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The Cane Mutiny

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windar

Teller of Tales
Officer Beth Timmins liked her job at the Female Corporal Punishment Center #3 very much. The pay was fairly modest, though more than she had made at her previous job as a “Sales Associate” at the local branch of a large chain of discount stores. But, aside from that, her job at the Center came with the full benefits of a civil service position-health insurance, paid vacation, a 401k plan and the like. It was certainly a pretty good package for this area for someone without a college degree.

Moreover, Beth liked her colleagues. Her boss, Sergeant Sue Miller, who was the senior officer at the facility, could sometimes be a bit rough, but Beth supposed that wasn’t surprising or terribly out of place in the circumstances, dealing with the dregs and misfits of society as they did in this line of work. In any event, she had been very helpful acclimatizing Beth to the job when she had started out.

She had a good relationship as well with George, the man who actually delivered the punishment to the naked buttocks of the offenders who were paying their debt to society in this facility. Although he spent a good part of his day dealing with naked female offenders, he kept a professional demeanor and delivered his court-ordered lashes with unfailing severity to all alike.

She had also liked the doctor who had been the Medical Officer at the facility until a couple of weeks ago, Priya Raman. She had left to take a very fancy job with some pharmaceutical company that had a cream that healed wounds, like the one that George’s rattan put into the flesh of the suffering women unfortunate enough to be sentenced to a session at their facility.

Beth had enjoyed working with Priya, who treated her and Sue as equals, not the way some doctors looked down on everyone who wasn’t a member of their profession, like nurses and technicians. The Department of Corrections was looking to hire a permanent replacement for Priya, but it seemed a lot of doctors weren’t keen on taking a job such as this, since the pay was less than what they could make in a private practice or hospital and some didn’t want to be associated with deliberately causing pain to criminals.

Priya hadn’t seemed concerned with that. Beth had asked her a few times what led her to give up her previous job and take this one. Priya had been a bit vague, though it seemed the regular hours were a big attraction. In the meantime, the Center was served by rotating doctors from other DoC facilities.

And what of the offenders, the reason for the existence of this Center? Beth had to admit that at first, the notion that women like herself were made to strip, strapped down to a frame and subjected to a flogging had given her pause. Beth had never felt the rattan herself, of course, but the force with which George delivered the strokes and the writhing and screams of anguish they provoked gave her every reason to imagine that they were horribly painful.

At one time or another, she would imagine herself suffering on the frame and wondered how she would react. Would she be stoic, like some of the offenders, taking at least the initial lashes in silence, before finally breaking? Or would she be one of those who shouted their protests from the beginning?

She had even, once or twice, thought about asking Sue whether she could try getting a single stroke, just to see what it felt like and how she would handle it, but she didn’t dare, for fear of being thought weird. Besides, she was fairly sure that such a trial caning would violate all kinds of Department rules. So, Beth would just have to wonder, unless she went and violated the law, which would likely get her fired, so she wasn’t about to do that.

Probably the best part of the job for Beth was the stripping. That was when the women, whatever their background, all became equal, naked and vulnerable, their bodies no longer their own, but property of the State.

Beth found the different body types, skin tones, blemishes and adornments on display interesting. She wasn’t a lesbian-she liked men and had had several boyfriends over time, though she was single right now-but sometimes she felt a tingle down below staring at all that girl flesh.

And the feeling of power, being fully clothed while the offenders had to be naked, appealed to Beth, even though she wasn’t proud of that. Her previous jobs had no authority, she had been a drone, serving customers and having to obey managers who were often petty and overbearing.

Here, by contrast, while she worked under Sue and had to follow Department rules, she could be bossy and dismissive of the offenders. In fact, Sue often encouraged her to be more commanding than Beth’s natural inclinations would have led her to be. “Show, those bitches, who’s in charge!” Sue liked to say. And Beth found herself doing that more and more as time went on.

She knew that the purpose of the punishment was a full behavioral modification. Strip the offenders of their old ways and impress upon them the need to obey the law. Did it work? Well, Beth couldn’t recall too many women who had re-offended and returned for a second punishment session, though the program hadn’t been in place long enough to be sure.

Nevertheless, Beth couldn’t help feeling sympathy for many of the offenders. The majority were women from disadvantaged backgrounds-minorities and poor whites-often with drug problems. Many had been busted for drug offenses or for shoplifting or prostitution to support their habits. Priya had put in place a program to help them, which seemed to be doing some good.

