PHOTO ANALYSIS

                              by

                           Joe Doe 


A FEMALE FBI AGENT STUDYING FOR HER PHD USES HER EXPERTISE IN 
EVIDENCE ANALYSIS TO INVESTIGATE A WOMAN'S PRISON.  



Part 1: THE ALBUM 

Special Agent Cynthia Jackson had been scouring the stacks for 
hours, searching for research materials for her doctoral 
dissertation on "Sexism and Incarceration in the 20th Century." 

It had been slow going.  Cynthia knew that the abuse of female 
prisoners was rampant in local jails, but it wasn't a glamorous 
topic like drug forfeitures or organized crime.  That the subject 
had been neglected had inspired her to choose this topic, but the 
lack of source material was discouraging. 

Then she hit the jackpot. 

The large photo album containing literally hundreds of photos 
of women in prison was apparently part of some type of 
government-sponsored arts program.  Most of the black and 
white photos seemed to be pre-WWII, judging from the drab 
clothes and dingy nature of the surroundings. 

She knew that the book would form the core of her research.  
The first page alone had dozens of pictures of female inmates 
in various states of exploitation. 

Bad food.  Cramped dormitories.  Hard labor.  Corporal 
punishment.... 

She was excited by her find, but the photos were also deeply 
disturbing.  Page after page showed women slaving on chain 
gangs, women enduring paddlings, naked women in huge gang 
showers. 

One entire section featured scores of naked women -- at dozens 
of different prisons -- lined up for "routine" strip searches. 

The systematic and casual nature of the women's subjugation was 
chilling.  But Cynthia felt something else, as well. 

She felt a strange sense of excitement. 

Perhaps it was the way the male guards looked at the captive women; 
perhaps the women's very helplessness fed Cynthia's long-held 
fantasies of sexual submission. 

As she perused the photographs, she began rhythmically squeezing 
her thighs together.... 

Although the text was almost non-existent, the photos seemed to be 
arranged more or less chronologically.  As an evidence technician 
for the FBI, Cynthia was an expert at picking out small details to 
date a photograph: haircuts, cars, periodicals.  From the look of 
things, she guessed that most of the photographs were no later than 
about 1950. 

But the photos on the final page really caught her attention.  The 
first picture depicted a rural Sheriff's office that was pure 
Mayberry.  The cells in the rear of the photo were jammed with 
female inmates, who had apparently already been "processed" and 
were awaiting transport to the prison, since they were all dressed 
in their skimpy chain gang uniforms. 

She took a magnifier out of her briefcase and examined the photo 
more carefully.  The women were wearing short-shorts, sneakers, 
white socks, and half t-shirts.  The t-shirts were tight, and 
she could tell the women were braless. 

The brevity of the uniforms didn't surprise her; most of the women 
in the book were in varying states of undress.  Cynthia knew that 
piggish male authorities routinely forced female inmates to prance 
around in titillating outfits, under the guise of "economy." 

She focused on a young woman in casual clothes seated awkwardly on 
a small wooden stool in front of a door labeled "SHERIFF'S OFFICE." 
The woman's expression was one of mixed fear and anger.  Given that 
she was waiting to see the same man who had just incarcerated the 
dozens of women standing a few feet away, it was hardly surprising. 

On the bottom of the photo, someone had scrawled a "humorous" 
caption: "ONE MORE TO GO!"  It was followed by a smiley face. 

Cynthia scowled at the caption.  Men! 

But what attracted her eye for detail was the woman's attire.  The 
denim shorts she was wearing were quite normal, and indeed they 
were far more conservative than the undersized pants the women in 
the cells were wearing.  But the logo on her t-shirt seemed unusual. 

Cynthia drew the magnifying glass closer.  The woman's t-shirt 
displayed the logo of the movie "The Matrix." 

She was stunned.  She had assumed that the photos on the last page 
were at least 50 years old.  Surely there weren't any women's 
prisons TODAY like the ones depicted in these photographs. 

She examined the photo more closely.  In the background, she could 
see two deputies chatting casually as they munched on doughnuts. 

The expression of the two men puzzled her.  In her experience, cops 
who had made a large bust were usually euphoric...or, at least, 
excited.  But the two deputies seemed to be in another world.  One 
was watching a ballgame with his feet up on the desk.  The other 
was working on some sort of puzzle in the newspaper. 

How bizarre!  Neither man seemed even to notice the dozens of 
scantily clad women standing just a few feet away. 

Cynthia examined the other photos on the page more closely.  The 
next one showed a line of cardboard boxes on the floor.  She used 
her glass to focus in on the boxes, which appeared to be stuffed 
with shoes, purses, and assorted clothing.  The front of each box 
had a white tag with a bar code. 

A bar code? 

She could see some black letters on the glass window of the room's 
only door.  It took her a moment to focus in, since she was looking 
out of the room, which meant the letters were backwards. 

			G-N-I 

She squinted and tried to make out the rest of the letters. 

			S-S-E-C  

(The letters became blurrier as she reached the edge of the 
photograph.) 

			O-R 

Cynthia quickly scribbled down the letters she had in reverse 
order: 

		R-O-C-E-S-S-I-N-G 

"Processing," she thought.  "This must be where they take the girls 
for processing." 

She focused in on the cardboard box on the far end.  Like the other 
boxes, this one appeared to be filled with clothing and personal 
effects.  At the top of the box was a neatly folded white t-shirt. 

Cynthia swallowed.  The t-shirt showed the "The Matrix" logo. 

At first, she felt a tiny thrill of victory.  She hadn't been sure 
if the photos on the page were related.  But this clue strongly 
suggested that all of the photos on the page were taken at more 
or less the same time. 

She felt a small surge of pride that her technical skills as a 
photo analyst had once again secured the proof she was searching 
for. 

