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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…

About Quai Franklin

Singer/songwriter, spanko/kinkster, fiction writer, philosopher, and discussion provocateur. I publish and broadcast independent voices you want to hear.

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This entry was posted on 2014/06/05 by in BDSM, caning, erotica, journal, judicial punishment, short_story.

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