This story was inspired by a comic book tale, "The Switch,"
written by "suke bei" and drawn by "kono yaro." I'm doubly
grateful to my friend, cc. First, he drew my attention to a
few of the panels posted to the otherwise undistinguished yahoo
group, "baldrevenge." Later, his determined detective work
tracked down the rest of it (in "Lust in Space," by Eros Comix).
In my story, the main characters are two (rather than three),
there's more character development, and the plot travels a
somewhat different path.
REFLECTIONS
by
C. Lakewood
"Shee-it," Sgt. Sylvia Simon muttered to herself as she left
the office of her precinct commander, her stripes figuratively
hanging by a thread. It demanded all of her control to resist
slamming the poly-glass door behind her. "B.I.C.'s run by assholes
these days...." As she strode through the noisy squad room like
the Fourth Horseman, she glanced at the electronic calendar on the
wall -- "1 April 2109."
"April Fucking Fool's Day," she thought. "How goddamn
appropriate. A hundred years ago, nearly all the people in
power -- in law, science, politics, media, education --
everywhere -- were stupid or corrupt or treasonous or,
sometimes, all three.... And most were 100% self-centered.
But, if you really tried, you could probably figure out how
to deal with 'em. Now, though, you get deliberately ambiguous
orders (and a wink), like, 'Do whatever it takes....' So you
get the job done, but the perp whines a little, and you get
charged with shit like 'Excessive Use of Force' and
'Inappropriate Sexual Behavior.' You get reamed out and
shunted aside, given 'temporary duty' as a damn prison
guard.... Assigned to Wormwood Penitentiary! The only good
thing about that place is that prisoners have no rights at
all.... But 'temporary' is SUPPOSED to mean from a couple of
weeks, maybe, to a couple of months.... Shit! This duty could
last a couple of YEARS -- maybe more. I ought to just...."
Lost in thought, she had barely noticed the prisoner in the
holding cell, who was apparently awaiting transport...probably
to prison. Something, however, caused her to pause -- the prisoner
was naked, bald (head AND crotch), and rather attractive...in a
tall, slender, athletic, and small-breasted way. In fact, with
hair and in a uniform, she might have resembled Sgt. Simon herself
to a considerable degree. The sergeant immediately got the germ of
an idea that was both whimsical and salacious: finger-fucking that
prisoner would almost be like masturbation...but with a weird,
added dimension.
Simon regarded herself in the polished steel mirror bolted
to the wall, made a couple of adjustments to her already
immaculate Bureau of Investigation and Corrections uniform, and
proceeded briskly to the front desk. There she learned that the
prisoner -- named Angela Garret -- was indeed ticketed for Wormwood
prison. Her offer to escort Garret was gratefully accepted by the
harried transport officer, with a minimum of red tape and only a
briefly raised eyebrow.
******************************
Two hours later, Sgt. Simon was behind the wheel of an unmarked
B.I.C. van, watching a burly matron bring out the prisoner. Angela
Garret was wearing only a short orange poncho, handcuffs, and,
surprisingly, a dark wig.
"Put her in front," Simon said. "And what's with the wig?"
The matron snorted. "The latest brilliant PC idea from
the 'think tank.' It's supposed to make prisoner transfers
more...'discreet.' Like the unmarked van. Anyway, it's just
for the trip." She eased the prisoner into the front seat and
swung a small duffel into the back. "Bag's standard now, too.
Got everything you might need and lots of stuff you won't."
She handed Simon a manila file folder and slammed the van door.
"See ya."
Simon nodded and drove off in the direction of the freeway
on-ramp...but passed it by, crossing the river and entering a
desolate slum area, once teeming but now practically deserted,
having been designated for "urban renewal." Though the sun was
still shining, the streets seemed dim. Storefront windows were
broken or boarded up, and puddles of oily rainwater lay stagnant
in potholes and trash-choked gutters. Grimy shards of glass
were strewn here and there, occasionally glinting with stray
particles of light. Weeds sprouted from cracked pavements.
Even the graffiti was worn and illegible.
It was fifty square blocks waiting to die, but Sgt. Simon found
it stimulating. She turned down a shadowed alley and through a
broken fence, finally parking behind an abandoned factory. Angela
was quite defenseless, with her hands cuffed behind her back, and
looked appropriately apprehensive. The sergeant's comment was not
reassuring. "Before we go on, I think we should get...ah...better
acquainted, fish."
