ROLE REHEARSAL

                                by 

                              Watcher



Part 1
 
"So what do you think of our little facility, Miss Stevens?"
 
Grace glanced over at Lt. Walsh, the guard who had been assigned to 
be her guide for this tour.  She was a decent enough sort; a bit 
stern at times, but quite attractive when she gave a rare smile.  
And Grace was well accustomed to the requests for autographs or 
the low-down on this or that movie star.  Still, she could do with 
being alone.  It was hard, even with her acting skills to keep up 
a mask of indifference when she wanted nothing more than to rub her 
hands together and jump up and down like a child on Christmas day. 
 
"It seems very well run," she finally admitted as she ran her 
fingertips over the cool white tiles of the walls.  Overhead the 
long line of shower faucets was dry and silent for the moment, but 
she could just imagine what it would be like when in use.  The 
image sent a shiver running down her back and between her legs.
 
"Say, can I ask a favour?"
 
That caught the guard's attention.  "Of course, Miss Stevens.  
What can I do for you?"
 
"I'm starring in a movie about an advertising executive who is 
framed and imprisoned," she started to explain, though nearly 
everyone knew part of the movie was being filmed on location just 
over the county line.  "Shooting has broken up for a few weeks 
because my character has to lose a lot of weight and look real 
beaten down and haggard after being thrown into prison.  I've got 
to go on a crash diet...."
 
This drew a sympathetic wince from the guard, but she said nothing. 

"There is a scene I have to shoot in a shower just like this.  I 
was wondering would it be okay if I had an actual shower here." 
As Grace spoke she gestured around her at the empty gang shower.
 
The officer's eyebrows climbed high on her face, and Grace hurried 
on before she could raise any objections or awkward questions.  
"It would really help me get a feel for the scene.  If I nail the 
performance, I might even be in the running for an Oscar."  It was 
all perfectly true, just not the entire truth.
 
Slowly the frown began to ease from the guard's face as she looked 
around.  The showers were empty, and Grace knew that the prison 
farm's warden had instructed his staff to give her their full 
cooperation.  All it had taken was a call from the studio attorney, 
Clint Early, some personalised autographs for his nephews and 
nieces, and a promise of tickets for the premier.  As she studied 
the lieutenant, it was Grace's turn to frown ever so slightly.  
Why was there a sly, knowing look forming on the woman's face? 
 
"So it's to help with the movie?" the guard asked, and, for the 
first time that day, she omitted a respectful "Miss Stevens" at 
the end.
 
Grace nodded.  The guard did not need to know that prison fantasies 
had fascinated her for as long as she could remember.  She did not 
know why she found it so arousing; she had always been a good girl 
with a perfect school record.  She had never even gotten a parking 
ticket. 
 
"Would it help the role if I gave you a taste of what its like to 
be a real convict?"  There was a faint smile on the officer's face, 
which Grace felt a bit disconcerting.  Surely the woman did not 
suspect that her interest was more than simply professional?
 
"Sure," she nodded hesitantly.  "If you wouldn't mind."  Her heart 
started to pound, and, no sooner were the words out than Grace 
began to regret speaking as she had.  She had already seen enough 
on her tour to fuel her bedroom activities for weeks to come, and 
she had never let anyone even glimpse this side of her.
 
That faint smile was a full-blown grin now, and then, as quickly as 
it had formed, it vanished, replaced by a stern scowl.  "Well, what 
you waiting for, girl?" she snapped in a tone that made Grace jump 
back in surprise.  All traces of deference and respect were gone 
from her voice.  "I ain't got all day, and if you put me behind, 
you'll taste strap oil.  STRIP!
 
A shudder ran through Grace's body, and, when she raised her hands 
to slide off her jacket, she found them shaking.  Was she really 
going to do this?  The guard was glaring at her, arms folded across 
her uniformed shirt, emphasising her shapely breasts, as she tapped 
her booted foot impatiently.  It was not too late to back out, to 
tell Lt. Walsh she had changed her mind.  Then life would return to 
normal, and she would again be Grace Stevens, one of Hollywood's 
hot, young, rising starlets.  That was the safe and sensible thing 
to do...what she had always done. 
 
Trying to breathe normally, Grace slipped off her expensive jacket 
and started to unbutton her blouse.  It was frightening, but she 
knew that she would never forgive herself, would never stop 
wondering what it would have felt like if she did not seize this 
opportunity.
 
"Move it, convict," Walsh snapped as she scooped up the jacket and 
blouse.  "You shy, girl?  You got something I ain't seen before?  
If you're not butt-naked by the count of ten, I'll have you in the 
Hole for a week."
 
Another shiver ran through Grace as the harsh words and tone set 
her blood on fire.  In no time at all, she was down to her bra and 
panties.  A flush spread across her face as she handed over her bra 
to the guard, exposing her bare breasts and earning a satisfied 
smirk from the guard.  She reached for her expensive panties, and 
then she froze as she realised that. in all the excitement, she had 
forgotten how she had groomed herself last night. 
 
