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Disclaimer and Copyright
The following story, ‘A Public Spectacle’ was written in 2008 and is an original work of fiction and is intended for adult readers only. It contains descriptions of acts of violence, forced nudity, public humiliation and non-consensual sexual activities not suitable for many readers.
If these things offend you, the reader, do not read any further.
Elements of this story; its plot, setting and character names, are not necessarily unique to this story, and any resemblance with actual events, places and persons is unintentional. I wish to thank all the past writers and storytellers in the English language for the inspirations used to write ‘A Public Spectacle’, with a special thanks to the authors, reviewers and readers of this web site for their encouragement and support. I assert a copyright on the text of this story and no printing, distribution, re-posting or commercial use what so ever is allowed without prior authorization by myself or my future assignees.
However, since the basic ideas in this story (public punishment, small-town politics, adultery, pain, repression of the middleclass, sex, betrayal, morality, prostitution, etc.) are not entirely my own, feel free to incorporate them into any of your own works. I look forward to reading them.
Neal [aka oldpervert1 on bdsmlibrary.com, aka fishbreath4@yahoo.com]
A Public Spectacle
Chapter 16 – Four Other Prisoners
Noon signals another shift change and Smoky, the jailhouse guard, approach the dais to relieve the night shift. Pleasantries are exchanged between the 2 head jailers, then the night crew goes off to bed or at least back to the jail to change into civilian clothes and join the crowd waiting for the public spectacle of the branding ceremony.
“Smoky, you look very handsome today. Those are really some stylish clothes you got on,” says Yvette.
“The Judge left word that all the police and jail guards had to wear their dress uniforms for the branding ceremony today. It’s been years since I wore my ‘dress grays’ and I’m afraid they don’t fit so good anymore.”
“Ah, Smoky they look real nice. I wish I had some clothes to wear. Did you bring anything for me ?”
“You know I can’t do that. The court order states you are to be nude until after your branding at 1PM. After that, you will be free to go do anything you want and wear anything you want. Besides, everyone likes to see you in your birthday suite; the one you’re wearing now. Just look at all the cameras setup to take your picture.”
“But its only 12:15. What do I do for the next 45 minutes ?”
“Same thing you’ve been doing all night. Stand around and show off that beautiful, young sexy body of yours. I especially like the way Sam, the night shift jailer, has pulled your arms back. It makes your tits look even better, which I didn’t think was possible. But you could really use some cleaning-up. I got a spray bottle and a clean towel. How ‘bout you let me wipe down those tits and that ass of yours ? We got time.”
“Oh, yes, please and my face, too.”
The old jailer alternately sprays and towels various parts of the captive’s luscious body to clean-off the accumulated sweat and dirt of the past 24 hours. The dried cum on her tits is the hardest to remove, but with several applications from the spray bottle, he is able to get the semen off.
“Ya know Smoky, if I could have identified my attacker, then things would have been different; then I wouldn’t be up here naked, humiliated, forced to suck and fuck rubber cocks for the amusement of every pervert in the Village. If I could have picked out that weasel’s face from a photo-lineup I wouldn’t be branded as a slut.”
“You’re not being branded as a slut. Hell, if they branded every woman for being a little slutty, then they might as well brand the whole damn female population over the age of 10. No. You are being branded as an adulteress. But my wife, Ellie, is trying to help you out on that count. She has been up all night sorting through a photo-lineup for you. She has been looking at thousands of cock pictures, trying to find the one that raped you. If he has a past criminal record on this planet, his dick is in one of those pictures. When I left for work this morning, Ellie had come up with a couple of dozen candidates that meet the following criteria ;
“The last criteria is a little hard to quantify.”
“She’s doing that for me ? Oh, Smoky, do you think she’ll find that bastard ?” asks Yvette. “And don’t forget the scars on the backs of his hands. They might be brands, but I could not see them clearly enough to see which letter.”
