by Lucy Appleby
The moment Selena entered the courtroom she sensed something was different. Not that she'd ever set foot in a courtroom before, but this place... she looked around and frowned; this was surely too informal to be a proper courtroom. Little did she know she was in Judge Garrick's private chambers. The room itself was spacious, with a decorative coffered ceiling and two high walls lined with leather-bound law books. The remaining two walls boasted gilt-framed oil paintings of gimlet-eyed judges from decades past.
But it was the two rows of chairs arranged in the middle of the room that caught her immediate attention; they faced a large mahogany desk, behind which sat an equally impressive chair upholstered in burgundy leather. The large chair was vacant but the rows of chairs were all occupied by men, most of whom eyed Selena smugly, darting knowing and lascivious looks at her.
A dowdy middle-aged woman with a face like a rusty battle axe sat at a small desk, on which was positioned a stenotype machine. Selena glanced at the stenographer; if she'd hoped for sympathy, she got none. The woman glared back at her in contempt, her mouth a thin line of self-righteous disapproval.
Selena swallowed, the butterflies in her lower belly were almost uncontrollable now, making her want to pee. To distract herself and avert her gaze from the leering men, she stared resolutely past them at a couple of small, lamp-topped occasional tables pushed back against the bookshelves.
The soft hum of voices ceased suddenly. Selena felt a shove to her lower back, accompanied by a voice in her ear.
"Go and stand there," rasped the police sergeant behind Selena. He gestured to the left of the room where there stood a dock - a small Oak-panelled enclosure which contained a plain hard-backed wooden chair. He gave her another shove. "Now."
"Alright, alright - I heard you the first time," snapped Selena. Under any other circumstances, she would have given the pompous ass a mouthful, but she held her tongue. Even she realised it would be extremely foolish to let rip with the insults before she was up in front of the judge. There would be plenty of time for getting her own back later. She'd get off, of course, even if she had to pay through the nose. Money was no problem. She stepped forward, giving her handcuffed wrists a shake.
As if on cue, Judge Peregrine Garrick swept into the room. Selena recognised him from a photograph in the local paper. In his wig and scarlet robe faced with grey silk, she thought he looked a dick.
"All rise," intoned an official in a nasally voice.
Those assembled duly got to their feet. Selena scanned the row of faces. Where the hell was her solicitor? Her late father's solicitor, Montague Langley, had agreed to represent her, and now the fuckwit was late. She seethed inwardly. This was not a good start.
Once the judge was seated, everyone else followed suit, and Selena prepared to perch her well-rounded rear on the chair in the dock.
"Not you," hissed the police sergeant. "Remain standing."
Selena gave him a dirty look and stood with her arms folded and a rebellious expression on her face. It didn't help that the rows of men appeared to find her stance amusing. She gave them a haughty stare and tossed back her auburn hair, inwardly wishing this was all over, while outwardly relaying the impression she wasn't even remotely phased.
The proceedings began, with Judge Garrick peering at her over the top of his silver-rimmed spectacles. His little piggy eyes fixed on her. Without further preamble he asked, "Are you the accused, Selena Atherton?"
"Yes. Yes I am. Look, I just want to say-"
"Silence!" The judge gave her a penetrating look. "You will not speak unless invited to do so. Is that clear?"
"I suppose."
"Address the judge correctly, as 'Your Honour'," whispered a court official.
With a dramatic sigh, Selena repeated, "I suppose." Adding, "Your Honour," in a sarcastic tone.
Judge Garrick narrowed his eyes at her blatant effrontery. "Miss Atherton, standards of honesty and decency in our society have plummeted; your own scheming and duplicity is a classic example of the downward trends in honesty and respect. I have reviewed the case against you at length. You wilfully and falsely accused Miss Abigail Morton of stealing a Cartier watch to the value of £10,000. Do you deny the charge?"
"Of course I do. The thieving bitch stole it from my bedroom when I invited her to a party. It's she who should be here, not me!"
Judge Garrick smiled thinly. He nodded to the court official, a weasel-faced little man with spindly legs. "Display the evidence if you please, Carruthers."
"Yes indeed, Your Honour." Carruthers produced a USB flash drive from his pocket and went over to one of the small occasional tables. Selena hadn't noticed the laptop sitting on the table top. In mere moments it was fired up and connected to a large screen which flickered into life, and she watched in mounting horror as a luxurious bedroom - her bedroom - was revealed for all to see. The bed was piled with an assortment of coats and bags, so she realised this video was made on the evening of her party; with the realisation her heart lurched and she almost wet herself as a great wave of panic engulfed her. As the footage continued, there she was, walking into her bedroom. Opening her dressing table drawer she pulled out a leather box and held up the contents - a sparkling gold Cartier watch. A smug smile on her face, she approached the bed, carefully selected a grey suede shoulder bag, and slipped the watch inside. Still smirking, she left the room.
The screen crackled then went dark. Selena gulped.
Fuck!