Beth had less sympathy for those from good homes, with plenty of advantages in life, who screwed up through their own stupidity. They had seen a number of students from the fancy school in town, Dorsbury College, who were busted for stupid pranks like vandalizing college buildings or for underage drinking or DWI.

And, then, more recently, there were students and faculty who were protesting corporal punishment and were busted for violence or disobeying police orders. They had just had two students caned at the facility, and a third caned together with her mother, who had been a professor at Dorsbury before taking a job in Chicago.

The professor, Susan Gelden, had taught Priya when she had been a student and there was some backstory the details of which Beth wasn’t clear on.

What she was clear on was that these protestors were threatening her job and Sue’s and George’s, or would if the public paid any attention to them, which they didn’t. Even though the state legislators, several of whom had shown up to witness the caning of the mother and daughter, showed no sign of wanting to change the law, Beth wasn’t happy to have the Center be a target of public protests.

In fact, on the list for this week, was another protestor, a professor at the College named Barbara Moore, who had chained herself to the door of Judge Powers’ courtroom, along with a couple of students, as a protest.

His Honor, known as “Maximum Marty” for his tendency to award towards the upper range of the sentencing guidelines, hadn’t appreciated the stunt at all and had sentenced Professor Moore to eighteen strokes of the cane for obstructing government operation. Beth was looking forward to their date.
 
In fact, on the list for this week, was another protestor, a professor at the College named Barbara Moore, who had chained herself to the door of Judge Powers’ courtroom, along with a couple of students, as a protest.
This Dorsbury College sounds like a hotbed of sedition and full of reprobates. I bet Professor Barb is one of the ringleaders. Some academics do that, Moore's the pity.
 
Looking forward to this story, hopefully the Prof will be an older woman as it is so much more exciting to have a mature female under the cane. Just like the mother in the previous story.
 
Looking forward to this story, hopefully the Prof will be an older woman as it is so much more exciting to have a mature female under the cane. Just like the mother in the previous story.
Well, now.....

Is Barb an older woman? She's certainly a woman. I suppose she's older than some, but definitely younger than others.
Is she mature? I think we should defer judgement on that.
We're treading on dangerous territory here, I fear:popcorn:
 
I so like the idea of middle class, well off women falling foul of the authorities and being subjected to judicial caning. They would be 40 early 50 years old and in very good shape. Certainly not your young girls women who should know better with husbands who are successful. Still your stories are very much up my street.
 
Officer Beth Timmins liked her job at the Female Corporal Punishment Center #3 very much. The pay was fairly modest, though more than she had made at her previous job as a “Sales Associate” at the local branch of a large chain of discount stores. But, aside from that, her job at the Center came with the full benefits of a civil service position-health insurance, paid vacation, a 401k plan and the like. It was certainly a pretty good package for this area for someone without a college degree.

Moreover, Beth liked her colleagues. Her boss, Sergeant Sue Miller, who was the senior officer at the facility, could sometimes be a bit rough, but Beth supposed that wasn’t surprising or terribly out of place in the circumstances, dealing with the dregs and misfits of society as they did in this line of work. In any event, she had been very helpful acclimatizing Beth to the job when she had started out.

She had a good relationship as well with George, the man who actually delivered the punishment to the naked buttocks of the offenders who were paying their debt to society in this facility. Although he spent a good part of his day dealing with naked female offenders, he kept a professional demeanor and delivered his court-ordered lashes with unfailing severity to all alike.

She had also liked the doctor who had been the Medical Officer at the facility until a couple of weeks ago, Priya Raman. She had left to take a very fancy job with some pharmaceutical company that had a cream that healed wounds, like the one that George’s rattan put into the flesh of the suffering women unfortunate enough to be sentenced to a session at their facility.

Beth had enjoyed working with Priya, who treated her and Sue as equals, not the way some doctors looked down on everyone who wasn’t a member of their profession, like nurses and technicians. The Department of Corrections was looking to hire a permanent replacement for Priya, but it seemed a lot of doctors weren’t keen on taking a job such as this, since the pay was less than what they could make in a private practice or hospital and some didn’t want to be associated with deliberately causing pain to criminals.

Priya hadn’t seemed concerned with that. Beth had asked her a few times what led her to give up her previous job and take this one. Priya had been a bit vague, though it seemed the regular hours were a big attraction. In the meantime, the Center was served by rotating doctors from other DoC facilities.

