THE STATE NEVER MAKES MISTAKES (Several M/M)

[Xtc]

As I have written elsewhere, I am in no state, at present, to write anything that doesn't turn nasty.
However, as a catharsis, I shall post a story that was written some time ago.
No smut in this one but I am posting it in the adult section due to its unpleasant content.

[blackbound]

Sounds good to me.

[Xtc]

THE STATE NEVER MAKES MISTAKES (1)


Patrick Heinz

He’d always agreed with the “two strikes and you’re out” law. Scum like that deserved to die.

That’s why Patrick was brought up so short when the knock came at his door. Well, not the knock so much as the aftermath. He opened the door only to see a silver badge shoved into his face fractions of a second before the stifling black hood was dropped over his head and fastened round his neck with the characteristic clicking sound of a cable tie being pulled tight. His resultant hyper ventilation, being impeded by the heavy, double layered hood, that had been fastened far more tightly than necessary round his neck, did nothing to prevent the skinny youth’s collapse.

When he came round, his capture was complete and he knew he wasn’t even going to get a trial. There was no need. The state never makes mistakes and the video evidence was bound to be incontrovertible. The hood had been removed but his wrists had been cuffed in metal manacles and hoisted so far up his back that they were nearly between his shoulder-blades. Every time he even tried to move his wrists, the chain holding them in place tightened around his neck until he raised them again thus relieving the pressure on his neck. The pain, as something seemed to be tearing into his lips, could be explained by the presence of the fairly thin triangular bit that had been drawn so tightly between his jaws.

It wasn’t until he’d appraised his own condition and realised that he was no longer wearing the dressing gown that he’d thrown on to answer the door that he looked over to where Jeremy was lying on their bed. He was still naked as Patrick had left him but he had been cuffed into a hog-tied position and had a vicious ball gag forced into his mouth. He’d already lost control of his bladder and his despairing attempts to tell Patrick that he loved him were completely in vain.

“Is your name Patrick Heinz?” The question was a mere formality.

“Is this yours?” It was obviously Patrick’s stash-bag but he didn’t think that possessing such a small quantity of weed would attract the attention of the Guards. He was wrong.

The place that the young couple shared wasn’t always the home beautiful but at least it wasn’t usually a shit-heap like this; the Guards had tipped out the contents of just about every drawer and cupboard and even emptied some food cartons onto the floor. For fuck’s sake, he’d have told them where the stuff was if only they’d asked. Everyone who was guilty of any offence had got used to the idea that confession was wiser than denial if they were to avoid further penalties and, as I’ve written earlier, the state doesn’t make mistakes!

The Arresting Officer showed Patrick the CCTV footage that cinched his guilt. Nowhere was free from the damned things but he hadn’t expected one in that particular alley where he had done a small deal with a friend; and one of the Guards had obviously filmed his colleague discovering the plastic bag in the pocket of Patrick’s discarded skinny jeans.

“Do you admit the offence or do you want to go to trial?” The cameras on the Officers’ helmets would count not just as evidence but also as poof of guilt if the offence was admitted. At least a confession would halve the sentence that Patrick could expect. He nodded. The video would be taken as his admission of guilt.

With no need to interrogate the prisoner, that bit-gag could come out and a more effective one could be inserted until the convict was safely lodged in the cells. Jeremy already knew how agonising that must be and only wished he could be of more comfort to the lover whom he would be unlikely to see again for a long time. His attempt to wriggle towards Patrick was very ill-advised: one of the officers simply went over to the naked man writhing on the bed and dragged him onto the floor before applying a size ten to his midriff. Following the spasmodic reaction, Jeremy lay almost still, except for his desperate snorting as he struggled for breath.

Patrick automatically tried to rise from his knees and make for where his boyfriend was lying but the previously un-noticed shackles round his ankles immediately brought him to be face down on the floor. The Arresting Officer pushed his foot down onto Patrick’s back or at least onto his chained wrists, and calmly asked if he should add Resisting Arrest to the charges. Jeremy despondently shook his head and tried vainly to shout “No” past his gag whilst still frantically trying to regain his breath. Patrick stopped struggling and the Officer’s boot released the stress on the chain that was threatening to strangle him.

