THE OLD PRISON FARM

                          by 

                  Joe Doe and Watcher




Part 1
 
"Go on, I dare you!"
 
Carol glanced down at what had once been a porch and the two 
dresses they had draped over the railing before looking back 
up at Jordan.  "I'm not sure," she said hesitantly. 
 
Jordan grinned at her.  She could tell that Carol wanted to, 
and all she needed was a push, an excuse, and she would be 
game.  "I will, if you will."
 
"But what if someone sees?"
 
Jordan fixed her with a level look.  "Who is going to see?  We are 
miles away from anywhere, and this place has been abandoned for at 
least twenty years." 
 
With a sweep of her arm, she gestured to what remained of the 
old prison farm.  The years had not been kind to it.  The main 
bunkhouse looked like it were going to cave in on itself at any 
moment.  Some of the other buildings had already collapsed, and 
all that remained were piles of rotting wood and mangled, rusting 
metal.  Even the mesh fence that had once circled the main 
compound was gone; only the fence posts were still standing, 
silent sentinels even after the farm had been abandoned.
 
"I wonder why they left these behind?"  Carol asked.  She bent and 
trailed her fingers over one of the dresses.  "They seem...almost 
new."
 
"New?" Jordan did not even try to keep the incredulity from her 
voice.  "You're kidding, right?"  Then she raised her a finger 
and waved it back and forward.  "No changing the subject."
 
Carol looked back at the dress and then to Jordan, before her gaze 
settled back onto one of the dresses.  Finally she chuckled.  "Why 
not?  But only if you will, too."
 
It did not take Carol long to get undressed, and Jordan was happy 
to lean back against the post (that groaned against her weight) 
and watch the show.  Sneakers and socks were first, then the tank 
top, then the snug denim shorts.   
 
Jordan leaned back and let out a slow wolf whistle as Carol tried 
to cover herself with her hands.  "Too bad we don't have three or 
four guards here to watch," Jordan chuckled, smiling as her nearly 
naked friend blushed under her gaze. "I'm sure the guys would love 
the show."
 
"G-guys?" Carol stammered.
 
"Yes, GUYS, honey buns.  In a hellhole like this, I don't think 
your modesty would be the management's main concern."
 
Dressed now only in a white thong that gave a very nice view of her 
bottom cheeks, Carol reached for the dress.
 
"Inmates don't have any underwear," Jordan warned her.
 
"But...."
 
"No sass, convict," Jordan snapped, in tone that reminded Carol of 
an old prison movie.  "This is a strip-search.  And that means 
strip!  Underpants on the pile, along with all the rest."
 
Carol hesitated.  The thong wasn't much, but it was all she had.
 
She looked around.  There was no one for miles.
 
"Hurry it up, fish," Jordan barked.  "I gotta schedule to keep, 
and yer puttin' me behind!" 
 
Carol sighed and hooked both hands into the waistband of her thong 
and eased it down her thighs until she could step out of it. 
 
Reluctantly, she surrendered her underpants to the pile.  
"Satisfied?"
 
"Very," Jordan purred.  It was not the first time that Carol had 
undressed before her, but it was a sight that never failed to 
bring a smile to her face and make her heart beat a bit faster.
 
Carol moved towards the dress, but Jordan cut her off.   "Not so 
fast.  I need you to squat and cough."

"Wha-?" 
 
"Do you want to do your squats, or do you want to stand there in 
your birthday suit all day and argue?"
 
Carol didn't like it, but, wanting to get dressed, she quickly went 
through the required motions.
 
"Again.  Knees apart.  Cough louder."
 
Carol obeyed, not liking where Jordan's eyes were.
 
"Again!" Jordan commanded.  "Stay squatting."
 
Blushing furiously, Carol assumed the position.  "Jordan, this 
isn't funny," she complained. 
 
Jordan laughed and tossed her the precious dress.  It landed on 
top of Carol's head.
 
"It smells," Carol grimaced as she lifted the dress and slowly 
pulled it over her head, letting it settle down over her body.  
Then, holding the hem of the dress out from her bare legs, she 
spun around slowly.  "How do I look?"
 
Words failed Jordan as she took in the sight.  The dress was an 
old-fashioned prison uniform, of horizontal black and white 
stripes, complete with a small number stenciled across the area 
tented by Carol's left breast.  The dress itself was snug.  
Perhaps it was meant to be that tight or perhaps it was a size 
too small for Carol's ripe frame.  The sleeves did not quite reach 
her elbows, and the skirt was a couple of inches above her knees.  
As for the way it hugged her bottom and breasts, that was enough 
to give Jordan all sorts of ideas on how to pass the time when 
they returned to the campsite.
 
