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From: Distressica <distressica@gmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Wrist Stocks {Distressica} (F mild nc tort bond humil nosex)
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Date: Sun, 27 Jan 2008 17:10:02 -0500
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Title: The Wrist Stocks
Author: Distressica
Email: distressica@gmail.com
Keywords: F mild nc tort bond humil nosex
Summary: In a world slightly different from ours, a young woman is
	publicly punished in the wrist stocks.


The web version of this story have some notes and references:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/distressica/www/stories/The_Wrist_Stocks.html

Copyright (c) 2007-2008 by Distressica. All rights reserved.

This story can be distributed as long as no text is changed, including
this notice and authorship information, and access to the story is free
and unrestricted. It would be nice to let me know where the story is
distributed.

This story may be considered adult material, so act accordingly. This
story is pure fantasy. Do not try anything described in this story.
Nothing is tested in real life and the author does not condone any act
or ideas described in the story.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


The Wrist Stocks

Distressica



``Please step up onto the dais, miss,'' the officer said softly.

She stepped up, not needing the tentatively offered arm. She was wearing
a pretty dress, cut low in the front and the back. The dress hung on
spaghetti straps on her shoulders, following the contour of her body to
her hips, accentuating her narrow waist, following the natural curve of
her hips out until it fluttered loosely at mid thigh, highlighting her
long, slender legs. Her hair came down about her bare shoulders and she
wore no makeup, her clear, natural beauty shining through. She was ready
for a rare night out on the town.

The circular dais was about four feet across and one foot high. A large
crowd had gathered around it while she followed the officer there,
sensing something is happening. She could see over them down the wide
pedestrian boulevard teaming with people, and far in the distance,
another dais amidst the pedestrians. On the right was the busy vehicular
boulevard, and on the left, fancy shops, their upper stories overhanging
the dais. This was the place to be in the City.

The officer put away her purse, wrist watch and heels in a compartment
in the dais and detached a device from the side, activating its
measuring laser, guiding the beam from the bottom of her feet up to her
shoulder then down to her wrist. As the officer entered codes on the
keypad of the device, a clear box descended from its resting place below
the ceiling. The crowd hushed as the box came to a stop at the
appropriate height. The officer replaced the device and announced the
punishments: ``Thirty minutes for littering, thirty minutes for
profanity, and sixty minutes for obstructing justice.''

She took a quick glance at the officer. His expressions were solemn,
impassionate. Perhaps he had some sympathy for her plight, but his sense
of duty and justice shone through. He remained still, looking at her
expectantly like the rest of the crowd. Though she had never even
witnessed such public punishments, which were recently implemented, she
knew what to do. Still, her chest heaved and fear tinkled through her
body. She felt something strange in her chest, kind of a tightening, but
really the manifestation of fear, anxiety, shame and guilt.

She lifted her arms over her head, the hem of her dress rising slightly
up her thighs. The box was low enough to touch, but she pushed her hands
through the two openings a little more than shoulder-width apart.
Through each opening, her hands pushed up six metal plates arranged
symmetrically around the center. The center opened up into a hole among
the staggered plates, expanding bigger and bigger until her hands
slipped through, and the plates hinged down by gravity around the narrow
of her wrists. She stopped as the plates fell around her wrists, just as
her arms were about to reach full extension. The officer walked off,
still on duty, but much of the stationary crowd remained. In fact, the
crowd grew as people stopped near the occupied dais.

Her first instinct was to pull her hands down, but as she did, pain
flared around her wrists. She winced, grinding her teeth and squinting
her eyes. She did not want to cry out in pain in front of all the people
watching her, though she wasn't sure why. Perhaps what little that was
left of her dignity was at stake, to bear it nobly. The crowd seemed to
enjoy watching her suffer, and she didn't want to give them that
satisfaction. There were little teeth on the metal edges circling her
wrists. The plates followed her wrists down, but they came closer
together as they lowered, biting into her skin, firing off nerves
endings but not drawing blood. She quickly pushed her hands back up, and
the pressure on her wrists eased.

Her instinct was still to free her hands, though in her mind she knew
she had to hold them there for her full term. If not down, then they
must go up. Pushing her hands further up, the plates followed, opening
up, but dropped down about her wrists before she could pull her hands
out. And she stung her wrists again. The opening was nowhere large
enough to allow her hands through, but the brief opening of the plates
gave her wrists a false sense of freedom. She tried moving her hands
sideways, to force open the plates, but the plates were hinged to only
move out as they moved up, and she only managed to poke her wrists on
the teeth. And turning her wrists only scraped the teeth on them.

