<Reference ID="277956" Date="9 Apr 1984">

                        <Title> Slave Girl Convict [2] </Title>

                        <Author> Dolcetta (dolcetta AT grim_williams.co.uk) </Author>

                        <Author> Grim Williams (gw AT grim_williams.co.uk) </Author>

                        <Publication> The National Independent </Publication>

                        <Page> Seventeen </Page>

                        <ByLine> Jane Milne </ByLine>

                        <Name> JFW Campaigner moved to Dunganny </Name>

                        <Text>

                        </Text>

</Reference>

  <Reference ID="754009" Date="22 Oct 1976">

                        <Photograph> Dunganny Prison </Photograph>

                        <Photographer> Peter Hancock </Photographer>

                        <Image>    

                        </Image>

</Reference>

<Fragment ID="46872" Date="1 Jul 1984">

                        <Name> Janet Tomkinson </Name>

                        <Location> CCTV Corporate Headquarters </Location>

                        <Collator> Lisa O'Connor </Collator>

                        <Text>

Adam, casually dressed in a pale blue shirt and unfastened trousers, was sitting as he often did, facing an impressive bank of television screens. He was scrutinizing the latest intake of waifs and strays: the thirteen beautiful women arrested overnight by the local constabulary. He leaned back in his chair, stroking the base of his penis.

It was a muscular athletic-appearing instrument much accustomed to working for its living, often as much as several times each day. Right now, it protruded angrily from his trousers, signifying that he liked the images in front of him.

The women stood in small clusters, staring out from within a small iron cage located in what was called 'the reception area', somewhere in the basement of the building in which he sat. This was where they were taken prior to being sent before the judges. It gave Adam a first glimpse of the talent he would be receiving later in the day.

There was one, he saw, who was already naked. Presumably she'd been arrested that way. She was curled up in a corner behind the others, sitting on the stale grimy sawdust and trying to make herself inconspicuous.

Her naked body told the sad story of its fall from grace: long tangled hair matted with lashings of dry semen; stained cheeks smeared with purple mascara, tear strewn eyes overflowing with distress. Less visible were the ugly bruises upon her swollen pussy and the long raw lacerations lacing her thighs. She held herself awkwardly, painfully, with her hands protective of her nakedness, hoping to keep masculine eyes at bay.

She was one faceless statistic in a system that preyed upon the pretty, and all those around her were equally its victims. For although these were dressed while she was not, that imbalance would soon be rectified. Soon they would be processed by the court usher who would record their details, take their fingerprints and confiscate their clothes.

Only then, when these were as naked as the frightened, shy brunette would they be given an opportunity to confess. Only then would they be given the opportunity to tell all.

That's why these caged vermin were miserable and downcast, for they would confess, every last one of them. Women always did. That's how it worked.

Once upon a time Adam would have been distressed by such misery. "They can't all be guilty," he would have reasoned. "Why do the police arrest the attractive women? Never the ugly? Never men?" Pangs of conscience and sleepless nights would have ground him down.

But not any more. He had changed. The system had affected him as it did everyone, gradually desensitising him to its thinking. His conscience had become like a scarred lump of flesh, totally hardened to the feelings of the women he watched.

His finger trailed across the plate that remotely controlled the camera fourteen floors below. As it panned to his demand, three prison warders came into shot, wandering along the front of the cage, daring anyone to protest or to step out of line. They were armed with electric cattle prods which they slapped threateningly against the palm of their hands or rattled against the outside of the cage.

"Get back in there!" one of them snapped, jabbing his phallic weapon between the metal bars. "You fucking turds! Come on! Who wants it? Who's first to get it up the ass?"

None of them did. The tactic was simple and effective, for it quickly had the girls shuddering in fear, retreating en mass towards the back wall. Eighteen inches in length and with a full two inches of girth were those prods.

God!

Imagine that inside you!

Adam took no notice. He'd get to all that later. Instead, he examined the girls. There were three blondes and a couple of redheads. The rest were brunettes, in varying shades of brown: from brown black all the way to mahogany.

He sighed. They weren't so great today; either that or he was in need of a break. Oh, they were pretty, yes. They were sexy. But nobody here really stood out, oozing sex like Shannon had.

But then, she was special. No one would be like Shannon.

