A VISIT TO DOEVILLE 

                           by

                        Joe Doe

 

THIS SERIES WAS INSPIRED BY THE FINE DOEVILLE MAPS CRAFTED BY 
RICHARD BORDEN ("SUBMIT63").  ALAS, I'VE WRITTEN ONLY THREE 
CHAPTERS, BUT THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS, AND ANY OF THIS 
GROUP'S GREAT WRITERS IS FREE TO PICK IT UP -- OR EXPLORE THE 
TOWN IN SOME OTHER WAY.

MY THANKS TO LAKEWOOD, FOR COINING THE NAME OF THE TOWN.  (I AM 
HONORED.)  AND TO SUBMIT63, FOR HIS MAPS AND INSPIRATION.



Part 1

Dr. Andrea Nhu Khy knew she was getting close to Doeville when she 
saw the huge billboard...

		DESIGNER SHOES!  ALL BRANDS!

			75% OFF  
		FOR COEDS WITH STUDENT ID!  

Andrea chuckled.  The "specials" were always wonderful at the 
Johnson Mall in Doeville.

The billboard had been her idea.  The Sheriff had wanted a sign 
that would attract young women to the town...preferably alone.  
A woman traveling with her significant other would need to 
convince him to go shoe shopping.

Good luck with that!

On the other hand, if the woman was traveling alone, or with a 
group of her girlfriends....

BINGO!

The ploy had worked brilliantly.  That enticing bit of deception 
had kept the stirrups warm, and the reformatory, asylum, prison 
farm, and truck stop stocked with fresh recruits.

She was so pleased with herself that she barely noticed the little 
red sports car swerving in front of her.

The tires squealed on Andrea's Lexus as she slammed the brakes.  
She avoided an accident -– barely.  Infuriated, she leaned on 
the horn.  

The two women in the convertible flipped her the finger and 
shouted, "Hey, four eyes!  Don't they have cars in China?"

Andrea fumed as the two young women hooted at her.  She was not 
Chinese!  

The two cackling hyenas were just like the coeds she struggled to 
teach in her psychology class: ignorant, bratty, and disrespectful.

Oh, how Andrea hated them.  Tall, curvy American women seemed 
to be, for reasons that escaped Andrea, the world's standard of 
beauty.  They came to her class dressed like hookers, showing 
off their long, tanned legs and big bosoms.  As a 5'1", 100 pound 
Asian-American, how was she supposed to compete with THAT?  

Well, she couldn't compete, and they knew it.  She heard them 
giggling behind her back as she marched down the hallway, 
whispering their demeaning nicknames: "Yellow Rose," "Doctor 
Nookie," and -- the one she hated the most -- "Little Andy" 
(a humiliating reference to her short stature and flat chest).

Oh, what she wouldn't give to paddle them!

She sighed with satisfaction as she watched the two giggling 
bimbos drive across the grass to make the cutoff for the mall.  
Her clever shoe trick had snared two more little airheads.  It 
was easy to catch fish when you used the right bait. 

"Too bad you can't wear shoes when your feet are in the Sheriff's 
stirrups," she chuckled as she watched the two women drive to their 
doom.

She was, after all, a psychologist, and, despite her youthful 
appearance, a damn good one.  Thanks to her partnership with 
the Sheriff, she was also a very wealthy one.

She had discovered Doeville on the Web and had written the Sheriff 
a letter suggesting various psychological techniques he could use 
to "smooth" his operations –- and improve his vital PPP (profit 
per pussy).

The Sheriff was skeptical.  Though an honors college grad, he 
liked to pose as a high school drop out, with little interest 
in "mumbo-jumbo" theories.  In addition, he had a hard time 
taking women –- particularly female academics -- seriously.

But there was no arguing with success.  With Andrea's help, the 
money flowed in.  The Sheriff was happy to share the wealth with 
the doctor -– in exchange for more money-making ideas.

Andrea was delighted to oblige.  In addition to the Sheriff's 
financial generosity, she relished the thought that she was 
helping to ensure that young women like the bimbo students who 
tormented her got the justice they so richly deserved.

The next billboard for Doeville was quite different from the last.  
Following Andrea's suggestion, it was electronic, which allowed for 
an ever-changing display.  The billboard depicted a smiling young 
woman in a business suit, under the legend, "Cassidy Mathews, 24, 
Pharmaceutical Representative." 

