Sarah and the Punishment Station

Sarah was naked, lying on the sandy bank of the spring-fed creek that had comprised the original boundary of the Leighton farm, her legs resting comfortably in the cool water, soothing her sore muscles from her jog across the open country.  A bra and a simple loincloth with the farm’s crest embroidered on the hem were draped across an old log nearby, drying in the sun. Her shoes were set neatly on the sand next to her clothes. Her sleeveless orange tunic was under her head serving as a make-shift pillow for her sun-kissed brown hair.  She appeared to be asleep.

To Thomas she was the perfect image of Eve in the Garden of Eden; so tranquil; so at peace with everything around her.

“What’s so important that you had to drag me all the way out here?” Thomas called out to her, the hooves of his black horse plodding slowly through the high grass as he descended into their little valley.

“It took you long enough,” she replied, not bothering to open her eyes, “I’ve already had a swim and a nap.”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve chased you on a cross country run.  It’s not easy without Screamer to help.”

Sarah laughed. She remembered the time she had challenged him to hunt her instead of rabbits.  She’d had a good start, but eventually she had grown tired and worn down by the underbrush.  Screamer, his favorite hunting dog, had managed to find her - her flimsy jogging outfit ripped to shreds, scratches on her arms and legs, bits of leaves and twigs in her hair - and when the happy beagle found her she gave him a good head-scratching and his favorite treat as his reward.  In return, she got a good training session from her run, along with a good flogging and fantastic sex from Thomas.

She opened one eye and peered at him. “Well, then I’m glad I kept it simple for you.  You always were a bit of a simpleton.”  She smiled at him as her feet languidly kicked at the water. “Now that you’ve found me, Mister Leighton, you’ll have to interrogate me to learn my secret.”

“Sarah…” he started, the tone of his voice indicating his annoyance.

“Don’t ‘Sarah’ me, Mister Thomas Leighton.” She pulled herself up to lean on her elbows, her breasts shifting as her legs twisted in the cool, clear water of the creek, “this whole thing was your idea.”

He thought for a moment. He didn’t have time for her shenanigans, but if he pressed too hard she’d clam up and pout. And then they’d both be miserable.

“How about if you give me the information first, and then I decide if it’s worth beating it out of you?”

She smiled. He was trying to be funny. “You really are a simpleton,” she said wryly, “but at least you’re my simpleton.”

She leaned back and growled as she stretched the sleep from her body, her muscles quivering as she pointed her toes and made fists with her hands, her tummy rippling with exertion.  She pulled her elbows back to stretch her shoulders and growled again, then sat up and washed the sand off her arms and hips, the granules swirling around her bare pubis as she splashed the cool water against her sun-warmed skin. 

She then stood up and faced him, the crystal-clear drops trickling down the curves of her body, racing between the furrow of her bare breasts and collecting in the smooth cleft dividing her mound of Venus, dripping from her bare ass as she shifted her body to face the man on horseback. “One of your assignees is pregnant,” she said.

“Angelica? I know. It was in her report from the Department of Corrections.  I approved her for transport and inspected her myself.  She has good hips and everything looks perfect inside. The body doesn’t lie.”

“So you’re a gynecologist now?”

“Sows, cows, mares, women… they’re all about the same.  The only difference is how much trouble they make for their mates.”

She laughed. “Thomas, if you knew she was pregnant, why did you accept her for this?”

“Because I think this is the best thing for her. She can get out well before she gets to mid-term, with plenty of time to get on her feet and get something started. This isn’t a prison, Sarah.  This is a second chance.”

Sarah looked down at the water as her toes became buried in the sand, the tiny waves lapping at her ankles. His system was a far cry from the brutality her father did to his charges.  “Do you think she can make it? Do you believe she handle the workload? And be honest, Thomas. I’ve seen what the prisoners go through at my father’s ranch,” she said.

Thomas looked at the slender naked beauty standing in the sparkling waters of the creek, her young body toned and vibrant, her damp hair slung behind her and clinging to her neck. His scrotum tightened with arousal. 

“If I didn’t believe she could do it, I wouldn’t have accepted her,” he replied, “The work won’t affect her pregnancy.  She’s already gotten through the first two days of the worst part without any problems.”

Sarah knew the first two days of the program very well. She’d been forced to live them.  He’d warned her that the first week at Leighton Acres was informally known as Hell Week. It was the worst part of the experience for the assignees, intended to see if they could handle the program before they got too far along.

