Brad and Emily – To Call Or Not To Call

Emily sat with Padma in their regular booth at Chong’s China Bistro. She stirred her fork slowly into her bowl of shrimp chow mein. Her phone lay next to the bowl.

“Oh my god, would you just call him already?” Padma said, brandishing a pair of chopsticks.

“I don’t want to screw this up by being too needy,” Emily explained.

“Who are you?” Padma asked, “The Em I know always used to say she wasn’t interested in ‘the game’. Have you decided to become a ‘playa’ now?”

Emily rolled her eyes, “No, it’s not about that. I’m not just trying to build anticipation or anything. It’s just that… I mean I don’t have any problem asking him out.”

“Well?” Padma asked.

“I know I’m over thinking,” Emily said, palming her forehead.

“Right. I guess I do know who you are,” Padma chuckled. Emily smiled.


Brad and Scott sat at the bar at Jake’s Steak Escape for burgers and beers. Brad sat with one hand around a glass of beer and stared at his phone.

“Look, we both know you’re going to call her,” Scott said. “It’s really pointless for me to remind you of how not to look so desperate and needy and smother-y and all that. Right?”

Brad shrugged.

“Good, so I can go back to eating my burger then,” Scott said, picking up his sandwich and taking a big bite.

“The thing is…” Brad said, “There’s something about her. She’s special.”

Scott put his burger back down. “Oh, okay. Here we go. Did you not say the same thing not that long ago… two weeks?”

“It was over a month ago,” Brad corrected.

“Okay a month ago you said the same thing about Brenda,” Scott continued. “And last Fall there was … what’s her name…”

“Lilly,” Brad responded. “You’re right of course. I do fall in too deeply too easily. This time there’s another… a different dimension to it.”

“Okay, so good,” Scott said. “Don’t let me stop you. Explore that new dimension. I just would hate to see you hurt again.”

Brad nodded. “I appreciate that, man.”

Brad’s phone chimed out a text message alert. He looked down to see the message and a jolt of excitement ran through him.

EMILY–> “It was great talking to you Sat night. Could we talk again?”

“Would love to talk again. Tonight? 8:00?” <–BRAD

EMILY–> “Skype me 🙂 ( emee_izawake )”

“Will do 🙂 ( brad_notpitt )” <–BRAD

“Okay then,” said Scott, peering over to look at Brad’s phone, “Problem solved.”

Brad smiled.


Emily hoped her conversation with Brad would lead naturally into the topic of spanking again, because she couldn’t be sure that he was actually into it. It could have been that the topic simply was not uncomfortable for him to talk about. In her experience, black people in general seemed to be okay with the idea of talking about their spanking experience, if they’d had any. But of course, Emily didn’t want to perpetuate a stereotype, if even just in her own mind. Still, she had to admit she was intrigued by Brad’s perceived comfort level on the topic.

She thought for a moment about whether to make the Skype call while sitting at her desk or to just go for it and bring the conversation to her bed. Her experience with men told her that he would probably be just fine with seeing her relaxing casually in bed while talking with her. She just didn’t want to send the wrong message about what she was pursuing. Right before it was time to call, Emily decided her concern was a bit old fashioned and that she should just be comfortable. She wanted to employ the wisdom that it was best to be oneself. So she changed into jeans and a tee.


Brad opened up his laptop and placed it on the coffee table in front of him as he sat on his sofa. Once Skype opened up, he looked up Emily’s handle and sent an add request. He had thought briefly about putting on a nicer shirt and wearing a tie, but decided against it in favor of realness. Previous experience had taught him that the impressions one made in the beginning of a relationship created a pressure to maintain that impression going forward. He really wanted to be authentic this time around.

The hard part was going to be how to approach the topic of corporal punishment again. Emily had never actually said she was into spanking. It could have been that she was just being empathetic and/or just conversationally open-minded. His spank-dar had been wrong before and that was never a pleasant experience.

The name “emee_izawake” popped up on his screen and he added it as a contact. He grabbed his headset, put it on, and hit the call button. He was happy to see Emily’s smiling face pop in and he could see the bed bolster and headboard in the background. ‘Nice,’ he thought. ‘She’s comfortable enough to take the call in bed.’

