TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS
by
Joe Doe
A 12-PART STORY DESIGNED TO RAISE YOUR HOLIDAY SPIRITS!
Part 1: THE D.A.
Although it was only December 14th, the holiday was effectively
over for Carrie Paris. The cards were sent, the packages posted,
and the decorations done. With her parents spending Christmas
overseas and her own on-again/off-again romances totally off, she
knew she had precious little to look forward to.
Not that she minded. Emptiness brought with it a simplicity
that appealed to her, an order and neatness that pleased her
organizational bent. Her job as district attorney was less a
career choice than a state of mind; Carrie was harsh, unforgiving,
and methodical.
She quickly sorted through the papers on her desk. Mostly they
were attempts to delay sentencing until after the holidays so that
prisoners could spend one final Christmas with their families.
There were over one hundred such requests, but Carrie was a
diligent worker, and she knew that, if she called in some favors,
she could make sure that every last one of the supplicants was
jailed before Christmas.
Smiling, she briefly scanned Charlie Wagner's latest pathetic plea.
The mousey little bank teller had been embarrassed when the condom
had fallen out of his wallet at the bank, but not nearly as
embarrassed as he had been when one of his rivals had him arrested
on the trumped up charge of "public indecency." Most prosecutors
would have let Charlie go, but Carrie knew that a quick plea would
increase her already impressive record of convictions.
Charlie had been a tough nut to crack, but when Carrie ordered the
Department of Children and Family Services to bring his two kids
down to the station for a custody review, Charley freaked. An
amused Carrie soon had the hapless teller confessing the most
intimate details of his sex life, his fantasies, and even his
masturbatory habits.
She had agreed to drop the custody review if Charlie registered as
a sex offender. Unfortunately, Charlie was so panicked about
losing his children that he didn't read the fine print about the
30 days in jail. Now his children were going to live with his
ex-wife, and Charlie was afraid he was never going to see them
again.
Carrie had already arranged for Charlie's incarceration in the
special "violent sex offenders" section of the state prison.
Of course, he was not technically violent, but the image of the
hapless little masturbator showering with dozens of rapists was
almost too funny for words.
She made a special note to process Charlie's paperwork carefully.
After all, if he ever got to a real lawyer, the little twerp would
probably get the whole case thrown out and ruin her record. The
very thought made her blood boil. Well, in prison his brother
perverts would show him how to use that pretty little mouth of
his for something other than whining!
Carrie checked the boxes required to seal Charlie's fate and moved
on to the next envelope. It was plain and white, with a candy cane
seal. She opened the envelope and found a Christmas card with a
short note in an expansive, cursive script:
YOU'VE BEEN A NAUGHTY LITTLE GIRL THIS YEAR, CARRIE.
I KNOW ABOUT WHERE YOU VISIT WHEN YOU THINK NO ONE
KNOWS...AND THE WAY YOU TOUCH YOURSELF WHEN YOU
THINK NO ONE IS WATCHING. YOU'VE BEEN A BAD GIRL,
CARRIE, AND YOU'RE GONNA GET A SPANKIN'!
Carrie's heart raced. Hate mail and death threats had never
bothered her before, and they didn't bother her now.
What bothered her was the thought that someone knew about her
clandestine visits to THAT website!
******************************
Part 2: PAPERWORK
It had been a sleepless night, and all the coffee in the world
couldn't help. Carrie had planned to spend the day pushing through
convictions in order to ensure that her feckless "clients" spent
Christmas behind bars.
But her machine-like efficiency was derailed by one troubling
question: who knew about her web site activity?
She visited the strip-search site several times a week, delighting
in the pictures and stories. The stories, in particular, fed her
most recurring sexual fantasy: the nightmare of wrongful arrest.
As a powerful prosecutor, she knew how cruel and overwhelming the
legal system could be. Its machinery could strip away a person's
money, freedom, and dignity. It didn't matter who you were or how
powerful you might be or how secure you felt. Once the cell door
slammed shut behind you, you were in an entirely different world.
It would have been impossible to have thrown away the key on as
many people as Carrie had without ever wondering what it might be
like to be on the other side of the bars.
She shuddered as she imagined herself picking up trash in her
orange jump suit -- or sinking to her knees to earn a piggish
guard's favor. As a beautiful woman and a former prosecutor,
she would be especially vulnerable. All of her assets -- beauty,
intelligence, education, grace, and polish -- would serve only
to make her a target.
She knew that the vengeful prisoners and the minimum wage guards
would be only too happy to teach her more than one lesson in
humility.
Her fantasy was deeply disturbing...and unbelievably exciting!
How often had she sat in front of her computer, relishing every
detail of the latest story by DD or JD or C.L.? As she read
each story, she would vicariously enjoy every familiar detail --
the heroine's brash overconfidence, the unfortunate circumstances,
the humiliating tumble from power. She would read those stories
only when she was alone, since inevitably her hand would drift
south....
Of course, Carrie's fantasies were just that -- fantasies. Try as
she might, she just couldn't imagine a scenario that would end with
her own imprisonment. She was rich, powerful, and successful. If
her knowledge of the law made a conviction unlikely, her position
as an independently wealthy prosecutor made it impossible.
It would never happen. But it was still fun to fantasize.
As her mind wandered, she noticed a manila envelope in her inbox.
The envelope itself was ordinary enough; what caught her attention
was the small candy cane sticker in the upper left corner where the
return address would normally be.
She found that the envelope contained a thick stack of arrest
reports. Had someone routed it to her by mistake?
Carrie quickly paged through the reports. They were brief, never
more than a page. Also, unlike most arrest reports, each neatly
printed sheet contained a mug shot of the criminal (and every one
a young, attractive woman).
An experienced prosecutor, she knew there was no such thing as a
"criminal look"; the most innocuous-looking grandmother could be
an axe murderess.
But she was nonetheless surprised to see page after page of what
seemed to be perfectly ordinary women. Some were in business
clothes, and others were dressed casually, some even in college
t-shirts. All of them appeared to be stunned, dazed. If it wasn't
for the numbers in front of them and the chart behind them showing
their heights, Carrie might have thought that she was looking at
photographs of female flood victims.
She read the first report:
PROCESSING NO.: 7383-38383
DATE: 6/1
NAME: Natt, Natalie
OCCUPATION: Graduate student in history
SENTENCE: 90 days, hard labor
OFFICER: GUMP, F.
CHARGE:
Perp was arrested during a routine "safety sweep." A check of her
oil change sticker revealed that she had not changed her oil in
almost 5 months, and her car was immediately impounded. She was
convicted under ordinance 738-383 (Improper Maintenance of a Motor
Vehicle).
ADDITIONAL SENTENCING NOTES:
In order to pay for her oil change, she will perform farm and road
construction labor during the day. She has also been assigned to
dance weekends at "Tits & Honkers." Officer Gump feels her lack of
dancing ability will not hinder her popularity.
******************************
Carrie turned the page over, but the reverse was blank.
Most arrest reports that resulted in a conviction ran several
pages. But Natalie had been arrested, tried, and convicted
in fewer than six sentences.
Carrie examined the report closely. It had apparently been printed
on a color laser printer. The text and picture were crisp and
clear, the paper thick and glossy.
Obviously forcing unfortunate young women to dance naked to pay for
their oil changes was not entirely unprofitable.
She looked at the picture. Natalie's pleading eyes were wide, her
mouth slightly open.
Flood victim!
If the picture had a caption it might be, "I'm sorry I forgot my
oil change, Officer. Please don't make me dance NAKED!"
Carrie turned to the next report. It featured an attractive black
woman in stylish wire-rim glasses and business suit.
DATE: 11/17
NAME: Walters, Rhonda
OCCUPATION: Attorney
SENTENCE: 60 days, hard labor
OFFICER: DELAY, T.
CHARGE:
Miss Walters was pulled off the highway when Officer Delay noted
the "KERRY/EDWARDS" bumper sticker on her car. Rhonda was
convicted under Ordinance 3883-383 (Attempt to Obscure or Distract
Attention from License Plate).
A search of her purse revealed membership cards for Moveon.org, the
NAACP, and the ACLU.
After becoming annoyed at Rhonda's repeated complaints about
"civil rights violations," the Sheriff filed an additional
charge, 89333-488 (Failure to Remove Political Advertisement
After Election). For this offense, he administered 30 strokes
of the razor strap, bare bottom.
ADDITIONAL SENTENCING NOTES:
She will be auctioned to one of the local plantations where she
will serve her sentence as a contract servant. When she is not
picking cotton or doing housework, she will star in our "Frisky
Plantation Wenches" video series.
Across the bottom of the form someone had scrawled, "Bet our
barefoot blue state girl won't be so uppity when they shuck
her down on the auction block!"
******************************
Carrie stared at the report in disbelief. Could they really
auction off a beautiful black attorney just because she had a
liberal bumper sticker?
Quickly paging through the remaining reports, she discovered the
following offenses:
338777-488 (Playing Radio on Sunday)
755882-383 (Use of Cruise Control)
38383-3838 (Lascivious or Lewd Display of Belly-Button)
47474-4848 (Unmarried Woman with Birth Control Device)
All of the police reports shared 3 common factors:
1) "Flood victim" photo of a beautiful woman
2) Dubious charge
3) 30-120 day sentence to a demeaning job, often in the sex trade.
As Carrie stuffed the reports back into the envelope, a tiny
Post-it note slid out. It was written in the same large,
expansive script as the previous note.
YOU'VE BEEN A NAUGHTY LITTLE GIRL, CARRIE.
DON'T THINK I WON'T ARREST YOU FOR IT.
Her heart raced as she put the reports away, jumped to her feet,
and flew down the hall. Within seconds she was screeching out of
the courthouse parking lot in her brand new Lexus.
What did it all mean? Who was sending her these awful notes? It
was criminal....
But she felt a familiar tingle between her legs as she noticed that
her car was overdue for an oil change.
******************************
Part 3: RITUALS AND "OLD FRIENDS"
For years, Carrie had comfortably fantasized about being thrown
into prison, knowing that it would never happen.
But that was before the police reports arrived.
Each report presented a documented case of a beautiful woman
imprisoned on some bogus charge. The additional sentencing
notes described the "criminal's" sexual degradations with
undisguised relish.
The women were all attorneys, judges, doctors, university
students. And they were all young, beautiful, and successful.
Exactly like Carrie...
The thin blue line was thinner than Carrie had ever imagined.
Somewhere there was a Sheriff's office that would be unimpressed
with her Ivy League law degree or her prosecutorial expertise.
At this Sheriff's office, a woman's hard-earned credentials were
actually used to design the most humiliating punishments imaginable.
Black civil rights attorneys were auctioned as plantation slaves.
Accomplished female physicians were placed in mental hospitals for
"psychiatric evaluation." Female engineers were shackled to chain
gangs building the bridges they could have designed.
