Tales of the Restored American Commonwealth

4072:  The Yards

By

Emily Daniels

Tales of the RAC: 4072: The Yards

Chapter 1:  The Verdict

Chapter 2: The Yards

The Yards is the second chapter in the 4072 saga of the Tales of the Restored American Commonwealth.  The story begins with 4072: The Verdict.  If you would like to know more about the setting of the Restored American Commonwealth you can learn about it, purchase previous chapters and interact with characters by going to www.RAC4Victory.wordpress.com .

Disclaimer and Trigger Warning: 

This is a fictional series by Emily Daniels. It features imagery and themes from the genres of BDSM, Dystopian Fantasy, Misogyny, Judicial Punishment, spanking fetish and role play. If you suffer from PTSD or any prior trauma that can be triggered by those themes, please do not continue with this series.

Tales of the Restored American Commonwealth and 4072 are fiction and fantasy and should not be viewed as factual or desirable in any way. The author and all involved feel actual discrimination, rape, and injustice are wrong in every way. This work exists to create a dialogue about our current cultural issues involving church and state, misogyny, and BDSM and as well as reading enjoyment.

© 2015, Emily Daniels

Tales of the Restored American Commonwealth

4072: The Yards

Everything was in perfect order. The bald women sat in four rows of three pointing toward the large screen featuring the flag of the Restored American Commonwealth. There was an occasional sniffle, highly discouraged by both the guards and inmates. No one needed to hear any more crying. Some inmates had the red eyes of women who had just been through the terror. Others had the hollowed out stare of women who knew much worse to come.

They had all been through the same horror: their verdict, their sentence, the removal of their hair, the bar codes branding their body, and the abuse and scorn of nearly everyone in authority. Now, this small group of women had been placed together – the first time most of them had seen a sister convict – because they had all been sentenced to an “Intensive Requirement” before they would go to their training facility to begin their incarceration.

A heavyset female guard with a few strands of gray peeking through her chestnut brown hair and the lines radiating for her lips, illustrating she had been a smoker before the RAC banned cigarettes, walked to the front of the room. She had a scanner and a small leather implement. It looked like half of a belt with a split about ¾ of the way up, leaving 2 lashes for one handle.

“Inmates, sit up.” She looked with disdain at a frail young woman, TA-8329, who was hunched over in her chair trying to get herself together. Most of the inmates were in some state of undress. Some had a blouse with no buttons, like 4072. Others had no blouse, no skirt or only thong-like material across their newly lasered bodies. TA-8329 had nothing, and when she was pushed into the room, the guard had to use a napkin to wipe spit from her face. TA stood for Traitor’s Accomplice. Second to treason, it was the worse designation you could own. She had helped someone betray the Commonwealth. She would be lucky got get out of training alive.

“Right arms out,” the guard commanded, and all the women obeyed. She walked down the aisle, scanning the bar code of each woman, and checking to insure the correct information registered.

“We have to pay for this craptastic film? You should pay us to watch it.” An inmate in the back shouted. She was the only one in a full uniform, her tattoos were not new, although her head had been shaved that day. 4072 gripped the edge of her chair. She couldn’t believe the nerve of the inmate, but she also applauded in her head.

“If you’re gonna watch something, watch your mouth.” the guard chuckled. “And no, Pat, you don’t have to pay for it. This is just to record in your chart you have seen it, in case some nosy prison reform committee checks the files. How many times have you seen this?”

“This is my third intensive, Ma’am.” The inmate marked IT-3384 replied.

“You better be careful,” the guard’s voice dipped into the lower register, menacing and clear. “People are going to think you like it.”

“I don’t,” the once-bold woman whispered in a haunted tone. “I don’t.”

The guard held up the small leather strap. 4072 had seen them snapped to the belts of the arresting officers who took her away, but paid no attention. Now, she was focused.

“This is called a tawse. It is thick leather, split into two tongues. This is the standard issue correctional implement of the Department of Corrections. If you disobey instruction in any way, it will correct you at once. You will become well acquainted with it during your training time. Slaves will get to meet it later today. But, if I hear ONE word from any of you during this film I will stop the video and ALL of you will meet it. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the women said in unison. 4072 hated the DOC and all of its brutal ways and yet she had to marvel. In one day they had turned a group of adult professional women into a handful of authority pleasing six year olds. Maybe that’s the real reason they removed the hair from their nether parts, to push them back to an age before they had a will of their own.

The guard turned down the light and went to the back of the room to engage the computer. The women were practically afraid to breathe loudly, let alone talk. A beautiful field, green and verdant, filled the screen. It had flowers and a doe drinking at a stream. Elegant, scrolling letters appeared. “About your Intensive Requirement.”

Before they could relax into the calming image, it was replaced with a picture of President Parry sitting behind his desk. 4072 winced at the transition. Parry had his usual perfect hair, jet black and combed in an exquisite wave, and gave his best smile, making his blue eyes sparkle.

“That wasn’t an election. It was a beauty contest,” Michael Wynn said when Parry was named President by the Grand Council. Looking at the leader on the screen, she didn’t doubt her father was right. The President had the flag of the Commonwealth on one side of his desk and the flag of the Fundamentalist Church on the other. He sat between them full of authority and righteousness – a dangerous mix at any time.

“I am President Dirk Parry, and I’m here today to talk to you about your sentence to an Intensive Requirement and how we will be utilizing it to help you become a better citizen of the RAC. Our history was a nightmare…”

The scene changed from the President to a set of pictures from Old America. They showed people protesting the Wall Street amnesty hearings, a woman named CEO of a company, gangs of teens holding guns, Muslims worshipping at a mosque, a truck full of people coming into the country illegally, a lesbian couple kissing, a homeless person sleeping on a bench, and a female judge. The irony was not lost on 4072 that the images in this film were the same ones in the history book she was convicted for owning.

“We have awakened to a new dawn,” the President continued. “We devalued the dollar and pulled away from the global economy, we got rid of immigrants, computerized systems, robots, and put every person in our nation back to work. We outlawed credit cards and student loans creating an upfront pay system that brought every person out of debt. We streamlined government and the court system. Perhaps the most important thing we have done to restore this country is re-establish the Natural Order for our citizens.”

A slide changed to the picture of the ideal RAC family. A mother cooking dinner as a father returned from work. The son was doing homework at a desk, and the daughter was setting the table. The whole family circled around the man – meeting his needs, following his instructions. Everyone was smiling.

“We still have freedom of religion in the RAC and you have the right to believe or not believe anything you choose, but,” the President paused to put his hand on the cross on his lapel. It was the same cross Warden Weems was wearing as he made 4072 get on her knees and clean his shoes with her tongue a few hours ago. “We also understand a nation must have God to prosper. Thus, we made the Fundamentalist Church the national church of the RAC and employ their teachings to make this nation great again.”

A picture came on the screen that 4072 couldn’t ignore. It was Reverend Senator Steve Laren, head of the Department of Church and State and the father of the man who bedded 4072 and left her to face the charges alone. Did someone do it to shame the Senator? Or did the Senator set it up to highlight the need for his reforms? Why her? Questions filled her mind as the President prattled on about family values.

“The Fundamentalist church teaches us that God put us on earth with a Natural Order. Man is the head of the household, and the superior being charged with dominance over the earth. Woman was created to be a helper, a supporter and comfort to the man. She is to be obedient and submit to his leadership in every way. Which brings us to why you are here.”

“I’m here because I was careless and horny,” 4072 thought but didn’t dare say out loud. “I’m here because I let someone frame me. I’m paying for someone else’s sins.”

“This generation is going to have the hardest time returning to the Natural Order. You’ve been too jaded by the world. Many of you were spoon fed ‘political correctness’ and the myths of equality from the time you were children. We knew those corrupt ideas would not disappear overnight. Most women have rejected feminist tyranny and found freedom in their very important role in the Natural Order. Some women have not.  RAC scientists have concluded that the best way to help a woman who will not, or cannot, submit to men is to put her through an experience so personal and searing that it creates necessary changes in her heart and mind.”

A heaviness over-took the room. All the inmates shifted uncomfortably in their seats at the words “personal and searing.” Parry was trying to make a trip to the yards sound like a counseling session in a meadow. No one was buying it.

“The Intensive Requirement is one of the harshest penalties we have in Department of Corrections. We know when a woman endures this action, she will never be the same again. That is the point of it. She will be freed from the unhappy mantle Old America put on her shoulders. She will understand what it means to be underneath the power of a man and she will, in time, learn that she can not only endure it, but she was born and naturally designed to thrive in it.”

An inmate in the front row made a retching sound. A woman on 4072’s row kicked at the chair in front of her repeatedly until the woman sitting it in turned around with a glare. Another let out a low hiss of air through her teeth. 4072 felt sick to her stomach.

“Ladies, settle down,” the guard warned from the back.

“The Intensive Requirement is extremely effective as a tool for your rehabilitation,” President Parry’s smiling face (an ill-advised visual for a man trying to justify the mass sexual penetration of women as valuable and needed), changed to a graph. “The corrections statistics show that 92% of women who are sentenced to the Intensive Requirement never return to the yards or require a second event and only 1 percent of all women go through it more than twice. Even more impressive, women who go through an Intensive Requirement are twenty times less likely to be sentenced for any future crimes. Quite simply, this tool – when combined with labor, incarceration and re-education - works.”

“Except for you, Pat.” The guard called toward the experienced inmate. “You are a 1 percenter.”

“I’m a slow learner, Ma’am.” Pat called back. The new inmates straightened up and gripped their chairs. Surely they wouldn’t be punished when she was merely answering the guard.

The camera settled directly on the President whose smile was replaced by a grim expression. His brilliant blue eyes were now the color of the deep sea. “What you are about to experience is going to be invasive, violating, and painful – physically and emotionally. We wouldn’t do that to you if we didn’t know it was the only way to free you from the shackles of delusion and enable you to take your proper place in our society. I speak on behalf of myself, The Grand Council of Senators, The Fundamentalist Church and the Department of Corrections when I say we hope you will learn from this experience and we wish you the best of luck.”

###

The lights came on and the inmates sat back up in their chairs. The thick, tense silence started to eat at their already raw nerves. Finally a woman in the second row turned to the one beside her and said what every one of them was thinking.

“Did he just say they were going to rape us for our own good?”

“No!” The guard shot back quickly. She’d seen riots in this room after that film and she wouldn’t be having one today. With a Traitor’s Accomplice and an Intellectual Criminal in the group, she knew all eyes were watching her.

“Zactly!” Pat added from the back.

“The President did not use the word ‘rape’ at any time. Rape is forced sex without consent. When you committed crimes against the Natural Order and violated RAC law, you gave consent to accept the punishment of your actions. It is punishment and rehabilitation – that’s all.” The guard reached over and grabbed the tawse from earlier off the table, revealing what was likely to happen to anyone who disagreed. “I think we should remain silent.”

They all nodded with some relief. Their future was too bleak to talk about anyway. Another female guard came in and handed the woman with the graying hair a clipboard. Two male guards followed her into the room. Four guards for twelve women. Were they expecting trouble?

“Right! The following women go stand by that long thin table on the right. All other women move to the left: TA-8329, M-2094, 3S-1032, and IC-4072.”

4072 stood up and slowly walked to the long table that seemed to come to their waists. She looked at the others and noticed all four of them had the designation ‘slave’ instead of ‘inmate’. All four were sentenced for life. She didn’t know if it was her ego or her logic but she couldn’t shake the feeling she was in the wrong group. A traitor’s accomplice, a murderer, a third strike criminal and her?

“As I told you, each and every one of you will have more than a few opportunities to get acquainted with the tawse. But there is an important distinction to be made, and the sooner you understand it the better. You on the left are inmates. You will only be given physical punishment if you violate the rules or go out of bounds. If you feel you have been hit or corrected unfairly you have the right to file a report. You on the right have received a life sentence to serve the RAC for your crimes. You may be whipped, corrected or instructed at any time, whether you have done something wrong or not. You are the property of the Commonwealth and they can do as they please with you. You have forfeited all right to complaint or consent. Is that understood?

“Yes, Ma’am,” they said in unison, although the small group on the right spoke so slowly and sorrowfully they could barely be heard.

“Slaves, bend over the table, waist at the crease, legs apart. 4072, you’re a little taller, you might have to slouch down.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” 4072 said, bending her knees just a touch so her bottom was the same level as the rest. The table wasn’t very wide causing their arms and hands to hang over the side. The traitor’s accomplice was bent beside 4072. She could see the girl’s thin, soft hands shaking. Nothing in her demeanor seemed dangerous enough for a TA designation.

The two male guards took their place behind 4072 and the TA, and the original two female guards took the other two slaves. The inmates on the left watched in solemn terror. One put her hands over her eyes.

“You have to watch,” the older inmate called Pat whispered loudly enough for the group to hear. “Looking away dishonors them. These are our sisters now. We must watch their pain. We must honor them.”

Surprisingly, the guards allowed this little bit of inmate code to be passed along without any correction.

The guard behind 4072 snapped the tawse from his uniform belt. He lifted the small skirt 4072 wore and began rubbing his hand on her exposed bottom, occasionally allowing it to veer into her bare nether lips. She pressed her head against the table and took a deep breath. She knew that no matter how much they might tell the world everything in jail was “by the book” the reality was clear. She heard a guard training a newbie say it outside of her cell the first night she was arrested. “The pay on this job is pretty crappy. Just fifteen cents over minimum. But, you get free pussy any and every time you want it, dude. It’s the best fringe benefit in town.”

The guard began to rub the thick leather tawse on 4072’s bare skin, making goose bumps rise. She felt his other hand, still rubbing and a finger slip inside her, just enough to let her know where she stood in the scheme of things.

“Let’s start them with five,” the grey-haired guard said.

4072 closed her eyes. This was her fate and whether it seemed fair or not, she was going to have to shut up and take it. She began saying that as a mantra in her head. Shut up and take it. Shut up and take it. Shut up and…

“SMACK!” A blistering pain flashed across both her cheeks driving her forward. She’d never felt anything so sharp against her flesh in her entire life. The three-strike petty criminal on the end screamed loudly. The murderer grunted angrily as if she might stand up and fight back any minute. The TA to 4072’s right let out a weak, bubbling sob. SMACK! Again the fire crossed her rear, which already felt like it had been stung by 1,000 bees. Now there were 10,000. 4072 let out a cry this time. She couldn’t imagine three more. They came anyway.