“That’s good to know. I’ll call Ellie and tell her, as soon as I get a chance,” says Smoky as he spruces-up Yvette for her ‘date’ with the branding iron. “But I have to get you ready for you stroll across the square. A girl as pretty as you has to have something nice to wear. I got just the thing – a nice new transport collar. Now you just hold still while I get it on you.”
The black leather collar is 4 cm wide with a buckle in the back. There is also a steel ring in the front and back for lead chains. Smoky tightens up the collar so it makes Yvette hold her neck straight, but not so tight as to restrict the jugular veins.
“And I have a new shiny chain to go with the new collar.”
Smoky clips an extra long lead chain to the back of the collar and runs it down the prisoner’s back, between the cleft of her buttocks and up her front to the ring under her chin. The lead chain is threaded through the front ring and the prison is ready to go. Well, nearly ready.
“I have to make one important adjustment to the lead chain, hun,” say the old jailer as he spreads Yvette’s cunt lips and shifts the chain to run between then. “There, that’s the way it should be,” he says as he tugs the lead chain and drives the chain deep into Miss Easy’s slit. “We’ll both have a lot of fun with that.”
Yvette just stands there and endures yet another public indignity.
Smoky proceeds to buckle wrist shackle on to Yvette and chips them to the back of the transport collar. “I’ve never been a big fan of waist chains and having you wear handcuffs will cause you to cover that nice ass of yours,” says Smoky as he picks up a short piece of rope discarded by the night jailer. Smoky ties several wraps around Yvette’s arm at the elbow. The free end is about 1 meter long and dangles from the prisoner’s elbow. After finding another 4 meter length of rope, he ties it around the other arm in a similar way. Moving to the back of the captive, he takes the rope end from the right elbow, runs it thru the steel ring at the back of the collar and ties it tight to a rope end from the left elbow. This has the effect of spreading the prisoner’s arms away from the sides of her head and thrusting out her beautiful tits, of course. The procedure is repeated with the rope from the left elbow, only this time, Yvette’s arms are spread even more.
“There. Now everyone can see that pretty face of yours, as well as your perfect breasts. You know the media will be taking lots of pictures and all those horny guys need to see your face. You know, so they can recognize you when you are out in public with your clothes on. Not naked like you are now. You do want to all those men to know who you are. Don’t you, Miss Yvette ?”
Yvette doesn’t answer.
In the mean time, the 4 other unfortunate citizens to be branded appears from around the corner of the courthouse and Smoky and Yvette watch their procession through the Village Square.
The line of 4 prisoners is lead by Joe, the jail guard. Each prisoner has their wrists cuffed to a chain around their waist, which makes them carry their arms at un-natural angle. Each prisoner is also gagged, not that Yvette could hear anything they would say at this distance.
“Smoky, are the other prisoner’s all wearing transport collars like mine ?” asks Yvette.
“Not exactly. Theirs ain’t new and ain’t as tight as yours and their collars have 2 chains ; one attached to the front and one to the back,” says Smoky. “No need to run their chains through their crotches.”
As the procession gets closer, Yvette sees that the jailer in front of the group leads the first prisoner by a chain, padlocked to his collar under his chin. And just as Smoky said, the first prisoner also has a chain locked to the back of his collar, which is padlocked to the front of the collar around the second prisoner’s neck, etc. etc. until the last prisoner, which also has a chain at the back of his collar, which is held by Jara, the jailhouse guard, who brings up the rear.
“Smoky, all your guards look very professional in their gray tailored uniforms,” says Yvette. “And that Jara guy is kind of cute.”
“The dress uniforms are by order of Judge Fairvert, since this is a special occasion and the guards will likely be on TV,” says Smoky as he sprays Yvette’s tits one more time. “So do you have the hots for Jara ?”
Yvette just smiles.
By contrast, the 4 other prisoners are in their usual, ill-fitting black and white stripped prison jumpsuits. The sort of dirty jumpsuits you see them wearing when picking up litter along the roadsides. There is one exception; that being the jumpsuits are pulled down to the prisoner’s waists, leaving their chests, backs and arms bare. With the upper half of their bodies on display, a wide assortment of tattoos, scars and previous brandings are visible to those villagers close enough to see them.