After each one of them had been stripped naked, they were bolted to an inspection stand, given involuntary anal and vaginal exams, and forced to vomit to clear their upper digestive tracks of any contraband. That was just the beginning of the fun. 

Everyone in the group had been de-loused and marched to the fields, still wet and naked, to roll bales of hay as the midday sun glistened off their moisture-slicked bodies.  The stalks of raw grass cut their feet and itched their bare skin terribly, but they had worked until the job was complete. Sarah had been the first one to finish, wanting to show Thomas that she could handle the work asked of her. Afterwards, most of them had earned the right to shower and be issued clothing. The only one not issued clothing was the last one to finish rolling the hay. She was sent back to the discipline stall, to be given a reminder that work will be done diligently on Leighton Acres.

Sarah had only one cellmate, Angelica, a former social worker who had lied on a progress report in order to make quota.  The children she was supervising were later found dead by the hand of their father, who died in a dramatic battle with police, and the news had shocked the community.   The district attorney had political ambitions and saw an opportunity to advance his career by prosecuting someone he could blame for the tragedy.  That person now occupied the lower bunk of Sarah’s cell.

Thomas noticed her silence. “Is there something else I should know?”

Sarah nodded. “Thomas, she’s afraid. Last night she was crying at bed-check, so I asked her what was wrong.  She’s afraid she’ll get sent back to prison on a medical transfer and she doesn’t want her baby to be born that way. She knows that the State will take her child away and give it to someone else to raise.  She did it plenty of times herself when she worked for them.  And Thomas, I don’t think she deserves to be in any of this.  She didn’t know that what she did would result in the deaths of those children.  She’s really troubled by it all.  She’s a good person and the guilt is punishing her more than you can ever imagine.  She’s just… just … be gentle with her, Ok?  She’s a bit fragile.  And please don’t say or do anything odd. It’s supposed to be a secret between her and me. I don’t want her to think I told you.”

Thomas looked at her. She was the Sarah he loved; compassionate, caring. Not bloodthirsty like her father. “You’re not telling me a secret if I already know it.  But, I’ll be easy on her, as much as I can, just for you.”

Sarah smiled. “Thank you.”  She then tilted her head, a playful look on her face. “I have another secret,” she said.

“Now what? The last secret you told me wasn’t worth the effort to drag it out of you.”

“One of your assignees is in love with you.”

“She is? Where?” he said, looking quickly to his left and right.

Sarah trudged daintily up the bank towards the man, placed her left hand on his saddle, stood on her tiptoes and craned her head up towards him, closing her eyes and humming a pleasured moan. “C’mere, Mister Leighton.”

Thomas swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted, wrapped his left arm around her, and kissed her.  He could taste the balm on her lips. She smelled of fresh water and grapes.  He wanted to stay there and kiss her all day, but he had responsibilities to address. Their lips parted with a loud smack.

“I always was fond of a naked woman,” he said, leaning in and giving her another healthy smooch.

She moaned playfully, then said, “Now how about that beating I so richly deserve?”

The man looked at the damp, young lady he held in his arms.  “Sarah…” he started.

“Yes?”

“You took a big risk running away.  If one of the guards had gotten to you first, we would not be having this conversation. You would probably be dead.”

“I know. But they couldn’t catch me any more than you could; not without Screamer.  And, it was the only way I could talk to you without blowing my cover. I hope I didn’t cause too much trouble for you.”

“Not as much as you did for yourself. I’ll have to punish you officially and it won’t be pleasant. I’ll have to leave marks so the guards can see.” He quickly added “Unless you want to end your charade right now.”

“No!” she exclaimed, her facing growing dark and angry. “We had a deal, Mister Thomas Chaser Leighton. Don’t try to weasel out of it now by trying to get me to quit!”

He grinned. He must’ve struck a chord if she was angry enough to use his full name. “Then I suppose I’ll have to whip you for attempting to escape.”

Sarah smiled. “Our tree is right over there,” she said, nodding towards a heavy oak as she held her arms straight out in front of her, wrists bent to accept imaginary shackles.

“No cuffs this time,” he said.

The man lifted her loincloth from the old log and wrapped it around her wrists. “If I’d brought shackles, the stable hands would’ve known something was wrong. I didn’t want the stable assignees to be suspicious or they might get some ideas of their own.  I’ll have to use cattle rope. Your uniform material will protect your wrists from the chafing,” he said, tying the hem off between her hands.  He then reached for a length of rope hanging from the saddle’s horn and began to wrap it several times around her arms, keeping each coil on top of the protective cloth.  After making several revolutions, he tied it off with a hearty jerk so that she couldn’t wiggle free.

