I am indebted to Nerdly for the Sheriff-as-therapist idea.  I have 
had the title waiting for about three years for a story suitable 
to put under it -- one starring Ashley Marsh, of course.  (The 
title originally belonged to a Joe Doe story, the only copy of 
which was garbled and lost in transmission.)  Besides the title, 
I obviously borrowed many classic strip-search elements that Joe 
invented or developed.

And finally, my thanks to the "legallady," without whose 
inspiration this story would never have existed.


The story below takes place shortly after the conclusion of "75% 
Off," Part 5, and refers to it more than once.  Those who have 
not read that saga for a while might find it useful to refresh 
their memories.     

                     JUDICIAL RESTRAINT


                        C. Lakewood

Part 1

    It would have made front pages across the country and been 
the lead story on every TV and radio news broadcast...if it 
hadn't been for the absolute gag order that Judge Hawthorn had 
imposed before the media had sniffed out the case.

    Inexplicably, after signing the order, Hawthorn stepped aside 
and saw to it that the case was assigned to Judge Ashley Marsh 
(who was Hawthorn's ideological antithesis on a number of 
hot-button feminist issues).


    Ashley sighed as she put down the prosecution's brief filed 
in support of the suit that challenged the constitutionality of 
the infamous "sentencing form."

    These sentencing forms clearly were a mockery of justice.  
It was beyond belief that nowadays a Sheriff could actually 
use a one-page form to strip a woman of all her rights and 
turn her into a helpless prison bimbo.

    The list of potential witnesses, Ashley noticed, contained 
the name of a state supreme court justice, Janice Fields.  In 
light of some of the bar association scuttlebutt, however, 
Ashley giggled as she wondered if Judge Janice shouldn't really 
be testifying for the defense.
    Ashley wrinkled her nose as she turned to the defendant's 
documents.  On top, there was a list of "hired-gun" expert 
witnesses, headed by the infamous Dr. Enerdly.  She had a 
reference to his latest scholarly article -- "Incarceration 
Therapy as Exemplified in the Person of 'The Sheriff,'" by 
T.H. Enerdly, M.D., FRCPS, published in "The Journal of 
Psychiatric Jurisprudence," MLXVI (Spring 2006), 13-38 -- 
cited as directly on point.  She shuffled the print-out to 
the surface and read the first highlighted passage:

	"It is easy, but far too simplistic to dismiss 'the 
	Sheriff' as the stereotypical, corrupt southern 
	lawman.  I myself have come to view him as a sort of 
	folk-therapist who uses the penal system to provide 
	needed therapy for women whom he judges would benefit 
	from it." 

    Ashley took a deep breath and moved on to the next highlighted 

	"It has been my observation that many of today's urban, 
	professional women have devoted entirely too much time 
	to pursuing their careers -- often careers in which men 
	have traditionally predominated and in which women must 
	be particularly unfeminine if they are to succeed.  As a 
	result, they neglect to create for themselves any sort 
	of life-style that might be termed at all 'humanistic or 
	well-rounded.'  On the contrary, they tend to develop 
	dominating personae in their daily activities, in 
	consequence of which, deep down, they often harbor an 
	almost pathological need to submit to some ruthless 
	authority, to undergo experiences that are totally 
	beyond their control.
	"The Sheriff seems to have a knack for spotting such 
	women.  Initially, he will merely tease them at length 
	and give them ample opportunity to back out.  But, if 
	he determines to his satisfaction that a woman really 
	does want to submit, then he obliges her.  All the 
	preliminary teasing, and so forth, is part of the 
	'therapy.'  As one man observed, 'The wetter the cunt, 
	the more effective the lesson.' The lesson proper, of 
	course, begins with a strip search (actually a cavity 
	search).  The catch is that if the woman has 'insisted' 
	on undergoing that intrusion, the Sheriff will carry on, 
	ratcheting up the penalties for her, through one or more 
	intermediary stages, until he ends by incarcerating her 
	for, say, a month at the county prison farm.

	"This final stage is accomplished most efficiently by 
	means of the 'Sentencing Form,' which eliminates the 
	need for further slow, expensive, and often doubtful 
	judicial process...."

    Ashley was squirming.  ("The...teasing...is part of the 

	"This form (see illustration, p. 17) is a simple, 
	one-page document, a masterpiece of concision, that 
	contains the subject's mug shots, fingerprints, charge 
	and specifications, sentence (usually 30 days), and -- 
	to make it official -- the signatures of the Sheriff or 
	judge AND of the subject (formally waiving her rights, 
	including that of appeal)." 

    Now she was sweating.

	"Besides being used as field hands or to pick up trash 
	beside the highways, the women are also put to work as 
	b-girls, lap dancers, and 'companions' at road houses 
	and truck stops along the interstate.  As such, they 
	are forced to cater to the large population of truckers, 
	hobos, farmhands, and illegal immigrants in the area, 
	sometimes dozens of men nightly."

