THERE ARE NO BAD GIRLS
The man in the expensive suit was ushered by the Warden’s own administrative assistant into the Out-Placement Interview Room. The fact that the this new “reform prison” even had an “Out-Placement Interview Room made it different from other prisons, thought the man, as he settled into the leather couch and studied the expensive decor and lighting of the place. From time to time his glance would stray to the female inmate standing motionless in front of a three-way mirror opposite the couch.
The door on the other side of the room silently opened, and in entered the Warden. Behind him was the reason for the man’s visit.
“Mr. Concord, how good of you to come,” said the Warden.
“My pleasure, Warden. I hope things have been going smoothly here since our last visit.”
“Oh, yes. We’ve added a new cellblock, we have new offenders coming in all the time. We’ve expanded our vocational training program–very specialized, as you can imagine.”
The visitor winked. “I’m sure you will help them all back into the path of good behavior.”
The Warden smiled back. “Well, we try. Oh, your cash transfer came through nicely through our Zurich bank. Thank you for that. It’s very gratifying to know our out-placement program is working so well.”
This bantering conversation seemed to talk all around the one captivating object in the room: the young female inmate, standing in polite attention in the prison’s standard inmate uniform. Which, in this case, was a light cotton t-shirt that stretched tightly over her torso, the nipples of her enormous breasts pressing hard enough against the fabric. She wore a pair of clinging cotton shorts, and high-heeled sandals. She stood in front of a full-length three-side mirror, giving full views of her every profile. A choker-collar encircled her throat, with the name “JENNI”.
“Well, what do you think, Mr. Concord?” said the Warden at last, with a small gesture toward the inmate
The visitor studied her face. A natural beauty, he decided, made even more attractive by the ministrations of the cosmetic department in the prison. (Another contrast to other prisons, he thought, which somehow managed to get by without a cosmetic department. Pity that.). Her dark hair had been cut short, with loose bangs framing her face. But it were the eyes of the girls that most attracted the visitor’s attention: her eyes had a hue of shimmering green, like the sea (thanks to some permanently inserted color contact lenses he knew – it was one of his Buyer’s Specifications). And their expression beneath those luscious lashes were utterly docile.
As his eyes feasted on the girl’s body, he noticed that she really wasn’t standing still as a statue, as he first thought. The girl’s body actually quivered with suppressed sexual craving, her skin betraying a rosy flush of simmering arousal. He wondered what it would be like to uncork that pent-up desire. Volcanic, he decided.
“What was her crime?” the visitor asked.
“Does it matter?” replied the Warden. “She’s reformed now, in the truest sense of the word..”
“Humor me, Warden, I want to know.”
“Very well.” The Warden consulted a leather notebook. :”Corporate fraud. Nothing wicked, actually. All the right schools, the best internships. It’s just that on her way up the company ladder, she did a little dance with the financial books of her department. Pity–they said she was CEO material. Our friend the judge gave her quick trial and found her guilty. No family or close friends – you’ll find that often, with these career professional women. Better for us, you know.”
The visitor eyes grew luminous with anticipation. Imagine having such a thoroughbred under your control. For your pleasure. He swallowed hard, and said, “Shall we–ah...”
The Warden smiled. “Time to inspect the merchandise? By all means.” He cleared his throat. “Jenni, be a good girl and disrobe immediately for our visitor.” The girl slowly stripped off her t-shirt, pulling it over her head so that her hair cascaded back down over her bare breasts. Then she hooked her thumbs over the bands of her shorts, and slid them down her shapely legs, her breasts swaying as she bent over. Then she straightened to her full height and stepped out of the pool of clothes at her high-heeled feet.
“Turn around, Jenni,” said the visitor.
The girl took a deep breath to thrust her ample chest out, then did a slow turn. Every inch of her flesh seemed sculpted to entice him. The visitor found himself mesmerized by the play of the muscles down her back into her buttocks. And how could she stay so balanced and graceful on those towering high heels? When she finished her pirouette, the girl stood facing him, her melon-full breasts still jiggling from the motion.
The Warden said delicately, “Perhaps you’d like some time alone with the girl to satisfy yourself she’s suitable for. . . placement.” He nodded at the telephone on a stand in the corner of the room. “Just call when you’re ready.” The Warden slipped out the door.
The visitor took a deep breath and examined his acquisition. She had been trained to stand right where a triad of hidden spotlights pooled together, giving a sheen to her lightly oiled skin and highlights in her hair. You couldn’t ask for a more desirable physical form. Even though she kept her lashes modestly lowered, the visitor realized she was acutely aware of his presence. More than that, she radiated an aura of sexual heat that grew stronger as he stepped closer. A slight scent of musk wafted through the room.
He reached out with his free hand and boldly cupped her breast right breast. Her chest rose with a sudden intake of breath, and he could feel her nipple stiffen between his softly strumming fingers. Her breasts were firm and full, and jutted proudly out. The visitor felt his own manhood stiffening at her utter availability.
Rather than start with his most carnal desires, he simply said, “Jenni, I want you to kiss me.” The girl’s eyelids fluttered, then stepped up to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and pressing her full lips against his. Her sensuousness seemed to enfold him–the moist hunger of her kiss, her fragrance wreathing around him, the cushion pressure of her naked breasts against his chest. . . His hands roamed down her back to rest on her asscheeks, gripping and caressing their smoothness. He felt his manhood stiffen, and so did the girl, for she began to gyrate her pelvis against him, massaging him, driving him mad with desire.
“A little. . .lower,” he whispered. .
The girl responded instantly. Her lips left his mouth, caressed his cheek, then nuzzled his neck. Her hands slipped down over his body and she planted her kisses down his throat, over his chest, and finally slipped to her knees to face his midriff. She looked up into his eyes, her beautiful oval face framed by her protruding breasts below her. Her fingers expertly opened his trousers, and his stiff cock sprang free.
The visitor ached with desire. With a propriety gesture, his the fingers of his left hand entangled themselves in her thick glossy mane, and pressed her face toward his manhood. The girl emitted a soft sigh, and took his cock between her lips, while her tongue flicked wetly over the sensitive underside of the head. The visitor gasped in pleasure as she expertly serviced him, surrendering herself completely to his pleasure. He began to experiment with her technique – slow and leisurely for a while, then urging her to a speed propelled her mouth to piston over his gleaming shaft. Gripping her head with both hands, he proceeded to ravish her mouth. The girl frantically kept pace with him, working her tongue furiously over each new rapid-fire assault of his demanding cock, her nostrils flaring and eyelids fluttering with pure ecstacy. . .
A few minutes later, the visitor picked up the telephone in the room and pressed the Warden’s number. His chest still heaved and he wiped away the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Warden?” He glanced at the gorgeous, docile girl still kneeling across the room. He paused to catch his breath between panting breaths. “Fine, I’ll take her. Don’t bother to wrap her, I’ll take her to go.”
Lucille Murdock took her job of Inspector from the Bureau of Prisons very seriously. Like her sensible shoes and her well-tailored but prim outfit, she approached her work with matter-of-fact efficiency. Offenders should be given their civil rights, naturally, but one should not forget that they were–let’s face it–criminals. She knew two things about the new “reform prison” she was inspecting today. First, it was privately run and corporate-owned. Second, the managers boasted new counseling and vocational techniques that produced spectacular results. As she presented her identification from the state Corrections Department at the prison gate, she could already anticipate the usual soft and mushy social science excuses for making it easy on the offenders. She straightened her uniform and adjusted the black-framed glasses on her nose.
A female guard opened the door to the steel-mesh outer gate. “Check your weapon, Officer, the guard said, “and take this identification badge.” She led the visitor through progressive layers of security to the Warden’s office. “Inspector Murdock here to see you, sir,” the guard said after knocking on the door. She pushed the door open and Lucille stepped into the Warden’s office.
“Welcome to our facility,” said the Warden, getting up from his chair behind the desk.
“Warden, it’s good to finally meet you,” she said. “Your private reform prison has been scheduled for inspection for some time. It’s all routine.”
“Well, Ms. Murdock–“
“Officer Murdock, if you please, she corrected him. “I’ve completed my degree in Law Enforcement and was deputized last year.”
“But of course,” said the Warden. “Officer Murdock, we’re completely at your disposal. I was planning on giving you a tour in person, in the meantime, please have a seat.”
