Wednesday, January 14, 2009

The Caning of Miss Brown

“Kevin, you won’t believe this. She did it again.”

“Who?” Kevin was puzzled.

“Miss Brown. She did it again. Stole some money, got caught.”

Kevin laughed, and shook his head. “That’s so weird. What are they gonna do, whip her again?”
“Well..” I said, looking at the paper, “apparently, she is going to be caned.”

Kevin grabbed the paper from me, and read, his jaw dropping slow. “We are sooo…. gonna get tickets…”

Two days later, we were in line, waiting to get in to the Punishment Arena at Mammoth Lakes Detention and Punishment Center. In just one year the new practice of using corporal punishment instead of prison time had become incredibly popular with both the public and government. Money saved on prisons was being handed out to just about anybody that didn’t want to work, as long as they weren’t white males. The popularity inspired the Punishment Arena, a place where public punishment could be observed by a paying audience.

A picture of Miss Brown in the local magazine showed that she had become even sexier and more beautiful since we graduated from High School, two years ago. She had always been my favorite teacher, and I had taken two history classes from her, even though I hated history. I was eager to see what she looked like now, especially tied and caned in public.

It was a hot day, and the punishment was scheduled for 10am. If a caning was anything like the whipping, it was going to be one miserable day for Miss Brown, and one amazing day for me and Kevin.

We had paid for seats in the Special Interest section - where family members, victims, friends and others with special relationships to the prisoner or crime could obtain close seats. Pricey, but worth it. We were very close to the platform, with an excellent view.

The platform was simple. We looked down on a flat wood floor at the bottom of the arena. A sloped walkway led from a heavy door in the side of the arena to the platform. In the center of the platform were too wooden rails, each about 10 feet wide and held up with heavy wood uprights on each end. The rails were positioned so that the lower rail was almost directly below the upper one, though the upper one was offset by a foot or two.

The crowd was unruly. There were all manner of people there, both men and women. The air was thick with anticipation. At times I thought the stress was so high that a fight might break out someplace, but there were guards everywhere to keep order. We waited.

At 10 am exactly, the heavy door to the arena was opened, and two guard entered with Miss Brown between them. She was naked, and walking on her own, but just barely. She looked weak and misshapen. Behind her walked a really large guy with bulging muscles, wearing all black. What is it about these executioners they think they have to wear black, I thought.

Miss Brown was dragged forward, but there was something dreadfully wrong about the way she looked. Her body was amazing, as I remembered it, but her breasts were protruding, and her arms… where were her arms?!

In a flash, I realized her arms were cinched behind her in an armbinder. I had never seen one up close before, and it made her look amazing, enhancing her body in the most interesting and erotic ways. Her long dark hair was straggly, hanging over her shoulders and breasts. Her breasts… perfection in shape and firmness. They were neither too large nor too big, and were displayed prominently above a perfectly flat stomach. Her ribs showed slightly, mostly due to the awkward position of her arms.

Her legs were long and thin, but looked stronger than the last time I had seen her naked (her whipping, I had seen her in school many times since). Her thighs were perfect and extended to an ass that was inspiring. The scars from her whipping were visible on her back though not as noticeable as I had thought they might be.

The armbinder constricted her and was obviously painful to her. Her movements were awkward as she arrived at the platform, and was led up to the apparatus of two beams. She stood for a moment, staring out at the crowd, gazing across it. The executioner took a long rope and threaded it through a ring at the end of her binder. Once secured there, he threw the rope over the upper beam, caught the end and pulled.

Miss Brown’s arms were raised behind her, and a grimace of pain shot over her face. As her arms went up, she was forced to bend over, and with the lower beam in front of her she was unable to walk forward. She bent over the beam, trying to relieve the pressure on her arms, until the executioner brought her arms to a perfectly vertical angle. Her body was bent at the waist over the rail, head looking down, breasts hanging in a most lovely angle. Her body was showcased for the entire arena, and there was a sound of amusement and appreciation from the crowd.

The two guards approached from behind. They grabbed her ankles, and forced them apart. Miss Brown gasped and made a strangled sound for a moment, as the ankles were tied to hidden rings in the stage. In that moment, we were able to see between her legs, the gentle folds of flesh, the slit that I had dreamed of many times in her class, trying to hide my erection under my desk. My erection once again was obvious, but this time I made no attempt to hide it.

