The Punishment Club

by D. A. Maddox

  “Matron?” Buddy had asked as she drew the t-shirt over his head and off, returning him to the reality that the main reason he was here was to be disciplined for misbehavior, not treated for his anxieties. “Are you angry with me?”

  “Certainly not,” she said with a quick wink, then did him a solid by cuffing him up front instead of behind the back. “Your courage in our café theater is an episode I hope you will remember, going forward. That was unexpected, but also good for you and true. Yet you are still to be punished tonight. I do not escort prisoners to out-of-session punishment in jackets with elbow patches, my young penis-turtler. After, you shall have a shower, and then your uniform will be returned to you.”

  Unexpected, Buddy had thought. Your volunteer went off script. Both of you think you know what’s best for me. I wonder who’s right.

  Now, after being paraded again through the administration offices of the prison and past the waiting room, Buddy found himself guided by the arm through still another unknown door. A waiting room, he guessed, looking around. Emma Jo was already here.

  By the look of her, she wasn’t capable of much else.

  ****

  The waiting room had been designed—or at least equipped—with the Punishment Club in mind. There were four sets of punishment stocks in here all in a line. But Emma Jo knew from Officer Garcia that only Buddy would be joining her, and she was fine with that. Maybe more than fine. She was worried for him, facing a session all by himself with no one to look to for comfort or reassurance, unless it was Madam Reyes-Garcia.

  Same as you, dumbass, she reminded herself, allowing Officer Garcia to guide her into position. He’s a big boy and can handle himself. For God’s sake, girl, after what you just went through…

  She still felt bad for him. Couldn’t help it.

  “Position” meant a ninety-degree angle, bent from the waist, with her wrists locked in fold-over stocks of lacquered pinewood. The hole for her head was more giving, with her neck resting over a pretty comfortable cushion, actually, and of course the hole was much larger by necessity. She didn’t have a sense that this would be too bad until her legs were immobilized, two feet apart, by an ankle plank. Quite apart from the vulnerability of this thoroughly compromised position, it redistributed her weight so that her lower back felt it right away. Nothing painful, at first—Emma Jo was in better than average shape—but a tangible threat that this could become unpleasant in a hurry.

  And she was tired, both physically and emotionally, from her handling in the classroom theater.

  In front of her, Officer Garcia hung a digital timer, counting up from 00:00. He had explained nothing. It seemed he waited with her, but for what, she had no idea until Madam Reyes-Garcia brought Buddy in at the five-minute mark. By then, her neck, back, and core muscles were already tight and uncomfortable.

  Wordlessly, Madam Reyes-Garcia secured Buddy into the punishment stocks right next to her.

  “My dear?” Officer Garcia asked, hand resting lightly on the top of Emma Jo’s back.

  “Oh, yes,” Madam Reyes-Garcia replied with equal courtesy, idly patting Buddy’s left buttock, “if you have not done so already, give her the choice now. Buddy, in five minutes you will be faced with an identical choice—but not before. Remain silent for the present.”

  “Yes, Matron,” Buddy said.

  Here it comes, Emma Jo thought. Bet this is going to suck no matter what I choose.

  Funny. Until recently, Emma Jo had thought of herself as an optimist.

  “I can see by your breathing that you already anticipate how uncomfortable this will soon be for you, Miss Swanson,” he started, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on her unguarded flesh. “It is not a punishment we always have on offer, but all of you four are in excellent athletic condition.”

  Turning her head, she could take all this in while sharing a look with Buddy, who played lacrosse. He didn’t seem too bad, a bit flushed. Really, Emma Jo expected she looked more of a wreck than he did.

  “All of you have earned punishment today, but—” he went on.

  “They always do,” Officer Kersey cut in, working the autofocus of her camera.

  “Miss Harper and Mr. Gravis received theirs in session, so it shall be only you two in stocks this afternoon.”

  You and me, Buddy, she thought. Hang in there. We got this.

  “You may exit the stocks immediately if first you give consent to four non-overlapping strokes of the cane,” Officer Garcia explained. “Two to the backs of your legs, two to the buttocks, each of which Officer Thompson will administer. It is not my expertise. She is free and may be swiftly summoned.”