She took a chair on the other side of his desk. “You should know from the start I don’t much believe in rehabilitation,” Lucille said. “Prisons are here to keep offenders out of the public, even punish them. Not teach them to paint watercolors or give them free psychiatric care to justify their crimes because their mothers didn’t live them enough. So when I make these tours, I’m not looking for ways to better their lives. I’m just making sure that the minimum” – she held up a finger – “the minimum standards are being maintained for their condition. This notion of a reform prison just means a free ride for the inmates, as far as I’m concerned. They are all criminals, after all. No reason to treat them with kid gloves.” Her look was hard through the black frames of her glasses.
“Officer Murdock, I think you and I agree on the goal–turning these young women into productive members of society,” replied the Warden. “But we have different notions how to get there.” He learned forward in his chair. “You see, I don’t believe there are really any truly bad girls. Just good girls needing to be taught right from wrong. That’s why we place such an emphasis here on behavior modification. Change their minds, I say, and their hearts will follow. That’s the basic philosophy of our private reform prison. We hope this to be the model for other institutions in other states. You can’t deny we get results.
Lucille shrugged. “Well– your prison has excellent statistics. Frankly, I don’t understand some of them. That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh? What statistics are those?” asked the Warden politely.
She ticked the points off on her fingers. “One. None of your inmates have been convicted of a crime after their release. I’ve matched your releases against the nationwide arrest database; there are no–I repeat– no cases. That’s unheard of. As you know, the usual rate of return for female offenders closer to forty percent within two years of release.” Another finger went up. “Two. You manage to place your released offenders with jobs on the outside at a rate close to one hundred percent. Three–no record of disturbances, escape attempts, disciplinary problems of any kind. And finally, almost half of your prison population qualifies for early parole, to the out-placement jobs I just mentioned.” She leaned forward. “This is too good to be true. Frankly, I don’t believe it.”
The Warden studied the woman from across the desk before answering. She was petite and lithe. Obviously worked out. Her make-up was as no-nonsense as her shoes–just some light eye-shadow and a pale lipstick. A small mole on her left cheek somehow enhanced her austere good looks. He discerned she had lovely eyes which she hid behind her black-framed eyeglasses. (Those will have to go, he thought). “Shall we take that tour, then?. Perhaps I can help change your mind.”
The Warden’s intercom buzzed, and the voice of the female crackled: . “New inmate arrived. Shall we hold her, sir?”
The Warden said, “No, send her in.” To Lucille – Officer Murdock – he said, “This will show you the raw material we have to work with.”
There was a knock on the door, and then two female guards frog-marched an inmate between them. Lucille guessed the girl’s age at 18 – the majority age in the state, as young as you could get and still get sentenced to an adult prison. Her hair was cut short and hung down in short, tangled bangs, looking like it had not been washed for a week. To Lucille’s experienced eye, the pasty complexion dark circles and generally emaciated look shouted a big time drug habit. The girl snarled as the guards brought her before the Warden.
The lead guard passed a clipboard to the Warden. “Inmate Rebecca Corrizone, number 30350, convicted yesterday in Judge Craddock’s criminal court on charges of burglary and possession of illegal substances,” the guard reported.
The Warden studied the clipboard, then let his eyes gaze at the girl in the orange jumpsuit who slouched in front of him.
“Well, Ms. Corrizone, it looks like you’ll be staying with us for a while. I don’t know yet what kind of life you lived up to now, but here you will be treated with courtesy and respect, and we expect the same from you. By the end of your term, we hope to give you the training and motivation to re-enter life as a productive citizen. In the meantime, if something is troubling you, or you need anything, all you have to do is ask.”
The inmate’s eyes roved around the room through slitted lids. The jumpsuit had short sleeves; Lucille, still sitting off the side, noticed a tattoo on the girls upper arm, something involving barbed wire and a skull. .
“Just ask, huh? Okay, I need a cigarette,” the inmate said.
The Warden said, “Sorry, no smoking. We’ll work with you to break that habit.”
The girl sniffed, wiped her nose with her manacled hands. “Okay, then, there is something else you can do for me.” She leaned as close to the Warden as the guards’ grip allowed. “I want you to – kiss – my – ass!” Even from where she was sitting, Lucille caught a whiff of the girl’s sour bad breath. What a piece of trash, she thought.
The guards jerked the girl upright. The lead guard pulled the girl’s head back by her hair. “Don’t you ever talk to the Warden like that again,” hissed the guard.
The Warden held up a hand. “That’s all right. Everyone is allowed one bite of the apple on their first day. Get Miss Corrizone logged in, cleaned up, and ready for a medical in the clinic.”
As the guards marched the girl back out, Lucille heard the head guard snap, “You’re mine, you little bitch. . . you screw up again like that, and you’ll answer to me, do you understand...” Lucille nodded silently to herself. That’s the only way – discipline.
When the door shut, the Warden gave Lucille a whimsical smile. “Well, that’s typical of what we get. What do you think?”
Lucille shrugged. “A street-wise punk. Druggie. Unsalvageable. If you want my opinion, best to lock her up in solitary instead of wasting these welcome-to-our-house speeches.”
“Yes, that would be the usual approach. . . you saw the tattoo, didn’t you?”
“Yes, on her arm.”
“It’s a girl-gang sign. So our little Ms. Corrizone does have some social instincts, even though at this stage they’re at the level of a pack predator. I think we can work with that. . . “ He rose from his chair and unlocked the cabinet behind his desk with a key from his chain. He slipped the report from the clipboard and opened a cabinet behind his desk.. “I keep all the records in my own office for security. Protecting the privacy of the inmates is important to us. After all, we are asking them to start new lives–why should their old lives be an open book to everyone.” He closed the cabinet. “Shall we take that tour now?”
The Warden and Officer Lucille Murdock strode together down the hall. Lucille kept a notebook in her hand. “What’s you prison population right now?” she asked as they walked.
“Three hundred twelve. Thirteen, now with Ms. Corrizone.”
Lucille felt slightly uneasy with wide open spaces and open-accessed rooms of the facility. And the wall colors – soft pastels of blue and pink. Not like the battleship grey and narrow corridors she was used to in other institutions. “I’ve noticed a lot of potted plants, gardens, that type of thing. Isn’t that dangerous, Warden? Inmates could hide things in those flowers, over there, for example.”
“Hasn’t been a problem. We try to keep an ambiance here of. . . well, pleasantness. Normal life.”
“What are these rooms?” Lucille asked as they walked past some doorways.
“Classrooms. Occupational therapy.”
“But with easy chairs and couches just kind of grouped around!”
“Does the lack of regimentation concern you, Officer Murdock?” he asked with an ironic smile.
“I just don’t know you expect to keep control with this kind of loose structure, that’s all.”
They passed a group of inmates being escorted by a female guard. Lucille stopped and stared.
“Is anything wrong, Officer?” asked the Warden.
“Those inmates. . . “
The Warden called to the guard, who brought the inmates back with her. The girls stood at relaxed attention in a line. Each of them wore a loose-fitting top that barely reached to their midriff. This was matched to a combination shorts and hotpants that clung to their waists. Lucille’s eyes traveled to the even more bizarre aspects of the prison garb. Each girl sported what looked like a leather collar over their throats. . . and their bare thighs and legs ended in the highest high heels she had ever seen. Almost like ballet shoes, but with a thin spike heel and severely downward pointing toe. The shoes had small locks at the ankles. And further securing the ankles was strand of silver chain, about sixteen inches wide.
Despite herself, Lucille had a quick nod of approval about those chains. At least they represented some kind of discipline in this place, instead of this warm&fuzzy approach of “behavior modification”, or whatever.
But what most took Lucille by surprise was the expression on the girl’s faces. Lucille had seen hundreds of inmates in her work as a prison inspector, and they wore looks that ranged from apathetic resignation to hateful defiance. The vacant smiles and wide-opened eyes of these inmates suggested. . . acceptance?. . .happiness? . . . bliss? Lucille said, “That’s enough,” and the Warden motioned the guard to proceed. Lucille glanced behind to see the inmates prancing down the spacious corridor, their feet making elegant, mincing steps to the musical jingling of the chains, and their hips swaying seductively.
“Don’t tell me that’s the standard inmate uniform around here,” she muttered.
“We call them ‘outfits’ here, actually, not uniforms.”
“Call them what you want, their barely enough to cover–they’re barely anything at all!”
The Warden nodded. “Exactly. They can’t hide anything in garments that . . cut back. No shivs. No drugs. It’s a security measure that has worked very well.”
“And those ankle chains! Leg-irons, in this day and age?!” She whipped out her notebook and scribbled her protest, even though she thought of prisons as essentially places for punishment, and the sight of the women hobbled in that way gave her a little buzz.