    (Oh, god!  "Dozens of men nightly.")

    Ashley's reverie was shattered by a knock on her door.  She 
shook herself.  "Come." 

    The door opened slightly, and her bailiff peered round the edge. 

    "Pardon, Your Honor, but I thought I ought to warn you that the 
AC in your courtroom is sick again.  It's about 80 in there now, 
but they say they won't be able to get to it for a week...at least. 
And there's no other room available." 

    (Damn!)  "Okay, Steve.  Thanks for the heads-up.  At least the 
room won't be packed with spectators.  See you in a few minutes."

    The bailiff left, and Judge Ashley rose from her desk, heaving 
a "why me?" sigh.  She stared at herself in the tall rococo mirror 
and sighed again, remembering what she had worn when she heard the 
notorious "Mall Case"....  She admired her appearance and blushed 
slightly (though she imagined it wasn't vanity if it was the 
truth).  She slowly took off the crisp grey Donna Karan suit...the 
white silk blouse...the ivory slip, trimmed with Belgian lace....  
She was now reduced to bra, panties....  And garter-belt and hose?  
Why had she unconsciously worn a garter-belt and stockings instead 
of pantyhose?  Her blush deepened and spread.

    In the end, however, she shrugged and, thinking "in for a 
penny, in for a pound," removed her bra, too.  She frowned in 
passing at her breasts.  Smallish...but firm.  "Pert" she imagined 
they'd be called by most porn writers.  She tweaked her nipples (as 
they always did in the stories), installed a panty-shield (she knew 
she was going to need THAT), and donned her black robe.  Posing 
again in front of the mirror, she satisfied herself that she 
looked suitably judicial; her robe neatly covered everything 
between her string of blue pearls at the top and her stylish, 
sensible-heeled Guccis at the bottom.  It occurred to her that 
she might even be a metaphor for the whole legal system: outwardly 
seeming to be one thing...but something very different beneath the 

    She glanced at her Patek Philippe wristwatch, adjusted her 
signature steel-rimmed spectacles, picked up the stack of files, 
and swept out of her chambers.


    "All rise!  This court is now in session, the Honorable Judge 
Ashley Marsh presiding," the bailiff announced.

    Ashley took her seat on the bench.  "Be seated."  She looked 
with distaste at the contending attorneys: that smarmy dimwit, Dan 
Fielding, for the prosecution, and clever, smirking, GQ-wannabe 
Lindsey McDonald for the defense.  She sighed.  
    The hearing proceeded slowly.  The prosecution witnesses 
constituted, all in all, a pretty lackluster group.  Even 
Janice Fields seemed hesitant, diffident, almost sheepish.  
And the defense attorney's cross-examinations were devastating.
For one thing, the prosecution grossly overstated its case and 
persisted in using inflammatory rhetoric, even though there was 
no gallery or media to pander to.  The defense had no trouble in 
establishing that the "whipping" and "torture" of "innocent 
victims" was actually the "spanking" and "embarrassment" of 
"arrogant women badly in need of an attitude adjustment."  

    Of course, neither view addressed the constitutional issue, 
but the argument was beginning to affect Ashley.  The succession 
of young, sophisticated career women who recounted their "horror 
stories" on the witness stand eventually caused Ashley to declare 
a recess.  (Who could have imagined that she needed a few moments 
to change her soggy panty-shield?)

    After another recess for lunch, the prosecution continued its 
parade of complainants, all of whom were remarkably similar: white, 
25 to 45 years old, attractive, educated, very well-to-do, with 
authoritarian tendencies -- doctors, lawyers, TV personalities, 
socialites, businesswomen (middle and upper management), civil 
servants, academics....  Some were resentful, but most (like 
Judge Fields) seemed curiously subdued.

    Late in the afternoon of the third day, the prosecution 
rested.  The defense would get its turn the following day.


    The defense opened its case by calling the noted (or 
notorious) Dr. Enerdly, whose scholarly testimony left the 
prosecution apparently bewildered.  McDonald then paused 
for effect...and rested.  Fielding, of course, attempted 
to object, but was, of course, over-ruled.  Ashley grimaced 
and announced that she'd hear closing arguments when court 
re-convened Friday morning.

    That night, Ashley reviewed all the testimony...not with 
the hope of discovering some overlooked legal nugget, but 
simply with the intention of gathering fantasy-fuel.        


    The next day, arguments on both sides went about as she 
had anticipated.  Fielding kept hyperventilating, blathering 
about irrelevancies; McDonald, oily and insufferably smug, 
was again mercifully brief.

    Wanting to get the case settled before the weekend, Ashley 
recessed until 3:30 that afternoon.

