STEP INTO MY PARLOUR, SAID THE SPIDER

                           by 

                         Watcher



Part 1
 
"Life is good," Chief Officer Miranda McKnight murmured to herself 
as she leaned back and flicked through the last of the files on the 
new arrivals.  She had considered them all last night, of course, 
but it never hurt to give them a second look.  Still, nothing had 
popped out at her that might cause her to change her mind.  

A glance at the security monitor told her that it was time to get 
ready.  The prison van with its narrow dark windows was pulling up, 
and, in a few minutes, the new fish would be about to learn the 
realities of prison life. 

Miranda climbed to her feet and brushed down her uniform blouse 
then glanced at her reflection in the window to make sure her tie 
was straight, her seams crisp, and her hair carefully drawn back 
in a tight bun.  First impressions were everything after all.  

There were other officers waiting ahead of her.  Some would be 
involved in the actual processing, while others were there simply 
as a precaution in case some new inmate panicked and tried to do 
something stupid.  Just thinking of the prospect that someone might 
try to act up brought a smile to Miranda's face.  She flexed the 
disciplinary rod she favoured, testing its tension before she 
tucked it back under her armpit.  Life had become so much easier 
for them ever since the new government had been elected on a law 
and order platform.  Or, as their critics liked to say, "hang 'em 
and flog 'em" agenda.  For her part, Miranda saw nothing wrong with 
flogging.  There was nothing like a good caning to teach trash who 
was in charge.

Knowing looks passed among the rest of the officers when they saw 
her arrive, and Miranda saw a few try to hide sudden concern.  Were 
they afraid that she planned to poach some nice new inmate they had 
planned to get friendly with?  Rank had its privileges after all.  
A Chief Officer, she had first call on anyone that caught her eye.  
The jingle of chains announced the new arrivals, and Miranda could 
feel herself relaxing.  There was something almost soothing about 
that sound, the clink of chains clashing together as the wearers 
shuffled forward, trying their best not to lose their balance or, 
worse, to stumble and fall now that their limbs were no longer 
entirely under their own control.

Then the line appeared around the corner.  There were seven today, 
all fresh from the remand centre where they would have been taken 
temporarily after their court appearances until their distribution 
among the various prisons was decided.  As usual the transportation 
unit was not taking any chances.  A belly chain circled each waist 
and handcuffs bound each wrist to the chain, keeping their arms 
helplessly at their sides.  A second set of cuffs hobbled their 
ankles, and a longer length of chain joined the leg irons to the 
belly chain.  It forced them all to shuffle hunched over.  Walking 
any distance like that would have really made the back ache

Some of the women even looked relieved to have finally arrived at 
processing.  At least there they could be freed from their 
restraints. 

With an effort, Miranda kept her expression cold and stern, but 
inwardly she was chuckling at their naivete.  They thought the 
worse was over, but they really had no idea. 

It did not take her long to pick out her chosen target.  The girl, 
third in line, looked frightened out of her wits.  She had nice 
blonde hair cut short and lovely clear blue eyes.  Almost 
automatically Miranda glanced down to her crotch.  Was she a 
natural blonde?  She would know soon enough.

Her sheet said she'd been a stock broker, due to serve seven years 
for securities fraud.  Those sweet innocent eyes had drawn 
Miranda's attention at first.  Then, when she had read the file, 
it had only gotten better.  The offence had apparently been minor 
-- the sort of thing that would normally warrant perhaps a year 
at an open prison -- but her supervisor had been fired for not 
regulating her activities, and a quick Google search had filled 
in the rest.  The supervisor was the current Home Secretary's 
cousin....
 
Miranda decided that this nice little "Amy Bishop" was going to be 
her new "friend."  With a seven year sentence, she would not be 
eligible for early release until she had served at least five, and, 
for someone of this girl's background, those would be five long, 
hard years indeed.

At a barked instruction from one of the officers, the women spread 
out, parallel to the thick white line pained on the floor.  With 
some pleasure, Miranda noted that Amy trembled at the harsh tone 
in her voice.  She would do; she would do nicely. 

It took a few minutes for the various chains and restraints to be 
removed, and Miranda took the time to wander apparently casually 
past the group, casting a critical eye over the rest.  Sometimes 
the file photograph did not really capture the essence of the 
prisoner.  Not today, she decided after a few minutes' scrutiny.  
There were times she liked to pick a repeat offender, or, even 
better, a violent repeater.  Breaking that sort had its appeal, 
but she was in the mood for more tender meat today.

The first girl in line was taken forward to the admissions desk, 
and the order came -- "Strip."

