THE PRIZE by Joe Doe Part 1 I hate to lose. My desire to be #1 has made me, Brittany Hampton, Esq., the youngest partner at my firm and one of the top criminal lawyers in Boston, a city with no shortage of legal talent. Naturally, when I was offered a chance to speak at a corrections conference in New Orleans, I was determined that my presentation would be the best. My topic that day was a grabber: the recent Supreme Court ruling on strip searches. During the Q&A after the session, a local who identified herself as Correctional Officer Samantha Jackson peppered me with questions. If the police could strip-search anyone held in a facility, could anyone visiting her prison be strip-searched as well, even if they didn't have contact with a prisoner? What about lawyers? Staff? Were invasive cavity searches permitted? Rectal searches? Could the room be monitored by video cameras, for security purposes? How long could the tapes be maintained? Samantha (whom I later got to know as "Sam") didn't seem happy when the moderator finally cut her off so someone else could get in a question, and she made a beeline to me, with more questions, as soon I stepped away from the podium. At the break, Sam bought me lunch. She sat through my next three seminars, asking questions each time and waiting patiently to buy me dinner. I wasn't sure what to make of her. She was definitely "earthy" and blue collar, but she he had a bright smile and a loud laugh, and she instantly put me at ease. At dinner, she told me three or four times how beautiful I was, complimenting me on my "bright blue eyes" and "purty mouth" and asking me if I was a natural blonde. I laughed and replied, "I'm a lawyer, so even if I told you 'yes,' I wouldn't believe me." Sam guffawed loudly. "Well, I reckon I'll just have to see fer myself...Brittany." Feeling quite embarrassed, I bit my lip and played with my salad as Sam cut off another huge chunk of steak and stuck it into her mouth. "Yer sure purty when you blush," she said, laughing through a mouth filled with food. I felt myself flush all the more. A little later, she asked how much I made "gettin' criminals off" in Boston. I just laughed and asked her if she wanted to take a ride in my Lexus. She said she made "a purty decent buck, too, most of it tax-free." "Tax-free?" I asked skeptically. "Not all of it. But the money I'd make on a purty honey like you would be," she said, again showing me hunks of steak as she laughed. "Good to know I can make money anywhere," I said, trying to conceal my nervousness with a joke. "I'm the top rain-maker at my firm." "I bet ya are," Sam said, looking me up and down. "But a little go-getter like you'd make money even without no fancy-pants degree. On the farm, you'd sprout green anywhere I planted ya." I knew it was a compliment, if a somewhat backhanded one. For Sam wasn't complimenting me on my intellect, but rather my physical attributes, and my capacity to do manual labor on her prison farm. Or so I thought. She was definitely a character, and it was a fun dinner. I have to admit her bragging about how much money her prison made "without no lawyers gettin' in our way" and her references to how much I might make compared to the other girls on the farm piqued both my curiosity and my competitive juices. Even when it comes to picking cotton, I don't like to lose. But there was another side as well. Her casual disregard of my intellectual skills and her lip-smacking sexism in dismissing me as a "purty thing" was shocking, amusing, and (I have to admit) strangely exciting. We became Facebook friends, but, due to the nature of our conversations (and Sam's tendency to flirt in her rather masculine way) we quickly switched to the privacy of e-mails. After some intense discussions about scheduling, I agreed to come for a visit in July. (I had months of vacation accrued, so I thought I'd cash in some of it. Because I didn't know quite what would happen between Sam and me, I just told the firm that it could expect me when it saw me.) I was supposed to leave after work on Thursday, but, due to a weather delay at Logan (surprise), I didn't leave Boston until the next morning, which left me driving through the parish Sam lived in about 9 AM. I couldn't get her on her cell, probably because she was at work, and my new iPhone map app was beyond useless. I felt an odd twinge of fear and excitement as I turned into the parking lot of the large courthouse complex. It was silly, I knew. As a criminal lawyer I had been in countless courthouses, both as an advocate and as a visitor. Since Sam was a correctional officer, it seemed like a logical place to find directions to her home, or the prison, or to figure out how I might contact her. But, truthfully, Sam's bragging about the ruthless efficiency with which prisoners were processed through what she called "the system" made me more than a little curious to see the Sheriff's office and the courthouse for myself. The town was an unimpressive jerkwater, even by rural Louisiana standards, a movie set that hadn't been updated since the 1920s. However the enormous brick courthouse / jail / Sheriff's Office was quite modern. This new facility stood behind a