Okay, so whom should he pick? It had to be one of them. Not the brunettes, there'd been far too many brunettes lately, and he had another tonight. It was time for a change. One of the blondes perhaps?

Adam surveyed the blondes. They were certainly stunning, all three of them. Any would do at a pinch. So which should it be? Big tits or perky tits? Flat ass or fat ass?

He sighed. Yes they were attractive, but none of them grabbed him by the balls, and that was always the acid test.

So what about that one? The one in the tight pink top? He stretched forward. Hmmm. Maybe. Perhaps.

There was just too much talent to choose from. Of course there was. That was the problem. Too much choice. Everybody knew that justice favoured the ugly. It was just a fact of life.  The police were human just like anyone else, governed by human impulses and prejudice.

A pretty woman is there for the raping: it's the way it is, the way it's always been. When the police are untouchable, it doesn't matter how much they mistreat a young women, CCTV is always there in the wings, willing to pay for the trial rights.

"And no woman is ever 'not guilty' when tried by CCTV," Adam mused cynically. "That's the way it is."

Okay. Enough of all that. Which should he choose?

Three of today's ladies were teenagers, five were in their twenties, and the others were in their early thirties. None were older.

No one could accuse this bunch of being ugly. None of them would be out of place on a catwalk, dancing in a sleazy nightclub or pasted across the centre pages of a men’s magazine, a metal staple penetrating their midriff.

They were all... striking...

And wasn't that their crime? Being sexy? They'd been picked up on one pretext or another: loitering, shop lifting, prostitution. No one cared for the reason, not on CCTV,  just that they'd broken the law. Any excuse would do.

And having been caught, they must all be tried. Every one of them. No excuse; no waiting; no appeal. That was justice the democratic way: no lawyers, no jury. Just a pretty judge with some scripted questions, and the ever-present CCTV cameras magnifying every nervous twitch, every luscious curve.

Justice has to be visible to be fair, Adam had always believed. And what better way than to judge a person by her peers on live television?

It was democracy in action; the fast track approach. For at the end of each show, the public would decide the outcome: guilty or innocent, life or death.

The press of a button; the importance of a vote.

He looked about the cage one more time. Someone… he would have to pick someone… But whom? Whom should it be?

What about the one at the end, the one leaning against the bars? Look at her! Her huge boobs and tiny waist should please the proles.

He looked at his notes.

Okay, her name was Susan Howard. She'd been caught cheating on her taxes. That was the official story anyway, although the truth was most likely to be subtly different.

But what is truth?

Adam no longer knew nor cared. All that mattered was that CCTV paid good money for the right to try and punish offenders. She was in court. She would be found guilty. Women always are.

Yeah, she wasn't bad. She stood nervously, awkwardly, with her hands clasped to her sides. Her pale green top was a fraction too small and through it Adam could see the lines of her bra.

Nice. Adam gripped his cock tightly, holding it firmly at the stem to prevent it from twitching. He didn't want to cum, not yet.

He imagined her in court, not wearing a bra at all, nor even that top. He'd spun that long ago. She'd be wearing what the law euphemistically described as 'simple prison garb', what he'd defined to mean a skimpy paper dress with nothing underneath. Her nipples would press hard against the skimpy white cellulose, making dark shadows that the cameras would love to tease.

Oh God, how that would embarrass her, knowing that she was exposed to a world of lustful men. Her lips would quiver; her knees would shake. Everyone watching... and waiting...

Yummy!

Not yet. Hold on...

Adam zoomed in on her, manoeuvring the camera to get a better look.

His cock twitched hopefully as Susan's bust grew to fill his entire screen, two mammoth quivering tits. He pulled his hand away to control his cock. Oh God.

It was almost an addiction to him. Every morning he needed it, his fix. He sat by his monitors, spying on the girls, watching them being stripped first of dresses, trousers, skirts and blouses; then of slips and jewellery; and then finally stockings, suspenders, bras and panties: in that order. He watched their agonies, their degradation, and always with the same thought.

How would they react? How would they behave? Would they get angry? Would they turn shy? Would they not care?

How? How would it be? What would they say when forced to remove their bra, to hand their panties to a male warder to examine?

He didn't have a girlfriend, but he did have this.

