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From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>
Subject: Pillory For Two Slackettes Pt.2, by MrSpraycan


Disclaimer:  Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough
to be reading this. If you don't like [NC, humil, spanking] stories, this
isn't for you.
	This item is of fictional nature. All persons and places in it are
imaginary and no resemblance to real or historic characters is intended. No
illicit behavior is endorsed or condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the
idea.

	*Copyright* is claimed, 1997 by Baton Rouge ThoughtScapes, and for
the author, Mr.Spraycan, who chooses to be 'anon'. For entertainment
purposes only. No commercial use is warranted without permission.  Do not
repost. Store only with this notice intact.

Magic word: "Feedback!"

This is MrSpraycan story No. 42

PILLORY FOR TWO RICH SLACKETTES Pt.2


	It's apparent that small, dainty Jenny is going to get it first,
because she looks the most scared. It's merely warm in the gym, and you'd
think a naked girl would be shivering, from cold or fright, under these
circumstances. But Jenny is sweating heavily, and perspiration is trickling
from her armpits. To start with her will make Laura suffer, and give her
friend something to anticipate and worry about too.
	Sara takes up a black felt-tip marker. She looks Jenny over
carefully, enjoying her fear. She tousles her boyish floppy black hair, and
asks mockingly: "Scared, dear? Well, good . . .I'm glad to see it." Sara's
own preferences have long been discussed in town, since her recent divorce.
Her first husband had been a famous writer with a drinking problem, who'd
driven his Cadillac into a saltwater marsh one day. The second, a local
cocksman, had shot himself. An accident? Maybe. The third, a reclusive
Southerner, he'd drank, moped, and in the end just left quietly. Tall,
elegant Sara indicates what her deepest inclinations might be when she
gently pokes her tongue in Jenny's ear, and cupping her small breasts in
turn, twiddles the boldly erect, chocolate brown nipples. Sara runs her
fingers lightly over the girl's shoulders, her back, down her spine, and
tenderly strokes her small rounded backside. She whispers, so only Jenny
will hear: "So soft. You're a fuckable little thing, aren't you?" Jenny
draws a deep breath and her eyes close in fear as the woman breathes:
"Horny, are you? You think I can't smell you? Your filthy snatch, hmm?"
	Sara is tempted, but has to suppress the urge for further
exploration. This isn't the time or place. Standing back, she begins
speaking softly, perfectly miked by one of her assistants. "So, here's the
plan, Jenny. We introduced you to the idea of Shame, first. Not many women
get to exhibit their bare bodies like this, only the ones who are complete
sluts, or who deserve to be degraded and laughed at. Like you. Then, Fear.
Because you are scared now, aren't you, Jenny? You know we have you at our
mercy, and that we can do whatever we want." A pause, a sigh of
contentment. "And, so, quite naturally . . . then it's time for Pain, isn't
it? Lots of it. You need to be hurt. Hurt badly, so you don't turn into a
sociopathic little thief, who thinks everyone else is there just for her to
exploit . . . like some greedy rich bitch!" And as she spits the last few
words out, she writes, in huge shining black numerals, "150" on her back,
"125" on each cheek of her ass. The marker squeaks as it slides over
Jenny's skin.
	There's a murmur of excitement. Laura twists to look, gasps, her
eyes rolling up in shock when she sees what's written. Sara tells Jenny the
numbers, then with a big smile breathes: "Oh, and by the way, that's the
minimum." Then she steps in front of her, the pen still in hand.
	No! No! Jenny's panic-stricken eyes are saying. Yes, Sara is
nodding. A mean little smile, a flick of the tongue to remove the fresh
saliva at the corner of her mouth. She bends forward.
	Slowly, a neat arrow is drawn, pointing right at Jenny's bushy
pubes, and the number "75" added in a circle, next to her perky little
navel. A smile, then she harshly says: "This dirty thing needs a damned
good pounding, I can tell."
	Then "50" on each thigh. A large "60" on each small breast. Jenny
can see this, and her eyes are wide with disbelief. She's dizzy, and it's
not the smell of solvent from the pen that's doing it.  Sara confidently
tells her: "Too cruel? No, not at all. Jenny, we're going to purify you,
make you feel sorry for your sins. So, you have to realize, if it doesn't
hurt, you won't understand it." She does some mental arithmetic, and smiles
crookedly: "695, that right? Well, that's awkward. Oh, we'll round it up a
bit, I'm sure . . ."
	Now, the instruments are produced, and shared out. Two huge bundles
of stiff birch twigs, freshly soaked in water. There are replacements
waiting nearby, in a big bucket. Two spanking paddles of the sort used by
the school system in the forties . . . homemade, sawn-off tennis racket
handles attached to broad stiff leather blades -- 18 inches long, four
inches wide, stiffened with a wooden spine on one side.
	Sara takes a paddle. She tells the others, loudly enough for all to
hear, "No playing around, please. Keep a rough score and we'll even up
later. And remember, no mercy. She may be a cute, cuddly little thing, but
she's a thief, caught in the act. We're going to whip it out of her. So,
just remember that and beat the bitch hard . . ." There are growls of
agreement.
	And they don't mess around: she's birched and paddled, front and
back, and is soon shaking and hysterical, her pale skin heavily marked with
angry red patches and stripes. Of course, spanking her ass is very popular,
but so is birching her pussy and letting her breasts have it, with birches
or the paddles. With four women busy, it takes them about 40 minutes to
beat her to their satisfaction, perhaps going a little over the quota in
their enthusiasm. No matter how much Jenny writhes or twists, there's no
escape, not even time to catch a breath when four woman are swinging at
her, almost all at once.
	Then, they turn on Laura, her big blonde companion. She's Sara's
height, and tries to meet her eyes, retain some defiance. That's fine by
Sara, who smiles right back, and proceeds to slap Laura's face, back and
forth several times, saying: "The bigger they come, the harder they fall,
eh? I'll tame you, you big bitch!" Laura finally lowers her eyes meekly.
	But she's earned a harsher penalty. Larger numbers are written on
her big backside and impressive bosom, adding up to about 1,000 strokes, to
the crowd's delight.
	The four women promptly start to beat her vigorously. Soon though,
the couple of women wielding the heavy birches are complaining their wrists
are sore. Some robust guys are deputized, and vehemently told by Sara:
"Really let her have it! Flog her, she's too full of herself." Laura is
grunting and moaning through her gag, muffled shrieks of outrage. Special
care is taken to give Laura's large breasts a proper treatment: some extra
handslaps, some nipplepinching from Sara. A few dozen extra slaps to her
shaved mons with a paddle, again applied by Sara personally, with great
skill and venom.
	Both girls are red-faced and sobbing when they're done.
	"Oh, my word! What a display of temperament! But, my little
looters, that's only the beginning! Please, you really must pull yourselves
together, or you'll run out of tears," Sara tells them.
	Now one of the other boutique owners appears with a pair of long
bamboo canes, to a polite round of applause. Over three feet, tapering from
an inch or more in diameter at the leather wrapped handle end, to a
fishing-pole-like quarter-inch at the tip. Sara takes one and swishes it
noisily through the air like a fencer's foil, then pronounces: "Ah, this
will do very nicely. Yes, I think they'll get the message from this . . ."
	Then the two hapless young thieves have their backsides caned. It's
taken at a slow pace, the strokes laid on methodically, hard. It takes a
while, but they suffer 100 harsh, well-directed strokes apiece. As they
wriggle and writhe in agony, Sara lectures them grimly that: "You should
thank me for being so merciful. Because if you're ever caught thieving here
again, it'll be a bullwhip, right from the word 'go,' and I'll personally
see to it that you're whipped hard enough to take the skin off your backs,
hard enough that we put you in hospital." There's no doubt in anyone's mind
that she means it, and there's grim laughter when she adds: "And we'll
brand you, too."
	The caning has added a dense pattern of welts to their already
bruised and striped skin, like basketwork. Sara looks at her watch and
smiles happily. Only 8pm. Plenty of time yet. Coffee and beer is served, at
the suggestion of one of the more motherly women. A brief break is taken,
with the crowd from the rows of overlooking seats coming down to look over
the two whipped women. Each gets a good inspection, but it's plain that
many of the crowd want a much more personal involvement, and are chatting
among themselves, ignoring them for now, awaiting that chance.
	Now it's the guys' turn, Sara says, unless of course the young
ladies would prefer to continue with this particular treatment, instead . .
.? They shake their heads. That seems like enough permission to Sara, who
signals with a wave: "Okay. Time to fuck 'em."
	Bib fronted jeans, coveralls and other elegant redneck clothes are
quickly discarded, along with ragged underwear that has seen better days.
These people aren't thieves, you see.
	What a fine variety of penises: all shapes, colors and sizes. And
how unabashed these men are at exhibiting them to the two shoplifters, not
to mention the local women who might get the year-round benefits of the
better specimens, should they play their cards right. Neatly spreadeagled
like this, the two are quite well-positioned for the purposes most of the
men have in mind. A short folding ladder is left nearby, so anyone who
wants to put his penis in their mouths is catered for. The first couple of
men are delighted to find how tight Jenny is, the second of them even more
happy when it's discovered how tight her anus is. She's wriggling
delightfully as the ruffian slowly feeds his eight-inch cock into her, a
finger's breadth at a time. Laura, of course, is much sloppier, and various
vulgar displays are made of how loose she is, front and back. Squelch!
"Look at this fit in, then!"
	"Well, look at this!" A coke bottle, various other objects, get to
undergo mysterious vanishings.
	Sara is quite right when she says with a smirk: "I think little
Jenny probably sleeps with her fist in her girlfriend's cunt. But I bet she
finds it hard to get a finger in her own."
	 There's laughter and disbelief at this, but Sara insists: "Can't
you tell? They're a pair of lezzies, I'm sure. They're not like a classical
top-fem combination, but I think this little one gets to play the boy,
sometimes. Surprising her asshole wasn't looser, huh? Of course, it will be
from now on. . ."
	It's amazing how much semen a gang of guys can produce! Oh, sure,
gallons, buckets, lakes in their own minds. But still a couple of liters,
anyway. And a little of this messy, smelly stuff goes a long way, when it's
spread around. The two are fucked, ass and pussy, and made to suck, jerked
off over, and generally hosed and smeared down until they look like they
have rolled in spunk, and shampooed with it. Enjoying themselves immensely,
the guys are in a socialist mood. There's a constant traffic to the
payphones out in the lobby to the gym, and several carloads of fresh guests
arrive, to be greeted with high signs, cheers of encouragement. Younger
brothers, some awestruck teens, barflies, two or three cops out of uniform,
older guys who are probably teachers.
	Sloppy seconds, does anyone say? No, they're all too much into the
fun of the moment. The air is rich with funky smells. Several of the women
present have shed a lot of clothes too, to join in, in their own way. The
two victims endure three or four hours of non-stop, spirited fucking, until
they are hanging loosely in their bonds, beyond sobbing now, numbed. Nearly
midnight, and it might be getting time to go, since the heating system has
clicked off at 11pm and it's starting to get cooler.
	Is there a suspicion that Jenny might actually have responded to
this mistreatment in some, how shall we say, positive way? It seems
possible. Remember, her panties were wet after she'd been shown, then
stripped. Sara had commented, privately, on her scent. And, tight though
she was, she hadn't been hurt or even made particularly sore by all the
fucking, even though they'd cruelly avoided greasing her first. No, she was
quite wet enough of her own accord. And overflowing enough to lubricate her
rear entrance, too.
	Weeks after, guys comparing notes over beers, or reminiscing on the
phone will being saying: "You know, I think the little blackhaired one was
getting off on me. I could feel her cunt gripping me pretty hard . . . how
about you?"
	"Yeah? I think she wanted to come, but didn't want the big blonde
cow getting jealous. She was dribbling. From the mouth, I mean. Oh, the
other end, too. She sure had a grip, boyo."
	No one had thought to bring a video camera along, so the argument
raged on all summer. Instead of 'The one that got away,' the new version
was, 'Did she come or didn't she?'
	And Laura? No one has any doubts, even some of the women who finger
and fistfuck her towards the end. "She could crush beercans with her twat,"
one of the boutique owners observed. "No doubt about whether she was
enjoying herself, in my mind."

