Retribution

Retribution

By Jem11

Flogging as a punishment for men committing domestic violence against their wives was introduced into a number of US cities in the nineteenth century and continued in a number of places until the 1950s. This story is set in the 1930s in a mid-Atlantic city.

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Charles Baker didn’t remember anything else until he woke up in what he realised was a police cell with a throbbing head.

A policeman appeared at his cell door. He stood looking at him for a few moments.

"What is it this time? Drunk and disorderly again? When do I get outta here?"

"That ya don’t. You’ll be held here pending your trial."

"Trial? What for?"

"Assault and battery. Wife beatin’"

"Wife beatin’?"

"You beat your poor young wife’s face to a pulp and blackened both her eyes last night. Soon as you’re assessed as sober you’ll be taken before the judge." The sergeant gave him a look of real disgust. Like he was some kind of insect "By the way," the officer continued as he was leaving, "you got a lawyer? I have to ask you."

"What?" His head was still throbbing from his hangover. He was finding it hard to take this all in. He’d beaten Edith’s face to a pulp?. "I aint got no dough for no damn lawyer."

He lay back on the bunk. He must have fallen asleep because suddenly he was awoken by the jangling of keys at his cell door. Drowsily he supported himself on one arm as he looked toward the officer entering the cell followed by a tall, somewhat severe looking woman in a grey dress. Her blonde hair was tied in a bun. She wore glasses. She looked about 27 or 28, a little older than him She would have been not bad looking, he was thinking, if she just lost the goggles. And tried smiling. He could never understand why broads spoiled their looks like that. The dress showed off her figure. She was stacked in all the right places that a dame should be stacked in.

"On your feet!" the sergeant ordered. Once he was standing he introduced the lady.

"This is Miss Brookes. She’ll be your court appointed lawyer."

"Lawyer? I aint no havin’ no dame as a lawyer!"

"Y’got no choice, buddy. Y’can’t go to court without a lawyer and since as you said you got no dough the court’s gotta appoint one."

"Geez ..."

"Hey! No foul language in front of the lady, buddy! Do you need me to stay, Miss Brookes?"

"I think I’ll be fine. Thank you, Sergeant."

She sat in the chair in the room while Baker went and sat down on the bed.

"Sorry about the accommodation here, Miss. If I’d known a lady, especially a pretty one, was visitin’ I’d have gotten some more furniture."

"OK, Mr Baker, we’ll need to prepare your defence," she said ignoring his attempt to get fresh and looking at him coldly through those goggles of hers.

"My defence?"

"Yes, you’re being changed with wife beating."

"There’s a crime called wife-beatin?" He sounded incredulous.

"Yes, Mr Baker, there is. The authorities in this state take it very seriously. With severe penalties to show how seriously they take it."

"Like what kinda penalties?"

"Well up to a year in prison for starters."

"A year?! I barely raised my hand to her." He was shocked.

"Mr Baker," she looked at the man testily, "you beat her face to a pulp."

"But she’s my wife."

Miss Brookes sighed and shook her head. Honestly when would these men realise that women weren’t just their property to kick around as they pleased?

"Mr Baker. I’m afraid the law doesn’t see it that way." She couldn’t hide the contempt lacing her voice. She tried her best but it just wasn’t possible. There was something about him, that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, that stopped her from really hating him.

"I really beat her that bad?"

"That bad."

"Jesus! I never meant ... I don’t remember."

"Being drunk probably won’t be much of a defence."

"A year in the slammer," he said to himself horrified at the prospect. He barely took in what she said next.

"And up to 40 lashes with the cat-o’-nine-tails."

"Huh?"

She was silent for a moment.

"Sorry, Lady, whadyou just say?"

"I said, in addition to a year in jail, you can receive up to 40 lashes with the whip."

"Wh ... you serious?"

"Yes. And the judge who’ll be trying your case has gone on the record saying he has no tolerance for men who raise their hands to women, wife or not. In fact, he’s especially hard on wife-beaters."

"I could get a whuppin’ as well as jail?"

"Very likely." She paused, "On the bare back." Her mouth that he’d thought he’d like to kiss was curled into the faintest hint of a cruel smile. He was quite a handsome man in a rough sort of way. Masculine too. She could picture him, his back bared, with muscled arms tautly stretched, writhing painfully to the strokes of the lash. She saw herself suddenly applying them to him herself. She was abruptly woken from her reverie by his making a loud noise.