By the time Carrie got to her office the next morning she was
exhausted. A long night with a vibrator and a stack of arrest
reports will do that to a woman.
Well, some women, anyway. Women like Carrie.
Carrie paced anxiously as she waited for the mail to arrive. She
knew she needed more clues if she was ever going to understand who
was doing this to her, and why.
But there was another reason, as well...a reason that Carrie hated
to admit.
She had never been so excited in her life!
Carrie had dreamed about being a prisoner. And now she had
documents suggesting that somehow, somewhere, there was a
place where all her dreams could come true -- if she really
wanted them to.
Carrie had visited that strip-search website for years. For the
strip-search was an important component of her rich and detailed
fantasy:
The bogus arrest by the leering officer...
The sham trial and unjust sentence...
The strip search...
The gang shower...
The delousing...
The convict uniform....
The ritual was important. Each crucial step was another crushing
link in the chain of humiliation. From the cuffs to the chain
gang, every step was important.
The piggish male officers wouldn't want to strip her. They
wouldn't want to order her to peel off her stylish expensive
clothes. They wouldn't want to watch, and leer, and smack their
lips, as she slowly stripped down, garment by garment. They
wouldn't want to watch as her chic and elegant clothes formed
a humiliating little pile.
It was all a part of the job....
The sham of "security" and "procedure" would give the chauvinist
officers the right to do as they pleased with her. They could
strip her naked and order to her to bend, and spread, and pose.
And then they could slip on the rubber gloves and grope her and
finger her as they pleased.
They wouldn't WANT to do it. Oh no, that would be wrong. It was
just the law.
The law would be on THEIR side, a fact that made the search that
much more outrageous...and exciting.
Once she was in custody, the arresting officers or her prison
guards could order her to strip whenever it pleased them.
And, if she disobeyed them, SHE would be the one breaking the law!
Yes, the ritual was important. When it started, she would be a
smartly dressed prosecutor, in charge and in control.
When it ended, she would be dazed and helpless, dressed in a scanty
prison outfit and stinking of disinfectants, shuffling in chains
toward her new life as a feckless jailhouse bimbo.
Carrie's ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of the daily
mail. She tossed aside the routine memos and ripped open a large
envelope with a Christmas wreath sticker where the return address
should have been.
At first she thought she had opened the wrong envelope. She
recognized the mug shot of Carlos Honcho, a pimp she had busted
a few years before. His specialty was blackmailing wealthy and
attractive co-eds into joining his stable. He took considerable
delight in forcing pampered and spoiled society girls into scanty
outfits and turning them out in the seedier sections of the city.
Carlos made sure his girls learned their place...fast.
Numerous prosecutors had attempted to nail Carlos, but Carrie was
the first to succeed. She smiled as she recalled the enraged pimp
lunging at her as the judge sentenced him. She still remembered
laughing in his face as the bailiffs beat him bloody.
Throwing Carlos into the slammer had been a pleasure. But why was
someone sending her his picture?
She shook the envelope, and the answer fell out. It was a CD.
After closing her office door, she put the CD into her computer
and clicked on the single icon.
A plaintive female voice crackled through the speakers.
"After we showered, the warden made us line up. A sleazy-looking
Hispanic guy -- his name was Carlos -- walked up and down the line
real slow. It gave the girls chills, the way he looked at us, and
he was smiling all the time. When he came to me, he smiled wider
and nodded to the warden. The warden told me to open up my towel.
I didn't want to do it, but the guard behind him was holding the
spanking strap!
"Carlos knew I didn't want to do it, and he gave me a big smile and
let out a wolf whistle when I finally opened up my towel. I must
have been blushing 10 shades of red. He ran his finger over one of
my nipples and then, playfully, down off my breast and over my
stomach to my navel. All the while he's smiling at me, like it was
some sort of joke. And I had to just stand there, holding my towel
open, while he leered at me.
"He played with my navel for a few seconds, pushing his finger in
and out, in and out, while he smiled. But then he pulled his
finger out and started slowly drawing a line down to my crotch.
"I shuddered when his finger hit my pubes, but the warden ordered
me to stand still. I stood there, and bit my lip, and stared at
the ceiling, while he slid his finger inside of me. In and out,
in and out -- like he was testing me.
"He must have liked what he felt because that night they put me in
a halter top and hot pants and made me troll for tricks at some
sleazy bar. When Carlos found out I used to be a prosecutor, he
made sure I got all the kinky ones. I guess there was some female
prosecutor who put him away a few years ago, and he was really
hated her. The things he made me do.... Oh, god, it was
disgusting!"
The woman started to weep in shame as the recording ended.
Carrie felt a tiny shiver as she stared at the picture of the
angry, menacing Carlos. She knew she shouldn't have faked that
evidence against him, but it was the only way to get a conviction.
Carrie frowned. Was Carlos out of prison ALREADY?
******************************
Part 4: A VISIT TO THE DOCTOR
There was no return address on the overnight envelope that arrived
early on December 17th, but there was a tiny picture of a smiling
reindeer in the top left corner. Inside were three pieces of
paper:
An appointment slip.
An official-looking notice from a medical plan that she had never
heard of warning that, if she didn't get her height, weight, and
blood pressure certified by the specified physician by end of
business on December 17th, she would lose her health insurance
forever.
And, lastly, a note in the familiar cursive script.
HI, CARRIE!
PLEASE TAKE THIS FORM TO THE DOCTOR ON THE APPOINTMENT
CARD AND PLEAD WITH HIM TO CERTIFY YOUR STATS. YOU
WON'T REALLY LOSE YOUR INSURANCE IF YOU DON'T, BUT
THAT WILL BE OUR LITTLE SECRET.
TODAY IS YOUR CHANCE FOR A "FIRSTHAND EXPERIENCE," AS
IT WERE. IF YOU DON'T GET THE LETTER SIGNED, I'LL KNOW
IT, AND MY MESSAGES TO YOU WILL STOP.
MERRY CHRISTMAS? IT'S YOUR DECISION NOW!
Well, she DID want them to stop.... Didn't she?
******************************
The appointment was for 4PM, and Carrie was the last patient of the
day. It had taken her most of the day to drive across two states
to the specified clinic. The receptionist left for the day as the
office nurse was taking Carrie's height, weight, and blood pressure.
The procedure was simple, but the point was elusive. When the
nurse took Carrie in to see the doctor, however, it all became
painfully clear.
"Do you need anything else, Doctor?" the nurse asked, as she handed
him Carrie's insurance form.
"No, Cindy," the doctor replied. "You can go home now."
The nurse smiled and left, closing the door behind her.
Meanwhile, Carrie just stood and stared like a deer in the
headlights as the doctor looked over the form.
The smiling doctor finally looked up. "Nice to see you again,
Carrie," he said quietly.
Carrie bristled. The last time they had spoken was when she had
broken him on the stand. Dr. Willie Gropers had molested dozens
of his female patients, and Carrie had been minutes short of a
conviction, when her superiors had pulled the plug.
It was agreed that the charges would be dropped, and Dr. Gropers
would be allowed to keep his license if he agreed to move to
another state.
The law was the law, but money was still money.
Carrie sat down. "If you'll just sign my form, Gropers, I'll be on
my way."
"First off, it's DOCTOR Gropers, Carrie. If you want me to sign
this form, you'll have to agree to be my patient. And patients
do what they're told.... Did I give you permission to sit?"
"No," Carrie said.
"No, what?" he chuckled.
"No, sir," she said, as she examined her shoes.
"That's a good girl," he patronized. "You were always so smart.
You had all the answers. Well, you're my patient, and I'm in
charge. I have some answers myself."
Gropers smiled as he ogled Carrie's slender body. "Take off your
clothes," he said, curtly. "All of them. Now."
She stared at him in stunned disbelief.
"You didn't come all this way to get your blood pressure checked,
did you? You came here for an examination. And you know the sort
of examinations I give young ladies like you, don't you, Carrie?
In fact, you know better than anyone else. You interviewed the
witnesses. You broke me on the stand. And now it's your turn to
find out what it's REALLY like."
"I-I can't," she stammered. "I don't want to be examined.... Not
by you."
Gropers held out the form. "Fine, take your form and get out.
Lose your insurance. See if I care."
Carrie considered the proposition. She wanted to walk out. No,
actually she wanted to beat him senseless, walk out, and then
have him arrested.
But she knew that, if she did as she pleased, there would be no
more mysterious letters.
The ominous meaning of the words "firsthand experience" suddenly
rang loud and clear.
This smarmy, grinning lecher was about to teach her what an illegal
cavity search was all about.
"Is there somewhere I can...change?" she asked, plaintively.
"No. You'll strip right here. In front of my desk. With me
watching. You can start with those fancy shoes."
They were indeed fancy shoes; Carrie felt a professional woman was
never fully dressed unless she was wearing a $300 pair of shoes.
But that didn't matter. The shoes came off.
"Now the jacket. Here, Carrie, let me put on some music. Music
will make it more fun."
He thumbed through some old CDs as she neatly folded her jacket and
put it on the chair.
She winced as the strains of Madonna's "Like a Virgin" filled the
room. She had always hated that song.
"Dance for me, you little bimbo. Dance and take off your clothes.
The blouse is next."
Carrie began to sway her hips and rock back and forth as she
reluctantly unbuttoned her blouse.
"You know, Carrie, this is exactly how I pictured you that day when
you grilled me on the stand. Now the skirt, Madam Prosecutor."
"Ohh, you wear a garter belt. Very sexy. You can leave the
stockings on. After all, I don't want your little tootsies to
get cold when you put your feet up into those icy steel stirrups."
At the mention of the "stirrups," Carrie shivered.
"Now the bra. I'll need to examine your jugs."
She gritted her teeth and obeyed.
"That's good -- keep dancing. I like the way it makes your udders
jiggle. Now the underpants. Come on, Miss Fancy Pants, time to
turn 'em over. After all, I AM your doctor."
Carrie blushed crimson as she slowly lowered her panties to her
ankles. The doctor laughed and applauded as she tossed them onto
the pile.
He stood up. She attempted to cover her exposed crotch as he
slowly walked around her, surveying the merchandise.
"Not bad. Not bad at all. Once you get stripped out of all those
fancy lawyer duds, you're really a cute piece of ass. Nice tits.
Flat stomach. Cute little butt."
The final compliment was punctuated by a hard slap across her naked
bottom, designed to remind her that she was no longer in charge.
She flinched and tried to pull away as he reached around her and
began to fondle her breasts.
"Relax, peaches," he chortled. "I have to examine your titties,
don't I? All part of the procedure."
The word "procedure" triggered a familiar tingle in Carrie. She
realized that she was being processed...humiliated...dehumanized.
It was exactly like her fantasies.
By the time Gropers led her into the examination room, she was
soaking wet. But that didn't lessen her fears as he snapped the
menacing metal stirrups into place.
"Come on, little lady...up you go," he chortled. "Time for a
horsey ride. Scoot down and spread 'em wide. I've waited a
long time for this, and I want a really good look."
