Chapter 5: Mock Trial & Public Punishment 1

“What are you wearing, Mrs. Sylvia! You’re almost naked!” Principal Tuwme’s voice was nearly a scream, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.

Sylvia’s first instinct was to cover herself, one arm across her chest and the other over her crotch, her body slouching in an attempt to hide. But as she started to move, she realized this only highlighted her nearly naked state, making the flimsy bands of fabric seem even more inadequate. She forced herself to lower her hands, though every fiber of her being screamed for her to hide.

She wanted to scream, “They made me, they forced me wear this!” but the fear, the memories of yesterday’s torment, took over. Her cowardice won out, and instead, she timidly said, “M ... Mr. T ... Tuwme, I ... I made this d ... dress. M ... my interpretation of African Dress, s ... sexy version...”

Laughter erupted in the room, a harsh and mocking chorus that only deepened Sylvia’s mortification. Only then did she fully register the extent of the audience—dozens of people beyond just her students and the principal. She felt her humiliation deepen, realizing the breadth of her audience.

She stood frozen, desperately wanting to flee, but her legs felt like lead. She knew she had to stay, to endure this mock trial, no matter how unbearable it felt. Her eyes darted to Matumbo, Marimba, and Gambe, who were reveling in her discomfort, their smug faces fueling her shame.

Sylvia then realized that this previously unused classroom had been transformed into a courtroom. Chairs were arranged in rows, with a dozen townspeople seated and her students filling in the last three rows one after another. Principal Tuwme sat behind a desk at the front and center of the room. To his right were three chairs occupied by her assailants, Marimba, Gambe, and Matumbo. To the principal’s left, a single chair awaited her.

Principal Tuwme motioned for Sylvia to come to the front. She had to walk down the middle aisle, passing rows of people seated three on each side. She felt every eye on her, scrutinizing her near-nakedness.

“Hey, look at those fat white buttocks, she’s totally naked,” someone whispered.

“No, she has that thing across her buttocks, or should I say, below her buttocks,” another snickered. “Regardless, her entire buttock is showing,” added a third, laughing.

Sylvia’s face burned with shame. More comments followed. “Did you see her pubic hair, totally out in the open!” one person remarked.

“Ya, because she’s wearing that band on her thigh, might as well just not wear it...” another said.

“Oh, I missed that, I was focusing on her big melons. Let me see that,” someone else chimed in.

Sylvia’s embarrassment was overwhelming, but with shivering legs, she managed to make it to the front. She was about to sit down when Principal Tuwme stopped her.

“No, Mrs. Sylvia, you need to stand. You’re the accusing party, the victim, you need to be standing,” he instructed.

Her legs felt weak, but she forced herself to stand tall, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She stood in front of the room, exposed and humiliated, under the watchful eyes of the townspeople, her students, and her assailants. The weight of the situation pressed down on her, but she knew she had to endure this mock trial.

Sylvia stood in front of the chair, her heart racing as Principal Tuwme’s words echoed in her ears. “No, stand on top of the chair,” he said firmly. “People need to see you so they can judge. That’s the requirement.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief, and she instinctively shook her head, her voice trembling as she pleaded, “Mr. Tuwme, please, no. I can’t ... I can’t do this.”

Principal Tuwme’s gaze was unyielding. “You must,” he said. “It’s the procedure.”

Defeated, Sylvia took a deep breath and slowly approached the chair. The wooden seat felt cold and unforgiving under her bare feet. With a heavy heart, she climbed onto the chair, her face flushed a deep crimson. The room seemed to close in on her as she turned to face the assembly of townspeople and her students.

From her elevated position, Sylvia’s scant attire was even more exposed. The thin spandex bands stretched across her body, barely clinging to her voluptuous figure. The crowd’s gaze was relentless, scrutinizing every inch of her exposed skin.

Giggles and whispers rippled through the room like a wave. “Look at her! Look at that bushy!” one person snickered.

“Isn’t that something?” another added, their tone dripping with mockery. “How can anyone walk around like that!”

“Not just that! She is a teacher here! No wonder my son was so eager to come to school since yesterday!” someone else laughed, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

Sylvia’s face burned hotter with each comment. The laughter and jeers were like daggers, piercing through her already fragile composure. She felt utterly vulnerable, her every movement and imperfection on full display for the entire room to see. Her hands instinctively moved to cover herself, but the humiliation of her exposure was undeniable.

The wooden chair felt unstable beneath her, and she had to concentrate on maintaining her balance. Her legs trembled, not just from the strain of standing but from the emotional toll of being so publicly degraded. The room’s harsh lighting made her exposed skin seem even more conspicuous, emphasizing every detail of her predicament.

The townspeople’s eyes were a mix of curiosity and amusement, their laughter echoing around her like a cruel soundtrack. Sylvia’s tears threatened to spill, but she bit her lip, trying to stay composed despite the overwhelming shame. The feeling of being so exposed, both physically and emotionally, was suffocating.