“Hi Brad,” she said, “Great to see you again.”

“Hi Emily,” he said, “You too. How was your day?” he asked, smiling warmly.

“Pretty good actually,” Emily replied. “I went to lunch with my friend, Padma. You remember her from the party?”

“Yes,” he said, “I sure do. She seemed like a fun friend to have.”

“She’s a wonderful friend to have,” Emily elaborated. “We’ve known each other since college and we’ve been a great team ever since.”

“That’s wonderful,” Brad said, “I’m a big fan of friendship. A true friend is so hard to find out there.”

“That’s so true,” Emily said. “And yes, I am grateful indeed… Speaking of grateful, I wanted to let you know that I appreciate your opening up with me and trusting me in talking about your experiences growing up. I’m hoping you didn’t find my questions to invasive or personal.”

“No no, not at all,” he said. “I mean if I’m being honest, I’m generally interested in the topic anyway, but I find that most people I’ve met either don’t care about it or find it uncomfortable to talk about.”

Both of them felt a growing sense of excitement and comfort, beginning to feel it was not a random coincidence that they had had that conversation about spanking, despite the fact that neither could be sure they were both talking about it from the same perspective.

“I’m so relieved to hear you say that, Brad,” Emily said. “I feel the same way about it.”

“Excellent,” Brad said. “Seems like we’re on the same wavelength.”

“Yeah,” Emily smiled.

“It seems like you were about to ask me something when we got interrupted the other night?” Brad asked.

“Oh yes,” Emily said and tapped her forehead, trying to remember. “I think you mentioned it would have been possible for you to have gotten the belt, if you deserved it, as a teenager.”

“Yeah, right,” Brad said, nodding. “I was saying it would have been possible because that’s how they punished me up till age eleven or twelve,” he said.

“I see.”

“What do you suppose would have happened?” she asked. Brad looked quizzical. “I mean how would they… go about it?”

“Sure,” he said. “Well, I can easily imagine the duty going to my father after my growth spurt. Knowing him, he would have taken me to bend over the desk in his office and did it there.”

“Do you have an idea how many licks you would have had to take?” she asked.

“That’s hard to say. It was always at least thirty or forty, so it probably would have gone to at least eighty or so.”

“Oh, that would be painful,” she commented and whistled in rueful empathy.

“Yeah it would,” he replied.

“Would you have had to pull your pants down?” she asked.

“Probably so,” Brad said, nodding his head a bit from side to side, “but not my underwear. That would have been too weird.”

“Of course,” Emily nodded.

“Do you think you would have cried?” she asked.

Brad chuckled uncomfortably. “As a young man I would have tried real hard not to cry,” he said, “but there’s only so much pain a guy can handle.”

“True,” she said. “I’m sure I would have cried too. Eighty strokes with a belt, pants down. Whew.”

Brad’s Skype view of her was jostled as she lay down on her side on the bed to get more comfortable. Seeing her face now sideways, Brad thought she looked a little flush and almost asked if she were okay, but she seemed to be really enjoying their conversation.

Brad lay back on his sofa and placed the laptop on his stomach.

“How about you?” he asked. “I recall your saying there was a paddle used on you?”

Emily’s eyes widened somewhat and she took in a deep breath as she cast her mind back to those days. She shook her head almost imperceptibly.

“Yes, there was,” she said, “a paddle involved. My mom used it on me. I would have to bend over the side of the bed to get it. And I knew exactly how many swats I was going to get because she would have announced it to me.”

“Woah, really?” Brad asked.

Emily said, “Yeah, she’d say, ‘You’re getting 20 swats with the paddle. Go to your room and get ready.’ ”

“Wow,” Brad said. “That’s deep. I mean, I don’t know if it’s better to know or not.”

“I think it is better,” Emily confirmed, “but only slightly. It was pretty intimidating. But I mean it was just the way things were in our house.”

“I see,” Brad said. “Did she have you pull down your pants.”

