The Last Sashay

Camille slid her legs over the side of the table and placed her feet on the floor, and she turned and saw the whipping frame for the first time, and then the whips, so many, and so many different kinds.

"Ohhh," she wailed in that tremolo he loved. "Ohhh, ohhh, ohhh," she repeated over and over; she couldn't take her eyes off those whips, she wondered how many he'd use on her; it couldn't be all of them, could it, and if not then which ones? As she cast her eyes from one to another, all different types and sizes, she tried to imagine which she would choose, which would be the least horrific. She tried to feel each in her mind, each in turn, and each was more terrible than the last. She turned and grabbed Mr. Punire by the arm, trying to hold herself up, to pull him down, to do anything that would change the course of events that she knew to be inevitable.

Mr. Punire shrugged her off, and told her to stand on her own two feet. "Respect yourself. Don't let them debase you. Show them how strong you are, act like a queen," he whispered.

Camille tried to pull herself together, stand straight, and accept the receiving of her punishment. She tried to ignore the humiliation being heaped upon her, but every time she looked to the audience and saw the leering grins of the horrible boys and men that Mr. Hartley had placed so close to her, so close that they could look right at her crotch, look up into it, and see her most intimate protruding bumps and folds, all of which were aching and inflamed with longing to be fondled; she could barely stand it."

"Take your pants down," he said.

The words took awhile to register: What did he mean she thought; her brain couldn't process the command. He waited while she digested his order. Finally she got it, and she slowly pulled the drawstring, so slowly she knew she was performing striptease, but couldn't make her fingers move any faster, and then the bow let go and her trousers fell the first inch. No longer having a choice, a way out, or means to delay, she put her thumbs into the waistband and slowly lowered the diaphanous drawers to her feet; but that was all she could do, she couldn't even step out of them, and stood with the discarded cloth piled loosely at her ankles.

Mr. Punire stepped behind her and directed his fingers toward that mysterious dark cleft between a woman's thighs and the lowest realm of her sexual organs, and he jabbed hard into it with purpose. The shock to her, his thrust into that supremely sensitive area just outside the tender opening to her vagina was so great that she jerked her pelvis forward and squealed in a lewd and delightful display, and he followed her on up, pushing her high until she was standing only on her toes, her legs spread, her vulva opening to show a hint of the pinkness inside. "Ahhh she wailed, but she had the presence to suppress her desire to shout 'don't,' or 'stop,' or anything else contrary to Mr. Punire's actions.

Catcalls and whistles and cheers broke out in the audience, and Mr. Punire quickly let her down and stepped in front of Camille, her face bright red, blushing furiously with embarrassment. "I won't have it," he boomed out, and he put out his arm and pointed in turn to each section of the auditorium. "If there is any, and I mean any lack of decorum in these proceedings, yoou," he drew out the word, "will pay." He pointed to Rico and Sadici. My men will be watching. If any one makes a sound, that I consider disrespectful of Ms. Camille Yvette Dupree, I will bring them up here and I will have no mercy."

"You," Mr. Punire shouted, pointing to the biggest student in the first row.

"Me," the boy said, his voice quavering, dreading the consequences of being singled out?

"Would you like to come up here and have your penis whipped to a bloody pulp?"

This Camille liked, she was glad that Mr. Punire had chosen that boy who was the biggest bully in the school. She would have liked to smile, but she knew if she were caught there'd be hell to pay, and she didn't need hell on top of the hell she was already in for.

"No sir," he said, turning quite pale.

"Sit down. I've got my eye on you."

Camille was still standing in front of the audience, unconsciously her hands had moved in front of her crotch.

"What are you doing," Mr. Punire said in anger. "Put your hands at your sides. No, clasp them behind your neck and spread your legs.

Camille obeyed at once, trying to be as stoic and regal as a queen, which was more than a little difficult considering the ungainly position she was in.

"Camille Yvette Dupree has erred. She has mocked her principal in front of other students," he slapped her butt and made her present herself without compromise. "She made lewd and suggestive remarks. She exposed herself to the principal," at this point Mr. Punire again jammed his hand between her legs from the rear and grabbed a great hunk of flesh and hair, and grabbed her pony tail in his other hand pulling her head back sharply and pushing her forward from beneath, forcing her to present her frontal view salaciously to the audience. He held her thus as he continued his indictment.