    In point of fact, the recess was just for show.  Based on 
what had been presented in court, she had already reached the 
only possible verdict: judgment for the defense.  The prosecution 
had had a ready-made, air-tight, unimpeachable argument -- the 
sentencing form was clearly the equivalent of a writ of attainder 
and, as such, was undeniably unconstitutional.  But that idiot 
Fielding had been oblivious, and, as judge, Ashley was supposed 
to be neutral.  She certainly couldn't (or shouldn't) put ideas 
into the prosecutor's empty head...or words into his yammering 

    As she re-convened the proceedings, Ashley noticed a spectator 
sitting at the very rear of the court room -- a big, beefy man with 
a florid, jowly face.  She recognized him immediately. 

    She beckoned her bailiff and was told that the newcomer had a 
valid pass.  

    Her cunt lurched, but she collected herself sufficiently to 
render her decision and adjourn, before hastening off to her 


    Ashley had three months' leave scheduled, and, before 
the nightmare of the "Mall Case," she'd planned on earning 
considerable money milking the lecture circuit.  As she pulled 
her panties back up, it occurred to her that, "Perhaps...."  

    The thought was interrupted by a knock on her door.

    She hurriedly pulled on her robe, stealthily unlocked the 
door, slithered behind her desk, smoothed her hair, opened a 
random file, and called, "Come."

    It was the man from the court room -- wearing a khaki uniform 
and a badge.  He was the long-time Sheriff of nearby Cane 
County...the man who had railroaded both Judge Fields and that 
pesky reporter, Terri London.  A couple of years ago, Ashley had 
attended a law-and-order seminar he had organized and presided 
over in Philpsburg...and he'd played a recurring role in her 
fantasies ever since.

    He touched his cap.  "Judge Marsh?  Personally, I'd like to 
compliment you on the acumen your verdict displayed today...."

    Ashley shrugged.  "I had little choice.  Fielding is witless."  

    The Sheriff nodded.  "Understood.  But I also have an official 
duty -- to remind you that, legally, you are considered to have 
fled my jurisdiction 26 months ago to avoid prosecution for a 
parking violation."

    She maintained a bland expression.  "Well, be that as it may, 
Sheriff, it's a minor matter, surely.  There's no need for drama. 
In fact, I'm surprised that wasn't just withdrawn out of 
'professional courtesy.'  In any case, I'm not sure what you 
expect.  Failure to pay a parking ticket isn't exactly an 
extraditable offense."

    "Normally, no.  But, since you're such a public figure -- an 
esteemed public figure -- an exception has been made.  'Caesar's 
wife,' you know...."

    "I'm...somewhat surprised that YOU know."

    The Sheriff smiled.  "I'm not really the unlettered redneck 
yokel that it's sometimes to my advantage to seem."  He removed 
some papers from his pocket and separated them into two portions.
I'm prepared to offer you a choice."  He held up one batch of 
papers.  "An order of extradition -- perfectly drawn -- for one 
Ashley Marsh...to answer charges that have now escalated into 
several felonies.  There's also a draft press release, a formal 
letter to the bar association, and, well, related documents...."

    "Wh-what...what's the...choice? Ashley croaked.

    He held up a single sheet.  "Your alternative is to quietly 
accompany me back to my jail, where I will formally inform you 
of this."   

    It was, of course, a "sentencing form."

    "But...um...Judge Hawthorn expects...," she began.

    "I've already cleared it with him," the Sheriff answered.

    "C-could our departure be kept...low-key?  No...no handcuffs?"

    "That would be my intention, but it would ultimately depend 
on you."

    She realized that any attempt at argument would be less than 
futile.  "Very well."  She cleared her throat.  "If you would 
just step outside for a moment...."

    He shook his head.  "No, I couldn't do that.  You ARE a flight 
risk...you have a history." 


    "I said, 'No.'  You had A choice, not the right to nit-pick 
details."  His voice was harder now.  "Remove the robe and come 
along, or I'll be forced to cuff you."

    She sighed and slipped adroitly out of her robe, then held it 
in front of her.  I'm practically...um...naked, Sheriff," she said.  

    It was his turn to shrug.  "Immaterial.  Just do as I say."

    Ashley flinched.  "How DARE he speak to me that way...and in 
my own chambers!" she thought, indignantly.  But the consequences 
were...god!...just unthinkable.

    She dropped the robe onto her chair and stood in just heels, 
hose, and French-cut panties (besides the usual accessories -- 
spectacles, watch, and jewelry).  Her pink nipples were erect.

    Rather to Ashley's disappointment, the Sheriff's expression 
was unchanged.

    She hesitated.  Which would be better, she wondered, to go 
braless...or to put on her bra in front of him?  The latter 
seemed the more intimate, so she chose that, but it didn't 
appear to affect him, either.