“No,” Emily said. “The paddle was hard enough that she didn’t have any trouble making it hurt, even over my pants, even with jeans. And yes, I did cry. I recall getting to about number seven or eight and my eyes would water. After that there was no turning back. Couldn’t stop the tears.”

The next thing Brad wanted to ask about was about the pacing of the paddling, but stopped himself. He realized he was starting to get aroused, and he still didn’t really know if she was into spanking. And the last thing he wanted was for her to think of him as some creepy guy who asked a lot personal questions about how she got spanked.

Emily wanted to ask Brad to speculate about the highest number of belt strokes he might have gotten during a spanking. But she was getting more and more aroused by the conversation and felt it would be unethical to keep pursuing it without knowing whether he was actually into corporal punishment in a sexual sense.

“Listen,” Brad said, simultaneously as Emily said, “Brad, there’s something…”

Realizing they were interrupting one another, they paused to listen.

“I’m sorry,” Brad said. “You go ahead.”

“Oh, okay, thank you,” she said. Emily paused and thought better of coming out to Brad over cyberspace. “Say, if you’re not busy later tonight, do you think we could get coffee together? I’d like to talk to you in person.”

“Yeah,” Brad said, “that sounds great. I’d love to see you in person again. What about that place downtown? Have you been to Jumpin’ Java?”

“Sure, yeah,” she said. “Padma and I used to hang out there when we went to the university. They are open 24 hours I think. You can always get your caffeine buzz on there.”

Brad laughed, “Let’s do it, then. Can you give me a couple hours to get a work thing done first? Is 11:00 too late?”

“No, that’s fine,” Emily said. “11:00 it is. Whoever gets there first find us a table.”

They closed the call, each immediately beginning to think in terms of how to come out to the other.

Brad and Emily – And So It Began…

Brad and Emily’s friendship began in the way that friendships often do – by accident of circumstance. Because they weren’t a romantic couple, only platonic, neither of them was inclined to use so dramatic a word as “fate” to describe their first random encounter.

They met one another at a party that, interestingly, neither of them would ordinarily have attended. There was a lot of loud, unsophisticated music, plenty of drunken party-goers, and most of the guests were either intimately involved in expressing their couplehood or were on a mission to “hook up”.

Brad had been invited to the party by a co-worker he was becoming friends with, who was insistent that he “needed this” to get over Brenda, a particularly crushing break-up that made him question the whole concept of this fresh start in a new city. So he came to the party expecting nothing other than to make some progress towards putting himself “out there” as several friends and family members had suggested.

Emily had been pretty much dragged to the event as well, by a long time friend, Padma. They had been friends since graduate school, bonding over navigating the testosterone-heavy world of electrical engineering. Emily had shared the wisdom of her calm, logical confidence with Padma, who in turn inspired them both with an irresistible exuberance and a hunger for adventure. They had been life team mates ever since, even though Emily had lived several states away for the last five years. Once again finding themselves living in the same city, they were celebrating their geographic reunion by going to a party.

When Brad first saw Emily, she was surrounded by three men near a snack table. The three were exuding an obvious, but not too aggressive, flirtatious energy towards her, alternately and variously trying humor, witty banter, and trying to guess at and talk about subjects she might be interested in. Emily smiled cooly and engaged with them in a manner that suggested she was interested in being friendly, while subtly letting them know she had no intention of being charmed by any of them.

Brad was impressed by her manner of handling the situation and he was intrigued by her beauty. She had shoulder length brunette hair and sincere and intelligent looking brown eyes that smiled genuinely when she smiled. There was an openness and a fearlessness that came across in her expressive face, as if she were fascinated and amused by what was going on around her. Although she wore jeans and a button down shirt untucked, Brad noticed that she had a subtle hourglass shape that he found quite intriguing.

Emily noticed Brad smiling in her direction as she engaged in conversational aikido with the three would-be pickup artists surrounding her. He was one of only two black men at the party, which caught her attention and curiosity, but it was his good-looking, intelligent and open face that kept her attention. Also she could tell by the look in his eyes that he found her attractive, which also gave her a warm glow. The two locked eyes for a few seconds; moments in which they silently asked key questions of themselves and of one another. Brad didn’t want to be another fly buzzing around Emily’s head. She was attracted and fascinated with him, but wasn’t sure why. Her gut was telling her to move towards him.

