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.1, 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. This is MrSpraycan story No. 42 Magic word: "Feedback!" PILLORY FOR TWO RICH SLACKETTES Pt.1 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 2x6 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. /continued in Pt.2] 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)