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Trabbian Justice Comes To America

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windar

windar

Teller of Tales
This is a sequel to "Trabbian Justice". I have tried to include enough background that the story will make sense even if you haven't read the original one, though I think it will be more interesting if you have. It is also shorter than the original one. Here goes...


Chapter 1: Priya’s First Day at Her New Job

When the alarm went off at 6:30 AM, Dr. Priya Raman shook the sleep from her head and rolled out of bed. She could hear her husband, Sanjay, getting breakfast in the kitchen of their large, comfortable house. As she got out of bed and headed for the bathroom, Priya thought about how wonderful her life was. Married to a great guy, living in this postcard-perfect town, the very one where she had gone to college (when her last name had been her maiden name, Narayan). And today, she was starting her new job as Staff Physician at Female Corporal Punishment Center #3.

As she stripped to take her morning shower, Priya examined herself in the full-length mirror. She liked what she saw- at 33 she looked much as she had in college, with coffee-colored skin, lovely dark hair and generous breasts, her body toned by running as often as her schedule allowed, along with hiking in the summer and cross-country skiing in winter. She stepped under the water and lathered up, thinking about the day ahead. After almost 8 years of working in the ER at a large hospital a couple of towns over, Priya had felt burned-out from the crazy hours and the stress of dealing with life or death situations. It seemed to be time to find a job that was a bit less demanding so she could think about maybe having a life beyond the ER. When she saw the opening as Staff Physician with the Dept. of Corrections, she knew it was perfect. It had regular hours and would leave weekends free. The pay was less than she had made at the hospital, but now that Sanjay’s IT consulting firm was doing very well, they didn’t depend so much on her income.

To be honest, there was another reason Priya had been anxious to take the job. Faced with rising petty crime and declining budgets, the state had, a few months ago, instituted corporal punishment in place of prison for non-violent offenses. Priya had followed the debate with interest and, once the law was in place, had decided to keep an eye out for openings in the Dept. of Corrections that would give her an opportunity to witness punishment sessions. Because, buried in Priya’s past, kept secret from her husband, her parents and her employers, were the events that happened during her trip to Trabbia as an undergraduate at Dorsbury College.

She had taken a class in ancient civilizations of East Asia, with her favorite professor, Susan Gelden. Professor Gelden had been invited to dig at an ancient archaeological site in what is today Trabbia and to bring along 3 students-she had chosen Priya and two classmates of hers, Jennifer Collins and Sarah Motello. As the visitors had been asking about the use of corporal punishment in Trabbia, including on females, a visit to a center where it was administered was arranged. They had watched 2 female students strapped to a wooden frame and caned savagely for marijuana possession and Priya had found it horrifying, but also, strangely arousing.

Later, the American women had ended up violating some Trabbian laws and were themselves caned and later whipped, before finally being allowed to return home. In the almost 15 years since then, Priya had put that experience aside as much as she could, getting on with life, medical school, residency, medical practice and marriage. Yes, she would think about it occasionally in idle moments, but there weren’t that many idle moments in Priya’s life. But, in her heart, she knew that nothing in her life since then, as wonderful as it had been, had had the raw intensity of seeing people caned and then being flogged in your turn.

Now, after all that time, Priya was going to witness women being caned, just as she had seen and been in Trabbia. Just thinking about it caused a tingle to run down her spine into her groin. She knew that she didn’t have much time, but Priya couldn’t help herself. She propped her right foot up, gripping the edge of the tub with her toes for support, stuck 2 fingers into her vagina and began a circular motion against her clitoris with her thumb. As excited as she was, it took no more than 3 minutes before Priya was panting and moaning as a powerful orgasm rolled through her body, leaving her slumped limply in the tub. She allowed herself a minute to recuperate, then shut the water off, toweled herself dry and quickly dressed.

Priya hurried downstairs, finding Sanjay putting his coat on, getting ready to head for the office. “Good morning, sweetie,” he said kissing her, “I wish I could stay and have breakfast with you, but I have to stop by Simmons on the way to the office.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that,” Priya said as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Good luck on the new job,” he replied. “I hope it all goes well.”

“I’m sure it will,” she assured him as he headed out the door. Priya sipped her coffee as she heated up a bagel and grabbed a crisp apple from the farmer’s market. She finished her breakfast, checked the local news on TV and was soon in her BMW heading to the CP Center, a 10 minute drive from her house in an industrial park on the edge of Dorsbury. By 7:30, she had parked her car in the parking lot of the one-story, non-descript building and walked over to the solid-looking steel door set in the brick wall, marked by a sign that read, “State Department of Corrections: Female Corporal Punishment Center #3, Staff Entrance”.

Not yet equipped with her badge, Priya had to buzz to be let in. A few minutes later, the door opened. Standing there were two guards assigned to the facility. The senior officer, Susan Miller, was around 35, short and heavy-set with close-cropped black hair. The junior officer, Beth Timmins was around 25, medium height, with shoulder-length brown hair, gathered in a ponytail.

“I’m Dr. Priya Raman, the new Staff Physician starting today.”

Sgt. Miller smiled, “Yes. We’ve been expecting you. Come in. Welcome to Female Corporal Punishment Facility #3.” Once Priya was inside, the two guards escorted her to the Staff Room, where she left her jacket and purse on a chair. “Would you like some coffee and donuts?” Sue offered.

“Well, I just had breakfast, so perhaps you could give me the tour of the facility, Sgt. Miller, so I can understand the entire procedure start to finish,” Priya replied.

“My pleasure, Doc, and please call me Sue.”

