Historic Wyebridge

[Datom]

Historic Wyebridge

“Step Back to the Past! Visit Historic Wyebridge! Authentic Colonial Village!”

The billboard beckoned to me from the side of the road. I teach American history at a local junior college, and I’d never heard of Wyebridge Village. In fact I wouldn’t have heard of it even today if it hadn’t been for the damned detour.

I was due in Boston by three o’clock this afternoon. And it would have been an easy trip, with plenty of time to spare. But today, part of I-95 was closed because of a multi-car accident, and now I was putzing along some secondary state highway to get around the delay. I’d still make Boston in good time, before the rush hour started. But it just seemed like the traffic on this little two-lane road was just crawling casually along.

As I passed this sign, I was a little intrigued. As I say, I’d never heard of this place before, and as an American history teacher, I probably should know about it. I had a little time to spare, so I did as the billboard said, and turned off into the driveway leading up to the gravel parking lot. The driveway entrance had two little painted statuettes of Colonial-ish looking men with tricorn hats, holding handbells. I drove in, and followed the driveway through a grove of trees, and came out into a gravel parking lot, with just a few cars parked in it. Good, I thought—it won’t be crowded.

The outside looked about as I expected it to. A stockade, built of vertical logs driven into the ground, surrounded the village and led up to the gate, which, conveniently featured the admissions booth. I paid the admission price and stepped into what I had hoped was the past.

As I entered, the first thing that caught my attention was the village green. Buildings, including a church and a tavern surrounded it, as did several cabins. There was a town well in the center of the green, with several buckets lying next to it. There were three or four benches, made of split logs. There was a large platform, probably used for public gatherings. And there was a smaller platform on the side, with two posts and a couple of transverse boards, with holes in them. Probably a pillory, I thought, for public punishment.

As I looked around the village green, I heard a family coming in behind me. A father, a mother, and a little girl.

“See, Darcy?” The mother was saying. “This is just like the early Puritans lived.”

I doubt it, I thought to myself. For one thing, the power lines leading to the individual buildings probably weren’t there in the 1600s. And the buildings themselves looked a little too sturdy, more like the 1800s. The cabins looked more like the style of southern Appalachian cabins, Daniel Boone style. I also noticed several docents walking around the green, wearing brightly colored dresses and shirts—a little too colorful, I thought. The average New England Puritan would have had almost exclusively black or dark clothes.

A man dressed in a light brown coat and a tricorn strode up onto the platform and announced, “Here ye, here ye! Luncheon is now being served in the Wyebridge Tavern.”

I hadn’t had any breakfast, so I figured I may as well stay here for lunch. I headed over to the Tavern, as did several other guests. The Tavern was unmistakeable—it had a taller front to it, and a small hanging sign in the shape of a kettle, protruding next to the door. I smelled the aroma of food cooking coming from inside.

As I walked in, I was greeted with a floor sign—“Kindly Seat Thyself.” I looked around and chose a small empty table near a window. I sat down, then looked around at the room. It was large, with few windows, but with electric wall sconces of black cast iron with globes containing electric light bulbs. The walls were decorated with paintings of American Indians and what I guess were Pilgrims—again, their dress was all wrong. The “pilgrims” were shown wearing brightly colored shirts, and the “Indians” had on elaborate costumes that no real Wampanoag or Pockanocket member would ever be caught dead in.

“What may I bring thee?”

A sweet low female voice was speaking to me. I turned around and saw a young lady smiling at me, leaning over the table to set a water glass in front of me. Her costume was, of course wrong—too colorful and too low-cut, showing an ample amount of cleavage. No Puritan would stand for that, I thought.

“Dost thou like what thou seest?”

Ooops! I suddenly realized I’d been staring at her cleavage. I stammered, “I sure do—I mean, uh, oh, sorry! Didn’t mean to, ah, . . .”

She patted me on the shoulder. “Worry not, sir,” she said, smiling at me. “I’ll be serving thee today. My name is Rebecca.” She indicated the menu on my table. “What is thy pleasure?”

