The Whip - Chapter 2 of 3

 The Bus and I - The Whip

Story by Lisa and Josephus

Chapter 2 of 3

The light never changed.

That was the thing about the cell—the fluorescent hum was constant, a sound that lived inside my skull now. No sunrise. No sunset. Just the same pale glare bouncing off cinderblock walls. My eyes opened to the same gray they’d closed on.

I’d slept on my stomach. My neck was stiff. My shoulders ached from holding myself in one position all night.

But the pain in my ass had settled into something deeper. A thick, bruised throb that pulsed with my heartbeat. The cooling gel had dried into a tacky layer. When I shifted, the jumpsuit fabric pulled at the broken skin, and I hissed through my teeth.

My cell door rattled.

“Inmate Rivera. Breakfast.”

A slot opened at the bottom of the door. A tray slid through. Plastic bowl of oatmeal. Carton of milk. A banana.

I couldn’t sit up to reach it.

I pushed myself off the bunk on my hands and knees, crawled across the cold floor, and ate standing up. The oatmeal was watery and tasteless. The banana was too ripe, soft in my palm. I ate it anyway.

My mind kept circling back to the same number.

Twenty.

But not the same twenty as yesterday. The judge had said the second day would involve a “single-tail instrument.” I’d spent the night trying not to think about what that meant. My imagination supplied images I couldn’t unsee—cat o’ nine tails, something with barbs, a whip that would leave lines instead of bruises.

The nurse had flinched when I mentioned it.

That memory sat in my stomach like a cold stone.

I finished the banana and put the tray by the door. Then I stood in the center of the cell, breathing. The jumpsuit was rough against my raw skin. I’d left it unzipped halfway, the fabric hanging loose around my collarbones.

Footsteps in the hallway. Multiple sets. The sound of keys jingling.

The lock turned.

Officer Dixon opened the door. He looked at the floor, at the wall, at anywhere but me. His hands were at his sides, fingers twitching against his thighs.

“Time for day two, Rivera.”

Behind him stood Sergeant Bryce. Her face was the same unreadable stone as yesterday. She held a clipboard. Her eyes swept over me once, cataloging my condition, and then moved on.

“Let’s go.”

I followed them down the hallway. My feet in the canvas slippers made soft scuffing sounds. The corridor stretched. We passed the medical office. We passed the door to the punishment room.

We kept going.

Deeper into the building. The walls changed from white to gray. The lights flickered in one section, a dying tube buzzing overhead. The air smelled like bleach and old metal.

Sergeant Bryce stopped at a door marked P-2. She unlocked it with a key from a ring on her belt.

The room was larger than yesterday’s.

Concrete floor, same drain in the center. A table against the far wall held a coiled length of dark leather—a whip, but nothing like I’d imagined. It was braided, maybe three feet long, tapering to a point. The handle was wrapped in black cord.

Behind the table stood a man I hadn’t seen before.

He was older. Gray at the temples. Clean-shaven. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with veins and sinew. His hands were still. He was looking at the whip with an expression I couldn’t read—reverence, maybe. Concentration.

He turned when we entered.

“This is Mr. Vance,” Sergeant Bryce said. “He’s the specialist for the single-tail discipline.”

Specialist.

The word hung in the air. He wasn’t a corrections officer. He was someone brought in for this. Someone who did this for a living.

“Inmate Rivera,” he said. His voice was low, calm. “You’ll strip and assume the position on the bench.”

The bench was different too.

Longer. Narrower. The padding was thinner, almost nonexistent. The restraints were not leather straps but metal cuffs lined with rubber. The center bar was higher, designed to force the body into a deeper arch.

My throat closed.

“I—can I have a moment?” My voice cracked. “Please. Just a moment.”

“No,” Sergeant Bryce said. “Remove your clothing. Now.”

My fingers found the zipper of the jumpsuit. It was harder today. My hands were shaking more. The metal teeth stuck halfway and I had to yank it down. The fabric fell from my shoulders, caught on my hips, and dropped to the floor.

I stood naked.

Mr. Vance looked at me. His gaze was clinical, unhurried. He noted the bruises on my ass, the dark purple marks that mottled my skin from yesterday. He noted the small cuts, the dried blood. He noted the curve of my hips, the softness of my belly, the way my hands instinctively moved to cover my breasts.

“Hands at your sides,” Sergeant Bryce said.

I obeyed.

The air was cold. The light was white. I felt every inch of my exposed skin, every curve and fold, the silver stretch marks on my hips catching the light. My thighs pressed together for a moment before I forced them apart.

“On the bench. Face down. Straddle the bar.”

I walked to it. The concrete was cold under my arches. I lifted one leg over the center bar, then the other. The wood was hard against my thighs. I leaned forward, reaching for the top bar, and the position forced my back into an arch that pushed my ass up and out.

