The Prize


spankedOur story started here.

Quail stood meekly in the line while the commune’s leader gave his speech. She had been living this life so long now that she had decided that this was the end game.

The punishment centre had held her for almost a year before her lawyer argued that the psych tests proved she was penitent. He had been a new one this time, a local boy who felt sorry for her and had enough contacts to get her a hearing.

By then she had almost got used to kneeling on the floor to eat off her bunk and sleeping on her belly. But she had never got used to the almost relentless strappings, which after a few weeks had finally broken her.

It had come upon her suddenly. One minute she was grunting angrily and trying to ride out the waves of pain where the sting met the burn and locked themselves in a dance on the curves of her raw-sore bottom. Then all of a sudden she began to sob. Great gasping wails of tears to punctuate her all too earnest begging and please of “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

Even the duty punisher noticed her change in attitude.

“Sorry are you, really?” he said sharply during a pause in the relentless strapping.

“Yes Sir, oh yes Sir,” she had gushed earnestly.

“So you admit you do deserve this?” he asked.

She could only nod miserably.

On bad days after that she would sometimes remember where she was and beg for the access codes or the exit codes or plead with her unseen tormentor for another scenario. Then she would yell incoherently as she begged to know, “What do you want from me?” or “I won’t steal it, I won’t, I swear it.”

But usually she just called out in a miserable sobbing voice, “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

The commune was better than the detention centre. Well anything was better than that. At least now her sentence had formally started.

It had been explained to her that for every day she behaved herself she would get a day taken from her sentence. If she had a spotless record for five years and learned enough skills then she could become a trustee and have two days taken off her sentence for every day of good behaviour.

The commune wasn’t such a bad place either. It was not a bit like the dread planet that she had marooned Cutie on. Here there were trees and soft beds. Although the women all had to wear dark grey dresses with white aprons and white caps, at least they were clean. And every five days there was a day off so that the girls could study and better themselves. Passing exams was even rewarded with more remission off their sentences.

Most days Quail forgot that none of this was real. But then she no longer even knew that for certain. In her more optimistic moments she thought about a holiday at Cloudhaven and prayed that she could wake up there again. But somehow she knew that that moment had passed for her; slipped from her grasp just as it had in her former life.

On other days she wondered if such places as the commune and the detention centre even existed in the ‘real’ world. Or was it some invention of her own guilty conscience she had dreamt up to punish herself?

It didn’t matter, not any more. If there was some greater purpose they she would have to play it out and wait. Until then all she had was the commune.

The worst thing was the speeches.

Every morning the commune leader or one of his deputies gave a speech about good behaviour and working hard. Quail could swear that each of the men only had three original speeches and kept recycling over and over in oh-so pious monotonous drone.

To say that the speeches were the worst thing was just Quail’s idea, she imagined. The other girls dreaded the punishments more, she knew.

The punishments were severe and varied. They ranged from a sound over-the-knee spanking on the bare bottom with a short paddle, through harder spankings with a large drilled paddle while bent over a chair or rail, to a trip to the woodshed for a sound birching.

Sometimes a girl was bent over a frame like the one at the detention centre and soundly strapped on the bare bottom in front of everyone as a prelude to a caning.

Only these latter punishments counted against a girl’s remission, which was one of the reasons Quail could cope.

For the Quail the lesser punishments added a sense of danger and spice to the monotony of commune life. And even when it was not her being punished, she could enjoy the punishments of others.

Not that she actively courted these punishments. It was just that they added some risk to other activities like apple scrumping, swiping booze and the occasional roll in the hay with another girl.

True Quail would have preferred one of the men, but they were all staffers and too discreet to involve themselves with a new girl.

“Now girls, gather into your assigned teams and listen for your allotted jobs,” the speech finally came to an end.

Quail looked up down the rows of smartly aproned girls, all meekly looking at the ground. She still felt like a tigress in a field of sheep. In eight or nine years she would be a senior trustee with a line to the outside. And in 12 years tops she would be out of there with a stake and… her thinking went no further. It never did except to think about Cutie.


Sara was a new girl. She was a young pretty blonde working under a five-year sentence. She had run with some gangs on the outside and hadn’t worked out that not only was she here for the duration, but she wasn’t as tough as she thought she was.

A petty argument over a bread roll had got her hauled out onto the back porch of the refectory

Sara had obviously thought to talk her way out of trouble but no sooner had she reached the porch when the deputy-leader had hauled her across her his lap and turned up her skirts.

“Hey you can’t…” she spluttered, but the man quickly bared her bottom and began spanking her with a small paddle.

The spanking was fast and furious and Sara’s small tight bottom went shiny red in moments as her voice made croaking protests.

Quail busied herself with a broom in the yard nearby so that she could watch the action. On days like these the commune wasn’t so bad.

“Nooo, you can’t noo… ah,” Sara wailed, as dark red doughnuts formed on the crowns of her bottom and tears spilled from her eyes.