I glanced at the menu. The selections were entirely out of historical context. I laughed inwardly—Wyebridge must have been the first tavern in Colonial New England to have a panini press, I chuckled to myself. Out loud, I ordered. “I’ll have the roasted beef sandwich special, please. With iced tea.”

She scribbled down my order on her pad. I continued, “And I apologize for staring at you like I did at first. You see, I’m an American History professor, and I was intrigued with your costume. It, ah, looks very good on you.”

She smiled her pleasant smile at me. “Why, much thanks for the compliment, good Sir,” she said. Then she lowered her head a bit. “I must be careful, for I am betrothed. To Edward, the blacksmith.”

I nodded. “Well, my congratulations to you and Edward,” I acknowledged.

Lunch was actually pretty good—probably better than I would have gotten in the 1600s. I enjoyed my meal, then got up to leave, after paying with a 21st century credit card, and leaving Rebecca a nice tip.

I wandered out the door, and looked at my watch, realizing that I’d stayed longer than I’d intended. So I began to head back to my car.

Suddenly, I felt a man’s hand grab my right arm.

“Thou must come with me, sir.”

It was the village bellringer. The same man who had made the lunchtime announcement.

“What’s wrong?” I challenged him.

“The Judge will inform thee, sir.”

Well, I wasn’t running late, so I decided to play along with their little colonial charade. I allowed him to escort me into one of the cottages. Inside there was some wooden furniture. At one end of the room was a wooden desk, where there sat a large burly man in a white wig and a black robe. I thought, this guy must be the judge.

“Good afternoon, your Honor. What brings me here this afternoon?”

The Judge looked down at a sheet of paper on his desk, then up at me. “Thou art Thomas Davison?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thou hast been accused of indecent behavior toward one Rebecca Brighton. How pleadest thou?”

Oh, I thought. That must be Rebecca my waitress. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

The Judge studied the paper some more. “The charges here state that thou didist peer down into Miss Brighton’s bodice, endeavoring to glimpse her breasts. The charge further states that thou didst compliment Miss Brighton upon the prettiness of her breasts, though she told thee that she was betrothed to another. Is this not true?”

“No, your Honor, not exactly. You see, I teach American History, and I know something about colonial costume. I was intrigued with her dress. . .”

“Aha!” The Judge’s eyebrows went up. “Then thou actually did ogle Miss Brighton indecently?”

“Well, not like that. Your Honor, you make it sound so creepy . . .”

“I have heard enough.” The Judge stood up and looked at the other man, then back at me. “Thomas Davison,” he pronounced, “by my authority as the Judge of Wyebridge, I find thee guilty of lewd behaviour, and sentence thee to spend the rest of the day in the pillory.”

This has got to be a joke, I thought. Just part of their play-acting. Okay, I’ll play along, as long as I can.

The other man escorted me out the door. Just then, a third man arrived, dressed in a sombre blue jacket and tricorn hat. The two of them took my arms and led me away from the Judge’s house, and over to the village square, and onto the small platform with the pillory. I noticed that the top beam of the pillory was removed, opening the two armholes and the neckhole. From the platform, I could see several tourists looking up at me with vague interest.

“We must remove thy shirt, sir,” the man in blue said.

“Really? Why?”

“The Judge’s orders, sir.” Holding my arm with one hand, he reached over and unbuttoned my shirt with his other hand. He and the man in the light brown jacket pulled my shirt off, leaving me bare-chested. Then they guided me to a spot behind the pillory.

“In thou goest, sir,” the tan-jacket man said.

His hand pressed down on the back of my neck, pushing it into the center hole. Then, with his other hand, he and the blue-coated man pushed my hands into the arm-holes. Before I knew it, the top beam was lowered, closing the holes. I heard a metallic “click” and saw padlocks being attached to the holes on each side, so I couldn’t push the top beam back up.

And there I was. In the pillory. Several tourists were walking by. One of the ladies pointed to me and said something to her husband. They both laughed and walked on. A schoolboy, with his parents, pointed a camera at me and took a picture. I must have been a sight—hands and neck locked in the pillory, on public display. I felt embarrassed. Then I felt something hard circling my right ankle, and heard the clank of chains.