Sylvia’s humiliation was exacerbated by the glaring contrast between her and the roomful of dark-skinned Africans. She was the only white person, the only white woman, and the only one standing on a chair, exposed and vulnerable, while everyone else sat, fully clothed and watching her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. The sense of isolation and degradation overwhelmed her. She felt utterly alone, a stark anomaly in a sea of dark faces and clothed bodies.

Principal Tuwme’s voice cut through the murmurs and laughter. “We begin the trial. Thank you all for coming and being part of this mock trial. Although foreigners do not have any rights on Aprico Island since five days ago, I have decided to hold this trial today to give this foreign woman a fair chance at justice, as she claims she was a victim of a terrible crime.”

Sylvia’s heart pounded in her chest. She stood there, exposed and trembling, on the chair, a figure of stark vulnerability amidst the seated, fully dressed crowd. Tears of humiliation blurred her vision as she glanced around, trying to find some semblance of support or understanding in the sea of faces. But all she saw were looks of amusement, curiosity, and outright derision.

Sylvia’s breath grew heavier, causing her exposed large breasts to heave visibly. The thin elastic band, barely covering her nipples, strained against her voluptuous chest. The crowd’s eyes were drawn to the rhythmic movement, and crude comments followed.

“Look at her titties, they are like balloons,” one person snickered.

Another added, “I think I can see her pussy crack,” followed by a chorus of giggles.

Principal Tuwme raised his hand, attempting to restore order. “Please be quiet,” he commanded, though his voice lacked conviction.

Tears welled up in Sylvia’s beautiful eyes, and she struggled to maintain her composure. The principal continued, “Mrs. Sylvia Elsworth has accused these three boys of attacking her. She did not provide detailed information, only stating that they assaulted and threatened her. Because of this lack of detail, I cannot fully assess the severity of the accusations. She simply said those boys assaulted her.

“But thanks to these three young men,” Principal Tuwme continued, his voice steady but accusatory, “we have a detailed account of what happened. According to them, after the classes were over, Mrs. Sylvia insisted on learning how to twerk. Now, we can put aside how inappropriate it is for a mature woman to ask her students, these boys, to teach her how to twerk—a dance that is so lewd, I will never let my children even watch it on TV. But while this might be inappropriate, it is not illegal. What follows, however, is deeply concerning.”

Sylvia’s eyes widened in horror as she listened to the principal’s recounting of the alleged events. She felt the room’s collective gaze intensify, the weight of judgment heavy upon her.

“According to their testimony,” Principal Tuwme continued, “Mrs. Sylvia seduced Matumbo, forcing him to pull his penis out of his pants so she could perform oral sex on him. Then, she made Gambe use a dildo to—it’s difficult to even say publicly, so obscene—she instructed Gambe to insert the dildo into her anus, and she engaged in anal masturbation. And lastly, she ordered Marimba to videotape the entire incident so she could sell the footage back in her home country.”

The room erupted in murmurs and gasps. Sylvia felt a wave of nausea wash over her, her legs trembling so violently she feared she might collapse. Her face, already red from shame, burned hotter with each lurid detail. The tears streamed down her cheeks unchecked, each one a testament to her helplessness and despair.

“No ... no ... that’s not what happened,” Sylvia stammered, her voice trembling like a frightened child’s. “I was ... I was beaten ... and I was scared ... I had to ... they forced me to...”

Her panicked words tumbled out in a rush, barely coherent but desperate to be heard. Her tears flowed freely now, mingling with the sweat of her anxiety and humiliation. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder, a cacophony of disbelief and scorn.

Principal Tuwme looked at her with a mixture of skepticism and pity. “Mrs. Sylvia,” he began, his voice firm but not unkind, “if you have been a victim of such a terrible crime, you must provide us with evidence. Your current attire—standing there in the most obscene clothing I’ve ever seen anyone wearing in my life, exposing your hairy vulva, your fat buttocks, and your melon-sized breasts—is not helping your case.”

Sylvia’s face burned with shame as the principal’s words echoed through the room. She felt every eye on her, every gaze dissecting her exposed body. Her tears continued to flow, but she struggled to compose herself, to make them understand.

“But let me be fair. I won’t count your attire as evidence against you in this case. I will strictly follow Aprico Island’s judicial court system. I’ve studied the law, so I’ll be fair. So here we have two different accounts of the same event; one side is lying. Let the evidence be the judge.”

Sylvia felt a brief glimmer of hope, but it was quickly dashed by Principal Tuwme’s next words.

“First, the easy one,” he continued. “I’ve already received several witness accounts from students stating that you asked Gambe to teach you twerking in private after school because you twerked during the teaching class, and Gambe didn’t approve of it.”