A simple, short word, but it served to start the process of 
breaking down the inmate and establishing the authority of 
the officers.  The prisoner tried to act as if she didn't 
care, but her hands were shaking as she began to unbutton her 
top.  Miranda paid her little attention; she wanted to see how 
Amy was taking the sight of what was to come for her.

Sure enough, her eyes were going wider and wider as the first 
prisoner stripped and handed over her clothing.  By the time the 
woman was down to her underwear, Amy was blushing and had to look 
away...though she kept glancing back in that familiar pattern of 
wanting to see, but being afraid at the same time of what she was 
seeing. 

By the time it came for her to step forward, she was visibly 
trembling, and Miranda just loved the way she was biting her lip.  
The duty officer had to repeat the order twice before she even 
began to undress, and she seemed to take forever to take off her 
skirt-suit.  It was a nice suit; Miranda had to give her that.  
It was sharp, tailored, carrying an aura of power and entitlement, 
and the girl was clearly reluctant to be parted from it.  This was 
one of Miranda's favourite parts when it came to admissions -- the 
slow strip.  It was more than simply undressing; it was the 
stripping away of the identity the prisoner had in the outside 
world.  Once their clothing was safely packed away out of reach, 
they were just like any of the other inmates, just a number in the 
system.

"Get a move on," the duty officer snapped at her when she hesitated 
at her bra.  A single tear trailed down her cheek.  A moment later, 
a second followed it, and then a third as she handed over her bra. 
The instant she released the garment, her arms went across her 
chest, trying to cover her breasts.

"'Strip' means everything," the officer growled with growing 
impatience when she saw that Amy was not making any attempt 
to pull down her knickers and hand them over.

"When an officer gives you an order, convict, you obey."  Miranda 
spoke for the first time as she drew out her rod.  She prided 
herself on never raising her voice; she never had to shout, unlike 
some of the other officers.  It was said she carried a quiet air of 
malevolence that even the dumbest criminal could pick up on.

The girl shuddered at the title, "convict," and Miranda allowed her 
lips to curl up ever so slightly in the suggestion of a smile.  
"Please, there has been some sort of mistake," the girl began 
whimpering softly in a well-educated accent.  With a voice like 
that, combined with that lovely heart-shaped face, she probably 
was more accustomed to being in a posh wine bar that stripping off 
in front of complete strangers.

"The barrister said I would get community service, that...."  
Miranda allowed her a moment, then nodded to one of the officers, 
who darted forward to take hold of the girl's wrists.  The officer 
drew her forward until she was leaning over the nearby desk, 
forearms pinned down. 

Savouring the look of fear and alarm mingled with dreadful 
uncertainty that spread across Amy's face, Miranda circled 
around her like a prowling shark before coming to a halt 
directly behind her.  She was pleased to see that the convict 
tried to look around to track where she had gone rather than 
stare at the officer holding her down. 

With well-practiced ease, Miranda hooked her fingers into the waist 
band of the panties and drew them down slowly, pealing them off the 
ripe curves of a particularly fine ass.  The girl worked out, 
Miranda decided.  Nothing else could account for that tight, toned 
look.  Her skin had a very nice, healthy sheen to itn and it was 
all Miranda could do not to lick her lips.

With the girl's panties around her ankles, Miranda took two steps 
back, cocked her arm, and let fly with the disciplinary rod.  

TWACK.  

The sound of wood meeting girl echoed in the chamber.  Amy let out 
a wail and began to try to break free from the hands pinning her 
to the table.  She had to realise that, bent over like that, her 
bottom was a perfect target.

TWACK.  

A second stroke and Miranda nodded to herself as a thin stripe of 
red began to form just below the first.  Both stood out starkly, 
crimson on a white background.  The line was nearly perfectly 
parallel to the first.  Miranda liked her stripes to be neat and 
orderly.

TWACK.  

A third line sprang into being, and Amy was crying loudly now, 
begging and pleading for her to stop.  Admiring her handiwork, 
Miranda felt the familiar wetness between her legs.  This was 
power.

Outside the prison walls, Amy Bishop had probably earned multiples 
of Miranda's salary.  The girl would have dined at the top 
restaurants, the sort run by chiefs who appeared on TV and where 
the menus were almost in a foreign language to such as Miranda. 
The sort of place where a good bottle of wine would set you back 
a week's wage.  Yet now she was naked, bent over a table, and her 
pert bottom was being decorated with some lovely red stripes that 
anyone could see really stung.  It was almost enough to make 
Miranda cum on the spot.

