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From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>
Subject: Pillory For Two Slackettes Pt.1, 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.

This is MrSpraycan story No. 42

Magic word: "Feedback!"

PILLORY FOR TWO RICH SLACKETTES Pt.1

They've been a problem in the small Maine seaside town of Kittyquit for a
few years now. I'm talking about shoplifters during spring break. More
persistent than blackfly, more intrusive than a wrinkly-laden Winnebago
with Arizona plates on a narrow road. What annoys the local shopkeepers
most of all is, they don't do it because they need the money. Although that
would be bad enough. They just do it to amuse themselves. Clothes are often
worn once and consigned to hotel dumpsters, or tossed unworn because they
must have been the wrong size.
	Last year, the local Chamber of Commerce, with the grudging 'look
the other way' approval of police chief Tom O'Reilly, decided they'd have
to try something different. They'll make extra efforts to catch and make an
example of some offenders, as a deterrent. Chief O'Reilly commissions some
local craftsmen to build a pillory, shows it for a few days on the neatly
clipped lawn outside the Kittyquit firehouse. It's almost art. There it
stands, menacingly, with a public noticeboard detailing the kind of
offenses that will be rewarded with it. The locals nod approvingly. Yes,
this idea of shaming offenders has a long history in these parts, stopped
only too recently by do-gooders and social scientists. It's time for a
comeback. Next spring, the pillory will be brought out daily as a reminder.
And used, for sure.

	Jenny and Laura are spoiled rich kids from a very famous Beantown
area college, which we'll call Bumherst. They're 21, and should know
better. Jenny's daddy is some scumbag NYC divorce lawyer, Laura's is a real
estate developer in California. Jenny's mummy was composted long ago,
Laura's young (step)mummy is a high-priced whore -- oh, slap yourself! -- I
mean 'socialite and volunteer.'
	The two girls are morally bankrupt. They're careful about what they
do at home, careful in the city. But they often lift clothes as a dare,
rather than pay for them, when they're travelling. Mostly, it's an impulse.
It's not because they are splendidly dressed, or elegant, though if the
truth be told their ratty clothes are quite expensive.
	They epitomize the slacker mode in baggy jeans, sneakers, baseball
caps on backwards, four or five layers: plaid flannel shirts, tee-shirts
and sweaters. But, careful makeup, manicured painted nails. "We is
slackettes a la mode," Jenny has said. Today, they're in a bubbly, giggly
mood enhanced by a few tokes in the car on the way from the motel out on
Route 1. The style of the clothes they've been seeing so far this year is
dull, compared to the big city, so they'll probably be boosting jewellery
today, they've already decided. "Baubles, for my princess-sss, yethsssss,
my preciousss, gollums," Laura is chuckling. "If you kiss the magic ring,
the dragon's nasty poopy ring," Jenny agrees.
	They're smoking, chewing gum, singing along with the Recombinant
Turds on the car radio. It's a fine day to be young, up to the wazoo in
easy money, and out about your business. Jenny is small, dark, intense. She
has a hispanic vivacity -- even carries a fake ID that says Juanita Garcia
-- but she's part Italian, part Jewish. Laura is a tall stately blonde,
icy, cynical, her grandparents all Minnesotans. She's not bothered when
people call her a Brunnhilde, a Viking. Yes, they do sleep together, but
it's not love, or anything profound or serious, just an itch-scratching
thing: They have varied interests in sexual matters. There are boys, other
girls. In the distant past now, there was even Laura's aptly named and
rather mixed-up Doberman, Licky.

