The Last Sashay

This took him aback. In all his long career no girl he'd had as a subject ever asked him that, and that question alone, more than anything else that happened that day earned Camille some credit, which would not be applied now, but would help her, though she'd never realize it, during the real punishment that would happen later.

"What makes you say that," he asked?

"In French, punir means punish. Punire sounds like the Italian version. I doubt you were christened with a name like that. Are you Italian Mr. Punire?"

She had not only realized that Punire was not his given name, but she guessed his nation of origin as well; he liked Camille more and more as time went on. "I can not say my dear. My profession requires me to stay silent on these matters, but thank you for asking." He opened the nozzle again and let in the next twenty-five percent

"Ohh ahhh ahhh," she moaned in a delightful trilling utterance that began at her vocal cords but was modulated by the top of her throat. She was breathing hard now, in obvious distress, but she managed to blurt out: "It's what we girls do... find out about people we like." She would have given him a flirtatious wink if she could have faced him, but he caught the sarcasm anyway. He let in the last twenty-five percent and immediately started to release her.

"Oww," she screamed, "Owwww, I've got to go, quick, let me up."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk Mr. Punire tongued, and shook his head indicating his disappointment that Camille had forgotten the 'Mr. Punire' honorific, but Camille was way past caring, or even noticing. All she wanted was get to the toilet before she emptied her bowels all over everything.

"You may go now," he said, and Camille, bent over double, holding her abdomen with her hands, and squeezing her buttocks closed with her well toned glutei, and clenching her anus shut with her pelvic floor muscles, she moved as fast as she could toward the bathroom, though not quickly at all. It was a slow race, the cramps were terrible, and she needed to get to the toilet before her muscles gave out, but any quick movement and the pain of the cramps would make her lose it all. Mr. Punire chuckled at the site of her; she gave him a nasty look, but he forgave her.

Chapter 7. Final Prep

Sadici had wrapped a liner around the toilet seat and extended it down into the bowl, it was a good thing; Camille made quite a mess, which was expected. She'd gone into the bathroom at a ten of nine, and Mr. Punire gave her plenty of time to let the wash out, and to sit in private and collect herself. "Don't rush," he said to her through the closed door. "Take your time, let it all out. You have twenty minutes to eliminate and clean yourself."

Camille sat on the toilet and after the initial deluge, several follow on surges, and some minor aftershocks, she started to feel pretty much okay. At least her cramps were gone, and the burning of her anus had subsided, but she was in no mood to stand up and get on with what would follow. She observed her surroundings, the strange equipment and supplies that were evident, and a canvas bag with a hinged opening and leather handles. She wiped herself as best she could, and in a squat hobbled a couple of steps to the bag, opened it, and looked inside. She found a plethora of strange implements, and a well-worn book entitled "Procedures of The Form, Rules and Regulations," dated the current year. With nothing else to do but again face Mr. Punire, she took the book and hobbled back to the toilet and sat with it. She was a fast reader, and found it quite interesting, and appreciated that its purpose was not only, not even primarily, to specify the means of inflicting pain and humiliation, but to provide regulation, limitations, and protections. It specified what could and could not be done, based on the years of experience and specific accreditations of the punisher; and on the age, gender, subjective and objective measures of sexual maturity, degree of offense, procedural venue, and a host of other factors relating to the punishment recipient, as well as the facilities, including medical, that were available on site.

It was a complex set of rules, fascinating reading, and she had just finished the section on the transfer of responsibility, which she summarized in her mind:

If the subject is over eighteen, she's initially considered responsible for her own safety and welfare.

At the time that a punishment is declared by an authority, in my case Mr. Hartley, he's responsible for my safety and welfare. He must make sure that in everything relating to my punishment, unless he transfers authority to someone else, that I'm not abused or injured.

If responsibility is to be transferred, a transportation pass must be issued, signed by the Mr. Hartley and whoever I'm transferred to, which is Mr. Punire, and the transfer pass must have on it the date and time the transfer is signed. Responsibility then goes to Mr. Punire.

At the time the punishment is complete, and Mr. Punire is ready to certify that I'm in good condition, which is defined in a whole complicated addendum to the rules, and I don't like the sound of it, Mr. Punire must sign the release section of the transportation pass and then Mr. Hartley gets back responsibility.

