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Story Writer
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Date Posted: 04:22:34 12/05/18 Wed

It was an hour before closing, and we literally had to wake up the dozing old docent at the front gate to get admission to the old 18th century prison. Dark, damp, and subterranean, most of the lighting for the rooms came from large barred windows 12 feet above our heads, as street level.

Our first stop was the property room, filled with the shelves for the wooden boxes where the prisoner’s clothes were stored. My boyfriend, always very forward, took one of the boxes off the shelf and opened it.

“You shouldn’t touch that!” I scolded.

“Relax, no one will know. I don’t think anyone’s been in this dump for years. Look, the box is deep enough to get all your gear in it.”

“Great,” I said, moving to the next room.

The next room was large, with the light streaming in from the windows from the interior alley far above our heads. There was a sign on the wall, which my boyfriend began to read, but my attention was drawn to the three stocks in the front of the room.

It was a curious devise. The prisoner would have to kneel on the wooden support to put there head and hands through the pillory that filled the base of the object. I undid the simple latching bolt and lifted the headpiece; it was ancient, but the hinge worked, and it seemed quite functional. My fingers trembled as I ran them along the sliding bolt. My fantasy was now real.

My boyfriend read the sentences off the display on the wall. “Sally Fenton, 6 strokes of the cane for not going to church… Lisa Cantor, 21 strokes of the razor strop, for immodest dress, Charlotte Chambers, two-dozen with the birch for adultery. Gosh, Charlotte, by their standards, you’re guilty of everyone of these!”

“Yes too bad there’s no birches or canes”. Clearing his throat my boyfriend pointed at the corner behind me. I turned my head and was confronted by an arsenal of historic straps, paddles, and canes, hanging on the wall.

My boyfriend walked over and took one of the canes off the wall.

“Don’t!” I scolded, “Those are antiques. You’ll break them!”

I winced as he swished the cane through the air. WHOOSH! WHOOSH! “Seems pretty functional to me!”

Actually, it seemed positively murderous. “These birches are fresh,” he said, picking up one of several bound rods out of a large metal bucket and shaking them. This brine hasn’t been here for 300 years.”

I watched as my boyfriend exited the room, and returned with a property box. Switching off his jacket and shirt, he put on a black jerkin and executioner’s hood. “Take a picture of me!” he said. I took several shots of my handsome, hooded “executioner” holding birches, straps, and canes in various meaningful poses by the bench. As we got more into our game, I felt the wetness growing between my legs.

“Let’s get some shots of you,” he suggested. In the stocks, with me. I’ll use my selfie stick.”

“My dress will get dirty.”

“The wenches didn’t war dresses and slips, silly,” he said, holding up the property box. “Everything in the box, wench!” he barked. “No need for finery here! Jewelry, too!”

“Someone will come,” I protested.

“No one has been in this dump in months. Besides, we’ll hear them and you can slip your dress back on. It’s not like anyone knows us here, or that old guy is going to do anything.”

Truth! Ordinarily I would have turned him down but something about having him order me about in his black leather jerkin and executioner’s hood was so hot.

My breathing quickened and the butterflies in my stomach took flight as I quickly stripped down, all the while anxiously eyeing the door. It was unlike me, and so deliciously naughty! My excitement only grew as my boyfriend egged me on.

“That’s right, Charlotte. You’ve been a VERY naughty wench and now it’s time for your bottom to face justice. Living in sin with another man… public drunkenness… lewd language… The executioner is going to make those pretty bottom cheeks of yours dance, as the law demands. The only question is, which of thou sins shall we punish ye for?”

Lewdness would be a good start, as I was still rubbing my wet pussy right up until the time when my boyfriend took my hands away to put down the head-bar and lock me in the stocks. The rusty old locking bolt was only an inch from my ear, and my clutzy boyfriend nearly broke it, having to put his full weight on it to force it down. When it finally LOCKED into place it sounded to me like a guillotine falling, or the trap door of a gallows.

He held up a leather bit gag. Worn and well chewed it was basically a short stick wrapped in leather, like something you’d put in a horses mouth, with iron buckles that connected it to an adjustable buckle strap.

“You are NOT putting that filthy old thing in my mouth,” I said flatly.

He laughed and said, “We’ll see,” then laid the bit over the top of the stock so the buckle just barely grazed my hand, making it clear it very well MIGHT go in my mouth if I didn’t please him.

I tried to lift my head or slide my hands back out of the wholes, but the heavy wood, which had been holding naughty girls for centuries, wouldn’t budge. I strained my tiny fingers to reach the locking bolt. It was achingly close, but not close enough.

In the next series of photos you couldn’t see my face, as I was kneeling and bent over, but when I spread my legs you could see everything else. As promised, my boyfriend took several wonderful shots of the birch, strop, and cane resting on the small of my back as I “awaited” punishment. Between shots, I rubbed my legs together as best as I could, with my boyfriend occasionally “lending a hand” without ever actually bringing me off, all the while scolding me for being a “harlot”, “whore”, “doxy” and “strumpet”.

Executioners can be such bastards!

My boyfriend was right; I heard the chattering voices of the enormous Japanese tour group for a good five minutes before they reached our cell. What we didn’t count on was the locking bolt on the stocks getting stuck.

“Get me out of here! NOW! I mean it.”

“I have some tools in the car that will do it.”

“NO! You can’t leave me here like this! I’m stark naked!”

The voices were growing louder. From the din I’m guessing there were at least 50 or maybe even 100, all babbling Japanese. My boyfriend had managed to work the bolt about half way up, but as the students entered the next room he changed strategies. Abandoning the effort he pushed the old bolt where it landed with a THUD, followed by a sinister SNAP as he turned it, locking it firmly into place!

“What the hell are you doing?” I demanded.

“They’ll have cameras,” he said, already launching Plan B. But I’ll make sure they just photograph your bottom.”

“Cameras?” I sputtered. “Fuck you!”

He picked up the old leather gag. “I need to gag you, so you don’t say anything stupid. Pick your crime and sentence. We’ll pretend we’re doing a re-enactment. Oh, and I’m going to have to make it look real.”

I closed my legs tightly together as they started entering the room. There were lots of OOHS and AHHS! and laughter and a steady stream of flashes from cameras.

“What’s your crime!” my executioner snapped, holding the gag up so close to my mouth that I could smell the stink of it. I stared at the old leather bit gag which would soon be between my teeth, struggling to remember which crime matched which sentence… I knew my next words would be important, and they would be my last words for quite some time.

My fantasy was now real.

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