The town jail

As Mackenzie rubbed her wrists where the cuffs had been, she felt a strange mixture of relief and lingering vulnerability, still oblivious to the fact that her dampened top clung to her breasts, revealing the distinct outline of her hardened nipples to anyone who glanced her way. Willow sidled up beside her, phone discreetly tucked away but buzzing with the footage she'd captured, and pointed toward a cluster of wooden structures near the jousting arena. "Look, Mackenzie," she said with feigned innocence, "they've got an exhibit of medieval punishment devices stockades, pillories, the whole torturous lot at the town jail. We should check them out."

As they approached the wooden stocks, Mackenzie's gaze lingered on the weathered timber and shuddered with a sudden vivid image flashing through her cider-hazed mind. She can imagine herself bent forward, wrists and neck clamped helplessly in those rough grooves, while a jeering crowd gathered to witness her shame.