quainter, beautifully domed antebellum courthouse, a relic of a simpler time, before the state's prisons became a major, for-profit industry. The new complex was large and, well, complex, and it took me a few minutes to make my way past the courtrooms to the Sheriff's department in the back. The receptionist seemed a little confused by my request, but I gave her Sam's name and number, and she drawled that I could speak to the Sheriff "when he gets a second, hon." But at least my story got me past the first two electronic doors to a reception area, where I was left to sit on a wooden bench, waiting my turn with two others. In this case the "others" was a rather disheveled man who had been picked up several hours before on a DUI, and a black man who had been arrested because he "reeked" of marijuana, even though they didn't find any in his car, and he didn't reek to me. Marijuana man was now complaining loudly that he had been sitting on the bench for hours and still hadn't gotten his phone call. Maybe it was my lawyerly instinct, or my desire to speed things along, but I let him use my iPhone, holding it up so he could talk to this wife. She promised she would get him a lawyer. The man picked up on the DUI was an easier case. He claimed he'd had two beers, and I told him if that was really true, he should ask for a Breathalyzer, since it had been nearly 5 hours since he had left the bar. To my amusement, the man immediately approached the deputy behind the counter and demanded a Breathalyzer. I thought it was pretty funny, but the deputy the prisoner was shouting at was not amused. The good news is my free-lance legal advice earned me an immediate audience with the Sheriff. The Sheriff, a portly man with a frown on his face, a toothpick in his mouth, and a doughnut in his hand, had even less of a sense of humor than the deputy. His first question to me was, "Why you intah-feah-rin' with mah officers?" Recognizing the legal term he was using, my lawyer persona rose up. "I'm not interfering. But, if you're looking for something to investigate, you might start by looking into why your 'oaf-is-ers' are holding prisoners for hours without charging them." "You some sort of laaw-yer?" he asked, pronouncing my profession like it was a dirty word. "I sure am," I replied, my competitive juices kicking in. "A damn good one." "I mean, are you a laaw-yer in Lou-easy-ana?" he drawled. "Your accent ain't from around here. You licensed?" "Well, no, I work in Boston. But I wasn't practicing law, I was merely...." "Cuff her!" I resisted slightly and called the Sheriff "Deputy Doughnut," which earned me a bump on the head from the deputy I had annoyed. Thirty minutes later I was standing in front of a judge, a bored district attorney, and Jasper Wilkens, my so-called "defense counsel," who kept whispering in my ear that I should plead guilty and ask for a suspended sentence. When Jasper defied my wishes and told the Judge I was guilty, I stood up and addressed the court directly. "Ah don't understand," the judge drawled. "Y'all stip-u-late to urgin' yoah client to demand a breathalyzer, thus securin' his freedom?" I smiled at the news that the man had been freed. "I'm glad my cli-...the gentleman...was properly freed, but again, I was not the attorney of record, Your Honor," I replied. "Y'all sho' lot more effective than Jasper's ever been," the judge said, exchanging a smile with me as my frowning attorney pretended to shuffle his papers. I grinned back. "What y'all doin' practicin' law so far from...?" "Boston, Your Honor," I said. "I'm visiting a friend, Sam Jackson. She works for the Department of Corrections." "Y'all a friend o' Sam's?" he said, laughing. "You shoulda said so!" "Excuse me, Your Honor," the district attorney interrupted. "The Sheriff contacted Sam, but she said she's never heard of her." "Y'all sho' 'bout that?" the judge said, furrowing his brow. "I'm sure, Your Honor. I called her and talked to her myself, after the Sheriff, just to make sure." I was as puzzled as the judge. How could Sam not know me? I had left her a message the night before, telling her my flight would be delayed. I knew she was expecting me. "Rubbish! Your Honor, this is a mistake. Look, the Sheriff's an idiot. If you let me call Sam...." The judge's friendly face hardened. "The Sheriff's mah cuz'in, and y'all need to address opposin' counsel with respect. And y'all will see Sam soon enough. Bailiff, stand Miss Boston-Legal here in front of mah bench." My "lawyer" shuffled papers as the bailiff gripped me tightly by the arm and stood me in front of the massive bench. "Brittany Hampton, I find y'all inn-o-cent of practicin' law with no license, but GUILTY of breach of the peace and GUILTY of in-ter-ferin' with an officer of THE LAW. I sentence you to 30 days for the breach and 60 days for the rest of your sass-a-frass. Sentences to be served...." He paused and peered down at me. I blushed and bit my lip as he looked me over carefully, starting with my stylish sandals and moving his eyes up my bare legs to the hem of my yellow dress, then slowly upward. It so distracted me that I was surprised when he uttered the final word of his sentence: "Con-currently." I shuddered