In "A Good Strip Search Story," Joe posits seven characteristics 
or elements.  For your greater satisfaction, read (or re-read) the 
following story with these elements in mind.

 

       

                     BUG IN THE SYSTEM

                            by 

                         Joe Doe


NICHOLE HAD DESIGNED THE PRISON'S COMPUTER SOFTWARE, BUT SHE WAS 
TO LEARN THAT THERE WERE STILL A FEW BUGS IN THE SYSTEM.



Nichole knew that she didn't belong in the prison reception area.  
But the thrill was irresistible.

She was a computer consultant hired to redesign the prison's 
numerous systems.  When Alice, the secretary in reception, 
complained that her printer wasn't working, Nichole suspected 
that it was simply out of toner again. 

She could have explained to Alice how to install new toner 
cartridges.  But she had long ago decided that the secretary 
was too old and stupid to train, so instead she told the woman 
to go run an errand while Nichole fixed the problem herself.

After walking downstairs and quickly replacing the cartridge, she 
concluded that a test was in order.  She could merely have printed 
a test page, but decided that an actual test of the admissions 
program would be more appropriate, since this was the admissions 
area.

She entered her own name into the live system:

	INMATE ADMISSIONS PROGRAM

	LAST NAME: BLUNDERPRONE     
	FIRST NAME: NICHOLE
	CRIME: PROSTITUTION 
	SENTENCE: 6 MONTHS, HARD LABOR

She hesitated when she got to the portion of the screen marked 
"Processing Instructions."  After a long pause, she swallowed 
and clicked the check-box marked "Maximum Security Intake."

The printer quickly spit out the instructions for her admission.  
She tried to objectively review her intake order for print quality 
and spacing:

	PRISONER NMBR: 338-3834-3887-383
	NAME: BLUNDERPRONE, NICHOLE

	SENTENCE: 6 MONTHS, HARD LABOR

	INTAKE INSTRUCTIONS: CONFISCATE ALL PERSONAL PROPERTY. 
                             STRIP AND SEARCH ALL BODY CAVITIES.  
                             SHOWER, DELOUSE, AND PHOTOGRAPH.
                             ISSUE CHAIN GANG UNIFORM.

She felt a shiver run down her spine as she read the instructions.  
Until this moment, entering her own name into the inmate system 
had been something of a forbidden game to her, a careless lark to 
pass the time. 

It was chilling to see the stark processing order with her name at 
the top.  How many times had she fantasized about being imprisoned? 
How many times had she daydreamed about being stripped of her 
dignity by the same type of efficient, routine bureaucracy that 
she was an expert in developing?

The order seemed casual, almost trivial.  Strip her naked, probe 
her, shower her, delouse her.  There was no mention of Nichole's 
engineering degree from MIT or her MBA from Stanford.  Just strip 
the little slut naked and throw her in the shower, same as all the 
rest.  The computer didn't care that Nichole was the one who had 
conceived the system and designed the software.  She was just an 
input record to be processed.

She knew how dangerous her computer systems could be.  A few months 
ago, a visiting policewoman was accidentally misclassified as a 
prisoner when the system confused her badge number with an inmate 
number. 

The woman had tried to explain the mistake, but the cold, impassive 
system that Nichole had devised didn't care.  So the policewoman 
had been routinely stripped, searched, showered, and deloused. 

A few of the guards knew she was a policewoman, but, until the 
warden returned to work on Monday morning, they were powerless 
to release her.  The career law enforcement officer was forced 
to shower, eat, sleep, and labor with the other inmates.

Nichole looked nervously at the clock on the wall.  It was 4:15 in 
the afternoon, and the warden had gone home for the weekend.  It 
was not a good time for her to be standing in the reception area 
holding an order authorizing her strip-search.

The realization sent a thrill through her.  All of her life she had 
been the good girl, with the perfect grades, the perfect career, 
and the perfect life.  She had always played it safe and never 
rocked the boat, steering clear of the tawdry adventures of her 
more daring friends.

Sneaking down here and entering her name into the computer, 
however, was anything but safe, and she knew it.  It was the 
kind of spine-tingling adventure she had consciously avoided 
her entire life, and it thrilled her to the core.

She decided a final touch was in order.  She took the strip-search 
order and put it in the manila folder marked "Today's Arrivals" and 
then placed the folder in the in-box on the secretary's desk.