Exposed.

Completely, shamefully exposed.

The metal cuffs closed around my wrists. The rubber lining was cold against my skin. Officer Dixon tightened them, his fingers brushing my arm. He pulled away quickly, like he’d been burned.

The ankle cuffs came next. Sergeant Bryce handled those, pulling my legs apart until my thighs were spread wide. The cuffs locked into place on the bottom bar. I couldn’t close my legs. I couldn’t protect myself.

My ass was presented to the room. The bruises were on full display. The dark hair between my legs was visible. My breasts hung down, touching the thin padding.

I stared at the concrete floor. A crack ran through it, branching like a river on a map.

“Twenty strokes,” Sergeant Bryce said. “Mr. Vance will administer them. I will count. You may scream. You may cry. You may not move your hands or feet. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” The word was barely a whisper.

“Do you want the gag?”

“No.”

I wanted to be able to scream. I knew I would scream.

Mr. Vance moved into position behind me. I heard his footsteps. I heard the soft sound of the whip being picked up from the table. The leather flexed as he tested its weight.

“The single-tail requires precision,” he said. “Unlike the strap, it concentrates force on a narrow line. The skin may break more easily. The pain is sharper. You’ll feel every stroke individually.”

I closed my eyes.

“Please,” I said. “Please just do it. Don’t—don’t make me wait.”

The first stroke was a sound I’d never heard before.

A sharp crack that split the air, followed by a line of fire across the top of my thighs. The pain was different from yesterday. It was narrow, focused, a laser of agony that burned through my skin and kept going, deeper, into the muscle.

I screamed.

My hands clenched into fists. The cuffs rattled. My legs strained against the metal, but I held still. I held still because I’d been told to, because I was already so afraid of what they’d do if I disobeyed.

“One,” Sergeant Bryce said.

“Please. Please, that’s—it’s so sharp—”

The second stroke landed higher. It caught the curve of my ass, the same spot that was already bruised from yesterday. The whip cracked against the broken skin and I felt something give, a tearing sensation that sent a whole new flavor of pain through my system.

My vision went white.

I screamed again. Longer this time. A sound that started in my gut and clawed its way out of my throat.

“Two.”

“I can’t. I can’t. Please, oh God, please stop, I’ll do anything, I’ll—”

The third stroke cut across both cheeks, a horizontal line that intersected the vertical marks from yesterday. The pain was a grid of fire. My body convulsed, trying to escape, but the cuffs held me in place.

“Three.”

Mr. Vance took his time between strokes. That was the worst part. The waiting. The knowledge that another one was coming, the anticipation building until I wanted to scream just to break the silence.

The fourth stroke caught the backs of my thighs, right where they met the curve of my ass. The flesh was soft there, vulnerable. The whip bit deep.

“Four.”

My tears were dripping onto the concrete. I was crying openly, loudly, great heaving sobs that shook my whole body. The position made it worse—I couldn’t hide my face, couldn’t curl into myself. Every sob made my hips buck, presenting my punished flesh to the next stroke.

“Five.”

The whip landed again. This time it caught the side of my hip, the bone close to the surface. The pain was different. A sharp, bright note in a symphony of agony.

“Six.”

“Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I won’t ever text and drive again, I swear, I swear—”

I wasn’t even aware of what I was saying. The words poured out of me, a stream of apologies and promises and pleas.

“Seven.”

Mr. Vance adjusted his aim. The next stroke landed directly on the crease where my thigh met my body, the soft skin of my inner thigh. The pain was electric. My whole body jerked.

“Eight.”

I was hoarse. My throat was raw from screaming. I tried to take a breath and it came out as a sob.

“Nine.”

The whip cracked against my left cheek, leaving a diagonal line that crossed all the others. The intersecting lines of pain created a pattern in my mind, a map of suffering.

“Ten.”

Halfway.

The thought didn’t bring relief. It brought despair. Ten more. Ten more strokes of this narrow, sharp, merciless instrument.

“Eleven.”

My legs were shaking. The muscles in my thighs trembled uncontrollably. Sweat ran down my back, down my face, dripping onto the concrete.

“Twelve.”

The whip caught the bottom of my right buttock, close to where it met my thigh. The skin split. I felt the warmth of blood trickling down my leg.

“Thirteen.”

I was beyond words now. Beyond pleading. My screams had become mechanical, each one pulled from me by the whip’s kiss. I was a machine for suffering, a body on a bench, a collection of nerve endings waiting for the next signal.

“Fourteen.”

My hands had gone numb. The cuffs were too tight. I didn’t care.

“Fifteen.”

