On my back - Chapter 3 of 3

 The Bus and I - On my back

Story by Lisa and Josephus

Chapter 3 of 3

The following story is very graphic and explains the description of female genitalia. If this offends you please do not read.

The slot in my door clattered open before the lights came on.

“Inmate Rivera. Time.”

The voice was Sergeant Bryce’s. Flat. Final. I’d been lying on my stomach, half-asleep, the painkillers from last night leaving a cottony fog in my skull. My eyes opened to the same gray walls, the same humming light.

“Now.”

I pushed myself up. The movement sent a fresh wave of fire across my ass and thighs. The welts from yesterday had stiffened overnight, the skin tight and hot. I swung my legs off the bunk, my bare feet finding the cold concrete.

The jumpsuit was still unzipped from yesterday. I pulled it closed, fumbled with the zipper. It caught on the fabric and I yanked it, hard, the teeth grinding together.

Sergeant Bryce stood in the doorway. Behind her, Officer Dixon. He was looking at the floor again. His hands were clasped behind his back, fingers twisting around each other.

“Let’s go.”

I followed them.

The hallway stretched. We passed the medical office. We passed the room with the bench where I’d been whipped. We turned a corner I hadn’t seen before, the corridor narrowing, the ceiling lower. The air changed. It was cooler here. Damper.

Room P-3.

The door was metal, painted the same institutional beige as everything else. Sergeant Bryce unlocked it with a key from her belt. The lock clicked. She pushed the door open and stepped aside.

I walked in.

The room was smaller than the others. Tiled walls instead of concrete, the grout gray with age. A drain in the center of the floor, same as before. A single fluorescent bar overhead, buzzing.

And in the middle of the room, a bench.

But not like the others.

This one was flat. Low. Padded in black vinyl. At the foot of it, two metal posts rose from the floor, each topped with a leather cuff. The wall behind the bench had two more cuffs bolted directly into the concrete at shoulder height.

My eyes traveled to the table against the wall.

The paddle sat there like a piece of sculpture.

The handle was thick, dark wood, worn smooth by use. The head was round, maybe five inches across, made of the same polished wood. It looked heavy. It looked solid. The face of it was perfectly flat, unadorned except for a small brass plate near the handle.

Behind the table stood Mr. Vance.

Same rolled sleeves. Same corded forearms. Same steady, unhurried eyes. He was holding the paddle, testing its weight in his hands. The wood made a soft sound as he shifted his grip.

“Inmate Rivera,” he said. “Strip.”

My fingers went to the zipper. They were shaking worse than yesterday. I pulled it down, the metal teeth parting with a sound like tearing fabric. The jumpsuit fell from my shoulders. I stepped out of it, my canvas slippers catching on the fabric.

I was naked.

Mr. Vance’s eyes traveled over me. He took in the bruises from yesterday, the dark lines across my ass and thighs. He took in the curve of my hips, the soft swell of my belly, the dark triangle of hair between my legs.

“On the bench. On your back.”

My stomach dropped.

“What?”

“On your back, Rivera. Face up.”

I walked to the bench. The vinyl was cold against my thighs as I sat down. I swung my legs up, lying back. The padding was thin. I could feel the wood beneath it.

Sergeant Bryce moved to my feet. She lifted my left leg, bending it at the knee, and guided it toward the metal post. The cuff closed around my ankle. She did the same with my right leg. My legs back above my head and had me shuffle down until my bottom was hanging over the bench. 

I was spread open.

My legs were hoisted in a wide V, my knees bent, my feet secured to the posts. The position was obscene. My thighs were pulled apart, my hips tilted forward, my entire pelvic area exposed to the room.

Then Officer Dixon stepped forward. He took my wrists, one at a time, and guided them down to the bottom of the bench. There were cuffs there, bolted into the frame. He closed them around my wrists, locking my hands beneath me.

I couldn’t move.

My arms were pinned and my legs were spread wide, held open by the cuffs on the posts. My back was flat against the bench. My breasts were soft, spreading slightly with gravity. My belly was exposed.

And between my legs, I could see everything.

The dark hair. The folds of flesh. The way my skin stretched taut in this position, opening me. I could see my own sex, pink and exposed, the lips parted slightly. The sight made my face burn.

The fluorescent light was merciless.

It illuminated every detail. The silver stretch marks across my hips. The slight roundness of my belly. The way my thighs curved, soft and full. The bruises from yesterday, purple and black, standing out against my pale skin.

Mr. Vance walked toward me.

He stood at my side, the paddle held loosely in his right hand. His eyes traveled over my body. Then he looked at my face.