Her picture then disappeared and was replaced by this text: 

	See her dance TOTALLY NUDE at the Longhorn Bar!

Then the text disappeared, to be replaced by the image of Cassidy, 
now dressed in a short hospital smock, dancing on the bar.  As she 
turned it was revealed that the poor dear's gown was missing the 
bottom tie, leaving her butt cheeks on open display.

Poor Cassidy!  Even on the electronic billboard her distress and 
her blush were readily apparent.

The sign had been Andrea's idea.  After all, if a man just wanted 
to see a naked woman, he could spend $10 on pay-per-view at the 
hotel.  Andrea knew that what men really wanted to see was 
something they couldn't have -– the girl next door humiliated 
and forced to prance naked for their twisted amusement.

The psychology went deeper than that.  Andrea had suggested to 
the Sheriff that the girls be forced to play roles that parodied 
their professional success.  Executives were transformed into 
secretaries.  Policewomen were convicts.  College professors 
were naughty schoolgirls.

"College professors were naughty schoolgirls...."  For some reason, 
that notion gave Andrea a chill.

She adjusted the climate control in her Lexus.

Andrea regarded Cassidy's ordeal with little sympathy.  As a 
pharmaceutical representative, Cassidy had traded on her good 
looks to get in to see doctors.  All of her life Andrea had 
been forced to compete against women like that, who were tall, 
busty, and beautiful.  

They were treated like goddesses.  Andrea was treated like one of 
the boys, or worse, an annoying kid brother who wouldn't shut up.

The thought of Cassidy blushing and squirming as she rolled around 
the stage in her too-short gown tickled Andrea enormously.  Cassidy 
would squat and twist, bend and spread, as the men leered and 
hooted at her.  

And the dollars she earned would pay for Andrea's next car.  Would 
it be a Lexus this time?  Or maybe a BMW.

She took the exit and drove slowly past the truck stop.  It was 
early in the day, but already the bar was crowded with cars.  
The adjacent motel was busy as well.  

Andrea smiled.  As she had suggested, the women trolling for 
business in front of their rooms were all dressed in various 
costumes: as a sexy cowgirl, a harem dancer, a nurse....

A nurse?  Could it be?  Andrea pulled into the parking lot. 

She smiled.  The nurse was none other than Cassidy Mathews, 
apparently working the truck stop that day.  Andrea watched 
as the giggling girl flirted with two fat, bald Indian men 
in front of her motel room.  

Andrea watched as Cassidy twirled to show off her assets, then bent 
to display her cleavage.  Her face registered shock and anger when 
one of the men squeezed her fanny, but she quickly recovered, 
giggling like the airhead she was supposed to be.

At last, the two men handed Cassidy their tickets, and entered the 
motel room.  The tickets were Andrea's idea -– at no time should 
female prisoners be allowed to handle money.  Even the tips they 
were given on stage were in the form of monopoly money the men 
bought when they came into the club.

After all, a prisoner who was exposed to money, even momentarily, 
might start to believe that she had worth.  Andrea felt that it 
was vital that the women never be allowed to feel the sense of 
empowerment that money can bring.  The tickets re-enforced the 
reality that the women were not free agents, but sex industry 
workers, spreading their legs on behalf of a vast corporation 
much bigger than themselves.

As the two fat Indians went into the room, Cassidy's smile faded.  
She winced and smoothed down her skirt.  She was clearly disgusted 
with the men, with her humiliating and demeaning costume, and, most 
importantly, with herself.  

Then Cassidy pasted the idiotic smile back onto her face, and 
entered the seedy motel room, closing the door behind her.

Andrea smiled.  The two men had handed Cassidy purple tickets, 
which meant that it was a special order.  Andrea didn't know 
what perversions the two men would order the girl to do, but 
she hoped it would be nicely humiliating. 

As she put her car in gear, Andrea saw the blue and red lights of 
the police car behind her switch on.  

She hadn't seen the police.  Where had they come from? 

Andrea turned around and pointed to the "FRIEND OF JOE DOE" sticker 
the Sheriff had told her to paste in her back window.  The officer 
immediately turned off his lights and got out of the squad car.

"Good day, miss.  Is there anything I can do for you?"  

"No, officer.  I was just...browsing."  

The hayseed officer tipped his hat.  "Great.  Let us know if there 
is anything we can do for you, or anything that will make your stay 
more pleasant.  Any friend of Joe's is a friend of ours."  