as he pointed the gavel at me, looking down at me like an angry daddy. "Maybe a spell o' HARD LABOR out on da farm will learn ya some manners, gurhl." I stood staring up at him, mouth agape as the gavel slammed down with the finality of a guillotine. I wanted to say something, but I could not. I just stood there dumb and helpless as the bailiff cuffed my wrists behind my back. My last view of the courtroom was Jasper chatting with the prosecutor about lunch, allowing himself a smile as he glanced over at the bailiff leading me away. "Justice" moved fast here. The Sheriff, now grinning, came in to watch as my ankles and wrists were shackled to a belt around my waist, joking with his deputy that "the prison farm just got a pretty little jailhouse laaw-yer!" He tipped his hat to me as I was loaded onto the prison bus, promising to "visit real soon." The town was the parish (county) seat, but it was a jerkwater. However, the crappy little town looked like Times Square compared to the barren landscape we drove through on the way out to the prison. Through the wire mesh of my cage, I looked out upon a desert of impoverished subsistence-level farms, tended by miserable-looking share croppers and their ragamuffin children. I stared at the chains around my wrists and realized that I would soon be doing the same work they were, only they would still be free. As we drew closer to the prison farm, I noticed a change, not in the scenery, but in the personnel. The miserable trash pulling plows and tilling fields was replaced by rows of women with their wrists and ankles shackled together, interspersed with frowning prison guards on enormous horses, often with rifles in their hands. As I massaged my manacled wrists, I thought back to the judge. He liked me, at least at first. I could tell. He had probably reasoned that, if I were who I claimed to be, Sam would recognize me and set things straight. Yes, if Sam had vouched for me, everything would have been fine. I'd probably have been invited back to the judge's chambers, where he would issue a formal apology as he bawled out the lawyers. Later, over drinks, we'd laugh over the misunderstanding. No harm done. Sam would know me. I had talked to her on the phone a dozen times. We had met in person, and she knew all my Facebook photos. But Sam didn't know me, or at least she acted like she didn't know me. When I shuffled off the prison bus, with my wrists and ankles shackled to the belt around my waist, she didn't even look at me. Perhaps she didn't recognize me. After all, I almost didn't recognize her. She looked so commanding, so powerful, so different from the smiling woman I knew from the seminar, and the phone, and dinner. That day seemed long ago. She had been wearing a suit at the conference, but now the sleeves of her brown prison guard uniform were short enough that I could see her well-toned, muscular biceps. Her COMMANDING OFFICER baseball cap covered her short black hair, slicked back with greasy kid stuff, and her enormous mirrored sunglasses covered the top half of her face. I spotted her as I slowly waited in line, shuffling towards the front of the bus. Sam was standing next to our bus driver checking off an inventory list that doubtlessly included my name, but I didn't recognize her at first. In fact, I thought she was a man. I recognized her when I got off the bus, and I flashed her a smile. The smile was not returned; instead she simply looked at the sticker with my prisoner number on it stuck to the front of my dress, then silently ticked my name off her list. She saw my name, didn't she? HAMPTON, BRITTANY? It was on the sheet right in front of her. I had told her last night what time my flight would be arriving. The coffle chain pulled me forward, and I shuffled along. I had worn a yellow sun dress that day and had applied my makeup carefully, remembering Sam's offhanded comment that she liked me better "when I dressed all purty and girly." The dress wasn't slinky, but it showed my knees, and was tight enough to show some curves. Sam didn't appear to notice, or even recognize me. As I walked past, she simply moved on to the next prisoner. I listened closely as the obese old warden "welcomed" us to the prison, warning us to follow the rules and keep our noses clean. "Up to now you LADIES been TAKERS, not MAKERS. That ends TO-DAY. You gonna work...and work HARD. Ain't no shame in workin' up a stink," he smiled. "No more sucking off da taxpayer titty here," he said, eying a large-breasted inmate. "Here, y'all EARN yer keep!" Sam didn't pay any attention to the practiced harangue. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her chatting with the bus driver, and he laughed as she made some sort of joke. I wondered what she'd said, but it didn't matter. The joke wasn't for me. Sam didn't look at me, but, after the warden left, I felt her watching as I shuffled slowly across the gravel towards yet another metal gate. I turned and looked behind me and, sure enough, discovered Sam with her sunglasses off, staring right at me. Or, to be more specific, she was staring at my ass. "Eyes front, con," one of the officers barked. Feeling Sam's eyes on me the entire time, I turned and shuffled forward slowly, through the second fence gate, past the barbed wire, through a huge metal door, and into the concrete building marked "RECEPTION." More turns, more corridors, more locked doors. The maze led to a wooden bench where I sat, in chains, waiting my turn. My diamond earrings and gold bracelet went into a small plastic bag with my prisoner number on it, and I waited. Then I waited some more, watching as the girls in front of me disappeared, one by one. The next room I entered was small, and I was grateful when the matron unshackled my hands and feet and removed the leather belt cinched around my waist. The gratitude was short-lived, however, as the matron brusquely ordered me to take off my clothes and put them in the gray plastic box at my feet. There were two male officers in the room, one standing at the door with his back toward me and the other checking the already neatly stacked pile of boxes against his clipboard list. Neither one was paying me any special attention, but certainly I wasn't expected to undress with men in the room.... Was I? "Strip!" the matron barked, sensing my hesitation. "Ever'thin' off, NOW." I was tossing my second stylishly strappy sandal into the box when Sam entered. She said nothing, but stood about four feet in front of me, directly to the right of the officer who had ordered me to strip. Sam watched closely, legs apart, arms folded across her chest, in a power pose that showed her well-sculpted biceps to full advantage. As I fumbled with the zipper on the back of my dress, I found myself wondering if the prison had a gym for the guards. "Y'ain't dancing on Bourbon street, girl. Hurry up and git nekid!" the matron barked. I looked to Sam. She was glaring at me, and her fierce stare made finding my zipper impossible. "Turn 'round," she said. I obeyed and, a second later, felt the pressure of my dress relieved as she quickly unzipped me. I shuddered as I felt her strong, cold hands on my shoulder, and, a second later, my dress was at a pool around my feet. With my heels on, I'm about 5'7". Now I was barefoot, and, in her cowboy boots, Sam towered over me. "Step outta da dress, CON-vict," Sam drawled. I did as I was told, and she quickly crunched my pretty yellow dress in her meaty fist and dropped it into the numbered gray carton at my feet. "Turn 'round, and shuck off dat slip," the matron ordered. I complied and stood in front of Sam and the matron in my pink bra and panties. I had spent a lot of time that day debating my underwear choice. I had considered wearing something plain, and white, and functional...a sports bra, perhaps. But, if I had chosen a soft and pretty and feminine dress for Sam, to please her, shouldn't I go all the way? In the end, vanity won, and I had worn a matching bra and panty set, pink with white trim and little white hearts. Remembering my discomfort as Sam had complimented me on my looks, I had secretly hoped that she wouldn't be present during my intake. It wasn't an unreasonable expectation, for as the CO of her shift, she was free to come and go as she pleased. She could choose to be anywhere, and it was a very large prison. As luck would have it, however, she happened to be right in front of me as I stood shivering barefoot on a cold concrete floor, wearing nothing but my oh-so-cute girlish underwear. Sam stood before me, her thumbs hooked into her belt, the very image of power in her crisp and tightly tailored uniform. I could feel her staring at my panties, carefully examining the pattern. Her face was implacable, her expression inscrutable. Had I pleased her or not? I had supposed she had been admiring the underpants I had put on just for her, but her next sentence disabused me of this notion. "Ya think da little princess is a natural blonde, Officer Hoggs?" The man in the doorway turned towards me. I blushed as I felt his eyes run up and down my nearly naked body. "Four butts say she's not, Commander Jackson," he replied. "Yankee gals are all phonies." "Bet's on," Sam replied. I stood there, staring dumbfounded, uncertain of what I had just heard. What were they betting on? What were butts?" "Skivvies in the box," Sam said sharply. "Or did ya need some help takin' those off, too?" I didn't want to strip for Sam, but I really didn't want her big manly hands "helping" me take off my panties, either. Biting my lip with embarrassment, my trembling fingers finally managed to unhook my bra and shrug it off my shoulders. Sam did not smile, remaining as Sphinx-like as ever, but she did move her head around and shifted her weight slightly, admiring my 34B breasts even as I hooked my fingers into the waistband of my panties. I tried to pull them down in one quick motion, but I have a very round bottom, and I had to reach behind me to get my panties over the curve. Feeling very stupid, I finally managed to get them off and put them in the box. "Hands at your side," the matron said. I obeyed, and stood at attention, allowing Sam's eyes to roam freely over my body. She held out her hand, and the male guard from the door walked across the room and placed four cigarettes into her open palm. ****************************** Part 2 Staring at my blonde