But her triumph was tempered as she realized the photo's darker 
meaning.  The nervous girl with the desperate, pleading eyes 
hadn't gotten away. 

In the background, she could see something shiny, but the photo 
was too out of focus for her to identify.  She smiled.  Her 
computer back at the lab would take care of that. 

The next photo showed two male prison guards chatting.  One of 
the men was leaning against a concrete wall, while the other was 
resting his foot on top of a large metal drum. 

The background was blurred and indistinct, as if the men were 
standing outside in a fog.  Cynthia adjusted the lens on her 
magnifier in an attempt to determine where the men were. 

In the background, she could see what looked like the back of a 
woman's head.  Cynthia traced downward...the woman's back was 
bare.  She wasn't wearing a shirt.  Tracing down farther, Cynthia 
saw the woman's bare buttocks and legs. 

Cynthia scanned across the photo.  She found another naked woman, 
and then a third.  Now that she knew what she was looking at, she 
could spot the body parts of dozens of naked women, some standing 
just inches apart. 

She was puzzled.  "Why are all these well-built, naked women 
standing together in the fog?" 

She scanned the top of the photo.  She stopped as she uncovered a 
tiny metal nozzle that was spraying out a fine mist. 

She nervously bit her lip, suddenly realizing what she was looking 
at.  The photo wasn't taken outdoors.  The fog was steam.  And the 
two male guards were standing in the woman's shower room. 

Cynthia scowled.  It was bad enough that the large gang shower had 
no curtains and no privacy, and that the naked women were crowded 
together like animals.  As if that wasn't humiliation enough, the 
women were forced to shower, butt-naked, in front of male prison 
guards. 

The casual indifference to the women's dignity filled Cynthia with 
a sense of outrage. 

But she also felt an indescribable tingle between her legs.  
 
As she examined the photo more closely, she noticed that the large 
drum under the guards right foot had a diamond-shaped label, which 
she strained to read. 

The words were partially obscured by the guard's leg, but she could 
make out... 

                           UTION 

                           OUSING
                           PRAY 

What did it mean? 

Assuming that each of the lines was centered, Cynthia surmised, 
from the amount of the label that was showing, that there weren't 
many letters hidden.  And, given the context, it really didn't 
take an Einstein to figure out the label must read: 

                          CAUTION 

                         DELOUSING
                           SPRAY 

Cynthia winced as she imagined the embarrassed prisoners, stark 
naked and dripping wet, being hosed down like animals with the 
burning, stinking spray. 

Cynthia didn't think the rest of the photos on the page could be 
any worse.  But she was wrong. 

The next picture showed the girl who had been sitting on the stool 
at the Sheriff's office.  She was strapped down over a large wooden 
trestle and positioned so that her bottom was sticking straight up 
in the air. 

Cynthia swallowed.  The young woman was completely naked. 

The woman was looking nervously over her shoulder at a flabby, 
middle-aged guard, who was eyeing her naked bottom with an evil 
leer as he rubbed a wicked looking razor strap against his palm. 

The woman's hair was wet, as if she had just gotten out of the 
shower.  Judging from the length of the woman's hair, Cynthia 
suspected that this photograph had been taken at about the same 
time as the other pictures. 

Her suspicions were confirmed when she noticed the "comical" 
caption someone had scribbled on the bottom of the photograph: 
"A new prisoner prepares for her welcoming reception." 

Under the photo was another cruel little smiley face. 

Cynthia was shocked.  She had read that 19th century prisons had 
flogged inmates upon their arrival as a standard part of the 
"reception" procedure.  But the fact that this prison was still 
flogging female prisoners was appalling.  And the fact the 
prisoners were stripped naked and locked into a crude and 
humiliating position in front of a male guard made it even 
more unforgivable. 

That this punishment was being conducted by a male guard who was 
obviously enjoying his work a bit too much was...well, typical. 

But these women were being punished for the "crime" of arriving at 
the prison...spanked for showing up. 

Cynthia gritted her teeth as she angrily glared at the grinning 
guard.  Over the years, she had learned to read faces and sense 
emotions from facial expressions. 

She could tell that the sadistic guard was reveling in the power 
he had over the unfortunate young woman whose shapely bottom was 
raised submissively before him. 

It didn't take an expert to interpret the meaning of the bulge in 
the front of his pants. 

Cynthia zoomed in on the woman's face.  The defiance she had 
seen in the woman's eyes was gone.  She could tell the woman 
was genuinely in terror.  Doubtless she would do anything -- 
ANYTHING -- to save herself from the strap. 

No one could blame her.  The wicked black strap was enough to turn 
any woman into a submissive little fuck-bunny. 

No wonder the tubby guard was smiling. 

The next photo showed a group of women picking cotton in a large 
field.  The women's wrists and ankles were chained together, and 
one could see the rivulets of sweat running down their arms and 
legs. 

She frowned.  The scorching hot day had transformed the braless 
women into the unwilling participants in a wet t-shirt contest. 

A uniformed guard on horseback sipped water from a canteen as he 
looked down on the toiling, chained women.  "I hope his hat, 
canteen, and sunglasses keep him from getting sunburnt," the 
disgusted FBI agent muttered. 

In the distance Cynthia could see the stately white columns of a 
plantation house that made Tara seem like a studio apartment. 

The final photo made no sense at all.  It appeared to have been 
taken from the side of some sort of raised platform.  In the 
extreme foreground, she could see the bare shoulders of three 
women who were facing away from the camera.  In the background, 
there was a large crowd of men, sitting on folding chairs. 

The crowd was quite eclectic.  Some wore expensive-looking suits 
and ties, while others were in jeans.  The group was also racially 
diverse: Asians, blacks, Caucasians.  Two of the men were wearing 
turbans; one a fez; another was holding a cane with a large gem 
on top. 

Two of the men had their hands raised, as if they were asking  
questions. 

