Author's Note: I am especially excited about this story as I had a sexual awakening in a pillory. Years ago, I was visiting a colonial village on a class trip when my friends and I came upon an old wooden pillory that was set up to show visitors what punishment might look like in early America. The girls I was with took turns standing on the little block, head and arms through the holes while we all took pictures.
When it was my turn I found myself particularly nervous as I placed my neck and wrists in half circles. My friend quickly took the upper half of the pillory and brought it down to lock me in place. What I felt at that moment was both frightening and exciting. The wooden structure that was holding me down in an uncomfortable position gave me no control over my neck or arms. As the other girls were giggling and taking pictures I suddenly found myself particularly aroused. The feeling was not new but the circumstances surprised me. I was soon to learn many new things about myself.
I will admit here that I haven't been in a pillory since that day but I have spent hour upon hour fantasizing about pillories and other curious punishments of bygone days. In almost all of my stories you will find examples of forced control and punishment. It's just what I like to think about.
I still have that picture in a desk drawer and, yes, I still pull it out and feel that special warmth as I remember that day.
Finally, I must warn all my readers that this story lacks explicit sexual content. Erotica can transcend the physical act itself, carrying diverse meanings for each individual. For me, it encompasses the power dynamics between men and women, as well as the pain and humiliation that can arise from such control.
Enjoy!
THE PILLORY
Edgefields, Pennsylvania -- in the not too distant future
I couldn't deny my guilt. I had stolen the shoes for my son. His feet had grown out of the only pair he had and he needed shoes for school. At the store I found a pair that fit and we quickly hid his old shoes in the box and walked out of the store. He was too young to understand what we had done and I was desperate to keep him shod.
Of course I wasn't the first to try this scheme and, yes, the stupid store security was ready for us as we walked out the door. And that brought me to the city courthouse where I had to defend my clearly illegal activity.
From the very moment that I confessed my guilt, no one seemed interested in learning about my child's needs or how my husband had abandoned us, leaving me, a 25 year old mom, with almost nothing. I was doing what any mother would do: find a way to take care of her child.
I did as I was advised by the ridiculous public defender lawyer guy who had been assigned to me but wasn't that interested in actually helping. After giving me one piece of advice, he wandered off into the busy halls of the courthouse. So when asked how I would plea, I stood and did as I was told and meekly responded, "Guilty with an explanation, your honor."
There was silence for a moment and I wondered what I was to do next. Do I keep talking? Is this where I give my explanation. Do I sit down?
Finally the judge, who looked like he wanted to be here as much as my recently departed lawyer said, "Go on, Miss McIfay."
Out of habit I corrected him. I was still married and used my husband's name. "It's Mrs, your honor."
Big mistake! Huge!
The look I received from the judge told me that I had set the old guy off. I nervously attempted to continue. "I, um, your honor, I needed the shoes for my son, I can't let him go to school barefoot."
The prosecutor, another old guy, was suddenly on his feet. He was tall and well dressed and when he stood I suddenly felt very small. "Do you work, Mrs McIfay?" His emphasis on Mrs made me feel even smaller yet.
"Yes," I responded.
"But you chose not to pay for the shoes?"
"Well, see, there's the rent and we needed some food and, well, there just wasn't..." my voice trailed off. Tears were running down my cheeks.
"Where did you get the dress you are wearing today, Mrs McIfay?"
I was taken off guard. It was an old dress barely passable for a court appearance And he was wearing a suit that probably cost more than a month's rent. "I've had it for a while," I responded.
"Did you purchase it?"
"Well yes, of course," I responded somewhat confused by his question.
"So you buy your own clothing but force your son to steal shoes. Is this any way to bring up a child?"
I stared at him as I drew up all the courage I could muster. "He-He didn't know we were stealing"
The prosecutor wasn't letting go, "Your honor, this woman is using a minor to conspire in an act of thievery. I ask that she be found guilty of this crime."
