Correction Correction

It worked! I obsessed more and more about my psycho-sexual correction experience; eventually I determined to try to repeat it. I had trouble coming up with a suitably serious yet reasonably victimless crime which would fill the bill, until one day the solution arrived in the mail - jury summons. I look forward to jury duty, and unlike many, I'm disappointed if the day ends without my being assigned to a trial. The date was one I could manage, so I went online as the summons suggested to complete my response. Just before submitting, it hit me -- the perfect crime! After all, I could always make it up later with some volunteer work. I exited the browser and slid the summons into my desk drawer.

It took a while. Reminders came, each more urgent and threatening. The worst was that I didn't dare visit court, which I normally enjoy. Finally I was ordered to appear and answer for my crime. I tried to avoid excessive contrition and present sufficient attitude, and soon was held in contempt. At my sentencing I was a bit worried -- no tormentor was present, and I knew one had to approve an offer of corporal punishment. I was sentenced to a stiff fine, but to my relief I was offered an option of corporal punishment, similar to the one I received previously.

Ordered to report as before, between 7:30 and 8:00 am, I was excited as a teenager on a first date. Completely forgetting the very substantial pain of my first experience, I was re-living the intensely erotic experience as I remembered it. Actually, it was only 7:25 am -- I have to loiter a bit, and finally enter at 7:35. I try not to look too eager for the guard, feigning anxiety and fear, as I see the sign "Inmate #1 Next". Not too surprised to be first, and remembering the relatively comfortable "holding bondage", I look forward to a good long time in that condition to contemplate what's to come. Six, I hope, but I know all the tormentors in the state by sight now, and I'd be content with any of them -- what hubris!

I pass the retinal scan, tell the guard my desired bus route home, enter the changing chamber and disrobe. But the second little locker does not open, and I am not ordered to put on a smock. The change of protocol is a little rattling, but makes sense; everyone is trying to reduce cost, and this saves on laundry. The second door opens: there is the open collar, the wrist straps, and the ankle shackles. I shiver with anticipation, and step in. I know I can't appear too eager, and must wait for the instructions, but it's tempting just to walk right up to the the collar. Wait... wait. The instructions drone on, and finally I do as ordered, placing my neck in the collar,which promptly closes. The ankle shackles snap shut when I step into them, and I put my hands through the two circles, which shrink around my wrists, binding me securely, this time naked. I quiver with anticipation as I await my sentence.

"You will be placed in strict punishment bondage. After you are secured in position you will receive eighteen correctional impacts to your belly and chest...

"WHAT THE FU... GGGAG," I start to shout, but the collar chokes off the expletive, the voice announcing that speech is forbidden, then continues,

"over a period of thirty minutes. The impacts will cause intense pain. While serious damage to your body is not expected, you will be incapacitated for up to a week after your punishment..." Great! "The impact marks are expected to remain visible for at least a year. These aftereffects are part of your punishment."

What can I do? There must be some mistake. Five impacts are considered equivalent to a year in prison -- am I getting three to five for contempt of court? What

should

I do? I shake and rattle my arms and wrists in an instinctive attempt to escape, but I'm well secured and can't possibly get loose. I could scream my innocence to the walls, but the only answer I'll get is from the collar. It's pretty scary, but as I stand in my bonds, I'm getting even more excited, asking myself,

"Are you really such a pain slut?"

This is something I didn't want to learn about myself, as I notice my erection growing.

A few minutes go by for me to contemplate the eighteen strokes (twice chai, I muse, double life) and then my leg spreader goes limp. Unlike before, my collar rod does not, though it becomes slightly more flexible. This experience is already darker than the last. The door opens, and I follow, towed by my wrists, and this time, by my collar too. I round the corners at the end of the passage, arriving at the door to the punishment chamber. It opens, and I am led in.

There are only three punishment poles, not the seven I encountered before, and these are spaced about six feet apart -- commodious punishment this time. Not all poles have to be used, I suppose. The poles are unoccupied, no surprise given my arrival time, but unlike for the previous session, there are several devices already installed. Something like a backrest is mounted to each pole, though I don't expect I'll get much rest on it. There is a fitting rather like a set of stirrups, set about knee-height, and most striking, a conical stainless steel anal penetrator, mounted rather low. This is awe-inspiring; about a foot long, tapered from a rounded point to a base about three inches across. A twenty first century Judas Cradle! I've not attempted fisting, but if I wind up taking it all the way I will be well-prepared, I think with a wrench in my gut. What a way to get people thinking remorsefully about their crimes!