Realizing she had stopped paying attention to one of the fly guys, she moved closer to the snack table and leaned forward over it, reaching to the other side to pickup a piece of baklava from a plate on that side. Brad saw her move and realized she was giving him an opportunity. He stepped towards the table as well and picked up his own piece of baklava.

He smiled at her as he said, “Wow, baklava. I love this stuff.”

“Me too,” Emily said. “It’s hard to resist.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met before,” Brad said. “I’m Brad.”

Emily extended a hand to him, “Hi Brad. I’m Emily. Good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he said, smiling. “Are you a friend of Jennifer’s?”

“Not really, but my friend works with her and, yes, I think they’re friends,” she said. “You?”

“I work with her. Well, we work at the same company. She’s in marketing. I’m in data management,” Brad explained.

At this point it was awkwardly obvious to the guys that had been trying to talk to Emily that she was, for some inexplicable reason, more interested in talking to this guy who obviously had no game. They were a bit perplexed and one by one, wandered away back to the hunting grounds of the party proper.

“Gee,” Brad said, smiling, “I hope I didn’t scare them off.”

Emily shrugged, smiling as well, “I kind of hope you did.”

It was clear from both their perspectives that whatever else happened, that at least this interaction was going well. They each seemed to see something or maybe feel something familiar in the energy and the vibe from one another. Neither could put their finger on exactly what that was. But they continued talking for another 15 minutes or so, more or less oblivious to the rest of the party and the guests that passed by them or sometimes weaved between them as they still stood near that snack table.

At one point, someone rather tall and rather drunk stumbled, beer in hand towards Emily. Brad, seeing what was about to happen, inserted himself between Emily and the stumbler, stopping him from crashing into her, but resulted in some beer being splashed out onto one of Brad’s pants legs and a shoe.

“Oh fuck, man,” the guy said. “I’m sorry dude.”

“Don’t worry about it. Hey, it’s a party now, right,” Brad said, chuckling.

Emily added, “Party on!”

The stumbler offered to get them both drinks and staggered towards the kitchen. Realizing that this kind of thing was likely to happen again, they decided to continue their conversation out on the back deck. They saw a few guests outside, two couples immersed in their own scenes, unlikely to have any desire to try to spark up another conversation with this man and woman coming out onto the deck, presumably trying to get some alone time.

Emily walked to an empty corner, followed by Brad, and turning, leaned her back against the wooden railing. Through the sliding doors behind Brad she could see Padma smiling back at her with a very winky-looking smile. Emily smiled back at her friend, shaking her head slightly.

Brad noticed this and asked, smiling, “What?”

“My friend, Padma,” she said. “She’s being juvenile.”

He chuckled, “Is she trying to get you fixed up or something?” He looked back over his shoulder to see a very pretty Indian woman inside grinning and giving her friend a thumbs up.

“Something like that, yeah.”

“And she thinks it’s going well?” Brad ventured.

“She does,” Emily smiled and looked into Brad’s eyes.

“Good,” Brad smiled back. “I’m happy we’re not disappointing your friend’s efforts.”

“No. So far, so good,” she said.

The two of them found themselves in a romantic movie moment, where the obvious next step would have been to have a romantic kiss, but they each knew on some level they were “there” yet. Neither of them wanted to push something before it’s time and ruin future potentials. But then they were left with a silence which was bordering on awkward. They needed to get back into more conversational space.

“All of a sudden I feel like an awkward teenager,” Brad joked.

Emily laughed, “Yeah. And here we are out well past midnight.”

“I’m just glad we’re not subject to getting punished for it,” Brad added.

Emily offered, putting on a fake frown, “Like it would so suck getting grounded right now.”

“Or worse…” Brad said.

Emily asked, “Worse?”

