The Agony & The Ecstasy
My thanks go again to Slave Nylonsniff who provided the inspiration for this story, and did all the hard work on it!
Pamela and her husband Richard, from England, were very much enjoying their organised coach tour of the Gynarchy. Well, Pamela was at any rate!
They had been to all the usual touristy sights – the Femdom Themepark; the obligatory slave-galley dinner cruise; the Footslave Museum; the slave escalator; and the Whipcracker Revue Bar. But Richard, if truth be told, was not having such a jolly time. Being a free man in his own country, he was somewhat irked by the fact that, under the Gynarchy’s sex-discriminatory laws, males were not permitted to sit on the coach, even when the bus was half empty, and so he was having to stand next to his seated wife everywhere they went!
Furthermore, the main elevator was broken in their hotel, and the only other elevator was, unfortunately for him, designated as "female only". So he and the other male guests had been obliged to traipse up and down the stairs for two whole days.
But Pamela had been thrilled with the wonders she had seen, and she pressed Richard to stay an additional week with her at the hotel. Richard, somewhat reluctantly, agreed (he was a rather indulgent husband, it must be said; a true, English gentleman!)
However, it turned out to be a bad decision on his part, for he had forgotten that the Gynarchy was a Female Police State; and a week later, during a routine police inspection of passports at the hotel, it is discovered that he, and his wife, had overstayed their Gynarchy visas! Apparently they forgot to share their trip extension idea with the authorities.
Well, a day or two might have been overlooked by their Female Hosts, but an entire week was an entirely different matter! And so poor Richard was hastily placed in handcuffs and whisked away none too gently to the local Police cells. Both the couple’s passports were confiscated, and Pamela was told to confine herself to the hotel until she reported to the courthouse the following day.
That following afternoon Pamela duly appeared before a good lady judge, whilst Richard was escorted into the courtroom by two burly, male guards. He was wearing something like a stripy pyjama bottom; with no shirt; and his wrists were secured in front of him to some sort of heavy, metal belt.
He looked like he had been through a bit of a rough time in the Female Police cells. It appeared to Pamela as though he had been beaten with a whip of some sort, judging by the angry, red stripes crisscrossing his naked, upper torso. (In fact he had been; the current legal practice in Barbaria is to give accused male slaves and male foreigners ten lashes BEFORE the judge even pronounces sentence! This can be done in the morning and saves precious time later in the day. If, by chance, the judgement is for LESS than ten lashes, the male receives 1.5 Fems by way of compensation for each lash of excess; but that’s very rare – and outright acquittal is unheard of, as, even if the male defendant is found ‘not guilty’ of the crime he was accused of, he must still be punished for wasting the Female Court’s time!)
There was duct-tape stretched across Richard's mouth, thereby preventing him from speaking; not that it mattered, as the good lady judge only asked Pamela to confirm their identity, and then she immediately pronounced sentence: five lashes per day of overstay, making a total of thirty-five lashes each, followed by immediate deportation!
Pamela was told, "You are entitled to a whipping boy. If you cannot afford a whipping boy, a whipping boy will be furnished to you at no cost."
A bit dazed by the whirlwind pace of the Gynarchy court proceedings, Pamela accepted the offer of a freebie whipping-boy. You see, the law forbids the whipping of females, be they free, foreign, felonious or indentured; and also of freemale citizens of the Gynarchy, unless they physically assault or injure a female.
Unfortunately for Richard, however, although his crime was indeed a non-violent one, with no malice aforethought, he was none of the above; he was a convicted, freemale foreigner!
Together with his fellow-felon wife, he was escorted post-haste to a nearby, high-ceilinged room where the female bailiff handed the sentencing papers to another, uniformed young woman who wore the nametag ‘Officer-Mistress Baseema’.
Arabian Officer-Mistress Baseema was wearing a plain black hijab over her jet-black hair; her police name-badge on her black shirt covered bosom; and, somewhat incongruously considering the all-black, Female Police uniform, brown sandals on her pretty, bare, Arab-girl feet. Richard could not help but notice that her toenails, like her lips, were painted bright red!
