<Fragment ID="825652" Date="1 Jul 1984">

                        <Title> Slave Girl Convict [4] </Title>

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

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

                        <Name> Janet Tomkinson </Name>

                        <Location> CCTV Corporate Headquarters </Location>

                        <Collator> Lisa O'Connor </Collator>

                        <Text>

Janet sat at her desk, shaking like a leaf. She was naked, horribly so. Her chair tickled her ass and the air on her breasts was cold, freezing her teats. She kept her head lowered, not daring to look at the others.

There were two of them, both women, both quite old. Debra was about forty with a spreading figure and loud crackly laugh. Pauline was even older, the grey in her hair meticulously died, her jowls beginning to sag.

Janet knew they were eyeing her, pitying her. They must know what had happened. They knew Adam Tomlins; they knew their boss. But neither would acknowledge as much. Instead, they pretended to ignore her, to fuss over their work.

Maybe, long ago, they had been required to strip by the mighty, Orwellian Mr. Tomlins.  Maybe, they too had complied in embarrassed humiliation. What a horrible thought, Janet thought smugly, forming in her mind a picture of two overweight ladies with sorry droopy udders being mocked by all who saw them. The picture soon faded. If it had ever happened, if this really was one of those little initiation rites all women were called upon to perform, Debra and Pauline were not about to admit it.  Oh no.

Not given the little cameras buried around the room.

Janet looked at her computer and moved the mouse shakily, still not quite believing what she'd just done. How could she have done it, knowing that Tomlins was watching? In the men's room as well, with men only feet away obliviously doing their personal business.

She squeezed her thighs together, hoping to soothe the guilt, desperate to conceal her swollen petals. Would they know, Debra and Pauline? Would they guess from how bloated and puffy she was down below? They were women. Surely they'd read the signs, read them as a man never could.

She saw the icon marked 'Shannon Courtney' on her screen. God. That was tonight's defendant, the fraudster, the one they were going to execute. She clicked the image with her mouse, opening the folder.

It contained the prosecution documents for the trial: Shannon's confession, the witness statements, her personal resume and several intimate photographs. Janet looked through them. Here was an Aladdin’s cocktail of both the invaluable and the irrelevant.: Shannon taking a bath, shagging a man, shagging a frozen cucumber (for a dare when she was seventeen and drunk), making a fool of herself on Rohypnol (at a date rape party), and finally – last but not least, enjoying a bukkake (birthday present from several close friends).

All of a sudden, there was the sound of approaching footsteps from outside and then, a moment later, the door opened. There was a rush of air upon her back and, a surge of panic in her stomach. Janet swung round; fervently praying it wasn't a man. Being in front of Debra and Pauline was humiliating enough but a man would be totally mortifying. Her heart sank. Her prayers had fallen on deaf ears. She saw an engineer, casually dressed, very definitely male in gender, holding a printer cartridge under his arm.

“Hello girls,” he called, cheerily shutting the door in his wake. He was in his early thirties, long haired and with a stupid grin upon his face.

Janet forced herself to ignore him, staring instead at her screen. Shannon’s "diary" was there, the words and thoughts transcribed by their secret “mole” within the prison. Janet was too new to CCTV to know how these diaries were produced, what carrot could have induced such raw honesty. Neither did she care. She opened to the most recent page. It was something to do.

"Hey, what's going on? Is it my birthday or something?"

Janet didn’t want to hear.

But she knew the engineer was staring at her. She felt his eyes lingering upon her soft white carpet of flesh, tickling her nipples to hardness. Oh God, he was looking! A quiver of tiny darts roamed across her arms and thighs, her belly and back. She knew she was blushing and that knowledge only served to deepen her embarrassment.

She couldn't move. Her whole body was frozen in terror.

"Is it a private party of can I bring my camera?"

She felt an ice prickling her skin. She couldn't answer him, couldn't face him, couldn't even acknowledge his presence.

The other women were talking. They were behind her sniggering, laughing quietly. Janet tried not to hear, to avoid the inane thoughtlessness of their words. What were they saying? Were they laughing at her?