"You see this strap?" Officer Walsh snapped, as she held up the 
length of well-care-for leather.  All the guards wore them on their 
belts, and it was the length of Grace's forearm, narrow at one end, 
to allow for a convenient gri, then widening out, to split into two 
tongues for two thirds of its length.
 
"If I'm not seeing bare fanny right this instant, I'll be roasting 
your rump real good."
 
Grace quickly pulled down her panties.  Surely Lt. Walsh would not 
forget she was not a real inmate and go so far as to actually beat 
her?  She did not want to risk it, and it was making her feel all 
warm and tingly to imagine that the threat was real.  If she were 
a real convict, this woman could have her bent over for a whipping 
she would not soon forget at any time.
 
"Well, well," the guard remarked as she gestured with her strap to 
the area between Grace's legs. 
 
She was unable to meet the officer's gaze, and a scarlet glow 
blossomed across her cheeks as she looked down at the floor.  
She tried to use her hands to shield her recently shaved sex, 
but a second later she felt the strap flick against her hands.  
"Hands on your head, fish, legs apart."
 
"Please...," Grace almost whimpered as she began to raise her 
hands, but could not help clamping her knees together.  The strap 
flicked out.  It was a light touch, but enough to raise a band of 
red across her tanned thighs.  Grace gasped with a mixture of 
surprise and fear...and a touch of excitement.  An inch higher 
and the strap would have hit her pussy.
 
Obediently she raised her hands to her head and spread her legs 
wide. 
 
"Open up, honey buns," Lt. Walsh said, and Grace felt the strap 
caress her inner thigh.  Fighting back tears of shame, she tried 
to open her legs even farther until she was afraid she was going 
to do the splits.  The position left the muscles of her thighs 
and crotch stretched taut and quivering.
 
"Nice and silky smooth," Walsh murmured softly as she rubbed her 
strap over Grace's shaved mound and between her lasia.  "Just 
like we like our girls here.  You trying to fit in, convict?
 
"No," Grace protested quickly.  "It's just so warm and humid here, 
and I was...."
 
"No, what?" the officer all but screamed, putting her face right 
up in front of Grace.
 
Grace frantically searched her brain to try to remember how she had 
heard the other prisoners answer the guards.  Then it came to her. 
 "No, boss, I was sweating in the heat, and...."
 
"Sure you were, honey buns," the guard chuckled and resumed rubbing 
the strap between Grace's outstretched legs.  "You like that, I can 
always tell.  You like the feel of the leather up against your 
filthy little convict clam.  You know how we deal with 
troublemakers here?"
 
She did not give Grace a chance to reply.  "Sometimes it's the Hole 
but sometimes we string them up by their ankles nice and wide and 
give them a good long pussy-strapping.  You want it that way, 
convict?"
 
"No, boss," Grace cried out in alarm as her mind filled with an 
image of sturdy ropes being coiled around each of her ankles as 
she lay naked in the dirt under an ancient tree.  The ropes were 
drawn up over the branch overhead, and she was pulled up and left 
dangling by her ankles.  It was a position that left her legs 
obscenely pulled apart.  Then the stern-faced guard would come, 
sometimes a man, sometimes a woman, but the strap was always the 
same.  And then it would begin to fall, hugging and caressing her 
thighs and legs and ass before working its way into her secret 
places...her intimate places.
 
"I don't want no sass from you, convict," Walsh snapped, and she 
yanked the strap away from where it had been rubbing Grace and 
held it up.  "Look at this."
 
Grace looked at the upheld strap, and her eyes widened in shock.  
She glanced down at her groin then back at the strap, unable to 
comprehend the slick coating of her own juices that now coated 
the strap.  The leather was covered with her secretions.
 
"So what's it to be, convict?" Lt. Walsh snapped.  "You want me to 
string you up, or you going to tell me the truth?  Admit it, you're 
a convict girl who loves the feel of the strap on your filthy wet 
convict slit.  SAY IT!"
 
"I'm a convict girl who loves the feel of the strap on my filthy 
wet convict slit," Grace cried.  As soon as the words were out, 
her mouth dropped open.  What had she said?  She could not believe 
that she would say such a thing and to a woman she barely knew.  
How could she admit her most secret desires like that?  But...the 
feel of the strap...down there...rubbing against her....felt so 
very good.
 
Lt. Walsh did not seem offended, far from it.  She hooked the strap 
back onto her belt.  She was smiling, as if she had just gotten an 
answer to a question that had been bugging her for a bit. 
 
"Good girl," the guard told her as if speaking to a pet that had 
just been housebroken.  "Now why don't you show boss Walsh how 
fast you can cum?  Get those fingers working in that wet clam of 
yours, and give us a good orgasm."
 
Again Grace hesitated.  Rationally she knew that she should refuse 
and demand her clothes back.  This woman had no more authority over 
her than she allowed.  There might even be cameras here, recording 
everything.  Except the aching, burning need between her legs would 
not be denied any longer.  Before she knew what she was doing, she 
had her hands between her legs, fingers sliding in past the soaking 
pussy lips to caress her engorged clit.
 
