Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!Copyright 1985-2016 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
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(***, M/F, Severe, severe strapping)
A prisoner attempts to escape and is whipped. (Approximately 1,725 words. Originally published 2004-01.)
The night was a nightmare of chaos and terror. Bree had been on edge the whole day, knowing what she had planned and the risks involved. But she was positive she had calculated everything perfectly.
She was in the air duct successfully when the ear-splitting jangling of the alarm began. Terrified, she tried to think what mistake she had made. She could think of nothing. But somehow she'd triggered the alarm. She was up Shit Creek now!
Forward led to the cafeteria kitchen, where she'd been planning to make her escape. Behind her lay her cell and six years of hard time. If she went forward, no doubt she'd be caught. The whole place was looking for an escapee. Going back was the only logical choice. The risks were high, however: if someone had already checked her cell and saw she was missing, she was dead.
She made it back to discover the place was in a riot. Toilet paper and other loose material was raining down and the guards were frantically trying to control everyone.
Bree poked her head around the corner and instantly felt a heavy hand on her neck.
"Got you!" came the cry, and the guard dragged Bree into the open. "Trying to escape during the riot, eh? Your bottom will pay for that!"
There was nothing Bree could do but cooperate and hope for mercy. She was put back in her cell as the guards quelled the riot. Bree hissed at Esmerelda, the girl next door. "What's going on?"
"They caught Suzanna Domingues trying to scale the wall!" came the whispered response.
"What a fuckin' idiot!" spat Bree furiously. "She ought to have known you can't escape that way!"
"I guess she does now," said Esmerelda. "She's in for it."
Me too, thought Bree grimly as she curled up in bed. She didn't know what would happen to her, but was pretty certain she'd be whipped, maybe even flogged. She'd witnessed a few floggings and the experience looked nightmarish. She'd only been paddled by a guard a few times and that had been bad enough. Floggings were a whole new level.
The victim was stripped naked and her wrists and ankles were bound to a large wooden X. She was stretched until it hurt and all the skin was taut. The flogging instrument was a multi-tailed whip. The bare back and buttocks and legs were the main targets, but the whip was such that blows inevitably wrapped around the skin, stinging other areas of the body, such as the outer portions of the breasts. A full flogging might take as long as an hour. The victim often lost consciousness during the proceeding and had to be revived. The skin of her entire back side was striped with cruel scarlet weals when it was over.
A flogging was cruel and horrible, and Bree was a nervous wreck wondering if and when it would happen to her.
The next morning a group of women were led to the punishment chamber, Bree included. The warden was there to pass sentence. In this prison, there was no appeal. The warden's word was law.
First the rioters were dealt with. These were simple paddlings to be handled by guards. The women were hauled off for punishment. The warden then looked at the two more serious cases, Bree and Suzanna. Bree, he announced, would have her buttocks strapped. Severely. Six rounds of fifteen lashes each to be administered immediately.
Bree's palms began to sweat when she heard the announcement. The pit in her belly swelled to enormous size. She found herself trembling as two guards grabbed her wrists.
Still, her fate was not as bad as Suzanna's. As Bree was being led to the punishment bench she heard Suzanna screaming as the warden announced her sentence: a public flogging followed by ninety days in solitary with weekly whippings. Bree had heard of others suffering such punishment: solitary was so boring the prisoners soon looked forward to the whippings.
Suzanna was carried off as Bree was stripped for her whipping. She was numb, an automaton, allowing the guards to do what they would. She didn't like being naked in front of them -- it made her feel vulnerable. Then a guard handed her a pair of jeans. She was surprised.
"What are these for?"
"They are punishment jeans, you wear them for the whipping," a guard grunted.
Bree had never heard of such a thing, but she was relieved to think her strapping would not be on bare skin. Maybe this won't be so bad after all, she thought.
The jeans were heavy denim, but the back pockets had been ripped off. The seat area was well worn. Bree shuddered to think how many times a leather strap had connected with the material to wear it so. When she tried to put on the jeans, she discovered they were extremely tight. Though Bree was fit, she was not exactly skinny, with a rather full ass. It took her several minutes of tugging to get the jeans in place. They hugged her butt so tightly it was disconcerting and a touch embarrassing.
