This was partially inspired by a story called "THE MAGISTRATE,"
by Goodgulf, under "Harsh Punishments" on the spanking board
(www.spankinginternet.com). Although the focus was spanking
rather than stripping, it contained a lot of themes familiar
to the readers of this board: malicious authority figures,
misunderstandings that spiral absurdly out of control, and a
heroine who is both attracted and repelled by the thought of
a spanking.
I decided to do a new story, and, since Goodgulf's heroine was
named "Tracy," I wrote it as a Katie Smith story, but in the Joe
Doe style. So it's Goodgulf's setting (updated to today) with
Katie's characters, in a Joe Doe story. Simple, right?
The story below is over 20,000 words -- which is a lot of freaking
words -- so THANK YOU to Lakewood for editing and hosting it, and
to Katie and Goodgulf for inspiring it. I hope everyone who likes
it conveys their gratitude to these people.
JUSTICE FOR JUDGE TRACY
by
Joe Doe
Part 1: THE PLOT
Tracy Smith was used to being in charge. She was a judge, as was
her father, and his father, for as far back as anyone could
remember. As a wealthy member of the British aristocracy, Tracy's
smug sense of privilege was exceeded only by her unshakable belief
in her moral superiority. When she first entered the gates of the
Lakewood Reformatory, however, she felt strangely uneasy.
As a judge, she was used to being in control. Subordinates and
attorneys alike deferred to her, and her word was law. But the
reformatory felt strangely different, and she experienced a tiny
shiver as she and Lucy Foster approached the massive iron gates.
The Gothic fortress at the center of the complex was nearly two
centuries old; its outer perimeter was surrounded by a foreboding
mix of stone walls, barb wire, and scowling guards.
Tracy was a judge, not a criminal, but she knew well that the
reformatory had been holding attractive young women for a long
time with no a peep of protest and never an escape. Once a woman
passed through those imposing gates, all communication with the
outside world ceased, and she remained imprisoned until her
superiors had determined that the lesson she needed to be taught
had been learned, properly and completely.
At the courthouse, Judge Tracy was always waved past security, and
the guards treated her with deference and respect. But security
at the reformatory was a different matter altogether.
"Another new admission, Miss Foster?" the guard sneered as he
looked Tracy up and down. "She's a pretty one. I'm going to
enjoy seeing her touching her toes. Is she scheduled for the
pony ride today, then?"
Tracy was startled to realize that the guard thought she was a
convict. "I'm the only one here not wearing a uniform," she
thought. Indeed, she had come directly from court, in one of
the tasteful and exquisitely well-tailored suits that she always
wore under her black judicial robes.
"No!" Tracy shot back, outraged at the notion.
To her surprise, the guard entirely ignored her, and repeated the
question to Lucy, who was already running her ID under the bar
code reader to unlock the first electronic gate.
Tracy turned to Lucy, expecting her to share her outrage and rush
to her defense. But, to her surprise, Lucy smiled. "I haven't
checked her folder," she replied casually, as if discussing a
matter of no great importance. "But I'm sure justice will be done."
"Yes, indeed. That it will!" the guard chortled, ogling Tracy as
he buzzed his two visitors through the second gate.
The guard at the third checkpoint was quieter, although he did
leer at Tracy in a most unwholesome way. As she passed through
the final door, she reached for the box of VISITOR badges on the
counter. To her shock, however, the upstart guard actually
grabbed her by the wrist.
"And what do you think you're doing, Missy?" the guard barked.
"Girls who put their hands where they don't belong 'round here
get their pretty palms strapped!"
Tracy jerked her hand back as the guard SLAPPED it hard.
"It's okay, George, I'll take care of her," Lucy said. "She's in
my charge now."
"See to it that you do," George said. "I don't like the look of
this one."
Tracy didn't like the look of George either, but bit her tongue
until he was out of earshot. "They think I'm an inmate!" she
protested, struggling to keep her voice down while expressing
her outrage. "Why didn't you tell them...?"
"Tell them what? That we're here to pinch a prison uniform for
your bloody costume party? Relax. Who cares what they think?
You're a judge, not some naughty delinquent here for a whipping."
Tracy's calm returned. Lucy was right; Tracy WAS a judge, and the
leering and sneering of the brutish guards didn't change that.
Although she had graduated from law school only a few years before,
Tracy's illustrious family connections had quickly earned her a
seat on the bench. Her family was Olde England, and Tracy had
nothing to fear.
Unfortunately, in spite of her name, because of her relative lack
of experience (and the fact that her influential father had passed
on while she was still in law school), Tracy had been assigned
to hear cases in probate court. To compensate herself for the
tedious docket, she spent her spare time listening to the juicy
cases in the criminal court of Judge Chambers.
Ostensibly, Tracy was studying the respected jurist's approach to
criminal law in hopes of one day following in his footsteps. In
reality, however, she secretly delighted in the titillating police
news and the endless parade of attractive young women who always
seemed to be standing before Judge Chambers's bench:
- Valerie Bishop, 20, a college student sentenced to one year in
the reformatory for underage drinking.
- Elaine Cox, a 19-year-old coed sentenced to six months at the
reformatory for flashing one of her stodgier professors while on
her way home from a fraternity party.
- Jacklyn Grant, 31, a respectable housewife sentenced to 8
weekends in the reformatory (and a good thrashing) when she
bounced a check at the green grocer's.
Tracy's father had heard such cases for years, and she had grown up
delighting in the lascivious details of the women's punishments.
Unfortunately, her powerful father had felt that daddy's daughter
shouldn't visit the reformatory.
She had begged and pleaded, but her father was adamant that his
princess not be exposed to the squalid reformatory. "It isn't
bloody Disneyland!" he'd say. Her father's prohibition didn't
extend to other people, though, and, indeed, by the time of her
university graduation, many of Tracy's peers had been to the
reformatory to witness at least one punishment, which made the
place all the more irresistible to her.
In addition to her prurient curiosity (which was enormous), Tracy
had an unshakable sense of morality, and it delighted her to think
of the miscreants getting their just desserts. She felt no
sympathy for the defendants. She knew that people of her class
were never arrested, no matter what they did, so she rightly
reasoned that anyone standing before the bench was one of the
"lower or middling classes," in need of discipline, and deserving
of as harsh a sentence as possible.
As a result, she was an enthusiastic advocate of private
reformatories. Structured around manual labor and corporal
punishment, they provided Tracy's brand of wholesome, moral
correction. In addition, the institutions allowed her and her
fellow aristocrats to turn a tidy profit on their Christian duty.
A few of her more squeamish friends questioned the use of
corporal punishment on female prisoners (and the presence of
spectators at the punishments), but Tracy felt that such
practices were the height of morality. "A good hiding on the
bare is precisely the justice these uppity housewives and snotty
shop girls need, to teach them respect for their betters."
Judge Chambers had been her father's protégé and, after his death,
had taken over his duties. Chambers had known Tracy her entire
life, and, although she was now a judge, he still treated her like
a child. Worse still, he respected her father's wishes that she be
forbidden from seeing a punishment, and so had made sure of it by
arranging her career in probate.
Tracy had tried to pressure him in order to wangle one of the
tickets to the punishment sessions that he handed out like
candy to his male friends. But the old codger had dismissed her
entreaties with a wave of his hand. "These punishment sessions
are serious business, and no place for gawkers," he said piously.
"Without discipline, properly and firmly applied, the moral fiber
of our society will rot away, and the Empire will collapse.
Besides, at your tender age, you look more like a delinquent than
a judge. If I invited you, you'd probably end up strapped over
the punishment horse yourself, with your bare arse dancing under
the strap."
Twenty-eight was not a "tender age," and, as she lay in her
massive feather-bed that night at her ancestral estate, Tracy
fumed.
"Preposterous! Can you imagine ME, over the horse, with my legs
spread, and my bare bottom in the air? Absurd! I mean, it's not
like it would have any effect on me. After all, I'm a judge, not
some wicked little tart that would cry her eyes out over a bit of
smack-bottom.
"Still, I imagine it might sting...a little."
As she pictured herself strapped down over the punishment horse,
Tracy fell asleep touching herself in places that proper young
ladies did not discuss.
******************************
Tracy was a stubborn woman, and Chambers's dismissal only
strengthened her considerable resolve. She was fascinated
by the reformatory in general and by spankings in particular.
She enjoyed watching the guards haul the desperate, crying
women away, and she desperately longed to attend the discipline
sessions and savor each stroke being laid on.
"I don't know why those little cry babies snivel so!" she thought.
"At least they'll know what a whipping's like. It's far worse to
spend your whole life wondering. I know it's silly, but, in a
strange way, I envy them...."
Tracy hoped that, if she ever did stand before the bench, she would
act like a proud young woman and not some frightened little rabbit.
She was confident she would; after all, maintaining one's composure
at all times was the true mark of breeding. She knew that she
could never be charged with anything, but that didn't stop her
from fantasizing about it. At night, when the others had gone,
she would stand before her own bench and imagine herself as a
delinquent facing the threat of the reformatory and the strap.
As her confidence drained away, confusion set in. When she was
sitting ON the bench, lording it over the attorneys, she never
felt rattled. Why would standing IN FRONT OF the bench be any
different? And yet each time, despite her best efforts, when she
stood before the massive wooden bench, she would squirm and fidget
as she pictured her unhappy father scowling down on her. Her
stomach did flip-flops as she imagined the gavel raising in the
air, and her sentence being declared....
Posh! Balderdash! Tracy Smith was a judge, not a criminal!
Things soured further when she attempted to solve her problem by
having Judge Chambers replaced, a feeble effort that he easily
batted away after branding Tracy as "my late mentor's, bratty,
bloody nuisance."
Stymied, Tracy befriended Lucy Foster, a matron at the Lakewood
Reformatory for Women. Lucy was in charge of processing new
arrivals, and, as such, was always on hand when the police
escorted a young woman from the courtroom to the institution.
Coincidentally, Lucy also always seemed to be there whenever a
lovely young woman was found guilty, almost as if her friend,
Judge Chambers, knew who would be sent to the reformatory before
the case had begun or evidence been presented.
When Tracy realized who Lucy was -- and what her presence signaled
-- she always made a point of sitting next to her in court. She
thought Lucy dreadfully common, but she also knew that the matron
was a bottomless well of information. Although Lucy was far below
Tracy's lofty social station, Tracy frequently asked her out for a
drink in an effort to find out more about the reformatory.
Lucy pegged Tracy's interests instantly, and, in exchange for
her wealthy sponsor's generosity at the pub, provided the
voyeuristic young jurist with thrilling tales of beauty bent
bare for discipline.
However, Lucy resisted Tracy's repeated pleas for a ticket to the
punishment sessions themselves, not wishing to provoke Judge
Chambers.
But Tracy persisted in dogging Lucy for a tour of the reformatory
or a ticket to punishment night. As the months passed, Lucy
gradually developed an ingenious scheme that would allow her to
satisfy Tracy's desires...and her own.
Tracy jumped at Lucy's suggestion that she "borrow" one of the
reformatory prisoner's uniforms for Judge Chambers's fabled
Halloween party. Tracy had only seen the uniforms once, when she
had been visiting the house of a member of Parliament who was
having his new pool dug out by a number of "volunteers" from the
Lakewood reformatory. The uniforms the prisoners wore were quite
indecent -- a thin white t-shirt that was cropped short and bore
the prisoner's number on the chest and the word "CONVICT" on the
back; an ultra-short denim skirt, which too often rose up to reveal
a flash of white, prison-issue underpants when the prisoners were
at hard labor; and white socks and sneakers.
These uniforms were, in Tracy's view, scandalous, but righteously
humiliating for convicted criminals. As they sipped their drinks,
Tracy and the other "proper" women expressed appropriate moral
outrage, while the men in the group (being men) leered. The
uniforms, like almost everything else connected with the
reformatory, were unknown to the public, and their issuance
was strictly controlled.
But Tracy loved a challenge.
She knew that Judge Chambers had little regard for his former
boss's daughter, considering Tracy to be his intellectual
inferior. What a delightfully clever and ironic snub it would
be when Tracy, the same young woman to whom he had flippantly
denied entry, showed up at his Halloween party, dressed as a
Lakewood inmate.
She chuckled as she pictured Judge Chambers's initial shock, and
then his outrage, as he realized that a mere woman had outsmarted
him and penetrated the sacred walls of his sanctum sanctorum.
Tracy and her fellow female bar members would have a jolly good
laugh, and a certain jurist would be taught a desperately needed
lesson.
There was more to it than that, of course. No DECENT woman would
ever wear such an outfit...which is why it was so deliciously
exciting. Halloween was the one day a year Tracy could cut loose,
and she relished the opportunity. In spite of her prim and proper
facade, Tracy was physically very sexy, with a trim, firm body
honed by hours in the gym.
The costume party and the stolen prisoner outfit would allow her to
strut herself under the moral cover of showing up pompous Judge
Chambers and his stuffy friends. Far from being indecent, it
would be a feminist statement -- Tracy defeating the sexist pig
male judges at their own game.
And, as an added bonus, she would look incredibly hot!
There was another layer as well. She could have faked a uniform,
but the one that Lucy could provide would be authentic, forbidden
fruit that "good girls" never touched. Rules were for the little
people. Tracy would have her forbidden fruit and eat it too.
A genuine reformatory uniform...how scandalous! How thrilling!
She lay in bed at night imagining the "bad" girls in their prison
uniforms, digging out the pool, and her fingers went to work....
Of course, the uniform would have its limits. Genuine or not,
it would still be a costume. Tracy was, after all, a landed
and respected member of the aristocracy, not a criminal
sentenced to toil at a reformatory.
When Lucy eventually suggested that Tracy sneak into the
reformatory for a fitting, so that any necessary size
adjustments could be made immediately, Tracy eagerly accepted
the invitation. Although Tracy doubted that on-site tailoring
would be required, she was keen to visit the place that she had
fantasized about for years, rightly reasoning that the only thing
more thrilling than pretending to be a reformatory inmate would
be visiting the reformatory itself.
Tracy knew Lucy's invitation was her golden opportunity. Visitors
to the reformatory were strictly screened, and the judge had
already made it clear that she had no business there. Was it
possible that while she was there, she might witness a punishment?