Unfortunately, the camera was tilted in such a way that Cynthia 
couldn't see what the men were looking at.  It was a stage...but 
what was on the stage? 

Whatever it was, it must have been interesting, since none of the 
men was looking at the apparently shirtless women who were standing 
inches away from the lens. 

The picture was a riddle, but Cynthia felt confident that she would 
be able to solve it at the Bureau's photo lab.  Removing original 
documents from the library wasn't strictly allowed, but she slipped 
the large book into her bag anyway. 

After all, who would have the nerve to stop and search an FBI 
agent? 

		******************************

The next day Cynthia ignored her usual routine and focused on 
her mysterious find.  As she suspected, all of the photos on 
the last page were made at roughly the same time, using the 
same roll of film.  They were also recent -- no more than a 
few years old. 

She enlarged the first photograph of the women in the cells.  
Although she didn't notice any further details, something 
occurred to her that she hadn't thought much about the other day. 

All of the women were beautiful. 

Although there WERE beautiful criminals, a collection of 50 or 
so beautiful women prisoners (and no men) in a rural Sheriff's 
department was more than a bit unusual.  It was the judicial 
equivalent of finding 50 four-leaf clovers on your front lawn 
and a gold mine in your basement. 

Had there been an outburst of kleptomania at the Victoria's Secret 
catalog shoot?  Had Lex Luthor developed a special perfume that 
intoxicated beautiful women into a life of crime? 

Cynthia turned her attention to the row of boxes in the room marked 
"Processing."  She used the computer to refocus the picture and 
sharpen the blurry but glistening background image. 

It appeared to be some sort of raised table.  But what were the 
shiny things on the end? 

She again re-focused the picture.  After several attempts, she 
realized that she was looking at pair of shiny metal stirrups 
attached to a medical exam table. 

She used the computer to re-focus on the metal box mounted on 
the wall.  It looked like a paper towel dispenser, but the 
translucent object hanging out of the dispenser was not a 
paper towel. 

It was a disposable plastic exam glove. 

Cynthia's face grew flushed as she instinctively clenched her 
thighs together. 

The rows of boxes had been disturbing.  But the exam table and 
the super-efficient, high-volume glove dispenser were chilling. 

She studied the audience photograph next.  She still couldn't 
figure out what the men were staring at.  She did see that one 
man in the audience had a clipboard, and another had a ping 
pong paddle with the number 47 on it, but that didn't help much. 

The next enlargement was more helpful.  Cynthia enlarged the 
shoulder patch on the arm of one of the guards: 

		"CRACKER COUNTY PRISON FOR WOMEN" 

A quick search on the Internet found a match.  The homepage had 
a picture of a bald old man in an immaculate white linen suit, 
captioned: 

	"WARDEN WELTER WELCOMES YOU TO CRACKER COUNTY PRISON!" 

But what caught Cynthia's attention was the backdrop.  The Warden's 
mansion was a stately plantation with white columns. 

It was the kind of place that made Tara look like a studio 
apartment.... 

The website was less than informative.  Although there were a few 
boilerplate paragraphs about a "rehabilitation program," the bulk 
of the site was devoted to extolling the virtues of "work release 
programs that allow the female inmates to learn valuable job skills 
while serving local businesses at a cost far below minimum wage."  
The site encouraged business leaders to call the warden for more 
information and included glowing testimonials from Brighton Pig 
Farms, Kringeley Sludge Refiners, and Pussy Paradise Gentlemen's 
Clubs. 

Cynthia dug into the FBI files for a closer look.  About five 
years before, the Bureau had started an investigation into the 
large number of beautiful college coeds who were disappearing 
along a certain stretch of highway during the annual Spring Break 
Migration.  The trail quickly led to the Cracker County Prison 
Farm for Women. 

But the investigation had then been classified as a "10-66" (Closed 
for Reasons of National Security). 

What could the Cracker County Prison for Women possibly have to do 
with national security? 

		******************************


Part 2: CYNTHIA INTENSIFIES HER RESEARCH 

Cynthia Jackson stood alone in a large, official-looking room.  
At first, she didn't know where she was.  But then she saw the 
backwards letters through the glass window on the door. 

		G N I S S E C O R P 

She gasped as she realized that she was standing in the PROCESSING 
room of the Cracker County Prison for Women.

The door was locked or bolted from the other side; it wouldn't 
budge.  She tried using her elbow to break through the glass, but 
the reinforced Plexiglas didn't even quiver. 

She looked around the room, but the cinder-block dungeon offered no 
chance for escape. 

It was then that she noticed the cardboard box on the floor. 

She approached it slowly, as if the box contained an animal that 
might bite her. 

In fact, the box was empty. 

She slowly walked around to the front of the box and carefully bent 
down to read the name on the label: 

                        JACKSON, CYNTHIA 

Cynthia slowly ran her hand down the front of her expensive silk 
blouse. 

The cardboard box was empty.   

But that was only because she hadn't undressed yet. 

She looked around the room.  She didn't have her purse, which meant 
that she didn't have her badge or gun.  And, without her badge and 
gun, no one would know that she was an FBI agent. 

Cynthia Jackson, PhD candidate and FBI agent, was now just another 
little bimbo waiting to be processed. 

Her heart raced as she stared at the ominously empty box.  Her silk 
blouse was lovely and expensive, but it didn't belong on her back 
anymore. 

It belonged in the box. 

She felt herself flush with embarrassment as she reluctantly undid 
the top button. 

She stripped herself down quickly and efficiently, carefully laying 
each clothing item in the box.  "That's it," she thought, 
derisively.  "Strip down like a good little bimbo.  Don't keep 
the men waiting." 

Blouse...skirt...pantyhose...bra...panties.  

"Strip, strip, strip.  That's a good little bimbo." 