“Well, Officer Murdock, as you can see, we have an open access environment. . Those modest hobble-chains is the one form of control we do enforce. And the inmates are not about to sprint for the wall with those heels! Besides, it teaches them patience and deportment.”
“What about the collars?”
“Identification. We can’t very well brand them. You saw the etched names, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but first names only, little girl names – Cheri and Tami, I recall – why no numbers?”
The Warden said, “Because we are trying to bring these girls back to their humanity, Officer Murdock. . . ah, here’s the clinic.”
Lucille had seen many prison clinics in her time. Often they were grim, cramped quarters that smelled of disinfectant and were good for only the most rudimentary treatment. But the Reform Prison clinic matched the most advanced hospital she had ever seen in the outside world. Several operating rooms, nurses bustling about, state-of-the-art equipment–Lucille could only stare.
“Ah, there’s our reconstructive surgeon,” said the Warden, beckoning the man over. He introduced the doctor to Lucille. He had the brisk manner and general air of competence of most outside doctors. Most of the medical personnel that Lucille had seen in other prisons she would not trust with removing a hangnail. Maybe there was something after all to the lavish budgets of these private Reform Prisons. . .
“We’ve already had a look at the newest intake – Corrizone, wasn’t it? She’s undernourished and her arms are covered with needle tracks. I’ve started her on anti-narcotics.”
“And the tattoo?” asked the Warden
“Coming off this afternoon.”
“Good.” The Warden turned to Lucille. “Can’t afford to have any gang-affiliations displayed in the main population.”
“We’re also start her standard workup–“
“Ah, Doctor, perhaps we could discuss that later?’
As they left the clinic, Lucille asked, “What was that about standard workup?”
“Oh, just something we do with all arrivals,” the Warden replied vaguely. “Most of the girls we get in here are in terrible shape. We have to get them healthy before we can rehabilitate them, you know.”
Lucille nodded, but she had the sense that there was much the Warden was leaving out.
“Ah, here we are at the gym,” he said sprightly.
Another surprise – Lucille was getting used to them by now. The gym was spacious, with row upon row of world-class exercise equipment. A guard was leading a troop of inmates in callisthenics. The girls flexed and squatted and stretched and pumped on command, their skimpy cotton uniforms – “outfits”, Lucille reminded herself sardonically– were soaked in sweat. Their breasts bounced without restraint underneath the tops. They wore exercise slippers that somehow managed to maintain the high heel. Watching the girls do bending over to touch their toes was almost. . . arousing, she admitted to herself. The inmates looked to be in excellent physical condition to start with.
“Those guards are working them pretty hard, aren’t they?” said Lucille, studying the panting girls.
The Warden said, “Physical exercise plays a big role in the reformation process. Gets out all the anxiety. Healthy body, healthy mind, as we say.” He led her back to his office. On the way they passed another group of escorted inmates. Lucille suddenly noticed something. She turned to the Warden.
“These girls are wearing makeup. And I think I caught a whiff of perfume when we passed those inmates. You don’t let the girls indulge in that, do you?”
“Ah, Officer Murdock, we insist on it. Remember our goal here is to reintegrate these girls back into society. We want them to think of themselves as proper young ladies.”
Lucille nodded uncertainly. She had not quite addressed the question that was really on her mind, in fact she was groping for what seemed out of place. The best she could do was to put the question to herself, in its crudest fashion, namely – why were all these female inmates looking so. . . well, hot? The Reform Prison seemed like a cross between a spa and a beauty retreat. Hardly a prison. And the inmates seemed to respond almost too well to the environment – obedience to the level of docility. Was that little wretch Rebecca Corrizone, the new intake for the day, the only inmate with a streak of rebellion in her? How could she put this subjective uneasiness in a report, when matched against those marvelous statistics of out-placement and no further arrests, and the obvious good care of the inmates. What was she missing? she wondered.
She was still wondering when she bade the Warden goodbye and left the Reform Prison to complete her investigation.
A few days later, Officer Lucille Murdock frowned at the stack of inmate reports on her desk back at her office. She had gone through them all. None of them offered a clue to her lingering sense that something was wrong with the private Reform Prison. The relaxed spa-like atmosphere . . . the lavish equipment and support staff, as if the Prison was grooming this year’s crop of pampered beauty queens, the incredible placement rate of the inmates to outside jobs, the complete absence of any security problems reported at the Prison–all these suggested that the Warden’s protocol, whatever it was, was working.
It seemed almost too good to be true. Even the docile, vacantly happy expressions on the girls’ faces as they minced their way through the corridors with those ankle hobble-chains—what was that all about?
Lucille sighed and pushed her hair back. She decided to run the prison population through a statistical sampling program to see if the girls had anything in common. The computer hummed as it sifted through the personnel files. Lucille’s mind wandered back to the strange sexual energy of the place, so many women maintained in the peak of physical condition, wearing those provocatively stripped down uniforms (“outfits”, according to the Warden), apparently being drilled with some kind of discipline that–
Her thoughts were cut short by the red light flashing on her disk drive, showing the analysis was done. Lucille leaned forward toward the screen, the data reflected off her tinted glasses. “Bingo,” she said softly. Three data clusters.
First, the inmates all fell between the ages of 18 and 25. Second, almost all of them did not list any close family. And third, practically all of them were sent by a single, solitary criminal court–Judge Anthony Drake. She grabbed her laptop and headed down to the courts.
“Kind of you to see me in chambers, Judge Drake.”
“Well, we don’t get too many visits from the Bureau of Prisons. Usually, the traffic goes the other way,” he smiled, causing creases to furrow all the way from the corners of his mouth to his graying sideburns. Upon letting her into his private office, he had settled himself on the leather couch that occupied the office space near a large window. Lucille sat down in the more austere wooden chair facing him, her laptop on her knees. “Is there anything in particular that I can help you with? The dispensation of any particular case?”
Lucille balanced her laptop on her knees. “Actually, it’s the dispensation of a lot of cases. I’d like to you ask you about the new reform prison.”
“Ah, yes, I know the Warden pretty well.”
“Apparently so, your Honor. Many of the inmates there came from your court.”
The judge took a minute before answering. “It’s a pilot program, and I’m supporting it, when I have the discretion to send offenders to various institutions.” he said carefully. “The Warden uses methods which others might find–unorthodox.”
The judge shrugged. “I have no idea. I think there’s a kind of esteem-building and psychological revamping program there. You know, these girls – and I do think of them as girls, not women – come from troubled backgrounds, so real parents. Sending them to a regular prison would just finish the work of converting them into real criminals. At the reform prison, they trying to break that cycle.”
Well, thought Lucille to herself, that explains why the inmates don’t seem to have close family contacts. . .and maybe there was a reason to segregate the younger offenders. Maybe her intuition was all wrong about the prison. Still. . .
“I’ve toured the prison,” said Lucille. Did you know the Warden has authorized the use of leg irons?”
“No, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Could be some kind of shock treatment.”
“And the outplacements? Who is hiring these inmates? I’ve noticed that you have even granted early probation to some of them.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said the judge as he leaned back in his leather chair, the lawbooks a backdrop behind him. “As a matter of fact, I hired one myself.” He pressed his intercom. Presently Lucille heard a soft knocking on a side door to the judge’s chambers, and in walked an astonishing attractive young woman. She wore a tight-fitting blouse, but the impression of her nipples on the silk fabric betrayed no bra. She shook her blonde hair coquettishly as she sauntered toward the judge.
“Did you want to see me, sir?” she asked with a velvety voice.
“Officer Murdoch is here from the Bureau of Prisons. She’s interested in your experience there. Officer, this is Tami. She once did some very naughty things, but since her rehabilitation she’s been a very good girl.”
Strange way to talk about her, thought Lucille. Almost as if she were not altogether here. The girl turned to Lucille, her eyelashes lowering submissively. She stood passively, as if waiting for the next instruction.”
“How was your time there, uh, Tami,” asked Lucille.
“Very nice, Officer Murdoch,” she answered softly.
“So you were treated well?”
“Oh, yes.” The girl’s eyes glanced up to meet Lucille’s. They were like shallow pools, with a vapid emptiness. The girl’s gaze traveled over Lucille’s body., then back to eye contact again. For just a moment, Lucille had the odd sense she was being hit on. She shifted uneasily in her chair.
“And how do you find working for Judge Drake?”
The girl smiled vacantly. “He’s very nice.”
Lucille could think of nothing else to say in response to these serene endorsements. “Thank you, Tami.”
The judge nodded to the door. “You can go now, my dear.”