"I ask you again, Miss Atherton - do you deny the charge?"
"Ah, um... well, I..." FUCK! Her face scarlet, she scowled at the judge. How the hell could she deny it now? "Where's my solicitor?"
"This is a special hearing, Miss Atherton, in which you are not permitted legal representation. The facts against you are conclusive and I take great pleasure in making an example out of you. You are a delinquent, do you hear? A DELINQUENT." As he shouted, his florid face took on an angry hue. "You conspired to plant an expensive watch in the belongings of Miss Abigail Morton. You deliberately sought to wheedle your way into the affections of Mr Daniel Barker in an attempt to not only gain classified information relating to Birchwood Reformatory, but to inveigle him into depositing Miss Morton there as an inmate. Furthermore, I put it to you that your intent was to then persuade Mr Barker to allow you to visit Miss Morton in order to satisfy your rampant curiosity about Birchwood." A faint smile flickered over his face. "Are you aware, Miss Atherton, at just how close you are to alleviating your curiosity?"
The judge sat back in his chair and the assembled men smiled. This new inmate would do very well. Very well indeed. Sassy, auburn haired, with glinting green eyes, she had curves in all the right places... especially her bottom. Full and round, it strained against the fabric of the tight fitting business suit she wore in an obvious attempt to look respectable. Each and every one of them looked forward to using their 'special powers of correction' to give this conniving young woman the treatment she so badly needed.
"Wh-what do you mean?" Selena was reeling: first the damned tape - god only knows who was responsible for the recording - showed her sequence of actions clearly; secondly, why wasn't she allowed legal representation? That didn't sound right at all. And the judge's last question spooked her. She clasped her hands together in a futile bid to stop them shaking. It was true she'd done her damndest in pestering Daniel for information, constantly badgering him to get her a visitor's pass into Birchwood; the thought of witnessing females undergoing strict punishment excited her beyond belief, and the thought of administering such punishments herself was even more exciting. It turned her on. Even now in front of the judge, her nipples pebbled and her sex clenched as visions of bare, tormented flesh and wailing women danced before her eyes. She pushed them away. Now was not the time to indulge in fantasy; and her fantasy had never involved herself being on the receiving end. No frickin' way.
The judge cut into her thoughts. "I mean, Miss Atherton, that you are hereby sentenced to sixty-three days as an inmate of the Birchwood Reformatory, where you will be subject to a regime of hard, physical labour and the application of regular and vigorous corporal punishment."
"What?! B-b-but..." The words dried in her throat and she stared, slack jawed, her eyes wide.
"You will be released, subject to good behaviour, on your 21st birthday. By then, it is to be hoped you will have acquired manners, learned to demonstrate the appropriate respect for others, and display vastly improved behaviour and obedience. Of course, the regime at Birchwood is geared up to assist you with the developmental traits you will need to acquire. Is that not so, gentleman?" he said to the men present.
A series of nods and verbal assents accompanied by smirks and "Yes, Your Honour," reverberated through the chamber.
"Let me elucidate," he said, addressing Selena once more. "You will be disciplined. You will be soundly thrashed, Miss Atherton, on your bottom... your bare bottom. Just like in the good old days. With hand, paddle, crop and cane, with birch rods and straps, and any other implements of chastisement deemed appropriate to aid the control of a wilful young woman." He grinned, and banged his gavel down sharply on the desk, already looking forward to seeing the stroppy young wench bared and secured to a punishment bench as he stood by, birch in hand, to administer his own very special brand of justice. It was a pleasant thought.
"NO!" Selena found her voice. "You can't! You can't do this! This isn't a proper trial! It's a sham, that's what it is! A fucking sham! Get me my solicitor! I demand-"
The gavel descended again with a loud rap.
"SILENCE! During your incarceration the Court will handle any administrative matters on your behalf. Take her away." Addressing the police sergeant, the judge announced, "She's to get the token 18 lashes with the strap on arrival at Birchwood. And given she's been highly annoying by interrupting these proceedings, I think six stingers with the cane will finish off her welcome nicely." He puffed up his chest, looking forward to a luncheon of lobster bisque and Dover sole, and also to the fact he would very soon be seeing more of Miss Selena Atherton.
Selena sat in stunned silence, handcuffed in the back of a prison van as it sped north. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her mouth dry, and hot tears prickled the back of her eyes as a precursor to cascading down her cheeks. But there was no way she was going to cry, not now, not with the scarily stern female officer seated opposite, staring balefully at her. No, she wouldn't give the old hag the satisfaction of seeing her weep.
Keeping the tears at bay, she swallowed and stared resolutely ahead, avoiding eye contact with the officer. This can't be happening! This can't be happening! The thought echoed like a poisoned mantra inside her head. Closing her eyes she tried to harness her thoughts and keep calm. The woman officer made no attempt at conversation as the van sped along the motorway, but when it exited and ten minutes later rattled its way along a bumpy minor road, she glanced at her watch and adjusted her jacket.
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