Andrea smiled as the officer stopped traffic to make it easier for 
her to turn back onto the main road.  Her "Friend of Joe" sticker 
triggered a reception very different from the one most women got 
here.

She drove on.  To her right was the impenetrable bog surrounding 
the local prison farm.  It was named "Ashley Marsh," after one of 
Joe's favorites.

Andrea passed the enormous guard tower that marked the entrance 
to the single road in and out of the prison farm.  The sign read 

		AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY 
		VISITORS WILL BE SEARCHED

In Doeville, would you expect anything less? 

In the distance, she could hear the dogs barking and howling.  An 
escape?  Not likely.  Every now and then the warden liked to 
release a couple of the girls, to give the dogs a little exercise.   

The sweating girls would sprint through the vermin-invested swamp, 
with the dogs yapping at their heels, desperate to find a way out.  

There was actually no way out, other than the one heavily guarded 
road, but it was fun to watch them try -- and good exercise for 
the snarling pooches.

The warden would let the girls run themselves to exhaustion, or 
until they were up to their necks in quicksand.  

The horror of the quicksand was enough to break even the most 
rebellious girl.  After she had experienced it once, she would 
never run again.  Even when the gate was opened, and shots were 
fired, and the girl was ordered to run, she wouldn't, preferring 
to risk death on the spot rather than the feeling of sinking ever 
deeper into the bog.

Ha-ha-ha.  The warden really was a card!

Andrea drove on, enjoying the scenic route.  The roads in the 
Doeville area were smooth and immaculate, thanks to the countless 
all-female chain gang road crews that dotted the roadways every 
few miles.

The beautiful, scantily clad young women were chained together by 
the ankles and were supervised by guards on horseback.  Pick up 
that litter!  Swing that pick-axe!  Dig out that pot hole.

In Doeville a woman's work was never done.  

At the end of the scenic route was Lakewood Street, the main road 
leading into town.  Andrea looked off to her right.  There was the 
Honeypot Reformatory for Women and, beyond, the Honeypot Women's 
Asylum.  

Although it was nearly a mile away, she could see the lights of the 
asylum flicker, and she imagined she could hear the faint sounds of 
a feminine scream.  

Doctor Hal and his electroshock therapy machine were busy again.  

Andrea knew she wanted to drive towards town and away from the 
Honeypot Asylum.  Dr. Hal deeply resented the fact that the 
Sheriff valued Andrea's advice so highly.   Dr. Hal was 
particularly resentful that the Sheriff referred to her 
as "Doctor," since her degree was a PhD, not an MD.  

When she had retorted that in fact "Doctor" Hal had no medical 
degree at all, and that diapering women doesn't make one a 
doctor, he had became enraged.  

"If you'd like to visit me at the asylum, I'd be happy to arrange 
a FIRSTHAND EXPERIENCE for you," Dr. Hal had thundered.  "In fact, 
based on your stories and your recommendations to the Sheriff, 
I've already prepared a full psychological profile detailing your 
insecurities, your greatest fears, and possible "treatments."  By 
week's end, I'm sure it would be clear which of us had a better 
understanding of the fragile -– and, if handled properly, pliable 
-- female psyche."

Even with her "Friend of Joe Doe" status, Andrea didn't dare go 
near that horrible asylum.  She knew that, if that evil "doctor" 
had his way, it would be Halozine and nappies for her.

Andrea could tell that the cop parked on the corner was interested, 
but, when he saw the sticker on her window, he smiled and waved.  
None the less, Andrea came to a full and complete stop before 
turning left onto Lakewood street....

The street that would lead her into the heart of Doeville.

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


Part 2: The Chain Gang and the Squishee

As she drove down Lakewood street, Andrea spotted the golden 
opportunity she had been looking for.  Five female convicts, 
their ankles chained together, were busy re-surfacing the 
parking lot at the local Kwik-E-Mart.

Andrea smiled.  Squishee time!

She pulled to the far side, to make sure that none of the tar got 
on her car.  She could feel the eyes of the uniformed guards 
burning into her as she put her Lexus into park.  She made certain 
that her big, "I'm a friend of JOE!" pin was displayed prominently 
on the lapel of her crisp jacket before getting out of the car.

The guards relaxed instantly as they spotted the pin.  She flashed 
them her most becoming smile.  