“Thank you, sir, may I please the court..” She walked slowly from the room, her hips swaying and her feet on the tallest high heels Lucille had ever seen in business. Her graceful, restrained step reminded Lucille of the common gait of the female inmates in the Reform Prison, the ankle-chain clinking softly as they walked.
When she was gone, Lucille asked, “Isn’t the phrase, ‘may it please the court’”?
The judge chuckled. “Well, I believe you’re right.” Lucille thanked the judge and left, the frosted glass on the door tinkling as she shut it. Before she walked down the corridor to the courtroom, she heard the intercom buzzer again. She glanced behind to see the blurry silhouette of Tami as the girl returned in summons to the bell, the light from the window behind outlining the unmistakable curves of her body. Then, incredibly, her arms moved, and Lucille could just make out the shapes of the woman’s clothes being dropped to the floor. The baritone of the judge’s voice, indistinct yet commanding, seemed to direct her movements. The girl’s form moved in front of the couch. As Lucille watched in mingled amusement and unease, the girl seemed to straddle the sitting judge. The coached creaked rhythmically, and Lucille could barely make out small moans of a woman in passion. Through the semi-opaque frosted glass, Tami could see the girl tossing her hair to and fro as she bucked and writhed on the judge’s lap.
Luci shook her head shouldered her laptop, headed back out to the street. Some out-placement opportunity there, she thought. It wasn’t until her sensible shoes were clacking their way down the courthouse steps that she stopped and pondered, then walked slowly to the city park. There, sitting on a park bench, Lucille struggled to put together all the odd clues and implications of what she had seen at this new Reform Prison.
The bizarre goings-on at the prison. The docile behavior of the girls. The incredible out-placement record. The girls seemed to go in as offenders and come as–what? A crazy notion began to take shape, involving the judge, the Warden, and these mysterious out-placements. And Lucille knew there was only one place to go to get to the bottom of it.
“What a pleasure to see you again, Officer Murdock” said the Warden. “Your last visit was only a few weeks ago, I didn’t know we were due for another inspection so soon.” Lucille had signed in as a visitor just minutes before, and the Warden had agreed to see her without an appointment.
“Just tying up some loose ends, Warden. I’m particularly interested in the outplacement program you have.” Lucille had shown up unexpectedly at the Reform Prison, thinking that this would give the Warden less time to cover up anything. But the man appeared unfazed as he stood behind his desk, smoothing his well-cut gray suit.
“Certainly. You know our success rate here in placing our offenders is close to –“
“–One hundred percent. Yes, I know. What sort of positions do you find for these offenders?”
“I’ll be glad to tell you. First, would you like a beverage? Some coffee? You must have gotten up early to get here at the very start of the day. Long drive.”
Lucille waved her hand distractedly. “Sure, sure, I’ll have some coffee. Black.”
The Warden nodded and his finger jabbed the intercom. “Two black coffees, please, Beki,” he intoned. He sat back in his chair and smiled. “We were discussing the outplacement program, I believe.”
Lucille leaned forward intently. “I have a question. I reviewed all the files, Warden. They don’t list the actual names of the employer.”
“Naturally,” said the Warden. “That information is kept strictly confidential, out of the offender’s file. Each of these girls deserve a fresh start, and it part of the policy of the Reform Prison to protect their privacy.”
“That wasn’t my question,” said Lucille. “The files did not contain the names. But it did contain general job descriptions.” He pulled a stack of copied files from her satchel and flipped through them. “‘Personal Assistant to corporate CEO’, it says here. And this one: “Associate Manager of Country Estate’. ‘Congressional Aide’. And this one, my all time favorite: ‘Assigned to Household Staff of Foreign Government Official.’” She put the papers down. “Warden, I know a thing or two of outplacement opportunities in these sort of cases. Once an offender is assigned to a halfway house, they usually get work in some factory, or food services. Most of these offenders don’t have much of an education to begin with. So how is that the outplacement program here looks more like a career fair at some elite woman’s college? How do you manage to do that? What’s going on?”
Just then there was a quiet knock on the door, and Lucille heard the musical clinking of the ankle chains that she had seen on the inmates in her first visit. A beautiful young woman walked in, her incredibly high-heeled shoes mincing forward as much as the few inches of chain allowed. She was dressed in the regulation uniform–outfit–of the Reform Prison–a loose fitting top that barely covered her ample breasts, leaving her midriff bare, and skimpy cotton shorts that were so tight they seemed to have been sprayed on. As she passed Lucille with a coffee tray, the officer caught a whiff of beguiling perfume. The elegantly shackled inmate bent over from her hips to place the tray on the desk, her lustrous blonde hair sliding toward over her shoulders. Lucille caught sight of a familiar barbed-wire-and-skull tattoo. It couldn’t be!
“Good girl, Beki,” said the Warden.
“Thank you, sir,” she responded demurely.
“You remember Beki, don’t you?” asked the Warden, his hand reaching out to rest on the girl’s lower back. “Rebecca Corrizone?”
Lucille stared at the girl. “The inmate who was brought in when I was here?”
“The very one. She’s come a long way since, wouldn’t you say?”
Lucille sat speechless. She remembered the foul-mouthed raggety bitch they had to drag out, the pasty complexion, the needle-tracks and tattoos. It couldn’t be. . . !
Lucille cleared her throat. “I, uh, of course, I remember her. How are you doing. . . Beki?”
The girl glanced hesitantly to the Warden.
“Answer her, my dear.”
Beki said, “I’m doing very well, thankyou. I’m a . . . good girl. . . now.”
“Turn around, Beki,” instructed the Warden, making a revolving motion with his finger. Beki obligingly pirouette for them both, her supple body moving with a dancer’s skill on her high heels.
“That’s very nice, Beki,” said the Warden. “You can go now. And it’s time you had that tattoo removed. You don’t need it anymore, do you?”
Beki undulated toward the door, stopped and looked over her shoulder at the Warden through her dark lashes. “Will you be needing me later, sir?”
“Perhaps. Run along now. I believe the aerobics class will be starting soon.”
Lucille continued to star at the closed door, then turned and faced the Warden. “What did you do to that girl? How did you change her attitude? Her body?”
“Oh, Officer Murdock, it’s just how we do things here. Intensive counseling for the mind, exercise and macro-biotic diet for the body. A vast improvement, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, yes, I have to agree,” said Lucille. But was it really? From street crack whore to Vegas showgirl? How did they do it? What was going on? But the Warden was speaking–
“So you were saying, Officer?”
“Oh–the outplacement program. I’d like to follow up, talk to some of the employers.”
“Sorry, I can’t do that.”
“Oh? Why not? What’s the problem.”
“The problem, as you put it, is that these placements are made with outmost security. It’s the privacy of the offender we are concerned with. They’re trying to make a new start, they’re good girls now–“
That’s the second time today he’s used the phrase “good girl”, thought Lucille to herself.
“–and we don’t want to jeopardize it. I can redact the files and show you the follow-up comments we’ve received from the employers, you know, black out their names. You’d be pleased to see that they are quite positive.”
“One hundred percent?” asked Lucille, her eyes narrowing. “Again?”
“Yes, Officer, I believe they are all complimentary. We must be doing something right here,” he said with a chuckle. “But you understand why I can’t just break faith with the offenders. As a matter of fact, as a matter of security, I keep all the placement files locked up here in my office.” And he cocked his eye at the row of filing cabinets behind his desk.
“I see. Well, if that’s how you do things. . . By the way, I went and saw Judge Drake.” She watched for the Warden’s reaction, but his face remained expressionless. “He is very supportive of your prison, seeing that he sends almost all of his convictions here, if they meet certain. . . criteria.” Again, she waited for the Warden to say something, but he just smiled blandly. “That’s one outplacement I do know, I met his court clerk, or whatever. She said she had served time at your Reform Prison.” And the judge seems to have found himself a little girlfriend, she wanted to add, but swallowed that comment.
Silence hung in the room. “Well, I’ll be on my way,” said Lucille. But she had already worked out a plan. She had noticed the guard shift schedule on her way in.
After a polite leave-taking of the Warden, she went to the main gate. The time was not quite right, so she told the guard she needed to make some notes before she left. Right before the new guard came on, she announced she was ready to leave, and let the door click open. She signed out at the post before exiting the perimeter fence. A bell rang somewhere, signifying the guard change.
Lucille look flustered, then told the guard, “Damn, I left my pen back there.” The guard reopened the door the prison, and Lucille slipped back inside. She ducked down a hall and watched as the new relief guard came.