“Hey!” I yelped. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, sir,” the blue-coated man said. “The Judge told us to put thee in irons.”

“But that’s not right,” I protested. “I mean, they never shackled anyone’s ankles while the were being pilloried. Not here in New England!”

“Sorry, sir,” was the answer. “Judge’s orders.”

“How long are you going to keep me here?”

“Until we close, sir.”

“What time do you close?”

“Five o’clock, sir.”

“Well,”I shook my head, “you can’t do that. I have to be in Boston by five.”

“Sorry, sir.” They finished their task, and walked away.

“Hey!” I called after them. “I want to see the Judge! Out here! Now!”

I got no response.

Several more tourists were coming in and sauntering across the village green. A couple of them looked at me.

“Looks like you’ve been a bad boy!” called out a man. His wife giggled.

I glared at him, but that just brought on more laughter.

Another family walked by a few minutes later. The older girl, about ten, turned to her mother. “Mom, why is that man standing up there in that wooden thing?”

“That’s called a pillory, Honey,” the mother answered. “He’s a bad man and he’s being punished.”

“But why did they make him take his shirt off?” the girl asked.

“Well, the mother explained. “Part of the punishment is the embarrassment. Everyone who sees him standing up there with his shirt off will know he did something wrong, and they’ll laugh at him.”

The family passed on by. After a few minutes the village green was empty.

I tried to move my legs, but the irons around my ankles were restraining me. I looked down. That was when I realized that all I could see was the front of the pilllory. I couldn’t see the rest of my body. If I turned my head to either side I could see one or the other of my hands, but that was it.

Abruptly, I heard a female giggle from behind me.

I felt a finger touching my bare back. It started running slowly up my spine. More giggling, then some clumping of shoes on the wooden platform behind me.

“Hey!” I yelped. “Cut it out! That tickles!”

“What are you gonna do about it?” A female voice. Late teens or early twenties, I guessed.

The finger slid on up my back, then turned into the palm of a hand. It slid down my bare back, then up again, to my neck. Then the fingers began rmassaging the back of my neck.

“Does that feel good?” the voice asked.

“Actually, it does,” I admitted. I hadn’t realized how sore my neck had become, being hunched over in that pillory.

She continued to massage my neck for a couple of minutes, then slowly slipped her hand down my bare back. “I’m sorry about what happened to you,” she said humbly. “I didn’t mean for it to to turn out that way.”

“You/” I queried. “What did you do?”

Her voice changed subtly. “Thou dost not recognize me?” it asked. “I am Rebecca, your serving-maid at the tavern.”

Ah! So that was it! “Did you tell the Judge that I’d been, uh, coming on to you?”

“No,” she said with a slight giggle, “I told Edward, my betrothed. I wanted to make him jealous. However, I fear the consquences were too much. He apparently reported you to the Judge, and enhanced some of the details.” Her voice made a little sigh. “Now you have been sentenced.”

“Can’t you go to the Judge,” I asked “and get me out of here somehow?”

“Alas, no. Once one has been sentenced, one must serve the sentence.” Her hand slid around to the side of my waist. “Aha! Here comes Prudence!”

Another set of footsteps clomped onto the platform. Another voice spoke.

“And who do we have here, Rebecca?”

“This is Thomas,” Rebecca answered. “He is the one who was sentenced by the Judge to serve the afternoon in the pillory.”

“Is he the one who looked at thee with lust in his eyes?”

“The same.” Rebecca’s hands slid up and down my side. “He peered inside my bodice.”

Prudence giggled. Then she put her hand on the small of my back and began to caress me with her hand. “He has a strong back,” she observed.

“Indeed” Rebecca answered. I heard a smile in her voice. “His limbs are strong and supple.” Her hand slid up my side and onto my outstretched arm. It slid back and forth on my upper arm. “Such fine manly muscles!”

I didn’t know how to respond to any of this. To be honest, the massaging felt good on my back and my arm. Still, these young ladies seemed to be taking an impressive interest in my body.

Another “colonial” lady came up from in front. She looked to be in her early twenties. Prudence called to her, “Sarah! Over here!”