Tugging on the rope, he pulled her over towards the stout tree and tossed the end over a strong limb which still bore marks where the bark had been worn away by their previous exercises four years ago.  He then took in the slack, lifting her up, stretching her out until her toes just barely made contact with the ground, her lean tummy drawn tight across the latticework of her ribs as her breasts were pulled up into two perfect teardrops against her chest, the mounds capped by dark brown ovals, the sensitive dots beginning to harden and contract. Her toes, pointed towards the ground, brushed softly against the grassy bank as she swung gently in the air.

The man walked over to a stand of small saplings growing near the creek’s bank as the woman hung helplessly from the tree. Stopping in front of a promising growth, he reached into his boot and pulled out a large knife.  Using the serrated edge of the knife, he cut a small rod from the growth, stripped off the smaller branches and leaves, and then slipped the knife back in his boot as he held the makeshift whip in his hand. 

The green switch made an evil hiss as he swung it menacingly in the air, testing the amount of flex in the bow.  The woman flinched each time he swung it, remembering what it could do to her skin, and the amount of pain it would inflict on her body.

He had used a switch on her before, twice, and they had decided to try something different after they saw the effects.  The first time had been cautious as they both explored the simple instrument, amazed by the viciousness of the results.  The second time had been brutal as she tested her limits. 

When the switch had fist sung its grisly warning to her, he had limited himself to just her ass, gently tapping her pale skin, tentatively judging her reaction.  Then he had swung harder, the small reed leaving a very noticeable crisscross of red welts across her quivering globes of muscle.  She had jumped each time the whip had contacted her, and the welts had come quickly. The marks had frightened him and he had stopped, choosing instead to slap and spank her soft, wet skin with his palms, letting the impact of his hand drive the pain deeper into the angry welts that had formed on the surface of her sensitive tissue.  At dinner she had told her father she was just saddle-sore to explain how tenderly she sat at the table.

The second time, she had to goad him to use the switch on her, convincing him to push her hard until she couldn’t take it anymore, hoping to lengthen the duration of their game. He started the same as before, a few soft taps as a warning, giving her a chance to build up some resistance, and then gradually increased the force of his blows.

As the welts began to form a vibrant, angry red, he had become concerned that the damage might leave scars, and so he re-focused on her breasts just to keep the session going, giving a few cautious taps to see how she would respond, and then striking her across her nipples with less force than he had on her ass, the impact still leaving long, fierce stripes across her skin as evidence of her beating.  After just ten minutes, she had been reduced to tears, begging him to stop as she dangled from the tree limb, her naked body marked front and back by the narrow rod.

Now she was about to face the switch again, and this time there would be no hiding its effects from the curiosity of others.

She braced herself as he approached her, watching him gauge the weight of the stick in his hands, finding the optimum spot to hold the evil reed between his fingers as he prepared to use it against her soft, naked body.  She closed her eyes.  She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears; she could feel the throbbing in her wrists as her heart fought to push her blood past the bonds around her wrists.  She could feel the soft breeze blowing gently against her skin. She could feel the familiar tingling in her pussy.

Then she felt the gentle tapping of the reed against the soft skin of her ass, like a maestro summoning his orchestra, the twin globes prominently displayed to the man who was going to whip her.  She inhaled deeply and waited.

She heard the whoosh and felt the impact, followed a split second later by white-hot shock against her ass. She gasped and jumped with surprise, a small shriek escaping from her open mouth.

Another whoosh; another strike across her ass.  She jumped. An intense, angry, burning sensation arced across her nerves and into her brain. This time she managed to muffle her shriek, burying it deep in her throat before it could travel out of her mouth.

Another whoosh; another strike; another muffled shriek as she jumped to the sting of the whip. She wondered if the first impact had started to show its path across her sensitive skin. Her heart beat strong between her trembling breasts. Her toes danced across the damp grass. The cool breeze brushed against her body as she hung from the tree. 

Three quick strikes.  She jumped at each one.  She hadn’t heard the whip’s howl over the pulsing in her ears and the impact had taken her by surprise. She could feel the perspiration beginning to form in the hollows of her arms and under her breasts. Her skin felt hot, warmed by the stinging bites where the reed had struck her body. She threw her head back and inhaled deeply from the pain, trying to absorb it, trying to keep herself under control. The tingling in her pussy demanded attention.