Besides Miss Baseema, there were several other people in the room, including a muscular, middle-aged man, stripped to the waist with a police name-badge hanging from his belt. There were also a few rows of folding chairs where several lady members of the Gynarchy public were seated; spectators, apparently – visiting the Female Court Punishment Room as part of a fun day out! And standing behind the last row of chairs were a couple of shirtless, bare-chested freemales looking like they'd rather be somewhere else; husbands of the seated ladies, one would surmise!
Pamela was directed to take her seat on a raised, throne-like chair in the centre of the room with a low, wooden platform in front of it. Meanwhile Richard was made to step up onto a low, concrete breeze-block located next to the throne. A chain descending from the high ceiling of the punishment room was then ignominiously affixed to his handcuffs, and with the press of a female button on the wall his arms were suddenly stretched tightly over his convicted-male-prisoner head. He was left standing uncomfortably on tiptoes on the breeze-block, and, for the time being at least, was thereafter largely ignored.
A noisy gaggle of oriental tourists began filing into the room following an English-speaking, female guide who was carrying a lofty, yellow placard with a large black number "3" emblazoned upon it. All the male members of the oriental tour-group were naked above the waist, and carrying folding chairs. Most only carried one chair, but a couple of the men were breathlessly lugging two!
The pretty, English-speaking, oriental tour-guide was busy imparting her local knowledge to her group in a lilting, Gynarchy accent:
"...Of course, only males are whipped. We have strict laws, but we are not savages!"
She instructed the male members of the tour group to set up the folding chairs to one side of the punishment room that had specifically been left clear for that purpose. The females in the group, meanwhile, including the tour guide herself, then sat down on the chairs, with the males standing on ceremony respectfully behind them.
Now the room was quite full. Several of the female tourists took out their cameras and smartphones and began snapping pictures or filming their surroundings. Pamela felt very conspicuous and not a little embarrassed in her unfamiliar, lawbreaker position!
As an aside, it should be pointed out that the rule about males displaying their upper body in the punishment chamber is very rigidly enforced, even extended to court employees. It's all about respect. It shows male respect for the law and, respect for the court punishment-officer (in this case, Officer-Mistress Baseema), as well as respect for females in general. It also makes freemales feel vulnerable, and instills the worrying thought in their minds, "I may be a freemale, but if I break the wrong law, I too could be condemned to slavery and the whip!"
Female visitors to the punishment room are, naturally, permitted to maintain their modesty and dignity, and would never go bare-chested in public!
Of course, it's always ‘ladies first’ when it comes to the implementation of punishment (an actual law in the Gynarchy), so all eyes now turned to Pamela, seated upon her punishment throne. A somewhat aged and decrepit, male footslave was led crawling into the room - the court-appointed ‘whipping boy’ it would seem! Pulling him unceremoniously by a leash was a gum-chewing, youngish, non-uniformed female with exotic, Far-Eastern looks (perhaps a Filipina?), wearing bright pink, low-top, lace-up sneakers and blue-denim jeans. She did have some sort of official pass on her belt, however.
Pamela couldn't help being disappointed by the ‘whipping boy’s’ appearance. His wrinkly old ribs and bent-over backbone were clearly visible, and his pasty-white skin was only a few shades darker than his shabby, white slave shorts. This was not the hunkish, fearless young man she had imagined, sacrificing his back-skin for her female benefit. However, she mused philosophically, you get what you pay for – and I ain’t paid a penny!
The elderly footslave's back already showed signs of mistreatment. Apparently this was not the first time he had performed this uniquely male duty on behalf of a female lawbreaker, and he was already keening with fear, clearly no stranger to this room!
After he had crawlingly paid his due slavish respect to the sundry footwear of the female spectators, the young Filipina-escort secured the elderly maleslave's wrists to either side of the dais before the throne, and he seemed to know that this was his cue to speak. He kissed the convict Pamela once on the toes of her dressy, black patent high heels and said:
"Miss, may I be whipped for you?"
