The magistrate banged his gavel hard on the table to call the court to order. “Stand up,” he told her. “Now!”

“Charged with production of obscene materials… filth… danger to society… lax morals… shocking conduct… outwardly respectable member of society… message needs to be sent.”‎ The “guilty” verdict, ending the shaming diatribe, almost came as a relief.

“Do you have anything to say before I sentence you?”

At the start of the trial, her response would have been defiant. Now, the error of her ways made so very clear? “I’m sorry sir: it won’t happen again.”

“That remains to be seen. Indeed, ensuring so is the purpose of the sentence you are to receive. ‎You are to be taken from this courtroom to the cells, there to receive eighteen strokes of the birch. Guards: take her down and make sure her punishment is administered with all due vigour.”

Stripped naked. Because, as one of them said, reading from her book: “Seems a naughty girl should be undressed in front of strangers.”

Manhandled over the whipping bench: tied in position. The senior warder prowling with the fearsome bound bundle birch rods. Laughter: “Better make them hard, or she might enjoy them.”

And then after. After she had screamed, pleaded, sobbed. After she had shamed herself by abandoning her resolve to take the punishment bravely.

As the officers circled her, inspected her, tormented her with their abject lack of kindness. Picked up her book, once more.

“Seems she likes being fucked after a spanking.”

“Yeah! Up the arse, even.”

“Is she wet?”

The most humiliating of touches: “Not yet, sir.”

“Then this will teach her even more of a lesson. Gentlemen: who wants to go first?”

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