She pulled the orange poncho off Angela and tossed it into the
back seat. The wig went along, which rather annoyed Simon, since
it had enhanced the resemblance between her and the prisoner, so
she went to the trouble of retrieving and replacing it. After a
long, unambiguous look at Angela, Simon thumbed open the manila
folder and frowned at the prisoner's abbreviated rap sheet. It
was pretty thin. The first page showed a rather bleary mug shot
under a few lines of bare-bones information:
Garret, Angela
aka "Ferret"
ID JU87-3883-0030
Female Caucasian
Brown hair (originally)
Brown eyes
DOB: 31/3/2081
Sentence: 15-20 years (max security),
Wormwood Correctional Facility
Simon flipped over to the second page, in the process popping
off the paper clip that held the two sheets. The clip hit the
dashboard and ricocheted who-knows-where. Simon merely shrugged
and turned her attention back to the file. This page briefly
listed the prisoner's priors: Grand Theft, Bunco, Jail Break,
B&E, Prostitution...and noted her current physical measurements:
5'6˝" 128 lbs. 34-26-35. Simon began to salivate. They were
practically identical; she was barely half an inch taller and a
couple of pounds heavier, but proportioned similarly. Both had
dark brows, high cheekbones, and aquiline noses.
In search of more information, Simon fired up the van's
built-in computer. While she was waiting for it to boot, she
adjusted her rear-view mirror so that she could keep an eye on
her prisoner, who was squirming in her seat.
Simon called up Angela's permanent record, but didn't learn
much more, except about her parents, who were dead. Her father
had been a psychologist until his conviction for "anti-social
behavior" -- giving a speech against partial-birth abortion --
and afterward a carnival barker, magician, and ventriloquist;
her mother had been a contortionist, wire-walker, magician's
assistant, and part-time pickpocket.
("Odd-ball assholes," Simon muttered. "Too bad they're not
around to see how their little girl wound up.")
On a whim, she accessed her own permanent file -- something
she was able to do only because of a sysop's password that she'd
obtained during a long, looong week-end. (She licked her lips at
the memory.) She scowled at a string of recent fit-reps that
labeled her "vain," "arrogant," "holier-than-thou," "self-centered,"
and "ruthless." ("Asshole supervisors," she thought. "Goddamn
weaklings.") In passing, she noted that her photo was half a dozen
years old and probably should be updated. Of more importance, she
also saw that she'd been assigned to the kitchen and the laundry at
Wormwood -- the bottom of the barrel; she deftly changed it to
Intake and shower-room duty. She also took the opportunity to
delete a couple of the black marks on her record -- typical of the
shit she always thought she never should have been reprimanded for.
Then she noticed that her prisoner had stopped squirming. She
swiveled in her seat. "Now...."
"Please...," Angela whined.
"Oh, knock off that naive shit, bitch. According to your
sheet, you weren't born yesterday. Besides, you might as well
prepare a bit for what you're gonna get a lot of for the next
15 to 20, which you'll serve naked and hairless, with big, beefy
dykes -- mostly black -- as cellmates...." She plucked an object
from its place on the console and held it up -- a shiny black
dildo-shaped device some 18" long. "Shock stick. It's pretty
new, so you may not have felt one...but you will. All corrections
officers at Wormwood carry 'em. You'll get it once in a while if
you're a 'good girl,' and quite often if you're bad. On 'low,' it
delivers both pain and pleasure (about 50-50), but, on maximum, it
incapacitates. Really uncooperative cons get it up the cunt. Jam
it in, and push this little red button, and it discharges all the
way. I'm told it's like a lightning bolt...fries your clit and
everything; you're unconscious for an hour or so. Takes about an
hour to re-charge. So, by the time you wake up, it's ready to go
again, and, if you're still unruly, you'll take it up the asshole.
Even if you've decided to be a good girl after you wake up, and
your asshole lucks out, your cunt'll tingle for a couple of days.
Makes you horny as hell."
She chuckled and returned the stick to its place. Then she
reclined both seats to horizontal and began stripping off her
crisp uniform.
******************************
Straddling Angela's supine body, Simon gazed wolfishly down at
her, licked her lips, and bent to to suckle on the prisoner's
welcomingly erect nipples. At the same time, the sergeant's right
hand was busy with Angela's cunt, and she was pleased to find it
already flooded with juice. She kept her eyes only half-open;
she could still see Angela, but the slight differences in their
appearance were filtered out, enhancing the illusion that so
fascinated her.
She worked away, skilfully and relentlessly, until Angela had
had two orgasms, the first reluctantly and the other wholeheartedly.
The sergeant sucked her slimy fingers and smacked her lips. "Sweet
and tangy," she murmured and lay back, wondering idly if they would
taste more alike if they ate and drank the same things.
"Now it's MY turn, sister," she purred. "Get over here, and
use YOUR mouth on ME. Do it well, and maybe I won't have to
punish you...much. Start with my tits and work your way south.
I bet you've done your share of cunt-licking. Right?"