Maybe....
******************************
The Gothic fortress was eerie and foreboding, and Tracy felt small,
isolated, and ill at ease as her elegant high-heeled shoes clacked
noisily down the cavernous hallway.
"This place gives me the shivers," Tracy whispered to Lucy. "How
on earth do you stand it?"
"There are...compensations," Lucy replied. "Let's go in here. I
have something I'd like to show you."
Tracy followed Lucy though the big double doors into a large
auditorium. The floor slanted slightly, like a theatre's, and
there were comfortable reclining chairs for about a hundred
guests. The stage in the front was only a few feet off the
ground, and the back wall of the theatre was mirrored, although
not for dance or a theatrical performance in any traditional
sense. Sitting on the stage were three well-worn, wooden gymnastic
horses, ordinary except for their age and the dangling straps that
were used to hold the prisoners in place.
Judge Tracy Smith swallowed as she realized that, at long last, she
was standing in the old reformatory's legendary punishment room.
******************************
Part 2: TRACY'S TOUR
"I can't believe I'm really here," Tracy said, as dazed as if she
had just stepped onto the moon. "I've dreamed of this place for
so long...."
"Is it what you thought it would be?" Lucy said, leading Tracy up
to the stage.
"It's a bit smaller," Tracy said, looking about in amazement like
an overwhelmed tourist. "What are the monitors for?" she asked,
indicating the two gigantic television screens that flanked the
stage.
Lucy's tone was casual but technical, reminding Tracy of the way
the geeks at school used to talk about their stereo systems. "In
the old days mirrors let the audience watch the expressions on the
girls' faces when we punished them. Now we station two video
cameras, one fore and one aft, so we can show a little slut's face
and her bottom at once, on opposing screens."
It was a technical innovation that clearly pleased Judge Tracy, and
she chuckled as she imagined it in use. "So the little doxies get
their fannies blown up on screen, do they?" she sneered. "Good!
True justice must be seen to be done. It serves the little
strumpets right."
Lucy's reaction was more prosaic, but equality enthusiastic. "Yes,
the little missies blush a pretty shade of pink when they realize
their bare backsides are up on the telly, bigger than the moon.
You get to see every little quake and quiver...and, with their legs
spread.... It's quite a show, it is!"
Tracy's voice dripped with practiced moral indignation. "Little
hussies, spreading their legs for everyone to see," she hissed.
"They belong over the whipping bench. If it were up to me, I'd
give the entire lot of them the lash, until they couldn't sit for
a month."
"The lash intensifies the show," Lucy explained. "When the girls
struggle, their bottoms rise up off the horse, which causes their
cheeks to spread out even more. Sometimes you can even see their
rear blowholes, right up on the screen, huge."
"Shocking!" Tracy said, her voice quivering with disgust. "I hope
Judge Chambers lays on extra for that."
"Yes, he does, miss, but the more he lays on, the more they wiggle,
and the more they display. It's quite indecent, what with the
television screens and all."
"It wouldn't be indecent if the little sluts kept their legs
closed," Tracy sneered. "These whippings are a wholesome and
moral correction, and the sentences are just and lawful. I'll
remind you, Miss Foster, that my family has been sentencing
young reprobates to the block for centuries. If my great
grandfather's justice was good enough for Queen Victoria's
time, for example, I think it is good enough for the ruffians
and scallywags of today.
"Now," Tracy went on, perfectly mimicking the tone of a well-bred
aristocrat inspecting a wine cellar, "if you would be so kind....
These antique horses were purchased by my ancestor, and I should
like to examine them more closely."
"Don't worry, Your Honor," Lucy said, chuckling as she led Tracy
up the steps and onto the stage. "It's been my plan for months
to give you as close a look as a young woman can get."
The old horses were massive and sturdy, and Tracy could see how a
young woman, once strapped down, would be left quite immobile.
Her eyes were drawn to the horse on the far end, set a bit apart.
Although it was essentially the same as the others, the leather
portion that the criminal straddled during her correction bore a
dark brown stain. Tracy instantly recalled a most indecent story
she had accidentally overheard her father tell a male visitor....
Although it was farthest away, she selected the stained horse for
her judicial review.
Not wanting to seem too eager to explore the mysterious stain,
Tracy focused first on the front of the horse. She knelt and
inspected one of the buckled straps used to hold the wrists of
the condemned and gave it a firm tug. "These straps look quite
old. Will they will hold?"
"Oh, most definitely, Your Honor. It's a simple matter of
leverage. Once your wrists and ankles are buckled in, and
the strap is cinched tight around your waist, you really can't
do anything but wiggle your fingers."
Tracy smiled at the image of the little miscreants wiggling their
fingers and toes in vain as the strap whistled through the air....
She yanked the strap harder. Very fit (and formerly the star of
her college's track team), Tracy had long, powerful legs and
strong arms. "Are you sure? I'm certain I could break this
strap myself, if I really tried."
"They've been holding little chits as strong as you for over two
hundred years, miss. Believe me, if you were strapped down good
and proper, that would be the end of it, and there'd be nothing
more to discuss, 'cept how red Judge Chambers wanted your fanny to
be."
Tracy flushed slightly. She was unconvinced, but the vividness of
Lucy's response convinced her not to press the point. "What are
these nicks on the front legs?" she asked.
"Those are where the little tarts dug their fingernails in during
their punishments," Lucy replied. "The girls joke that it's
'signing in,'" she added, chuckling. "Some of those marks are
really old, left over from your great grandfather's time. You're
welcome to give the leg a little test nick, if you'd like."
Tracy felt strange, since it seemed almost sacrilegious to scratch
the beautiful steed that had played such a vital role in the moral
correction of so many tawdry women.
But the horses were also working, functional parts of the justice
system of which Judge Tracy was also a part. She had purposely
scheduled her visit to coincide with punishment day, the day when
new arrivals were given their first taste of the strap. It was
referred to as "reception," a particularly apt term, Tracy thought,
since the women received the justice they so richly deserved.
These horses were beautiful antiques, but they were on stage here
for a distinct moral purpose. The girls who would be straddling
them in a few hours would not view their mounts as treasured
artifacts, and the little heathens would doubtlessly claw at the
ancient legs with abandon.
Besides, criminal scum had been clawing at the legs for over a
century. Surely a tiny nick from Judge Tracy Smith, esteemed
member of the judiciary, wouldn't hurt.
Tracy scratched at the leg, but to her surprise, no mark was left.
She pressed harder. She dug in her nail. Nothing.
"This wood is like iron! How on earth did the girls ever get their
fingernails dug into it?" Tracy asked as she struggled to make her
mark.
"Perhaps the strap inspired them," Lucy said, clearly amused by
Tracy's naiveté.
Tracy felt a tiny flutter, deep down. "Spankings are supposed to
hurt, but my bottom would have to be on fire to get my fingernails
into this wood."
Tracy caught herself, and instantly reversed direction, "What a
strange thought. In fact, I can't scratch the wood because I'm
not a criminal. The prisoners are able to claw it because they
are brutish beasts, accustomed to thuggery and violence. I, on
the other hand, am a lady of breeding...."
She straightened up and smiled. "It's too bad," she said. "My
family purchased these for the reformatory, and it would have
quite an amusing diversion for me to 'sign in.'"
"Yes, that would be MOST ironic," Lucy agreed. "Perhaps later
today, you can try again."
Tracy smiled politely, but failed to see how later would be any
different than now, or why Lucy was smiling at her in such a
peculiar way. The idea of her signing such a solid piece of wood
with anything short of an axe was absurd. Still, she had wanted
to see the reformatory for ages, and Lucy was her host. It was
best to smile politely, even if Lucy was rather lower class...and
insisted on speaking nonsense.
"Now here's something you can leave your mark on easily enough,
Your Honor." Lucy smiled and picked up a small, rather tattered
brown leather strap with a shiny brass buckle that was lying near
the foot of the horse.
Tracy examined the strap. Less than a foot long, and only a few
inches wide, it was too short to be a punishment strap. The buckle
implied that it was used for securing something, but, unlike the
other straps, it was not bolted to the horse.
Lucy watched the perplexed magistrate examine the mysterious piece
of leather. "This gives the little fillies a nice leather bit to
chew on," Lucy explained. "It's fastened round their heads before
the punishment starts, with the leather bit between their teeth, so
they don't curse their betters or bite their tongues. You can
still see their teeth marks on it."
As if it were some horrific accident, Tracy studied the strap with
a mixture of revulsion and fascination. She was disgusted at
holding something that had clearly been chewed and re-chewed by
countless criminals. Yet she was amazed by the variety, number,
and ferocity of bite marks in the leather.
"Give it a good whiff!" Lucy said playfully.
Tracy held it up to her nose. The smell was repugnant.
"That's centuries of spit," Lucy said, laughing out loud as Tracy
recoiled. "The girls drool pretty good, and holler too, although
you can't make out any of the words once the bit is between their
teeth. Go ahead and put it on. You can see what it tastes like,
and put your teeth marks in it too...for posterity."
Tracy stared at the devilish gag. Such things were commonplace
in woman's reformatories, and had been used to silence unwanted
feminine chatter for ages. At night, when she was alone, she had
fantasized about wearing one, when her fingers explored those
forbidden places that a woman of her station never touched.
"Can you imagine me, Judge Tracy Smith, with that dreadful bit
between my teeth? Biting the same leather as the street trash
I see paraded through the courts? Tasting their spit and chewing
on the bit and adding my own teeth marks, like a common criminal?"
In reality, Tracy desperately wanted to put on the gag, to see, if
only for a moment, what it would be like. But prudence stopped
her. The reformatory gag was old and disgusting. It certainly
wasn't the sort of thing that a proper lady would ever put into
her mouth.
Moreover, from Lucy's descriptions, Tracy knew that even the
criminals didn't gag themselves, since no one would willingly
put on such a foul thing....
"If I were to be gagged properly, it would have to be done by the
warder after I was secured over the bench," she thought. "When I
was strapped down, it wouldn't matter what it tasted like. I'd
take the bit between my teeth and chew it, just like the other
girls." She stopped. Why did she always have such bizarre
fantasies? Determined to shift mental gears, she put the gag
down, and moved to the "business end" of the horse, to inspect
the mysterious dark stain on the leather.
"It's called the 'Seat of Venus,'" Lucy explained. Legend has it
that a long time ago a British soldier smeared the rear end of that
horse with a special blend of herbs he had found in India, so that
his favorite tart would have an easier pony ride. When you apply
those herbs to a girl's privates, it's an aphrodisiac. The little
trollops rub themselves in the most salacious ways, for relief."
"What an absurd myth!" Tracy said dismissively. "And I suppose the
herbs caused that stain?"
"No, miss. The stain is caused by the juices that are produced
when the prisoners rub themselves. That is the stain of more
than 100 years of whores diddling themselves under the lash."
"Outrageous!" Tracy hissed, relishing her moral indignation. "Are
you telling me these little heathens rub themselves...even as they
are being punished?"
"I'm afraid so, miss, and sometimes after, too. As shocking as it
may seem, even the ones that don't want to, and are as prim and
proper as schoolmarms when you strap them down, start to squirm,
when those herbs start to work between their legs. Before long,
the little sluts are humping the horse like two-shilling whores!"
"Disgusting!" Tracy said. "Oh, the indecency! I hope Judge
Chambers gives the little strumpets what for!"
"Oh yes, miss, he always sentences the wanton little doxies to
extra strokes. Girls may have their fun straddling the seat of
Venus, but have no fear. There is always a dreadful price to pay."
"I should hope so," Tracy said, her patented outrage eased by the
knowledge that proper English morality was maintained.
"Besides, that's why it's off to the side. Since it always leads
to extra strokes, we use it only on special occasions...or when an
especially severe punishment is specifically warranted."
As if on cue, a tall, bare-chested, muscular brute in his early
twenties entered from the wings and began to drag another
punishment horse onto the stage. Though it was on a cart, it
still took a considerable amount of effort for the young workman
to pull it into position.
He was a commoner, but not unattractive, in a vulgar sort of way.
Both women watched closely, quietly enjoying the sight of his
rippling, bulging muscles as he sweated and strained to move the
heavy horse into place.
Tracy had little use for men beneath her station and essentially
regarded the muscular laborers who toiled at her estate as
livestock. Still, they did make amusing eye candy, particularly
when they were working up a good sweat, like this one was. It
wasn't until the horse was in position that Tracy returned to the
matter at hand and began to examine the stain in front of her more
closely. Tracy the aristocrat was repulsed at the idea of touching
a stain left by a century of trollops. But Tracy the woman was
curious if the story were true and wondered what those sinful herbs
would feel like....
She lightly touched her pinky against the dark, mysterious stain.
It felt warm, perhaps, but nothing more. Emboldened, she pressed
down the tip of her middle finger.
How naughty! How daring!
After a quick rub, she pulled her hand back. "It doesn't feel
unusual," she noted, disappointed.
The cockney accent of the laborer cut through her reverie. "'At's
not how yer s'posed ter rub it, yer ladyship," the young man
sneered. "If yer wants to feel it, yeh'd best drop yer britches
and give it a right proper rub, tight against yer nookie."
Tracy's jaw dropped. Was that CREATURE actually SPEAKING...to HER?
The audacity!
"I NEVER!" she said, her voice bristling with outrage. "Miss
Foster, who is this...this...." Tracy, for all her eloquence,
strained to find the proper word to describe the smiling
Neanderthal hulking before her.
"I'm sorry, Your Honor," Lucy replied. "John does our manual
labor and repairs. He's handy to have around, but he's common,
quite unaccustomed to dealing with ladies of your sort."
"True 'nuff," John sneered. "If Ah wuz dealing wiv yeh, Ah'd
buckle yeh down over this 'ere pony, with yer tight little arse
raised nice and 'igh so's Miss Foster 'ere could give yer
pampered bare bum a right toastin'!"
"That's quite enough, John," Lucy said. "Judge Smith is a lady
and not used to that sort of talk."
"Judge Tracy Smith!" John said, smiling broadly. "Ah didn't
reck-ag-nise yeh. Yer ladyship come down t' zoo, have yeh, t'
gawk? Ha! 'Member me? Ah'm John, Ah am, from t' courthouse."