The first orgasm that gripped her was more intense than anything 
she could ever remember.  Even her battery-operated toys had never 
brought her off like this.  Then again she had never played with 
herself butt-naked in a gang shower of a prison farm before...and 
before an on-looker.  No sooner had the first wave of pleasure 
begun to subside, than her fingers started to tease and play with 
her bud again, and she felt a second round forming.
 
What must the guard think?  The question was distant, a small voice 
at the back of her mind, easily ignored in the surge of aroused 
pleasure flowing from between her legs.  A second orgasm came...and 
a third.  Her fingers were slick with her own juices as they rubbed 
frantically, but she didn't care.  She threw back her head, arched 
her back, and closed her eyes as her free hand rose to twist and 
tweak her bullet-like nipples while her other hand went in search 
of a fourth orgasm.
 
A cascade of icy water on her evoked a startled scream from Grace, 
and she yanked her fingers out of her pussy and tried to jump back. 
Rubbing water from her eyes, she looked around.  The shower was 
deserted, Walsh had vanished, and Grace felt a sliver of alarm as 
she realised the woman had taken all her clothes, her jewellery, 
her ID....  She had never heard the woman leave; she had been too 
caught up in playing with herself to notice.
 
Then a second faucet sprang into life, and, a moment after that, 
the rest of them began to gush water.  Icy cold water that beat 
down at her.  Grace yelped again.  The water was frigid, and she 
tried to scramble out of the way, but, with all the faucets now 
activated, there was nowhere she could take shelter.
 
Once the initial shock of the cold water faded, Grace forced her 
gasping lungs to slow.  As her breathing evened out, she felt her 
pounding heartbeat slow to something resembling a normal rate.  
After the heat of the summer sun outside and the more intense heat 
of prison sex, the cold water almost felt nice if not fully 
pleasurable, and Grace reached out to the small shelf on the wall 
to take some of the soap there.  It smelt of cheap but pungent 
disinfectant, and Grace smiled to herself.  The water had already 
washed away her expensive perfume, and, by the time she was 
finished, she would reek of convict stink, just like any other 
convict on the farm.
 
Minutes passed, and finally the jets of water eased off to a 
trickle before drying up completely.  There was no towel; all 
she could do was to brush her coppery red hair with her hands 
until it was slick against her neck and shoulders.  Jumping up 
and down helped as well, though if there were any security 
cameras, anyone watching was certainly going to get a show with 
her breasts bouncing around freely.
 
Nervous again now that her blood had cooled, Grace eased the door 
open slightly and peeked her head out.  There was no one in sight, 
just convicts working in the distance.  She felt acutely aware that 
she was naked and dripping wet.  Then, with some relief, she saw 
her clothes, carefully folded on the ground nearby.
 
"She could at least have hung them up," she muttered angrily to 
herself.  That jacket had come from Milan, and, not only was it 
going to be creased, it stood a good chance of being soiled by 
the red clay it rested on.  Then she froze.  Besides her clothing 
with its designer labels. there was another, smaller pile.  She 
recognised the blue cloth of a convict's uniform.
 
She looked around, scanning her surroundings, but she seemed alone. 
The smart, sensible thing to do would be to put on her nice 
clothes, brush off the dirt as best she could, and go back to the 
main gate, filled with memories that were going to keep her up 
late at night for weeks to come.  But that small blue pile called 
to her.  What would it hurt, just to try on the uniform? 

"Oh, Grace, you're crazy," she murmured to herself.  Whoever had 
laid out the garments had deliberately put them far enough away 
from the shower block that there was no chance of her simply 
extending an arm out the door and drawing in the clothes.  She 
took a deep breath and scampered barefoot out from the shower 
block across the hard-packed earth to the clothes.
 
Trembling fingers lifted the blue shorts.  They were faded denim, 
and there was no hint of underwear.  Grace slid her legs into the 
shorts and pulled them up, gasping as she felt how tight they were. 
They were cut high in the back, and, by the time she had them up 
and buttoned she could feel how much of her bottom cheeks were 
left exposed. 
 
"Daisy Duke, eat your heart out."  She took a step forward and 
gasped.  The seam in the crotch was unusually exposed, and she 
could feel it pressing between her legs.  She took another step, 
and a wicked grin spread across her face.  The seam was already 
rubbing her very nicely, and, if she kept going, she felt certain 
that it would work its way up into her pussy. 
 
Trying to keep her focus, she bent down and felt the shorts tighten 
over her buttocks even more before she snatched up the sleeveless 
blue shirt.  She held it up and saw the crisp black letters 
emblazoned across the back:
 
			CONVICT
		   Priam Prison Farm
 
At the sight of those words, she felt a familiar tension start 
between her legs again.  She slid on the shirt and found that 
it was a size too small.  Still, it felt better to be wearing 
something than standing around with her breasts hanging out 
like some whore.
 