The female inmates, too, looked at her, although they knew better 
than to make eye contact with one of their betters.   But Andrea 
could feel them admiring her lovely shoes, her pearls, and her 
expensive, worsted wool suit.  Her elegant attire was in marked 
contrast to the midriff-baring HOOTERS-style outfits the girls on 
the chain gang were forced to wear, with the humiliating word 
"INMATE" across the chest, and the large bulls-eye target on 
the back.  

The guards had never actually shot anyone, except with paint 
pellets, during the humiliating "practice escapes."  The point 
of the target was the same as the guards on horseback, with 
their prominent hunting rifles.  The female convicts were animal 
livestock who, if they dared to try escaping, would be hunted 
down by their rightful owners.

It was another one of Andrea's little touches.  As far as she was 
concerned, no detail was too small.

The guard on horseback smiled down as he trotted over to Andrea.  
She had suggested the horses, to give the guards the advantage of 
height.  But Andrea, who was barely over five feet, without shoes, 
had never realized how enormous that advantage was.  

She felt her stomach tighten as she looked up at the horse and at 
the hulking, rifle-toting guard.

"May I help you, miss?" he asked, as he discreetly verified the 
authenticity of her "Friend of JOE" badge.

"No, I'm just getting something to drink."

"Yes, it's a real scorcher," the guard said, with a chuckle.  
"Would you like a bottle from the cooler?"

One of the other guards opened up a large cooler crammed full with 
cold beer, bottled water, and soft drinks of various kinds.  

It was in the nineties, and the girls who were shoveling and 
tamping the steaming asphalt over the parking lot were much, 
much hotter.  Andrea smiled as she watched the thirsty girls 
eye the cool beverages.

The guard behind one of the girls was less amused.  He raised his 
razor strap high in the air, and, with a snap of the wrist, CRACKED 
one of the lovely female inmates squarely across her tight little 
seat.

"Back to work!" he shouted.  "You're here to break a sweat, not 
eavesdrop on decent folk."

Andrea smiled.  In fact, she was making a point of talking loudly 
enough for the helpless prisoners to hear, and her enjoyment of 
their plight was anything but decent.  

But the reference to her as "decent folk," combined with her smart 
business clothes and obvious professional status, hurt these girls 
more than any strap -– and Andrea was loving every minute of it.  

Andrea relished their thirst, their helplessness, and their envy of 
her superior status.   "No, I'm going to have a Squishee.  Should I 
get the girls something?"

"No, if we water them, it just makes them piss themselves.  But 
don't worry yourself, miss.  Out at the prison farm, the guards 
will give these girls something to slurp anytime they want."

All the male guards laughed.  The female prisoners bit their lips 
in disgust, but dared not look up from their toil.

"How nice!" Andrea said, pretending not to understand the lewd 
reference.  After all, she was "decent folk."

Andrea casually sauntered into the store.  She would have liked to 
have lingered, but the asphalt stink was starting to bother her, 
and the heat of the day was simply unbearable.  Even in the few 
seconds that she had been outside, poor Andrea was beginning to 
"glisten."  Horrid!

As she entered the store, the fat hillbilly clerk looked her up and 
down.  "Well, well, well, if it isn't the Yeller Rose, come for a 
visit.  Are you going to launder my shorts, or are you just here 
to help with the railroad...."

But, when Andrea turned to reveal the pin on her label, the clerk 
immediately stammered an apology.  "I'm SO sorry...I had no idea.  
Look, any friend of Joe is a friend of mine.  I love you people.... 
I mean...I even own a Toyota truck."

Andrea was a bit taken back.  She knew that the pin gave her 
immunity, but it was obvious that the idiot behind the counter 
was actually AFRAID of her.  Being a friend of Joe was even 
better than she had thought.

"Do you sell Squishees?" Andrea asked haughtily, determined not to 
let the man off the hook so easily.  

"Of course...no charge!  Here, let me get it for you.  When you run 
into Joe, I certainly hope you tell him about how hospitable we are 
at the Kwik-E-Mart here in Doeville.  I mean, Mr. Doe and his 
friends are certainly welcome here anytime and...."

"That's all right, I'll get it myself," she said.  As she entered 
the aisle with the Squishee machine, Andrea stopped cold.  The 
tile on the rear portion of the aisle had been removed.  

On the floor, on her knees, a lovely blonde female convict worked 
to scrape the cement floor clean with a putty knife.

The girl on the floor was wearing the standard chain gang uniform, 
unlike the other girls, she was barefoot, and both her wrists and 
ankles were shackled together.  She had a tracking bracelet, with 
a blinking red light, around both her ankle and her neck.  A big 
iron ball completed her ensemble.