Each smack of the tawse was paused to allow everyone to hear the cries and gurgles of the women whose asses had turned a deep shade of red under the lash. After the first two smacks, the male guard took time to rub 4072’s aching posterior with his hand, spreading the painful heat. After the fifth one, the three-strike girl stood up, only to have her face mashed back down against the table.

“You rise when you have permission to rise, slave,” the lead guard said. 4072 could hear sniffs and tears from the inmates forced to watch the brutal display. She didn’t know if they were crying because they realized that someday it would be them under the lash, or because of the spectacle of four sobbing women punished so brutally for sadistic pleasure. There was a moment of silence then the lead guard patted the rear of the murderer.

“How’s that feel, sweetie?” She asked M-2094. “Finally feeling some remorse?”

“What remorse?” The tough well-muscled convict sneered, still bent over the table. “You think this is the first time a belt touched my ass? He got what was coming to him. I don’t mind paying for it. You can beat me to death. It was worth it.”

“Right,” the guard said. 4072 felt her punisher tapping her boiling bottom with his hand. She knew this was going south in a hurry. “Let’s give them another five, on the fly.”

4072 took a deep breath and held it as long as she could. She felt the guard put one hand on the small of her back to hold her down and shift his weight to lean into her. Before the onslaught began, the TA beside her who had been quietly crying reached over and wrapped her hand around 4072’s, holding it with gentle care. 4072 turned her head to look at the woman and nodded, squeezing her hand back.  Then, their world was ablaze.

Five hard fast smacks with the tawse came down. 4072 felt like a car with razor blades in its grill had run into her five times. She screamed. They all screamed. The sound of four women tormented under the stinging, hard impact of the strap echoed through the chamber. When the outcry from their group anguish fading into coarse breathing and gasps, 4072 heard one of the inmates pray.

“Jesus, God, make them stop,” one of the women was saying over and over. The others gulped and stared straight ahead.

“Slaves, rise.” The matron said. The four women rose. 4072’s skin felt like stiff leather that had been seared by the desert sun. She instinctively put her hands back to rub some comfort onto her bottom but pulled them away when she saw the other guard slap the TA’s hands for doing the same. The man who beat 4072 looked into her eyes and chuckled.

“Got some pretty long legs, Ignorant Cunt,” he said, placing his hand down the front of her skirt and rubbing her mound. “You’re gonna make the night shift some happy men.”

She stared at his shoes, biting her tongue. There was no answer that wouldn’t likely earn her another trip over the table. Shut up and take it.

The guard reached down and unzipped his uniform revealing his stiff and ready manhood for her to see. He put his hand on her shoulder and began pushing downward. She got to her knees, tears from the tawse still fresh on her face.

“Wait!” The leader said, her voice full of edge and authority. “That’s an untrained mouth you got there. Don’t risk it. Pat! Get your ass over her and give Ray a little relief.”

Without a word, inmate IT-3384 walked over, knelt before the guard and looked down at his shaft.

“With your permission, Sir.” Pat said, legs apart, eyes down.

“Suck my dick, bitch,” the guard replied, putting his hand all the way around Pat’s shaved head and pulling her face into his crotch. She gagged, loudly, but recovered and began moving back and forth on him, almost like a ballerina. She had such a grace and naturalness to her strokes. Reaching up with her hand, she cupped his balls and gently massaged them as she moved to keep up with his thrusts. Ray put his head back, feeling the velvet warmth of her mouth envelop him. Reaching down he grabbed her head again, this time thrusting way back in her throat and releasing his cum, gasping and moaning his pleasure.

4072 was still kneeling beside her, mesmerized by how fluidly and efficiently she drained the guard.  The other male tapped her on the shoulder and motioned with his head that it was okay for her to stand up. The hornet’s nest on her rear felt every movement she made.

Ray finished his ejaculation and snapped the tawse back on his belt. Pat licked him clean, using her pursed lips to dry him, then bent her head low before him.

“Thank you, Sir,” she said to the floor.

He adjusted himself and zipped his trousers, patting her on the top of the head. “Not bad for a member of the nerd herd.”

4072 looked at the code tattooed on Pat’s butt cheek and realized IT stood for Information Technology. Pat was a cyber-criminal. That’s not a sex crime. How did she end up in three intensives? She was surrounded in mysteries: a traitor who is afraid of her shadow, a computer criminal repeatedly paying for sex crimes, and a murderer sentenced to slavery with no remorse. Nothing in this room made any sense. 

A knock on the door interrupted her train of thought. The two female guards pulled the thin table out and motioned for some inmates to put chairs around it. An inmate in her skirt and blouse that still buttoned pulled a cart in the room with plates covered in plastic wrap. Turkey and congealed gravy, peas and carrots, and a blob of what might be apple cobbler for desert. Plates and small cups with water were set out for each woman.

“This is the last solid food you will get before your Intensive.  So eat all of it, ladies. You may speak if you keep it down,” the Matron said, waving the male guards out the door as she talked. Her co-worker grabbed two plates off the cart and set them out in the corner for the guards to eat separately.

At first the women just stared at the pre-packaged meal. Then M-2094 started to eat ravenously, giving the others permission to do the same. 4072 shifted in her seat, causing her brutalized bottom to send a shock wave up her spine. She let out a small cry, but continued to stuff the turkey in her mouth. It was bone dry and probably old, but it was food.

“I’m sorry,” TA-8329 whispered to her. “I shouldn’t have grabbed your hand back there. I just needed….well…I just needed something to hold on to.”

“Don’t be sorry,” 4072 replied, her natural compassion bubbling up. “I needed something too.”

“I’m sorry,” Pat said, plopping down in front of the two of them. “But if you’re a traitor, then I’m President Parry’s hairstylist. What did you do?”

4072 looked around the table to see if anyone had a reaction to this question. She didn’t know if spilling your story was a good idea or if it just brought more trouble down the line. No one seemed taken aback by the bold question, and they were all listening for the answer.

“I allowed my brother to live in my garage.” The frail woman was covered in bruises from her rough processing and completely naked. Her prison issue clothes had been torn off and stuffed in her mouth during an in-cell beating that left marks looking suspiciously like boot heels on her side.

“And…” Pat moved her finger in a fast forward sign. The woman took another deep breath and stared at the table.

“My brother was Leonard Pease.”

“Oh my god,” one of the inmates with a substance abuse designation said through a mouthful of carrots. “You’re Susan Pease?”

“I was,” the woman replied, a new tear falling down her cheek.

“Look, I’ve been in Punishment Block 6 for eight months. We don’t get much news there,” Pat scooped her apple glop off her plate and put it on 4072’s. “Who is Leonard Pease?”

“He was my brother,” TA-8329 said.

“I saw his execution the day I was arrested. They were showing it on every TV in the station,” an inmate blurted out. Then she realized that might not have been her most sensitive moment. “He died fast, you know. No pain, I think.”

“Leonard was the director of the Baltimore Museum of Art for many years. He loved his job so much. He loved art. He was told during the revolution that he could keep his job and nothing would change. Then, members from the Fundamentalist Church complained about the paintings. They wanted to get rid of all the nude ones, and then anything that seemed like it was another religion – you know with a Buddha or prophet in it. Then they demanded he remove all paintings that didn’t have the ‘right message’ and so on. Eventually this woman from the Fundamentalist Church was hired to be his supervisor. She didn’t know anything about art, but she had a degree from a Bible college. One by one all the great masters were put in this warehouse. It was like my brother’s soul was being cut up into pieces. He complained about the narrow scope of work left in the gallery.”

“He complained about the church?” The three-strike slave asked. “I thought I was dumb.”

“He complained about the art. He was fired. They gave him one week of pay then if he didn’t have a job he had to report to the Mandatory Employment Office to work in a factory. He asked if he could live in my garage because he couldn’t afford his apartment anymore. He said it was temporary. I thought he had a line on a job. What he really had were plans to blow up the gallery.

“When the bombs went off, they took most of the Biblical History section and the “Scenes from a Family” exhibition with them. A fire started and the building was damaged. He spray painted, ‘To restrict art is to hate freedom!’ on the wall.  He didn’t even run. He waited for the police, and watched the building burn as they cuffed him.”

“You gotta admire that,” the woman charged with murder nodded.

“The next day, they found the bomb making materials in my garage. I was a checker at Bag-and-Save. They arrested me right at my register. They forced me to watch him hang, then threw me in a cell. Yesterday I was found guilty of being his accomplice. I didn’t know what he was doing. I just let him stay in my garage.”

“And now you’re paying for the rest of your life,” another inmate marveled, looking around to see if anyone had food they didn’t eat.

“It won’t be that long,” TA-8329 said. “I’ll be dead soon. I can’t live through this much longer.”

“You can,” Pat said. “And you will. You look like a mouse, but there’s a lion in there. Find it and hang on.”

“Inmates, rise!” the command came from the end of the table. The women stood up, the four slaves each grimacing as their whipped asses sang out with the movement. “It’s time to prepare for transport. Follow Sylvia in a single-file line. If anyone speaks or gets out of line, punishment will occur.”

They all stood up and lined up behind the guard who had a hand on her taser baton the entire time. As they walked through the door, the matron stuck her foot out and tripped TA-8329, sending the woman sprawling across the floor. 4072 leaned over to offer her a hand, but Pat grabbed 4072 and shook her head.

“Don’t get involved,” she whispered. “That girl might really be a lion, but anyone who helps her is a sitting duck.”

4072 nodded and started walking again. She felt the sting in her soul that she was abandoning a woman who deserved better, but her head kept reminded her to put one foot in front of the other. Shut up and take it. 4072 began chanting with each step. Shut up and take it.

###

The line ended in a room filled with drawers and all kinds of keys, locks, and pliers hanging from pegboards. Two portly women in DOC issued uniforms stood with measuring tapes around their necks. There was a bowl of candy on a side table. All the inmates were drawn to the little amenity, praying they would receive just a bite of chocolate comfort. It was not to be.

“Inmates, attention!” One of the women shouted, causing the newly processed inmates to stand in what they thought “attention” might look like. 4072 took a peek over at Pat, the experienced convict, and mimicked her stance as best she could. “Are any of you virgins? Don’t lie, because there will be an examination this evening and if you lie now, you’ll pay double tomorrow.”

Two young women slowly raised trembling hands. One had the perfectly groomed and manicured presence of a woman raised in the Fundamentalist Church. The other was unattractive, with a too-large forehead and beady eyes, and likely hadn’t found anyone willing to risk punishment to have sex with her. It was only 5 strokes of the cane for men, but the women did mandatory street cleanup every Saturday for 9 months to ensure she was not pregnant – and give her the symbolic understanding of what could have taken place – an unlicensed child (which brought punishments of its own). Both girls were branded PC – Petty Criminal. It was likely they were sentenced to an Intensive as a warning, or their parents were being schooled on why it’s always good to give authorities what they want. These wouldn’t be the first girls to get in a bit of trouble and end up paying for their Daddy’s rude behavior all the way to the yards.

“Too bad for you,” the DOC worker chuckled, taking a big red marker out of her smock.  One young woman still had her blouse buttoned, but the worker pulled it open, sending buttons scattering across the room. The ink on her breast tattoo was sinking into her flesh as a dull black mark, highlighted by the bright red V the worker scrawled on her chest and wrist. The other, whose blouse had been reduced to a white tatter hanging off her shoulders, accepted the V by biting her lip, a tear falling down her cheek.

“I was saving myself for marriage,” the girl said as if anyone cared. “I was stealing some fruit as a gift for my boyfriend. He can’t afford fresh fruit and he loves it so.”

“Don’t worry, Princess,” the worker said. “When you finish your punishment, there might still be a bite or two of fresh fruit left in you, but I doubt it. Virgins, stand to the right.”

The two marked girls hung their heads and moved to their assigned corner where the second worker began measuring their waists and hips.

“Do virgins get out of the Intensive Requirement tomorrow?” A woman asked Pat. 4072 was grateful to have an experienced inmate in their group.

“No,” Pat whispered loud enough for the group to hear her as the worker grabbed TA-8329 by the hair and pulled her to a station where she took measurements and reported them to a female inmate chained to a stool with a clipboard. “They get sold to the highest bidder tonight. Big muckety mucks – senators, clergy, corporation heads – all bid on them. Whoever wins gets to deflower them tonight, but tomorrow, they’ll be in the stocks right beside us.”

4072 shifted her eyes to the two unfortunate girls who were being fitted with a flexible metal belt that ran around their waist and between their legs. A shield covered the area where the clitoral hood would be, and the metal strip blocked both the vaginal and anal entry into their body.

“Chastity belts,” 4072 mumbled. “To save them for tonight?”

“You’re all getting them,” Pat said, lifting her prison issue skirt to show the metal belt locking her sex tight. There was an inseam lock in the front that would release the strip between her legs if access was needed. “Any time an inmate is in a transport vehicle of the DOC or out of her punishment block she has to wear one. There was a scandal a few years back where transporters were taking the inmates to rest stops and selling fucks to truckers during their trip. The Restored American Commonwealth faces a lot of scrutiny for human rights violations in the world court. They do this to prove their inmates are not sexually degraded or vulnerable in any way.”

“So they are protecting our fragile sexuality until they lock us in stocks and let soldiers fuck us for hours? That’s their proof?” Someone asked.

“Yeah,” Pat laughed, cynically. “But remember, that part is punishment. The world court is okay with punishing women, just not making a profit off them while you do it.”

“Except the virgins,” 4072 added. “They seem to fetch a high price.”

“Well,” Pat winked at her new friend. “Let’s just say the world court auditors don’t always have to be the highest bidder to get a virgin in their bed.”

The women nodded. For all the propaganda about the RAC making the world so much more ethical than Old America, it was more corrupt than ever.

The worker’s meaty arm grabbed 4072 and shoved her to a station. She spoke to the inmate assistant in quick barks.

“IC-4072. Slave.”