Tracy's eyes widened as she recalled where she had seen him before
-- the previous summer, during the courthouse renovation. He had
been one of the workmen on the job, and Tracy and some of the other
female justices amused themselves during lunch hours by picnicking
outside and watching the shirtless brutes sweat and strain in the
broiling sun.
Tracy had the added advantage of having the windows of her chambers
located directly over the area where the men showered. She found
that, when she peeked out through her blinds, she could see the
handsome, well-built men showering in all their muscular glory.
It was all good fun, at least until that thug John spotted her
watching through the blinds. He had seemed quite embarrassed and
had actually tried to cover his enormous naked "thing," as Tracy,
feeling like a Roman patrician looking at a naked male slave,
smiled down at him.
Tracy had enjoyed humiliating John, but she knew it could go no
further. If John told anyone that she had been spying on him, it
might cause her some degree of embarrassment.
So she had launched a preemptive strike. She'd had John sacked,
without references, and his wages stopped immediately, even for
the days he had already worked. She'd accused him of "leering"
at her when she entered the courts building, a cheekiness that
proved that he had clearly forgotten his place. That it had
been Tracy who had been doing the actual leering hardly mattered.
Now, if John did say anything about Tracy's peeping, it would
look like an act of revenge -- and would most likely result in
a lengthy jail sentence for the young laborer.
After all, Tracy Smith was a proper, respectable young lady.
Now John was standing before her once again. Only now the impudent
beast was smirking.
"That will be all, John," Lucy Foster commanded.
"Ah's got work t' do, anyhow," John said, giving Tracy one last
leer before he left.
"Perhaps we should go," Lucy suggested. "John needs to get the
cameras positioned and finish setting up."
"I'd like to examine this stain a bit more," Tracy said.
"No, we mustn't dawdle. Your uniform is waiting, and I have a
schedule to keep. This was merely a tour. If you'd like, I can
arrange another visit, when you can give the straps a realistic
stress test, and get a real flavor for the gag, and give that
stain a thorough rubbing."
"Oh, yes! I'd like that very much!" Tracy replied with enthusiasm.
"Believe me," Lucy said, once again treating Tracy to an enigmatic,
inscrutable smile, "it will be my pleasure."
******************************
Part 3: TRACY'S PROCESSING
Lucy Foster led Tracy though the prison's endless maze of
stairwells and tunnels. As they walked Lucy's eagle eye
spied a young woman in a reformatory uniform at the end of
a side hallway.
"Do you have somewhere to be?" Lucy barked, in a voice so shrill
and sharp that Tracy actually stepped back.
"Yes, ma'am," the girl replied meekly. "I have a pass."
"Show it to me. Now."
Tracy watched as the girl obediently scurried forward. She was
trying not to run in front of a matron, but she was also trying
to show her pass as quickly as possible.
"It's a pass for the auditorium's holding cell," the young inmate
explained as she handed it to Lucy. "A man I once knew is visiting
tonight. I had refused to date him, and, after I was sent here, he
asked the warden if he could witness one of my punishments...in
exchange for an honorarium. So the warden tallied up my demerits
and scheduled me for punishment night."
"Excellent," Lucy said, examined the pass. "I'm sure that it will
be a first-rate lesson for you, and that the man you scorned will
enjoy seeing you put in your proper place."
"Yes, ma'am," the inmate said, staring at her shoes. "I certainly
hope he does, ma'am."
"Well, if you have some place to be, I suggest you get there."
"Yes, ma'am," the girl said.
Tracy watched as the cowed inmate scampered down the hall and
rounded the corner. As soon as she was out of earshot, Tracy
turned to Miss Foster. "Mousey little thing", she sneered.
"She couldn't even look at me. Still, it's good to finally
meet a member of the lower class who knows her place."
Lucy ignored the subtle jab. "They LEARN their place. Is Your
Honor familiar with the case of Miss Wendy Hills?"
"The CEO who was convicted of insider trading?" Tracy was puzzled
for a moment, and then she looked at Lucy in shock. "You're not
telling me that...."
Lucy resumed walking down the hall, Tracy in tow. "Yes, that was
Wendy. She has spent the last several months here learning respect
for her betters. By the time she leaves, she'll be a changed
woman, and no bother to anyone."
Tracy remembered seeing Wendy in front of the courts, surrounded by
her army of lawyers. She had been the epitome of independence,
intelligence, and self-confidence. In fact, if she had been from
a proper family, Tracy might have invited her to join one of her
clubs.
The theft had actually been perpetrated by one of Tracy's friends,
who had served as chairman of the board. But Wendy had allowed it
to happen, and, when the house of cards fell, she had been held
responsible.
Although her case was, in some abstract sense, a tad unfortunate,
Tracy regarded Miss Hills with little sympathy. She was, after
all, common, and her promotion had been based not on breeding, but
on mere ability. It was not unusual for upstarts like Wendy Hills
to be punished for the crimes of their betters; such risks were the
price of admission to the elite. "Little girls who don't want to
get burned shouldn't play close to the fire," Tracy reasoned smugly.
"How long is her sentence?" Tracy asked.
"I'm afraid it's become quite indeterminate. The judge has spoken
with the man who paid to witness her whipping about the possibility
of paroling her to his custody. She would work on his estate as a
maid, with the understanding that, if she displeased him, she would
be returned to the reformatory, and her sentence would start anew."
"Ah...what an delightful arrangement," Tracy chuckled. "I imagine
that will keep the little miss on her toes. Would it be possible
for me to see her file?"
Lucy unlocked a door labeled "RECEPTION."
"Let's concentrate on your file, shall we?" she said, ushering
Tracy inside.
The term "reception" seemed incongruous, for the room itself was
barren and industrial, with an unfinished ceiling and a cold
concrete floor. There was an open doorway, through which could
be seen a gritty looking gang shower with several brass
wall-nozzles.
Lucy sat down at a large desk against the rear wall and began
furiously typing into her computer.
Tracy looked around. There was nowhere for her to sit. She
briefly considered sitting on top of Lucy's desk, but there
was something about this place that suggested that simply wasn't
done. So she stood over by a large cabinet, rather like an
armoire, with a full length mirror hanging on the door. Tracy
smiled as she saw her image in the mirror.
She preened. Her expensive wool suit and tasteful jewelry made
her look every bit the in-charge professional. She thought back
to the prisoner in the hallway...a wretched, timid creature,
terrified to look up, fearful of giving offense, afraid of her
own shadow. As she looked at the smart young professional in the
mirror, Tracy realized the fatal flaw in her plan.
"This is a dumb idea. Even with some ridiculous reformatory
uniform on, no one would ever believe I'm actually a prisoner.
Look at me! I look like I should be in Parliament, not the
penitentiary!"
Tracy checked her Rolex as Lucy continued to type, type, type.
"Lucy, what on earth are you doing? Why can't I just get my
uniform?"
"In this room, young women always address me as Miss Foster," Lucy
replied crisply. "I don't respond to sentences that don't contain
those words, or "ma'am."
Tracy rolled her eyes. Miss Foster indeed! She waited for her
answer.
Type, type, type.
Tracy didn't want to play Lucy's stupid prisoner game, but she
didn't want to stand in a concrete pillbox all day either.
"MISS Foster," Tracy said, her voice bristling with sarcasm, "why
won't you give me my uniform?"
Lucy didn't bother to look up. "The uniforms aren't 'given,'
they're 'issued,'" she explained. In order to get one from
requisitions, I had to enter your information into the computer."
"You put my name into the computer?" Tracy said, shocked.
Lucy said nothing. Type, type, type.
"Did you put my name into the computer, ma'am?" Tracy said,
sarcastically feigning the voice of a humble prisoner.
"No, of course not. You can't sentence a judge to a woman's
reformatory. I created an intake file for your rebellious and
delinquent niece, Stacy Smith."
"You're joking!" Tracy said. "No one will believe...."
Lucy cut her short. "The key to bureaucracy is consistency. Your
forms should sail right through the system with no trouble. As
long as there are no red flags, and nothing missing, no one will
even look at them. Perfection and consistency are key. I have to
process you exactly as I would any other inmate, so that your
record doesn't get flagged and sent to the warden or back to the
court. That wouldn't do at all. Now take off that expensive
jacket and those pearls, and stand against the far wall."
Tracy sighed, but dutifully put down her purse, and laid her jacket
and pearls next to them on Lucy's desk. She walked over to the far
wall. The concrete block was whitewashed and marked off in inches
and centimeters. As Tracy turned back to Lucy for an explanation,
she was blinded by a sudden FLASH!
Lucy had taken her mug shot.
"Turn left," Lucy commanded.
"Is this really necessary, MISS Foster?"
"Yes," Lucy said crisply. "Turn left."
Tracy turned left. FLASH!
"Turn right." FLASH!
Lucy walked back to the computer and resumed typing, typing,
typing.
"I can't be an inmate. When they do a headcount, won't they see
I'm missing, ma'am?"
"An e-mail request will go to the warden today, and he'll double
click on it. As long as there are no missing pieces, and we
process you perfectly -- and I do mean PERFECTLY -- he'll approve
it without looking. After your processing is finished, I'll delete
you out of the system, before they run the roster for a headcount.
I'll then destroy your paper file. It will be like you were never
here."
"But there will be some record of the deletion," Tracy said. She
watched the laser printer whirl to life.
"No. Same day entries or deletions are wiped off the system as
mistakes, with no audit trail. After ten years I know the cracks
in the system. Don't worry, Tracy. As far the system is
concerned, you'll be just another inmate."
Tracy felt a strange chill, but listened intently as Lucy
continued.
"Even if they spot your uniform number at the party and try to
trace it, they won't find anything. It will be chalked up as a
computer error. I'll keep my job, and you'll keep a genuine
reformatory uniform."
Tracy watched her rap sheet roll out of the printer. Lucy handed
it over with a smile, "The crime was my idea. I thought you might
have a giggle with it someday, showing it to lawyer friends."
Tracy looked at her mug shot photos. Was that girl really her?
Taking off her designer jacket and pearls had been a good idea.
Her white silk blouse was expensive, but not obviously so, at
least not against the plain white wall. That, and Tracy's
deer-in-the-headlights expression, made it look like a real mug
shot.
Courtesy of the computer and Lucy's sense of humor, "Stacy Smith"
now had both a prison number and a crime:
NAME: SMITH, STACY
NUMBER: 3838-112207-7583
CHARGE: 734704-84-1
Trespassing on Reformatory Grounds w/ Mischievous Intent
SENTENCE: 3 months
"Gosh, look at that photograph. I look just like a prisoner! That
look on my face! I know it's just a joke, but...."
Her reflection was cut short as Lucy jerked the rap sheet out of
her hand and put it in a file. "Stand at position one," she said
crisply.
Tracy looked round the room in confusion as Lucy used her keys to
open up the large wooden cabinet along the left wall. It was only
when Tracy glanced down that she saw the yellow line on the floor
and the painted "stalls" where the new prisoners were supposed to
stand.
She felt her pulse quicken. She steeled herself and stood behind
the large yellow "1" on the floor. Meanwhile, Lucy was removing
a cheap plastic crate from the big cabinet. She crated Tracy's
pearls, purse, and jacket, and then she peeled a white label off
Tracy's processing form, and stuck it to the side the crate.
Tracy felt a tiny shiver when she saw her computer-generated alias
and prisoner number on her processing crate. "So this is what it's
like to be processed. All those years of listening to your
grandfather, and your father, and hanging around the courts, you
always wondered. Now you know."
Lucy put the crate on the floor, where it fit perfectly into a
painted blue square inside Tracy's "processing" stall. "I'm going
to go get your uniform. Take everything off -- watch, jewelry,
every stitch, and put it in the box. Then take a shower."
Tracy warily eyed the stark, exposed shower room. "A SHOWER? You
must be joking!"
"I'll explain later," Lucy replied tartly.
"Is there somewhere to change?" Tracy asked, looking around the
room warily.
Lucy stared back at her.
"Is there somewhere to change, Miss Foster?" Tracy repeated.
"This isn't Harrod's, dear. Everything in the box. Now."
Tracy watched Lucy leave the room, and listened to her double lock
the door behind her.
As she unbuttoned her blouse, Tracy looked at the other processing
stalls painted on the floor.
"So this is what a strip search feels like," she thought. At least
I'm alone. I can't imagine what it would be like to have to strip
off with other inmates and a bunch of leering guards watching."
She stripped down to the buff, taking care to put her pearls,
diamond earrings, and gold watch back into her purse before
snapping the plastic lid onto the crate. Naked, she stood
barefoot on the cold concrete floor and stared down at the
crate with her prisoner number.
"Everything I own here is in that crate. If someone stole it, I'd
be starkers in a woman's reformatory, without any money or ID.
When they found the processing forms on the desk, they'd think I
was Stacy Smith. They might even march me out of here, and buckle
me down over the horse, and toast my bare fanny...."
She shivered, overcome by the enormity of the thought. Taking no
chances, she placed the precious crate with her clothes on top of
the desk, so she could watch it from the shower.
Although alone, she felt quite naked and vulnerable, and she
covered herself with her hands as she scampered into the shower.
She attempted to warm herself with the tepid water. Although she
knew she shouldn't be doing it, Tracy's hand strayed to her crotch.
She quickly lost herself in pleasure, so much so that she didn't
notice the tiny camera in the corner of the shower stall.
Her first visit to prison was turning out to be dreadfully wicked
and exciting, and soon she was quivering through one of the most
shattering orgasms of her life.
After she finished, she was briefly concerned that Lucy might smell
her excitement, but the coarse, powerful delousing soap overwhelmed
all other scents.
She was still in the shower when Lucy returned, carrying a worn,
orange, institutional towel. Tracy was acutely conscious of being
buck naked in front of a her social inferior, but Lucy scarcely
seemed to notice, concentrating again on the processing routine --
stapling and signing the various forms that flew out of the printer.
"I still don't see why a shower was necessary, MISS Foster."
"This is a reformatory, dear, and you're an inmate," Lucy replied
casually, as if explaining the obvious. "That gives the men folk
the right to look between your legs or between your bottom cheeks.