Most people would have thought her security was overdone.  To 
Andrea, it was delightful.

Even on her knees, it was obvious that the girl was tall and 
beautiful.  Her hair had been shorn into a humiliating buzz 
cut, but she was obviously a natural blonde.  She reminded 
Andrea a bit of Heidi Klum -- minus the long hair.

The humiliated beauty didn't dare look up at the elegantly dressed 
Asian woman standing in front of her.  But Andrea knew this would 
be too much fun to pass up.

She turned to the storekeeper.  "She looks filthy.  Why is she so 
near the food?"

"Don't worry," the man replied.  "She don't touch nothing.  She 
jus' pries up the worn tiles, scrapes the floor clean, and lays 
new ones.  Learning a trade."

"What happened to her hair?"

"She musta had lice.  It's okay, though.  Once they come down with 
it, they're deloused twice a day.  Plus they shave 'em -– tip to 
toe!" he chortled.  

"Filthy little piggy, isn't she?" Andrea said, her voice oozing 
contempt.

"You can say that again," the storekeeper chuckled.  "But don't 
worry, they spray up between the legs with this chemical crap.  
Burns 'em like hell, but I wouldn't of touched her without it."

Andrea smiled slightly as she saw the girl's cheeks flush.  So the 
fat store clerk had "touched her"?  

Andrea wanted to know more.

"Do-you-speak-Eng-lish?" she said, talking to the woman as if she 
were a visitor from another planet.

The prisoner didn't look up, but nodded.

"So what did you do?" Andrea asked.

"I didn't do anything!" the miserable girl whimpered, her voice 
barely a whisper.

Andrea smiled and turned to the clerk.  "Are girls on the chain 
gang allowed to address ordinary women?"

"They certainly are not, miss, and I apologize," he replied.  
"She'll get punished for that!"

"No problem.  I'd like to talk to her," Andrea replied.  "Why were 
you arrested?" she said to the girl.

The prisoner looked at the clerk, then back down at the floor.  She 
said nothing.

Andrea turned to the clerk.  "She seems shy.  Might I have a word 
with her alone?"   

"I don't know," he said, doubtfully.  "I'm not sure if...."

"I'd be ever so grateful, and I know that, since I'm a personal 
friend of Joe Doe, that you'll want to extend me every courtesy."

"You mean you've actually MET Mr. Doe?" the store clerk said, 
amazed.  "Well, of course.  Take as long as you'd like.  I'll 
be in back.  Call me if you need anything."

Andrea smiled.  She HADN'T met Joe, of course, but there was no 
reason to tell the clerk that.  The power of suggestion....

The clerk hung the "CLOSED" sign, locked the door, and went into 
the back.

Andrea focused on the girl.  "What were you convicted of?" 

"I didn't do anything!" the girl said.  "When I came in here, the 
store clerk hit on me.  He told me I had a pretty mouth, and he 
offered me $5...."  Andrea smiled as the blushing girl hesitated.  
"$5 to...to take it in my mouth."

"What did you say?" 

"I told him it would take a lot more than that for me to do HIM, 
and he should go fuck himself."

"I see.  Then what happened?" Andrea said.

"I left the store and paid for my gas with a credit card, out at 
the pump.  Two minutes after I drove off, a squad car pulled me 
over.  They said I stole the gas!"

"Did you have a receipt?"  

"No, there was no paper in the machine.  But I'm sure it said it 
was authorized...."

"I see.  Did you call the credit card company?  Surely there'd be 
a record...."

"No, the deputy took my cell phone.  But the Sheriff and the judge 
both said they called the credit card company and were told that I 
hadn't paid for the gas."

Andrea pretended to mull the facts.  "Well, it doesn't seem like 
both of them would lie...and the credit card company too.  Were 
you upset when you left the store?   Perhaps you made a mistake."

"No, I didn't make a mistake," the girl said.  "I'm sure that...."

"Well, judging from where you are, you clearly made SOME sort of 
mistake.  If had been me, I would have gone inside for a paper 
receipt."

"Yes, but...."

"What's your name?"  Andrea asked.

"3733-58583-3838," the girl replied.  

"No, before you went to prison."  

"Uh...Brittany."

Andrea smiled.  Brittany.  Of course.

"What did you do for a living, Brittany?"