Seeing the folder with the humiliating instructions for her 
"processing" sitting so casually in the in-box excited Nichole 
more than ever.  The idea that a scrap of paper tossed casually 
onto a secretary's desk could strip her of identity, clothing, 
and dignity was almost unbelievable.  After all, Nicole had 
CREATED this system....  Could it really be used to strip HER 
naked?  Could things ever spin that far out of control?

Her sexual excitement was building, and she tried to look through 
the window into the reception area itself.  Unfortunately, the 
lights were switched off in the other room, and she couldn't see 
much. 
            
She swallowed and reached for the doorknob....

She paused before opening the door.  It was one thing to play with 
the computer in the office; it was an entirely different thing to 
stroll into the room where the inmates were actually "processed." 

Nichole thought of all of the women who had gone through that 
door...and the indignities that they had faced at the hands of 
the guards.  And she felt some responsibility for it, since it 
was her system that facilitated the humiliating treatment those 
women received. 

Maybe it was time for her to get a taste of her own medicine....

She pressed the buzzer, walked through the door, and turned on the 
light, shuddering as the electric door locked behind her. 

She had left her purse locked in her desk upstairs, but she had her 
key-card clipped to the front pocket of her jacket.  For a moment, 
she imagined she had left it upstairs and teetered on the edge of 
panic.  How could she have been so reckless?

She breathed a sigh of relief as she realized that the card was 
fastened securely to her jacket.  She had nothing to fear.

Or did she?

She was surprised to see that almost half of the room was filled 
with chairs sitting in front of the reception area itself.  At 
first, she thought they were for the prisoners, but then she saw 
a separate cage at the side of the room where "overflow" prisoners 
could be held. 

She went pale.  The chairs weren't for the prisoners...they were 
for the spectators on the prison tour.

Just an hour before, one of the guards -- a skinny old man named 
Harry -- had dropped by her desk with a tour group.  Today Harry 
was leading a gaggle of residents from the nearby retirement 
village on a tour of the prison as part of the "Community Friends" 
program.

Harry gave Nichole a flattering introduction that explained her 
vital role in developing the prison's systems.  "Unfortunately I 
won't be able to demonstrate the prison's intake procedure, since 
we don't have any new arrivals today," Harry announced, sadly.  
"Unless, of course, our lovely Nichole wants to volunteer to show 
you fine folks how we do a strip-search around here!"

Nichole felt herself flush at Harry's suggestion.  He had teased 
her for some time about "stripping her down and having a little 
look."  But she always gave as good as she got, joking that Harry 
was a "dirty old man" who should "stick to shuffleboard at his age."

Every time she mentioned going somewhere in the prison, Harry would 
tease her, "You'd better remember your pass, or I'm going to have 
to search you."  It was a running joke, although she noticed that, 
whenever Harry saw her in an "unauthorized" area, his eyes 
immediately darted to the key-card she had clipped to her jacket 
pocket.  The look of disappointment in his eyes was obvious as she 
would teasingly point at the card and taunt, "Better luck next 
time, old fella!"

A few of the tour members seemed shocked by Harry's suggestion that 
Nichole should be strip-searched, but most quickly warmed to the 
notion. 

"Harry, do you actually strip the female prisoners naked?" one 
leering old geezer asked, clearly intrigued by the idea.

"Absolutely naked," Harry replied, calmly.  "All female prisoners 
are required to strip...and that means to the skin."

Nichole felt herself blushing.  Why did the room suddenly feel so 
warm?

"Do prisoners ever resist being searched?" another older man asked. 

"We always secure the prisoner to the examination table, using 
restraining straps, even if they don't resist.  The table has a 
motor that allows us to easily reposition the prisoner, and it 
prevents any arguments during the search itself."

"Are all the prisoners deloused, or is it only done for medical 
reasons?" one woman asked.

"All incoming prisoners are required to take a shower and submit to 
a thorough delousing," Harry replied.  "It doesn't matter who the 
prisoner is...I delouse her!"

"Even if you were processing someone like HER?"  A man pointed an 
accusing finger at the nattily dressed Nichole.

"Especially her!"  Harry chuckled.  "Just because a woman is 
wearing a $2000 suit, it doesn't mean she doesn't need a good 
scrub-down and a dose of disinfectant.  As my grandpa used to 
say, 'Sometimes it's the fanciest yards that have the most bugs 
in the bush!'"