The humiliation she felt as she mounted the table and spread her
legs was immense. But it was dwarfed by Groper's discovery that
she was so aroused.
"Well, well, well," he sneered. "Our prissy lady lawyer is all
hot and bothered. That's why you took my case, wasn't it? You
pretended to be outraged, but it turned you on, didn't it?"
She didn't want to answer, but, as Gropers' fingers teased her clit
and she arched her back up to meet him, she gasped, "YESSS!"
"You liked reading about how I stripped them, and gassed them, and
fucked them, didn't you?" he taunted. "You thought it was funny
when I fucked the women who wanted fertility treatments for their
husbands, didn't you? You loved it when I knocked up the little
sows, didn't you?"
"Yes!" she hissed. "Don't stop!"
"You took the transcripts home and masturbated to them, didn't you?
All the while you were grilling me on the stand, you were rubbing
your thighs together, juicing yourself! Weren't you? Weren't
you?"
She shouted, "YES!" as her body quaked through the most powerful
orgasm of her life.
"Are you on birth control, Carrie?" he asked, clinically.
She was still in a daze. "No," she muttered. "I'm not...not in
a relationship right now.... I-I have some condoms in my purse."
"That's too bad, Carrie," he chuckled. "Because all the pony girls
at my ranch are ridden bareback."
She gasped when he unzipped his pants and pulled out his massive
cock.
As he sank it deep inside her steaming twat, he snickered, "Be
sure to call me in nine months, Carrie. I want to send my son
a birthday card."
******************************
Part 5: THE VALUE OF A COLLEGE EDUCATION
Carrie had thought that Dr. Gropers' violation was the worst
humiliation imaginable. But the next day at the free clinic
was worse.
She had gone there because she was too embarrassed to see her
regular doctor. It was a Saturday, and Carrie was surrounded
by college girls who had had too much to drink the night before
and now found themselves in need of a visit to a doctor.
Unfortunately, the doctor wouldn't just give Carrie the pill and
the damn VD test. He insisted on a complete examination.
So, once again, she found herself in the dreaded stirrups.
And, as if that weren't bad enough, he decided to invite 15 medical
students to watch as he probed her and lectured her on the price of
her loose and lascivious ways. He didn't exactly call her a whore,
and the male medical class didn't exactly laugh at her.
Not exactly.
But she got the pill and the test. As she was getting dressed, she
noticed several of the "medical students" were wearing t-shirts
from the same fraternity. Not a good sign.
There was no package at the office today, just an e-mail at her
home, a message from an anonymous remailer. The text was as
follows:
FROM: The Sheriff
TO: Judge Bean
Re: Reception of Female Prisoners
I'd like to start giving all the girls 20 licks of the
razor strap right across their bare fannies. I think
it would be a good addition to our "reception" procedure
and an excellent chance to teach these sassy little minxes
their place. The spankings should be hard and crisp and
always on the bare. Also, the women should be scolded
during their spankings, so that they feel like the naughty
little girls that they are.
A shameful and humiliating strapping, with a reminder that
there is more of the same if they don't toe the line, would
be an excellent introduction to their new station in life.
Did I say 20 swats? If we get any of those smarty pants
college girls, let's make it 25!
******************************
Carrie downloaded the attachment and pressed "Play."
The clip opened on a tearful young woman, leaning over a huge oak
desk. She was wearing a white cutoff prison shirt and blue denim
shorts. From off-camera a male voice said, "I want to spank you,
not your pants. Drop your drawers."
The girl gritted her teeth, but raised her tummy off the desk.
Carrie watched the woman blush as she lowered her shorts.
"Now, Amy, don't be shy," the Sheriff said. "You know the rules
-- underpants, too."
Amy turned to the Sheriff with tearful eyes. "Please, not on the
bare. Let me keep a shred of dignity."
"Do you want me to make it 50?" the Sheriff asked.
Amy bit her lip and quickly slid her underpants down to her knees.
The Sheriff let out a small whistle as her shapely bottom came into
view.
Amy stared into space as he playfully rubbed the wicked-looking
strap across her curvy backside.
"For heaven's sakes, I was just low on washer fluid! That isn't
even a real crime!"
His answer was a blistering smack across her rump.
SNAP!
She let out a lusty scream.
"You're a convict, young lady, duly convicted in a court of law.
You have no rights except the ones I give you. The sooner you
understand that, the better."
SNAP!
Amy yelped again. "Yes!" she cried out.
SNAP!
"Yes, what, Amy?" he prompted, mockingly.
"Yes, sir, I'm a convict!" Amy cried out.
"Will you keep your place and stop acting all uppity?" he taunted.
SNAP!
"Yes, SIR!" she shouted back through her tears.
"Will you show proper respect for my uniform?"
SNAP!
"Yes, sir! I respect your badge and your uniform!"
"That's a good girl," he patronized. "Now what do you think the
best way is for a girl like you to show respect for the officers
who arrested you? What are you good for?"
There was a long silence. "I have a doctorate in Developmental
Psychology. Perhaps I could...."
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
"Wrong, Amy," the Sheriff countered. "A girl like you is good for
one thing and one thing only: wet, sloppy blow jobs. You're going
to drop to your knees and use that sassy little mouth of yours to
give the boys slurpees whenever they want. You'll suck and lick
and swallow every drop like it's the yummiest milkshake you ever
tasted!"
"But I never...."
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
"Please, sir! Let me blow you!" Amy pleaded. "I really want to,
sir."
"You REALLY want to give me a hummer, Amy?" the Sheriff taunted as
he teasingly tapped the strap against her behind. "I mean, you're
a big time college professor, and I'm just a lowly civil servant."
Amy turned and dropped to her knees, not even bothering to pull up
her pants.
Carrie winced as she watched the tearful college professor unzip
the tubby Sheriff's pants.
"Well, I guess we could take a little break before we finish your
fanny tanning," the Sheriff chuckled.
A stunned Carrie closed the video player. As she did, she noticed
another e-mail in her in-box.
CARRIE,
Sorry I couldn't get you 5 golden rings. But 5 extra
spanks for being a sassy college girl is what you really
deserve anyway! Ho-ho-ho!
Carrie counted backwards. This was the 5th message. And there
were 7 days till Christmas.
Somehow, though, she doubted that tomorrow would bring 6 geese
a-laying.
******************************
Part 6: PUT ON YOUR DANCING SHOES
It was Sunday, which meant the next package arrived at Carrie's
home by a special delivery.
Once again there was no address, just a CD and a note.
The message read:
STUDY HARD, CARRIE, OR YOU'LL GET A SPANKIN'! AND, AFTER
WATCHING YESTERDAY'S SHOW, I'M SURE YOU DON'T WANT THE
SHERIFF TO CATCH YOU BEING NAUGHTY!"
Carrie put the CD in the drive, and a dialogue began to play.
"But I don't know how to-to...s-strip, Sheriff. I've never done
anything like that in my life."
"I know that, Debbie," the Sheriff chuckled. "That's what makes it
so good. Most guys don't want to see some hardened whore peel down
like a jaded pro. They want to see a girl like you, blushing and
squirming and sweating up a storm as she shucks down for one and
all to see."
"But I don't know what to do."
"Nothing to know," he countered. "Just get up there and look
mortified. You can try and dance some, not that you'll be any
good at it. You'll be too busy worrying about all the guys
wanting to see your pussy to shake your ass graceful. But, like
I said, that's what the guys like. They want to see a woman who's
as basically bitchy as their boss or secretary or wife really get
put in her place. So the more you hate it, the more they'll love
it."
Carrie heard a little click, and then the music started. It was
Madonna's "Like a Virgin," playing in an endless loop.
"Now get up and start dancing, Debbie."
"But I'm not dressed right, Sheriff," Debbie protested.
"We want a girl to dress like whatever her profession is. It's
more of a turn-on for the guys if they get to see a real doctor
or a real lawyer peel down, from her civies to her skin."
"Did you say...'skin'?" Debbie's voice quivered.
"Yeah, but we'll get to that later," the Sheriff chuckled. "Just
start dancing. You girls at home, you start dancing with Debbie,
too."
"Please, Sheriff," Debbie wailed. "I'm a CPA. I could help you
with your taxes. I could do the books at the jail. Please...don't
make me do this. I have an MBA!"
"Do I have to get the strap?"
Both Debbie and Carrie began to dance slowly, reluctantly, to the
beat of the music.
"Take off your shoes and socks," the Sheriff ordered, crisply.
"No...not like that. Don't stop dancing."
Debbie and Carrie both hopped on one foot as they awkwardly removed
their shoes and socks. Carrie timed the little hop-hop-hop noise
she was making so that it matched her counterpart on the record.
"That's a good girl," the Sheriff chuckled. "You learn real
fast.... And you blush real pretty."
Carrie couldn't see herself, but she could feel herself flush as
the blood rushed to her face.
"Now take off your shirt," the Sheriff commanded.
Debbie must have been wearing a pullover, since Carrie was still
fumbling with the buttons on her blouse when the Sheriff ordered
Debbie to take off her belt.
"That's right...let the fellows see your hooters. Get 'em thinking
about what it will be like WITHOUT your bra. Make 'em bounce!"
Carrie felt a little shiver go up her spine as she obediently
jiggled her breasts. Even without an audience, she had never
felt so exposed in her life.
"Okay, Debbie, that's enough tits," the Sheriff said, gruffly.
"Now it's time for some ass. Time to drop the trousers!"
Carrie's jeans were tight, and it was tough to squirm out of them
on command. She bent her knees a bit as she wiggled the pants off
her shapely fanny.
After all, despite her humiliation, she wanted to put on as good a
show as possible.
Carrie had just tossed her jeans to the side when the Sheriff's
voice again burst in over the music. "That's a good little slut,"
he snickered. "You know what's next, don't you? The guys sure do.
Let me put on another tape, so you'll know what it will sound like
on stage. I want you to shake your tits real nice while the guys
tell you what they want to see."
Carrie obediently began bopping her breasts as the drunken, slurred
male voices rose.
"Show us your tits, fancy girl!"
"Let's see your jugs!"
"You don't feel so high and mighty now, do you, peaches?"
"Moo-Moo! Moo-Moo! I want a milkshake!"
"Now take it off," the Sheriff ordered. "Show 'em your honkers."
Both Debbie and Carrie hesitated.
"Should I get the strap?" the Sheriff asked.
The jeers continued as Carrie unhooked her bra and slid the straps
over her shoulders.
"Aw, she's shy! Isn't that cute!"
"Make 'em bounce, baby! Make 'em bounce."
Carrie dropped her bra to the "stage" in front of her. As she
continued to dance and blush, her "jugs" did indeed "bounce."
But the voices on the tape were relentless. "We want cunt! Show
us your gash!"
"Here, pussy-pussy-pussy! Here pussy-pussy-pussy!"