"I was a model.  I'd done a couple of lingerie catalog shoots, and 
I was in a fashion magazine once, although what I really wanted to 
do was act.  My agent thought...."

Andrea cut her off.  "Brittany, none of that matters anymore; we 
need to focus on who and what you are now, and your new life as a 
convicted felon.  If I'm going to help you, you need to be totally 
honest with me.  When you left the store, were you upset?"

"Of course.  That clerk is a pig!  I told him to fuck himself."

"Looking back, that wasn't very smart, was it?  If you had been a 
little nicer, or had simply laughed it off, maybe....  What you 
were wearing?

"A denim skirt and a t-shirt."  

"Was it a short skirt?" Andrea said, accusingly.  "A mini?  Showed 
a lot of leg?"

"Well, yes, I guess....  But this isn't my fault!"  Brittany's 
voice cracked.  

"Brittany, you're going to have to level with me.  You said you 
were upset when you left the store."

"Yes, but...."

"Isn't it possible you made a mistake?  'Authorized' and 'Declined' 
are similar words, particularly when a girl is as upset as you 
admitted you were."

"I didn't make a mistake...."

"But you did.  If you had paid cash, and got a receipt, you 
wouldn't be here.   Why didn't you do that?  What's wrong 
with you?  What were you thinking?"

Andrea fought the urge to smile as she watched Brittany's 
confidence erode.  "I guess...I didn't think...."

"Yes, precisely," Andrea sneered.  "You didn't think.  You made a 
mistake.  You made many mistakes.  You're the one who came here 
for gas.  You paraded yourself in front of that hillbilly in your 
scanties until you provoked a reaction.  You were rude to him.  You 
used foul language.  You became abusive, and then you got angry and 
distracted.  You used a credit card instead of cash.  You didn't 
get a receipt.  All I'm asking is: isn't it possible that the 
credit card WAS turned down?  Can you be absolutely, positively 
sure, beyond a shadow of any doubt, given everything else that was 
happening, and all the other mistakes you made?"

"I guess...maybe.  I mean...I think...."

"If thinking was your strong suit, you wouldn't be here," 
Andrea shot back.  "But you're going to have to start by 
taking responsibility for your actions.   Were you charged 
with any other crimes?"

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

Part 3: For Now!

Brittany was silent.  Andrea pressed.  "Brittany, I have to know.  
What else did you do?"

"They charged me with...soliciting."

Andrea shook her head sadly.  "That's what I thought.  I mean, with 
the way you were dressed...and claiming to be a 'model,' well, it's 
pretty obvious that you're really a...."

"But I AM a model!" the girl protested.  "They twisted my words.  
When I said it would take more than $5 to get me to blow him, 
they claimed I was negotiating!  But I'm not a prostitute.  
I'd never....

"You're lying to me again.  I'm a psychologist, and I can tell.  
When that man said he 'touched' you, what did he mean?"

Brittany stared at the filthy floor, too ashamed to make eye 
contact.  Andrea, relishing her smug, superior position, pressed 
on.  She had already managed to convince Brittany that she had 
committed a crime and deserved prison.  Could she convince her 
that she was a whore?

"Today, when I was out there working with the other girls, the man 
came out.  He'd recognized me from court.  He told the guards he 
needed some work done inside and gave them $10."

"I see," Andrea nodded.  "So he paid for your...services."

"No!" Brittany protested.  "It wasn't like that.  They MADE me!  
The guard took me inside, cuffed my hands behind my back, and left 
me alone with the storekeeper.  The guy laughed and said I didn't 
look so stuck up in my cute little prison get-up.  He called me 
'cue-ball' and asked me if I liked my new haircut and working on 
the chain gang...like it was all some big joke."

"He told me I looked like a bum with no hair, but that I still owed 
him a blow job, and he'd be willing to overlook my 'chrome dome' if 
I swirled my tongue around a lot and was 'real sweet.'  He said if 
I didn't, he'd tell the guard, and I'd be punished."

"How would you be punished?"  Andrea asked, pretending not to know 
the answer.

Brittany stared at the floor.  "The...the strap!" 

"Wow, I saw it outside.  That must really hurt!" Andrea said.  "I 
mean, I saw a girl outside get just one stroke, and it looked like 
it really sizzled!"

She fought the urge to smile as Brittany rubbed her bottom.  

"Plus, I imagine you'd get more than one stroke," Andrea added.

Brittany, still rubbing her fanny at the thought of it, nodded!