I thought you might want to freshen up."
Tracy felt a sudden flush. She wasn't a prisoner, she was simply
trying on a uniform. No one was going to be looking...down there.
An outrageous idea!
The thought of being ordered to bend and spread made her all the
more conscious of the fact that she was naked while Lucy was
looking very officious in her guard's uniform.
Tracy wanted to hurry, yet for no particular reason decided to run
a soapy hand between her legs and into her bottom crack, and she
gave herself a good scrubbing with the coarse delousing soap...and
an extremely thorough rinse. The disinfectant soap burned,
but...well, no sense taking chances.
Rather than leaving the towel on one of the hooks, Lucy had
thoughtlessly left it on the desk, and poor Tracy was forced
to run naked across the shower room to get it. Tracy again
covered herself with her hands, more or less, but was briefly
forced to flash as she reached for her towel.
Since she needed the towel to preserve her modesty, Tracy was
unable to dry herself and stood shivering before the desk nearly
naked, barefoot, on the frigid concrete floor.
"Position one!" Lucy snapped, not bothering to look up from her
typing.
Tracy sighed. Lucy was taking the whole "prisoner" thing WAY too
seriously, obviously enjoying putting her through her paces. But
Tracy knew she was near the end, and, seeing as how she was
standing in a woman's prison wrapped in nothing but a towel,
decided not to push it. After all, Tracy could deal with Lucy
tomorrow, when she was safely back in the office. Perhaps a
pay cut and a transfer to John o'Groats....
But that was tomorrow. Tracy dutifully scurried across the icy
floor and stood behind the yellow line, waiting for Lucy to finish
her "processing."
"Is that my uniform, Miss Foster?" Tracy asked, anxiously pointing
to the box Lucy had placed on the table.
"Yes, it is. Here, let me make some room, so I can lay it out."
She casually picked up the precious crate holding Tracy's clothes.
"Wait! Tracy said. "What are you doing...ma'am?"
"Relax, Princess, I'm just going to put it on the shelf," Lucy
chuckled.
Tracy watched closely as Lucy placed the box back onto the shelf in
the cabinet. "There! It's only three feet away. Is that close
enough for you?" Lucy said, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
"This hasn't been a lovely experience for me," Tracy snapped back.
"Let's just get this over with, shall we, Miss Foster?"
Lucy smiled. "Congratulations, #3838-112207-7583. You're now an
inmate of Lakewood Reformatory for Women."
***********************************
Part 4: A MINOR MISHAP
Lucy handed Tracy her folder. "Take a look while you can. In a
few minutes the warden will check his e-mail and approve you,
after which I can delete your records and destroy this file."
Tracy felt a rush of adrenaline as she paged through her dossier.
The file contained a letter from her "Aunt" Tracy, requesting that
Stacy's confinement be handled discreetly, but insisting that her
niece be accorded no special treatment. It had her mug shot page,
of course, but also her dorm assignment, work details, and her
re-education assignments.
As part of her "rehabilitation," the reformatory would train Tracy
in a low-skilled, poorly paying position that she would assume when
paroled. To Tracy's dismay she was now a student in "Domestic
Service 101," "Field and Farm Work 105," "Proper Cleaning
Techniques," and the alarmingly vague "How to Please Your Master
or Mistress." Tracy shuddered as she imagined the last course
being taught by the sexist Judge Chambers.
But it was the next page that truly shocked her. It was a
"Disciplinary Request Form" with her name on top. "Stacy"
Smith had been scheduled for punishment night.
"I'm scheduled to be spanked! On stage! In two hours!" Tracy
shrilled. "Are you mad?"
Lucy took back the folder and examined the report casually, "Oh,
this!" she said, dismissing Tracy's alarm with a casual chuckle.
"The system generates these automatically. All the new girls get
spanked as part of their reception. It's just routine."
Tracy was not appeased. "Routine?" she shouted. "Did you see
those horses? That gag? Those CAMERAS? Are you quite insane?"
"As I recall, Judge Smith, you've been quite the proponent of our
disciplinary practices over the years," Lucy countered crisply.
"I believe you referred to the whippings as 'moral and wholesome
correction.' I'm dismayed to see your support waver because of a
trivial paperwork error."
"TRIVIAL! They're going to whip me! Tonight!"
"Oh, don't be so dramatic. We hardly ever use the whip these days.
Usually it's the strap...or the cane."
"Give me my clothes!" Tracy shouted. "Now!"
Lucy crossed to the desk and removed a prison uniform from the box.
"When I was getting your uniform, they called me in for one of
their infernal bloody quality meetings, and I need to get back to
it. You can get dressed now, or you can try on your uniform first.
The mirror is on the back of the cabinet door. I'll duck out of
the meeting as soon as I can and escort you out of here. Right?"
Tracy was cold, humiliated, and miserable, but she knew she would
soon be dressed in her elegant street clothes, and her ordeal would
be over. She nodded, and Lucy headed off. "I'll be back soon,"
Lucy said as she went through the door. "Stay put and don't get
into any mischief."
Tracy frowned at Lucy's snotty tone, recalling that "trespassing"
and "mischief" were the supposed reasons for her incarceration.
Then she heard the lock on the door slide into place.
Tracy's bare toes curled against the cold concrete floor. She was
freezing, and it was time to get dressed. She reached for her
processing crate to retrieve her expensive, silken underwear...and
then stopped. She hesitated, looking at the prison uniform that
Lucy had so thoughtfully laid out on the desk -- crop-top, tube
socks, cheap sneakers, denim skirt, stretch briefs.
Tracy knew she should put on her street clothes, but the uniform
called to her like catnip. Feeling devilishly impish, she went
to the desk for a better look.
"Would I really look like a prison inmate dressed in this?" she
wondered. "I can't imagine looking like that other girl -- she
was such a little mouse. Still, I never would have believed my
mug shot until I saw it in the folder...."
Tracy knew she should get dressed. Lucy had given her the option
of putting on her street clothes now. She could always try the
uniform on later, in the safety of her mansion, with her bedroom
door locked, after the servants had gone to sleep.
She knew she shouldn't. But there was something deliciously
naughty about putting on the uniform now, in the reformatory,
with her "bad girl" processing folder sitting on the desk.
It was wrong; it was dumb. But it gave her a wonderful tingle
between her thighs.
Tracy smiled self-consciously and reached for the prison issue
underpants. They were plain, cheap, and utilitarian, very
different from the expensive, lacy silk panties that she had
willingly surrendered to her processing box only a few minutes
before.
"I'd better hurry," she thought, snapping the tight, institutional
knickers up over her hips. "After all, I'm a prisoner now, and
Miss Foster has a schedule to keep!"
******************************
Tracy stared at her reflection in amazement. Where had she gone?
The criminal staring back at her, mouth agape, looked nothing like
the self-confident jurist who had entered that room.
"I can't believe it! This skirt is so short, and this stupid
top! I look like...like...like some sort of criminal!"
Indeed she did. The thin shirt molded to her, rather like a sports
bra. And, as if the revealing outfit wasn't humiliating enough,
the numbers across the front and the lettering on the back labeled
her a CONVICT.
Tracy was educated, powerful, and aristocratic, and she had thought
that the outfit would merely highlight her daring and natural
sexiness while leaving her aura of class and sophistication intact.
She had just assumed that her breeding would shine through. But
the woman who stared back at her was not a judge in a costume; she
was a convict, plain and simple. Or, to be more precise, she
looked like some male fantasy of a convict in a prison run by
HOOTERS.
She examined herself in the cabinet mirror, from every possible
angle, and there was no doubt about it. Tracy Smith, late of
Her Majesty's judiciary, was nowhere to be found. Stacy Smith,
reformatory delinquent, had taken her place.
Tracy realized that her costume idea had been a foolish whim. She
could never go to a party -- or anywhere -- dressed this way. She
stared at herself in the mirror...but Stacy looked back.
"I don't look like a judge anymore," she thought wistfully. "I
look like a hapless little bimbo who needs a good hiding. If a
stranger walked through that door, he'd take down my drawers,
search me, spank me, and heaven knows what else. And there
wouldn't be a thing I could do to stop him."
The realization that a stranger might enter the room at any moment
shocked her back to reality. She took one last, lingering look at
Stacy, her alter ego.
And Stacy smiled back at her.
It had been fun, but now the thrilling masquerade would have to
come to an end. Tracy shrugged and pulled on the door to the
cabinet that held her stylish clothes.
It was locked.
Her heart skipped a beat as she realized what had happened. The
mirror was on the back of the cabinet door, and when "Stacy" had
closed the door to admire herself, the spring lock had snapped
into place. Stacy, stupid little airhead that she was, had
accidentally locked up Judge Tracy's clothes!
She pulled on the handle again, but the door held fast. She
pounded at the lock. She searched the desk and tried to pry
open the cabinet door with a pen, a pencil, and a plastic ruler.
Each item broke.
After 15 minutes of pounding, prying, and swearing, Tracy finally
gave up. She was an ingenious girl, but one of her bloody
forebears (who had doubtlessly selected the cabinet precisely
so naughty little minxes couldn't break into it) had bested her.
Tracy looked at Stacy in the mirror.
"Now I've done it! Now I'm just a stupid bimbo who lost her purse
and her clothes. Now I'll have to wear whatever clothes they give
me -- when they give me clothes at all!
As she looked at "Stacy," Tracy felt her self-confidence ebb.
Judge Tracy held the keys of power. Stacy couldn't even unlock
a cabinet.
Tracy, perhaps, would have kept trying, but Stacy felt drained.
She briefly considered sitting in the chair, or on the desk, but
knew that, in her present state, that would be a no-no. So inmate
#3838-112207-7583 stood in her processing "stall" and waited
anxiously for Lucy...uh...Miss Foster to return.
The nervous, frustrated inmate stared up at the clock on the wall.
Punishment night started in sixty minutes!
She tapped her feet. She stared at the clock. She waited. She
waited some more.
The ticking clock throbbed in her head.
Punishment night started in fifty five minutes.
"This is what prison is like. Waiting in locked rooms for your
punishment to begin. You wanted to be a prisoner, to know what
it's like. Now you know."
Tracy dispelled the thought. Lucy would be back soon, and the
nightmare would be over. She would go home and take a scented
bath to wash off the stink of her delousing.
Her head snapped up at the sound of a key turning. She smiled in
anticipation and relief, but her smile faded as the door opened.
It wasn't Lucy, but a man, a stranger! He was bald and portly,
with large glasses that hid his beady eyes. He wore a shabby,
dated, polyester suit, and his manner was that of a spiteful
bureaucrat, eager to torment anyone unlucky enough to fall into
his grasp.
"I'm Warden Nerdly," he said. "You must be the new inmate I just
got that e-mail about."
Tracy stared at him, her mouth agape. He crossed the room and
casually browsed through her file.
"Stacy Smith. Hmmm, the niece of Judge Smith. Yes, I can
definitely see the family resemblance."
Tracy knew it was now or never. Although her heart was beating
like hummingbird wings, she attempted to sound calm. "I'm not
Stacy Smith. I'm actually Judge Tracy Smith. My identification
is inside this cabinet."
"And your picture is here, in this processing folder," Warden
Nerdly said, his voice oozing contempt. "Try again."
"Open the cabinet, and I'll show you my identification," Tracy
said, struggling to sound calm. "Or call Lucy Foster. She'll
vouch for me."
"Unfortunately, Miss Foster is the only one who has a key to this
cabinet. And she is in a very important meeting, a meeting I have
no intention of interrupting. Try again."
"You're making a terrible mistake. You have to get Lucy. You have
to...."
His nasal voice cut her short. "I'm warden of this institution,
young lady, and you are a convicted criminal. I don't HAVE to do
anything."
Tracy fell silent as Nerdly continued scanning her file. "I met
your aunt once, at a party. Arrogant swell. I tried to introduce
myself. I even toyed with the idea of asking her to dinner. She
looked at me like I was some sort of bloody bug."
Tracy wracked her brain, straining to remember the details of that
party, so that she could prove she was Tracy. Nothing came. There
had been so many parties...and so many losers like Nerdly that she
had sneeringly shot down....
"Let's be reasonable. My name is Tracy Smith, and I'm a judge. If
you talk with me for a moment, it will be obvious."
"Fine, 'Your Honor.' I'll play along. We have a few minutes until
your punishment starts. Assuming for the moment you are a lawyer,
I assume you have a passing familiarity with the Socratic Method?"
Tracy nodded, and Nerdly continued.
"In the Socratic method, one person asks questions, and the other
answers. Given that I'm the one attempting to solicit the truth,
I think you'd agree that I should do the asking?"
"Yes," Tracy replied.
"Very well. I expect yes or no answers, or the game is over.
Understood?"
Tracy, confident in her ability to undergo questioning, readily
agreed. "Yes."
"Then let us begin. Would you agree that as warden of this
institution, it is my job -- no, it is my solemn duty -- to
determine the punishments of the young ladies placed in my charge?"
"Of course," Tracy replied.
"Of course, what?" he said sharply.
Tracy had to think a moment before realizing her error. "Of
course, sir," she replied.
"Would you further agree that, when a matter is in dispute, the
resolution should be determined by the preponderance of the
evidence?"
"Yes, sir," Tracy replied.
"Do you further concur with the 'reasonable man' standard -- that
decisions should be based on what a reasonable man might be
expected to believe?"
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent. Now we have established the framework for my
ruling. Do you think a reasonable man, seeing you in this
reformatory, dressed as you are, would logically infer that
you were an inmate of this institution?"
"Yes, but...."
The warden cut her short. "Yes, or no?" he demanded.
"Yes, sir."
"Do you possess any identification -- anything at all -- that
proves you are Judge Smith?"
"No, sir," Tracy admitted reluctantly. "But, in the cabinet...."
"If you were judging a case, 'Your Honor,' and the overwhelming
physical evidence, such as your clothing, your mug shots, and
your processing folder -- not to mention your presence here --
pointed to guilt, and the accused could not present a single scrap
of evidence on her behalf, would you accept her word above all
else?"
"It depends. I would...."
"The correct answer is 'no,' Stacy. Your inability to comprehend
a Socratic argument and to follow the simple rules confirms beyond
a reasonable doubt that you are not a judge, but rather a naughty
delinquent deserving of strict punishment."