The inmate nodded, filling out the form with a prison issue pen. The worker pushed 4072 up against a wall where a weight pad and height chart rested. Before she could prepare herself, her skirt was yanked down to her feet. 4072 stepped out of it and kicked it to the side.

“You’re a tall one.” She said, then turned to the inmate who never looked up from her task. 4072 wondered how often they released those chains and let the girl stand or pee or breathe. “Slave is 6 feet tall, weight 145 lbs, body, athletic. Hair, shaved; eyes, hazel; breasts, 34 B; waist 24, hips 32, feet size 7.”

4072 felt a jolt as the woman touched her naked mound, running the measuring tape between her legs. She mumbled the number to the inmate and then patted 4072 right below her bar code. The assistant pointed toward the next station and handed the form to 4072 who gently bent down to retrieve the small skirt hopeful that was allowed. She held it in her hand into the next station, aware of her nudity and the imposing bar codes shining from her most private places. The station had a small indenture with a toilet and a male DOC worker with credentials hanging around his neck and a cross on his lapel.

“Okay, honey,” he said, pointing at the toilet. “Go if you got to, or even if you don’t, because you won’t be unlocked until you reach the yards. There’s a slit on the cross piece so you can pee if you’re locked in long term, but feces is a mess. If you’ve got any in you, push it out now.”

4072 sat on the toilet and stared forward, waiting for a curtain or electronic veil or something to give her the smallest amount of privacy. But there was none. She dropped her head. What was she thinking? She’d been walking around all day half naked with a bald cunt shining and red stripes on her ass. Why on earth would they give her privacy now? As if he was reading her mind, the belt fitter looked at her between pulling metal belts out of drawers and checking the sizes. “You’re a slave, sweetheart. There’s no privacy for you. Get on with your business. You’re holding up my line.”

She closed her eyes and imagined herself at home, in the tiny apartment bathroom she always complained about and now would give any price to be using. A small trickle ran out of her, but she could produce nothing else. She wiped herself, the red shame of doing this act in public turning her cheeks as warm as her buns. The self-flushing mechanism sounded throughout the building. Even her head went red.

“Finally,” the fitter sighed, motioning the slave over toward him. “Take a breath then let everything out. I’m fitting this snug so if you’re holding yourself in, it’s going to cut you later. You’ve got a good body, so yours shouldn’t restrict anything.”

She let her body go, squirming only when the cold metal of the waist belt wrapped around her, making her giggle at the slight tickling of the contact. He screwed the belt together and checked the space between the metal and her body. Then the cross shield was forced between her legs and connected into a small circle at the front of the belt. When he was satisfied it was tight but not strangling, he reached over and brought out something that looked like a glue gun, only with hot solder instead of adhesive. He soldered the screws and bars into place, then positioned a lock in the circle that held the whole thing in place.

“Don’t move or this will burn you for life,” he warned. “Even after I’m finished, hold your position until I say to release. You don’t want hot metal dripping down your intellectual cunt, do you?”

“No, Sir,” 4072 said, holding in her shame and her rage. She closed her eyes and waited as she felt the heat from the gun draw near her body. When the lock was attached, he took out a kit with 3 keys on it, checked the clipboard on the desk and added a 4th key. He stamped them all IC-4072 and put them on a small ring.

The weight of the belt wasn’t bad, but the feeling of metal pressed against her naked vulva messed with her head as much as her body. Her sex was locked, and someone else would have the key. Her body, like her bank account, property and pride, was forfeit to the Restored American Commonwealth. Even the normal act of using the bathroom required permission.

The fitter tried each of the keys in the lock, ensuring the belt opened and closed easily. He placed her key ring on a much larger set, allowed her to put her skirt back on and told her to move to the line by the door to wait for transport.

Taking short steps, learning to walk with a metal belt between her legs, she lost balance and her foot landed on a piece of paper on the floor causing her to slide forward.  4072 let out a yelp, put out her arms and was mostly able to cushion herself from hitting the wall with her face. The woman who measured her came around the corner. She picked up a paddle sitting on the fitter’s table, grabbed 4072 by the arm and landed 5 hard swats on her already red bottom, causing the slave to gasp like a punished school child.

“Watch your dumb ass, Intellectual Cunt,” the woman said, throwing down the paddle. “This isn’t the roller rink and you’re not Skatin’ Kate.”  Using the nickname of Kathleen Dubois, the RAC’s ice skating gold medalist, the fitter snorted a laugh and went back to work.

“Well, Kate,” Pat said as 4072 braced herself against the wall, her head still churning from the event. “Guess you got a name.”

“But, I’m not…”

“Take it and run, Kate,” Pat said to the stunned inmate. “We have a girl in Punishment Block 6 who goes by Stinky Bean. Consider this one a blessing.”

When all the inmates were processed, they were lined up and marched down a hall to the transport ramp where a box truck waited. Placed on benches that lined the sides, the new chastity belts made the sitting process uncomfortable for most.

“You get used to it. Soon it becomes a part of your body,” Pat advised.

The back panel was lowered and locked. The women sat in the dark, windowless box designed to carry them from central processing to the next stop: the rape yards of the Special Punishment Facility. Before the key started the rough tumbling engine, a cry was heard in the dark.

###

“You okay, Kate?” Pat asked, reaching over and tapping 4072 on the legs. She could see how the helpful inmate earned her nickname.

“Yes,” 4072 replied with a long sigh. She trembled realizing what she had already been through was nothing compared to what was to come. 

“How about you TA? Still alive?” Pat called in the dark. Both 4072 and the traitor’s assistant were assigned to end up in Punishment Block 6 if they made it through the Intensive Requirement so Pat considered them sisters already.

“For now,” a small withering voice called from across the box. “Thank you for asking.”

Small mumbles of conversation bubbled up between different inmates, seemingly chained together by their future assignments. Discussions ranged from the weird, helpless feeling of having their sex locked in metal to the crimes they were accused of committing and the people they left behind. No one wanted to hear about the yards or what awaited them when the sun came up.

“Kate, you’re an IC so you must be the bookish type. What’d you do before the slam?” Pat asked, hoping to lighten the morose mood of the new inmates.

“I’m an…well, I was…an architect,” 4072 felt the tears well up in her eyes as she spoke of what was now her past life.  “I worked for Bradley, Lawson and Associates. We designed a lot of the RAC offices and regional buildings.”

“Design any of the jails?”

“Nope.”

“Damn, there go my hopes of escape. No more kissing up to you, honey buns.” Pat leaned over elbowing 4072 hoping to get a laugh. She got a slight chuckle, nothing more.

“Something tells me if you could escape, you would have done it before now.” The TA said, hoping it was okay for her to speak. She’d heard the inmates could be as cruel as the jailers to women convicted of treason.

“Damn straight on that,” Pat said. “But if you’re gonna go – you want to be sure you can get all the way out cause if they catch you, it’s the slave boat – after they finish making you pay for the crime of escape.”

“What difference does it make – slave here, slave there? At least your own people aren’t owning you.” 4072 waxed philosophically. She was still adjusting to her place in the world.

“White woman, shaved and branded, bought at market on foreign soil with no rights – no, thank you.” Pat whistled low. No one really knew what happened to the prisoners who wouldn’t follow the rules once they boarded the slave boat for countries outside of the world court’s jurisdiction. All they knew is that no one had ever returned. “I’ll stick with the RAC.”

“That’s because you’re not a slave,” 4072 countered. She didn’t know why she kept arguing with the woman who only seemed to want to help her. Maybe she just wanted one last chance to assert her will.

“Close enough. This is my second strike and third intensive. One more arrest and I’m a slave for life, just like you. Of course, this sentence is long enough that surely I’ll be rehabilitated by the time I get out – or at least too old for another intensive.” Pat laughed cynically. “If anyone is ever too old for their tastes.”

“Yes, tell us,” another voice came the dark, sharp and unrelenting. “How does someone become a three time loser at the game of life?”

“I was in college when the RAC replaced Old America,” Pat told 4072, ignoring the jeers of the stranger on the other side of the car. “My family was hit hard on the Day of Reckoning. We had to sell our house because of debt and my mother ended up on state labor to pay the rest. I was mad. I was young. I was dumb.”

“Welcome to the prisoner’s trilogy,” one of the ladies laughed.

“I know, right?” Pat continued. “So, I got a programming job at a casual game company, you know – hidden object adventures – and I put a bunch of rude, but true, things in the background of the screens. If you clicked on a drawer you might see a RAC flag in a folder marked ‘fascist’ or I put a silhouette of a woman walking on chain with “Fundamentalist Church” on her collar. I got by with it so I got cocky. In one adventure, I made the code to open a door to the church “In Power We Trust.”

“Jesus, Pat,” someone laughed. “Didn’t you know you’d get caught?”

“Let’s review: mad, young, dumb. Anyway, I got caught and sentenced as a cyber-criminal. They showed the woman on the chain picture in court, so I drew my first Intensive. I left that experience just like you all will, swearing I’d never do anything to go back there again. My sentence was pretty short. I was assigned stamp duty in the bulk mail processing unit. All day long stamping envelopes and sorting by zip codes. I obeyed the guards, endured the lessons and I served my time.”

“Lessons? Really?” Someone whispered. “Like what?”

“It’s better if you find out on your own. Less fear up front. You’ll get used to it. We all do. I got released and Gary, my husband, was there waiting at the gate. We were married under in a Fundamentalist Church because he thought he needed to play the game to keep his job. But, the Intensive Requirement, it does something to you. It gets in your head. I was thinking like they tell you to think – like sex was my duty. I even told him once, “This is what I was born for.” So, he started freaking out about all the men who used me – Intensive, guards, counselors. I told him the sex isn’t the same as love; it’s obedience, punishment and fate. He pushed me away. Turns out he fell in love with someone while I was away. The RAC doesn’t allow divorce without cause so we were two strangers with matching rings trapped forever by religious law. To make matters worse, even though I had a degree in computer technology, no one would hire a criminal. They remove the codes from your body, but it’s still on your record. Once a convict, always a convict.”

“Surely you could work at a state factory. It’s not the church’s fault you abused your skills.” the fruit stealing virgin from the Fundamentalist Church said defensively. She’d had enough church bashing for one ride. What would she feel like by the time she was released? 4072 knew many claimed to find religion in prison, but she always thought it was just talk to make their time in the system easier. She had never had faith, never lost it, and was pretty sure this wasn’t the way to get it.

“Wow, labeling cans or sewing buttons – sounds lovely. So, I wrote a program to create a backdoor in the Department of Corrections database. The RAC claims they got rid of computerization to create jobs – but don’t be fooled. They only ditched the things that make our lives easier. The DOC is fully computerized. I couldn’t erase my record without getting caught, but I changed my crime to a petty disturbance, altered my record and bam – I got hired by Bonafide Games to program backgrounds for their role playing game – Faith of Fallcraft.

“I was sitting at work coding away three months later when the arrested me. I couldn’t figure out how they knew. My lawyer brought Gary in to give a deposition and I saw him in the hall. The officer patted him on the back and said, “I know it was hard turning in your own wife. You’re a good citizen of the Commonwealth.”  That bastard not only turned me in, he gave them the program I used to do it – all so he could get a state sponsored divorce because I was going to in jail for so long.  I went crazy, I rushed after him, calling him a dickless wonder among other things. I was sentenced to 12 years labor, plus another Intensive for demeaning the sexual power of a man.”

“Bastard,” someone mumbled. “If he cheated on you openly, he’d get five strokes, and you could divorce him legally. But no, he saved his precious ass.”

“No shit. So now I’m serving my 12. I have 11 more to go. I found three guards setting up one of my besties for a trip to the punishment pole even though she was innocent. They were setting her up for an outsider to fuck her. I turned them into Warden Weems.”

“I met him this morning,” the TA said, her soft voice unmistakable. “He said he would be my warden if I live through training. He seemed nice.”

“I met his shoes,” 4072 added dryly. “They taste like dirt.”

“Weems is an enigma,” Pat continued. “He’s a true believer in the church. Doesn’t screw inmates, doesn’t break rules. But, he will use any punishment he can find to break your spirit. He likes to humiliate, but he believes the system works.  So – Weems investigated and canned the three guards. Then, he said I hadn’t shown them the proper respect by talking to them first and giving them a chance to do the right thing – like they would have – and I had to serve a day tied to the punishment pole. I called him a cocksucking bastard. And – well – I got me another intensive. Here’s a tip ladies – cuss at them if you don’t mind getting your ass beat, but don’t use the sex words unless you be want to sing in the choir on a regular basis.”

“I’ve heard that choir shit all day,” the murderer said. “What does it mean?’

“There are 30 stocks in the yards in six rows of five. We each get our own rack. They lock you in and the men in the first wave stand behind you. A countdown is given, and when they reach “go” the first wave enters us all at the same time and there is a scream – 30 women impaled at once.” Pat swallowed hard and spoke solemnly. “They call it singing in the choir. It’s the most haunting sound in the whole wide world, and you’ll hear it in your nightmares until the day you die.”

They finished the ride in silence, each woman imaging the moment she would join the chorus of the dammed.

###

Blind! The stark harsh light burned the eyes of the women when the panel was opened at the bumpy ride’s end. A large guard pulled the chain, jerking the women out of the truck onto the pavement. When they could see – they looked around in awe and terror.

A tall square government building, not unlike the ones 4072 set on paper in her former life, sat in the middle with elegant mowed fields – almost like sporting fields - around it, each with a small set of bleachers for observers. One was open and featured women in collars and chains walking back and forth chanting something as the sun and the exhaustion wore them down. Another held punishment poles, with inmates chained to them by a short lead. A few women just sat beside their poles like neglected tetherballs, others were standing, legs wide open, hands behind their neck receiving instruction or reciting rules, collars on their neck holding the leash that hooked them to the pole. More than one was on her knees, with a teacher or guard or citizen pulling their hair and fucking their mouths. But the yard they all ended up staring at was the one in the center. 30 wooden stocks, with holes for hands, and a head, a bench to strap their torso to and leg pegs for each ankle stood there empty, for now. The rows were even and neat. There was a raised stage in front of the stocks, with 3 stocks on each side, facing the yards.

