Chapter 13: Collective punishments at the pillories
The packed earth of the Punishment Square radiated the day’s trapped heat, mingling with the sour tang of sweat and the metallic bite of fear. Bea Moreau tasted dust and her own blood where she’d bitten her lip. Locked rigidly in the unforgiving pillory, her fiery red hair plastered to her damp forehead and neck, every nerve ending screamed. Beside her, Esmeralda Rivera trembled, her long blonde hair obscuring her face where it hung down. The earlier defiance in Esme’s posture was gone, replaced by the shaky aftermath of relentless handling. Their naked bodies, flushed and glistening, bore the angry evidence of the crowd’s attentions – handprints bloomed crimson on their backsides, nipples stood bruised and peaked, the crude butt plugs forced into them earlier glinted obscenely under the harsh sun.
"Had enough yet, Ginger?" Erik's voice, thick with false sympathy, cut through the low murmur of the dispersing crowd. He swaggered closer, his gaze lingering on the dark smudge of Bea's pubic hair, the swollen lips of her sex visible from her bent position.
"Fuck off, Erik," Bea rasped, her voice raw. Her arms ached fiercely from being stretched and locked through the pillory’s holes, her shoulders screaming. "Or did you need another lesson in counting properly? Heard they started over on you three times at the post yesterday." She managed a savage grin despite the pain.
He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. He reached out, not for her backside this time, but ran a rough finger along the crease where her thigh met her ass, deliberately brushing against the base of the plug. Bea flinched violently, a gasp escaping her. "Just admiring the canvas," he murmured. "Looks like it needs a few more… highlights."
"Touch her again, Erik," Esme hissed, lifting her head slightly. Her eyes, usually so vibrant, were red-rimmed and furious. "I swear to god, when I get out of this fucking thing…" Her threat died as another figure approached.
Mrs. Henderson moved with the quiet, predatory grace that turned the air cold. Her pale linen dress was immaculate, a stark contrast to the soiled, sweating flesh of the two women confined before her. The heavy wooden paddle hung at her hip like a badge of office. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over the tableau of degradation.
"Having fun, ladies?" she asked, her voice cool and clipped. She stopped directly in front of them, the toes of her polished brogues inches from Bea’s face. "Enjoying the fruits of your little… artistic escapade?" Earlier, Esme had been caught painting a shockingly explicit mural on the mess hall wall during rest hour, and Bea, unable to resist the challenge to authority, had loudly declared it a masterpiece. The pillory had been their shared reward.
Bea met her gaze, defiance warring with exhaustion. "It had more artistic merit than the camp regulations pamphlet, I'll give it that."
Mrs. Henderson didn’t smile. Slowly, deliberately, she drew the paddle from its loop. The polished wood caught the sunlight. She tapped it lightly against her palm. Thwack. Thwack. The sound echoed unnervingly in the sudden quiet. Erik took a hesitant step back.
"Your public display appears to be concluded," Mrs. Henderson stated. "The crowd seems sated. For now." She let her gaze drift pointedly over their exposed bodies, the used vibrator lying discarded in the dust near Esme, the angry marks. "But your correction, I fear, has barely begun. Public spectacle serves its purpose, but true understanding requires… focus." She turned her head slightly. "Anna!"
The Head Girl appeared almost instantly, her expression carefully neutral, though a flicker of satisfaction danced in her eyes. "Mrs. Henderson?"
"Release them. Bring them to the Disciplinary Cabin. Room Three." Mrs. Henderson’s voice left no room for discussion. "They require a more structured review of their transgressions. And ensure they remain exactly as they are." Her gaze swept meaningfully over the butt plugs. "No interference."
Anna nodded sharply. "Yes, Mistress." She produced a heavy key and moved to the first pillory lock – Esme’s. The mechanism clanked loudly.
Bea felt a cold dread seep through the residual heat of humiliation. The Disciplinary Cabin. Room Three. Its reputation was whispered in fearful tones. No public audience there. Just the implement rack, the correction bench, and Mrs. Henderson’s undivided, merciless attention. Esme whimpered as the top half of the pillory lifted, freeing her head and arms. She stumbled, her legs stiff and shaky. Anna’s grip on her upper arm was unyielding.
"Move," Anna commanded, her voice devoid of its usual friendly lilt. She propelled Esme forward. Bea felt her own lock release. The sudden release of pressure on her neck and shoulders was agony. She sagged, only Anna’s strong hand keeping her upright. The plug shifted inside her, a harsh, unwelcome reminder.
They were marched, stumbling and naked, past the remaining poles and pillories, the packed earth rough underfoot. Eyes followed them from the shadows of cabins – Sofie’s worried gaze, Silvia’s impassive glare from where she stood, arms crossed, near her own cabin. Erik watched too, a speculative leer on his face. The walk to the isolated Disciplinary Cabin, nestled at the very edge of the camp clearing, felt endless. Every step jolted the plug. Bea clenched her teeth, focusing on the hatred burning in her chest.
Room Three was exactly as feared. Windowless. Bare wooden walls. A single, harsh overhead bulb. The air smelled of pine disinfectant and old wood, underscored by something metallic. Dominating the center was a heavy, padded correction bench, its leather dark and scarred. Against one wall stood the implement rack: canes, straps, paddles of various shapes and thicknesses, crops, a wicked-looking tawse. Mrs. Henderson stood beside it, calmly removing her linen jacket to reveal a crisp white blouse. She hung the jacket precisely on a hook.