Mr. Vance’s breathing was steady. He wasn’t winded. He wasn’t excited. He was simply performing a task, delivering punishment with the same detachment a carpenter might drive a nail.

That detachment was somehow worse than cruelty.

“Sixteen.”

The whip caught a line that was already bleeding. The pain went from fire to something deeper, a throb that radiated through my entire pelvis.

“Seventeen.”

I heard myself say, “Mommy.”

I didn’t know where it came from. I hadn’t called my mother that in twenty years. But there it was, a child’s word in a woman’s body, a plea for comfort from someone who wasn’t there.

“Eighteen.”

Two more.

I clenched my jaw. I could take two more. I had to take two more. The thought was a tiny light in the darkness of my consciousness.

“Nineteen.”

The whip landed on a fresh patch of skin, the upper part of my right thigh, where the marks were thinner. The pain was a bright, clean line. I screamed again, but the sound was weaker now. Used up.

“Twenty.”

The last stroke.

Mr. Vance put his whole body into it. I heard the air displace before the whip cracked. The leather wrapped around my left hip, the tip biting into the soft flesh of my lower belly.

I didn’t scream.

I made a sound that was worse. A low, animal moan that came from somewhere below language. My body went rigid. My hands gripped the cuffs so hard the metal bit into my wrists.

Then it was over.

The room was silent except for my ragged breathing. Each inhale was a sob. Each exhale was a whimper.

“Punishment complete,” Sergeant Bryce said.

She moved to the cuffs. I heard the clicks as she released my ankles. Then my wrists. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

My body stayed in position, draped over the bench. I was shaking. My skin was a single sheet of fire. Every heartbeat sent a pulse of pain through my ass, my thighs, my hips.

“You can sit up now.”

I tried.

My arms gave out. I collapsed onto the bench, my cheek pressing against the thin padding. My breasts were crushed beneath me. I didn’t care.

“Take your time.”

Sergeant Bryce’s voice was almost gentle now. Almost.

Mr. Vance was gone. I hadn’t heard him leave. The whip was gone too. The table was empty.

Officer Dixon was still there. He stood by the door, staring at the wall, his hands clasped behind his back. I noticed his knuckles were white.

“I need help,” I whispered.

Sergeant Bryce’s hand gripped my arm. She pulled me upright, supporting my weight as I swayed. The jumpsuit was on the floor. She bent down, picked it up, and held it open for me.

I stepped into it. The fabric touched my raw skin and I flinched. I couldn’t pull it up. My arms were too weak.

She zipped it for me.

“The nurse is waiting,” she said. “We’ll get you cleaned up.”

The walk to the medical office was a blur. I kept my eyes on the floor, watching my canvas slippers shuffle over the linoleum. Every step sent a shock of pain through my body.

The nurse was the same one from yesterday. Her kind eyes went wide when she saw me.

“Oh, honey.”

She helped me onto the exam table. I lay on my stomach, clutching the paper cover. She cut the jumpsuit away from my legs. The fabric was stuck to the blood.

She worked in silence. Cleaning. Applying antiseptic. Dabbing the cooling gel onto the cuts. She counted eleven distinct lash marks, she said. Two had drawn blood. The rest were raised welts that would bruise beautifully.

“Beautifully” was not the word I would have chosen.

“You need to stay hydrated,” she said. “Drink as much water as you can. The pain will be worse tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

Day three.

“What happens tomorrow?” My voice was a croak.

She didn’t answer. She handed me a cup of water and a small white pill.

“Painkiller. Take it.”

I swallowed it dry. It stuck in my throat, then slid down.

“What happens tomorrow?” I asked again.

She looked at the door. Lowered her voice.

“I don’t know exactly. They don’t tell me until the morning. But the rumors are—the third one is different. It’s not about impact. It’s about—something else. Something they only use for the worst cases.”

Something else.

The words followed me back to my cell.

I lay on my bunk on my stomach, staring at the wall. The fluorescent light hummed. The pain pulsed. The dread coiled in my chest like a living thing.

Day one had been the strap.

Day two had been the whip.

What could be worse than the whip?

I thought about the judge’s words. Day three will be determined based on your conduct.

I had not been defiant. I had not fought. I had screamed and cried and begged, but I had taken my punishment without resistance.

Surely that counted for something.

Surely.

I closed my eyes. The pain was receding slowly, dulled by the medication. My body was heavy. My mind was drifting.

I was almost asleep when I heard the footsteps in the hallway.

They stopped outside my door.

A slot opened. A voice I didn’t recognize.

“Inmate Rivera. The sergeant wants you to know—tomorrow’s session is at 9:00 AM. Be ready.”

The slot closed.

I lay in the dark, listening to the footsteps fade.

Nine in the morning.

Six hours from now.

I had six hours to prepare for something worse than the whip.