Quail imagined the cocky arrogance with which the girl once might have mouthed-off or given attitude to a peacekeeper. Her fellow gang members would fall about laughing if they could see her now. Especially, Quail noted, as the girl had a totally glass-arse and was already bawling like the kid she was.

The spanking lasted for several minutes before Sara was set on her feet and made to stand and face the wall by the refectory door in full view of her fellow inmates as they filed out.

Later Quail found Sara morosely stacking seed pots in one of the out houses.

“Go away,” Sara said sullenly.

“Is your bottom still sore?” Quail asked.

Sara blushed. Close up Quail could see that she was barely 20 and the only thing holding her down was the native cunning that knew a bigger fish when she saw one.

“If you keep stacking those pots like that, then you will have an even sorer one,” Quail observed.

It wasn’t entirely a bluff; she had certainly seen better pot stacking.

“Oh,” Sara’s eyes were suddenly a little wider with panic.

“I have something here that will take some of the sting out of your bottom and then I can show you how to do it properly,” Quail offered.

Sara pursed her lips and blushed a little more. But she put up little resistance as Quail turned her about and bent her over the lower shelf. Lifting up Sara’s dress she found the girl’s bottom still mottled red with welting down the cleft. It was a rare treat to smooth cooling salve from a tube she had pilfered from the infirmary.

Sara gasped and closed her eyes as she allowed Quail full access to the underside of her bottom.

“Good?” Quail asked as she let her fingers wander deeper.

“Uh,” came Sara’s answer as she parted her legs somewhat.

Quail continued to tease the girl, letting her fingers stay on the upper slopes of Sara’s red-stained bottom and only occasionally dipping down low for tighter darker folds.

“See, I know how to…”

“Don’t stop,” Sara gasped

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a voice snapped at them from behind.

There were no closed doors on the commune and Quail had known the risks.

“I was just…” Quail began, she allowed a pout of frustration to show on her face.

“I don’t want to hear it,” the man growled.

He was one of the younger deputies. He was tall with red hair and fierce dancing eyes.

Quail pouted some more as she got to her feet. Sara, she noted looked like a lamb about to be slaughtered.

“Get those dresses off, I want you stripped down to your stockings and bodices,” he snapped.

He didn’t wait to see if he was obeyed, but strode out of the shed, making a determined turn to the left once he was framed by the door.

“What is he going to do?” Sara gasped, her eyes domed and wide on her face.

“I don’t think he likes me undoing all that hard work they put in on your bottom,” Quail said sardonically.

Sara looked as if she might cry.

“Come on, do as he says, I’ll take a punishment but I don’t want to lose any remission,” Quail said hastily.

By the time the deputy had returned both women were huddled together in just a brief breast-supporting bodice top and grey thigh length stockings. The birch in his hand came as no surprise to Quail, but Sara began to whimper a little.

“Come with me,” the man snapped and then strode away again.

Both Quail and Sara followed on reluctantly, the air tickling at their legs and exposed bottom. Sara clamped her hands to her crotch and walked in an utterly cowed posture, while Quail led the way somewhat more stoically. As they went they drew a few glances from the other girls, but most were too busy to dawdle, lest they wanted a share of the birch themselves.

The deputy led them to the woodshed where there in the centre of the room was a low wooden crossbeam wide enough to take three or four bare bottoms in a row. At a nod from the man, Quail stepped forward and flopped right over it and then wriggled until the pressure from the beam on her lower belly was bearable and her bottom was properly elevated.

“Please Sir I didn’t…” Sara squealed in panic.

“No you didn’t, did you? And you were supposed to have done,” he snapped at her, “Besides, you know the rules, comfort from a punishment is not to be sought in working hours outside of the infirmary.”

“But…” Sara persisted.

“Bend over,” the deputy barked at her.

Sara gulped and then cast a glance at Quail’s blossoming behind. With a blush she scurried across the room and dropped face down next to her new friend so that her bottom too was neatly presented for the birch.

The birch fell in a healthy swoosh and landed crisply across Quail’s bare bottom. The pirate-queen displayed no reaction at first, but all too quickly the nibbling bite began to sing in her flesh and then burn. It was a fuzzy tang and she hissed through clench teeth as she rode it out.

The second swipe garnered much the same reaction as did the third, but each stroke that landed after that made Quail give out with a panicked wail as the fire in her behind grew and grew.

After eight searing swipes the deputy switched bottoms and lashed the birch across Sara’s waiting bottom.

“Yeow,” she screamed melodramatically, kicking her legs back as she rocked her bottom in bucking motions.

The second, third and fourth strokes all got the same reaction, but after the fifth Sara set-up a continuous howl and sobbed bitterly into the floor just inches from her nose.

Quail grunted at each stroke during her second set and made clawing motions with her hands as if swimming away from the fire in her bottom. Sometimes a good sound birching transported her back to the detention centre.