Tracy tried to speak, but could not. Perhaps it was her surprise
at being bested by Nerdly, or perhaps it was her new persona as
Stacy. To her amazement, the former president of the debating
society of the Oxford Union, the youngest partner ever at her firm,
and the most eloquent of all the junior justices, could not form a
sentence.
Tracy strained to argue, but no words came. Instead, she stood
speechless before the warden, pigeon-toed, nervously biting her
lip as she awaited his verdict.
The warden brought the desk chair to the center of the room and
sat down.
"Tracy, come here, and stand to my right."
Tracy, her throat dry and her mind a-whirl, reluctantly shuffled
over to the spot to which she had been directed.
She pulled back as Warden Nerdly began to undo the snaps on the
side of her denim skirt.
Nerdly's response was calm, but firm. "Stacy, pretending to be
your aunt was a foolish, little girl stunt, and I plan to treat
you as I would an errant child. If you compound the offense, I
will give you a much more severe, reformatory-style punishment.
Do you understand?"
Tracy nodded. "Y-y-yes, sir."
"Then come here."
Tracy resumed her position, and did not resist while the warden
finished unsnapping her skirt and tossed it aside. She gasped
as he pulled her over his knee and shifted her into position so
that her toes were barely grazing the floor on one side and her
nose nearly so on the other.
******************************
Part 5: PUNISHMENT NIGHT
Tracy shivered as Warden Nerdly adjusted her position over his lap
until her juicy bottom was in just the right place.
"I'm going to be SPANKED! I'm going to be spanked like some snotty
brat caught with her hand in the cookie jar. He thinks I'm Stacy.
Dirty old bugger! I wager he's enjoying this."
As if on cue, Nerdly squeezed Tracy's buttocks through her tight
panties. "Well, such a pert little arse. So thoughtful of Judge
Tracy to provide me with such a handsome niece to discipline. I'll
have to send her a card...."
SPANK! SPANK! SPANK!
"I can't believe how much this STINGS!" Tracy thought, squirming
her way through her first-ever spanking. "Ow! Ow! Oh, god!
I've...ow!...fantasized, but...ow!...I never imagined it would
be like this!"
SPANK! SPANK! SPANK! SPANK!
"So you like to pretend to be someone else, do you?" Nerdly
sneered. "What's next, dress up games? This is what happens
to little girls who pretend to be other people!"
Tears welled in Tracy's eyes as another volley of spanks rained
down, her mind (and bottom) flinching with the irony. "I'm being
spanked for pretending to be someone else. I WAS pretending to be
someone else, I guess.... Oww! Oww! Only.... OWWW!"
"What's your name?" Nerdly said, punctuating his question with a
flurry of spanks.
"Ouch! Ouch! Tracy...I mean...ow!...Stacy Smith, sir!"
"And why are you here, Stacy?" Spank! Spank!
"Ouch! Because I wanted a...I mean.... Ouch! Aww! Not so hard!
Please! Because Lucy caught me trespassing...and called my aunt.
Oww!"
"Good girl. Now lift up your hips."
So far the spanking had been over the seat of her tight white
panties, which was bad enough. Tracy had read enough spanking
stories on the Web to know what that ominous command meant.
Tracy knew, but, like the well-spanked brat she now was, she whined
"Why?" anyway.
Warden Nerdly responded with a series of exrra-hard spanks.
"Because I bloody well said so!" he snapped.
Tracy shifted her weight to her toes and fingers, and obediently
lifted her shapely bottom in the air. When she felt Nerdly's fat
fingers grubbing around in the waistband of her knickers, she
broke down and cried, humiliated beyond words. Not even the shock
of seeing herself dressed as a convict had prepared her for the
helplessness and shame of a bare bottom spanking.
"It's really happening. He's taking down my knickers. He's going
to spank my naked fanny, and there isn't a thing I can do about
it."
The panties were tight, which gave Warden Nerdly an excuse to run
his fingers all over Tracy's shapely bottom and poke a probing
finger into various cracks and crevices, under the guise of easing
her out of the tight garment. Nerdly, who was a connoisseur in
such matters, vowed to use Tracy's punishment to give her sexy
arse the attention it deserved.
Having manoeuvred her underpants down her legs and off, the warden
returned to the primary matter. "Ready, Stacy?"
"Yes, sir," Tracy replied meekly.
SPANK! SPANK! SPANK!
On the bare skin, the slaps hurt more than ever, and Tracy began to
kick her legs.
"Close your legs, you little tart!" Nerdly commanded. SPANK!
SPANK! "This isn't a peep show!"
Tracy was well aware of what he was seeing, and the thought made
her sick. She clenched her thighs in a desperate attempt to
maintain some shred of her modesty, but the heat in her bottom
quickly overwhelmed her fragile will, and once again she began
kicking....
"Do you promise to be a good girl, Stacy?" SPANK!
"Yes, sir!"
"If I stop, do you promise to cease this nonsense about being
someone else?" SPANK! SPANK! SPANK!
"Aw! Ow! Yes, sir! I'm SO sorry I lied!"
"And do you agree not to mention the name of your aunt again, for
the remainder of your term?" SPANK! SPANK! SPANK!
Tracy promised, and at last her spanking ending.
She scrambled off Nerdly's lap and immediately began to rub her
bottom, desperate to extinguish the fire.
Nerdly chuckled at Tracy's humiliating dance, and his beady little
eyes gravitated to her crotch. "Nicely trimmed, I see, but still a
bit more fuzz than I'd like," he said. "We'll shave you bare
tomorrow."
Tracy, humiliated by Nerdly's crude assessment, quickly pulled on
her pants. The tight knickers on her freshly spanked bottom stung,
but not as much as thought of a miserable little bureaucrat like
Nerdly having her shaved.
Nerdly ordered her to turn around. Still sniffling, she did, and,
to her surprise, she felt him cuff her hands behind her back.
"It's off to punishment night, young lady," he said sternly.
"London's finest citizens are waiting for the chance to see you
properly received into this institution, and your performance
tonight better not disappoint."
"Per...performance?" Tracy stuttered. "But you already punished
me!"
"I punished you for the absurdity of claiming to be your aunt. At
punishment night you'll get your proper reception punishment, up on
stage, with your betters watching to ensure justice is done."
"No, wait! You can't! You can't whip me! Not in front of all of
those people!"
"I certainly can, and I most certainly shall. Now, march!" Tracy
winced as he grabbed her by the arm and yanked her out into the
hallway.
It was humiliating to be seen by others in her scanty prison
uniform. As she passed two leering guards, Tracy felt herself
blush crimson, feeling every bit like a prisoner being led
through the streets of Paris in a tumbrel.
But still there was hope. As they trudged down the hallway, a
single thought echoed through Tracy's feverish mind. "Lucy will
be there. She knows I'm not Stacy. She will put a stop to this.
Play along, and the nightmare will be over soon."
But, as the warden led her into the auditorium, Lucy was nowhere
to be seen. Instead, the first person who appeared as Tracy
approached the stage was John.
He stopped and stared, obviously as shocked and surprised to see
her in the scandalously brief reformatory uniform as she had been
to see him pushing the horse into position.
"Bloody 'ell!" John said, his eyes wide. "What's 'is all 'bout,
then? Wots Judge Tracy doin' 'ere? An' dressed like 'at?"
Warden Nerdly smiled and spun Tracy around to display her cuffed
hands. "John, this isn't Judge Tracy. This is her niece, Stacy,
here for her reception discipline."
Baffled, John looked to Tracy for an explanation. But, with the
warden standing there, what could she say? If she repeated the
truth now, the warden wouldn't believe her. In fact, it might
well result in another humiliating session over his knee, with
John watching.
Instead, she bit her lip and fidgeted nervously as the amazed young
man slowly ran his eyes up and down her luscious form. His look of
shock quickly faded, though, and he broke into his familiar leering
smile.
"Well," he cackled as he ogled the blushing, scantily clad judge.
"Stacy, then, is it? Pleezed t' meet yeh, Stacy! Now, 'tis
punishment night, an' yer 'ere for punishment, so Ah guess we'd
best set yeh up wiv t' rest of t' girls then, eh?" He roughly
grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and dragged her towards
the stage.
As Tracy stumbled to her place, the back doors of the auditorium
flew open, and the audience for tonight's "performance" streamed
in. Tracy paid them no mind. Her attention was focused on the
punishment horses, and the two half-naked women who were already
squirming atop their mounts.
The cameras were in place, and Tracy watched the operator test the
reception. The monitor on the left displayed a closeup of the
criminal's face, with her vital statistics superimposed on the
bottom of the screen. The screen on the right showed the rear
view -- a brazen shot of the criminal's bare bottom, strapped
down over the spanking horse.
The women still wore their crop-tops, but their skirts, underpants,
shoes, and socks were arranged in identical neat little piles
immediately in front of their punishment horses. Because of the
monitors and the way the criminals were straddling the horses,
the audience was treated to the onscreen display of a number of
interesting sights. As the operator flipped through the channels
from left to right, Tracy was treated to a series of obscene
closeups.
She recognized the first criminal from the hallway....
Wendy Hills, 32, English. Crimes: Insider Trading, Securities
Manipulation. Sentence: 2 years' hard labor (minimum).
Punishment Tonight: 10 strokes, punishment strap.
Wendy was gagged, of course, but the expression on her face
registered steely determination rather than panic. She was a
veteran of the reformatory and the punishment horse, and Tracy
could tell that she was attempting to control her breathing
and save her strength for the ordeal ahead.
The monitor flipped to the next "guest." The young woman was
pretty, with short dark hair and dark eyes. She had nice white
teeth, which were prominently on display as the bit in her mouth
had forced her face into rather a comical grin. Tracy suspected
that she was anything but happy.
Natalie Porter, 25, American Exchange Student. Crime: Possession
of Marijuana. Sentence: 3 months' hard labor. Punishment Tonight:
Reception, six of the best.
"Six of the best," a boarding school term for six strokes of the
cane, was apparently someone's idea of humor, given that Natalie
was a visiting American student.
Another woman might have been horrified at the images that Tracy
was seeing on stage and screen. But other women lacked Tracy's
breeding, and to her the women's fate was warm and comforting.
After all, the women on stage were nothing like her -- a fact that
their crimes, teary-eyed faces, and obscenely spread legs made
abundantly clear.
Tracy was still confident of rescue. As she approached the steps
leading up to the stage, she felt a familiar wave of moral
indignation.
"These women are all criminals, and they are getting precisely what
they deserve," she thought. "Look at them, up on stage, with their
legs spread wide for everyone to see.... I hope Lucy snaps the
whip and really makes them sing. I'm going to enjoy watching
these little sluts yelp into their gags."
She chuckled softly as she noticed Wendy and Natalie staring
longingly at their clothes, stacked neatly just a few feet
in front of their horses.
"Ah, I'll bet you'd like those knickers about now, wouldn't
you, ladies?" Tracy thought, grinning. "Well, that's too
bad. You're criminals, and everyone is going to get to see
every inch of you, larger than life. Enjoy the breeze!
"I've wanted to watch a punishment whipping for a long time, and
now's my chance. In a few moments, Lucy will be here, and I'll
be free to enjoy the rest of my evening."
Despite her self-confidence, Tracy felt a tiny shiver as she
pressed her foot down onto the first wooden step leading up
to the stage. The wooden planking felt different now, perhaps
because she was wearing prison sneakers instead of her elegant
high heels...or perhaps because she was no longer a respected
jurist on a leisurely inspection tour, but rather a criminal
being led toward a shameful punishment.
As she walked up the steps, she recalled the long tradition of
condemned prisoners walking up the steps of the scaffold. It
was a fine tradition, an English tradition, and the sort of cruel
psychological torture of which she wholeheartedly approved.
But she had a strange and puzzling thought: "I wonder how many
other women have walked up these stairs before me. Gosh, there
must have been thousands of them. And now it's my turn."
John walked Tracy past the horse with the disgusting stain toward
the third punishment horse, which he had dragged onto the stage
only a few hours before. It was identical to the other three in
all material respects...except that this punishment horse had no
rider.
Yet.
Tracy had enjoyed watching John sweat and strain as he moved the
horse into position, but, now that she stood in front of it, she
had a very different feeling.
John released his grip on the back of Tracy's neck and gently
whispered in her ear. "'Ere she is, Yer Honor," he grinned.
"Yer steed awaits!"
Tracy stared at the horse in disbelief.
"That's my punishment horse...the horse I'm scheduled to ride
for...my whipping. Where the devil is Lucy? If she doesn't
get here soon, John will strap me down like I'm some sort of
criminal. She looked down at the camera that was mounted on
the floor. The punishment camera's in position. And, the way
those nasty little sluts have their legs spread, you can see
everything they've got. But I shouldn't worry. I'm still a
judge, in spite of this ridiculous costume, and John knows it.
Surely he'll let me keep my knickers on!"
As if reading her mind, John brazenly stuffed a long finger into
the rear of her skirt and down the waistband of Tracy's knickers,
brushing the crack of her bottom. "Enjoy yer knickers while yeh
can, Yer Honor," he sneered. "Won't be long now!"
Tracy turned to face the audience as John, whistling, unbuckled the
straps and cheerfully prepared Tracy's "steed" for her "ride."
Even now, the equestrian analogy seemed apt to Tracy, as John
handled the straps with the practiced hand of an experienced groom
preparing a harness. Only now it wasn't going to be a horse he'd
be harnessing, but Tracy....
Where the devil was Lucy?
Warden Nerdly mingled near the bar with the illustrious guests.
Tracy recognized most of the people in the auditorium. Some
were friends, others mere acquaintances from her various clubs.
All appeared to be of similar social standing: bluebloods, with
just a smattering of nouveaux riches. Like Tracy herself, they
were all the best people.
No one took notice of her. Those that were looking at the stage
were primarily ogling Natalie's naked bum on the telly.
As John approached her, Tracy spoke, keeping her voice low. "John,
let's be reasonable. You know I'm Judge Tracy Smith. In a few
minutes, the other guests will be coming up on stage to review the
prisoners. I know these people. When I speak with them, it will
become obvious who I am. "If you help me and do the right thing,
you will be rewarded handsomely. If you defy me, I will see you
in prison. It is time to end this charade. Now."
