Punishment Day Festival Pt. 02

Picks up where Punishment Day Festival left off.

BREEAH

I had known things were going to be bad when they got me. I was handing out pamphlets on the unfairness of the rule of Sattvia over us and the sorry lot of women in general under the rule of men and the few select matriarchs that insured there were few ways for a clever girl to advance without finding herself in a position of abject submission to someone.

Of course the fact that I had a coveted position at University (where I accessed the printing press, illicitly, to make our sheets) meant that my fellow conspirators had all been dutifully--if horridly--punished in the typical tyrannical manner that the lower born were chastised in.

One of the guards cheerily told me that Gwendiwell was marched, naked, led by a chain behind a cart to the presentation scaffold where she was strung up in strictly tied knots so that her arms were pinned behind her and her ankles were bound up behind her neck such that her lower quarters were bared strongly for the crowd and she was stretched painfully.

Then, after a switching that left her covered with red marks over almost every surface (but mostly her bottom, the guard had informed me) the crowd was allowed to hurl eggs provided in large amounts for that purpose--and, it appeared, were intent to aim for her displayed vulva.

After being thoroughly coated with slime, she was then feathered with the dropped feathers from the Sattvian Order's Mocking Bird cages that clung to the goo and left her skin covered with rash. I was appalled. Having been raised in the Nordlian midlands in the care of a rival order, the fashion of punishment was far less obscene and I bristled at the terrible humiliation and indignity that those who were subject to the Order's discipline suffered here in the south.

However, when I learned I was being kept in a cell until the Festival, a full moon from my date of capture, I had plenty of time to consider my fate and the terror of it consumed me over and over.

The cell had been surprisingly comfortable with a nicely appointed bed, a rug, and toilet. The worst part was the Order Nurse who came in the evening before bed to lock me into a kind of corset that featured a firm set of bone plates at the bottom that wrapped my sex and buttocks as a chastity lock to prevent me from having any access to myself. She explained that this was preferable to chaining my wrists or using one of the magical talismans that prevented masturbation but had unpleasant side effects.

The act of being dressed for bed by the woman was intensely humiliating and while I dared not fight, I admit I cried each time--something she apparently found mildly amusing.

When I was taken to a chamber, the night before the festival, I was in a state. It was there that I met a young woman sitting at a table with a massive bookshelf dominating the wall behind her.

I was guided to a simple wooden chair. I wore only a nightshirt--and the guard placed her hand on my shoulder seating me. Then wrapped a leather strap around my waist fastening it to the back of the chair--and knelt to strap each of my bare ankles to one the chair legs. I dared not glare at the young woman before me: it had been made clear that any of the order functionaries could strike me as they pleased--a spanking, they called it--but I called it abuse and the idea of being struck--being helpless and being slapped over and over on a tender part of my private anatomy--was sufficient to keep me behaved for the time being.

The woman, I saw, had one of my pamphlets--she examined it momentarily, glancing at me. She had beautiful green eyes. When she placed it down with a sense of having made a decision, I held my breath. I had never intended my face to be joined with the text on that pamphlet--it was a vicious indictment of the order, claiming that it made whores of its women as they were subject to sexual orders from their senior members. It also claimed that the order was hypocritical: punishing only the lower orders, while the upper orders were free to behave as they liked. I knew this was said to be true by some--but I had no hard evidence of it. Now I wished I'd not said those things.

"Breeah Lavison? Nineteen years--and... a student in good standing at the Indexium College."

"Not any more," I said bitterly then. Thinking of all I had thrown away in getting caught.

"No?" She seemed curious--somehow.

"After this," I said, thickly. "I expect they have already given my dormitory away--and expunged me from the records."

The young woman seemed surprised at this. She consulted papers and then looked back at me. "No--I have a letter of recommendation from the dean of Indexium. He feels you should have... increased supervision," she read. "And likely some additional restrictions--but he otherwise seems to think well of you."

She placed the paper down.

"What I want--"

The look on my face stopped her. "What?"

"I was caught h-handing out subversive documents--I--I--offended the crown and offended the Order--" I was in disbelief.

"Yes--" she said. "And you are going to be punished thoroughly for it, girl. But the university sees no reason to separate you from it."

