Friday, January 30, 2009

The Inquisition - Ducking

A new practice began making its way in certain countries during during the time I spent in France. This practice was primarily used as a punishment, especially for women of unruly or unseemly character, though I also found it useful as a form of persuasion.

This technique was called “Dunking”, and is a variation on the method of drowning, and a form of water torture. I do not think that it will last as a technique in general, as it requires rather special equipment and an appropriate location. It also does not allow access to the victim and is therefore not very useful for interrogation.

The technique does have the advantage of being very public, thus increasing the humiliation of the victim, and graphically demonstrating the consquences of their crime to the observing public.

The ducking stool, as it was called, was a long pole balanced in the middle on a base that allowed one end to be swung over the water and then lowered. A place for a rope and weights to be added were at one end, and the other contained a simple chair with brackets for restraints to hold the victim in place.

One experience that stands out when dunking was used occured in a small town called Montejean-suir-Loire. The townspeople there had been dealing with increasing troubles with wives meeting and deciding to disagree and cause conflict with their husbands. This in turn caused much discord within the community. After having been warned, on particular woman had actually assaulted her husband. This unacceptable behavior had to be punished, as it was an affront to local law, the church, as well as the natural order of life.

This harpy of a woman was brought forward in chains. She had been languishing in the jail for the past week, rather than performing her duties as a wife. It was time she was truly punished for her crime.

She was unchained, and forced on to the chair, were she struggled momentarily until the metal restraints were in place, making her struggles useless. Metal loops covered her wrists and ankles. Struggling against them caused cutting of her flesh, and as she began to bleed she calmed herself. A rope was then used to tie her waist to the back of the chair, to prevent her from attempting to rise.

Sitting calmly in the chair, she had a haughty demeanor. She shook the straggling long black hair out of her face and cursed the representatives of the town that were performing this punishment.

I boldly walked up to her, took a hold of her dress and ripped it from the neck down to the waist, exposing her large breasts and stomach. This action struck her with fear, and her haughty attitude melted away, as humiliation overcame her. She began to shake as I tore her clothing further, and cried out to me for mercy. My only answer to her was that mercy was not mine to give, and that chastisement was a gift that she should embrace and use wisely.

Her body now exposed to the townspeople, two strong men began pulling on the other end of the beam, lifting her chair up in to the air. She hung there, suspended for all the townspeople to see, her nakedness and bloody wrists and ankles just the beginning of her torment. The beam was slowly swung over the water and she began to cry, screaming out to all that could see her for mercy.

Over the water, she looked down in fear. The water was moving, but not quickly. It was very, very cold. She began struggling again by twisting her wrists in the metal bands, in spite of the obvious uselessness. Her wrists became bloody with the constant pulling, and her breathing was labored and heaving against the ropes around her chest.

At the local sheriff’s signal, the rope holding the other end of the pole was slowly released. As she slowly edged closer to the water, foot by foot, the panic in her mind was visible by the constant writhing of her naked body and screaming. As the chair and her feet came in contact with the water, she suddenly took a deep breath, fingers clawing the arms of the chair tightly. Her head flung back, and she looked skyward, probably in an attempt to keep her face above water for as long as possible.

Her breath was mistimed and a mistake. The chair was being slowly lowered in to the water. Her feet were surrounded, and then her legs. The flow of the river brushed her legs and made a small wake as she descended. When the water reached her thighs and surrounded her hips, the shock of the coldness forced the air out and she took another deep breath, still staring at the sky, her hair flung against her back, naked breasts pushed out and protruding for all to see.

The water swirled around her stomach, her chest… finally it reached her neck, and she once again took a deep breath, a paniced, shallow breath, for she knew it was moments before the water would cover her face. And so it did. With no noise or even a splash the water flowed over her head and face, obscuring her from view as she sank in to the depths. The last thing we saw was her hair, floating up and drifting in the water like seaweed.

She remained below the water. We could only imagine what it must be like, fastened securely to the chair, in the dark dirty water of the river. A faint sunlight would be seen, but nothing else, really. The water surrounding her face, intruding in to every orifice. Her lungs crying out for air, chest burning, heaving, as if in doing so she might be able to breathe when there was no air. The rational mind would be in place for a while, telling her not to breathe, that opening her mouth and lungs would produce nothing but pain and suffering worse than she felt…

The water flowed around the rope, which was the only thing escaping the water. It left a very small wake, but moved slightly, wobbling back and forth. Below, the victim was struggling, moving the chair around under water.