Excellent, she thought to herself. She was marked as checked out in the registration book. And the new guard would be none the wiser. She walked boldly down the hall, still wearing her visitor badge. Casually she tried a few doors, and finally found what she was looking for: an empty storage room. She sat down on some boxes, and composed herself to wait. “Nobody ever tries to break into prison,” she whispered to herself with a little smile. That’s why it was so easy. As far as the duty roster was concerned, she was long gone. A shelf of tools caught her eye, and she picked out a large screwdriver, and even a flashlight. Perfect!
After an hour, she could hear the administrative side of the prison shutting down. Doors slammed, people talked on the way out, car keys jangled as the staff left for the day. She thought she even heard some people wishing the Warden good night. The light from the corridor faded under the crack of the door, and eventually there was a click as the night lights came on. The administrative side of the prison was as good as abandoned.
Lucille listened at the door. Hearing nothing, she opened it softly and tiptoed down the empty hall. She knew just where she was going.
The Warden’s office had surprisingly little security. Lucille was able to jimmy open the door with a credit card. Some security at this new Reform Prison, she smirked to herself.
Once inside, she closed the door softly behind her. She snapped the flashlight on, narrowing the beam with her fingers. Ah, there was the cabinet. She was determined to get the outplacement names, find the employers, talk to the offenders on probation, find out what was going on in this madcap prison. Propping the flashlight on a chair so she could see to work, Lucille thrust the edge of the screwdriver into the cabinet lock, and pried it open. She yanked the file drawer open, and stared.
There was only one file. Lucille picked it up. It was marked “Luci”. What the–?
Just then the office door flew open. The Warden strode in, followed by four female guards. Lucille stood in shocked, frozen silence next to the cabinet, a screwdriver in one hand, the file in the other.
“Officer Murdock, I’m disappointed in you,” remonstrated the Warden in the tone one would reserve for a wayward adolescent. “Here I treated you like a responsible law enforcement agent, and you end up ransacking my office.”
Lucille, still in shock, felt her mouth moving, but no intelligent sound coming out. “It wasn’t–I’m not–“
“Oh, come now, Lucille, the security camera caught the whole escapade. That little act at the gate. You hiding in the storeroom. And, of course, your criminal act of illegal entry into my office.” His eyes traveled down to the screwdriver in her hand. “And with a weapon, no less.” He motioned for the security guards, who quickly snatched the screwdriver and file out of her hands, and gripped her arms. “I’m sure Judge Drake will have no trouble reaching a conviction, considering the evidence. I expect a quick trial, and notification to your office of your incarceration in the Reform Prison.”
Lucille struggled ineffectively. “Wait a minute– let me go!” she shouted. Before they dragged her out, Lucille dug in her heels in front of the office. “Just tell me–what’s going on? What’s going to happen to me?”
“What’s going on?” repeated the Warden, with his maddening ironic smile. “Why, rehabilitation, of course. We’ll have you reformed in no time, so that you can rejoin society in a productive, helpful way, Lucille–or should I say Luci?.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the trapped girl.
The Warden turned to one of the guards. “Fetch Beki,” he said.
Presently, the reformed offender that Lucille had met weeks before stood before them again.
“Yes, sir, you wanted to see me?” asked the lithe girl, still in her outfit. She spoke with a slight lisp, which made her sound like an empty-headed bimbo. She barely gave the pinioned Lucille a glance, her full attention on the Warden.
“I’d like you to show Officer Murdoch how truly rehabilitated you are. Are you a good girl, now?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” To Lucille’s amazement, the girl undid the fasteners of her uniform, and tossed aside her top, letting her breasts jiggle in full view. Her short skirt dropped down in a pool at her feet, and she stepped daintily out of them. That left her dressed in only her collar and her high heeled boots and ankle chain. Beki then stepped forward, pressed her fulsome body against the Warden, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him with a kind of breathless passion. Lucille watched in shock as the Warden’s hands roamed over her nubile curves, up and down her back, giving her ass a playful spank. The girl moaned softly, and kissed the Warden again, then slowly slid down his body even while balanced on her high heels. His neck, his chest, his torso– all were pleasure zones to the girl, to be kissed and caressed and stroked, her hands all over him.
Then the girl’s legs bent as she lowered herself in front of him, until her rounded ass touched the back of her heels, raised on their six-inch spikes. With her head level with his waist, the girl deftly undid the Warden’s zipper and drew out his hardening cock.
Lucille struggled in vain against the ironclad grip of the female guards. “What are you doing?” she screamed. She turned to the guards.. “Why don’t you stop him?”
One of the guards, a black athletic woman, pulled Lucille’s arms behind her. Lucille felt the cold bite of steel handcuffs being snapped on her wrists. “Stop him?” the guard exclaimed in a cruel bark of a laugh. “You don’t get the picture, girl. We guards get first pick of all you bitches!”
Lucille stared a the guard in horror, then whipped her head back to the scene in front. By this time, the Warden’s erection glistened as Beki lovingly worked his cock back and forth past her lips. The Warden kept one hand on his hip, the other locked in the blonde curls of the inmate shamelessly pleasuring him. The harder and faster he bucked into her, the more furiously the girl’s tongue worked over the head of his cock as it pistoned back and forth into her mouth.
Just when Lucille thought he would just release his passion, the Warden pulled the girl to her feet, turned her around, and gripped her curvaceous hips. Beki obligingly spread her legs and leaned forward over the Warden’s desk–her back arched, head thrown back, and the nipples of her fulsome breasts barely brushing the polished desktop. Lucille watched in continuous shock as the Warden directed his cock between the girl’s legs, then emitted a low gasp as he entered her. After the first few thrusts, she began to match his rhythm, obediently pressing her asscheeks towards him with each pounding thrust–all in the full garish light of the office.. The Warden’s grip tightened on her hips, and he fucked her faster and harder until the girl cried out in ravished passion. One last deep thrust, and the Warden could not hold back his gasp. Beki slowly collapsed on the desk, and the Warden caught his breath and tidied himself.
“You animal,” hissed Lucille. “What have you done to that girl? These inmates? Is that how you break them, by threatening to treat them as your personal fuck-toys?” Lucille tried to hurl herself forward at him, but the two guards held her back.
The Warden smiled ironically. “No, Officer Murdock. We break them by threatening not to treat them as our own personal fucktoys.” Then to the guards: “Process her, keep her in a cell until her case is brought before the judge.” Then back to Lucille: “You’ll be subject to standard Reform Prison rules. My rules.”
Lucille woke up. She shook her head, her mind jangled by what must have been the shards of a particularly searing nightmare. She dreamed that she was trapped in a prison–then as she tried to swing herself off her bunk her consciousness was shocked by the realization that the nightmare was real.
“It really happened,” she whispered to herself, still not ready to accept the horror. She tried to fling herself off the bed, but was stopped by a constriction on her legs. She looked down.
Her feet were each caged in a network of straps and steel bars, the purpose of which was to point her arch downward by relentless compression. The contraptions reached all the way from beneath her knee to the straps pulling her feet downward, with a support bar pressed in the underside of her heel. Lucille became aware of a deep ache in each of her feet.
“That will pass,” said a guard standing outside her prison cell. “Those are just trainers. When you get so you can wear the regulation heels, those things come off and the ankle chain goes on.”
Lucille regarded her captor balefully. “How long have I been out?”
Lucille was about to answer back, when she realized how dry her mouth was, probably from the medication they used to knock her out. “Where’s water? I need a drink.” The guard gestured with her nightstick at a tube extending from the wall. It was about five feet off the ground, about an inch-and-a-half thick, with a small opening at the rounded end. “You got to be kidding me,” said Lucille.
“Prison security rules, sweetie. No utensils, no glasses. You drink through the tube, or you don’t drink.”
Lucille reluctantly put her legs over the bed and lurched to her feet. Caps kept her toes rigid, but her legs ached with the unfamiliar pressure. She nevertheless staggered across the room like a crippled ballet dancer, until she faced the tube.
“What do I do now?” she asked, swinging her head to glare at the guard.
“Just read the instructions,” said the guard.
Lucille looked back at the tube. Sure enough, on the wall was a small screen right above the tube. The screensaver was a rotating spiral. “It doesn’t say anything,” protested Lucille.
“Keep looking at it.”
Lucille looked back at the screen. Just a spiral. . . no, she could make out text that seemed to float behind the spiral. FOR WATER, PLACE MOUTH OVER TUBE.
Lucille hesitantly opened her mouth over the end of the tube. Nothing.
“It’s broken.” she complained to the guard.
“Just read the instructions,” said the guard. Lucille shrugged and stared hard at the spiral. New words seemed to materialize: AND SUCK, it now read.. Lucille sucked slightly on the tube. She was rewarded by a small gush of warm.. Lucille spat it on the floor.