Sarah was a slim blonde girl, with pigtails extending out from under her cap. She was wearing a checked dress, again, too low-cut for the period. She was carrying a very twenty-first cenury plastic tumbler full of what appeared to be ice water. She looked up at me and grinned. “This one has been a bad boy, I see.”

“Yes,” Rebecca answered, “and we’re punishing him.”

Sarah came around behind the pillory. She put her hand on my waist. Her hand felt cold, from holding the water bottle. I felt her hand sliding up my side and around to my chest.

“He has a fine body,” she observed.

Sarah’s dress had loose three-quarter sleeves with lace around the cuffs. As she slid her hand, the fabric rustled across my bare skin. It tickled.

Her hand slid up onto my chest. I felt her cold finger touching my bare nipple. Her fingertip slowly started caressing my nipple, making little circles.

“His little teat is getting firm and erect,” she observed.

She was right. I could feel my nipple getting harder. I heard the other girls giggle.

“If he were a cow, he would yield much milk,” Sharah chuckled. She squeezed my nipple playfully.

“I wonder if his legs are as strong as his arms,” Prudence speculated. She giggled.

“Perhaps we can see,” Rebecca answered.

I felt hands reaching around my waist and unbuckling my belt. It came apart, and the hands unbuttoned the top of my slacks and pulled down the zipper. All three girls giggled.

“Hey! Don’t!” I protested.

For answer, the three girls just chuckled and loosened my belt.

“’Pop!’ goes the button!” Rebecca chortled. I felt fingers unsnapping the top of my slacks.

In front of me I could see several tourists who had come to watch. There was a group of ladies, in their thirties, who were pointing to me and chuckling. One of them saw me looking at her, and she grinned and blew me a kiss.

I heard Prudence’s voice. “Off come his breeches!” she giggled.

The girls’ hands were sliding down my side, pushing down my slacks until they were around my ankles, leaving nothing me on my but my underpants. I remembered that I had worn light blue briefs today. These seemed to be attracting attention.

A couple of tourist girls in their early teens came up in front of the pillory. Their eyes were staring directly at my crotch, and they were grinning moronically.

“Look at the little blue undies!” one of them giggled.

“They’re so teeny!” another one responded.

“They barely cover his little you-know-what.” The first one observed. They all three burst into laughter.

The first girl stepped up to the platform and stuck her hand in between my legs. I couldn’t see, but I could feel her finger poking my penis through the fabric of my briefs. She wiggled her fingertip a couple times, then giggled and stepped back. All three of them looked up at me and laughed.

“Cut it out!” I protested, hoplessly. That just brought on more laughter.

Behind me, I felt girls’ fingers sliding in between my legs. I felt a hand sliding up the inside of my thigh. It slid up and down a couple times, then came to rest about two-thirds of the way up, and squeezed my thigh.

“Indeed, he hath good strong leg muscles,” Rebecca’s voice said.

“He would be good for much hard work in the field,” Prudence agreed. “And then for much recreation in bed.” All three laughed.

Another hand touched my lower back and slid down, pushing the back of my underpants down, and exposing my butt. “What good firm buttocks!” Sarah, observed. I felt the hand caressing one of my butt cheeks.

Several of the tourist crowd went around the side of the pillory to see. I could hear comments from them, “Oooh!” “Look at that butt!” “Nice little ass!” Some of them got closer, to check me out.

I felt a hand sliding up the front of my thigh. It slid all the way up to the front of my underpants. A fingertip touched my penis, and began stroking it gently through the fabric.

Rebecca’s voice said, “Goodness! He is getting quite firm.”

She was right. With all the touching and caressing, I was developing an inconvenient erection inside my briefs.

“We should not let him soil his underclothing,” Pridence’s voice.

“Perhaps we should take them off,” Sarah suggested.

“No!” I protested loudly.

I could hear a grin in Rebecca’s voice, “If we remove them, we will make him exhibit his manhood to the crowd. That might be unseemly.”

“No more unseemly than allowing him to soil himself.” Prudence pointed out.

“Very well, then,” and I could feel fingers slipping under the elastic of my briefs, sliding them down over my hips and down my legs, all the way down to join my slacks around my ankles.