“And please call me Beth,” Officer Timmins added.

“Of course, Sue, Beth,” Priya replied nodding. “And you can call me Priya, or even Pri, if you prefer.”

TO BE CONTINUED
 
windar said:
This is a sequel to "Trabbian Justice". I have tried to include enough background that the story will make sense even if you haven't read the original one, though I think it will be more interesting if you have. It is also shorter than the original one. Here goes...


Chapter 1: Priya’s First Day at Her New Job

When the alarm went off at 6:30 AM, Dr. Priya Raman shook the sleep from her head and rolled out of bed. She could hear her husband, Sanjay, getting breakfast in the kitchen of their large, comfortable house. As she got out of bed and headed for the bathroom, Priya thought about how wonderful her life was. Married to a great guy, living in this postcard-perfect town, the very one where she had gone to college (when her last name had been her maiden name, Narayan). And today, she was starting her new job as Staff Physician at Female Corporal Punishment Center #3.

As she stripped to take her morning shower, Priya examined herself in the full-length mirror. She liked what she saw- at 33 she looked much as she had in college, with coffee-colored skin, lovely dark hair and generous breasts, her body toned by running as often as her schedule allowed, along with hiking in the summer and cross-country skiing in winter. She stepped under the water and lathered up, thinking about the day ahead. After almost 8 years of working in the ER at a large hospital a couple of towns over, Priya had felt burned-out from the crazy hours and the stress of dealing with life or death situations. It seemed to be time to find a job that was a bit less demanding so she could think about maybe having a life beyond the ER. When she saw the opening as Staff Physician with the Dept. of Corrections, she knew it was perfect. It had regular hours and would leave weekends free. The pay was less than she had made at the hospital, but now that Sanjay’s IT consulting firm was doing very well, they didn’t depend so much on her income.

To be honest, there was another reason Priya had been anxious to take the job. Faced with rising petty crime and declining budgets, the state had, a few months ago, instituted corporal punishment in place of prison for non-violent offenses. Priya had followed the debate with interest and, once the law was in place, had decided to keep an eye out for openings in the Dept. of Corrections that would give her an opportunity to witness punishment sessions. Because, buried in Priya’s past, kept secret from her husband, her parents and her employers, were the events that happened during her trip to Trabbia as an undergraduate at Dorsbury College.

She had taken a class in ancient civilizations of East Asia, with her favorite professor, Susan Gelden. Professor Gelden had been invited to dig at an ancient archaeological site in what is today Trabbia and to bring along 3 students-she had chosen Priya and two classmates of hers, Jennifer Collins and Sarah Motello. As the visitors had been asking about the use of corporal punishment in Trabbia, including on females, a visit to a center where it was administered was arranged. They had watched 2 female students strapped to a wooden frame and caned savagely for marijuana possession and Priya had found it horrifying, but also, strangely arousing.

Later, the American women had ended up violating some Trabbian laws and were themselves caned and later whipped, before finally being allowed to return home. In the almost 15 years since then, Priya had put that experience aside as much as she could, getting on with life, medical school, residency, medical practice and marriage. Yes, she would think about it occasionally in idle moments, but there weren’t that many idle moments in Priya’s life. But, in her heart, she knew that nothing in her life since then, as wonderful as it had been, had had the raw intensity of seeing people caned and then being flogged in your turn.

Now, after all that time, Priya was going to witness women being caned, just as she had seen and been in Trabbia. Just thinking about it caused a tingle to run down her spine into her groin. She knew that she didn’t have much time, but Priya couldn’t help herself. She propped her right foot up, gripping the edge of the tub with her toes for support, stuck 2 fingers into her vagina and began a circular motion against her clitoris with her thumb. As excited as she was, it took no more than 3 minutes before Priya was panting and moaning as a powerful orgasm rolled through her body, leaving her slumped limply in the tub. She allowed herself a minute to recuperate, then shut the water off, toweled herself dry and quickly dressed.

Priya hurried downstairs, finding Sanjay putting his coat on, getting ready to head for the office. “Good morning, sweetie,” he said kissing her, “I wish I could stay and have breakfast with you, but I have to stop by Simmons on the way to the office.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that,” Priya said as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Good luck on the new job,” he replied. “I hope it all goes well.”

“I’m sure it will,” she assured him as he headed out the door. Priya sipped her coffee as she heated up a bagel and grabbed a crisp apple from the farmer’s market. She finished her breakfast, checked the local news on TV and was soon in her BMW heading to the CP Center, a 10 minute drive from her house in an industrial park on the edge of Dorsbury. By 7:30, she had parked her car in the parking lot of the one-story, non-descript building and walked over to the solid-looking steel door set in the brick wall, marked by a sign that read, “State Department of Corrections: Female Corporal Punishment Center #3, Staff Entrance”.

Not yet equipped with her badge, Priya had to buzz to be let in. A few minutes later, the door opened. Standing there were two guards assigned to the facility. The senior officer, Susan Miller, was around 35, short and heavy-set with close-cropped black hair. The junior officer, Beth Timmins was around 25, medium height, with shoulder-length brown hair, gathered in a ponytail.

“I’m Dr. Priya Raman, the new Staff Physician starting today.”

Sgt. Miller smiled, “Yes. We’ve been expecting you. Come in. Welcome to Female Corporal Punishment Facility #3.” Once Priya was inside, the two guards escorted her to the Staff Room, where she left her jacket and purse on a chair. “Would you like some coffee and donuts?” Sue offered.