She examined me. "You grew up in the Nordalian Reach?"

I nodded. "In an orphanage. My parents were captured by Kistarian pirates. The monks took us in."

"The monks of Lianios." She said, The rival order.

"Yes." I swallowed.

"They handle the edicts differently. Discipline. Dominance. Right?"

I nodded. They did--when I was young I thought I'd rather be strapped as many of the girls in my shared school were. I'd marveled at the red stripes and marks on their legs and buttocks. Listened to the talk about the switch and the cane and the paddle. Heard tales about how the boys in the Sattivan school were punished--and even knowing it was horrible beyond endurance, I found my own order's punishments unendurable.

The Lianios monks forced to do maths while wearing uncomfortable punishment uniforms in quiet rooms. Made to go through routines of uncomfortable stretches in embarrassing tights. Being made to drink a spoonful of liquid that, when I slept at night, gave me endless dreams of washing massive stacks of filthy dishes. I came south to escape the Lianios order--which was far smaller than that of Sattvia--but it was when I came here that I was enraged at the... efficiency by which the Sattvian Order had assimilated into the society and how its rules and vision of dominance was more stern, patriarchal, and intensely sexual.

I was also ashamed to admit--even to myself--that I found a fascination in it. I could not imagine being stripped and spanked or whipped or whatever they did in the privacy of a home or school. Much less could I fathom being struck while naked in public. What they had done to Gwendiwell was unthinkable.

"They do it differently," I agreed. She nodded. "I was told to evaluate you for your disciplinary appointment at the Festival." She said it like it was nothing--

"What are they going--" I stared.

She held up a hand. "I don't know--and even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you. You understand our approach?"

I did. "The core of defiance is sexuality," I said. "The key to obedience is hierarchy," I said disconsolately. The idea that this woman treated my punishment as anything other than catastrophic angered me--and, worse, I felt a churning rage at the system that would subject me to unbearable indignity and then expect me to simply return to school... cowed into submission.

Worse, the fact that I might well be cowed into submission was... galling.

"Yes," the woman said, evenly. "Tell me: when is the last time you were spanked."

I looked back at her--fear warring with my ire. "Eight months ago." I answered. I felt heat on my face. The memory was still embarrassing.

"For?" She asked.

"For words--out of line--impertinence--to the lead Instructor at my lower school--"

"In Nordia," she said.

I nodded. I had already graduated--technically--and I felt they no claim on me. So I'd spoken harshly to a lead when she ordered me to a task I saw as trivial and she had responded by ordering me over her desk and chastising me over my skirt with a rule. It was one of the rare times I'd ever been struck after the age of 9 and it had *hurt*. The humiliation was worse though, and I'd cried.

She asked me about this in detail and then, in the end, pursed her lips. "Three swats."

"With a long-rule!" I snapped--but softly.

She shook her head--wonderingly. "You're a brat, Breeah. You are going to get what's coming to you--but I am going to recommend you be treated as a younger girl--perhaps... four years younger."

That should have relieved me--even if I had no idea what it meant--but it ... enraged me.

I glowered. Eyes down.

She stood and walked around the table. I refused to look up so I was shocked when her fingers touched my throat.

"I'm going to recommend charity," she said. "However, you've drawn a harsh punishment mistress and it may not help. I will come to see you and will visit you after the punishment in the recovery tent."

Her fingers reached my chin and pushed, lifting my gaze to her's. I could feel my heart racing. I ... I could feel a warmth between my thighs. I blinked, looking up at her. "I will do what I can, Bree," she said. "But I would prepare to be disciplined badly and come to terms with it."

I swallowed. As infuriating as it was to be treated as a "younger girl" my fear was overpowering. After a moment of silence, I managed a soft choked "thank you," and she smiled slightly, relishing her "victory" over me, I thought.

PREPARATION

What came next was not even strictly speaking punishment and it was unendurable. A group of penitents were marched with rough loud commands to a tiled chamber where we were stripped and inspected by an older woman. She looked us over--inside our mouths--and awfully, between my bottom cheeks and a cursory examination of my sex. I was yelled at for trying to cover myself and the guard moved to slap me--or spank me I guess--but the matron stayed her.