"You didn't lick MY cunt," Angela groaned.
"The world's divided between those who lick -- you -- and those
that ARE licked -- me. So move your punk ass!" She gave a nasty
chuckle. "Simon-sez: 'NOW!'"
Angela dutifully moved over on top of the sergeant and began
nuzzling her nipples. Simon's eyelids drooped. "Nice," she
thought. "The girl's copying how I did her...sucking my tit and
fingering my cunt...a mirror image, through and through.... She's
goddamn good, too.... She writhed in heat.
Then came the dawn. "Wait!" she gasped. "How can you finger
my cunt if you're CUFFED?" (Angela considered that a rhetorical
question and did not answer.) At the same time, Simon felt a dildo
probing the entrance to her cunt.
(A dildo? No, it was the dildo-shaped shock stick. In point
of fact, Angela had been squirming in her seat while Simon was on
the computer because she was using the discarded paper clip to pick
the lock on her handcuffs; she was now free. She also had a Plan.)
"Wait a minute.... Just wait.... Get back in your seat,
Angela," Simon ordered.
But that was not part of the Plan.
Instead, Angela, remembering what she'd been told, just jammed
it in (shlurp!) and pushed the red button (ZZZZZZT!).
"Aaaaahh!" Simon uttered a cry of agony -- and ecstasy --
before passing out.
******************************
Consciousness returned to Sgt. Simon slowly and in stages.
She first began to feel a persistent itching-burning-throbbing
between her legs. Then she opened her eyes and found that she
was looking straight at a distorted image of herself; a trick of
the light had turned a cracked glass door into a funhouse mirror.
She was inside somewhere, naked, sitting perched on a stack of
skids, with her arms secured overhead, wrists cuffed over the
hook of a winch. Angela was sitting under a window, now wigless,
thumbing through a small looseleaf notebook that had the familiar
B.I.C. logo on the cover. The duffel was open at her side.
Angela looked up from her book. "Welcome back from limbo,
Sweetie. Did you dream about me?"
Simon scowled. "You're in real trouble, now, sister. Better
let me loose before it gets worse...."
"Oh, cut out the bull-shit, Sgt. Sappho," Angela snapped. "You
got two choices: cooperate and survive...or go on tryin' to be a
hardass, and I'll just split.... And nobody'll ever find you.
So what's it gonna be?"
"I-I'll co-operate...."
"Okay. Begin by telling me what a good little girl you're
gonna be. And call me 'ma'am.'"
Simon squeezed her eyes shut and mentally called Angela every
bad name she'd ever heard (and a few she made up on the spot), but
aloud she said, "I'll be good...."
"What say?"
"I'll be a...good girl.... Ma'am."
"So now you've said the words. That's an improvement. It'll
be even better when you've learned some humility. Get up." She
turned the crank on the windlass. It squealed, but did its job,
and Simon was forced to her feet. Angela came up behind her and
tore open a small plastic packet and extracted a piece of gauze.
Its odor was familiar: an antiseptic swab. She wiped it on Simon's
left butt-cheek, discarded it, and retreated to the duffel.
"That matron was right. There IS a lot of stuff in this bag --
stuff I can use to teach you some things." She smiled sweetly and
flourished the B.I.C. notebook. "And even an instruction manual
that tells me how to use it all."
She pulled out a device vaguely resembling an antique cell
phone: roughly 4" x 3" and 1" or so thick, it had a built-in
key pad. "Laser tattoo thingy," Angela giggled and pressed the
end against the middle of Simon's left buttock. A barely audible
hum was all but drowned out by Simon's screech. "I programmed it
earlier with my ID," Angela remarked, and, when she removed the
device, Simon's butt was clearly marked with the alphanumeric
"JU87-3883-0030" (and, just below that, its equivalent bar code).
"Accordinging to the book, the ink contains some sort of special
healing agent, so that'll be all better in a couple of hours. And
then, let's see how YOU like carrying a brand, Sweetie."
She tossed the tattoo unit back into the duffel. "For my next
trick, I'll require -- ta da!" She pulled out another, somewhat
larger device. "An electronic hair removal gizmo. One use'll keep
you smooth and hairless for months...and destroy some follicles in
the bargain." She began running the depilator over Simon's head,
leaving swathes of bald skull behind and creating quite a stench
as Simon's short dark hair frizzled and turned to ash.
Angela brushed the burnt hair from Simon's head. She held
a hand-mirror in front of Simon. "We could be twins.... Well,
almost. To finish the job, there IS one other place I need to
use this on. Right, Sweetie?"
"Oh god!" Simon moaned. As it destroyed her hair, it had
caused her scalp to vibrate. That had been mainly an annoyance,
but, if the thing were used on her already super-sensitive cunt....
