Budget Correction

As I test-struggle against my restraints another detail becomes evident—the pole is not round. It is about four inches wide but only about two inches thick. It's smooth all around, with a groove down each side wide enough to allow devices to clamp to the front or the back without interfering with each other. My arm-cuff rod and the collar attachments will not rotate on the pole, nor even will the spreader rod—they all hold me firmly facing forward. And those grooves—more devices surely remain to be attached to facilitate my torment!

The attendant leaves.

The next few minutes allow me to take in more of my surroundings. I realize (how did I not take notice of it on the way in?) that the entire front wall, which stands about ten feet away from us, is mirrored. Not only will we all suffer together, we will be forced to watch each other in the mirrors, writhing naked in punishment bondage, men and women alike. I'm starting to understand what 'psycho-sexual' in my sentence meant.

++++

What other fiendish delights does the designer of the punishment system have in store? All this equipment is costly, I can't help thinking. Are wealthier inmates required to pay their corporal punishment expenses, to increase their suffering? No such demand was made of me; I elected this path instead of paying a steep fine. The staff also have to be paid, somehow. How is this possible?

A ghostly shadow hints at the audience gathering on the other side of the mirror.

Oh, I get it—it's one-way glass—that's what the confusing consent boxes were all about. What better way to pay for all this, and more, than to turn us into valuable revenue-generating entertainment? Of course the state is willing to forgo the amount of our fines! Now I notice the cameras—this will be streamed on the internet for even more revenue. My shame wells up even more as my nascent erection exposes another secret fantasy—I'm bound naked with others, on public display!

Number one appears aroused also, but perhaps just by the sight of number two. I wonder what Two is feeling?

I've heard rumors that women can volunteer for this for a substantial stipend, and I understand now why that might be encouraged—having men and women bound and punished together is clearly an important psychological element and good for box office too. Will there be more women in today's line-up? An excited shiver passes up and down my body, rattling my ankle shackles.

My train of thought is interrupted by the opening of the entrance door. The next inmate is struggling against his carriage, attempting to shout out, but each time the sound is cut off by the action of his collar. He looks very frightened and angry, and he's almost being dragged along. As he's propelled toward pole number four I wonder if this is his second trip to the chamber. Perhaps he knows something I don't, yet. He gets extremely agitated as his smock is removed, thrashing his arms against the bands, but to no avail—his attendant, who is a woman, seems to relish adjusting his elbows up behind his pole extra tight. After a few more shocks he accepts his fate and calms down. Moments later he stands secured, but definitely not erect.

++++

I find our group bondage at this point distinctly erotic—while I'm certainly feeling shame I'm also excited to my core, hoping that the audience finds our spectacle erotic too. Nothing except the bands joining our cuffed wrists covers our bare torsos; our shoulders are pulled back, enhancing the display of our chests. The little wrist-band hubs look like intricate belt buckles, beautiful in their own way as they nestle against our bellies. Number two is especially attractive, full-bodied, with large round breasts amply displaying the supple firmness of youth. Her nipples are erect, and she seems sunk in a quiet revery of her own.

Our spreader bars put our genitals on full display; Two is smooth: clean-shaven, I now observe. So much for my prior boast about attention to detail, but in fairness there's a lot to take in this morning. I doubt that much of us will remain visible once all our electro-torment devices are installed—I'd better enjoy all this scenery while I can. Self-stimulation is of course impossible—our arms are too tightly bound to reach. But nothing prevents us from staring—we are all staring, it is clearly intended that we should, and none of us can do anything to prevent it. Besides, by now there must be hundreds of online eyes staring at us.

Number five comes in. The attendant—the same woman who bound Four—is ready to do her job when his carriage arrives at pole five. Five seems a lot like me. He's attentive to the surroundings, a bit frightened but clearly excited and aroused—this is evident even before his smock is removed. His eyes meet mine briefly in the mirror, and I feel like we exchange a mutual understanding. I'm struck by the subtle edginess built into this experience, and I wonder if each group of inmates is chosen with care and purpose. Number five submits willingly to his attendant's ministrations; he's quickly and efficiently bound.