And what of the offenders, the reason for the existence of this Center? Beth had to admit that at first, the notion that women like herself were made to strip, strapped down to a frame and subjected to a flogging had given her pause. Beth had never felt the rattan herself, of course, but the force with which George delivered the strokes and the writhing and screams of anguish they provoked gave her every reason to imagine that they were horribly painful.

At one time or another, she would imagine herself suffering on the frame and wondered how she would react. Would she be stoic, like some of the offenders, taking at least the initial lashes in silence, before finally breaking? Or would she be one of those who shouted their protests from the beginning?

She had even, once or twice, thought about asking Sue whether she could try getting a single stroke, just to see what it felt like and how she would handle it, but she didn’t dare, for fear of being thought weird. Besides, she was fairly sure that such a trial caning would violate all kinds of Department rules. So, Beth would just have to wonder, unless she went and violated the law, which would likely get her fired, so she wasn’t about to do that.

Probably the best part of the job for Beth was the stripping. That was when the women, whatever their background, all became equal, naked and vulnerable, their bodies no longer their own, but property of the State.

Beth found the different body types, skin tones, blemishes and adornments on display interesting. She wasn’t a lesbian-she liked men and had had several boyfriends over time, though she was single right now-but sometimes she felt a tingle down below staring at all that girl flesh.

And the feeling of power, being fully clothed while the offenders had to be naked, appealed to Beth, even though she wasn’t proud of that. Her previous jobs had no authority, she had been a drone, serving customers and having to obey managers who were often petty and overbearing.

Here, by contrast, while she worked under Sue and had to follow Department rules, she could be bossy and dismissive of the offenders. In fact, Sue often encouraged her to be more commanding than Beth’s natural inclinations would have led her to be. “Show, those bitches, who’s in charge!” Sue liked to say. And Beth found herself doing that more and more as time went on.

She knew that the purpose of the punishment was a full behavioral modification. Strip the offenders of their old ways and impress upon them the need to obey the law. Did it work? Well, Beth couldn’t recall too many women who had re-offended and returned for a second punishment session, though the program hadn’t been in place long enough to be sure.

Nevertheless, Beth couldn’t help feeling sympathy for many of the offenders. The majority were women from disadvantaged backgrounds-minorities and poor whites-often with drug problems. Many had been busted for drug offenses or for shoplifting or prostitution to support their habits. Priya had put in place a program to help them, which seemed to be doing some good.

Beth had less sympathy for those from good homes, with plenty of advantages in life, who screwed up through their own stupidity. They had seen a number of students from the fancy school in town, Dorsbury College, who were busted for stupid pranks like vandalizing college buildings or for underage drinking or DWI.

And, then, more recently, there were students and faculty who were protesting corporal punishment and were busted for violence or disobeying police orders. They had just had two students caned at the facility, and a third caned together with her mother, who had been a professor at Dorsbury before taking a job in Chicago.

The professor, Susan Gelden, had taught Priya when she had been a student and there was some backstory the details of which Beth wasn’t clear on.

What she was clear on was that these protestors were threatening her job and Sue’s and George’s, or would if the public paid any attention to them, which they didn’t. Even though the state legislators, several of whom had shown up to witness the caning of the mother and daughter, showed no sign of wanting to change the law, Beth wasn’t happy to have the Center be a target of public protests.

In fact, on the list for this week, was another protestor, a professor at the College named Barbara Moore, who had chained herself to the door of Judge Powers’ courtroom, along with a couple of students, as a protest.

His Honor, known as “Maximum Marty” for his tendency to award towards the upper range of the sentencing guidelines, hadn’t appreciated the stunt at all and had sentenced Professor Moore to eighteen strokes of the cane for obstructing government operation. Beth was looking forward to their date.
Not only Beth!!
 
His Honor, known as “Maximum Marty” for his tendency to award towards the upper range of the sentencing guidelines, hadn’t appreciated the stunt at all and had sentenced Professor Moore to eighteen strokes of the cane

Eighteen!!!! :confused::eek:

Holy Shit !!! :facepalm:


This Dorsbury College sounds like a hotbed of sedition and full of reprobates. I bet Professor Barb is one of the ringleaders.

Moi? :rolleyes:

Looking forward to this story, hopefully the Prof will be an older woman

Old enough to be a prof, but still ...well ... what can I say ;)

Is she mature? I think we should defer judgement on that.
We're treading on dangerous territory here, I fear:popcorn:

Goldman knows when to fear :mad:

After 18 strokes she`ll probably feel mature.