4072 looked at the grandstand, wondering what manner of people come to watch the Intensive Requirement. Then she saw the small tunnel that lead to a larger building where the men would be drawing numbers and waiting their turn. The first wave was always dignitaries – the same men who bid on the virgins the night before – politicians, CEO’s, clergy, and ambassadors to the RAC. Being first in line for a woman in the yards ensured all the reports that went out to the world were glowing with praise for the Restored American Commonwealth. The next waves were favors, supervisors, middle-managers and men who could pay. 4072 knew her boss, Mr. Bradley, had been invited to the yards more than once. She thought it was just a prostitution ring, she had no idea what it really entailed. Suddenly the memory of his smile turned to poison in her mind. The rest of the waves were soldiers. The armed forces had diminished since the RAC pulled out of all world affairs, ended all but necessary trade, and jailed anyone entering without papers. Still, it took a hearty force of men (and only men, the Natural Order did not arm or train women) to protect our borders and show the world we were still strong. Those men were rewarded not only with pay, but privilege in the yards.

There were rumors of a street drug, called “Everhard,” that could keep them stiff longer and return them to standing formation within a few minutes of release, allowing them to get back in line for another go. 4072 read an expose about it her father’s news station, Media 4, had put together, only to cancel the story at request of the Department of Defense. No man would admit to taking the drug, but they wouldn’t deny it existed either. Until this moment, it all seemed a hazy dream – like an ugly story from a faraway place. But now, looking at the silent field prepped for tomorrow’s punishment, it was way too real.

The inmates were pulled into the large building and set in a room where other groups of chained women stood. On the right side of the building were a set of bathroom stalls, no doors, with rubbers sheets on the floor, enema bags and tubing hanging from hooks on the wall, and a toilet. On the right were 30 cots, lined up the same way the stocks were on the field outside. In the middle was a processing desk with baskets, scanners and DOC employees barking orders and shuffling women through the process. The chains were removed from the group, and 4072 got in line with the others. The transporter handed the large ring of keys to the commander, a woman with curly red hair, and dark mean eyes. She tossed them on the desk and continued with the inmate in front of her, scanning several bar codes taped to the desk, then the arm or breast of the sobbing inmate before her.

“Save your tears, honey,” the woman said through crooked teeth. “The best is yet to come.”

It was like a picture from one of those “amazing images” slide shows the Department of Media put out as entertainment -  lines of women with shaved heads, in various stages of undress, with identically placed bar codes were processed through the efficient system. 4072 took a quick look around for Pat, seeking the comforting idea of a friend. She couldn’t remember the woman’s number. Other than the fact she was only about 5 foot 1, there was nothing to distinguish her from the rest of the bald women. The TA was a few women back. It wasn’t hard to find her – bruised and resigned, her head down, her soft brown eyes dimmed of hope. She looked up long enough to see 4072 give her a quick wink – gesture of sisterhood and reassurance. 4072 could never shake the feeling every time she would look at the battered girl that it might be the last time she saw her alive.

“Inmate forward,” the gruff woman called. She pulled 4072 into a circle with painted feet on the floor, one almost two feet away from the other, where she was to stand. The position chart left her legs wide open, cold air turning her vulva into goose bumped flesh. An inmate working for the facility came up behind 4072 and with a few snips of the scissors, the remnants of her skirt and blouse were gone. She stood naked in the metal chastity belt, legs open, hands behind her neck.

“Intellectual Criminal 4072. Slave.” The assistant read the bar code on the slave’s ass. No wonder they made sure to put one on each side of the woman.

“Slave? What are you, brain cunt?  A Blue Liberal?” The commander asked as she took the correct set of keys off the ring and began opening the lock on the chastity belt. 4072 noticed once again that her ring contained four keys instead of three. Who was that extra key for?

“No, Ma’am,” 4072 said clearly. She was too busy with her career and life to get caught up in politics. Besides, her father made it clear that if the Department of Media found out his daughter was a Blue Liberal he would lose his job as a cameraman for Media 4 and end up working in a factory job. She couldn’t risk that.

“Arm out,” the woman barked. 4072 let her arms drop with no small measure of relief and held her bar code out to be scanned. She’d had this tattoo less than 24 hours but it was already part of her routine. That’s how easy it is to program people. No wonder the RAC took power so quickly.  The officer scanned three tabs on the desk then 4072’s code.  She held up the gun for 4072 to read the input.  “Law says you get to see the charges.”

SLAVE IC-4072, ACCOUNT 348027539. Bed/Food 1 Night: $16.00

SLAVE IC-4072, ACCOUNT 348027539. Enema/clean $7.00

SLAVE IC-4072, ACCOUNT 348027539. Stock rental 3 Hr. $30.00

“I have to pay for the stock they are going to lock me in when they fuck me?” 4072 asked aloud. Her mind quickly calculated that at the 17 cents per hour she would make from her DOC slave wages she would spend a month paying for her pain. “Seriously?”

SLAP! A hard unexpected slap rocketed against her cheek, bringing instant red finger marks on 4072’s white flesh.

“Don’t question, Slave.” The commander said.

“Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry, Ma’am,” 4072 mumbled. Maybe converting her into a model prisoner was going to be harder than she thought. The officer tossed 4072’s belt in a basket with her number along with the sheet the assistant filled out. She pointed to one of the bathroom stalls and called for the next woman in line.

All the stalls seemed to be operated by inmates of the DOC assigned to work there. Of course, who would take such a shitty job if they had a choice? They had the short haircut of women who had been there long enough to grow their hair back and wore the yoga under-lift bra/short skirt combo that left three of the four bar codes accessible. The woman processing 4072 looked to be about 25 years old. She had dark brown hair, beautiful doe eyes and was marked PT-2229. Another girl locked up for petty theft. She rolled out some plastic sheeting, popped the disposable nozzle off the tubing connected to the bag and put a new one on, dipping it in a pot of lube. 4072 felt her entire pelvic area spasm. She’d never had an enema before, thinking it was some sort of barbaric medicine left over from her grandmother’s age.

“Position one,” The girl mumbled, pointing at the floor beside the toilet. “This is a fast acting solution designed specifically for the DOC. You’ll be cleaned out in ten minutes. You get a clear liquid diet tonight and one again in the morning. There is a tube of protein with each meal. It tastes like cherry cough syrup, yogurt and semen. Make sure to finish both tubes. You’ll need all your strength if you’re going to pass the Intensive Requirement.”

“Position what?” 4072 mumbled, trying to remember what Warden Weems told her as he briefed her in her cell. Back when she had hair, and a name, and a hope of getting through this with some amount of human dignity. She saw him standing over her, his clear severe voice slicing through her ears.

“Face down. Ass up. Holes open. Mouth closed,” the Warden barked, “This is position one.”

“FDAU,” the petty thief said pointing at the ground. 4072 nodded.

“Yes, Ma’am. I remember now.” She got on her hands and knees, then lowered her body so her head was pressed against the floor and her bottom high in the air. She spread her legs as far as the thought they would go.

“You don’t have to call me...” the girl started to say, then saw the bar code illustrating this older, professional woman was a slave. “Oh, wait. Yes, you do. Legs farther.”

4072 shifted her bottom back and forth but couldn’t seem to get her knees to move. She felt the latex gloved hands of the attendant pull her thighs impossibly apart. Then a chill as the lubed tip of the enema tub pressed against her tight knot. The girl applied just enough pressure to get the nozzle in with a pop. 4072 bit her lower lip.

“The solution is cold. They keep it that way on purpose. You’ll feel your guts filling like you’re going to explode. Hold it in. Don’t beg. Don’t plead. You aren’t moving until I say, “Go.” Once I say that word, push up on your arms, roll over and get on the toilet. Expel everything, but don’t strain. Having a hemorrhoid isn’t going to save your ass tomorrow. It will just make it hurt worse.”

4072 tried with all her might to focus on the girl’s words. She wished she had been given instructions before she had an invasive tube shoved in her anus. “I...um...”

“Hit the pot when you hear the word, ‘Go.’” The girl said again. She’d already had two full clean ups today and didn’t really need another to remind her just how deep her life had fallen into the crapper, all over a twenty she borrowed from the petty cash drawer at work. “Here it comes.”

The girl loosened the clamp on the bag and watched the solution race down the tubing. She’d know when it hit the woman’s rectum by the stifled open mouthed gasp they all gave when what felt like crushed ice made of witch hazel pushed through the sensitive channel of their tush.

“Owwwwww,” 4072 cried, just like all the others, and gripped the sheet with white knuckles. Soon the shock of the cold liquid filing her rectum was replaced by the most unpleasant warm burning as her body filled with the harsh solution. She cramped, feeling her intestines gurgle with the impending purge. Her abdomen began to distend as if she was having an instant pregnancy and would soon give birth to lava from hell. She gasped, unable to hold the pain in any longer. “Oh god, this hurts.”

The girl clamped the bag and looked at the clock on the wall. “Ten minutes, honey. Don’t talk. Just hold it in. Put every thought in your head on holding it in.”

4072 writhed on the floor, her back hurting from holding up her bottom with the extra weight of the liquid. Her stomach cramped causing her mouth to drop open. Tears of pain stung the corners or her eyes, but that was nothing compared to the fire below. She felt the cool gloves of the girl rubbing her backside and pulling at the nozzle.

“Don’t take that out,” 4072 begged, then remembered her manners. “Ma’am. Please. I don’t think I can hold it if you take that out.”

“You can and you will,” the girl said severely. She hated to be rough with inmates and remembered all too well the day she knelt down on the mat. But a strict command and a little fear often gave the inmates that extra strength to keep clamped.

“Yes...Ma’am...” 4072 gasped with strained breath. She had no ability to think of her humiliation in calling people younger than her by titles of respect because there was nothing in world right now but her stinging, aching asshole and the desperate need to keep it closed. Another wave of cramping sent a shudder through the woman’s body. She tried to punish herself for her predicament, pretending this was Brian Laren’s cock stretching her hole and spurting boiling oil in her ass because she had been so stupid, but it didn’t work. Even her new hobby of beating herself up couldn’t stop the broiling pain in her guts.

“One minute...”

“I can’t, I can’t....” 4072 muttered, feeling the rim of her anus starting to open on its own, like a thing possessed. She felt the first drops forming in the rim. “I’m going to...”

“HOLD IT IN, SLAVE!” The girl shouted the command, watching 4072 stiffen and pull herself together.

“I...want...I....”

“Five more.

“I’m not...I can’t....I

“Three, two, one...”

“PLEASE!” 4072 cried aloud.

“GO!”

4072 sprung up with her arms, amazed they even worked they were so sore and stiff and flipped herself onto the low toilet seat. She nearly missed as her bottom hit the edge of the seat, threatening to spew the toxic brew of chemicals and shit all over. She jerked herself over, opened her legs and closed her eyes to the blessed relief of expulsion.

The girl stepped to the opening in her stall to get some fresh air as the stench of the cleaning filled the cubicle. She worried the woman wasn’t going to make it, but in the end she hadn’t lost a drop. Looking down at the bar code on own her breast she closed her eyes for a second and said a prayer of solidarity with the criminal. They were all citizens of the Restored American Commonwealth at one point in their lives. They all had hopes, dreams, and talents. Now, all they had was each other.

“I’m sorry,” 4072 murmured, her face red with the embarrassment of dropping a putrid load in front of the girl.

“Don’t worry, honey,” the girl said quietly now that the need for an iron will was over. “It’s just shit. Everyone does it.”

4072 reached for the toilet paper dispenser but there was nothing there. She tried to stick her fingers into the slot but couldn’t get one scrap of paper to come out. “Ummm....”

The girl giggled. “I swear, they don’t teach you guys anything anymore before they drop you off for your Intensive. You have to run your bar code over the red monitor for each square you want.”

“I have to pay for the toilet paper?”

“You have to pay for everything, honey. Did you forget? That’s why we are here. To pay. To pay and pay and pay until there is nothing left but our regret. Get used to paying. You’re a slave. Your whole life is about paying.”

Nodding, she let the truth of the girl’s words seep into her bald head. 4072 ran the bar code on her arm over the toilet paper dispenser until she thought she had enough of the cheap, thin paper to get the job done.

SLAVE IC-4072, ACCOUNT 348027539. TP 5 sheets. $0.25

“I’m finished, Ma’am,” the slave said quietly. The girl was right. She couldn’t keep getting offended by all the ways the RAC had devised to punish her for being a woman and using her brain. It was going to break her if she didn’t learn to bend.

“Great,” the girl said as the toilet flushed. They heard yelling from a few cubicles over. A woman screaming about how a traitor’s accomplice should have to lick up the mess with her tongue, and a more even-voiced supervisor stating that if the officer hadn’t kicked the girl in the abdomen when she was full of solution this would not have happened. 4072 had no doubt who the inmate in question was.

“Okay, so,” the girl tried to push the unpleasantness away. “Now you’re good and clean. Go to a shower stall. Use your code to start the water. You get five minutes of water to clean yourself top and, most importantly, bottom. If you need another five scan again, but it won’t make the water any warmer. Then dry off, grab a dinner tray, and take it to the cot with your number. Bus the tray when you’re done. Then sleep. Remember, eat both tubes of protein. You need it. You’ll do fine.”

“Thank you,” 4072 said, genuinely touched by the girl’s care. “Ma’am.”

The girl pointed to the shower and began rolling up the disposable sheet, to prepare for the next woman needing to be cleansed.

###

4072 wrinkled her nose as she looked at the unappetizing tray resembling a hospital ration. A cup of clear broth, Jell-O, some applesauce and a tube marked "Protein Endurance Gel - Cherry" made up the entire meal. To add insult to injury, there was an individually wrapped breath mint in the corner. The new inmate started to giggle as she held it up. She had been brutalized inside and out, but at least she would have fresh breath.

"I can't begin to imagine what you find funny at this moment," the TA said from her cot, the fresh bruising on her side and rear visible as she remained stretched out on her stomach. "But I could sure use a laugh."

"Ladies," a familiar voice said. "I hope our accommodations and cuisine meet your approval. The DOC expects a five star rating - or else."

"Well, Pat, since you are a repeat customer, you'll have to tell me. What's your review?" 4072 was instantly relieved by the appearance of the experienced inmate.

The small woman sat her tray on the cot, dipped her finger in the broth, put it in her mouth and looked toward the sky as if tasting a dish in a fine cafe.