    After putting on her blouse and skirt efficiently -- without 
haste, but also without dawdling -- she picked up her purse, 
squared her shoulders, and said, "Alright.  It's too warm for 
my jacket....  I'll have to alert my secretary to take care of 
my utilities and so on while I'm out of town...sine die."  The 
Sheriff stepped back and let her precede him, causing her to 
wonder if he were being courteous, or merely wanting to keep 
her under observation....

    A few minutes later, they were in the Sheriff's official van 
and headed toward the road to Philpsburg.


    They drove in silence for about an hour.  Ashley was lost in 
thought, speculating on what the next 30 days (or whatever) might 
bring.  Intellectually, she was resentful that she was being 
imposed upon so...but, physically, she was squeezing her thighs 
together, rhythmically, in time with the throbbing of her clit.  

    Then the Sheriff interrupted her thoughts.  "You know, those 
clothes are suitable for the...'big city,' but Philpsburg, even 
though it's the county seat and all, is really just a little ol' 
hick town.  You show up lookin' like that, and there's bound to 
be talk -- a lot of talk.  We could turn off up here and let you 
do some shoppin'...."

    Ashley noticed that his accent was growing coarser the farther 
they went, but what he said did make sense.  "Y-yes...good idea."

    Presently, they turned down an exit ramp and soon pulled into 
the parking lot of a big Wally-World discount store.

    Her first impulse was just to get a t-shirt, jeans, and 
sneakers -- but then she had second thoughts (which she didn't 
stop to analyze).  She remembered a description she had read 

	"She was quintessential trailer-park trash and wore 
	cheap, skimpy clothes -- sheer pink tube top, black 
	polyester micro-skirt, and tacky flip-flops.  It was 
	obvious she was braless and probably pantyless, as well."

Blushing hotly, she succeeded in duplicating that outfit except 
for one extra item; she knew, from the depositions she had read, 
that she had to have panties.  In the end, she chose a white 
cotton thong.

    "I'd...um...like to take this into the dressing room to check 
the fit," she said to the Sheriff.

    "Sure.  Just keep the door open."

    "Oh.  Well....  On second thought, I'm sure they're okay."  

    "Fine.  You can change in the back of the van."   


    That was easier said than done.  Changing clothes in the van 
was awkward, but Ashley had undressed down to her panties when a 
panel in the compartment's front wall slid open with a clatter.  
The Sheriff squinted at her.  "Are your panties wet, Ashley?"  

    "Well...."  She knew that there was no use lying.  "Yes."  

    "Then they'll have to be bagged.  Hand 'em over."

    She wanted to demand privacy, but the words stuck in her 
throat.  Instead, red-faced, she wriggled out of her soaked, 
expensive panties and, with downcast eyes, handed them over.  
The Sheriff arranged them carefully in a zip-lock bag.  

    "Carry on," he said, dryly, and shut the panel.

    Ashley found that her new clothes did fit...barely.  The 
tube-top was tighter and the micro-mini shorter than she had 
anticipated.  She felt very self-conscious as she moved from 
the hot and airless back of the van up to the front seat again, 
but now sitting on a heavy plastic trash bag that the Sheriff 
had spread on her seat.


    Ashley wriggled, uncomfortably.  It was cooler here than in 
the sweltering rear compartment, but she was already bathed in 
sweat.  Her nervousness grew as she glanced down and saw how 
obscene the tube-top was.  It flattened her already small breasts, 
which was bad enough, but it also allowed her stiff nipples to jut 
forward in high relief.  "Why the hell did I have to pick out 
THESE clothes?" she asked herself.  

    She began to imagine herself as the central character in 
various of the depositions she'd read and the testimony she'd 
heard.  She told herself that it was to better prepare for the 

    Eventually, she was roused from her fantasies when the Sheriff 
turned off into a grubby truck stop -- half a dozen parked semis, 
some gas pumps, a service station, and the "JayBird" bar and grill, 
with an attached string of elderly motel cabins.

    "You can wait here," the Sheriff said, as he cuffed Ashley's 
wrists to the sturdy hand-grip above the passenger door.  "I won't 
be too long."

    Her position made her feel so vulnerable, and that, with no 
AC now, made her start sweating again.  It plastered her hair 
to her scalp; stung her eyes and dripped off the end of her nose; 
trickled from her armpits down her sides to be soaked up by her 
tube-top; ran down her taut midriff and under her waistbands to 
seep between her legs and drain into the swamp that was already 
there.  And she didn't dare think about the fluids that pooled 
on the plastic under her writhing bottom. 

    For years, since she was a little girl, Ashley had taken pride 
in always being meticulously groomed, and this was making her 

    When the Sheriff returned at length, smelling of beer and 
tobacco, she secretly wished he'd taken longer...just a little 
bit longer.