Camille was in a lot of discomfort: His fist held her sensitive tissues in a vice like grip, his upward force caused her to have to balance on her toes even as her hands remained behind her head neck in submission to his prior demand. He continued, as he presented this worthless criminal to every member of her school. "She exposed herself in a deliberate attempt to flout his authority. She was completely unrepentant." Mr. Punire pulled his hand roughly from between her legs and tossed her away like the trash he was saying she was. She stumbled, regained her footing, but didn't know which way to turn, or how he wanted her to stand, or what he wanted her to do. He'd just hurt her, she was frightened, and for a moment she forgot her nakedness and stood in fear of his wrath. Mr. Punire turned to his assistants. "Bring the frame."

"Face the audience," he demanded, which Camille did, her lush, naked, and very aroused lower half on display, her breasts teasing behind their film of gauze. She tried to look back, but Mr. Punire cuffed her head. She kept her gaze forward, but listened to the sound of the heavy frame sliding toward her.

"Turn around. Lower your hands."

Camille lowered her hands and Rico and Sadici took her wrists and threaded her into the frame, which was much like a stock, with fasteners for wrists and head, but with restraints for her waist and feet as well. Her head and hands were locked in place; her shoulder's cross-strapped as they had been for her enema. A band was placed around her waist as well, not to prevent her movements, the view of which was highly desirable, but to limit her inevitable violent attempts to escape the whip and possibly be injured. There were cases known where a person under the lash became so violent they broke their own back, and severe muscle injuries were common.

Each of Camille's feet were placed in a confining shoe and zipped tight. The use of a shoe restrained the whole foot and eliminated the possibility of dislocation associated with the previously used system of multiple straps. The shoes were placed outboard of her center, and raised from the floor, so in a position of rest Camille's bottom would be below her feet, her legs wide open, but as she was whipped she would inevitably rise up in an effort to escape.

Camille was strapped and spread and she heard Mr. Punire rummaging among his collection, selecting which of those fearsome whips he would use on her. She couldn't see behind, all she could see was Mr. Hartley watching her face so he could see her anguish and the effects of her torture on her emotions.

Mr. Hartley rose from his seat, a giant erection clearly evident, and came up to Mr. Punire to discuss selection. Mr. Punire didn't want Mr. Hartley's interference, but regulations allowed the principal some input, though the regulations were not clear on this point, not nearly as clear as they should be. In practice whip selection became a matter of negotiation.

"I want the buggy whip," Mr. Hartley said. "That will punish her right."

"I won't use a skin ripper, those days are past."

"Not in my school they're not. She did the crime, the buggy whip is allowed, and that's what she'll get, and if not that then the strip lash."

They argued back and forth, Mr. Hartley demanding to hurt her terribly, but Mr. Punire resisting, knowing that if he acceded to Mr. Hartley's demands, and if he were to misjudge the force of his strokes, he'd scar her permanently. Camille, strung up firm and tight, hanging with her sex spread wide to the gaze of those she most despised, who she knew were lusting after her and rubbing themselves as she wished she could rub herself, listened as the men argue her fate. She prayed that Mr. Punire would prevail, to go through life marked by Mr. Hartley as a bad girl was more than she could bear, but luck was with her, luck and Mr. Punire's seniority, and Mr. Hartley once again sat down in disgust, but not before coming over to her and in frustration and slapping her hard across the face which brought the first of many tears to her eyes. Bastard she thought; I'll get you.

In deference to Mr. Hartley and the trouble he could cause if he wanted to make a stink, Mr. Punire took out a silicone whip, not one made of leather, as Mr. Hartley wanted, but a modern day analog of the traditional buggy whip. He held it up to Mr. Hartley, who nodded his head in approval; the negotiation was concluded.

"Here it comes," he said quietly to Camille. "Stand and present yourself, take a deep breath... take another," and Camille obediently straightened her legs and rose into position as Mr. Punire raised the whip, far behind his shoulder, and with a great breath inward, followed by an explosive exhalation, he brought his arm downward with ferocious speed and a violent terminating snap.

