She watches a different sadistic game

Elara, her bottom still burning from the red bum race, is trying to lose herself in the anonymous crush of the crowd when the rhythmic thrumming and a burst of raucous laughter pull her up short. She finds herself at the edge of a dense circle of spectators, mostly men and older boys, their faces upturned and eager. A towering, garish structure resembling a hybrid of a carnival strength-tester and a medieval pillory. Polished brass and flashing bulbs frame a central mechanism: a complex, whirring wheel of thick, oiled, twin-tailed leather straps that spin vertically at a frightening speed, emitting a low, menacing thrum-thrum-thrum. Above it, a system of heavy ropes and pulleys suspends a harness and metal spreader-bars, currently empty.

A carney in a striped vest and bowler hat holds a microphone. "Step right up! Test your arm, test your aim! Ring the bell and see her squeal!"

A girl Elara recognizes from the year below—Mira, a quiet girl with mousy hair—is being led up a short ladder by two attendants. Her face is a mask of terrified resignation as her skirt and panties are removed, leaving her exposed from the mid-thigh down. Elara bites her lip as she sees the purpose of the game, and blushes as the girl’s dignity is robbed and her crotch is exposed to the crowd, and soon, to the wicked machine. Mira is helped into the suspended harness. Its design becomes horribly clear: it’s less a seat and more a rigid frame. Leather cuffs secure her ankles up to her thighs, pulling her legs wide apart in a stark, **** "V". A wide, padded bar settles over her lap, holding her fast at the waist. She hangs there, a living target, her bare vulva suspended directly over the center of the whirling leather wheel.

"For three tickets, you get three balls!" the carney crows. "Hit the target, the ropes drop her a touch! A little kiss from the Tickler!" He gestures to a standard baseball throw target with a bullseye. "But hit the BULLSEYE…" The entire structure lights up with a blinding strobe of red and white lights, and a deafening, triumphant siren wails. "...you ring the Bell! And the Bell rings for a FULL MINUTE!"

A burly man in a leather apron steps up, buys his tickets, and accepts three worn baseballs. He hefts the first, eyes dancing between the target and the trembling girl above the machine.

Thwack! The ball hits the outer ring. A mechanism clunks. The ropes holding Mira jerk, dropping her precisely six inches.

There is a wet, sharp slap-slap-slap-slap sound, rapid as a machine gun, as the spinning leather straps make brutal, fleeting contact. Mira’s whole body convulsed in the restraints, a choked shriek ripped from her throat. Elara winces, and subconsciously places a hand on her own crotch in sympathy. The ropes instantly yank Mira back up to her starting position. The crowd roars with laughter and approval, the girls’ bald pussy now a bright shade of reddish-pink.

The second ball misses entirely. The man scowls, steadies himself, and throws the third.

THWACK! It hits the bullseye dead center.

The effect is instantaneous. The blinding strobes erupt. The air-siren blares. And the ropes holding Mira’s chair release completely.

She drops the full six inches down onto the center of the whirling machine, which speeds up.

The sound changes. It’s no longer a series of separate slaps, but a continuous, awful, thrumming-whip noise, a high-speed, brutal flogging of her bared pussy. Mira’s screams are lost in the siren and the crowd’s frenzy. Her body is a blur of violent, helpless vibration against the restraints. The carney holds up an enormous, theatrical hourglass, the sand streaming down. The longest minute Elara has ever witnessed.

Elara stands frozen holding her cotton candy. She watches not the machine, but Mira’s face—eyes screwed shut, mouth crying in agony, head thrashing side to side. The spectacle isn’t just the punishment; it’s the complete, mechanized obliteration of dignity and bodily autonomy, transformed into a flashy, noisy carnival attraction.

When the last grain of sand falls, the siren cuts off. The lights go dark. The whirling machine slows with a dying whine. The ropes, with agonizing slowness, haul the sobbing, shuddering Mira back up and out of the frame. The attendants uncuff her. She collapses against them, legs buckling, unable to stand on her own. They half-carry, half-drag her behind a tattered curtain at the back of the booth, as the carney already begins his next spiel.

"Who's next to try their luck? Win a prize for your lady, or teach her a lesson she won't forget!"

Elara turns and pushes to run blindly back through the crowd, the thrum-thrum-thrum of the machine in the back of her head as she hopes to escape any acquaintance from volunteering her for the spectacle.