  Um, no. A long, thin strip of wood? It would cut her in half, or it would feel like it.

  “You may also choose to hold a vibrating rubber plug with an expanding tip in your anus for ten minutes.”

  Also a hard no. If this weren’t on TV, she might—maybe—consider it. But she didn’t like the thought of Peter facing his family after the toothbrush incident, and she had no desire to have to make light of a similar experience of her own. Which she would have to do.

  Yeah, Mom, I took a rubber vibrator up the ass out of choice in front of millions of viewers. Don’t make a thing of it, ’kay?

  “Or you may remain as you are for one hour,” he finished.

  She nearly said it aloud. She almost blurted it in a yell. This was already starting to hurt.

  An hour? That’s impossible!

  But she remembered herself. Too, she did not forget that Madam Reyes-Garcia kept an eye on things. They would be safe.

  The clincher:

  “You may change your mind, of course, and choose to leave the stocks at any time. But if you do, you will have to choose one of the other options.”

  It was almost a relief.

  Then, Nurse Reyes-Garcia said, “And you shall be observed by a small collection of young people who have been enrolled in the Scared Stiff program at right about the half-hour mark. It is our hope that your example will dissuade these wayward youths from offenses that could land them in a situation similar to your own.”

  Hmph. Well, nobody ever gave me that warning when I was in prep school.

  They hadn’t had to. She’d been “good.”

  “What say you, Miss Swanson?” Officer Garcia asked, the hint of challenge in his voice. “Will you opt out, or will you ride the stocks?”

  Her timer read nine minutes. “I’ll try, sir,” she said, keeping herself from any false bravado. This really did feel like a 50-50 proposition. And if she lost and had to take one of the other punishments, all of the suffering leading up to it would have been in vain.

  Now Buddy’s timer read 05:00.

  “Buddy?” Madam Reyes-Garcia prompted him. “It is time for you to choose as well.”

  He’d never stopped looking at Emma Jo. His face was grim. “I’m not going anywhere, Matron,” he said. “We’re both going to make it.”

  ****

  “The case is over, Tammy. They took the deal, so it’s non-appellate. For God’s sake, their sentence is already half served, and they’re the most popular thing on TV since—”

  “Stop,” Tamara said, frowning contemptuously down on her phone like he could see her. She had it set to speaker. She disliked the man’s voice invading her home enough on its own. Having it transmitted straight into her ear would be worse. “Are you investigating this case or aren’t you? I have a hunch on the identity of one of the Dare Dungeon runners, all right? Don’t you want them caught?”

  Only breathing on the other end. Then, considering, “That’s not your job, Tammy.”

  “No shit,” she said. And as for being called “Tammy,” that was the name her friends used. She and Stuart Knowles had been in law school together, but that did not make them friends. Still, this wasn’t the time to point that out. Instead, she stuck to the topic at hand. “But is there some reason you don’t want me poking around?”

  “We’re done with it over here, as of to
day. There are other cases, and whoever those two are, they aren’t going to be—”

  Oh no, you don’t, Tamara thought. “What if I told you that a senior recruiter for the Office of Behavior Reformation has a student at Chesapeake University? One in Alpha Chi Omega.”

  Again, the breathing pause. The gathering thought. And finally, “I’d ask how you know that.”

  “Resources, Stu. You’ve got ’em; I’ve got ’em.”

  “Send me the name. I’ll take it from there.”

  “The hell you will,” Tamara retorted. It wasn’t that she wanted this particular collar all to herself—although she kind of did, come to that—but her trust for the district attorney’s office, and most everyone in it, was currently at an all-time low. And that was saying something. “Send me the video. Let me confirm the identity, Stu, save images from the video in screenshots on my hard drive. Then I’ll send you a copy, and I’m done. You take it from there.”

  “Who’s the parent?” Stuart pressed. “Give me that much, Tammy. How big is this?”

  This time, it was Tamara who paused. Giving up that much might be enough for Stuart to cut her out anyway, find the other name on his own. Or—and this was paranoid, but still—depending on how sick the system was at its core, he could already know. He could be protecting them.