“Well, I just had breakfast, so perhaps you could give me the tour of the facility, Sgt. Miller, so I can understand the entire procedure start to finish,” Priya replied.

“My pleasure, Doc, and please call me Sue.”

“And please call me Beth,” Officer Timmins added.

“Of course, Sue, Beth,” Priya replied nodding. “And you can call me Priya, or even Pri, if you prefer.”

TO BE CONTINUED
Click to expand...

6/4 bet that Priya get`s caned again
she likes it so she will wangle some
way to go to the whipping post
 
“Maybe the best plan is to give you an ‘offender’s eye’ view, following the sequence that the offenders follow,” Sue suggested. Priya nodded her assent as Sue led the way down a hallway to a solid metal door. “This is the door the offenders enter by. These monitors survey the perimeter to ensure that only those who are scheduled for today are within 100 feet of the door when it’s opened. At 9 AM sharp, one guard holds their ID against this pad and enters the 4-digit PIN releasing the lock. Another opens the door and escorts the offenders in and then closes the door.”

“What happens if an offender doesn’t show or arrives late?” Priya asked.

“Then a warrant is issued for their arrest and they are awarded additional strokes. We find very few don’t show up on time.”

“Once inside, each one must present the letter from the court ordering them to report for punishment, along with a photo ID. They are fingerprinted too, so they can be compared to those taken at the time of their arrest. Wouldn’t want some rich bitch paying someone a fortune to take their licks for them. Once they are logged in, we escort them down the hall to here.” Sue Miller led the visitors down the corridor to a door that was marked, “Offender Changing Area”. She held up her card key and the lock clicked open. Inside were a row of lockers with a bench bolted to the floor in front of them. Against the right-hand wall was a table.

“This is the point at which things begin to get real for the offenders, because they are ordered to strip and place their clothes and all personal belongings in a locker,” Sgt. Miller explained.

“How often do you have non-compliance at this step?” David asked.

“Every so often, we get someone who resists. Reminding them that we will call in male officers to strip them forcibly and award extra strokes usually takes care of that,” Sue replied. “Once they are naked in front of fully clothed officers, that tends to subdue them and we rarely have problems from there on.”

“I would agree that nudity in front of clothed people tends to make one submissive,” Priya replied. “It’s certainly wise to strip them as soon as possible.”

“That is what we do, and they stay naked as you examine them and as they get their caning and through their recovery. They get their clothes back when you certify they are ready to be released.” Sue answered. “Anyway, once all their clothes and other personal effects, including jewelry are in the lockers, they line up on this tape to be searched.” She indicated a tape stuck to the floor next to a table that was bolted to the floor. “It’s a full cavity search, bent over the table; we don’t want anyone sneaking in any weapons or drugs. It’s also humiliating to them, which is part of the punishment.” Priya nodded her agreement with this.

Beth pointed out the supplies on the table-“One full box of surgical gloves, size medium, one tube of KY jelly, one flashlight (she flicked it off and on to confirm it was in order) and 1 roll of paper towels”. She indicated the biohazard pail where the used gloves would be discarded after each offender had been searched.

“It looks like you are well prepared,” Priya noted.

“Yes ma’am,” Sgt. Miller responded. “We run a tight ship here. Now would you like to see the Punishment Room?”

Priya felt a shiver of excitement pass through her at the thought. “Of course,” she said.

They went back into the corridor, and made their way to the door at the far end. The sign on it said “Clinic.” “The access is through the Clinic,” Sgt. Miller told them. She flashed her card, opened the door and led the way inside. It looked like any of the many doctor’s offices, clinics or ER’s that Priya had been associated with in her career. There were a couple of cabinets containing supplies, a table for the doctor and an examining table. There were also a number of cots.

“This, of course, is your domain,” Sue said. Priya nodded. “You should have time to check everything in here before the offenders arrive, so let’s go through to the reason this place exists.”

TO BE CONTINUED
 
At the far end of the clinic, was a door marked “Punishment Room”. Passing through, they entered into a large, high ceilinged-room with a bare concrete floor. There was a table with several simple plastic chairs and another table with a large bucket. But what dominated the room was a structure sitting squarely in the center, made of thick wooden timbers, four uprights about 8 feet high, joined in pairs at the top and attached at their bottom to a square wooden base that was attached to the concrete floor in several spots by sturdy steel bolts. Running between one pair of uprights was a padded crossbar, while an unpadded crossbar stretched between the other pair of uprights.

Priya felt a shiver of excitement as she looked at the fearsome apparatus. It was almost an exact copy of the one in Trabbia to which she had been strapped when she had been caned almost 20 years before. Whether it was copied from it or simply reflected the fact that there were only so many ways to fasten a human body to be whipped on the buttocks, Priya couldn’t say. The main difference was that in the tropical climate of Trabbia, the canings had been carried out outdoors in a dirt courtyard, while here, in a colder climate, they were administered indoors.

The two staffers escorted Priya to the apparatus. “Normally, we march them over quickly, because seeing the site of their punishment is a bit of a shock and there is a natural tendency to want to run away, so we like to at least have their ankles attached as soon as possible,” the Sergeant explained. She grabbed one of the uprights and tried to shake it. “It’s anchored pretty tight,” she told them. “Would you like to test it?” Priya grabbed a post and shook it. It didn’t move.

Sgt. Miller pointed to the leather straps attached by a short metal chain to the bottom of each of the uprights with the padded crossbar. “The first thing we do is fasten one of those around each ankle. Once that is done, any resistance is futile.” She pulled firmly on each one; they didn’t budge. Priya remembered from her own experience how it had felt to have one’s ankles secured to the frame; she knew the panic these girls would be experiencing.

