This is a re-write of Joe Doe's story, "Number 10,000." I like the original, but chose to re-write it primarily to give both Rachel and Otis stronger motivation, and thus to create a more plausible story. (And I've also taken the opportunity to plant the seeds of a possible sequel.) In order to make the dates fit, I had to reduce Otis's "almost 40" years of service to an even 30...and to increase Rachel's age from 28 to 42. The former change is relatively minor, I think, but I'm sorry about the necessity for the latter and hope the lady can forgive me. FINAL EXAM by C. Lakewood "THE LAST TIME IS OFTEN THE BEST TIME" MIGHT BE THE MORAL OF THIS STORY, AS A RETIRING PRISON GUARD DEMONSTRATES HIS TECHNIQUES TO HIS AMBIVALENT FEMALE WARDEN. Warden Rachel Hatfield entered the exam room as Otis Hayes was packing up the last of his personal items. Though she was a 42-year-old go-getter and far from retirement, she could still sympathize (to a degree) with the old guard on his last day. An air of regret hung about him. He limped slightly as he crossed the room to greet her. (He'd been a medic in 'Nam, twice wounded during Tet.) "Ah, Otis. I just wanted to come down to your domain and thank you for the hard work you've put in for so many years," she said, warmly. "You've served this place well." She beamed a brilliant smile at him. "And I want you to know that, if there is ever anything you need from me personally, you have only to ask." She looked around the examination room that had been Otis's lair for decades. "A lot of women have been through here," she reflected. "So many self-conscious women to strip, search, shower, and delouse. I imagine that even the cavity searches must have become boring eventually." "Not for me," he said. "Each of 'em was different...age, size, background, education, attitude, reactions...lots of variables. Some were afraid, and some were brazen, and some just tried to pretend they were somewhere else -- anywhere else -- while I slowly worked my greasy fingers up inside 'em. No, each of 'em was memorable in some way." He smiled fondly and then chuckled. "But I also got 'visual aids' to he'p me remember...." He pointed to the cameras in the walls and ceiling. "I started here 30 years ago, in 1968, right after my discharge, the same time they put the cameras in...and I got every single search on film or tape. And kept a copy for myself. Learned to edit, enhance, and transfer 'em to CD." He chuckled. "Even got a signed release from each of the women. And now it's all legal and everything, 'cause of the 'Freedom of Information Act.' My old retired buddies sure get quite a charge out of watching all those gals do their squats...'specially the ones I processed TDY at the various jails hereabouts. Late 60s and early 70s, the local police forces had more 'n they could handle -- you know, protesters -- and they'd give most of 'em to me. I did more of those college coeds in a week than inmates here in a month or more...." Rachel looked thoughtful. "Well, I was only 12 in 1968 and didn't go away to college until 1974. By that time, thank god, they had pretty much stopped arresting protesters." "Yes, ma'am, from 1968 to about 1973, that was Prime Time." He paused and looked at her closely. "So you did some protesting, too?" She blushed. "Oh, you know...young and naive...out from under the parents' scrutiny for the first time.... Never arrested, though." He shrugged. "The preppy protesters...they were the best of all." "You've processed how many women, total?" Rachel seemed slightly antsy, somewhat nervous and uncertain. "Total? It's 9999 in 30 years.... And that was the number of individuals, not exams. I never counted repeaters...decided that in the beginning." Otis shook his head. "Still, 9999...odd figure...wish I could've done an even 10,000...nice and tidy. After all this time, that's my one regret. Everything else's fine. I'll be okay financially...army pension, state pension, extra income.... And my nephew's gonna take my place here. But still, I really would've liked just one more." She looked rueful. "I'm truly sorry about that. But it's out of my hands, you know. The bureaucracy determines the allocation of new convicts, and state law mandates your retirement date. I wish I could get you one more new prisoner to process, but there's just no way." He gave her a sidelong glance. "Well, now, Warden, I'm glad you mentioned that, 'cause, well, the woman don't rightly have to be a PRISONER." He fetched a black plastic carton and put it on the floor in front of her. She knew it was the kind of container used to hold the effects of inmates being processed. Involuntarily, she took a couple of steps back from the ominous box. "I could search any 'propriate female," Otis said. "She wouldn't have to be a current criminal. She could be somebody, say, who'd violated the law when she was...'young and naive'...and gotten away with it, but would like to atone. Could be some high-class professional woman...teacher or lawyer or doctor...." His smile was becoming a leer. "Could even be a warden...." She trembled at the implication. This big black gimp actually wanted to strip-search her. Strip her bare naked and drool over her like she was some criminal. HER! Because of indiscretions almost a quarter of a century ago. The very idea shocked and repelled her...and she felt her nipples stiffen and her clit throb. Rachel chewed her lip and