A moment later, Grace realised that there was no way to fasten the 
shirt, since there were no buttons.  Even if there had been, it was 
so tight she was not sure she could have fastened the shirt anyway. 
She could only stare at the shirt until she remembered how the 
other convicts had worn theirs.
 
Taking hold of the bottom of the shirt, she gathered and rolled it 
up until she could tie the halves together just under her breasts. 
This left her trim stomach and a large sway of her breasts bare, 
but her nipples were covered, and it was better than nothing.  And, 
she had to admit, it was soooo sexy.
 
There were no shoes or course, or sneakers or even sandals.  All 
the convicts she seen had been barefoot.  Flexing her bare toes 
against the hard clay she shivered despite the heat.  When she had 
asked Lt. Walsh, the woman had given her an amused grin.  "A con 
won't get far barefoot if she runs.  Of course, if that don't work 
we lock her in leg irons to settle her down."  Savouring the flood 
of emotions coursing through her, Grace wondered how much of the 
no-shoes policy was for security and how much was just to help 
cultivate a humble, submissive disposition in the convicts.... 
 
"What you doing idling around, convict?"
 
In a panic Grace spun around, and her heart raced until she saw 
that it was Lt. Walsh.  "This ain't no country club, convict," 
Walsh bellowed.  "You're here to work off your debt to society, 
and I don't see no honest sweat."
 
The lieutenant was at her side in a second, and she took hold of a 
stunned Grace and almost yanked her off her feet.  The woman was 
stronger than she looked.  Grace yelped a protest as she realised 
she was being dragged away from her clothes.  She couldn't just 
leave them lying out there in the open like that.
 
"You giving me sass, convict?" Walsh snapped as she came to a halt 
and stared straight into Grace's eyes.
 
Again she hesitated.  Lt. Walsh knew who she was, but Grace doubted 
anyone else would.  Perhaps her face would seem familiar, but, 
dressed like any other convict, who would think she was worth 
millions and was the darling of the studios?  Still, it would help 
with her research for her role in the film.  If anyone found out 
about her adventure, she could explain that she simply doing 
research.  No one need know how turned on she was.
 
"No, boss," she replied.
 
"Don't you be eyeballing me, convict," the officer snapped, and 
her hand rose to her waist to stroke her strap.
 
"No, boss.  Sorry, boss," Grace mumbled as she quickly lowered her 
eyes to the ground.  A second later the firm grip was back on her 
arm, but this time she let herself be dragged barefoot over the 
hard-packed clay and rough grass.
 
"Look," Walsh demanded, and Grace looked up far enough to see that 
they were no longer alone.  Ahead of her were two guards holding 
a frightened-looking woman apparently in her mid-twenties.  Like 
Grace, she wore snug shorts and a tight shirt tied off under her 
breasts.  Like Grace, she was barefoot and smelled of sweat, fear, 
and the strong disinfectant used in the showers.
 
"This is how we deal with trouble-makers," Walsh told her before 
nodding to the two guards, one female and one male.  The young 
woman was ordered to strip.  Looking frightened, she obeyed, and, 
clad only in a blouse and shorts it did not take long.  Like Grace, 
she was hairless between the legs, though Grace doubted she had 
shaved herself after a nice soak in a bath.
 
The moment she was naked, the female guard pulled a set of 
handcuffs from her belt and fastened the girl's hands behind 
her back.  This forced her breasts, already slick with sweat, 
out more prominently.  She was given no chance to protest, as 
the second guard produced a rubber bit gag and forced it into 
her mouth before locking the strap behind her head.  Even if 
she had the use of her hands, she could not take off the gag.
 
"Miss Fancy-pants Grayson here was a stockbroker.  Ripped off a 
whole lot of investors, pensioners, and charities so she could 
enjoy the finer things in life," Walsh said quite calmly to Grace 
while keeping her cold gaze on the naked and whimpering girl.
 
"She seems to think she's too good to pick cotton like an ordinary 
little convict.  Well, if you don't make your work quota three 
days in a row, you get a stint in the Hole."
 
Walsh smiled, but there was nothing warm about her expression.  She 
patted Grayson's cheek.  "Don't you worry, though.  When you get 
out of the Hole, I won't be putting you back in the fields."
 
For the first time the prisoner's expression seemed to brighten, 
though it was hard to tell with the bit pulling her cheeks back 
into a grimace. 
 
"No," Walsh went on.  "You're gonna work in the quarry.  I'm sure 
you're gonna make a real good rock-buster." 
 
A look of horror flashed across Grayson's face, but the two guards 
flanking her started to laugh.  Then they bent down and lift a 
metal lid.  As it opened, Grace had her first view of one of the 
dreaded Holes.  It was nothing more than a rectangular metal box 
set in a hole dug in the soil.  It was smaller than a basic closet.
 
The moment the lid was open, the second guard all but flung the 
naked and sobbing girl in.  It was just about big enough to hold 
her, and, once the lid was closed, there was no room for her to 
sit up or lie down.  The lid was perferated by a series of small 
holes, each perhaps the diameter of her little finger.  They would 
let in a bit of air and light, but nothing else. 
 