crotch, the leering male guard snickered, "That's a cute little dandelion patch she's got. It's worth more than a pack." "We'll see," Sam replied tightly, not returning his smile. She pocketed the "butts." I tried to make eye contact with her, looking for some assurance, but, like the male guard, she kept her eyes focused tightly on my crotch. The matron donned a pair of gloves, and Sam watched impassively as she ran her fingers through my long blond hair and stuck her little black flashlight in my ears, up my nose, and in my mouth. I lifted my arms so she could check my armpits and lifted my breasts up by my nipples, flinching as she ran her gloved fingers underneath my breasts. "Turn 'round." "Spread yer legs." "Wider." "Now bend over and spread yer cheeks." Biting my lip, and very conscious of Sam's gaze, I obeyed. "Wider," the matron insisted. I gripped my buns tightly and pulled them apart, splitting myself high and wide. Through my legs I could see Sam and the male guard adjusting their position for a better look, even as the gloved matron moved in for the final indignity. Sam's voice stopped her. "I'll check 'er," Sam said plainly. "Let's use the table." The matron moved around me and pulled a curtain aside, revealing an old exam table that I guessed was from the 1920s. The worn, varnished base was dark wood, and there were numerous drawers, making it look a bit like an old desk with a brown leather top. I started to straighten up, but the male guard's voice stopped me. "Stay bent, convict" he ordered. Clearly, he was enjoying the view. I bent back over, again spreading my bottom cheeks wide. In front of me, I watched the matron's shoes as she adjusted the iron stirrups on the old exam table, moving them into position. Sam knelt down beside me, brushing the hair out of my eyes as she snapped on her rubber exam glove. "Officer Hoggs thinks your sugar meat might sell for two packs. Let's see. Up on the table." I closed my bottom cheeks and climbed up onto the examination table. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Sam stood directly in front of me, keeping her eyes focused on my crotch as I put my feet into the old iron stirrups. "Skootch down all the way," she ordered. I obeyed, spreading myself wide. It wasn't wide enough for her, though, who rotated the stirrups away from the table, spreading me still wider. There was a jar of some lube on the counter, but she declined to use it, preferring instead to simply spit on her gloved fingers and rub me slowly. "Relax, Goldilocks. This will go easier if ya let yerself get nice and juicy. Now be a good girl, and show Officer Jackson if yer little blonde honey pot is worth two packs, and how fast ya can get all hot and sticky." I did both, as, despite my humiliation, I was soon pushing back on her teasing fingers. She coaxed my little love button out, and playfully flicked it with her fingers. "Dat's a hot little box of crackerjacks 'tween yer legs, Princess," she snickered. "Let's see if I can find da prize." I gasped as she slid two fingers deep inside of me and began her leisurely exploration of my twat. "Sweet!" she taunted. "I'm gonna earn a lot of butts selling this snatch. Yer dance card'll be filled all night." Even without my gasping and groaning, my first orgasm behind bars would have been obvious to everyone. My twitching, dribbling, spasming pink hole showed everyone in the room just how hot I really was. The rectal exam was next. Following Sam's direction, I knelt on the table, pressed my nose against the brown leather, and spread my legs to shoulder width. There was no need to pull my butt cheeks apart, since my posture made my "winker" (as Sam called it) visible to all. No lube was necessary. The juices from my gushing pussy left Sam's gloved fingers more than slippery enough to facilitate her deep, twisting, two-finger examination. I grunted as she drove her fingers home, a reaction that caused her to elicit laughter from the male guards as she speculated on whether she might be able to "sell her pooper, too." I was surprised at the constant references to selling me -- or, to be more specific, auctioning off my various body openings. I had assumed that Sam, having known me on the outside would be my protector. But it was clear from the way that she was handling me that her protection might come at a very steep price. There was a short, rude POP as she pulled her fingers out of my bottom, which caused more laughter. A sharp slap on my butt and the words, "Next cell" propelled me, still stark naked, off the table and through the door. I waited on yet another wooden bench. After the last of the girls finished being searched, we were all herded together into an enormous concrete shower. There were 14 other girls in my batch, but, as I lathered myself up and rinsed off, Sam never took her eyes off me. The chemicals they deloused us with burned and stank. Sam kept her distance, but watched closely, staring intently as the masked matron directed the burning stream over my legs, under my breasts, into my hair, and between my legs and buttocks. Once again, I was ordered to bend and spread. Sam didn't smile, but her passionate gaze made it clear that she had not