Carol flexed her toes against the tufts of grass underfoot while 
she carefully considered Jordan's expression.  Whatever she saw 
there appeared to put her at ease.  "It feels so rough, so harsh 
against the skin," she murmured almost to herself as she ran her 
hands down the sides of the dress.  "It must have been awful to 
wear this on the chain gang!  It's wicked hot."
 
"Too bad I don't have a guard's uniform," Jordan said regretfully, 
but with no real conviction in her voice. 
 
They had been on the road now for over two months, biking from one 
area to another, taking a year out after graduating from college.  
Not only were they discovering the country the way few did, they 
had plenty of time to explore the secrets of each other's bodies.
 
Naturally after curling up together in the small tent, they had 
exchanged thoughts on what aroused them, what forbidden fantasies 
called to them.  One of the ideas that turned them both on was the 
notion of being confined to an old-fashioned chain gang.  When they 
had learned that there was an abandoned women's prison farm near 
where they had planned to camp, it was an opportunity too good to 
pass up. 
 
The flier at the tourism office had been quite dramatic, describing 
it as "the last stop" and "hell on earth" for hundreds of women 
imprisoned for crimes ranging from murder and theft all the way 
down to vagrancy and the ever-popular "suspicion of prostitution" 
-- charges easy to level against any young woman passing through 
town.
 
The men were sent down the river to the penitentiary.  The women, 
easier to manage, were kept on the farm, where the Sheriff and 
the Judge turned a tidy profit renting them out to the locals. 
 
One passage in particular caught Jordan's eye: "The women, stripped 
of everything they had, were permanently riveted 
into their shackles.  Forced to toil long hours under the 
blazing sun, they toiled in the same fields that Negro slaves 
had worked in before them, and, like the Negroes, were subject 
to corporal punishment and sexual exploitation by the guards 
-- both male and female."
 
Jordan relished the thought of having that sort of power over her 
friend.  So the female guards would put little Carol's tongue to 
work, too?  Mmmm—mmm-good!
 
Unfortunately, the farm had been a bit of a disappointment.  Most 
of the buildings were either gone or far too damaged and unstable 
to risk venturing into.  They did find a large building containing 
numerous shower pipes; judging from the size of it and the number 
of nozzles, this had been a large operation, and the Sheriff had 
turned a tidy profit.  Carol originally thought one wall of the 
shower building had fallen down, but Jordan laughed when she 
realized that they simply hadn't bothered to put up the fourth 
wall, and the women were forced to shower in the open.  Carol had 
been horrified; Jordan delighted.
 
The warden's house had been huge, but it had been looted, and it 
was now basically several fireplaces and a few brick walls.  They 
found a huge building containing stacks of old boxes where the 
women's street clothes had been kept, but the clothes had also been 
stolen, and it was mostly empty boxes and old shoes.  The discarded 
prison dresses, on the other hand, made the hike here from their 
camp site more than worth the effort.  Why they had not been taken 
when the place was being abandoned was a mystery.  It was almost as 
if someone had simply thrown them there in the yard.
 
"Your turn," Carol said, smiling at her friend.
 
It did not take Jordan long to add her pile of clothes to Carol's.  
Carol was pleased to see her bossy friend actually blush a little 
when she gave the order for her to squat and cough.
 
She made Jordan squat and cough three times.  After all, you can't 
be too careful.
 
The day was warm, and the sun overhead beamed down on her naked 
form as the breeze brushed against her breasts.  She felt her 
nipples stiffen as the air caressed them, while, at the same time, 
she felt its smooth touch as it slid between her legs.  
 
The dress was rough to the touch on the outside, but that was 
nothing compared to the coarseness of the lining.  It almost 
felt as if she were rubbing sandpaper over her body as she 
pulled the dress down and smoothed it into place.  Gunny sacks 
had finer cloth than this.
 
Whoever had worn the dress so many years ago had been shorter 
and a bit less well-endowed.  Every breath Jordan took left her 
wondering if the fabric would part under the pressure of her 
breasts thrusting against it.  The dress was also far too brief.  
Carol's hem almost reached her knees, while her own left a lot 
more sun-kissed bare thigh on show, ending mid-way between her 
ass and her knees.
 
No sooner was it in place than Jordan found herself reaching down 
to try to tug the hemline lower.  It left her feeling deliciously 
vulnerable.  Every move, every shift in her stance had the rough 
fabric scraping against the sensitive skin of her body.  It smelled 
of carbolic soap and old sweat, too ingrained to the material to 
ever get out. 
 