Sgt. Miller continued, “Next, we bend their upper body over the padded bar, and strap this padded belt over their waist.” She pulled hard on both ends-there was no give-then pulled the loose end through the buckle on the other end and made sure it held tightly. “Then, one of us goes to the other end and fastens the straps attached to the far crossbar around each wrist. At that point they are secured, ready to receive their punishment.” Priya felt warmth spreading through her groin at the prospect that she would soon be watching real women being flogged on this frame.

At that moment, the door to the Punishment Room opened and a shaven-headed, man in a blue T shirt that barely contained his muscles, his lower half clad in sweatpants and sneakers, walked in. “George,” Sue called to him, “Come and say hello to our new doctor, Priya Raman.” This is our caner, Officer George Grieder.”

“Pleased to meet you, Doc,” the man said, shaking Priya’s hand.

Sue asked him, “George, would you show our guests the canes; this is Dr. Raman’s first time seeing this live, so she would appreciate a full explanation.”

“Certainly,” he responded. “Right this way.” He led them to a table at the far end of the room, where there was a large bucket filled with liquid. There were a number of canes in the bucket, the bottom 2/3 or so of which were submerged in the liquid, while the leather-wrapped handles protruded. George selected one, grasped the handle and removed it. The rod was about 4 feet long and almost ½ inch in diameter. It looked just like Priya remembered the one she had seen used in Trabbia. He swished it through the air; it made the same evil whistling sound that she remembered. She couldn’t wait to watch and hear it smash into some quivering buttocks spread helpless on the frame.

“This is rattan, grown in Southeast Asia,” he explained. Priya wondered if it came from Trabbia. “The bottom part is soaked in water over night to make it highly flexible.” He demonstrated this by bending it almost 180°. “The handle is left rigid to provide control. Properly wielded, it delivers a powerful impact, one that the offenders will remember the rest of their lives.” Priya could testify that that was entirely correct. In fact, if you examined her buttocks in a strong light, you could still see faint traces from the caning she had gotten with such an instrument almost 15 years before.

“George, have you seen today’s schedule?” Sgt. Miller asked.

“Yes, I have. Two today, 8 and 12, right?” he responded.

“Yep,” Sue replied, “And I’m sure you will treat them with your usual delicacy.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he chuckled, “They will have to stand to attention, because they won’t be sitting for quite some time. I’ll be ready and waiting here, just as soon as you ladies want to bring them in.”

“OK, George,” Sue told him. “Now, Doc, we should review the files on today’s offenders. We can do that in the break room, because you may not need coffee and donuts, but I do and I think Beth does too.” Beth nodded.

Sgt. Miller laid out the day’s schedule: “We have 2 offenders coming, 1 is getting 8 strokes and 1 getting 12 as you heard me tell George.” She pushed 2 file folders across the table. Priya thought it sounded like a surgical nurse describing the day’s patients. In a way it was, though the surgery performed on these women’s butts would be done without anesthetic. Priya opened the first folder-, Britney McManus, 23, convicted of DWI and sentenced to 12 strokes. Britney had a hard, thin face, framed with long, stringy dirty blond hair. The address looked to be one of the trailer parks on the edge of town. The second peaked Priya’s interest, Allison Sturgis, 19, who, from the address given appeared to be a student at Dorsbury College. Pretty, with shoulder-length brunette hair, caught trying to buy alcohol with a phony ID and given 8 strokes.

Priya was excited by the idea that very soon these two women would be stripped and she would examine them and watch as they would be strapped to the frame and hear them howling in pain as George shredded their asses. It was something she had waited many years to see again.

END OF CHAPTER 1
 
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Chapter 2: Allison Pays a Price for Her Mistake

Allison Sturgis, or Ali, as her friends called her, lay in her single dorm room, waiting for the alarm to go off at 7 AM. Not that she had slept much, worrying about the ordeal she was facing in the morning. Why had she agreed to take a false ID to the liquor store to try to buy some bottles for a dorm party? And what’s the big deal anyway? She was 19 and she made the DOB look like she was 23, and that stupid clerk had noticed and called the cops. So what? All she and her friends wanted was to have a little fun. But she was the one who was going to have her ass shredded in a few hours.

Being arrested and held overnight in a stinky jail cell with a blocked toilet, locked up with addicts and hookers wasn’t fun. Nor was having to spend a good chunk of the money she had earned working last summer on hiring a sleazy-looking lawyer whose office was littered with Chinese takeout that had sprouted enough molds that Ali wanted to take one for Biology lab. She could have asked her parents to find and pay for her a better one, but she was too ashamed of her own stupidity to tell them of her situation. Nevertheless, Ali was pretty happy when her attorney told her he had worked out a plea bargain for “alternative punishment”. “Like picking up garbage in the park?” she asked him naively.

“No, 8 strokes of the cane,” he told her.

“The what?” Ali asked, not sure she had heard him correctly.

“The cane,” he explained, “Don’t you follow the news? Because of the outbreak of crime among the young, the state has instituted corporal punishment. Instead of wasting the taxpayer’s money on sending non-violent offenders to prison or giving them community service, which is really no punishment at all, they give them a quick painful punishment and send them on their way.”

Ali looked at her attorney with shock on her face. “And they want to do this to me?”

“You are exactly the type whom this is targeted at, a young non-violent offender, someone who won’t want their life interrupted by a prison sentence.”

“What do they do exactly?” Ali asked nervously.

