The woman, who was blessed with stunning looks sufficient to make many men drool, looked
nervous and uncomfortable in the back of the unmarked van carrying her into the city. Her
excellent figure was more like a teenager’s than a woman in her thirties. With large green
eyes in a doll-like face, framed by shoulder length blonde hair, she looked out of place
in the dirty, smelly vehicle. She sat alongside a large, obnoxious drunk and an ageing
prostitute. Caroline’s 36b breasts heaved in anxiety beneath her tight black jumper. She
sat on the hard wooden bench, the only seating the van possessed. Her long legs, encased
in figure-hugging jeans, were tucked under it. A trickle of sweat made its irritating way
down her tense face but she was unable to wipe it away as her wrists were cuffed behind
her, adding to her fear and vulnerability.
Caroline bit her trembling lip, trying to quell her fear, wishing she had managed to
escape on the moving Channel Tunnel train with her husband Paul, their daughter and two
friends. They had been planning this escape for months but no one could have legislated
for the oil patch on the wooden foot step running around the outside of the carriage, the
oil patch on the exact spot where her feet scrambled for purchase. She had been pulling
herself onto the train at the time and the oil patch had sent her tumbling. Thankfully it
had been travelling quite slowly. She had rolled onto the embankment, winded, unable to
cry out, indeed too frightened to. She was left lying there watching the train fading into
the darkness, taking her hopes with it. Her husband was facing the other way, looking
after their daughter, blissfully unaware of her fate.
Now helpless, a prisoner in the van, she was beginning to doubt the benefits of her
survival. England in 2030 was not a happy place; the authorities had racked down hard on
those who flouted its strict laws or attempted to escape and further deplete a shrinking
population. An example had to be made. Caroline wanted to be sick, she wanted to be with
her husband on the train, in France, at home, anywhere but where she was.
The van came to a grinding halt and the doors were slammed open. The painful grip of the
squat middle-aged wardress on her arm guided her, stumbling, from a courtyard into a
large, grim, building with an imposing sign outside, ‘Department of Correction’.
She was hustled down grim and endless corridors as if she were a dangerous felon. Her
footsteps and those of the guards echoed ominously as she was taken further away from the
world as she knew it.
“Turn, face the wall!” a guard bellowed. They had been brought to a forbidding, echoing,
tiled cellar. Miserably she obeyed, not wanting to turn her back on the guard but not
daring to disobey.
“Haah,” she gasped as rough hands removed the iron bite of the cuffs from her slim
wrists. It was good to regain the use of her hands, making her feel less vulnerable.
“Turn back!” She was even more reluctant now, not wanting to see her captors, those
unfriendly people who held her fate in their hands.
“Strip naked!” shouted another guard, a large intimidating man of Arabic origin. His
snarl revealed several blackened teeth to the three prisoners.
“Please...” Caroline pleaded with the wardress who was smirking at her. She was quaking
at the horrendous order. It was beyond comprehension that she could remove her clothes in
front of everyone. She looked at the male guards and the fat drunk. “Please is there a
room? …oooff,” she gasped as the woman’s baton painfully jabbed her flat stomach.
“No talking; none at all! I’m sorry you don’t like undressing in public but you’ll soon
get used to it, girl - everyone does who breaks the law. Now clothes off, immediately, or
it will be done for you!” she snapped, spraying Caroline’s flinching face with saliva.
“Watches, jewellery, the lot! I want you as naked as the day you were born; the shit you
take off you place in a pile to one side.”
The ugly old cow had called her a girl, yet she was a sophisticated, intelligent grown
woman – but that counted for nothing in England these days. Shame coloured her pretty face
as she began tugging off her jumper with trembling hands. She had to blank off her mind,
make it numb, as she unzipped and wriggled out of her jeans. Then she unclipped her lacy
bra, removing it before sliding out of her panties before the greedy eyes of the Arab
guard and the smelly obnoxious drunk. She recalled pulling on the garments in the intimacy
of her bedroom that morning, never dreaming she would be forced to remove them under such
awful circumstances. The last time she had taken off her undergarments it had been with
the assistance of four hands.