	Sara insists that the bedraggled, sore duo should kiss her feet
before they are allowed to leave, a homage several other storekeepers
decide had great appeal for them too.
	When they're finally through mistreating the two women, the pair
are carried out shoulder-high, supported by a half-dozen men each, thrown
nude in the back of a waiting pick-up and driven to their motel. It's pitch
dark now, few streetlights on. They are helped to pack and taken naked,
standing in the back of the truck to the town line, where they find their
car has been parked, but decorated with suitable derisive comments.
	Of the two, Jenny is the tougher, in the end. She will just be able
to drive, she agrees weakly. She's leaning on the car, trying to catch her
breath, her eyes staring flatly at the shocking, striped reflection of her
punished body that she now sees in its windows. So they give her the keys.
	But they handcuff Laura, and chain and padlock her ankles. The keys
to those will be mailed to them at Bumherst, they're assured, "with some
wonderful photo souvenirs," in a day or two. "Keep her out of mischief till
then, you smelly little scumbag," Sara bids her farewell, leaning in the
driver's side window and bending close, bites Jenny's left nipple, hard,
grabbing the other with her nails. She chews, claws, then pulls back,
smilng happily. "And, hey, don't come back to Kittyquit if you have any
sense . . .Oh, and tell all your friends, too."
	"Yeah, go shoplifting in New York next time, you cunts!" observant
Katie says happily.