"Are we paying attention now, convict?" Miranda asked.  "When you 
are given an order, you obey."

"Please," Amy implored, crying freely now.  From the corner of her 
eye Miranda could see fear and horror spreading through the other 
prisoners waiting to be admitted.  They had to be wondering if 
they were in for similar treatment, but she had eyes only for the 
quivering morsel before her.

"I'm sorry, I....  Please, I'll be good, only please don't hit...." 

TWACK.  

Miranda felt torn at the wail that the girl let out.  Pinned to the 
table, she could not escape, but that did not stop her twisting her 
hips this way and that.  All the dancing about had spoiled 
Miranda's aim.  Her prefect pattern of parallel stripes was ruined. 
Of course there was some satisfaction in knowing that the girl 
would have really felt that last one, crossing over the previous 
welts as it did.

"The correct response is, 'This convict understands, ma'am." 
 
She was not sure if the girl could even hear what she was saying 
over the sobs wracking her body.  Not that Miranda really cared.  
The girl was going to get six no matter what she said or did.  
Miranda concentrated on making sure that the last two strokes fell 
as close together as she could manage, right on the seat spot.  
Amy might not be hearing clearly, but she would remember this 
lesson every time she sat down for the next two days.

"Please, ma'am, this convict understands," the girl finally sobbed. 
Even amid the tears, Miranda heard how the word "convict" stuck in 
her throat.

"I am glad to hear that," Miranda told her, and then she gestured 
with the rod to the panties discarded on the floor while nodding 
to the officer to release her.  "Pick them up like a good girl, 
and give them over to Officer Davis."

A gasp of pain broke past Amy's lips when she bent and the skin 
of her bottom tightened over flexing buttocks.  Yes, sitting or 
walking, she would feel those stripes for a bit.  As soon as the 
panties were deposited, Amy tried to cover herself, one hand 
covering her groin the other across her breasts.  Miranda could 
almost see how torn she was. Trying to preserve her modesty left 
her unable to cradle and cup her well-thrashed bottom.

"It seems we have a shy girl," Miranda mocked.  "Let's have you 
standing right...there," she pointed to the centre of the room, 
a bit away from the rest of the new prisoners.  "Hands on the top 
of your head, fingers interlocked...and spread your legs."

Amy looked both horrified and in considerable discomfort from her 
throbbing stripes, but a gentle tap from the rod against the tops 
of her thighs had her scurrying to the point indicated.  She was 
slow to adopt the required pose, but a simple cut of the rod 
through the air in a practice stroke had her obeying with suitable 
alacrity.

And what a sight it made.  The girl had nice breasts, apple round, 
not big monsters that were half way down to the floor without 
support, but with just the right amount of cleavage.  And her 
nipples were erect as well.  Perhaps it was the cool breeze from 
the air conditioner brushing against the sensitive flesh....  Or 
did some part of her enjoy this...being displayed like this?

As Miranda had expected, they had different ideas of what "spread 
your legs" meant.  It took two taps of the rod against her inner 
thighs to get the ankles the distance apart Miranda favoured.  Of 
course, it did have the effect of leaving the girl very exposed.  
(She had shaved, leaving just enough of a landing strip for Miranda 
to decide she was a natural blonde after all.)

Then she brought the rod up between Amy's legs and pressed it into 
the lips of her sex.  The girl gasped.  She looked frightened, 
perhaps afraid that Miranda intended to give her pussy a beating.  
Yet at the same time she could not help reacting to the feel of the 
smooth wood rubbing against her clit.
 
Holding the rod in place, Miranda leaned forward to whisper softly 
into the girl's ear.  "This is your chance to show that you can 
obey an order, convict.  I expect you to hold my rod right where 
it is until I take it away.  If you move your hands from your head, 
close your legs, or allow it to drop to the floor, I will lay 
another six stripes right beside the ones you have already."

Amy opened her mouth, perhaps to protest, perhaps to beg, but 
Miranda silenced her, bringing her first finger up to brush 
against her mouth.  "You'll be putting that tongue to good use 
soon enough.  Rest it for now."

She took the time to caress the girl's face for a moment before 
stepping back.  She really had lovely skin, silken to the touch.  
The way the stripes stood out against pale beauty of her bottom 
was perfect. 

Folding her arms beneath her breasts, Miranda watched the others 
being processed.  Her lesson with Amy had been useful in more ways 
than one.  The girl was certainly terrified of her now and would be 
a lot slower to disobey her in the future.  But her fear had 
spread, and not one in the line hesitated when ordered to strip 
off.  Some of the other officers were trying to hide their 
disgruntlement.  They had probably been hoping for an excuse 
to use their own rods.

