Previously, I would throw provided a written confession, a request for corporal punishment and a waiver of responsibility accepting all the import. The Disciplinarians would have met to adjudicate my penalty, with a mandatory lower limit sentence of 60 CVA and no upper limit point. The sentence is not notified to me, I am just summoned to surrender myself for penalisation, let 's say on Saturday noon.

There are zero shade from the start. I am just barked unforesightful orders and sharp query. I am not allowed to speak but to concisely answer such motion. Of form, there will be no variety of stop word or anything like that. This is a very punishment, not kinky play. Upon arrival, right on the dorm, I am ordered to strip down from crown to toes, including any jewelry or accessory, and throw it all into a box on the floor. The slightest question or ohmic resistance are immediately treated with roughshod blows to the face and whip of a belt.

As soon as I am raw like just born, I have my mitt tightly cuffed behind my back. My ankles are shackled to a big leg broadcaster. A spider gag or any other kind of lawless mouth gag is firmly attached to my headland. Then I am harshly driven into a bathroom dragging my pinion metrical unit, ordered to sit on the toilet facing the paries, use it and left there while everybody else arrives. I can see there is a camera in the bathroom monitoring me.

I am left alone there, maybe for 2 or 3 hours. From clip to sentence, I can hear more people entering the house. My centre pounds in anxiety, expectation and fear.

Next, two help come to the bath. They pull the chain to redden the toilet, then haul me into the tub. They open the cold body of water and thoroughly wash me with hard brushes, like scrubbing a piece of music of wood. I am warned that 's my last opportunity to drink in if I need it. I gulp low temperature piddle down my wide-open gagged sass. Once they 've made sure I am plum as a whistle, I am dragged to the penalization elbow room without even being dried up.

The penalty Room is declamatory, maybe a huge basement, to provide space for freely swinging The Implement and for The People who are already there. The Implement can be an over 40 '' -long, 1 '' midst, soaked, heavy rattan palm cane ; or a similar-sized rightful rhinoceros skin sjambok ; or the cut-along pace of a tire with all its lugs and rut and a handle attached ; or anything equally vicious. The Implement is in the hands of The public executioner, a very huge and substantial somebody with monolithic brawniness. In the centre of The penalty elbow room there is The debacle Bench, designed to hold back the bum exposed high gear in the air and the head low, to foreclose fainting. On the early side of The Punishment elbow room, The Nurse waiting besides the checkup Cart with the start Aid kit and all the healing stuff and nonsense, which is sure going to be needed.

Nobody pays much aid to me. The mass are mostly having a drinking and chatting among themselves. I am held besides The Whipping Bench while The Nurse gives me a med check. meat and breathe, blood force per unit area, a prick in my arm with a needle to see how I bleed and how firm I stop bleeding. The nanny nods, meaning I am fit for The penalization. Immediately, I have the cuffs and hamper removed, but only to be restrained on The Whipping Bench, ankle joint, radiocarpal joint and waist, with my bum exposed senior high in the air and my head low. The wide-open-mouth gag is kept to preclude me from biting my tongue.

Now The People are already taking their tail. The Leader remembers The People -and me- why I am about to be punished with a inexorable, scornful vox. Then, The Nurse paint my buttocks and my pussy with iodine. The massive Executioner taps them with the tip of The Implement, measuring the distance for maximal effect. I am scared to decease. I am probably crying already. The people is now paying attention. Justice is about to be done. Then The Leader simply says :

'' One. ``

I cringe. The public executioner raises The Implement high, then swing music it full strength against my low cheek, as in a powerful golf tee shot. The encroachment sounds like an blowup. My unanimous bum tactile property like suddenly bursting in unbearably blazing flame. A piston of pain in the ass stab down my entire body to my icky foreland, ejecting any opinion or emotion through my popping eyes and my screaming sass, replacing them with pure pain in the neck. I ca n't bear it. I absolutely ca n't digest it. But it does n't stop, on the opposite, it seems to hurt even more and Thomas More and more with throbbing flames. I try to fight back, take flight, beg. I ca n't, I am just capable to cringe and agitate and confess like the smutty shamed gilt I am. The Leader just says :

'' Two. ``

And so they go on, at a constant pace, without paying the fragile attention to my reactions. Maybe it 's one stroke every ten or fifteen seconds, I do n't have a go at it. All of them full moon strength, like trying to hit a baseball out of the arena. All of them on the lower two thirds of my tooshie, once and again. By shot ten, my buns are fully welted and turning hopeful red. By separatrix twenty, the peel is broken and I can find the warm blood running down my clinching thighs. The pain is definitely unbearable, but that 's what penalization are for, are n't they ?

By virgule forty, the downcast two third gear of my buttocks are a mess of rip up skin and blood. At sixty, they are reduced to a throbbing flayed pulp. I was expecting to get just the minimum mandatary sentence, but The Leader keeps on :

'' Sixty-one. ``

... and all Bob Hope vanishes. They go on, and on, and on, one shot every 15 second gear, full military posture, non-stop, against the Lapp lower two third base of my destroyed bum. Even when I am already lying hitch, softly sobbing, it does n't lay off. At all. Whap ! -- -whap ! -- -whap ! -- -whap ! -- -whap ! -- -

It ends as suddenly as it started. The Leader just stops saying numbers, and the strokes block. By then, I can barely acknowledge it. The hoi polloi starts leaving for another rooms. The nursemaid comes to heal my wounding with something that burns like hell, but I am ineffective to react. The Executioner leaves with The Leader. I am left alone there, still restrained to the whipstitch bench, crying my misery.

During the next hours, some men come to use my holes and a pair off woman feel like playing with me too. It 's kind of like Brassica napus, but I do n't mind. I ca n't mind. I only mind that when they fuck my pussy or ass to their formal, my bum feels like being grated. Other than that, anything is much dependable than The Punishment. And when some men start fucking my pharynx, I eventually start getting some liquids : cum and piss, which I anxiously swallow up. You do n't know how good piss and cum taste sensation until you are craving for some piddle. The Nurse comes from time to time to check I am OK, meaning I am not dying of anything.

Much later, I finally have the restraint removed. I am helped back to the Marguerite Radclyffe Hall. I can barely walk, but they take me there and order me to get dressed and leave. I obey. I ca n't do anything but to obey. While I am painfully, confusedly putting my apparel on, I am told to come up back twice a week during the following month for further healing handling. I am also told I am going to have lasting scarring.

I do n't take care. At all. justice has been served. Now I finally do n't feel guilty. I have paid for all my blame and I am clean, innocent again. I check my watch. It 's 20:15. I can be home for dinner. Nobody will fuck. Nobody must screw. And as I leave, I start thinking in the indorse episode. Because from now on I will live under The Implement, do you know ? Until perfection. Or else .