Although there was no one else in the room, she still kept her left 
arm over her breasts while her right cupped her crotch, as she 
stared into the box that now held every single solitary stitch 
of her clothing. 

She wondered how long the box would remain on the floor and where 
it would eventually go.  Doubtlessly, some guard would eventually 
turn the box over to some clerk, who would put it into storage. 

She always dressed carefully, since she felt that her expensive and 
tasteful clothes made an important statement about who she was.  It 
chilled her to imagine her carefully folded clothes buried in an 
endless stack of forgotten boxes. 

Staring at her neatly folded clothes, she contemplated her future 
for several minutes. 

What was next? 

It was then that she noticed the examination table. 

She kept her hand cupped tightly around her privates as she slowly 
inched towards the table.  The silver stirrups were already locked 
into place, patiently awaiting their next victim. 

She looked around.  There was no gown, no modesty partition.  
Modesty!  That was a laugh!  The stirrups were spread obscenely 
wide, and any woman unlucky enough to find herself on this exam 
table would be spread out like a 10 peso puta. 

The thought of lying on the exam table chilled her to the bone.  
But the guards were busy men, and they would undoubtedly expect 
to see their latest prisoner stripped and in position upon their 
return. 

Cynthia flinched as she lay down on the table and slipped her feet 
into the icy metal stirrups.  As she had feared, the humiliating 
stirrups left her split high and wide.  Nevertheless, she 
submissively scooted down to the end of the table. 

She was a prisoner now, and she had to give the guards the best 
view possible. 

As she lay there on the table, her nipples hardening in the cool 
air, Cynthia wondered about the man who would search her.  Would 
it be the old, bald warden in his cheesy white linen suit?  Would 
it be the fat, leering guard with the razor strap?  Or would it be 
one of the bored guards from the women's shower room? 

The worst part of teaching was fending off the advances of feckless 
undergraduates.  Cynthia hoped that the guard wouldn't be some 
pimply-faced 18-year-old doing a college internship.  She didn't 
want her shameful probing to be written up as part of some nerd's 
homework assignment. 

In the end, of course, it didn't matter what she wanted.  It 
wouldn't be like it was at school, where her students spent the 
entire class trying to position themselves so that they could see 
a bit more of her thigh.  The next man to walk through the door 
would see everything she had to offer. 

It wouldn't be like the Bureau, where dashing agents competed to 
buy her dinner.  Whoever walked into the room would have the legal 
right to finger-fuck her to his heart's content.  Indeed, it 
wouldn't just be his right -- it would be his job.  The law would 
be on HIS side, and all she could do was lie back and clench her 
teeth while she waited for him to finish. 

Yes, in the end, it didn't matter who walked through the door.  He 
was going to have a good time at her expense, and there wasn't a 
damn thing she could do about it. 

Her eyes screwed tightly shut as she heard the electronic tones of 
the door's combination lock.  She was curious, but somehow she knew 
it would be easier if she didn't have to look at her captor's 
leering face. 

She could sense his presence as he moved closer to the exam table.  
He didn't speak, but his slow and appreciative wolf whistle told 
her that he was looking forward to his work. 

She flinched when she felt him reach over her and extract the 
rubber glove from the massive dispenser on the wall.  Just one 
more glove for one more girl.  Just another day's work.... 

Then there was the unmistakable SNAP of the rubber glove going onto 
his hand.  She gritted her teeth.  It wouldn't be long now. 

She squirmed, as he slowly ran his fingers around the outer lips of 
her sex.  Despite the cool air blowing across her, Cynthia was wet 
and hot, and she flushed slightly as she heard him snicker at her 
obvious arousal. 

He took his time and worked his finger slowly, slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y 
inside her.  She squirmed in humiliation as he used his thumb to 
cunningly massage her love button, while his forefinger probed her 
most secret place. 

Cynthia awoke from her nightmare just as she was having the most 
heart-stopping orgasm of her life. 

		******************************             

Cynthia was a star at the Bureau, and she had no problem securing 
the vacation she needed to finish her degree.  Her faculty advisor 
had complained that she lacked "original research."  She suddenly 
realized how she was going to solve that problem. 

Before she left work, Cynthia attached the image of the nervous 
girl sitting outside the Sheriff's office to a brusque e-mail. 

    SHERIFF: 

    CYNTHIA JACKSON OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WILL BE 
    IN YOUR OFFICE TOMORROW AT 9:00 AM TO DISCUSS THIS PHOTOGRAPH 
    AND YOUR DEPARTMENT'S HANDLING OF FEMALE PRISONERS.  ARRANGE 
    TO BE THERE. 

She packed lightly and quickly.  The rural Sheriff's department was 
quite a distance from her apartment in the city, but she still had 
enough time, if she didn't dilly-dally. 

                    *********************************               

Cynthia strode confidentially across the Sheriff's office toward 
the two deputies lounging in front of the television set.  In her 
$1000 charcoal suit, the young FBI agent was the epitome of crisp 
professionalism. 

"I'm here to see the Sheriff," she stated flatly. 

The deputy closer to the set had his eyes riveted on the WWE babe 
who was being paddled in the center of the ring.  But the other 
deputy turned, smiled, and lightly brushed his fingertips against 
Cynthia's nylon-clad knee. 

"He's busy, darlin'," the deputy drawled.  "But I wouldn't mind 
gettin' to know you." 

The deputy gasped and withdrew his hand as he felt the barrel of 
Cynthia's service revolver pressing against his temple.  

"I'm an FBI agent, and you just committed a federal offense, Deputy 
Dog," she said sternly.  "Now, I'm sure that this is a real nice 
town, and Aunt Bee serves pot roast on Sunday, which is why your 
tiny brains aren't splattered on your tubby friend." 

She turned to the other deputy.  "Go get the Sheriff, Beavis, 
before I decide to give Butthead an Excedrin headache." 