Carrie looked down. There was a huge wet spot on the front of her
pink panties. If this were truly a striptease, the men would have
a lot to jeer about.
"Please, Sheriff," Debbie pleaded. "Can't I keep my panties
on...just this once? I'm sorry I topped off my tank. I promise
I'll never do it again."
"Now, Debbie, the sign by the pump warns that overfilling your tank
can create a hazardous condition. You know what that means? It
means that, for the next 90 days, whenever I say 'drop 'em,' those
cute little underpants of yours are coming down."
He paused for dramatic effect. "Drop 'em!" he ordered.
Carrie clenched her teeth as she slowly slid her panties down to
her knees.
"I love it the way you college girls blush," the Sheriff chortled.
"Blue state girls like you, when you drop your drawers, you blush
the prettiest shade of red!"
Carrie was indeed blushing red, and, although she couldn't comment
on the precise shade, she was sure it was deep and rich.
But she kept dancing as she waited for the next order.
"Play with yourself," the Sheriff ordered. "Get that pussy nice
and wet. Spread your legs nice and wide, so all the guys can see."
Debbie protested, but Carrie didn't have to be told twice. She
didn't have to get her pussy wet -- it was already soaking -- but
she took advantage of the Sheriff's orders to spread her legs wide
and stroke herself to orgasm....
"That's a good little slut," the Sheriff said, encouragingly, as
the first wave of orgasm rocked Carrie's body. "Now turn and face
the audience, so they can see how hot you are."
Obediently, Carrie turned her head slightly and focused forward.
Carrie loved her old brownstone. Built in late Victorian times, it
was was one of the most beautiful buildings in town. It was so
wonderful, in fact, that she didn't even mind it being close to
the college campus.
It didn't matter to her that the college's male dormitory was
located so near; she never opened the curtains facing the street.
But...why were they opened now?
Her heart skipped a beat. In nearly every window of the big dorm
across the boulevard, male eyes were peering down on her.
She was in a daze. Orgasm...orgasm...boys watching...boys
watching...HER...orgasm.
It wasn't until the lengthy serial orgasm had subsided that she
was able to pull herself together enough to close the curtains.
She sank down on the rug as the music on the soundtrack faded.
Who had sent her that tape?
And how did the curtains get open?
******************************
Part 7: A Q&A
When Carrie opened her e-mail on the morning of December 20th, she
found that her leave of absence had been approved.
It had been approved both by her boss and by his boss. Her 6-month
leave of absence would begin on December 24th.
Everyone agreed it was a capital idea. She was 10 times more
productive than the other prosecutors, and she never took a
vacation. Her superiors had been worried for months that she
would burn herself out.
Everyone wished her well. She got e-mails from several co-workers
assuring her that they would abide by her request not to bother her
during her leave.
There was only one problem: Carrie had never requested a leave.
She didn't even know where to begin. She had been about to shoot
off an e-mail to her boss asking him if he had been drinking, when
she noticed that his e-mail was a response to an e-mail she had
sent asking if the leave had been approved yet....
An e-mail Carrie had never sent.
She traced back through her sent mail. It seemed to have come from
her account...it and dozens of others besides -- e-mails outlining
the terms and conditions of a solitary leave of absence, a leave
absolute and complete, a sabbatical during which she would be dead
to the world....
A sabbatical Carrie had never requested.
She was still reading the bogus e-mails when her secretary dropped
off a signed copy of her approved request.
Carrie frowned. She had never seen the form before in her life.
But that was definitely her signature.
She was about to call her boss when she noticed another form
attached to the back of her leave request. It wasn't stapled --
it was stuck, as if by static electricity.
The page appeared to be part of the transcript of some sort of Q&A
interview:
Q: Sheriff, most of the girls on the prison farm appear to have
been guilty of relatively minor misdemeanors.
A: Well...speeding, faulty safety equipment, blue law violations,
littering, that sort of thing.
Q: What is the average sentence, and how is it determined?
A: The average is about 30 days. Most of these girls are pretty
snooty, but we can break in even the toughest girl within a week.
The process -- the strip-search, the delousing, the spankings, the
work on the prison farm -- all help break down her self-esteem.
Once you get a girl whoring for you, the next three weeks are
just pure profit.
Q: Do you ever keep a girl longer than 30 days?
A: Yeah, if we're short of girls or we need a particular type of
girl for something special, like a video. It's kind of funny
though -- a girl who's been on the farm 30 days is the better
person for it: more polite, less bitchy, more sensitive to others.
I think that, in a strange way, sucking all those dicks teaches
them not to be so full of themselves.
"But, if you keep them for more than a couple of months, then they
often can take it too far. You got girls who practically pee
themselves when a man raises his voice. You can't send a girl back
to college when she can't even talk to you without staring at her
shoes. Sometimes the girls end up humping at some nickel-and-dime
whorehouse. They're just not good for much else!
Q: What's the longest you ever held a girl?
A: Six months. But that's only if we have a girl who really needs
to be taught a lesson.
Carrie gasped. Six months! The exact length of her leave of
absence....
She felt a chill run down her spine as she pictured herself locked
away in some hellish prison for six long months. No one would miss
her.... No one would even know she was gone.
She checked the date on her leave of absence form. It began on
December 24th.
She swallowed. That was only 4 days away.
******************************
Part 8: HITTING THE SHOWERS
The anonymous e-mail Carrie received at her office the next morning
appeared to be from the same source as before. The message was
crisp:
GO TO THE POOL AT THE WINSTON CLUB AT THE CORNER OF
SYCAMORE AND VINE AT 10AM. ASK MISS JACKSON, THE SWIM
COACH, IF YOU CAN PRACTICE WITH THE GIRLS.
The message was so succinct that at first she thought it was a
mistake...or perhaps spam. But it had come from the same anonymous
server as the last e-mail, and the corner of Sycamore and Vine was
only a few blocks away.
She didn't have time to go home for her suit, but there was a shop
on the way. She was able to pick up a discreet, one-piece black
number. It was not particularly revealing. She knew her looks
were such that she didn't need to brag.
The guard manning the desk at the entrance to the club confirmed
that Miss Jackson would begin practice with the girls from the
junior college swim team in a few minutes.
"However, it is a private club, and, since you're not a member of
the team...." The guard paused and then took a small note out of
his pocket. "But...is your first name 'Carrie'?" he asked.
"Yes, it is," Carrie replied.
"Then go right on down," he said, with chuckle.
She tried to read what was written on the slip of paper. She
couldn't make out the words, but the script was the same cursive
style that she had seen on those letters addressed to her. On
the very top of the note was a picture of smiling reindeer.
As she walked down the stairs toward the locker room, she could
feel the guard's eyes examining her bottom.
On the way to the locker room, she walked past a classroom where a
woman was lecturing. The 25 students appeared to be college coeds,
aged about 19 or 20. The door was closed, and she stopped to look
through the glass panel.
"Can I help you?" a voice rasped from behind her.
Carrie turned. The query had come from a short, stocky female gym
coach. She was in her early fifties, apparently, wearing a t-shirt
and baggy gym shorts, with a whistle around her neck.
"Yes, I'm looking for Miss Jackson," Carrie said.
"I'm Jackson," the woman responded, curtly. "What do you want?"
"My name is Carrie, and I was...."
Jackson smiled. "You're the fancy pants lawyer. I should have
guessed from the duds. Turn around so I can have a look at you."
Carrie turned slowly in a circle as Miss Jackson looked her up and
down in a most unwholesome way. "Not bad...not bad at all,"
Jackson said, approvingly. "You have a nice little ass on you,
Fancy Pants."
Carrie felt herself flush as Jackson laughed, but she went on.
"Actually, I was wondering.... May I practice with the other
girls?"
"Of course you can, Princess", Jackson said. "After all, I don't
want a lump of coal in MY stocking, either."
"If I can just change into my suit...." Carrie reached into her
bag and held up her black suit.
"Not so fast, honey pie," Jackson replied. "State law requires a
shower before entering the pool area." She slowly ran her eyes up
and down Carrie's lithe body. "A nude shower," she added, with a
leer. "Follow me. Girls can't shower without adult supervision."
Carrie wasn't a "girl," and she certainly wasn't in need of "adult
supervision." Yet she dutifully followed the forceful Miss Jackson
into the locker room.
She felt a rush of panic as she walked past the shower area. Her
own health club had private shower stalls, with an enclosed
changing area.
In stark contrast, this locker room had a large gang shower. The
shower area itself, measuring about 20 X 30 feet, was sunk about 2
inches into the floor, with numerous grated drains. A series of
overhead pipes directed the spray of water over the girls.
Carrie felt her fear building as she realized that there were no
walls, no curtains, and no partitions of any kind. She had gone
to a private school largely to avoid a shower like this. Although
she was extremely good-looking, the thought of showering in front
of a group of naked women caused her stomach to flip flop.
They proceeded on into the coach's office. And Carrie noted, with
dismay, that the large glass window gave the butch gym coach a
perfect view of the shower area.
"Take off your clothes," Miss Jackson ordered.
"Excuse me?" Carrie blinked.
"You heard me. Strip down to your birthday suit."
"But...I showered at home," Carrie offered, lamely.
Miss Jackson frowned and picked up the phone. "Tell the boys I got
a girl down here who doesn't want to take her shower. Yeah, I know
it's state law. Tell 'em I need some help."
By the time Miss Jackson had put down the phone, Carrie was already
unbuttoning her blouse.
"There's no need to call anyone," she said.
As Carrie spoke, the locker rooms doors burst open, and the sound
of girlish chatter filled the room.
"Hurry up, Princess," Miss Jackson said, with a smile. "You need
to get your scrub down just like all the rest."
Down to her bra and panties, Carrie hesitated.
"Birthday suit, Princess," Miss Jackson said with a tight smile.
"Or don't you understand what the word 'naked' means?"
Carrie did indeed understand the word 'naked.' Unfortunately, so
did the two guards now standing behind her.
She was just dropping her underpants into the clothing basket on
Miss Jackson's desk when she heard the appreciative whistles.
"Isn't she a little piece of heaven?" the first guard asked.
"She gets my vote for Miss December," his partner added.
Carrie tried to cover herself from the admiring gaze of the two
leering guards lounging in the office's doorway. She recognized
the first guard from the front desk, but his older partner was a
new face.
"What seems to be the problem?" the first guard asked.
"Miss Modesty here didn't want to shuck down for her shower," Miss
Jackson explained. "Apparently she thinks she's better than
everybody else."
"Well, she's certainly not bad," the older guard chuckled.
"She might have drugs," the first guard said, trying to hide his
smile. "Maybe we should search her."
"But where would I be hiding...?" Carrie's query was cut short as
Miss Jackson grabbed her by the back of the neck and forced her to
bend down, over the desk.
Hunched over the desk was a humiliating pose, but not humiliating
enough. "Spread 'em," the first guard barked, punctuating his
command by kicking Carrie's legs back, and then apart.