More howls from the reed. Four strikes in a row, climbing up her back, each one screaming its warning as it neared the sound barrier before colliding with her bare skin.  She tensed, jumped, and pulled at the bonds around her hands, her arms tugged up high above her head, stretching out the skin of her back as the green switch attacked her helpless body.  She kicked at the ground, her toes carving little valleys in the dirt, her body beginning to sway from the blows as she struggled to keep her composure.

Three more strikes across her shoulders, each one stronger than the last. The whip’s bite against her flesh was harsh and strong and felt like it had kissed blood.  She could feel the tears in her eyes as the salty moisture pooled and trickled down her face, landing on her breasts, the pale skin drawn tightly against her chest by the strain on her arms.  She wondered if her hands had begun to turn purple.  She wondered if the stripes on her ass were deep enough to satisfy him.

Two more across her back, dividing the welts that glowed red against her skin. She fought to control the urge to cry out, to beg for him to stop. She was in pain, more, it seemed, than the last time he had used the switch on her.  As bad as it was, she knew the damage to her body was worse; the endorphins had begun to mask her nerve endings to keep her brain functioning , keeping her aware of what was being done to her.  She hoped that the natural pain-killer was enough to sustain her during her punishment.

Another whoosh. Another strike. Again she jumped. More pain across her back, a fierce burning pain.  A shriek tore from her throat. She was reaching her limit. 

She hung, choking and crying, from the tree limb. Her arms ached from the strain on her muscles. Sweat matted her hair and trickled down her body in tiny rivers, the drops mixing with the juices between her legs. Her back screamed in pain. Her ribs felt like they were going to explode through her skin.

Whoosh. Smack. She jumped again.  Pain. Intense, angry, violent pain. She jumped and tugged and wailed and cried.  Her heart was pounding in her chest.  Her wrists were throbbing. Her toes were black and dirty from being dragged across the ground by her swaying body, the filth hiding the well-manicured nails as her body swung in the air.

She imagined what she must look like, strung up from a sturdy tree, arms high overhead, her body glistening as angry red welts burned against her body.  She felt the familiar warmth deep in her belly; the demands of arousal in her pussy as she hung, helpless.

Then she felt him against her, something firm pressing against her mound.  Something rubbing against her clit. He wanted in.

She shook her head. Not yet.

Another whoosh; another smack against her outstretched back.  She jumped, her arms absorbing the full weight of her body, the muscles aching from the strain. Sweat poured from her now, dripping from the brown nubs of her tits, running freely across her taut tummy and collecting in the folds of her pussy. 

Another whoosh; another smack.  She jumped again. She coughed and choked and gasped as she hung, panting, from her wrists, her body streaked with sweat. 

Whoosh. Smack. She was crying now, begging him to stop. Her arms, tugged up high above her head, were tingling with numbness and she knew her hands were discolored from the lack of circulation. She no longer controlled her body. The pain across her back controlled her now. She knew he would keep whipping her until she surrendered; until she broke and gave her body to him. She had reached her limit. Tears fell against her breasts as she lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist, straddling him as he prepared to enter her.

She felt him pressing against her entrance, then he was in, the purple head of his cock sliding silently into her as she relaxed and took his girth.  She choked and swallowed and gasped as she squeezed against him, her hips grinding as she stroked the blood-infused shaft, drawing him deeper and bringing him closer to her. 

She moaned a song of pain and pleasure as sweat trickled down her chest, her nipples hard and proud as they rubbed against the rough material of his shirt.  She could smell his scent; a mix of sweat, dirt, and leather as he hugged her captive body, his arms around the small of her back to hold her as he thrust against her sex.

Then his hands slipped lower on her body, grabbing each soft cheek of her ass, holding her in position as she rode him, her muscles clenching against his organ as she hung from the rope.  She moaned and growled and smiled and squealed as the tempest built within her, each thrust of his hips bringing her closer to her own personal supernova.  He lifted her up, bracing her on top of him, the rope around her wrists going slack, her full weight now resting on him as he pushed himself deeper into her. 

The muscles of her tummy flexed and quivered as they tightened with each curl of her hips, her breasts swaying softly against him as she struggled upwards towards her zenith.  Her damp legs locked themselves tighter around his waist, threatening to squeeze the wind out of him as she bore down on his cock.

She thrust her hips against his legs, squealing and growling as she tugged at the rope around her hands, lifting herself up as the storm within her body increased its intensity, a hurricane of raw emotion, waves of desire crashing within her trembling body. Her breath against his face came in wet, ragged gasps as she shook with pain and pleasure.  He thrust his cock upwards, pushing it higher and deeper into her as sweat streamed from her body.