Smoky tells Yvette about the 4 prisoner. “The first guy in the line is in his mid fifties and the oldest of the group. I think he is an office worker or clerk of some sort ; definitely not a blue-collar worker.”
Yvette notices his thinning grey hair and a soft pale body, which reminds her of uncooked bread dough.
“Except for one previous branding scar on his right arm, this first prisoner has no remarkable features. The second person in the line of prisoners is the only woman, besides you,” say Smoky.
“Why isn’t she forced to go topless, like me ? Why has she been allowed to wear that dingy white bra ?” asks Yvette.
“But you see, even with her bra on, you can tell her left breast is 2 or 3 cup sizes larger than her right, probably due to a partial mastectomy operation,” says Smoky. “Miss Easy, I hope your tits never look that bad,” he says and he grabs a free feel of her grade ‘A’ breast meat. “The third prisoner in the group is in his twenties, your age.”
Yvette sees that he is lean and tanned, with clearly defined muscles but his long greasy hair, drawn up in a ponytail, is not to her liking. His left arm displays a number of haphazard tattoos, which run together in several places; the newer ones obscuring the older ones.
Smoky says, “You might not be able to see ‘em from here, but he has 2 small ‘A’ brands on his chest and his right arm has several ‘T’ brands.”
“So he is a petty thief as well as an adulterer. Not exactly my type.”
“See that last person in line ? The one that looks too young to be in a group of jailhouse prisoners ?” asks Smoky. “He is more your type. He has no tattoos, or pervious branding scars, and this may be his first serious brush with the law,” says Smoky as he reaches a hand behind Yvette’s back and pulls playfully on the chain running between her ass cheeks and pussy lips.
Yvette stares at the boy. He looks more like a blond haired high school student, than an adult. But he has an unusual shuffling gate which hints at an alternate life-style so prevalent in the juvenile delinquents these days.
“I’m not chasing after any guys right now. Not even Jara,” says Yvette. “I’m sure I’ll have more fellows chasing me for dates, and sex, than I care to think about, thanks to all the ‘advertisement’ Judge Fairvert has put me through this last 24-hours. Hell, I bet my Comm.Link number is already scratched into all the stalls in the boy’s restroom at the high school. You know; ‘for a good time call Easy, 123-6969’ or something like that.”
The gathering crowd of curious Villagers easily parts to make way for the line of 4 prisoners. After all, they are only the ‘warm-up acts’ and not the main reason they came to the square today. They are here to see ‘the best tits on the planet’ ; those of Miss Yvette Easy. The adulterous slut they have been watching on all the news channels for the last 2 days. The prisoner parade is marched to the grassy area behind the western stage and they wait there for their introduction. Not being the ‘main event’ at this public branding, they will be burned first, but none of them look too happy about their upcoming burning.
On stage there is a heavy wooden armchair, a large whisky barrel and the brander’s portable furnace. The armchair has a tall, straight back and is equipped with many thick leather belts dangling from the seat, back and armrests. The chair is near the front of the stage, right in the center. The whiskey barrel is (alas) empty and several staves have been removed from one side of the barrel giving it one non-rounded side. The barrel lies on the flat side created by the missing staves and is near the back of the stage. The brander’s brazier is on a metal tripod and stands at waist height. It is bolted to the right front corner of the stage. The brazier is a modern, gas fired model made to resemble the traditional coal-fired fire pots used during old-earth’s middle-ages. It bristles with a dozen or more branding irons already being heated for the prisoner’s punishments. Whoosh ! The brander shoots a stream of raw propane into his portable furnace and a tall column of smoke and flames blasts into the air.
“The next time the brander flames his furnace like that, we have to go,” says Smoky the jailer as he unhooks Yvette’s lead chain from the bondage frame and prepares her for the trip across the square for her final ordeal.