He would watch the guards performing their interrogation, mocking the size of their breasts, the hardness of their nipples. He revelled in the verbal humiliation.

"Bend over", "Spread your legs", "Hold your titties."

It was far better than screwing. Here was the ultimate strip club.

He enjoyed it: the power. Yes, that most of all. He enjoyed the sheer supremacy of being able to do whatever he liked.

Absolutely anything.

So what about Susan? Her voice? Was it shrill? Sexy? Would it excite the punters, or frighten them away?

More to the point: how would she scream?

"Mr Tomlins?"

For a moment he didn't react to his name and the knocking at the door. But there, there it was again. The tapping had become more insistent: "Mr. Tomlins?"

He turned to see a young temp holding a glass tray by the door. He'd never seen her in his life before. Who on earth...

But of course, it was half past nine and his secretary was in hospital.

Coffee time.

"Er... yes, please, come in," he muttered, hurriedly tucking his cock back into his pants.

He was like a youngster on his first date. He'd wanted to make an impression, but not like this. There was still a lump that he couldn't make disappear. Had she seen him playing with his cock? He didn't think so, but couldn't be sure.

He couldn't think what to do with his hands. "Put the tray on my desk, will you... um..."

"Janet."

"Yes, if you could put it on my desk, please, Janet," he muttered, cutting the master volume from the spies behind him. She must be from the agency. They'd promised him a good looker. This must be her. She was a pretty young thing: nice round face and good shapely figure.

Janet, eh? Nice name.

She muttered her apologies for disturbing him. She'd knocked but he hadn't answered and she hadn't known what to do. Was it all right? Adam assured her that it was, that everything was okay and with great relief she kicked the door closed with the outside of her sandal.

Hmmm.  Not bad, Adam thought, scrutinizing her carefully. Not bad, at all. This girl had… well… charisma. She tiptoed across the office in the direction of Adam's desk, her fetching features pleasantly flushed.

Adam managed to strain a smile. She was tense, far too tense. Her whole body was wound up like a spring. He decided to play with her. "Is this your first day?"

She nodded, rather timidly he thought. She wore a crisp white blouse and short navy skirt. The blouse was conservative, but God... look at the length of that skirt! It was hardly below her ass!

She was out to seduce him and no mistake!  Well two could play that game.

He smiled. "That's good. How are you finding things?"

She nervously laid the tray upon his desk, straightening it, flicking several hairs from her face.

"Okay I guess," she mumbled, breathing deeply. She wasn't sure whether to pour or whether to she should leave that to him. She knew he was looking at her, at her breasts, her ass. What should she do? In the end she decided to do serve him herself, picking up the pot. She glanced up, forcing a smile. "How do you like your coffee, Mr Tomlins?"

She waited expectantly while he stared obliviously at her chest, her thighs, her hair. She didn't like it. It made her feel cheap, like she were simply a piece of cattle that he owned. "Black. Two sugars," he said at last.

Janet handed him his coffee, and he politely took it from her, noticing her perfectly manicured nails, decorated with bright dashes of colour that reminded him of blood. "Thank you," he said, pointing towards a second cup upon the tray. "Please," he implored, trying to be gracious. "Be my guest. We should talk. Have one yourself."

She hesitated, suddenly quite anxious, not really wanting to, but not quite knowing how to refuse.

"You want me to stay?"

It didn't feel right. He was the boss, the head man. But he was insistent. He jumped up and grabbed a chair, placing it in front of her. "Absolutely. There are some things we should discuss… "

What else could she do? She obediently poured herself some coffee, lacing it with milk, while he examined and dissected her every move. He noted how her skirt rode up her thighs as she sat down and how she pulled at the hem self-consciously, but without the slightest success.

All he could think about was how to get her out of her clothes. "You know what we do here, of course."

She nodded: attentive, tense, and very serious. "I think so. Everyone knows about CCTV."

"Then tell me, just to be sure."

She could see him staring at her thighs. He wasn't even trying to hide his interest. She pulled again at the hem of her skirt. "You keep prisoners here, and try them… female prisoners…"

He nodded. "Yes, female prisoners. That's who the public want to see. And if they're guilty?"

Her throat was suddenly very dry, for he was looking at her so intently. What was he seeing? What was he after? She coughed. "If they're guilty then... then they're sentenced. In theory, all kinds of things can happen, but generally they're... they're..."