Time went on. It seemed like a long time to us, though it must have felt an eternity for the drowning woman below.

At last, the rope began to slip up out of the water, then a glimpse of her hair and all at once her head broke the surface of the water, and she gasped hugely, gulping huge lungfuls of air as she rose up out of the water. The water streamed off of her body in a torrent, draining over the chair and joining the river below her. Her breathing was a rasping, quick pulse as she hung above the water.

Her body glistened with wetness. The remaining tatters of her clothes hung about her, but her legs were slightly parted, arms secured, and her entire body was open and viewable by the townsfolk who jeered and laughed by the side of the river.

It was truly a beautiful sight, and one that helped resolve me to use the ducking stool again, when occassion allowed. A beautiful woman, dark hair plastered to the light flesh of neck and shoulders, breasts exposed and heaving, stomach pulsing with desparation, legs and arms glistening in the daylight.

The signal was given once again, and she began her slow descent back to the water. She struggled, her breathing eratic.

All at once, one of the men lost his grip of the rope at the other end of the pole and she plunged down, hitting the water hard with a huge splash. A glimpse of her face just as it slipped under the water showed she had not been able to get a good breath and was already panicing as she was submerged. Once again, the gossamer floating hair was the last trace of her to be seen.

The man who had lost his grip was chastized by the town sheriff. Another man was brought in to replace him, to make sure it did not happen again. They disagreed. They argued. All the while I watched the rope where it entered the water, and observed it wiggling slightly as the woman struggled below.

Time slipped by again, and it was decided that both men would assist on the rope. The sheriff realized the woman had been underwater for some time, and ordered her pulled up.

She broke the surface quickly, as the three men were able to pull more effectively. The water splashed all about and she dangled about five feet above the surface. At first, I thought she had died, for there was no paniced gasping as before. Her now naked body shown wet in the light, breasts hanging down slightly and covered by black hair that stuck to them, for her head was bowed down over her chest.

With a sudden cough, she spit out some water, gagged, coughed more, took a huge breath and cough up more water. Her breathing resumed the ragged desparation of someone that had been without it for some time. A cheer went up from the townspeople watching.

A period of a few minutes passed, in which all observed the wife in her nakedness, hung for all to see over the river.

The signal was given, and she was lowered again. A loud cry echoed against the water as she screamed. Wild eyes looked for anyone, anything that might save her, and the scream mixed with tears as her feet touched the water a third time.

It is seldom I have seen such a beautiful woman, in such agony and despair as when that woman sank below the surface the last time. Her stomach was heaving, making ripples as she descended. I saw the exact moment her erect nipples slipped below the surface, and observed how the water bouyed her large breasts. The water slowly lapping around her beautiful neck seemed a gentle but deadly force as she wagged her head back and forth.

One large gulp of air was timed perfectly just before the cold green water flowed over her face. She descended deep, out of site. The rope once again remained the only evidence of her existence in the world.

By the third time a woman is dunked in a river, most of the strength and will has been sucked out of her. Three dunkings is the most that is ever given unless the process is viewed as an execution. This punishment was severed, and it was not at all certain whether she would survive, especially considering the mistakes made with her second submersion.

A breeze blew, and birds sang in the warm sun, as the river flowed before us. The rope left a wake, made wider by a bit of weed that had caught on to it. It was stable, and did not move or wiggle this time.

Bubbles were seen. She had certainly lost control and released the air in her lungs. She was breathing in water now. I of all the people their knew exactly what a burning, cramping, horrible agony breathing water can be.

She remained below.

With a giant heave, the three men pulled the chair and woman up and out. Water flooded off of her still form, which was slumped in the chair. Blood from where she had struggled was mostly washed away, though fresh blood appeared as she hung over the water. The crowd was excited, wondering, not sure whether she was alive. I knew… for I knew that she would not be bleeding as she was if her heart was not beating. But she sat still, and did not appear to be breathing.

The pole was swung sideways and the naked woman was brought over the bank of the river, and lowered to the ground. Her restraints were removed, wrists and ankled. When the rope around her waist was removed, she fell forward slowly, on to the grassy turf of the river bank.