I’m going to feel something, that’s for sure :(
 
2.

A bitter-cold late February wind buffeted Asst. Professor Barbara Moore as she scurried across the Dorsbury campus quad. She was rushing to get to the #6 bus stop, because she needed to catch the 10:45 in order to arrive by 11 am ... as ordered by Judge Martin Powers ... at Female Corporal Punishment Center #3, where her sentence of “eighteen strokes of the cane” was scheduled to be duly carried out.

She had been grateful to learn ... when the official sentencing letter from the Department of Corrections arrived a couple weeks ago ... that the Judge had acceded to her request that the timing of her arrival at the Center be set for 11 rather than the customary 9. He apparently had seen some virtue in her sense of responsibility to her students, and had made the somewhat unusual arrival time allowance so that she could deliver her 9:45 pre-midterm exam lecture and review to her students in “History 369 - Injustice to Women through the Ages.”

And, she had been heartened by the fact that the class turned out to be more than a lecture and answering of students’ pre-exam review questions. She had been greeted by a thunderous round of applause at the beginning of the hour, delivered with cheers and stomping of feet by the nearly 200 students, mostly female, jammed into the lecture hall. And the accolades and well wishes had resumed at the end of the session, causing her to leave late for the bus stop, and to be racing across the snow-covered quad into a cold wind.

“Shit, I don’t dare miss this bus” ... she said to herself as she navigated around a couple of icy patches on the pavement and brushed the windblown hair from her face. She could see the bus ahead at the stop, and the telltale blinker indicating the driver’s intention to pull out into traffic was already flashing.

“Hey! Wait!” she cried into the wind, as the bus began to pull away. “Please wait for me!”

And then the morning’s second heartening moment occurred. The driver spotted her and waited.

Breathlessly, she climbed aboard, flashed her frequent rider pass, and smiled her gratefulness to the driver before weaving down the aisle and throwing herself into a vacant seat.

After a minute or two she had caught her breath sufficiently to take stock of her appearance. Her hair was a windblown mess, so she started with a comb withdrawn from the mini-convertible pack she carried on her back ... and then moved on to a critical look in her compact mirror to assess the state of her makeup ... followed by a quick touch-up.

With the essentials taken care of, she settled in for the ride. Her first thought was to check her pack for two folded pieces of paper. One was the official letter she had received stating the terms of her sentence along with the date and time she was to report to Female Corporal Punishment Center #3. She mused with a grim smile that there must be a #1 and #2 out there somewhere ... and possibly some with higher numbers too ... but they were most likely located in other towns or cities.

In her opinion the very existence of such centers, and the injustice of a system ... recently installed ... that would send women to them for severe corporal punishment, was the reason that she ... an academic specialist in the history of injustice toward women ... had chained herself in protest several weeks earlier to the door of Judge Powers’ courtroom, along with a couple of students ... brave young women whose names she didn’t even know. Nor, regrettably, had she been able to learn their names after weeks of inquiries, or what sentences they had received for their impulsive and fateful decisions to join her little protest.

And, so ... the second piece of folded paper in her pack was a strongly-worded statement of protest and outrage against the system that she had stayed up late the night before composing on her laptop. On arrival, she planned to read it aloud on the doorsteps of the Center, with the Press in attendance, before dutifully entering to report for her sentenced punishment. When she had finished drafting the statement, she had ... very cleverly she thought ... e-mailed the text to the two local newspapers and the four local television stations, hopefully in time for their morning news editors to see it. She expected the text and the scene to go viral and strike a strong note for justice and reform.

Which brought up in her mind the attire she had chosen for the moment. Rather than the casual look that had become commonplace on campus ... in her case, usually sneakers, black leggings or skinny jeans, and a sweater dress ... she had dressed up for the event, which meant wearing her dressy black knee-high boots, dark gray skirt and a matching jacket over a satiny rose-colored shirt, top two buttons open to show the white pearl pendant at her neck. She imagined that the rose-color against a gray suit framed under her brown hair, which she wore long, would look good on camera.

Checking her iPhone for the time, she noted that it was 10:51 ... nine more minutes to go. Her hands trembled as she returned the phone to her pack. She was nervous and became even more so as her thoughts turned to the sentence of eighteen strokes of a cane that she would soon have to face. She had been imagining what that might be like for nearly two weeks. She knew it would be extremely painful ... that was the point of it, after all. But so many questions remained.