Everyone laughed as Nichole blushed crimson.  As the group walked 
away, she overheard two of the old women render their verdict.

"Did you see how short that little hussy's skirt was?" one of the 
old cats hissed.  "Somebody SHOULD strip her down bare...it would 
be a good lesson for her!"

The other woman agreed.  "The way the fellas were ogling her, you'd 
think she was a movie star.  I'd give anything to see the look on 
her face when Harry deloused her."

The two women snickered and headed off with their tour group.  Then 
the phone rang, the secretary reported the printer problem, and 
Nichole made the fateful decision to change the toner cartridge 
personally.

Nichole looked unhappily at the chairs in the reception area.  
Everyone on the tour would have an excellent view.  And she 
had no doubt that Harry, if given the chance, would force her 
to put on quite a show....

She remembered the reason she was there and snapped herself back to 
reality.  She quickly walked over and checked the cartridge for the 
small label printer in the corner.  The cartridge looked full, and 
she was about to hit the test button when she saw that a label had 
already printed and was now sitting neatly in the output tray.  She 
did a double-take when she read the stark label:

                    BLUNDERPRONE, NICHOLE  
                      338-3834-3887-383

She was shocked to see the label with her name on it, resting 
comfortably in the tray.  Then she remembered that she had 
entered herself into the system, and the label had printed 
out automatically when she had printed the entrance form in 
the other room. 

Nichole picked up the little piece of perforated paper, detached 
it, and slid it behind the clear plastic strip fixed to the black 
milk crate sitting on the table next to her.  It was a small box, 
but big enough to hold a few gallons of milk, or a stack of 
printouts....

Or every single solitary stitch of clothing she had on.

She trembled and began to sweat.

But then she told herself not to worry.  After all, why should a 
silly plastic crate frighten her?  The box was designed to hold 
the personal property of convicted criminals, not the expensive 
clothes of a successful career woman like her. 

She giggled softly, amused that a stupid box could inspire such 
fear.

But there was no denying the box's sinister purpose.  And, for a 
moment, it almost seemed to be talking to her:

"LAUGH IT UP, YOU ARROGANT LITTLE YUPPIE, BUT I'LL HAVE THE LAST 
LAUGH.  YOU WON'T THINK I'M SO HARMLESS WHEN THEY STRIP YOU OUT OF 
YOUR FANCY CLOTHES AND GIVE THEM ALL TO ME.  YOU WON'T WANT TO GIVE 
ME YOUR THINGS, ESPECIALLY THOSE DAINTY, FRILLY UNDIES YOU LIKE TO 
WEAR.  BUT I'LL TAKE THEM AWAY AND KEEP THEM NICE AND SAFE.  OF 
COURSE, YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO GO NAKED UNTIL SOMEONE DECIDES TO GIVE 
YOU YOUR CUTE NEW UNIFORM....

"ENJOY YOUR EXPENSIVE CLOTHES WHILE YOU STILL CAN.  I'M GOING TO 
WIPE THAT SMUG LITTLE SMILE OFF YOUR PRETTY FACE.

"YOU MAY HAVE FANCIER CLOTHES THAN THE OTHER CONS, BUT THAT WON'T 
MATTER ONCE I GET THEM.  I'll STRIP YOU DOWN BUTT-NAKED JUST LIKE 
ALL THE REST.  WHEN THOSE OLD GEEZERS FROM THE TOUR LEER AND SMIRK 
AT YOU IN THE SHOWER, REMEMBER THAT I HAVE YOUR CLOTHES, LOCKED UP 
SAFE AND SECURE, JUST A FEW FEET AWAY.... 

"JUST OUT OF YOUR REACH!"

Nichole was breathing rapidly now, and the room seemed to be 
closing in on her.  She knew that she had to get away from that 
horrible, mocking box as soon as possible. 

She returned to the door, unclipped the key-card from her jacket, 
and slid it into the slot.  Exit from a "restricted area" required 
both a key-card and a PIN, and she quickly entered her code number 
on the numeric pad next to the card slot. 

The "dual security" system had been her idea, and, although she 
hardly ever used it herself (since she was in an administrative 
area of the prison), she knew that the system offered excellent 
protection against a prisoner using a lost or stolen card to 
escape.