All was in readiness, and the executioner walked to the side of the stage and pulled out the cane.
I had never realized the size of the cane that would be used. The thing looked like a huge pool cue. It was huge, and heavy. Even the executioner, who was all muscle, had some difficulty in wielding it. I felt a little sorry for Miss Brown, even as I felt my erection pressing against my pants. It had happened before, and I knew it would happen again. Miss Brown was my Venus, the perfect but unattainable woman, the girl I had dreamed of having for so long.

The crowd grew silent as the cane was lifted and swung experimentally. And then, all at once, the man in black swung it back and then forward with a whoosh that could be heard throughout the arena. The impact against her ass sounded loudly, a slapping crack that echoed. Her body was pushed forward, stopped by the rail she leaned over, but still somehow compressed and jerked in place.

Her face was one of complete shock. She didn’t make a sound, there was no reaction other than a brief gasp of air as she jerked her head back, hair spilling over her back and then back down her shoulders.

Moments later the second impact sounded, this time followed by a strangled, muted scream from the poor victim. In watching, I realized that the impacts were so strong that the cane was penetrating her flesh, pushing it aside as it depressed several inches in to her ass. Her entire body reacted with a vibration and convulsion.


The first two strokes left angry red welts across her ass. The third one produced blood, that spattered and sprayed. Simultaneously, a scream rose in the air and sustained until the air ran out of her lungs. A gasp was followed by another strangled scream.

I remember the fourth stroke in slow motion, coming in with a whistling noise, lower than the first strokes. It hit her in her thighs, causing her legs to buckle and give way to whatever weight she had been supporting with them. A spray of fluid issued from her, blood, sweat, saliva and who knows what else was splattered away.

Fluid was running from her face to the floor. The fifth stroke caused a ripple, or vibration through her entire body, and her scream spread the fluid from her face all about the stage. There was too much to simply be saliva or mucus, and later I decided she was regurgitating something from her stomach, slowly, with each impact.

The sound of the sixth stroke was the loudest yet, probably because both her flesh and the cane were covered with body fluids. The smacking sound reached us milliseconds after we saw her flesh tearing and vibrating from the impact.

Apparently the cane was not easy to wield, for the executioner took a break half way through. He was sweating as well, and obtained a drink of water while standing and considering his victim. She was sagged against her restraints as much as they would allow, gasping loudly with a liquid, bubbling sound. More vomit streamed from her mouth, mingled with mucus and gathered on the stage below her. Blood was streaming down her legs to the floor under her, dripping in places.
Her breasts bobbed slightly with her strained breathing, as did her stomach, as it pressed against the rail.

The executioner returned to his work.

The continued strokes moved up and down her ass and thighs, each one producing deep red cuts that were also wide, and bled freely. One blow struck her just above the knee, and appeared to break one leg, though that blow seemed no more intense than any other. Her reaction had become one of a rasping breathing, laboring with cries and gurgling screams.
Another blow appeared to break her leg, but it was impossible to tell.

I paid special attention to her face, one that had been so beautiful in class, talking about the French revolution, or about the Louisiana Purchase. The one I had dreamed about. The face was beautiful in its contortion, desirable in its agony. Perfect in its pain.

As the last blow landed on her, I spontaneously ejaculated in my pants. I had never touched myself, it just happened. Simultaneous with my orgasm, Miss Brown sagged as she lost consciousness.

The executioner rested for a moment, wiping sweat and blood spray from himself. He drank water from a bottle, and then untied the rope securing her arms above her back. As the rope descended and her arms came down behind her, her head snapped back in a scream. When the rope was completely released, she slowly moved off the beam, sliding backwards. As she slid backwards, her beautiful, unscathed breasts slid over the beam easily, compressing momentarily and then reshaping themselves as she fell to the ground.

Her ankles were untied, and she lay on the stage, unmoving except for her chest, which heaved as she gasped and cried. Her armbinder was removed.

Two guards came to the stage as the crowd cheered. She was lifted by each of her arms, and she cried out, as much of a scream as she could muster, as she was dragged off the stage in through a door, out of public view.

We later visited her in the prison hospital. She looked weak, tired, traumatized, and absolutely beautiful. Her leg was in a cast, and she was unable to move until the wounds to her lower body were healed, but her smile lit the room.

I desired Miss Brown as no other, especially after seeing her in agony twice.




I considered it entrapment! The way that money was just sitting in the PTA fund, exposed and waiting for someone in need. And if anyone was in need, I was. Ever since the debacle that resulted in my public whipping, a stigma had been following me.

The government rules mandating that everyone be employed prevented the school from firing me, but I was consistently harassed and discriminated against. I needed that money, to set up a better life in Costa Rica, to become independent.

That bitch treasurer turned me in. It is her fault, as well as many others.