I met his gaze.

He held it.

“Yesterday was about precision,” he said. “Today is about mass. The paddle distributes force over a wider area, but the weight behind it is significant. The impact will be deep. It will reverberate through the tissue.”

My breath was coming in short gasps.

“Please,” I whispered. “Please, I can’t—I’m already so bruised—”

“You can. And you will.”

He moved to the table. He picked up a small spray bottle, the kind used for plants. He squeezed the trigger, misting the paddle’s face. Then he turned back to me.

Cold water hit my skin.

I gasped. The spray covered my thighs, my hips, my belly. The droplets ran down my skin, pooling in the hollow of my navel. The coolness was a shock against my heated flesh.

Mr. Vance positioned himself at the foot of the bench.

He was between my spread legs.

I could see him clearly. The gray at his temples. The clean-shaven jaw. The steady eyes. He raised the paddle, bringing it back over his shoulder.

I looked away.

“Look at me.”

I forced my eyes back to his.

“You will watch.”

The paddle came forward.

It didn’t crack like the whip. It didn’t thud like the strap. It made a sound I’d never heard before—a wet, solid splat as the broad face of the wood met my left thigh.

The impact was deep.

It wasn’t a surface burn. It was a shockwave that traveled through my flesh, into my bones, radiating outward in concentric circles of pain. The water on my skin amplified the sensation, the wetness spreading the sting across a wider area.

I screamed.

The sound was torn from me, raw and immediate. My body jerked, but the cuffs held me in place. My hips bucked, trying to escape, but there was nowhere to go.

“One,” Sergeant Bryce said.

I looked down at my body. The mark was already rising, a red oval spreading across my thigh. The water glistened on my skin.

And between my legs, I saw it.

My sex had opened.

The lips had parted, the pink flesh inside visible. A reflex. A response to the shock. I watched it close again, slowly, as the pain subsided.

Mr. Vance raised the paddle again.

“Please,” I begged. “Please, not there again, please—”

The paddle landed on my right thigh.

Splat.

The sound was wet, flesh and wood and water combining. The pain exploded across the same spot, symmetrical to the left. I screamed again, my back arching off the bench.

“Two.”

I looked down.

My sex was open again.

The lips had parted, the dark pink of my inner flesh exposed. I watched them close as the pain ebbed, watched the muscles contract. The sight was hypnotic. Shameful.

The third stroke landed on my left hip.

The paddle caught the curve where my hip met my thigh, the flesh soft and vulnerable. The splat was louder here, the water spraying. The pain was sharp, specific, the bone close to the surface.

“Three.”

My sex opened. Closed.

I was crying now. Tears ran down my temples, into my hair. My vision blurred.

“Four.”

The paddle hit my right hip. The same spot, symmetrical. The pain was a mirror of the left. My body convulsed. The cuffs rattled against the bench.

“Four,” Sergeant Bryce repeated.

“I can’t,” I sobbed. “I can’t do twenty of these. Please. Please, I’ll do anything. Please stop.”

Mr. Vance didn’t respond.

The fifth stroke landed lower. It caught the crease where my right thigh met my body, the soft skin of my inner thigh. The paddle’s edge caught me, the impact concentrated on a smaller area.

I screamed.

The sound was high, keening. I felt the skin splat, the sharp sting of a new bruise appearing.

“Five.”

I looked down.

My sex was open. The lips had parted completely, the inner folds visible. I could see the hood of my clit, the tiny nub of flesh nestled there. The sight made me sob harder.

“Six.”

The paddle hit my left inner thigh.

Splat.

The pain was electric. My legs strained against the cuffs, trying to close, but they couldn’t. They were held wide, presented, open.

“Six.”

I was beyond begging now. Beyond words. My mouth was open, sounds coming out, but I didn’t know what they were.

“Seven.”

The paddle landed on my left ass cheek.

The position changed the angle. The impact was different, the flesh of my buttock softer, more giving. The splat was muffled. The pain was deep, bruising.

“Seven.”

I saw my sex open again.

The movement was involuntary. A muscle spasm. The lips parted, showing the wet pink inside, and then closed. Over and over. Like breathing. Like a heartbeat.

Mr. Vance’s eyes were on my face.

He watched me watch myself.

“Eight.”

The paddle hit my right ass cheek.

The same muffled splat. The same deep, spreading pain. My body bucked. My hands, pinned beneath me, clenched into fists.

“Eight.”

“Nine.”

Left thigh. High, near the crease. The paddle’s face covered the entire width of my upper thigh, the impact spreading from my hip to my knee.