"The meal is okay," she said, then slapped her naked rear. "But that appetizer was awful."

A chuckle, that started like a baby squirrel clearing its throat and grew into a woman's maniacal giggling resounded. They turned to see the TA smiling and jiggling on the cot. Susan Pease didn't realize it at the time, but that was the moment which solidified the trio for life. However long her life might be.

“Laugh it up, Peas,” Pat giggled, glad to see some spark of life remaining in the embattled convict. “I’ve yet to see a critique of your experience in the RAC Post.”

The TA turned, still giggling like a woman who clung to the last shreds of her sanity. She thought of the film they showed at her brother’s execution featuring the museum exploding over and over again and pictures of the “holy family” catching on fire.

“It’s been,” she whispered through puffs of crazed laughter, “A blast!”

“Oh my gosh.”  Now it was 4072’s turn to giggle hysterically. Last week she was a respected architect rising in her career who had a meeting with an investment counselor to start a savings plan and now she was naked, cleaned, tattooed and voluntarily eating a tube of PEG gel with her new best friends – a cyber-criminal who couldn’t keep her ass out of trouble and a traitor’s accomplice who didn’t have a prayer.  There was nothing to do but accept this fate and go forward, because it couldn’t possibly get any weirder than this.

“Are you allowed to call me by my name?” The TA asked, wiping tears of silly release away from her eyes.

“I’m not. I’m calling you ‘p-e-a-s’ – you know the little gross green things your momma forced you to eat as a kid? Not Pease.”

“My mom never made us eat peas,” TA-8320 said.

“Yeah,” Pat huffed in response. “And look where that got you!”

The three bald, naked women all cackled with laughter a second time.

“Lights out in 30!” A corrections officer shouted as the dorm of women settled in their cots. Some were so exhausted from their processing they fell into a deep sleep. Others couldn’t get their minds off of the stocks in the yards and the moment they would join the choir.

“Inmates, rise!” A woman appeared before them. Pat jumped off her cot and stood in front of it, legs open but comfortably, hands behind her neck. 4072 and the TA followed her lead, the TA wincing as her arms went up. The women was an inmate with a DOC badge on a lanyard around her neck. She was the same woman who worked as the assistant when they were checked in. She held a long pole with a retractable collar-like clamp on the end. It was the kind of stick 4072 had seen back when her name was Kathryn and her father showed her video he shot on animal reserves with people taming wild animals. “IT-3384.”

“Ma’am, yes, Ma’am.” Pat said in a military voice. The woman reached out with the collar and clamped it around Pat’s neck, pulling her forward, then turning her body. Pat instinctively lowered her wrists and held them out as metal cuffs were attached to them.

“Commander Syles wants to have a word with you,” the woman said pushing Pat forward. She turned and saw the other two and the women in the rows behind them staring wide-eyed at the removal of one of their number. “Back to bed, ladies. Lights out in 25.”

Pat was taken into a conference room with a glass door but solid walls and marched in front of the desk. There was a second DOC inmate standing against the wall and the large bellowing woman who processed the inmates behind her desk. The assistant took off the cuffs and released the neck clamp, causing Pat to take a large breath.

“Did you have to cuff me so hard?” Pat whined.

“Inmate, position two!” The commander snapped. Pat dropped with her calves against the floor, legs open, arms resting on her thighs, hands open with palms up. Her spine was straight, but her eyes were lowered. The inmate assistants both stood against the wall.

“I’m gonna ask and you’re gonna answer,” Commander Syles said, walking in front of the shaved inmate and sitting on the top of the desk.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Pat said.

“So tell me, Pat,” the Commander’s voice grew soft and curled around her words. “How are your new best friends doing?  Think they’ll fit the plan?”

“Kate’s a gem,” Pat said, relaxing her posture although anyone walking by could look through the door and see the inmate in second position clearly being interrogated. “She’s smart and she’s strong. She’s trying to figure everything out, like a rat in a maze. Once she’s been trained and the new wears off, she’ll be fine.”

“She is strong, and she definitely wants to please,” the inmate assistant who served as her cleaning assistant said from her position by the wall. “I filled her ass with way more fluid than she required and left her there twenty minutes, even though she thought it was ten. She was hurting but she held on.”

“Good,” the commander said, brushing her fingers through her long hair, the putting her hands down when she realized Pat’s shaved head was right in front of her. “We just change her desire to please authority to her willingness to work for us. Her file checks out. Her father is a cameraman who spends most of his time outside the RAC shooting those pleasant videos we see on the so-called ‘news’ and her mother is now his assistant but was a CPA before the RAC came along. They are the perfect connection.”

“What about the traitor?” The other assistant asked. “Is she ready to risk her life?”

“Peas? She’s ready to die this minute. She’s resigned but not totally broken. She fully expects not to make it through training and would hug death like a lover. If she makes it through tomorrow and training and into Punishment Block 6, she’ll agree. But, you got to take better care of her. Kicking her in a gut full of cleanser? She could have died.”

“That was that jackass, Ramona. I looked away for a minute, that’s all.” Commander Syles spoke defensively. “I can’t babysit everyone without blowing my cover.”

“I’m not questioning, Ma’am,” Pat said, looking back at the ground. Inmate habits don’t die, even when you’re safe. “It’s just I think there’s too much focus on the wrong person. Kate’s just the messenger. Peas is the message.”

“I know. If she makes it to shore, she’d be the first plant we’ve put on a boat to actually get through. But if we don’t have someone on the other end, she’s just another message lost at sea.” The Commander closed her eyes for a moment.

“Ma’am, may I ask one more thing? No offense intended?” Pat asked, a troubled furrow on her smooth brow. The Commander nodded.

“Go ahead.”

“Well, it’s just...I mean...you know...I’m loyal! I gave my heart to the Blue Liberals the day they dragged me to the yards and locked me in that rape stock and I’ve kept my commitment ever since. But...I just need to know. Kate said she was set up for this. She has way too hard a sentence for a fuck and some books – even if the fuck was a Fundy church leader’s son – and when they made her keys for the belt they made four instead of three. I, like many, know you have to sacrifice yourself if you want the greater good. But did we sacrifice Kate or Peas without their permission? Did we set them up for this?  I just need to know.”

The air in the room grew thick and humid. Both assistants, afraid of the answer, stared at the floor as well. Commander Syles shook her head.

“No. Everyone involved makes their own choice. Blue Liberals don’t choose for other people. That would make us as corrupt as the RAC. We didn’t create their situations, we just used them. Peas had bomb-making materials in her garage. Her fate was sealed the minute the “Fundy Happy Family” painting turned into confetti. Kate got in bed with a guy she met at a bar. She had books from Old America under that bed. She has a brain and an education. It was only a matter of time before she got picked up for something.  Someone did set her up though, and hard. I saw the fourth key on her ring. I checked the system. It was ordered by the Department of Ministry – which used to be called the ‘President’s Council for the Union of Church and State.’ They are announcing it as an RAC official department on Easter weekend. There’s some major political power behind that office.  Anyway, Reverend Senator Steve Laren requested the fourth key.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Pat said, her mind trying to figure out why the Senator wanted access to the woman who caused people to question his church.  The commander looked at the clock on the wall, and leaned back to open a drawer on her desk. The assistant ran back and opened it for her, bringing out the inevitable conclusion to their talk.

“I want you to know, Pat,” the commander said rising from the desk and reaching for the riding crop the assistant held in her hand. “We all appreciate you putting yourself in harm’s way and taking an intensive to get in tight with the targets. All our respect will be with you tomorrow when the carnage starts. But, there’s a lot of us in the system who can’t risk detection. So, you’re not going to leave this office unmarked. You know that.”

“Ma’am, yes Ma’am,” Pat said loudly so others could hear her through the door. Then, she whispered. “Could they hold my arms? It’s easier to take.”

The Commander nodded her head toward the inmate and her assistants moved behind her, each grabbing an arm and bracing her back. Syles raised the riding crop to the full height of her arm and brought it down across the bare vulnerable breasts of the small computer programmer. Pat emitted a scream that could be heard across the compound. Again and again the crop fell, sending the stinging surge of pain through Pat’s body as she closed her eyes and leaned into the assistants.

Finally, it was done. Her battered breasts were covered in harsh red lines and clear evidence a beating had unfolded. The small woman put her head down, salty tears tormenting the tops of her breasts as they fell on cut skin.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Pat gasped though the pain.

“Back to her cot,” the Commander straightened up and pointed to the door. The inmate assistant took Pat’s hands and gently folded them behind her back, cuffing them in place. She moved quietly to the front and lifted Pat’s chin in her labor-worn hand. Leaning forward, she kissed Pat, deeply, feeling the woman’s tears go from one cheek the other. She pulled her lips back the kissed her tenderly once more. She dried the tears, and gently put the clamp on the end of the pole around Pat’s neck.

“I honor you, sister,” the assistant said, bringing a peaceful smile to the wounded woman’s face. There had been so much betrayal and so much pain in the spritely woman’s life, but with the Blue Liberals she found trust and hope once more.

4072 sat up in her cot when she saw Pat being pushed forward, the long pole making it awkward to walk. Of course the first thing her eyes landed on were the bright red lashes across the breasts of her new friend.

“Oh my god,” 4072 said, her mouth open. The assistant glared at the new convict with eyes full of fake conviction.

“Want some marks of your own, slave?” The assistant hissed.

“No, Ma’am.”  4072 said in a hurry, looking at the floor.

The assistant pushed Pat to her cot. “Lights out in two minutes, ladies!”

Pat landed with a thud and for the first time put her hands across her ravished breasts, rocking back and forth.

“Are you okay?” 4072 whispered, reaching out and putting a hand on Pat’s legs.

“I’m fine,” she croaked. “No worries, Kate. This is my third intensive. They just wanted to make sure I take it ‘seriously’ tomorrow.”

“I’m so sorry,” 4072 said. It was the only magic word she knew. It was enough.

All at once the lights went out. Silence ruled with an iron will.

###

As the inmates slept in the dormitory of the yards, the small rooms upstairs were still lit with dim lamps. The young woman was tied to the bed, her arms and legs loose enough to be positioned, but adequately restrained. She wasn’t going anywhere. The red V on her breasts clearly visible. She heard a deep, masculine voice the hall.

“I won number 18,” the voice said.

“Yes, Sir. Right here, Sir. Room 39.” Another male voice replied. “Is there anything you will need, Sir?”

“No, no,” the older voice chuckled. “I’ve got all the right equipment right here.”

Bright light from the hallway pierced the room, blinding the convict for a moment, then the room settled into its dim gloom and all she could see was the cat-like smile of the man who bid for her as she stood chained to a pole at the auction, humiliated beyond belief. She breathed of sigh of relief as he approached the bed and she recognized him, even in the bad lighting.

“I am a faithful daughter of the church,” she began. “I was raised Fundamentalist and I have kept myself pure for my marriage bed as a woman should.”

He slowly took off his pants, no need to undress any more than that. Reaching behind her, he pulled the pillow from beneath her head and put it below her bottom, lifting her shaved body to his perfect angle. He opened her legs and positioned himself above her. Normally he would have the convict use her mouth to get him ready, but he was so excited about the spectacle he would watch tomorrow, he was already stiff.

“You are a petty thief with an entitled attitude who disrespected the male officer who arrested you. That’s doesn’t sound faithful to me. You must be punished, and so you shall.”

“Please, Sir. I have honored my place in faith all my life. I stole a treat that I might give it to my fiancée to celebrate our engagement. You see, we had just gotten permission from the Department of Home and Health to marry. I wanted to give him some fruit. I was wrong to do it, and wrong to disobey. I am sure you understand. Sin may be forgiven. I am willing to be punished but of all people, Sir, you can forgive me.”

“Oh, I’ll forgive you, sweetie,” the man chuckled from the back of his throat, rubbing her core and inserting his cock between her nether lips, stopping right at the resistance of her maidenhead.  “But first, you will give me the treat.”

She gasped as he thrust into her, his surging lust breaking her bond with innocence. He laughed as her tears fell and leaned forward, licking them off her cheeks as she bounced sobbing beneath him.

He would take his time and expend himself into her newly plowed field two more times before he was sated. With that, the Reverend, Senator, and Future Head of the Department of Ministry – Steve Laren – left the room satisfied that the joy he experienced that night was a perfect appetizer to watching the bitch who tarnished his son’s reputation get locked in the stocks tomorrow and take everything that was coming to her.

He dug a classified document out of his pocket. The official assignment sheet had a big circle where his eyes focused. Slave IC-4072, Row 4, stock number 2.  He nodded to the attendant who went to clean up the convict and repair her for tomorrow’s punishment. Tapping the circled stock on his form he spoke to himself as he got in the elevator.

“Let the games begin.”

###

The breakfast tray was a perfect replica of dinner. Juice, Jell-O, broth, tube of PEG gel, and a breath mint.  4072 squeezed half the Protein Endurance Gel before squinting and putting it back on the tray.

“You need all of that,” Pat said, sucking every last drop out of the tube before drinking the broth to mask the taste. “It’s completely exhausting and if you pass out before time, well, you get to do it all over again. You need all the protein you can get.”

As if on cue another convict appeared, newly shaved and prepped for Intensive Requirement as well.

“You the one they call ‘Kate’?” She asked, looking around to see if anyone else was watching.

“I’m…well, I guess I am?” 4072 said, still struggling to accept her real name had been replaced by a number and her number was now replaced by a name.

The inmate tossed a tube of PEG gel on her tray then turned and tossed another to Pat who caught it and looked around too. “Blue Liberals wish you good luck.”

The inmate walked away quickly, but quietly. Pat smiled and opened the tube, prepare for another gross cherry blast of comfort. 4072 stared at the tube in front of her unsure what to do.

“Should I eat this?” She asked Pat. “I mean, I don’t want to offend the Blue Liberals, but I don’t want to join them either. I don’t want any trouble. I’m already a slave and an intellectual criminal. Imagine what would happen if someone thought I was a Blue Liberal too.”

“Eat it, Kate. You need it.” Pat reached for it to open it for her friend. “Blue Liberals don’t force anyone to do anything. That’s what makes them different from the RAC. Besides, it’s a tube of energy gel, not a membership card.