The day I stood in court after my second trial stands out so clearly in my mind. The judge pulled out the huge volume of the FSRA rules, and looked for the appropriate section.

“You shall be remanded to the sheriff and transported to the regional prison for punishment. You shall be placed in arm bindings to facilitate your subsequent punishment, and remain in those bindings until the punishment has been carried out. The punishment shall consist of one dozen strokes with the cane upon the buttocks or thighs, in full and unrestricted public view.”
The judge intoned the description of my upcoming horror as if reading a recipe.

I almost fainted. It had taken me several weeks to recover from my whipping. If I hadn’t been juiced up on amphetamines, I am sure I would have lost consciousness. It was the most humiliating, painful thing I had experienced or could imagine.

And here I was, being sentenced to it again. Little did I know that caning was significantly worse than whipping.

Tears trickled down my cheeks, though in my mind I was steeling myself for the possibilities. I knew we would appeal, and it wasn’t certain that I would have to undergo the punishment. My hopes hung on this.

As I turned to my lawyer, the sheriff came over with the armbinder.

“Is it necessary to restrain her right this moment?” asked my lawyer in a shocked tone.
“Sorry, ma’am. Yes, it is policy that the prisoner is restrained as dictated, when they are removed from the court and remanded to the prison. Miss, please turn your back to me, while I fit this on. I will be as gentle as I can.”

Unbelieving, I turned around, facing my lawyer, who looked on.

The sheriff took my jacket off, and then gripped my blouse and ripped it in two, removing it roughly. I turned in disbelief and caught a glimpse of his face, as he grinned in a remarkably lewd manner. He then forced me back around, cut my bra off with something sharp, and in moments I was leaning over the defendant’s table, naked from the waist up, my bare breasts hanging and brushing the papers on the table.

My arms were pulled behind my back, and a single leather sleeve slid over them. The higher the sleeve went, the tighter my hands and wrists were pressed together. Eventually, my arms were pulled tighter and tighter behind my back, until the binder was completely on, covering my arms from the tips of my fingers to just under my shoulders.

As I bent over in this humiliating position, I was painfully aware of every person in the court watching the process. The judge, clerks, lawyers, and even the spectators had become still and were watching me intently.

The deputy began bucking straps, starting with a wrist strap that bound my wrists tightly together under the leather monoglove. Next, a strap at my elbow was tightened, pulling them together until they touched. This caused me to first grunt and then cry out in pain as the muscles in my shoulders were stretched unnaturally. The strap was buckled, and a strap was applied to my upper arms, pulling my shoulders so far back I thought they would pop out of their sockets.

I was crying, and noticed my tears dripping from my down turned face on to some legal documents containing notes of my trial. Straps attached to the binder were looped over my shoulders to assure it was in place securely, and I was then allowed to stand upright.

I stood in the court, head down in shame, my arms and shoulders pulled back so that my breasts jutted out in front of me. The sheriff took me by the shoulder and guided me out of the room, away from the eyes of the spectators who had come to observe my trial, most hoping for exactly this type of display.

One week later, I was laying in the prison cell, having been transported there to await my punishment. I was still wearing the armbinder. The judge’s order had stated I would remain in the armbinder until punished… and my lawyer was filing appeals.

The pain in my arms and chest had slowly increased, until it was all I could think about. Numbness had established itself in my shoulders, and begun to spread, though underneath the numb feeling was a horrible, deep ache that felt as if my bones were being bent slowly out of shape. Perhaps they were.
My lawyer entered the cell, accompanied by a guard. The cell only contained a sink, a toilet and a bed, so she sat on the toilet while she spoke with me.

“I filed the appeal based on cruel and unusual punishment, but that will fail; the courts have ruled that based on current societal standards, that while punishment may be cruel, there is no longer any such thing as unusual. It is basically just a delaying tactic.”

“Delay! Delay?!” I screamed and spit in her face. “I have been eating out of dog dishes for the last seven days! I can’t wipe my ass after I take a shit! The pain is about to kill me, if you don’t kill me first! Get this armbinder off me, or get me to the caning! Fast! I can’t take it any more, can’t you see that?”

The guard smiled knowingly as my tirade deteriorated into sobs.

The lawyer sat for a moment, looking at me, and finally said “All right. I will withdraw the appeal, and file a motion for expidited punishment. I am sorry I couldn’t help more.”

As she left with the guard, I rolled off the bed and landed on the concrete floor. I lay there for what seemed like a day until the evening food bowl arrived. I crawled to the door slot, pushed my face in to the slop, and began eating.

