Friday, October 3, 2008

The Whipping of Miss Brown

“I got the tickets!” Kevin said breathlessly.

“You are kidding! Really? Shit, man, do you think we will get away with this? This is amazing!” I was still having trouble believing it.

Ever since Kevin said that he knew someone at the justice department that would be able to get some tickets to a public whipping, I had been anticipating it. When our history teacher, Miss Brown, had been arrested and convicted of embezzlement, the possibility that we might get tickets to her punishment seemed too good to be true. The new policies of the Fair Sentence Reduction Act kicked in, and she was sentenced to a public whipping instead of a year in jail.

Miss Brown was by far the best looking teacher at our high school. She was about 27 years old, 5′9″, with long brown hair she normally kept tied back in a pony tail or in a bun. Her face was cute with a turned up nose and largish lips, but still elegant. She wore very conservative outfits, but it was clear to anyone that took her classes that she had a great body. Her breasts were a perfect size, legs long and muscular, with a lean ass that was rounded perfectly. Every guy in the senior class had a crush on her.

Now, through luck and some hard work, Kevin and I had tickets to see her public whipping. We were under 18, but had fake IDs and would have no trouble getting in. The tickets were for Saturday, at 10 AM. We would arrive early, to make sure we had a good close view.

The morning arrived, and we managed to get a place just 15 or 20 feet from the platform. People crowded in, jockeying for position, but we stood firm and after a bit things calmed down. The stone walled prison yard echoed with the noise of the crowd, all talking in anticipation of the spectacle which was about to unfold.

10 AM arrived, and over in the corner of the yard, a heavy metal door opened and several people passed through the dark opening. “There she is!” Kevin’s voice showed his excitement.

Between the heads of several other spectators, I saw Miss Brown, her beautiful hair down and ragged about her face and shoulders. She looked frightened, and her face bore the marks of lack of sleep and crying. Even so, she appeared more beautiful than I could imagine.

The guards guided her through the crowds and pushed people with heavy batons until they reach the steps of the platform. As they ascended, Kevin gasped, and I stood transfixed by an unanticipated sight.

“She is naked!” I managed to choke out.

It was true. She was completely, totally, stark naked. Not a bit of clothing or jewelry on her. I could feel my cock getting hard as I looked at my nude high school history teacher standing on a platform in front of me. Her hands were tied in front of her, and she was trying to cover her shaved and protruding pussy from view, but there really was nothing she could do. Her breasts were truly the most perfect I had ever seen, not hanging down at all, but extending out in a beautiful curve with light brown nipples extending like buttons.

The crowd was getting noisy, as the sight of Miss Brown standing exposed created a ripple of arousal spreading throughout the prison yard.

Above the platform a heavy beam extended from one side to the other. This beam was about 10 feet above the platform, and had several hooks positioned at intervals of about three feet. The center hook had a rope strung through it, which hung down just in front of Miss Brown. She didn’t seem to see it, but instead stared out over the crowd, with a sad, fearful look on her face.

A large, muscular man wearing black came forward and took the rope. He tied it around Miss Brown’s wrists, quickly and expertly. He then stepped to the side and began pulling on the rope, raising Miss Brown’s wrists in to the air until they were extended fully above her. With a careful pressure, he pulled a little farther, so that her body was stretched, stomach curved inward, hip bones and rib cage protruding clearly through her stretched skin. She was on her toes, still able to support herself but with some effort.

The rope was tied off, and Miss Brown waited, stretched and exposed above the appreciative crowd. My erection was throbbing. I could no longer think of this woman bound in front of me as my history teacher. She was simply a nude woman, bound and stretched in public as she waited for her torturous punishment to begin.

The platform was clear except for Miss Brown’s form, and that of the large man in black. He stepped back, and produced the whip.

I had never seen a whip like this. It was a huge bull whip. When he uncoiled it, it appeared to be about 12 or 15 feet long. More than an inch thick at the heavy handle, its braided length slowly tapered to a thin, frayed tip. It was leather, and just looking at it struck fear in my heart. I suddenly began to feel sorry for Miss Brown. She didn’t see the whip, the man was positioned behind her, but she would soon feel it.

The man took a position directly behind his victim, and exercised the whip some, loosening it in preparation. Miss Brown clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut when she heard the sound of the leather hissing behind her. A trickle of liquid ran down her inner thigh, as her fear took her completely and she lost bladder control.

