She stood quivering in the court. The long dark hairs of her innocent face sparkling with the chink of light bathing the defendants’ dock.
Guilty or not guilty?
She was guilty, of course. The blameless persona was a front; much like the cute puppy cheekily hoping that their owner would not attribute culpability to them for the messy house. She tried to look just as guiltless as the errant dog.
She had tried with her subtle signs: a white stain-free T-Shirt to symbolise virginity. The demure expression as the judges stared down their noses at her, oozed sincerity as her hands were restrained to the wooden lectern with heavy handcuffs.
She looked sexy as hell; the swell of her unfettered breasts as she stood stoutly in the box was hot. The nipples standing alert as her rights were read out to her was filthily erotic.
But everything about the Spanking Court was. My wife was charged with an offence in the small village and there was a 99% chance she would be punished for her abhorrent indiscretion. This was our justice.
She forced a smile; she always did. I knew her pussy would be tingling and throbbing at the expectation, staring at Judge Douglas as the charges were laid in front of her.
She was accused of leading young men astray. And she was a repeat offender. The prosecutor read from his dog-eared paper: his voice booming around the converted barn as my wife suppressed her smiles at the evidence. Her cunt would be streaming, her eyes glowing with pride as account after account of debauched encounters were read.
This was not slander. This was not besmirching my wife’s good name, as she was a trollop. All of the ladies in the village were: consumed by their insatiable lust caused by an elvish spell cast upon them. It was uncontrollable; the heat in their gussets rose with the merest inkling of sordid games and my wife was the worst of the lot.
A party: a drunken dozen men celebrating the harvest was the crime scene. Her holes were the weapon; their cocks the accessory to the crime. The muscular men posed little chance against her charms as she entertained their desires and impaled herself on their lust, not stopping until she was fully sated.
But they knew, and as the first man – the first son of the resident judges – took to the stand, her eyes glistened. He recalled the incident; the village booed and hissed and my wife lapped up the steamy account.
Blowjobs … pounding … kissing … licking … thrusting … engorged. My wife was writhing, desperate to unshackle her wrists and plunge her finger into her tingling cunt. She groaned, twisting in the dock, and displaying her bottomless state to the villagers. She was always bottomless; easier access to her sweetness when she wanted to be touched. And right then, she wanted to be touched, mauled, and taken. Ravished in court, rammed like the desperate slut she was.
But the judges knew that; they waited until the eleventh man of that sinful dozen had given evidence against her when they found her guilty, doubling the sentence because of her plea of innocence. She smiled at the prospect, her floaty white cotton translucent as the two judges conferred.
“Fifty spanks with the paddle,” Judge Amanda demanded; the long wig hiding her fair hair as she strode elegantly towards the back of my restrained wife. She looked scared momentarily: a flash of hesitancy in her eyes, a drip of anxious sweat on her brow. She was always like that before any punishment, anticipation dominating her reactions.
The court office passed her the paddle; the red velvet worn to a shiny black where it had made repeated assaults on errant ladies.
The villagers were silent, watching with rapt attention, entranced by my wife’s punishment.
She closed her eyes, as the Judge brought the paddle hard against her soft rump. Her body was propelled forward, her breasts heaving over the chains as she cried out loudly, profaning to the court.
“Please, no!” She squealed. “I won’t do it again!” This was a lie, and it was ignored as the paddle slapped her buttocks again.
“Oh … please!”
But the judge was merciless, the sounds of her desperate begging and nasal cries reverberated around the courthouse as my wife struggled with her restraints.
“As her husband, you should control her,” the judge demanded of me, glancing as my wife approached her tenth spank. But why would I want to do that? I was the twelfth man that night, and I was the man who tipped off the sheriff anonymously.
That night, she was great fun.
As was watching her getting the spanking she deserved and loved so very much.