  If that’s true, she thought, he’ll find a way to arrest me anyway. No matter what. Here goes nothing.

  “Does the name Paige Lavallee ring a bell?”

  No response. After thirty seconds of nothing, not even the breathing, Tamara’s unease blossomed to full-on fear. But then, thank God, he answered. “It does.”

  “Are you interested, Stu?”

  On her desk, her laptop inbox dinged. On the phone, the sender answered, “I am.”

  And hung up.

  Wow, Stu. Got some integrity in that hole for a heart after all. I’m impressed.

  She opened the e-mail. Dragged the video to her desktop. Popped it in a folder with Sierra’s senior picture. Opened the video, watched it with the photo alongside before even running her facial recognition software. She sat back and smiled. If Vince were here, she’d ask for a cigarette.

  “I’ve got ya, Sierra,” she said to half of the face in the Dare Dungeon. “You’re going down, you prissy little bitch.”

  ****

  “Stand against the wall, Two-oh-One,” Officer Grant said, pointing. “No, dummy. Facing the wall, nose touching. Yeah. Just like that. Wait.”

  And he left.

  Now that Peter was back in his jumpsuit—hat in his hand so that he could nose-press the wall—and not dressed only in a saddle and bridle, he found himself unembarrassed to comply. There were only the ceiling cams tracking him, anyway, and he didn’t think the focus of the audience—apparently thirty million people at its peak, with four million new subscribers—would be on him, anyway.

  It would be on Emma Jo and Buddy, who were on the other side of the door just to his right. Through it, although he could not make out any words, Peter heard an ongoing, continuous series of moans and grunts that were decidedly unhappy, nothing sexual about it. They were, by now, easy to recognize as his new friends. Odd that no sounds of strapping or whipping or flogging—or whatever—accompanied the duet of misery. What the hell was happening to them? It sounded like actual torture.

  Muffled but decipherable, the voice of Nurse Reyes-Garcia: “Thirty-five minutes left for you, Emma Jo. Forty for you, Buddy.” Then, as though to someone else, “Stress levels acute but non-threatening. Responses normal.”

  To Peter’s right, the administration offices. Strangely, the door had been left open. To his left, the closed door to the visiting area. Beyond that was intake and then the protective custody wing. And, oh, the door was opening.

  Peter made sure his nose kept contact, but in his periphery, he saw them coming his way: Veronica Cruz, the Crown Princess of Internet Streaming herself, leading Cassidy straight to him. Cassidy was back in her red jumpsuit, back in her hat. And, of course, Veronica had her phone out, recording the transfer. Cassidy, who looked flat-out exhausted, seemed not to care one bit. She might as well have been sleepwalking, the look on her face.

  So, you got yours in-session, too, huh? Hope it wasn’t too bad.

  Cassidy was more than just an innocent face. She was a kind soul. She’d made sure she shared in the first punishments prior to session one. She liked him. She’d kissed him. Twice. She…

  Laughs when I’m being funny.

  And now she was standing next to him, having her cuffs taken off, rubbing her wrists. Her hair was damp from the shower. Her eyes were bloodshot, her breathing light. Her cheeks were flushed, but some of that color left her complexion when she heard the noises through the door. She looked to him, to Peter, as though for an explanation.

  Veronica put her phone in her back pocket. “Don’t be so upset, girlfriend. They’re just getting theirs. The big bosses are in there with them, so they’ll be okay. Nose against the wall, just like the man bitch.”

  For the first time ever, Peter heard Veronica yawn. And here he had somehow thought her tireless in her merciless glee, an archetype among her kind. Not really a person.

  She leaned in toward Cassidy’s ear. “How you doing? Answer without words.”

  Eyes closed, Cassidy nodded.

  “Yeah. You’re fine.” Then, to Peter, “And what are you looking at, fuckface?”

  Peter returned his gaze to the wall. “Only concrete, Miss Ronnie,” he said, “all while I reflect on poor life decisions. Still making my mind up about whether or not being jerked off as a horse was a good thing—”

  Cassidy’s laugh was a cross between a gasp and a hiccup—and if Peter took punishment as a result, that made it worth it.