As the whip swung back for its first strike, my right hand slid down to my cock, touching it through my jeans.

A clearly audible whooshing hiss announced the whip’s flight through the air. It struck Miss Brown around her center back and abdomen, just at the bottom of her ribs, and in a flash wrapped around her thin frame two and a half times. As it wrapped around, it made a loud slapping noise of flesh on flesh, as if it was a spanking.

The scream that arose from Miss Brown’s throat was loud and long. It sounded surprised, horrified, and panicked. The whip was withdrawn, jerking her body around, rotating it so we could see her perfectly formed ass. There was a perfect line of red wrapping around her body where the whip had struck. She whimpered slightly after her scream faded.

The whip was withdrawn, swung back behind the executioner, over the heads of the crowd below, with a whistling sound as it circled and reached out once again for the white flesh of Miss Brown’s exposed body. It struck with that same loud slap, and Miss Brown’s scream was even louder and more panicked. She was struggling instinctively, trying to protect herself from the biting of the leather. But it was no use, she could do nothing but wriggle erotically in front of the crowd.

A third time the whip streaked through the air and wrapped itself around her supple body. This time it ranged higher, licking the bottom of those perfect breasts. The impact caused the soft flesh of her breasts to ripple and jiggle, and her head jerked back as she screamed to the sky. The whip jerked off of her as she rotated on her rope once again, pulled off balance.

As the whip reached for her the fourth time, her legs rose in to the air and began kicked and rotating as if she were riding a bicycle. The frantic peddling motion went on for a few moments, stopped and then began again as the whip whistled around in an arch to wrap around her hips, tearing flesh lower down on her body this time. The kicking exposed her pussy and there was an appreciative noise from the crowd.

After the sixth stroke, the action stopped for a moment. The executioner was breathing heavily from exertion as he stepped down from the platform and then returned with a well worn leather belt. He grabbed Miss Brown’s ankles, forcing them together as she weakly resisted, and wrapped the belt around several times. A quick buckle, and the frantic kicking was ended as she simply dangled in the air.

The center of Miss Brown’s body had become a criss cross of red stripes, with blood trickling from some of the marks that were deeper than others. As the seventh stroke sliced across her stomach, we could see a small spray of blood spread by the whip as it slapped against the liquid on her skin.

Miss Brown’s screams were continuous now, though not as loud. She was losing strength, it was clear to all, and the eighth stroke did little to increase the tenor or volume of her cries. Her head hung down now, looking at the platform, occasionally looking out over the crowd with pleading eyes. I don’t think she actually saw anyone, she had sunk back in to her own world of pain and humiliation.

Hisssssss… the ninth stroke wrapped around her breasts, cutting two new stripes across those perfect shapes, distorted by the cruel leather. A hard jerk to free the whip spun her around three times, after which she slowly rotated back, unwinding on the twisted rope. Tears streamed down her face, her ragged hair was stuck to her shoulders, and she seemed to sag down from the rope which held her aloft.

Crraackkkk! The whip encircled her hips, and the tip flipped around one thigh and clipped her pussy. She sobbed, rather than screamed, her breathing coming in rapid gasps. Her whole body was wet now, with sweat, blood and tears mixing in an awful slime that was sprayed out by the impact of the whip.

The eleventh stroke cut across her shoulders and upper breasts, and the wetness of the soaked whip appeared to make it sharper, more cutting. She screamed again, and her head jerked back once again and came to a rest looking up at the sky and beam of the execution platform. The whip had cut her deeply this time, and blood poured from a cut that sliced around her body, and then around again, and then stopped where the tip of the whip had mangled one nipple.

My hand was inside my pants stroking my cock, though I wasn’t aware of it. Miss Brown was so sexy, so erotic in her agony that I thought I would climax in orgasm at any moment.

The executioner grunted with effort as he swung the whip around his head, letting it gain speed and then lowering the spinning leather to kiss Miss Brown one last time with a slicing force that sprayed blood and sweat out visibly, making her flesh ripple like waves of water from the impact, the muscles of her perfectly toned body yielding to the tightened yank as the leather strip jerked free.

A gurgling scream emitted from Miss Brown, and some fluid was expelled from her mouth and dribbled down over her chin and breasts, mingling with the blood that covered much of her body. At the same time, I orgasmed inside my pants, spurting my own body fluid in to my underpants.

