pay!”

I cried into my gag in agony even as yet another orgasm washed over me at the thought.

It was the tour guide that saved me. “McDonalds” she said. “Must hurry, or no lunch!”

Ever obedient, the devilish little fingers behind me withdrew as I groaned in frustration and the crowd grew silent. Even as I felt a wave of relief at not being ridden bareback by a parade of Japanese bricks, the realization that I wasn’t going to be fucked by 20 guys because they were going to get a Big Mac instead dumped on my head like a bucket of urine.

“Well, I guess we need to get going then,” John said, casually picking the birch rod off the small of back, baptizing my bare bottom with droplets of brine as he gave it a little shake.

I struggled to wrap my head around what was happening. Still awash in the glow of the orgasm, I was desperate for my pleasure to continue. The law, as represented by the executioner, had other ideas.

Behind me I heard not my lover, but the gruff voice of the ominous masked executioner announcing my sentence. “VALERIE CHAMBERS! You have been found guilty of adultery, and strumpetry, living in sin these last six months with a man not your husband, and spreading your legs for him, and sucking his cock! The court has sentenced you to two dozen strokes of the birch on your naked bottom, with the good people of the village watching, so they moral instruction from your penitent suffering.”

As in the days of yore the hypocrisy of the officials knew no bounds, for it was the executioner I had been “spreading my legs” for. As in the past the crowd, eager to see a pretty young girl cruelly punished, was far beyond moral instruction. The Japanese tourists laughed and hooted as I clenched and unclenched my tiny butthole in fear while the executioner gave the fearsome birch a few test WHOOSH’S. Every sensation in my body seemed to flow through my hot, wet pussy, but I knew the fearsome executioner would soon refocus my attention.
 
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#11
Thank you for continuing the story! Please write a third part. Maybe, after the show is over and the audience has left for their gourmet menue, the sleepy docent walks in and agrees not to call the museum security, in return for a little favour?

But there is one thing from your first part that I want to come back to:

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.
I imagine Valerie to be someone who defines herself largely by her outer appearence. Fancy clothes, shiny jewlery, a 1000 bucks watch... having all of this taken from her, hidden away in one out of hundreds of indisguishable boxes must indeed make her feel like being stripped of her identity.

Although I am not such a person, I find the uneasyness and vulnerability she must feel very relatable. Years back, I was part of a swimming team, and the pool where we were training had this seemingly endless rows of lockers were you had to put your street clothes in. I always had that weird feeling, that the only thing that would save me from walking out of there practically naked (except for the swimming trunks) was holding on to that key and remembering the number of my locker (the lockers had numbers on them, but the keys didn't).

Lucky me, since I always did. Poor Valerie, since she does neither have a key to hold on to nor a number to remember!
 
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#12
One can imagine all sorts of delicious complications with your pool scenario. Perhaps your practicing on your own, and an older woman pulls you out of the pool along with some of the other girls for engaging in "horse-play." Or perhaps a lifeguard thinks you don't belong, and with no key he calls the police, who take you to jail in your little tiny bikini, or directly to the Youth Correctional Farm, where you will be incarcerated until an overworked bureaucrat can finally get around to starting a file on you so your case can be passed over to another pile where it will await an investigation. You'd be trapped, with no way out... :BangHead: Vulnerable, indeed.

You hit on a key elements of the story, the loss of identity. Wit her expensive watch, clothing, identification, money, and jewelry locked away in the old wooden box and set adrift in the endless sea of the property room, our heroine is now entirely indistinguishable from the endless parade of harlots, pickpockets, whores, and thieving maids stripped naked and buckled down for a whipping for the enjoyment of paying guests. An adulteress, she is now in an actual 19th century prison, and will being justly punished for her crimes by an officer of the court. It is right that she should taste the sweat and spit of her sisters as she chews on her bitter gag, for she is one of them. The crowd enjoying her suffering is no different than the crowds that flocked to watch public punishments in the days of yore, and her birching will be equally severe and merciless.

Her ultimate fate is undetermined, and has not been written, but that is a great suggestion!
 