How would they do it? Would she be ordered to bend over and grasp her ankles, or would there be some kind of frame, like the ones she had read about on Wiki, to bend over ... or would they strap her to some kind of rack, or x-cross, or simply suspend her and make her dance?

And who would be in attendance? Presumably a doctor ... eighteen sounded like an awful lot of strokes! Someone to administer them, of course. And perhaps an official of some kind. She hoped it might be limited to that. She’d hate the idea of being caned before an audience. That would add humiliation to what was already going be a very painful experience. Another alarming thought crossed her mind. Will they be making a video of this ... for the record. Oh God! She hoped not.

And that raised the question of what they will expect her to wear? Will they simply ask that she remove her skirt? Perhaps she’ll be allowed to keep her black thong? She had chosen to wear the thong with the idea that it would offer them some bare flesh to cane while still affording her some degree of modesty. Or perhaps she’ll be required to change into some kind of prison pajama-like uniform, and they will just lower the bottoms to administer her caning? Certainly there would be no need to strip naked. Presumably it’s only her bare ass that will be the intended target of the cane.

And then a final question came to mind. What does this all mean for her academic career? Her arrest had been no secret. Her mug shot had been shown on the local evening news. The students in her class knew what was happening. She had told them, after all. And if her intended little performance on the steps of the Center goes viral, as she hoped it would, everyone on campus will know of it.

She thought she was secure enough ... academic freedom, and all that. But Dorsbury College was a small private, with a conservative board of governors and plenty of conservative endowment donors. Would they view her protests and her conviction as politically embarrassing? She was only an Assistant Professor and therefore untenured and terminable.

She felt she had a good relationship with Dean Windar. She thought him a just man, although a bit picky when it came to the proper expenditure of research monies. She had experienced a run in or two with him over that, and had some difficulty convincing him that research on injustices to women sometimes involved a few out of the ordinary expenses. He had reprimanded her in his office on two occasions. But nothing too painful. She thought he would likely oppose any move to dismiss her.


Moments later, the bus rounded the corner onto the street on which Female Corporal Punishment Center #3 fronted. Barbara pressed her nose expectantly to the grimy glass of the bus window. But, what she saw was crushingly disappointing ... the street was empty ... not a soul was there ... no press ... no demonstrators ... nothing.

What she had hoped to be the third heartening moment of the day had somehow failed to materialize.
 
2.

A bitter-cold late February wind buffeted Asst. Professor Barbara Moore as she scurried across the Dorsbury campus quad. She was rushing to get to the #6 bus stop, because she needed to catch the 10:45 in order to arrive by 11 am ... as ordered by Judge Martin Powers ... at Female Corporal Punishment Center #3, where her sentence of “eighteen strokes of the cane” was scheduled to be duly carried out.

She had been grateful to learn ... when the official sentencing letter from the Department of Corrections arrived a couple weeks ago ... that the Judge had acceded to her request that the timing of her arrival at the Center be set for 11 rather than the customary 9. He apparently had seen some virtue in her sense of responsibility to her students, and had made the somewhat unusual arrival time allowance so that she could deliver her 9:45 pre-midterm exam lecture and review to her students in “History 369 - Injustice to Women through the Ages.”

And, she had been heartened by the fact that the class turned out to be more than a lecture and answering of students’ pre-exam review questions. She had been greeted by a thunderous round of applause at the beginning of the hour, delivered with cheers and stomping of feet by the nearly 200 students, mostly female, jammed into the lecture hall. And the accolades and well wishes had resumed at the end of the session, causing her to leave late for the bus stop, and to be racing across the snow-covered quad into a cold wind.

“Shit, I don’t dare miss this bus” ... she said to herself as she navigated around a couple of icy patches on the pavement and brushed the windblown hair from her face. She could see the bus ahead at the stop, and the telltale blinker indicating the driver’s intention to pull out into traffic was already flashing.

“Hey! Wait!” she cried into the wind, as the bus began to pull away. “Please wait for me!”

And then the morning’s second heartening moment occurred. The driver spotted her and waited.

Breathlessly, she climbed aboard, flashed her frequent rider pass, and smiled her gratefulness to the driver before weaving down the aisle and throwing herself into a vacant seat.

After a minute or two she had caught her breath sufficiently to take stock of her appearance. Her hair was a windblown mess, so she started with a comb withdrawn from the mini-convertible pack she carried on her back ... and then moved on to a critical look in her compact mirror to assess the state of her makeup ... followed by a quick touch-up.