Kate nodded, putting her head back as she had seen her friend do and preparing to suck the whole nasty tube down in one glob. “I wish Peas was still here. She probably could use a box of these.”

The traitor’s accomplice had been taken out as soon as the sun came up. She was pushed with the same long pole they had used to control Pat the night before. 4072 asked where she went, but Pat shrugged. The guard who took her just said she could have a “room with a view.”

“Do you think there are enough PEG supplements in the world to help her with what she has to go through?” Pat asked. She hoped the guard was one of her kind, a hidden Blue Liberal who was secretly helping Peas prepare, but, that was the problem with a secret society. You never really knew who was on your side.

“Inmates, rise!” The commander’s voice called out sending all of the women in the dorm to their feet. 4072 swallowed hard, sending the glob of gel down her throat with a loud gurgle.

“Smooth, Kate, real smooth,” Pat teased as 4072 shrugged her shoulders.

“I never was very good at swallowing,” she giggled quietly, causing them both a second of merriment, fortunately unnoticed.

A pair of inmate assistants with a body marker walked down the lines of beds, checking numbers and writing on the chest so of the women. 4072 was about to remark on the Department of Correction’s paper saving ways, but decided they’d risked drawing attention to themselves enough for one day.

“IC-4072, Row 4 Stock 2,” the assistant with the doe eyes and the brown pixie cut said. The other, a little blond in a bowl cut reached out and scrawled 4/2 on 4072’s cleavage.

“IT-3384, Row 1 Stock 1,” the first assistant said, winking at the small convict.

“No one in front of me or on one side. Nice. Better than an airplane seat in business class.” Pat murmured as the number was scrawled on her crop marked chest. She raised her first in mocking defiance. “I’m number one!”

Before Kate could turn and say she understood how Pat could end up here three times, the commander shouted again.

“Row 1, line up for placement!”

“Gotta run, lots to take, little time,” Pat quipped, slapping her rear again. “Just keep your head down, do what they say.”

“Don’t fight now – live to fight another day.” 4072 nodded like a boxer getting instructions from the ring coach.

“Zactly!” Pat moved over to the door where officers with the long lead poles were waiting to grab her by the neck and march her into the yards.

4072 sat down on the cot. Her fear hoped it would be a long time before they called her number, but the rest of her was ready to get this started. She didn’t have too long of a wait before her wish came true.

“Row 4, line up for placement!”

4072 managed to rise on her trembling legs and force them to walk forward. She had seen hesitant women in the previous two rows take a few vicious strikes with the tawse to the back of their thighs in order to get them in line. She stood between the women marked 1 and 3 for her row and waited.

Five guards returned from securing row three. They lined up opposite their inmate and grasped them by the neck with the long guiding pole. It made sense. If ever there was a time to break and run - it was now.  The grasping claw fit snugly around 4072’s throat. It didn’t choke as she imagined it might, but she realized while her neck was enclosed in it there was no way to turn or move any direction other than the one the guard commanded. They walked in single file line, inmate then guard pushing her with the pole, through a grey tunnel with a stark light at the end.

“That must be the train,” 4072 thought, realizing her nerves were playing havoc with her brain. She tried to calm herself and remember Pat’s words.  Then she was slapped in the face by the bright light of day and assaulted by a cacophony of sound. Women were crying, trying to tell the guards why this was a mistake, that they were innocent, and that they didn’t want to go through this. Observers took their seats in the small stands, chattering excitedly about who they were here to see punished and what they planned to do with the rest of the unusually sunny day.  From her position near the left hand tunnel 4072 could hear the shouts and cheers of the men who were drawing cards to see which wave and stock they would be stationed at. Occasionally one or two would come to the edge of the tunnel to look at the prisoner and decide if they were willing to trade.  While 4072 prepared for what she anticipated to be the singularly most brutal day of her life, the rest of the world was still turning.

Her guard pulled on the guide bar around her neck positioning her in front of her stock. It lived up to every medieval stereotype 4072 learned about during history class. In grade school when her country was still Old America she was told these were torture devices. By high school, as the RAC implemented educational reform, the wooden stocks were now referred to as "correctional aides."

A main frame post featured a wooden platform on the ground which had cuffs inserted into a beam that slid on a track and were held by a metal pin so as to accommodate various leg lengths. A bench-like board, also attached to the frame with a pin-release system to adjust to the height of the convict, was covered with a thin cushion of foam. 4072's eagle eyes noticed it sat on circular bolts to allow for a small amount of back and forth. She was sure this was for the comfort of penetrator, not the convict. Connected to the base of the apparatus was another frame in the track that featured traditional holes for the hands and head. Inside each hand hole were leather cuffs to adjust to the convict’s wrists and hold her hands tight. The neck hole featured a posture collar to protect her back and spine, and keep her head up. A hook hanging from the headboard held an “O” ring gag, in case a penetrator decided to use a convict’s mouth and give her other side a break.

“Please, it wasn’t me,” the woman in stock row 4 number 3 cried as her guard passed 4072 and stopped. “I didn’t mouth off to the border guards. It was my husband who caused the problems. Please. I didn’t know our passports were forged. He didn’t tell me. Please…”

Before she could listen to any more of the woman’s story haplessly falling on the ears of a guard who had heard a million before, 4072 felt the pressure of the cuff on her neck release.

“One foot in each hole,” the guard said. He watched with disinterest as she attempted to gingerly step into the device. 4072 thought all guards were probably vicious perverts here to enjoy the subjugation of women which was no longer considered cruel or unusual. Instead, she discovered the vast majority of men and women who worked at the DOC Special Punishment Facility were just like everyone else – doing a job, getting paid, and thinking about their next day off. She stretched, trying to place her other foot in the hole but it left her legs in an awkward position.

“I don’t think I can open my legs that wide,” she said gently to the guard, hoping not to inspire him to take the tawse off his belt.

“You opened them for someone,” he laughed. Putting his hands on her hips he straightened her body, positioned her feet correctly then pushed over the foamed bench. He actually slid her left leg about an inch farther before locking the foot pins in place. Using a foot peddle at the base, he raised the prisoner so her bottom was angled up and her face pointed down. 

“You’re too damn tall,” he mumbled, as if 4072’s long legs were a form or rebellion against the state. He walked over to a box on the side of the auditorium and grabbed a triangular wedge which he jammed below her pelvis to give her penetrators clear access and a comfortable stance. Quickly, he pulled the head frame toward her and opened it, waiting for her to willingly place herself in restraint. She could see the tussling of the woman beside her who had gone from whining to actively struggling in a bid to stay out of the stock. Her guard dragged the fighting woman the ground and used his tawse to ensure the second attempt would be easier. 4072 closed her eyes and leaned forward, feeling the posture collar lift her chin.

“Good girl,” the guard said to her as he cast a disgusted look at the spectacle of the stock next door. He lowered the head frame and began tightening the straps on the leather restraints.

“Thank you, Sir,” 4072 replied. She hoped the chaos of stock 3 didn’t create a problem for her. She just wanted this to be over. She remained silent but mentally sent a message to the older woman beside her. “Shut up and take it.”

The cuffs tightened around her wrists as the top section of the posture collar kept her head in place.

“Try to pull your hands out.” the guard said. She gave a yank which caused the whole stock to bounce but everything remained intact. “Any numbness in your fingers, feet or neck? Feel tingling or pain?”

“No, Sir,” she said clearly, aware that when the countdown clock in front of her face began ticking down she’d be begging to feel numb.

“Good girl,” he said again, smacking her bare bottom the way one might smack a horse. She heard him speak to the guard on the right. “Need any help?”

“No, a couple more slaps of the leather and this bitch will get in her place. I haven’t lost one before the choir yet, and I’m not going to today.”

“Oh god, the choir,” the younger woman on the other side began to cry softly. “I never wanted this. I never thought…”

“None of us want this,” 4072 said calmly, focusing on each breath while she tried to ignore the fact her naked body was primed like a cat in heat, open and waiting to be used. “We want to be home, at work, at the gym or at a movie. But this is where we are, and this is what we have to do.”

“Nooooooooo!” The woman in stock 3 let out a piercing scream as the guard forced her head down into the posture collar.

SLAP! A hand rocketed across stock 3’s face, stopping the sound with a sharp crack. The original guard slammed the head frame over her and quickly tightened her hand straps.

“Not one sound until the horn blows!” The front guard bent down and yelled in the middle-aged woman’s face. “Or I’ll chain you to a pole in the yard for three days on half rations with no guard at night and put whatever the village boys leave behind in this stock on the next go round. Got it, bitch?”

The woman attempted to nod in the posture collar as her guard finalized the settings on her stock. 4072 hated brutality, but she was more than a little happy someone had finally shut the terrified woman in stock 3 up.

Stock 1 started giggling mildly. 4072 cleared her throat as she attempted see what the younger inmate found so funny.

“You mentioned the gym,” Stock 1 explained. “I was just thinking this device is like one of the weird weight machines we had at our college gym. Then I couldn’t decide.  Is this arm day or leg day?”

4072 laughed with her, thankful for the moment of levity to release her anxiety while she heard the row behind her being stocked and prepped. “I think this will be a full body workout.”

The woman to the right started pulling and attempting to kick or escape the apparatus, causing it to jostle but nothing else.

“Stop it, you dumb bitch,” the woman in stock 4 hissed loudly. “You’re going to get us all whipped. Stop thinking about yourself, stupid cow.”

With that, stock 3 finally settled down into quiet crying. 4072’s first thought was how interesting it was that when the pressure was on the women turned on each other. Two inmates, one of whom was the girl with the pixie haircut who gave her the enema the day before, walked down row 4 each carrying a bucket and wearing latex gloves. The other was the inmate with the blond bowl cut who had taken Pat for her “talk” with the commander. 4072 watched as Pixie Cut placed her hand under the vulva of the woman in front of her, rubbing and gently sticking her finger inside the woman, who let out a tiny cry of protest.

“Just some lube, sweetie,” Pixie Cut said. She took the large plastic syringe filled with KY jelly and inserted it gently into the woman’s vagina, and pushed the plunger.

Suddenly, 4072 felt a gloved hand on her sex, pushing and testing it. She pulled up for a second but the stock halt her movement. She relaxed. It was a strange feeling to be watching something happen to a woman in front of her, while having an unseen person doing it to her body at the time. The syringe went farther into her than she expected, and the lube was cool and thick. She felt it lining her channel and a drop or two drip from her onto the dirt beneath her. She didn’t need to guess where a second syringe was going. She watched Pixie Cut coat her finger with lube and gently push into Row 3 stock 2’s small private area.

“Ow!” The woman cried out. “That hurts!”

“Gonna hurt a lot more if you don’t get some gel in there.” Bowl Cut said. 4072 felt the penetrating finger stretch her own small hole that had never been entered before in her life. It felt as if the trunk of a tree was being forced inside her, then it withdrew and the cool flood of gel coated her anus and rectal opening. She breathed heavily, closing her eyes for a moment. Then she felt another sensation as a tapered, latex object, not the finger of the worker, was stretching her wider.  A shock of pain made her entire pelvis shiver for a second then subsided. Opening her eyes, 4072 saw the butt plug Pixie Cut was putting into the woman in front of her as well. The worker then turned to 4072, took off her gloves and smiled genuinely. She placed her hand on 4072’s cheek.

“Try as hard as you can to keep this in until someone removes it. They aren’t allowed to take it out until the 4th wave, but if you push it out, no one is going to put it back. It will hold you open so when the first one uses you there, it won’t be so bad.”

4072 nodded. No one else seemed to be getting this gentle care or instruction. Was it because the girl remembered her from the day before. How likely was that? They were all bunch of bald, shaved convicts to her. Even to 4072’s eyes one prisoner pretty much looked like the other.

“This is your gag,” Pixie cut continued, taking a new O-ring gag out of a plastic wrapper and hanging it on the hook. “If you clamp down or fight it will just make your jaws ache. Just relax your mouth around it.”

4072 nodded, trying to get a look at the gag which was now outside of where the posture collar would allow her to see. Pixie Cut leaned close to 4072 and whispered in her ear.

“You aren’t supposed to know this because each stock has a different schedule in order to confuse you, but they won’t use your mouth until near the end. When a man stands in front of you, your time is almost done. Just hang in there. You’re gonna make it.”

“Thank you,” 4072 said earnestly. She didn’t know why this girl was helping her, and for once, she didn’t care. Pixie Cut put the used syringes and the gloves in the empty bucket Bowl Cut held, and went to the next stock in the line.

The sun beat down on the yards as the stands filled and the last of the stocks were locked shut. 4072 started to focus on the barcode on the cheeks of the woman a few feet in front of her. Row 3 Stock 2 had short legs, but good, muscular calves. She was M-4928, a murderer. That M could mean so many things. Maybe she killed an abuser, or a boss taking advantage of her, or someone while drunk driving, or someone in a robbery. There was no way to know if she was a sinner or a saint. She was just a tattooed ass, locked in wooden frame, ready to be used. Like all of them. 4072 realized there was a woman behind her, looking at her long legs, her body angled by the wedge to reveal her most private places. That’s all she was to the eyes of Row 5 stock 2. Just a tattooed ass, waiting to be used.

“That’s what we all are to them,” 4072 said quietly to herself. “That’s what this whole thing is about. Teaching us our place in the Restored American Commonwealth. We are all just a bunch of holes, waiting to be used.”

“It’s a sick, sick system,” her father once told her as he put the cross on his lapel so he wouldn’t lose his job. Michael Wynn was a practical man with little use for politics. “But, it’s the system we live in.”

4072 spoke one more time, so softly only she could hear it, but with such strength she would never forget it. “If I live through this, somehow, someway, someday…I. Will. Change. This. System.”

###

Reverend, Senator Steve Laren took his seat and stretched out his legs, finding a comfortable position. He thought of the virgin he used the night before and the sweet sound of her cries, then her passion in his ears. He scanned the yard for her, but he got held up in traffic and arrived too late to see most of the women loaded. As he looked out, all he could see were bent women, butts up, heads forward, hands locked. They all pretty much looked the same until he counted four rows back and two stocks over.