deliberated. Over the years, she had observed Otis's strip-searches whenever possible, "supervising" through the big one-way mirror. And, more often than not, she'd imagined herself as the defenseless subject, forced to strip naked in front of some man (or men) in authority. She shivered. It would be so...so deliciously humiliating. But she wasn't like all those other women who blushed and sweated and wriggled in front of Otis's cameras. She wasn't some slut felon, some thief or drugee or whore. She was different.... Wasn't she? "Well, I don't think...," she began. He held up his hand. "You said, 'If there's ever anything you need from me personally, you have only to ask.' Was that just noise? I thought your word meant something." "I-I don't make empty promises. Everyone knows that." She looked away. "How...um...how much...um...how much w-would I have to...you know...t-take off...?" "Bare naked. I'd have to strip you, and trim your pubic hair, and scrub you down, and delouse you. In order to count it, I'd have to run you through the whole process -- by the book...my book -- all the way to the end: posture photos and mug shots." He limped over to the shower and hefted the long-handled, coarse-bristled brush that he always used on prisoners. "Scrub-a-dub-dub," he said, winking as he waved the brush at her. Breathing heavily, Rachel imagined herself standing in the shower, arms raised and legs spread wide. Otis would have a hose in one hand and that damn brush in the other. And then, after the initial scrub-down...then...he invariably finished off by using his soapy fingers on -- and in -- the "prime" areas. She shuddered. She had watched him scrub down many naked, blushing women, and she had often imagined herself in their place. Even so, she had perhaps never fully understood their look of shame and helplessness until now. There had always been a sheet of glass between her and the processing, and that tended to mute the effect. But being right here made things more intense.... Now the thought of having to stand here buck naked while that grinning old man washed her down like she was a dog was so humiliating...that she almost had an orgasm on the spot. Her mouth dry, she looked over at the open shower and the ominous canister of delousing fluid next to it. She was sweating. She knew that the fluid burned and stank. But, like all the previous wardens, she had ignored the cons' complaints. She also knew that most of them didn't have lice, but it was amusing to watch Otis put his women through what he called their "flea dip." Rachel swallowed, with some difficulty, and fidgeted. "Couldn't I just...um...s-strip down to my-my underwear, Otis?" "I think you better start calling me 'SIR,'" he said, tartly. "Ordinarily, I don't discuss procedure with a con -- just tell her what to do and see she does it -- but this case is pretty exceptional. First, though, we need to 'document' our little arrangement...." He sat down at the PC, brought up a blank Notepad page, dated it, and typed a few lines. Then he moved back to let her take a look at the screen. She sniffed and re-wrote it, in the process correcting two misspellings, a split infinitive, a comma fault, and several ambiguities. She paused at length before typing the last four words. 1 October 1998 I, Rachel Hatfield, Warden of Honeypot Correctional Facility, in order that I might purge myself of any lingering feelings of guilt because of various peccadilloes that I may have committed in the past (and for which the statute of limitations has expired) do hereby authorize Officer Otis Hayes to process me, on the above date, as he sees fit. __________________________ Otis read it over and scratched his head. "'Peccadilloes'? Aren't they...uh...some kind of...?" "No, you're thinking of 'armadillos,'" she said. He shrugged, printed out the agreement, and laid it on the desk for Rachel to sign, which she did, with a flourish of her gold Cross pen. He fetched a form from the desk drawer and passed it over, too. It was headed, "RELEASE." After only the briefest hesitation, she signed that, as well. Her hand trembled a bit, but she knew that she was in no position to quibble. "So you want to stop at your underwear, huh?" he grinned, after folding both papers carefully and putting them away inside his jacket. "Well, tell me about your underwear, Rachel." He was positively leering now. "Wh-what is it you want to know, s-sir?" she murmured, staring at the floor. "What color's your bra? And your panties?" "Both ecru, sir," she said. "Um...beige...." "So you think I'm too ignorant to know what 'okra' is?" "Ek-roo" was on the tip of her tongue, but she managed to bite it back in time and instead protested, "N-no, sir...not at all." "Hmmm." He didn't sound convinced. "Are they spay-shill panties? Lacy and frilly?" "Yes, sir," she said, softly. "A thong, maybe?" "No, sir, just a bikini.... I don't find thongs very comfortable." "Well, I'm sure they's real fine panties, girl," he said, shaking his head. "But they's gonna to have to come off." He reached up and removed her jade earrings as he continued talking. "You're gonna have to take 'em off and hand 'em to me...verrry politely. You're the same as a jailbird now, and you can't run around here in unauthorized panties. But don't worry, girl, the gummint'll issue you some nice sensible underpants...eventually. He dropped the earrings into the black box and laughed