“Oh, we can’t forget this,” he says as he takes her enlarged photo ID badge and clips it to the front of her collar. Even though the ID badge is 3 times the normal size, it does not cover Yvette’s tits. “We have to make sure your public knows who you are, and how they can reach you.” Then the jailer writes Yvette’s comm.-link number is bold numbers across the bottom of the ID badge. “And now, all the men will know how to contact you, not just the boys reading the walls in the high school lavatories.”
Yvette can just imagine the dozens of obscene phone calls and recorded messages she will be getting in the next few hours ; before she can have her number changed.
tap tap tap. The familiar sound of someone tapping on a microphone, to see if it is working, fills the Village Square. People start looking around for the source, then the TV cameras all turn to the courthouse’s grand staircase and focus on the top landing.
tap tap tap. A town crier has appeared and is taping on the 2 microphones mounted to twin stands. He is dressed in his traditional red frock coat, which is very out of place for the warm and sunny mid-day sun. The crier positions himself in front of one mic and stands at attention. He is soon joined by a black robed figure, who stands in front of his own microphone. It is the infamous Judge Fairvert, himself.
“Hello. This is very strange. The Judge has never done anything like this before,” says Smoky. “I guess he thinks today’s branding is real special.”
“Hear yee, hear yee, good citizens of NuGreenleaf,” shouts the town crier. “The following persons shall be publically branded on this day, the 2nd day of May, 2119 at the Village Square having been convicted of crimes against society.”
The crier pauses, then Judge Fairvert starts reading, “Arthur Ragsworth, a 56 year old male, who is the former editor of the ‘Weekly Tattler’, a banned publication, the court orders you to step up on to the stage, before the truthful and law abiding citizens of NuGreenleaf.”
There is a pause as Joe the jail guard unlocks the chain from the back of the first prisoner’s collar, hands it to Jock (another Jail guard) and leads the first prisoner, who is apparently Arthur Ragsworth, up the steps on to the stage. Joe clips the chain leash to the bondage frame and moves to the back of the stage, leaving Arthur alone.
The Judge continues his speech. “The court finds that this past summer you did willfully write and publish several articles concerning the personal sexual habits of one Mr. Randy Coxx, a candidate for the planetary council, and that these articles contained several falsehoods, which were brought to the attention of the court after the election of said Mr. Coxx. Having been tried and found guilty of the crime of slander of an elected official, Arthur Ragsworth, shall this day be branded on his right arm, just above the wrist, with the capital letter ‘S’ for slanderer.”
The crowd applauds, as if on cue, to the proclamation of the Judge. They always seem to enjoy seeing a white-collar fellow suffer the pain and humiliation usually experienced by the lower classes.
“Guard un-gag the prisoner. Mr. Ragsworth, you have 1 minute to respond,” says the Judge.
“My articles were just innocent satire. You must admit, that a name like ‘Randy Coxx’ makes for a rich and target for lampoon. Nothing in the Weekly Tattler was ever considered to be anything other than good natured humor. Remember, this is the magazine that ran stories about 6 headed snakes, goats that sing opera and mushrooms as big as a house. If the magazine ever printed anything of a serious nature, it was purely by accident. Can’t you people take a joke ?”
“Guard, re-gag the prisoner until his punishment has been carried out. We certainly don’t need to hear anymore slander,” orders the Judge.
“Hear yee, hear yee, good citizens of NuGreenleaf,” shouts the town crier, “to the next prisoner and her case.”
The Judge wipes his brow and reads, “Virginia ‘Ginny’ Lott, a 42 year old female, employed as a server of beer, wine and spirits at the Flying Pig tavern, step up on to the stage, before the sober and law abiding citizens of NuGreenleaf.”
Jock the second jail guard unlocks the chain from the back of the next prisoner’s collar, hands it to Jim (another Jail guard) and leads the second prisoner, ‘Ginny’ Lott, up the steps on to the stage. Jock clips the chain leash to the bondage frame and joins Joe at the back of the stage, leaving Arthur and ‘Ginny’ together.