    Within fifteen minutes, they were cruising down the broad 
main street of Philpsburg and nosing into a parking place marked 


    For some reason, Ashley felt a chill. 

Part 2

    The yellow brick building was as it had been described: squat 
and undistinguished, with a large, uncurtained window in front, 
through which the exam table and open shower area could clearly 
be seen.

    The Sheriff released Ashley from her cuffs, handed her the 
zip-lock bag, and escorted her into the outer office.  A scrawny 
deputy with buck teeth and a receding chin was on duty.

    "Hey, Rufus.  It was a couple of years ago, but you remember 
Ashley?" the Sheriff drawled.

    Rufus smacked his lips.  "Guess ah should.  At that conf'rence 
she kep' callin' me 'Doofus.'  Lotsa folks thought that was real 

    "Well, you two'll have plenty of time to get re-acquainted.  
I got to get her processed now.  And there's some stuff in the 
back of the van that needs boxing up."

    As the Sheriff steered Ashley through the first door on the 
right, Rufus was making a series of appreciative noises; he was 
clearly thinking ahead.

    In the next room, equipment had already been set out.  On the 
exam table was a cheap black plastic crate with a white ID tag on 
the front.  She was startled to see, printed on it with a felt-tip 


    Next to the carton was a cardboard box marked, "ACME LATEX 
GLOVES, ULTRA-SHEER, 200."  And, next to that, there was a jar 
with a red label.  Lubricant?  

   In a nearby corner was a concrete shower area.  On the floor 
beside it squatted a large green canister.  A short hose ran 
from the top of the tank to a device that appeared to be a 
spray gun with an adjustable nozzle....   

    Delousing fluid. 

    The Sheriff halted her with a growl.  He laid out the 
sentencing form and put a pen down beside it.  She took a 
deep breath...and signed the form.

    He glanced at it, nodded, and set it aside.  He held out 
his hand.  "Bag."

    She gave it to him and, knowing what was to come, watched in 
dismay as he affixed an adhesive label with her name and number 
and set the bag up in the big window.

    "Strip.  Clothes in the crate."

    She felt his eyes on her as she dropped her flip-flops into 
the plastic crate...and then the tube-top...and then the skirt.  
She paused, waiting for the question.  When it came, it was worse 
than she'd expected.

    "Have you been a naughty little girl and got your panties all 
hot and juicy?"


    He again reached out, and she gave him her thong.  It was duly 
bagged, tagged, and placed in the window.

    "Left wrist."

    He put a matte finish, white metal ID bracelet around her wrist 
and snapped it shut.  

    "Super alloy," he said.  "Expensive, but lasts forever.  And 
the lock can't be picked or forced...opens only with a special key. 
You could, of course, chop off your hand, but the only other way 
that bracelet's coming off is if I take it off.  You can see it's 
barcoded to ID you.  It also has an embedded chip that we can 
track -- to make sure you go where you're supposed to go and stay 
where you're supposed to stay.  Even try to leave this building 
without permission, for example, and you'll become an 'escaped 
prisoner.'  An immediate, state-wide APB will be sent out on you. 

    Ashley nodded.

    The Sheriff cleared his throat.  "Let's get something 
straight, Ashley.  As long as you're wearing that bracelet, 
you're a prisoner.  When I ask you a question, you answer, 
out loud...and put a 'sir' on it.  Understand?"

    "Y-yes, sir."

    He took down from the wall an obviously well-used spanking 
strap.  "This is 'Old Betsy.'  She has a way of taking the sass 
out of the snootiest princesses and turning 'em into nice, hot 
women who know their place and are real eager to please....  
Bend over and grab your ankles."

    She bit her lip, but kept silent and, apprehensively, obeyed.  

    SNAP!  He gave her a sharp swat across the swell of her rump 
with his strap.  Ashley yelped, but held position.  

    "When you answer me, you will do so with enthusiasm.  Try it 

    "YES, SIR!  I understand." 

    "You have no rights except the ones I give you.  The sooner 
you understand that, the better."  


    Ashley yelped again.  "Yes!" 


    "Yes, what?" he prompted.

    "Yes, sir.  I understand!" 

    "You know your place?  You'll stop acting uppity?"   

    "Yes, SIR!"  He was so strong...and she was so wet.

    "And show proper respect for the badge...mine and my deputies'?"  

    "Yes, sir!  I respect all you officers."