With the Hole set in the centre of a field empty of anything except
other dugouts, there was no shade from the sun.  The convict would 
have to stand there -- somehow -- and try to endure the rising 
humidity and the heat.  Gagged, she could not even cry out.
 
Walsh leered at Grace.  "She'll get two half-hours a day out here 
to eat and exercise, and that's all.  Now, you give me any trouble, 
convict, and it's straight into the Hole with you." 
 
Keeping her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her bare toes, 
Grace shuddered.  "Please, boss, I'll be good."
 
"Or maybe you wanna keep Grayson company?" Walsh asked in a voice 
laced with innuendo.  "I saw the way you were gawking at her, 
especially at her dirty, drooling cunt.  You want to slink into 
the Hole with her, maybe make her real happy?"
 
"Please, boss, please don't put me in the Hole," Grace whimpered.  
The Hole was barely big enough to hold Grayson.  If she was forced 
in, once the metal lid was locked in place, she would have to crush 
up against Grayson, bare breast pressing against bare breast, legs 
intertwined, gasping for air, and nothing to do to pass the long 
monotonous hours except to....
 
With an effort she forced herself to stop imagining herself in the 
Hole.  She liked men.  She had never felt any attraction to another 
woman...until now.
 
"Maybe later," Walsh teased.  The lieutenant gave her a pat on her 
bottom then turned to the two officers.  "This convict is real 
eager to settle in here.  Take her to the cotton fields." 
 
Still recovering from the mental images of her (and Grayson) in 
that dark sweat-box, Grace hardly dare breathe.  The guards 
regarded her with no hint of recognition.  They might have been 
looking at a stray dog they had suddenly been put in charge of.  
And the way the male guard's eyes lingered on the bare slopes of 
her breasts made her feel frightened and alert and alive, all at 
the same time.
 
Walsh glanced at her watch.  "It's a bit late in the morning, but 
I'm sure this con will work hard and make up a full day's quota," 
she told the guards while giving Grace a wicked grin.  "Don't take 
any sass from her.  She gives you any trouble or tries to make up 
some sort of story about her not belonging here, you give her a 
good taste of strap oil."
 
"Yes, ma'am," the two guards exclaimed in unison.  The male guard 
was already caressing his strap as if he could not wait to find an 
excuse to use it.
 
"I'll see you later," Walsh told Grace with a wink, and then she 
turned and strode away, leaving her alone with two grim-faced 
guards who had no idea she was not a convict.
 
"Pretty little thing," the female guard remarked to her colleague 
once the lieutenant was gone.  "Just your type."
 
He flashed a pleased smile.  "Real fine."  He reached out and 
moved aside part of the shirt to peer at her naked breast.  "Real 
fine," he repeated, letting the shirt slip back into place.  Then 
he looked back at his female partner, who was openly studying Grace 
with predatory interest.  "Still, I'm happy to share."  There was 
no hint of a smile on his face when he glanced back at Grace.  
"Let's get some work out of your convict ass," he growled as he 
led her away.
 
		******************************

 
 


                         ROLE REHEARSAL

                               by 

                             Watcher



Part 2

The sun was sinking beneath the horizon, and, when she saw the 
familiar sight of the prison farm bunk house, Grace felt ready 
to drop into the dirt and go to sleep.  She had worked hard 
before making it big; like many struggling actors, she had waited 
tables for long hours, but nothing had prepared her for a day as 
a convict labourer.
 
Sweat clung to her body, and her shirt was soaked through.  She 
could sleep for a full day, but first she wanted to soak in a warm 
bath.  Her arms and legs were already starting to sting from the 
beginnings of sun burn, but, for all her complaints, Grace knew 
that, if she pulled off those wickedly snug shorts with their 
tantalising raised seam, she would find them soaking wet...and not 
just from sweat. 
 
It was so hard to resist playing with herself.  The moment her 
guards' backs were turned, she had tried to ease one hand into 
the shorts, but they were too tight.  She would have to unbutton 
them to get between her legs.  Yet the raised center seam was 
constantly rubbing, keeping her aroused without bringing her off.
 
She had nearly been caught three times trying to get relief, but 
each time they thought she was just slacking off rather than trying 
to masturbate.  She had earned a stern lecture the first time it 
happened and the strap the second and third times.  The thin shorts 
were no protection, and the strappings only made her want to play 
with herself even more.  She was trapped in a vicious cycle of 
arousal and denial.  When she next was able to cum, she knew in 
her heart that it would outstrip even the staggeringly powerful 
orgasms she'd had in the shower.
 
A moment of panic had run through her as she trudged back with 
the other convicts.  What if something had happened to Lt. Walsh?  
She might be trapped on the prison farm until she could convince 
someone of her real identity.  The thought terrified her, and, 
when her eyes fell on the lieutenant waiting for her, Grace nearly 
collapsed in relief.  At the same time, she felt a sliver of 
regret.  Her feverish, sex-mad mind had started imagining how she 
might earn better treatment.  None of the guards had touched her 
beyond a good grope after administering the strap, but she did not 
have to be told that if she got down on her knees and opened her 
mouth it would not be empty for long.
 