The Judge reads from the court record. “On the morning of March 15th, at 2:30 AM the prisoner was observed by the local sheriff clutching a blood soaked handkerchief to her head and stumbling through the Village Square in a state of intoxication so pronounced that she could hardly walk. Having been tried and found guilty of the crime of public drunkenness, Virginia Lott shall this day be branded on her arms and hands, with the capital letter ‘D’ for drunkard.” The Judge pauses to catch his breath, then leans forward as if Ginny Lott was just a few feet in front of him, and says, “Since this is not your first offense, and since you have forgotten the ‘lesson’ taught by your previous brandings, this court orders the number of brands shall be equal to the number of ‘Ds’ presently burned on your pathetic body, plus 1 more for your latest misdemeanor.”
The crowd applauds a little more enthusiastically to the court’s proclamation, probably since the person to be punished is woman, which means screaming, and she will be branded 4 times, which will means lots of screaming.
“Guard un-gag the prisoner. Ms. Lott, you may respond, but keep it brief,” says the Judge, as he turns to hand the file to a courthouse clerk, clearly disinterested in anything the woman may have to say.
“I wasn’t drunk, at least not that night. But I was mugged by a gang of hooligans, who must have knocked my head on the street so hard, I don’t remember anything more. I woke up the next day in the jail infirmary with knot on my head the size of a goose egg. As for the smell of liquor about me, for god’s sake, I work in a saloon. After a 10 hour shift, the booze saturates your clothes, your shoes, your skin, even your hair. I wasn’t drunk, I tell you. You have to believe me. I wasn’t drunk !”
“Stop it, Ms. Lott, just stop. If you don’t stop this hysteria, I will have the guard replace the gag !” shout the Judge from his lofty vantage on the courthouse steps.
Instead of giving her the gag, the guard spins her around and slaps the captive square across her face. Ms. Lott stops her ravings and settles down. She just stands there, sobbing, and occasionally trying to wipe her tears with her bare shoulder, but she does not say another audible word.
“Hear yee, hear yee, good citizens of NuGreenleaf,” shouts the town crier, “to the proclamation of the court concerning the next prisoner.”
Judge Fairvert clutches a file folder in one hand and the microphone stand in the other. A court clerk hands him a paper cup of water, which his shaking hand raises to his lips. The Judge clears his throat and reads, “Todd Purlane, a 26 year old male, with no residence or legitimate source of income. The court commands you to step up on to the stage, before the hard-working and law abiding citizens of NuGreenleaf.”
The next guard, Jim, leads the prisoner up the stairs, clips his chain to the whipping post and stands the captive next to Virginia Lott and Arthur Ragsworth.
The Judge pauses, looks around, then continues reading his written court summary. “On the afternoon of February 14th, Valentine’s Day, the prisoner was apprehended selling flowers on the street corners of NuGreenleaf and that said flowers were later determined to have been stolen from the greenhouse of Mr. D.A. McGreggor a resident of Oakville. Having been tried and found guilty of the crime of operating an unlicensed business for the purpose of defrauding the Village of vital, I say vital tax revenues and for the crime of thievery of produce, valued at less than 20 credits, Todd Purlane, shall today be branded on his arms with the capital letter ‘F’ for frog, I mean for fraud and …” The judge looses his place in the text of the court record and a clerk points to the place he left off at. “Oh, and each letter, ‘F’ letter, ‘F’ for fraud, shall be branded on each arm. Also, Todd Purlawn, in mean Purlane, you shall be branded on of your thieving hands with the capital letter ‘T’ for thief …” The judge pauses to steady himself, then continues, “and each letter, ah ‘T’, shall be branded on each hand, once on each hand, and …” The Judge looks down at the page and mumbles through the last line of the proclamation he wrote only 30 minutes ago. “Oh yes. And that’s all; just once on each hand. Guard, take out his gag and let him speak his piece.”