Her pussy began to tingle again, despite all she'd recently done. Oh shit.  It was heating up, starting to burn.

She had to concentrate on the diary…

The engineer was whispering too. He was admiring her breasts. They were heavy and aching, pleading for a man's touch. What was he saying?

The diary.

Concentrate on Shannon’s worries ...

Here it was…

                        </Text>

</Fragment>

  <Reference ID="754975" Date="28 May 1978">

                        <Photograph> Dunganny Prison </Photograph>

                        <Photographer> Peter Hancock </Photographer>

                        <Image>   

                        </Image>

</Reference>

  <Reference ID="754976" Date="28 May 1978">

                        <Photograph> Dunganny Prison </Photograph>

                        <Photographer> Peter Hancock </Photographer>

                        <Image>  

                        </Image>

</Reference>

<Fragment ID="3638001" Date="29 Jun 1984">

                        <Name> Shannon's Diary </Name>

                        <Location> Dunganny Prison </Location>

                        <FieldOperative> Victoria Wilson </FieldOperative>

                        <Text>

God.

 I feel sick.

 Everything's fucked up.

 Everything.

 Total. Complete.

 What else can I say? I can't think. I can't feel.

 I'm still in shock.

 God.

 Think, Shannon. Think something.

 Anything.

 Try to think. Try to be rational.

 God.

 Am I losing my sanity? Is that it? What else? How do I feel?

 Numb. Is that it? Wretched. Afraid. I guess that'll do for a start.

 That's something.

 And angry.

 Very angry.

 Dusty men in dusty rooms have a lot to answer for.

Dusty men.

Dusty men with only one thing on their minds, fishing their dicks from their pants and forcing them into some reluctant female, a quick fuck, sticking it into her hole, any of her holes, the more the merrier, then filling her with their evil dirt.

Damn them.

 Of course, they haven't told me yet when the trial begins. But they've told me it's to be Public Justice.

Aren't I the lucky one?

That's the worst show of all. All the gruesome stuff gets shoved into that one.

Shit.

How come I get Public Justice?

Life is so unfair!

I bet they're watching me through their spy cams, to see how I'll react. They want me to break down. I bet their stupid cocks are attentive.

 Public Justice! God!

You can sense them. All the girls can. They're watching you. Always watching. Watching you undress, Watching you shower. Watching you pee: I think the cameras are inside the toilet bowl, looking up. I’m not sure, but Victoria said that they are…

It was Victoria, that first morning, when we were in the shower together. She told me what they’re like…

Watching. Waiting.

Making you feel dirty even when you're clean. You feel their presence, their lustful tongues salivating upon your skin as they stroke their erections with their shaking hands.

Shit!

It’s not as though I’ve even done anything wrong.

They want me to cry.

Or maybe they have someone do to it for them. I bet they do. A so-called secretary, blonde, of course, who submits to their every beg and call.

She kneels, her blouse unfastened, her bra dishevelled, her stylish spectacles discarded. Her hair is fastened in a coil, high upon her head, and her lips are glossed a luscious pink. They open wide, pursed into the shape of a perfect circle to accept the dusty dick.

God, the bitch! How could she!

She doesn't know how lucky she is.

Silent, purposeful, obedient, she sets about it: licking his cock, sucking it, enticing him, while he never once so much as looks at her. His attention is on the screens in front of him, the prisoners, me, undressed, unaware.

Waiting….

Waiting for him to cum…

Oh shit.

Victoria. She told me what they do.

Oh goodness, I feel sick.

Shit. What happens to the girls who are torn away, pulled along screaming down the dark, long corridors? I hear them. I hear them all the time. Even when it’s quiet, I hear them still, pleading with their captors, begging, promising so much.

Are they raped? tortured? worse?

They promise things that a girl should never have to do, should never have to think about.

They promise anything, anything at all.

Shit.

What's up me? With my mind? Such awful thoughts! Am I going insane?

That's what they're after.

How long has it been? One day? Two? I no longer have a sense of time. Struth. Sometimes I wonder if I'm totally mad. This place does that. There's so little to do that you end up daydreaming simply to relieve the boredom.