It was not as if people did not know where she was.  The production 
attorney knew.  He had been the one to arrange her visit in the 
first place.  Then she saw the lieutenant's face.  She looked 
concerned.
 
With a nod to the escorts, she took charge of Grace and marched her 
across the field towards the administration block.  With a start, 
Grace realised that this was not where she could change back into 
her regular clothes.  This was where the warden had his office.
 
"Wh-where are...are we going, boss?" Grace stammered.  The term, 
"boss," was now coming automatically to her lips.  But Walsh said 
nothing.  If anything, she picked up the pace.
 
Grace had come this way that morning, but then she had been dressed 
in her designer clothes, wearing expensive perfume, custom-made 
watch, and jewellery.  Then she had been the movie star worth 
millions, adored by even more millions of hot-blooded men and no 
small number of lesbians.  Then she had felt powerful, assured, 
safe, and in control.
 
Now she was wearing nothing but the sweat-soaked shorts and shirt 
that labelled her a convict.  She was barefoot, her feet dirty 
from the soil.  Her expensive perfume was gone, replaced by the 
smell of hard work and that foul disinfectant that, even after all 
these hours, had not faded.  Like a naughty schoolgirl being 
summoned to the headmaster, she felt anything but confident.
 
"Please, can't I get dressed?  I can't let him see me like this."
 
"Too late for that," was the only reply she got.
 
The polished tiles of the floor felt slick beneath her sweaty bare 
feet, and Grace wanted to sink into the ground when she was marched 
into the warden's office.  "How am I going to explain this?" she 
thought desperately.  He had agreed she could get a tour, not 
that she could dress up as a convict and act out her secret 
fantasies.  If the media got hold of this her career was over....
 
The warden was not alone, and, to Grace's absolute horror, she 
recognised the second man taking his ease in a comfortable leather 
chair.  Of all the people who might be there, why did it have to 
be Clint Early?  The studio attorney's eyebrows climbed up to his 
greying hairline at the sight of her dressed as a convict.
 
"Grace, you look so...different," he half-whispered, half-muttered, 
and Grace felt herself go red with shame.  She could see him 
drinking in the sight of her...of her ripe breasts, flat stomach, 
and tanned and toned legs, all bare for his pleasure.
 
"You're in a whole world of trouble, young woman," the warden 
snapped, but not before he took the time to admire her body as 
well.  Under his gaze, she was not the powerful and confident 
star.  She was the dirty, sweating convict up before the head 
boss and frightened of what fate he would decide for her.
 
"I extended our hospitality to you, and this is how you repay my 
generosity."
 
Confused, Grace looked up.  She had only been in the fields a few 
hours, but already it was becoming second nature not to meet the 
eyes of any of the guards.  She had been slow to learn, at least 
at first, but the kiss of the strap across the ripe curves of her 
ass was a great teacher.  She felt more than embarrassed, but, from 
the warden's tone and the look of disapproval on the lawyer's face, 
anyone would think she had committed some sort of crime.
 
"Look, I'm sorry I didn't run this by you first, and it's not the 
lieutenant's fault," Grace told him, trying to recapture some of 
her old confidence.  It occurred to her that Lt. Walsh might be in 
trouble.  The woman had only been letting her play out her fantasy, 
and she did not want her to get into any trouble because of that.
 
"It's just that I really wanted to do thorough research for the 
next part of the film, and, when an opportunity presented itself, 
I had to jump in.  I didn't mean any harm."  They were still not 
smiling.  "And I did pick quite a lot of cotton for you," she 
added, starting a weak laugh that quickly died under their 
withering glares.
 
"You aided a convict to escape from this prison farm."
 
Grace's mouth fell open in shock.  "What?  I never."
 
The warden cut her off by slamming his hand down on his desk.  "A 
young woman wearing your clothes walked out the main gate earlier 
today.  And, seeing how you're dressed, I can only assume that for
some reason you swapped clothes with her to facilitate her escape. 
Helping a convict escape from lawful custody is a serious charge. 
You could get up to ten years."
 
"I didn't," Grace cried looking from the warden to Clint, who had 
always been so friendly, almost like a favourite uncle, but there 
was cool disapproval in his eyes now.  "My clothes were outside the 
shower block when I left for the fields."  She turned to look at 
Lt. Walsh who flashed a sympathetic expression.  Grace was so used 
to people picking up after her, it had never occurred to her that 
her things would be left lying in the dirt.  
 
"Please, you have to believe me," she begged, and finally Clint 
shifted in his seat to look at the warden.
 
"Perhaps we could keep this in-house, Gerald," he began.  "No one 
wants a scandal.  I am sure your missing convict will be picked up. 
I've already cancelled Miss Stevens' credit cards, and the convict 
won't get far with just the cash from the purse she took."
 
