FANTASY ISLAND

                             by 

                          Joe Doe



A MAN'S "WOMEN IN PRISON" FANTASY COMES TRUE IN AN UNEXPECTED WAY.



As he lazed in bed in the luxurious guest-house, Peter mentally 
reviewed every aspect of his fantasy.  This trip to Fantasy Island 
had cost a fortune, and he was determined to get his money's worth. 

He had been nurturing his "women in prison" scenarios for years, 
and he had developed a rich mental fantasy world.  The women would 
be totally innocent, of course.  Except for the guards, the warden, 
and the beefy lesbian "trustee" cons on the warden's payroll, his 
prison would be criminal free. 

The women would be given sham trials, but these would be speedy and 
perfunctory affairs designed to strip them of all of their legal 
rights as efficiently as possible.  Since the women were totally 
innocent, imagination was essential.  Women with less than $250 in 
cash were "vagrants."  Stopping for gas was "loitering."  Even 
brand new cars could be declared "unfit for the road," and women 
in shorts or skirts above the knee were arrested on "suspicion of 
prostitution."

"It's probably just a computer glitch, but your car has been 
reported stolen," the Sheriff would tell a confused woman.  
"I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to get out of the car 
and put your hands on top of the hood.  That's right...now just 
spread those pretty little legs, honey...wider...wider...that's 
a good girl...."    

If a woman pleaded guilty, the judge would ignore the arranged 
plea bargain and sentence her to a lengthy term of hard labor at 
the Woman's Prison Farm.  And, if she wasted the court's time by 
pleading not guilty, the sentence would be even harsher. 

The sole purpose of the trial was to force frightened women to 
stand alone before the enormous bench and listen helplessly as 
the judge stripped them of their rights, their dignity, and their 
freedom.  The thought of transforming the independent career women 
into prison bimbos always made Peter smile. 

He imagined the dazed and confused defendant turning to her 
"lawyer," who would give her a playful wink as the bailiff 
slapped on the cuffs and leg shackles she would wear for her 
van ride to the prison farm.  The innocent woman may have 
entered the court with the facts on her side, but her 
departure would be in chains. 

Then the fun would really start.  The women were transported to the 
prison farm in a group of four or five, and the driver always drove 
past the rail yard so that the women could watch their expensive 
cars loaded onto the flatbeds marked "COUNTY AUTO AUCTION."   

The looks of confusion and panic on their pretty faces were simply 
priceless.  

But the admissions process was even better.  One by one, the women 
were called into the admissions area and ordered to slowly strip 
naked in front of the grinning warden and his smiling, toady 
guards.  The humiliated women would try to cover themselves, but 
all thoughts of modesty would be brutally crushed when the warden 
would pull back the curtain to reveal the stainless steel medical 
examination table with its gleaming metal stirrups. 

The women would be herded together again in the brightly lit 
and utterly exposed gang shower, blushing and squirming as the 
snickering guards urged them to wash each other's backs and 
"scrub out those sticky little honey pots."  The thorough 
delousing would emphasize that the strong and independent 
career women were now just animals to be stripped, scrubbed, 
and disinfected.  

The modest career women would despise their skimpy prison 
"uniforms," but a taste of the fearsome prison strap would 
convince them to get dressed (if you could call it that). 

It didn't take long to shackle them in place on the chain gang. 

The only problem was that Peter couldn't decide which role he 
wanted to play.  Sometimes he imagined himself as the Sheriff, 
brusquely ordering women out of their cars for a humiliating 
and gratuitous frisk.  At times he saw himself presiding over 
the kangaroo court that would strip the women of their freedom.  
Other times he was the warden, profiting handsomely as the 
educated and refined women were forced to fill his pockets by 
picking cotton, breaking rocks, or working as "entertainers" 
for the locals. 

"I'll let you decide my role," he told the beautiful, crisply 
dressed female "fantasy director" who had greeted him when he 
stepped off the plane.  "I just want see my entire fantasy play 
out from start to finish." 

Peter's excitement led to insomnia.  Instead of counting sheep, 
Warden Peter counted the line of beautiful, helpless female 
inmates, utterly under his control as they toiled in the broiling 
sun.  Perhaps he should unshackle #5757-3845 and take her back to 
his office.  It was time for that haughty young lady to learn why 
they called it the "penal system."

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

It took Peter several seconds to get acclimated when he finally 
awoke.  What was he doing in a sports car, parked at the side of 
the highway, in the middle of the boondocks?  Why was he dressed 
in tight, ultra-short cutoffs, sandals, and a tank top? 