The boredom and the fear.

What’s going to happen to me?

What will they do?

“Stop thinking,” I tell myself. “What will be, will be. It’s fate. Destiny. Nothing will prevent the things that have been decided. Nothing. So stop worrying.”

But how can I? Could you, if you were me?

There’s nothing else to do here.

Nothing at all.

Yesterday I was even talking to myself.

Shit.

Nothing to do. Nothing to see.

Just the endless monotony.

My mind is full of erotic images, floating around, little snippets of thought that gradually merge into one. They're becoming clearer and more obscene by the moment.

Ever since Victoria told me what really goes on.

There are some nice men in these dreams. Real men. Men that I've known, men that have taken me to bed, men that I've fantasised about. Smooth long cocks, made of ebony or pine, slowly penetrating me, teasing my pearl, rubbing inside my slippery hole. Sometimes the images are comforting – romantic - but usually not.

Usually they're cruel and frightening.

Macabre.

There are men standing over me and I'm naked, and they're doing the most terrible things.

Obscene.

I’m bound: spread-eagled, helpless. And the dusty men line up to fuck me. A long queue, so many that it makes me confused, frightened. There are so many: mocking me, cheering each other on. How can I take them? I don’t even know how many there are.

Disgusting.

But mostly I think of the dusty men with their secretaries, dusty men with long thick cocks. They’re fucking, always fucking.

I think of them all the time: while they spy with their secret cameras, when I’m peeing, undressing, showering.

It's got now that I see them all the time. I can barely stop myself from thinking and dreaming.

And touching myself.

Am I already mad? Am I?

Why else do I see such things? Why? What’s wrong with me? Are these my unfulfilled desires or maybe faint memories from more pleasant times?

So many questions, so few answers.

Why can’t I stop thinking about sex?

Why?

It was Victoria who began it all, cornering me in the shower as she did, wrapping her slender arms round my shoulders and holding my breasts, tormenting them, pinching them, whispering into my ear with her sultry European accent...

“Listen,” she said, sliding the soap across my stomach. “Pretend that you like it. Pretend you’re having fun.”

And so I did. I listened while soft wet hands slid sensuously across by body, easing apart my legs, opening them wide, pressing the slippery tablet of soap inside. “There are men watching us,” she warned me, the suds tickling and melting upon my velvet. Gently she moved the soap back and forth, teasing me. “But don’t worry. While they ogle our bodies, they ignore our words. Listen, Shannon. Listen carefully, and whatever you do, don’t forget what I tell you.”

That’s when this misery began. Ever since, I don't know what’s real and what’s imagination.

This morning I heard a woman's lustful cry. She called to me from along the bleak, white corridor. I was eating my breakfast, chewing upon plastic banana skins when I heard her panting, yelling at the top of her voice.

So eerie, those screams of passion. They made me shiver and crawl into the tightest of balls. Were they real? Or just the faint reminder of old suppressed fantasies?

I think she must have been imagined. In fact, I’m sure of it. No woman here has the luxury of such lust. God. Only fear lives in this bleak hole.

So, what are they doing to me? Tell me. Put me out of this misery.

They're doing it on purpose. I know that now. They're playing with my mind, tormenting me, piping me with erotic fantasies to see how I'll react. God.

I'm bursting with them. It's all I think about.

Have they drugged me? Is that what it is?

Victoria said they keep frigging with your mind until you give them their way. They spy on you through their little cameras, playing their games until the morning of your trial. Only then will they see you in person. They arrive with their pompous apologies and their sickly greetings.

"Shannon!" they cry. "My name's Ralph Butcher!"

Or "Tom Dukes."

Or. "Adam Tomlins."

One of those dusty names that everybody knows.

They stand, proudly oblivious of their rock hard cocks. They tell you it's time and that you shouldn't be worried.

"We mustn't keep the Judge waiting," they sneer, staring unashamedly at your bust, ignorant of how embarrassed it makes you.

No dignity.

Your breasts poke out from under the prison drab. There's nothing you can do to conceal them.