"You gotta get me off!" he suddenly shouted. Just then the Sergeant came back to the cell door. "Miss Brookes, you OK?" The big cop looked through the bars of the cell door with concern after hearing the noise.

"I’m fine, Sergeant."

"You, Sure?" He looked at Baker.

"Very sure."

After the cop had gone she told him that it might be difficult to get him off the charge.

"Whadya mean?"

"You may not remember because you were drunk but you had to be dragged off your wife by the neighbors. There are witnesses. So you can’t really plead not guilty. Not if you don’t want the Judge to really throw the book at you."

"But I’m gonna be whipped!" Now you’re afraid, she thought with a sneer. Like your poor wife was afraid. I hear she was screaming while you were beating her. Soon you’ll be screaming! Or yelling!

"If we plead guilty and throw ourselves on the mercy of the court you may get away with just some time in prison. Otherwise, a date will be set for a trial and they’ll need to impanel a jury. You’d have to front bail which you don’t have the money for so they’d leave you in jail for a few weeks. And when it comes to trial the Judge will really throw the book at you for wasting the court’s time. I wouldn’t be surprised if you get a year plus the full forty lashes in that case." She knew Justice Styles. You’re gonna get a striped sore bare back for certain whatever you plead. The only question is how many lashes.

That afternoon Charles Baker was brought before Judge Alfred Styles. He was a prim, spare looking man in a black cloak. Poor specimen of manhood he may have been, he had the power to take any fit young buck like Baker, strip him half naked and scourge his bare back till it was bloody. And Baker couldn’t do a thing to stop him.

He sat in the dock in handcuffs and leg irons. He saw his wife in the court. Her face looked very bruised. He couldn’t believe it! Had he done that?! Jesus!! He put his head in his hands. Shaking his head. She was petite little thing. Much smaller than him. Pretty but also worn down by housework and looking after three children. In truth she also had become, through disappointment and the many privations to which working people are often subject, a shrew. It was often well and depressingly said that a woman’s sharpest weapon was her tongue and a man’s his fists.

"Charles Baker," said the Judge.

"Stand up," ordered an officer of the court.

"Is the accused represented by counsel?" asked the Judge.

"Yes, your Honor," responded Miss Brookes.

His Honor acknowledged Miss Brookes before continuing.

"Charles Baker, aged 25, foundry worker of 187 East Street. You are accused of wife beating. Wherein you did, last Tuesday night, inflict GBH upon your wife Edith Baker, also of 187 East Street. How does your client plead, Miss Brookes?"

"My client will enter a plea of guilty, your Honor. He wishes to tender a statement which I request to be read out in court, your Honor."

"The purpose?"

"He wishes the Court to understand his state of mind at the time of the attack."

"His state of mind? Well if I read the charge sheet he was dead drunk when he attacked his wife. You’re not going to plead that as extenuating?" Justice Styles was a teetotaller.

"No, your Honor."

"Very well, Miss Brookes."

The advocate read a statement to the court that Baker had recently been laid off from his job at the foundry and this had caused him to start drinking. He was sorry for what he had done and wished to make amends.

Evidence was tendered by the prosecution that Baker had previously been involved with an altercation where he’d man handled his wife. Charges had been laid but were later dropped. He’d also been arrested twice in the last six months on drunk and disorderly charges.

After considering the tendered evidence the Judge adjourned for lunch. Charles was taken down to a holding cell.

"Well? Whadya think?" he asked Miss Brookes.

"I can’t tell. I’m hoping the Judge will go lenient on the sentence. The worst thing going against you is your wife’s battered face in court." 

The Court reconvened after lunch.

"Charles Baker."

"Stand up."

"Charles Baker, you have pleaded guilty to the crime of wife-beating. Although this Court has taken into account your recent circumstances, it cannot ignore the aggravated assault upon a defenceless young woman by a man almost twice her size." Here His Honor looked at the bird-like Edith with her bruised face before returning a severe look at the man. "Accordingly, I am sentencing you to six months imprisonment with a non parole period of three." He paused. Baker felt his breath come heavily. "In addition, you will also receive 20 strokes of the whip in jail. Take him down."

The Court officer cuffed him and he was taken down to the holdings cells. As he was escorted from the court he saw Edith looking at him through her beaten up face. She was grinning.

Arriving at the local prison he was stripped naked and given a full body search, including his anal cavity and under his testicles. He was then handed his prison clothes and placed in a cell on his own.

In jail Miss Brookes visited him.

"You can try and appeal the sentence on the grounds that it’s a first conviction and there are extenuating circumstances, those being your having been out of work for so long and having four mouths to support."