The iron grip of Miss Jackson's hand on her neck prevented Carrie
from looking back. But, reflected in the glass window, she could
watch the smiling guards slip on their rubber gloves.
"You first, Lakewood?" the first guard said.
"No, no. Please, after you, Searchem," the older man replied.
Searchem took his time, slowing sliding his finger around, in, and
up Carrie's exposed sex.
Carrie could see through the window that a number of the girls had
finished stripping and were now soaping themselves up in the
showers. But the window worked both ways. The girls nudged each
other and pointed at Carrie as she winced and grimaced through her
shameful examination.
It was obvious the other naked women found Carrie's predicament to
be the height of comedy.
"Don't waste time lubing up, Lakewood," Searchem advised. "She's
got the wettest beaver I've ever seen!"
Carrie winced at the embarrassing but altogether accurate
description of her sopping sex.
In, out...in, out...all around. "Now lets check her brownie!" the
guard said, brightly.
Carrie bit her lip in anguish as he fingered her rectum. One of
the girls in the shower winked at her and then burst into laughter.
Carrie started to rise, but Miss Jackson's grip was firm. "Not so
fast, sweet stuff. We're just getting started!"
"Your turn, Lakewood," Searchem said, cheerfully.
Carrie clenched her teeth as the process was repeated. In,
out...in, out. Every nook and cranny.
The audience in the showers was larger now. More naked girls.
More knowing smiles. More pointing. More cruel laughter.
"Hmmm, her poop chute is really tight," Lakewood observed. "I'll
bet that cornholing her'd be like fucking a rubber band."
Carrie had never had anal sex. She had fantasized about it, of
course, but "nice girls" didn't do things like that.
Of course, "nice girls" didn't get finger-fucked by grinning
minimum wage rent-a-cops, either.
She started to straighten up as Miss Jackson released her grip.
But another hand pushed her down.
"Your turn, Jackson!" Searchem said.
The showers were almost full now, and a large and enthusiastic
crowd watched Miss Jackson finger-fuck Carrie. Her explorations
were shorter, but no less enthusiastic.
Carrie gasped as she felt something warm and gooey spread across
her sex.
"No pussy hair in the pool, your highness," Miss Jackson said, with
a chuckle. "This will leave you nice and bare. It'll burn a bit,
but that bush won't grow back for at least a couple of months."
It did indeed burn a bit, and Carrie tried to reach back to offer
herself some relief. The response was a hard slap across her
totally exposed bottom cheeks.
"Keep still; it'll be done in a second."
Carrie stared straight ahead. One of the girls in the shower was
mimicking her, covering her crotch with her hands and then hopping
from foot to foot as if her pussy were burning. The other girls
in the shower laughed heartily at the parody.
Carrie looked the girls over. Not a one of them had pubic hair.
Apparently the ordeal she was experiencing now was standard
procedure.
"I'm being processed," Carrie thought, as Miss Jackson rubbed the
cream into her burning crotch. "This is why they sent me here.
They wanted to get me ready. In prison I'd be processed all the
time! I'd be stripped and probed...and disinfected...whenever
they felt like it!"
Her thoughts were cut short by another hard slap across her bottom.
"Go rinse off. Hurry up, but be thorough! I don't want to smell
any of that perfume on you in the pool."
Carrie obediently headed toward the shower. Lakewood gave her
fanny a hard slap as she passed, and she quickened her pace,
absolutely scurrying the rest of the way.
She felt sick as she stumbled into the shower. She was the
stranger, the outsider.
She was the "new fish."
Carrie took her place with the 25 other naked girls.
As she washed off the cream it became clear to one and all that
Carrie's pud was now totally stripped of its hair.
"Bare as a billiard ball," one girl said.
"I like her better without her pubes!"
Carrie ignored the sniggering remarks and concentrated on washing
the burn out of her bare pussy.
"Do you need some help with that?" a voice said.
Carrie turned. The girl who was standing there was at least 6 feet
tall, with short black hair.
"I'm okay," Carrie mumbled.
"Oh, I think you need some help." The amazon nodded, and two girls
grabbed Carrie's wrists.
Carrie struggled in vain as the large butch co-ed stuck her tongue
into her mouth.
The shrill of a whistle interrupted Carrie's first lesbian kiss.
"Out of the showers, ladies!" Coach Jackson barked. "Time to
stretch out before you hit the pool.
"We'll catch you after class, Princess," the large girl warned.
Carrie tried to head back towards the office to get her suit, but
Miss Jackson stood in the door.
"Where do you think YOU'RE going, Princess?"
"I need my suit," Carrie said, meekly.
"We swim birthday bare!" Coach Jackson explained. "Now MARCH!"
Coach Jackson's command was punctuated by a sharp SMACK! across
Carrie's wet behind.
Shuffling submissively out into the pool area, she gathered with
the other girls by the side of the pool and followed along as Miss
Jackson ordered them through their warm up exercises.
There was a knowing smile on Jackson's cruel face as Carrie spread
her legs and began doing her squats....
******************************
Part 9: ONE WAY TICKET
The overnight package arrived at 10:30 AM. It contained only a
ticket to someplace down south that she had never heard of and a
rental car reservation.
The flight was to depart early on December 24, and the ticket was
one-way.
Was it a mistake? By this time Carrie knew too much to believe
in coincidence. Sure enough, the answer arrived in the afternoon
mail.
Dear Carrie,
Thank you for your letter. It is not uncommon for women
to have the sexual fantasies you described, although I
don't get letters like yours very often.
Needless to say, you are welcome to tour our facilities.
I'll be happy to give you an 'inside look,' as you put it.
But I have to warn you that, after seeing that hot picture
you sent of yourself, I'm of a mind to think that one
'inside look' deserves another!
I have got to say I wasn't too pleased with your political
views. Our state is about as red as they come, and we
don't like outside agitators, who think they're better
than everyone else, telling us how stupid we are. That
article you sent me showing that states that voted
Republican were 'dumber' and had a lower IQ than states
that voted Democrat was typical of the sort of smart-ass,
college-educated, snooty bullshit that makes folks around
here hate liberals.
Support our President! Support our Troops!
By the way, that joke you made about me looking like a big
fat doughnut was really funny. It reminded me of a new law
we had passed about showing disrespect to members of the
police department or the armed forces. I was showing one
of the new guys how to type it into the system, and the
gosh-darndest thing happened -- an arrest warrant popped
out with your name on it!
The warrant is attached. If you bring it my jail on 12/24,
I promise you will get a COMPLETE tour of our facilities
and an 'inside look' at the procedures we use to turn
snooty, elitist liberals into submissive, obedient fuck
bunnies. Try to get here by 1PM. We're having a Christmas
party for some of the old geezers from the retirement home,
and I'm sure they'd love to watch me put you through your
paces.
The Sheriff
PS: As to the length of your stay, we'll decide that after
you get here. But, if you get smart with me, don't worry
about packing a lot of clothes, as we take care of that
sort of stuff for girls like you.
******************************
The letter left Carrie stunned. As a prosecutor, her politics were
extremely conservative, and she had no patience for liberal sob
stories about the poor and disenfranchised. Though her enormous
trust fund ensured that she would never have to work, she had
become a prosecutor because she enjoyed putting people in jail.
She smiled. She was good at her job, convicting innocent and
guilty alike. There was something about that look in a person's
eyes when the judge slammed the gavel down and they realized their
lives were over.
Carrie had had no patience with her liberal professors at Harvard,
and, after graduation, she had done her best to fix the wagon of
all who had crossed her path. The idea that someone had portrayed
her as a liberal was truly comical.
There was only one possible conclusion. The person who had
written the letter wanted to make sure that she received the
harshest treatment possible. She was being led to the altar
of the culture wars like a sacrificial animal.
The Sheriff would shear the little liberal of her pride and
dignity, with all of the old men watching. She would be alone,
helpless, and defenseless. It would be mutton and lamb chops for
dinner!
The car rental was a "special." The person who had made the
reservation had arranged for Carrie to be getting a Toyota Prius.
She would therefore be driving the greenest liberal-mobile on earth
into the land of pickups and SUVs. She might as well be wearing a
t-shirt that read, "I'm an elitist liberal snob" on the front and
"Fuck you, REDNECKS!" on the back.
Yes, Carrie would certainly be dealt with properly.
******************************
Sitting in the bath that night, she read "One Question Too Many"
over and over. Her hand drifted south, as she imagined the scene.
A box with her name on it....
An open shower stall....
A picture window....
The gleaming stirrups.
Her orgasm was so violent that she slopped bathwater over the edge
of the tub and across the floor.
As she slipped between the sheets, she considered her options
carefully. She could ignore the warrant, of course. It was
utterly bogus, and she knew there was no way her attorney friends
would ever let her be extradited to that hillbilly jurisdiction.
She could remain in her luxurious home...safe, warm, and dry.
Dry as a bone.
Or...she could use the ticket to make all of her deepest, darkest
sexual fantasies a reality.
"It wouldn't be that bad," she told herself. "I'm sure the Sheriff
is a reasonable man. I'll just explain that I'm not really the
kind of girl he's after. I'm not some liberal lefty who needs to
be taught a lesson. I am a career woman, true, but I am his sister
in law enforcement. I don't need a lesson in humility...well,
maybe I do, but that's not the point...exactly. I'm not just
another little rich girl that he can transform into some bimbo,
because...well, because I'm different, that's all. He'll be
able to see that the moment I hand him my arrest warrant...surely."
She decided to wear her gray charcoal suit and her wire-rimmed
glasses. No contact lenses; the glasses made her look older and
more professional. The Sheriff would know the instant he saw her
that she wasn't -- and could never be -- some submissive little
"fuck bunny."
In her imagination, she became the mistress of the situation. She
would explain the mistake to the Sheriff. She would display her
credentials, parade her conservative beliefs. He would laugh and
shake her hand. Perhaps he would even buy her lunch...or give her
the key to the city.
Carrie's imaginary triumph allowed her to relax enough to sleep.
Like many a little girl at Christmas, she slumbered, as visions
of sugarplums danced her head.
******************************
Part 10: THE CLOTHES MAKE THE WOMAN
In truth, Carrie still had a lot of work in her in-box. She had a
whole bunch of people (some innocent, some guilty) whom she had
planned on chucking into jail before the Christmas holidays.
Once the mysterious letters started arriving, however, her
all-important conviction rate began to seem less and less
important.
The 23rd was her last day at work, and she spent most of it in
saying goodbye to colleagues who dropped by to wish her well on
her six-month sabbatical, and in shuffling off her cases to junior
staffers.
She was purposely evasive when people asked her what she would be
doing. How could she tell them that she could going to prison --
a prison where she would be chained, over-worked, abused, degraded,
and possibly even pimped out?
Not that something like that would REALLY happen. After all, she
hadn't committed a crime. She would stroll into the Sheriff's
office and slap the bogus arrest warrant onto his desk.