  “Yeah, well, keep reflecting,” Veronica said, putting the back of her hand over another yawn. “And do shut the fuck up, or I’ll rubber band your balls to your feet.”

  Then, snickering—whether at herself or at Peter was anyone’s guess—she traipsed off.

  Leaving them alone.

  Peter reached around himself, pointed to his butt, and mouthed the word, Ow.

  Through the door, another agonized moan. Emma Jo. Soon, Buddy reciprocated, audibly choking in tears, a stuttering wail of misery.

  Cassidy reached around, as he did, but her pointing thumb indicated the small of her back.

  Ow.

  This place, Peter thought. This weekend. It’s not the end of us. I’m going to make it a beginning, if I can.

  God, he wished he could say it.

  But it was Cassidy, not Peter, who reached out with her hand and took his. He held her hand back, gave it a small squeeze. No one had said they couldn’t.

  Then she was pulling him closer, a small, continuous tug—easily resisted, if he had a mind to do so. She was tired. This was dangerous. The door to Cop-Land, Stage Right, was wide open, and there were the ceiling cams.

  Both times we’ve kissed, she’s made the first move. She’s doing it again.

  He turned to her, wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, and eased her in for their third kiss. She stood on tiptoe to get it. He didn’t lean down. He was mindful that his free hand should hold her at the upper back, not the lower, and hoped that if she decided to hold him back, she’d avoid his ass—at least for now.

  She did. She held him at the waist. Turned with him one hundred and eighty degrees, giving Peter an over-her-shoulder view into the administration offices, where at least one officer—a guy—had noticed and was watching them. Watching, seeming entertained, not stopping them.

  Once, twice, he kissed her on the lips. Before the third kiss, her lips parted and he held her tighter, tasting the inside of her mouth again. Letting Cassidy taste him.

  Overhead, the cameras whirred and swiveled. Small, electric focusing noises that were suddenly kind of hot. Peter was beyond caring. Let the audience see. Let the whole world see.

  He ran his hands up her bare arms, shorn of whateve
r tiny hairs may have been on them prior to preparation and grooming. He felt her breasts over the jumpsuit, the tips straining under coarse red fabric.

  “I want you so bad right now, Cassidy,” he huffed between kisses. “So. Fucking. Bad.”

  In the admin offices, chairs scraped over floor. People stood. All audio. Peter didn’t see any of it. The only thing he saw was Cassidy’s mouth between kisses.

  ****

  “It’s bad enough you had access to that cable stream, Mr. Carter,” Dean Turner said. “Worse that you shared it. Tell me again how you came by it.”

  She was old, by Kevin’s estimation. Had to be fifty or pushing it close. Yet she was young by college administration standards. Indeed, half of the professors here had a decade on her or more. But she was hale, her age showing only in the lines of her face, her dark hair rich and naturally vibrant, her eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses pale and penetrating. Her office, like her clothes, was modest, all business. Not one for spontaneity or fun was Dean Turner—Kevin had no earthly clue what her first name was—and she had not enjoyed her college being in the national spotlight these past two weeks.

  “I got it through an e-mail from the—”

  “Look at me when speaking to me, Mr. Carter.”

  Who do you think you are, Kevin thought, my mother?

  He looked up. “I got it through the OBR after a phone interview about Buddy and Peter. It was a reward for helping them set up punishments.”

  The story, agreed upon by both of them ahead of time on the one-in-a-million chance things went south, had been Sierra’s idea, naturally. She knew a thing or two about compliance and cooperation incentives. It would ring true with the dean. It had to. It happened all the time, out in the world. Post-transitional adults knew all about that shit.

  “And if I got in touch with them, they’d back that up, would they?”

  This was the tough part. Kevin didn’t like saying these words one bit. They were for idiots and assholes, not for Kevin Carter. “I was sworn to secrecy,” he said anyway. “I messed up, Dean Turner. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. Not even you’re supposed to know. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again, I promise.”