Despite her efforts, she just could not keep her hands still. They tried
desperately to grasp _some_thing, but nothing solid was in reach.
They can only open and close on air. Twisting and turning hurt, and
pulling down or even relaxing her arms hurt even more. Moving up seemed
to be the only way to loosen the grip of the plates, if only briefly,
and soon she lifted her heels, after having fully extended her arms.
Then she couldn't get back to her original position anymore, due to the
natural tendencies of the hinged plates. She knew she was falling into
the trap, but she could only hold still for so long, before hurting her
wrists or moving higher. Though spasmodic, the cumulative effects raised
her up to the tip of her toes and she could go no higher.

Now her body was stretched taut from her toes to her wrists. The plates
did nothing to hold her up, only giving her pain when she tried to relax
her body. She rotated her hands and flexed her fingers. She pulled her
wrists down against the biting teeth and pushed them back up. No matter
what she did, her wrists stayed in place, not so much held by the plates
but by their devious design. She tip-toed forward two tiny steps, then
back three, trying to maintain her balance and to center herself. And on
and off, the agonizing dance continued. Forward and back, forward and
back, balancing, centering, stand still, stand still. And after a while,
the steps began again.

She looked down her body. Her cleavage was particularly prominent from
her vantage point, though she knew others could still see just more than
a hint of it even with her elevated position on the dais. And the gentle
swell at the top of her bosom must also be noticeable. Further down, she
could feel the evening breeze under her skirt, which gently swayed about
her upper thighs. She felt exposed, bare from her wrists down her arms,
her shoulders and neck just covered in the back by her hair, down to the
top of her bosoms in front and her bra strap behind, and again bare from
below her skirt at mid thigh down her legs to her toes. She normally
dressed more conservatively, preferring not to show off the body people
dream of, but this was supposed to be a special night out.

She had started by getting a slice of pizza, deciding to eat out on the
boulevard in the twilight, and then--

She could feel people looking at her, at her body, at her stationary
struggles. She didn't want to look back. She looked up. Not at the wrist
plates, for she had known them well enough by now. No, above the box was
a screen. Though not angled correctly for someone just below it, and
seeing it upside down, she could kind of make out the words. Words she
knew by heart: her infractions and punishments.

The littering was of the pizza going splat on the pedestrian boulevard,
face down and beyond recovery. How she could have walked on, without so
much as a second look, she did not know. Perhaps it's another bad habit
or the general indifference that everyone seemed to share. Regardless of
consequences, she made a mess and should have tried to clean it up, even
if she's not dressed for it. The profanity was a single word in response
to the disaster, and the near-disaster of the pizza landing on her
dress. She always felt certain words are appropriate as expletives, but
perhaps not in public, out loud. The obstruction was for trying to get
out of it--another generic bad habit--not very hard, though--she
would never try to flirt out of citations, even if she is dressed for
it, but--

She could feel the tip of her hair swinging about her bare shoulders.
She could feel the breeze under her skirt up her thighs to her panties.
Her muscles ached, in her toes bent to hold her weight, in her arches,
up her calves and thighs, in her shoulders, in her arms, and of course
around her wrists. She had lost her sense of time. How long had it been?
How long does she have left? She did not trust any impressions that came
to her. Now and then, she counted to herself, but knew she'll never
reach the thousands, even if she knew how much time is left. She
desperately wanted to ask someone for the time, but perhaps she needed
to suffer in silence.

She again looked over the gathered crowd. What were they really
watching? Not the sympathetic ones; they knew it's best to offer silent
support then let her be; but the shocked ones, the ones curious about
what's happening, the ones seeing justice served, the jeering ones, the
leering ones. If anything, they're watching her suffering, watching her
body. Dare one of them jump up onto the dais and--

And she looked back to what she's feeling, being watched by all these
people. The tightening feeling in her chest returned. She wondered if it
exited her to be so much on display. Perhaps it's like putting on the
little black dress... And the suffering-- No. It hurts, and can be
interpreted as nothing but punishment. She cannot possibly be one of
those who embrace pain, but--

Click. The wrist plates sprang outward and swung open. Her wrists and
her body dropped in the sudden release but she caught herself. She tried
to work normal feelings back to her limbs while being inconspicuous.
Then she stepped down the dais, gathered her things, and merged into the
dispersing crowd.



THE END


------------------------------------------------------------------------


My non-commercial website have the latest public versions of all my
stories. If you like certain stuff posted to certain places, let me
know. And of course, feedback is always very much welcomed.

Distressica
distressica@gmail.com
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/distressica/www/


-- 
Distressica Stories
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/distressica/www/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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