"Place Miss Rivera on the bench," she instructed Anna, her voice echoing slightly in the small space. "Position A. Securely."
Anna forced Esme forward. Position A meant bent completely over the high end of the bench, waist pinned by a heavy leather strap, ankles shackled to rings set into the floor, forcing her ass high, her sex and the plug clearly exposed. Esme struggled weakly as Anna efficiently buckled the waist strap. "No! Please... not again... I can't…" Her voice was a desperate whimper.
"Quiet," Mrs. Henderson said, not raising her voice, yet the command silenced Esme instantly. The shackles clicked shut around her ankles. "You made your choice when you defaced camp property." She turned to Bea. "You chose to endorse it. Your defiance has consequences beyond a simple spanking in the square, Miss Moreau. Anna?"
Bea didn’t fight as Anna guided her towards the bench. Fighting Mrs. Henderson now was suicidal. Position B: kneeling on the floor facing the bench, her torso forced down over a lower padded rail, her head lowered between Esme’s splayed legs, her own ass elevated, presented. Anna pulled Bea’s arms forward, securing her wrists tightly in cuffs attached to the front legs of the bench. The position was impossibly vulnerable, her face inches from Esme’s dripping sex and the black plastic base of the plug. Bea could smell Esme’s fear, her arousal, the faint musk mingling with the leather and disinfectant.
"Fuck you," Bea spat, the words muffled against the leather where her cheek pressed.
Mrs. Henderson ignored her. She walked slowly to the implement rack, her fingers trailing over the wood and leather. She bypassed the lighter canes, the straps. Her hand closed around the handle of a heavy, rectangular paddle, thick as two fingers, its surface unvarnished, showing the grain. It was a brutal thing, designed for one purpose.
"Public correction serves the community," Mrs. Henderson began, moving to stand directly behind Bea. "This… serves you. To carve the lesson deeper. To ensure it sticks." Bea felt the cool wood tap lightly against her exposed bottom, already sore and marked. She tensed involuntarily. "Esmeralda. You will count. Clearly. Every stroke. A miscount, and we begin again. Beatrice. You will observe." Mrs. Henderson’s voice dropped, becoming intimate, dangerous. "Watch what your defiance wrought upon your friend. See it. Smell it. Remember it."
Bea squeezed her eyes shut, but the image was burned into her mind: the flushed, swollen lips of Esme’s pussy, the dark plug, the trembling inner thighs. She could feel Esme’s heat on her face.
The paddle lifted away. The air stirred. Then it fell.
CRACK!
The sound was like a gunshot in the small room. Esme shrieked, a raw, animal sound of pure agony. Her body bucked violently against the restraints. Bea flinched, the sound vibrating through the bench beneath her cheek. The sting radiated from the impact point, a white-hot brand.
"ONE!" Esme sobbed, the word ragged and wet.
Mrs. Henderson didn’t pause. The paddle rose and fell with metronomic precision.
CRACK!
"TWO! Oh god! OH GOD!" Esme writhed, tears streaming down her face, dripping onto Bea's hair below.
CRACK!
"THREE! P-PLEASE! NO MORE! PLEASE!" Esme’s voice rose to a desperate wail. Her pussy clenched visibly around the plug with each impact, glistening wetness smearing onto the leather bench inches from Bea’s nose. The sharp, coppery scent of fear was now laced with the heavy, unmistakable musk of Esme's distress and involuntary arousal. Bea could see the tiny muscles flutter around Esme's anus where the plug stretched her.
CRACK!
"FOUR!" The cry was weaker, more broken. A deep, mottled crimson stripe blossomed across the center of Esme’s ass, overlapping the earlier marks. Sweat slicked her skin.
Mrs. Henderson shifted her stance minutely. The next blow landed lower, across the tender crease where ass met thigh.
CRACK!
"F-FIVE! AAGGHH!" Esme’s scream dissolved into choking sobs. Her hips jerked helplessly. A fresh gush of fluid escaped her pussy, hot drops spattering Bea’s forehead. Bea kept her eyes wide open now, forced to witness the brutal intimacy of Esme’s destruction. The plug moved obscenely with each spasm.
The paddle tapped, adjusted. Aimed for the undercurve, the sit spot. Bea braced, knowing how much that would hurt.
CRACK!
"S-SIX!" Esme gasped, her body going rigid, then collapsing against the bench. Her breathing was shallow, rapid. The entire surface of her ass was a single, throbbing bruise, dark and livid. The plug base seemed to pulse with the frantic beat of her heart.
"Good," Mrs. Henderson murmured, almost to herself. She ran the edge of the paddle lightly over Esme’s ravaged flesh, making her flinch violently and whimper. "You take your medicine better than I expected, Miss Rivera. A glimmer of understanding, perhaps?" Her gaze shifted down to Bea, whose own heart hammered against her ribs. The dread was a physical weight. She knew what was coming. The Mistress’s eyes, cold and assessing, locked onto hers. "Now, Miss Moreau," Mrs. Henderson said, her voice dropping to a silken purl that promised exquisite agony. "Let's see how well you observe. And how well you count." The unvarnished wood of the heavy paddle tapped Bea’s own vulnerable, upturned bottom.