“Nine.”

My sex opened. Closed.

I could feel it now. The muscles in my pelvic floor contracting. The sensation was almost sexual, the same muscles that clenched during arousal. The shame of it made me cry harder.

“Ten.”

Right thigh. The same spot.

“Ten.”

Halfway.

The thought was a splinter of hope in the darkness. Ten more. Ten more of these deep, wet, reverberating impacts.

“Eleven.”

The paddle caught the edge of my left thigh.

The wood glanced off the side of my thigh, the impact sending a shock through the soft tissue. I screamed, a new note in my voice, a sound of violation.

Mr. Vance paused.

“Hmm.” he said. Watching me react with a scream

He adjusted his stance.

“Twelve.”

The paddle landed low on my bottom.

The sound was different. A hollow thump instead of a splat. The impact spread across my soft cheeks, the flesh absorbing the blow. The pain was deep. I tried to kick but held secure and my body shook.

“Twelve.”

I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t see.

“Thirteen.”

Left thigh. The same spot as before, the bruise already forming. The paddle hit the wet skin and I felt the water spray across my body.

“Thirteen.”

“Fourteen.”

Right thigh.

“Fourteen.”

“Fifteen.”

The paddle caught my left hip, the bone singing with pain.

“Fifteen.”

I heard myself whimper. A small, pathetic sound.

“Sixteen.”

Left ass cheek. The paddle bounced off the bruised flesh, the impact making my whole body jolt.

“Sixteen.”

Mr. Vance’s breathing was steady. His face was calm. He raised the paddle again, the water still glistening on its face.

“Seventeen.”

The paddle landed on my right inner thigh.

The skin radiated out with extreme pain. I was mortified that he could see my most private place, which made me burst into tears again.

“Seventeen.”

I looked down.

My sex was open.

“Eighteen.”

The paddle hit my left inner thigh.

My legs were shaking now, the muscles trembling uncontrollably.

“Eighteen.”

“Nineteen.”

The paddle landed on my inner thigh again.

The hollow thump echoed in the room. 

“Nineteen.”

One more.

I held my breath.

Mr. Vance raised the paddle. He brought it back over his shoulder. His eyes met mine.

“Twenty.”

The paddle came forward.

It hit my right thigh, right at the crease where my leg met my body. The impact was perfect, the full face of the wood connecting with the soft flesh. The splat was loud. The water sprayed.

My sex opened.

I felt it, the muscles spreading, the air touching places that should never be touched by air. The sensation was so intimate, so violating, that I screamed.

But the scream was different.

It was not just pain.

It was shame. Humiliation. The knowledge that they had seen everything, that nothing was hidden, that I had been opened and displayed and punished in the most vulnerable position a body can take.

“Twenty,” Sergeant Bryce said.

The room was quiet.

Mr. Vance set the paddle down on the table. The sound of wood against wood was final.

I lay there, shaking, crying, my legs still spread, my sex still exposed, my body a canvas of red and purple marks. The blood was drying on my thighs. The water was evaporating, leaving my skin cold.

Sergeant Bryce moved to the cuffs on my ankles.

Release.

The pressure on my legs disappeared. But I couldn’t close them. The muscles wouldn’t obey. My thighs stayed apart, trembling.

Officer Dixon unlocked my wrists.

I lay there, exposed, unable to move.

“You can sit up,” Sergeant Bryce said.

I tried.

My arms pushed against the bench. My body rose, slowly, painfully. Every movement sent fresh agony through my thighs, my hips, my belly. I swung my legs off the bench, letting them hang.

My sex was still visible.

I closed my thighs, pressing them together. The pressure was a comfort, a shield.

The jumpsuit was on the floor. I reached for it, my arms shaking. I pulled it on, wincing as the fabric touched my raw skin. I didn’t bother with the zipper.

The nurse was waiting outside.

She led me to the medical office. Her hands were gentle as she cleaned the welts and bruises, applied the gel.

“You need to drink. You need to eat. Tomorrow is the last day.”

Tomorrow.

I had survived three. Three punishments. Twenty strokes each. Sixty impacts total.

One more day in the cell. Then two days of general population. Then release.

The thought was too distant to comfort me.

I walked back to my cell on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else. The jumpsuit was unzipped, hanging open. I didn’t care. I collapsed onto my bunk on my stomach, my face pressed into the thin pillow.

The fluorescent light hummed.

The pain pulsed.

And somewhere in the building, someone was deciding what to do with me next. 

30 min later a guard showed up and said, “You are going home” You don’t have to finish the final 2 days”