An Afternoon in the Stocks
by

Vanessa

Published on Thursday, September 13, 2007

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My sentence for drunk driving had been handed down by the Judge less than an hour ago:  Four hours in the town stocks (Barefooted).

As shockingly ancient and barbarically timeless as it sounds, this was actually a twenty-first century punishment where I live.  And I live in America!

Living in the Bible-Belt (Sherman, Texas to be exact) had taken some getting used to, and life in this town of about forty thousand was much different than life where I had grown up: Los Angeles, California.  My job had sent me here, though, and I had to make a choice: Take the job transfer and move to Sherman or go back to my old occupation in Southern California: a waitress at a strip club.

The radical punishment of sitting in the stocks had just been passed by the local lawmakers; they felt that some old-fashion, public humiliation would scare the wrongdoing-sinners straight.  I vaguely recall seeing an article in the local newspaper when this ludicrous law was passed but, like most everyone, I never thought that it would ever affect me or my life.  

I sat on a rather uncomfortable, wooden bench, with my hands cuffed tightly behind my back, looking down at my feet that were, at least for now, covered by socks and Nike, running shoes.

Underneath the white, booty-socks and the $137 pair of Nikes were my bare feet; I had just painted my toenails a light shade of purple the evening before.  I had been told, many times in fact and by several different men, that my feet were very sexy. I didn’t think so, though. I was fairly certain that they were more attractive than some, but they had always been an intimate part of my body. I rarely displayed them in public and when I did, I struggled to hide the fact that I was very self-conscious of them.

I was currently single (my man and I had broken up about a month ago) and this, in part, was the reason for my excessive partying and eventual arrest: a humiliating experience in of itself.  I hadn’t had many guys who I could actually call a boyfriend in my twenty-three years of existence, and though it may sound silly, I even tried to keep my feet hidden from them during the early stages of courtship. One of the reasons for this is that ever since I was young, twelve or so, my feet had always been an area that could –when correctly caressed- arouse me sexually.

A uniformed officer called my name, effectively snapping me back to the present. He addressed the collection of prisoners, me and six others who sat on the bench, uncomfortably pinioned; I wondered if my fellow prisoners’ cuffs were as tight as mine.

I struggled to stand up, pinching my wrists with the cuffs in the process, and identified myself in a soft voice as I tried to shake some rouge strands of highlighted hair out of my face.

The tall, athletic officer stepped my way and asked me to kneel down on the wooden bench behind me, and face the other way.

Submissively, I did as I was told and with aching knees I awaited my fate. Was he going to strip my feet bare, right here, right now?  Did he even know the circumstances and details of my sentence?  I held my breath as I waited under the watchful eyes of the other six prisoners on the bench; five of them were males.

It was then that I felt the cold steel of the shackles touch my bare ankle, the right one first, just above my booty-sock. A seemingly loud, clanking noise ensued as the cuff’s ratchet closed around my right leg. The same was done with the left ankle, and then I was helped off the bench and onto my feet.

Without saying anything, the guard grabbed me by my right elbow and led me out of the "DETENTION AREA" as a posted sign clearly stated on the door.

If you have never had the lovely experience of walking in shackles, you should do it some time; only to make sure that you never do anything that will land you in them again.  It’s ankle snubbing, awkward and humiliating.  As I passed through the crowded, main lobby of the Justice Center I tried my best not to make eye contact with anybody.  Heaven only knows who might have shown up to fight a traffic ticket or file a grievance against their neighbor on that particular afternoon.

Out into the brilliant, May sunshine I was taken by the officer, dragging the chain of my fetters as I went.  We eventually got to a black and white, police car and I was carefully placed into it.  Then we were off to the stocks and given the right circumstances I would have admired the swift justice of Grayson County.

The reality of the whole thing hadn’t hit me yet, but as I sat in the back of the car -the freedom of my limbs having been taken by the manacles -my heart began to race.  I didn’t know where the stocks were located, exactly, but I desperately hoped it was in a remote area.  I was not that lucky.

In the town square, not a quarter of a mile from the Justice Center was where my punishment would take place.  This was a complete shock to me because I had passed by the area everyday for the past two years on my way to work and I had never seen what was looming there now: a portable set of stocks.

They were made out of wood and had four circular holes, eight semi-circles, cut into the edges of the two heavy timbers.  This created four, ankle-sized holes that could confine two prisoners, simultaneously.  They were painted black and were resting on a new trailer that was hitched to a city-owned SUV.

My heartbeat picked up the pace even more when the medieval-device came into clearer view when we rolled up next to it.  As uncomfortable and hot as I was in the damn cop car, I didn’t want to leave.