“This water tastes terrible!” she protested. The guard shrugged. Lucille weighed her thirst against her taste, then reluctantly sucked on the tube again. Another small gush of water. This, she managed to swallow. She staggered back to her bunk and curled up, back to the guard. In a few moments, she was sound asleep.
The Warden stepped out from the shadows. “Is she out?”
“Yes, Warden. The sedatives in the water do their work fast.”
“Not to mention the ingredients coming up. I want her on an enforced one hour sleep-wake cycle. Call me when she’s ready.”
An hour later, the guard opened the prison cell, took out a syringe, and gave the drugged girl an injection that would both wake her up and induce thirst.. She withdrew and closed the barred door. Presently Lucille stirred, then opened her eyes. “What time is it?” she asked thickly.
“Morning,” said the guard.
Lucille’s throat was parched, so she looked blearily for the tube. “I’m thirsty,” she mumbled, and staggered in her aching feet to the tube, her toes still pointed downward in locked ballerina-heels and hobble chain still restricting her steps to mere inches. . As her inner thighs rubbed against each other due to her constrained gait, she felt a surge of sexual arousal bloom in her loins. What the hell? She thought confusedly, but then she was at the tube.
Her lips closed over the textured hard rubber of the tube as she felt the rounded end slide over her tongue. She sucked, but no water came. She opened her eyes wider in frustration, and let her gaze get trapped by the spiral on the screen a few inches from her face. Around and around the spiral went, making her gaze both centered and unfocused. Eventually she saw a message wavering at the core of the spiral: BACK AND FORTH, it said. Her fogged brain struggled to understand. Eventually, it dawned on her that she should move her mouth back and forth on the tube. She complied. A trickle of moisture from the small hole at the end of the tube was her reward.
Back and forth she moved her lips, longing for a real drink. Eventually, by experimenting, she discovered that sucking hard at the end, then drawing her full lips almost to the base of the tube on the wall, worked best, and eventually the tube gushed out a few spurts of water. It was warm, and it still tasted strange, but to her parched throat it seemed like nectar. Her eyes were still gripped by the spiral, so she had no way of noticing the small camera high in one corner of the room.
The Warden watched her drink, nodding his head in satisfaction as he sat in his office and studied the computer screen linked to the camera. He pressed a key on his keyboard. “Give her the cocktail,” he said. His fingers danced over the keyboard, issuing a new set of instructions for the devilish device in the captive’s cell.
The technicians monitoring the hydration system on the other side of Lucille’s cell wall released a small valve into the water reservoir.
Lucille kept sucking on the tube, her head sliding back and forth over the water-giving tube in a kind of entranced rhythm. The spiral kept spinning, and the message soon dissolved into a new instruction: FASTER. Lucille put both hands on the wall and pumped her mouth back and forth in a quicker tempo. Her mind began to spin as much as the spiral, confused and disoriented. It seemed the more spurts of water she managed to coax out of the tube, the more she wanted–it made her feel so good. That, and her sexual hunger seemed to be building with each stroke.
Suddenly the tube seemed to vibrate, and an extra large gush of water spurted down her throat. This tasted even more strange, sort of musky....
Then her eyes opened wide as her loins trembled with a small orgasm. Nothing mind-blowing; it was more like an erotic sneeze. But its warmth seemed to spread through her whole belly, and the insistent sexual longing she felt in her thighs melted away with a kind of tension-release. Lucille actually closed her eyes and sighed, her lips still encircling the tube. When she opened her eyes slowly again, the message in the spiral flashed out at her: GOOD GIRL, LUCI.
“Thanks,” she muttered sardonically to the screen, flung herself back on her bed. She was already sleepy again.
Another cycle, another hour, another injection. Lucille woke up this time in a warm sweat, the muscles of her body tensed, her back actually arching on the bunk. Her breath was coming in gasps, and before she even had time to formulate a thought, her body writhed in sexual tension. She looked down, and saw that in her sleep, her hands had groped their way to her loins, and she felt within inches of an orgasm.
It was only with the greatest self discipline that she pulled her hands away, and just lay there in the cell, panting, while wave after wave of sexual hunger welled up in her core. Swell, she thought. I was set up in some kind of scam operation, I’m now trapped in a prison, and all I can do is get horny. As she worked her tongue across her dry lips, it occurred to her she was thirsty. Again. She couldn’t tell which was worse, her craving for water or her hunger for sexual release. And it was so hot in the cell! The bedsheets felt dank with sweat.
And that damn contraption on each of her feet! She felt as if the arches of her feet were being turned in on themselves, and her the muscles of her calves knotted in protest. A crazy thought entered her confused mind – it would be hard to get job after prison with her feet like that, she could barely walk.
What’s going on? Her fogged brain tried to work out a plan, but all she could think about was the tube on the wall across the cell. That seemed to be the answer for both issues, her thirst and her increasing horniness, her hazy recollection told her. She once more got out of bed, balancing precariously on those caged high-heels. Then stopped, swaying.
Something had changed. The tube and screen had been lowered several feet. She blinked in confusion. Was she in a different cell? Well, it was easier this way. She lowered herself to her hands and knees, and crawled across the floor, taking the pressure off her aching feet. She found that when she kneeled directly in front of the water tube, the tube was level with her mouth, if she lowered her head a little. Her lips pressed against the end of the tube. The screen flickered to life. Her eyes focused at the center of the spiral as she waited for instructions. SUCK, it said. Well, I already know that, she thought with irritation. Her lips closed over the rounded end, and sucked softly. BACK AND FORTH, the screen said. Her lips slid to the very base of the tube, then back again. Still no water. She did it several times with increasing desperation, driven both by her thirst and by the insistent sexual trembling between her thighs. STROKE TONGUE UNDERNEATH WHILE SUCKING, the display flashed. Well, that’s new, she thought. Frantically, she worked her tongue along the underside of the tube, trying to tease it into releasing its precious moisture.
Never once did her eyes leave the spiral, alert to every new instruction. She wiped the sweat from her eyes, panting a little in the tropical climate that her cell seemed to harbor. No wonder she was thirsty–her whole body glistened in beads of perspiration. She redoubled her efforts, her tongue slathering up and down the tube. Water damnit! She thought. What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here? If she could get drink, cool down, then the moist furnace that seemed to be raging in her pussy might subside. . . her mind seemed to draw deeper into the spiral...
Finally her efforts were rewarded. Spurts of warm, viscous fluid erupted from the tube. Lucille lapped them up greedily, uncaring about the taste. . . then she paused, and waited . . . and her body shuddered at the climax triggered by the drugs in the fluid, like releasing the wound-up rubber band of her sexual tension. The message in the spiral read: GOOD GIRL, LUCI.
For long moments she just knelt in front of the tube, her lips still dribbling the nectar from the tube, her hands splayed against the wall, her chest heaving with each pant. Then she grew so tired.. . . Lucille dragged her leaden body back to the bunk and collapsed, the sedatives in the drink pulling back into torpor.
The Warden watched it all from his office viewscreen, taking it all in–that is, as much as any man could with a trained sextoy like Beki kneeling like the girl in the screen in front of his chair. He looked down. “So you like the work the nice doctors did on your breasts, Beki?” he asked, stroking the girl’s head.
“Oh, yes, Sir,” the girl said, her face a model of vapid contentment.
“Then show me. Use the lotion there on the floor.”
The girl obediently oiled her gigantic, oft-augmented breasts, until they shined with lubrication and her nipples jutted out like twin thimbles.
The Warden was speaking into his computerphone. “Fit her with a c chastity belt. Wake her up again. I’ll be down in five minutes.” He then felt the oiled softness of Beki’s breasts smothering his cock between them. The girl then raised her chest, then knelt back down again. . . raised her chest again, then again down. . . all the while massaging his cock by her hand-cupped breasts. The Warden just managed to suppress his groan of pleasure. “Make it fifteen minutes,” he said into the microphone. Then he switched off his computer and leaned back in his chair.
Lucille found herself once again drifting unwillingly up through levels of consciousness. Her mind had ceased to function, she was reduced to a receptacle of sensations. The room was still hot, she could feel the sweat—slippery contact of flesh on flesh as she writhed on the bed, her eyes still. The inside of her mouth seemed caked in dryness, her tongue like leather. So thirsty. . .Worst of all, the aching hunger in her loins had returned. . . it was like all the pent-up passion of a misspent youth had found a home deep in her belly, between her legs. . . Her hands traveled involuntarily to touch herself, to get some relief.