Being barefoot only added to the feeling.  She was used to slipping 
off her shoes at the beach or the pool but not out in the open.  
The ground felt hard and dry beneath her bare feet, with the blades 
of grass tickling her soles.  Barefoot and naked beneath her rough 
prison dress, the reality felt far, far better than any of her 
night-time fantasies.  Jordan had originally fantasized about 
dominating Carol, but she enjoyed thinking of herself on the gang, 
too.  She knew that, in reality, she'd hate picking cotton all day 
and sucking ding-dongs all night, but the fantasy was fun, 
particularly with the coarse dress rubbing against her delicate 
skin.
 
"These will make wonderful Halloween costumes," Carol said after 
enough time had passed for Jordan to savour the feel of the dress.  
"Should we...should we head back to the camp?"
 
"Are you kidding?  Lets have a look around!"  Wearing this outfit 
was better that anything Jordan could have imagined.  This was not 
like some fake party costume.  This was real.  It might have been 
years ago, but once a real convict had worn this dress.  She had 
risen in the morning, pulled on this very dress and been marched 
to the fields to work until sunset.  No wonder the dirt was so 
ingrained.
 
Carol agreed, but felt nervous about leaving their clothes lying by 
the fence.  After all, if they stole the uniforms, might someone 
steal their clothes?  Neither woman relished the thought of 
explaining their kinky sexual fantasies to whomever found them.
 
As usual, Jordan solved the problem, leading Carol into the 
property storehouse and handing her an empty box.  Carol felt 
odd placing her clothes in the box, knowing that it had held 
the clothing of some wretched woman condemned to the chain gang 
for real.  She knew it was safe; the only visitors to such a place 
would be the odd, occasional hobo looking for something to steal.  
But she still objected.  "You're right.  They'll be safe here, 
Jordan, but if this were real they'd be safe from us, too.  This 
is the building where they kept the women's clothes so they 
couldn't get to them."
 
That's right, Princess," Jordan teased.  Locked up safe and sound, 
until parole.  And you better keep that tongue of yours busy, if 
you want the guards to give you a good report."
 
Jordan laughed.  Carol did not.
 
Just walking in the dress, barefoot, feeling it rub against her 
skin, was almost enough to make Jordan cum there and then.  A 
glance at her friend showed that Carol already had one hand pressed 
between her legs.  She blushed when she saw Jordan looking at her 
as she ground the coarse fabric into her groin, but she did not 
stop.
 
"Just think, if this was real you might just have to have your 
hands cuffed behind your back to keep you out of trouble," Jordan 
teased.  A moment later she saw the rise and fall of Carol's chest 
quicken to feverish pace as she closed her eyes, perhaps imagining 
the feel of cold steel around her wrists, restraining her hands, 
keeping her from touching herself.
 
"Look at this," Jordan exclaimed as they rounded the side of what 
had once been the bunkhouse. 
 
Carol scowled at being interrupted, but, at the sight that had 
drawn Jordan's attention, her expression turned into a more 
confused frown.  "What are those?"
 
There were ten of them, all in surprisingly good condition.  It 
seemed that a lot more care and effort had gone into their 
construction than that of the main bunk house.  At least the 
years had been kinder to them.
 
One of the doors was ajar, and rusty disused hinges screeched in 
protest when Jordan moved to open the door, but, with some effort, 
she managed to get it open fully.
 
It was a box, an old wooden rectangular box just barely large 
enough to hold a single person.  It was windowless; the only 
ventilation would have come from the thin gap at the top and 
bottom of the door.  A simple bolt closed the door, and they 
could see where a lock would once have been fixed to the bolt 
to make sure that no one but a key-holder could unlock it.
 
"It's a sweat box!" Jordan exclaimed in wonder.  "If you acted up, 
or failed to meet your work quota, you could be sent here."
 
Holding the door open with one hand Carol peered in.  "Its awfully 
small."
 
"Let me see," Jordan said, and, when Carol stepped back, she 
slipped inside.  Almost immediately, she banged her head on 
the low roof and had to bend over.  "Close the door," she 
ordered, and Carol put her weight against the door.  A moment 
later Jordan heard the wooden bolt slide into place.
 
She was in almost complete darkness.  The only light was from the 
edges of the door that, either through design or shoddy carpentry, 
did not fit the door frame snugly.
 
There was just about enough room for her to bring her hands up and 
probe the door.  In the poor light, she could not be certain, but 
a few frantic moments of feeling about seemed to confirm that there 
was no bolt on this side.  Even without the lock being used on the 
outside any inmate would have no way of freeing herself.
 