tired of the view. We were given tight grey cotton shorts, sneakers, and a t-shirt that didn't cover our tummies. No underpants. The clothing was old and worn, and I tried not to think about the countless cons who had been in it before me. I had supposed we were going to our cells to rest after our grueling and humiliating ordeal, but was surprised when we were chained together at the ankles and marched onto a bus. For the next several hours I picked up trash along the interstate, ignoring the hoots and hollers of the passing "good-old-boy" motorists, slurping down water when it was ladled out. It was a blazing hot summer day, and I felt as though we had walked 100 miles when the guards finally let us break for "lunch": a brown stew with some beans and carrots and something tough and chunky masquerading as meat. After our meager lunch I assumed we were done, but the guards simply jogged us across the highway, and we started cleaning the other side. By the time we made it back to the prison bus, it was getting dark, and I felt relieved when I saw another pot of stew waiting for us. But I was not fed. Instead my hands were cuffed behind my back, I was unchained from the coffle and marched behind the prison bus, out of sight of the other girls. Sam was waiting for me, arms crossed, legs spread. The other guard left, and Sam ordered me to my knees. She didn't say anything as she unzipped her pants. She didn't have to. Dropping her pants and pulling her briefs down around her ankles, she straddled my face, burying my nose directly into her already moist slit. I tried to use my tongue, and Sam let me lick, but in truth it was more like she jerked off on my face than anything. I had never had lesbian sex, although I had kissed a girl in college and had let her squeeze my breasts. I had been drunk at a party, and it had been fun, but it had gone no further. I had often wondered what it might have been like if it had. I was curious, but never imagined I would be introduced to lesbian "love" kneeling in the dirt behind a prison van, my hands cuffed tightly behind me, gasping for breath as I slurped down my CO's pungent juices. She tasted spicy, salty, slightly sweet...and very powerful. She was hot and ready, but she wasn't in any hurry to finish. She didn't speak, but smiled down at me, enjoying the fear and anguish in my pretty blue eyes, relishing her total control. At last, when she tired of rubbing her soaking twat all over my face, she let me finish her with my tongue. I worked diligently, careful not to miss a drop. Still on my knees, I watched her pull up her pants. "Yer a smart li'l gurl, ain't ya?" she asked. "Stay smart." She let out a loud whistle, and a pot-bellied guard with a pocked face appeared. I assumed he was going to bring me back to join the others for dinner, and I started to rise. But Sam pushed me back down into the dirt. "Two packs," Sam said, holding up two fingers. "She worth it?" he asked, looking down at my still drippy face. "She's a regular little Hoover. Two packs, and she'll suck out every drop. She's a real prize." The guard handed Sam two packs of cigarettes, and unzipped his pants, releasing his prick. Unlike Sam, he was quick, and, within three minutes, I was swallowing his copious, sticky, disgusting load. Sam whistled, and the next guard appeared, handed her two packs, and unzipped his fly. He was a bit bigger, and a bit rougher, and he enjoyed jerking my head around by pulling on my hair. I was careful to keep my teeth away from him, fearful of what even a tiny nip might cost me. I lost count of how many guards used my mouth, but Sam didn't. "Hope ya enjoyed yer hot creamy dinner, my li'l prize," she taunted. "Ya jist earned me twenty-two packs." When I got on the bus the other women were waiting. Cries of "potty mouth" and "scum sucker" burned my ears as one of the guards who had cum in mouth shackled me back into my coffle. But, later that night, Sam sold some of the same women who had heckled me on the bus a 10 minute pussy-licking from me for eight cigarettes each. Prices varied based on the market. Prisoners were charged less, in general, because they had less. Male guards were two packs, three packs if they wanted to give it to me up the ass. Sam sold my butt cherry 6 times, till word got out what she was doing. Three male convicts who had been sent to the women's prison to fix the electrical system did me for eight cartons each. One was Hispanic, the other two black, and Sam told them to give "our li'l pampered Princess some racial dee-versity." They did, and for a full hour vigorously reamed out all three of my holes. I worked weekends, too, although not on the chain gang. A dozen girls and I were driven to a shitty motel on the highway next to an abandoned factory. The hotel was patrolled by four guards on horseback with shotguns, one of whom shot a rat dead at 20 yards as an example of what would happen to us if we tried to run. Sam gave me my clothes for the night: a short denim skirt, cowboy boots, a thong, and a pink cowboy hat with silver rhinestones. As a final indignity, she also gave me one of my own college t-shirts that I had packed for the trip, but cropped short so that it barely