Miranda also kept an eye on Amy, of course.  Watching her struggle 
to keep the rod in place was far too entertaining.  Her expression 
showed the dreadful concentration, the terrible effort she was 
expending to keep that rod between her legs and off the floor.

Disaster nearly struck when Amy first came to realise that not all 
the officers would be women.  Her eyes had widened in alarm and 
embarrassment, and the rod quivered on the verge of slipping free 
when she saw that two male officers had entered the room.  They 
were each carrying files that they handed over to the duty officer, 
but there was no mistaking the way their eyes lingered on the line 
of naked women. 

And of course Amy was the centre of attention.  The girl's face 
turned bright red, and she bowed her head, fixing her eyes on 
the ground, as she felt those stares range over her naked body. 

Familiar with their tastes, Miranda knew that Ron Phillips, for 
example, was a tit man.  His eyes never strayed too far from Amy's 
breasts, while his companion Neville Walters was happy to admire 
both breasts and crotch.  Somehow Amy kept the rod from falling, 
but, from the way the muscles of her thighs tightened and the 
strain that showed on her face, the effort cost her.  Miranda 
waited for another couple of minutes to pass before she decided 
to show pity.  A look of mixed relief and wariness flashed across 
Amy's face when Miranda reached down to take hold of the rod.  She 
did not immediately move it away, but left it there, as ordered, 
"Inspection time.  Open your mouth, and move your tongue around."

She did not expect to find anything, but it was what you never 
expected that could end up stabbing you, so she took care to 
follow procedure.  In less than a minute she was satisfied that 
no contraband had been slipped into the girl's mouth.

"Do those stripes sting?" she asked almost compassionately, putting 
some warmth into her voice.

The girl nodded mournfully.  "Yes, ma'am."

Miranda nodded in sympathy.  "I really hope that I don't have to 
cane you again.  Do you think that you will be a good girl for me, 
a good little convict?"

As she spoke, she began to move the rod, in and out, in and out, 
over and over...but slowly, stoking the fire gradually.  She could 
see how torn the prisoner was.  No one would normally like being 
masturbated by a stranger, but, after the trauma of the stripping 
followed quickly by the caning, the girl would welcome any 
kindness.

"Please....  Please don't, ma'am.  I-I'm not that way....  I don't 
l-like women," she murmured, but Miranda could see how her breath 
was increasingly ragged as the rod worked its way over and back, 
over and back, arousing, teasing....

"Did I hear you correctly?"  Miranda asked, letting her voice grow 
sharp again. "Did I hear a convict telling an officer what to do?"  
That brought Amy's eyes wide at the unspoken threat, and she 
frantically shook her head.  

"No, ma'am."

Miranda allowed a small smile to return to her face as she resumed 
the teasing motion of the rod between the girl's legs.  She could 
tell that, for all her revulsion at being touched this way, Amy was 
being betrayed by her own body.

"Good.  You belong to me now.  If I decide that you are to cum, you 
will cum."  As she spoke she pressed the rod up harder.  Amy was on 
the edge now, close, very close if the slick fluid coating the rod 
was anything to judge by.

Miranda could feel her own knickers grow damp, and a pleasing 
tingle, centred on her groin, was spreading.  This girl was 
putty in her hands, to shape and mould as she willed, and what 
could be more arousing than that?

"And if I decide that you should be caned, you will be caned."   
With that she drew back the rod and was pleased to see the 
disappointment flash across the girl's face.  Just a few more 
seconds and she would have had her orgasm.  She would learn soon 
enough; she would have to earn that sort of pleasure.

"Now open wide," she ordered and, with some satisfaction, noted 
that the girl was already getting into the habit of obeying 
quickly.  As soon as her mouth was open, Miranda put the rod 
between her teeth and then used a finger under her chin to guide 
her jaws closed.

For a moment Miranda savoured the look of revulsion on her charge's 
face as the rod, slick with her own juices, pressed down on her 
tongue.  For all that Amy looked like a deer caught in the 
headlights, she did not spit out the rod.  She might be innocent, 
but she was not stupid enough to risk what retribution that sort 
of defiance would bring.

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

Part 2

With Amy effectively gagged and having to savour her own emissions, 
Miranda resumed the rest of the search.  A shudder ran down Amy's 
spine when she heard the latex gloves snap into place, and she did 
not resist at all when Miranda drew her hands away to allow her to 
probe the prisoner's scalp, checking for any item that might be 
concealed in her hair.  