Mr. Hartley must then sign the pass to get rid of me, otherwise if I stub my toenail he could get in trouble.

Remembering Suzy's severe whipping, Camille could appreciated that the line of authority was strictly controlled, and the party responsible for any mishaps was clearly spelled out.

Camille was about to go on to the all-important rules governing the punishment itself when she heard Mr. Punire waking her way. She had just enough time to replace the book, shut the bag, and place herself back on the toilet before he came in.

"Get up," he said. "I told you to clean yourself. What are you doing?

"I'm sorry Mr. Punire. I was feeling sorry for myself; I guess I spaced out."

"That's not the cooperation I expect from you. Get up," he said, and he grabbed hold of her upper arm and lifted her off the toilet, pulling her around to look at her back side. He pulled her roughly to the shower stall, and backed her in. She still had her shirt and bra on; he pulled her shirt forcefully up to her armpits. He bent her over and turned her sideways and placed her upper body just outside the shower, and told her to hold onto the grab bar. A hose with a sprayer was attached to the shower nozzle and Mr. Punire adjusted the water temperature and began to wash Camille's lower half. He used a bucket of soapy water and a natural sponge to wash from her crotch up the crack of her buttocks, and then down her legs. After she was clean he rinsed the sponge, soaped it good, and pushed it up between her legs. Camille was oh so sensitive where he placed his hand, down low by the entrance to her vagina, that she gasped and arched her back and pulled away before he could get a good grip, but he followed her forward and wouldn't let her get away, and he grabbed a great handful of girl flesh in his meaty paw and proceeded giving her a treatment, or perhaps it was a treat, a sequence of firm rhythmic squeezes much to Camille's embarrassment and delight. She closed her eyes, started bucking her hips, and moaned repeatedly, voicing her personal version of the wonderful sounds of a girl in heat being stimulated.

There's no way to tell when a girl's about to come he thought, though it's discussed ad infinitum at conferences and around the coffee pot. The conventional wisdom is that if you want to prevent it, you've got to stop early, but even what early is requires judgment. Mr. Punire used the halfway rule; he stopped when he judged her halfway along.

He rinsed her off one last time and pulled her out, and made her bend over, reach for her toes, and spread her legs. He dried her roughly, but not too roughly, and noted her high state of arousal. Her clitoris was protruding nicely, a little wet tongue poking from its sheath and peeking out her vulva; as beautifully formed a clitoris and sheath as ever I've seen he thought, and everything else down there swollen and red, and the entrance to her vagina surrounded by the engorged and protruding tissues of her minor labia. Nice, he said to himself, real nice.

He drew her from the bathroom, pulling her hard along, angry that she made him clean her, that she wasn't cooperating, and that he'd have to make her suffer for it. It wasn't that he didn't like to make pretty girls, and even smart and nice girls like Camille suffer. He did, he did immensely, but he also liked to play the game, and if a deal was struck as with Camille, and if she didn't uphold her end of the bargain, then anger is what the game demanded, and making her suffer was its inevitable consequence.

He left her standing by the table, still folded in its middle, and he called in Rico and Sadici who were only too glad to again be included, and he gave them the head shake in Camille's direction telling them to take over. Camille, half naked, covered her swollen privates with her hands and took a step back. Sadici gave her a sadistic smirk, and made a quick gesture in her direction, and she flinched and stepped back again, tripping on the table pedestal and turning and grabbing the table to keep from falling. Sadici took three quick steps and was upon her, and he flung her savagely over the table and positioned her as she had been for her enema, and he stood between her legs, kicked them wide apart, and placed his swollen penis, still within the smooth and fine cloth of his form fit trousers, firmly into her obliquity.

She hated it, she hated and feared him, but she couldn't help it, her sexual arousal was far too great, as great as she'd ever felt it, and she began with no volition to hump back at him. Two or three pumps was all she got, and he whacked her hard on her buttocks; she screamed "ahhh" in protest, and looked imploringly at Mr. Punire, but he turned his back on her and sat on a chair by the far wall.

"Strip her," he said.