That was not to say the wood was smooth.  She could feel countless 
marks made over the years by inmates' fingernails digging into the 
wooden planks in a desperate effort to get free. 
 
It did not take long for her neck and back to begin to ache from 
the strain of staying bent over.  It took some effort, enough to 
make her sweat, but, after a few minutes, she managed to kneel 
down.  Her knees were brushing against the door, with her heels 
pressed against the back wall, but at least she could straighten 
her back and neck. 
 
There was no room to lie down in or even sit with her knees curled 
up against her chest.  After only a few minutes she could feel 
sweat pumping from every pore.  "Would an inmate have been allowed 
her dress?" she murmured softly to herself.
 
It would hardly have mattered.  There was no air in the box and 
each box was out in the open, far enough apart from each other 
that it did not offer any shade to the neighbouring box.  They 
had been designed and built with the clear intent to capture and 
hold as much of the day's heat as possible.
 
The side of her foot brushed against something wooden, and, 
fumbling in the dark, she brought her hands around to 
investigate.  It turned out to be a small bucket.
 
"Of course," she gasped.  An inmate might have been confined here 
for hours, perhaps even a day or more.  Any inmate locked in here 
would need some way to relieve herself. 
 
Her hands almost had a mind of their own as they pulled the dress 
up around her waist.  Over the years, how many prisoners had knelt 
as she was doing, with nothing but this bucket to pee into?  What 
if she had to do something more substantial?  Either way, the 
bucket was the only receptacle, and it would have had to remain 
there, between the inmate's legs, for the duration of her stay in 
the box.  Both the inmate and her waste would stay in the box for 
the duration of her punishment, both together in the hot. sticky, 
humid air.
 
Jordan's fingers found her cunt soaking wet.  Just thinking about 
that bucket and how it would have been to have to share such close 
quarters with her own stinking piss had her on the edge.  Her 
fingers barely had to touch her clit and her hips were heaving, as 
she threw back her head and let the orgasm wash over her.
 
"Perhaps I should leave you there until you've finished your 
business," Carol commented dryly.
 
With a start Jordan looked up.  She had never even registered the 
door opening, let alone Carol standing over her as she fingered 
herself.  "I thought I heard dogs in the distance," Carol went on. 
"And I was wondering if you'd heard anything."
 
A grin split her face.  "But I suppose you were a bit too 
preoccupied to hear anything."
 
Jordan accepted Carol's hand to help her out.  She did not want to 
think what an inmate would be like after all day in the hot box.
 
"I found something that you might like," Carol told her as Jordan 
pulled her dress down to cover herself.
 
"What?" 
 
All she got was a mysterious smile.  Then, a second, she did think 
she could hear some dogs, but a moment later, the wind shifted, 
taking whatever the noise was with it.
 
Still refusing to tell her what it was that had caught her eye, 
Carol led the way past another half-collapsed building into an 
open field.  Whatever it had been used for before was lost to 
history, but now it was overgrown with scrub...all except for 
the large dead tree.
 
It dominated the field, and, even at a glance, Jordan could see 
that it had died years ago.  Up close, it towered above them with 
bare branches thrusting out in every direction, while the ground 
near the trunk was littered with fallen twigs and smaller branches.
 
"What's so interesting about a dead tree?" Jordan asked.  She had 
no idea what it was.  Perhaps an oak.  It was certainly big enough.
 
"Look," Carol grinned and, seeing that Jordan was getting 
impatient, finally pointed out what had caught her attention.
 
Following her friend's arm, Jorgan looked up.  A particularly 
large branch thrust out from one side of the tree.  Lower than 
the others, it was still out of her reach, but her mouth dropped 
open when she saw what dangled there.
 
Weathered and aged, barely intact from rust, were the remains of 
metal fetters.  They looked like they would crumble into dust at 
a touch, but it was easy to imagine them in their heyday.  The 
chain linking the fetters had been draped over the branch, 
leaving the fetters themselves to dangle within reach.
 
"Just think," Carol said.  "If one of the guards found you like I 
did, playing with yourself like a very naughty convict, they would 
probably take you here and chain you up for a good whipping."
 
Carol still had the capacity to surprise her.  Normally she was the 
more shy, more retiring of the two, but, once she got going, she 
had just as wicked an imagination as Jordan.  Looking at the tree, 
Jordan's mind was filled with visions of how it might have appeared 
in the past.  It was close enough to the buildings that an inmate 
could be brought here quickly enough.  Yet it was also out in the 
open.  Anyone working in the nearby fields would have a good view 
if an another prisoner was being made an example of.
 