From then on the proceedings were almost prosaic. The offence was repeated to Patrick and he was given a chance to withdraw his “confession”. After that, things were inevitable. Patrick was grabbed by the handcuffs and hauled to his knees where the bit was pulled roughly from his mouth and left hanging around his neck while the Arresting Officer forced a ball gag of such a size into Patrick’s mouth that it took all his force to get it past his teeth. He looked desperately over to his battered lover; at least Jeremy was the last thing he saw before the heavy, double thickness black hood was forced over his head again and tightened alarmingly round his neck. Patrick was ready for the “meat wagon”.

One of the Guards called for “transport for one” and the other explained to Jeremy that, once the convict had been removed, he would be released. He would be given a contact number to use if he had a complaint about the arrest or about his own treatment but that he should realise that any such complaint would delay the start of his boyfriend’s sentence. Jeremy knew that such periods on remand are never discounted from the subsequent sentence. It only then dawned on him that neither of them knew what that sentence was to be.

The Remand Cell

The word came in the Arresting Officer’s ear-piece and he pulled Patrick to his feet by grabbing his handcuffs once more. That was obviously to be the way in which he would be guided to wherever he was going. Keeping hold of the youngster’s cuffs, the Guard pushed him forwards with shuffling steps and more than a few near-trips, which were prevented only by the “support” that he was providing. Patrick obviously recognised the moment when he had left his apartment but he could only guess which of his neighbours’ voices he could hear discussing his predicament as he was paraded past them. Even naked and with a hood over his head, Patrick’s slender frame was easy to recognise but he knew that he’d have worse things than shame to cope with before long.

The convict soon found himself with his shins pressed against something. If only that bastard Guard had told him they were steps, he could have coped better with them. Two steps up and someone hooked their fingers under the tie fastening the hood round Patrick’s neck and yanked him forwards. As the knuckles pressed into his throat, Patrick thought he was going to be throttled. He knew that his unfortunate kink would probably betray him now, and it did. He felt himself go hard almost immediately in spite of his predicament. It went unremarked.

He heard a formal exchange of words between the Arresting Officer and the Transit Officer transferring responsibility for the criminal from one to the other followed by the rolling down and slamming of what was obviously the tail gate of a panel van. The new Guard slammed Patrick against the side of the van and undid the padlock to the chain that was keeping his wrists hoisted so painfully high. Even though it was wrapped completely round Patrick’s neck, there was insufficient friction, once one end had been released, to prevent the criminal’s wrists dropping rapidly with the resultant distress as the chain scraped itself round his neck. In spite of the abrasion, Patrick needed to drop his wrists but such relief was short lived as they were hoisted high again and the free end of the chain was passed through a staple in the ceiling of the van and padlocked onto the cuffs once more. As the van drove off, Patrick was left with the choice: stand up straight or hang from his wrists. Some choice. At least this time he shouldn’t strangle.

The journey to the Guard House was mercifully short and, once the van had stopped, Patrick heard the rear door open and another formal exchange of words as he was transferred to the “care” of the Custody Officer. The padlock was unlocked and Patrick’s arms immediately fell once more. So did Patrick. He was rolled over onto his face and the chain was wrapped completely around his neck again. It would have hurt less if the cunt had forced his wrists up first instead of pulling the chain tight once it was already wrapped around his neck. Once more, Patrick had the choice: strangle or force his own wrists as high up his back as possible. Once more his kink, as he thought he might strangle, manifested itself noticeably. Once more, he was more dragged than marched out of the van and into the Guard House.

The remand cells were notorious. They were only just about big enough to fit a person in – as long as he was sitting on the raised bench - and all surfaces were metal mesh so that they could be hosed down every day if the prisoner was in there long enough. Patrick was folded into one of the cramped cubicles and his abdomen was pushed down onto his thighs as the padlock and chain were removed completely and his arms could, once again take their ease. The Guards had learnt long ago that, if a prisoner is driven stir-crazy, he will crash his head repeatedly against the back wall, and the paperwork necessitated by any consequent concussions or worse took time that could be better spent, so Patrick found something tight and solid being forced over both his head and the hood. The padded fibre glass helmet not only prevented any impact damage to the wearer, it also rendered him effectively deaf. Patrick sat up, the barred door was locked and Patrick was left still gagged and hooded. Rumour had it that any new prisoner could expect to be left like that while checks were made and paperwork prepared. Problem: it was late at night and the Arresting Officer probably wouldn’t complete his documentation until late the next morning.