Sylvia tried to protest, “It wasn’t like that—”

But the principal cut her off sharply. “I’m not going to hear your version of distortion here, because I already talked to several students. Don’t insult the court anymore, or else I’ll send you to the police and have you punished for, among all things, insulting the court, which carries the death sentence, death by torture!”

Sylvia shuddered at the thought and fell silent, her mind reeling. The gravity of her situation pressed down on her like a physical weight. She felt utterly helpless, her words and pleas dismissed before they could even be fully formed.

Sylvia stood there, her humiliation deepening as she overheard the townspeople’s cruel remarks.

“How can a teacher, mature woman, twerk in front of her young students? Doesn’t she have any shame?” one voice said, dripping with disdain.

An older woman, puzzled, asked, “What’s twerking?”

Another voice eagerly explained, “That’s the dirtiest dance. You stick your butt out and shake it as if to say, ‘fuck my asshole.’”

The older woman, now understanding, remarked with contempt, “No wonder she walks around bare-bottomed. That white woman likes to be fucked in her fat ass!”

Laughter erupted from the crowd, a cacophony of ridicule and scorn that echoed in Sylvia’s ears. She quietly wept, her hands hanging low, her cheeks burning red with shame.

“Okay, now we go to evidence number two. You did tell me yesterday that they caned your buttocks. You even willingly, I emphasize, willingly, pulled down your pants to show me your bare buttocks to prove that.” Principal Tuwme’s voice rang out, commanding the room’s attention.

Laughter erupted from the townspeople, one voice rising above the others, “Wow, she shows her buttocks so often, is there any place where she won’t show her buttocks?”

Sylvia’s eyes filled with tears, her humiliation deepening. Principal Tuwme raised a hand to quiet the crowd. “Be quiet, please. Turn around and show your buttocks.”

Sylvia hesitated, the weight of their gazes pressing down on her. The room had already seen her nearly bare bottom, but turning around, standing on the chair in front of everyone, felt even more degrading. She felt like an animal on display. But she slowly turned around.

Principal Tuwme’s voice cut through her thoughts, firm and unyielding. “Lower the skirt to your mid-thigh.”

The thin band around her hips barely covered anything except for the lower part of the her buttocks, but it still felt so embarrassing to remove that small symbolic modesty. She fought her embarrassment and complied, her hands trembling as she lowered it. The elastic slipped down, revealing the entirety of her buttocks. The room erupted in chuckles and crude comments.

“No marks,” Principal Tuwme declared, examining her exposed skin. “It doesn’t matter what you showed me yesterday. If there are no marks now, during this court session, it doesn’t count. The evidence is dismissed.”

Sylvia’s heart sank. She had been so sure that the marks would prove her story. Principal Tuwme’s voice broke through her despair. “Turn around and keep the skirt at your mid-thigh until court adjourns.”

Sylvia’s face burned with shame as she turned to face the room. The elastic band now only accentuated her exposure, leaving her vulva completely visible. She instinctively covered her crotch with her hands, but Principal Tuwme’s stern voice ordered her to keep her hands at her sides.

The townspeople’s laughter and jeers grew louder. “Hey, look at that pussy crack,” someone shouted.

Another voice added, “I think it’s wet. Are you wet, white woman?”

Sylvia’s tears flowed freely now, her humiliation complete. She felt utterly alone, standing on display in front of a room full of fully clothed, dark-skinned townspeople. The stark contrast between her nearly naked state with her dark pubic hair and her vulva crevice totally exposed, and their fully dressed forms only heightened her sense of isolation and degradation. She felt like a spectacle, a source of entertainment for the mocking crowd.

Principal Tuwme addressed the room again. “Now, evidence number three. I call the witness. I remind you, this witness was a former colleague of Mrs. Elsworth during her time as a humanitarian aid worker and her friend. He might be biased toward the students, so be warned.”

Abuba stepped forward, his expression solemn. The room quieted, eager to hear his testimony. “What did you see?” Principal Tuwme asked.

Abuba took a deep breath before answering. “When I walked into the classroom, Mrs. Elsworth was naked, standing there and pushing her hips out like this,” he demonstrated, thrusting his hips forward, “hands grabbing her titties, and peeing ... all the while making strange sounds, like ‘Uuuuu eeeee uuuuu eeee.’”

The townspeople gasped and murmured among themselves, the disbelief and judgment palpable in the air.

“And what were these three students doing?” Principal Tuwme inquired.

Abuba continued, “Matumbo and Gambe were just standing there watching, and Marimba was recording her on video.”

The murmurs grew louder, some voices rising in outrage, others in amusement. Sylvia’s face burned with shame, her humiliation deepening as Abuba’s testimony painted her in an even worse light. She felt the weight of the room’s collective disdain, her body trembling with a mix of fear and degradation.