	Jenny gets the car started, anxious to be gone, waves feebly, and
pulls away. She drives slowly, asking Laura if she'll be okay, does she
need any help? Not right now. Jenny finds it hard to get comfortable on the
leather seats, her backside raw. how is she going to drive home naked? What
can she do when she gets there, to avoid being seen like this?
	It's a subject she won't have to address for a while, it seems.
Just a mile or two further down the road, police chief O'Reilly is waiting.
He's sitting there, by the side of the road in his squad car, with all the
lights flashing. As the Acura approaches, he flags it down.
	He knows about the marijuana from a search done while they were
being tormented. No mind games are played, he simply looks down at Jenny
and says: "My troopers say they found about $200 worth of grass in your
car. Well?"
	To Jenny, this is the end. She breaks down and sobs, head on the
wheel. It takes her a while to recover. He leads them to the station in
town, part of the firehouse, a little office space that's convenient for
the various patrol duties associated with the beach in summer, but is not
staffed at night.
	He opens up, turns on the lights, then leads the two naked girls
in, Jenny first, then the hobbling Laura.
	"Coffee?" he asks, starting to make a pot.
	"Sit if you want." They don't.
	And ignoring Jenny's pleas,  he tells them they're in serious
trouble, and assures them that if it ever comes to trial, no one's going to
believe a word they say about the pillory, the beatings, the gang bang. He
can find dozens of witnesses to counter any story: If anyone disbelieves,
they'll be character-assassinated as nymphos and lezzies, masochists and
freaks, who'd asked for it.
	So why go through all that worry, just to prove a point? Especially
when they won't!
	He has a simple proposition to make: sexual slavery at the summer
break, or jail. And what he's suggesting is a little trial run now, since
no one's expecting to see them back at Bumherst for a few days, right?
	The two look dumbfounded, but see no choice. Give themselves to
this paunchy, middle-aged cop? Gross! But . . .
	He wants Laura. Big, generously endowed woman appeal to him. But he
tells her: "I'll have to put you in the hot tub first. You smell like
everyone from here to New Hampshire has fucked you." He's not far wrong,
there.
	 Jenny, he decides, is a stringbean. He'll give her to Sara as a
present, in the hopes of sparking some gratitude and getting into that
rather attractive woman's pants, at some stage in the future.
	So, after the contract he's written is signed -- it's a mere
one-pager, saying simply that the signatory consigns herself with no
questions into the hands of the bearer of the contract for sexual purposes
-- he calls Sara. She's been chatting with the other woman and has only
just got home. His call catches her a little grouchy and surprised, since
she was just thinking about going to bed. He makes his pitch.
	Ten minutes later, with a squeal of tires, she's there, breathing
heavily, eyes sparkling at his ingenuity. She's thrown an overcoat over her
nightie, driven down in slippers.
	She accepts O'Reilly's offer with a big hug. "Four days?
Absolutely. I'll bring her back here. And no, I won't harm her any more
than I have already  . . ."
	She looks around the small office, and finds some plastic
disposable cuffs. She binds Jenny's wrists, ropes her ankles, then attaches
a piece of rope round Jenny's throat. She eagerly leads her away to her
truck . . .

	Measuring her captive's huge purple clitoris next morning Sara
tells Jenny with a big smile: "You are a tasty little thing, but I could
tell that when I sniffed you. I like this big hairy mess, but I'm going to
shave your pussy lips and asshole to make it easier to get my dildo and my
fingers in. You're a real treat, my dear . . ."
	It's all taking place with the girl bent back naked over a table on
Sara's sundeck, overlooking the scenic coastal walk. In summer, a place as
public as can be. She looks down at the ruler again. "Huge! You must spend
half your life wanking, my girl! I think hubby #2 was smaller in the panty
torpedo department, Jenny. Now, try to be nice. You know you lost your
inhibitions last night, but you mustn't pout all day. If being fucked by
another woman pleases you so much, then just resign yourself to it, and
accept it for what it is . . . I heard all that moaning when I sat on your
face! All that spunk didn't spoil your appetite for me, did it? So, lighten
up and don't be so resentful! It's not like I'll be able to beat you again
for a while. Well, today anyway, so long as you're a very obedient little
fuckslut, and do just as you're told . . ."

	'The one that got away'? Sara knows all the answers. Including the
answer to the guys' speculation about whether Jenny came, and whether
having her ass thrashed excited her . . .she's just not saying, but I think
you already figured it out, didn't you?

ends

[NB: I'd consider a sequel if I get enough response]

 	Note: To get a recent catalog/manifesto, list of stories . . .
whatever, send an e-mail to <catalog.mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>. No further
text is necessary.

	If you want to talk to the author, in a virtual sense of the word,
send e-mail to <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>. You'll probably get a reply .




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