There was no real reason to probe and caress the breasts, but 
Miranda never let that stop her.  They were real, not surgically 
enhanced, which Miranda hated.  And the sooner these pieces of 
trash realised that their bodies were no longer their own, but 
belonged to the officers, the happier they would both be.

"Need any help, ma'am?" a male voice asked, and Miranda turned 
slightly to see Ross DuMoin.  She supposed he was good-looking if 
you were into men, and he carried himself with far more confidence 
that his junior rank merited.  Then again his father was very high 
up in the prison service.

With an arched eyebrow, she gave Amy an inquiring look.  "Would you 
be more comfortable with a male officer?" she asked softly, almost 
gently. 

Amy looked on the verge of tears again.  With the rod clamped in 
her mouth, she could only answer by shaking her head.

"But you told me you don't like women," Miranda reminded her.  
"Don't you want to feel Officer DeMoin between your legs?  I 
can have a whole line of men down here checking you out if you 
would be more comfortable with a male guard."

Again Amy shook her head, though the decision cost her fresh tears. 
Miranda looked back again at DuMoin.  "Go right ahead."  Then, in a 
louder voice, guaranteed to carry to everyone in the room she 
added, "From the way she was juicing herself with me earlier, I 
think she must be into women."

Miranda had no difficulty in stepping back to one side and watching 
as the young male officer ordered her to bend over and grip her 
ankles.  As expected, he took his time between her legs, exploring 
every fold, every nook and cranny.

Miranda was content to let him have his fun.  She would have plenty 
of time to get to know every single inch of this particular convict 
in the years to come...at least until she got bored and something 
new and better caught her eye.  And seeing the way Amy twitched 
every time he thrust his fingers in deeper was rewarding in its 
own right.  Then, seeing that he was going to fetch some lubricant 
for the anal exam, Miranda caught his arm and shook her head.  "No 
need to waste the tax payer's money on lube.  Use her own juices.  
Waste not want not."  He dipped his fingers into her slit until his 
fingers were coated with the girl's natural slime.  Properly lubed, 
he moved to explore her arsehole.
 
"Tight little bugger," DuMoin remarked, and it was all Miranda 
could do stop herself rubbing her hands together with pent-up 
excitement.  She knew exactly what strap-on she would be putting 
between those snug little cheeks soon enough.

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

The look on Amy's face as she all but ran from the shower was just 
priceless.  She looked exactly like a half-drowned cat, not that 
any of the others looked any better.  They stank of delousing 
fluid, industrial strength.  It would be days before they got it 
out of their pores.  Like the others Amy was shivering, but that 
was not surprising, nor were the goosebumps that covered her 
skin.  After all, who wanted to waste resources in heating the 
shower so the jet that blasted out against their naked bodies was 
not of icy cold water. 

It never failed to amuse Miranda the way the prisoners all shuffled 
reluctantly into the showers while trying to cover their nudity 
even from each other.  The guards had a good view from the security 
cameras and those with rank like Miranda could review the 
recordings over and over for as long as it amused them.  
 
A few prisoners always reacted with shock and revulsion when they 
realised that there were no cubicles, no curtains, no division, 
just a series of faucets that lined the ceiling, so that, no matter 
where they scurried, they could not escape the blasts of frigid 
water aimed at them.

By the time it was finished, there were always a few hugging 
another prisoner, naked dripping bodies intertwined.  Anyone 
might think they were all confirmed beaver eaters, the way 
they pressed their breasts into each other, the way they ground 
their hips together.  All simply for the sake of avoiding having 
that icy water scour their sensitive parts. 

It was a pity that Amy wore her hair short.  Miranda would have 
enjoyed sending her to the barber to get her locks shorn to comply 
with prison regulations on hair length, if only it were longer.  
That always brought them into line.  Still, as she regarded the 
shivering girl, if she stepped out of line it might be time to 
introduce a new practice, a new disciplinary sanction.  As well as 
a good number of stripes across the bare ass, what if they had 
their hair, ALL their hair shaved off?  Having a bald egg between 
her legs lapping eagerly would be a new experience for Miranda, and 
she was all for new experiences...pleasurable ones.

The inmates almost ran to the officers holding their new uniforms, 
so anxious were they to have some covering.  Amy was no different 
until she saw Miranda dismiss the officer holding what passed for 
her uniform and take her place.

"I don't mind if you don't want your nice convict dress," Miranda 
told her with a cool smile, as the girl hesitated to approach her.  
"You can stay in your skin if you want."