What the heck was going on? 

He turned the key and smiled as the Viper's engine purred to life.  
He was tempted to open it up to see what it could do, but decided 
to wait until he could figure out where the hell he was. 

Rounding a bend, he noted an big construction job ahead of him 
and a flagman waving him to a halt. 

Peter knew instantly something was wrong.  The flagman was wearing 
orange shorts, white knee socks, and white tennis shoes.  The 
tight, midriff-baring t-shirt contained the ominous words "COUNTY 
PRISON FARM."   

The shorts were so snug and the outfit so ridiculous that at first 
Peter thought it was a joke.  But there was something about the way 
the cowed male prisoner stared at the ground that showed it was no 
laughing matter.   

Peter looked beyond the flagman and noticed a gang of men in 
similar attire attempting to move a huge tree that had fallen 
across the road.  He looked again at the flagman and wondered 
why he didn't run.  His legs were shackled together with a 
monstrous ball and chain, but the other guards and prisoners 
were at least 20 yards down the road.   

It was then that Peter noticed the guard sitting astride a large 
black horse with the reins in one hand and a rifle in the other.  
The guard's expression was chilly and impassive. 

If the cowed prisoner did try to run, he wouldn't get far. 

Peter watched nervously as the guard looked at him, smiled, and 
slowly trotted over to the side of his car.  The guard seemed 
small at first, and moved strangely.  But it wasn't until the 
horse and rider were only a few feet away that Peter realized 
the frightening truth. 

The guard was a woman.  

One of the men down the road starting screaming, and Peter peered 
into the distance as he watched two female guards bend a hapless 
man over the hood of a truck with the logo "Oprah Winfrey 
Correctional Institute."  The man begged and pleaded as the 
smiling guards yanked down his pants and jock strap.  A tubby 
female guard with mirrored sun glasses took a moment to teasingly 
rub the thick brown razor strap against the sobbing prisoner's 
bared bottom as he begged for mercy in the most pathetic way 
imaginable.   

"I won't ever be uppity again, miss," he begged.  "I'll do 
EVERYTHING you say, miss!" 

"Looks like one of the boys got a little sassy," the guard on 
horseback noted with a sly smile as she ogled Peter.  "Now Mama 
spank...." 

Peter felt himself blush as the female guard's eyes ran up his 
bare legs and rest on the noticeable bulge in the front of his 
tight shorts.  He swallowed as he squirmed helplessly under her 
appraising gaze. 

It wasn't right.  The female guard was leering at Peter as if...he 
were a woman! 

"You are a cutie," the guard said, as she continued to caress the 
squirming motorist with her eyes.  "How would you like a date 
tonight, honey buns?" 

"Uh...I don't think so!"  Peter quickly shifted his car into 
reverse and pulled a U-turn. 

He completed the turn just as the first CRACK! of the punishment 
strap rang through the air.  It was followed seconds later by the 
pathetic prisoner's pleas echoing down the road. 

Corporal punishment had been an integral part of Peter's fantasy.  
In his imagination, the shame and humiliation of the razor strap 
was used to keep proud women in state of abject submission.

But watching a MAN get a spanking from a WOMAN was an entirely 
different matter. 

Peter opened up the engine and zoomed down the road.  He didn't 
know where he was, but he knew he had to get away. 

He had barely rounded the corner when he saw the flashing blue 
lights in his rear view mirror.  

The sight of the smiling female officers in the squad car only 
strengthened his resolve to escape, but, as he pushed down on 
the accelerator, the car's engine sputtered and then stopped.   

He was out of gas. 

Peter's ex-wife had been afraid to go out alone at night.  He had 
dismissed her fears as silly, and he refused to accompany her on 
evening errands.  So his wife would stay home, which was fine with 
him.  As long as she got the shopping and dry cleaning and car 
maintenance done, he didn't really care when she did it. 

But, as he looked at the two female deputies in the car, he 
suddenly understood the dilemma of women trapped in their own 
homes. 

For the first time in his life, he felt genuinely afraid.   

His heart pounded as he watched the attractive female Sheriff hook 
her thumbs into her gun belt and stride confidentially towards his 
convertible.  He tried to adjust his shorts and pull down his shirt 
so that he would look like less of a girl toy, but it was a losing 
cause.  Even through her mirrored sunglasses, Peter could feel the 
Sheriff leering at him as he squirmed nervously in the driver's 
seat. 