The punishment bench was a wooden structure in the shape of a slight U. It was about thirty inches deep, and Bree was bent across it, her breasts dangling over the front edge of the bench, her ass the back. Her arms were stretched to the lower corners and fastened. Her ankles were spread behind her and also fastened to the bench. She tried to wiggle, but she couldn't move anything but her head.
Bree trembled as she saw a guard approach with the punishment strap. It was a long piece of leather about three inches wide and a quarter-inch thick. It looked heavy and deadly, and all too soon Bree found out how right that assessment was.
The hefty guard stepped behind Bree and set himself. After a quick practice stroke, he lifted the strap high behind his shoulder and brought it forward. He delivered it with tremendous force, putting the weight of his body behind it. The belt snapped down across Bree's haunches with a thunderous crack and Bree threw her head up and screamed.
Again and again the belt flashed down across her buttocks. Bree sobbed and writhed helplessly, unable to do anything to protect her sizzling backside. Every stroke of that heavy leather belt seemed to sear the skin right off her bottom. She screamed and wept, but the guard just continued to whip her mercilessly.
The jeans were no protection at all. From that first strike, all illusions that this was a milder form of punishment vanished. The searing sting burned into her butt so fiercely she couldn't even tell that she was wearing the pants!
In fact, she was to discover later, the jeans did protect her skin. They didn't stop the pain, but the tight denim kept the leather from removing the skin off her body. That might have sounded like a mercy, but the prison only used the punishment jeans so they could extend the punishment. On the bare buttocks there was no way a girl could take even a few dozen of that heavy belt: her skin would be so damaged she'd risk permanent injury. But with the denim jeans, the whipping could be a nice long one, teaching a girl a good lesson.
After the first fifteen strokes, Bree's arms were released and she was ordered to rise. She was still crying, and she stood wobbly, her legs still atached to the bench, and tried to assess her physical state. She was naked from the waist up, her chest, back, and wrists hurting from the awkward bent postion. Her buttocks were quietly sizzling from the strapping and as she gasped for air she wondered how she could possible endure another dose.
But then a man in a white coat approached and ordered her to drop her jeans. Normally she would have questioned such a thing, but the strapping had subdued her rebellious nature. She gulped and nodded, carefully undoing the button at her waist and sliding the jeans down.
She wore no panties, and as her bare buttocks made contact with the air she was groaning with the pleasure of the coolness.
The man in the white coat calmly stepped over behind Bree and carefully began to examine her buttocks. He studied and squeezed the cheeks, lifted each with a palm as though weighing it, and making little clicking sounds in his throat.
"She's fine," he said finally, and the guard told Bree to pull the jeans back on. Bree did not want to, but she was too afraid to disobey. Getting the tight jeans on the second time was even more of a struggle than the first, but she finally managed.
Immediately she was bent back over the punishment bench and her arms pulled downward and fastened in place again. Then the fifteen stroke strapping was repeated. It was horrible, pure agony, and Bree tried to remember exactly how many sets of fifteen she was supposed to endure.
Each set of fifteen took five or six minutes to administer. Bree could do nothing but scream, and eventually lost the energy for that. After each fifteen, the doctor would examine her bare bottom and pronounce it fit for the next dose. The exams were humiliating and painful: with her flesh covered with blisters the slightest touch by the man was horrible. Getting the jeans on and off took longer and longer, and on two occasions Bree was awarded extra strap strokes for delay.
Finally, after forty-five minutes of horror, the torment was over. The punishment had been dealt, and Bree was taken to the infirmary to have her buttocks tended to.
Bree thought she was bad off until they brought in Suzanna a few hours later. Her entire body was one huge welt! The flogging had striped her from the neck down. She'd need medical care that night, but after that she'd be in solitare. Once Bree saw Suzanna, all thoughts of escaping vanished. There was no way she'd risk that, not even with the odds a million-to-one in her favor! No, she'd do her time and accept the abusive paddlings of the guards as a charity. Anything was better than a flogging.