She lay on the ground, naked legs spread wide for all to see her privacy, one arm slightly below her body, the other awkwardly laying to the side.

Moments after her chest hit the ground, water spewed out of her mouth, followed by a cough. The woman’s husband came up to her, and covered her with a cloak as she continued coughing up river water. Two men lifted her between them, and she was dragged away from the river, weak and helpless.

I caught one last glimpse of her naked body as she began pleading with her husband for mercy.

This punishment had a lasting effect on the wife. I wish I could say the same for the other women of the town, but barely two weeks later, a woman was caught stealing bread and lying about it. She was sentenced to the ducking stool.

Monday, January 19, 2009

The Inquisition - Judas Cradle

Judas - the ultimate betrayer. Conspirator of Satan. Trusted adviser, and the final traitor.
He hung himself, far too kind an end for this heretic. Thus it is that a number of devices have been named after him.

The Judas cradle represents the reverse, backward, inverted nature of the soft comforting cradle holding and securing the infant. Its inherent unnatural nature, representative of the rebellion against God shown by those cradled by it, is a wonderful symbolic torture.

The wooden pony requires little to make - a simple board or pole can serve. But when the resources to construct a cradle are available, it is much preferred. It is a pyramid, sturdily supported on the ground with 4 legs spread apart. The pyramid narrows to a sharp point at the top. The victim is made to sit upon this point, which penetrates deeply as their weight bears down upon them. The result is increasing pain that usually results in a confession without other methods needing to be applied.

During an extended stay in the city of Marseilles, we were privileged to have access to this, along with other excellent devices. They were sorely needed at this time, as there was an outbreak of heresy, debauchery, and Satan worship amongst a group of nuns at a local convent. While one expects the weaker race to succumb to the wiles of demons, the fact that these nuns plumbed the depths of debauchery in the way they did was extremely disturbing. To have anyone associated with the church defy and defile their position is most troubling, and the local authorities demanded that the full extent of the infestation be uncovered.

To begin the examinations, two nuns were brought in to a set of chambers attached to the cathedral. These chambers, while part of the church grounds, were separated discretely so that prying eyes would not disturb us. The Judas cradle was brought out and set up in the middle of a large room. Weights were also obtained, ready for use. All was in readiness, and we called for the two traitorous women.

Two nuns were brought in, chains binding their wrists and ankles. It was profoundly disturbing that these nuns had turned to evil, and I felt the rage of indignation as they came forward. They appeared so holy, so pure and young, it was hard to understand how they could have defiled their office in they way they did. They wore the white heavy cloth robes of nuns in the area, designed to be functional, warm and discrete. As they stood before us, I pointed to the larger one. Should would be the first to be cradled and feel the bite as she sank down upon the Judas Cradle's point.

As with all interrogations of this sort, the first step was to remove their clothes. This served to provide unhindered access for their treatment, as well as to humiliate their minds and enforce a sense of helplessness and exposure. At my master's instructions, the guard tore the woman's robe off, shredding it and leaving her naked before us. The other nun gasped, I think in shock at the humiliation her sister was experiencing, and the suddenness of the action.















The naked one was perhaps 5'6", long dark hair, with a strong body and good breasts. Her face was a pretty one, with brown eyes and full lips. Her flesh was quite pale, and smooth. Perhaps her strong, young body and its desires had led her down the path of dissolution in which she was embroiled. She shook slightly in the cold and from fear.

At a nod from me, she was taken to the cradle. Her wrist and ankle chains were removed, and her wrists were tied by rope to hooks on either side of the room. As the guards lifted her lifted up, the ropes were pulled, spreading her arms wide in a way that emulated a crucifixion. The cradle was placed under her and her legs forced to either side. At my signal, she was released, and dropped on to the sharp point.
She dropped about two feet on to the point, which was enough to penetrate deeply in to her womanhood. She cried out in pain, and wriggled slightly, though the penetration was deep enough that there was little she could do. Her legs hugged the side of the device, and she tried to support and lift herself by bending her knees and pushing up with her thighs.

Weights were brought forward, and tied to her ankles. They dropped, yanking her down heavily, pushing another cry from her. Each of the two weights were 25 pounds or so, and the extra 50 pounds added a profound pressure and increased her agony significantly.