I was put on a table where strips of fabric with a thick wax were used to painfully remove my lower fuzz, the fine hair under my arms. The order nurses were vicious as two heavy women held me firm and changed my positions exposing me as needed. I tried to thrash--cried--and yowled with each pull of the strips, ripping my hair mercilessly out--leaving me horribly smooth and vulnerable feeling.

My torturers for their part rolled their eyes and acted like the assault was nothing--like the pain was a mere inconvenience. Like I was performing in a tragedy rather than being subjected to agony. I loosed my tongue then and cursed the order--telling them of their subjugation and sexual slavery to the men who governed it.

The wash matron had to be firm with them to prevent a bludgeoning for one of the nurses had removed a thick paddle from the wall and one of the heavy, strong women had begun to dust my naked bottom with some kind of powder to heighten the experience.

In the end, I was humiliatingly wrapped in a thick cloth diaper and, crying copiously, led across the holding area with a leather strap, enhanced by the Arts, laid over my mouth and affixed firmly, rendering me mute.

I traveled, breast beared for everyone to see--and tears running down my face, with two others and when we were chained in one of the pens with shackles permitting almost no movement, I got to listen to my other two cellmates exchange some conversation. I could not as the leather strap still silenced me.

The boy was pretty--I liked him--he seemed wretchedly resigned to his fate. He was a young officer--low level but perhaps from a fine family, I gathered. He had been lax with both his men and his member and had been assigned to the festival for some unbearable torment. I was surprised but not shocked to see the bulge in the undergarment we all wore. I had heard stories about the boys in the order schools being bared at the waist and their disciplinarian laying a special soft velvet pad across her lap such that when the boy was placed across it, his penis was raised to lay on the pad.

When spanked, if he moved at all--and most did--the rubbing would enhance some deep inner weakness that would make the boy erect--and then--with a vigorous application of punishment possibly make him spend himself if he were unable to hold it! I had found these stories horrible--but enticing. I saw that now, in the grip of awful humiliation he was at least tumescent. Unable to restrain his loins' reaction to the situation--the incontinence of his sexual control visible through the thick, humiliating garment.

I was glad that my own natural reaction was far less visible.

The other girl scared me. She was furious and seemed dangerous to me, even chained, mostly naked, and wearing a diaper. I got little from her--she was here, she thought, because her husband--some important person, apparently, had told the patriarchs of the order that she had committed some crime of inadequate submission and so she was here to have her pride crushed.

She was exactly the kind of woman I had been advocating for--and I was ashamed to sit beside her, feeling she might do well to adopt a little more humility. I wondered what she would be like after this ordeal. I felt sure I knew how I would be: broken.

We three sat unhappily, shifting sometimes, unable to scratch some itches or get comfortable or fully close our legs.

The nurses came about making us drink tepid water as though they were concerned about our health. For me, they would remove the strip--which hurt every time and I gasped in pain--which seemed to surprise them at my alleged weakness. I had to suck the water from a nipple in the canteen and suckle enough to the nurse's satisfaction before the strip of magical leather was put back on my poor face.

I needed to pee but I had no illusions what my minders would do if I asked: laugh at least, provide some additional misery at worst. I squirmed in place and chewed the inside of my cheek and hated them and their order and this interminable wait before the horrors.

It was just after the bells tolled DECA and I would have been on my way to a cozy student cafe to take coffee--oh, how I wished I were there--that a girl in a stiff gray dress aggressively plain with a high collar, came walking up to our cell and let herself in. She seemed unbelievably cheery which told me she was part of the order before she even introduced herself as some lowly apprentice of our tormentor-to-be.

I am embarrassed to admit I begged her with my eyes. I had collapsed before everyone--every nurse--even passersby--pleading with my gaze for any hope of relief. I hated myself for it. Weakness upon weakness upon weakness--but I did it anyway.

When I heard what she wanted--a Draught of Sattvia--I felt the combined blush and chill of coming humiliation. I had studied the Draught in private at my university. One of the more ambivalent things that came from the order, they still managed to soil it with their philosophy.