The girl shuddered and then reached forward to take her uniform.  
Immediately the rod came down on the backs of her hands.  It was 
not hard enough to cause any real damage, but the sting had Amy 
snatching her hands back quickly enough.
 
"Where are your manners?  Give me a nice curtsy and say, "Please, 
ma'am, this convict humbly begs to be allowed to put on a convict 
uniform."

Her curtsy was far from graceful.  It really was a pity that girls 
nowadays hardly ever practiced it.  Still, she would improve with 
practice, if she ever hoped to sit down again.

With her head bowed, she murmured in a barely audible voice, 
"Please, ma'am, this convict humbly begs to be allowed to put 
on a convict uniform."

"Louder," Miranda ordered.

"Please, ma'am, this convict humbly begs to be allowed to put on a 
convict uniform."

"Much better," Miranda beamed.  "From now on your name is convict. 
If I ever hear you use your old name, I will have you birched.  Do 
you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So what is your name?" Miranda asked, while she tapped the girl 
under the chin, forcing her to look up.

"This convict's name is convict, ma'am."

Miranda flashed a smile at her and gently stroked her cheek again.  
She really had the most beautiful eyes.  "That is all you are, all 
you will ever be, until the day you die...a convict.  But, if you 
are a good little convict, I might be persuaded to look after you, 
to protect you from all those terrible rough male guards who will 
try to take advantage of you, who will want to pop their dicks 
into your ass, your mouth, your little honey pot."  Leaning back, 
Miranda led her hand drop from the girl's cheek.  "Now hurry and 
get dressed, otherwise I will think you like being a tease."  The 
girl reached for the dress, then, remembering the rod, she 
hesitated and looked at Miranda for permission.  She continued 
when she got a nod of consent.  She picked up the dress, looked 
under it and even shook it as if expecting something to tumble out 
from the folds of cloth. 

Appearing confused, she looked up at Miranda.  "Please, ma'am, 
where is the underwear?"

"Underwear!" Miranda snorted in amusement.  "Why would we want to 
waste the taxpayer's money on underwear for convicts?  That dress 
is all the covering you need or will get.  Next you're going to be 
asking for shoes or some such nonsense."

Amy opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it and 
pulled the dress over her head, grimacing as he felt the coarse 
fabric scrape against her bare skin.  Feeling it against the fresh 
stripes on her bottom would not be nice either, especially as 
Miranda had chosen a dress a size too small for her.  
 
The dress itself had an old-fashioned series of alternating black 
and white horizontal stripes.  The sleeves ended just above the 
elbow, and the hemline ended a good five inches above her knees.

"Now don't you look mighty pretty in your convict dress?  I expect 
those fancy stock broker friends of yours will be queuing up to get 
a good look at you when you're on public work detail."   Her own 
arousal was reaching fever pitch now, the tingling between her legs 
had grown to a hot, insistent fire that would break free at any 
moment.

She saw the girl's eyes widen, and she nodded.  "We like to make 
sure our convicts work for their keep.  In a few days' time you 
will be scrubbing off graffiti near your old office.  And we've 
received a special request.  Seems your old company is putting up 
the money for a convict lease.  Every Monday you will be there in 
the parking lot washing down their company cars.  I do hope that 
you can get them gleaming, otherwise your work supervisor might 
just have to take a strap to your lazy ass right there in the car 
park with everyone you used to work with looking on."

Seeing the growing horror on the girl's face, Miranda gasped as her 
orgasm claimed her in a wave of hot, wet passion.  As she rode the 
wave of ecstasy, she could picture the once proud stock broker 
reduced to scrubbing her former co-workers cars while dressed in 
her prison uniform, barefoot and sweating in the heat wave they 
were having.  Of course the heat never lasted in this part of the 
world, and all too soon there would be showers as well.  But, 
either hot or wet, the convict would be expected to work through 
it.  It was enough to make her cum a second time...and then, 
quickly, a third.

Finally her focus returned to Amy.  She had made a good choice with 
this one.  Already the girl had given her three decent orgasms, and 
she had not put her tongue to work yet.  "Of course, if I were to 
find that you had some special skills, skills that I can use, I 
might be persuaded to limit the times you are sent out on public 
work details."  With the hook set firmly in the fish's mouth, 
Miranda reached down, picked up a toothbrush, and handed it over 
to the girl.  "Now you'd best be running along with your fellow 
convicts.  There are a whole block of toilets that need scrubbing, 
and I will be along to inspect your work later.  Your striped 
little ass will not like it if I'm not impressed." 

