Pillory For Two Rich Slackettes

Two young girls gets punished for shoplifting

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 2×6 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.

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]

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!”

Article written by EroFiction.com

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