The sensory deprivation sent irrational thoughts swirling indistinctly through Patrick’s mind by early morning, and the near-asphyxiation whenever he moved in certain ways caused him to get hard and, once he had come to believe that Jeremy had imprisoned him, his body nearly gave him the much needed relief that he craved. Nearly, that is, until the force of the cold water from the hose brought him from his stupor. Even when the deluge stopped, Patrick found himself near to being asphyxiated as the sodden front of the heavy hood clung closely to his face. It was as though he was being water-boarded.

Nothing was said but someone did at least reach through the bars and loosened the vampire hood from Patrick’s nose and mouth before they abandoned him to his thoughts, delusions, pain and fantasies for several more hours. In his lucid moments, he knew the remand cells were to be feared but such moments were becoming fewer and farther between.

It must have been towards mid-day when they came for him. The cage door was opened and he was doubled up again prior to the tortuous chain being wrapped round his neck and reattached to his handcuffs. At least this time his wrists sat in the small of his back when he sat up. The helmet was un-buckled and he was wrenched from his seat. After that period of sensory deprivation Patrick had no real idea of his situation. He thought that, perhaps, he was being dragged somewhere by two people who gripped his thin arms just under his armpits, surely Jeremy would come and release him soon, as he usually did in the morning, carry him in his arms and kiss all his hurts better?

TBC

[blackbound]

Well, he's a proponent of the rules...

[Xtc]

There are so many rules . . .

[Red86]

High probability of being caught and strict punishment without a trail, sounds like an awesome place to live if that's your thing

[Xtc]

As I said: as long as the State never makes mistakes.
It does seem, however, to deal with the "justice delayed is justice denied" dilemma.

[Xtc]

THE STATE NEVER MAKES MISTAKES (2)


The Induction Cell

When the helmet had been removed and the stifling hood unstrapped, Patrick realised gradually why he was no longer able to move. The induction cell was equipped for “interview” and medical examination. He found his ankles restrained by a metal bar that was fixed rigidly about ten centimetres above the floor and his wrists once more hauled high but this time someone had ensured that his arms were straight so forcing him to bend forwards at the waist. The Medical Officer found that conformation of the prisoners to be the most convenient for the inevitable cavity search. After a cursory medical examination, the MO removed the ball gag and replaced it with a dental gag before examining Patrick’s oral cavity and then intruding more intimately into Patrick’s body. For the first time, Patrick started to cry. The MO then certified that Patrick was fit to serve his sentence and left.

That left the Custody Officer and the Corporal Assessor to do their jobs. The Assessor asked the Custody Officer to re-adjust his charge so that his wrists were once more hammered high up his back but at least he could stand upright to hear his assessment and sentence.

The next proceedings were formulaic. The Custody Officer removed the metal gag that was forcing Patrick’s jaws apart and the Assessor asked if he wanted to change his plea. Patrick’s tortured lips just about managed to confirm that he did not and a beaker of water was offered to the convict’s mouth. There was no hurry as Patrick was gradually allowed to finish the draught. At least the ball that formed part of the panel gag that was then padlocked over his face was less demanding than the one he had worn overnight but it was still an efficient way of telling a prisoner he that he no longer had a say in anything.

The Assessor outlined the various possible penalties he could impose. Having ruled out the more extreme ones, he seemed to be left with a combination of imprisonment, enslavement, flogging and prolonged exposure in the pillory, a punishment that, since its reinstitution, is gradually increasing in popularity amongst the general public. Even if he wasn’t naked, Patrick would have shivered at the thought of having to suffer the strictest of the available sentences.

With the sentence decided, although not confided to the prisoner, Patrick was given back into the care of the Custody Officer, and the Assessor departed. Without explanation the hood was replaced and Patrick’s ankles were released from the clamp. The next stumbling walk took him out of the building and into the cold outside before he entered another building. As he was “escorted” through the building, Patrick could hear obvious, if indistinct, sounds of other people. Not all of them sounded particularly happy.