The officer opened door and I reluctantly scooted my ass towards him, then I swung my chained feet out of the car and onto the sidewalk.  He immediately grabbed my elbow again and led me to a thong of justice-seekers that was beginning to gather around the stocks.  My fate was at hand.

For a brief moment my hopes that the communiqué between the Judge and the administrator of my punishment had been inadequate: I was hoping that the “barefoot” part of my sentence had been lost in the shuffle.  I was seated on what they referred to as “the bench” but it was nothing more than a board, affixed to platform perpendicularly, yielding less than two inches of depth for my ass to fit on.  There was also no backrest.

My shackles and handcuffs were taken off and I barely had time to massage my wrists before my arms were once again forced behind my back and fastened together again; this time by plastic “Zip-Cuffs.”  Two uniformed officers, one on each side of me, then grabbed my feet and thrust them onto the bottom semi-circles that had been cut into the lower of the two boards.  The heavy, upper board had been lifted up prior to my legs being placed in the indentions and then it was clamped down again.  This effectively secured my feet into the device, and then a large padlock was clicked shut on the right side of the stocks.  I was stuck.

I was still harboring hopes that my feet would remain unexposed during the ordeal until the administrator announced the details of my punishment to the public.

He stood on the platform and read, “In accordance to the law 134.45.54, you are hereby sentenced to spend four hours in the town stocks.” The man allowed time for a cheer that eventually erupted from the crowd. “In addition to her confinement,” he continued after the crowd noise had reduced to a murmur, “she is required to spend the length of her sentence with her bare feet exposed.” Another raucous cheer from the crown flared up.

My heart sunk and as I prepared for the worst.  Then, one of the two uniformed officers made his way to the front of the stocks, where my feet were dangling, and slowly took off my Nikes, one by one.  Then, he removed my socks –simultaneously- with a swift yank.

And there I was. Barefooted and feeling naked.  I would rather have been sitting there topless, but with my feet covered to be honest.

Thankfully, my feet were tan from a trip that I had taken to San Padre a few weeks before but that didn’t quell my anxiety much.  My purple painted toes were out there for the whole city of Sherman to gawk at; I would have put on a toe ring if I had known that they were going to be the center of attention that afternoon.

At that point, another thought crept into my mind: what if this gets me sexually aroused?  Could you imagine it?  Me, sitting there in the stocks as my pussy uncontrollably emitted juices of excitement.  My face would become fuchsia in color if wasn’t already.

I had a good reason for this fear, though, and only a select few knew about it:  I could be aroused –nearly to the point of orgasm- with the simple petting of my peds.

I prayed that it wouldn’t happen but just in case it did, I had unknowingly dressed to disguise any unplanned discharge.  That morning I had selected clothes appropriate for community service because I thought that was exactly what I would be sentenced to.  A girlfriend of mine had been pinched on similar charges (a DUI) a few months ago and she was forced to pull weeds in front of the town library for five hours; I had shown up to watch her suffer during her humiliating experience.  Ironic, huh?  My outfit today consisted of a canary tank-top and a pair of navy-blue running shorts that did a poor job of covering my tanned and toned legs.

Though it had seemed like hours, the town clock indicated that I had only been sitting there for ten minutes and already there were three areas of pain: my ass from the “Bench” digging into it; my back from having to slump in that position with no backrest; and my ankles from having to support the entire weight of my legs.

It may not seem like much, sitting in the stocks, but it can get very uncomfortable even after only a short duration of confinement.

After a half an hour I had already begun to shift my ass around as much as I could to find new place to let the board dig in.  I also found that by moving my feet in circles and wiggling my toes it reduced the strain on my ankles and kept them from falling asleep; but in the process, it also attracted unwanted attention to them.

Sitting there, being punished in the way that I was, got me to thinking about something I had pondered on several occasions: what percentage of men actually possessed a foot fetish.  One out of ten, or less? Three out of ten, or more? Whatever the statistic is, I think that every last one of them in the tri-county area had gotten wind of my predicament and they all came out to add some mental-material to their spank bank.

There were old men, young men and even young boys coming close enough to get a glimpse, but there were also women.  I wasn’t sure if the females were there to get a peak at my toes, or to simply add to my humiliation.  Either way I felt like a mouse in a bottle.

At the end of hour number one, I was aching but it was bearable.  The embarrassment of it all was still thick, though.  I was beginning to discover some new pains that were adding to my misery: my wrists and my shoulders. The Zip Cuffs were very unforgiving, and I found it hard to move my hands at all.  Not only did this hurt my hands, but it also put a lot of strain on my shoulders.