"That cost dough, don’t it. An appeal I mean."

"Yes. But I’d be willing to take whatever you could give me."

"Why would you do that for me," he asked grinning.

"Get over yourself, Mr Baker. I’m willing to help you out of professional pride. I also think we could get the sentence reduced on appeal. Maybe reduce it to at least ten lashes if not get you off whipping altogether. It’d look good on my professional profile to have a state supreme court appearance. Of course, there’s always the risk, I’d say small, that they could increase the sentence."

"How long would that take?"

"Maybe a few months."

He thought about it for a moment. "Na, I take the whuppin’. I done the wrong thing. I’m too handy with my fists sometimes. I shouldn’t use them on dames. I usually don’t but it was the liquor got to me. And Edith wouldn’t let up. I just want it over and done with." She liked that. He was willing to take his punishment, his beating, like a man. He felt sorry for what he’d done but he’d still accept the penalty.

He wasn’t given any information on when he would be whipped. He asked a couple of the hacks but they told him they didn’t know.

"Don’t sweat it, buddy. You’ll know on the day they come to your cell to take you for your whipping." He smirked.

"Like that huh?"

About two weeks after he’d been admitted to the jail, a group of hacks came to his cell led by the chief warden. It was 7am. He wasn’t given any breakfast.

"It’s time, Baker. You’re to come with us."

They surrounded him as they led him to another part of the prison. They entered a large bare looking room. There was a horizontal bar in a corner of the room about 7 feet from the ground. Next to it stood a tall fit looking man. Charles saw the awful looking cat o’ nine tails he held in his hand, its black strands trailing on the ground at his feet. That would shortly be striping his bare back, he thought. He was surprised when he looked in the other direction to see that there were a group of people seated to observe his punishment. He was shocked to see that one of them was Edith. Her face appeared less bruised. There was a look of satisfaction on her face. Like she was looking forward to something. Then he saw Miss Brookes. As his defence counsel she’d been invited to ensure everything was done properly for the convicted man. Other witnesses included prison and city officials as well as newspaper men. About 50 people altogether.

"Right, son, let’s get your shirt off." This was from the warden. Charles hesitated for a moment before complying. One of the officers took the shirt from his hand. Miss Brookes observed the now naked upper body of the fit young man. The shoulders were broad with muscled arms. The pectorals were just how she liked them. Developed but not overly so with dark hairs lightly distributed over the nipples. A line of black hair ran between them down to the flat stomach and disappeared under the belt of his trousers. His broad back was firm, muscled with taut skin. The skin coloring was slightly dark. It was a back the looked as if it could take twenty lashes with the cat. No, she thought, it was a back that had been made to take twenty lashes with the cat!

After the prison doctor had given him a cursory examination with his stethoscope one of the warders, taking him by the arm, led him to the horizontal bar. A length of cord was bound around his wrists and the cord was lassoed over the bar, pulled tight and tied to a large metal hook on the wall causing his arms to be tautly stretched up over his head, the tufts of black hair in his armpits standing out. His bare back was tensed, broad, vulnerable to its soon to be received hard lashing.

Bill Reagan, the six foot plus city sheriff, the terrible cat ’o nine tails whip gripped tightly in his big hand, waited till Baker was tied into position for his whipping. He looked over at the vulnerable looking young lady with her bruised face and then at the young man’s bare back stretched tautly in front of him for him to chastise. He felt angry. I’ll teach you to beat sweet young girls, you damn scoundrel. I’ll whup yer bare back till it’s covered in red stripes!! He could barely contain his anger. He’d show this young hooligan a whip lesson he wouldn’t forget!! He’d wish he’d never been born!!

"OK, Sheriff Reagan. Twenty lashes at my counting," said the Warden.

Reagan nodded his readiness, unfurling the strands ready to apply the first lash.

"One!"

The strands ripped across the taut back with a SWOOSH THWACK thudding sound, leaving red marks running from the young man’s right shoulder blade, that flexed visibly at the pain and shock of the lash, down to the arched centre of the back. There was no audible reaction from Baker.

"Two!"

Another SWOOSH and THUD struck the shoulder blades leaving more red marks running down to the lean back’s taut centre.

The hard flogging continued. The sheriff swung the whip back as far as he could, his tall muscular form driving the strands across the expanse of increasingly contused bare skin. The arms, held tightly above his head in their restraints, pulled at the cord in reaction to the ongoing painful lashing, the bare back arching, the nude trunk writhing as it received the hard cuts of the whip across it. The only verbal sounds were gasps of pain and the occasional barely audible groan of agony.