as she blushed hotly. Each woman was unique, but this one was a mixture of prissiness and sensuality that had great potential. He licked his lips and, moving around behind her, slipped off her oxford grey cashmere blazer. "All your things'll have to go into this box, Rachel. I'll be strippin' you bare naked, just like I've done with all the cons." She trembled. Indignation? Excitement? Either way, she was powerless to protest..... The words echoed in her head: "I...do hereby authorize Officer Otis Hayes to process me...as he sees fit." Oh, god! He gestured toward the exam table across the room. "Feel honored to be the 10,000th cunt to be spread out and 'processed'? Anxious to get up in the stirrups and perform?" She shook her head no...but tentatively. "Sure, it'll be 'specially hard for you, you been my boss and all, to spread your legs and put your feet up into those stirrups, so vulnerable...so completely exposed. And you'll look up and see me smilin' down at you with a thin rubber glove on one hand and a jar of lubricant in the other." "'Course, I don't figure I'm gonna to need much artificial lube with you. Right, Rachel?" He smirked. "All this talk about strippin' and cavity-searchin' you is makin' you all wet and juicy, ain't it?" Rachel, blushing furiously, nodded almost imperceptibly. Her cunt was throbbing. "Tsk, tsk. When I ask you a question, fish, you answer me loud and clear. Unnerstand? Now, you gettin' wet and juicy, girl?" "Yes, sir. I-I'm getting very w-we-wet, very j-jui-cy...." "Then we better get started, young lady," he said, sitting down in a well-padded chair. "I gots me a schedule, you know, and the warden, she don't like me to lollygag. So...you just go ahead, now. Put your shoes in the box, and then shuck that nice white blouse." Regardless of how humiliating this was becoming, she obeyed. Her toes curled when her stocking feet came into contact with the cold linoleum, and her fingers fumbled clumsily with the tiny buttons on her blouse. She cringed under his smug look and glanced up at the cameras that were impassively capturing every second of this. They were photographing her from every angle, and she knew that Otis could pick and choose among them when he edited a perfect film record of her humiliation. She imagined his dirty old men friends watching with glee as she bared herself...over and over again...with intimate close-ups and slo-mo and.... What would they say about her, those horny old men? Would they like her better than the thousands of girls who had gone before? Would they have any idea how excruciating all this was for her? Would they perceive that she was DIFFERENT? Wasn't she? She took comfort in regarding her designer clothing, her Rolex, and her expensive jewelry. She WAS different. First of all, she wasn't a criminal; she was a former ATF agent with a BA in criminal justice, an MA in psychology, and a Stanford law degree...top of her class in school, top of her class at the Academy, and now, at age 42, possessed of considerable political clout and even thinking about elective office. Striding purposefully along the hallways, she was the very image of an assertive professional woman, with an air of natural authority, clothed in understated elegance. Anyone who'd ever seen her that way knew immediately that she had to be a leader, a VIP. But, if people witnessed Otis parade her down the hall to a cell, barefoot and wearing only shackles and an orange mini-smock, how would they see her then? She stared at the ugly plastic crate that now held her shoes and earrings. In a few minutes, everything else would be in there, and then what? When she "bare naked," would she really look substantially different from the other 9999? True, she was in good shape (trim, with no flab or cellulite) and well-kept (no exotic piercings or tattoos or C-section scars). She knew she'd be a bit older than many of the subjects, rather prettier than some, perhaps, and a lot more humiliated AND excited than most. But in the end, she would really be just one more tape or CD in Otis's collection of porn-for-rent. Hers would be a new face and body, though, so probably popular...and profitable for him.... Oh, god! Was she actually hoping...? At that moment, Otis grinned up at her and relished her look of abject humiliation. He was proud of his ability to make a woman blush just by looking at her. He was older, now, and couldn't cum as often as he once did, but he was wiser, more patient, more adroit at manipulating his women. Not long ago Rachel had been a cool, powerful, sophisticated woman -- even a bit arrogant -- but she certainly wasn't now. She was red-faced and puffy-eyed, breathing through her mouth and sweating heavily. She could barely unbutton her blouse. Her bra wasn't even visible yet, and she was already a wreck. He had stripped many women over the years, and he particularly liked doing the my-shit-don't-stink ones -- like Rachel. Each of them may have entered his (what had she called it?) "domain" snooty and tight-assed, but stumbled out naked, well-fingered, and stinking. Just another number. He watched closely as she obediently folded her blouse and stowed it in the box. She nervously started to cross her arms over her chest, protectively, but thought better of it and just stood there, submissively waiting for his next command. Otis nodded. Yes, Number 10,000 was going to be memorable. For both of them.