Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: Subject: Pillory For Two Slackettes Pt.2, 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. Magic word: "Feedback!" This is MrSpraycan story No. 42 PILLORY FOR TWO RICH SLACKETTES Pt.2 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] Note: To get a recent catalog/manifesto, list of stories . . . whatever, send an e-mail to . No further text is necessary. If you want to talk to the author, in a virtual sense of the word, send e-mail to . You'll probably get a reply . [ Via EDTec Anon Remail Service: ] -- Story Submission: Newsgroup FAQ: Archive site: (Not pretty yet)