She recalled her husband’s lips at her throat and mouth as his gentle hands helped her
unclip her bra and slide off her knickers. Naked, she had been alive and vibrant in his
arms, soft, yielding whilst at the same time acting like a wanton woman, reaching for his
hard shaft of flesh to sink onto. Now, she was naked again – but under entirely different
circumstances.
With trembling hands she unclasped her lovely expensive watch and necklaces and tugged
off her precious rings with their memories. She was amongst people whom she would have
normally have crossed the road to avoid and now she was totally, utterly naked before
them; standing in a cellar, shivering with fear and cold, arms crossed over her breasts.
“In a line, hands on head, give your full names, ages and address when I ask!” the woman
ordered. She was holding a small voice activated computer.
Caroline tried to shrink away from the gross hairy body of the drunk beside her, his
bleary eyes drinking in the lush curves she was forced to display as she assumed the
humiliating pose before her hateful captors.
“Custody roll prisoners detained on the evening of 20th Sept - you first!” the female
guard thrust her recorder at the drunk.
After he had struggled, with a bemused air, to recall the details and the sagging
prostitute had provided hers in a bored, flat voice, the woman stood before Caroline.
“I, er...”
Crack!
“Hah,” she stepped back in fear, outrage and humiliation, pressing her hand to her
stinging cheek where the woman, seemingly picking on her, had given her a harsh,
unexpected slap.
“I can’t stand stuck-up cows like you, especially when they’re stupid, too! Now listen,
c—t, the computer won’t recognise ‘ers’ and ‘buts;’ just give the facts, you stupid cow,
now! Stand back here, hands back on head, stop covering yourself, you’ve nothing to hide,”
she sneered.
“C-Caroline Patterson, age 35 … “ She provided the remainder of the required details,
trying to disguise the quaver in her voice and her fear, not wanting to display that
before the bitch; trying to be brave - but failing miserably.
“Right, I’ve checked all three of you on the State’s central medical records and you
have no medical conditions prohibiting the administration of punishment.” The woman spoke
as if dripping acid, reading from her small computer screen. “Remain quite still to be
searched, feet apart, mouths open!” she barked out the next set of degrading orders.
Caroline’s face was hot with shame and her hair was sticking to her forehead. She felt
sick. She was attempting to blank off her mind and senses and to ignore the leering eyes
of the Arab guard who stood right before her. He was ogling her breasts uplifted by her
enforced posture. Beside her she saw the woman guard’s hands move over the drunk’s flabby
skin, lifting his manhood; seemingly they took a delight here in shaming the opposite
sex.
“Pretty little knickers, eh?” The brute picked up her dainty little garment, still warm
from her body and sniffed it, then put that personal and intimate item of her clothing in
his pocket.
“Please...” Caroline whimpered under her breath, feeling even sicker with disgust and
shame.
“Don’t worry, you not need them here.” He leered at her exposed body. “Yes, a very
pretty lady, a shame you wanted to leave your country without permission, but I glad you
still with us now.” The brutal looking Arab grinned again, revealing several gaps in his
teeth. “It funny, not many years ago we were in trouble for entering this country
illegally - now you in trouble for leaving it illegally - but now laws tougher - no
nonsense. Maybe you get to enjoy our company and especially the company of me - Hamil,
eh?”
“Please,” she squirmed away as his dirty hands reached out to horribly fondle her
jutting boobs. It was awful, degrading, how someone like him could just take her panties,
grope her, and take such liberties.
“Back in line, exactly as before in five seconds, no moving, no talking - or something
really bad will happen to you, my pretty English lady.” His silken voice oozed cruelty.
Fearfully, reluctantly, the trembling blonde forced herself back to her posture of shame
before the beast with hot glinting eyes. Such was her fear of this regime and these people
that she dare not resist, no mater how repellent and shameful the touch.