The slack-jawed deputy in front of the TV set took his feet off the 
desk and obediently stumbled into the Sheriff's office.  Cynthia 
holstered her weapon and gave the other man a painful tweak across 
the nose. 

The Sheriff appeared at the door of his office.  "Welcome to my 
town, Agent Jackson," he said, warmly.  "I see you've already 
met my deputies." 

Cynthia smiled down at the deputy in front of her, who was still 
trembling from his near-death experience.  "I can't say I'm very 
impressed, Sheriff.  Still, if I ever need to eat my way out of a 
doughnut shop these are the men I'll ask for." 

She almost had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as she noticed 
the small puddle of urine that was leaking off the terrified 
deputy's seat and onto the floor.  Patting the humiliated deputy 
on the cheek, she said, sotto voce, "Don't worry, deputy.  I saw 
a Wal-Mart on the way into town, and I can pick up some big fluffy 
diapers.  A few minutes in the ladies' room, a little baby powder, 
and I'll have you all fixed up." 

The two deputies gave the laughing FBI agent a hateful glare as the 
Sheriff escorted her into his private office. 

"I have to say I'm a little confused about what you're doing here," 
the Sheriff said, as he eased himself into the well-stuffed red 
leather chair behind his desk.  "I called some friends at the 
Bureau, and they didn't seem to know why you'd be here, either." 

He paused and opened a folder.  "Let's see...Jackson, Cynthia....   
Been an agent for five years, flawless record, but not much field 
work."  He looked up.  "Why is that?" 

She was shocked to see that her entire career jacket, including 
photographs, was casually laid out in front of him. 

And the Bureau wouldn't allow HER to see that file. 

"That's confidential information," she fumed.  "I don't know how 
you got that, or what you think you're doing, but...." 

"Let's talk about you, shall we?" the Sheriff said, pleasantly.  
"Now, when I talked to your faculty advisor, he said that you 
were working on some sort of bullshit academic paper on the way 
women are abused behind bars." 

"Um...yes, but...." 

"Like I said, it's bullshit," the Sheriff sniffed, derisively.  "My 
motto with these women is '3 squares and a strap on the bare!'  So 
what if I run in a bunch of air-headed college bimbos on their way 
to some wet t-shirt contest?  Is it really such a big loss?  The 
Feds never seemed to think so, at least until you came along." 

"I was meaning to ask you about that," she said.  "There was a 
National Security advisory on your file, and I was wondering if 
it was related to this photograph."  She handed the Sheriff the 
photograph of the eclectic group of men that had puzzled her a 
few days before. 

"Clever girl," the Sheriff said.  "Shouldn't surprise me, I guess.  
Your file says you're a smarty-pants," he chuckled.  "I guess it's 
just that 'clever' ain't really an attribute we look much for in 
babes around these parts." 

The Sheriff casually tossed the photo across the desk.  "Yeah, 
that's one of our auctions.  The United States has lots of friends 
around the world, and American women are highly prized.  I guess 
they like American women because they're rich, and well-educated, 
and independent.  It's more fun to break in some free-spirited 
college coed than some camel herder's daughter, I guess." 

"White slavery?" Cynthia gasped. "You mean you auction these women 
off...on stage...naked?" 

"Well, the men do have a right to see what they're buying," the 
Sheriff shrugged.  "Like I said, the buyers help out our government 
with all kinds of special mining and oil stuff, and the women get 
to do a service for their country.  Kind of like getting drafted 
into the military, except for women." 

He regarded her shrewdly.

"But let's talk about you," he said, once again changing the 
subject.  "That faculty guy said you're doing a crappy job.  
Said he's going to flunk you unless you come up with something 
original, and a bunch of old photographs just ain't going to do 
it.  He kind of suggested something he wanted me to run past you." 

"What?" Cynthia asked. 

"How'd you like to go to prison, Cynthia?" 

		******************************


Part 3: AN OPPORTUNITY FOR SOME "FIRSTHAND EXPERIENCE"


"How'd you like to go to prison, Cynthia?" the Sheriff asked. 

"What...?  I don't understand...."  

He reached into the enormous candy dish and stuffed his mouth with 
sweets.  Cynthia listened dumbfounded as she stared at the vulgar 
fat man's mouth.  

"It's simple, really.  You got a few weeks off to work on your 
paper, and you spend the first week in the clink, as my guest.  
You get seven days to think of something original to say, and the 
guards get seven days to work on that bitchy attitude of yours." 

"But how do I know that you wouldn't make it...more permanent?"  

"Naw, I don't need the hassle of trying to shanghai an FBI agent.  
I already talked to your boss at the Bureau and to your faculty 
advisor.  And 7 days is it."  He smiled.  "Don't worry, it'll be 
plenty.  You wouldn't believe how long seven days can seem." 

He looked thoughtful.

"Now we just got to think about how we can get you into prison.  
Is your Bureau ID in your purse, Cindy?"  

"Yes, Sheriff."  His sudden interest in the location of her 
treasured FBI credentials caused her to grip her bag tightly 
with both hands. 

"What about the rest of your identification?  You know -- your 
driver's license and such.  Is EVERYTHING in your bag?" 

"Everything's in the purse, Sheriff," she replied and gripped it 
even more tightly. 

"What about your money?  Is all your money in your purse...every 
red cent?  Be honest now." 

"Well...I do have an emergency fifty dollars in my garter," she 
admitted.  "I always keep a little extra money somewhere safe." 

"I want you to put that money in your purse, too, Cindy.  I think 
you need to put everything into your purse." 

"Why?" she asked nervously. 

"I just think that a girl, traveling alone, dressed the way you 
are, needs to be careful.  My deputies regularly arrest young 
women such as you....  And those without proper identification 
or the funds to pay their fines end up on the prison farm." 