“Yeah, like getting the belt or strap,” Brad said, his eyes widening in fake fear.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Brad realized the risk he’d taken, socially. Joking so soon about a topic that in some people’s minds was at least uncomfortable, if not associated with domestic violence was indeed risky. He was relieved, amused and his pulse hastened to find that Emily’s face scrunched up into a wince of imagined pain while her hands went behind her to rub her bottom. Might she actually be into spanking? Best not to jump to a conclusion…

“Yeah,” she said. “That would be worse.”

Emily’s head was internally spinning as she took in how easily Brad had not only brought up her favorite topic, but was joking about it in a way that indicated he might have experienced corporal punishment growing up, maybe even as a teenager.

“Although,” she continued, “I have heard several people declare to me that they would have rather gotten spanked than had to miss out on important events in their social lives because of long groundings.”

“Really?” Brad asked. “I can’t imagine that. Getting the belt hurts so much, and there will be other dances or movies to go to or whatever.”

“True,” Emily said, “Well, I’m guessing maybe the spanking they might have been subject to wasn’t as severe as what you might have experienced.”

“Good point,” Brad said, shaking his head. “They didn’t have my mother or father.”

Emily sat down at the patio table near them, gesturing to invite Brad to sit as well. He spun the chair around backwards and sat straddling it, leaning his elbows on the back. Emily leaned forward and affectionately wrapped her right hand around his left, giving it a little squeeze. She pondered whether it was too soon to venture into further intimacy with him.

“Did you get punished that way as a teenager?” she asked gently.

“No,” Brad said, “not as a teenager. But yeah, before then my butt was not unfamiliar with the belt.”

“Same here,” Emily said, “only in my family it was a paddle.”

“Oh, ouch,” Brad commented sympathetically.

“Yeah.” she continued, “It wasn’t like a big frat paddle or anything, but it was hard enough as it was. I’d have to bend over the side of the bed and my mom would give me a dozen swats or so.”

“And that happened up until you were a teen?” Brad asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “Well, by that time I got smart enough so as not to get caught doing anything that might get me paddled.”

Brad chuckled, “I hear ya. Same for me, because I wasn’t aware of my parents having any particular rule about what age spankings would stop. And, I didn’t want to make an assumption and risk it.”

Emily nodded. “Understood. But you feel like it’s possible they might have given you the belt as teenager if it was warranted?”

They heard the sliding glass door open onto the deck and the resulting spill out of party conversation and music. Emily looked over Brad’s shoulder to see Jennifer and Padma coming out and walking towards them. Brad glanced over his shoulder to see as well.

Brad and Emily exchanged a smile that suggested a tacit agreement to table the conversation for another time. Each felt secure in the likelihood that the conversation would indeed continue, which filled them with a sense of anticipation and excitement.

Spank-chronicity II

Another suburban prison morning. The punishment yard belches whip lash and screaming into the sky…

With lash 61 of the strapping, Stacey’s state of crying began to return. Her reddened, swollen bottom cheeks had already suffered the equivalent of six spankings. She began to wonder how much strapping someone could take before their butt actually fell apart. But she quickly dismissed the idea of the question as irrational.

The viewing audience had become eerily quiet as if hypnotized by the strapping they were witnessing. Many among them had actually looked forward to seeing another beautiful woman get strapped. They had assumed it would look painful and that she would cry, but they hadn’t anticipated the feeling of wanting to rescue her. Several men wanted to stop the hand of the executioner and say something in the realm of, “She’s had enough. Let her go.” Of course many men still want to be the heroic rescuer, and, of course, an idea about the woman’s gratitude, expressed sexually never hurt motivation any.

Stacey’s crying became quieter, more subdued as the strapping carried on. Endorphins flooded her body, dulling, somewhat, any new pain. Now the proceedings seemed more like a stately ballet with the prima ballerina tied into a position not typical of any ballet company. 

Stacey squinted her tear-wet eyes in the direction of the lash counter and was only marginally relieved to see it flip over to three digits, Now, after having had a horrendous strapping of 100 strokes, she now could “relax” and endure most of a standard severity strapping. Of course she was tempted to apologize and promise never to be bad again. One is willing to consider many undesirable options at such times. It was only her logic, the logic that made her realize that such a plea would only be noticed by the Federation propoagandists and utilized to further humiliate the movement. What they knew they couldn’t destroy, the felt obligated to try and destroy the reputation of. The Federation would love to have been able to show to its audience how all those naughty rebels just need a good spanking and they’d completely turn around.