John considered the matter. "Eggcellent point, Yer Honor. Yeh
do know these people, seeing as how they's all a bunch o' swells,
just like yeh. Why, if yeh 'ad a chance to talk to 'em, Ah'm
sure yeh could get this sorted out right proper. Yer right as
rain...Ah needs t' do somethin'."
Tracy gave John her best smug, superior smile and turned her back
so that he could uncuff her wrists. She had just begun to comment
sagely on the wisdom of submitting to one's betters when she felt
a strange object slip into her open mouth and between her teeth.
A moment later the taste followed -- a horrible, moldy taste that
reminded her of a fouled shoe.
It wasn't until she felt John pull the buckle strap tight across
the back of her head that she realized she was being gagged. She
struggled to resist, but her hands were cuffed, and John was twice
her size.
"Wots 'e matter, yer honor, cat got yer tongue?" John chortled.
"Sorry Ah can't let yeh chatter with yer ladybird friends, but
t' rules sez prisoners are t' be gagged. An' yeh know wot a
stickler Judge Tracy is 'bout rules!"
Tracy's eyes grew wide as John turned her to face the punishment
horse. "'At's right, yer ladyship...hit's time for a 'orsey ride!"
Tracy struggled, but John's meathook-like grasp on the back of her
neck held her firm. He pushed her forward, but their progress was
stopped by the sound of a familiar voice.
"Let her go, John. Release her this instant."
John and Tracy turned to discover Lucy Foster standing there --
apparently arrived at the 11th hour to rescue her. But Tracy's
knees began to quiver when she spotted the wicked and freshly
oiled punishment strap in Lucy's hand.
******************************
Part 6: TRACY'S RESCUE?
"Let her go, John," Lucy repeated in a firm, steady voice.
"The warden ordered me t' buckle 'er down, wiv 'er pretty little
arse in the air."
"I outrank you, John," Lucy said, never raising her voice. "Let me
worry about the warden. Let her go. And get that bloody gag out
of her mouth."
John hesitated, then reluctantly released Tracy's neck and removed
the gag. Tracy sputtered as she tried to spit out the taste,
before turning on John. "I won't forget this, John," she hissed.
"Since you like punishment horses so much, I'm going to give you
a chance to straddle one. I'll see you sucking on things worse
than that gag."
As John beat a hasty retreat, Lucy took his place. "Sorry I'm
late," she said wryly. "The good news is that I'm in charge of
toilet paper on the quality committee."
"I'm thrilled," Tracy deadpanned. "Get me out of these cuffs."
Lucy frowned and instead took Tracy by the arm. "First, let's get
you out of here and back into your clothes. You're skating on
pretty thin ice, young lady."
"Ain't that d' truth," John said.
Tracy and Lucy turned to see John standing behind them, arms
folded. Behind him, Warden Nerdly was walking up the steps
and onto the stage.
"Miss Foster, where are you going? John says you countermanded my
order."
"No, sir," Lucy responded. "Judge Tracy did. She said she wanted
to see her niece right away."
"Judge Tracy is here?" Nerdly asked.
"Yes, sir, she is," Lucy responded. "Seems she's quite close to
her niece and wishes to speak with her alone, now. Then she wants
to talk to you."
"Judge Tracy wants to talk to me?" he said, beaming. "She
mentioned me by name?" Nerdly added, straightening his tie.
"Yes, sir, she did. Of course I imagine she'll be pretty angry if
we leave her standing around much longer. I'd better hurry."
Tracy smiled as she watched as the tyrant who had so cruelly lorded
it over her morph back into his natural state of spinelessness.
"Yes! We mustn't keep Judge Tracy waiting!"
Not needing further approval, Lucy took Tracy by the arm and led
her across the stage toward the safety of the exit. As they passed
the snarling, grimacing John, Tracy smiled and gave her unhappy
tormentor a sly, playful wink.
At the top of the stairs they passed a well-dressed, heavy-set bald
man who was walking up. It wasn't until he was at the top of the
stairs, and he raised his head, that the two women saw his face.
"Tracy?" Judge Chambers said, staring at the scantily clad jurist
in utter amazement.
"No, sir, Your Honor, it's not Tracy. It's her niece, Stacy!"
exclaimed Warden Nerdly, rushing forward with the morning news.
Judge Chambers looked at him as if he were insane. "I've known
everyone in the Smith family for years," he said. "And I don't
recall a niece named 'Stacy.'"
"Black sheep, I'm afraid," Warden Nerdly said. "Sentenced to three
months -- and a good dose of the strap -- for trespassing. Now
Judge Tracy wishes to speak to her alone."
Tracy stood motionless as the confused Judge Chambers walked around
her in a slow circle. He stopped and examined a small cut on
Tracy's hand. "In conference yesterday Judge Tracy got a paper
cut like this one...exactly like this one. Quite the coincidence,
I dare say."
He and John smiled broadly, but Nerdly, not being the sharpest
knife in the drawer, continued to babble on. "She wishes to speak
with her niece alone, sir, and we don't want to keep Judge Tracy
waiting."
"No, we don't," Chambers said. "In fact, I want to make sure she
gets exactly what she has coming to her." He took out his cell
phone. "Here, let me call her."
While he waited for Tracy to answer her phone, John looked gleeful,
Lucy and her prisoner looked grim, and Warden Nerdly looked
puzzled.
"Tracy must have left. How strange." Chambers put the phone back
into his pocket. "Since the senior member of the Smith clan is
unavailable, let us turn our questions to the junior member.
Stacy, is it?"
Tracy stared back at him blankly.
"SPEAK UP, GIRL!" the Judge thundered. "This is no time for
impudence!"
"Yes, sir," Tracy muttered.
Judge Chambers nodded. "Are you Judge Tracy's niece? I ask,
because if you are not, then Judge Tracy has no reason to be
here. She has defied my orders and, by entering this institution,
has engaged in an act of criminal trespass. If she did sneak into
this institution on some mission of mischief, she will be removed
from the bench and placed in this institution, under my care, for
a sentence of my choosing, with her reputation sullied forever."
He glanced at Lucy. "Anyone who aided and abetted her would, of
course, meet a similar fate. I'm sure Judge Tracy wouldn't want
that, would she, Stacy?"
"No, sir," Tracy said quietly.
Nerdly, baffled as ever, intervened. "Sir, if Judge Tracy is
waiting...."
"Judge Tracy is waiting, sir, but not in the way you think. I
spoke with her outside, and she told me that she is going to take
leave of the bench for the next few months and study abroad, as
she does not feel that it is appropriate for her to sit in
judgment of others while her disgraced niece pays the price for
her wanton disrespect of authority."
John smiled like the cat who'd swallowed the canary as he listened
to Chambers explain further. "If Stacy keeps her nose clean, and
serves out her sentence like a good girl, and convinces Warden
Nerdly of her rehabilitation, then she will be released, and Judge
Tracy will make her return (none the worse for being wiser). Since
the alternative is the destruction of her reputation and career,
I'm quite certain that Judge Tracy would agree this is the only
sensible course of action. Don't YOU agree, Stacy?"
Tracy clenched her teeth. She had actually felt herself gag at the
part about convincing Nerdly of her rehabilitation, since she knew
what THAT might entail, but she also knew she had no choice. Judge
Chambers had her cornered.
"Yes, Your Honor," Tracy replied, nearly choking on the words.
"Excellent," Judge Chambers said. "Now, before we begin, I want
you to get on your knees before me, and kiss the tip of Lucy's
strap, and thank me for the...'wholesome and moral correction'
that you are about to receive."
There was an awkward silence as an enraged Tracy stared the smiling
judge down. When she finally answered, her answer was succinct.
"Fuck you," she said quietly.
Warden Nerdly gasped in shock and outrage. John guffawed. Judge
Chambers said nothing, but smiled coldly at the prisoner before
turning to John. "Gag her."
Before she could even turn to run, Tracy once again felt the
putrid, stinking bit slide between her teeth. As the taste
filled her mouth, she fought the urge to retch.
Chambers chuckled as she struggled in vain to spit out the gag.
"Come now! Isn't it an appropriate taste, given your potty mouth?
You clearly have no respect for your betters, so I'll give you
something else to chew on, while you're enjoying the taste of your
gag. Miss Foster, since our little friend Stacy cursed me like a
mutinous sailor, that is how she shall be treated. Add six of the
best to her sentence."
Tracy, muffled by the gag, turned to Lucy, hoping that her friend
would plead for clemency. But Lucy's expression was grim. "Yes,
sir," she said. "Right away, sir."
The humiliating gag reduced Tracy's furious "NO!" to an absurd
gurgle. Tracy struggled, but John grasped her firmly by the
scruff of the neck and dragged her back toward the punishment horse.
Chambers turned to the warden. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I must
phone in to make sure that Judge Tracy's docket is clear and that
her cases are reassigned." Nerdly was a picture of cluelessness
as Chambers abruptly left the room.
Meanwhile, John was effortlessly unsnapping Tracy's skirt and
tossing it to Lucy. Tracy kicked and squirmed, but John threw
her over the horse like a sack of potatoes and quickly used the
waist strap to cinch her into place. Uncuffing her, he knelt down
to buckle her right wrist into the waiting wrist strap. Thinking
quickly, Tracy reached back with her left hand to undo the strap
around her waist. But her hand was intercepted...by Lucy. Tracy
was stunned. She screamed into her gag as she looked at Lucy, the
one person who might yet free her, with frantic eyes.
"It will be all right, Stacy," Lucy said sympathetically. "Bite
down on the gag. That will ease the pain a bit. And try not to
tighten your bottom too much. That will only make it worse."
Advice on how to endure her whipping was not the assistance Tracy
was hoping for, and her struggles intensified as Lucy tried to calm
her. "You shouldn't have peeked at John in the shower, and you
shouldn't have tried to sneak into the reformatory. If you had
been arrested and convicted of those crimes, your sentence would
be the same. This is a just punishment, a 'wholesome and moral
correction,' Your Honor, and it would behoove you to learn from
it."
Tracy was surprised that Lucy knew about her peeping activities,
but that train of thought was interrupted when John yanked her
wrist away from Lucy.
"Yer honor, indeed!" John scoffed. "She's a convict now, an' from
now on, 'at's 'ow she'll be treated." He lifted Tracy's chin, so
he could look her right in the eye. "Yeh knows 'ow we treats
convicts, don' yeh, love? We takes down their britches and whips
their bare arses, wiv all the dandies watchin'."
"John! Remember, she is still a woman of quality!" Lucy countered,
as he moved to secure Tracy's ankles.
"Quality, fah!" John snorted. "Look a' 'er, droolin' into 'er gag,
wiv 'er arse in the air! D' yeh like the taste, love? Get used
to it. Welcome to prison. Yeh'll be takin' worse'n tha' in yer
pretty little mouth, if yeh catch me drift."
Tracy looked behind her and saw that a number of the audience
members were staring at the large television screens. Although
she couldn't see the monitors, she could tell from the smiles and
general murmur that her panty-covered bottom was now on tv. She
tried to reach the buckle with her fingers, but could not. She
pulled at the horse's legs which, of course, were firmly immobile.
Her struggles caused John to laugh out loud, "'At stallion's been
holdin' down strumpets for hunnerds o' years, and they ain't
nuthin' yer goin' to think of that hasn't been tried afore. Relax
an' enjoy the ride -- an' don't forget to...sign in. Ha!"
With John's snide laughter ringing in her ears, Tracy realized to
her horror that her fingernails were now resting in the grooves
left by the scratches of the endless parade of women who had come
before her.
"This wood is like granite.... I can't imagine how those women
managed to make such deep scratches. But...maybe I'm about to
find out. I always felt so powerful, looking down at the women
standing in front of my bench. But John's right. Now I'm going
to experience everything the riders before me did...and feel
everything they felt. And, when my time comes, I'll sign in,
just like all the rest."
Tracy didn't realize that Lucy was taking off her shoes and socks
until she was barefoot. During the process, Lucy made no eye
contact, and she moved with the experienced crispness and
professionalism of an honor guard as she expertly folded up
Tracy's prison skirt and socks and placed them in a carefully
prepared pile just under Tracy's nose.
Tracy regarded Lucy's polished professionalism with a mounting
fear. In a few minutes Lucy would be strapping her bottom, and
Tracy HAD hoped that her friend might go easy on her. But Lucy's
concise and practiced movements suggested that Tracy was going to
being processed the same as all the rest. The wheels were in
motion, and the rules would be followed. "Stacy" would receive
no special favors; she was simply another arse to be punished.
"She's piling up my clothes," Tracy thought. "She's piling up my
clothes, just like those of the other girls! Oh, god! They're
just out of my reach, so I'll have to watch them, as all those
people ogle my backside and laugh while she spanks my fanny!"
Just when Tracy thought it couldn't get worse, it did.
"Almos' done," John chortled. "Time t' strap down yer ankles,
dearie, but first, Ah'll be having these off." Tracy's heart
skipped a beat as John's greedy fingers wormed their way into
her knickers and SNAPPED the waistband of Tracy's prison-issued
underpants against her bare skin.
She strained against her straps. If John took her underpants away,
and strapped her ankles apart, then she would be as exposed as the
whores and strumpets that she had snickered about for years.
John laughed at Tracy's frantic struggle. "What's e' matter,
'fraid t' show yer quim? As Ah recall, her ladyship got quite
a giggle when she eyeballed me sausage. Don't rightly see how
this be any diff'rent."
Tracy shouted into her gag as she felt John once again insert his
fingers into the waistband of her knickers. Her protests were
badly muffled, but Lucy, experienced at listening to women shout
into their gags, was able to decipher her pitiful plea: "No! Not
my knickers! Not my knickers! Please! Not my knickers!"
"They're not your knickers anymore," Lucy observed coldly. "Your
knickers are locked up, and tomorrow I'm going to post them to
long-term storage. Your underpants are prison issue, and Judge
Chambers or I -- or even John here -- will have them off you
whenever we see fit."