“Hand me those binoculars,” he said to his wife. She hadn’t been to see an Intensive Requirement yet, although she heard all about them from her husband and her adult son, both of whom had served in waves for previous events. She handed him the opera glasses from her purse.

“There’s the one,” he said pointing to 4072. “That’s the whore who got Brian into trouble.”

Dorothy Laren took the glasses away from her husband and trained them on 4072, noting everything she could see about the sinner. It wasn’t what the Fundamentalist Church taught, but she hated the inmate with a pure hate. She hated her perky breasts hanging down from the bench, her shapely figure and long legs, her pink lips and soft eyes.

“I commend your soul to hell,” Mrs. Laren said. “But I’ll watch your body go first.”

“Easy, darlin’, easy.” Senator Laren reached over and put his hand on his wife’s leg. “Remember, Sunday at church your testimony is going to be how you felt this lesson reached into the woman’s soul.  You forgive her and you pray she has seen the light.”

“I’ll say it,” she mumbled, remembering the way her face burned when she overheard two members of her Sunday School class gossiping about her precious Brian at the store. “But I’ll never mean it.”

“Hi, Pop.” Brian Laren and his wife sat down on the other side of the Senator. Jill Laren had seen quite a few Intensives because her husband liked her to watch him “do his duty” by taking part in a wave and sinking his flesh into a criminal. She didn’t mind. It lightened the load on her and kept him happy. Isn’t that what they say in those classes to get your marriage license? “A submissive wife makes a happy life.”

“What are you doing here?” the Senator hissed. “Haven’t you and that woman brought enough shame on our house?”

“I told him to come,” Dorothy said, blowing a kiss to her boy and handing her daughter-in-law the field glasses so she could get a good look. “It will be good for Jilly to see that slut get her punishment and Brian can put her out of his system once and for all.”

“She doesn’t look like much,” Jill Laren shrugged. She’d given testimony in at least five Fundamentalist churches, appearing to be the forgiving, stand-by-your-man wife that made their family so well loved. If anything, she owed that criminal gratitude, not disdain.

“She wasn’t much,” Brian murmured, trying to hide his erection at the very thought of what it felt like to climb into Kathryn Wynn’s bed. The woman was so smart, voluptuous, and alluring. Even if he hadn’t been paid a hefty sum to set the architect up for a fall, he’d have fucked her just for the joy of it. “Just a means to an end, baby.”

“It was a pretty good end,” the Senator grinned, looking down at the Rolex on his arm.

“Don’t tell me you screwed her?” Brian whispered to his father while his mother was busy finding a tissue at the bottom or her purse.

“I don’t need your rancid meat,” the Senator answered, his heavenly blue eyes growing dark. “The same guy who paid you to do her, paid me for a key to her belt. Paid me handsome, and in cash money.”

“Did you have it made?” Brian asked, his brain clearly dropping to the waist level once more.

“Of course. I don’t know what he has against that bitch, but he has money and that means power.”

“Did you make any more?” Brian whispered, his eyes brushing over 4072’s lithe body stocked and spread.

“Don’t be a jackass, son.” The Senator responded as the officials entered the arena. “Your game is over.”

###

“I am Warden Julius Diamond, Director of the Specialized Punishments for the Department of Corrections of the Restored American Commonwealth,” the man in the tailored suit spoke into the microphone. The posture collar allowed 4072 to look up just enough to see the stand at the front of the yard. She could also see the bare backs of the women in front of her. Diamond had the square posture and strong shoulders of a solid, happy man. Why not? He stood there in a suit and haircut that cost more than most of the inmates in the yards made at their jobs in a year, looking at the bent bodies of thirty women now paying the penalty for their poverty or powerlessness. 

4072 wasn’t raised poor, and had never been poor. Her family even made it through the Day of Reckoning, where all debts were paid, with a little cash left in the bank.  Still, she ached for some many of these women. In prison it didn’t take long to realize a helping hand and a better economy would have kept half this yard from being filled. Before she could reflect further on the stunning opulence represented by Julius Diamond, her eyes darted to his left this his right. On each side of the podium were inmate stocks, just like the one that held her. On the right, elevated for the yard to see, was bald woman looking out over the crowd. Her sorrow-filled eyes displaying the helpless terror they all felt. 4072 squinted against the sun, subconsciously pulling her hands to shade her eyes until they jerked a few centimeters and stopped, reminding her, yet again, she was restrained. The number looked like TA-56 something. She didn’t need to see the number of the woman on the left, almost directly in front of her. The bruise on her cheek and her downward gaze said it all. It was Peas.

“Oh god, girl,” 4072 gasped. Not only would the traitor’s assistant endure this onslaught, probably without the comfort of lube and foam wedges, every man in the yard would watch her go through it, and get their arousal from her pain. The only comfort for 4072 was the knowledge that once the men lined the rows, she would only be able to see the back of the man in front of her, nothing more.

“Stay steady, stock 2,” the young woman beside her said. “Remember, we’re just at the gym.”

“Thanks,” 4072 replied. Women always had a choice. They could cut each other ribbons or they could hold one another together.

Warden Diamond was still talking about the great sanctity of the church and how this was a birthday for the convicts - the day their lives would start over with a new sense of who they were and the good feeling that comes after punishment because your soul is cleaned. Then he got more personal.

“Not all crimes are equal. The women in the yard today represent every kind of crime from Property Violators to Intellectual Criminals. But on the platform today we have two women guilty of the worst crime you can commit and not be put to death. These women have been found guilty of aiding and abetting treason against the Restored American Commonwealth.”

Loud boos began to echo from every corner of the arena. Although 4072 had been wishing the yards were enclosed as the sun beat down on her, she found herself grateful it wasn’t. She couldn’t imagine being locked in a dome with the volume of all that hate.

“This woman,” Warden Diamond continued. “TA-5690 was the wife of Gerald Shores, known to the underground as the Blue Liberal agent, The Gulf Shore. He was executed for transmitting false information about the RAC to enemy countries from a hidden room in his house. His wife has been convicted for failure to report her husband’s illegal activity. She provided protection for his treason, but nothing will protect her from justice.”

A roaring cheer and clapping went up from the crowd. Some shouted suggestions even more violating than what was about to happen on this day. The daughter of a man who worked in media, 4072’s mind immediately translated the speech into its more accurate version. “False information” meant the truth, “enemy country” meant any other country, “convicted” meant enslaved and “failure to report her husband” just simply indicated she was trying to be a good wife.  4072 never took the Blue Liberals very seriously. She thought they were an RAC boogeyman made of isolated people doing dirty little deeds. However, the tighter she pulled against the stock restraining her body, the more interesting the idea of rebellion became.

“On my left is the sister of Leonard Pease.” Spit formed on Diamond’s lips as he wiped some beads of sweat off his forehead, careful not to mess up his hair which was almost as glorious as President Parry’s. “Pease was executed for blowing up a building and destroying priceless works of art in a bid bring anarchy into the Restored American Commonwealth. He was a collector of Old American items and nostalgic about this country’s sinful, decadent past. TA-8329 allowed him to use her house in which to build the bombs that tore through one of our national museums. She will now pay for her transgressions.”

Warden Diamond leaned into the microphone as if giving a private confession. He shook his head with great theatrics showing the pain and fury treason brought to his very soul. His voice trembled causing every spectator in the arena to lean forward not wanting to miss a word of this dialogue.

“Ladies and gentlemen…ladies and gentlemen…I must tell you,” he gasped as if there was not enough oxygen in the country to help him speak his truth. He looked up, a tear forming in his eye. “I…well…I am so wounded, so offended, by those who would turn against our great nation and all we have accomplished…that if I could…if…if…it wasn’t against our policy…I…I…”

Diamond stood up, the flag on his lapel glistening the morning sun, a strong resolve breathed into him and he boomed with the power of a wrestling announcer, “I would fuck her myself!!!!!”

Shrieks and shouts rose from the crowd. The ground trembled as observers stamped their feet on the boards of the stands while he raised both arms the pointed them toward the flag. Using precious energy 4072 lifted her head to look at the TA. She wanted to make eye contact with her, to wink or to do something to give her just a little humanity. But Peas held her gaze steady toward the platform, her body limp in the stock, accepting its fate.

As if on cue, the first wave of men walked single file into the yard, each lining up behind the convict they had paid or been assigned to punish. Some considered it a mercy the women would never be able to see the first man (or any other) who used them. Others thought it a punishment because she would also look at every man and wonder if he had been one of them.  4072 didn’t buy into either side of the line. She didn’t care who it was. She just wanted it to end.

She felt his presence behind her. Each man wore a white T-shirt and the specially designed blue boxers that gave an instant opening and yet privacy to the men who were performing as surely as Warden Diamond had been. He put his hand on her hips, then began to squeeze her bottom, the feeling of his touch making her momentarily dizzy. He slapped at her vulva a few times, chuckling as she adjusted in the stock, trying to pull away and realizing there was nowhere to go. His thick sausage-like finger found the entrance to her channel and pushed just far enough into her to stimulate her natural lubrication to add to the infusion of KY she’d received.

“I’m always nice to the ladies,” his voice was husky, deep with lust. She stared down at the ground beneath praying he didn’t see her roll her eyes. He thought that was some kind of chivalry?

“What’d you think about Diamond?” The man lined up behind stock 1 asked, as casually as if the two were playing golf together.

“His show gets better every Intensive. He’s clearly gunning for Parry’s spot. He won’t run again President Parry but he’s watching. As soon as Parry makes a mistake, Diamond is prepared to take his place.” The man continued to finger 4072 while he chatted as if he was starting a car. She endured it, the sting of objectification numbing her like the pinch of Novocain before the dentist starts to drill.

Reverend Senator Laren felt the moisture fill is his mouth as he watched the man patting and molesting 4072. The penetrator’s erect penis sticking out of his boxers as he rubbed the head back and forth against her shaved lips gave the Senator an urgent erection of his own.

“Who’s banging Kathryn the Great?” Brian asked, holding his hands out for the binoculars his wife brought.

“Walter Brolen,” Senator Laren said. “Head of Production for Media 4.”

Brian’s cynical laughter pierced the air, causing others to turn and stare until they saw who he was seated beside.  “Isn’t he...”

“Her father’s employer? Yes. He owns the division that uses the videos Michael Wynn shoots. Wynn’s out of the country, but word has it he will sign a declaration disinheriting and disavowing her when he returns to the RAC. Brolen paid a pretty penny to be the first one to penetrate her.”

“Well, technically,” Brian whispered with a guttural lurid huff, “I was the first.”

“He’s certainly got some impressive...um...equipment,” Jill Laren cooed, hoping to shut her husband up before he indicted them both with his lechery.

“Don’t be a fool,” the jealous husband sneered. “He took ‘Everhard’. No one gets that stiff without help.  “All the better for us, though. That bitch is going to be in for quite a ride. She’ll soon be sorry she ever crossed our path.”

“Actually, son, we crossed hers.” The Senator settled back in his seat as the event neared its beginning. “But you’re right one thing. She’ll always be sorry we did.”

###

The number 10 appeared on a digital screen on the platform.  4072 looked up to give her best hope to Peas one last time, but could only see the blue covered butt of the man in front of her. She felt the heat around her own body rise as the man behind her bent over toward the bar locking her head in place.

“I’ve watched all these years as you turned from a precious Daddy’s girl into an intelligent voluptuous woman. I don’t know how you got here, but you’re where I’ve always imagined you.”

4072 blinked. He knew her?  She didn’t recognize his voice, his shadow, or his touch. How did he know she was a Daddy’s girl? She started a list in her mind of all the men who knew their family but it filled too quickly to be useful. He could be a neighbor, a teacher, a preacher or the mailman. Was he one of the camera men who worked with her dad or one of her mother’s clients back when she had a job? She quickly made peace with the idea she may never know because she was hoping some magic of memory would wipe this event from her mind in time.

“Your ten second countdown is about to begin,” Warden Diamond thundered into the microphone ominously. “When the screen hit’s zero, gentlemen....do your duty.”

4072 felt the head of her punisher’s cock line up inside her lips, just entering her vaginal hole and stopping in the opening. She felt the heat and vibration of his excitement as it pulsed in her hole. His breath was steady. The observers counted loudly.

“Ten...nine...eight...seven...six...”

He pushed in just a slight amount.

“Five...”

She felt him stretching and softening her body.

“Four...”

She felt his cock throb. She knew he was going balls deep on the first thrust.

“Three...”

He grabbed her hips.

“Two...”

She closed her eyes.

“One!
       He thrust all the way into her channel, separating the flesh and impaling her with his cock. Her eyes and her mouth flew open and the sudden, deep thrust of pain seemed to go so far into her body she though his cock might come out of her nose. The massive spear tore into her pussy and a scream, unlike any sound she had ever made in her life emerged through her lips.        It merged with that of the others to create a cacophony of violation, pain, terror and lust. It was the sound of 30 women shrieking the loss of their power, their pride, their sex, their will, their freedom, and their hope. It was the howl of dominance. It was the shrill cry of surrender. It was the symphony of transformation. It was her voice in the choir – singing a song she’d never forget.

He pulled out and entered her again with less depth and thrust, just riding her as his hips found rhythm. As the shrieking ebbed in to a mumbling communal cry 4072 heard her punisher laughing.

“Oh my god,” the man said to the guy beside him; the horror sounds of force slowly replaced by the clapping of hips against the captive women’s backsides. “This is the life.”

###

He was inside her body. A man she didn’t know. A man she would never know. And he was taking his sexual pleasure from her as if she were nothing but a rubber sex doll. That’s all she was to him. He rode her, laughing and sighing as he pummeled her sore pussy.  Her breasts bounced back and forth as small puffs of air continued to be pushed from her.  His hips smacked against her bottom, still sore from the strapping she received the day before, as if she was being spanked – not on the bottom – but on the inside, on the soul.

She was guilty of breaking the natural order. She had put herself in a sexual position without marriage, without permission. She was wanton and had the audacity to think her body wasn’t regulated by the state. She was wrong to think that. She was wrong to place herself above the laws and the men who made them. She made a choice and that choice was a bad one. Now she would learn that her body, her mind, her abilities did not belong to her. Now she would know her place. Now she would be able to obey because this was where she belonged. His penis pounded the point into her again and again and again. Harder, faster and fully until...