For the rest of her strapping, which to Stacey already felt like an eternity, Stacey cried for the pain she was in, cried for the other rebels that would endure this and more violent fates, and cried for the future of the rebellion which depended on the courage of women and men like her, enduring the kind of pain she endured.

Spank-chronicity – part 1

Stacey, almost unconsciously, rubbed her bottom as she thought about her sentence of 128 strokes of the strap. This was going to hurt like hell. For a moment the thought crossed her mind that she might scream during this ‘extreme spanking” (as the other prisoners referred to it). But the legally required pain sensors would make sure she only felt the need to do regular crying. She would certainly have to let her tears flow, because there would be so much pain to process, but the temporary escape of being lost in a pain scream would but be unavailable to her. She would simply feel like crying and would have to take her punishment.

Stacey was a tall, cute, curvy blonde, who, as a result of her cuteness and charm, had rarely been punished for anything ever. She was only spanked once at home as a kid. She’d earned several more spankings, under the rules of her parents’ house, but after age 13, she looked uncomfortably like a grown woman and so her father always suggested other penalties whenever Stacey’s mom asked him to spank her. Her mom had been worried about her future involvement with “bad influence” types, but no one could have predicted Stacey would be charged for peaceful civil disobedience or “disturbing the peace”, a misdemeanor on Ursa 6. Misdemeanors were almost always punished with spankings. Felonies were punished with back whippings or occasionally death. But when it came to rebel prisoners, the government certainly had no wish to make martyrs of any of them.

As she waited in her cell for the punishment bell and escort guards, she thought about her situation and desperately wanted to come up with a plan to train her mind with; something to hang onto to help her cope. In her panicky state all she could come up with was the phrase “happy place”, as in “find your happy place”. As soon as she let the phrase sink in, she immediately thought two things: “I’m never going to give this advice to anyone in trouble. It just makes things worse,” and “This reminds me of something I read in the First Book of the Rebellion.”

When Stacey and her friend, Leslie had first joined the rebellion, they had been full of naive excitement about the coming adventure – trying to undermine the oppressive government of their quadrant of the galaxy. A lopsided fight always seems more romantic when you’re young or new to the fight. However, after the intensive weeks of training , months of lost battles, and years of planning, the shine, as it were, was starting to dull. Now she found herself awaiting a very embarrassing and painful strapping, the video of which would be recorded for the amusement of Federation citizens.

After what seemed like an eternity and yet when it came, it came too quickly, the escort guards came into her cell with her punishment gear. They were two men, intimidatingly tall, and very business like in their demeanor. One grabbed Stacey’s left arm just below the elbow. Two did the same to her other arm, and Two pulled pain sensor pads out of the bag he carried and stuck them onto her left and right temples. Still holding her by the arms, they each grasped a side of her prison uniform pants and pulled them down, lifting her legs one at a time to pull the pants all the way off. She was left in just her panties and the prisoner shirt which hung down just to the top of her thighs. They then cuffed her wrists in front of her and stood still, never loosening their grip on her, until the punishment bell sounded.

They marched her forward and out of her cell. Passing by other cells, she became painfully aware that the color of her uniform marked her as a rebel, whereas most of the prisoners wore the standard color. So naturally in a desperate attempt to gain favor with the wardens and guards, the prisoners started shouting cruel taunts at Stacy as she walked to the place of her punishment. She didn’t want to let them see her crying, so she did the only reasonable thing and kept her head up and proud. It was difficult to envision oneself as a martyr when one’s execution consisted primarily of being tied, bending over a spanking bench, and taking an unreasonable number of strokes with a strap. But Stacey made it work for her. She thought again about the First Book of the Rebellion and its famous quote “Detach the question of suffering from happiness. You control your mind. You can always choose to love yourself.”