Jim removes Todd’s gag and the prisoner says, “Judge, you OK ? You don’t look so good.” Todd stares up at the robed figure on top of the courthouse steps, then adds, “Yes, I was selling flowers without a license, but I picked them from the roadside myself. I don’t have a car. How was I going to get all the way to Oakville and back on foot ? Besides, I only made a grand total of 15 credits. Why should I be branded for a stinking 15 credits ? This whole town sucks. Every business on Main Street cheats on their taxes – hundreds of credits each month. Why don’t you go after them ? You got a lot of nerve branding a guy over 15 credits.”
“Your minute is up. Gag ‘em,” croaks the Judge, clearly having heard enough.
The crowd answers the young prisoner’s charges with a hail of boos and jeers.
“Hear yee, hear yee, good citizens of NuGreenleaf, to the proclamation of the court concerning the next prisoner,” shouts the town crier, but with little enthusiasm, since the heat is starting to get to him, too.
Judge Fairvert clutches the file folder in one hand and the court clerk hands him another paper cup of water, which the judge bats from his hand. There is a long pause before he reads, “You there, Robbey Fitcher, 20 year old, ah, male, ah, bad student.” Then the judge mumbles something unintelligible followed by, “…NuNuGreenleaf vocational school, umm … suspected user of dangerous drugs … illegal substances.” Then the Judge stops all together, wipes the sweat from his face and neck, before continuing. “Get up on the damn stage, Fitcher.”
Jara leads the last prisoner up on to the stage, puts him with the rest of the unfortunate captives awaiting branding, then retreats to the back of the stage with his fellow guards. The judge grabs the microphone stand to steady himself. He takes a long breath, but is unable to continue.
The Judge hands the file to the town crier saying, “I need a rest. Just read the proclamation for me.”
The crier begins, “Sometime during the evening of February 27th, the prisoner stole the purse of Mrs. Karl Goodman, a respected resident of NuGreenleaf and senior citizen, while she was at a local tavern. The purse, having been recovered from Robbey Fitcher’s vehicle during a routine traffic stop, had been emptied of its valuables and contained only a pen, a note pad, facial tissue, a posted but un-opened letter addressed to a Jonathon Gramm, a half eaten package of crackers and Mrs. Goodman’s ID card. Having been tried and found guilty of the crime of thievery, Mr. Robbey Fitcher, shall this day be branded on his right hand with the capital letter ‘T’ for thief.”
The crier hands the folder to the clerk, turns to the Judge and says, “That’s all that you wrote, Sir. What’s next ?” While this short conversation was not intended to be public, the microphone broadcasts it clear enough for all to hear.
The judge just stands there, mopping his face with the sweat soaked handkerchief.
The crier, following the pattern set by the 3 previous prisoners, says, “remove his gag. You have 1 minute to respond, ah, Mr. Fitcher.”
“I didn’t steal the old lady’s purse. I don’t know how it got in my car. I was at the library all day, studying. I have witnesses that saw me there. I drive a convertible and the top was down. Anyone could have tossed the purse in my car, or even the police could have planted it there. But I didn’t steal no purse.”
The Judge says, “gag ‘em and put ‘em back with the rest of the scum-bags annnn …” then he faints, before uttering another word. The mid-day sun and his black judicial robes finally over heating the old man and he crumples into a heap, knocking over the mic stand in the process. The microphone crashes against the hard stone steps and the amplified broadcast sounds like a small explosion.
The town crier calls into the other microphone, “is there a doctor in the house ?”
Doctor John Moore is ‘in the house’ and charges up the courthouse stairs, taking the steps 3 at a time. Even though this is his off-duty, he never hesitates to give aid to a person in need; even if it is someone as black-hearted as Judge Fairvert.
“Lets get him inside,” he says to the clerk, “and find some ice water.”
The clerk, the crier and Doc pull the judge into the air conditioned courthouse by his shoulders. Once inside, Doc pulls the black judicial robe off of the aged barrister, loosens his tie, unbuttons his collar and checks for pulse and respiration.