	But Jenny and Laura aren't as clever as they think. Oh, they're not
up against a lot of smart systems doing the shoplifting routine in these
little towns, like they do when they go 'grab and run' at the malls, or the
outlet stores. No spy cameras, dye-loaded tags, little magnetic strips and
embedded printed circuit thingies, no scanners, all that high-tech
bafflement. No, just a few busy shop clerks, working moms, who have dozens
of things to worry about at any given time. But being observant comes
second nature to some. And to the poorer, non-college-educated, there's a
deep resentment against rich young trollops in late-model cars. Oh, it's
only a '95 Acura, but that's a ritzy set of wheels to a woman who owns an
'82 Lynx with 150,000 miles on the clock.
	 And it's just such an automotive cognoscenti who nabs them.
They're in one of the smaller local boutiques, when Katie, always quite
observant, catches them slipping a broach into a brown bag with a coffee
cup in it. A quick grab and she has Laura's wrist in a vice-like grip.
Jenny makes a run for the door, but is tripped and ends up in a heap on the
floor with two sizeable female assistants sitting on her. Lots more 'stuff'
is found with a quick search. There are huffy protests about 'due process,'
and then even desperate pleas to be allowed to pay. With a gold credit card
of course, though it's even just possible Katie might have let them go if
wads of folding green stuff had appeared. But they're locked in a store
room, and the owners called in. No explanation will satisfy Sara, when she
arrives. They've missed their moment. She's very angry. The fortyish
co-owner is tall, thin, well-exercised, beautifully dressed, with sharp
features, elegantly highlighted greying hair. She's of patrician background
too, but is here by choice, not to steal.
	Soon, police chief Tom O'Reilly has arrived, too. He's annoyed, he
was planning on spending the morning eating donuts, and the afternoon
stuffing his mistress's donut. Now, he's had to drive 17 miles here, all
for a couple of damned shoplifters.
	The two felons are escorted to the Kittyquit town center. The
center is little more than a huddle of boutiques in converted houses just
off a main road junction, just a way back from the public beach, with a few
restaurants, a tiny cinema, a chocolate shop and lots of twee signage.
O'Reilly listens to Sara's rantings, her insistence that this time he must
do something. With a shrug, he says: "Alright. Let's try it. This pair may
not have seen the new rules, but ignorance of the law was never an excuse,
anywhere. The rules were posted, quite legally, for oh, at least three
weeks. Right?  And published in the local paper. So, we have the right to
act, under the local by-laws. It'll save us a lot of trouble booking them,
and then not having them show up when it comes time for the magistrate's
hearing in a month or so. We don't get enough convictions anyway. Okay,
Sara. You win. We'll proceed."
	The two girls want to protest at length, being the kind of
motormouthed know-alls they are. But they don't, fearing the brooding
violence that they see gathering around them. And knowing that there is
some illegal herbal matter hidden, not so well, in their car. Just to get
this over and be gone from Kittyquit would be a good move.
	They're taken on to the green by the firehouse, where they're shown
the pillory. They're horrified. The set-up is a set of old-fashioned
stocks, with head and wrist restraints, and heavy ankle shackles. They'll
be on show there, standing for a couple of hours, O'Reilly tells them
gruffly, to teach them some honest habits.
	The stocks are of side-by-side construction, made of heavy,
weathered 2x6 planking and house timbers, freestanding. While the two girls
been locked in the storeroom, their purses have been searched, and all the
necessary details taken. Those are going to be posted on a notice board
here, they're assured, and their mugshot photos are taken for a 'thief'
file to be handed to shops in billages all along the coast, and to be
printed in a local freesheet. It's assumed this will be enough to stop them
ever coming back, O'Reilly lectures. And then, he's gone. For donut, v.2.
	Visitors and locals all watch their attachment to the pillory with
approval. The two are shielded behind a large portable wire mesh cage, like
a hockey goal, so they can't be 'interfered with' or pelted with rubbish.
That's purely for safety and liability reasons, something one of the town's
thrifty accountants had insisted on. But they can be jeered at, and mocked
with impunity. If it was summer, there'd be a huge throng: thousands of
visitors, and coachloads of tourists on coach trips from Montreal and
Quebec, Boston and other nearby resorts. Plus the gawkers in the endless
slow-moving permanent traffic jam of the coastal, highly unscenic route.
Instead, there are only a few dozen viewers at a time. But that's enough to
chill the two lightfingered young ladies.