Nichole hit the ENTER key and was surprised to hear the buzzer 
sound.  You had three tries to enter the correct PIN before the 
system "swallowed" your presumably stolen card -- and she had just 
used up one of her turns. 

She knew that she had only two more chances and decided that she 
needed to pull herself together before she tried again.  Taking a 
deep breath, she turned her back and walked across the room to 
collect her thoughts before returning to the keypad.

She sat down in one of the folding "audience" chairs and tried to 
regain her composure.  Despite her efforts to think of something 
else, she found her attention drawn to the cold and impersonal 
medical exam table just a few feet in front of her.

It was unlike any exam table she had ever seen.  It had thick 
leather straps for cinching the prisoner's wrists, waist, 
thighs, and ankles securely in position. 
            
She knew she was in good shape, and she wondered if the thick brown 
straps could really hold her.  She braced her foot against the side 
of the table and pulled as hard as she could on one of the wrist 
straps.  Though she almost pulled her arm out of the socket before 
she gave up, the strap didn't even stretch, much less break.  She 
looked unhappily down at the table. 

If she were strapped in place, she would be totally helpless....

She examined the control panel at the side of the table.  In the 
current "resting" position, it looked like the female victim 
would lie flat on her back while being strapped into place.  
Her curiosity getting the better of her, Nichole pressed the 
control panel button marked "POSITION A."

The machine hummed to life, and, to her horror, she saw the "knees" 
of the machine bend and the legs start to slowly, inexorably, 
separate.  She strained to hold the machine in place, using both 
hands and all of her weight to try to keep the "legs" of the table 
from splitting.  But the motor effortlessly overpowered her, and 
the machine quickly came into position.

She saw that "POSITION A" would arrange the female prisoner in 
the classic knees bent, legs spread, feet-in-the-stirrups pose 
familiar to any woman who had ever faced that indignity in the 
gynecologist's office.

Only this was far worse.  At the gynecologist's, the woman at 
least had the theoretical possibility of closing her legs.  The 
straps on this table stripped even that tiny privilege away.  
Furthermore, the table forced the woman into the most degrading 
position imaginable.  With her butt hanging off the end of the 
table and her legs split in the most obscene scissor kick, she 
would be totally exposed. 

Nichole knew that her most intimate places -- even her tender 
bottom hole -- would be easy targets for Harry's probing, 
greasy fingers....

Harry had teased her for a long time about making her "spread 'em" 
on the table, and she had responded that, if Harry so much as put 
a pinky on her thigh, she would kick his teeth out.  In response, 
he'd just smile, and now she knew why. 

She had been standing on the floor and had been able to use both 
her arms and legs in trying to resist just one of the machine's 
extensions.  If actually strapped into the contraption, she would 
have no leverage at all, and she would be totally helpless to 
prevent the smiling Harry from effortlessly moving her into her 
"proper position."

She had used every ounce of muscle to resist the machine, and it 
had proved irresistible.  She would be totally at Harry's mercy.

Actually, it was far worse than that.  She would be totally at the 
mercy of anyone in the room.  The evil machine would leave her 
hopelessly spread out and unable to mount even a token defense.  
She instinctively clenched her thighs together as she imagined 
her predicament....

Shuddering, she imagined the cold, merciless machine slowly 
separating her naked thighs in front of the leering crowd.  
She would fight and strain, of course, which would only make it 
more fun for the onlookers.  In the end she would lose and would 
be spread out like a 10 peso puta at a Mexican sex circus!

A small fly landed on her hand, and she immediately swatted at it.  
She had always hated flies.  

She looked down at the table.  When she was strapped into position, 
of course, she wouldn't be able to brush the fly away.  The happy 
little intruder would be free to crawl all over her, licking the 
sweat off her brow, crawling down her belly, and even exploring the 
deliciously musky scents below....

For a moment she felt like she was going to gag and quickly turned 
her head away from the cruel machine in front of her.  Her gaze 
came to rest on the smallish pink cylinder with a rounded end, 
lying casually on a side table.  She picked it up and flipped 
the tiny switch on the bottom of the thing. 
            
It was a vibrator!

At first she was confused to see a sex toy sitting in the middle 
of a medical setting.  But then she remembered Harry's complaint 
that her order entry system prevented the prison from ordering 
lubricant, and so he was forced to "stimulate the prisoners 
manually" in order to provide sufficient lubrication for body 
cavity searches. 