covered my breasts. The shirt reminded me of my rental car, which I hadn't even thought of since I was arrested. Apparently the Sheriff and Sam had "taken care" of it for me, along with my luggage. I was pleased, since I didn't want auto theft added to my list of charges. The t-shirt bore the name of my alma mater, and, as Sam predicted, the yokels certainly did enjoy "fuckin' a Harrrr-vard gal." Hotel work started at 3PM Friday, and I got a lot of pimply-faced 18-year-olds from the high school and the community college, who laughed at my "funny accent" even as they pumped away. The teenagers were quick, and I was able to do five of them in my first hour, even with a quick shower. The Sheriff dropped by about 4 PM, and I shuddered as I spotted him outside my room, jawing with Sam as he munched on a candy bar. I was hoping he was there for something or somebody else, but as soon as the toothless hillbilly who had fucked me up the ass zipped up his fly and left, the Sheriff sauntered in. "Ya gotta customer," he drawled. "Please," I pleaded. "Not with you. Please don't do this." "Git naked," he drawled. "You kin leave on yer boots an' cowboy hat." I had never felt so humiliated. When I had first met the Sheriff, I was a lawyer. Now he was ordering me to undress, but not because I was his prisoner. I was now his whore. "That's right...skin those underpants right off...don't be shy. Now show me those titties." "Get on your knees. You know what to do, city gal." Indeed I did. "'At's right...roll that pretty pink tongue aroun'... nice and slow...mmmm...yoah hungry for it, ain't ya? Bet you can jus' taste my power, cain't you? That's right...tease the tip with that tongue....seems like we're finally learning you some RESPECT. That's right...nice and sweet... "You learn to suck dick at HAH-verd? You blow yer profs fo' bettah grades? Don' look away...look me in the eyes. That's right.... You look purdy in that pink hat. Or maybe it's jist seein' ya with mah prick in yer mouth. Ya looked purdy smart that day, laawyering up that drunk. You don't look so smart now, do ya, college girl?" I shuddered as he ran his fingers over the ulcerations on my wrists. "Them are mighty cute shackle sores, convict. They suit ya. Betcha the ones around your ankles are pretty, too. Ya like wearing them pretty iron bracelets? Don't forget it was me who give 'em to ya. As the arrestin' officer, I get a commission on everythin' you do. Ever'time ya pick a bushel basket of cotton or shovel a truck of manure, yer earnin' scratch for me. Ohhhh....look at those eyes! Ya don't like that, do ya? Well, that's too bad. Cuz' tonight y'all gonna earn me some real money!" I tried to finish him quick, but he wouldn't let me. He taunted me, "complimenting" me on being "such a good little cocksucker," and bragging about how much money he was going to make tonight off my "sweet HAH-verd ass." "'At's right, cowgirl. Look me in the eye, and suck my big ol' pecker. Show me how hungry ya are for dick-milk. An' here come the cream...." When he finally ejaculated, it was explosive, and I thought that fat old bastard was going to die in his chair. But I swallowed his whole load and, afterwards, licked his balls until he recovered. Thirty minutes late, the DA fucked me. The week after that, Jasper had his turn. But my big surprise was when the judge showed up. He looked at me sadly and said he regretted that I had "dee-sended to this." He said he hoped I found redemption through "work and re-habil-it-ation." He sat next to me on the bed, and we talked for nearly half an hour about the firm I worked with in Boston, my career path, and my plans for the future. He told me I was pretty, and smart, and that I reminded him of his daughter. He showed me a picture of her, and some of his grandchildren, and I gushed over them. He talked to me like a person, and, for a few minutes I didn't feel like a con, a low-life, a whore. When I pointed out that I had a "quota," he smiled and said he'd let me "get back to work." I thought he was leaving, but, instead, he turned to a station on the radio playing cornpone music and ordered me to "dance...like a country gal." He was a customer. I did my best to please him. I kept my boots on -- most of the guys seemed to prefer it that way, and I wasn't anxious to put my bare feet on the filthy, needle-ridden floor. The judge sure seemed to like it. "'At's right...wrap those legs around me, cowgirl! Lemme feel da spurs whiles I ride ya! Gitty-up! Move that sweet little ass. Ah'm a free-bee, as a thank-you for my services, but there's fellas out there waitin' to pay $50 for a piece o' your tail, an' we gotta give the taxpayahs theah money's worth!" The sessions were 20 minutes each, but I finished the guys fast, which allowed me to work 4-5 tricks per hour, with two or three group sessions thrown in for good measure. Most nights they worked me until 3 am, and even when "dignitaries" like the Sheriff and the judge rode free, I often turned as many as 50 or more tricks a night (with the DPs and the groups). The Sheriff got 10% off the top and my friend Sam 5%, as commanding officer of my detail. And there were 12 other girls (though I was the most popular). You