Tracy screamed as John, laughing, roughly pulled her underpants
down and off. She tried to protest as he buckled her ankles in
place, spreading her legs obscenely wide.
She shivered as she felt Lucy lightly run her fingertips over her
bare bottom. "This is for your own good, Stacy," she said,
repeating a speech she had given countless times before. "By
baring your bottom we'll be able to make sure that the punishment
is distributed evenly, and that no area is punished too
severely...or too leniently."
She gave Tracy's bared fanny a gentle, maternal pat and then walked
away, leaving her to John's tender mercies. Tracy watched closely
as John carefully folded her knickers and added them to the pile of
clothes on the floor. Instinctively, Tracy reached for her
underpants, but in vain. So close, yet so far.
John laughed at her pathetic attempt to regain her modesty. "Duz
Stacy want 'er cute little underpants? Yeh don't want to spoil t'
show, do yeh, love?"
His words caused her to look up at the mirror in front of her.
To her horror, she saw the audience was smirking and giggling,
sipping drinks, and pointing at her shamefully displayed quim.
"Why don't they help me? Why don't they do something? Don't they
realize who I am? It's...it's indecent!" Then her mind screamed
as she was struck by a sudden, horrifying revelation. "They're not
helping me because they think I'm a whore, same as the rest. They
imagine that I'm no different from the thousands of other little
sluts who've straddled this horse and chewed this gag. I'm just
a common criminal, here to be punished in front an audience of
decent, upstanding citizens. They suppose they have every right
to stare at my bare ass and cunny....
"It's going to happen -- it's really going to happen. I'm going to
be whipped! I'm strapped down and gagged. No matter what I do,
I'm going to be whipped!"
She felt a surge of panic and pulled desperately against her
straps. Her struggles caused her to arch up and raise her arse,
spreading her legs even farther apart. She felt herself flush
as she listened to the snickers behind her.
It was humiliating, but she had to try. She struggled, bouncing
her tight little bottom up and down, to the crowd's delight. A
few members of the audience, who had been milling about, walked
up on stage to get a closer look.
By looking straight ahead into the mirror, Tracy could see the good
citizens standing behind her. With the gag in her mouth she could
not speak, which seemed to make the people her think that she could
not hear, either. Tracy knew many of the audience members, but
they did not recognize her. She eventually realized that they just
did not care what she heard, since she was merely Stacy, a little
tart due for a good thrashing. Since Stacy did not know them, and
her opinion was of no consequence, the male attorneys who
frequented Tracy's courtroom spoke with the honesty of anonymity.
"Damn!" one attorney said, with a chuckle. "Her pose doesn't leave
much to the imagination. I wouldn't mind a piece of that."
"Talk to Judge Chambers; I'm sure it can be arranged," another
replied. "I'm glad they whip them with their arses bare. It's
rather like a preview of coming attractions."
"Quite. These little vixens won't learn respect for their betters
if you coddle them. Besides, she has a cute little caboose, and
it will be fun to watch them paint it fire engine red."
"Stacy's" bottom cheeks flexed in panic, and the two lawyers
chuckled. "It would be even more fun if we were tanning her
Aunt Tracy. I'd love to see that prissy bitch getting her
haughty arse warmed under the strap."
"Well, this one looks a bit like her aunt, which is the next best
thing."
"You're right, she does...in a slutty, desolute sort of way. A bit
stupider-looking, and her ass is fatter...."
Tracy clenched her tight bottom cheeks in protest.
"But you can certainly see the resemblance. Yes, if we can't give
Judge Tracy a paddling, then Stacy will do."
As the cheerful, laughing men walked away, Tracy resumed chewing on
her gag, her panic growing exponentially.
The two men were quickly replaced by her old school chum, Lady
Ceila Cronewell, who appeared behind her along with her silly,
tittering friend, Alice.
"My!" Alice said. "This is like a visit to the doctor's office.
I can see every inch of her privates."
"Whores don't have 'privates,' they have 'publics,' Alice. And
I'm betting this little whore's nook has had more traffic than
Heathrow. Look at her, wiggling her fat butt in the air.
Disgusting hussy! She'll lose some of her ginger when they
brighten her bottom."
"I hadn't expected all these men staring up between the poor
women's legs. It does seem...well, indecent," Alice noted.
"Indecent?" Lady Ceila snorted, with a tone that reminded Tracy of
herself in better days. "These 'poor women' are convicts, and they
are getting precisely what they deserve. There are few things in
life more morally edifying than a wholesome judicial whipping
sternly applied. Yes, her great big ass will dance up a storm,
once they grease it up with some strap oil."
"Yes, but she seems so...so embarrassed," Alice said.
"I suppose these insects may experience some distress, but
certainly not in the way that you or I might experience it,
or in a way worthy of our consideration. You must remember
that they are being whipped for the good of society. Now,
let us return to the audience. I'm sure Miss Foster will
give this one a jolly good thrashing, and I don't want us
to lose our front row seats."
Tracy futilely pulled against her straps as she watched her friends
walk down the steps. She too was concerned about "her seat," but
not in the way that they were.
******************************
Part 7: TRACY'S TANNING
As the audience settled in, Judge Chambers returned and surveyed
the auditorium with a growing sense of alarm. Lucy was standing
on the stage with her well-oiled razor strap in hand. The three
little sluts who had been sentenced for punishment were astride
their mounts, bare bottoms raised high for discipline. All was
as it should be.... But where was Judge Tracy?
Chambers felt a momentary surge of panic. Had she escaped?
He scanned the auditorium again as he walked towards the stage in
search of an explanation. There were three upturned fannies. When
he had left, there had been two girls strapped down.... Could it
be? He put on his spectacles and moved in for a closer look.
Then he realized that the third woman was not some random strumpet,
but Judge Tracy Smith, now playing the role of "Stacy," her own
(fictitious) miscreant niece.
He chuckled in relief at his mistake. He had not recognized Tracy
because he was not looking at her face. Instead, he was looking at
her totally naked (and quite shamefully exposed) backside...and up
between her legs.
"I'm sorry, Your Honor," he murmured. "I didn't recognize you with
your clothes off."
He regarded Tracy's predicament with undisguised relish. Judge
Tracy had been a nuisance to him for years, yet, in spite of his
blithe dismissals, he did regard her with a certain amount of
grudging respect. Judge Tracy was smart, stylish, and
sophisticated.
Now he was surprised -- but delighted -- to see how easily Tracy
had sunk into her new role. The three naughty female bottoms were
indistinguishable. Mounted on the horse, with her legs spread
obscenely wide and her ankles tied down, Tracy's aristocratic pussy
looked no different than those of the countless other nameless
sluts who had graced the stage before her. Even when he looked in
the mirrors and saw their faces, he failed to notice any great
distinction. All three women were anxious and tense, and their
watery eyes nervously darted around the room. All three chewed on
their putrid gags...and drooled. And all three tugged futilely at
the straps that bound their wrists, wincing in frustration as they
gazed longingly at their knickers, only inches away.
Amused, he picked up the cane and flexed it into a half circle.
Seeing him in the mirror, three sets of beautiful, panicked eyes
riveted on the cane.
Capital!
He SWISHED the cane through the air, relishing his sense of power
as three naughty female fannies squirmed and fidgeted in nervous
anticipation.
Another stroke -- SWISH! He nodded as he watched the three bottoms
clench. It was almost as if they could feel the sting. He'd been
uneasy about punishing the respected jurist in front of so many of
her friends, but watching her perform with the others put his mind
at ease. Judge Tracy Smith was now just another cute little arse
in need of discipline...discipline that he was anxious to provide.
He turned to the audience. "My friends, we are ready to begin.
The razor strap has been oiled, and the cane has been properly
flexed. Some so-called "reformers" would argue that corporal
punishment is cruel and unnecessary. Balderdash! The naughty
bottoms behind me are thirsty for strap oil...and long for the
kiss of the cane. They hunger for discipline, and it is our
moral duty to make sure that they get their fill."
The three miscreants wiggled their fannies in dismay as the
audience applauded its approval.
"Look at their impudent backsides! See how they tense and squirm?
Why? Because they are anxious for discipline! Listen to them
whinny into their gags. If they could speak, the walls would be
ringing with their pleas to go first."
This was indeed true. The wait for punishment was agonizing, and,
while the fidgeting female backsides behind him might not have been
anxious for punishment, each was eager to have it over with.
Chambers knew the shameful exposure and endless waiting were as
terrible for the prisoners as they were enjoyable for him, and
he always dragged it out for as long as possible.
"See them wagging their little tails?" he laughed. "Three bitches,
aching for their master's attention. Dogs they are, and like dogs
they shall be treated. If they were capable of understanding the
rules of decent society they would not be here. The whip is what
they understand, and the whip is what they shall receive."
A small drum roll burst forth over the speakers, and he read the
first sentence. "Wendy Hills, convicted of Insider Trading and
Securities Manipulation, and sentenced to a minimum of two years'
hard labor. Also sentenced to 10 strokes of the punishment strap,
for refusing the affections of a man who wished to put her
deceitful tongue to its proper use."
There were knowing chuckles from the audience as the "reason" for
her punishment was read.
"I wonder if the man she refused to service was the man she
wouldn't date," Tracy thought. "Lucy said that any man here
could have the knickers off me. Does that mean I could be
forced to take them in MY mouth, too? Oh, god, I hope not!"
She imagined John grinning down on her as she took his enormous
prick in her dainty mouth. Now that he had the power of the
whip, would poor, powerless "Stacy" be forced to suck him and
swallow his disgusting load?
That dreadful image was short-circuited by an even more dreadful
sound...a razor strap CRACKING through the air, followed by a
frantic, muffled feminine squeal.
Tracy winced. The punishments had begun!
From her own uncomfortable perch, Tracy strained to watch. Her
curiosity to see an actual spanking was the reason for her current
predicament, but now that she, too, was sentenced to the strap,
there was an added element of desperate urgency.
Lucy Foster stood behind Wendy, strap in hand, waiting. Even
though Wendy was a veteran of the reformatory, the first stroke
had still been a shock to her, and she strained against the bonds
in a futile attempt to find a position to relieve the sting.
Just as Wendy's squirming backside seemed to return to some state
of normalcy, Lucy Foster raised the wicked strap above her head
and snapped it down with a vicious stroke that electrified Wendy's
whole body.
CRACK!
Wendy screamed into her gag and jerked her bottom up and down,
frantically attempting to shake off the sting, much to the
amusement of the crowd. Unfortunately for Wendy, Lucy took
advantage of the extra exposure that this obscene dance offered
to deliver the third stroke.
SNAP!
Wendy cried out again, and she raised her head to stare into the
mirror, as if beseeching the crowd for mercy. But there was
no mercy to be found. It was obvious from the sly smiles and
chuckles that the audience considered Wendy's comical antics on
the horse as the height of entertainment.
Tracy watched the tears streaming down Wendy's cheeks with
mounting dread. In other circumstances, she would doubtlessly
have found Wendy's punishment quite amusing and viewed it as a
delightful diversion. But, in her present position, the
punishment was anything but entertaining.
As the spanking continued, tiny rivulets of sweat ran down her face
and into her eyes. She was helpless to wipe them away, just as she
was helpless to close her legs, or to ignore the sound of the evil
strap that would soon be cracking accross her own tender fanny.
"Listen to her howling -- and she's a veteran. She knew what to
expect and was calmer than any of us, and she is still squirming
like her fanny's on a griddle! I wonder if they made her go first
as a lesson to the rest of us? If she can't take it, what chance
do we have?"
After what seemed to Tracy to be hours, but in reality could only
have been a few minutes, Wendy's spanking ending. Tracy watched
as Judge Chambers appeared on the stage, cane in hand.
Wendy lay astride her horse like a sobbing ragdoll, but her
attention immediately re-focused as she felt Chambers tap-tap-tap
the long, whippy cane across her freshly spanked bottom.
"Wendy is going to be paroled into the care of a wealthy landowner,
where she will serve out the remainder of her sentence as his
personal maid," the judge explained. "By an amusing coincidence,
the landowner in question had repeatedly sought Wendy's favors when
she still viewed herself as queen of the world. He was most rudely
rebuffed, a slight for which I am sure he will extract his full
measure of justice."
The audience snickered as he tapped the cane against Wendy's
wiggling bottom once again.
"I am concerned, however, that she still thinks way too much
of herself and, due to their prior relationship, may not submit
as eagerly as she should to her new master's desires. Are you
willing, Wendy, to accept your new role as this man's domestic
servant? Or is further discipline required?"
Reflected in the mirror, Wendy nodded yes. Chambers smiled. "Is
that yes, you will submit...or yes, you require more discipline?
No matter. Actions speak louder than words. Close the curtain,
John."
John drew the curtain closed, covering the part of the stage where
Wendy was and hiding her from the audience, although Tracy, being
parallel to her (in every sense of the word), could still see her.
John removed Wendy's gag and, amidst much sputtering, weeping, and
coughing, used a rag from his pocket to wipe the drool from her
face.
A well-dressed, but quite obese and unpleasant-looking man entered
from the wings of the stage. Tracy did not know him, but it was
obvious that Wendy did, as she frantically began to struggle
against her straps as he approached.
Her attempts at escape were cut short by the gentle tap-tap-tap of
the judge's cane. "Now, Wendy, do I need to open the curtain and
give you six of the best -- or perhaps a baker's dozen -- before
you submit? Because submit you will, and we both know it. Your
new master has an adorable French maid's costume picked out for
you, and he's eager to make you service him in every way
imaginable. Will you submit now, or do I need to stripe your
lovely fanny to convince you?"
Tracy watched -- with mixed emotions -- as the fat man opened the
front of his trousers and removed his erect and foul-looking penis.
Wendy sobbed openly as he playfully slapped her nose with it and
wiped off a bit of pre-jizz directly under her nostrils. But Judge
Chambers tapped her stinging bottom with the cane, so, when the man
pressed it against her lips, she took it into her mouth and began
to suck eagerly.
Content that the case of Wendy Hills was being suitably
adjudicated, Judge Chambers walked from behind the curtain
and turned his attention to Natalie.
A small drum roll burst forth over the speakers, and he read the
young brunette's sentence. "Natalie Porter, 25, a Rhodes scholar
and American graduate student, convicted of possession of marijuana.
