CHAPTER 1 THE VOLUNTEER

As the sun beat down, the women worked, the threat of the overseers' straps ever present in their minds, keeping them to the grinding toil. There were a hundred or so of them on the farm, hoeing weeds, dragging carts with the dung of cattle to be spread on the fields, humping sacks of cement for building, mucking out the animals' stalls and the pigs' sties, hauling timbers for fencing, sweating in the saw pit, where they reduced it to posts and rails by sheer, aching muscle-power, salty perspiration stinging their eyes, the sawdust penetrating into every nook and cranny of their hot steaming bodies.

They were of all ages, but predominately young and all sizes and colours. They had in common the fact that they were all naked, save for the wide-brimmed straw hats that protected their bare skin from the worst of the sun's rays, at least to the extent of shielding their shoulders and breasts, and a narrow strip of cloth that passed over a string about their hips in front, went between their sweating thighs, just covering their pudenda, and buried itself in their anal clefts, before passing under the same cord behind. With little in the way of ablutions available to the prisoners, let alone laundry facilities, these scraps of cloth were unsavory articles, but the women were grateful for even this minimal and odiferous covering. Even so, the insects constantly plagued them, seemingly attracted by the highly scented female parts, with their oozing secretions, and the workers were constantly distracted by the urge to slap at some particularly irritating intruder in their feminine folds.

Another thing they had in common were sets of stripes across the bare cheeks of their bottoms, their colours ranging from the livid purple of fresh welts, applied in the last twenty-four hours or so, to fading multi-coloured rainbows on those who had nearly served their time. For this was a specialist establishment where short sharp sentences of heavy labour were combined with severe corporal punishment, to rectify erring females without removing them from society for any great length of time, or generating an unwieldy prison population.

Few girls elected to repeat the combined dose of a painful public whipping, loss of dignity in near nakedness and a daily routine, for the next month, that left them aching and exhausted in every limb by the time they tumbled into their hard bunks at night, amid a miasma of female odours, including their own, for washing and toilet facilities were kept deliberately primitive, to bruise their spirits as deeply as the heavy penal rods, employed in the public floggings, had bruised their flesh.

Julia, shaking the sweat from out of her eyes as she paused for the briefest of moments to straighten her aching back over her hoe, was discovering just what a deterrent to crime this regime really was. The stripes on her bottom were still fresh, indicating that the heavy beating she had been given, packed into the underhang of her bottom cheeks in a solid mass of bruise, had only taken place a few days before, but she was appreciating the true nature of this deterrent sentence already. The heat, the flies, the loss of dignity, she could smell herself already this early in the day, the nakedness before the male guards, and any visitors to the farm who drove up the road that ran along one side of the field, all served, quite as harshly as the physical pains of punishment and labour, to encourage a girl not to re-offend.

This of course was exactly what she was here to observe. The short sharp shock treatment of the Labour Farms for Women in the Southern hemisphere state of Slothothu had gained worldwide notice in a very short time, with their record of reducing the appalling rate of female crime after they had achieved full equality with, or rather, superiority over, their male compatriots. Since something like the same situation was building very rapidly in her own country, the powers that be had decided to send a fairly senior official of the Ministry of Justice to investigate the system, and report on its effectiveness and suitability for home conditions. As a rising young star of the Ministry's staff, at 29 she had already achieved the highest grade ever for someone of her age and, being female herself, as every man that saw her was instantly aware, she was considered a perfect choice for the assignment.

When, therefore, her secretary had tapped on the door of the inner office and announced that `Mother' would like to see her at once, she had little doubt what the topic would be. She straightened her skirt, checked the seams of her stockings and gave her make-up a quick inspection in the mirror she kept in a drawer of her desk for just such emergencies. It was always a good policy to present oneself looking one's best when summoned to Mother, as the staff irreverently referred to their head of department. Though entering a well-fed late middle age, he still viewed his female staff with a lecherous eye and it never did a girl's relationship with him any harm to present herself in the most desirable package she was capable of.

Mother received her at once and came straight to business.

"You're aware of the situation in Slothothu?" he opened,without preliminaries, his eyes following her hands as she smoothed the thin cloth skirt over tight feminine curves as she took the chair he indicated.

"Yes, Sir, I've been reading all the reports we have. They are claiming great things for the system."

"Falls within your field, I think," the Mandarin observed, mentally stripping away the skirt and imagining what lay underneath. A minimal modern thong perhaps, barely covering plump labia, and disappearing altogether in her anal crack? No, he didn't see her like that. Something a little more classic; satin briefs with lacy edging. Perhaps, wonderful thought, the ultimate femininity of French knickers with wide leg openings.