The judge seemed to agree. The two old men were on the same page and I knew that I was in trouble.
"Mrs McIfay," said the judge, once again emphasizing my title, "You have admitted your guilt and while I understand your need, theft is theft and we cannot have thieves running around our town. I find you guilty." The gavel made me jump when it slammed into the wooden desk. With the decision behind him, his voice softened "Who is watching your child now, Mrs McIfay?"
"My sister, your honor."
"Can she stay the night?"
Oh no! They were going to lock me up. I wanted to lie and say she couldn't but I didn't dare. If it came out that she was living with us I might be in more trouble. Society didn't look kindly on two women living together -- even if they were sisters "Yes sir," I responded softly.
The judge studied a computer screen then turned back to the court and stared directly at me. I froze. "Mrs McIfay, as punishment for this offense you are to spend one full day in the town pillory. I see that it is available tomorrow so you will remain in custody here at the courthouse tonight."
I felt my knees weaken below me as the loud gavel slammed down again. The pillory! I could think of nothing worse than being locked up in the town square with everyone staring at me. I had never known anyone who had been in the pillory. I always thought of it as a place for old drunken men.
Suddenly there was motion everywhere in the courtroom. The judge turned to leave apparently not wanting to witness the horror that he had just assigned to me. The cruel prosecutor also disappeared. For just a moment I pictured the two of them meeting for a drink as they laughed at the poor scared girl.
My thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of two guards who were wordlessly taking my wrists and locking them behind my back.
Without a word each guard took an arm and walked me out a side door, down a short hall, and down two flights of stairs. When we arrived at a large well locked door marked 'Holding Cells,' I became very aware of what it meant to be "in custody"
The first stop was at a desk where a bored matron checked off my name and took my phone and shoes. My shoes? Really? I couldn't help but laugh over the fact that these people were now stealing MY shoes. As she scrunched my prized belonging into what looked like a garbage bag, she said to the guards, "cell nine" and turned back to a handheld device which looked to be playing an old soap opera.
I had expected to see barred cells with prisoners looking out but instead it was just a hallway with wooden doors. I could hear a woman crying and a drunken man sputtering about something but everything was muffled and by the time I was placed behind my door, all was quiet.
The guards unlocked my wrists giving me back just a bit of control. "Someone will be in to see you shortly," the larger man said as he turned to leave.
As soon as he was out the door the other guard looked back at me. He was a handsome man about my age man with red hair and a kind smile. Had it been another place and time I might have found him sexy and intriguing.
"I have kids, they gotta have shoes," he said. He shook his head sadly and closed the door behind him.
"Thank you," I said to the closed door. His kind words touched my heart. There was one person in court who was on my side, one person who understood.
Alone for the first time all day, I looked around my new surroundings, my cell. Just thinking that word sent shivers down my spine. I got up and tried the door. Locked, as expected. I paced. Six steps from bed to wall, nine from door to the back wall.
There was only one word that could describe the room: Grey. The walls ceiling and floor were all painted a dull grey. One dim light shone dimly in the middle of the ceiling and a small vent high on the outside wall was my only connection to the rest of the world. I had one piece of furniture: a cot sized bed whose pillow lay only inches from a toilet that desperately needed cleaning.
I sat on the bed and waited for that someone who would be here shortly.
When there is no clock in sight and nothing to do but sit and stare at a grey walls, time quickly gets fuzzy. Was it five minutes? An hour? Two? Suddenly the door opened without warning and a man in a grey jacket that almost matched the walls appeared in front of me. The guy looked like he'd rather be just about anywhere other than here. I know what it feels like to hate your job and I immediately could tell that was this guy's problem. We locked eyes for a moment, each sizing up the other. I couldn't help but wonder what this man had in store for me, and I bet he was wondering how much trouble I was going to cause him.
In one hand he had some papers and a small bag, not much larger than an envelope, and in the other he carried a small folding chair which he slid open and sat facing me.