She was already half undressed, and Rico and Sadici raised the lower half of the table to support her fully, then flipped her over so Camille was now on her back, arched over the table hump, stretched and offered with Rico holding her arms over her head, and Sadici holding her legs wide open, and exploring her hot over stimulated organs with his eyes.

Rico unbuttoned her shirt and stripped it off her arms, and reached under her and unclipped her bra, which she had refastened in the bathroom, and stripped that off too, now exposing her breasts in all their adolescent glory. Rico held her hands between his legs, he had removed his protective cup and she could feel her wrists wedged against his balls and buttocks, and he took his hands and fondled her breasts, and he fastened his fingers to the tips of her nipples.

Her nipples were swollen, not just with arousal and handling, but also with fluids induced by the sharply increased levels of hormones resulting from her coming of age. Her nipples were terribly tender, she was clearly in discomfort, and Mr. Punire stood, came over, and lifted Rico's hands off her. He examined Camille carefully. It wasn't only her nipples that were swollen, but the whole of the tips of her breasts, as if she had tiny little breasts on the ends of her primaries. He tested her with pinches, up and down both breasts, on all sides, from their bases to their tender tips; he gauged her reactions. "Leave them alone," he said to Rico, "she's too young."

Rico nodded his assent and left his hands off her breasts. "You're a lucky girl," Mr. Punire said to Camille, "old enough to be whipped, but not mature enough to have me whip your breasts."

"Thank God," she said, "I didn't know that was a possibility."

"All things are possible; some are not allowed."

She was young, tender, firm, and inexperienced; she was naked, stretched, spread and aroused. Rico and Sadici played her like a violin, smoothing over her dips and curves, scratching, tickling, but only a little of that, and kneading her flesh, but not in the places she really wanted. What she really wanted was to be home in her own bed, with her legs spread and her fingers plunging deep inside her, and rubbing, round and round and round her clitoris; if they'd only let me come she thought, my kingdom for an orgasm.

Mr. Punire brought over clothing; "dress her," he said.

"I can dress myself, Mr. Punire sir," she pleaded, but he paid her no mind.

Sadici closed her legs and took the trousers that Mr. Punire provided and placed them around her feet, and slid them up her legs, up around her abdomen, and he tied its draw string firmly at Camille's waist. Rico put her arms in the arms of the shirt, slipped it over her head, and pulled it down her body. They stood her up and pulled her to the full-length mirror on the wall so she'd know how she looked.

The clothing, if you could call it that, was made from fine white gauze, so thin you could see right through it. Her swollen nipples, still the pink of a young girl, could be clearly differentiated from the white of her breasts. The pants fit snugly into the separation of the swollen lips between her legs, there was no denying their form; her thatch of hair, sparse as it was, could be seen as clearly as if she hadn't had on a stitch; the redness of her tumescence could not be denied. This is worse than being naked she thought.

"How do you like it," Mr. Punire asked her?

"How do you like it Mr. Punire sir," she asked him back? I bet you like it a lot."

"Half concealed, is more revealed, I always say. Wouldn't you?"

"Can I keep them," she asked in a moment of inspiration? They really were beautiful she thought, and she thought of wearing them in them in the privacy of her bedroom, and then of stripping them off in front of some imaginary pasha who'd sink ten fingers and then his big hard cock up deep inside her. Fuck I'm horny.

"You can keep them" he said, "if you're a good girl," he added.

"I'm a good girl," she said, "thrusting her chest out toward him, but giving Rico and Sadici a 'not for you' look.

"That's dangerous girl. Never flirt with one who is going to punish you, some men will take it as a challenge to put you down."

"But not you... Mr. Punire. You wouldn't do that."

"No, I wouldn't, but don't push it."

"Yes sir."

"Put her on the long table," he said to Rico. "It's time to bring her up."