“My goodness!” Prudence exclaimed. “Look at that!”

“What a fine strong penis!” Rebecca chuckled. “Good for swiving!” They all laughed.

As my briefs came down, the audience roared! There I was, stuck in the pillory, at the mercy of these three girls, with my penis and tesicles on display for the whole crowd to see. I felt completely degraded and humiliated!

I saw a husband and wife in the crowd. The wife was staring at my crotch with a grin on her face, and the husband was laughing at me. A mother with two young chidren was hurriedly leading them away before they could see my genitalia. Another group of teenage girls was approaching, pointing at my penis and laughing. And all the time, a variety of comments, mostly in female voices, reached my ears:

“He’s really getting punished!”

“Look at that dopey look on his face!”

“Look at the size of that penis!”

“That’s a yummy-looking penis!”

“I like all those little hairs!”

“Yeah, that’s a lot of pubic hair, isn’t it?”

“I like those nice juicy-looking balls!”

I saw a lady, in her late twenties, perhaps, in a ponytail, white top and blue shorts. Grinning, she lifted up a camera and took a picture of my penis. Then she looked at me, smirked, and did a kiss-y thing at me with her mouth. Then she laughed at me.

Another lady, this one with short dark hair and dark glasses, walked straight up to the front of the crowd with her camera. She reached into the pillory, and I felt her finger lifting up my penis.

“Cute balls,” she said.

Then I heard a small “beep” from her phone and knew that she’d just taken a picture of my testicles.

“He has many admirers,” observed Rebecca, as the lady stepped back.

I never felt so totally humiliated in my life! Not only were those three girls playing with my body, they were doing it as I stood naked in front of this crowd of strangers! And they were all chuckling, and laughing at me, and making remarks about my body! I felt totally degraded.

I saw another woman lift her cellphone and take a picture of me. She laughed, stuck out her tongue, and wiggled it at me.

To add to my humiliation, all the girls’ touching and fondling was really starting to stimulate me visibly. I was quickly developing an impressive erection. The girls noticed it.

“I am afraid that he might lose his load at any minute,” Prudence’s voice said.

“I as well,” answered Sarah. “Shall we empty him now?”

“Perhaps it would be as well,” Rebecca mused. “We could make him expel now. We would have to ask the onlookers to stand back away.”

Sarah came out to the front, where I could see her. She waved her hand, and the audience became still.

“Guests, I have an announcement,” she proclaimed. “As a part of his punishment, we are going to manipulate Thomas here,” she gestured at me, “and make him waste his seed, for your amusement.” She motioned the front row of onlookers back. “You may wish to stand back and give him some distance, lest he soil your clothing.”

The front row of onlookers stepped back immediately.

Sarah turned, picked up her tumbler, and took a long sip of water, then came back behind me again. I felt a hand slide between my legs and up my thigh, finally touching the bottom of my testicles. Another hand gripped my buttock. Then I felt a thumb on the underside of my penis, and fingers on top of it. They gave my penis a couple of playful squeezes.

A voice came from behind me, right next to my ear. Sarah’s voice. “Thomas, I’m going to hold you while Rebecca empties your penis.”

The hand came up from around my waist, and Sarah’s fingers touched my chest again. I felt her cold fingertip once again playing with my nipple, rubbing it and gently squeezing it.

Meanwhile, I felt Rebecca’s fingers slide up to the base of my penis. Then she squeezed gently, and slowly ran her thumb and fingers down toward the tip. I shuddered. She laughed, and slipped her hand back to the base and squeezed again. Once again, she slid her fingers down to the tip.

The audience was enjoying it.

“Wow! Look at it!”

“It’s getting big and pointy!

“Look at it sticking out!”

“Wow! That penis is a whopper!”

Over and over Rebecca’s fingers slid down my penis, starting to squeeze harder. Meanwhile, I had Prudence’s hand caressing my bare thigh, and Sarah’s fingertip stimulating my nipple. And all the time, I had a rapt audience.

I was trying as hard as I could not to let go. Looking back, I’m not sure why, but I guess I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of me being made to ejaculate on cue. So I was holding on.

