Punishment configuration 1
Introduction:
A private judicial-style punishment scenario.
There are zero niceties from the start. I am just barked short orders and sharp questions. I am not allowed to speak but to concisely answer such questions. Of course, there will be no kind of stop word or anything like that. This is a real punishment, not kinky play. Upon arrival, right on the hall, I am ordered to strip down from crown to toes, including any jewelry or accessories, and throw it all into a box on the floor. The slightest doubt or resistance are immediately treated with brutal blows to the face and lashes of a belt.
As soon as I am naked like just born, I have my hands tightly cuffed behind my back. My ankles are shackled to a large leg spreader. A spider gag or any other kind of wide-open mouth gag is firmly attached to my head. Then I am harshly driven into a bathroom dragging my shackled feet, ordered to sit on the toilet facing the wall, use it and left there while everybody else arrives. I can see there is a camera in the bathroom monitoring me.
I am left alone there, maybe for 2 or 3 hours. From time to time, I can hear more people entering the house. My heart pounds in anxiety, expectation and fear.
Next, two helpers come to the bathroom. They pull the chain to flush the toilet, then drag me into the bathtub. They open the cold water and thoroughly wash me with hard brushes, like scrubbing a piece of wood. I am warned that’s my last opportunity to drink if I need it. I gulp cold water down my wide-open gagged mouth. Once they’ve made sure I am clean as a whistle, I am dragged to the Punishment Room without even being dried up.
The Punishment Room is large, maybe a huge basement, to provide space for freely swinging The Implement and for The People who are already there. The Implement can be an over 40″-long, 1″ thick, soaked, heavy rattan cane; or a similar-sized true rhino hide sjambok; or the cut-along tread of a tire with all its lugs and grooves and a handle attached; or anything equally vicious. The Implement is in the hands of The Executioner, a very huge and strong individual with massive muscles. In the middle of The Punishment Room there is The Whipping Bench, designed to keep the bum exposed high in the air and the head low, to prevent fainting. On the other side of The Punishment Room, The Nurse waits besides the Medical Cart with the First Aid kit and all the healing stuff, which is sure going to be needed.
Nobody pays much attention to me. The People are mostly having a drink and chatting among themselves. I am held besides The Whipping Bench while The Nurse gives me a med check. Heart and breathe, blood pressure, a prick in my arm with a needle to see how I bleed and how fast I stop bleeding. The Nurse nods, meaning I am fit for The Punishment. Immediately, I have the cuffs and shackles removed, but only to be restrained on The Whipping Bench, ankles, wrists and waist, with my bum exposed high in the air and my head low. The wide-open-mouth gag is kept to prevent me from biting my tongue.
Now The People are already taking their seats. The Leader remembers The People -and me- why I am about to be punished with a stern, scornful voice. Then, The Nurse paints my buttocks and my pussy with iodine. The massive Executioner taps them with the tip of The Implement, measuring the distance for maximum effect. I am scared to death. I am probably crying already. The People is now paying attention. Justice is about to be done. Then The Leader simply says:
“One.”
I cringe. The Executioner raises The Implement high, then swings it full strength against my lower buttocks, as in a powerful golf tee shot. The impact sounds like an explosion. My whole bum feels like suddenly bursting in unbearably blazing flames. A piston of pain thrusts down my entire body to my rotten head, ejecting any thought or emotion through my popping eyes and my screaming mouth, replacing them with pure pain. I can’t bear it. I absolutely can’t bear it. But it doesn’t stop, on the opposite, it seems to hurt even more and more and more with throbbing flames. I try to fight, flee, beg. I can’t, I am just able to flinch and shake and squeal like the filthy guilty gilt I am. The Leader just says:
“Two.”
And so they go on, at a constant pace, without paying the slightest attention to my reactions. Maybe it’s one stroke every ten or fifteen seconds, I don’t know. All of them full strength, like trying to hit a baseball out of the stadium. All of them on the lower two thirds of my buttocks, once and again. By stroke ten, my buttocks are fully welted and turning bright red. By stroke twenty, the skin is broken and I can feel the warm blood running down my clinching thighs. The pain is definitely unbearable, but that’s what punishments are for, aren’t they?
By stroke forty, the lower two thirds of my buttocks are a mess of shredded skin and blood. At sixty, they are reduced to a throbbing flayed pulp. I was expecting to get just the minimum mandatory sentence, but The Leader keeps on:
“Sixty-one.”
…and all hope vanishes. They go on, and on, and on, one stroke every fifteen seconds, full strength, non-stop, against the same lower two thirds of my destroyed bum. Even when I am already lying limp, softly sobbing, it doesn’t stop. At all. Whap!—whap!—whap!—whap!—whap!—
It ends as suddenly as it started. The Leader just stops saying numbers, and the strokes stop. By then, I can barely notice it. The People starts leaving for another rooms. The Nurse comes to heal my wounds with something that burns like hell, but I am unable to react. The Executioner leaves with The Leader. I am left alone there, still restrained to the Whipping Bench, crying my misery.
During the next hours, some men come to use my holes and a couple women feel like playing with me too. It’s kind of like rape, but I don’t mind. I can’t mind. I only mind that when they fuck my pussy or ass to their balls, my bum feels like being grated. Other than that, anything is much better than The Punishment. And when some men start fucking my throat, I eventually start getting some liquids: cum and piss, which I anxiously swallow up. You don’t know how good piss and cum taste until you are craving for some water. The Nurse comes from time to time to check I am OK, meaning I am not dying of anything.
Much later, I finally have the restraints removed. I am helped back to the hall. I can barely walk, but they take me there and order me to get dressed and leave. I obey. I can’t do anything but to obey. While I am painfully, confusedly putting my clothes on, I am told to come back twice a week during the next month for further healing treatment. I am also told I am going to have permanent scarring.
I don’t mind. At all. Justice has been served. Now I finally don’t feel guilty. I have paid for all my blames and I am clean, innocent again. I check my watch. It’s 20:15. I can be home for dinner. Nobody will know. Nobody must know. And as I leave, I start thinking in the second installment. Because from now on I will live under The Implement, do you know? Until perfection. Or else.