The effect was instant and electric. Camille shrieked at the top of her range, a rending inhuman wail, followed by another, and another more prolonged, and she rose up high with her legs straight and taught, and then down, and up, and down, throwing herself forward and sideways, and every which way she could within the limits of the waist strap and her other bonds.

Mr. Punire knew what he was about, and though the pain far exceeded anything Camille ever imagined possibly, the punishment artist was sure with his stroke and upon striking her he did not move the whip, even slightly, to draw it across her skin. He simply laid it on, with great force to be sure, and stuck it. There would be bruising for certain, but never a scar. Mr. Punire looked at Mr. Hartley who shook his head with approval.

Camille was in the throes of agony and disbelief, agony that spread far beyond the line of impact, it felt as if the whole of her buttocks was doused in oil and set afire; and disbelief that anything could hurt so much, and that her punishment was just at its beginning. She was crying hard, sobbing, her makeup streaking down her face and her hair hanging in disarray.

Mr. Punire put down the buggy whip and came to Camille to give encouragement. "That was a hard one he said."

"You're telling me... Mr. Punire sir," she remembered to add? She was still thrusting her bottom back and forth in an unknowing pantomime of rut, and clenching and spreading her legs much to the delight of her audience."

"The next will be easier," Mr. Punire said. He had decided to use his favorite, a lightweight minitail. The lightweight minitail whip, or miniwhip for short, is so named because its lashes are diminutive. Medium short in length, low in mass, and custom made in his preferred ultra smooth-surface silicone, resulting in an instrument that in trained hands can be applied with high accuracy, does no permanent and little short term damage, and whose application can be most prolonged, which is exactly what he intended to do. How many tails he thought? The more tails, the broader the application, but the less the sting; the fewer tails, the greater the accuracy of application, but the more bruising. He selected three as a good compromise, picked up the three-tail miniwhip, and without warning commenced with a wicked slash to the backs of her thighs.

It got Camille's attention immediately, but before she could do much more than rise up and screech one time, Mr. Punire laid on a succession of strikes; back, forth, back, forth, working his way down, from thigh to calf, then back up her legs. Camille was frantic to get away, and despite the straps applied to keep her safe she seemed far too out of control for Mr. Punire's liking. "Rico," he called out, "hold her," and Rico stepped to her side and wrapped his arms around her chest, one arm above and the other below her breasts, and held her tight. She was free to move from the waist down, and she did so with astonishing energy, franticly trying to elude the three tailed mini as it played up and down her legs, screaming all the while at the top of her voice, crying and wailing and spreading her legs to display far up into her vagina, and the lovely form of her clitoris and its sheath, but Mr. Punire was not yet ready to stop. He was enjoying immensely the feel of the three-tailed mini, its wonderful responsiveness, which he helped to design, and the potent effect it was having on his oh so poor little Camille.

He let her be for a moment, told Rico to let her go, but she continued to wail and writhe in her bonds, and bemoan her suffering. "Please," she screamed at the top of her voice, and then quietly, "please, please, please... please let me go," and she broke into a fit of sobs; her tears began dripping from cheeks.

Mr. Punire brought her some water, and helped her drink, and gave her a moment of respite; then he walked behind her and picked up the whip again. "Never," he yelled and whipped her hard on the inside of her left thigh. "Please," she screamed, thrusting lasciviously.

"Never," he yelled and whipped the inside of her right thigh.

"Please, Please," she screeched.

And again he whipped her, back and forth, back and forth, in measured strokes, this time pacing his relentless attack, punctuating each slash too her thighs with an admonishment, hitting low down, mid-thigh, and then as high as he could without lashing into the core of her femininity. When he was satisfied, he walked to her and told her quietly, privately, warningly, "Never, never, never disrespect your headmaster again." Even if he is an idiot he added to himself.

He had stopped when she no longer had strength to rise up. He'd whipped her good on the backs of her legs, and many times savagely on the insides of her thighs, all of which had turned a lovely bright red, and five times into the crack of her buttocks, twice with the very tip of the tails on her anus which brought out an entirely new and enchanting range of vocalization. She sings beautifully he thought, and the audience agreed, and would be happy when they got home to the privacy of their homes where they could masturbate to the memory of Camille's thrashing.