"Yes?"

She swallowed nervously. He was forcing her to say something that she would rather avoid. "They're... they're executed."

He leaned forward, scrutinizing her. What was he after? What was he looking at? She clasped and then unclasped her hands wishing she was somewhere else. He pursed his lips. "And you have no problems with that?"

"No. No problem at all."

What else could she say? She forced herself to remember how much they were paying her to work in this damn institution. After all, that's why she was here: for the money. CCTV paid handsomely to keep its staff crossing the picket lines each morning.

God! The picket line! That had been awful.

She should have worn a longer skirt. This one had been a major mistake. "And what about the nudity? The sexual element to the shows? Does it disturb you that we strip women naked and torture them first? Some people claim we over sensationalize. What do you think?"

Janet laughed, a real nervous cackle. It was a subject she'd studiously avoided despite the best efforts of both her parents and friends. "I don't know. I mean… well, I suppose..."

Her father had been adamant. "You'll be a pariah. No one will talk to you. You'll be a laughing stock, working in a place like that."

Her mother had been less forthright, but equally deprecating. "Janet, how could you? You know we'll always love you, but... well, it's not very ladylike, is it now?"

Her friends had been incredulous. "But why Janet? You're clever, pretty. There are so many things you could do… Why CCTV? Think about it. You'll have to walk that picket line. People won't speak to you..."

But she hadn't thought. Not properly. She'd consoled herself with the size of her salary, the clothes she could buy, the doors that would open. And in any case, she was only upholding the law. Someone had to do it.

"You have seen our program?"

"You mean Public Justice? Oh yes. Of course. It's just…" She was frantically searching for words. "What I'm trying to say sir, is... what I think...  is... it's okay. That women who can't serve the time, shouldn't do the crime... so to speak."

He nodded thoughtfully. She was so transparent. "You actually think that?

"Yes sir. I do."

Nobody really thought that. Not even Adam. CCTV stood for cash, sex and cynicism, nothing more. Any relationship between crime and punishment was purely coincidental.

"What about the pickets? What do you think about them? That must have been an eye opener. It takes a special type of woman to take that every day, the sexual abuse."

Janet sipped anxiously at her coffee. She'd always known that she would be targeted by the protesters at the gates, for they saw CCTV as anti-woman and the women who worked there as traitors to their sex. "I know sir and... I'm sure to get used to it."

She would have to. But how had they known so much, even down to that racy picture from Benidorm? She looked away. It was too embarrassing to talk about.

In that moment Adam knew he wanted her for the show. She was staff and he wasn't yet sure how he would accomplish it, but she was perfect. She was exactly the kind of person he'd been looking for moments ago, someone to grab him by the balls.

She had firm strong cheeks and bold saucer like eyes.

There was a look of Shannon about her, in the way she held her head, her posture, how she walked. It was that same ambiguous aura of strength combined with vulnerability - feet of iron mingled with clay - that left you wondering whether you were dealing with someone as tough as old boots, or as flimsy as fine lace.

He wondered how she would react if he showed her his cock, how hard it was, or if he suggested that undressing for him might further her career...

She was a teenager, no more than that. Maybe she had a boyfriend, thought she knew a thing or two about men, but she would be totally out-leagued in the high stakes game.

So what about it?

He smiled smugly, the decision already made.

He would strip her, humiliate her and then set her up for the most almighty fall.

What a fantastic thought!

                        </Text>

      </Fragment>

<Reference ID="0054331" Date="31 Aug 1992">

                        <Publication> Secret Vice  </Publication>

                        <Page> Seventeen </Page>

                        <ByLine> Tonie Jones </ByLine>

                        <Name> Off The Wall </Name>

                        <Text>

                        </Text>

</Reference>

<Fragment ID="3642241" Date="28 Jun 1984">

                        <Name> Shannon's Diary </Name>

                        <Location> Dunganny Prison </Location>

                        <Collator> Victoria Wilson </Collator>

                        <Text>

God. I've just had a thought.

An awful one.

What if I was taken out and raped, and I became as wet as I am right now...

Christ. How the dusty men would mock me then!

But enough. No more. I mustn't think any more about that. I must repress such thoughts.

I must move on.

                        </Text>

</Fragment>