Cynthia felt her knees weaken slightly at the mention of the 
dreaded prison farm.  But there was also an indescribable tingle.  
She knew that the Sheriff was toying with her, daring her to play 
this most dangerous game. 

She knew she should quit while she was ahead.  But her excitement 
was undeniable, and she knew that this opportunity would never come 
again. 

"Well, maybe I should put all my money in my purse, then, Sheriff," 
she replied. 

"Of course, we'll need to get you out of those FBI duds, too," the 
Sheriff said.  "I heard you mentioning Wal-Mart to Deputy Enos.  
Why don't you go there and get something more appropriate to wear?  
I'll call Betty Lou and have her pick out something." 

"What do you mean by 'appropriate,' Sheriff?" she asked nervously. 

"You know, like the college girls are wearing nowadays," he said, 
agreeably.  "Something that shows a lot of leg, with your belly 
button hanging out.  You know, like Britney or Christina or whoever 
the heck it is." 

"I've never dressed like that in my life." 

"That's the whole point.  You don't know shit about what it's like 
to be one of these exploited women you're wailing about all the 
time.  Hell, a man even looks your way, and you cold cock him with 
your gun.  But your professor and I think that a new outfit will 
give you a whole new perspective on the relationship between men 
and women." 

She clenched her teeth at the thought of her piggish faculty 
advisor chatting casually with the horny Sheriff about her 
clothing.  The professor's being married hadn't discouraged 
his clumsy passes, at least not until Cynthia had backed up 
her refusal by pressing her service revolver against his crotch.  
Forcing her to parade through the Sheriff's office dressed up 
like some sort of pop tart would be sweet revenge for him. 

"Of course, you won't be able to wear your holster, and you'll have 
to put your gun in your purse, Cynthia.  And that means you'll have 
to be extra careful not to lose it...." 

"What do you mean?  Why would I lose my purse?  I never lose 
anything." 

"Well, who knows?  Maybe you'll start acting like an air-head, 
after a change of clothes," the Sheriff chuckled.  "And a pretty 
little honey who loses all her money in this town could find 
herself in a real pickle!" 

The Sheriff paused and smiled.  "Of course, I know that wouldn't 
happen to YOU, seeing as how you're so careful with your purse and 
all.  But I'll tell you what.  I'm going to go over to the diner 
and get some fried chicken.  If you want to do this, go get changed 
and meet me back here." 

"Well, frankly, I'm not sure that I do, Sheriff," Cynthia replied.  
"I still have a lot of questions about how women are treated at 
Cracker County Prison." 

"Whatever," the Sheriff said, casually, as he headed towards the 
door.  "Frankly, I don't see what a woman needs with a PhD, anyway." 

Cynthia stood alone in the office for a moment before making her 
decision.  Then she swallowed, put her gun and her "backup money" 
into her purse, and strode confidentially out the front door. 

Deputy Enos had changed into a pair of tight blue jeans, and 
Cynthia's thin smile at his uncomfortable predicament was 
returned with an angry glare. 

		****************************** 
                       
It had taken Cynthia years to earn her degrees and transform 
herself into a respected professional woman. 

But her transformation into a feckless bimbo had taken only a few 
minutes. 

Walking up toward the front door of the Sheriff's office, she 
nervously tugged down on the hem of her microscopic skirt.  
Although she had parked only a few feet from the front door, 
the walk seemed endless. 

She had begged Betty Lou to give her a longer skirt, or at least 
a bra, but the fat old woman had been adamant.  "Sheriff wants you 
dressed to please...and dressed to tease," she had cackled.  "Not 
too expensive, neither, but don't worry -- slutty stuff don't cost 
much." 

Cynthia couldn't believe how different her clothes made her feel!  
Every male she encountered immediately riveted his eyes onto her 
tight t-shirt or her slender bare legs. 

As an attractive woman, she was used to male attention, but this 
was different.  These men didn't even TRY to hide their prurient 
attentions; they stared at her as if she were the luncheon special, 
and their leering smiles left the normally confident FBI agent 
feeling dazed and disoriented. 

As she struggled with the front door of the Sheriff's office, she 
tried to ignore the wolf whistles of the men sitting across the 
street at the barbershop. 

Her palms were sweaty, and, as she frantically tried to get a grip 
on the door handle, the conversation of the loafers across the 
street burned her ears: 

"Sure is sweet." 

"Like honey."  

"Look at the long blonde hair." 

"Think she's blonde all over?" 

"She goes into the Sheriff's office dressed like that, we'll find 
out pretty quick." 

At last the door opened, and she was surprised to see Deputy Enos 
holding it for her.  "You just come right on in, darlin'," he said. 
"These door handles can be mighty tricky for a blonde." 

Cynthia glared back angrily at him, and he immediately realized his 
mistake. 

"Didn't recognize you without your clothes on, darlin'," the deputy 
sneered.  "You goin' out trick-or-treatin'?" 

"Maybe she's going undercover, Enos," the other deputy said. 

"Doesn't look like there's much covered to me!" Enos snickered. 

The Sheriff was "busy," Cynthia was informed, and the leering 
deputy told the nervous young woman to sit on a small wooden 
stool just outside the Sheriff's office. 

The two deputies were still eating doughnuts, but, instead of 
watching TV, they were watching HER.  The stool was uncomfortable 
and awkward, and Cynthia was forced to constantly shift her weight 
to keep from sliding off.  Her performance amused the deputies, who 
watched approvingly as she tugged on her micro-mini and desperately 
attempted to cover more of her bare thighs. 

She tried to ignore the two deputies openly gawking at her as they 
discussed her charms.  Although the omnipresent TV obscured the 
sound, she did hear the words, "hot," "sassy," and "tasty." 

Cynthia told herself that she wasn't really going to prison.  Well, 
maybe just a tour.  She would be back in her business clothes in no 
time. 

Her present outfit was part of her research project, and she 
assured herself that surrendering her business suit was no 
different than a trip to the library. 