She dangled there for a while, perhaps unconscious, perhaps not. The executioner cleaned his whip, and put it away. A guard climbed the stairs to the stage with a bucket and water was splashed on Miss Brown’s body. It must have been heavily salted for she jerked and cried out in a hoarse voice once again as the water spread across her wounds and washed much of the blood away.

A dozen strokes. And Miss Brown looked nothing like she did when she had climbed the steps on her own. The rope was loosened and she descended to the platform, a collapsing limp form. Even damaged as she was, her form laying just before us was beautiful, her perfect curves outlined in red.

Two guards picked her up by her arms, and dragged her limp form across the platform, feet sliding on the floor behind her.

It was over. Kevin and I had witnessed our first public whipping, and it had been more intense than I ever suspected. A dozen lashes had torn the perfect flesh of Miss Brown and reduced her to a quivering jelly of pain. I didn’t know how I felt about it. I was glad I had seen her, seen her naked form and seen her writhe in pain, and seen her reduced to nothing… but then, it had been so intense, so much more cruel than I had expected.

As Kevin and I walked out, a large amount of sticky liquid in my pants reminded me how I felt about it.

Miss Brown would never be the same to me.



It was a thousand dollars from the teacher’s union political advertising fund. A measly $1,000.

By pleading guilty, I hoped to get some jail time, maybe some community service and then back to my life.

“In accordance with the guidelines set down by the Fair Sentence Reduction Act, and considering the severe burden on our taxpayers for a year of incarceration, you are being sentenced to public whipping consisting of twelve lashes, to be carried out in two weeks. Considering the nature of your crime, I consider this sentence to be quite fair, Miss Brown.”

The judge had seemed downright pompous as he delivered his little speech. I almost fainted. Twelve lashes. A public whipping. I had heard that modern corporal punishment was savage, but had little knowledge. The idea of being publicly humiliated and tortured…

Two weeks later, I sat in a tiny holding cell at the central jail, with barely room for the bed, toilet and sink. My attorney sat on the bed with me.

“My dear… We have filed all appeals that we can, and it appears that you must bear this punishment tomorrow. I came because I wanted you to understand something of what would happen, what to expect.”

“Thank you,” I said, truly appreciative of her support. Tears trickled down my cheeks, as they had off and on for two weeks.

“First of all, you need to know that public whippings are performed with the… subject… naked. Completely. It is partly for your safety, and partly for the… effectiveness of the punishment.”

My eyes grew large and a sob forced its way out.

“Secondly… you won’t be allowed to eat anything for the next 24 hours. Its best to take this on an empty stomach. You can drink water, but nothing else.”

I had wondered why there had been no breakfast served this morning.

“The whipping itself will only last about 20 minutes,” she continued explaining, looking at her hands folded in her lap. “There will be some preparation time, and your time on the gallows will be longer of course. Oh… don’t worry. They use the gallows for the whipping, but don’t be afraid of them. You are not going to be hung. At least around your neck.”

She seemed unsure what to say next. I was sobbing continually, but quietly.

“Um… after the whipping you will be taken to the infirmary to recover. For 12 lashes, expect about a two week recovery time. I know, 12 does not seem like much, but… well, it takes a little time to recover. You aren’t allowed pain killers before or after for obvious reasons. In fact, they may give you a stimulant to make sure you don’t faint.”

My sobs continued. The reality of what was going to happen was unfolding before me, moving from the unreal to the real. I was actually going to be publicly whipped. Savagely. Terribly. The whip was going to cut in to my flesh, tear it, leaving scars that would mark me for life.

“There isn’t really much more I can add. There will be a crowd of course. Just ignore them. Go with dignity. Show them you are strong inside. Don’t be humiliated.”

Easy for her to say. I was shaking as she left the cell, giving me a last hug.

Their was no sleep that night. I lay and cried on my narrow bed until the sun came up, and at 9:00 AM three jailers came in to my cell.

“It’s time. Remove your clothes.” There were two male and one female guard. The woman spoke, but the other two looked at me expectantly, almost leeringly. I hesitated, not wanting to disrobe in front of the men.

Seeing my hesitation, the two men stepped up, and grabbed my arms tightly. The woman guard then unzipped my orange jump suit, and the three of them forcefully removed it. I struggled some, but I was no match for the three of them. My bra was roughly removed, and the first flood of humiliation covered me, as the two men took their time, sliding it off and making sure they felt my breasts along the way.

