The Pillory

Author's Note: I am especially excited about this story as I had a sexual awakening in a pillory. Years ago, I was visiting a colonial village on a class trip when my friends and I came upon an old wooden pillory that was set up to show visitors what punishment might look like in early America. The girls I was with took turns standing on the little block, head and arms through the holes while we all took pictures.

When it was my turn I found myself particularly nervous as I placed my neck and wrists in half circles. My friend quickly took the upper half of the pillory and brought it down to lock me in place. What I felt at that moment was both frightening and exciting. The wooden structure that was holding me down in an uncomfortable position gave me no control over my neck or arms. As the other girls were giggling and taking pictures I suddenly found myself particularly aroused. The feeling was not new but the circumstances surprised me. I was soon to learn many new things about myself.

I will admit here that I haven't been in a pillory since that day but I have spent hour upon hour fantasizing about pillories and other curious punishments of bygone days. In almost all of my stories you will find examples of forced control and punishment. It's just what I like to think about.

I still have that picture in a desk drawer and, yes, I still pull it out and feel that special warmth as I remember that day.

Finally, I must warn all my readers that this story lacks explicit sexual content. Erotica can transcend the physical act itself, carrying diverse meanings for each individual. For me, it encompasses the power dynamics between men and women, as well as the pain and humiliation that can arise from such control.

Enjoy!

THE PILLORY

Edgefields, Pennsylvania -- in the not too distant future

I couldn't deny my guilt. I had stolen the shoes for my son. His feet had grown out of the only pair he had and he needed shoes for school. At the store I found a pair that fit and we quickly hid his old shoes in the box and walked out of the store. He was too young to understand what we had done and I was desperate to keep him shod.

Of course I wasn't the first to try this scheme and, yes, the stupid store security was ready for us as we walked out the door. And that brought me to the city courthouse where I had to defend my clearly illegal activity.

From the very moment that I confessed my guilt, no one seemed interested in learning about my child's needs or how my husband had abandoned us, leaving me, a 25 year old mom, with almost nothing. I was doing what any mother would do: find a way to take care of her child.

I did as I was advised by the ridiculous public defender lawyer guy who had been assigned to me but wasn't that interested in actually helping. After giving me one piece of advice, he wandered off into the busy halls of the courthouse. So when asked how I would plea, I stood and did as I was told and meekly responded, "Guilty with an explanation, your honor."

There was silence for a moment and I wondered what I was to do next. Do I keep talking? Is this where I give my explanation. Do I sit down?

Finally the judge, who looked like he wanted to be here as much as my recently departed lawyer said, "Go on, Miss McIfay."

Out of habit I corrected him. I was still married and used my husband's name. "It's Mrs, your honor."

Big mistake! Huge!

The look I received from the judge told me that I had set the old guy off. I nervously attempted to continue. "I, um, your honor, I needed the shoes for my son, I can't let him go to school barefoot."

The prosecutor, another old guy, was suddenly on his feet. He was tall and well dressed and when he stood I suddenly felt very small. "Do you work, Mrs McIfay?" His emphasis on Mrs made me feel even smaller yet.

"Yes," I responded.

"But you chose not to pay for the shoes?"

"Well, see, there's the rent and we needed some food and, well, there just wasn't..." my voice trailed off. Tears were running down my cheeks.

"Where did you get the dress you are wearing today, Mrs McIfay?"

I was taken off guard. It was an old dress barely passable for a court appearance And he was wearing a suit that probably cost more than a month's rent. "I've had it for a while," I responded.

"Did you purchase it?"

"Well yes, of course," I responded somewhat confused by his question.

"So you buy your own clothing but force your son to steal shoes. Is this any way to bring up a child?"

I stared at him as I drew up all the courage I could muster. "He-He didn't know we were stealing"

The prosecutor wasn't letting go, "Your honor, this woman is using a minor to conspire in an act of thievery. I ask that she be found guilty of this crime."

The judge seemed to agree. The two old men were on the same page and I knew that I was in trouble.

