Their yelps, gasps, moans, and screams told me one thing, while their involuntary spasms, jerks, tensing, and thrashing told me something else. Even the simplest whimper, sigh, or momentary silence did not go unnoticed. And the rate of discoloration to the skin, along with width, length, and depth of each lash mark carried on a constant conversation with me as I performed my duty.
Presently that duty is two repeat offenders simultaneously, which is no small feat I can tell you. While anybody can senselessly beat people, very few individuals in the world can manipulate whips and floggers with perfect precision, much less doing it simultaneously with both hands—especially in an age when such talent is primarily restricted to sideshow entertainers or sexual practitioners of BDSM. That makes me an even rarer breed, although I do participate in the BDSM world, when it comes to whips and floggers I primarily carry out my duty in an official capacity as—the Whipper.
The two repeat offenders bound before me in the great lodge are Terrence Two Deers and April Rainchild. Both married, just not to each other. And their adulterous affair would have only warranted private chastisement, instead of public display in the tribal lodge, if they hadn’t left two small children in hot cars to suffer and die while they satisfied their sexual urges.
The tribal lodge is packed to overflowing. Reservation communities are far more interconnected than most other communities. It often seems like everyone is related to everyone else in one way or another. And the adulterous affair would automatically touch many related to both the innocent spouses and the cheating spouses—but it’s magnified many-fold with the negligent deaths of two small children.
It would be hard to convince the two repeat offenders as each swing of my arm and flick of my wrist marks their bodies that they could not be in better hands—but it’s the truth.
I am a consummate professional. All distractions are zoned out when I perform my duties. So while part of me is aware of the uproar that continues unabated in the tribal lodge as family sides with family against family, and the understaffed tribal police attempt to keep some semblance of order, and the tribal council and elders try to explain the need for such a drastic display under the recent tribal disciplinarian decree—even though every member of the confederated tribes was encouraged to vote on it just a few months earlier—I zone it all out and focus on perfection in the performance of my duties.
Both offenders were tethered to posts, arms extended above their heads, with wrists shackled. There was exactly four feet between the posts. And I pulled the Al-Mar combat knife from the sheath in my knee high moccasins and sliced their shirt and blouse from collar to bottom hem, along with her bra strap. I also bared their bottoms for the extra flesh to target, along with the humiliation it caused them in the public forum. And whenever a sympathetic thought crossed my mind, as they always do, I simply remembered the broken hearted spouses and the two dead children, which steeled my resolve to the punishing task.
I was several feet behind and centered between the two offenders: man to my right, woman to my left. And because I’m a professional, along with being ambidextrous, I chose to punish them simultaneously. My right hand wielded a normal sized cat’o’nine tails, with single-knotted tips, and a beautiful braided leather handle. While I wielded a similar but smaller cat, without the knotted tips, in my left hand.
I began with double figure-eight combinations against the offenders, with each figure-eight resulting in two slashes: one in, one out. And continued with that combination for five minutes until their backs, butts, and thighs exhibited solid crimson hues. That was followed by a simultaneous right/left – right/left combination that alternated between the sting and thud deliveries, while specifically targeting upper back, sweet spot (lower two-thirds of the butt), and the upper thighs. And I finished with a bit of professional showmanship by using both hands and striking the offenders simultaneously.
But, alas, I’m getting ahead of myself. Perhaps a proper introduction is warranted.
I am known as Guh Ne Gay Waya: Black Wolf. My full name is Toma Shonto Black Wolf. Each name represents one of three primary tribes in my ancestral bloodline, though it is the Wolf Clan within one of those tribes that I relate to most. And yet, as the First People are to the White Eyes, I am an enigma to my own kind—even to myself.
I presently reside on a reservation in the Pacific Northwest, though it is one of the lesser known ancestral bloodlines, for which I bear no name. Co-mingling at a powwow by ancestors in generations past was all it took to share in the bloodline.
The male involved in that passionate union, Tonna’ka, my great-great uncle, was the last official Whipper—the Tribal Disciplinarian.
The Tribal Council, acting on a majority vote of the Confederated Tribes, sought me out.
Since the practice of a tribal disciplinarian had been discontinued, each succeeding generation has drastically declined. Substance abuse, alcoholism, domestic abuse, school dropouts, and every other negative statistic have steadily risen, costing the tribes millions annually. It became so bad that most tribal members understood that if something was not done immediately, not only would they lose their quality of life, but they would lose their cultural way of life. So the Confederated Tribes voted to re-establish their cultural ways and beliefs, to include, reinstituting the practice of a tribal disciplinarian.
When two-thirds of the last elected council was arrested for embezzlement, the newly elected Tribal Council, along with the elders, realized the need for rapid change was so dire that—except for modern technology, medicine, and education—only traditional Indian practices would be allowed on the reservation. And in an effort to quickly turnaround the declining morals and ethics infecting the tribes the disciplinary program was reinstated, and it was greatly expanded.
The original disciplinary practice predominantly dealt with minors, and occasionally some serious repeat offenders. The new parameters include all youth offenses, all serious adult offenses, and even public floggings for heinous offenses and serious repeat offenders. And I am the instrument doling out the punishment, the Tribal Disciplinarian—the Whipper.
Generation after generation my patriarchal lineage maintained corporeal punishment as a family tradition. When properly administered, morals, ethics, and principles are instilled, along with respect for authority, elders, and others, and a good work ethic is acquired and maintained. But all of the aforementioned have seriously declined on this reservation, and are much needed.
Bad attitudes and behavior were so rampant on the rez’ that I devised a comprehensive plan to combat the situation and methodically set it in motion.
The change has been so overwhelmingly positive that the Tribal Council has made the disciplinary program permanent. And any tribal member that opts out of the program will receive stiff fines for any and all infractions that affect others by them or their dependents.
When I was first approached regarding the position I had my doubts: not about the program, but whether it was right for me.
As an Alpha male I have no trouble leading. I commanded men during three tours in Afghanistan. But the thought of punishing children and adults for a living was about as far away from anything I had considered as you can get.
I knew I would need to remain emotionally detached while dispensing the discipline—like doctors when they have to cause pain in order to assist healing. And I knew I would become a pariah in the eyes of most tribal members: a necessary evil, like an undertaker or cop. They need your service but they don’t want to befriend you.
In the end, the Tribal Council tripled their original offer. Their need was that great, and it was important to have someone directly related to the last official Whipper: my great-great uncle, Tonna’ka.
Remaining emotionally detached was not an obstacle; my time in the military prepared me for that. What caught me by surprise was how easily I took to the position. Dispensing discipline gave me a cathartic release from my internal demons. It quickly became my art form, my way of life, my obsession—and I strove for perfection.
Mastering the craft came naturally to me. Perhaps there is something special about having the blood of whippers in my veins.
Whether it was inherited I cannot say. But I was sure I’d found my calling, my purpose in life. And I took pride in dispensing the right amount of pain for each infraction: no more, no less. And I could instinctively read the personalities of everyone I punished; especially those with a penchant for pain, those who found their cathartic release from a combination of pain and/or humiliation (for their pleasure)—those with submissive personalities.
Inevitably, my calling expanded. By day, I am the Whipper: the Tribal Disciplinarian. By night, and alternating weekends, I am Black Wolf, a BDSM Master, and Dominant to a growing stable of slaves.
The transition from Tribal Disciplinarian to include BDSM Master felt as natural as breathing, but it did have obstacles to overcome and decisions to make. But once I accepted my chosen calling, I would not allow anything to hinder either profession or past-time from achieving their positive purpose.
[Excerpt of a book in progress.]