    "That's a good girl," he said, in a patronizing tone.  "You'll 
be expected to demonstrate that...repeatedly."  He smiled thinly.  
"What do you think the best way is for a girl like you to show 
respect for me and my officers?  What exactly are you good for, 

    There was a long silence.  "Well, I-I AM a judge.  Perhaps I 


    "Wrong!  You're merely a felon, a prisoner under sentence.  
A girl like you is mainly good just for basic things...like 
wet, sloppy blow jobs.  You're going to go down on your knees 
and use that oh-so-articulate little mouth to give me -- and 
any of the boys -- a 'bad girl blow job' whenever we want.  
You'll suck and lick and moan like it's just the best stuff 
you ever tasted.  You'll make each one last a long time, you'll 
swallow every drop, and you'll thank us afterward...sincerely."

    "But I never...." 

    SNAP!  SNAP!  SNAP!  

    "Please, sir!  I'll be good.  Please let me blow you!"  She 
finally broke position, falling into a crouch and desperately 
rubbing her bottom.

    "You really want to, Ashley?"  He tapped the strap against 
her behind.  "I mean, you WERE so high and mighty...."

    "Y-yes, sir.  I do.  I-I can be eager to please, sir."  She 
knelt before the burly Sheriff as gracefully as she could under 
the circumstances and unzipped his pants.

    He leaned back against the wall and snapped off the lights.  
It was late in the day and the big window faced east, so the 
office was dim and quickly getting dimmer.  Ashley was grateful 
for that, though she was aware that it wasn't for her benefit.

    She leaned forward and licked her lips.


    Half an hour later, the lights were back on, the Sheriff was 
relaxing with a cigar and a contented expression, and Ashley was 
standing unsteadily balanced on the balls of her feet, her legs 
spread wide, and her hands on top of her head, fingers locked.
She suppressed a grimace; her lips and tongue were sticky and 
foul, but she didn't want to show it.

    She was rather wobbly, but that was not only because of her 
strained position.  Even more important was the fact that, for 
much of the day, she had been continually brought right to the 
edge of an orgasm, by mental or physical stimuli, but constantly 
denied.  And she also had a full bladder.  

    At length, the Sheriff roused himself, ground out his cigar, 
and pressed a button next to the light switch on the wall.  A 
moment later, the deputy opened the connecting door.  


    "You had supper, Rufus?"

    "Just got back."

    "Good.  I'll be going now.  Meanwhile, print her and then get 
your shaving stuff and do her crotch."  He heaved himself erect, 
stretched, and headed for the door.

    "Um...Sheriff?" Ashley said softly.  "May I...."

    "Whatever it is, ask Rufus.  I'm starved."  And he left.

    After taking her fingerprints and scanning them into the 
computer database, the deputy fetched a cardboard box and 
proceeded to lay out a razor, shave cream, an unlabeled jar, 
a bottle 0f liquid soap, and a wash cloth.

    Ashley, though reluctant to broach the subject with Deputy 
Doofus/Rufus, was quite aware that she would never make it 
through a shave and a cavity search (which would surely come 
next).  She took a deep breath, but paused when the door opened 
and two women entered.  One big and very black and the other small 
and Asian, they were both 20-something, cheaply dressed and cheaply 
made up.  The black girl was carrying a basin of water.

    "Right on time," Rufus drawled.  "Girls, this here's Assly, 
a danj'rous felon.  Assly, meet Suzy Lee and Shamiqua...an' you 
best be po-lite."        

    Ashley half-curtsied.  "Miss Suzy...Miss Shamiqua." 

    The Asian girl wrinkled her nose.  "The name's 'Tzu-Li.'" 

    Rufus guffawed.  "You better be nice to these girls, Assly.  
Both of 'em been sentenced more 'n once fer...waal...fer mostly 
minor oh-fences an' right now they on probation.  The Sheriff, he 
'pointed them...unh....'temporary assistant officers of the court,' 
an' they's gonna superintend you on weekends.  Durin' the week, 
you gone jus' work round the jail here...various jobs."

    ("At least I won't have to indenture myself to that bastard 
Henry Hawthorn," Ashley thought.  "So it could be worse.")
    Then her bladder sent out another warning.  "Deputy?  Please, 
may I go to the bathroom, sir?"

    Rufus frowned.  "You wanna take a bath?"

    "No, sir...I-I need to...to use the toilet."

    "Use it fer whut?"  (He was obviously warming to his role as 
Cletus Spuckler.)  

    "I...um...need to-to pee-ee.  Please...sir."

    "Waal, we cain't have you pissin' on the floor...or me.  
Suzy, you run to store room #2 an' fetch back a nice bucket 
for Assly.  G'wan now." 

    With a flounce of her red skirt, she scurried off, giggling.

    Rufus gave Ashley a buck-toothed smirk and waggled a finger at 
her.  "Now doncha be pissin' on the floor, Ass-ly.  You do, an' you 
gon' lick it up." 

    "Why did the Sheriff have to leave me with this vindictive, 
inbred peckerwood?" Ashley thought.  Aloud, she said, "Yes, 
sir," and bobbed her head.