She could be extremely persuasive. Yes, the Sheriff would be no
trouble at all.
Carrie spent a lot of the afternoon thinking about her shoes. The
Guccis made her look taller, but they might be a tad too dressy.
Perhaps the Versaces would be better....
Which would the Sheriff prefer? She knew the Sheriff would like
her. And, once she explained who she was and how much she admired
his approach to justice, she was confident that they would be come
friends.
Maybe the Sheriff would allow her to prosecute one of the little
bimbos he'd run in for speeding. Court appearances were always a
power trip, and the knowledge that she'd be sending an innocent
woman to the chain gang gave Carrie a wicked thrill.
The final package arrived just before 5, by special delivery.
Pasted to the top was a tiny decal of an elf wrapping a package.
CARRIE,
PLEASE DON'T WORRY YOUR PRETTY LITTLE HEAD THAT YOU'RE
NOT AS LIBERAL AS THE NOTE TO THE SHERIFF IMPLIED.
AFTER ALL, YOU'VE NEVER BEEN PARTICULAR ABOUT WHAT YOU
SENT PEOPLE TO PRISON FOR -- OR WHETHER THEY WERE GUILTY
OR INNOCENT -- AND I SEE NO REASON TO START NOW.
SINCE YOU'VE COME THIS FAR, I THOUGHT MAYBE YOU'D LIKE TO
GO A LITTLE FARTHER. ENCLOSED IS THE OUTFIT YOU ARE TO
WEAR TOMORROW WHEN YOU VISIT THE SHERIFF. YOU MUST WEAR
THESE CLOTHES -- AND NOTHING ELSE -- OR THE DEAL'S OFF,
AND YOU WON'T GET YOUR PRESENT.
YOU MAY ALSO BRING YOUR DRIVER'S LICENSE, THE ARREST
WARRANT, AND $50 IN CASH IN THE ENCLOSED PURSE. (AND
WEAR THOSE CUTE WIRE-RIMMED GLASSES OF YOURS. I WOULDN'T
WANT YOU TO HAVE AN ACCIDENT, AND, BESIDES, THEY MAKE YOU
LOOK SO INTELLECTUAL.) PACK NOTHING ELSE.
I'LL SEE YOU TOMORROW NIGHT. ALL OF YOUR QUESTIONS WILL
BE ANSWERED THEN.
******************************
Carrie twirled in front of her bedroom mirror. No matter how
slowly she moved, the ultra-short denim skirt always seemed to
flip up and show her panties, emblazoned with candy canes.
Not that the top was much better. It was a HARVARD crop-top
t-shirt that just covered her candy cane bra, but left her
midsection attractively bare.
The sneakers and white ankle socks she was wearing were definitely
not Gucci.
She frowned as she examined her reflection. She had planned to
present the image of a sophisticated professional, but the girl
who was staring back at her looked like a co-ed bimbo.
How was she going to convince the Sheriff that she was a real
prosecutor, someone to be taken seriously, if she couldn't bring
her badge or her credentials? How was she going to explain that
she wasn't just another bimbo ripe for processing if she looked
like she'd just jumped off the front of PLAYBOY's "Girls of the
Ivy League" issue?
It was hopeless.
The arrest warrant would be executed.
And then she'd be processed.
Why did it have to be HARVARD? She did get her law degree there,
but she'd had no intention of telling the Sheriff that.
It was like having a "LIBERAL INTELLECTUAL ELITE" label stamped on
her forehead.
If college girls got extra spanks for being "snooty," how many
spanks would a HARVARD girl get? Carrie felt her fanny tighten
as she pictured the empty wooden spanking bench.
It wouldn't be empty for long.
Mindful of airport security procedures, she decided to wear a sweat
shirt and jeans (and carry her bimbo top and skirt in a paper bag)
until she got off the plane, despite instructions.
She went to bed early that evening and did her best to sleep. She
knew tomorrow was likely to be a very long day.
******************************
Part 11: DIXIE
The flight itself was a uneventful. And, after picking up her
rental car, Carrie drove a few miles before stopping at a gas
station to change into her bimbo outfit.
The transformation was dramatic and instantaneous. When she
entered the station and asked where the ladies' room was, the
respectful young attendant addressed her as "Ma'am."
But, when she emerged from the rest room, the same attendant
greeted her with a wolf whistle. "Where did you come from,
sweet cheeks?"
She glanced out the window at the obnoxious "Kerry/Edwards" bumper
sticker on her rental Prius. "Do you have anything that can remove
a bumper sticker?" she asked the leering clerk.
"Why don't you suck it off?" he replied. "That hot little mouth of
yours looks like it could handle anything."
She should have slapped his face. But whether it was the clothes,
or her nervousness, or just the fact that it was Christmas Eve,
Carrie found herself blushing as she scurried out to her rental
car to avoid the clerk's lascivious laughter.
******************************
A couple of hours later, she reached her destination, well before
1PM, and seated herself nervously on a park bench a few yards from
the Sheriff's office.
She was at the right place, at the right time, and wearing the
right clothes. All she had to do was to go through the front
door. But she was petrified.
Her panic attack was interrupted by a nervous teenage voice. "Did
you really go to Harvard?"
She turned, to discover that the voice came from a thin, gawky
teenage boy who was staring at her cropped "Harvard" t-shirt.
"Yes, I did," she replied. "I graduated with honors from Harvard
Law."
"Wow!" the boy said. "Is it really as tough as they say? My
grades are great, but I don't know if I could afford Harvard."
"There are a lot of scholarships," Carrie replied. "If your
grades and test scores are good enough, there's nothing you
can't accomplish."
The boy sat down next to her and began to discuss his academic
plans. She quickly learned that his name was Timmy, that his
favorite subjects were history and math (but that he got an "A"
in everything, and that he had just turned 18 today. He wanted
to go on to college, but his grandfather wanted him to join the
Sheriff's office "to make some real money." Timmy didn't have a
girlfriend, and Carrie was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
The conversation was warm and congenial, with Carrie easily batting
away the younger man's fumbling attempts at flirtation. It was
only when the subject turned to her presence in town that things
grew tense.
"I kind of...um...got this arrest warrant in the mail...by
accident," she said, as she showed Timmy the document. "I
was supposed to show up today to talk to the Sheriff, to get
this all cleared up."
Timmy surveyed the warrant gravely. "I don't think you should
go in there, Miss Paris. Just leave the warrant with me. One
of my friends is a deputy -- he'll take care of it. You should
just get out of town."
"I don't understand," Carrie said.
"My grandpa is going to meet me here in a couple of minutes," he
explained. "It's my 18th birthday, and the Sheriff promised
Grandpa that I could watch them process some little bimb.... I
mean...they're going to get some girl ready for the prison farm."
"Are there any girls waiting to be processed?" she asked.
"No...not yet," he said, nervously. "Do you trust me, Carrie?"
"Um...I guess so...."
"Good. And you know I'm trying to help you, right? So you'll do
what I say?"
Carrie considered the proposition. Timmy was so earnest and
wholesome. If she had let outside forces get her into this,
maybe it was best to let another outside force get her out of it.
"My fate is in your hands," she said, truthfully.
Timmy smiled. "Like I said, if you give me the warrant and
leave...."
"You'll do no such thing," another male voice crackled.
Carrie turned to see a wizened, bald figure waving his cane in the
air. "What's wrong with you, boy? You trying to screw up your
present?"
"Grandpa!" Timmy said. "I wasn't expecting you so soon. Let me
introduce you to my friend, Carrie Paris...."
"She ain't your friend, she's your present," the old man barked.
"Get your skinny ass over here."
The old man put his shopping bag down and waved Timmy over. Carrie
couldn't hear most of the conversation, but at one point the old
man's voice rang out, loud and clear:
"Well, she may or may not be your FRIEND, but if you want to FUCK
her, you'll do what I say."
Timmy walked over to Carrie. "Do you want me to leave, Timmy?" she
asked.
"Uh...I haven't decided yet," he replied, tentatively. "I need to
talk to the Sheriff first. But give me that arrest warrant."
She handed over the warrant. She looked into Timmy's eyes and
could sense his desire to do good. She knew he would do the
right thing.
Timmy walked across the street to the Sheriff's office, leaving
Carrie alone with the old man, who carefully kept his distance.
She glanced at the shopping bag that the old man had left near her
bench when he had pulled Timmy aside. To her amusement, she
noticed a large package of adult disposable diapers sticking out
of the top of the bag.
So the man who was obviously conspiring to have her thrown into
jail had an embarrassing vulnerability. Her prosecutor persona
awakened instantly.
"What's the matter, Grandpa? Can't you hold your water any more?"
She smiled, brightly. "Cleanup in Aisle 3...."
The old man hobbled over to stuff the diapers deeper into the bag.
"Damn whippersnapper!" he cursed. "I'm still young enough to teach
you a good lesson, college girl. You won't be so smart when the
Sheriff tans your pampered ass."
"Don't get your hopes up, Grandpa. Even now, your offspring is
arranging for the charges to be dropped."
"Are you sure about that?" the old man asked, pointing at the
window.
Carrie looked through the huge picture window built into the
front of the Sheriff's office. She could see Timmy talking
to a buck-toothed deputy.
Timmy appeared to mesmerized by the sight of the grinning deputy
snapping the shiny steel stirrups into place on the examination
table.
She grimaced. Even from a distance, the evil stirrups glistened
venomously.
As a final, mocking touch, a tiny Santa ornament had been attached
to each of the infernal stirrups. Carrie felt a chill as the
smiling Santas swung back and forth.
Obviously curious, Timmy carefully examined the stirrups. It
was clear that the young man found the widely splayed stirrups
strangely fascinating.
The examination table was directly in front of the big picture
window. If Carrie WERE arrested, she would be spread out nicely
there, for one and all to see.
Carrie's trance was broken by the sound of another old croaker's
voice. "Is this the little honey who's going to take a ride in
the stirrups for us?" an old man was asking Timmy's grandfather.
"No!" Carrie replied, angrily.
"Yup!" Grandpa chuckled. "She's going to spread those long legs of
hers nice and wide! Bet she loses some of her sass when she sees
all us old geezers staring at her gash."
But then a friendly voice interrupted. "It's okay, Carrie. I've
taken care of everything."
She turned at the sound of Timmy's voice to find that her young
defender had returned from his trip to the Sheriff's office.
She gave Grandpa a triumphant "I-told-you-so!" smile before turning
back to Timmy.
"So I can go?" she asked.
"Uh...no. Well, you have to check in with the Sheriff's office
first. They'll take care of it in there."
Carrie looked over at the picture window. The stirrups were still
in place.
"Are you sure?" she asked, nervously.
"You said your fate was in my hands," the boy replied. "I guess
that means you pretty much have to do what I say."
Carrie looked at the two old men. Now it was Grandpa's turn to
grin.