Upon hearing those words, Pamela was startled by a sudden and unexpected frisson of libidinous pleasure rippling through her pert, female body. The wonderful feeling puzzled her a little. She had never felt anything quite like it before! What could it be? She was a little concerned!
Nonetheless, she thought that the slave's words were the most beautiful words she had ever heard a man say in her hitherto sweet and innocent, female life!
Officer-Mistress Baseema, however, was clearly of a different opinion. As a matter of fact, she was quite furious with the poor footslave:
"That's IT! I've HAD it! I've had quite enough of your mistakes!" she shouted. "You are supposed to say, 'Miss, may I PLEASE be whipped in your place.' Just nine words! Just nine... SIMPLE... words! Imbecile!”
And with that, she fetched a single-tail, dressage whip down from a hook on the wall. The whip was black and appeared to be glistening with fresh oil; no more than five feet long; and the first eighteen inches or so from the female end (the handle) were quite stiff:
"Let's practise," she said to the slave. “We’ll practise your line until you get it right! Repeat after me:
"Miss...", and with that she lashes him once from the side across his quivering, bare shoulders.
Snick!!
The sound of the thin whip whistling through the air and snapping across male skin forcefully punctuated her single word.
“Aaah... Miss…," he repeated.
"May..."
Snick!!
"Uhh... may…"
"I..."
Crack!!
"Uhh... I…"
"Please..."
Crack!!
"Unnng... please..."
"Be..."
Crack!!
"Uhh... be…"
The sounds of the whip echoed from the high ceiling. The room had lapsed into a hush that was broken only by the eager clicking of the female tourists' cameras. Officer-Mistress Baseema, casually adjusting her hijab around her pretty, Arab features, walked slowly to the other side of the kneeling, whimpering slave, and continued with her lesson:
"WHIPPED..."
Crack!!
"Unnng... whipped..."
"IN..."
SNAP!!
"Aiiee... i-in-n..."
"YOUR..."
SNAP!!
"AAARRRRH... y-y-your…"
"PLACE..."
SNAP!!
"AAIIEEEE!!!... p-p-place…"
Having finished teaching the courtroom whipping-boy his cruel, self-deprecating catechism, Officer-Mistress Baseema then handed her used whip to the civilian Filipina girl, who took it to an oil sterilizer. Black-headscarfed Miss Baseema then magnanimously placed one foot onto the wooden platform beneath the freshly-whipped slave's nose so that he could nuzzle her bare, sandalled, red-varnished toes and thank her for taking the time to instruct him in the ways of a whipping-boy!
Then the intermission was over. It was back to business – the business of upholding the Female Law. Officer-Mistress Baseema read aloud the sentence from the Judge:
"Miss Pamela, aged 22 from London, England. You have been sentenced to thirty-five lashes of the whip for illegal presence in the Gynarchy…’
She then turned her remarks on the whipping-boy slave:
‘You the slave, this will now become your crime. Say your words!"
This time the snivelling, elderly, male slave, unsurprisingly, got the mantra exactly correct:
"Miss, (kiss to left shoe toe) may I (kiss to right shoe toe) PLEASE (kiss left) be whipped (kiss right) in your place? (kiss left and right)."
And just as Pamela graciously answered, "You MAY", she once again experienced that mysterious, electrifying tingle of pleasure centred somewhere below her shapely waistline. In fact, it caused her to vocalize the word "MAY" somewhat higher, and sharper, than was her intent! She demurely crossed her legs, then uncrossed them again. She had earlier been told to keep her feet, clad in her patent, black leather high-heeled pumps and tan-nylon stockings, under the face of the kneeling footslave at all times. So she folded her dainty, feminine hands on her lap and pressed down hard, trying to suppress her tingling urges, like a good girl should!
Officer-Mistress Baseema, meanwhile, announced commandingly:
"Begin the punishment! Bohdan! Lash number one. Whip him!"