Three days later, I lay naked on the bed, filthy from my inability to take care of myself. It had taken this long to come to the day of my punishment, and it seemed that it had been years. Ten days… ten days I had existed in the armbinder, waiting for my sentence to be carried out.
I was shaking constantly, as much from cold as from fear. I had been through a whipping before, how much worse was a caning? And I was ready to do almost anything to get rid of the armbinder. The inability to move or perform even the most meanial of tasks was literally driving me insane. With the disabling of my arms and the constant pain shooting from my head to my waist, I had become more like a humiliated dog than anything else. I groveled before the guards, begging for any relief. I ate dog food from dog dishes. I soiled myself, living in my own filth, though the guards had taken to hosing the entire cell down once a day.

The warden entered the cell, along with too guards and a large man dressed in black jeans and t-shirt. I was laying with my arms behind me against the wall, on my left side, with my left leg up. I was completely exposed, but no longer cared. The warden took some time to look me over appreciatively, and then spoke.

“You are famous, you know. The first woman to ever be publically whipped under the FSRA. Tickets are sold out. They will more than cover the cost of your imprisonment and punishment.”
The guards lifted me off the bed and on to my feet. One guard produced a syringe - an amphetamine shot to keep me conscious and sharpen my senses during the caning. He jabbed my arm and cupped one breast while he injected the liquid. I didn’t feel it, he could have sliced a chunk from my flesh and I would never have felt it because my arms were so numb. The pain had extended to my hands, chest and stomach. Nothing within a foot of my shoulders felt anything except a horrible, dull, penetrating ache.

I was led down the hall past a number of other cell doors and then up some stairs to a large open area inside the building. It was almost a lobby, or wide hallway. Lined against one side, behind a wall of glass, was a crowd of reporters and photographers. Flashes went off with attempts to capture the image of agony and fear in my face. Questions were shouted as I walked and stumbled down the hall.

The doors opened at the end, and my senses were assaulted by bright light and a deafening noise. The light was a hot sun, and the noise was the crowd, cheering and screaming for me.
I became suddenly aware of my nakedness once again, but with my arms behind me, could not even make an attempt at modesty. I hung my head, and my long hair covered covered some of my breasts, but that was the best I could do.

Dragged down a ramp, I felt small impacts against my bare skin. I was being pelted by all sorts of objects. Everything from rocks to roses. Food and dirty socks.

I looked up and saw I was in the center of an arena. There must have been 10,000 people there, screaming and yelling. Some appeared to be angry, others were crying, others were smiling and eager. There were even some familiar faces in the crowd. Ex-students of mine, looking up in amazement. My brother. An ex-boyfriend. All had come to witness my suffering.

The large man guided me to the center of the stage, in front of a wood beam, about waist high. Above the wood beam was another beam, about 8 feet high. I stood in front of and facing the beams.

A rope was tied to a small ring at the end of my armbinder, and then thrown up over the beam above my head. The large man in black pulled the rope hard, lifting my armbinder and thus my arms up in to the air. This forced me to bend over the beam in front of me.

The force of my arms yanking up behind me made me scream, but the scream was weak for I could not take a breath. My arms were tied so closely behind me, and pointing straight up in the air, and the pressure and pain kept me from breathing deeply. So I simply cried in a loud whimper, expressing my agony as best I could.
Rugh hands grabbed one ankle. Another set of hands grabbed my other ankle. Both pulled, separating them, spreading my legs wide apart. This lowered my body, putting more strain on my tortured arms and I renewed my cries as best I could. My ankles were tied apart, keeping my legs spread wide.

I was only somewhat aware of the crowd, but I do remember the roar that went up. Leaning over the rail as I was, breasts hanging down, exposed with spread legs, must have been the moment that many were waiting for. There was nothing I could do. I rested my stomach on the rail, and suffered, waiting the further torture that was to come.

My heart was pounding. Sweat streamed off my skin. I shook like a leaf. It was the stimulant they had given me, though it was hard to tell the difference between the drug and my own fear.
The first stroke came without warning. Perhaps I should have known, for the crowd had grown quiet.

I couldn’t tell where it landed, because everything between my waist and my knees exploded in pain. It was so much worse than the first stroke of the whip a year before, I was unable to scream. Instead I felt the air leave my lungs in a whoosh, and I gasped in silent agony. The muscles in my legs gave way and my weight fell on the rail and my twisted arms.