Standing there, dressed like that, Grace felt incredibly small 
before those men in their suits discussing her future.  She hated 
people talking about her as if she were not there, but no sooner 
had she opened her mouth to say something than she thought better 
of it.  If charges were brought, she could go to prison for real.  
She did not want to think what that might do to her career.  
Already there were too many who said she won her roles because 
of her beauty and sex appeal, not her acting ability.  She could 
become both a laughing stock and a pariah.
 
"I can't just fail to report that I'm missing a convict," the 
warden protested.  "Of course, I can have an APB sworn out for 
the woman, but come roll call in the morning, once we're one 
short, I'll have to call it in."
 
"Hmm," Clint mused for a second, then his gaze drifted back over 
to Grace.  "So...if there is a full roll call you wouldn't have 
to call it in?"
 
The warden frowned as he considered the question, then slowly he 
nodded.  "I suppose not, but where do you suggest that I get me a 
spare convict?"  He must have read something on the attorney's 
face, because he too shifted to stare at Grace. 
 
"I am sure Miss Stevens will cooperate."
 
The blood drained from Grace's face as the attorney's meaning sank 
in.  Before she could speak, the warden pressed on.  "And say we 
were to find our missing convict straightaway, am I to overlook the 
fact that your little starlet enabled an escape from my farm?  The 
maximum sentence is ten years."
 
"If convicted," Clint shot back quickly.  "Which is by no means 
certain.  No one wants a messy trial.  Perhaps a compromise....  
Miss Stevens will sign a waiver, stipulating that she will remain 
in your custody, subject to the same conditions and discipline as 
any other convict, until such time as the film starts re-shooting. 
That should satisfy your need for punishment, I think."
 
The warden nodded slowly.n  She saw him looking her over again, 
and, from the thin smile on his thick lips she knew he was 
imagining having her at his mercy. 
 
"Wait a minute," Grace began.  Stay here as a convict?  She was 
never going to agree to that, no matter how much the idea made 
her insides tingle and her heart race.  A real convict, albeit 
without a criminal conviction....  Subject to the whims and whips 
of the guards....  It was like her wildest dreams had come true, 
but it terrified her far too much.  Playing the convict in the 
shower and in the fields was one thing, but what they were 
suggesting was something else entirely.
 
"Grace," Clint said, raising a hand to silence her.  Normally she 
would have pressed on, but she felt her confidence begin to waver.  
She was a rich and popular star, but, dressed in her shorts and 
shirt that left so much of her body exposed, barefoot and dirty, 
she could not bring herself to try to talk over him.  Not with him 
looking so stern and powerful...and well-dressed.  A convict girl 
might be sent to the Hole for such impertinence to her betters.
 
"You have two choices.  You can refuse, and the warden will order 
a full-scale manhunt.  The police will come and arrest you, and 
you will be charged.  Given your wealth, you are a flight risk 
so I would not hold out much hope for bail.  You can expect to 
be remanded in custody till the trial, which could be some months 
away.  Forty-eight hours, seventy-two at the most, and I would 
expect you to be right back where you're standing now as a remand 
prisoner with a difficult criminal trial ahead of you.  You get a 
local judge and jury and...."
 
He shrugged.  "You know how some of these county folk are.  Right 
wing and religious, they think Hollywood is the work of the devil. 
Some of these good, upstanding folk who would be on your jury would 
like nothing better than to send a message to a hot starlet like 
you.  I'm sure they would love to see how you would like a few 
years on the local chain gang."  He raised an eyebrow.
 
"You know they lease out convict labour here?  How many potential 
jurors will want a chance to hire you if you're convicted?  Some 
redneck might get off on having the famous Hollywood star scrubbing 
his floors or cleaning out his sewage tank, but I doubt you would 
enjoy it." 
 
Each word struck her like a blow, and she was not sure how much 
longer her legs would support her, they were trembling so.  She 
could imagine other uses she might be put to if she was leased out 
as convict labour -- the sort of work where her ability to please 
would be tested to the limit.  The only one giving her any 
suggestion of sympathy was Lt. Walsh, who flashed her an 
encouraging smile. 
 
"Or...," the lawyer said, holding out a spoonful of hope after a 
shovelful of despair.  "You take your licks like a good girl, and 
you learn a valuable lesson.  It's kept out of the media, and no 
one is the wiser once it's all over except us.  Then you get your 
life back.  Think of it as research.  After this sort of experience 
I think the Oscar would be a real possibility.  I know you're tired 
of the accusations that you get your roles solely because of 
your...your...." 
 
Clint blushed slightly, then gestured towards her body.  "Your 
looks.  If you got even a nomination, people would start to take 
your acting abilities more seriously."
 
The way he put it, it did not take her long to nod her consent.  
She had never been as frightened in her life as this moment, but, 
at the same time, there was no denying the throbbing passion 
between her legs that promised unspeakable pleasure once she 
got to her bunk.  It's a wonder she was not dripping through her 
shorts onto the warden's rug.
 