He knew that women often complained of feeling helpless and 
vulnerable during encounters with male police officers.  He 
had always regarded it as feminist whining, but the terror 
he felt now chilled him to the bone.   

The Sheriff smirked down at him as she began reciting his list of 
crimes.  "Making a U-turn...speeding...failure to yield to an 
emergency vehicle...and now stopping your car without pulling 
all the way over onto the shoulder.  You are in a heap of trouble, 
boy.  License and registration.  NOW!" 

Peter stared at the attractive woman in the crisp blue uniform for 
several seconds.  He didn't recognize her...but the voice seemed 
familiar.  When he saw her name-tag, the truth hit him like a 
hammer. 

It was Suzie Walker.  Suzie Walker, his former secretary, was 
arresting him.  Not that she had been his secretary for long.  
When she resisted his advances, he had her fired -- without 
references.  His threats to frame her for embezzlement and a 
few talks with attorneys who explained the impossibility of 
winning a sexual harassment case against a powerful executive 
like Peter had convinced her to withdraw her complaint. 

She had looked so sad hauling her meager possessions in a cheap 
cardboard box towards the elevator.  Peter had tried to console 
her during her elevator ride to the exit, going so far as to pat 
her fanny and remind her that his door was always open if she ever 
decided to sink to her knees and "swallow her pride."   

The confident, uniformed officer who stared down at him had little 
in common with the helpless secretary he had discarded only a few 
weeks before.  The woman licked her lips and ran her hand over her 
crotch in a way that made it clear that soon it would be Peter who 
would be doing the kneeling. 

"I can't...find my wallet, Suzie...I mean...ma'am...I mean 
Officer!" he stammered.  "I seem to have misplaced it." 

"Let's see, then....  Vagrancy...driving without a license...and 
maybe grand theft auto," Suzie chortled.  "But look on the bright 
side, Peter.  Our new Warden, Sharon Breaker, is anxious to see 
you.  She says she is going to make you a movie star." 

Peter looked up in horror.  The day before, Peter had joked with 
his female fantasy director that it might be nice if his "bitchy 
ex-wife, Sharon, had a starring part in my fantasy."  Peter had 
laughed and shook his head.  "Unfortunately, her fantasies are a 
bit different than mine." 

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," the fantasy director had replied, 
enigmatically.  "Your ex-wife contacted us a few days ago, and her 
fantasy was actually quite similar to yours in many respects." 

Peter had thought the woman had been joking.  It had to have been a 
joke, right?  The thought of his angry and vengeful ex-wife running 
the prison of his nightmares was too ghastly to contemplate. 

He shuddered at the reference to being a "movie star."  In Peter's 
fantasy, the female inmates had been forced to perform lesbian 
sexual acts in adult videos under the "direction" of the warden.  
The fantasy of forced homosexual sex had been a major turn-on -- 
when the victims were beautiful women. 

His bottom cheeks tightened defensively and a disgusting taste 
formed in his mouth as he imagined how his bitter wife might 
turn his perverted fantasy against him.   

The Sheriff opened up the car door.  "Step out of the car, and put 
your hands on the hood, honey buns.  It's time for a little of the 
old pat and poke!" 

Peter glanced over at the deputy, who was now standing on the other 
side of the car with her hand on her gun.  Peter knew he had a grim 
day ahead of him.  A bullet wound was not going to make it better. 

The Sheriff let out an appreciative wolf whistle as he slowly 
emerged from the car and submissively placed his hands on the 
hood.  She roughly kicked his legs back and then apart, leaving 
him helplessly spread and totally exposed.    

Sheriff Suzie took her time, leisurely exploring the blushing man's 
body as he squirmed helplessly under her firm grip.  She paused and 
gave him an especially hard squeeze as she whispered in his ear, 
"Feel that, Peter?  I've got you by the balls, Petey, and you're 
going do everything I say.  Because if you don't, there's a nice 
thick razor strap with your name on it in my office.  I'm going to 
enjoy seeing if you can take it as well as you dish it out."  

He winced as her grip tightened.  "But first comes the trial, 
little man.  And then the warden and the girls will have to 
search you.  I hope you aren't shy!" 

Peter grunted as the cuffs tightened on his wrists and Sheriff 
Suzie led him towards the back of her squad car.   

He was reminded of the humbling walk Suzie had been forced to make 
when he had escorted her from the building a few weeks before.  
Only this time, it was he who blushed as Suzie playfully squeezed 
his bottom....



Edited by C. Lakewood