“He’s hot and flushed, but he is breathing on his own. There is a contusion forming on his head behind his right ear ; probably where he hit his head when he fell. His pulse is about 90, but it’s weak,” Doc says, as if anyone around him understands the meaning of these symptoms. “Where is that water ?” he asks, just as the clerk returns with 2 cups full. “Nice try, son, but I need a bucket full; and some towels, too,” he says as he wets down the Judges starched white shirt with the water. “Don’t just stand there. Get more water; ice would be better and get some aspirin, too ! You, town crier, raise his feet. Hold them up by his pants cuffs.”
The clerk returns with 2 more cups and says, “they’re bringing some ice from the first floor, but I don’t know where to get towels, or old fashioned aspirin. All we got is the synthetic stuff.”
Doc dribbles the contents of the two cups on the Judge’s hair and face. Then checks his pulse again, which is still about 90.
“Shouldn’t we call for an ambulance or something ?” asks the clerk.
Just then the towels and ice arrive, and Doc wraps a big handful in a towel and places it under the Judge’s head.
After a few minutes of being flat on his back, Judge Hardy Fairvert asks, “what happened ? Why am I on the floor ? Who are you and why is my shirt soaking wet ?”
“I’m Doctor John Moore, one of the staff doctors assigned to the jail, but I’m off-duty today. It looks like you fainted from heat exhaustion, but that is just a preliminary diagnosis, which is with out the benefit of any medical tests. The water was to cool down your elevated body temperature, which I am guessing was close to 39 degrees C.”
“Preposterous. Fairvert’s never faint,” the Judge says as he sits up on the floor. “Clerk, get me to my chambers so I can change clothes. And call the janitor to clean up this mess, before someone slips and falls.”
“But your honor, you really should go to the hospital and get a thorough examination. You may have other injuries and you should have an ekg to check your heart and an eeg to check for a concussion and blood gases checked. When you fell, you got a nasty blow to the head. Take 2 aspirins and say seated, preferably in the shade or air conditioning.”
“Not now; maybe tomorrow. My heart is fine. I’m in court in an hour, and I want to watch that slut-girl Yvette get her fancy ass branded before continuing with the other whore’s hearing at 2PM. I don’t have time to be sick. Now get out and leave me alone.”
Then the courthouse guards arrive, a day late and a credit short, and help the Judge to his feet. They shuffle him into his private elevator, which leads directly to his judicial chambers. Doctor Moore is pushed aside by a burly guard who says, “You heard what da Judge said. Get out there and watch us brand the jailhouse scum, like everybody else.”
The doctor is escorted out the door and back on to the upper landing at the top of the grand staircase. Below, the 4 prisoners, the 4 guards and the brander are all confused. Should they start the branding ceremony without the Judge or wait for him to take his usual front row seat ? The brander makes the first move and absentmindedly shoots a stream of raw propane in to his furnace causing a flare of flame and smoke.
On the other side of the Village Square, Smoky say, “that’s our cue. Let’s go.” Smoky lightly tugs at Yvette’s lead chain, but she doesn’t move a centimeter.
“Hey Smoky, what about the ‘I take care of you and you take care of me’ deal we made last night ? Smoky, I’ve been fucked in both my holes like a half-credit whore for the better part of 24-hours. And fucked by a god damned machine, no less ! My ordeal is all over the TV and the newspapers. By night fall, it will be on DVD at all the sex shops in the district. My reputation is completely ruined; just as that god damned machine has ruined my pussy and my ass-hole. Haven’t I suffered enough ? Do I have to do this, Smoky ?”
“The short answer is ‘YES’, you have to do it. The long answer is ; if you don’t walk over to the other stage, the mob will carry you over there, but this time your body is completely helpless, so you can’t fight back, like you did yesterday.”
For emphasis, Smoky spins his prisoner around and spanks her pink ass until it turns 5 shades redder and shows the outline of his hand prints. “Now march, young lady, and don’t forget to smile for the cameras.”
Yvette, with her ass paddled into a bright shade of red, reluctantly complies and walks towards the steps at the side of the stage.
To be continued ….
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