He was recalled to reality by Julia remarking that, yes, penal institutions for women were part of her remit.

"And what do you think about the idea of corporal punishment?" he asked. "Do you see any scope for it in our own system?"

If she didn't, he certainly did. All these pert girls invading what had been male preserves, where a man could exist easily with others like himself, not distracted by these creatures with their skirts up to their crotches, for Julia had nonchalantly crossed her legs, heedless or, rather disregarding, the fact that Mother was now treated to a view of her stocking tops that sent his pulse racing.

"I'm a little reluctant to recommend it," she said. "It seems to go against the grain of modern thinking, but there's no denying we have a problem. Since girls threw off the shackles of a male dominated society, they have, unfortunately, acquired some of the least desirable habits of the men. The rate of female violence, especially connected with alcohol abuse, has soared these last few years and we are faced with a major prison-building programme to rival the men. If there is any way of avoiding that, we will get the Treasury's blessing, for one. Corporal punishment might just hold the answer to our prayers."

It would certainly be the answer to mine, Mother thought to himself, looking at the slight swelling on either side of her where Julia's weight caused her firm bottom to spread slightly. Oh to have those juicy rounds bared and bent and lay a cane across them until she howled for mercy. That would put the minx in her place.

And, of course, it would be his duty, as head of Department, to familiarise himself with the proceedings of the courts and the subsequent execution of sentence. He would have to attend the public whipping session in person, from time to time, so that he could not be accused of being too remote.

Aloud, he said, "What we want you to do is to go out to Slothothu for, say, one month, and make an in-depth study of the system. Of course, we have all the statistics and they are pretty impressive, but your job will be to report in detail on how it is applied and the reactions of the detainees themselves. Think you can do it?"

Could she do it? Of course, she could, and he was just being patronising, questioning her ability. His hot gaze and abstracted behaviour had not escaped her, indeed she had deliberately crossed, and recrossed, her nylon clad legs, letting him have a glimpse of her knickers, blue satin briefs as it happened, knowing it would reduce the old fart to helpless lust, and she could name her own terms.

"I'd want a free hand with the report, of course," she stipulated.

"Of course, my dear," Mother had replied.

"And I would expect to be put in charge of implementing any recommendations that were approved by Government subsequently."

That was a harder pill to swallow, but a fresh flash of stocking top served to soften his reluctance to promise too much and he agreed to her terms.

"No need to waste time," he said. "You ought to be able to get a flight out day after tomorrow. Warden is called Chris Poulenc. Haven't met the chappie, but we'll make sure you're expected. Seems the government there thinks the world of the Warden, who keeps a very tight ship. The girls are given a maximum of a month, so the regime has to discourage vice,and encourage virtue, in just thirty days. The Warden doesn't let them waste a moment of their precious time, it seems; every second packed with rigorous discipline, the hardest of hard labour and the toughest of living conditions."

"Yes, Sir. I've read the reports. As you suggest, I'll leave in twenty-four hours and find out what the situation really is like on the ground."

Thus it was that, a mere two days later, she found herself following her bags out of the arrivals hall at the local airport, to be greeted by a tall, handsome woman, a year or two older than herself, her latent beauty masked to some extent by a certain hardness round the mouth and eyes. She was dressed in a uniform of sorts, riding britches over polished boots, and a crisp white linen shirt.

"Welcome to Slothothu," the imposing figure greeted her. "I'll get the porter to put your bags in the Range Rover and we'll be off to the Correctional Institute."

"What's the Warden really like?" Julia asked, as the men loaded her gear in the back of the Range Rover. "I hear he's a bit of a martinet."

Her guide shot her a covert glance, then appeared to relax.

"You can believe everything you hear about the Warden," she assured her listener. "Doesn't forget or forgive a thing. Any girl steps out of line, she knows about it. Only way to treat them, though. We only have limited time to turn them around and we can't afford to waste it on vain apportioning of blame."

"He sounds a Tartar," Julia observed.

"I believe I am," the Warden replied.

Julia's jaw dropped, as she looked at her companion, then she laughed.

"I'm so sorry. With a name like Chris, we all jumped to the wrong conclusion. It isn't nearly feminine enough for you," she added.

Chris Poulenc laughed in return.

"I said I never forgave anything, but, in this case, I'll make an exception. Any of my girls who made the same mistake would be putting up her arse for a flogging by now."

"It's as easily done as that? No Magistrate, no trial?"

"Not for a girl, once she's been convicted. After that, all discipline comes from me,and my judgement. I can send a girl before the beak for a serious offence, if I think she deserves an extended stay, or a public whipping, but it doesn't happen very often. I prefer to deal with them myself."