Halfway into to hour number two a new element was added to my plight: weight on my toes.  One of the guards took my Nikes and tied the shoelaces to my big toes!  The dangling footgear brought laughter and more mocking from the crowd and after about ten minutes, a reasonable amount of pain to the top tendons of my feet.

It got worse though.  The organization, Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) was allowed to place a sign (handwritten in black marker on cardboard) under my bare feet that read:

"Now accepting donations

Anything that you can spare will help our cause, but please, coins only.  Your change will make a can make a change.  Even pennies carry some weight.  Please place your donations directly INTO THESE SHOES.

Thanks, (MADD)

P.S.  We’d be glad to break a dollar."

And the coins started to fill my shoes.  The incredible strain on my ankles was starting to make me perspire and with my hands bound there was nothing I could do about the stinging beads of sweat that rolled into my eyes.

I was miserable.

At the beginning of hour number three I was softly moaning in pain.

Hadn’t I suffered enough?

Someone, though, was reading my thoughts and he emerged from the crowd and approached the stocks.

He was tall, well dressed and handsome, but I was ashamed to look him in the eye.  He began to study my poor toes, which had now taken on a shade of purple, and I began to wonder what he was doing.

Then he spoke. “Such beautiful, perfect feet shouldn’t be treated like this,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else.

I looked up at him and for the first time I actually saw him.  But I said nothing.  He was absolutely gorgeous and I blushed a shade deeper.

“Excuse me, officer,” he said, getting the attention of uniformed cop. “I’m a doctor and it is my recommendation that her toes must be freed of this burden immediately to prevent permanent damage.”

The husky cop said nothing at first and only shrugged. Then he said, “So, free them then.”

The handsome doctor then quickly untied the laces from my poor toes.  An immediate rush of pain shot down my spine and into my feet as the blood rushed from the area.  Then, without saying anything, he began to massage my feet.  At first it hurt but then it began to feel good as his strong, smooth hands caressed my soles and ankles.

As I watched him work his fingers around my feet I began to feel a sensation in my pussy.  I looked around to see if anyone in the crowd had noticed a change in my persona, but most of them had lost interest by now. The girl’s suffering had become banal.

As the foot rub continued I became more and more aroused, but I was helpless.  Helplessly bound and fastened to the stocks!  My breathing became heavier and heavier, and I did my best to hide the fact that I was getting excited. The good doctor, however, was not tricked.  He winked at me as he pressed on and I noticed that the crotch of his khaki slacks was now harboring a bulge.

The notation that he was getting turned on didn’t help matters any, so I began to ever-so-slightly, flex and contract my butt cheeks to enhance my arousal.  What torture this was!

Then, just like that, he stopped. “You’ve got an hour left in your sentence?” he asked.

I softly eked out, “Yes” from my lips amidst heavy breathing.

“Can I come back then, and take you for some coffee?” he asked.

“Yes. That would be fine,” I managed to say, still a submissive prisoner.

“Great. I’ll be back at four,” he said and disappeared.

During the last hour of my punishment the hands on the town clock seemed to be moving extra slow, as if they were stuck in mud. It wasn’t so much the myriad pain that I was suffering that made time stand still, more so the anticipation of being set free and into the arms of that gorgeous hunk.

At four o’clock, only a sparse crowd remained to witness the popping of the lock and the separation of the boards that had been my wooden prison.  My cuffs were clipped and then I pulled my bare feet from the semicircles, noticing that red, indentations now circled my ankles.

I massaged my wrists, my calves, and my feet and then I stood up –my back cracked loudly as I rotated my trunk.  I was finally free!  The officer gave me back my socks and my, now, coin-free shoes and I quickly put them back on.

The good doctor was true to his word, and he helped me off the trailer once I had reinstated my footgear. With my feet covered again, I no longer felt naked, but a part of me wanted to be barefoot again and back in the stocks with the doctor attending to me.

Just after I had turned my back to the trailer, I saw a cop car approaching the area, and quickly.  I felt a rush of panic as thoughts of an extended sentence consumed me.  But it quickly became clear that it was not going to be me occupying the stocks this time. The officer driving the car got out, opened the back door, and pulled out blonde girl; she was shackled and cuffed just like I had been four hours ago.

The doctor stopped, turned around and watched intently as the girl was brought to the stocks. I followed his lead.

The fair-haired girl was then seated and locked into the stocks, and then her sentence was read. It was identical to mine. Her shoes and socks were removed, and she was left sitting there –a look of forlorn consumed her pretty face as a lone tear ran down her cheek.

The doctor then looked down at me and said with a smile, “These stocks are not nearly as private as the ones in my bedroom.”

His mere words got my juices flowing again, and we made a b-line to his car.

I knew that time I would get some satisfaction during my punishment.