Patrick was forced down onto some sort of seat, his handcuffs were released from his neck and his ankle cuffs were removed. “Right, just settle in. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Patrick heard the cage door slam and the key turn in the lock. In spite of the noises, and smells, betraying the presence of nearby humanity, Patrick felt very alone in the dark.

The still indistinct sounds gradually resolved themselves into several different types: the clumsy movements of restrained prisoners, the noise of chains and even what sounded like voices. The clearest sounds seemed to be boots passing in front of him at regular intervals.

The Custody Cell

As Patrick sat and his mind wandered, there were many times when he was brought up short as he realised that he was not about to be released from his bondage following a loving caress. In his more lucid moments he brooded on the fact that he didn’t even know what his sentence was to be yet. He didn’t even know whether he’d be informed about it or whether he’d just find out as he suffered whatever ordeal had been prescribed.

Patrick had no idea how long he had been left before a Warder arrived and removed the hood. He had left a bowl of some unidentifiable gloop on the floor and jammed a tubed water bottle between the bars that formed the front of Patrick’s cell. Patrick noticed that he was in a cell that was no more than a two-metre metal cube with a barred door at the front. He had been sat on a raised, slatted platform that ran along the back of the cell and, other than that, there was just an oval hole in the floor near one wall and a grille over a hole in the middle of the floor. Patrick could guess what the oval hole was for and concluded that he was likely to be in the cell for quite some time. The Warder pulled Patrick’s head down and unlocked the panel gag. Before removing it, he lifted Patrick’s head by his dark, died hair and warned him that, if he didn’t want to starve for the next twenty-four hours, he would remain absolutely silent. He didn’t wait for a response and pulled the slobber covered black ball from Patrick’s mouth. He didn’t manage completely to suppress the groan.

The Warder left and Patrick just sat taking in his surroundings for some time before the Warder returned and entered his cell. “Use it or lose it.” he announced as he picked up the bowl and exited the cell. He locked the door and removed the water bottle. “The prisoner will stand.” Patrick stood. “Come here and turn around.” Patrick approached the cell door and turned his back to it. “Back up.” As Patrick came into contact with the bars, the Warder unlocked his handcuffs. “Be a good boy and these”, with this he clamped the cuffs round a bar, “and this”, he did the same with the gag, “stay here. However . . . Understand?”

Patrick indicated that he did.

The Warder left and eventually Patrick returned to his seat.

The repetitive routine of food arriving by being slipped under the door and water being positioned in the door and then being removed again after a short while established itself over the next few days. The only relief from the tedium was provided by the sight of other prisoners passing the front of Patrick’s cell, always hooded and chained and most of them returning some time later in a visibly worse state. Patrick remained silent and "well behaved” in spite of the tedium of his existence. He had never been a fan of exercise but he’d probably do anything now to be allowed to run or swim or even walk under an open sky. With unremitting bright light in the cell Patrick soon lost all track of time.

Patrick didn’t know how long he’d been there when he plucked up the courage to ask but he just had to know: how long would he have to spend in this bloody cell? He didn’t even realise that, with no idea of the passage of time, the information would be meaningless in any case. But was it days – or weeks - - or even months? Surely it wouldn’t be years?

The Warder came with Patrick’s “dinner” and Patrick approached the door and said quietly, “Please.”
The Warder jerked his head round, “Please, Sir.” As Patrick was spooked by the no longer familiar sound of his own croaking voice, the Warder went for something on his belt.

Patrick didn’t even notice before the Warder said, “Bad decision, boy.” and fired the taser darts into Patrick’s bony torso.

-----00000==========00000-----

He couldn’t breathe and his body went into spasm as Patrick fell, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the bench at the back of his cell. “A really bad decision” repeated the Warder as he called for backup.