"Mrs McIfay," said the judge, once again emphasizing my title, "You have admitted your guilt and while I understand your need, theft is theft and we cannot have thieves running around our town. I find you guilty." The gavel made me jump when it slammed into the wooden desk. With the decision behind him, his voice softened "Who is watching your child now, Mrs McIfay?"

"My sister, your honor."

"Can she stay the night?"

Oh no! They were going to lock me up. I wanted to lie and say she couldn't but I didn't dare. If it came out that she was living with us I might be in more trouble. Society didn't look kindly on two women living together -- even if they were sisters "Yes sir," I responded softly.

The judge studied a computer screen then turned back to the court and stared directly at me. I froze. "Mrs McIfay, as punishment for this offense you are to spend one full day in the town pillory. I see that it is available tomorrow so you will remain in custody here at the courthouse tonight."

I felt my knees weaken below me as the loud gavel slammed down again. The pillory! I could think of nothing worse than being locked up in the town square with everyone staring at me. I had never known anyone who had been in the pillory. I always thought of it as a place for old drunken men.

Suddenly there was motion everywhere in the courtroom. The judge turned to leave apparently not wanting to witness the horror that he had just assigned to me. The cruel prosecutor also disappeared. For just a moment I pictured the two of them meeting for a drink as they laughed at the poor scared girl.

My thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of two guards who were wordlessly taking my wrists and locking them behind my back.

Without a word each guard took an arm and walked me out a side door, down a short hall, and down two flights of stairs. When we arrived at a large well locked door marked 'Holding Cells,' I became very aware of what it meant to be "in custody"

The first stop was at a desk where a bored matron checked off my name and took my phone and shoes. My shoes? Really? I couldn't help but laugh over the fact that these people were now stealing MY shoes. As she scrunched my prized belonging into what looked like a garbage bag, she said to the guards, "cell nine" and turned back to a handheld device which looked to be playing an old soap opera.

I had expected to see barred cells with prisoners looking out but instead it was just a hallway with wooden doors. I could hear a woman crying and a drunken man sputtering about something but everything was muffled and by the time I was placed behind my door, all was quiet.

The guards unlocked my wrists giving me back just a bit of control. "Someone will be in to see you shortly," the larger man said as he turned to leave.

As soon as he was out the door the other guard looked back at me. He was a handsome man about my age man with red hair and a kind smile. Had it been another place and time I might have found him sexy and intriguing.

"I have kids, they gotta have shoes," he said. He shook his head sadly and closed the door behind him.

"Thank you," I said to the closed door. His kind words touched my heart. There was one person in court who was on my side, one person who understood.

Alone for the first time all day, I looked around my new surroundings, my cell. Just thinking that word sent shivers down my spine. I got up and tried the door. Locked, as expected. I paced. Six steps from bed to wall, nine from door to the back wall.

There was only one word that could describe the room: Grey. The walls ceiling and floor were all painted a dull grey. One dim light shone dimly in the middle of the ceiling and a small vent high on the outside wall was my only connection to the rest of the world. I had one piece of furniture: a cot sized bed whose pillow lay only inches from a toilet that desperately needed cleaning.

I sat on the bed and waited for that someone who would be here shortly.

When there is no clock in sight and nothing to do but sit and stare at a grey walls, time quickly gets fuzzy. Was it five minutes? An hour? Two? Suddenly the door opened without warning and a man in a grey jacket that almost matched the walls appeared in front of me. The guy looked like he'd rather be just about anywhere other than here. I know what it feels like to hate your job and I immediately could tell that was this guy's problem. We locked eyes for a moment, each sizing up the other. I couldn't help but wonder what this man had in store for me, and I bet he was wondering how much trouble I was going to cause him.

In one hand he had some papers and a small bag, not much larger than an envelope, and in the other he carried a small folding chair which he slid open and sat facing me.

"You are Elizabeth McIfay,"

I couldn't tell if it was a statement or a question by the way he said it. I decided that he needed confirmation. "Yes, sir," I responded.