But she certainly didn't FEEL like she was in the library.  The 
deputies were casually inspecting her like she was Miss July, and 
she blushed and squirmed as their eyes leisurely ran up and down 
her bare legs, tummy, and arms.  Their naked lust made her feel 
vulnerable, defenseless...even helpless. 

She found the sensation belittling and frustrating.  There was 
nothing she could say or do to improve her situation.  All she 
could do was sit, and blush, and squirm, and wait.  For the first 
time, she began to understand the sense of powerlessness many 
beautiful woman felt when dealing with law enforcement. 

But there was something else.  She also found that the male 
attention was...exciting.  The men wanted her for one thing 
only, and her disgust was mixed with arousal.  She tried to 
deny it, but the growing wet spot in the crotch of her panties 
didn't lie. 

"My, oh my!  Is that really you, Cindy?" the Sheriff said, with a 
chuckle.  "I almost didn't recognize you in that cute little getup."

Cynthia tried to get off her stool as gracefully as possible, but, 
inevitably, the exercise caused her pink thong panties to come into 
view.  The blushing FBI agent ignored the loud wolf whistles and 
applause, as she quickly smoothed her skirt down and marched into 
the Sheriff's office. 

The Sheriff walked in behind her and closed the door.  "Now, Cindy, 
I didn't give you permission to sit down, did I?"  he said, in a 
patronizing voice. 

She was stunned.  She was a Federal law enforcement officer, 
visiting a rube Sheriff.  Why on earth would she have to ask 
for permission to sit down? 

But there was something about the way she was dressed, and the 
commanding tone in the Sheriff's voice, that made the surprised 
agent slowly rise to her feet. 

"That's better," he said, soothingly.  "Now I want to see the 
outfit that Betty Lou picked out for you.  Put your hands on 
top of your head, and turn for me." 

Acutely aware of her braless breasts, she had kept her arms folded 
across her chest since she had entered the Sheriff's office.  But 
now she reluctantly placed her hands on top of her head and laced 
her fingers. 

It was the classic stance of a surrendering prisoner.... 

"That's good, Cindy," the Sheriff said.  "Now spread your legs a 
little while you turn.  Good.  That's a mighty cute little outfit 
you have on!  Clothes certainly do make the woman.  I didn't even 
recognize you when you came in here.  I thought you were some cute 
little honey one of my deputies pulled in off the Interstate for 
speeding." 

He chuckled.

"No, turn slower....  Don't rush things.  I'm enjoying this.  It's 
pretty funny seeing a fancy-pants FBI agent dressed up like a 
little tease, like one of those young bimbos we pull off the 
highway on their way to the beach."

She reddened. 

"So where's your purse, Cindy?"  You didn't go and lose it on me, 
did you?" 

"Not exactly....  I locked my purse in the trunk, and then locked 
the keys inside the car." 

"And what was in that purse, Cindy?"  

"My gun...my badge...and all my money," she said, looking down at 
her shoes. 

"All your money?" the Sheriff asked teasingly.  "Are you telling me 
that you don't have one single cent to your name?" 

"No, sir," she said, quietly, still staring at her shoes. 

"What about some identification?  Don't tell me that you drove here 
today, and now you can't even produce a driver's license!" 

"It's all locked in my purse in the trunk of my car, s-sir." 

He smiled and stepped closer, taking the cuffs from his belt.  
"Seeing as how you're a little vagrant, driving without a 
license and all, why don't we just slip these on for the rest 
of your interview?" 

She winced as she felt the steel cuffs tighten around her wrists.  
The Sheriff walked back behind his desk and turned on the fan.  
With her hands cuffed behind her back, she couldn't shield her 
chest, and her nipples soon began to poke through the front of 
her shirt. 

"I was reading this psychological profile of you while I was 
munching on my chicken," the Sheriff said.  "There's some 
pretty kinky stuff here, Cindy." 

"Cindy" was horrified to realize that her intimate conversations 
with the FBI psychiatrist were included in her file.  The agency 
had pledged that anything she told the psychiatrist would be kept 
in the strictest confidence.... 

"I was particularly intrigued by your 'women in prison' fantasy," 
the Sheriff chortled.  "You know, I was going to tell the warden 
he had an undercover agent on his hands, but, when I read about all 
the stuff you're into, I think I'll just throw you in butt-naked.  
I'm sure a clever girl like you will be able to figure something 
out." 

"Please, Sheriff, I don't know if this is such a good idea," Cindy 
wailed.  "Maybe I should just interview some of the women...." 

"Too late for that, Cindy," the Sheriff said, as he quickly filled 
out the form on his desk.  "This form says you're inmate 
3738-3843-3838 now.  Sorry I can't stay around to escort you 
personally, but I'm going to go get some dessert.  Don't worry, 
though, I'm sure Enos'll take real good care of you." 

Enos?  Not Enos! 

The Sheriff rose and opened the door of his office.  "After you, 
Cindy," he said, with a mockingly gallant sweep of his arm. 

She desperately didn't want to leave the office.  With her hands 
cuffed behind her back, there would be no way to shield her 
bouncing breasts from the vulgar deputy. 

But the Sheriff was in charge, and she knew she had no choice. 

Enos was alone now, but he was so engrossed in the ball game that 
he didn't even notice them until they were in front of his desk. 

"Enos, I want you to process Cindy here through regular channels," 
the Sheriff said, casually.  "Then drop her off at the prison farm. 
I'm going to get another piece of pie over at the diner, and I want 
all of this finished up by the time I get back." 

Cindy stared at the Sheriff in disbelief.  She was going to be 
stripped of her clothing, her dignity, and her freedom.  But the 
Sheriff's casual tone made it sound as if he was asking Enos to 
drop off his laundry.... 

