Punishment

punishment The rough cotton smock scratched, not that it surprised her. She was totally naked under it and even outside of a judicial institution luxury was hard to find in this far off country.

Helen was alone now. The woman from the British Consulate had left in disgust, a harassed dour woman, not yet 40, but old before her time after years of service in the far-flung corners of the world. She was one of the old school; horrified that an Englishwoman abroad should find herself ‘so misused’ as she put it.

But Helen wasn’t being misused, not exactly. She was guilty, as guilty as a tenant of hell. She had been given three options by the court. More choice than a local woman would have been given she was sure.

Firstly, she could go to a hell-hole of a prison for the next three years. Her second choice was to pay a fine equivalent to £20,000, which was equally out of the question. The third option was a flogging.

As soon as Helen had found out that the latter would be commuted to a private application within the police station she accepted it at once.

That was when her troubles had begun.

She had good reasons for privacy and had decided that however horrific a flogging would be, at least it would be discreet. And above all it would have been over and she would have been free to get on with her business.

Then the oh-so-outraged consulate woman had pulled some strings. “The sentence can be suspended,” she had said, “A simple interview to the national press to show how civilised they were and she could accept being deported.”

But the trouble was, she couldn’t accept that, or the international press coverage that went with it.

“But you don’t understand,” the consul had said, “They mean to flay your naked backside, it’s barbaric. At least let me arrange an appeal. Maybe we can prove your innocence.”

But I am not innocent, she had screamed inwardly. Now she was alone with her guilt.

They came for her around three o’clock.

She had spent most of the afternoon since the consul had left sitting up on the cot hugging her knees. Every once in a while she would hear were hard footsteps in the hall outside getting nearer, but then they would pass her door and fade again.

This time the sounds of feet in the hall stopped at her door.

The two women were dressed in grey uniforms with hats pulled down over their hair. Neither spoke nor barely even looked at her as they first handcuffed hands behind her back and led her out into the hall.

The slight canvas slippers on her feet were no protection against the cold stone floor and se could feel a chill all the way up her legs to her thighs to where it opened at the back. Although it seemed the least of her concerns, she wondered if the material had parted to expose her bottom and felt pools of heat on her cheeks. But she was under no illusion that her backside would be exposed soon enough in any case.

Helen was led down a dark unpainted hall that was lit only by a single filament bulb hanging from a twist of cord from somewhere above. This through the women’s faces into shadow under their caps and gave the proceedings a clinical air.

“Where are we going?” she asked, but the women did not reply.

Finally they reached two doors set at right angles at the end of the corridor. The first obviously leading to a courtyard, which Helen could see through a small window cut into it at eye level, the first true daylight she had seen in days. But the sight of it made her fear she was going outside to a public arena and she fell back dragging on the guard holding her arms.

But it was the other door that was opened and she was propelled into a large room where it was suddenly bright and she staggered in blinking hard. The room smelled of fresh paint and acrid wood as if someone had over done it with the creosote. It had the same hard floors and small high windows set eight feet from the ground. These served to illuminate the far wall and the iron-framed angled bench. But it was the figure standing next to it that held her gaze.

He was a dark-haired man with a swarthy but pleasant complexion. She noticed that he wore a dark figure-hugging western-style polo neck sweater that emphasised his tall powerful broad-shouldered stance. As she entered he looked up with a serious expression of concern and folded his arms in a way that reminded her of a teacher from school who had run out patience. His dark sympathetic eyes only supported this impression and Helen’s heart sank. Surely this was not another diplomat trying to help her, she thought.

“My name is Stefan Boyar,” he said in a stern accented baritone. “I work with the justice department and I am to be your instructor today.” His English was perfect and poised.

Helen frowned and shook her head. Instructor in what, surely he wasn’t a teacher after all? What was going on?

Behind her, the two women escorts stood back and then followed one another out as they left the room.

“For the duration of this procedure you will call me Sir, is that understood?” Stefan continued after they had gone.

Helen nodded dumbly.

“Answer me please,” he barked so that she jumped.

“Yes Sir,” Helen said quickly.

“Good,” he replied with a nod, his eyes hinting at a smile.