    Moments later, the Asian girl returned with a brown plastic 
bucket.  Behind her, in the doorway, loomed a bulky figure in 
blue serge.
    "Good evening, Ashley.  It's nice to see you...especially so 
much of you."

    Ashley cringed mentally, but didn't dare break position, even 
though she was appalled to hear the familiar, deep, raspy, Neville 
Brand-like voice.

    "Ah!  Um...Judge Hawthorn...s-sir.  Wh-what are you doing here?"

    The craggy old jurist smiled and absentmindedly brushed cigar 
ashes off his vest.  "On leave -- as you are -- though, unlike 
you, my time's my own."

    "Then who's holding court?"

    "Oh, they brought in some 'visiting judges,' superannuated 
duffers from other jurisdictions -- Bean, Jeffrys, Janning.  
They wanted Judge Crater, too, but couldn't find him." 

    ("Was that actually a joke?" Ashley wondered.)

    Hawthorn regarded her red butt appreciatively.  "Looks like 
you've had a good dose of 'strap oil.'  Long overdue, I daresay."
He gave her a hard look.  "Well?"

    "Y-yes, sir.  I n-needed it...um...deserved it...."

    "Why, exactly?"

    "I-I wasn't respectful...enough...sir...."

    "Well, we'll see if you learned your lesson...."

    "'Scuse me, Yer Honor," Rufus said, taking the bucket.  He 
smacked his lips.  "Now then, Assly, whut izzit 'zackly you want 

    "I...um...want to pee...NEED to pee, sir.  Please."


    "Yes, sir.  Really bad." 

    "An' you don' wanna piss on the floor, cuz...?

    "'Cause if I do, I...oh god!...I'll have to lick it up.  Sir?" 

    "Waal...you can piss...if the judge says it's okay."

    "Please, Judge Hawthorn...pleeese."  Ashley was finding it 
increasingly difficult to hold it.

    Hawthorn smiled.  "Pretty please?" he prodded.

    "Y-yes, sir.  Pr-pretty please...."   

    He nodded to Rufus, who set the bucket down and grinned, 
"Make ut quick."

    Ashley straddled the bucket and gingerly lowered her sore 
bottom onto the rim.  

    "Hands on yer head, Assly."

    The grinning spectators, together with the awkward position, 
rendered Ashley incapable of letting go, despite the pressure in 
her bladder.  At length, Hawthorn chuckled, "Bashful kidney?" -- 
which drew a laugh.  Red-faced, Ashley bit her lip, but still was 
grateful when Rufus turned on the shower, the sound of which at 
last triggered her release.

    Rufus prepared and deftly shaved her crotch bald and then 
rubbed in some "secret formula" that smelled vile, but was 
"GA-RAHN-TEED" to keep the hair from growing back for "two-three 
months...maybe longer."

    After that came the prolonged cavity search, in which all of 
Ashley's "betters" had a hand (as it were).  There were five of 
them now, for the Sheriff returned just after the probing had 
begun.  He remarked, casually, "Nice crowd outside.  Folks seem 
to be enjoying the show."

    Ashley was, at that moment, impaled on Hawthorn's thick thumb, 
with her feet in the widely-spread stirrups and her butt pointed 
straight at the big front window.  She had briefly forgotten that 
there was a show -- and that she was it -- so the reminder hit her 
hard.  She writhed in her humiliation...but worse was to come.  

    She felt her excitement rising dangerously high.  "Oh god!" she 
thought, in anguish.  "I mustn't cum with HIM doing it...anybody 
but him.  Please!"

    She tried desperately to control herself, to suppress her 
impending orgasm, but the judge had been around.  Indeed, 
Rufus was watching with envy, eager to pick up some pointers.  
(And the two girls were seriously considering offering the old 
man a discount to do them.)

    Ashley was going higher and higher, higher and higher, and 
there was no holding back....  

    "Oh...oh...aaahhh!"  She boiled over into an orgasm so strong 
it left her momentarily paralyzed.  

    She vaguely heard applause.

    Shamiqua was next -- crude, but efficient and effective.  She 
was followed by Tzu-Li, who was very subtle, and who prolonged the 
process so much that Ashley wanted to beg her for an orgasm long 
before she finally got it.  After that, she was so well primed 
that the deputy had no trouble making her cum, even though he 
concentrated primarily on her asshole.

    The Sheriff was last, and Ashley was about at the end of her 
tether, but, after he'd coaxed three orgasms out of her, she 
smiled up at him and said, weakly, "Th-thank you, sir."  Like 
a good little girl.       