I'm hauled by my neck and wrists to the furthest pole, and turned to face the mirrored front wall. The collar rod extends and forces me back as the fitting on the punishment pole extends to secure my neck from the rear as before. As it pulls my neck back to the pole my leg spreader stiffens, forcing my ankles apart, and the device at the bottom of the punishment pole pulls the spreader backward, forcing me to straddle the monstrous phallus. It does not touch my crotch, so I can see that the tip has perforations. From the two hoses which extend from the bottom I gather it is able to both fill and empty me as required. The stirrups are retracted and do not touch my legs, but I can see that when extended they will push my knees apart and forward. The carriage-pole which towed me in swivels toward me, but this time it does not push my wrists to my belly as it did on my first visit -- instead it pulls them up above my head, my collar attachment sliding on the punishment pole as I am stretched upward. A rod descends from the ceiling and mates with the wrist-strap hub, at which point the carriage-pole detaches and the carriage trundles away.

This is different, to be sure. The ceiling rod did not appear so early last time. The previous waiting bondage, embodied in the figures of One and Two, was at least as erotic as punitive -- this time my bondage appears intended to induce feelings of powerlessness and even terror, not arousal. It will certainly be a lot less comfortable. I'm helpless as the rod hauls my wrists even further upward, pulling my ankles firmly against the shackles and stretching me uncomfortably toward the ceiling. Just then an attendant comes in -- a woman.

Well -- that's good, at any rate. Personally I'd rather be bound by a woman, though I'll enjoy either one -- chacun à son goût. She reaches from behind with a gag, and with the assistance of a shock from the collar thrusts it into place. This one is more like a brank, though the mouth bar is cushioned with rubber and is clearly inflatable. Once the gag is latched to the fitting which also holds my collar, my head movements are considerably restricted, especially since this gag also has a strap which goes under my chin and over my head. My attendant tightens it rather firmly -- I can't open my mouth at all, though I am able to move my head in and out from the pole slightly; the collar attachment telescopes so as not to choke me unintentionally.

Reaching into her supply basket the attendant takes out an upper arm cuff. It is quite long and reaches most of the way from my elbow to my shoulder as she secures it around my left arm, then does the same to my right arm. These cuffs have a securing ring at both ends, as well as an electrical plug and an electro-gel nipple. Once the cuffs are in place on my arms she attaches a fitting to the back of the pole which has two rods extending upward in a narrow vee, rather like an old-fashioned TV rabbit ears antenna. She fastens each end of my arm cuffs to the rods. Touching a control to allow the ceiling pole to let my wrists down, she applies a cordless driver to a socket on the fitting, causing the rods to move from an almost vertical vee to almost horizontal, carrying my arms with them. My upper arms are now held out sideways and pulled backward, pulling my upper back against the backrest. I feel a bit like I'm crucified, except that instead of extending out horizontally the rest of the way to my wrists, my arms bend back inward at my elbows, my wrists secured by the ceiling rod just above my head.

The attendant taps her controls and my punishment pole moves upward about a foot, lifting my feet off the floor. The ceiling rod moves in synchrony so my wrists stay just above my head, my weight taken uncomfortably on the upper arm cuffs and the friction between my back and the backrest. She fits her cordless driver to the stirrup device, and its two projecting arms telescope outward into contact with the back of my knees. The bottom attachment holding my ankle spreader suddenly swivels back, pulling my ankles backward and upward, also pulling my legs back against the stirrups. She tightens a small strap around each of my legs just above my knees, securing them to the stirrups. My ankles are held two feet apart by the spreader, so my legs must turn outward to accommodate the spreading and forward motion of the stirrups, thrusting my genitalia to the fore. She comes around to the front. Phallus next, I suppose.