“Unnngggggghhhhh.”  She felt a thick stream of semen splurge deep into her body. He stood there, his cock still inside her, sighing with joy while she felt the shame of her predicament oozed out of her pussy and down her thigh.  She heard the shuffling of feet and knew the second wave was approaching to take his place. They don’t like to give the convict rest between each violation. It gives them too much hope. That would be cruel.

The first man put himself back in his boxers and roughly slapped 4072 on the bar code on her butt cheek. Leaning over, smelling the sweat, tears and despair already rising from her body he whispered loud enough to be heard over the communal cries, lust, and horror going on in the yards.

“You were everything I always thought you’d be.”

4072 assumed she was supposed to say “thank you” but she couldn’t speak. The next man was already forcing his cock into her battered hole for round two.

“Give her a good one,” the mysterious first man said and walked down the aisle of stocked women all being taught the very same lesson.

“Come’ere cunt,” the second man said, grabbing her hips and thrusting into 4072, creating a new round of tears and pain as he found his rhythm. It was slower and more purposeful than the first. This man wasn’t excited by her and hadn’t paid to fuck her. He was just a man, a soldier probably, releasing his tension for the good of the sentence.

The wooden stock creaked back and forth as she was bent before him. The sickening sounds of his cock splooshing in the leftover cum of the first man ringing in her ears between random screams of the women around her. She tried to focus, to endure.  Her mind, which had not obeyed the law, was now turning on her.

With every push of his cock into her body she tried to think of being at the gym, or lifting weights or climbing a ladder or even the first clumsy attempts at sex she had in college – but her mind rejected such folly. This wasn’t Andy Richardson barely able to get inside her because he was so nervous so she had to reach down and guide him. This was man #2 in a parade of men set to fuck her like the whore that she was.

She blinked. Where did that thought come from?  Pat was right. The more you thought you weren’t being affected by the RAC and their rhetoric, the more it was seeping into you.  The man pounding her began swirling his hips, making rough jagged thrusts that rammed into the side of her pussy walls, causing her to cry out.

“O’Neill, you dipshit,” the man who had taken the second position behind stock 1 laughed.

“Why fuck a horse when you can have the merry-go-round,” the man in 4072 said, slapping her ass several times as she hung there, feeling the humiliation add more heat to her already sweltering body.

“NO MORE!!! NO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!” The middle-aged woman in stock 3 began screaming as her second wave began. She rocked back and forth, attempting to force the whole stock to collapse with the weight of her. She spit and thrust as much as she could. “I can’t take this. I’m innocent!”
       Suddenly, the man in 4072 grabbed her flesh merciless and spewed his cum into her like a jet spray, gasping with shock at his on sudden ejaculation. Unprepared, 4072 cried out with him, feeling more shame pour into her, the slime of the first man still wet on her thighs.

“Jesus,” O’Neill said. “Nothing like innocent pussy getting rammed to make you lose your load.”

“NOOOOO!!!!”  The woman in stock three was distracting everyone and rocking her stock back and forth. Her penetrator pulled out and waved his hand for a guard who came running over to help.

“Dude, I can’t even...” the young man said, closing the slit on his boxers as if protecting his precious erection.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” the male guard said. He took a position behind the woman. 4072 didn’t need to see to know he was beating stock 3 with the tawse. She paused to catch her breath, feeling her vulva lips swell and pulse against her raw opening. The third wave man was waiting for the commotion to cease, but had started fingering 4072 to keep her wet, although she was so full of other men’s seed it really wasn’t an issue anymore.

“NO, YOU FUCKERS, NO!!!”  Even being beaten the woman in stock 3 was in a rage. The ground shook from the back and forth pressure she was putting on the wooden stock. 4072 hoped the woman could break it. Just to show them you can’t hold an innocent down forever. The guard clipped his tawse back on his belt and held his fist in the air.

“No, man, really?” the soldier said. “Dude.”

“She’s done, soldier,” the guard said.  Two inmates with a stretcher arrived in front of 4072 and she saw the shadows as a woman in a lab coat ran to the scene.

“NO, YOU BITCH! YOU TRAITOR!” The woman screamed as the doctor in the coat pulled out a needle and jammed it in stock 3’s arm. Then, silence.

Efficiently, the extraction team unlocked the stock and removed the unconscious woman, carrying her back to the dorm. The doctor noticed 4072 watching the process.

“She can sleep this off and spend a few days on the punishment pole in the yards. That’ll take the fight out of her. Next Intensive, she’ll get through,” the guard pronounced.  No one seemed to care about this prophecy, although 4072 was clear it had been said for her benefit.

The next man starting rubbing the head of his penis between 4072’s swollen lips, reigniting the fire.

“Hey Bro,” the rejected man said to him. “Do you think it’s too late for me to get assigned another one? I hate end-round fucks, but I’ve got a cock full of Everhard and I’m dyin’  man.”

“Just take mine, Corporal,” he replied, withdrawing from 4072 and standing to the side.

“Thanks!” The rejected solider said and grabbed 4072 by the waist running his hand down her back, giving her the shivers.  “Too bad they shave their heads before this. I’d love to pull this bitch’s hair while she bucks.”

Then a searing pain shot through 4072’s body as he rammed the thickest, stiffest cock she could imagine into her. A scream escaped her lips and she propelled as far forward as the stocks would allow, her shoulders smacking into the head bar.  Tears stung her eyes and her stomach began to knot. She had heard the retching of several women somewhere around her throwing up onto the dirt of the yard. It didn’t stop the fucking; it just gave them a putrid smell to fill their nose as the men filled their cunts.  She swallowed and fought to keep her bile down.

She gripped the leather strap securing her hands on the wood and held on as the young man repeatedly forced the Empire State Building between her legs over and over. 

“Shut up and take it,” she told herself and the pain and shame started making her dizzy. She couldn’t pass out now. She needed to endure this. She needed to make it through. She needed to be what they wanted. She needed to be a good girl. The words caught in her brain trap. Good girl. Their words. In her head.

“GAAAAAAAA!” The man let out a cry as if he was Lion King roaring over a field of conquests and shot glob after glob of his pleasure into her. “Fucking bitch, I needed that.”

The man pulled out quickly, wiping his much-relieved cock on her ass cheek before securing it back in his boxers. He leaned over and clicked the counter button built into the main pole which now read three.

“Thanks again, dude,” the corporal said, slapping her ass as he walked away.

“Pleasure is all mine,” the man said, squeezing 4072’s cheeks and holding them open. “Corporal Sucker.”

He began pulling and pushing the plug in 4072’s anus. She’d been so consumed with the activity in her vagina she had forgotten it was not the only thing they planned to take today. She bit her lip, feeling the Corporal’s copious semen, clinging to her skin as it oozed down her leg. The man leaned over and spoke with menacing tone.

“I’m not a nice guy. You were slated to take three before someone could christen your tight ass. I got the 3rd slot but thanks to donkey dick, now I’m number four.  Have you been used in you private pleasure bin before?”

Her attention had been focused on her raw, aching pussy and it took a moment to realize he asked her a question.  “What?”

“Have you taken a cock up your ass?”

“No,” she gasped. “No, Sir.”

“Well, well.”  He pulled the plug all the way out and inserted his finger, stretching the hole and ensuring the dumb inmate assistant remembered to lube this one up. “There’s more than one cherry to break on a girl, and this one is mine.”

He removed his finger and placed the head of his cock at the base of her tight hole. 4072 gripped the wood again and closed her eyes, her body stiffening in preparation. He started pushing at her, enjoying teasing the hole with his tip. Then he found a moment of silence in between the shrieks and gasps around him. “Like I said, I’m not a nice guy.”

Her mouth dropped open as he entered her. The pain was a sharp cramping pull that went up her spine and locked her shoulders. She groaned, loudly enough to be heard overseas. It was a deep-heavy guttural groan signaling the undeniable surrender of the last wall her body had to offer.

“Yeah, Buddy,” some man called out. “Fuck that ass!”

The pain was worse than anything she’d experienced in her life. She attempted to move forward or sideways or any way possible to escape the shock of pain enveloping her entire body. He forced his cock in further, but began gently stroking her sweaty back as if calming a horse.

“Easy now, just breathe. Easy into it. Entry is the worst. You’re okay, you’re okay.” With each word he began to rock back and forth, feeling the tightness of her body around his shaft.

“Oh god,” she cried, “Oh god it hurts...” she mumbled as a mantra until he was proven correct and her body began to accept the cock sliding in and out of her.

“I thought all you intellectual cunts were atheists,” he laughed.  “But if you have a god, honey, call him now.  Because here we go.”

Sensing her relaxation he began thrusting in earnest, each ramming jolt forward sending a wave through her body as he seemed to be dividing a path inside her, going deeper and farther, impaling her has she cried and shook at the end of his hard cock. It didn’t take too long for him to let out a holler and fill her rectum with his pleasure, leaving her with two dripping sore holes. She didn’t know if it was blood or cum dripping from her backside and she didn’t care. She’d been taken. She was the reed, bent in the wind.

He punched the clicker and went on his way, telling the next man, “Broke her for you.”

“Probably something left there for me,” number 5 (previously number 4 whose booty had been stolen by circumstance) said and lined his cock up at her hole. It hurt less the second time, although every entry made her belly cramp and pull. She let her muscles losen and just rode the thrusts. Man after man, violation after shame-filled violation.

So many cocks were in her that she lost count. She just rode the wave of torment and insults, taking every slap or verbal jab that came her way.  She would get occasionally jarred into consciousness by the vision of the stretcher going to take another incapacitated woman out of her stocks. But soon she’d just focus on the blue boxer shorts pummeling the girl in front of her and feel another man use her because he could.

At one point, as she endured the bumpy pushing of a man slapping against her while sticking his thumb in her asshole, she realized she’d seen the same ass slapping against the stocked girl in Row 3 stock 2 for some time. One of those Everhard accidents they giggle about in back rooms.

“I need to cum!” the blue ass owner roared, slapping the girl harder and harder.  He looked around desperately to see if any of his buddies had a remedy for his pain but they were all busy dolling out their own brand of punishment. Finally his eyes settled on 4072.  “Hey! Hey Bitch! Wake up!”

SLAP! A rocketing sting awoke 4072 from the haze that was her escape. Before she could realize why she was being slapped she saw the man backing up, pulling his boxers down. She tried to back up only to feel the stock resist her attempt and the man using her slap her ass to get her attention. Still trying to make some kind of sense of the situation she saw the man pulling open the cheeks of his sweaty hairy ass.

“Lick my hole, bitch. I need help!” He shouted, smashing his asshole against her trapped face. Before she could respond her obedient tongue came out and followed his command, licking and running up and down his crack, a sour foul taste filing her mouth. “Get your tongue in there!”

Her mind flashed back to the day of her verdict, bending down and licking the shoes of Warden Weems. She started lapping his ass with the same fervor. She hated herself for doing it but she pushed her tongue against his tight hole, sticking it into him.

“Ohhhh yessssssssssss,” he moaned. He managed to move forward in time for his spurting release to land all over the back of his convict, freeing 4072’s face from the stench. A tear of sheer loss fell down her cheeks as the man behind her continued to plunge in and out of her.

In time, a man positioned himself in front of her face, while the one using her ass continued to mount her. He took the O-ring off the pole and stood there a moment. He checked her eyes to see if she was still awake. She was. She’d seen the woman in stock 1 taken out on a stretcher but had no idea if the girl made enough time to fulfill her requirement.  He pinched her nose, again pulling her out of her stupor, as her mouth dropped down and he jammed the ring in it, forcing her lips into a perfect “O”.  Drool flowed out of her mouth, sometimes spurting with a rough thrust from her backside. The man bent down and looked in her eyes.

“What’s your name, bitch?” He asked, attempting to make sure she hadn’t passed out with her eyes open. By this point in the punishment it was hard to tell.

“FO-ZEWO-SEN-TOO,” she tried to speak through the gag.  Her mind engaged just enough to give her one more conscious thought. What kind of asshole puts a gag in your mouth then asks you a question?

“You’re okay,” he said and brought out his penis, with its swollen purple helmet of battle ready to fuck her throat.  She imagined the man behind her would stop, but he kept on riding, slapping her ass and plunging his dick deep inside her womb as the guy in front polished his knob on the inside of her cheeks before gagging her with its full power.

4072, bald and tattooed stayed speared there, with a cock in each end – like a girl on a spit, pushed back and forth. The first man who came down her throat made her fear she was drowning. But by the third guy who fucked her face while a large man pounded her pussy, she didn’t care if she did drown. She was nothing at that point. A piece of meat sandwiched between two men being used the way the RAC intended her to be. She had no more tears left to cry. She was beyond crying, beyond fighting, and beyond thinking. That was the goal all along.

There was a scream somewhere behind her, but it barely registered in her mind. The world was growing dim, her exhaustion was complete.  4072’s entire body was covered in cum – her face, her breasts, her legs, her back, her ass – all splashed with evidence of her new place in the world. There was a man in front of her. She saw his cock jutting out of the blue shorts. Then they were grey, then dark, then...gone.

She was gone.

Not the type to quit, the penetrator who was on his third round of service, managed to use her wet mouth and his hand to ejaculate on her face before he signaled for the stretcher. The time was marked, the number on the clicker recorded, and IC-4072 was released from her bonds. By this time, even the transportation techs had taken to using gloves to handle to gooey unconscious women they hauled to the infirmary.

“Dear, sweet, Kate,” a voice whispered as a cool cloth brushed over her forehead. 4072 opened her eyes slightly. The room had the dim lights of a hospital at night. Sure enough, there was an IV line taped to her arm and a catheter tube dangling beside the bed. She didn’t know what happened. She was on her side, her body a block of pain, and the smell of some kind of muscle gel was strong. Was she in a car accident? Had a ceiling collapsed on her at work?

Then she followed the arm of the woman soothing her brow until she saw a bar code tattooed on the woman’s crop scarred breast. It read: IT-3384.

“Pat?” she tried to talk, her throat filled with mud.

“Shhhhh,” the small woman said. 4072 noticed an IV extending from her arm as well. “You made it, Kate. You made it.”

Thanks for your support. The girls have an appointment with their therapist