And stopped! She opened her crusted eyes in surprise. Her midriff was encased in a snug belt that looped between her legs, denying her fingers access to where they yearned to play. What in the world. . . ? She forced herself up on her elbows.
The Warden stood watching her, leaning against the bars on the other side of her cell. In his hand he held a leather collar. Lucille squinted, and could barely make out the name LUCI.
“That . . . for me?” she asked, her voice smacking with the dryness.
“So what are you going to. . . do with me?”
“Rehabilitation, Luci. You know that.”
“I’m thirsty. . . get me some water.”
“You know what to do, don’t you, Luci?” The warden nodded toward the tube.
Luci’s body shuddered with another sexual spasm. She could scent her own heat. She knew she needed more than water. . . she got other kinds of relief from that tube, too, which she couldn’t give herself with that damn chastity belt snug around her waist. She fought the impulse. . . not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crawl over there, she thought. But what else could she do? If only she could think straight! The girl shook her head slowly from side to side in a vain effort to clear her thoughts. Then she looked up at the Warden, peering through the strands of damp hair that hung over her head. “What the hell’s going on, Warden?” she gasped out. “What are you doing to me? I must be drugged. . .and I’m thirsty. . and horny all the time. . . “
The Warden said, “I’ll tell you a story, Luci. A while ago I worked in a prison in another state. One day a new offender was brought in. A chemist, of all things, convicted of stealing his company’s secrets. He worked for a biotech company. . . actually a lab that did work for one of the big pharmaceutical companies. Now, this man was scared to death. He had heard which unit he was assigned to would make all the difference in his fate. Unit A was white collar criminals. . . Unit C had the hardcore repeat offenders, gangs, that sort of thing. They’d eat him up for breakfast, and he knew it. He was willing to trade the only thing he had.”
“What does that have to do with me?” asked Lucille, casting a glance at the tube, longing just to go over there and wrap her lips around the tube, and lose herself in the spiral on the screen.
“He had a trade secret, you see,” answered the Warden in his maddeningly patient voice.. “Apparently his lab was working on a female version of viagra – a libido enhancer had stumbled across a trigger that greatly enhanced certain hormones – oestrogen and progesterone, primarily – that drive female sexuality. The compound they were working on showed an amazing side effect that nobody anticipated: the chemical reaction became a self-sustaining loop, meaning that the subject could be pumped to higher and higher levels of sexual craving until it became addictive.” He smiled. “You know how some women are about chocolate. Well, this is more like crack cocaine. Biochemical nymphomania.” He looked sharply where Lucille’s hands had helplessly strayed to her covered loins. “You know what I mean.”
Lucille snatched her hands away, tried to concentrate. “Then. . . I’ve been drugged?”
“Ah, more than that. You see, I was as a consulting psychologist in that prison, trying to work on behavior modification technique. I believe strongly in rehabilitation. It occurred to me that this . . .hormonal treatment could be useful.”
Lucille managed to work up a sneer. “So, you got to cop a feel on some juiced-up female offenders. Congratulations. You’re just the kind of guy I investigate.. You’re no different from all those other scum that work their way into a crack in the prison system.”
“Oh, I beg to differ, Luci. You see, it came to me that there could very well be a market for ex-offenders who were properly . . . shall we say ‘rehabilitated’? With the right employer on the outside waiting to take them in when their term ends. That inspiration was the start of our private reform prison. We get paid when the state sends us the offenders, and we get paid again when the offenders are placed with, ah, generous donors, men–sometimes women– who can afford a docile, well-trained, behavior-modified. . . plaything.”
Lucille stared at him in horror. Then he glance shifted to the tube. Then back to him. “You mean, I’m being. . .conditioned? First you get me addicted to something, then you brainwash me into being some kind of . . . slut-for-hire?”
The Warden examined his well-manicured fingernails. “Yes, that’s about it. Actually, when you stop and think what else awaits these offenders on the outside, it’s not that bad. In other prisons, we get most of them back. Here, they leave looking–well, better than they ever have in their miserable lives–and get taken care of by people who obviously want to take good care of them–“
Lucille flicked beads of perspiration from her forehead away in disgust. She was sweating buckets. Was it just her ramped-up hormones, or was it really sweltering in this cell? The Warden looked cool enough. . . “Look, you psycho,” she snapped, “You’d better let me out of here–“
“Or what? You’re a convicted felon, Luci. You’ll stay here until you’re ready to be placed on the outside. Completely rehabilitated.” He dropped the collar on the bed. “You’ll know what to do with this when the time is right.”
“Come into my cell again, Warden,” she shouted, “and I’ll know where to put that collar! Right up your–“
But by then another wave or sexual craving seemed to permeate her whole body. She moaned softly, her fingers now shamelessly pawing at the chastity belt. The Warden raised an eyebrow, smiled, and left. The guard locked the cell door behind him.
Luci collapsed on the prison bunk. She fought back against the desires that consumed her, writhing and panting, no longer caring that she was under surveillance. Every cell of her body yearned for the hyper-sexual pleasure that her metabolism was now conditioned to crave. And being absorbed by watching the spiral which gave her instructions how to access that pleasure. . . She looked over at the feeding tube. . . then back at collar on the bed. Her hands reached across the sheets, trembling. Her fingers closed around the collar. Then she snapped it on her neck and scrambled to her knees in front of the feeding tube. She sucked at it frantically, her eyes on the spiral, waiting.
GOOD GIRL, LUCI said the letters floating out of the spiral. Then. . .FASTER. Luci’s lips pistoned back and forth on the tube. And finally the pleasure-giving ambrosia came spurting out of the opening, as Luci greedily gulped down each drop. Her body shuddered as the first delicious surge of pleasure built up like a furnace in her loins, then spread to her entire body. Luci barely managed to crawl back to bed before the sedatives in the secretions drugged her back into sleep.
The Warden watched the whole scene with satisfaction. “Continue the one-hour sleep/wake cycle,” he said. “Start the behavior modification program.” Guards fitted a new style of feeding tube to the wall, and also slipped earplugs with tiny speakers into each ear.
An hour later, when the guards had given the sleeping girl another wake-up shot, she barely noticed that the feeding tube had been replaced with sculpted replica of a cock. This time the message in the spiral instructed her how to use her tongue to tease every contour, especially around the head. Her groggy mind absorbed every lesson and her eyes never left the screen. And this time the message written on the spiral was accompanied by a voice – soft, soothing, controlling. “All the way, Luci, you must slide you lips back and forth all the way to the base. . .” it said. “You feel very hot now, don’t you, Luci. . . It’s so easy just to listen and obey. . . “ Luci’s mind slipped into a blank zone of giving obedience to get pleasure. The voice did not stop, even when she slipped into slumber an hour later.
When Luci woke up again, the voice was whispering in head. “. . . to stroke your breasts, doesn’t it, Luci. . . it feels so good to stroke your breasts. . .” Luci looked down and saw her hands playing with her breasts, the nipples as stiff as thimbles. She looked longingly at the wall for the feeding tube–it was gone!
“Here, Luci.” A female guard stood at the foot of her bed. She was naked, with an athlete’s body, with her legs slightly apart.. Luci looked down. Around her hips, the guard wore a strap-on cock. Luci’s cock. “Feeding time,” said the guard..
To Luci’s fogged mind, it made no difference. She crawled out of bed, knelt in front of the guard, and began sucking her synthetic cock. “That’s it, Luci,” the guard said, “Show me that you really want it.” And Luci did, with every swirl of her tongue. The guard gripped the girl’s head and proceeded to fuck her mouth with long, hard strokes. When the kneeling girl was almost swooning with unsatiated craving, the guard said, “Stop now, Luci. Stand up,“ Luci stopped in her mid-suck, anxious not to tear herself away from the cock – she was so close! “Do it now, Luci,” growled the guard. “Hands on the wall.” Luci complied, her feet still incased in the towering high heels that made her walk on her tip toes. “Spread your legs,” ordered the guard, and Luci’s mind was conditioned by now to obey. She pressed her hands against the wall above her head. . Luci’s buttocks were lifted high by the heels, and her back arched to compensate her balance. The guard stepped behind her, and Luci could feel the saliva-slick cock slide deep into her from behind. She gasped and closed her eyes, her body responding with hyper-sensitive sexual reaction to the newest pleasure.
The guard rocked back and forth with each thrust, clearly enjoying her mastery of the mind-numbed captive. Luci’s body was soon trained to meet each thrust with her own, matching the guard’s rhythm. And when the girl was just about set to explode with pent-up lust, the guard squeezed a container that sent the hormone-laden secretions deep inside the girl in spasmodic surges. Luci felt the all-too-familiar wave of pleasure and did not protest as the guard led her, weak-kneed and tottering, to her bed.