Before she could say more he turned to another table that had been behind him and picked up a meter length of stiff thin sticks that formed a bundle of 30 or so with a handle at one end.

“Usually we use a prison strap,” he said casually placing most of his attention on the object in his hand. “But you are a woman and a westerner…” he shrugged, “I thought that this might serve us better today.”

Helen blanched finally understanding. By westerner he implied soft.

“I see,” she said in a thick voice and straightened up.

“I see… Sir,” he snapped.

“I see Sir,” she amended.

“Good,” he smiled. “Now you are sentenced to 100 lashes; 50 today and another 50 in 28 days’ time. So we had better proceed.”

“Proceed,” she sucked in her breath and looked at the angled bench, “eh… Sir?”

“Please will you kneel on the lower portion of the bench, the pad near the floor, and bend over the higher part,” he told her, “You will find a bar to hold on to on the far side.”

“I…” Helen tugged at her smock and suddenly felt self-conscious.

“You will have the opportunity to call for a pause up to three times,” Stefan told her, ignoring her hesitancy. “Do you understand?”

Helen nodded and swallowed down a nasty taste. Then steeling herself she walked purposefully across the room and knelt as he directed. The next part was harder. She knew that without underwear her bare bottom would be obscenely elevated to his gaze all at once.

“You signed a request for no witnesses,” he said softly. “Do you wish me to bring in a woman; the English lady perhaps?”

Helen emphatically shook her head and hastened to comply with his first instruction.

The top of the bench was hard under her belly and until she was right over the lower padding hurt her knees. But as soon as she found the crossbar she was able to set herself perfectly. They must have adjusted it for her size in advance she decided. The prosaic thought distracted her from the reality of the exposure of her bare bottom to a strange man.

“Remember, you can ask me to stop three times during the procedure. Ask any more than that and it will count as a penalty. Penalties are extra stroked. Any questions?” he asked sternly.

“What else constitutes a penalty?” she managed, her voice muffled by her position bent over the bench.

“What else constitutes a penalty… Sir,” he barked, “That does for one, getting up, undue complaint, and generally any failure to cooperate. Do you understand that?”

“Yes Sir,” she nodded and strangely she felt that she should apologise.

Satisfied, he studied her firm round bottom and admired the way it curved and divided. It looked like those seen in an American magazine. Did all western girls have such bottoms, he wondered? But he had a job to do and although he was allowed to enjoy it, he shouldn’t be unjust or distracted.

“Very well,” he coughed, “we shall begin.”

Helen held her breath, blushing furiously at her obscenely displayed bottom sticking up for his inspection. She couldn’t see him now, but if she looked down under the bench she could make out a shadow moving under it like some sinister dancing ghost. She could hear him breathing and along with the faint rattle of the bundle of thin rods he held, it was the only noise in the room.

As she focused on this sound it grew louder until she was put in mind of a skipping rope. Then in one loud escalation, this whistle-crash ended suddenly in a burst of fire right across her bottom. In that instant all breath, all will and all thought were robbed from her and she was transfixed.

From above and behind Stefan saw her lurch at the first impact and she reared like a stricken pony. Then as she found her breath she let out a long sharp groan. Then as he watched her bottom flooded with pink.

The second blow got a reaction at once and Helen grunted, letting her bottom wag up and down as if trying to lose the sting.

Eight more times the rattle-crack landed with a crash and each time Helen yelled before falling back into ever more laboured breathing until she was panting like Stefan’s Alsatian, Sheba, after a summer walk. Her bottom was rose red with vivid rills in full blossom across the full extent of her rounds.

Helen was aware of none of this. She only knew the unrelenting sting. Even the sound was drowned by the blood pumping through her ears and she gripped and hauled upon the crossbar with every ounce of her will to escape the fire in her tail. But this forlorn gesture only served to elevate her bottom still more until it was a raw bubble fit to burst with pain.

Stefan admired her stoicism and adjusted his position. He would make a natural pause here to give her a chance. After all, it was only going to get worse for her. Then mindful of justice he landed another stroke down hard making her scream.

“Oh for… ahhh,” she hissed, her legs kicking at the ankles and her grip on the bar rendering knuckles white.