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

The Governor's office was a place few liked to be summoned to, but 
it held no fear for Miranda.  She had the duty rosters worked out, 
which were not due until tomorrow, but she knew that the Governor 
usually slipped away for a long weekend of golf and probably wanted 
to clear his desk.
 
They had gotten off to a rocky start when she was first transferred 
in after her promotion to chief officer.  She knew exactly how 
attractive she was, and, truth be told, she would have been 
surprised, her ego bruised, if he had not tried something.  She 
had not been there a month when he tried hitting on her, and, 
conscious of the fact that he could make life difficult for her 
if he chose, she had hid her revulsion at the very idea of some 
brute of a man pawing at her.  As politely and diplomatically as 
she could manage, she had told him that, if she was so inclined, 
she would of course have been swept off her feet by the attentions 
of such a handsome and distinguished man...but men simply did not 
interest her.

He had taken the rejection surprisingly well without a hint of 
bitterness.  In fact, he had made it a point to become friendly 
with her.  Apparently, all those rumours about him were just that, 
rumours.

"You can go right in," Amelia Webb, the Governor's personal 
assistant told her.  With quiet confidence, Miranda strode 
forward, pausing only long enough to knock, and then, without 
waiting for a reply, she opened the door and let herself in.

"Ah, Miranda," Governor Griffith said warmly as she entered.  
"Have a seat."  He looked to be in a very good mood.  

"I have the updated duty rosters for the next month," she began, 
easing herself into the upholstered chair before the Governor's 
desk.

He nodded.  "Leave it on my desk.  I'll have a look at it when I 
get back."  He coughed.  "I have an important conference I have 
to attend tomorrow but...."

There was a polite knock from the side door, and Miranda 
instinctively sat up.  Most people came in the way she had. 
The only other door led to the Governor's private quarters.  
The door opened, and a pretty blonde woman in a smart navy 
business suit entered.  

For a moment Miranda simply looked at her, admiring the way the 
suit hugged her curves giving her a professional air without 
sacrificing her femininity.  Then her eyes widened and her 
mouth dropped open as she looked past the suit and saw the face.  
She was half out of her seat in alarm before she realised it.  
"Please, Miranda, there is no cause for concern," the Governor 
told her.  "Permit me to introduce Alexandra Masterson."

The pretty blue eyes framed by the heart shaped face and short 
blonde hair belonged to Amy Bishop.  Only she did not appear 
quite so frightened or apprehensive as she had a few hours ago.  
Not so innocent-looking either.  In fact, she looked relaxed, 
confident in herself and her position, not at all like a convict. 

"Governor, this...," Miranda began, but he waved away her concern.  

"Alexandra is with the Inspector General's office.  She had been 
here undercover assessing you for a promotion."

Miranda liked to think she had a sharp mind, quick to adapt to 
changing circumstances, but this was putting it to the test.  The 
Inspector General's office was what the Americans would call 
"Internal Affairs."  Their job was to make sure that the rest of 
the service was doing theirs.  To come to attention of the 
Inspector General was never a good thing.  Yet, he had said she 
was being assessed for promotion?  That made no sense to Miranda.  
Having the I.G. section on your case usually meant you were in 
serious trouble -- the sort of trouble that could see you back 
behind bars wearing an entirely different (and briefer)  uniform. 

"Don't look so worried," the Governor reassured her.  "Agent 
Masterson has given you a glowing recommendation.  You are to 
be promoted."  

A glowing recommendation?  Promoted?  Almost afraid to look at 
her, Miranda nevertheless felt compelled to meet the other woman's 
gaze.   She wore an amused grin as Miranda looked up at her.  This 
woman had received six crisp cuts of the cane to her bare bottom, 
cuts that would still be throbbing and perhaps had something to do 
with the fact that she had not yet taken one of the vacant seats. 
She had been brought to the edge of orgasm and then denied release, 
humiliated and degraded.  Yet she had given her a glowing 
recommendation?

"I work a lot undercover," Agent Masterson explained.  "Going into 
prisons and reformatories as an inmate to see how the staff treat 
the prisoners, but I've been offered a promotion.  Before I can 
take the job, however, I had to find my replacement."

A broad grin split her face.  "Congratulations, Senior Chief 
McKnight."

SENIOR CHIEF!  It was almost too much to take in.  Miranda had 
expected to be in the job at least another five years before she 
made senior chief.  Even then she would be pushing it, as most 
the other senior chiefs would be at least a decade older.   At 
this rate she might be running the prison service before she was 
forty five. 