“Come on, Babe,” Rebecca was muttering in a rather un-Rebecca-like voice. “Gimme a nice big squirt!”

She was squeezing my penis hard now, with her entire hand. Squeezing and pushing from the base to the tip, over and over.

“I wanna see a nice big squirt!” she was muttering. “I want every last drop!”

Suddenly, Prudence’s hand slid up my thigh up into my crotch. Her fingers touched the bottom of my testicles. I heard her chortle, and her fingers started tickling the bottom of my testicles. That was enough.

Suddenly I felt a huge gush come out of me. I glanced down and saw a stream of my semen shooting out from the pillory, and landing on the ground a few feet in front of me.

I heard a couple of delighted squeals. Then the audience laughed, then cheered. “Yay!” “Nice squirt!” “Atta boy, Thomas!” and much humiliating laughter. I felt like a complete fool.

“Wow! That was a good one!” a lady in front laughed.

“He must have squirted four or five feet,” observed another lady nxt to her.

“Yeah. How’d you like to have THAT inside you, eh?” Laughter.

From behind me I felt Rebecca’s handreaching around me again. This time it held a rough piece of cloth.

“We must needs clean him up,” she observed.

It was true. My thigh and the end of my penis were all sticky from my ejaculation. Rebecca held me in place with one hand gripping my butt cheek, while she used the other to wipe me off.

“I see that Thomas has become flaccid again,” she observed, as she wiped unde my penis. That made the audience laugh at me again.

I noticed Sarah going off away from me to one side. I realized with horror where she was going. She went over to the well, picked up one of the smallest buckets, and dipped it down. Then she pulled it up, full of water. She carried the bucket back over to the pillory.

The audience sensed what was about to happen, and emmitted a few cloud chuckles.

“I sense that Thomas’s mid-section be overly heated,” she announced. “It needs to be cooled.”

I could see what was about to happen! “No!” I cried. The crowd inhaled, almost collectively.

Sarah grinned mischeviously at me. Then she whooshed the water out of the bucket and onto my midsection, soaking my crotch! The water was icy-cold, and I was crying in freezing pain!

“That ought to cool him off,” chuckled a man in front of the crowd. They all laughed at me. I could only stand there, shivering in cold naked pain, in front of this laughing crowd.

I felt Rebecca’s towel drying me off, lingering over my penis and testicles. Then she let go. I was dry down there now, but I was still cold.

Sarah came out in front of the pillory and addressed the crowd: “Now that we have punished Thomas by humiliating him, we invite our audience to help. You may come around the pillory and examine Thomas in detail, from the back as well as the front. This will humiliate him further, thus teaching him his lesson.”

Immediately the crowd started coming around to the back of the pillory. A few women stayed behind, and peered at my private parts up close, chuckling, and occasionally touching my penis or my testicles through the posts. I had to listen to their comments:

“It’s so adorable!”

“It’s cute even when it’s all floppy.”

“My goodness!” one of them said. “Look at all that hair!” She reached in and felt my pubic hair with her finger.

“I’ve never seen so much hair on a guy!”

“What a nice bush!”

Meanwhile, the crowd behind me was having fun. I felt a hand stroking my back. Another hand was sliding up the inside of my thigh, getting closer and closer to my crotch. I heard a lot of “Oooooh!” and “Aaaaah!” and “Oh, my!” coming from behind me as I felt hands and fingers inspecting my body.

Suddenly I heard, “Nice ass!” followed by a sharp slap on my butt cheek. I lurched. This was greeted with much laughter.

Another slap. I lurched again. “You were a bad boy! (Slap!) You need a good spanking!” Two more slaps. More laughter.

I felt a hand sliding up my side. It wend all the way up to my chest, then it slipped around to my nipple. I felt two fingers playing with my nipple. They flipped back and forth across it. The fingers were suddenly withdrawn, then I head a slurping sound. Then the fingers came back, this time moist with saliva. The damp fingertips rubbed saliva on my nipple.

Then, while this was happening, another hand reached around and started petting my belly. Even though I had just ejaculated, I could feel myself starting to warm up again. The hand petted me back and forth, back and forth, with a fingertip occasionally touching my bellybutton.