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Location
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#13
One can imagine all sorts of delicious complications with your pool scenario. Perhaps your practicing on your own, and an older woman pulls you out of the pool along with some of the other girls for engaging in "horse-play." Or perhaps a lifeguard thinks you don't belong, and with no key he calls the police, who take you to jail in your little tiny bikini, or directly to the Youth Correctional Farm, where you will be incarcerated until an overworked bureaucrat can finally get around to starting a file on you so your case can be passed over to another pile where it will await an investigation. You'd be trapped, with no way out... :BangHead: Vulnerable, indeed.
I love that scenario!

Sorry if I confused you with my profile pic, but I am actually a guy :guitar:

But I agree, if I (as a guy) ran around in an itsy-bitsy bikini at the public pool, that would definately raise the attention of the lifguard! :naughty2:
 
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#15
I love that scenario!

Sorry if I confused you with my profile pic, but I am actually a guy :guitar:

But I agree, if I (as a guy) ran around in an itsy-bitsy bikini at the public pool, that would definately raise the attention of the lifguard! :naughty2:

Ha! Too funny! The joys of meeting people on the Internet!! :)
 
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#16
PRISON TOURIST, PART THREE (FINAL PART)

“EEHH!” I screamed into my gag and wiggled my hips. “EHHHH!”

John looked at me, perplexed. One of the giggling Japanese college students explained. “I think she needs to go pee-pee.”

I couldn’t see John’s mouth but I heard him laugh. He disappeared and for a moment I had visions of him getting the tools to free me so I might use the facilities. The PROPER facilities, not like the dumpy toilet upstairs.

Instead, I heard the clank of a bucket being dropped as I felt a pail being rudely shoved between my legs. “Better piss now,” he snarled, his gruff voice two octaves lower than his normal tone. “If you piss on me when I’m whipping you, I’ll start over.”

My bladder felt like a bursting water balloon, but the thought of peeing like a dog in front of a dozen Japanese tourists with cameras was quite simply unacceptable. Fortunately the Japanese college girls soon came to my aid.

One of them stood behind me, tapping my exposed pussy and spreading me open wider to ease the flow. Another knelt down and pressed up hard on my abdomen, making the already intense pressure in my bladder even more unbearable.

A third on made slurping sounds in my right ear, drawing back her own saliva so it sounded like a babbling brook.

A fourth one cooed in my left ear. “What’s wrong? Pretty blonde white girl too proud to make pee-pee in front of Japanese? Don’t be shy. Make your water for us! Pee-pee! We want our pictures! Pee-pee, white girl! Pee-pee!”

When I finally let go it hit the side of the bucket like a fire hose, so hard that the girl teasing my peephole must have been hit pretty good by the forceful stream. It was a tiny win, anyway. The loud rattle of my noisy, race horse like stream hitting the old bucket was only slightly less humiliating than the see of flashbulbs recording my endless stream.

When the crowd finished laughing at me my body tensed at a new sound: the execution drum roll. Where was it coming from? Was someone playing it on their phone, perhaps? No. It was much louder than that. It seemed… real.

The beat was about 3 seconds of drum roll followed by a single crisp SNAP. It was loud, for its practical purpose was to call everyone in the vicinity to attention to let them know the execution of sentence was at hand.

I knew the source must be behind me, but in the stone cell it bounced off the walls and seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. It rang in my ears, and the ominous sound seemed to go on and on and on.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-SNAP
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-SNAP
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-SNAP
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-SNAP

John moved the large iron bucket containing the extra birch rods in front of me. There must have been at least a dozen bound rods soaking in the brine, enough to tear through the naughty bottoms of a whorehouse full of trollops. The message was clear – he had more then enough rods to deal with the likes of me, and many more besides.

The drumroll continued, and soon my heart was beating to the awful staccato beat.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-SNAP
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-SNAP
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-SNAP

I looked up at John, who was standing in front of the stocks, towering over me. Only John was nowhere to be found. The hooded executioner’s muscles rippled as he impatiently tapped the wicked looking birch rod against his palm, waiting for the drummer to finish the call to assembly and signal that it was time for the punishment to begin.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see some more people coming into the cell. Or was I imagining it? It FELT like the crowd behind me was growing, but unable to turn my head I wasn’t sure if my racing mind was playing tricks on me. Was the loud, reverberating drum actually assembling a crowd to witness my punishment?