If Sara’s first set had been bad, the second was unsupportable and she began to howl like a banshee as she was birched for her second eight.

“No more, please, no more, I didn’t mean it,” she shrieked.

It was the kind of reaction Quail usually enjoyed but she was still holding on to herself and panting hard through waves of flame in her own bottom.

Quail’s third eight had spluttering to sobs every bit as earnestly as Sara after just two more strokes and this time the deputy took her up to 12 before he switched back to Sara. It ought to be enough for them both he decided as he readied Sara’s last set.

But after just one more biting swipe Sara leapt to her feet and began to dance around the woodshed.

“No more, no more please Sir,” she sobbed.

The deputy sighed.

“It looks like we have to start over doesn’t it?”

“Oh no, n-n-no, please Sir,” Sara wailed.

“Bend over,” he said sharply.

It took a minute for Sara to steel herself, but finally she stopping hopping around and woodenly walked forward to bend over.

The repeated first eight felt like someone had taken a blow-torch to her bottom and Sara shrieked so much that several people came running. By the time it was over Sara was a broken heap of tears.

“That would have been enough for you if you hadn’t rebelled,” the deputy said in a tone of disappointment.

“No more, please, please, please no more,” Sara sobbed.

“Too bad,” the deputy sighed.

“Please Sir,” Quail piped up. “It was my fault and she can’t help it. It is her first time.”

Quail found it a strain to speak and as she winced words through an aching jaw her bottom had to contend with a million billion bees drilling and biting into her.

“Your fault eh, so I guess you’re offering to take 20 more in her place,” the deputy scoffed.

But he was impressed with Quail’s courage all the same.

“Yes Sir, if it will spare her,” Quail found herself saying.

There was a mutter from the few people outside and the deputy gave a low whistle. Then he shrugged.

“I gotta see this,” he said, “But if you cry off before I am half-done she gets it just the same. And if you beg me sooner you’re both get it anyway and I tell you now, that is what I am working for.”

It sounded harsh, but Quail realised he could have birch them both twice over for trying to make bargains. He was fair at least.

The next stroke that seared its way across Quail’s red raw bottom made her grunt down a shriek and really dance over the wooden bar. She had now taken 29 and now had about as many to go.

“Oh comets on fire,” she gasped.

They were her last coherent words for 10 minutes as true to his word the deputy birched her to total surrender.


Both Quail and Sara were told they would lose their day off, which the heavily sobbing older woman almost protested as unfair. Then they were told to go and stand outside their dorm house and face the wall for the rest of the day.

It was as good a place to stand for a good cry as any, although the public exposure never lost its embarrassing shame-filled piquancy and was positively mortifying for the novice Sara.

After crying non-stop for a derision-filled hour Sara stole a glance over her shoulder and then whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“Are you kidding,” Quail said miserably, “I got us into this mess.”

“But you… but you… but you… took my punishment,” Sara sobbed and then she was crying in earnest again.

Quail flicked an eye down over shoulder at the two heavy swollen domes protruding behind her. Quite an eyeful for the spank fan inmates like her, she thought ruefully and my bottom is about as raw as it could be short of being flayed. Her rounds were so fiercely throbbing she could actually feel a pulse in each cheek. Not the worst I have ever had, she thought, but her mind would not alight on a punishment that was. Then like Sara she started to cry again.


“Thank you Letitia, my bottom feels much better now,” Sara gushed shyly.

The two of them had stolen away to a quiet loft that Quail had scoped out. If they were discovered it would mean the paddle and then Quail would probably never sit down again, but that was her life now.

Quail had produced another tube of ointment and laying Sara naked on her front, she had smeared the soothing unguent gently over the girl’s tortured cheeks.

“What about you?” Sara had finally said in a thick voice.

It took all her will to break off from her own little ecstasy.

“I was coming to that,” Quail said huskily.

There was mischief in her eyes and she looked at the girl like she was breakfast.

“Put out your tongue,” Quail ordered the girl.

Sara gaped for a moment and then obeyed. Quail carefully squeezed a long worm of ooze down Sara’s pink digit and smiled.

“Whanth dyath wanth me too doo nowth,” Sara mumbled with a straight tongue as she tried not to laugh.

“You know,” Quail said offering the girl the curve of her bottom. “Your tongue is softer than you fingers.”

Sara giggled and then stooping down gently began to apply the unguent to Quail’s raw flesh.

“Careful now or I will spank you,” she cooed, “And don’t you think I wouldn’t love that.”

Given the intimate location of her tongue, Sara couldn’t reply.

To be concluded.

3 Responses to “The Prize”

  1. 1 paul1510

    my, don’t you have a wicked imagination. 😛

  2. 2 Dascha

    Very good story I like that the pirate queen has a heart after all

  3. 3 DJ

    Longer than I meant – hope it worked 🙂

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