can do the math, but safe to say Sam got a pretty good return on investment for the dinner she had purchased in Boston. Each night after work, Sam took me to the showers to clean up before ordering me to my knees to perform. She ran her fingers through my hair as she cooed about how I was going to earn her enough to pay off her car -- or even her mortgage -- as well as buy a series of fancy dinners with a girlfriend. The sexual favors I granted bought me protection, and, although it often meant I missed lunch or dinner on the chain gang, Sam usually gave me something back at the jail. One night she fed me little bits of chocolate as I knelt before her licking her pussy, the chocolate mixing in with the unforgettable taste of Sam. Sometimes such "popularity" cost me dearly. On one particularly brutal summer day I had the misfortune to end up picking cotton in a field close to the mansion. As luck would have it, the owner of the plantation was having drinks with my prosecutor, as well as my lawyer, Jasper. It was Jasper who spotted me, and soon I was called out of the fields. Still in shackles and faint from thirst, I was ordered to serve the men their frosty mint juleps. Then, one by one, the men led me out to the barn, where I had to perform on each of them. I still had Jasper's cum in my butt and the taste of the prosecutor's cum in my mouth when the latter went into a tirade about how "lenient" the judge was with "trash" like me. I stood silently, staring at my bare, shackled, dirty feet. It was my lawyer, Jasper, who suggested a solution. "You always braggin' about that whip you have from the old days, Jethro, and how you can swing it just like your grandfather did. Let's test out how good you are on this piece a trash here." "Weeel...," Jethro drawled. "'Er skin looks a might tender to use the horse-whip on. But Ah also have a fine ol' slave strap that Ah keep oiled an' supple jist fo' times like this'n. Girl, run up to the house an' ask fo' 'Brown Betsy.' Don' dawdle, now." I felt dizzy as I stumbled out to fetch the strap that had been used to "whup" Negro slaves more than a 150 years before. As it turned out, it was hanging in a place of honor, over the fireplace in the front parlor. It was a brute. Dark with age and oil, it was about 2' long, 2" wide, and 1/4" thick. One end was formed into a comfortable handle, and the other was split into three tails, each almost a foot long. I handed it to my plantation master and turned to my lawyer with pleading eyes. "Please, sir, I'm sorry I was rude to you in court. I know you're an excellent attorney, far better than me. If not, why would you be dressed as you are, while I'm a prisoner?" "You's right about dat, girl" Jasper hissed. "Please, sir...master...massah.... Please have pity." "Y'all see?" Jethro, the plantation owner said triumphantly. "Ah think what we got here is a gal with some colored blood...prob'ly a octoroon. Y'all kin tell by the way she talks. Ah bet she whips up real nice!" He signaled the guards, even as I pleaded for mercy. But the same men who stuffed their dirty peckers in my mouth laughed as they strung me up by my wrists from the big magnolia tree in front of the Greek Revival mansion. "Yer lucky this rope ain't around your neck, girl," one of the men said as he skinned my shorts down to my shackled feet and rolled my tattered top up to expose my breasts. "This here's the lynchin' tree. Now the boss's going to learn ya with his slave strap instead. He's going to learn ya REAL good." "Please," I begged, as my toes struggled to find the ground. "Let me blow you again! I'll swallow every drop. I'll do it good, really I will!" "Yep. What we got here, boys, is a oc-to-roon," the plantation owner drawled, causing me to shudder as he cracked the strap in the air. "Y'all kin tell by 'er big round bottom. 'Course we ain't racist down here no more. I'm going to strap her just like she was full-blooded one or the other." I screamed and swung through the air as the strap cut into my bottom. I'm not sure how long the flogging lasted, but I didn't wake up until they threw a bucket of cold water on me back at the prison. ****************************** My sentences were supposed to run concurrently, but they kept tacking on "penalties," so that, in the end, I served the full 90 days. I was finally released on October 10th. Sam assured me I had cost the taxpayers nothing; I had earned my keep -- and then some. ****************************** Three weeks later, the marks across my back and bottom were still visible as I shuffled in my shackles across the stage at the Boston Bar Association's Gala Halloween bash. Everyone marveled at the realism of my skimpy chain gang uniform, my welts, and my skeletal appearance, although one of the judges later confided that it was "the haunted look" in my eyes that really sold the costume." From the back of the room, my good friend, Officer Sam Jackson, dressed in her "costume" of a commanding officer in the Louisiana Department of Corrections, whistled vigorously as she kept her promise to me. I, meanwhile, fulfilled a long-held ambition of my own, accepting the BBA's prize for best costume. I don't like to lose. Edited by C. Lakewood