	At the end of the day they're to be freed as the shops close.
That's O'Reilly's intention, anyway, and that of the other rulemakers. But
they're not around to supervise when the time comes round. He's far away,
and busy. The crowds have thinned out, and the two transgressors are rather
stunned, tearful even. They are sure they won't be doing any stealing
again, and never coming back here if they can avoid it.
	That's the intention of others, too. As the more conservative,
restrained townpeople and Chamber of Commerce types leave to go home for
supper, with a last scowl or shrug at the plight of the duo, some younger
ones, counter staff, waitresses, school bus drivers, the local coffee shop
crowd, are still hanging around.
	Boutique owner Sara is there too. She has lost thousands of dollars
in business over the past two seasons, and is determined she will not let
them escape so lightly, or so easily. She's long planned how, and she puts
her plan into effect.
	The stocks are heavy. A half-dozen guys would strain to lift them.
So they're hydraulically lifted on to a big flatbed truck, to be taken back
for overnight storage at the local Kittyquit school gym. That's what was
always planned, and the truck backs up, beeping happily, right on schedule.
	But here's the difference tonight: Jenny and Laura are left
standing in them. When they start to protest, to shout out for help,
they're firmly gagged. A huge painters' dropcloth is placed over them and
roped down. The truck pulls away.
	Several cars and pickups follow, lights on, to the local school.
It's a holiday week there too, so it would be usual if the school was quite
deserted. Not tonight. When the truck pulls round the corner, the car park
is crowded. Sara and others have been on the phone, and word spreads
quickly.
	The truck backs up to the door and the stocks are maneuvered onto
the rear tailgate lift, and lowered on to a trolley. When the dropcloth is
pulled off, there's applause from the group of followers who've parked and
joined the festivities. The trolley is wheeled away, with the two hapless
young women facing backwards, craning and struggling. Up a steep ramp, with
lots of huffing and puffing. Noisily rattling along an echoing, tiled
corridor. Through two sets of swing doors, with big clear plastic draft
protectors slapping away. Now, they're inside, somewhere warm. The gym.
It's quite small, with a few steeply angled rows of orange plastic seats
making an amphitheater.
	The gym is packed with guys, though there are several huddled
groups of women too. It's bright, but as the trolley and its cargo appears
on court the lights go up properly, and the arena is lit as bright as
summer, for indoor basketball. There are about eighty guys, young, old,
longhaired, bearded, crewcut, balding, in various states of excitement, or
inebriation.
	Sara is there already, and briskly supervises parking the trolley
on the half-way line. She has a microphone in her hand. She notes with a
cynical smile: "Welcome, friends. Oh, and a warm welcome to our 'guests,'
Jenny and Laura. Nice of them to join us, eh?"
	Some derisive cheers, and a feeble patter of handclaps.
	"Well, now. These two thieves are really well dressed, aren't they?
Did you notice? But, uh, has it occurred to you, too? That, perhaps the
clothes aren't their own? Yes?"
	There's mean laughter at this. Oh, everyone gets it immediately.
	"Maybe we should check some labels, hey? It's possible that some of
this cityslicker elegance may be, well, at our expense. Look at them
blushing! Not laughing at the hicks in the country now, are they?"
	And then they are forcibly stripped, piece by piece. Yes, Sara and
her staff have to unfasten the girls' ankles to take their jeans, sneakers,
socks off. But with their arms still locked in, where can they go?
Struggling makes no sense. Then, ankles locked in the chains again, their
arms are freed so that their sweaters, flannel shirts, teeshirts can be
slipped off. Both the girls are growing more frantic as the clothes are
inventoried, inspected. No definite thefts have been detected yet, but the
shopkeeper vigilantes live in hope. Tags are carefully read.
	"This Woolrich seems familiar, hmmm?"
	"Didn't we stock this brand last year?"
	Soon the lightfingered duo are both nearly naked, dressed now just
in their bras and panties, and the cheers are ringing out.
	Sara is in a mocking mood. She knows she has them at her mercy now.
She forcefully stretches and twangs both girls' bra straps, making them
flinch. She grabs and wrenches the back of Laura's panties upward, pulling
the gusset snugly into the crack of her ample ass. It amuses her that this
grungily outfitted pair would wear such conventional undies, but there they
are: peach silk, and black lace, dainty filigrees and embroidery, for
Jenny, bikini cut panties and an underwired bra for Laura. The usual female
priorities, in other words.
	This unveiling is the best sport here in weeks, months, that's