How many inmates had been strung up from this very tree?  Would 
they be left all day, all night?  On the ground was ample material 
for a switch.  Or would the guards have preferred a strap?  Just 
thinking about it sent a shudder through Jordan, and she could see 
that Carol's eyes were distant, dreamy.
 
Then it came again, and this time there was no doubt.  Jordan heard 
a dog barking, more than one by the sound of it, and getting 
closer.  She exchanged a look with Carol and saw that her friend 
had heard it, as well. 
 
Carol's mouth opened in a silent "what?" -- but Jordan had no 
answers for her.  The dogs were getting closer now, and a look 
of concern began to creep across Jordan's face.  "Perhaps we 
should...." 
 
"And quick!" Carol agreed.
 
Putting her back to the tree, Jordan looked around trying to figure 
out what was the quickest way back to where they had left their 
clothes.  Their wandering had covered quite a bit of ground.  Just 
looking at the ground told Jordan that she would have to scrub her 
feet particularly hard tonight to get all the dirt from her skin.  
That would have to wait, however. 
 
Prancing around in the prison dresses was all well and good here 
alone with no one to see them, but she would die of embarrassment 
if some country hicks found her like this.  As the sound of the 
hounds grew louder, Carol and Jordan ran...fast.
 
Jordan reached the door of the property house first, crashing 
against the door.  It didn't budge. 
 
Locked!
 
Jordan turned to her friend accusingly.  "Did you lock the door?"
 
"No, I closed it.  It locked itself, I guess.  Maybe there's a key 
around somewhere."
 
"Yeah," Jordan snapped.  "Maybe it's under the welcome mat."  She 
tried to kick open the door, but her bare feet were useless. 
 
"Damn lock is the only thing about this damn place that isn't 
falling to pieces!" she shouted in frustration as she beat on 
the rusted iron doorknob.
 
"Maybe there's a window in the back," Carol suggested.
 
The point became moot as the men with the barking dogs came into 
view.  They were standing in front of the building, in plain sight 
of a large group of men who were moving rapidly towards them.  With 
sinking hearts, both girls realized that there was no way they were 
going to get their clothes before the men and the dogs reached 
them.  Like the girls who had used the "property boxes" before, 
their clothes and identification were now the property of the 
state, until such time as the powers-that-be determined that they 
should be released.
 
		******************************

Part 2

Carol and Jordan squinted, then stared slack-jawed as the men 
approached.  There were three men on horseback, holding rifles.  
Another four were on foot, holding the leashes to two packs of 
snarling dogs.
 
"It's like something out of an old movie," Carol said. 
 
"So are we," Jordan replied, looking down at her dress.  "Run!"
 
Panicked, they turned and ran flat out, the oxygen burning their 
lungs.  The ground was hard and filled with sharp, pointy stones, 
but neither girl cared, particularly when they looked behind them 
and saw the men had gotten close enough to release the hounds.
 
The women ran fast, but the galloping dogs were twice their speed. 
Carol managed to get to a tree, but the pack pursuing Jordan jumped 
on her, knocking her to the ground.  She tried to rise, but one of 
the dogs gripped the back of her neck tightly in his teeth.  He 
didn't break the skin, but the well-trained dog's message was 
clear: I am in charge, and you are my prisoner, bitch!
 
Soon, Carol and Jordan were together, kneeling in the dirt before 
their captors.
 
"Well, lookee here," one of the riders said in a slow southern 
drawl.  The metal of a badge on his shirt gleamed in the sunlight, 
and he was wearing mirror shades that made it impossible to see 
his eyes.  With some alarm, Jordan noticed that he had some sort 
of pistol holster on one leg, and there was a rifle slung beside 
his saddle. 
 
"Looks like we've got our runners." 
 
There were satisfied murmurs from the other riders.  Even the men 
on foot looked pleased.  None of them was wearing any sort of 
badge.  In fact, they were dressed in sturdy-looking jeans and 
denim shirts.  One had a baseball cap reversed on his head so that 
the peak shaded his neck.  From the looks of things, it was taking 
most of their effort to hold back the hounds that were leaping up, 
trying to pull free.
 
The rider who had spoken slid from his saddle and strode forward.  
He looked to be at his ease, but Jordan noticed that his right 
hand never left the butt of the pistol at his waist.
 
"You've led us a merry chase," he said, sounding more amused than 
annoyed.  Then his voice dropped into a lower, more dangerous tone. 
"Don't be thinking of trying to run again.  It's hot, and I've had 
a long day.  I'm in no mood to go chasing two convicts."
 
"Convicts!" Jordan exclaimed in shock.  She shook her head.  
"We're not convicts.  My name is Jordan Johnson, and this is 
Carol Ames, and we are passing through.  We camped nearby, and...."
 