“What’s that thing sticking out between his legs?”

I looked down. In front of me was a girl, maybe eight or nine, with her mother. They were examining my crotch.

The mother took my penis in her hand. “This?” she asked. The little girl nodded.

“This is called a pe-nis,” the mother explained, pronouncing the word carefully. “Boys and men have them right here between their legs.” She patted the girl’s head. “Usually boys and men wear pants so you can’t see their penises.”

“Does Daddy have a penis?” the little girl looked up at her mom.

“Yes, he does,” she answered. “Of course, Daddy’s penis is bigger than this penis.”

Thanks, lady, I thought.

“Can I touch it?”

“Go ahead,” sighed the mother.

The little girl reached inside the pillory. I felt a cautious little finger touching the tip of my penis, and feeling around a little. Then she pulled her finger out. She looked up at me.

“Thank you, Mister,” she said to me politely, as she stepped back.

As I was debating whether to say “Keep your hands to yourself,” or “You’re welcome,” the hand that was rubbing my belly from behind suddenly slipped down and grasped my penis at the base. It squeezed my penis playfully a couple times, then started fondling it, a finger stroking the underside.

A voice behind me said, “Ooooh! It’s getting bigger again!”

Another hand slid up the inside of my thigh, squeezing it. “Oooh! I like these legs!”

I felt another hand rubbing my back. It slid up my spine, and began massaging my neck.

“Poot Thomas!” I heard Rebecca’s voice almost in my ear. “I fear that standing in this position makes thy back sore.”

She was right. Among other things, being hunched in the pillory was starting to fatigue my back and my neck. Her hand rubbing the back of my neck felt good.

“I fear that it must continue,” she remarked, “for thou hast several more hours to be confined.”

“Aw, come on!” I protested. “I can’t stand here like this for any more time! This has been bad enough already! Besides, I’m supposed to be in Boston in a couple hours.”

“Alas,” she sighed, as he hand moved to my shoulder, “Thou wilt not be in Boston until after nightfall. Thy sentence doth keep thee here in the pillory until the hour of five.”

“No!” I said, as firmly as I could. “Get that Judge guy out here! I need to be released now!”

At about that moment I felt another set of fingers starting to play with my penis. I looked down, and there was a girl, eighteen or nineteen. Reaching through the pillory. I couldn’t see her hand, but I could feel it, sliding up and down the upper edge of my penis. She looked up at me suddenly, then grinned and gave my penis a playful squeeze with her fingers. Then she took out her cellphone and took a picture of my genitalia. She looked up again, and this time she laughed at me. Then she poked my bellybutton with her finger and tickled it, then walked away, still chuckling.

As this was happening, I was feeling another hand petting my bare butt cheek. It was petting me in a circular motion, every once in awhile, squeezing my butt cheek. This was accompanied by giggling. My other cheek was starting to itch; I didn’t know why. Then girls’voices came from behind me:

“What are you doing with that piece of grass?”

“I’m tickling his ass, don’t you see?”

“He’s got a nice ass!”

Then I heard another slurp behind me. I felt a finger gently rubbing my skin, right between my anus and my testicles. Back and forth, back and forth. It made me shudder, and the audience laughed at me some more.

. . . . . . .

This all went on all afternoon. The girls continued to exhibit me to the audiences as they came and went. During the rest of the afternoon, I was made to ejaculate four more times, each time to a whistling, laughing audience. By the last time, my testicles were starting to hurt.

Around the middle of the afternoon, Prudence had to leave to go to the tavern to help get ready for tea (tea?). Meanwhile, her place was being taken over by another serving girl, anmed Martha. Martha had an interesting trick. When she was priming me for ejaculating, she held my penis between her thumb and the first couple fingers of her right hand, near the base. Her little finger hooked under, and I could feel it tickling my testicle every once in awhile. Meanwhile, she held me in position by grasping my butt cheek with her left hand, with her fingers almost near the crack. As she stroked my penis, she would squeeze my butt cheek with her left hand, and push it forward. This made my belly thrust out obscenely for each stroke. The audience loved it. They hooted and laughed every time she did this.