Principal Tuwme nodded, considering Abuba’s words. “Thank you, Abuba. Your testimony will be taken into account.”

“Lastly, as you heard, there is video evidence. The most conclusive evidence. Let’s watch it together,” Principal Tuwme said, his voice filled with a sense of finality as he hit the remote control. Sylvia hadn’t even noticed the large screen TV mounted where the blackboard should have been. When Tuwme pressed the button, the screen came to life, and Sylvia’s stomach dropped.

The video started with a shocking scene: Sylvia was standing naked, slightly bending forward, knees slightly bent, sucking Matumbo’s large penis. She was cupping her breasts with both hands, squeezing her nipples, and moving her hips back and forth against a dildo lodged in her anus. The dildo was attached to a wooden stick, with the other end secured to a chair that was positioned against the teacher’s desk. As Sylvia moved her hips back and forth, her head moved in sync, creating a disturbing, duck-like waddle.

The room was filled with gasps. “Look at her head and buttocks moving in unison!” someone shouted, prompting the room to erupt in laughter. Some people laughed so hard they fell off their chairs. Sylvia, standing there with her elastic band skirt around her thighs, felt like her world was crumbling. She couldn’t believe her eyes. There was no sign of coercion or force; the video made it seem like she was a willing participant.

Then the scene was cut and shifted to Sylvia standing, making strange noises—”uuuuu eeee uuuu aaaahhh”—while jerking her hips violently and energetically back and forth. This must have been after Gambe stopped caning her buttocks. Matumbo had already come down from the chair and was looking at Sylvia with an astonished face. Sylvia jerked so violently that the anal dildo fell to the floor, and she began to squirt and pee, just like Abuba had described. There were loud gasps from the room, and then, even louder laughter.

“Please stop, stop playing that,” Sylvia pleaded, her voice breaking as she hid her head in her hands. She desperately wanted to pull up the inch-wide band of her skirt to cover her crevice, but she felt so humiliated having to keep it at her thighs. The mocking and laughter from the room intensified her shame.

“Look at that, that white whore squirting!!” someone jeered.

“Have you no shame, white woman?” another voice taunted, adding to the chorus of mockery.

Sylvia was beyond humiliated, her face burning with shame. She stood there, exposed and vulnerable, her mind screaming for an escape from this nightmare.

Principal Tuwme silenced the room with a stern voice. “I’m ready to make my final judgment. Mrs. Elsworth, please go ahead and pull up your skirt, now that the testimonies and evidence presentation are over—unless, of course, you enjoy showing your hairy cunt.”

The room erupted in laughter, the harsh, mocking sound filling every corner. One man called out, “Oh, let her keep her skirt down there; she obviously likes showing off her pretty pussy!” The laughter grew louder, echoing off the walls. Everyone was laughing—everyone except Sylvia.

Sylvia, blushing furiously and feeling as though she might faint from the sheer weight of her humiliation, slowly reached down and pulled up the tiny elastic band that served as her so-called skirt. The one-inch-wide band barely covered anything, and she carefully positioned it at the top of her thighs, trying desperately to shield her pubic crevice. Despite her efforts, the triangle of hair on her pubic mound remained entirely exposed, a humiliating reminder of how little she could cover with this one-inch elastic band skirt.

Imagine the scene: a 32-year-old white woman from Sydney, standing on a chair in front of a room filled with dark-skinned Africans—Aprico Island locals. The room was packed with a dozen townspeople, sixteen of her students, including the three boys who had attacked her, a former colleague from the aid organization, the only friend she had in the island, and the principal, her boss. All of them watched as she struggled to pull up the flimsy band of fabric, the only thing standing between her and total nudity. The rest of her body was completely exposed, save for another one-inch elastic band across her large breasts, barely covering her nipples.

The bright African sunlight streamed through the windows, casting harsh, unforgiving light on Sylvia’s trembling body. The heat was stifling, making her sweat profusely, adding to her discomfort. Her skin glistened under the oppressive sun, and the air felt thick with her shame. She could feel every pair of eyes on her, scrutinizing her exposed flesh, judging her, mocking her. Her legs quivered as she tried to maintain her balance on the chair, the slickness of her sweat making it difficult.

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears like a drum. The room seemed to close in around her, the walls pressing down, the weight of her shame crushing her. Every laugh, every cruel comment, every mocking glance cut into her like a knife. She felt utterly powerless, like a spectacle on display for their amusement, stripped of her dignity, her humanity, everything that made her Sylvia.

The room was suffocatingly bright, the sunlight so intense that it seemed to burn away any last shred of hope she had left. The heat, the laughter, the stares—it was all too much. She stood there, utterly exposed, completely vulnerable, with nothing to protect her from their cruelty. And in that moment, she wished more than anything that she could just disappear, fade into nothingness, and escape the unbearable humiliation that was consuming her.