With the essentials taken care of, she settled in for the ride. Her first thought was to check her pack for two folded pieces of paper. One was the official letter she had received stating the terms of her sentence along with the date and time she was to report to Female Corporal Punishment Center #3. She mused with a grim smile that there must be a #1 and #2 out there somewhere ... and possibly some with higher numbers too ... but they were most likely located in other towns or cities.

In her opinion the very existence of such centers, and the injustice of a system ... recently installed ... that would send women to them for severe corporal punishment, was the reason that she ... an academic specialist in the history of injustice toward women ... had chained herself in protest several weeks earlier to the door of Judge Powers’ courtroom, along with a couple of students ... brave young women whose names she didn’t even know. Nor, regrettably, had she been able to learn their names after weeks of inquiries, or what sentences they had received for their impulsive and fateful decisions to join her little protest.

And, so ... the second piece of folded paper in her pack was a strongly-worded statement of protest and outrage against the system that she had stayed up late the night before composing on her laptop. On arrival, she planned to read it aloud on the doorsteps of the Center, with the Press in attendance, before dutifully entering to report for her sentenced punishment. When she had finished drafting the statement, she had ... very cleverly she thought ... e-mailed the text to the two local newspapers and the four local television stations, hopefully in time for their morning news editors to see it. She expected the text and the scene to go viral and strike a strong note for justice and reform.

Which brought up in her mind the attire she had chosen for the moment. Rather than the casual look that had become commonplace on campus ... in her case, usually sneakers, black leggings or skinny jeans, and a sweater dress ... she had dressed up for the event, which meant wearing her dressy black knee-high boots, dark gray skirt and a matching jacket over a satiny rose-colored shirt, top two buttons open to show the white pearl pendant at her neck. She imagined that the rose-color against a gray suit framed under her brown hair, which she wore long, would look good on camera.

Checking her iPhone for the time, she noted that it was 10:51 ... nine more minutes to go. Her hands trembled as she returned the phone to her pack. She was nervous and became even more so as her thoughts turned to the sentence of eighteen strokes of a cane that she would soon have to face. She had been imagining what that might be like for nearly two weeks. She knew it would be extremely painful ... that was the point of it, after all. But so many questions remained.

How would they do it? Would she be ordered to bend over and grasp her ankles, or would there be some kind of frame, like the ones she had read about on Wiki, to bend over ... or would they strap her to some kind of rack, or x-cross, or simply suspend her and make her dance?

And who would be in attendance? Presumably a doctor ... eighteen sounded like an awful lot of strokes! Someone to administer them, of course. And perhaps an official of some kind. She hoped it might be limited to that. She’d hate the idea of being caned before an audience. That would add humiliation to what was already going be a very painful experience. Another alarming thought crossed her mind. Will they be making a video of this ... for the record. Oh God! She hoped not.

And that raised the question of what they will expect her to wear? Will they simply ask that she remove her skirt? Perhaps she’ll be allowed to keep her black thong? She had chosen to wear the thong with the idea that it would offer them some bare flesh to cane while still affording her some degree of modesty. Or perhaps she’ll be required to change into some kind of prison pajama-like uniform, and they will just lower the bottoms to administer her caning? Certainly there would be no need to strip naked. Presumably it’s only her bare ass that will be the intended target of the cane.

And then a final question came to mind. What does this all mean for her academic career? Her arrest had been no secret. Her mug shot had been shown on the local evening news. The students in her class knew what was happening. She had told them, after all. And if her intended little performance on the steps of the Center goes viral, as she hoped it would, everyone on campus will know of it.

She thought she was secure enough ... academic freedom, and all that. But Dorsbury College was a small private, with a conservative board of governors and plenty of conservative endowment donors. Would they view her protests and her conviction as politically embarrassing? She was only an Assistant Professor and therefore untenured and terminable.

She felt she had a good relationship with Dean Windar. She thought him a just man, although a bit picky when it came to the proper expenditure of research monies. She had experienced a run in or two with him over that, and had some difficulty convincing him that research on injustices to women sometimes involved a few out of the ordinary expenses. He had reprimanded her in his office on two occasions. But nothing too painful. She thought he would likely oppose any move to dismiss her.


Moments later, the bus rounded the corner onto the street on which Female Corporal Punishment Center #3 fronted. Barbara pressed her nose expectantly to the grimy glass of the bus window. But, what she saw was crushingly disappointing ... the street was empty ... not a soul was there ... no press ... no demonstrators ... nothing.

