BDSM Library - Katie

Katie

Provided By: BDSM Library
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Synopsis: Written for an English lady who fancied a judicial caning.

Katie




     Katie and Jeff were, at last, airborne from their


intermediate stop at Cairo, squeezed into "el cheapo" seats


on a foreign airline that made BA, "Bloody Awful", seem


like luxury in comparison.  Katie was glad she took so little


into the cabin with her, just her handbag, with her passport,


ticket, purse, lipstick and cigarettes. Of course, there was


no smoking allowed.  She was dressed for comfort in the


tropics, casual slip-on shoes, socks, not nylons, a


lightweight cotton dress, light green, to compliment her


russet hair, and a "sports bra", a simple, knitted thing, that


she could wear for hours and hours without it binding or


leaving strap marks.  When flying coffin class, looks don't


count.


     Somewhere over central Africa, the captain came


on the speakers, first in French, then Arabic, then English.


Jeff went stiff before Katie understood the message.  There


were reports of a bomb on board, and they would have to


make an unscheduled emergency landing.  Twenty white-


knuckle minutes later, they were on the ground near some


awful African town with an unpronounceable name.  The


emergency slides were deployed, and the passengers slid


down, to stand on the tarmac.  It wasn't easy to get


information, but no, they could not get their baggage.  The


airplane would stand there, to see if it blew up, and if it


didn't, every bag must be searched.  Yes, arrangements


were being made to put them up at a hotel.  A bus was


being found, which would shuttle them to town.


     It was hours later that they checked into the Prince


Edward Hotel, which might once have been grand but


which looked as if it hadn't been cleaned or repaired since


Prince Edward died, roughly a hundred years ago.  It was


also not really adequate for a whole plane load of


passengers.  Jeff and Katie would have to share a narrow


bed in a tiny room with a bath down the hall.  The sun had


not yet gone down, so the temperature was still  a few


degrees above body temperature, and, of course, Prince


Edward had never heard of air conditioning.  The dining


room, it seemed, would not be open until dark, so Jeff and


Katie went out for a stroll.  The humidity was oppressive,


and Katie's panties were drenched with sweat, clinging and


riding up between her legs.  "Jeff," she said, "we have to


find a shop where I can buy a hat and some sun screen, and


maybe some clean underwear.  If we have to stay here long,


I'll be a mass of freckles.  You know redheads don't tan


properly."  Jeff, ever amiable agreed.  After all those years


of marriage, he knew it was pointless to disagree.  Secretly,


he wished that Katie would be  a little less the strong,


independent businesswoman and more the traditional


British bride, whose primary desire is to serve her master.


Well, at 46, she wasn't going to change.


     They found street of shops, noisy and confusing,


and Katie finally found a stall with a big, floppy hat, just


the thing to keep the sun off.  "How much?" she asked the


shop keeper.  He clearly didn't speak English.  She tried


again to communicate, but it seemed hopeless.


     Jeff said, "Look, just hand him a bill and hope he


gives you the correct change."


     Katie took out her purse and selected a ten pound


note.  She held the hat in one hand and handed the note to


the shopkeeper with the other.


     The shopkeeper looked at it and said, "British


pound sterling?"


     "Yes, yes," replied Katie, with appropriate nods and


gestures.  The man squatted down and rummaged under the


counter, coming up with a huge wad of the local currency,


which he handed to Katie with a wide grin and happy-


sounding noises.  She put the hat on her head and held the


wad of bills in her hand.


     "So, how much did he charge you?"


     "Haven't a clue."


     "How much did you get in change?"


     "Haven't a clue.  For all I know this could be toilet


paper.  But even if it cost me ten pounds, I'm glad to have


the hat. Now, let's look for a chemist or a lingerie shop."


     At the corner was a uniformed policeman.  He


looked at Katie, at her wad of local currency, and asked,


"Excuse me, madame, but where did you get that money?"


     "A shopkeeper, down that way, gave it to me in


change."  She gestured toward the shop.


     "And how much did you give him?"


     "Ten pounds."


     "And how much did he give you?"


     "I don't know." she fanned out some of the bills


and held them so the policeman could see.


"I'm afraid, madame, that you will have to come with me."


     "Why?"


     "Illegal exchange of currency."


     "It can't be all the serious.  Here, you take the


money and let us go."  He was not dissuaded, though he did


take the money and her passport.  He led them to a tiny


police station and spoke to the sergeant in charge in the


native language.  The sergeant gestured and spoke rather


loudly, pointing at a squalid jail cell with bars and a hole in


the floor for a toilet.