Upon questioning this little delinquent, the court determined that
she had never been spanked. Since the root of the problem lies
with the colonies' poor approach to education, she will serve out
the remainder of her semester not at Oxford, but at the Canebare
Academy for young women, where she will wear a school uniform and
submit to a strict regimen of proper English discipline.
"In this spirit of educational exchange, I have sentenced our
lovely but inexperienced guest to a sound dose of that most
traditional of schoolgirl punishments: six of the best across
her pert American backside!"
The patriotic explanation of Natalie's crime and punishment was
greeted with an enthusiastic burst of applause. Tracy understood
the audience's sentiments, as she had often remarked that American
women in general would be well-served by a good dose of the cane.
She watched the smiling Judge Chambers bend and flex and SWISH the
whippy cane, and she recalled her own views on the subject, which
she had expounded upon at a cocktail party only a few days before:
"The disgusting images one finds in the tabloids exist because
these so-called American 'celebrities' were raised without proper
British virtues. I don't see what about these women is worth
'celebrating.' If they were in my power, we would start the
celebration with each of those little whores lowering their
knickers and bending over to touch their toes, so that they
could be properly disciplined."
Judge Tracy, dressed in her little black cocktail dress and with
drink in hand, had kept the other partygoers entranced with her
self-righteous serenade to the wonders of corporal punishment.
Tracy, of course, had never been caned herself, but that didn't
stop her expounding at length on the topic. She never dreamed
that, in a few short days, would be facing the punishment that
she had so blithely wished on others.
SWISH! Tracy was shocked back to the present as the cane whistled
through the air, and Natalie screamed into her gag. One!
Tracy watched with rapt attention as Judge Chambers measured the
next stroke and lightly tapped Natalie's twitching backside with
the cane as he calculated the trajectory. He seemed less
interested than Miss Foster had been in spacing out the strokes
temporally and was obviously focusing more on spacing the welts
physically across Natalie's backside.
SWISH! Natalie screamed lustily into her gag as the second stroke
cut through the air and into her unprotected bottom. Although it
was only the second stroke, she was already struggling to catch her
breath as the judge measured the third.
SWISH! Tracy watched spellbound as Natalie's delicate fingertips
dug into the legs of the wooden spanking horse.
"She's signing in!" Tracy thought. "She's actually signing in! I
can't imagine how much it much hurt, for her to be able to dig into
the wood that way."
Tracy looked nervously down at her own hands, which were wrapped
tightly around the legs of her punishment horse.
As the fourth stroke landed on Natalie, Tracy's attention was
diverted back to Wendy, who began to cough and sputter as her
new master shot his load into her mouth. Tracy watched in
amazement as he casually wiped the remaining jizz onto her
chin, calmly zipped up, then patted Wendy on the head, as
if she were a dog who had just pleased her master.
The curtain opened, and for a moment the camera cut away from
Natalie to Wendy, whose pretty face was the very picture of
distress. There was much tittering in the audience, both
because of her obvious desire to clear her mouth of an
apparently disgusting taste and because of the trickle of
sperm dribbling down her chin.
SWISH! Chambers was holding the cane at a peculiar angle, and it
was obvious to Tracy that he was attempting to cross the other
four stripes with a single stroke. Judging from the shrillness
of Natalie's screams, and the way her fingers were digging into
the wood, the old coot had succeeded.
He then crossed to the other side and carefully lined up the sixth
stroke. The goal appeared to be make the fifth and sixth strokes
form a perfect "X" on Natalie's bottom.
SWISH! Bullseye! Natalie's head snapped back, and her fingernails
dug in. Tracy could tell from her wild look that the judge's aim
had been perfect.
Despite her current predicament, Tracy couldn't help smiling as
she thought of the pretty young American grad student, looking
positively adorable in her little school uniform, wiggling in
discomfort on her hard wooden school chair as she tried
desperately not to put weight on her stripes. Her efforts
would be futile, of course -- her luscious backside was now
a masterpiece of the spanker's art, quite beautiful in its
symmetrical lines, but useless for sitting.
Watching the other girls get spanked had been something of an
ordeal for Tracy, and her own bare bottom had wiggled and jerked
with every stroke. When Judge Chambers lay the cane across
Natalie's back and wiped his brow, Tracy felt a peculiar sense
of closure. At least the waiting was over.
Her sense of relief was short-lived, however, A few seconds later
she spied Lucy Foster advancing across the stage toward her, razor
strap in hand.
Tracy tightened as she heard the drum roll over the speakers,
and Judge Chambers's voice: "Stacy Smith, 22, student, caught
trespassing on the grounds of this institution, sentenced to
three months in the Lakewood Reformatory for Women, and ten
strokes of the strap. In addition, she cursed her betters in
the performance of their duties, and for that, she will receive
six of the best, across her bare arse."
When he finished reading the sentence, Judge Chambers's voice
turned conversational. "As some of you may know, Miss Foster
is a friend of Judge Tracy Smith, Stacy's aunt. However, I am
certain that she will not show any undo leniency, as that would
force us to start over, with John wielding the strap."
At the thought of John whipping her, Tracy's bottom cheeks spasmed,
much to the judge's amusement. "Don't worry, Stacy," he said.
"I'm sure that, since she knows the consequences, Miss Foster will
make your punishment quite exemplary."
Tracy's pulse quickened as Lucy Foster came around to the front of
the horse, ostensibly to check on the restraints. As she leaned
in, she whispered to Tracy. "John was oiling the strap during the
caning, so it's really going to hug your bum. Try not to tense up,
and remember, this for your own good."
Tracy stiffened. "My own good?" she thought. "Did she mean that
it will be easier on me if she does it, rather than John? Or did
she mean that somehow this spanking will improve me? It has to be
the former. How is stripping me half-naked and spreading my legs
in front of all of these people for my own good? I mean, I suppose
I am guilty -- technically -- and if I'd been handing down the
sentence it would probably have been much more severe. But...the
girls who get whipped in the reformatory are whores, and they
deserve to have their legs spread this way...."
Judge Tracy's ruminations on the fickleness of fate were cut short
as she felt Lucy brushing the strap across her bare backside.
"It's about to happen!" she thought. "I'm really going to be
spanked, right on my bare bum, with all my friends watching!"
CRACK!
The first stroke came down so fast that she actually heard it
before she felt it, and it took a moment for Tracy to register
what happened. Then the rush of pain hit her -- first the shock
and then the sting, as the long stroke stretched across both
cheeks of her bottom.
CRACK!
Having never been spanked, Tracy was so surprised at the first
stroke that she hadn't actually screamed. The second stroke
made up for that; she let loose with a succession of high notes,
despite the gag.
"She felt that one," a voice said quietly, and the people laughed.
"They're laughing!" Tracy thought. "I'm getting my bare backside
WHIPPED, and they're LAUGHING!"
At the courthouse, judges and lawyers always joked about the
whippings and the girls' frantic reactions. Anxious to
ingratiate herself, and eager for the juicy details, Tracy
had joined in, snickering openly about the "little strumpets"
who "got caught with their knickers down."
CRACK!
She didn't feel like laughing now. During Wendy's spanking, she
had noted that Lucy waited for the last spank to subside a bit
before delivering the next blow, presumably so that the criminal
could feel the full impact of the punishment. Although it had
seemed like a long interval when she'd been watching, the pauses
now seemed agonizingly short.
CRACK!
Lucy was moving up her bottom. Tracy tensed as she felt her
carefully measure the next stroke....
CRACK!
"AWWWW! Lucy was right...tensing only makes it worse. I have to
relax...it's for my own good. Lucy's trying to teach me a lesson.
For my own good....
"No! I don't deserve this. Stacy is the delinquent, not me. It's
all Stacy's fault, the rotten little bitch....
"But...."
Another stroke. Lucy never hit precisely the same area twice, but
painted Tracy's bottom as an artist would paint a canvas. The top
portion of Tracy's bottom was now a lovely shade of bright pink.
Lucy shook out her arm and flexed her wrist as she prepared for
the next attack. Friendship or not, Lucy had a job to do, and
she was determined to make Tracy's bare bottom a stellar example
of judicial discipline.
CRACK!
The sharpness of the stroke broke Tracy's resolve to keep loose.
She dug her fingernails into the wooden legs of her horse, using
it as leverage to arch her butt higher in a frantic effort to
shake out some of the sting.
The arching of her bottom caused her rear cheeks to separate and
spread, and Tracy knew from the snickers and rude comments about
her "rear porthole" that she was now exposing herself in the most
obscene manner imaginable. But the sting overwhelmed her
considerable pride, and she continued to arch and spread for
the audience's snide amusement.
Tragically, the spreading apart of her hindquarters created a
bull's eye for the strap. Lucy, never one to miss an opportunity
to teach a truly unforgettable lesson, stepped back and raised her
strap high.
SNAP!
To Tracy, it was as if she had been hit by lightning. John's
careful oiling of the strap paid off handsomely as the wicked
stroke curled around her rounded butt cheeks and into her bottom
crack, skinning the exquisitely sensitive flesh there. For the
next several days, it was going to be impossible for Tracy to use
the toilet, to sit, or even to walk without remembering Lucy's
powerful arm or John's dedicated oiling.
Before she could slacken her bottom, Lucy cracked the strap again.
SNAP!
Tracy screamed again into her gag.
"Listen to her sing!"
"Yes, let's hear the little piglet squeal!"
Tracy sank onto her horse, exhausted. Lacking the energy to fight,
she let the restraints go slack. She had lost count, but supposed
that, since Lucy was one of the most methodical wardresses she had
ever met, and since her entire bottom was now ablaze, her ordeal
must be near its end.
Then...SNAP!
The next stroke snaked across her lower bum, with the strap hugging
every curve. Tracy had thought she was beyond shock, but the sting
was atrocious. She twisted her head around and beseeched Lucy with
pleading eyes.
Lucy ignored the look. Ever the crisp professional, she was
carefully examining Tracy's well-spanked, wriggling bottom,
and was stalking back and forth behind her, shifting positions
to better view her masterpiece.
Tracy knew that Lucy took great satisfaction in her work, and she
had listened for hours as Lucy proudly described the proper way to
discipline various types of female bottoms. It was obvious that
she was pleased with her efforts today. She slowly ran her finger
across Tracy's well-spanked bottom, to test its sensitivity. Tracy
knew that Lucy, ever the perfectionist, was gauging where to place
the next stroke, to make the smart as atrocious as possible, and
to make sure Tracy's lesson was fully learned.
"She's not even looking at me! But why should she? She's the
matron, and I'm just one more arse to be whipped! I know that
it's...it's for my own good.... That's what they say, anyway.
Maybe...maybe I DO deserve it. Maybe I SHOULD atone for the
dirty, secret games I play with myself.... Maybe I should
confess to L-Miss Foster...to Judge Chambers...oh, god!...to
J-john.... It's s-so confusing.... But...please let this
spanking end...." She involuntarily tensed as Lucy stepped
back and raised her arm....
CRACK!
The stroke hit Tracy full and hard, dead center, and, for a moment,
she thought that she was going to bite through her putrid gag.
Instead, she dug her nails further into the furrows of her whipping
horse, adding her own marks to those of the countless miscreants
who had proceeded her.
Tracy lay on her horse, gasping for air. To her surprise, Lucy
moved around to the front of the horse and wiped the sweat off
Tracy's brow.
Behind her, Tracy heard the audience applauding. At first she
thought it was merely the polite applause that marked the
completion of the evening's festivities, but, as Lucy smiled
and bowed, and the applause increased, Tracy realized that it
was appreciation for a job well done.
Tracy listened in stunned disbelief as the applause grew; Lucy
bowed and took a curtain call.
As the applause trickled off, Judge Chambers intruded. "So tell
me, Stacy, have we answered your questions regarding corporal
punishment?"
Tracy craned her neck to see him looking smugly down on at her.
"You sneaked in here to find out what a reformatory punishment
was like. Have we satisfied your inquiry, fully and completely?"
Tracy, tears in her eyes, nodded her head up and down vigorously,
to indicate that she was, in fact, 100% satisfied.
"Are you certain?" Chambers teased. "Isn't there more that you
would like to learn...? About the cane, perhaps?"
Tracy shook her head frantically as he playfully SWISHED the cane
through the air.
"There is a great deal more that I plan to teach you, but we will
save the cane for another day. After all, you're going to be my
guest for three months -- at least -- and I don't want to wear out
your sweet, bouncy bottom all at once."
She tensed as she felt his hand slide up between her widely splayed
thighs, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Did you enjoy putting on
a show today? Did you enjoy spreading your legs for everyone to
see? Check out the bulges in the trousers of the men behind you.
They've certainly enjoyed your performance."
He wormed his fingers into her warm, moist cunt. "Disgusting!" he
snorted, massaging her clitoris. "Do you know what we do with
little strumpets who juice themselves on the horse? We give them
extra strokes!"
Tracy tensed at the threat, then gasped as he laughed and withdrew
his prying fingers. "Fortunately for you, I'm feeling merciful.
I'll deal with your randiness later, personally...after the others
have gone."
His voice dissolved into the cocktail party babble behind him, and
Tracy lay slack on her mount. People were still gawking at her
well-tanned butt, but she was so lost in her own thoughts that she
paid them no heed.
"Three months! How am I going to make it? I hope the other girls
aren't mean to me. Maybe I can...make some friends. And surely
if I really please Judge Chambers and John, they'll go easier on
me. And maybe Lucy...I mean...Miss Foster...maybe she's right.
It'll be best if I remember that this is for my own good. I mean,
well, I guess I deserve to be punished.... Don't I?"
In the processing room, Lucy whistled as she placed a mailing
label on Tracy Smith's possessions in preparation for their
shipment to storage. While, back in the punishment room Stacy
Smith, convicted criminal, discreetly rubbed herself against the
horse, until finally she climaxed under the amused gaze of her
betters.
THE END?
THANK YOU. I HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT. I ALSO HOPE THAT THIS STORY
MIGHT INSPIRE THE RETURN OF ASHLEY OR KATIE -- OR PERHAPS A
SEQUEL FROM GOODGULF. TIME WILL TELL....
Edited by C. Lakewood