She adjusts the pole higher for convenient access and raises the tapered stele until it slides in about an inch. At least it's lubricated. She then returns to the rear and passes a strap around the pole from the back between my legs just below my crotch, looping the ends outward around my thighs and back behind the pole. She secures the ends in a winch which her driver tool also fits, tightening it with little mercy. This and my arm cuffs together draw me firmly back against the backrest, pressing my ass crack firmly to the pole just below the backrest. The phallus can swivel a little, I note with relief, so it does not tear my anus, continuing to penetrate me about an inch as I am pulled back against the pole.

Applying her power driver to the stirrup socket, the attendant forces my knees further forward and outward, spreading me wider and wider. I notice that the stirrup mechanism can slide on the pole but I myself cannot as I am secured from above. As I am spread wider and wider the stirrups slide upward as required. How far can I go, I wonder. Further than I ever thought possible, I discover. My genitalia dangle humiliatingly in the space between my spread legs, the phallus poking my anus now prominently visible. Another control press and with a slight hiss of air a steady pressure is applied to the steel anus-invader. It moves slightly further into me, but the force is not extreme. I will not be torn apart - it will seek whatever amount of penetration it can at a force I can bear without injury. Definitely twenty-first century!

My attendant's ministrations complete for the moment, I hang gagged and collared, suspended and spread, naked and (somewhat) impaled, much less comfortable than the last time I waited for the remaining poles to fill up. As I squirm to ease myself, the phallus wiggles in my anus, reminding me of my total helplessness. I am now on display for the next inmate, as well as suffering on my own behalf. Although I'm in plenty of discomfort, there's a sadistic side which makes me want to display myself as distressingly as possible for the next victim, so I practice squirming a little, the phallus stimulating me more than I care to admit. I rather hope the next inmate has never been penetrated this way, and finds it more punitive.

I've been in the chamber perhaps three minutes. Looking at the other two poles (in the mirror, since I can't turn my head far enough to see them directly) I wonder who is going to play Jesus in this re-enactment. Since I arrived early I may have to wait a while for satisfaction. I'm very uncomfortable, but the tight bondage and the anus penetrator are also powerfully erotic, making me erect from time to time. I don't really want to be erect when the centerpiece comes in but it's not easy to control, one way or the other, in this position.

The inmate entry door opens, and the second inmate is dragged in, struggling frantically. He looks at the two unoccupied poles, then at me.

"Jesus Chr... ugg," he ejaculates as the collar chokes him off. Gasping, he is towed to the center pole as another attendant, a man this time, enters. Two is reversed into his pole and the attendant goes to work binding him.

The second inmate looks awfully familiar, even down to the way he entered. It's Four from my previous punishment session, I suddenly realize. I wonder what he did to be here -- I'm sure he did not go out of his way to try to make this happen. These thoughts are interrupted by the reappearance of my original attendant, who approaches me from the front. "More?" I'm thinking anxiously. "Doesn't the rest wait until we are all here?"

She's holding a set of barber's clippers, battery operated and obviously heavy duty, and a rotary shaver. Since I'm pulled back against the backrest by my arms and thighs, my chest and belly thrust forward helplessly exposed, resistance is futile. She goes to work removing all the hair from my chest, starting just below my Adam's apple. As she works her way down she raises my pole from time to time, so as not to have to bend over, and continues to make me smooth all the way down to my crotch, even taking most of the hair off my scrotum. What a strange erotically-charged experience to be shaved by a woman while in tight bondage and gagged. Like Sampson? Four is still being securely bound by his attendant and I can see he is repulsed at the thought that when my depilation is finished she will start on him -- he will be woman-shaved in bondage also. He thrashes angrily against his bonds, to no avail.

A little about the attendants, who come and go frequently during these sessions. Their work is not strenuous, and our binding mechanisms ensure their complete safety at all times. I expect that they work part time. The work requires a certain mental flexibility (prudes need not apply!), so they seem mostly to be rather young; graduate students, or young people starting their careers but not yet able to find their intended employment. They do not wear uniforms. This man-woman team is American-Asian. Her dark hair is cut a little above her shoulders, rounding into her neck, his is bristly and cut short. She is quite cute, and he is attractive also, like many I see regularly on the bus or subway, dressed fashionably but not expensively in dark colors. She has on a short skirt and black hose, he has dark trousers. They each have full-sleeved black tee-shirts without any slogans -- hers is vee-cut. It encases her breasts to form a pleasing bulge, exposing just a hint of cleavage under a dragon tattoo low on her neck. They both sport tall black leather boots. Although the job doesn't demand it, her arms look quite strong -- a rock climber perhaps, for other entertainment.