     "Madame, you will have to spend the night in jail,


and tomorrow you will meet the magistrate.  Your husband


is free to go."


     "No, no!  That can't be.  I won't run away.  We're


staying at the Prince Edward Hotel, just down the street.


Can't you release us, and I'll come back tomorrow?"


     After some discussion with the sergeant, the


policeman said.  "All right.  Be at the Central Court at ten


o'clock, sharp.  We must keep your passport,"


     "Yes, of course.  Where is the Central Court?"  The


policeman showed her on a map.  It wasn't far from the


hotel. "And what will I be charged with?"


     "Black market currency trading and attempting to


bribe an officer.  You would be advised to plead guilty."


     "Oh, and if I don't plead guilty?"


     "You will be remanded for trial, kept in jail until


your court date.  I expect they will keep you maybe ninety,


a hundred days, and then you will be convicted and given a


more serious sentence, because you are not contrite."


     "Oh, then, I give you my word I'll be there at ten,


ready to plead guilty.  Ah, what is the sentence likely to


be?"


     "For a first time offender, probably corporal


punishment, the cane."


     "The cane?  You beat criminals in this forsaken


country?"


     "You bet, madame.  Very low recidivism rate."


     That night, at the hotel, was hellish.  They bolted


the door of the little room and stripped off everything, as


they had no night clothes, and they were dripping with


sweat, even after sundown.  Jeff tried to cheer up Katie by


being extra affectionate, trying to make love, but Katie


could not be consoled.  All she could think of was the


punishment she might receive.  She had seen pictures of a


man being caned in Singapore, she thought it was.  He had


been trussed up on a sort of triangular frame,  while an


athletic looking chap beat his arse with a six foot cane!


She didn't get much sleep, especially as Jeff took up two


thirds of the narrow bed.  She would have fled, if she could


have, but the plane was not ready, and there was no where


to flee to.


     They had asked at the hotel for a lawyer, but the


best they could get was a young woman, an interpreter, not


a lawyer.  The three of them were at the Central Court


Building at 9:30 and before the magistrate precisely at


10:00.  The interpreter was impressed.  She had expected


they might have had to wait for hours, even days.


     The arresting officer was there, and he spoke to the


magistrate earnestly for several minutes.  The magistrate,


already perspiring in his black robe and white wig, so


strange on a native, took it all in.  He spoke to the


interpreter in the local lingo, and she replied in kind.  The


judge said one short burst of words.


     "What did he say?" asked Katie.


     "He says that, since you plead guilty, sentence can


be carried out immediately."  Katie almost fainted. She had


not yet come to grips with the idea of being caned.


     "And what is the sentence?"


     "Very light.  Practically nothing.  A dozen strokes,


on the bare, below the waist."


     Katie might have collapsed, except that two burly


bailiffs took her by the arms and half carried her down the


corridor from the courtroom.  Jeff tagged along behind.


Katie was taken into room at the end of the hall, but the


interpreter told Jeff he must remain outside.


     A uniformed woman policeman stood impassively


beside a large wooden table, eight or nine feet long.  She


spoke to the interpreter, who translated for Katie.  "She


wants you to take off your dress.  Don't worry, I'll stay


here with you."  Katie pulled her dress up and off over her


head.  The interpreter  hung it on a peg.  "She says now you


must take off your panties."  Katie slipped the damp


panties down her long legs and off over her shoes.  She was


taller than most of the locals.  The uniformed woman


approached Katie and buckled leather straps, cuffs, on her


wrists and then on her ankles, over the knee socks.  There


were chains attached to the cuffs.  She motioned to the


table.  Katie didn't quite understand what was required.


She had quite enough coping with being practically naked


in front of strangers, even if they were women.  The young


translator explained what to do.  Katie had to climb on the


table and lie on her front, arse uppermost.  In the middle of


the table was a wooden post, approximately a cube of


wood, perhaps ten centimeters on a side, which stood up


between Katie's necessarily parted thighs.  The police


woman pulled on the ankle chains, dragging Katie across


the table until the wooden cube was pressed up against the


curly red hairs between Katie's legs, mashing her labia and


digging into the flesh of her thighs on either side.  The


chains fit into slots at the corners of  the table, to hold them


taut and keep Katie's limbs spread in a vee.  The chains


from her wrists went to the other corners, holding her down


tightly, with her full breasts pressed flat against the table,


stretching her bra out of shape..