As the first nun cried and struggled on the Judas Cradle, the shorter nun watched in horror. This was exactly as we had planned, for showing a victim the nature of the torture in store is sometimes the most effective way of breaking down the mind, preparing for the final confession. I was glad as I watched the horror on her face, for I felt the anger at their perversion well up inside me once again.



We left her there, and played with her some, jerking on her legs, playing with her breasts, applying clamps and pincers to her flesh as she writhed on the cradle. Special attention was paid to her nipples, with rigid toothed clamps that drew blood and screams.
No opportunity to confess was given, I was not interested in their confessions just yet. I wanted them to suffer, and watch each other suffer for the debauchery they had committed.

At last, the woman confessed, screaming out for mercy as she admitted to having intercourse with the devil, and committing sodomy with other nuns. After each confessed sin, we added more weight, until her legs threatened to come apart at the joints and her confessions had been reduced to a babble.



















I indicated she was to be removed, and the other nun was brought forward, sobbing and begging to confess, willing to confess to anything. In response her clothes were ripped from her and she was lifted to the cradle. The point sunk deep inside her, and spread her woman's lips wide, as I examined closely. Grabbing her hips and pressing down, I observed her wriggling serving to embed the point deeper in to her vagina. Blood appeared and I knew it had stretched and penetrated deeply enough to tear her flesh. A wooden stock was applied to her neck and wrists, keeping her hands restrained above, and adding some weight to her body.

Time for the weights, and as this shorter nun gasped and confessed her sins, clamps were applied to her flesh. There was a sense of justice in the room as she admitted to having slept with other nuns, even the other nun who lay on the floor before her.
Then she confessed to having intercourse with the devil, and even named the demon. It was the priest who had led us in to the examination chamber. As all eyes turned toward him, he turned white and tried to run from the room. He was stopped, thrown to the floor and locked in chains, awaiting further investigation.

The legs of the poor nun were streaked with blood as she tried to shift position, but could not. The cradle, once embedded, holds the victim tightly in its grasp. The weights kept her legs extended downward. Her wrists were held securing by the oxen stocks at her neck.
We left her there, for the night, with a belt of iron attached to the wall with chains to assure she stayed in her cradle.



When we returned, she was barely able to cry for mercy. Her body fluids had covered the pyramid, and she was breathing in rasps, begging to be taken down, begging for water. She offered to confess, but we told her no further confession was needed. All that remained was her punishment.



She was taken down, and dragged out of the room, her legs unable to hold her weight.

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…

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

The Inquisition - Breast Press

Surely one of the most common techniques used to punish and interrogate female prisoners has been the breast press. It has several advantages. It focuses on torture of a non-vital part of the body, in fact, the breasts can be pressed, mangled and shredded with little harm to the rest of the body. This allows for longer periods of interrogation and is a good choice when the prisoner may need to be returned alive (albeit somewhat damaged).

The breasts are also a uniquely feminine part of the body, and their manipulation during interrogation is an assault on the female mind as well as body.

Lastly, circumstances allow for continuing application of discomfort without the interrogator needing to be present. This has the desirable advantage of allowing the prisoner to contemplate and change their mind toward cooperation while the interrogator is busy elsewhere.

My first experience with this technique was early in my time with the church, when I was quite young. I believe it was in Paris, when I first apprenticed to my mentor. There was a petty thief, a woman of ill repute that had also been caught with a number of candles from the church supply. It was suspected that she may have taken these to use in black masses, and we were instructed to determine if she was a witch.

Deep below the stone prison we waited in a small room which was dark except for 3 candles that lit the room with a wavering yellow light. It was very hot and humid, and both my mentor and I were sweating in our robes. We removed them just as the woman was brought to us.

The prisoner was a woman in her late 20s, tall and well fed. Large breasts curved to a slim waist and then to round hips. Light hair straggled down over her shoulders, and gray eyes peeked at us in the candle light. Her shapely figure made her choice to be a woman of the streets understandable, she was exactly the type that would bring in much money. She should surely be punished for her debauchery. But that was not our place, we were there simply to interrogate her and determine if she was a witch.

She was forced to sit on a chair, and bound securely. Her arms were tied behind her back, her shoulders also tied together in a most uncomfortable manner. This not only caused increasing cramps and pains in her shoulders, it presented her breasts to us very nicely.

A simple device was produced. The press was constructed of two wooden planks, slightly curved on one side to allow a tight fit against the woman’s body. On both ends, the two planks were attached by large wooden screws that could be turned to move the planks closer together.