As time passes we all seem to be sinking into our own individual spaces, wondering what's going to happen to us, perhaps thinking about what each of us did to deserve this. I've been here for about ten minutes, I estimate, and already I'm finding my bonds somewhat uncomfortable. That's clearly so for One and Two—they've been here even longer. The sound of occasional grunts and groans as one or another of us squirms to relieve a cramp or find a better position is getting louder, as is the rattling of shackles and clicking of the rest of the bondage apparatus. But this is nothing, I'm pretty sure, compared to what's coming...

The inmate entry door slides open again—a woman this time! Like me, she lets out a gasp on entering.

"What the F..." she starts to hiss. But she regains her composure instantly, the earthy expletive cut short by self-discipline, not her collar's, I'm confident. The chamber must look quite different from when I came in. I was struck by the equipment, the five empty poles, the clinical quality, the calm inevitability. Numbers one and two were far away, entering my consciousness gradually as I followed the carriage and took in the scene. While I was surprised to be confronted with the reality of the group punishment, the surprise also sparked intrigue and excitement.

Six, by contrast, sees five poles holding five squirming naked bodies, four of them male, and her pole is close by. I doubt she was expecting this indignity, presumably expecting to be punished alone, and she does not appear to be the least bit amused, let alone excited. Her face radiates pure fury. She must be used to making a strong impression; it looks like she's trying hard to do so now. She walks with dignity behind her carriage, and rotates gracefully as she backs up to her punishment pole, anger and superiority telegraphed simultaneously by her flashing eyes. She thrashes her arms as her smock falls away, but then she collects herself and submits to her attendant, who binds her fast like the rest of us.

What a sight. She is gorgeous and elegant, and I wonder what she did to be here now. I don't think too many people put on eyeshadow for this date. She has beautiful long black hair—how did she know to hold it away as the collar closed around her statuesque neck? Perhaps the loudspeaker warned her? As she stands erect with her legs apart I browse her jet-black pussy-fur, trimmed into a neat triangle, in the mirrors. Her skin is perfectly tanned, as if she's used to vacationing in warm places, and there are no gaps in that tan. Her tall, taut, magnificently sculpted breasts must make Greek goddesses jealous; her nipples are deliciously erect, from the chill of our exposure I expect, not from arousal.

All the cocks stand at attention now, even the one attached to my recalcitrant neighbor number four. Six observes this in the mirror (there's no hiding it!), and looks extremely irritated—I suppose she doesn't think we're in her league. But we're all in the same league now, and I notice several of my companions taking pleasure deliberately staring at her nakedness; she glares in response. She can't prevent us looking. Nor can the rest of us do anything with our desire—there will be no sex here, at least not as it is usually defined. What a scheming mind planned all this—the perfect punishment for each of us.

Little do I know, yet!

Number seven comes in crying. He follows his carriage the short distance to pole seven. He whimpers as his smock is removed and he's bound fast by the woman attendant (shucks, I think, why didn't I get the woman—must have come in just before shift change; in this game you don't get to choose). It seems pathetic for Seven to be crying, but perhaps we will all be crying soon—who am I to judge?

++++

Our cohort is complete—seven human beings, bound securely, ready to share an experience which has already started to bind us ineffably together. I stare into the mirror at myself and at the other six, wondering just how much our invisible audience has paid to watch us writhe jointly in torment—will we deliver good value? A few minutes pass to allow this contemplation, then the male attendant returns pushing a row of seven carts loaded with an intriguing set of devices. The carts are numbered; he parks each at its corresponding station next to each inmate.

I scan the contents of mine. Most obvious is a saddle-like device with an anal penetrator projecting from it. Clearly it has electrodes—a cable and various small hoses extend from the bottom of the saddle. In front, I see, there's a shelf, like an anvil's horn but flatter—to support my genitals in the proper position, I suppose, for whatever exquisite torments await me there. The words from my sentence 'nor will any permanent damage to your body be inflicted' flash through my mind—I hope I can count on them!

There's an odd-looking device with a pole attachment feature in the middle. It's all black, made of stiff rubber, with hard plastic rings about two and a half inches in diameter near each end. Beyond the rings are fittings which look like they mate with each other. A tantalizing puzzle, not here just to test my spatial intelligence, I'm pretty sure.