Of course, after each time, my performance was greeted by hoots and laughter from the audience, amid much cheering. This was followed by my being cleaned up, which included the inescapable splash of ice-cold well water onto my bare midsection. Of course, this always brought a huge laugh from the onlookers. It was the part I hated most.

No, that’s not quite right. The part I hated most was being made to ejaculate against my will for this crowd. And in betweeen they came up and inspected every detail of my private parts. They’d look at my crotch and touch and rub my penis and testicles, and go behind the pillory to slap and tickle my butt cheeks.

At one point a man came up to the pillory and leaned over to inspect my genitalia. He took several pictures of my penis, then slipped his finger under my penis and moved it back and forth a couple times. He squeezed my penis a couple of times, then lifted it up and took a picture of my testicles. I’m not gay, so this didn’t do anything for me except creep me out.

I was photographed numerous times that afternoon. Sometimes the photographer, usually a woman, would lean over and take a close-up of my penis Other times someone would take a picture of me from farther back, so my face and my naked crotch all got into the picture. I hoped that none of these pictures would end up posted on a social media site someplace, and get back to someone I knew.

My original intent, once my sentence was served, had been to march back to the cabin and confront the Judge. I’d threaten him with a lawsuit, and with criminal action. However, it didn’t work out that way. By five o’clock I was so sore and so fatigued that I just wanted to get into my car and go.

Martha abruptly announced, “It’s four fifty-five.”

“He hath served his sentence,” Rebecca said. “We must prepare him for his release.”

One of them slipped my underpants back up to their proper position, then I felt my slacks being pulled up to my waist. I felt fingers buttoning my waist and pulling up my zipper, then buckling my belt.

A minute later, the two men came up behind me. “It is time to release him.”

The guy in the brown jacket stepped to the side and un-padlocked the cross beam,. At the same time, I felt my ankles being released from the irons. I stood up and stretched, painfully. I turned, and to my surprise, there was no sign of the girls. The man in the blue jacket handed me my shirt, and I put it on hastily.

“Thou hast served thy sentence well, Sir,” he said to me.

I didn’t respond. I just turned my back to them, stepped off the platform and walked, as briskly as my aching anatomy allowed, right to my car.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

I didn’t get to Boston until about seven that evening. Rather than describe my humiliating experience, I made up a story involving a car that wouldn’t start and a cellphone that didn’t cooperate. I guess they believed me.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Two weeks later, I had to make a similar trip to Boston. This time, I started early, and got off I-95 on purpose. Part of me never wanted to see Historic Wyebridge again for the rest of my life, but another part was curious.

I followed the detour that I’d followed the last time, looking for the billboard. For some reason I must have missed it, because I suddenly arrived at the driveway entrance. There were the two plaster Colonial fellows with their tricorns and their bells. I turned into the driveway, and drove through the grove of trees. And I stopped abruptly.

Instead of the parking lot and the stockade, I found myself staring at an open field. Tall grass covered the ground, with a few wildflowers here and there. I heard birds chirping in the distance. Far across the field, I could see a stone wall, crossing the landscape.

Where was Wyebridge?

I stared for a few minutes, then backed up my car and drove slowly away.

[Jeepman89]

What a incredible story! I loved every minute of it.

[NickTwisp]

This makes me think of a real place in Massachusetts called Old Sturbridge Village. We stopped there for a few hours on a family vacation when I was 11. They had stockades which tourists could climb into for a photo opportunity. Of course, my Mom insisted that my sister and I take our turn in one of the stockades so Dad could take our picture. Imagine the humiliation if Mom had made me strip naked before climbing up into the structure?

[femdestitute]

What a great story! Being laughed at by so many people and having people take your picture while you're stuck and exposed is so exciting hehe~~ Love it!

[Datom]

This makes me think of a real place in Massachusetts called Old Sturbridge Village.

I think I had Sturbridge in the back of my mind. We stopped there once while traveling the Mass Pike. Of course, Sturbridge isn't just a tourist trap, like my Wyebridge--it's actually a pretty authentic replication of an early New England town---although I do remember seeing a soft-drink vending machine outside one of the cabins