Another, obviously well set-up, Warder arrived and the two custodians entered Patrick’s cell as he still flopped helplessly on the floor. The other man had obviously brought a standard set of equipment with him and Patrick was soon handcuffed, this time with his hands in front and encased in leather cuffs and oversized plastic mitts that denied him the use of his hands. A wide leather belt was buckled tightly round Patrick’s already skinny waist and the cuffs were attached to the belt at two points no more than ten centimetres apart leaving his wrists practically immovable.

Before he could recover, Patrick’s ankles were hobbled about twenty centimetres apart with a fairly heavy chain and two padlocks. He was still totally incapable of resistance and his breathing had still not settled. Even the confusion caused by the electronic assault could not completely anaesthetise Patrick to the realities of what was happening to him. But why? Wasn’t he being polite? What would they do to him next? He thought about the men he’d glimpsed briefly as they were being returned to their cells. What had been done to them before they returned?

The gag was quickly forced onto Patrick’s face, but not before a larger ball had been fitted, and locked tightly into place, and the seemingly inevitable hood was tightened around his neck. Patrick heard the door of his cell locked and he was left to recover.

TBC

[Red86]

He was so well behaved in the beginning but now he's gone and messed up by talking. Breaking rules here has consequences but I guess he's figured that out the hard way now lol.

[blackbound]

He was so well behaved in the beginning but now he's gone and messed up by talking. Breaking rules here has consequences but I guess he's figured that out the hard way now lol.

Nothing to add here except they absolutely set him up for this. I almost feel bad.

[Xtc]

I'm sure they didn't set him up for it. He merely made an unwise decision. Now his poor carers will have to do some extra work.

[gag1195]

Trying to catch up on some stories I've missed, and I'm glad I gave this one a read!

RULES ARE RULES! Rule breaking must be appropriately punished! I wonder what other rules will be broken, and what punishments await Patrick!

[Xtc]

On never knows; perhaps Patrick will learn?

Thanks for replying to the tale, it made me feel better.

[Xtc]

THE STATE DOESN'T MAKE MISTAKES (3)


The Director of Corrections

As he came round, Patrick tried to listen for any sounds that might indicate the presence of anyone else in his tiny cell. He waited, he knew not for how long, until he thought that no one would expect him to stay lying on the floor and clumsily forced himself into a seated posture on the raised platform. By now, soft surfaces had nearly become figments of Patrick’s imagination. He sat with his back propped up against the rear of the cell and started to think that his current situation was the only extra penalty he was to suffer for his temerity in speaking after having been obedient for so long. Time extended and Patrick’s mind wandered: was Jeremy going to suffer for his “crime”, was Jeremy fighting for his release, was ANYONE fighting for him?

It must have been hours, or so he thought, before Patrick heard what he assumed to be his cell door opening. He felt what was obviously someone’s fingers inserted under his hood and their knuckles pressing against his windpipe as he was hauled to his feet. Even after his time in incarceration, his body still reacted involuntarily to that. No one spoke to him but he did feel a sharp blow to his growing erection and another to his exposed testicles before he was dragged forwards. He was obviously being dragged by someone who was quite powerful and he was completely unable to double up in reaction to the blows.

Patrick was led along a corridor, outside into the cold atmosphere and into another building. Once more, if the bastard that was leading him by the neck had warned him about the steps, perhaps he would not have stubbed his naked toes on them or tripped over them. He was not allowed to collapse. Soon his “guide” came to a halt and forced Patrick to his knees. Patrick heard a knock on a door and, after a few seconds, the call to enter.

Still without explanation, Patrick was hauled to his feet and dragged forwards once more before being made to kneel again. The prisoner felt someone taking his right ankle and starting to fasten it to some sort of restraint in the floor.

“No, don’t fix him to the floor. He won’t be staying long.” Patrick didn’t recognise the voice of the Director of Corrections but the hand on his ankle was immediately released.

“Yes, Sir.”

The Director then addressed Patrick directly. “In view of the infraction, I must impose a continuation of your open sentence.” The whimper and the accompanying sagging of the skinny youngster’s entire body were both quite noticeable. “I must also impose a further public chastisement and alter your conditions of imprisonment to reflect the nature of your infraction. Breathing was becoming a problem for Patrick. “The public chastisement will take place immediately and, in the light of your previous good conduct, I shall ask the Warder to explain the changes in your conditions of imprisonment to you when you are consigned to him once more. I presume that is in order, Warder?”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Can you come in here, please, Corporal?” The intercom clicked off. “That will be all, Warder; I shall call you when I need you to accept this prisoner back into your charge.