Various smaller devices are more difficult to make out, but I observe what appear to be electrode cuffs inside zip-lock bags, destined for more parts of my body, I presume. They're in bags to prevent the electro-gel on them from drying out before the cuffs are attached, I suppose, but there appear to be plenty of additional tubes of gel. I am grateful—our punishment will be deep and muscular, not just stinging our surfaces.

I glance at the other carts. Their contents are similar to mine, though number two's saddle is shorter and has two penetrators.

Temporarily forgetting the discomfort of my bondage, I find myself looking forward to being prepared with these devices with considerable relish. Most of the others are showing the opposite, struggling and squirming even more than before, though not Five, who also seems to be examining his cart with interest.

The staff door opens and two new attendants enter, one right after the other—a man and a woman this time. They seem to be more senior than the ones who bound us coming in, and they work as a team. As they walk up to number seven, I'm thinking that since 'strict punishment bondage' is sure to be far more uncomfortable than what we are presently experiencing, starting with Seven and making each earlier arrival endure it slightly less time is a significant mercy. But it won't be that much less time: they get quickly to work, the woman taking up a position behind number seven, the man in front.

First Seven is gagged. The bit gag is brought up to his mouth and his collar shock activated, at a pretty high intensity based on his response. Seven lets out a loud yelp, and in goes the gag. I shudder, contemplating my turn just around the corner while recalling the warning shocks I've already received.

The gag gets buckled tightly around Seven's neck, then attached behind his head to the sliding mount holding his collar. We won't be able to look from side to side nearly as easily once we're gagged this way, I imagine, but the mirrors will ensure that we share each others' torment just the same. Gags will enhance our suffering, and protect our tongues and cheeks. Number seven gurgles quietly.

A rigid rod descends from the ceiling: the front attendant clips Seven's wrist-cuff hub to it. The rear attendant releases his arm-cuffs from the horizontal bar and the rod rapidly retracts, pulling his arms up over his head, stretching him up tiptoe to the extent the pole-attached spreader bar allows. Since his collar/gag attachment can slide, it moves smoothly up the punishment pole as the rest of his body rises. I hear him groan through the gag under the tension.

He's now in position to receive his punishment saddle, which in preparation has been liberally greased with electro-gel. With Seven's legs spread and stretched, it's easy for the front attendant to snap the saddle onto his pole and slide it upward, while the rear attendant grasps Seven by his sides to hold him steady as his anal penetrator is aligned to its target, eliciting a gag-suppressed moan from Seven as it slides home. Together they press the saddle firmly into his crotch. The rear attendant locks the saddle to the pole—I squirm in empathy. That won't be sliding back down so much as a millimeter, not any time soon.

The front attendant lifts a cylindrical sleeve from the cart and eases Seven's limp penis into it, using a squeeze bulb to suck him in. At my distance it's a bit hard to see, but not too hard to imagine what he's feeling as his scrotum nestles up against the sleeve's mendaciously welcoming port of entry—it must be well lubricated, with electro-gel no doubt.

The attendant clips Seven's fully-occupied sleeve to his saddle extension, leaving the cable and suction tube dangling between his legs. I wonder what's going on in Seven's mind as he stares in the mirror; as he gazes at the deceptively fine electrical cable hanging with portentous foreboding from his gel-enshrouded member. I don't suppose we'll need a whole lot of current for decisively effective punishment there!

The front attendant takes a bagged electrode cuff from the cart, removes it from its zip-lock container, and slides it between the saddle and Seven's left leg. The rear attendant grasps it as it passes through and together they wrap it completely around his thigh, close up into his crotch. The material appears to be slightly stretchy—they pull and flatten it tightly in place, finally pressing a Velcro fastener together to hold it closed. More Velcro fastens it to the saddle so it won't slide down his leg. A similar cuff is fastened around his right thigh. His belly cuff gets wrapped and tightened around his body between his back and the pole. No cables dangle from these; they all sport sockets and grease fittings.

