a princess' public spanking is something between a formal declaration and any other public punishment in the city square. she's marched out in the full regalia of her station, a parade of the court, up to the stage which was built and fitted with a padded spanking bench over the last few days, anticipation rising among the people, excitement at the idea of seeing a royal punished before them.
the king and queen, the princess' siblings, her uncles and aunts, tutors and knights, are arrayed around the east side of the square. the rest of it is packed with the jostling and jeering crowd of her citizens. constructed and
she is stripped of her finest adornments, her jewelry which she was instructed to wear just so she could relinquish it, her brocade gown and dress, her silk petticoat, each falling to the wooden planks, her embroidered corset unlaced and removed, her shoes and stockings set to the side, until she stands nearly bare before the city, only her fine, fluttery chemise maintaining any joke of modesty.
she walks on bare feet to the bench and bends herself over it with all the regality she can muster, but she can’t help her flush as the master of discipline lifts her last skirt and folds it up over her waist. the proclamation of her crimes and failures and of the resultant punishment is read out. she does not hide her face.
the master of discipline uses a paddle, not a switch or whip, not his hand. the princess doesn't know why, exactly, but she wishes it were his hand. the paddle is a solid wood, and when it lands, the shock of the strike jolts through her body before the pain brightens on her skin. the master of discipline calls out, "one!" and the crowd lend their voices. they count every strike for her. a chorus of numbers rising and ringing out. her face flushes as red as her ass.
it takes forever. there's a ceremony in it -- step in, strike, count, retreat, pause -- that draws one hundred strikes out for long, humiliating minutes. what's worse, she can feel herself getting wet.
she doesn't know why she's getting wet. but she can feel the cool air of early spring catching in the slick wetness that seems to be growing between her thighs. she feels it more when she rubs them together, when she spreads them apart. it doesn't matter what she does -- whether she focuses on the pain of each strike, on the loud chorus of her people, of the sharp, raking eyes of her court. she only feels herself getting wetter.
the last ten strikes are nearly impossible to take, the pause between them seeming to draw out to an eternity. but when they're done, when the voices ring out, "one hundred!" it isn't relief she feels. the pain, deep and stinging, both, settles into her skin, and her face heats as the master of discipline approaches to fold her skirt back down. she can tell when he sees her, wet and dripping down her thighs, because he pauses, gasps, and lets out a tiny groan that only she can hear. he's quick to smooth the chemise back into place, to help her rise to her feet, but he saw. she knows he saw.
she is redressed in her finery, the layers of fabric now pressing too heavy and too hard against the raw skin of her ass. she is paraded back inside, her indescretions attoned for, her freedom regained.
it's later, when the master of discipline finds her in her chambers. a salve for the bruises. this is normal. this is his job. but he saw. he knows.
the princess, already dressed down for the evening, bend herself over the foot of her bed, lifts the hems of her own skirt, and lets his fingers go where they may.