"Have you been spanked, Brittany?  Were you a naughty girl?"

Brittany stared at the floor.  "I got six on my first day, for 
'being lippy.'"  Then I got a baker's dozen, a few days later, 
because I wouldn't do something a guard wanted me to do."

"What was it the guard wanted you to do?"

Brittany did not reply.

"Was it a...sex act?" Andrea asked, softly.

Brittany nodded.  

"And since your punishment, have you done everything the guards 
wanted?"

Brittany nodded.

Andrea adopted her most parental tone.  "Brittany, this may shock 
you, but you have nothing to be ashamed of.  You're in prison now, 
and the old rules don't apply.  You need to do what you have to in 
order to survive.  Do you understand?"

Brittany, still unable to make eye contact, nodded.  Andrea looked 
down at the beautiful, humiliated, kneeling girl.  Andrea had never 
felt so powerful in her life.

"I don't know.  Maybe it will be easier on you if you think of it 
as part of your punishment.  You're a thief and a prostitute.  
Maybe this is how you have to pay your debt to society."

"But I'm not...."

"Now, now.  We've already established that you stole that man's 
gas.  As for the prostitution charge, you just told me that 
you've been bartering sex acts for favors, in prison.  If that 
isn't prostitution, I don't know what is."

"But I HAD to," Brittany whined.  "If I didn't, they would...."

"Yes, I know, they'd spank your naughty little fanny and make you 
stand in the corner like a bad little girl."

"It isn't like that.  That strap!  You saw that girl outside.  And 
it's even worse in the prison."

"Why is it worse in the prison?"

Brittany's cheeks flushed.  Andrea fought the urge to smile at 
the girl's obvious discomfort.  

"Why is it worse in the prison, Brittany?  Do they give you more 
strokes?"

"Yes," she muttered.

"Is that all?"

She did not reply.  

"If I'm going to help you, you're going to have to be honest, 
remember?  Is that the only reason the spankings in the prison 
are worse?"

"No," she mumbled, staring at the floor.

She was really squirming now, and Andrea was loving every minute of 
it.  "Do they...do they take down your pants?"

Poor Brittany.  She looked like she wanted to disappear.  

"Yes...yes ma'am," she said, rubbing her butt.  

The "ma'am" was a nice touch.  Andrea could tell that, even now, 
the poor little dear was reliving the moment, feeling the shame, 
humiliation, and helplessness of having her pants lowered to her 
knees and having her cute little fanny spanked.

"Well, at least you had your underpants on," she said, soothingly.  
"I mean, on the bare that strap would REALLY smart," she chuckled. 
"The underpants weren't much padding, but at least they left you a 
tiny shred of dignity!"

Andrea's "comforting" did the trick.  Brittany burst into tears.  
Andrea looked down at her imperiously as Brittany sobbed and 
rubbed her bottom.

"Oh, Brittany!" Andrea said, her voice oozing sympathy.  "They 
spanked you BARE?  On your bare naked fanny?"

The girl nodded.

"Were there...male guards in the room?"

The weeping girl bobbed her head.

"A lot of them?"

A second bob. 

"Did you...um...did you kick your legs?  Did you show them things 
you shouldn't have?"

"I couldn't help it!" she said, sobbing.  "It hurt so bad!  And 
they were all laughing, talking about how naughty I was, and how 
I needed to learn respect.  And when I started to squirm, and 
kick...they whistled at me.  And all I did was try to use the 
phone."

Andrea reached into her purse and handed Brittany a Kleenex.  "Oh, 
Brittany, don't you see how you bring these things on yourself?  
Stealing.  Breaking the rules.  Making them strap you.  Then, 
when they give you the punishment you deserve, you kick your 
legs open like a 10 peso puta in a Mexican sex circus."  

"I couldn't help it!" she protested, pausing to blow her nose.  "I 
told you I didn't do anything wrong."

"You also said you tried to use the phone.  Didn't you know that 
was against the rules?"

"But no one knows that I'm here!" she wailed.  "If I could get a 
lawyer...."

"You've already had your trial, dear.  Besides, you've admitted you 
were guilty.  You committed a crime, and you were duly sentenced.  
Lawyers are for good girls."

"I AM a good girl!"

"Good girls don't steal gas and then lie about it when they 
are brought into court.  Good girls don't turn tricks, or 
let everyone ogle their goodies.  Have you tried to use the 
phone since your spanking?"