Grandpa couldn't walk very fast, so the march across the street
to the jail proceeded slowly. To her disgust, Carrie noticed
the second old man moving to get a front row position in front
of the enormous picture window.
The deputy was placing a large black carton in the window. The
label on the carton read:
PARIS, CARRIE
#338-3838-3484
Carrie swallowed. It was her processing carton!
Timmy noticed Carrie's look of horror as her carton appeared in the
window. "Like I said, I've taken care of everything," he said,
lamely. "The judge will need to hear your case to throw out your
warrant. That's probably just the document box they'll put the
legal papers and stuff in."
"It's not for...m-my cl-clothes?" she stammered.
Timmy smiled and pushed Carrie through the now open door. "There
may be some...er...sanitary procedures," he said, lightly. "But
I'm sure it's for your own good."
She felt queasy as she saw the smiling Santas swinging jauntily
from the stirrups. "You must be Carrie Paris; I'm Deputy Chester,"
the man on duty said.
"Yes...sir," Carrie replied. "I don't belong here. That warrant's
a big mistake."
"Of course it is," Chester replied, assuming the air of man who has
seen it all before. "If you'll just follow me, I'll show you to
one of the specially appointed waiting rooms we've set up for
upstanding young ladies such as yourself to await the results
of our lowly paper shuffling."
Carrie was led towards the back of the jail. She paused in
confusion as the deputy opened the cell door. "Right this way,
your majesty," he said, as he shoved her inside.
She turned as the cell door clanged shut behind her. She grabbed
the bars and called out. "This is a mistake. You can't put me in
a cell. I haven't done anything wrong. Timmy, you said you took
care of everything."
Timmy smiled indulgently. "I said that I'd take care of your
warrant," he said, as if explaining simple facts to a child.
"The judge will rule on the validity of the warrant...after
you've been processed."
"Processed?" Carrie gasped. "What do you mean...'processed'?"
Grandpa chuckled. "Do you still have that checkers set, deputy?"
the old man asked. "I'd like to teach my wet-behind-the-ears
grandson that his Grandfather still knows a thing or two about
the game."
Carrie watched dizzily as the smiling old man set up the checkers
on the examination table. Timmy and Gramps pulled up two stools
and began to play.
They used the stirrups as cup holders for the Christmas eggnog.
To her humiliation, she noted that Grandpa had placed the board to
cover the exact spot her bare ass would rest during her upcoming
"examination."
As predicted, Grandpa beat the boy hands down. Each time he took
a piece, or got kinged, the old man would look over at Carrie,
smile, and playfully flick one of the little stirrup Santas so
that it spun around.
Carrie clenched both the bars and her teeth as she watched the
"game" in helpless frustration.
Tick, tock, tick tock. With each passing moment, the crowd in the
picture window grew.
As promised, the bus from the retirement home arrived right on
time. It was warm outside, almost balmy, so it was easy enough
to line up the seven wheelchairs so that each of the geezers had
a front row seat.
By the time Grandpa clinched the game, the picture window was
filled with eager spectators.
Men, dragged out by their wives for last minute Christmas shopping,
found something better to watch than ESPN on the department store
television.
Carrie suffered mixed feelings as Grandpa cleared away the game.
On the one hand, she was glad that the endless waiting was over
and that there would be no more time for other spectators to arrive.
But she knew what the empty examination table meant.
"That sure was fun, Grandpa," Timmy said.
Grandpa laughed. "If you think THAT was fun, wait until you see
the next game piece we put up here."
Carrie blushed as Grandpa cheerfully patted the end of the exam
table to denote where the next "game piece" would go, and the
three men laughed at her expense.
She was led out of her cell and ordered to stand on a large red X
directly next to the examination table.
Chester asked Timmy to bring the carton over, and he dutifully
complied, giving Carrie a playful little "sorry!" shrug as he
placed the carton on the exam table and tossed her tiny purse
inside.
"I expect you to cooperate, Carrie," the deputy intoned solemnly.
"If you don't, I might have to ask Timmy and some of the boys
outside to give me a hand. Now, are you going to be a good
little girl and do as you're told?"
Carrie stared at her shoes and nodded.
"Say it, girl!"
"I-I'll be g-good...a-a good l-little girl...s-sir."
"Well, I hope so," Chester patronized. "Take off your shoes and
socks, and put them in the carton."
Carrie complied. As she took off her first sock, she braced
herself by grabbing one of the stirrups. It gave her a tiny
shock, and she wobbled awkwardly for a moment.
"Those stirrups come as a shock to a lot of girls, I imagine,"
Grandpa snorted.
She removed her second sock and placed it in the crate, while the
three men once again shared a laugh at her expense.
"Take off your shirt," Chester ordered. "Fold it neatly, and put
it in the carton."
As she pulled the HARVARD t-shirt over her head, Carrie once again
heard the old man's creaky voice.
"Ever think you'd see Harvard hooters, son?"
"Only in my dreams, Grandpa," Timmy replied, enthusiastically.
"Thanks again. This is the best birthday present ever."
The deputy chuckled as the little candy canes on the bra came into
view. "Well, aren't those Christmas-y?"
"I wonder if her milk is peppermint flavored," Grandpa snickered.
"Now the skirt, Princess," Chester ordered. "In the box with the
rest of it."
Carrie grimaced. She had been working like a Trojan to keep her
candy cane panties covered by her minuscule skirt.
Gritting her teeth, she obeyed.
"I see Paris, I see France, I see candy cane underpants!" Timmy
snickered.
But Grandpa's eyes were keener still. "Look at that stain in the
front," he said, gleefully. "I thought I smelled something. The
little vixen's wetter than a Havana whore house!"
Carrie tried to cover her underpants, but it was too late. Even
the men in the window had seen her shameful stain. She blushed
and squirmed as the men laughed and pointed and made sly remarks
at her expense.
She was almost relieved when the order came to remove her bra.
She turned her back in order to keep her breasts shielded for a
few moments longer. Naked, except for her panties, she looked
tearfully back over her shoulder at the huge crowd of grinning
lechers.
"Get the baggies, Timmy," the deputy ordered. "The Sheriff likes
to bag squirrel covers like hers when they're hot and wet."
She involuntarily clenched her thighs together. Her panties were
definitely hot...and soaking wet.
Timmy extracted a baggie from the box and attached a bar-coded tag
with her name and prisoner number.
The deputy extracted a picture of Carrie from a file he had sitting
on his desk. The photo was part of a press release that had named
her "Prosecutor of the Year." The woman in the picture was dressed
in a smart charcoal business suit. She looked nothing like the
knock-kneed bimbo who trembled next to the exam table wearing
nothing but her candy cane underpants!
Carrie felt dizzy as a smiling Timmy walked up to her with the
humiliating panty bag.
"Please, Timmy.... Please don't bag my panties. They'll put
them in the window next to my picture, and then everyone will
think...they'll think...."
"They'll think we got ourselves a fresh piece of high class gash
for Christmas," the grandfather snickered. "When they see how wet
you are, the men'll be lining up to give you a pony ride."
"Please, Timmy," Carrie said. "Don't let them search me! I swear
I'm not hiding anything!"
"It's your birthday present, Timmy," the deputy said. "We can skip
the panty bag -- and the search too -- if you want. We could just
let her get dressed in the Sheriff's office if you want."
Time seemed to stop as Timmy considered his options. Carrie looked
at the 18-year-old with tearful, pleading eyes.
Timmy looked Carrie up and down slowly before reaching his decision.
"Those little underpants are so cute, it would be a pity not to let
the whole town see them. And...if you didn't want it, why are you
so wet?"
Carrie looked at her bare feet, too embarrassed to answer.
"You were pretty sassy out there, when you thought you were going
to get off," Timmy observed. "Teasing me about being a virgin and
all. Well, maybe Grandpa is right. Maybe you DO need to be taught
a lesson."
Timmy smiled and held up the bag. "Those panties sure do look cute
on that sweet little ass of yours. But they're going to look even
cuter in the bag. Take 'em off."
Carrie bit her lip and slid the panties down to her ankles before
stepping out of them.
Even through the glass Carrie could hear the laughter and whistles
from the crowd as her shapely bottom came into view.
"My, aren't they fragrant!" Grandpa chuckled. "Smells like she was
diddling herself all the way from Harvard."
Timmy snapped his fingers twice as Carrie nervously clutched her
panties. "Hand 'em over," he said, clearly relishing his position
of authority.
She reached over her shoulder and dropped the panties into the open
bag.
"No, no, no...that'll never do," Timmy chuckled. "They need to be
folded nicely, so the candy canes are all lined up, and people can
see the red trim outline. There...now that big, wet, gooey stain
is right below your name!"
Carrie bit her lip as she watched the smiling youngster seal the
bag...and her fate. From now on, no matter what she did or how
high she climbed, she would have to deal with the reality that she
was just another bagged bimbo in the Sheriff's enormous collection.
"So what's next, Timmy?" the deputy asked. "It's getting kind of
late. We can just get her dressed, if you don't have time for
the search. It's not like she's carrying any contraband."
Timmy smiled as Carrie stared at him with huge, doe-like eyes.
"I'm not so sure," he said. "Are you carrying any contraband,
Carrie?"
"No. I-I mean...no, sir." She hoped that deference might buy
leniency from the grinning young man.
Timmy slowly ran his hand over a cold metal stirrup and down to the
table. She blushed as he playfully patted the end of the table --
exactly the spot where every eye would be focused...if he decided
to examine her.
"Mount up," Timmy said quietly.
******************************
Part 12: THE...ER...CLIMAX
"Mount up," Timmy said, quietly.
"Please, Timmy," Carrie begged. "Y-you can't do this to me!"
"Maybe we should get the strap," Grandpa said. "She'll jump up and
spread 'em from sea to shining sea after we tan her fanny."
Carrie obediently hopped up onto the table. Acutely conscious of
her nudity, she blushed crimson as she put first her left and then
her right foot into the stirrups.
"Scoot down," Deputy Chester ordered.
Carrie obeyed.
"Now spread 'em."
She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and complied.
The "oohs" and "ahhs" as her bare pussy came into view burned her
ears.
"Why doesn't she have any hair, Grandpa?" Timmy innocently asked.
"Looks like someone's already shaved that randy little twat of
hers," Grandpa replied.
"Sluts and whores do that sometimes," the deputy said, knowingly.
"Down at the strip club, a lot of fellows like it bare."
Carrie looked up. Grandpa and Timmy were bad enough, but, in the
window, she could see dozens of male eyes focused on her bare, wet
cunt.
She was so distracted by her audience that she didn't even notice
the deputy slipping on his glove.
"Geez, she sure is wet!" Chester guffawed as he unceremoniously
slid two fingers into Carrie's twat. "That sure is some hot, wet,
American pie!"
The deputy's exam was thorough, but mercifully brief. "She's a
tight little slut...probably too stuck up to get fucked regular.