She began to back away as he approached, but, before either of them 
could get very far, one of the riders was there, edging his horse 
forward to block their retreat.
 
"What are those numbers again?" the man asked one if his companions.
 
"6541597 and 6541621," one of the men told him after checking a 
piece of paper.
 
Jordan began to turn as she contemplated trying to slide around 
the horse and rider at her back.  Then she froze at the feel of 
something hard pressing against her back.  Twisting her head 
around, she saw the rider casually holding a shotgun.
 
Jordan swallowed hard and saw that Carol had gone pale.
 
The deputy casually reached out and took hold of the neckline of 
Jordan's dress.  With the shotgun where it was, she was not about 
to try her chances at running.
 
Holding her by the neckline, the man leaned forward to get a good 
look, then nodded as he read off the number "6541621" emblazoned 
on the dress.  A glance at Carol, and he was able to confirm her 
number: "6541597."
 
"Listen, there has been some mistake," Jordan protested.  Her mouth 
felt dry, and her voice was hoarse, but one look at Carol told her 
that she was too terrified to say anything. 
 
"We're not convicts.  Were visiting the area, and we came across 
this place.  These dresses were lying on the ground, so we...."
 
The officer began to chuckle.  "Ya hear that, boys?  These two fine 
ladies just happened to be passing through and came on the dresses 
worn by two prisoners recently escaped from the prison farm."
 
"No, our real clothes AND our identification are in the property 
house," Jordan explained.  "But the door's locked, and...."
 
"Yeah, we saw y'all trying to break in.  Pretty smart.  Get some 
clothes, maybe hitch a ride.  Sorry to upset yer plans."
 
"They should tear this place down," one of the other men on 
horseback said, looking around.  "It's a menace." 
 
"Well, they were hoping it would be a tourist site," the man with 
the badge replied.  "Like anyone would be dumb enough to spend 
their vacation at a shit hole like this.  It's scheduled to be 
burned.  Don't know when."
 
"No, really.  We're University students.  We were just trying the 
dresses on as...sort of like costumes."
 
"Halloween costumes," Carol added, adding useless embellishment.
 
"And we have an interest in local history," Jordan tried to explain.
 
One of the men laughed at this, and Jordan was able to hear him 
remark to one of his friends, "Ain't much difference between the 
past and the present 'round here."
 
Before she could stop him, he yanked her forward almost ripping 
the dress as he pulled the fabric away from her neck and chest 
and peered down the opening.  Immediately Jordan began to bring 
her hands up to try to protect her modesty, then froze again as 
the barrel of the shotgun shifted to press against the base of 
her skull. 
 
The officer holding her let out a wolf whistle at what he saw under 
the dress.  "And of course you just had to strip off butt naked and 
try on the dress."
 
He looked over his shoulder to the others for their reaction, and, 
without exception, the only ones not laughing were the dogs.
 
"You yankees think y'all so smart, lots smarter than us poor 
hillbillies."  He no longer sounded as amused.  Long-held 
resentment and bitterness was starting to bubble up in his voice. 
 
"Look, we have ID.  We can prove we are who we say we are," Jordan 
tried to reason with him.  "Just let us show you."
 
From beside her, she heard Carol whimper fearfully, "Please don't 
hurt us."  Her eyes were wide open and fixed on the second shotgun 
aimed at her.
 
"I didn't see any ID," the deputy grinned as he let go of her 
dress.  "Just two mighty impressive knockers."  Then his smirk 
widened.  "'Less ya got it 'tween yer legs.  Ya want to show us 
that ID?"
 
Jordan flushed with shame and anger at a second round of 
sniggering.  "Of course, I don't have it on me," she 
snapped only barely avoiding adding "you moron."  
she gestured toward the property house.  "I can show 
you where if you let us into...."
 
"Just let you steal some clothes," the deputy suggested.  "And I'm 
sure you will both be right back if we do."  He shook his head.  
"How dumb y'all figure we are?"  He nodded to some of his men.
 
"Let's be having them bridled," the deputy barked.  "I'm done 
hearing her chatter."
 
"No, you have to let me explain," Jordan cried as more hands 
reached for her and for Carol.  "You're making a mistake.  
No...please....  Don-."
 
The last was cut of as a sturdy wooden bit wrapped in leather that 
tasted like it had been dropped in either sheep dip or old piss was 
forced into her mouth.  It drew back the sides of her cheeks in a 
parody of a grin.  At the same time it pressed down on her tongue.  
It did not silence her, but it would make any intelligent speech 
impossible.  An ominous click as the straps to the bit were drawn 
behind her head told Jordan that they would not be coming off any 
time soon...and not without a key.
 
