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.