Edith’s smile and look of satisfaction never left her. This was revenge served up very hot! Miss Brookes, on the other hand, took in the scene with another form of, perhaps more visceral, satisfaction. She watched him bound at his wrists twisting in agonised pain to the sound of lashes mercilessly and sharply delivered to the hard, unyielding, flesh of his firm, bare, muscular back, the black whip strands leaving red stripes between his taut shoulder blades and down across the knotted curvature of his spine. Things that had lain dormant and unrecognised within the young female lawyer’s erotic imagination were now profoundly kindled as she observed her first whipping of a fit young male. And that male being one whose very masculine physical attributes appealed to her at a primeval level that the normally intellectual young woman had never before been conscious of.

"Twenty!"

Reagan’s powerful form SWOOSHED the strands of the whip in an almighty finish, the flagella wrapping themselves around the young man’s quivering trunk in an almost amorous embrace before being pulled away again leaving more red stripes to join the existing ones that now decorated the bare back from the shoulders to the waist. The nude skin spasmed and trembled somewhat at the trauma and pain caused by the painful looking stripes. Little rivulets of blood trickled down the firm expanse. Like a lover who was pleased with his performance in bringing his partner to orgasm, Reagan looked with satisfaction on his work, his eyes shining, his breath panting from his exertions.

Baker was released from his restraints. A warder came forward and threw his prison convicts jacket over the contused back. Hunched over in pain, he was taken back to his cell. He lay face down on his bunk in agony from the whipping. The prison doctor examined his scarred back but otherwise could offer him no relief from the throbbing pain. Afterwards he had recovered sufficiently to take nourishment in his cell a few hours later. But he was still in considerable pain from his whipping.

Reporters asked Edith later what she felt. "I’d like to give him a few more strokes across his damn back." His legal counsel, Miss Brookes, when asked, responded that "justice has been served this day. My client has paid for his crime with the most painful and humiliating punishment the law allows. He’s admitted publicly in court that he’s sorry for his actions. So I think that must be an end to it."

It was only another job in the day’s work, Sheriff Reagan told reporters afterwards and that he did not relish the task. He said "I was only the instrument of the law I was sworn to administer. I wouldn’t care to say how I felt. As long as that law is on the books, I have to abide by it." In fact, Reagan obtained profound personal satisfaction at having carried out the whipping but, naturally, it would have been completely unacceptable to have admitted as much to the press. He played the role of the honest public servant doing a distasteful task for the good of the community.

His wife didn’t visit him in jail. Miss Brookes came a few times to see he was OK. The first time about a week after he’d been whipped.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, Sure. Well I’m in jail."

"How’s your back?"

"Still pretty sore."

Charles remained in jail breaking rocks on the chain gang for another three months. He worked in the hot sun, his shirt removed, his scarred bare back visible and bathed in man-sweat from his heavy forced labor, a warning to the other cons to stay out of trouble.

He was released on good behaviour after three months. Edith had left the city and taken the kids with her to go and live with her mother. He had no place to stay and no one was coming to collect him.

As he emerged from the prison, he heard a horn beep. A young woman in a car was looking at him. It was Miss Brookes. Without her glasses. He walked up to the car as she wound down the window.

"Mr Baker, you got anyone to collect you?"

"No Miss Brookes," he said leaning against the door "My wife apparently left town and took the kids with her."

"You going to join her?"

"She’s sent me a letter and made clear we’re through."

"So you have nowhere to stay."

"Apparently not."

"I can give you a spare bed." He looked at her.

"A spare bed, Mr Baker, not my bed." He stood back from the door. She opened it.

"Well c’mon get in."

As he sat down next to her, she looked at her handsome wild animal that she’d just caught. He had a look of satisfaction. Like cat that had just got the cream.

"Don’t get any ideas, Mr Baker, this is purely to help you out."

"Sure, I can be good boy."

"You’d better be a good boy, Mr Baker, or this time I may be the one to give you a spanking," as she started up the car. She pictured him as she’d seen him three months before, his muscly arms stretched upwards and bound by the wrists to the pole high above his head, the tufts of dark underarm hair fully displayed, his shoulder blades etched and quivering as they waited for the painful kiss and caress of the lash across them. She swallowed.

"Yes, Ma’am," he responded a little sarcastically, like a bad boy, as they pulled away from the kerb.