What she had hoped to be the third heartening moment of the day had somehow failed to materialize.
Lovely build up, Barb versus the world, unfortunately Barb is likely to come second when she enters that establishment.
 
2.

A bitter-cold late February wind buffeted Asst. Professor Barbara Moore as she scurried across the Dorsbury campus quad. She was rushing to get to the #6 bus stop, because she needed to catch the 10:45 in order to arrive by 11 am ... as ordered by Judge Martin Powers ... at Female Corporal Punishment Center #3, where her sentence of “eighteen strokes of the cane” was scheduled to be duly carried out.

She had been grateful to learn ... when the official sentencing letter from the Department of Corrections arrived a couple weeks ago ... that the Judge had acceded to her request that the timing of her arrival at the Center be set for 11 rather than the customary 9. He apparently had seen some virtue in her sense of responsibility to her students, and had made the somewhat unusual arrival time allowance so that she could deliver her 9:45 pre-midterm exam lecture and review to her students in “History 369 - Injustice to Women through the Ages.”

And, she had been heartened by the fact that the class turned out to be more than a lecture and answering of students’ pre-exam review questions. She had been greeted by a thunderous round of applause at the beginning of the hour, delivered with cheers and stomping of feet by the nearly 200 students, mostly female, jammed into the lecture hall. And the accolades and well wishes had resumed at the end of the session, causing her to leave late for the bus stop, and to be racing across the snow-covered quad into a cold wind.

“Shit, I don’t dare miss this bus” ... she said to herself as she navigated around a couple of icy patches on the pavement and brushed the windblown hair from her face. She could see the bus ahead at the stop, and the telltale blinker indicating the driver’s intention to pull out into traffic was already flashing.

“Hey! Wait!” she cried into the wind, as the bus began to pull away. “Please wait for me!”

And then the morning’s second heartening moment occurred. The driver spotted her and waited.

Breathlessly, she climbed aboard, flashed her frequent rider pass, and smiled her gratefulness to the driver before weaving down the aisle and throwing herself into a vacant seat.

After a minute or two she had caught her breath sufficiently to take stock of her appearance. Her hair was a windblown mess, so she started with a comb withdrawn from the mini-convertible pack she carried on her back ... and then moved on to a critical look in her compact mirror to assess the state of her makeup ... followed by a quick touch-up.

With the essentials taken care of, she settled in for the ride. Her first thought was to check her pack for two folded pieces of paper. One was the official letter she had received stating the terms of her sentence along with the date and time she was to report to Female Corporal Punishment Center #3. She mused with a grim smile that there must be a #1 and #2 out there somewhere ... and possibly some with higher numbers too ... but they were most likely located in other towns or cities.

In her opinion the very existence of such centers, and the injustice of a system ... recently installed ... that would send women to them for severe corporal punishment, was the reason that she ... an academic specialist in the history of injustice toward women ... had chained herself in protest several weeks earlier to the door of Judge Powers’ courtroom, along with a couple of students ... brave young women whose names she didn’t even know. Nor, regrettably, had she been able to learn their names after weeks of inquiries, or what sentences they had received for their impulsive and fateful decisions to join her little protest.

And, so ... the second piece of folded paper in her pack was a strongly-worded statement of protest and outrage against the system that she had stayed up late the night before composing on her laptop. On arrival, she planned to read it aloud on the doorsteps of the Center, with the Press in attendance, before dutifully entering to report for her sentenced punishment. When she had finished drafting the statement, she had ... very cleverly she thought ... e-mailed the text to the two local newspapers and the four local television stations, hopefully in time for their morning news editors to see it. She expected the text and the scene to go viral and strike a strong note for justice and reform.

Which brought up in her mind the attire she had chosen for the moment. Rather than the casual look that had become commonplace on campus ... in her case, usually sneakers, black leggings or skinny jeans, and a sweater dress ... she had dressed up for the event, which meant wearing her dressy black knee-high boots, dark gray skirt and a matching jacket over a satiny rose-colored shirt, top two buttons open to show the white pearl pendant at her neck. She imagined that the rose-color against a gray suit framed under her brown hair, which she wore long, would look good on camera.

Checking her iPhone for the time, she noted that it was 10:51 ... nine more minutes to go. Her hands trembled as she returned the phone to her pack. She was nervous and became even more so as her thoughts turned to the sentence of eighteen strokes of a cane that she would soon have to face. She had been imagining what that might be like for nearly two weeks. She knew it would be extremely painful ... that was the point of it, after all. But so many questions remained.