At the time, she had laughed at the prisoners' degrading situation, 
and, indeed, Harry did admit that he didn't mind "stimulating" the 
pretty young ladies who fell into his clutches.  But, as Nichole 
imagined being slowly and systematically masturbated in front of 
an audience, while a machine held her legs spread widely apart, 
the bug didn't seem so humorous.

Would Harry stimulate her just enough to make the search more 
comfortable, or would he push the "lubrication" further?  Would 
she wiggle and moan while he used the vibrator on her?  What would 
the audience say? 

She knew that the two women she had overheard earlier would think 
that she was getting just what she deserved.

Harry would draw out the tease endlessly.  He would make her wiggle 
and squirm and pant and clench, all the while begging for release.  
And, when she couldn't stand it anymore, he would smile, flick the 
vibrator off, and begin her cavity search.

The table had left Nichole more distraught than the crate had, 
and she knew that she had better move away from the table and 
the vibrator before she orgasmed on the spot.  Her panties were 
drenched, her breathing rapid and shallow, her thoughts confused.

She looked across the room to the open stall against the wall.  A 
nice cool shower would feel good right now.

For a moment, she seriously considered stripping off her clothes 
and jumping under the cool, refreshing spray.  It was a ridiculous 
thought; she didn't go to health clubs because she didn't like 
public showers, and here she was thinking about stripping down and 
leaping into a huge, curtainless shower in a prison.  Not only was 
the shower totally open and placed optimally in front of the 
now-empty chairs, but also the room had several windows that faced 
out into the hallways and adjoining areas. 

Anyone passing by would be able to look in the windows and watch 
her wash herself.  Perhaps the spectator would be a guard on break, 
casually having a smoke as he watched the pretty programmer wash 
her slender body under the cool water.  Perhaps it would be the 
construction workers from the new wing.  Or maybe it would be one 
of the male "trusty" prisoners who sometimes helped her with her 
office work.

She swallowed.  It wouldn't really matter who it was.  She wouldn't 
be able to hide, or cover herself in any way.  She would be forced 
to stand, naked as the day she was born, and soap up while the 
spectators ogled her.  There would be no shower curtain and no way 
to cut the shower short.  Prison rules would require her to wash 
herself...thoroughly...everywhere.... 

After she showered, she'd be deloused.  She knelt down next to the 
innocuous green canister that sat on the floor next to the shower 
area and picked up the long hose.  The nozzle was on the maximum 
setting, which would produce a small, powerful, concentrated spray. 
She carefully pointed the nozzle away and pulled the trigger.

SIZZZZZZZZZZZZ! 
            
The force of the spray was so powerful that she almost fell over; 
she couldn't imagine that they actually used this setting on naked 
women.

No doubt the pressure ensured that the noxious fluid would get into 
every crack and crevice....

But the worst part was the smell.  The foul fluid stank like a 
chemical dump, and she couldn't imagine what she would feel like 
after it was sprayed on her legs, her body, and her hair. 

She was used to wearing expensive designer perfumes.  But it was 
clear that, if she ever became a prisoner here, she would be 
wearing a less refined scent.

Looking at her watch, she realized that Alice would be back soon.  
She walked briskly over to the keypad and prepared to enter her 
PIN again.

She had insisted that the users create a new PIN every few weeks, 
but now she strained a little to remember what hers was.  The 
system didn't allow you to reuse old PINs, a feature that the 
users hated, but that she had demanded. 

But, now that she couldn't remember her number, changing the PINs 
didn't seem like such a good idea.  She wasn't stupid, but she 
hadn't used her PIN since she had changed it last month.

The buzzer indicating her second failed attempt sounded just as 
Alice rounded the corner and returned to her office.

Nichole had never gotten along well with this secretary, and, when 
the old lady complained that the new system was difficult to use, 
Nicole responded by telling the woman's boss that she was just "old 
and stupid" and hinting that the former system was not the only 
item overdue for replacement.

She still remembered how angry the old woman had become the day 
Nichole had demonstrated the way the system worked by entering her 
own name into it.  Alice had warned Nichole that the prisoner 
intake system was not a toy, and that she had better learn to 
respect those with more experience than her...or "face the 
consequences."

Despite their mutual animosity, Nichole was actually relieved to 
see the old bat.  She had already entered two bad PINs and knew 
she had just one more chance.  It would certainly be a lot easier 
if Alice would just open the door from the other side. 