The two girls were pushed down into the dirt.  Jordan watched in 
stunned disbelief as the one of the men dismounted and reached 
into his saddle bag to retrieve two sets of antique handcuffs. 
 
"Ya want we should call a wagon?" one of the other deputies asked 
once Jordan and Carol were secured.
 
The lead deputy looked at them and then back to the horses.  Then 
the tree in the distance seemed to catch his eye.  "Let's be 
getting a better look at our runners."  He nodded to the tree. 
"String 'em up."
 
Behind her gag Jordan whimpered in terror as she was shoved 
forward.  String 'em up.  Surely they were not going to HANG 
them?  Even a southern redneck could not be so cruel to lynch 
two girls over a case of mistaken identity.
 
"Lets be having that," one of the men growled at her, and, before 
Jordan knew what was happening, he was taking hold of her dress 
and yanking it painfully up over her body, where it enveloped her 
head.  She tried to resist as she felt her body below the neck 
suddenly exposed, but, despite all her efforts, in a few seconds 
the dress was up over her head and being pulled down her arms.
 
She was too stunned to move...and they were not finished. 
 
One end of a length of rope was tied to her handcuffs, and then 
the rope was tossed over the branch and pulled taut.  Immediately 
Jordan felt the strain as her arms were drawn up.  For a second, 
she feared they meant to pull her off her feet completely before 
tying off the other end of the rope. 
 
Instead, they left her dangling with the handcuffs digging 
painfully into her wrists and her toes desperately brushing 
against the hard dirt of the ground, trying to gain some 
purchase there.  Another rope was flung over the branch, and 
soon Carol joined Jordan, dangling in the air.
 
"Water the animals," the lead officer ordered once they had been 
secured.  "Its been a long day for them, especially the hounds 
sniffing after our two runaways here."
 
"The wagon," another officer reminded him.  "Should I call it in?  
Perhaps get come confirmation on their ID in case they were telling 
the truth."
 
"You worry too much, Dwayne," the officer told him.  "We were told 
to capture two 'scaped convicts, and the hounds led us straight 
here.  And they was wearing the proper uniforms, complete with 
numbers."
 
Trying to fight back tears, Jordan shook her head.  She tried to 
speak, but the damn bit gag made her sound more like a grunting 
animal rather than a college-educated woman.
 
"If there's some mistake I'm sure the review board will sort it 
out." 
 
"Don't they only meet every six months?" the one called Dwayne 
asked.  "I thought they had their last meeting 'bout a week ago.  
I doubt the warden's even gonna forward a clemency plea from two 
escapees."
 
The lead officer shrugged.  Clearly he did not seem to care when 
the board who might (or might not) review their case chose to meet. 
For a second Jordan hoped beyond hope that officer Dwayne would 
intervene.  Denied the power of speech, they had been effectively 
stripped of the ability to defend themselves, to argue their case.  
Then Dwayne shrugged.
 
"They don't have any callouses or shackle sores," he noted.  "But 
they do look mighty fine hanging there like that."
 
The senior officer chucked as he slapped him on the shoulder.  
"That's the spirit.  Truth is, the warden won't give a shit who 
they are.  He just wants a couple of more girls to pick cotton.  
And these two are pretty enough to work the big house, too, if 
you know what I mean.  Don't sweat it, Dwayne-bo.  We git our 
reward either way."
 
Jordan could not believe this was happening.  How stupid had they 
been not to notice that the dresses should have rotted clean away 
if they had been over twenty years old like the rest of the 
deserted farm.  They must have been left there by the two escaped 
convicts the guards were looking for.  Nothing else could explain 
why the dogs had tracked them here.  Only why would these men not 
let them explain?  Didn't they care they had the wrong two girls?
 
"I don't think we need a wagon," the officer said.  As he spoke, 
he ran his hands freely up and down Jordan's legs the same way a 
man might test a pony he was thinking of buying. 
 
"Its only 3-4 miles to the farm, these fine little fillies can run 
behind our horses.  Just a short trot."
 
Jordan could not believe what she was hearing.  Run behind the 
horses.  Three or four miles.   How could they possibly expect 
them to run that far?  Even if the sun were not already baking 
down on them, basting them in sweat....
 
"Well get you back to the farm in no time," the senior guard said.  
The prospect apparently pleased him -- that or the sight of 
Jordan's naked body stretched taut and exposed for him to ogle.  
 