“Thank you, Sir.” Patrick heard boots leaving and, as they did so, another set approaching.

The Transport Corporal

“Yes, Sir, what are your orders?”

“Ah, Corporal, please take this prisoner to the Town Square and consign him to the pillory for four hours then no more than ten dorsal lashes, use your judgement, spread them out. Get him taken down after another two hours and bring him back here.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Oh, and don’t use the whip.”

“Understood, Sir. Sjambok?”

“Yes, and without a run-up.” Having seen “public chastisements” before, Patrick was well aware that he was being let off lightly compared to most and he started to believe that his initial decision to co-operate was a good one. It was the first time since his arrest that he had any idea of what lay ahead of him even if it still wasn’t one hundred percent clear.

The Corporal lifted Patrick to his feet. For someone of his calling, the Corporal treated his charge surprisingly gently compared with the Warder; he took Patrick by the left arm and guided him out of the building at a rate that didn’t challenge his hobbled gait too much. Patrick could guess what would happen next: he would be lifted onto a tumbrel and conveyed to the Town Square. Knowing what would happen to him at least might allow Patrick to minimise the incidental sufferings; and even the pain of anticipation was preferable to the horrors of uncertainty.

The Corporal lifted Patrick onto the trolley as if he weighed no more than a brown paper bag bereft of its contents and, once he was kneeling, arranged his ankles so that they could be clamped to the bed of the tumbrel. Once his ankles were fastened, Patrick’s chin was lifted via the hood until he was keeling upright. He felt something being manoeuvred behind him as the Corporal slotted a vertical metal post into one of the holes in the bed of the vehicle. A wide strap round his neck soon made sure that Patrick couldn’t avoid the post, especially as he was pulled even further towards the vertical before the strap was anchored to it. Once a large D-ring in the back of his waist strap had been slotted into the post and padlocked as well, there was probably no need for what happened next but nevertheless what remained of Patrick’s ability to move was restricted even further. The Corporal threaded a strap between his prisoner’s elbows and pulled it tight before buckling it behind the post thus completely depriving Patrick of the ability to move his arms.

These restrictions were always appreciated by the people who saw the tumbrels pass because they made it almost impossible for the unfortunate “passengers” to avoid the debris that was so often thrown at them.

Even before Patrick’s hood was removed, he became aware of the presence of a fellow sufferer beside him. He didn’t know how long the other prisoner had had to wait for Patrick to join him but Patrick was glad he wasn’t in the same position. Once he was secured to the satisfaction of the Corporal, Patrick’s hood was removed. It was considered important that, once the prisoners were secured to the transport, they were able to see those who were there to witness their degradation. Patrick blinked and looked to his right. His fellow passenger could not have been more than fifteen years old and was already bearing the marks of previous “chastisements”. He couldn’t even call up the effort not simply to hang in his bonds and, if it wasn’t for their tightness, he would probably have lain inert for quite some time. If Patrick had anything to be happy about, it was the fact that he hadn’t been gagged like his companion, even the large ball that was stressing his jaw and impeding his breathing was better than that!

Patrick guessed that the tumbrel would be drawn by some unfortunate slave who had been sentenced to serve as a member of a draught team and, sure enough, a naked, muscular man in his mid-twenties had been coupled to the “T” shaped bar attached to the steerable front axle. There were still some things for which Patrick could thank his lucky star(s). At least he hadn’t had to spend his entire sentence tightly hooded for most of every day and with a bit gag in place. Neither had he had his balls tied with a cord that could be used as an “emergency brake” if he proved disobedient. The Corporal took his place on the front of the trolley and took the reins that led from the “draught beast’s” bit-gag in hand and gave the cord round his balls a light tug to put him on notice.

The corporal could have made the draught beast’s life easier by giving words of command but that just isn’t the way things are done. A slave would have been trained before being subjected to public scrutiny and all instructions would be given by tactile means. The Corporal tugged lightly on the reins and the slave stood and took the strain from the trolley through his elbows. His wrists had been bound rather like Patrick’s but further back towards his hips so the T-bar could be accommodated between his elbows and the small of his back.