And she wasn't the only one who was surprised.  "I don't get it, 
Sheriff," Enos said.  "I thought she was a FBI agent.  You want 
me to PROCESS her?  For real?" 

"Damn straight, for real," the Sheriff replied.  "Get her into 
the computer, process her, and dump her off at the farm.  Simple 
enough." 

"Uh...do you want me to see if I can get a female deputy to come 
over from Bakersfield?" Enos asked. 

"Don't see the need."  The Sheriff casually picked his teeth.  "We 
don't bother with female deputies for the other little bimbos we 
run through here, and I don't see what makes this one so special.  
Unless, of course, you don't want to...." 

"Uh, no, Sheriff," Enos replied, eagerly.  "I want to do it!  I'll 
get her processed right quick!" 

Enos was true to his word.  Although he wasn't much of a typist, 
the pick lists and drop-downs on the computer screen allowed him 
to reduce Cindy's life to a few keystrokes of routine information. 

She was as limp as a rag doll during finger printing.  The results 
of her mugshot confused her....  Was the dazed and frightened girl 
holding the number under her chin really her? 

There were a few snags.  Her background in criminal justice and 
excellent typing and language skills caused the computer to assign 
her a job as the warden's secretary.  However, when Enos discovered 
that she was so near-sighted that she couldn't see well enough to 
read or write without her glasses, the problem was solved.  Enos 
pocketed her stylish spectacles, and reclassified her as an 
illiterate. 

The computer decided that Cindy would slop hogs during the 
day...and dance at the Pussy Paradise at night. 

"But I don't know how to dance!" she wailed.  "I should get a job 
in the library." 

"You sure know how to blush, and that's what the guys really like 
to see.  They just love watchin' some hoity-toity college girl 
blush and squirm while she strips down to the buff.  They're gonna 
get some kick out of you."  He guffawed. 

"Besides, you got bigger problems to worry about.  When you get to 
the prison, they'll take you to reception, and they'll warm that 
sweet little ass of yours.  Normally they give the new girls about 
five strokes, but I think I might up the amount after the little 
stunt you pulled this morning." 

He leaned back in his chair and smiled.  "'Course, you can always 
apologize." 

She stared at the floor.  "I'm sorry for my behavior, Deputy Enos," 
she said humbly.  "I know I shouldn't have drawn my gun, and I know 
I shouldn't have treated you that way.  I am really so sorry." 

"Not bad....  But I think it's a waste to use a mouth as pretty as 
yours just for talkin'.  Maybe after we get you into your uniform 
you can get down on your knees and use that pretty little pie hole 
to show me just how sorry you are." 

"You mean...you want me to perform...orally?" she said, her voice 
quivering in disbelief. 

"Yeah, that's right.  I want you to gimme a hummer, nice and slow, 
nice and wet.  Ain't no better way than that to teach a little snot 
nose respect for my badge." 

She stared at him in disbelief.  "Cynthia Jackson" had been a 
powerful and confident FBI agent.  But, in a few minutes, "Cindy 
Jackson" would be just another convict babe, kneeling on the floor 
of the jailhouse in her scanty uniform, giving out a free blow job 
to a dufus deputy...in order to curry favor. 

"'Course, if you'd rather, I can just tell 'em to give you extra 
stripes," he teased.  "Maybe 25...maybe 50....  The choice is 
yours." 

Cindy nodded submissively, still too upset to look up and make eye 
contact. 

Enos smiled, and finished filling out the last few fields on the 
screen.  "Now, all I have to do is hit the send button, and your 
records'll be on file at the prison.  We don't even have to print 
'em or nothin'," he bragged. 

She swallowed.  Stripping away her identity and transforming her 
into a helpless prison bimbo would be a quick and efficient 
process.  No paper would be wasted. 

Enos stood her up and, grasping her by the back of the neck, guided 
her across the room to another door.  She felt faint as she read 
the sign: 

                          PROCESSING 

The room was exactly as she had seen it in the photograph, 
3-dimensional now.  The delousing tank sat on the floor, 
her carton on the table. 

And, in the corner, the glistening stirrups of the examination 
table waited for her. 

"You shuck down, while I catch the last innin'," Enos said, undoing 
her cuffs.  "And hurry up, 'cause the Sheriff'll be back soon, and 
you still owe me a hummer, convict!" 

The door slammed shut behind her.  As she rubbed her wrists, she 
was glad that the deputy was gone, but it was also strangely 
insulting that he didn't consider her stripping important enough 
to watch. 

He'd rather see the ball game. 

She looked over at the examination table.  On the wall above it, 
the fingers of a glove dangled out of the glove dispenser, awaiting 
the deputy's hand. 

She swallowed.  The deputy was right.  He would see everything 
soon enough.  She lightly drew her hand over her t-shirt.  While 
it wasn't much, it was some little protection. 

But that didn't matter.  It didn't belong on her back.  It belonged 
in the box. 

Her face blushed beet red as she pulled the t-shirt over her head. 

		******************************         

The reference librarian was surprised.  It wasn't like the judge to 
leave one the books she was studying unshelved; perhaps she was 
still reviewing it. 

Out of idle curiosity, the librarian opened up the photo album and 
looked at the last page.  There were two photographs: the first was 
of an attractive young blonde in a smart business suit, and the 
second showed the same blonde in a skimpy prison uniform.  In the 
margin of the photograph, someone had scrawled the caption: 

		FBI: Feckless Bimbo Inmate! 

The librarian eventually found the judge staring intently at a 
computer screen.  As she looked over the judge's shoulder, she 
saw the words: 

	WARDEN WELTER WELCOMES YOU TO CRACKER COUNTY PRISON! 

"Is there anything I can help you find, Judge Marsh?" the librarian 
asked. 

"Yes....  I was wondering how I could get driving directions to 
Cracker County," Ashley replied. 


END



Edited by C. Lakewood