I looked to John for an explanation, but my hooded executioner stared down at me with black, impassive eyes. I should explain that John and I had an enormous fight the week before, when he discovered that my family’s business dealings were not entirely proper. I laughed in his face, and said that as a miserable little assistant district attorney he worked for ME, and was relegated to putting the people who used drugs in jail, not the millionaires who laundered the money. He accused me of thinking I was above the law, and I explained to him that with my family’s money I WAS the law, and as high above him as the heavens were above hell. I told him that if he didn’t watch his mouth I’d have him fired, and he’d have to get a job working in the stables, shoveling shit and cleaning my riding boots.

The fight had not go well, but we had patched it up for our trip overseas. Or so I thought.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-SNAP
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-SNAP
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-SNAP

24 strokes for adultery! It was an ironic sentence. John had wanted to marry me, and I knew his uber religious old world family disapproved of us “living in sin.” John was a muscular stud, and great in bed, but there was no way I was going to let my straight-arrow boyfriend anywhere near my family fortune. No, it was better to simply “fornicate” as his mother put it.

Or so I thought. “Fornication”. “Living in Sin”. Now I would pay the price.

I looked up at my hooded executioner – six pack, bulging biceps, straight jaw, arms like tree trunks. Sexy as hell, but with the black hood on, stroking those rods, scary as hell, too.

Playing on my mounting terror, John raised the birch rod high above his head and brought it down with a WHOOSH several times. I heard some nervous laughter behind me as I clenched my bottom cheeks and fully exposed butthole in nervous anticipation.

The only thing worse than the call to assembly was when the drumroll stopped. I could sense a large crowd behind me, and although no one said a word I could hear them jostling for position.

Although I couldn’t see his mouth behind his black hood, I sensed John smiling at me. He playfully raised the birch in the air and waved it, then disappeared behind me.

There was a long, long drum roll that seemed to go on forever.

My time had come.

WHOOSH!

I didn’t hear the whoosh, actually, or even hear the drum roll stop. I felt the dead center of my bottom explode into a thousand bursts of fire as all the little twigs and bristles and thorns found their mark and cut into the my butt cheeks and bottom cleft.

It was agonizing!

“ONE!” A male voice called out. It wasn’t Japanese, and it wasn’t John. Who was behind me?

WHOOSH!

“TWO!”

WHOOSH!

“THREE!”

WHOOSH!

“FOUR!”

Any fanciful notion or forlorn hope that John might go easy on me quickly burned away in the flames setting my ass on fire. It was clear that the muscle bound, hooded brute ripping my bottom was not my boyfriend, he was my executioner, and my sentence would be executed.

“WHOOSH!”

“FIVE!”

“WHOOSH!”

“SIX!”

The beating stopped. Despite my mouth being open from the gag, I gasped for air, and I could feel my nostrils flaring like a horse as I panted and fought for oxygen.

Walking in front of me, John tossed the shredded birch rod down in front of my horrified eyes. All the little knots and twigs were gone, and several of the sticks had broken off from the force of my whipping. If the birch rod looked like this, I could only imagine what my poor, tortured bottom looked like.

But at least my whipping was over. It was over.

I watched in horror as John picked up a fresh rod out of the brine, and gave it a few practice WHOOSHES through the air, hitting me in the face with drops of salty brine. I screamed bloody murder as he walked behind me with the fresh rod and my punishment resumed.

WHOOSH!

“SEVEN!”

In desperation I strained at the wooden yoke holding my head, and straps holding my feet. It was a laughably futile gesture. The centuries old restraints had been holding whores in the humiliating position I was now in for centuries, and they would certainly hold me. Like the other whores, I would remain bent, my legs spread obscenely wide, my bottom raised high for discipline.

I was a whore, a strumpet, a trollop. I was no different than the rest.

WHOOSH!

“EIGHT!”

My bottom was on blazing, and as the pain intensified into something I had never dreamed possible I found myself becoming woozy and light headed. I stared at the blocks in granite in front of me, the same enormous stones that female convicts strapped down over the whipping bench had stared at for centuries. I seemed to have an out-of-body experience as for a brief moment I actually had the sensation of time traveling.

I was a thief, and a fornicator, and a whore. Like the other girls, I had been stripped naked, and all of my personal possessions had been locked away in the property room. My old identity was gone, and I was now living in centuries past. I had been strapped down over the bench, and the drum roll had announced by punishment.

WOOSH!

“ELEVEN!”

WHOOSH!