The nearest the Corporal ever got to a vocal command was the “Clk-clk” as he shook the reins expecting the tumbrel to be drawn forwards. The slave strained and the vehicle started on its tortuous way forwards. Whenever progress was deemed inadequate, the Corporal would slap the reins lightly onto the draught beast’s shoulders and back and, if the hint was not taken (or not complied with adequately), an electronic shock device like a cattle prod would be employed to encourage the “beast” to greater efforts.

The draught beast was obviously still an inexperienced one because the Corporal needed to pull on the emergency brake several times due to inefficient attempts at cornering. The resultant screams were not much suppressed by the bit gag but, after little more than half an hour, Patrick and his fellow prisoner arrived at the Town Square. By now both young men were generously bedecked with “offerings” from ordinary decent people who couldn’t make it to the Town Square and some of those who did make it.

Being a rapidly brightening Saturday morning, and especially one when there was guaranteed to be some action around the scaffold, there was a good crowd waiting to see justice done. Patrick just hoped that he wouldn’t have to wait for the other convict to be dealt with first because he knew that his time in the pillory wouldn’t start until he was restrained in the prescribed manner.

TBC

[blackbound]

Well, hopefully this light sentence will be an incentive to follow the rules more closely.

[gag1195]

I wonder if Jeremy is going to see this public punishment! Patrick locking eyes and silently trying to communicate with him! The anguish!

[Xtc]

But of course, @blackbound, and it is SO much cheaper than a prolonged incarceration.

It is a public place, @gag1195, so you never know who might be there.

[Xtc]

THE STATE DOESN'T MAKE MISTAKES (4)


The Public Scaffold

The Corporal dismounted and consulted another similarly uniformed officer before climbing up on the tumbrel with a hood in his hand. He absent-mindedly threaded a new cable tie through the hem at the open end and neither convict could judge who would be the first to be taken down. Following a further short conference between the two Corporals, Patrick’s world went dark again. The release of the strap holding his elbows back allowed the blood to return painfully to his arms and there was little sympathy from the assembled crowd as even the savage ball in Patrick’s mouth couldn’t successfully stifle the consequent scream. The removal of the padlock holding his waist back left Patrick more or less hanging by his neck until he managed to straighten up again, but that took some assistance from the Corporal. It was ironic, really, that the Corporal seemed to treat his prisoner in such a solicitous manner in the light of what was about to happen to him.

Once the Corporal was satisfied with Patrick’s condition, he removed the clamps that were forcing him to stay on his knees and the strap around his neck and then un-plugged the post from the bed of the tumbrel. Patrick sagged. There seemed to be no hurry in getting him to his feet; prisoners’ attempts to stand were always entertainingly pathetic and it all built up the sense of anticipation in the crowd. Eventually Patrick managed to remove his tortured knees from the metal bed and ended up crouching and being supported by the Corporal's gip on his hood. Without the hobble that would have been much easier but that’s probably half the point. “Ready?” The question was very quiet and the Corporal didn’t wait for a reply before pushing the fingers of his left hand further between Patrick’s wind-pipe and the tie that secured the hood. As he was pulled to his feet, not only the skinny youngster’s body became erect much to the delight of the assembled crowd. Even in his present extreme jeopardy Patrick’s body could not resist its natural reactions. At least most of the extreme blushing was concealed by the hood.

A clever piece of design ensured that the bed of the tumbrel, once it was secured, was the same height as the platform on which the pillories and other restraints stood. Patrick was dragged forwards, none too roughly much to the disappointment of the crowd, until he stood before the metal clamp that formed the bottom half of the pillory. The Corporal who was on duty when the tumbrel arrived adjusted the height of the clamp until it was only slightly lower than Patricks’ prominent clavicles. The audience concluded that the convict wasn’t to be made to bend too much but that the clamp, when completed would dig into him unpleasantly. The Transport Corporal pulled on the top of the hood forcing Patrick’s neck into the depression in the metal while his colleague clamped the hinged top bracket into place and padlocked it to the left of Patrick’s neck. There was room for Patrick to be able to breathe as long as he didn’t relax but there was no way of relieving all the pressure on his neck or the base of his skull as long as he had to stand there.

