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The text in this story contains erotic material and is expressly written for adults only.
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This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living, dead or otherwise is purely coincidental. The ideas and thoughts that follow are pure fantasies. In real life, at the very least they would be unpleasant and probably illegal. Fantasies are like that; daydreams where we can contemplate and imagine the sensations without suffering or inflicting the pain, despair or humiliation.
Hyperalgesia is an increased pain response -- basically, pain being more painful than it should be. I have probably exaggerated the effect for the story.
Charged and sentenced
"You'll almost certainly be given a full whipping and then put on the block at the next auction and sold as an indentured slave, Katherine," the court appointed adviser told me with a little smirk on his face, "The only uncertainty is the length of time you'll be indentured. If it is a short period like two years, the judge will probably expect your buyer to be one of the brothel owners who specialise in what is known as BDSM and slaves don't last too long in that situation. If the judge allows me to say anything, I can plead for leniency but there's very little in the way of mitigating circumstances because you knew the old, untested, uncertified heater, might be unsafe. Your testimony on the truth machine revealed that." I rightly surmised the adviser wanted to gloat over my predicament and increase the fear and dread I already had for my future life.
The woman I killed was none other than my own mother, a woman I loved as one does the woman who looked after you through childhood and hated because of her demanding nature, a woman whose nagging caused her death, a woman whose body resided in the mortuary while I languished in a prison cell awaiting my court appearance and the almost certain horrendous punishment meted out to offenders these days. The police recorded my confession on the truth machine so my guilt wasn't in doubt and only the fact that I hadn't intended to hurt mother and indeed I'd tried to add to her comfort, brought the charge down from murder.
"I'll never survive a full whipping," I sobbed as I sat with my knees drawn up to my chin on the low bed in the cell, "That's ninety-six lashes, forty-eight on my front and back. They should know from my medical records that I have hyperalgesia and my pain threshold is so low I usually pass out at the slightest hurt, even when they give me the contraceptive injections I have each year. I'll be better off dead but they aren't going to allow that, they've only allowed me this short smock and watch me on the monitors all the time. How will I survive being raped in a brothel when it is over ten years since I last had a man and if it is a BDSM brothel like the adviser suggested? I'll probably pass out before they start to have their so-called fun with me and they'll probably punish me more because of it. Then there's the indignity of standing naked in front of a crowd of people, my friends and work colleagues as well as strangers and the dealers in slaves, while they place bids to own me. When passing through the square on market days, I've seen them standing there stark naked and looking downcast. At thirty-two and not glamorous by any stretch of the imagination, only a few will wish to pay money for me except for perverted reasons. What a pity it wasn't me who touched the heater and was electrocuted. They couldn't have blamed mother. Why did she keep complaining of the cold when she knew the heating to the whole block had gone off and the engineers were already trying to fix it? Why did I keep that old heater? I've never used it since finding it when I moved into the flat ten years ago and it looked old then. Why did mother try and move it when she got out of the shower and water dripped on to it? Why did she even want to take a shower in my flat? To try and get warm, she said, even when I said it the water was only tepid." So many questions without answers ran through my mind, as I lay awake on the thin mattress awaiting the morning and the court judgement that would seal my fate for years to come.
Already the manslaughter case, a rare occurrence in the small town, provoked wide coverage on the newscasts and forthright debates on the communications 'comms' social media during which my previous life came under their scrutiny with the participants exaggerating minor misdemeanours into major crimes. Never before had I been in trouble with the police, or with staff at school or college, but unsubstantiated rumours spread like wildfire.
Two guards escorted me, shivering and still dressed in the short smock and shoes the police issued, to the courtroom at ten a.m. where I quietly cried until the judge arrived. Judge Susan Harris, known for her strict adherence to the guidelines for awarding the maximum penalties for any offence, walked to her seat at the high desk and looked sourly at me. From past cases I read about, I knew she didn't allow the rumours and hype to sway her judgement but in my case she had more than enough evidence from my statement to have me flogged and put into slavery for many years.
"Katherine Annette Jenkins, I find you guilty of Culpable Manslaughter in that you did give your mother an electrical appliance that had never been tested for safety and knowing she intended to use it in a wet environment for which that type of heater is illegal. That your mother nagged you to provide heat for her while workmen repaired the system for the flats, is no excuse and you should have foreseen the danger and realised that it could be and was, lethal. You had a good job as an accountant and funds enough in your account to have walked to the store only two hundred metres away and purchased a new and safe one but you were reluctant to go out in the cold, with disastrous consequences, to your mother and now, to yourself. I cannot allow this negligence to go without a suitable punishment for your needlessly causing her death. Notwithstanding that you have hyperalgesia and may not stay awake for the whole of your punishment without the assistance of drugs or other stimulation, I hereby sentence you to a full body whipping and to be sold as an indentured criminal slave for two years. All your assets will be seized and passed to your father although they are little compensation for the loss of his wife. Take her away bailiff."
All though the hearing, I couldn't control myself and wept and sobbed. Her words brought back the horrors of that morning when, on hearing the loud bang and seeing the smoke issue from the bathroom, I ran in to find my mother dead, her face distorted from the shock and pain. I almost fainted at the sight but called the emergency services and they immediately pronounced her dead. Although expected, when the verdict came and the judge announced the sentence, I collapsed and two constables carried me from the courtroom to the Punishment Hall.
By arrangement with the media companies who wanted to get their equipment set up before the hall filled with people, the court scheduled mine as the first case heard that day and therefore I would be first in the punishment hall. In a way that was a blessing, although I didn't appreciate at the time, because it meant that I didn't have to sit and watch others being whipped before me. With the lights full on, cameras filmed my smock being removed, captured my blushes and then panned down from my tearful face and unkempt dark hair, focussed on my small breasts set on a thin body for a while and then down to the bush of dark hair on my mound. All were shown in detail on the huge screen in front of me. Very fearful of the forthcoming ordeal and shivering uncontrollably, a bailiff had to hold me while cuffs were put on my wrists and ankles before they fastened me, spread-eagled and face-down on the low platform ready for the Japanese style whipping. Meanwhile, the announcer gave the crowd that packed the hall, a brief résumé of my life and the heinous crime I'd committed. Had I murdered mother he couldn't have been more scathing in his remarks. He ended by commenting on the device I felt them fitting to my neck. "Katherine is notorious for passing out at the least pain and to ensure she receives and feels the full extent of her whipping without sleeping through it, they are fitting a sensor that communicates with the monitor on the wall; a regular bleep indicates she is awake, a continuous tone will signal she has passed out and will invoke an electrical pulse to stimulate her brain into action again." On cue, the monitor started bleeping.
.... There is more of this story ...