“TWELVE!”

There was an all too brief pause, as one again the shredded birch that had just ripped apart my bottom was tossed down in front of me like a gauntlet, and brand spanking new birch was retrieved to take its place. The executioner moved quickly; the crowd behind me was excited, and he didn’t want to break the rhythm.

WHOOSH!

“THIRTEEN!”

“WHOOSH!”

“FOURTEEN!”

My mind was swimming, lost in my own confusion as the centuries melted away. “I’m a thief and a whore. Spreading my legs and humping away! I deserve to have my big fat bottom skinned. Under the law this is my just and fitting punishment. The executioner is simply doing his duty, and it’s only proper that a crowd should come to watch. Justice must be seen to be done.”

I wasn’t aware of passing out; the next sensation I felt was an icy cold bucket of salt water being tossed over me to bring me to. The crowd laughed merrily as I sputtered back to reality. I hadn’t been aware of the scourging of my thighs, but as the salt water ran down my legs I felt each and every stroke. I winced at the idea of walking through town with the cuts and whip marks showing on the back of my legs, assuming of course that my whipped bottom allowed me to walk much at all.

The last for strokes were not across my bottom or thighs. I was given the bastinado, and whipped across the tender soles of my bare feet.

Was John insane? How was I supposed to walk back to the hotel?

Much to my surprise the locking bolt that had so bedeviled John was lifted easily as two men in 19th century prison uniforms lifted me out of the stocks. John received a round of applause as the guards turned my naked body to face the crowd, which now numbered about 150 people, far more than the relatively small group of Japanese tourists who had originally come into witness my punishment.

What was this place? What was going on? Why wasn’t I being released?

Behind me the Japanese college girls were busy stripping one of their own, who was struggling against being stripped bare. “She stole another girl’s phone,” the tour guide explained to John. “Now you must punish her.” Apparently I wasn’t the only girl lured to the prison for punishment.

How many girls were suffering my lot became clear as the guards took me out the door and carry-dragged me down the cellblock, past dozens of cells filled with naked girls sitting on straw – or rubbing their backs or bottoms.

“Come now, dearie,” one of the guards said. “It’s time to tell us all about your family’s crimes. Then we can track them down one-by-one, and put all of them in prison.”

I screamed into the gag. I wasn’t going to tell any of these bastards shit! Suddenly it all made sense. My straight-arrow, legal eagle boyfriend had found this place of “justice” to make sure my family was punished for their crimes. Starting with me.

The joke was on him. I wasn’t going to talk. Ever!

I hoped.

We stopped in front of a dark cell that contained a weird contraption, an ancient looking wooden sawhorse. There was a rocking horse head on the horse, nicely carved like a carousel horse, with a painted red mane and a large, playful smile on its happy face. It looked like a child’s toy, only the saddle wasn’t rounded, but sharp, with wood coming up to a sharp point.

I cried out into my gag as they let go of my arms, lowering my tortured feet to the ground as they pushed me into the cell.

“Don’t worry, my lady. We’re going to take all the weight off those dainty feet of yours, and get you saddled up! In a few hours we’re going to come back and you’re going to tell us all about where you keep your money and your families business. Now it’s time for your pony ride.”

THE END
 
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#18
Interesting twist Pat. Fun------>Scary------->Intense--------->Dark
Thank you. Since I wrote this in 3 parts over 3 days with no real plan, I was reacting to the tone of the comments, and my mood at the time. Someone wrote me and suggested that she might free herself while John was searching for the toolbox in the car, and then be reduced to searching a thousand property boxes to try to find her clothes before the Japanese tourists arrived, which I quite like too. At the end of part 2 it could have really gone in any direction, but I decided to go DARK with the Spanish Donkey. Thank you for your comments, as they are why I write, and I'm glad you enjoyed it!
 
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Apr 3, 2017
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#20
Nice story. I think I liked the part about the humiliations inflicted by the Japanese tourist group best. That was a novel storyline idea that I found erotic.
Thanks, Barbaria1! It was inspired by the actual stocks, where you might be locked up and then abused by anyone who came along as part of your punishment. So again it was sort of a 'time travel' experience, where both Charlotte & the Japanese tourists easily slip into their assigned roles as "convict whore" versus "vengeful mob". The more things change, the more they stay the same. :)
 
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