Before Patrick’s hands were clamped beside his head, the Duty Corporal clamped his ankles rigidly to the platform. He then adjusted the height of the neck clamp to make it slightly lower. That eased Patrick’s present discomfort slightly at the expense of forcing him to bend his spine a little more. The Transport Corporal unlocked the cuffs and slotted his prisoner’s wrists into the two smaller depressions in the clamp. The duty corporal locked the hinged clamps into place. They didn’t need to be too tight because the leather cuffs and mitts prevented any opportunity for a victim to withdraw his wrists. Then the Transport Corporal cut the cable tie and removed Patrick’s hood once more.

Jeremy had managed to position himself against the crash barrier as close to the scaffold as he was allowed to get so that his face was one of the first that Patrick saw. He wished it hadn’t been: Patrick didn’t want his lover to see him like this. On top of that, the guy didn’t look at all well; how long was it since he’d slept? Or shaved? At least there was one voice raised in fearless support of the prisoner in spite of the derision he was encountering. It was a brave move but the audience didn’t seem to let it put them off enjoying the entertainment. Jeremy frequently reaffirmed his love for Patrick and repeated his assurances that he was fighting for him. Initially, he received a few punches and knees to the groin for that but, as the spectators saw him stand his ground, a group of sympathisers formed round him protecting him from any further assault. Just because Patrick was a miscreant, they didn’t see why Jeremy should be assaulted as well. Nevertheless, that wasn’t going to stop them enjoying the forthcoming spectacle.

Once the Corporals had stood clear, the barrage of missiles resumed but it seemed that most of the crowd were holding back even though they had come equipped with some extremely unpleasant ammunition. Jeremy tried to remonstrate with a young boy who was using a catapult to fire fusillades of gravel and the occasional pebble at Patrick’s rather too prominent erection but one of his “protectors” advised him against taking action. “I wouldn’t, mate, you might end up beside him.” Jeremy saw the sense behind that but he thought that he’d remember that kid’s face for future reference.

The Other Convict

It was the other convict’s turn to be fastened to the scaffold next but Patrick had lost sight of him as soon as he was hooded and was now incapable of looking behind him. As soon as the youngster was dragged to the horse at the front of the dais, Patrick saw him again. He must have been very muscular once but weeks of forced inaction and maltreatment had taken its toll on his physique. He was barely able to make his shackled feet help the Corporal to propel him to where he would be suffering his forthcoming corporal punishment.

Patrick saw a short, sturdy-framed, if cut and bruised individual, who was dragged more harshly than he had been to his appointed place. It was a device resembling a saw horse with a flat top and four angled legs supporting it. The boy was laid lengthwise along the top beam before the hobble was unlocked from his right ankle. Both ankles were then fastened into leather cuffs that were attached to the legs of the horse by heavy webbing straps. His feet were well above the floor of the dais and his feeble attempts at adjusting his position on the beam amounted to very little. His wrist cuffs were separated from his belt and padlocked onto two further webbing straps along the front legs of the horse. All four straps had been threaded through ratcheted clamps that would ensure that they could not be withdrawn just by pulling. The two Corporals took a strap each and, on a nod from the Duty Corporal, pulled the prisoner’s arms tight. That cruel gag did little to suppress the resultant scream. At least his lungs seemed to be working efficiently! Once the Corporals had adjusted the straps tensioning his legs, the only significant mobility left to the prisoner was to try to lift his head as it hung over the end of the horse.

The Duty Corporal grabbed the prisoner and shook his limbs to ensure that they had been pulled as tightly as possible and then removed the hood. As the blonde’s head lolled and he made attempts to raise it, Patrick could see his gag more clearly. He could see it but Patrick really didn’t want to experience what it felt like. It seemed to consist of a pair of hinged, foot-long serrated metal bars clamped so tightly onto the boy’s tongue that he was unable to withdraw it into his mouth. What it must feel like if it was bitten down upon didn’t bear imagining and this boy was obviously about to receive a severe beating.

TBC