“You report to a Corporal Punishment Center. They have separate ones for males and females. A doctor examines you to make sure you are fit. There isn’t much doubt in your case that you will be found fit. Then, they strap you to a wooden frame and administer the number of strokes ordered on your bare butt with a rattan that’s sort of like a whip.”

“Bare butt?” Ali felt sick.

“Yes. In fact, you will be completely naked when you receive your punishment. The humiliation is a big part of the procedure.”

“Naked? In front of people?” she asked, incredulously. The lawyer nodded. “How much does it hurt?” Ali asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“Well, of course, I haven’t experienced it myself, but my understanding is that it’s excruciating. 8 strokes will certainly be no picnic. It will probably leave scars that will stay for a long time, maybe forever. But that is the point I suppose, to impress upon the offender the need to obey the law in the future.” He looked to Ali like he was not all that sympathetic to her plight.

“And what if I turn this deal down?” Ali asked the lawyer.

“Then you would go to trial,” he responded. “The clerk would testify, they have video and audio of the whole thing and your fake ID. I don’t see much hope. The maximum for this offense is 20 strokes and 1 year in jail. With the judges around here, you would almost certainly get at least 15 strokes, maybe 18 and some jail time, possibly up to 6 months. It’s hard to say exactly, but I would not recommend you take that chance. Also, as part of the deal, the records will be sealed as long as you have no further offenses in the next year. That means when you graduate and apply for jobs and they ask, ‘Have you ever been convicted of a crime?’ you are legally entitled to answer ‘No’.”

“So you’re saying I have no choice but to let them strip me naked and whip my ass? That’s ridiculous,” the young student wailed, breaking into tears.

The lawyer handed her a box of Kleenex from his desk. “Look, I’m sorry. This won’t be pleasant, but in the circumstances, it’s the best we can do.”

Allison continued sobbing for a few minutes. Finally, with a series of sniffles she bought herself back under control. “Will my parents find out about this, my friends? I will never be able to face them again.” Ali could imagine her mother crying, her father’s anger at her and at the system. She thought about walking around campus, with everyone staring at her, whispering, “She’s the one who was caned. I wonder what her butt looks like.” Ali blushed in shame just at the thought.

The lawyer responded, “No. The punishment is administered in private. Only a few state guards will be there and they are sworn to secrecy. As I mentioned, if you keep clean for a year, there will be no record. Just keep your butt covered until the wounds heal, or, if someone sees, tell them you fell on some sharp rocks or something.” He paused and looked at her, “Are you going to accept the plea bargain? If so, all you have to do is sign right here.” He passed her a two page document with sticky tape marking the line above her name.

Ali didn’t see much in the way of options. She reluctantly picked up the pen and signed.

Ten days later, Ali appeared in court. The judge, a stern looking man around 60 years of age, asked, “Allison Sturgis, you are charged with using a fraudulent identity document to purchase alcohol while underage. How do you plead?”

Ali and her attorney stood. “Guilty, your honor,” she said with a tremor in her voice.

“Are you pleading guilty because you are in fact guilty of the charge?”

Ali glanced nervously at her attorney, “Yes, your honor,” she replied, her voice almost breaking with the strain.

“Allison Sturgis,” the judge announced, “I hereby sentence you to report to the Female Corporal Punishment Center designated by the Department of Corrections, there to be administered 8 strokes of the cane on your bare buttocks. You will receive notification from them in writing as to where and when to report. I realize that you are young, but you ought to know better than to break the laws of this state. I hope that you will accept your punishment as deserved and learn from the experience. Given that this is your first offense, I am placing this matter under my jurisdiction for one year. If, during this time, you do not commit any further offenses, your record will be permanently sealed. I sincerely hope that I never see you again in my court, young lady.” With that he banged down the gavel, rose and left the courtroom. Ali and her attorney did the same.

TO BE CONTINUED
 
madiosi said:
Have you suggestions for a cover?
Click to expand...

I think the Le chat cartoon tree posted up above might be appropriate, but perhaps we should wait until the end of the story to decide. With that, let's continue and see how Allison is coping with the prospect of her caning.
 
So, Ali went back to her life as a student, trying her best to ignore the sentence hanging over her. Not wanting any further trouble, she avoided parties where there was alcohol or drugs. She spent most of her time in the library studying, though, on many occasions as she sat staring at her biology text or some calculus problem, her mind wandered to what she imagined her caning might be like. She would be naked and strapped down, that she knew. It was a female center so the others being flogged would be women, but would there be male guards? She didn’t know. There wasn’t a whole lot of information she could find on line either. It seemed that people who had been caned weren’t anxious to talk about it. Ali didn’t blame them; she doubted she would be either.

After a couple of weeks had passed with no notice, Ali even began hoping that somehow her case had gotten lost in the system. Mistakes happened after all. Then, she got an email from the campus post office that there was a registered letter waiting for her. Since Ali never got registered letters, and rarely any snail mail at all, she had little doubt what this would be. She walked over to the post office with butterflies in her stomach, signed the card and was handed an envelope from the Department of Corrections. She was too afraid of breaking down to open it at the post office, so she took it immediately back to her dorm room and, with trembling hands, opened the envelope. Inside was a letter instructing her to report to Female Corporal Punishment Center #3, located just outside Dorsbury, at 9 AM on April 2, which was 8 days off.

