The party had been wild, you seventeen.

When it was busted you and three of your girlfriends ended up together, giggling drunk, sharing a cold cell. Finally they’d had to switch off the lights to shut you up.

You were rudely woken at dawn – cold, hungover and aching from the rough concrete floor – by the heavy cell door clanging open. The officer selected one of your two friends, sharing the relative comfort of the narrow bed head to toe, and took her away, locking the door behind him.

You were still groggy, sick in your stomach, when she was brought back threequarters of an hour later stark naked, tangle of skimpy party clothes clutched to her chest, sandals hanging from her fingers. Her cheeks were red and . She droped her clothes to the floor as the door slammed closed, covered her face and started to sob.

“My god! What did they do to you?” one of your friends asked, stupidly.

“What do you fucking think they did to me?” she yells “two dirty old fucking cops gave me ten strokes of the cane, that’s what they did to me – and you’re all getting the same, plus 20 hours community service”.

“But I’ll tell you what, the caning’s not the worste bit, the worst bit’s stripping in front of those smirking dirty old fuckers, being strapped down legs apart so they can get a good look between your legs and being made to walk back here through the station, in front of dozens of people, like this –
naked”. The tears have dried up with her sudden anger and she starts to dress, leaving her panties off.

As she finished dressing the door swung open again, and it was your turn. You were lead from the cell by two officers, one you guessed to be in his early thirties the other mid forties. They said nothing as they lead you to the superintendents cluttered office and handed him your rap sheet.

He gave it only a cursory glance, not bothering to acknowledge your presence, “same as the others?”, “yes Sir”, “OK” he signed the bottom of the form with a flourish and handed it back to the older officer – “the same for her; 10 strokes and 20 hours – take her downstairs”.

Before you could object you were led from his office, a firm grip on your forearm. They pushed you in front of them down the corridor, through the station. You could feel them looking you up and down appreciatively, finally the younger sniggered “you know what … I think I’m going to enjoy this one even more than her friend – don’t you just love these naughty little tenagers and their little strip shows?” to you know, “can’t wait to see your little tits and tight pussy girl”.

Your your cheeks flushed in embarrassed trepidation of the upcoming act of punishment and humiliation.

Finally they lead you down a clanking metal stairwell to the basement where a woman officer stood waiting in front of another heavy iron cell door.

Inside thie cell was even more depressing than the one you shared with your girlfriends, just a few square metres of windowless dirty whitewashed concrete, a single low watt bulb hanging, hot, on a length of cable, from the ceiling and a cheap steel legged formica table bolted to the floor square in the middle of the floor. Four pairs of handcuffs hung, two from corners of the tabletop and two around oposing legs, ready to restrain you.

The female officer locked the cell door and stood, barring the exit, arms crossed, indifferent and bored. She’d been witness dozens of times before and doesn’t care – she’s a token legal requirement when a female offender is to be naked with male officers.

Turning to face you, both grinning, the older of the officers pointed at your chest; “it’s time – strip”.

When you didn’t move he started again, more slowly “take off your clothes, your jewellery; absolutely everything and leave it on the floor. Offenders are to be completely naked when they receive punishment”.

With no choice, and not wanting to subject yourself to an assisted strip you started to undress. It didn’t take long, your thin party clothes little impedemant to imminent nudity, your sandals, tee-shirt, then shorts joined one another in an untidy pile on the floor between you and the police officers. Then, with your cheeks flushed hot, your skimpy black bra and panties topped the pile and you were naked.

“Jewellery” the younger officer reminds you – and your earrings, necklace and watch fell in turn on top of your bunched up panties.

They made short work of strapping you down. Bending you roughly to double up over the tables edge and clamping your wrists out in front of you at opposing corners of the table. Then crouched at your feet to enjoy your utter humiliation as they slowly pulled your legs wide and cuffed your ankles to the table legs.

“Cute pussy”. You didn’t know which of them whispered it to you as they stood again.

The ten strokes were applied quickly and mercilessly. You writhed in agony with each seering stroke and tried in vain to hold back the tears and screams. By the fourth stroke you were no longer able to and began to struggle ineffectually against your bonds, trying somehow to escape the next blow, howling your agony into the soundproofed room. Tears ran over your hot cheeks and fell to the tabletop in front of you.

It was over as quickly as it started, you don’t remember being released or having your bundle of clothes thrust into your hands. You do remember the humiliation of the long walk through the station back to the cell and your girlfriends, policemen those being interviewed looking up from their desks to smirk at the naked young woman as she’s lead between them.

———

This time, in your mid thirties, you’ve been stopped at a checkpoint returning from a late night at the office.