The Blue Envelope

It was all a part of the carefully constructed plan to 'reduce' us. That was their term – reduce - and it worked. Not only did the whole community know we were sentenced, but when they saw the postal people deliver that blue envelope, and me signing for it, they knew I had been given the day and time for my next punishment session.

Ever since they brought in the new legislation, the population had endorsed it. I had the impression that most people, men and women, thought criminals should be flogged. 'Bring Back the Lash' appeared as bumper stickers, along with 'Hit 'Em Hard – Hit 'Em Often'. No, not just on pickup trucks with gun racks in the cab, but stately sedans too.

And it was saving the taxpayers millions. Instead of a prison term at great expense, the guilty were subject to a number of punishment sessions, to be scheduled entirely at the government's discretion, and which could take place over years.

I was sentenced to ten sessions. That equals 20 hours, whereas the equivalent prison term under the old sentencing rules was five years.

And, more often than not, the day I signed for my envelope was the day my boss signed for her copy. The employer had to certify he or she had placed no obstacles in the path that might give me an excuse for failing to arrive on time. Death was the only recognized excuse. Earthquakes, just maybe.

My boss delighted in making sure that her Grace Stevens would leave the office in time on the appointed day. She made sure of that by instructing the whole sixth floor work force.

I passed the Correctional Services Day Center on my way to the office. As was my custom, I dressed to the nines that day: best inner and outer. Got my hair done the day before – in an area where they did not recognize me as a 'blue-noter'.

The day before, I had eased up on my paper processing, to make sure I had loads to do the next morning. To have nothing to do would allow me time to reflect on the pain I was to endure. It helped a bit. It also helped a bit that by means of a strategically-placed compact mirror, I was able to see my boss rise from her chair in the glassed-in office, and prepare to announce in her clear, carrying voice, that it was time for Gracie dear to leave. I was out of my cubicle and into the stairwell by the time she had reached her door. A small victory in face of the defeat to come.

This was my second summons to be flogged, so I knew the routine.

Check in with the receptionist who records the time. Wait to be called. When the call comes, go to the medical room and present my own doctor's report, then to another waiting room. Then when called, go to the cubicle.

I heard other victims talking about the cubical. Most were under the impression they were toilet cubicles without a door, with a seat instead of a toilet.

Whatever their origins, I stripped naked and sat and waited. I waited and heard the six earlier victims being led, pushed or dragged to their cubicles.

Then, the call I dreaded: 'Group D to the Hall'.

I walked out of my cubical, down the corridor to the left where the earlier victims were usually slumped, another left turn and, in single file, across the tiled floor, now wet from hosing down

.

I am third in line. I know what I have to do. I must stop at the big red 'X' painted in the floor, about eight feet from positions '2' and '4'. Of the six, I think there is only one other victim, an Oriental lady, who knows what is expected of us. The others are pushed into position. They will know next time. It seems that no matter the sentence, there is always a next time.

They have changed the layout. The spectators are no longer behind a glass wall. They now breathe the same air as the victims. They stand behind a waist-high brick wall. Did someone get excited and break the glass, I wonder?

My wrists are pulled together by a complicated leather arrangement; the most significant thing about it being it incorporates a large steel ring. The ankle straps are with a ring too, but are pretty standard. It's strange to think of any torture device as being standard.

One by one, a chain is pulled down from above and clipped to the wrist ring. It takes a while. Some are resisting, which only makes their suffering more so. The guards, or Corrective Officers as they prefer to be called, like order. And they have long memories. Each over head chain is pulled up and our arms are way above our heads. Then, our ankle straps are attached to the ankle straps of the victim next to us. The guards do this by kicking our legs open, using the side of their rubber boots.

What comes next is a surprise to the first-timers. Number One has her left ankle attached to a chain which is then pulled, while Number Six has her right ankle treated the same way. By this means, the guards can get our legs pulled apart to give them full cunt and ass access. It's hard on short victims.

The spectators are lectured.

'No spectator may take a photograph what includes any Corrective Officer. That means that unless you have a close- up lens, there will be little opportunity to take photographs while we are correcting. We will leave the room for three minutes now while you may take photographs from where you are now standing. After the conclusion of the Corrections, we will again leave, and you will be allowed to walk around the prisoners and take photographs quickly. Then you will leave by the same door as you came in. Officers there will view your photographs and will have you delete any that might show us. There are no other photographic restrictions, but to speed your exit, we recommend you take only about half a dozen.'

And so, we six stood there, naked and every detail exposed, while strangers, the 'pervs' as they are known, take photos of helpless naked bodies.

The guards came back. There are three of them this time. It may be a faster session than before, when only one guard has been available, and the law requires that we still receive our full dose of correction.

My first session was the one where I was determined not to give them the pleasure of screaming and begging. That was a mistake. I was simply adding to my distress.

The flogging started, as usual, with the use of leather floggers, the long-handled variety with black leather tongs, maybe a dozen of them. The guards are not restricted in any way, except that when they start or stop something, they do it together.

It started with the ass, of course. I lost count of the blows. I assumed all the others screamed and begged as much as I did. Then, the back and shoulders. By now we could all feel the pain of each other as the convulsions of all six were transmitted through our ankle restraints. Our legs were shaking violently.

They moved to the front. Our naked tits were flogged, but with a different flogger. It would be wrong to suggest it was a milder version. But it was less likely to cut into more delicate tissue.

The belly flogging was new. It was convulsive. We were peeing ourselves. Some were vomiting. Hence the wet floor when we came in, and the guard's rubber boots.

I always wondered why they continued flogging when we were unconscious, as we often were. It was explained that it took too long to get the women back to consciousness and, ironically, the humiliation and the pain would last, as would the marks. And the on-line photographs.

I vaguely remember a slight pause. Then, a guard hit my cunt with a cane, several times. I don't know how many. I fainted after the second.

Then it was over. There was probably another whipping or caning. I was not conscious.

The guard opened the gate in the spectator's compound and they hurried in, cameras blinking. Slowly, they walked around us, keeping a respectful distance. Flashes and more flashes. One might hear the whir of a telephoto lens pointed at a cunt, belly, ass or tit. I knew I would see these – of me – later that evening on line. Yes, I did look. Why deny reality. Why pretend the neighbors and colleagues were not addicted.

Ah, yes, colleagues. There were two girls there from the sixth floor. They looked at me as I hung there, and grinned.

We were lowered into the filth on the floor, and then released. The hosepipe cleaned us. No, it was not a fire hose-type cleaning. Cold water, yes, but a garden hose.

Then we staggered or were dragged back to our toilet-type cubicles and told to dress. They gave us five minutes, knowing that we could not properly do it in that time. The pain was too intense. I left off underwear. Dress and shoes, that's all I could get on and the dress was loose yet still painful. I had left other clothes at the office. Yes, I was expected back there. And I was expected to work – that day – to make up for the lost hours.

Those hours were not lost! I knew exactly where they were.