They seem pretty free with each other; it would not surprise me if they are lovers -- this work must make interesting pillow-talk. Maybe they are doing it partly for a lark, earning a bit of money while they get their internet start-up going, getting off on it a bit also. It feels bizarre to be naked and spread wide, my penis and balls hanging in mid air, my ass penetrated by a steel intruder, while she goes efficiently and nonchalantly about her work. I imagine that for most inmates it would be deeply humiliating -- that I'm sure is the intent. Of course the attendants do not speak to us or to each other.

Once my chest and belly are smooth all the way from my neck to my crotch, and even beyond, my attendant takes a wide and somewhat stretchy latex band and fastens it rather tightly around my waist and the pole. It reaches from just above my penis to my ribcage, and encloses my belly. At this point I learn more about the backrest as it inflates, forcing me against the latex, which stretches outward slightly, but mostly pushes me inward. It's rather satisfying to see my paunch disappear. At the same time the phallus gently pressurizes my bowels with warm water, pressing me firmly against the latex. It's rather uncomfortable, and I'm baffled just what it can be for.

I hadn't noticed the tripod with a laser device on top, but it must have been in the corner all along. It is set up before me, the beams racing all over across my chest and down onto the latex, covering the entire area. As the patterns fly the backrest inflates and deflates slightly; my bowels also inflate and deflate several times. I am being measured, it seems, though for what I can't imagine. I suppose the laser communicates its results wirelessly, for nothing is connected, and the beams shut off after a few seconds.

My attendant turns her attention to number two, and I'm left hanging, the latex band still tight around my belly, though my bowels and back are depressurized, allowing me a little more comfort. Not for long I suppose. Four does not seem the least amused -- I suspect he'd much rather just be caned and get out of here, but that's not the way it works. After all, no human can administer eighteen strokes without overlap -- that takes machine precision, and something more, I'm about to find out. In the meantime he struggles and squirms and scowls as he is shaved and measured.

The inmate door opens for the third entry, the other thief to be punished with Jesus, I muse, but this time we both have a shock as we recognize each other. Number three is Five. He does not look so inquisitive as he did coming into the first punishment session we endured together -- in fact he looks quite frightened, especially seeing the two of us bound in so humiliating and vulnerable a position. His day is not going the way he expected -- but if he's having a bad chest hair day it will soon be over. I don't have much time to consider what the appearance of Five might mean when my attendant, who had stepped out briefly, returns with another piece of apparatus. It looks like a large mylar waistcoat, flexible but just stiff enough to hold its shape. It has been selected, I suppose, based on the measurements taken just before. The attendant removes the latex band presently around my waist, and slides the mylar covering into place over me.

She fastens it securely on each side to the backrest, and it certainly does fit me perfectly. It feels slightly slippery on the inside and slides smoothly over me as she fastens a pair of small straps over my shoulders to the backrest behind my neck. A similar pair of straps are passed through my crotch on either side of my scrotum and the phallus, and fastened behind. The thin but iron-strong plastic film is now secured firmly in place at top and bottom and on both sides. She activates a control and my backrest inflates again, along with my bowels, pressing me firmly into the mylar cavity.

I think I know what this is for. To get all the strokes in, my skin must be accurately positioned every time. The hard mylar will transmit the full shock of each blow to my body, while preventing any cutting action or breaking of skin -- so hygienic and twenty-first century! Each stripe will be laid down precisely. As this thought settles in, my attendant passes her gloved hand over my chest and now flat and tight belly, checking for any folds or creases, massaging out any she finds. This is excruciatingly erotic; she too seems to enjoy preparing my surface for the punishment strokes which will soon be landing -- she looks at me with a rather condescending smile as she performs this task. Bubbles aren't a problem, as the plastic has tiny pores to allow my sweat to escape.