“Due to the severity of your crime, you will be heated first.” The constable pointed at her bottom.
Now Lysa wasn’t the only one to gasp and a murmur went up around the room. The first sign of discontent. Somebody whispered, “Shh.”
She watched, stunned, as one of the aides applied a thick gunge to Sym’s bottom. The man rubbed it in, spreading it about until it disappeared into the skin. Immediately Sym began to whimper and strain against her bindings. The heat balm, which Blake mentioned, must have been applied. Poor, poor girl.
Lysa wanted to cover her eyes, hide the impending beating, but she couldn’t turn away. She had to know how brutal the man could be. The constable lifted up the switch high above his head, sweeping back his arm and brought it crashing down with an audible swoop through the air.
Sym screamed.
Another sweep of his arm, another swoosh of the cane and the sound of tormented flesh. The occupants of the room collectively flinched. Lysa could see the women grimace, unable to look at the spectacle, they kept their heads bowed. In amongst the crowd, she spied Jen, tears streaming down her friend’s face. Behind her sat Yuri, his face rigid and impassive.
Lysa stared at Craig. His eyes darted about the room, looking everywhere but at the bench.
How did Harkess condone such a brutal punishment and why wasn’t Ridley present to witness it?
Her anger grew, replacing shock and horror.
Another enormous thwack resounded around the room and Sym howled.
The constable grinned. The clear expression of delight on his face was too much to bear. Lysa rose to her shaking feet, wishing she had the courage to intervene, but instead she ran out of the door.
Tears flowed. She kept running all the way back to the sanctuary of the pod. Once there she threw herself on the bed and sobbed. She hated the colony and everything it stood for—the harsh conditions, the lack of dignity for women and the stupid rules. The only bright light in the midst of her dismay was the knowledge her husband refused to witness such punishments. Now she knew why he warned her not to go to that room.
* * *
Blake bounded down the corridor like a man on a mission. All day, as he punched holes into black rock, he’d been dealing with a different hardness—his cock. The damn thing wouldn’t lie still and it was because she, his wife, constantly occupied his waking dreams.
Ever since he’d banged her hard against the wall, he’d been keen to try out one of his new implements. He’d held off for several days. However, she seemed both repulsed and intrigued by the idea of spanking being more than a disciplinary measure. While she lay in his arms at night, he whispered erotic tales in her ear and played with her swollen clit until she came, bellowing across the room.
His little stories of erotic enticement—how he would bend her over the kitchen table, tie her to it and paddle her bottom into a glow of redness, or another, which send her speeding towards a strong climax—how he would shackle her to the bed, spread-eagled and tap the cane up and down her bottom.
She pleaded for him to be quiet, but her body writhed about, leaking copiously all over the sheets. When she’d calmed, he entered her, taking her in a state of serenity. He could be quite rough, but he never left her injured or distressed. More recently, she coaxed him to use her harder. The words spilled out of her mouth in state of fervent lust, then later she would ‘tsk’ him and deny she’d ever said such things.
Soon he’d begin her anal adventures. Those he would enjoy alongside a decent spanking. He picked up his pace and hurried home, his hard cock rising in his pants.
He found his wife curled up on the bed, sobbing her heart out, clutching a pillow to her chest.
“Lysa?” He enveloped her in his arms, holding her close to his thumping heart. “What is it?”
She snivelled, hiccupped and struggled to speak.
“Are you hurt, has somebody hurt you?” He ran his hand up and down her back.
She shook her head. “You’re going to be cross with me.”
He tensed, but didn’t relinquish his embrace. “How so,” he asked.
“It was terrible. I went to that awful room—”
Blake shot up straight and grasped Lysa by the shoulders. “You went in the punishment room? What did you see?”
“Poor Sym. She’d been accused of stealing eggs. I can’t believe she did. That brute beat her. He’d rubbed that cream into her bottom. I couldn’t bear to watch, to listen. I ran out.”
Blake scowled. “The bastard. He’s forbidden from cutting, so he uses that damn stuff to make it more painful.”
Lysa scrambled on to her kneels, facing him. “Why doesn’t anyone stop him? Harkess can, surely?”
He brushed a few rogue strands of hair out of her eyes. “Those two are in cahoots. Was he there?”