     "The wooden post was introduced when male


prisoners complained that the cane damaged their testicles.


It is for your protection, so the cane cannot strike your


private parts."  The policewoman put a leather strap across


Katie's back.  "To assure that the strokes hit below the


waist, avoiding possible damage to the spine or kidneys."


Katie, stretched taut, as on a medieval rack, wondered what


sort of weapon might break her spine.  The policewoman


went to the door and let in a man in a suit, some sort of


official witness, Katie supposed, incongruous in a suit in


the tropics.  A second man entered, carrying a cane, narrow


but long and gleaming wet.  The man, in shorts and a short


sleeved shirt, looked like a weight lifter, about six and a


half feet tall and bulging with muscles, maybe 250 or 300


pounds of him.  His head was shaved and looked like an


eggplant, gleaming black in the sun which streamed in


from open windows high on the walls.  Katie could hear


noises form the street, and conversations from the hallway,


so surely passers by could hear her screams, if she did not


control herself.  When he saw Katie, the executioner made


a noise like a suppressed laugh and spoke in a deep voice,


like James Earl Jones.  The interpreted told Katie: "he says


he sometimes gets women, but never a white woman of


such charms, mature and curvy, with such nice, soft, full


arse cheeks.  He says he will enjoy his work."  Katie


shivered at that.  Stretched out as she was, she could do no


more than shiver.  The man in the suit said something, and


the big man swished his cane through the air.  Then,


suddenly, it fell right across Katie's upthrust buttocks.


     Jeff, in the hall outside, could hear everything, for


the walls were mostly louvers, to let the air through, and


the sound came through, too.  He heard the translator's


explanations, and imagined his wife, stretched out on the


table with a wooden post pressing her vulva.  He heard the


swish of the cane, heard the crack as it met soft flesh, heard


the scream as Katie reacted, heard a monosyllable from the


suit, and the translator saying, "One."  He nearly wept, at


the idea of Katie suffering, but his imagination pictured her


quivering arse, and his own penis stirred.  It seemed half a


minute before Katie stopped blubbering, then there was the


"swung-splat!" of the cane and another torrent of


incoherent screams and sobs.  The translator said, "Two."


     By the fourth stroke, Jeff had a problem with his


penis trying to climb behind his belt.  It had been years


since it felt so stiff and insistent.  The translator said,


"Madame, you must control yourself, or it will take all


morning."  Katie must have bit her lip or something, for the


next swish-splat elicited only a brief yelp of pain, and it


was not until the twelfth blow that Katie again dissolved


into squeals and sobs.  Jeff pressed on his penis, willing it


to go down, but that, of course, wouldn't help.


     Even before Katie stopped sobbing, the executioner


left the room, and Jeff got a quick glimpse of his wife's


white arse, striped with parallel bright red welts in a neat


horizontal array from the tops of her thighs to the top of her


arse crack.  Then the door closed.  It seemed several


minutes before Katie and the interpreter and the man in the


suit came out into the hall.  Jeff went to Katie and put his


arm around her, thankful that his erection had subsided.


Katie sobbed into his shoulder, "The beast took my panties


as a souvenir."


     The interpret said softly, "You are better off


without them.  You will want to lie on your bed at the


hotel, naked, with nothing touching your sore bottom until


you recover from the caning.  If you like, you can give me


some money and I can get it changed legally, at the official


rate.  You will only have about a third as much as the


shopkeeper would have given you, but it will spare your


bottom.  Perhaps I can buy you some soothing lotion, and,


if you insist on wearing panties, I can get you the thong


type, which will not press on your bruises."  Jeff gave her


some pounds and said he would appreciate her help in that


respect.


     Back at the hotel, Katie lay on the bed, totally


naked, still smarting from the judicial punishment.  Jeff


wanted to comfort her, but she wouldn't let him touch her,


and he was forced to sit there, only two feet from his naked


wife, staring at her plump, garish bottom.  He could see the


wisps of reddish pubic hair peeping out between her thighs,


each of which sported a bright red track where the cane had


fallen.  He could see the swell of her breasts, on the bed


sheet, there below her arm pits.  He lusted for his wife,


whom he hadn't seen naked in daylight for years, as best he


could remember, and he wondered if, when they got back


to Merrie ol' England, he would ever again see her naked


in the sunlight.  He rather hoped he might.  "Jeff," she said,


her face still stained with tears, "I'm sorry this happened.  I


love you."

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