"No, please!"
Angela merely giggled as she touched the depilator to Simon's
crotch....
She was relentless. Long after the last hair between Simon's
legs was toast (literally), Angela kept the device humming over
her bald skin. It was insidious, implacable...teasing and
tormenting her on and on, but, for a long time, just not quite
enough to make her cum. Simon was up on her toes, straining and
babbling and bathed in oily sweat, before she finally started
cumming...and cumming...and cumming....
At length, Angela clicked off the device, grinned at the
exhausted sergeant, and asked, "So what does Simon say now, eh?"
"Th-thank y-ou, ma-am." She sounded sincere.
"Okay. Now it's time you learned that you are among 'those
who lick' after all...." She hopped up onto the stack of skids
and spread her legs. "And that I am one of those you lick. So
get down there and get to it. LOTS of tongue.... Be a good girl,
and don't even think of biting me. I promise you won't like what
happens.... That's right.... Ooooh! Yes! Yes, you're gonna be
a really first class 'bottom.'"
Angela's orgasms were gentler and farther apart, but every bit
as good as Simon's had been -- better, in fact, because her cunt
was satisfied for the moment, not immediately screaming for more
attention like the sergeant's cunt.
Simon's jaw was aching, her lips and tongue sore, and her
face slathered with cunt-juice by the time Angela called a halt.
(Interestingly, Simon had cum twice more in learning that she
was, indeed, among those who lick...and get off on it.)
Simon, sagging wearily in her bondage, watched silently as
Angela wiped her crotch, resumed her wig, and put on the natty
B.I.C. uniform. She immediately took on the authoritarian
persona that went with the uniform. She stood in front of Simon
for a moment, preening. "Not twins anymore, I'm afraid, Sweetie."
Then she again sheathed the shock stick in Simon's dripping
cunt and pushed the red button.
******************************
As Simon gradually floated back to consciousness, her senses
re-activated one by one. First and foremost, there was an awful,
consuming need to cum. It felt as though fire ants were swarming
in her cunt. But there wasn't anything she could do about that.
She was well-secured, with her arms wrapped around the back of her
seat and cuffed. She couldn't even close her legs and try to rub
her thighs together; her legs were spread and her ankles shackled
far apart. She groaned.
The van was traveling smoothly along the freeway with Angela
behind the wheel. She glanced over the top of her mirrored
sunglasses at her writhing prisoner. "Have a good sleep, Sweetie?
You were out longer than before, but you don't look very rested...."
"My...poor...cunt," Simon croaked.
"Yeah. I guess you didn't read the instruction manual. Tsk,
tsk." She shook her head. "You public school grads.... I was
mainly home-schooled, but much better educated. I guess they don't
allow home-schooling anymore, though. Too bad. Times change...and
rarely for the better. Anyway, seems a lot of the B.I.C. dykes
have been using those shock sticks on themselves, for 'recreational
purposes,' so there's a warning, in red letters, that repeated
maximum discharges may result in permanent nymphomania and the
partial or even complete loss of the ability to cum."
Simon whimpered.
"Though you're public school 'educated,' you aren't stupid, so
you've surely figured out where we're going and what the plan is.
So you figure on cooperating until we get to Wormwood, and then
you can tell your story and convince the screws that it's the
truth."
She pulled the van out of traffic and onto the shoulder. As
they rolled to a stop, she held up a plastic pump-bottle of some
dull yellow liquid. The label on the bottle read, "Sty-FulŽ."
She pushed the nozzle between Simon's compressed lips and worked
the pump a couple of times.
"There. That should keep you mute all through Intake and
beyond, and, once you get into the general population, I don't
think you'll want to announce that you're really a cop --
especially since there's cons who'll believe you a lot quicker
than the screws will. And, of course, I'll be around to 'help
out.'
"Next, it's probably occurred to you that your fingerprints
won't match Angela Garret's.... Ah, but they will. There's a
fingerprint scanner in the duffel (that bag's better than Batman's
utility belt), and you were nice enough to leave the computer
logged on. With the scanner (instructions provided) and that
super-password, I had no trouble switching our prints. Your
voice? There's nothing particularly distinctive about it, and
I could mimic it well enough if I had to, but I don't think I'll
have to."
Simon looked at her own haggard features in the mirrored lenses
of the B.I.C. sunglasses, but she saw Angela Garret's face staring
back at her.
Game...set...match.
Angela turned her attention to merging back into freeway
traffic. "Being a screw for a while ought to be a nice
vacation for me, paid by the B.I.C." Her throaty laugh
harmonized with the roar of the van's engine as they swung
back onto the freeway. "Next stop: Wormwood Penitentiary."