The draught was commonly used by the man--or sometimes the dominant woman--in a relationship to reward their lesser member. When the lesser was allowed sexual release due to her obedient, compliant behavior, the submissive would be given a draught to drink and, when she had finished, her anatomy would swell and sensitize--all the easier to pleasure--and more inviting, it was said, to look upon. It also tended to stoke the urgency she would feel to couple and remove some of her restraint in terms of vocalization and writhing when impassioned.

This was, of course, horridly humiliating to do to one's spouse and seeing it as a reward for extreme bowing and scraping was awful.Of course, the order put it to a darker use as well. If, having drank, the girl was subject to punishment--even something as benign as being made to stand in a corner--something that was done often to me as a rebellious student in the lower schools--the draught would extract its toll in frustration.

If coupled with a spanking--or some form of revolting punishment sex--it worked to break down the subject. Increasing the discomfort greatly but, at the same time, increasing also the sexual response and even the subject's need for sensation. Women under the spell of the draught had been found eager to receive their stripes--feeling a terrible inner need for the stroke of the birch across their buttocks.

I had even tried it once--highly illicitly--but I had broken many rules to obtain it in the furtherance of my studies. I had imbibed it. Thinking it would taste disgustingly of a man's seed, it instead tasted of buttermilk and vanilla. It had gone down--warm like alcohol. And I had felt its Art go to work on me.

I reflected I was fortunate I didn't have a boy I was seeing--for I would have groveled at his feet for release. I fantasized rutting in awful manners with some of the more handsome boys from my lower school. In my hot fantasies--a hand frantically in my pants, the other clapped across my mouth--I imagined indignities I would NEVER have countenanced even pleasuring myself to. The images were raw and shameful. I knew I would never allow a boy's member in my rear channel as was the practice for punishment sex--but in the clutches of the draught, I screamed into my palm imagining it. My panties, which had been soaked and ruined even before I got my hand in them, felt drenched in my oil.

It had been horrible and I was thankful it was so hard and risky to get. I would never attempt another draught again! Now, as the apprentice-girl moved to me, I was going to be forced to drink gulps of it and likely not the watered down mix I'd illicitly procured.

I felt rising anxiety as she moved to me--and examined my muzzle.

It was then that the bitch next to me exposed me as a heretic and an ideological enemy of the order this idiot apprentice had been initiated into.

She tore the strip off my mouth and touched where it had viciously stung the skin and then bade me drink. I did--obediently--I had seen her insect torture threatened and it had cowed even the powerful thing next to me. I gulped the fluid, knowing it would torment me even if my punishment was merely to sit here all day. And then, and then the bitch apprentice squeezed the sides of the canteen so the fluid splattered into my mouth and up my nose and out of my mouth.

I was stunned in horror, my face dripping with the nectar of Sattva even as I felt the warmth in my stomach start to radiate in all directions but mostly down into my delta as she replaced the horrible muzzle-strip.

When she removed the glass tube from her belt, I felt a flush of panic--of horror--she couldn't! She did.

She tucked the tube into the waist of my sole garment and gave it a twist. I felt the hard smooth surface of it against my hip bone and then, a terrible liquid slither of foulness down my flank. I jumped as it scuttled under my buttocks--it's feather legs twitching on my skin, its body--composed of insectile plates gliding over my flesh in the most horrible way.

I screamed into the gag as it slipped liquidly into my rear cleft--undeterred by my frantic clenching that only seemed to entice it further to slither and caress. It was when it slithered across my perineum to my denuded vulnerable sex that it struck.

I had always been ticklish but I had never been ticked there. I was shocked at how... efficient... it was. The tickling was intense and I spasmed and bucked--but It held fast and tickled more brutally. The shame of my wetting myself--as the bitch watched in satisfaction--was obliterated by the slithering tickles and my gut-fear that it would decide to slide into my most precious channel despoiling it.

The horrible little apprentice smugly shut the door as it gave me the briefest of respite and my eyes bulged. Despite my fury, I begged--pleaded--groveled with my eyes for her not to leave me with the little horror trapped in the terrible cloth diaper--but she did, with a faintly buoyant bob of her skirts as though to warmly say "see you later"