But we'll take care of that. Carlos and the guards will put that
little rubber band of hers to good use!"
"Could I...have a feel?" Timmy asked, tentatively.
"Sure!" Chester said. "The more the merrier! The gloves are on
the table."
More was not merrier for Carrie, and she looked up at the deputy in
stunned disbelief.
"I'd rather not use a glove," Timmy said, sheepishly. "I'd like to
feel my first pussy bare."
"Suit yourself," the deputy replied.
"No!" Carrie shouted. "He's just a kid! He's a VIRGIN, for Pete's
sake. You can't let him finger me."
"He's 18 today," Chester said, brightly. "And, as for the virgin
part, I'm sure a nice civic-minded Harvard liberal like you would
be happy to help out a young man in need!"
Carrie winced as Timmy ran his finger over her hot, wet pussy.
"Are they always this wet?" he asked the deputy.
"It depends on the girl," Chester said, adopting a professorial
tone. "Some girls don't warm up to it, but others really get into
stripping for an audience. That's why it's good to do the searches
this way. When you have a girl who humps your hand in front of a
100 guys, you know you have a natural for the club."
Timmy took his time, slowly working his fingers into
her...probing...massaging. "Is this her clit?" he asked.
"Yup, that's it," Chester replied. "If you really want to get to
her, rub it while you search her for contraband."
The "search" was really just an extended grope, and now Carrie had
to deal with the added humiliation of being masturbated in front of
crowd of horny onlookers.
She forced herself to open her eyes and look up. Timmy was
standing to one side as he diddled her, so that each onlooker
had an unobstructed view.
She surveyed the leering crowd. Every man, young and old, had a
smile on his face and a bulge in his pants.
"Please stop," she pleaded. "You're going to make me...."
But Timmy's hand was relentless. Within a few seconds, Carrie
started quivering.
She surrendered to the most monumentally humiliating, shameful, and
powerful orgasm.
"Look at the little slut's hole twitch," Grandpa said. I think
she's cumming!"
"Keep rubbing her button, boy," the deputy said, eagerly. "Let's
see if we can get her to do it again."
Much to her consternation, they did indeed get her off again...and
again after that.
By the time the deputy ordered her to get up "on all fours," Carrie
was a wasted, exhausted mess.
Though she was somewhat dazed, a sharp SPANK! across her fanny
re-awakened her to the grim reality that she was there to follow
orders.
She pressed her nose against the table, raised her fanny high, and
finally, reluctantly, spread her legs. The obscene pose brought
her wet pussy and puckered anus into full view.
"Look at that little brownie," Grandpa chuckled. "Tighter'n a
dime."
"Yeah, I'll need some lube for this one," Chester agreed.
Carrie listened to the sound of the deputy unscrewing the lid of
the jar of lubricant.
"Your finger still looks way too big to get up there," Timmy said,
thoughtfully.
"Don't talk that way, boy," Grandpa snickered. "You're making her
pucker up!"
Carrie's sphincter was indeed contracting as she mentally prepared
for the arrival of the unwanted explorer.
She clenched her anus tighter as she felt Chester's greasy, gloved
finger poke against her tight rear hole. But the finger soldiered
on.
Carrie winced in humiliation as the finger sank in, first to the
knuckle, and then all the way to the hilt.
She turned her head toward her tormenter. As if the examination
wasn't bad enough, every man in the window was watching...and
grinning.
Ha-ha-ha. The stuck up Harvard girl was taking it up the ass.
What a riot.
Since a squeamish Timmy declined his chance to debase Carrie
anally, the second examination ended more quickly than the first.
The deputy tossed her a bag with some clothes. "Get dressed," he
ordered. "It's time for your trial."
"But these are jailhouse clothes," Carrie said. "Won't I get to
dress like a civilian for my trial?"
"Why would we waste time dressing you?" he snickered. "We'd just
have to strip you again when it came time to send you to the
prison farm."
"But...I'm innocent," she protested.
"Tell it to the Judge," he snorted.
******************************
Carrie, her hands cuffed tightly behind her back, trembled
nervously in front of the enormous judicial bench. She was
wearing the outfit of a prison farm convict: cheap sneakers
with white ankle socks, skimpy orange gym shorts, and a white
half t-shirt with no bra. The back of the t-shirt had the word
"INMATE" in red letters -- and the front displayed her prisoner
number.
It wasn't lost on Carrie that her prison farm number had been
assigned to her even before her trial had begun.
The courtroom was Carrie's domain, and she relished the feeling of
power it gave her. How many times had she flirted with the jury,
wrapping them around her little finger as she sealed some poor
loser's fate?
But now she felt anything but powerful, for the poor loser was
herself.
Her legs quivered. Her voice faltered and squeaked. The cool
breeze from the ceiling fan caused her nipples to poke against
the front of her tight t-shirt, but, despite the chill, she felt
a cool trickle of sweat run down her face.
Carrie couldn't wipe the sweat away. Her hands twisted helplessly
in her cuffs as the obese, lip-smacking judge leered down at her.
"I should warn you, young lady, that I don't like sass. If you are
willing to plead guilty, and perhaps meet with me in my chambers to
discuss your case in more detail, I might be willing to let you off
with 30 days."
Carrie's breasts bobbled provocatively under her t-shirt as she
nervously shifted her weight from foot to foot. It was clear
from the disgusting smile on the judge's face what the "session
in chambers" would involve.
"But I'm innocent," Carrie squeaked. "If you'll let me defend
myself, I'll be able to prove...."
The judge's wooden gavel silenced further argument. "Have it your
way, smarty pants," he said. "I find you guilty and sentence you
to 6 months hard labor on the prison farm...AND 15 strokes of the
strap across your bare, sassy behind. You won't be so quick to
back talk after a good fanny warming!"
Carrie gasped. SIX MONTHS! The maximum? But...she was innocent!
Before she could speak, the deputy had gripped her by the scruff of
the neck and begun dragging her towards the door.
"Your Honor, I have something to say. This is not justice!"
Carrie turned at the sound of Timmy's voice. Her heart leapt with
joy!
"How so?" the judge asked.
"She's from Harvard," Timmy observed. "Doesn't that mean an extra
five strokes?"
"That it does!" the judge bellowed. "Make it so, Deputy."
"With pleasure, Your Honor," the deputy replied, as he resumed
dragging Carrie towards the door.
******************************
Carrie shivered as the smiling deputy teasingly rubbed the razor
strap across her shapely buttocks.
"Do you promise to be a good little girl?" he teased.
SNAP!
"Yes!"
"Yes, what?"
SNAP!
"Yes, sir! I p-p-promise!"
"Grandpa was telling me what a pretty mouth you have."
Despite the vulnerability of her position, Carrie snapped. "There
is no way I would let that disgusting old geezer...."
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
"I-I'm sorry! I'll do whatever you say!"
"Will you suck him dry?"
SNAP!
"Yes, sir!"
"Will you swallow every drop?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Will little Timmy be a virgin when he leaves the station tonight?"
"Please...don't make me do that," she pleaded. "Don't let
Timmy...f-fuck me!"
SNAP! SNAP!
"Oh, god! Yes, I'll do it!"
"Will you wrap your legs around him really tight, and wiggle your
fanny, and tell him how special he is?"
SNAP!
"Yes, sir."
She was a broken, contrite girl. She would blow Grandpa, and she
would fuck Timmy. She would do anything and everything she was
told, no matter how disgusting.
Her bottom tensed and squirmed. There were still 11 strokes to go!
******************************
She was still pulling up her shorts when Grandpa entered the office.
"Sounds to me like a young lady learned a lesson in respecting her
elders!" he chortled.
"Yes, sir," she said, meekly.
"I'll leave you two alone...to get better acquainted," Chester
said. "If she gives you any trouble, sir, just let me know,
and I'll come in and give her another dose."
Carrie's eyes widened. ANOTHER SPANKING?
"No, please!" she said, desperately. "I'll do anything you say.
Just don't...don't s-spank me again!"
"That will be up to him," the deputy said, nodding towards Grandpa.
"If I were you, sugar, I'd make it sweet."
The deputy closed the door, and Grandpa beckoned a very nervous
Carrie closer. "You're a very pretty girl," the old man said, as
he playfully ran his fingers through her hair. "But you really
need to learn some respect. You thought it was pretty funny when
you saw that package of diapers, didn't you?"
Carrie grimaced. She had forgotten the insult, but she knew it
would cost her now.
The old man put his hands on her slender shoulder and pushed her to
her knees. She felt a wave of revulsion as the wizened old man
unzipped his pants and extracted his wrinkled dick.
"Now this will probably take a long time, but I have a nice big
load all saved up for you," he said. "You can start by kissing
the tip, and licking those few drops off the end."
She felt like puking, but she didn't. Instead she obeyed.
The old man sighed as Carrie took his member in her mouth. "That's
a good girl. Don't worry none about getting satisfaction. When
you're done with me, Timmy's waiting outside, and he's just dying
to give you a good poke. He'll do it the old fashioned way. And
I bet you'll wiggle that sore little bottom of yours real sweet
when he gives you your poke."
Carrie tried to ignore the old man's insults and concentrate on the
business at hand. Despite her ministrations he was still partially
flaccid, and she knew she had a long night ahead of her.
******************************
Carrie sobbed softly into the mattress of the filthy cot that
was her bed. She would have cried into her pillow, or even her
blanket, if she'd had one.
She was alone now, and the jail was dark. The deputy had gone
home. In the morning, Christmas morning, she'd meet the Sheriff.
He'd drive her out to the prison farm to be stripped and showered
and deloused anew.
And then she would begin her sentence.
At least the crowds were gone. The deputy had placed the box with
her Harvard t-shirt and shamefully wet panties right in the front
window, next to her picture.
Pedestrians would stop and look at the picture of a successful
prosecutor in her crisp business suit.
Then they would see the wet candy cane panties and the humiliated
girl sitting in her cell.
The men and women would look at Carrie, blushing and squirming as
she sat on her cot in her skimpy chain gang outfit.
The men all had bulges in their pants. Carrie knew that many of
them would be future customers.
And the women, even the young, pretty ones, all looked at her with
sly, sadistic smiles. She knew what their cruel smiles meant: as
far as they were concerned, Carrie was getting just what she
deserved.
She cried herself to sleep.
******************************
Early on Christmas morning, she was awakened by a noise.
A fat, white-bearded man was quietly crossing the room, carrying
an enormous bag. He left a brightly wrapped package at each desk.
He turned to her and smiled, and the smile said it all. HE was the
one who was responsible for everything that had happened to her in
the last 12 days...and all that was going to happen in the next 6
months....
Carrie clutched the bars tightly. Her stomach ached with hunger as
she watched the fat man devour the milk and cookies the Sheriff had
left for him.
He looked at her again...and winked...and laid his finger beside
his nose...and went on his way.
MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM SEARCH'EM, LAKEWOOD, AND JOE.
Edited by C. Lakewood