With that he pulled out a device and started reading. I sat and watched as his eyes bounced along the screen.

Finally the dull man spoke. "Do you understand what is happening tomorrow?" he asked.

I just stared at him. How do I answer this question? I knew that I was going to be put in the pillory and be forced to stand there all day. But what was going to happen to me? How would I feel? How much would it hurt? I had no idea. I looked up at him as he attempted to wait patiently for a response.

It was a yes or no question so I randomly chose an answer. "Yes" then immediately didn't like my response. "er, no. I mean, I don't know. I know l'm going to the pillory but, but, I..." I was stumbling unable to put my words together. As soon as I said the word, pillory, I shuddered and my eyes began to tear.

The man continued to stare at me. He was looking for a yes or a no and I couldn't give him what he needed. Finally he just repeated the question, "do you understand what is happening tomorrow?"

"Yes" I said just wanting to get this stupid conversation over with.

He seemed pleased with my answer and continued with what seemed to be a canned speech. There was zero emotion in his voice. "You will be picked up by guards just before daybreak. They will walk you to the square where your arms and neck will be placed in the pillory. (Another shudder from me) The top of the pillory will then be placed over you and locked. At that point you will remain there until one hour after sunset when guards will free you and you may go home. any questions?"

I had so many questions! What are people going to do to me? How much will it hurt? What if I have to pee!? I knew this guy had no answers to my questions so I just said no.

It was just as well as he was now standing folding up his little chair and turning toward the door. I watched curiously as he suddenly stopped and stared at the little package that was still in his hand. After looking at the package for what seemed like an eternity he turned back to me. "I almost forgot," his mind obviously preoccupied, "These are your clothes for tomorrow. You should change into them now so you'll be ready when they arrive." He handed me the package. and added, "take off everything and put this on," the way he said, 'everything' left no doubt in my mind about what he meant.

As he stepped out the door he added, "a guard will be here in a few minutes to take your street clothes. They will be returned to you tomorrow night." With that said he was out the door leaving me sitting on my cot with my mouth agape.

I opened the package only to find a cheap pair of slippers and a thin shift that, once opened, barely resembled a dress. Holding it up, I immediately saw that it was scarcely going to cover me. The hem was well above my knee and the top had a deep cut coming down the front that could easily lead to embarrassment.

I knew a guard would be appearing shortly so I had to hurry and change. Stripping down in this strange little room felt awkward. I wondered if hidden cameras could be on me as I quickly removed my bra and panties. Could that awful judge and his prosecutor pal be sitting at the bar staring at me on their handhelds? I slid the tiny piece of cloth over my head quickly covering my naked body.

As the shift settled over me, I again realized how thin the material was. With no mirror in the room I was left to wonder if someone could see through it. Looking down I could see my nipples poking and how high it came on my legs. This little dress made everything so much worse!

I finally sat myself down on the side of the bed with my own clothes folded nearly beside me. I tried unsuccessfully to get comfortable in my new outfit. I wondered what men wore in the pillory.

I had never really seen anyone in the pillory. I had walked through town and had seen and heard the jeering crowds but I never opted to joined in the cruel festivities.

The community embraced the pillory as a punishment tool when I was young. I remember reports on how there was no money for prisons and controversy over whether convicts needed rehabilitation or punishment. Punishment won out and the pillory became an inexpensive way to handle people in need of correction. Those endorsing the pillory argued that public punishment not only was a deterrent to crime, it also put the correction of criminals directly in the hands of the community.

My parents fought against the punishment, calling it an old fashioned cruelty. They argued that we needed to help people turn their lives around. My parents were called 'woke' for their beliefs, a term I never really understood. Was it a bad thing to be awake?

While I always honored my father's wishes and stayed away, I was curious and often talked to friends who had been witness to, and sometimes participated in the punishments. My best friend, Jalesse, was always in attendance and would tell me stories of how she would throw spoiled fruit at a prisoner or how some brave boy would run up and pour spoiled milk over his head.