Camille had been distracted by everything that had been done to her so far, but now she realized it was a few minutes to ten and that the preliminaries were about to end, and that she was shortly going to be whipped, for real, probably much like that girl Suzy was two years ago when Camille was a sophomore. Her anxiety climbed into high gear, and she began to back up and move away from Rico and Sadici, but she had nowhere to go. Sadici grabbed her arm, and Rico a wrist, and they forced her to the side of the room and tumbled her onto a long thin table. They strapped her wrists to its head, and they spread her legs and pulled them tightly to the corners, stretching her uncomfortably. She looked imploringly at Mr. Punire, who made eye contact, but in no other way did he respond. Her shirt had risen up, and her pants down, and her midriff was delightful exposed. The lines of her ribs, the dip of her navel, the graceful rise to the swell of her abdomen, bare almost to the line of her pubic hair, creating a tableau as sexy as all the Venus' in all the great museums of the world. Rico took a firm pillow, lifted her, and wedged it under her back, stretching and displaying her lewdly; she gasped, the stretching was now very uncomfortable. The men had a hard time taking their eyes from her breasts trying valiantly to burst through the confines of the shear gauze, and from her mons, and the swirls and tufts of fine hair anointing it in seductive advertisement of the charms beneath.

"Let's go," Mr. Punire ordered, and the three men wheeled poor Camille to the elevator, and her fate that she had set in motion.

Chapter 8. The Assembly

The assembly was mandatory, everyone from the highest administrator to the lowest service worker, and all the students, were required to attend, but the school community had not been allowed into the auditorium, and was lined up in the hallways extending outward from the auditorium lobby. Camille came up the elevator, the doors opened, and she was brought into the crowd, totally exposed, stretched, and presented. She was wheeled past a hundred onlookers ogling her nakedness, the men and boys reaching into their pants to give room to rising penises, and as many as looked at her body with lust and longing also looked into her eyes to see and gauge her anguish, and prod her humiliation.

Mr. Punire wheeled the table, with Camille securely bound, to the auditorium door, and had Rico and Sadici stand at either end, and he stood behind it as each and every student, teacher, administrator, and staff member filed past. Mr. Punire held a hard crop in his hand, a crop reserved for hardened criminals, nothing he would use on a tender school girl, and he gently waved it back in forth in warning; if anyone were to reach to touch Camille he would have broken their hand. So saying, as senior staff members passed, he would frequently give Camille a paternalistic squeeze or pat, paternalistic except that he applied them to her most prominent mound. "Good girl," he whispered as he patted her. "Good girl," he said, "it will soon be over," and she couldn't help, despite being stretched taught, but to raise her pelvis to illicit from him a firmer touch.

Mr. Hartley was pissed, and had copped a vengeful attitude. With all the students filing past he was reminded of how Camille had debased him in front of her friends, but even more he was pissed at Mr. Punire for excluding him from Camille's preparation, arguably the most erotic part of the whole punishment procedure. He decided being nasty was in order, which he knew Mr. Punire definitely would not like, and as certain persons walked past he directed them to a reserved area in front of the stage. Every bad boy, every nasty girl, the most lecherous and the most hated teachers, the despised janitors, all the miscreants the school had to offer he seated right up front; there was no chance Camille wouldn't notice, nor wouldn't Mr. Punire.

Everyone was seated and a hush fell over the assembly. "Here we go girl," Mr. Punire said to Camille. "Go easy, please," she begged in a voice fraught with complexity. Mr. Punire understood: he could hear in her entreaty: fear, submission, compliance, supplication, resignation. "You'll be ok," he said, "you'll be fine, relax, just do everything I tell you, ignore everything but the sound of my voice," and he said these words and others like them over and over as a mantra to calm her, and make it as easy on her as possible.

They wheeled her up onto the stage and opened the curtains; a gasp rose from the assembly. Behind her, she couldn't see it yet, was a whipping frame, and next to it a bucket of whips which sprung from it like a bouquet of flowers; flowers beautiful in their craftsmanship and form, so gracefully curved and strung; and frightening in their message, how clearly form followed function. Mr. Hartley sat on stage nearby.

Camille turned as much as she could, but could not see behind and around Mr. Punire standing by her head, with his hands resting on it, his fingers delicately stroking her cheek trying to calm her fears.

"I'm going to release you now. Remember. You must do as I say."

"Yes Mr. Punire, I'll try my best."

Mr. Punire gave the nod and Rico and Sadici released Camille, and she worked circulation back into her arms and legs."

"Sit up and put your feet on the floor," he said.