Already groaning, the woman looked at the device we produced before her and began pleading, insisting on her innocence. An opportunity for her to confess was given, and she did; she confessed to taking the candles from the church to light her home. This was a clear indication that she did not wish to cooperate, and so the press was moved in to place.

I took hold of the woman’s dress securely at the neck and pulled hard. The dress tore, shredding down and exposing the woman’s upper body clearly. Further tears pulled the dress almost completely off, with just a small bit of cloth around her waist. (I later learned this was a mistake, as complete nakedness is more humiliating and is more likely to force confessions during interrogations).

The woman’s pleas grew more frantic as clamps were applied to both breasts. The clamps compressed the breasts slightly, and pulled them out from her chest firmly. The press was slipped in to place, and twisted down in to place. Once it was somewhat tight, the clamps were released.

The slow process of pressing began. While somewhat tedious, the slow process of applying pressure is one that works subtly on the mind. Often, the ever increasing discomfort can break a prisoner’s resolve to resist before the pain becomes significant.

As the pressure increased, the woman’s pleas turned to cries of pain. My mentor turned the screw on one side, and I turned the other to assure proper equal pressure and to speed the process. The heavy press also pulled and dragged on the breasts, which were beginning to turn purple where they protruded from the outer side of the press.

We took a slight break, to rest and let the witch contemplate her options as the pressure on her breasts caused her some discomfort. Sitting before her, I reached out and touched the distended and firm breasts. They felt taught, as if they might burst at any moment. The nipples were flat, even when I played with them slightly. I squeezed slightly to see how it would effect her. Other than a slight increase in her crying, it did nothing.

I could not imagine that more pressure would not make her breasts explode, so distended and tight was the flesh. But my mentor and I commenced cranking the screws once again, increasing pressure even more.

The woman’s cries turned to screams, and blood began trickling down her stomach.

The press was clearly pressing deeply enough to cause a split in her flesh, and the blood was seeping from the wound.

The woman was shaking her head back and forth violently, calling for mercy, praying to some unknown demon to save her. I worried for a moment that the demon might actually come and interfere, but my mentor calmed my fear.

The press continued to tighten, now clearly smashing the soft flesh. The portions of her breasts which extended beyond the limits of the wood had turned a mixture of red, black and purple. Blood was pouring from the back of the press down her stomach.

We stopped for another rest, and observed the frantic struggles of the young woman. She was beautiful in her agony, tears staining her cheeks and severely compressed breasts bobbing up and down with the press as she breathed heavily. She strained against the bonds at her wrists and elbows as well, though no movement was possible.

We sat and observed, and allowed her time to experience her situation. The heat in the underground chamber was very uncomfortable, and my mentor and I left to go to the ground level for some fresh air. Our walk was delightful, and we returned to our business refreshed.

The woman was soaked with sweat, and half unconscious. I produced a short flog, and began lashing her exposed breasts with the leather. The pain aroused her from whatever coma she had entered, and she screamed that she would confess whatever we pleased.

Two more cranks of the press were applied, smashing her breasts to less than the width of a finger to assure her proper cooperation. She screamed her confession to us, admitting to all manner of evil and devilish activity.

When all information was collected, the press was slowly unscrewed. This process took almost a quarter of an hour, so tightly it had been applied. When removed, her mangled and bloody chest no longer looked enticing. Her formerly lovely figure would not be of use to her on the streets again.

It was no matter. Having confessed to witchery, she was unlikely to live much longer.

My mentor and I retired to our inn, and refreshed ourselves with a good dinner. The witch was taken back to her cell where she would serve as an example and warning to other prisoners.

Friday, January 2, 2009

The Inquisition - Pillory

The practice of public humiliation and disgrace has been one of the most common, and most effective means of punishment in modern times. The pillory is a common example of this, and while not usually inflicting much pain, it can be humiliating and rather uncomfortable.

A most unusual example of this practice was observed in the town of Trieste, where the pillory was in common use in the side of the town square. Here the use of the pillory was brought to an extreme I had not previously observed. The townspeople there were encouraged to take advantage of the bound and displayed victim to an extent I had never seen before.

As we passed through town, the owner of a local in recommended we stay for the spectacle. Always one to learn, we arranged for rooms so that we could rest before traveling on, and observe the punishment of a young woman accused of obtaining milk from an axe - a sure sign of congress with the devil.