“Mouth wider, wider, tongue right out.” Putrid breath filled her pinched nostrils as,
like a dentist from hell, he peered into her ridiculously gaping mouth, his uniform coarse
against her nipples which had become erect with her fear. She had to fight against the
ever-rising sickness as his hands slid through her hair like her husband’s used to do,
before sliding down her waist. She cringed as he casually rested his hands on her shapely
hips, squeezing her eyes shut with disgust as he patted her bottom with total possession.
“Now bend over, my pretty, and we’ll check down there - keep your hands on your head,” he
emphasised as she reluctantly bent over to further expose her pert bottom to his gaze and
fingers.
“Oooh,” the cry was torn from her as he slapped the curve of her backside just as her
husband did. But this wasn’t an intimate act of fun in a darkened bedroom; this was a
sadistic grope of lust by a horrid stranger, someone who had total power over her. She had
to restrain the urge to unlace her fingers from her neck and slap his hand away, instead
allowing him to horribly intrude into her deepest intimacies. It was vile, disgusting. She
wanted to scream.
“Ughhh,” she grunted again as a stiff finger slid into her sex, lovingly exploring her
in a ghastly invasion of her body. Worse, it then curled into her tight sphincter. That
was a touch she had always hated but now she couldn’t just push away the offending digit;
she had to simply endure as it twisted painfully and shamefully within her, filling her
unnaturally.
“Good girl, not so bad, eh? Maybe you get to like it up there, eh? You keep no secrets
from old Hamil, no! Up you get.” The guard smiled as he playfully patted the delicious
curves of her firm flanks, making her grind her teeth in suppressed rage ands shame. “It
late tonight, we get you locked up so - you can be dealt with properly tomorrow,” he added
ominously.
She stooped to retrieve her clothes but the guard grabbed her arm.
“No my pretty, you forfeit those when you be bad girl, this is what you wear now.” He
threw her a tiny white smock.
She was at least grateful for some clothing even if it only just covered her bottom. The
trouble was that it would reveal it if she bent over and it was so low cut it showed most
of her breasts jiggling freely beneath it.
“Please … I…” She looked around for a phone. “I need to ring someone tell them...”
Crack!
The female warden’s large hand cracked across her face to leave her ears singing and her
cheek smarting; she was shocked by the assault but although rage boiled within her, she
wisely restrained herself. .
“You contact no one, girl; those that need to will know of your arrest - and remember
what I told you about no talking! Now hands on head whilst we confine you!”
Caroline stood meekly as ordered whilst the wardens handcuffed the other two prisoners.
Then came her turn. She felt frightened and trapped as her wrists were again cuffed behind
her.
“Oh no…” She shrunk back as the bitch produced an evil looking head cage which was
locked in place around her neck. It had a ball gag on a spike which horribly filled her
mouth to leave her cheeks bulging, preventing any speech. It was heavy, degrading,
frightening. They were treating her almost as if she was a hardened and dangerous medieval
criminal. She was totally helpless amongst these fiends, shivering vulnerably as they were
marched deeper down within the confines of this terrible, terrible place.
Later she sobbed pitifully to herself through her gag. The head cage bearing painfully
down on her slim shoulders was bad enough but now she was stooped in a tiny metal cell not
much bigger than a wardrobe. It allowed her to stand up to look through a small, dirty
grille but it was insufficient for her to sit without her legs bent and knees pressed
awkwardly up to her chin. Her confinement was a devilish contraption which made every
muscle scream with cramp, denying sleep; it was not really possible to sit, only to stand
with any ease. She also had to share the tiny floor space with a tin bucket on which she
somehow managed to squat awkwardly in the night to empty her fear-taut bladder. She
wondered what would happen if there was some kind of emergency or fire; she would die down
here, trapped and alone. She was a grown woman in her thirties, yet she broke down and
cried like a baby, wracked by tears; fearing that she would never see her husband or
daughter again.
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