Just as I began recovering, I heard a whistling sound and my ass exploded in fresh pain once again. The impact reverberated across my entire body, rattling my teeth and jolting the bones of my body against the rail. I managed to scream this time, though not loudly. The pain in my twisted and nearly dislocated arms was now simply part of an entire world of pain.

There was no preparing for this. As the whistling sound announced the third stroke I simply gave in. My mind went. I was no longer Miss Brown, I was simply an object of pain, a thing of agony…

The fourth stroke hit my thighs, creating new sensations in pain as the muscles were broken down by the impact.

I never heard the fifth stroke coming, it was simply pain building on pain, like waves on a shore that kept coming in further and further, and just as the pain began to recede, the pain would be refreshed and pushed further than before.

The sixth stroke landed just at the fold in my flesh where my thighs met my ass. It made a wet splat noise… my skin was slick with sweat.

There was a short interval… I gasped breath, wishing for unconsciousness. My mind had separated, broken in to two pieces. There was the part that observed the process, imposing an insane view of what was happening, breaking things apart in some weird perception of a universe full of noises and sticks and flesh and heat… and the other part absorbed the pain.

My body was shaking violently, my sobs came in huge gasps. I opened my eyes to see the wooden floor on which I was standing, covered by some shiny liquid. My sweat, though there were flecks of red in it as well. I must be bleeding. I hope my skin doesn’t come off, I thought strangely.


Once again, without warning, my ass exploded in pain. It penetrated deeper this time, the impact seeming to cut deeply inside, slicing through my bowels, my womb, my spine. I tried to struggle in spite of knowing it was useless. My arms were pointing straight skyward, allowing only a little movement. My ankles were tied tightly, but I moved my hips back and forth, trying insanely to avoid…

The eighth stroke, which landed just above my knees. I was sure my legs had been broken and would be useless. I lay on the rail in front of me, wondering when I might die. I actually was hoping I might die before…

The ninth stroke sliced deeply across my ass, and I felt waves ripple across my flesh, vibrating me like jelly.

Breathing was all I could do at that point. Just keep breathing. It was hard to do, the twisting and shredding of my body appeared to be complete. The pressure in so many unnatural places, the pain penetrating everywhere, all fought against my efforts to breath. But breathe I did, in short rasping gasps.

I don’t remember the tenth and eleventh strokes. I remember the pain had become constant, complete, and total. My eyes literally saw red, and I wondered where all the liquid below me had come from. If I had sweat that much, there would be no water left in my body. What was happening to me…

The last stroke actually blacked me out for a moment. It was just for a moment, for the stimulant would not let me be unconscious. But for a moment the world disappeared in a wonderful absence of anything at all. When I awoke I was still laying over the rail, legs spread, arms raised high. Breathing. Just breathing.

After a while, I noticed the roar of the crowd. The heat of the sun. A soft, blessed breeze. My long hair swaying below my face.

And my arms… were slowly being lowered. About half way down, I screamed in agony. My left shoulder had been dislocated during the caning, and as my arms were lowered it had renewed my torture across my upper body.

The straps were undone. I had endured this public exposure and torture for this, and it had no effect. The arminder came off, but my arms did not return. I was unable to move them, unable to use them. I slowly sank back off the beam and fell helpless on the floor. My ankles were untied, but I did not move, I simply lay with my arms twisted beneath me and my legs spread wide.

A saw a long rod propped against a rail in front of my eyes. Six or seven feet long, a heavy bamboo shape about two inches thick. Covered with some shiny liquid… red… blood… my blood…

Rough hands lifted me, causing more stabbing pains, and dragged me off the platform, and through a door. The sun went away, replaced by cool darkness. I was placed on a gurney and left. There I lost consciousness again… and later awoke in the prison hospital.

No pain killers again. I endured the pain of a dislocated shoulder, reset; a cracked femur, reset and placed in a cast for healing. Major tears and rips in my flesh that resulted in bruising across the entire lower half of my body. I was visited in the hospital. Family. A few friends. Some were in awe, others cried with me. Some appeared to be more amazed and thought the whole process was sexy.

One man came, and offered me money. A lot of money, to sell my story. I was famous. Apparently, I was sexy. Good looking, and when bound and being beaten, kinky. And a hot commodity.

All I wanted was to return to teaching history. That took six months, and when I returned, I was the most popular teacher, with waiting lists for all my classes.

The money though… to sell my story… that was an interesting concept…. I needed money…

3 comments:

bitchHunter said...

It is wonderful! Beautiful pictures and skillful story

Anonymous said...

Hot and very well-written - thhanks for sharing!

Tina said...

Fascinating career moves. Great new way of breezing through a recession. What lies next?