I continued struggling, even though I knew the final result. I was turned and thrown on the bed, on my back. Scissors were produced and my panties were cut off my legs. The woman guard stroked between my legs and the men laughed appreciatively. I knew I had a good body, I had worked hard to get it, and these three were taking their time in appreciating my situation.

Sitting on the bed, naked, I waited whatever would come next. After a few minutes a male nurse in a white coat came in. The men held me down on the bed, and my arm was cleaned with alcohol and then injected with some drug. The stimulant, I knew. To make sure I would stay awake for every stroke, every bit of pain of my public punishment.

The three guards left. I sat on the edge of my bed and waited nervously. It was cold in my cell. I was naked, and there was nothing to cover me. I simply sat shivering, and felt my heart beat hard and fast. The stimulant was already taking effect, making me nervous, shaky, and afraid.

The tears continued to come, trickling down my face, as I waited. At about 9:45, the cell door opened and the two male guards entered along with a large muscular man. He introduced himself.

“Miss Brown. I am your executioner for today. Don’t be frightened by the name, it is a title I bear, but today we are just going to give you a nice, thorough whipping. A few words of warning and advice. I take my job seriously. I will whip you with as much force and invoke as much pain as possible with the 12 strokes I am allowed. For your safety and the effectiveness of the whipping, you will be tied and hung from the gallows.”

“This is a safe procedure, though agonizingly painful. Try not to struggle, though most people can’t help themselves. Let’s get going then…” And with this he produced a length of rope which he tied around my wrists tightly. We rose and I was guided, one guard on either side, out of the cell and in to the narrow corridor. We walked to the end of the corridor and then stood and waited for something.

To the side there was a stretcher, like the ones they use in ambulances. With a cold stab, I knew it was for me. For after.

I should have been fainting. My body was shaking, I was scared out of my wits. But I didn’t, I stood on my own two feet and waited. It may have been the stimulant.

The clock just over the door said 9:55. We were waiting for 10:00. Through the metal door, I could hear the sounds of a crowd. They were cheering and jeering in anticipation. I steeled myself for the public exposure that was to come.

The clock flicked over to 10:00, and a guard opened the door. Outside, there was an immediate press of people, men, women… mostly men but a lot of women, staring at me, jeering me, chanting something…

I almost fell, but the guards held me up by my arms. I walked out over the concrete floor of the prison yard, surrounded by the unruly crowd. Many reached out to try and touch my naked body. Some succeeded, and I felt dozens of hands feeling my bare skin as I was led to the large wooden platform in the center of the yard. I was flushed, humiliated beyond belief by my public nudity, the scrutiny of the crowd, and how I was being pawed and groped on the way to the platform.

Just as I reached the bottom of the platform steps, I felt someone grab me from behind, managing to get their hand between my legs and grab me, squeezing hard. I gasped and stumbled, drawing the guards attention. A baton was shoved in to someone’s stomach and with a loud grunt the hand was withdrawn. I felt filthy, dirty and exposed as I began my climb above the crowd to the platform.

The stimulant had me going strong, my heart was pounding and I was especially aware of every little aspect of the crowd, the platform, and every sensation in my body. I shook slightly as I stood where they put me, waiting. I looked across the crowd and saw a sea of faces, boiling and undulating, no one standing out. My mind was going, bending under the pressure and the drugs they had given me. I was aware of every breath I took, the rough splintery wood under my bare feet, and the warm breeze which blew my hair about my shoulders.

The executioner tied my hands to a rope that hung down in front of me. The rope rose up, pulling my arms up with it. I had not thought I could feel more exposed, but as my arms were pulled high above my head, I realized there was no limit to the humiliation to which I could be subjected. My sides were exposed, breasts pulled and stretched, legs struggling for a foothold to support my weight as my wrists were jerked even higher.

My arms pressed together, forcing my head forward, hanging down in subjugation. My heart pounded as if it was trying to dig its way out of my chest, and my stomach felt nauseous. I realized why they had not fed me for the last day, for I would surely have vomited at this point had I eaten.

I hung there waiting for what seemed like an hour, tense and stressed, wondering where the first strike would land.

There was no warning when the whip struck the first time. I remember the sudden feeling like a buzz saw ripping around my stomach and back. It was the worst, most sudden agony I had ever experienced. I don’t remember screaming, though I am sure I did. I simply remember the searing pain which felt like I was being sliced in half, and realizing the leather of the whip had wrapped around my body several times, cutting in to the flesh and gripping me in an iron grip.