How would they do it? Would she be ordered to bend over and grasp her ankles, or would there be some kind of frame, like the ones she had read about on Wiki, to bend over ... or would they strap her to some kind of rack, or x-cross, or simply suspend her and make her dance?

And who would be in attendance? Presumably a doctor ... eighteen sounded like an awful lot of strokes! Someone to administer them, of course. And perhaps an official of some kind. She hoped it might be limited to that. She’d hate the idea of being caned before an audience. That would add humiliation to what was already going be a very painful experience. Another alarming thought crossed her mind. Will they be making a video of this ... for the record. Oh God! She hoped not.

And that raised the question of what they will expect her to wear? Will they simply ask that she remove her skirt? Perhaps she’ll be allowed to keep her black thong? She had chosen to wear the thong with the idea that it would offer them some bare flesh to cane while still affording her some degree of modesty. Or perhaps she’ll be required to change into some kind of prison pajama-like uniform, and they will just lower the bottoms to administer her caning? Certainly there would be no need to strip naked. Presumably it’s only her bare ass that will be the intended target of the cane.

And then a final question came to mind. What does this all mean for her academic career? Her arrest had been no secret. Her mug shot had been shown on the local evening news. The students in her class knew what was happening. She had told them, after all. And if her intended little performance on the steps of the Center goes viral, as she hoped it would, everyone on campus will know of it.

She thought she was secure enough ... academic freedom, and all that. But Dorsbury College was a small private, with a conservative board of governors and plenty of conservative endowment donors. Would they view her protests and her conviction as politically embarrassing? She was only an Assistant Professor and therefore untenured and terminable.

She felt she had a good relationship with Dean Windar. She thought him a just man, although a bit picky when it came to the proper expenditure of research monies. She had experienced a run in or two with him over that, and had some difficulty convincing him that research on injustices to women sometimes involved a few out of the ordinary expenses. He had reprimanded her in his office on two occasions. But nothing too painful. She thought he would likely oppose any move to dismiss her.


Moments later, the bus rounded the corner onto the street on which Female Corporal Punishment Center #3 fronted. Barbara pressed her nose expectantly to the grimy glass of the bus window. But, what she saw was crushingly disappointing ... the street was empty ... not a soul was there ... no press ... no demonstrators ... nothing.

What she had hoped to be the third heartening moment of the day had somehow failed to materialize.
At least you`ll get their undivided attention when you get in there. Good luck.
 
“History 369 - Injustice to Women through the Ages.”
I'm guessing that the reading assignments come largely from CruxForums...;)
With the essentials taken care of, she settled in for the ride. Her first thought was to check her pack for two folded pieces of paper. One was the official letter she had received stating the terms of her sentence along with the date and time she was to report to Female Corporal Punishment Center #3. She mused with a grim smile that there must be a #1 and #2 out there somewhere ... and possibly some with higher numbers too ... but they were most likely located in other towns or cities.
47, but who's counting?
She’d hate the idea of being caned before an audience. That would add humiliation to what was already going be a very painful experience. Another alarming thought crossed her mind. Will they be making a video of this ... for the record. Oh God! She hoped not.
Of course that would never happen...
Which brought up in her mind the attire she had chosen for the moment. Rather than the casual look that had become commonplace on campus ... in her case, usually sneakers, black leggings or skinny jeans, and a sweater dress ... she had dressed up for the event, which meant wearing her dressy black knee-high boots, dark gray skirt and a matching jacket over a satiny rose-colored shirt, top two buttons open to show the white pearl pendant at her neck. She imagined that the rose-color against a gray suit framed under her brown hair, which she wore long, would look good on camera.
Is this a caning or a friggin' fashion show?
She felt she had a good relationship with Dean Windar. She thought him a just man, although a bit picky when it came to the proper expenditure of research monies. She had experienced a run in or two with him over that, and had some difficulty convincing him that research on injustices to women sometimes involved a few out of the ordinary expenses. He had reprimanded her in his office on two occasions. But nothing too painful. She thought he would likely oppose any move to dismiss her.
:jump:
 
Officer Beth Timmins liked her job at the Female Corporal Punishment Center #3 very much. The pay was fairly modest, though more than she had made at her previous job as a “Sales Associate” at the local branch of a large chain of discount stores. But, aside from that, her job at the Center came with the full benefits of a civil service position-health insurance, paid vacation, a 401k plan and the like.

What is a 401k plan?
 
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