She appeared to be addressing the stocky, bare-chested, middle-aged, male court-official in the room. Master Bohdan sir uncoiled his own black, single-tail, snake whip and shook it out behind him. Then his strong, muscular, tattooed-arm shot forward with cobra-like speed, sending the male end of the whip on its way towards the whipping-boy’s back with pinpoint accuracy!
In the confines of the punishment room the supersonic snap echoed like the explosion of a firecracker, as the flail made intimate contact with vulnerable skin. The sharp noise made Pamela involuntarily recoil. Meanwhile the recipient of the lash on her behalf wailed piteously, and a new deep-red gash made its sudden appearance over his right shoulder-blade.
Officer-mistress Baseema made a hurried note on her clipboard, then announced:
"Lash number two. Whip him!"
Miss Baseema was all business. There was a full docket to get through today. The lashes therefore continued at a rapid pace, by Gynarchy punishment standards - about four per minute.
Several intriguing things started to happen more-or-less simultaneously:
1) The elderly slave's screams increased in volume and became higher-pitched with each consecutive blow, almost painful to even have to listen to!
2) Blood collected in the weals on the slave's back and began to trickle down onto the floor.
3) An unmoved Officer-Mistress Baseema continued to pitilessly drone on, "Lash number yada-yada", and "Whip him!". She actually sounded quite bored with the proceedings!
4) One of the camera-wielding, oriental-female tourists moved in closer in order to capture the elderly slave's agonized facial expressions for posterity.
5) Meanwhile, off to one side, the young Filipina woman in blue jeans and pink sneakers was cooing softly to Richard as he hung in his bonds, gently tickling his stretched ribs with her soft, feminine fingertips and coiled-up whip.
6) Richard, for his part, was watching the scene before him with mounting horror, and the Filipina-girl’s actions only seemed to be increasing his anxiety, perhaps because of her evident faux-sympathy!
7) Pamela, meanwhile, watched the proceeding from her seated position on high, reflecting on how lucky she was to be born female; how she now loves Female Privilege; how only males have to get whipped; how she loves the Gynarchy; and then... OMG!!... right around lash number 10... she suddenly EXPERIENCED... OMG!!... an ENORMOUS wave... gasp... of PLEASURE... gasp... and she REALIZED... that it MUST be... what an ORGASM feels like! OMG! An ORGASM of violent... bursting... INTENSITY. OMG!!! The first of her lifetime! (But only the first of several that day!) She had to use all of her feminine self-control to avoid making a scene in the crowded punishment room! She pressed down even harder on her lap with her clenched knuckles, and bit her lip!
The punishment-whipping continued.
At one point, Officer-Mistress Baseema instructed:
"Wraps, Bohdan!"
Understanding exactly what that meant, whipmaster Bohdan sir repositioned himself so that he was perpendicular to the kneeling slave, in order to ensure that the tip of the whip could be coaxed to wrap itself around, and entertain, the scrawny ribs, chest and nipples of the elderly whipping-boy slave!
The slave's shrieks actually became so annoying, that Pamela kicked off one of her patent black leather, high-heeled, court (no pun intended!) shoes, and inserted her pantyhosed toes into the whipped slave’s wide open mouth, instantly stifling the sound of his screams with her sweaty foot-nylon. Indeed, Pamela, knowing that her feet had been sweating a lot this hot August afternoon, was wondering what her foot must smell like, and taste like, inside the whipee’s mouth! She wondered too what the rough, nylon texture of her pantyhose must feel like against his smooth tongue. She hoped that it was all deeply unpleasant for him and would add to his humiliation and suffering, and when she felt his warm saliva starting to penetrate through her tan-nylon stocking and onto her scarlet-painted toenails, it was enough to send her into yet another paroxysm of secretive, female ecstasy!
Female sweat was now collecting on her brow and upper lip, as well as in between her tan-nyloned toes, by the time lash number 35 was reached. Pamela knew that all good things have to come to an end, but her inner voice was shrieking:
"No!! Don't stop! Not NOW!! Keep whipping him! Whip him again! Whip him harder! Look! He moved! Give him extras! Shouldn't he be getting extras?"