plain from the laughter, the nudging, the excited expressions. Older guys
who haven't had a decent erection since Christmas are showing big bulges in
their jeans.
	Now the stocks are adjusted so that the two students' arms are
stretched out more. Some new wooden beams are brought, and bolted into
place at ankle level, and they are forced to place their feet in the
openings in them. It's all configured so that they must open their legs
much wider.  They're spreadeagled, completely helpless, their heads still
locked in place. The crowd is very boisterous, and there are merry shouts
for 'more' from the guys. The women are just as positive, insisting that
Sara's team keeps going.
	That's okay by Sara. She produces a big pair of carpet shears,
brandishes them in the air, leers in comic opera fashion. She points to a
wet patch on Jenny's silk panties and says loudly: "They're not very
genteel, our guests. I wonder what this one is thinking? But, ha ha,
perhaps we don't want to know, eh? I think we should take the rest off just
to be sure, don't you?"
	Their bras and panties will be easily removed, no effort at all, by
just snipping them off. And so, they are. The unveiling of Jenny's small
breasts bring groans of derision, disappointment from the men, though
connoisseurs don't miss the message of her fat, erect, dark nipples.
Laura's big firm jugs bring ironic cheers, derisive 'mooing' noises. Her
areolae are pink, huge, maternal even. Sara weighs Laura's breasts in her
hands, squeezes, prods. "They're real, believe me," she assures the crowd.
	There's a slow handclap going, and whistles and hoots greet the
destruction of Jenny's panties. Her huge untrimmed black bush impresses the
guys, and makes some women laugh aloud. Who'd have guessed? Sara tweaks at
it gently, asking: "Is this real, or did you steal it from a wig shop?"
then knots her fingers into a tight fist and gives it a good hard pull. She
twists and shakes hard enough to move Jenny's hips back and forth, just to
be sure. Tears fill Jenny's eyes.
	Twice would be too much to hope for, so both camps choke with
laughter when Laura's freshly shaved, waxed genitals are revealed. Women
here don't shave, it's plain. They're fascinated at the sight, like some
pornographical porcelain sculpture. Sara rudely parts the young woman's
pouting labia, as if looking for lost car keys, to show her pink slit, then
wipes her messy fingers clean on her belly. Now the two girls are naked,
and crimson with shame, there's another five minutes of clapping, cheering,
slobbering and mockery. Finally, Sara raises her hands for quiet, and calms
the crowd down enough to announce their fate.
	She introduces three other women, Jane, Pauline, Wendy, all shop
owners, all unforgiving victims of last year's wave of robbery. Were these
two responsible? They don't care. They'll do just fine, as an example to
others. They'll be assisted by the observant Katie, who didn't like their
attitudes, and another couple of shop helpers.
	The girls are told: "Now, Jenny? Laura? Are you both ready? Paying
attention, are we? Now, we've got you where we want you. And it's time for
your proper punishment. Yes. I don't think being made to stand in the
pillory counts for much, frankly. Not compared to the mischief you've been
up to.
	"So, let's get serious, shall we? You're at the school here for a
reason. To learn a lesson. We are going to paddle you, and birch you, like
the lowdown, petty thieves you are. Not just a little bit, either. Oh no,
you snotty little bitches. We have the time to do this right, and we will.
You're going to be beaten until you are good and sore. In fact, we're going
to beat you until we see you cry, like the spoilt children you are."
	Their eyes are wide with horror. The crowd loves this.
	"Then," she says, with a nasty smile, "the men here will be
permitted to administer a little adult punishment, too. Something
demeaning, insulting, something you'll remember with distaste for a long
while to come."
	There's a long, hungry silence. Just one woman giggling. Sara says:
"Since you're quite old enough, we won't impose any prudish limits, but I'm
merely suggesting they confine themselves to, well, something appropriate.
I think a healthy dose of penetrative and humiliating punishment would be
good, myself. I mean, I think it'd be best. Rather than whipping the two of
you any more."
	"But, you know?" she shrugs, "It's up to them. I don't make the
rules. If they think you need a bit more ass-warming . . .Hey, why would I
spoil things? I'm just arranging things, making them possible. I'm not here
to protect you. Quite the opposite, really . . ."
	How much corporal punishment will they get? It's plain that's what
the two are anxiously wondering now. They're not asking aloud, because
they're still snugly gagged for this part of their ordeal, and will remain
so.

/continued in Pt.2]

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