If only she did not have to listen to the running comparison 
between her and Carol.  Yet she had no way to shut out their 
voices as they compared tits, asses, pussies and overall body 
tone.  
 
"Don't y'all be fretting none," the officer told them as he stroked 
her breasts until her nipples were standing erect.  "We'll soon 
have y'all back home, nice and safe...and back to work picking 
cotton."
 
He moved behind Jordan and she frantically twisted her head around 
to track him.  She had not thought she could be any more frightened 
than she already was, but her fear climbed when she saw him cut a 
supple, three-foot switch from a nearby bush and swish it through 
the air.  The other men hastenrd to follow his lead.

"It'll be the strap for y'all soons we git back to the farm.  But, 
meanwhile...."   

Swish!
 
Jordan shouted into her gag and swayed forward as the switch drew 
a line of fire across her bottom.  Then Carol heard another SWISH! 
-- and her own buttom was set ablaze.

"Dance for us, convict!  Wiggle that sweet ass!"
 
Swish!
 
Swish!

Swish!
 
The two girls swung back and forth, dancing in air painfully and 
lasciviously, as the men merrily beat their shapely bare bottoms.  
 
"Jist git 'em loose and warmed up.  I don't want 'em to get all 
fagged out and faint.  They need to trot back to the farm.
 
"'Course you can expect a REALLY good whupping when you get back," 
he went on as he slashed at Jordan yet again.  "Runaways allus get 
a good dose of strap oil...in front of the whole farm."
 
He glanced back at the convict dresses that had been thrown on the 
ground, close enough for the girls to see, but just out of reach.  
"And y'all will git your nice dresses back jist as soon as yer 
work quota's mrt.  Y'all might have to work extra hard for a bit, 
what with bein' two days missin' and all.  That's two days' quota 
to catch up on, and we like to up the quota of any convict who 
runs."
 
"Don't you worry none 'bout bein' butt-naked on the chain gang.  
Why, half the women strip off ever mornin' as soon as they git 
to the fields."
 
Jordan's mind was suddenly filled with images of herself and Carol 
struggling to meet a quota that was always just a little out of 
reach no matter how hard they struggled.  The guards would surely 
not mind that they were naked, it would give them a much more 
pleasing view and leave so much more soft, tender flesh for the 
straps to kiss. 
 
Carol began to whimper into her gag.  And Jordan saw that she was 
peeing herself, hot urine running down her legs.  Even then she 
could not take her eyes off the guard with the switch.
 
The sight of her wetting herself set off another round of laughter, 
and one of the guards shook his head.  "If ya keep pissin' yo'se'f, 
maybe ya don't deserve no nice dress."
 
"She won't be lonely," another remarked.  "With tits like them, 
she'll be sucking dick soon enough."
 
"Enough jaw-waggin'," the first officer told the others.  "Let's 
finish gettin' these two whupped before we run 'em back.  They're 
prob'ly homesick."
 
Carol was humiliated beyond words.  But she discovered that, if 
she squeezed her thighs together, the randiness between her legs 
distracted her from the pain...or perhaps the pain enhanced her 
randiness.
 
Once she got word to the outside world, Carol knew her father would 
get her out.  But she knew that would not be easy.  A letter 
alerting her father to her incarceration and asking for help would 
never make it past the warden.  She could bribe someone, but all 
she had to offer was her mouth and pussy and....  And there was 
always the risk -- perhaps a certainty -- that the person she was 
attempting to bribe would simply turn her in, and she would once 
again be strung up for punishment.
 
Yes, she'd get out eventually, but it could take a while, and she 
knew there were constant humiliations and degradations in store.  
But, as she squeezed her thighs together and worked herself towards 
her first-ever prison orgasm, somehow that didn't seem so bad.
 
Even as the switches warmed her bottom, and she was biting down 
savagely on the gag, Jordan could not stop wondering how long 
would they have to stay on the prison farm until someone realised 
they were not the two escaped convicts?  Would they be able to 
convince someone to retrieve their clothes before the property 
house was burned, or before some vandal stole their stuff?  How 
many mornings would they be driven from their bunks before sunrise 
and marched to the fields for the day's back-breaking work of 
picking cotton like some antebellum slave girl?  How long would it 
be before she was on her knees in front of the guards, sucking dick 
for a little extra water or more rations.  How many licks with the 
switches did they intend to give her, and how long would they sting 
and throb?  How long would it take for them to run back to the 
prison farm, bare naked behind the horses?  And perhaps most 
importantly, how long until she could pull her arms down and slip 
her fingers between her legs to ease the raging ache that was 
setting her blood on fire with the desperate need to cum?
 
Only time would tell.
 


Edited by C. Lakewood