But she remained silent and ladylike as the juggernaut of Barbarian justice moved on, and her newfound friend – Miss Orgasm - slipped quietly away into the shadows!
Sadly, Pamela was unaware that she could have caused her whipping-boy to receive five more lashes, simply by requesting them out loud!
The pink-sneakered Filipina-girl, meanwhile, stopped by to cast a handful of stinging salt over the moaning footslave’s freshly whipped and red-raw back. The finely ground, white crystals covered his back and instantly dissolved into the open whip-wounds. The slave's screams and struggles began afresh, becoming frenzied, unstoppable and shrill. Fortunately Pamela's nylon-stockinged toes muffled somewhat the piercing ululation!
The slave nevertheless twisted and writhed in his bonds. Over time his struggles slowly diminished to mere shoulder-shaking sobs; and eventually only the nursing sounds made by him paying respectful homage to Pamela's nyloned toes broke the silence that had now settled on the room.
Pamela's punishment was complete!
And so all attention was now shifted to her male partner-in-crime, and husband, Richard. Pamela collected herself. Oh no! Richard! Poor dear Richard! He is only a male. He's not entitled to a whipping boy. They're going to flog him!!
Again, Officer-Baseema dolefully read out the sentence from the Female Judge:
"Freemale Richard, aged 28 from London, England. Thirty-five lashes for illegal presence in the Gynarchy. Ten lashes have been already duly administered. We will therefore commence with lash number 11."
Whilst she was announcing this, the Filipina-girl had been giving Richard some last minute tickles on his hanging chest and ribs. She then, seemingly somewhat reluctantly, made way for Officer Baseema, who stepped up onto the dais on tiptoed, sandalled foot and, with one quick pull, ripped the tape away from Richard's miserable, male mouth. She then stepped back off the dais and pressed yet another female button on the wall. The concrete breeze-block on which he was standing tippy-toed slowly receded into the floor, leaving him hanging in thin air from his wrists without any support down below -- the dreaded, so-called ‘Barbarian suspended sentence’! He groaned audibly under the agonizing new pain in his taut wrists.
A repeat of the footslave-whipping scene was about to be played out, with the nominally ‘free’ male Richard this time cast as the leading man!
Officer-Mistress Baseema once again adjusted her pretty, black hijab, and shouted:
"Let us begin. Bohdan! Lash number eleven. Whip him!"
Again the whip whistled through the air – at deliberately repeated intervals. As lash followed lash, Pamela's thoughts transformed from "Poor Richard!" to "I'm glad I'm not a male" to "I LOVE being a girl!" to "Whip him harder!!".
By lash number 14 she was being visited by her new best friend, FEMALE ORGASM, yet again, and this time it was even more intense; impossible to control! She emitted little squeaks of ecstasy, barely managing to time them so that they were masked by Richard's much louder screams of male pain and agony!
She collected herself around lash number 20. Richard was slumping from his wrist-chains, and under the impetus of the whip he was swaying back and forth in pendulum fashion. A tiny trickle of blood was visible below his pinched wrists. He was blubbering incessantly, and tears streamed down his unmanly cheeks. Pamela felt a sudden surge of anger towards him! Anger mixed with, perhaps, a little disgust. She couldn't help it! Why should he be able to make a scene in front of all of these people, while she has to exert such self-control over her own, orgasmic emotions? It just wasn’t fair!
But, let's face it, what was really bothering her was the fact that Richard hadn't gallantly volunteered to be whipped in her place! Doesn't he want to protect her? His wife? And here she was, stuck with some anonymous, grungy-looking, court-appointed, elderly footslave-stranger still sucking on her nyloned toes and blubbering for mercy. Clearly, chivalry is dead!
"Richard, for heaven's sake! Stop it! Stop moaning and writhing under the whip! You're embarrassing me!", Pamela hissed in a hoarse stage-whisper. "Take it like a man, why don’t you?"
She firmly believed that males have a great deal more pain tolerance than females do. And if they don't, well... they should!