There was also a sheet entitled: “Instructions for Offenders Sentenced to Corporal Punishment”, which read as follows:


1. Arrival at the Correctional Center-You are required to arrive at the time and place specified on the enclosed letter. Failure to appear as instructed will result in a warrant being issued for your arrest and will subject you to additional punishment including extra cane strokes and prison. You must bring with you this letter, along with a government-issued photo ID. No other personal effects, other than keys for the vehicle used to transport you to the center are permitted. Do not bring cell phones, laptops or music/video players.

2. Banned Substances-It is a mandatory that you experience the full effect of the punishment which you have been sentenced to receive, without interference. The following must not be consumed for 48 hours prior to your report time: There followed a list of drugs including pain killers, anti-anxiety drugs and a number of other drugs. Blood will be drawn during your medical exam at the Center for later testing. If you turn up positive for banned substances you will be ordered to return to the Center and your punishment will be re-administered.

3. Rules of Conduct-While within the Center, all offenders are subject to the Rules of Conduct. They are required to obey all orders from staff and to cooperate fully with all directives. Failure to so, along with insubordination, physical resistance or any other misconduct will subject the offender to a summary punishment at the discretion of the Center staff, who are authorized to add up to 4 strokes to the court-ordered sentence.

4. Recovery-Corporal punishment as administered in this state is a traumatic experience. While the punishment is administered on the buttocks, where no internal organs are present, the cane used can damage tissues at the site of administration and may provoke some bleeding. Therefore, offenders receiving more than 4 strokes are generally kept overnight for observation. Depending on the condition of the buttocks at release, offenders may be advised to seek medical treatment. It is recommended that offenders wear loose fitting clothing when they report, since contact with the wounded tissue may cause discomfort for some time after the punishment.

Ali read the notices with increasing trepidation and a sense of nausea in the pit of her stomach. “Traumatic experience, damage tissues, bleeding,” this all sounded like a nightmare. She couldn’t possibly go through with it.

She called her lawyer to ask what she could do. “Nothing,” he told her. “This is the law. You should have thought of that before you used the fake ID. I’m sorry, but, it’s too late now. Look, I’ve had other clients who went through this; they survived, they recovered, they went on with their lives. Listen, I have to go.” There was silence on the line.

“Thanks for your concern,” Ali muttered. She was terrified and the worst part was that she was too ashamed to tell anyone. Not her parents, not her friends. She would have to face this alone. Ali broke down, bawling like a baby, curled into a ball on her bed. This was truly the worst thing that had ever happened to her and the worst part was, it was her own fault.

The next week passed slowly for Allison. She cried herself to sleep a few times and found herself waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night from nightmares about being whipped naked several times. Waking from the nightmares provided little comfort, because she knew they were only too real, that she really would be whipped naked in a few days. And now, it wasn’t a few days, it was today.

Allison showered in the common women’s shower area. She supposed after her caning she would have to pick odd hours for bathing, so the other girls wouldn’t see her butt in its damaged state. Then she dressed in her loosest sweat pants, a T shirt with a Dorsbury sweat shirt over it and flip flops and ate a very light breakfast (her stomach was churning). At 8:30, she got in the car her parents had bought for her and drove the 10 minutes to the Punishment Center. That meant she was 20 minutes early, but she was terrified of the consequences of being late. She had to hang around outside the door, but students at the college never had reason to come to this part of town (except for her, of course), so the chances of being seen by someone who knew her were minuscule. Allison wondered how many other girls would show up closer to 9 to be caned here today.

END OF CHAPTER 2
 
windar said:
Chapter 2: Allison Pays a Price for Her Mistake

Allison Sturgis, or Ali, as her friends called her, lay in her single dorm room, waiting for the alarm to go off at 7 AM. Not that she had slept much, worrying about the ordeal she was facing in the morning. Why had she agreed to take a false ID to the liquor store to try to buy some bottles for a dorm party? And what’s the big deal anyway? She was 19 and she made the DOB look like she was 23, and that stupid clerk had noticed and called the cops. So what? All she and her friends wanted was to have a little fun. But she was the one who was going to have her ass shredded in a few hours.

Being arrested and held overnight in a stinky jail cell with a blocked toilet, locked up with addicts and hookers wasn’t fun. Nor was having to spend a good chunk of the money she had earned working last summer on hiring a sleazy-looking lawyer whose office was littered with Chinese takeout that had sprouted enough molds that Ali wanted to take one for Biology lab. She could have asked her parents to find and pay for her a better one, but she was too ashamed of her own stupidity to tell them of her situation. Nevertheless, Ali was pretty happy when her attorney told her he had worked out a plea bargain for “alternative punishment”. “Like picking up garbage in the park?” she asked him naively.

“No, 8 strokes of the cane,” he told her.

“The what?” Ali asked, not sure she had heard him correctly.

“The cane,” he explained, “Don’t you follow the news? Because of the outbreak of crime among the young, the state has instituted corporal punishment. Instead of wasting the taxpayer’s money on sending non-violent offenders to prison or giving them community service, which is really no punishment at all, they give them a quick painful punishment and send them on their way.”

Ali looked at her attorney with shock on her face. “And they want to do this to me?”

“You are exactly the type whom this is targeted at, a young non-violent offender, someone who won’t want their life interrupted by a prison sentence.”

“What do they do exactly?” Ali asked nervously.

“You report to a Corporal Punishment Center. They have separate ones for males and females. A doctor examines you to make sure you are fit. There isn’t much doubt in your case that you will be found fit. Then, they strap you to a wooden frame and administer the number of strokes ordered on your bare butt with a rattan that’s sort of like a whip.”

“Bare butt?” Ali felt sick.