He waited patiently as Camille cried herself out... As he had promised, this fierce whipping, though more prolonged, was not as intensely sadistic and painful as the buggy whip, and though Camille was in no state to judge objectively, he thought that later on were she to consider the differences she would agree.

Camille was hanging again in her restraints, only occasionally rising as fresh onslaughts of pain came forth. Her legs were splayed most indecorously, but she had neither the strength nor inclination to care what she looked like. Mr. Punire came around and lifted her head, pushing up gently on her chin. "My little Camille," he crooned quietly to her. "We're nearly done."

"Ohhh," she moaned, she didn't like the sound of that, for what came foremost to her mind was the 'nearly,' meaning 'not yet over.' "Ohhh" she said again, "please Mr. Punire, please no more; I beg you with all my heart... Mr. Punire sir" she implored. Why do you do this? Why do you like to hurt girls? Did your mother hurt you?"

"You impudent little girl. You're lucky it's not Mr. Coletnik behind you with a whip. Remember Suzy? She spent two days in a hospital when he was finished with her. You think I hurt girls? You have no idea what hurt can be. I love girls; that's why I do what I do; I do it for you.

Mr. Punire went over to Mr. Hartley, and another heated argument ensued. Camille's fate hung in the balance, with her fully aware that that it was so. "Please God," she prayed. "Please let Mr. Punire win."

After a long time Mr. Punire came back and told Rico and Sadici to get her down, and they unstrapped and supported her as she hobbled with her legs spread so her thighs wouldn't rub, and they laid her again on her back on the long table. Camille gave a tremendous sob, and began to cry with relief, believing it was all over, but her relief was short lived. The assistants again stretched and strapped poor Camille, this time spreading her wide open, each leg bent at the knee and pulled over the table's sides, each foot again in an encompassing shoe, fastened low to a table leg with elastic cord to temper the shock of the violence to come.

Then they propped her with support under her tailbone and the upper reaches of her buttocks, and they wheeled her front and center. What's going on, she thought wildly, isn't he done with me, and she thought of the first argument between Mr. Hartley and Mr. Punire and how a compromise had been reached, though she couldn't imagine how that unbearable buggy whip could be any kind of a compromise. If this is a compromise like that first whip... I can't take this any more she thought and quailed... but she knew in her heart that whether or not she would be able to take it, she was going to get it, and as she thought this she realized they were positioning the core of her sexual being to be her most prominent feature, and she grew frantic with fear and began to struggle. No, they can't, she thought, they can't, he wouldn't, and she wished she'd gotten to the part of the book of regulations that said what they could or couldn't do... but her positioning couldn't be denied; she realized Mr. Punire was going to whip her between her legs.

"Mr. Punire, no Mr. Punire, please, not between my legs. It isn't right, I don't want you to..."

She was a deer in the headlights, nowhere to go, no time to get there, and she wildly turned from Mr. Punire, to Mr. Hartley, back and forth looking for mercy, or any sign of temperance. Mr. Punire was all business. Mr. Hartley gloated and mocked her much as she'd mocked him.

"Mr. Punire, sir," Camille tried to get his attention, tried to get him to talk to her, anything to delay what he was preparing to do even at the risk of antagonizing him. "Did the girls not love you back, is that why you do what you do Mr. Punire? Did they not want to do it with you when you were a boy? You're not very nice to us you know." Camille realized she might have gone too far and she quickly added, "Though you have a nice side." She looked up into his face to see if he was listening. She caught the tremor of a tick of his right eye; she knew she'd touched a nerve.

"Raise her up some more," was Mr. Punire's answer.

Oh God she thought, oh God, now I'm going to get it. What have I done?

"Camille," Mr. Punire called sharply to got her attention. He came close up to her, his demeanor softened, and he kneeled and whispered in her ear: "Camille, my poor little Camille," but she wasn't having any of it.

"You can't, you can't" she insisted, anger sounding in her voice.

"Camille, Camille, you blame me for your predicament, and your distress, but you who lose sight of the essential fact of today's proceeding. It is you who broke the rules, and broke them harshly, and there is no one to blame for your situation but yourself. Yes it is I who implement the regulations of the district, that is true, but I do so with skill and mercy that in your present position you cannot appreciate, but they are not my rules, and if you take issue with their severity then you must petition the district to change them. Until then, accept the fate which you set into motion."