"No, ma'am," she said, her tears subsiding.  "I've been good."

"Precisely.  They spanked you for your own good.  They tried to 
explain the rules to you, to treat you like an adult.  But some 
stupid, willful, cute little girls like you think they're special, 
think the rules don't apply to them.  Some little girls don't 
learn until you take down their britches and tan their fannies.   
It sounds to me like they taught you a lesson you needed to learn."

"Yes, ma'am," she said, drying her eyes.

Andrea had her exactly where she wanted her.  Now she moved in for 
the kill.

"When you took the storekeeper in your mouth, did he take very 
long to cum?  Was it quick or slow?"

"Quick!"

"I'm surprised.  He's old.  I thought it would take a long time.  
What did you do?"

"I sucked really hard.  Plus, I-I flicked my tongue around the 
little vent and looked up at him the whole time.  He was smiling 
down at me.  I could see he liked looking at me."

"It sounds like you were very...professional.  Did you swallow?"

She nodded, humiliated.

"Every drop?"

Another nod.  

"Good girl!" Andrea patronized.  "Did he give you anything 
afterward?"

"He let me have some cold cuts he'd thrown in the trash.  My hands 
were still cuffed, so I had to....

Brittany stopped, too humiliated to continue.  Andrea, ever 
helpful, thoughtfully finished her sentence.  "So you stuck 
your head in the trash and rooted them out like a stray dog?"

Brittany blanched, but nodded.  Andrea shook her head sadly.  
"Brittany, I'd like to help you, but don't you see what you 
did?  You blew that dirty old man for table scraps!   Do you 
want me to march into court with you, dressed that way, semen 
caked on your lips, and complain that cold cuts in the trash 
weren't fresh?  They'd laugh me out of the state."

Brittany took a note out of the front of her skimpy prison pants 
and passed it to Andrea.  "No, I don't want you to go to court!  
I want you to get this note to my father.  He's an attorney, and 
he can help me.  He can...."

Andrea attempted to pass the note back.  "Brittany, you must 
understand that no one can help you.  And the sooner you accept 
the fact understand that you deserve this -- that the punishment's 
for your own good -- the better off you'll be."

"No, please!  My parents and I are really close.  I'm Daddy's 
little princess, and I know he's looking for me.  I promise, 
if this doesn't work, I'll be a good girl.  I'll do all the 
disgusting things they want me to do!  I'll even work in their 
whorehouse!"

Brittany's frantic pleas were cut short by the store owner's 
return.  "Is she bothering you, miss?" he asked.

"No, not really," Andrea replied.  "She asked me for some water 
and I gave it to her.  That's not a problem, is it?"

"Not for you, it isn't," he said, glaring at the terrified girl.  

Andrea tried to pay for her drink, but the storekeeper refused.  
Everything in the store, it seemed, was "complimentary."  After 
all, she was a friend of Joe.

Brittany shot Andrea a pleading look as she left the store.  "Eyes 
on your work," the storekeeper snarled.  Andrea pointedly pretended 
not to notice Brittany as she walked out of the store.  

Andrea was surprised to find the inmates washing her car.  Needless 
to say, they had done a wonderful job, and her Lexus glistened like 
new.

"Let me know if there is anything else I can do for you, ma'am," 
the guard said, as he opened the car door for her.  

"Actually, there is one thing.  There's a girl inside there, named 
Brittany...."

"Inmate 3733-58583-3838?" 

"Yes, that's her.  "I'm in charge of...psychological operations at 
the prison.  I want you to give this escape note to the warden.  
Tell him to wait a couple of weeks, then let Brittany overhear a 
conversation that her parents are coming to rescue her.  Then, 
after another three days, have the warden tell her that her 
parents were "eliminated" because they tried to interfere.  The 
warden should stress that it's all her fault.  He can punish her 
then."

"Well, we'd never hurt nobody's parents!" the guard said, shocked.

"No, of course not," Andrea said.  "But the important thing is I 
want her to think that SHE doomed her parents.  You'll need to 
put her on suicide watch for a few days, but, after she gets over 
the shock, she'll be the tastiest little whore you have.  Believe 
me, that will break her, and she'll be yours then."

The guard chuckled.  "Thank you, ma'am.  Much appreciated.  Bye 
now.  Drive safe!"

Andrea smiled and waved as she pulled away.  The guards waved back.

The prisoners did not.



Edited by C. Lakewood