Then, a long shriek of sexual release.  She shuddered as her orgasm exploded intensely, the concussion rippling across her glistening skin, every muscle tight as she clenched herself around him.

Soon the waves began to come slower, her breathing becoming deeper as a sigh flowed from her throat.  She smiled and whispered to him, her words of love barely audible over her breathless gasps.

Slowly he withdrew, unwinding her legs from his body, her feet once again tiptoeing on the ground.  He tucked his softening cock back in his clothing, her aroma mixing with the smell of his sweat as he pulled away from her.

She felt her body settle gently as he untied the rope and let it slide over the tree branch, her knees buckling as he held the rope in his hands.  Then he was with her, holding her as he let the rest of the rope slip from his grasp.  Her arms fell down around him, encircling his neck, her wrists still bound by the thick rope that now snaked across his shoulders.

He picked her up and carried her down the bank towards the small creek, her arms around his neck as he cradled her body. Her eyes had a dreamy far-off look and she was smiling. He kissed her cheek and nuzzled against her face, bowing his head as she brought her arms over him to cover her breasts.

Gently, he set her on the sandy shore and scooped some water from the creek with his hand as her breath came in deep, choking sobs. She gasped and shivered as the clear drops fell across her back.  This close to shore the soothing liquid wasn’t as cold as farther out, but it would still be cold enough to provide some relief to the burning welts across her skin.  He cupped some more water and splashed it on her, causing her to moan as it soothed her injuries, the chill of the water reacting with the burning wounds of her body as her tears fell into the creek.

He cupped some more water in his hands and gently wiped it across her forehead, bathing her face like a child as she settled in his arms.  She leaned against his chest, her legs folded in front of her as the water fell against her soft skin, the sunlight sparkling in the drops of water and sweat that coated her body.

She curled and rolled deeper into his chest as he gently dripped more water across her back, the curves of her ribs crossed by angry red welts that darkened as the crystalline drops cascaded across her skin.  She moaned and relaxed as she began to adjust to the chill of the creek’s soothing gift.

She could feel the sun warming her shoulders as she sat on the shore, her face buried in the curl of the man’s arms, smelling the sweat and dust that coated his shirt.  She shuddered and sniffled, her tears beginning to subside as he held her, comforting her, in their little slice of Eden.

He was whispering to her now, telling her how strong she was to take such a beating, telling her how proud he was of her for sacrificing herself for the sake of someone she knew so little about.  She smiled.  He began to loosen the knot around her wrists. He asked her if she was strong enough to stand up. She nodded and unfolded herself from his embrace.

The rope fell away as he unraveled it from her arms, the coils gathering around him as he worked the knots apart. Next he loosened the material from around her hands, the length of the loincloth unwrapping to reveal the indentations in her skin.  He presented the skimpy piece of uniform to her as she flexed her fingers in exaggerated fists, the discoloration fading as the blood returned to the flesh.  Standing now, she accepted the soft material from him and began to dress it around her hips, keeping it low and tight before tucking the end so that the embroidery dangled across the front of her pubis, the way she had been taught on the first day of her imprisonment.

She winced as she struggled to lift her arms to slip the bra over her head.  He told her that wearing it was optional, that she could press it inside her tunic and the ties would keep it from falling out.  To show her, he draped the orange rectangular top over her gently, then tucked the elastic fabric of her bra inside the front so that it covered her breasts, and tied the string, the fit of the garment holding the small article of underwear securely against her lean body.  She commented on the cleverness of the design as she slipped her damp feet into her shoes, the fronts scuffed and dirty from her run through the fields. 

He told her to mount his horse backwards so that she faced him.  She tucked her foot into the stirrup and swung her other leg over the horse’s neck, settling into the saddle so that her back was to the horn. Sitting this way felt odd to her. 

When she was balanced on the leather seat, he pulled her wrists behind her and re-tied the rope, loosely, around her hands, then tied it to the horn.  From a distance it would look like she was his prisoner being brought back to the farm. He told her she could easily slip the nooses off if she wanted some comfort, and then slip them back on to preserve their charade, so long as they were out of eyesight of the ever-watchful guards. 

Then he mounted the horse, facing her as he tossed the reigns and commanded Shadow back up the ridge of their little valley, his free arm wrapped around her shoulders, cradling her against his chest.  She took comfort in his embrace as her cheek pressed against his shirt. She sighed pleasantly.

Five more days to go.