Clint quickly wrote out the Agreement, and her fingers shook when 
she gripped the pen to sign her name under that of the warden.  
She stared down at the paper in front of her until the warden 
pulled it from her to file it away.  It was done.  It was such a 
simple thing, her signature, but with it she had lost most of her 
legal rights as a law-abiding citizen.  She might not have been 
convicted of anything, but, from this point on, she was just 
another convict, squirming with fear when a guard so much as 
frowned her direction.
 
How long was the break in shooting to last, she wondered.  The 
date was marked down on her laptop computer at the hotel and in 
her smart phone, but both were far out of reach.  She had to know. 
 
"How long?" she croaked and gasped in shock at how dry her throat 
was.
 
"How long?" Clint asked frowning at her.  "I'll need a copy of 
that, Gerald," he said turning briefly to the warden before he 
looked back at Grace.  "Oh, you mean when does shooting restart 
and you get paroled?  About that, it seems there has been a little 
hitch.  The writers' guild have called a general strike today over 
terms and conditions for their writers." 
 
Seeing the alarm spreading across her face, he quickly raised his 
hand.  "The shooting is shut down till the strike is resolved.  I 
know that both sides are pretty entrenched, but I'm sure they'll 
resolve their differences in no time, and work on the film will 
start up again."
 
Grace stared at him with her mouth wide open, then she looked back 
to where the agreement had been placed in a filing drawer.  It said 
she was to stay a convict until filming began again, but, with a 
writers' strike, weeks could become months.  Tensions in the 
industry had been running high for some time now, and, until the 
strike ended, there was going to be no film, no release.
 
"Lt. Walsh, some corners were cut with the admission of this 
prisoner," the warden began, interrupting any further thought.  
"I want her properly photographed, fingerprinted, given a full 
cavity search, and deloused.  And, seeing as she likes causing so 
much trouble, she can spend the first few days here in the Hole.  
Might make her re-evaluate her ideas about following our rules."
 
Walsh was at Grace's side in an instant, wearing a pleased smile. 
"It will be my pleasure, sir.  I'll look after her personally."

"But...,"Grace tried to say as the officer pulled her away.  She 
wanted to resist, to demand an explanation.  Clint obviously knew 
about the strike before he got her to agree to this deal.  He had 
to know that she could be toiling on the farm for months.  She was 
not sure if she wanted to hit him or kiss him.
 
"Come along, convict," Walsh urged.  "I do hope you're not carrying 
any contraband."  Then the strict expression softened a bit and her 
voice dropped so only the two of them could hear.  "It was very 
nice of you to try to cover for me earlier.  Are you trying to 
become one of my 'special' girls?" 
 
She did not give Grace time to answer.  "I've never had a star's 
tongue between my legs.  Should be fun.  And, come Saturday 
evening I'll rent you out at J.D.'s truck stop.  We'll go for 
quantity -- and a buck a blow job with the good ol' boys will be 
a real money-maker."
 
"Don't worry," she whispered.  "I take good care of my special 
girls...but I'm still putting you in with Grayson...with your 
hands cuffed behind you."  She smirked.  "So you two should be 
real GOOOD buddies before I let you out."
 
A sly smile spread across Grace's face.  She had no idea how long 
she was going to be locked up here.  She had no idea how she was 
going to be punished or what she would have to do to please the 
guards.  What she was certain of was that she would have plenty 
of time to think about it in the Hole, plenty of time to buck and 
heave and gasp as she brought herself off, time after time after 
time...and Grayson, too.  Moreover, the fear and uncertainly of 
not having a safety net would make the experience all the more 
powerful.
 
		******************************
 
Clint Early waited until the door was closed, and he was alone with 
his old college friend.  "So how far did that convict get before 
you picked her up?"
 
The warden glanced up from pouring them both brandies.  "Stupid 
girl, she didn't even get out of the parking lot.  Well, she's 
dangling by her ankles for her troubles, and tomorrow the strap 
will teach her the error of her ways, and, if that doesn't, a 
stint in the Hole will." 
 
He held out one of the glasses.  "So how long will this strike 
last?"
 
"A few months, I would imagine, no one really knows.  Still, she'll 
give the performance of her life when shooting starts again.  Oscar 
nominations are good for box office returns...and my commission, 
as well."
 
Both men chuckled as they sipped at their drinks.  "And you'll 
send me the DVDs of her time here.  The preview she gave in the 
shower was something else."
 
"Don't worry. Clint.  I'll make sure you don't miss a thing.  Now, 
have you got any other starlets that you care to send my way?"
 
"Well, there is a cute little thing called Lolita Lago.  Seems no 
matter how often she does rehab, she just can't stay off the booze 
and drugs.  I'm sure the studio would be real appreciative if 
someone could straighten her out."
 
The warden picked up a remote, and, a moment later, the large 
television screen behind him flashed into life.  "Why don't 
you tell me all about it as we watch Gracie getting her cavity 
search?"
 
Looking up at the screen Clint could see Grace was pulling off her 
top as if she could not wait to plant herself on the examination 
table.  Grinning at the way Grace was rubbing herself as she peeled 
off her sodden shorts, he raised his glass.  "I'll drink to that." 



Edited by C. Lakewood