    They gave her scant time to rest before she had to drag 
herself to the shower.  The cold water made her squeal, but 
the Sheriff reminded her that, "Hot water's a luxury not meant 
for little jailbirds."  The icy spray did revive her somewhat, 
however.  They made her scrub...thoroughly...with coarse, 
disinfectant soap...everywhere, but especially emphasizing 
her well-used crotch. 

    "You can scrub your butt better'n that, girl.  Get in there 
deep.  I want that asshole squeaky clean."

    "No, your cunt still looks filthy.  Do it again!"

    "An' those titties!  How you 'spect anybody to wanna suck on 
yer nipples 'less they be nice 'n clean?"

    After the shower, she was deloused, and again special attention 
was paid to her cunt and asshole.  It brought her to the edge of 
yet another orgasm, but she wasn't allowed to cum.  

    The processing concluded with a lengthy series of mug-shots.  
(Hawthorn was promised a set of enlargements.)  


    At length, Judge Hawthorn stretched and tossed his dead cigar 
into the wastebasket.  "I've had a long day," he said.  "I'm just 
going to head back to the hotel and turn in."  

    Tzu-Li smiled sweetly and began, "Unh...Judge...."

    Hawthorn shook his head.  "Some other time, dear.  I really 
am worn out.  'Night."

    The Sheriff saw the judge out, told Rufus to look after the 
office while he visited the "JayBird," and, after returning 
Ashley's flip-flops, herded the three women into the van.  

    "Sheriff...sir?" Ashley nervously murmured.  "May I have 
s-something to wear?"

    "No.  We won't issue you a uniform.  Your stuff -- except the 
flip-flops -- we'll keep handy at the jail.  And you won't need 
any clothes on weekends, working at the truck stop."

    A few minutes later, they were pulling into the JayBird's 
parking lot, and it was finally dawning on Ashley why it had 
that name.

    The Sheriff took them inside and introduced Ashley to Gus, who 
managed the place.  He was a short, greasy Levantine with a squint. 
(Ashley, something of a film buff, thought he looked like Edward G. 
Robinson and sounded a lot like Akim Tamiroff.)  After the 
amenities, the Sheriff shooed the women back out the door, because 
he had business to discuss, but he warned Ashley to come back 
and see Gus in about an hour for an..."interview."
    The two hookers/strippers escorted Ashley out to where the 
motel cabins squatted in the shadows of the rapidly failing 
twilight.  "Number 3 is ours, fish," Shamiqua said, her teeth 

    The room was exactly what Ashley had expected from what she 
had seen of the outside of the cabin: once marginally comfortable, 
but now run-down, dominated by the rumpled queen-sized bed.  The 
window air conditioner labored noisily, with only minimal effect.  
The walls were papered with a now-faded design that might have been 
fashionable in the 40s.  The lighting managed to be simultaneously 
dim and harsh.  Ashley did gaze longingly at the attached bathroom, 
however.  A shower would be wonderful...and the chance to use a 

    "Hunh-uh," Shamiqua said.  "The john's off-limits to you, girl. 
You don' needs t'wash; you be sexier with some stink on you.  An' 
'til we gets you a bucket, you can piss in the weeds out back...an' 
shit wherever."

    "Yes, miss.  There's only one bed?"

    "Plenny big enuf for Shamiqua an' me," Tzu-Li giggled.

    "Wh-where will I sleep?"

    "Anywhere we say, blondie."  Tzu-Li flopped onto the bed, 
pulled up her dress, and spread her legs.  She was pantyless, 
and it was clear that her cunt had obviously been well-used 
for quite some time.  "C'mere, baby.  Come an' get some sugar," 
she purred, patting her hairless crotch.


    It was night, and, outside the cabin, there was a fitful 
breeze, but it was far too muggy to be any comfort.  Ashley 
paused in the dark, naked and sweating, half-hearing the 
high-pitched voices of her two "supervisors" as they gleefully 
planned her future duties.  She paid little attention to that, 
though; from here on, what would be...would be.  She had spun 
this web for herself with her fantasies, and now it had become 
real, and she was trapped in it.  

    Yet, this could well be an unbelievably exciting hiatus in her
life, perhaps even cathartic.  And it could be worse.  The Sheriff 
and the Judge were tormenting her, certainly, but they were also 
protecting her to a degree....

    She licked her lips and tasted Tzu-Li and Shamiqua again.  
She knew she would become very familiar with those flavors -- 
and others -- before she'd be allowed to resume her black robe.

    She sighed and tossed back her sweat-damp hair.  It wasn't 
a sigh of despair -- or even of resignation -- it was one of 
self-awareness.  She was what she was.  And she really did know 
her "place," though the road she traveled to get there was often 
a twisting one.  Lord knows, she was forever trying to be a true 
idealist, but, in the end, almost inevitably wound up following 
the path of a perfect pragmatist. 
    Head up and back straight, she set off to see Gus.