“Yes. In fact, you will be completely naked when you receive your punishment. The humiliation is a big part of the procedure.”

“Naked? In front of people?” she asked, incredulously. The lawyer nodded. “How much does it hurt?” Ali asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“Well, of course, I haven’t experienced it myself, but my understanding is that it’s excruciating. 8 strokes will certainly be no picnic. It will probably leave scars that will stay for a long time, maybe forever. But that is the point I suppose, to impress upon the offender the need to obey the law in the future.” He looked to Ali like he was not all that sympathetic to her plight.

“And what if I turn this deal down?” Ali asked the lawyer.

“Then you would go to trial,” he responded. “The clerk would testify, they have video and audio of the whole thing and your fake ID. I don’t see much hope. The maximum for this offense is 20 strokes and 1 year in jail. With the judges around here, you would almost certainly get at least 15 strokes, maybe 18 and some jail time, possibly up to 6 months. It’s hard to say exactly, but I would not recommend you take that chance. Also, as part of the deal, the records will be sealed as long as you have no further offenses in the next year. That means when you graduate and apply for jobs and they ask, ‘Have you ever been convicted of a crime?’ you are legally entitled to answer ‘No’.”

“So you’re saying I have no choice but to let them strip me naked and whip my ass? That’s ridiculous,” the young student wailed, breaking into tears.

The lawyer handed her a box of Kleenex from his desk. “Look, I’m sorry. This won’t be pleasant, but in the circumstances, it’s the best we can do.”

Allison continued sobbing for a few minutes. Finally, with a series of sniffles she bought herself back under control. “Will my parents find out about this, my friends? I will never be able to face them again.” Ali could imagine her mother crying, her father’s anger at her and at the system. She thought about walking around campus, with everyone staring at her, whispering, “She’s the one who was caned. I wonder what her butt looks like.” Ali blushed in shame just at the thought.

The lawyer responded, “No. The punishment is administered in private. Only a few state guards will be there and they are sworn to secrecy. As I mentioned, if you keep clean for a year, there will be no record. Just keep your butt covered until the wounds heal, or, if someone sees, tell them you fell on some sharp rocks or something.” He paused and looked at her, “Are you going to accept the plea bargain? If so, all you have to do is sign right here.” He passed her a two page document with sticky tape marking the line above her name.

Ali didn’t see much in the way of options. She reluctantly picked up the pen and signed.

Ten days later, Ali appeared in court. The judge, a stern looking man around 60 years of age, asked, “Allison Sturgis, you are charged with using a fraudulent identity document to purchase alcohol while underage. How do you plead?”

Ali and her attorney stood. “Guilty, your honor,” she said with a tremor in her voice.

“Are you pleading guilty because you are in fact guilty of the charge?”

Ali glanced nervously at her attorney, “Yes, your honor,” she replied, her voice almost breaking with the strain.

“Allison Sturgis,” the judge announced, “I hereby sentence you to report to the Female Corporal Punishment Center designated by the Department of Corrections, there to be administered 8 strokes of the cane on your bare buttocks. You will receive notification from them in writing as to where and when to report. I realize that you are young, but you ought to know better than to break the laws of this state. I hope that you will accept your punishment as deserved and learn from the experience. Given that this is your first offense, I am placing this matter under my jurisdiction for one year. If, during this time, you do not commit any further offenses, your record will be permanently sealed. I sincerely hope that I never see you again in my court, young lady.” With that he banged down the gavel, rose and left the courtroom. Ali and her attorney did the same.

TO BE CONTINUED
Click to expand...

Eight Strokes? Chicken Feed, go back to the liquor store
and try it on again Ali, eight strokes is not worth getting
undressed for.
 
windar said:
I think the Le chat cartoon tree posted up above might be appropriate, but perhaps we should wait until the end of the story to decide. With that, let's continue and see how Allison is coping with the prospect of her caning.
Click to expand...
Ok, we wait a little bit more...
 
Dorothy Brown said:
Eight Strokes? Chicken Feed, go back to the liquor store
and try it on again Ali, eight strokes is not worth getting
undressed for.
Click to expand...

Not everyone has your high pain tolerance, Dorothy. Allison has never experienced anything like this in her 19 years and I promise she will find it traumatic and she will be left bruised and bleeding and she will definitely NOT try to buy alcohol again until she is 21 (or maybe 30, just to be safe).
 
Last edited:
windar said:
Not everyone has your high pain tolerance, Dorothy. Allison has never experienced anything like this in her 19 years and I promise she will find it traumatic and she will be left bruised and bleeding and she will definitely NOT try to buy alcohol again until she 21 (or maybe 30, just to be safe).
Click to expand...

She Won`t be bruised and bleeding from eight strokes
i got more than that for a spelling mistake at school
she will have angry red welts on her bum, lucky girl.
 
Dorothy Brown said:
She Won`t be bruised and bleeding from eight strokes
i got more than that for a spelling mistake at school
she will have angry red welts on her bum, lucky girl.
Click to expand...

Just watch and see, my dear, OK? The other girl to be caned, Brittney, has an attitude more like yours as we shall see in the next chapter. Will her attitude survive the actual experience? Would yours? I would sure like to do the experiment IRL.
 
Windar, mix the punishment strokes with a occasional one right across
to top of her legs. i never realized how loudly i could scream until i got a
stroke like that. i could hear this girlie scream but all i could see was a
red haze,the pain was excruciating , it was a thin punishment cane he was
using, not the type you tie up tomato plants with. but believe me, give your
girls a couple of strokes across the top of her legs, and no way will she come
back for more.
 