The pillory used was an old one, made of coarse wood, and anchored securely in the ground to the side of the main square. The holes for the neck and arms were small, sure to cause discomfort to any but the smallest prisoners, and the positioning was only about 4 feet above the ground. The victim would be positioned slightly bent over, placing strain on the back and causing cramps, but it was not low enough to allow kneeling. Thus the victim would suffer in plain view.

At the appointed time, we gathered with others to see the woman brought out. She was a tall woman of light colored hair, wearing a ragged shift of a dress. Having been in prison for some little time, she was rather disheveled, dirty, and her clothing hung in rags about her. Rather pretty in a common way, really, and I looked forward to observing her humiliation.

Her neck was forced in to place in the lower notch of the wood, and held in place by a guard. Her wrists bore shackles, connected by a chain, which would prevent any escape of her hands from the pillory holes. Her struggles were minimal, and in moments the top wood piece was slid in to place, and latched securely. The woman stood, imobile, her head and hands exposed and some part of her body peaking out from behind. She was crying quietly.

Drinking wine and sitting at a table outside of an inn at the square, we observed the usual humiliation of the prisoner begin. Vegetables were thrown at her by those who passed. Rotten, of course, for no one was stupid enough to part with good food. The pelting continued, and then the first indication of the rather severe nature of her punishment was seen.

Rocks were thrown at the woman, hitting her in the head and body. Some were large, and caused bruises which rose immediately. She began to cry out, pleading with the passing townspeople, begging for mercy and some protection, but her plight was met with laughter.

In response to her pleas, one of the guards came over, and tore her clothing, shredding it in to strips and removing it. When he was done, she stood naked in the square, exposed for all to see. Her body was a fine one, with firm buttocks, hard legs, and large breasts that hung down from her like cows udders. She sobbed from the humiliation of being exposed, but was unable to move and simply endured it.

After about and hour, she was struggling to stay standing. She was tiring from her time standing in the bent over position, but attempts to kneel made the angle of her head in the pillory very awkward, as the wood dug in to her neck, choking her. She would sink down, resting her legs for a moment, and then rise up to breathe freely.

In the late afternoon, a man strode over to her, positioned himself behind her buttocks and lifted her hips up, helping her stand. But rather than trying to help her, he was merely positioning her, for he then pulled his pants down, exposing his erect member, which he then pressed hard in to her. With massive thrusts, he entered her deeply, in spite of her cries, and began to push rhythmically. I watched in amazement as the man rode her until with a huge grunt, he spewed his male essence into the helpless witch before him.

Having pleasured himself, he slapped her buttocks hard, and then left the square.

Almost immediately, another man approached the woman, and removed his pants. He entered her from behind with more ease than the first, and pleasured himself in the same way.

The third man to approach stood before her, spoke to her quietly as he held her head up to him. The fear in her face was striking, and he began to squeeze her neck, cutting off her air and blood flow, until she opened her mouth. In moments his male member was in her mouth, as he released her neck. With solid, forceful movements, he thrust in to her mouth and deep in to her throat. As he achieved his climax and his fluids covered her face, she vomited on to the street.

This woman’s beautiful body was one that called out to me, and I could not resist. She was, after all, a witch, deserving of far more intense a punishment than a few hours on the pillory. I crossed the square, moved behind her, and observed her marvelous naked buttocks before me. Taking out my throbbing member, I placed it against her arse hole, and began pushing. The pressure made her call out, cry and beg for mercy, which made me all the harder. Once deep inside, I stroked in and out, feeling the incredible tightness of her arse, as she struggled in front of me. It did not take long for me to reach the climax of my pleasure, and deposit my seed uselessly inside her arse.

Tired for the day, I returned to my room at the inn, and slept soundly.

The next morning, after I arose and breakfasted, I exited the inn to the town square, where I observed the witch, still in the pillory but sagging down at an odd angle. Her tongue protruded from her mouth, and her eyes were half open. After watching her hanging motionless, the city guards came over and examined her. She was dead, probably of some blow which had been delivered to her over the night. Her body was removed from the pillory, and dragged away.

I turned and entered the inn, to pack my things and move on to the next city. I had learned that even the simplest of devices could be used as a tool of execution in the hands of the right people…. in the case the citizenry of Trieste.