Jalesse had tried to convince me that it was important to take part in this because it helps to cure those who are disrupting the community. When we were younger we merely debated what we had learned from our parents. As we aged our world views became our own and to this day we agree to disagree on the use of this humiliating public punishment.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of my door opening. I braced myself for whatever indignity might happen next. I was surprised to see the handsome red haired guard again. He looked at me in my thin covering sitting uncomfortably on the edge of my cot and immediately averted his eyes. I could sense his embarrassment.

"I've come to, um, pick up your clothes," he said shyly.

I felt I should stand and hand them to him but I was frozen in place, not daring to give him a better view of my body. I simply pointed to the pile next to me and said nothing.

He approached me cautiously and gently picked up the pile of clothing. I suddenly wished I had hidden my bra and panties inside the pile. It was a reminder to both of us how nearly naked I was.

As he backed away from the cot he finally looked at me. I expected a look of lust but instead found a pair of caring eyes.

"You don't deserve this." He said softly as if there might be other ears in the room. "You did what you had to do to take care of your kid."

I looked up at his caring face but couldn't respond.

"You're gonna make it through this," he continued. "You're strong, it will be a long day but you'll make it."

Tears were once again forming. "I don't know if I can do this," I sputtered, finally speaking my fears out loud.

"Yes you can," he replied, his voice becoming stronger. "My Uncle James always says, the only way out is through. You will get through and you will come out the other end stronger than ever."

"The only way out is through," I repeated looking directly in his eyes and ignoring my fears and embarrassment for the first time. "I like that." I noticed that he had quietly adjusted my pile of clothes so that my underwear was now hidden.

"I'm supposed to offer you some supper," he said, seemingly knowing what my response would be.

"I'll pass," I replied. "I don't think I could handle eating something tonight. But thank you. You are very kind."

"I figured, but I had to ask. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Can you contact my sister? Tell her what's happening.

"I can do that but she may know already. Word is out that you will be pilloried tomorrow."

Both hands went up and covered my suddenly beet red face. I was mortified! People already knew that I was to be placed in the pillory. I was sure it was the talk of the town. My friends and neighbors were probably wondering what horrid thing I had done to deserve this punishment. The thought made me want to dig myself into a hole and disappear. I cautiously opened my fingers allowing my eyes to meet his. "So everyone knows about tomorrow?"

"I'm afraid so. But I can still check in with your sister if you like"

"Yes, please and tell her to stay away from the square tomorrow. And keep my son away too."

"Of course," he replied. I'll contact them right away. Is there anything else I can do?"

I wanted to hug this man. He was being so nice to me on this gruesome day. I couldn't stand though. Not only would my legs not allow it, I was so embarrassed by my skimpy dress that I couldn't let him see any more of me.

He turned to leave but looked back before he reached the door and stared at me for a moment. I felt his pity, his fear for the next day of my life. "I will bring you some food tomorrow morning," he said gingerly. "You will be hungry then and you'll need strength for the day."

"That would be nice," I responded and then added "The only way out is through," I was taking those words to heart.

When he finally left, I let the tears come again. They fell fast and silent against my tiny dress. I lay on my lumpy cot but sleep would not come. In my mind I was already in the pillory exposed to hundreds of townspeople.

I thought about how this punishment was especially cruel for women. Men in the pillory would face the jeers and thrown fruit just like me but they wouldn't be stared at like prizes to be claimed. They wouldn't feel the weight of eyes lingering too long.

My heart continued to pound as I imagined the humiliation to come. The hours stretched as I lay on my cot curled in the fetal position trying desperately to prepare for the next day.

"The only way out is through" I repeated aloud over and over as I remembered the handsome red haired man, my last human contact.

I pushed myself to think about the man I knew as Red to attempt to keep myself from thinking about my impending torture. I realized, that night, that it had been a long time since I had talked to a good-looking man my own age. Ever since my husband, Paul, left a year ago, I had not had the opportunity to meet or talk to a someone who might be of interest.