He aimed for the curves where she sat, bridging the faintly wrinkled gap between her thighs and bottom rounds. Here the rods chafed her hellishly and budding blisters crinkled to tiny raw welts. One or two touched her more intimately until she began to make short sharp blowing sounds like a girl skipping over hot sand without shoes.

“Please Mr…” Helen couldn’t remember his name and it was all she could do to yell out, “Sir.”

Stefan ignored such vagaries and struck her half dozen times more, taking her low and then successively higher to just under the small of her back.

“Sir, please,” she shrieked.

“You wish a pause?” he inquired, slicing the rod through the air.

She had taken 21 now, a good place for a pause. But if she were smart she would say no and take advantage of his question as an extra respite.

Helen lay bent over panting hard, conscious now of a run of moisture down the side of her nose and some snot on her lip. Her thrashed bottom had a life of its own and the pain continued to sizzle there like a fire no longer in need of kindling.

“Yes Sir, please Sir,” she gasped.

“You are doing well,” he said gently, “You are a brave woman. Tell me. Is it true what they say? Are you guilty?”

“You would beat me if I wasn’t?” she asked in a strained voice.

Stefan shrugged. It had happened and he regretted that. But sometimes foolish women were at least honest. He was bored with endless pleas of ‘I didn’t do it.’

“Well, if it makes you feel any better… I’m as guilty as hell,” Helen said sullenly.

Stefan laughed.

“I like you,” he chuckled.

He cast his gaze over her luscious curves. Even marred by dozen upon dozen fire-red raw welts, she overwhelmed him with her beauty like a force of nature. It was good to know there was some substance behind her pretty façade. It was a pity that she would never want to see him socially now, not even if she didn’t accept deportation before their next meeting.

“Hey, I like you too,” she said sarcastically, “You’re the nicest executioner-come-torturer I have ever had.”

He laughed at this, but the jibe bothered him.

“Try and take 15 more and then ask for a pause again,” he suggested earnestly. “That way you’ll still have another break with only 14 to go.”

She nodded, but sensed that break time was over and braced herself. And so it proved. But this time the sting was devil sent and she screamed in earnest. By the time he had taken her to 30 she was sobbing hard and begging for him to stop.

Although Stefan slowed the pace to eye her feather-touch raw skin closely he took her to a slow count of 36 before he verified her request. Otherwise, he reasoned she would be broken by 40 strokes and in serious danger of incurring some penalties.

For the next five minutes, three longer than the permitted break time, Helen sobbed like a woman bereft. Her bottom bucked up and down as she did so, never leaving its obscene posture in waiting submission for another round. She was a natural, he thought, some women, he had found, just needed this, even when they really didn’t want it.

“Alright, you have one more pause coming,” Stefan said gently, “I am going to give you eight more, pause, and then lay on the last six. Do you understand?”

Helen sniffed and nodded vigorously.

It was enough and he struck again, a blow that Helen announced enthusiastically before earnestly falling to boo-hooing ostentatiously.

Good to his word he guided through the last strokes until she was limp and surrendered in his care.

“The guards will come in 20 minutes. I will wait until then,” he said gently. “Your consul has a plane waiting. You will be able to sell your story to the press. Then everyone in Europe and America can gnash their teeth over my countries barbarism.”

“But I don’t want…” Helen began, misery dripping from each word, “I thought…”

“The punishment was private, but your deportation will have to be public,” he shrugged. “We can’t stop that. The airlines, the consulate…”

“What if I don’t want to be deported?” Helen asked clambering to her feet.

It was a movement she at once regretted and she clutched furiously at her throbbing bottom.

“Shit, I feel like I have been dragged for a mile on my arse by horse,” she wailed crudely.

Stefan laughed.

“I wouldn’t try sitting for a week or two,” he chuckled, “But seriously, you can refuse deportation and protect your anonymity but in 28 days…”

“I am serious, it hurts,” she sniffed back the last of her tears, “And about deportation too. I handled 50 already, so…”

Stefan grinned. He really liked this woman.

“Will you be the one… next time I mean?” she asked shyly.

“If you prefer, wild horses couldn’t stop me,” he said gently.

“Then it’s a date,” she giggled, before wincing and grabbing her bottom again, “Ooh.”