The whip was jerked away, but it had gripped my flesh so strongly it felt like it was taking an inch of flesh and muscle with it, jerking me around in a circle. The pain remained after the whip was torn away, literally spreading across my stomach and chest, and down in to my hips.

The second time, I heard the whoosh of the whip just before it wrapped itself around me. This time I remember screaming. A feeling of pure panic had overcome me. I was dying, going to be killed. This whip was capable of tearing me open and spilling my guts out, I knew it. The pain was unbearable, it could not be tolerated, and yet… I had no choice.

I heard the executioner breathing heavily, and grunt a little as the leather swung through the air, just before tearing in to my chest, ribs and upper back. I remember thinking that I had to run, had to protect myself from the attack, a primal, animal thought. But I was tied and hanging, totally at the mercy of the whip as it lashed out again.

By the fifth or sixth stroke, I knew just how cruel the stimulant they had given me could be. I sensed that my body was seeking unconsciousness, the pain had spread and taken me completely. Each stroke built on the last, expanding and maximizing the pain that had come before. I should be unconscious, I should not be aware, but I was. Kept alert and aware of ever aspect of the whip kissing and embedding itself in my flesh, tearing skin off as it was jerked back, the stimulant imposed the agony on me relentlessly.

I could not count the strokes. My mind had gone. I remember a brief halt as my legs were bound together, and I hung limp after that. Strength had been drained from me. I was a piece of meat, on display and being slowly torn apart. The nausea I felt reached a peak and I vomited out over my breasts and stomach.

There came a time when I realized the whip had not cut me in a while. I wondered how long before the next stroke. I had always been here, on the platform, with the cheers of the crowd as they cried out in joy at my agony. My arms and shoulders were stretched almost to the point of breaking, hung as I was.

No more strokes. Instead, a sudden splash of water, which drew another long scream from me as my wounds exploded with new pain. Two more times the water splashed, and twice more I screamed. My body was burning, on fire, from my naked groin to my naked breasts.

My arms lowered. There was no strength left in me, and as they came down my knees buckled. I fell to the floor, and lay there, breathing, feeling the flames of pain ripping through my body.

Strong hands took my arms and lifted me, dragging me to the cheers of the crowd. The humiliation, which had been pushed aside by the pain, returned and mixed with my agony. I was dragged down the stairs, and as I was pulled across the yard, it felt like the hands of every man in that yard had found my bare skin and was skipping on the blood which covered me. I was truly just a raw piece of meat.

Once in the door, I was lifted on to the gurney, and strapped down. Ambulance techs inserted a needle in my arm, and began a saline drip. The gurney was rolled down the hall, through several doors and finally to a white room. I was left there, in the infirmary.

Two weeks of slow recovery followed. The pain was unbearable the first two days, but slowly subsided, and I was able to receive visitors. My boyfriend. My parents. All tried to hide their horror, but I could see it in their eyes. They had been in the crowd. They had observed my humiliation. My agony.

I returned to school and teaching after a month. My scars, which were extensive, were hidden by clothes. My boyfriend liked to trace them with his fingertips before making love.

Life got back to normal. Except the boys. Some of them looked at me rather strangely… and I know I caught Mr. Lansing, the principle, stroking himself through his pants once in a meeting.

In the meantime, I had my eyes on the PTA fund, which was just sitting there, waiting for someone to take a few thousand…

2 comments:

Nightshad said...

Good lord! I have been reading and collecting JCP stories for many years, but this is one of the hottest I have ever read! Truly a masterpiece... Telling the story from two different points of view is inspired. I feel almost like I had been there.
tothe author:
You have a great talent for this sort of story. I'm sure you will agree with me that there is nowhere near enough Judicial corporal punishment going on, either in real life or fantasy. Please write a sequal to this story! You must have considered doing so, as well as it is set up for same. I don't know exactly what the law says in this particular reality, but surely punishment for a second offense would be much more severe than for a first time offender. 100 strokes with a whipcord cat, perhaps? And maybe something extra because the culprit is a teacher, and should be setting a good example? You are on to something great here. This story is a true classic. Please let us have some more!

Would you consider e-mailing me to talk over the subject of JCP? I would love to discuss the subject with you!

Nightshade23@att.net

Polly Plummer said...

I may indeed write a sequel. It seems appropriate in this case. Thank you. :)