Meanwhile Officer-Mistress Baseema was reminding whipmaster Bohdan to do "wraps", and he obliged by again moving to one side. Lashes 25 to 35 were all placed so that they wrapped agonizingly around the tightly stretched skin over Richard's ribs, often striking on his bare chest. Officer-Master Bohdan even went the extra mile by allowing the whip to wrap fully around Richard's torso, before pulling it backwards sharply. This action not only removed skin; it also served to greatly increase Richard's ignominious back-and-forth swinging in his bonds.
Upon seeing the red stripes forming on his chest; his agonized facial contortions above; and feeling the tickle of the footslave below as he swilled down mouthfuls of footsweat-permeated saliva that had just passed between her toes, Pamela found herself visited by still another wave of female euphoria. Sadly though, this one was nipped in the bud, as the Filipina-girl proved to be irritatingly chatty. From lashes 30 to 35 she asked Pamela whether she had seen one Gynarchy tourist site or another. She was undeniably cheerful and bubbly, and had a remarkably pretty smile. But her incessant questioning was preventing Pamela from really enjoying her husband Richard’s suffering!
After lash 35, the Filipina girl thankfully redeemed herself, by slipping off the pink tennis-shoe from her own petite, oriental foot; removing her short, white sneaker-sock; rolling it up with the somewhat dirtied bottom towards the outside; and then wadding it into Richard's gaping mouth!
She then hobbled over to her nearby bag of salt - with one pink sneaker, and one white sock on; one pretty, oriental foot completely bare – before sidling back to where Pamela was seated next to her hanging husband. She then, amazingly, resumed her polite conversation with Pamela, whilst nonchalantly rubbing fistfuls of salt into Richard’s wide-open, whip wounds:
"Did you see The Steps?" she asked, whilst casting the first handful of smarting salt onto Richard's hyperventilating chest. "No?" she continued a little disappointed, oblivious to her male victim’s newly frenzied struggles. "Well you must have gone to the mixed gender boxing matches, right?", and with that she casually cast the second handful of white salt onto his bloodied back. Again, she left briefly to replace her bag of salt in the corner of the punishment room after Pamela had replied that they had missed those too.
"Well it sounds like you're definitely going to have to come back for another visit then?", the Filipina said when she returned, busily wiping the remaining grains of salt off her dainty, Filipina fingers and onto her jeans.
Pamela could not help but be impressed by the Filipina-girl’s casual cruelty. She watched her pathetic husband Richard's tongue work the sodden, white sock of his Filipina salt-tormentress out through his cracked lips. The short, feminine sock tumbled downwards, gracefully twirling as if in slow-motion, finally making a basso profundo squishy noise upon contact with the floor.
Splat!
The Filipina-girl laughingly picked up her wet sock, and glanced at her wristwatch:
“Ha! Ha! I’ve got to go now; my boyfriend is waiting for me outside. We’re off to the cinema tonight. Nice meeting you, Miss Pamela!”
But Pamela wasn't listening to the Filipina girl. She only had eyes for her new friend Miss Orgasm, who was visiting her yet again! And this time there was no denying Miss Orgasm the vocalization she demanded of her. So that when Officer-Mistress Baseema finally released the weeping, whipped Richard from his bonds, and he slumped down limply, face downwards onto the floor, Pamela simply could not help herself: she arose from her throne next to him; kicked away the still grovelling, elderly, nylon-toe sucker at her feet; and placed her remaining, rigid, right high-heeled shoe down onto the small of her husband’s back, grinding it most cruelly into one of his gaping, salty wounds whilst complementing his resultant screams of sheer, male pain and terror with her own breathless moans of sheer, female triumph and ecstasy!
After a few blissful seconds, she caught herself on, and blushed – mortified and humiliated to her crimson maximum in front of all these good people of the Gynarchy and beyond. But a smiling Officer-Mistress Baseema merely giggled from within her hijab:
"Don't be embarrassed, Miss; that happens all the time in here! Ha! Ha!"