So why was Masterson regarding her with such a smug, self-satisfied 
look on her face?  She might be smiling, but it never touched those 
pretty blue eyes that suddenly had a predatory cast to them.  
Miranda had the feeling that she was a fly that had foolishly 
flown straight into a hungry spider's web?  Then it dawned on her.  
She had said that she had to find a replacement.  She had said she 
went undercover as a....

"Your first assignment will be Briar Hill Reformatory," Agent 
Masterson went on, sounding more and more satisfied as she laid 
out the details.  "We have heard some really disturbing reports 
of abuses of inmates -- of attractive inmates, dressed in skimpy 
outfits and used as entertainment in private men's clubs, but I'm 
sure you will get to the bottom of that in no time.  Then there 
is the selling of inmates to white slavers in Africa, and...well, 
the list goes on and on."

Miranda felt the blood drain from her face as her jubilation 
crashed.  She was going to be going undercover....  That meant 
she would have to pretend to be an inmate, one of those wretches 
she so liked to play with.  She would have to line up with the 
new arrivals, have to surrender her clothing and stand for 
inspection before being thrown into the showers.  If she was 
lucky she would be given the striped dress she liked on her 
inmates, but if not....  It might be her who could not sit 
comfortably.  And that was assuming she did not catch the eye 
of some officer.  A shudder ran through her.  And there would be 
men, maybe a private men's club.  She would be put in a French 
maid's uniform and have men paw at her, grope at her, touch her 
as she had never allowed any man to do....

"I'm not sure that I'm ready for...for a promotion," she began, 
unable to keep her voice steady.  Yes.  She could decline on the 
grounds of youth, inexperience.  After what seemed like a very 
long time, Miranda allowed herself to breathe again.  

"I'm sorry to hear that, for it means I have to keep doing this 
job a bit longer," the woman said, but she did not sound sorry 
at all.  If anything she seemed amused.  "Well, we can't force 
you to take the promotion, can we, Governor?"

"Of course not," he agreed.  "However, I suppose you will just 
have to send in your full report on Chief Officer McKnight, 
which documents how she violated the code of conduct in the 
treatment of prisoners."

"Sexual assault, abuse of power...why, the list is considerable," 
Agent Masterson said to the Governor, almost as if Miranda were 
not there.  "She will lose her job, of course, and her pension.  
And I would expect that the Home Office will want to make an 
example of her to show that they take this sort of thing very 
seriously.  How long a prison sentence do you think?"

He shrugged.  "Ten years, if she lands a kind judge.  She might 
even end up back here, but we would have to be very harsh on 
her just to avoid any hint of favouritism."

Suddenly he fixed her with his gaze.  Miranda had the overwhelming 
impression that, even though she had always considered herself atop 
the food chain here, she was really just a little lamb that had 
strayed into a den of hungry wolves.

"And to think, if you had only agreed to be a good little girl and 
play nice with me, I could have protected you, but...."  He let out 
a sad sigh and shook his head.  

He had set her up!  He had played her the way she played her little 
pets who learned to please her, to do whatever she wanted or the 
tenuous protection she gave them was quickly withdrawn.  No one 
she knew followed the official guidelines, but they could still be 
woven into a noose to hang her by.  She could either play an inmate 
or become an inmate for real.

Just thinking of herself stripped of her rank, at the mercy 
of whatever officer took a fancy to her, made her feel sick.  
Undercover, at least, would end sometime, until she could get 
promoted out, but how long would that take?  Years?  One was 
only marginally better than the other, but it would have to 
be enough.

"When...when did you say I start my new job?" her voice came out 
in a croak, but she knew when she was trapped.  

"That's the spirit," Agent Masterson chuckled.  "I do hope you are 
a good actress.  The I.G.'s office takes a very dim view of agents 
who have their cover blown.  Why, they might not pull you out for 
months if you let anyone find out that you are not a real inmate."  
She grinned.  "I'm sure you will get the hang of it, but just in 
case you need to practice, the Governor here has very kindly agreed 
to let you practice with him on how an inmate keeps an officer 
happy."

Shockingly, she reached up to caress Miranda's cheek in much the 
same way Miranda had done to "Amy" earlier.  "I will be your 
training officer.  I can't wait to get to know you."  Then she 
leaned forward and whispered in Miranda's ear, "Once, that is, you 
learn that I am the senior officer."  

With a wink to the Governor, who was climbing to his feet and 
starting to undo his trousers, she moved to the door.  "I'll 
leave you to it.  Congratulations again on the promotion."  

Her soft laughter followed her through the door and away.  



Edited by C. Lakewood