Nichole tapped on the glass and gestured for the woman to open the 
door.  Though surprised to see Nichole, Alice moved over to the 
door.  Her weathered hand was about to turn the latch when she 
noticed the new manila folder marked "Today's Arrivals" sitting 
in her in-box.

The puzzled secretary took her hand off the door while a frantic 
Nichole continued to tap on the glass.  As soon as Alice opened 
the folder and saw Nichole's name, she smiled like a cat 
discovering a mouse.  Putting her hands on her hips and smirking 
at Nichole, she shook her head, condescendingly, as if to say, 
"I can't believe the scrapes these careless youngsters get 
themselves into these days!"

The grinning woman then reached into her desk and pulled out a pink 
form with a bright red border.  Nichole had designed the form, and 
she recognized it immediately. 
            
It was a Disciplinary Request form.

Nichole tried to reassure herself.  It didn't necessarily mean 
corporal punishment.  There were all kinds of punishments in the 
prison: work details, loss of privileges, and loss of visitation 
rights.  Corporal punishment was reserved for the worst offenders.

Alice quickly filled out the form and then rounded the corner and 
stepped out of Nichole's view.  A few seconds later, Nichole heard 
the woman open a curtain that was on the other side of a glass 
partition separating the examination room, where Nichole was, from 
the room next door.  Nichole gasped at what she saw.

The room was large, with an array of folding chairs for spectators. 
On one side of the wall was a series of hooks holding an impressive 
collection of straps, paddles, and canes.  In the center of the 
room was a big punishment bench, complete with leather straps and 
padded area for the prisoner to lie across.

The prisoner would be strapped into place on her knees, bent at the 
waist, with her bottom raised high in the air.  A mirrored wall 
ensured that the spectators would be able to see the look on her 
face when the stripes were laid on.

Alice carefully considered the instruments, finally selecting a 
thick leather strap, which she lovingly placed on the bench.  Then 
she scribbled a quick message on a Post-it note, slapped it on the 
front of Nichole's admission folder, and held it up for Nichole to 
read:

	HARRY,

	LET ME BE THE WITNESS ON THIS ONE.  I'LL BET YOU $5 
	MISS FANCY PANTS CRIES LIKE A BABY WHEN YOU TAKE DOWN 
	HER DRAWERS AND TAN HER BARE FANNY! 
            
	I THINK YOUR TOUR GROUP WILL ENJOY WATCHING THIS SASSY 
	MINX LEARN HER LESSON!

	ALICE 

The old crone smiled at Nichole, and then rubbed her scrawny fanny 
and winced in mock sympathy.  Then she winked and turned to walk 
away.

Nichole pounded angrily on the glass, and, when Alice paused and 
turned, Nichole flipped her the bird.  The woman stood there for 
a moment, enraged that, even under these circumstances, Nichole 
still felt confident enough to make such a defiant gesture. 

Alice held up the form and smiled.  She pointed to the space where 
the number of punishment strokes could be specified.  The space was 
empty at the moment, but, as Alice turned her back and finished 
filling in the form, Nichole knew that it wasn't going to be good.  
Her defiance was definitely going to cost her.

The secretary glanced back, gave Nichole a smug, I'll-see-you-later 
smile, and left the punishment room.  She returned to her desk in 
front of the search room, but Nichole knew better than to tap on 
the glass and ask for help.

From down the hall, Nichole could hear Harry's nasal voice as he 
led his tour group through the visitors' room.  The next stop was 
the reception area, and she knew that, if she was still standing 
there when Harry arrived, the tour group's dream of seeing her 
strip-searched would come true.

She thought about all of the older people who had been fired after 
she had installed new systems -- and the contemptuous way she 
treated older workers who had difficulties learning computers.  It 
was hardly surprising that the retirees longed to see the snippy 
little computer expert stripped out of her fancy clothes and put 
in her place. 

This retirement group was even older than those over-the-hill 
workers; she was practically a child compared to them.  And, if 
they decided she should be running around as naked as a newborn, 
then she would just have to grin and "bare" it.  She had no doubt 
that the stern seniors would be pleased to see her sassy bare 
bottom wiggle under the razor strap.