Legs next. Another horizontal bar is clipped to the back of Seven's pole, just above and behind his knees. A steel cable descends behind him from the ceiling. His rear attendant clips the cable to the center of his spreader bar; it hoists the bar upward, folding his legs behind him—as it does so the bar goes limp, allowing his ankles to come together. As they're hoisted higher the attendants loop a strap around his legs and the pole just above his knees, pulling everything together. They cinch the strap between his legs and the pole with two smaller straps.

The limp spreader bar gets hooked to the punishment pole, temporarily, I'm guessing, holding his legs back and up at a moderately steep angle. The rear cable is detached, its service complete; it retracts to the ceiling. Number seven is of course no longer standing: his weight is taken on the saddle, his hoisted-up legs, and the rod which still holds his wrists high above his head. The device at the bottom of the pole which secured his spreader bar when he came in is no longer needed and is removed.

It's then that I'm able to tell that the punishment pole itself actually ends about a foot above the floor. There are no fittings or attachment devices in the floor itself—the floor is completely smooth. It dawns on me that this makes it easy to clean up bodily fluids of any kind. That morbid thought segues to wondering what Seven is feeling now he's suspended off the floor. How will I feel when that happens to me—what rush of helplessness will surge through my brain as my feet slide away from the floor, as my legs fold over the bar?

Seven's about to be fitted with the double-ringed device—his chest punishment harness, I now see. This is a moment I've been waiting for. My curiosity about how it works edges aside any anxiety over what it, along with whatever it supports, is surely going to do to us.

Only the collar and gag presently secure Seven's upper body to the pole, so there's a little space between his back and the pole. His attendants thread the peculiar-looking device through the gap and clamp it to the pole. They each grasp a ring-bearing end and together they draw them around his body and fold them over his torso, where they latch them together to create a sort of grotesque cross-bra. It appears to have been sized carefully: Seven's nipples peek through the left and right openings precisely centered. Will mine fit that well, I wonder?

They adjust tensioning devices on each side of the harness to tighten it around Seven's torso, pulling his back tightly to the pole. Seven moans again as the harness compresses his chest. His diminutive aureolae bulge through the rings: the attendants adhere a pair of gelled electrical torment cups, with tubes and cables already attached, over Seven's protruding breast-buds, and clip the cups securely to the rings—there's no way those are going to fall off, I think to myself, no matter how much Seven thrashes.

I'm wondering how all this is going over with number six. She must be infuriated as she looks back and forth between Seven's accumulating accoutrements and her own full cart, but she's managing largely successfully to appear nonchalant.

Perhaps a tiny bit less nonchalant now Seven's almost done. The rear attendant fastens another device to Seven's punishment pole—this one has a rod extending out to the rear, supporting a hub just like the front wrist-strap hub at its end, except with four straps hanging out. Seven's wrists are pushed back down by the ceiling rod and his arm-cuffs re-attached to the rear rod as when he came in, but this time, once his arm-cuffs are secured, two straps from the rear hub are pulled around his sides and clipped to his wrist bands. The rear straps then are wound in while the front hub pays out, pulling his wrists around behind him, drawing them together at his back.

The other two straps are hooked to his leg shackles and tightened part-way. The hub-rod device's pole-lock is partially released, allowing it to slide on the punishment pole. The leg shackle straps are then tightened the rest of the way, pulling Seven's wrists down, pulling his ankles up into a secure hogtie as the hub finds its natural up-down position. The purpose of the rod which fastens the rear hub to the punishment pole now becomes clear—it prevents Seven's legs from being drawn closer to his body by the hogtie than he can stand.

But once Seven is in the hogtie, the rod can also be lengthened to tighten him up further, limiting the movement of his wrists and ankles even more. The rear attendant adjusts the rod outward, and out come more moans. The original wrist strap hub, presently hanging loose over Seven's belly-electrode, is re-tightened by the front attendant, once more pulling his belly tightly into the pole, also making a tidier appearance in front. The rear attendant reaches around him to loop a strap around his thighs and the punishment pole, just below the saddle. She tightens the strap, squeezing his thighs to the saddle and pole. Cuff-electrodes with the usual electrical sockets and grease fittings get fitted around his lower legs and around his arms below his elbows.