The cycles continued with unforgiving discipline. The wall-dildo feeding tube was reinstalled, with even more lifelike features: this one thrust in and out with a demanding tempo that Luci was becoming quite accustomed to. The guards took turns drilling her with their strap-ons, in every imaginable position, always careful to reward her with the powered spurts of the apparatus. The steel-and-leather foot trainers went on at “night”, while in the “morning” her tension-molded feet were was laced into the six-inch heel boots. After a few days, she was an automaton, a willing sex machine driven by her addiction to the hormone compounds. She lived to hear the words “Good girl,” that would give her the sexual release her body craved.
“Schedule her for the clinic,” said the Warden one day
An extra-strong dose of sedation followed, and Luci was wheeled into the waiting prison hospital.
Hours later, after the doctors had finished her their work, Luci was gently roused from unconsciousness. Her mind still floated on the wisps of the anaesthesia, and she let them dress her like a doll. A guard helped her to her feet and escorted her down the hall. Luci felt her balance all a-kilter, vaguely aware of some weight on her chest, so she arched her back and pulled her shoulders back to compensate. The ankle chains produced a silvery clinking with each step of her high heels. As her thighs brushed each other with each mincing step, the touch stoked the familiar moistness of sexual longing in her loins.. She tried to ask the guard what she was doing in the hospital, but for some reason–maybe it was her foggy mind– she couldn’t quite form the words.
“I . . . cahn’t’ . . .tok. . .” she managed to mumble.
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie,” said the guard. “With lips like you got now, your mouth has a better use now than talking.”
Luci shook her head in confusion. She ran her tongue over her lips, and her puzzlement deepened. They were thick and puffy and smooth, like nothing she had before.
The guard was still talking. “You’re going to need them, sweetie, we hear your up for early placement, and he wants a world-class cocksucker. “
“Plahment?’ mumbled Luci.
“Sure,” said the guard. “We’re passing the interview room now. Take a look, sweetie.” The guard let her awkwardly lean forward through a side door to look into an elegant chamber. Inside, the inmate’s glance immediately went to an extraordinary vision of a girl standing inside the room, looking straight back at Luci. This girl displayed a kind of ripe beauty, with slender legs mounted on impossibly high heels. Her lips were as full as soft cushions, giving her sexy pouty look. Her hair was groomed long and luxurious, glossy as if it had been brushed a thousand times. The most extraordinary feature though was her bosom Projecting from the girl’s chest were two enormous orbs , breasts full and luscious, with scandalously red aureole and perky nipples. With a confused kind of awareness, the thought came to her that the doctors in the prison hospital had done their work well.
Then she noticed the girl’s collar. It said “LUCI”. Luci felt an iceshaft in her stomach – the image she was looking at was herself, a reflection in a three-sided full length mirror set up in the middle of the room.. Mirrors, she dimly realized with a growing horror, that she would soon be displaying herself for so-called placement after her prison term.. Placement indeed! Luci realized that she had been transformed into a sex-addicted love slave, physically trained and psychologically conditioned by the Warden to. . . what?
I’m to be sold, she thought with a horror that shocked her out of her sedation daze. She now understood what the Warden meant when he said the girl inmates were being groomed to be productive members of society. Very productive – to the Warden!
I have to get out of here, she thought.
Another thought intruded, more of a wave of feeling. It had been an eternity–hours!– since her last orgasm. A yearning shudder seemed to start in her belly and warm its way into her blood. She felt like a spring was winding up deep inside of her, tensioned for release.
Wait! she commanded herself. I’ve been conditioned this way. I have to fight it long enough to escape, before I become a complete . . . sex bimbo. Have to. . .
“Okay, sweetie, let’s go,” said the guard. Luci nodded, careful to look docile, then appeared to stumble on her high heels against the guard.
“Whoopsie,” said the guard, holding out her arms to catch her. Luci drove her upturned palm into the guard’s jaw, then slapped her hard with her other hand as the guard went down. Luci turned to ran.
Running was impossible in those heels and the hobble-chain, the fugitive quickly discovered. The most she could manage was a stutter-stepped shuffle, her great breasts swinging pendulously in front of her. She threw a hurried glance over her shoulder–the guard was staggering to her feet, blowing her whistle. Luci turned a corner and tried to speed her progress by pulling herself along the wall. Somewhere an alarm sounded, a high-pitched staccato warning. She heard footsteps pounding down the halls, distant shouts.
They caught her, of course. She had managed a hundred yards of corridor, and finally faced a wire security gate. Guards came charging down the hall, grabbing her, half-carrying, half-dragging her back to her cell. She was cast down on the floor, at the feet of the waiting Warden, the dildo feeding tube and screen on the wall next to her..
“Well, well, Luci. We’ve been wondering when you would try to escape.”
“Wha’ ha’ you duh t’ me?” she asked through her thick lips.
“Why, Luci, we have been reforming you. Molding you into a productive member of society. From our standpoint, considering the offer of your out-placement host—very productive. The thing is, you were basically right when you told me that day that most of the women inmates here remained offenders at heart. So we had to find a way to change their heart. And minds. We’ve found the technique of sexual addiction the best path to behavior modification. When you combine that with intensive mental conditioning, then radical behavior modification isn’t just possible–it’s inevitable. Believe me, you’re practically all the way there yourself.”
The Warden gave her one of his ironical smiles. “We will see.” He gestured to the guards. “Officers, perhaps you could help Luci find her true place.”
The guard lifted her by her shoulders and held her kneeling in front of the dildo on the wall. The screen over the dildo flickered to life. YOU WANT TO BE GOOD, DON’T YOU LUCI it read. That screen had instructed her hundreds of times how to lose herself in sexual ecstacy. But. . . she had to resist! Luci tried to shake her head no, but the guards gripped it so that her mouth was poised to the rounded end of the tube. She weakly tried to pull away, but then her nostrils flared at the musky scent of the ambrosia inside. Her loins quivered as she simmered in her own heat. Her whole body ached to surrender to the sensations welling up inside. She tried to screw her eyes shut, but left them open a slit–enough to see on the screen : DO IT NOW, LIKE A GOOD GIRL. “Nooo. . .” she moaned but already could feel her lips parting, her head tilting forward. She felt herself swooning. . . and the next moment her whole body focused on servicing that synthetic cock.
The Warden said, “Let her go. I think she’s going to be all right now.” But Luci didn’t even hear him. She was already expertly sliding her soft, thickened lips back and forth on the dildo, her eyes glued to the screen, waiting for the commands that would release the sexual tension ready to detonate inside her. The Warden smiled, and continued: “Put her back on the one hour sleep/wake cycle. In a week, we can start cutting back the hormones–her mind will be hard-wired by then into obedience. Mental conditioning always trumps physical addiction, isn’t that what we’ve learned here? As for Luci–who knows, her new placement host may even let her orgasm from time to time, if she’s a good girl.”
Three weeks later, the buyer looked on as Luci postured in the center of the three-sided full-length mirror. The Warden stood off to one side.
“She really is delightful,” said the buyer. Then, to Luci: “Hands behind your head. Deep breath, now.” Luci complied quickly, entwining her fingers behind her head and thrusting out the twin orbs on her chest. The fact that she was at eye-level with the buyer was due to her teetering on ballet-shoe heels, her calves tight with the strain and her back arched to stay balanced. Her skin was flushed with the sensual torment of forever being on the cusp of orgasm, but needing the trigger words to put her over the edge.
The buyer reached out and played with her nipples. Luci’s eyelids fluttered in suppressed arousal. “I sometimes wonder what they’re thinking,” he mused. “Does the conditioning somehow cut back on their brain power?”
The Warden shrugged. “Who knows? There certainly anything wrong with their neurological functions. We think it’s more a case of the mind becoming. . . deactivated. Rather like a massive case of attention deficit disorder. Luci here can’t think any other thoughts that one the ones we have put her in head, dear girl. And those thoughts have been channeled into total sexual servitude. To you, for instance–if you can find a place for her.”
“I see,” said the buyer, “Well, now that her term is prison is nearing an end, I think I can offer her a position. Many, in fact.” He grinned at the Warden. “Wrap her up, I’ll take her to go.”
As for Luci, her mind focused on one last sentient thought before she was led out the door to her new life. The tiny, last-spark conscious part of her mind acknowledged, at last, that rehabilitation really worked. She was totally reformed.