She thought about Harry.  She had teased him for a long time, 
taunting him with a flash of thigh or an open button on her 
blouse.  She had tantalized him with the idea that strip-searching 
her was something just out of his reach, a fantasy that he was a 
little too old and a little too slow to fulfill. 

Wouldn't it be ironic if she ended up being trapped by her own 
system?  Wouldn't it be something if the old people had one more 
chance to win a victory over youth, to see a snotty-nosed little 
yuppie cut down to size?  In her heart, Nichole knew that she had 
it coming....

She also knew that if she could just get out of the room, she would 
be safe.  She would simply pick up her intake folder, shoot Alice 
an evil glance, and walk back to her comfortable office.

Of course, that also meant that her adventure would be over before 
it began.  She would never know whether or not Harry's threatened 
strip-search was just a bluff.  She would never see the look on the 
old men's faces when she pulled down her panties, or hear the catty 
remarks of the old women when they watched her shower.  She would 
never know the sensation of struggling desperately to keep her legs 
closed against the power of the machine, or the feeling of trying 
to maintain her dignity while Harry humiliated her with the 
vibrator. 

She would never know the feeling of having her expensive perfume 
obliterated by delousing fluid.  How many strokes did Alice think 
it would take for Nichole to "learn her lesson"?  She would never 
know.

Perhaps worst of all, she would never know what it was like to see 
her expensive clothes sitting in the black milk carton.  What would 
the cruel box say to her then?  Would it tease and torment her as 
she slowly handed over each garment?  Or would it simply stare at 
her in mocking triumph as she slowly stripped down for everyone's 
amusement? 

There was only one way to find out....

She considered her options.  Would the warden release her Monday 
morning?  After the system had been fully installed, she had 
raised her consulting fee to $300 per hour, much to the warden's 
displeasure.  He didn't understand why he had to pay triple her 
agreed-upon rate in order to get that #@*#! computer programmer 
to fix the bugs she herself had created.  But, since he had no 
choice, he had grudgingly accepted the situation.

When Harry had joked about trapping Nichole as an inmate one day, 
the warden had immediately seized upon the idea, telling the 
startled consultant that, if it did happen, she wouldn't be 
released until she'd "fixed her damn bugs" and the system was 
stable.  It would take a while, of course, since she would be 
reduced to working nights and weekends on the antiquated machine 
reserved as a "special privilege" for stellar prisoners. 

The warden smiled.  "And you realize, Nichole, that, since you 
were an inmate, I would pay you only 10 cents a day."  There was 
a twinkle in his eye when he said it, and she could tell that he 
was tickled by the idea.

She contemplated the irony of the situation.  Her life (up to this 
point) was an endless series of complex decisions: which glamorous 
career opportunities to accept, which beautiful clothes to wear, 
which handsome men to date. 
            
Now the system she had designed would make all of her decisions for 
her.  The computer would literally strip the beautiful clothes off 
her back and replace them with a scanty and humiliating outfit 
suitable for her new life on the chain gang.  The computer would 
decide which minimum wage prison guards would be ogling her when 
she was stripped buck naked at the beginning of each day and forced 
into the large gang shower.  The system would decide whether she 
would pick up garbage by the highway, mend roads, or work in the 
fields.

Dating would no longer be a problem.  Her love life would be 
determined by her cell assignment.  Would the system assign her 
to a caring cellmate who would protect her, or to a cruel bull 
dyke who would exploit her and prostitute her out to the other 
inmates?  Would she be assigned to a cellblock controlled by 
guards who would sexually exploit and humiliate her?  The system, 
which she had, until this moment, thought of as her own, would now 
decide all the details of her life for the foreseeable future.

The system would coldly record her strip-searches, gang showers, 
punishments, and work assignments as a long string of cryptic 
ones and zeros.  Her daily degradation would be tracked, filed, 
and...ignored.  The system wouldn't track her feelings of terror, 
shame, and helplessness.  That data was irrelevant.  Even her 
frantic complaints of sexual assaults would be reduced to a 
check-box on a standard e-mail complaint form.  And the form 
would be sorted, filed, and eventually archived to a dusty old 
tape.

The system would work exactly as she had intended. 