Having reached the center of the great hall of cells, she could see the final lashes of another prisoner receiving a back whipping. She could see the vicious looking bloody stripes on the brown skin of his back and was reminded of something she had learned about in history. Centuries ago, there had been this practice on old Earth in a state called America or something, of enslavement of people simply because they had brown skin. Stacey remembered reading about the horrors and the unfairness of that practice and could not help thinking about what she might have done, had she been alive back then and a pink-skinned woman. What would she have done to make life better for the slaves? And what if she had had brown skin and had to be a slave? What must those whippings have been like? All that pain…

As she was having those thoughts, the heavy black leather whip was being applied a final 3 or 4 times, and with each lash she heard that horrible whistling sound and the violent slap as it landed across the man’s back. At this point he was past his pride and was letting out a scream with each stroke. She felt sorry for him as they loosened his bonds and laid him on his belly on a stretcher to carry him out and to the prison hospital. But as soon as they cleaned the whipping frame and folded it down, re-positioning it for someone to be bent over it for a strapping, Stacey felt fully justified in feeling sorry for herself.

Her guard escorts pressed her forward against the frame, measuring where her hips met it, and adjusting the height so that when they bent her over it, her heels were unable to touch the floor. They attached he wrist cuffs to the front of the frame, stretching her arms out in front of her. Her ankles were cuffed as well, about a foot apart. She swallowed hard and looked around at the all the prisoners, seated observers, and cameras. A cheer went up as she was bent forward and her uniform shirt came up to reveal her plump but firm, round bottom clad only in the thinnest of panties. The executioner stood up from her chair and grabbed a spray bottle and a heavy strap.

The spray bottle contained cool water, which she sprayed over Stacey’s buttocks, causing the thin panties to become very translucent. The wetness would make the already painful strapping to come, maddeningly painful for her. The executioner had chosen a strap that was about 18 inches long, two inches broad, and about a quarter inch thick. Earlier in the day a generous amount of oil had been rubbed into it to keep it supple and strong.

The executioner took her position behind and to Stacey’s left, measuring the length of the strap against her bottom. Yes, she had chosen well. If she focused and kept good aim, there would be little wrapping of the strap. There would just be an increasingly red bottom and a very sorry young woman.

The strapping began and the executioner, with all of her experience, almost immediately fell into a rhythm. She stuck Stacey right across the midpoint of her bottom with that strap. It was loud and painful, as Stacey cried out “Ow!” The Executioner waited two seconds and then another lash of the strap fell, followed by another hearty “Ow!”

Stacey was actually grateful at this point to be tied down. All her body wanted to do now was run, escape somehow. If she hadn’t been tied down, she would have run, unnecessarily embarrassing herself and earning more punishment. As it was, she was crying after only 10 strokes, big wet tears pouring down her reddening face. As often happens at this point in a strapping, the prisoner wonders if she can take it. She wonders if she will go insane or fall into unconsciousness. But unfortunately for her, neither was the case. She simply had no choice but to endure the worst spanking of her life.

Her mouth turned down into a very sincere looking frown as she cried and she nodded her head from side to side wishing against wish, that she could offload some of the stinging pain. But the strap kept whacking her panty-clad and wet bottom. The sting kept being close to unbearable, but she bore it none the less. Sure, she was crying the whole time, but she did endure (if not by choice).

Stacey glanced over at the lash counter as it displayed 34, 35, 36…

Again her mind returned to her history and her feelings about the injustice of the practice of slavery. She imagined herself taking a whipping for one of the slaves, and it kept her going. She now had a cause, a reason to endure lash after horribly stinging lash of that ugly strap. She could envision the master of the plantation agreeing to allow her to take a punishment for a slave. Each time Stacey yelled out “Ow”, she merged it in her mind with a scream of a whipped slave. In her mind, she became him, then became herself as him, then him as herself, taking this strapping, being driven out of her mind with the pain. But it was all so meaningful.

After 60 strokes, the Executioner inspected her handiwork. She pulled Stacey’s panties down enough to see how very red it was and how bruising was starting to form, especially around her butt’s sweet spot.  Stacey was offered water during this brief break, which she drank though a straw. Although the immediate cause of her pain had been relieved for the moment, she dreaded more to come…