Chapter 3: Britney’s Life Sucks

Britney McManus woke up that morning in her crappy trailer in a trailer park on the other side of town feeling even worse than Allison. It was all her no-good boyfriend Billy’s fault. He promised he would meet her at the bar by 10 after he ran an "errand", but he never showed. She was sure his "errand" involved shafting Debbie, that slut. So Britney had drowned her sorrows with a few beers and a couple of shots. She knew she shouldn’t drive, but how the fuck was she supposed to get home? Well, when the cop stopped her, she knew she wouldn’t be going home that night.

Her Legal Aid attorney was useless. She barely gave her 2 minutes before court. 12 lashes take it or leave it. What choice did she have? She couldn’t afford a real lawyer, not trying to survive on what she made waiting tables at the diner. And now she had to take 2 days off of work to be caned, like she could afford to lose the pay. Shit! She had to find that fucking letter from the Department of Corrections and hustle her butt over to the other side of town by 9 AM sharp or she was looking at even more lashes. Since her license was suspended for the DWI, and she couldn’t risk driving without it, because if a cop stopped her she was pretty sure they would shred her ass even worse, she had to take the bus which dropped her off a 10 minute walk from the building where they were going to cane her. “Jesus, my life sucks,” Britney thought.

So, it was about 2 minutes to 9 when she arrived in front of the door, out of breath from hurrying so as not to be late. Standing out there was a girl who looked like she was a student at Dorsbury College, that fancy pants school in town. College girl was almost certainly from a rich family, used to having everything, but here she was in the same place as Britney, looking really scared and embarrassed. College girl barely glanced at Britney, looking down at her feet the whole time like they had a secret message or something.

It wasn’t long before the door swung open. There were 2 dykey-looking guards standing there calling their names. It turned out the college girl was called Allison Sturgis and she was getting 8 strokes for buying booze with a fake ID. “She must have had a better lawyer than me,” Britney thought.

Anyway, after checking us in, the 2 dykes marched us to a room with a sign that said “Offender’s Changing Room.” Once inside, the older guard yelled “Strip. Everything off and in a locker. Let’s go.”

“What?” I asked. Meanwhile college girl Allison was in tears, but was unbuttoning her shirt.

The younger guard got right in my face, “You heard her McManus. Now we can get 4 or 5 male guards in here to tear your clothes off and paw you all over and you’ll get some extra strokes with the cane. Or you can get naked now. Your choice.”

This was bullshit, but what could I do? I bent down and took my shoes and socks off and placed them on the bottom of the locker. Jesus, they could heat the floor a bit, you’d think, the cheap bastards. Then I pulled my sweat shirt off and the T shirt and then the bra. The younger guard pointed at the butterfly tattoo on my left boob and the snake on the right one. “Nice tats, McManus,” she said, laughing.

“Well, fuck you,” I thought. I felt like saying that too, but figured that wouldn’t be smart. I unbuttoned my pants and slid them down. “Yeah, I got tats on my legs too, OK bitch?” I muttered under my breath. I don’t think she heard me over the sniveling coming from college girl, who was now buck naked, covering her pussy with one hand, and her boobs, which were bigger than mine, with the other. I slid my panties down and joined the club. I didn’t bother covering myself-what was the point? I was pretty sure they were going to make us put our hands by our sides pretty soon anyway.

“Stand on the line!” the older guard ordered, pointing to some tape on the floor. OK, whatever. Allison stood next to me. “Hands by your sides!” Boy, I called that one. The younger guard stood in front of Allison and ran her hands inside her mouth and ears and all through her hair. College girl had pretty much stopped bawling and just stood there looking miserable. The guard lifted Allison’s left arm in front up and felt in the armpit, then in between the fingers. Same with the right. She felt under each boob and then between the legs. It must be a fun job if you’re a dyke, like these guards. Then, she lifted each foot and felt in between the toes.

Then she moved over in front of me. What fun. She got her jollies feeling me all over. See if I care. Meanwhile, the older guard had put a medical glove on her right hand and stood by the table with a big grin on her face. “McManus, over here,” she barked. I knew what was coming and that it wouldn’t be much fun for me, though it probably would be for her. I went over. “Bend over the table,” she ordered. I bent over the table, tits pressed against the metal top.

I felt two fingers going into my snatch unceremoniously, rooting around, probing deep inside me. “Finding anything?” I asked. No comment from the dyke guard. Finally, the fingers came out. But I was pretty sure it wasn’t over yet. And I was right. There was the farting sound of the lube being squeezed out, then the cold greasy feeling of it inside my crack, on my asshole. Then the finger going inside, feeling it stretching the muscles, the pressure against the walls of my rectum. Finally, the relief as it came out.

“OK, stand up, you’re clean,” the guard told me. I stood up. College girl was looking like she was going to be sick, knowing she was next. “OK, Sturgis,” the guard ordered, “Your turn.”

College girl looked like she was going to start crying again. Instead, she spoke up. “Do I have to? I don’t have anything inside me, I swear.”

“This isn’t optional, Sturgis,” the older guard told her. “No exemptions for rich college students. Now get your ass over the table on the double or I’ll add extra strokes.” Allison complied. It seemed only fair to me. The guard went through the same none-too-gentle probing with her and then we were both good to go. So they marched us both buck naked down a hallway to a door marked “Clinic.”

END OF CHAPTER 3. PRIYA WILL EXAMINE THE GIRLS AND WATCH THEM BE FLOGGED IN CHAPTER 4
 
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