Although she was the system's creator, she would be "processed" 
just like another helpless bimbo.  She imagined her creation 
gloating over her fate:

"YOU DON'T SEEM SO BOSSY NOW THAT I'M IN CHARGE, MISSY.  I HOPE 
YOU DON'T MIND LONG LINES, COLD SHOWERS, HARD WORK, AND MUSH FOR 
DINNER.  YOU ENJOYED THE FEELING OF POWER YOU GOT WHEN YOU MESSED 
WITH MY INSIDES, BUT NOW THE GLOVE IS ON THE OTHER HAND.  NOW THE 
PROBING FINGERS WILL BE INSIDE OF YOU!"

The system routinely generated a list of new inmates available 
for assignment and automatically distributed the report to the 
prison staff.  Nichole shuddered as she imagined the resentful 
administrators seeing her name listed on the very report she 
had designed. 

A simple request form submitted through e-mail would allow the 
vengeful clerks to turn her into their gofer.  She knew the women 
in the office had been jealous of her sports car, expensive 
clothes, and snotty attitude.  She shuddered as she imagined 
parading around the office in her scanty prison outfit while 
the secretaries teased her:

"Fetch my coat, fish!"

"I told you I needed these sorted in alphabetical order before 
lunch!  Are you stupid or what?"

"Haul these ten crates down to the store room, jailbird.  And hurry 
up, or you'll get the strap!"

"Look at the way she's dressed.  What a slut!"

"That isn't the half of it.  Did you hear what she did to Harry the 
other day?"

Discipline requests could be submitted through an e-mail form.  
Nichole had designed the system well.  Her next humiliation would 
always be just a few keystrokes away.  And, of course, there would 
then be the strip-searches.  Convicts were always searched before 
and after leaving the office, often in full view of the grinning 
administrative staff and even prison visitors.  She winced as she 
imagined herself being ordered to bend over and touch her toes 
while the frat boys in the mailroom chortled at her predicament.

Her system also had a bug that caused certain inmates to be selected 
repeatedly for supposedly "random" searches.  Her program confused 
IQ scores with drug tests, so that inmates with high IQs were always 
targeted as high risk.  A Mensa member, Nichole had proudly listed her 
IQ on her résumé, and she knew that her system would simply carry the 
information forward from her employment record to her prison record. 
       
She desperately wished that she had fixed that bug when she'd had 
the chance.  When the batch program that selected the inmates for 
today's "random" searches ran in a few hours, her name would be at 
the top of the list. 

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.  If she didn't enter the 
right PIN, she would be trapped and left utterly at the mercy of 
the merciless system she had helped to create.  Her clothing, 
dignity, and pride would be systematically, methodically stripped 
from her.  And then it would be time for her punishment.

And time for her first strip-search.  The first of many....

Her system would be pitiless, she knew that.  But she also knew 
that this was her chance to live her fantasy, if she had the nerve.

She made her decision.  She opened her eyes, reached up, and, 
without entering a single digit, pressed the ENTER key on the 
keypad. 

The machine buzzed for the third time, and then made a small 
gurgling sound as it happily swallowed her ID card. 

She felt a chill.  There was no way out now.  She was now prisoner 
338-3834-3887-383.

She stood there dumbly while Harry, smiling, ushered his tour group 
into the room.  There were some small scuffles as the spectators 
vied for the "best seats," but everyone soon settled down to enjoy 
the show.  Harry snapped his fingers and pointed to the spot on the 
floor where Nichole was required to stand. 
           
Nichole, blushing furiously, dared not hesitate.  She ducked her 
head and obediently scurried into position.

Harry produced a large box and made a big production out of 
extracting a rubber surgical glove.  He loudly SNAPPED the glove 
onto his hand, gave the terrified systems analyst a playful wink, 
and then passed the box to an old man sitting in the front row.  
The man said nothing, but took out a glove, smiled at Nichole, 
and handed the box on to the crone sitting next to him.  Nichole 
watched in horror as each member of the tour group selected a glove.

"I always said tours should be 'hands-on experiences,' Nichole," 
Harry teased.

He pressed a button, and the exam table happily whirled back into 
the "resting position." 

Nichole shuddered as she imagined Harry tightening the cold leather 
straps around her slender wrists and ankles. 

Then Harry would press the button....

She noticed the fly crawling slowly across the table, anxiously 
awaiting her arrival.  She regarded the little trespasser unhappily 
and tried not to think about the disgusting thing crawling all 
over her when she was strapped down on the table and helpless.

"Just one more bug in the system," Nichole thought unhappily, as 
she started to unbutton her crisp white blouse.



Edited by C. Lakewood