It's as if they can no longer distinguish between reality and surveillance. They forget you're not an image on a monitor but have flesh and blood with feelings and emotions. A warder fastens your hands and elbows, ties them tightly behind your back, pulling upon the cellulose mini-dress, tightening it against your nipples, highlighting them, making them stand out.

They love that, for with your hands fastened behind they have the run of your front. God, now you're really naked. Exposed. Humiliated. Their hands wander like fingers playing the flute.

Not that they do anything in front of the cameras. Victoria told me that. They're too wary to do aught but watch and leer. And why should they? When there's mile upon mile of empty corridor. Plenty of space for a dusty man to do his work.

Unseen by the peeping eye of the camera.

God. There it was again!

That cry!

Oh God! They’re raping her! I know it!

What are they doing to her? And why? What was her crime?

I bet it was nothing. I bet that she's as innocent as me.

Oh God. It’ll be my turn soon enough. But when? Tonight? Tomorrow? Will they let me sleep or will they drag me out the moment I close my eyes, carrying me along disinfected corridors and into some dark dank corner.

“Bend over,” they’ll demand, ripping open my paper dress. “Come on, cunt. Open your legs.” And I will. I’ll do it. I’ll bend over. No choice. They’ll fix my body, tearing my vagina, spitting me with their awful pricks.

Victoria told me. She warned me.

Fucking hell! How can people be so naive? Don't they realize? Don't they know what's really going on? Women are being fucked and raped every single day! God. "How can a girl be groped or assaulted when she's under continual surveillance," they say. "How can a woman possibly be raped in this day and age? We have safeguards. We have CCTV. We live in a modern country.” What a bloody farce! There's continual surveillance all right, in the cells and in the showers, in all the changing cubicles. Anywhere where a girl might rightly be naked.

That’s where they watch you!

But what about the blind spots? What about the cupboards? The transporters? There are no cameras in those places. Where else? So many places... and I know them all. Every one. I know their secrets. Like Victoria. She’s been there. She’s told me. She’s endured their fat, ugly pricks.

The outside corridors, the staff rooms, the kitchens... She’s been there. So have the other girls. Bent over. Taking their dirt.

Being raped.

Christ. It's disgusting. There should be a law against it. They should be the ones locked up. The dusty ones. Not me.

"We mustn't keep the Judge waiting."

Christ! What a joke!

It's so funny I can't stop laughing.

The Judge! Ha! Ha!

Can you hear me laughing, my sides splitting at the absurdity of it?

The Judge!

The Judge, they say. The Judge?

Who in this absurd system cares fucking anything about the sensibilities of a frigging Judge?

No one, I'm telling you.

Absolutely no one.

For the Judge is a woman! A god damn frigging woman!

Linda Luscious. Debbie Desirable. Busty Belinda. How can Judges have names like that?

Traitors! Sentencing their own tender sex!

No one cares a fuck about anything in a skirt. They certainly don't give a shit about any fucking judge.

There's only one thing that interests the dusty suits: money.

Nothing else.

It's about stripping ordinary women of their clothes. Making them undress. Making them grovel. Making them beg.

Making them pay.

Victoria told me.

That's what keeps the viewers happy. That's what keeps folk renewing their subscriptions. It's a nasty world out there, and the dusty suits will do whatever it takes to keep it turning, even if a woman has to pay the ultimate price.

Oh shit. I’m so afraid I want to pee... I can’t stop worrying. What will happen? Will they rape me? Undress me? Strip me naked on live TV? Lash me in public? Or will they really…?

Oh God.

Like Victoria said… she warned me…

I can’t say it… can’t even think it….can’t endure the thought… can’t breathe, my chest… too tight…

God. Will I… Dear God. Will I be executed?

There. I’ve said it. It’s out.

For that’s what this crazy system is wanting: to execute women.

What a screwed up world!

Christ.

Maybe, I’ll be lucky.

It might happen.

We may have won some football match or some celebrity might be having a baby: something to divert their minds.

I might receive a merciful sentence.

Or I might be lucky and be left with my dignity.

Oh God. It won’t happen. I’ve been set up. I know I have. Set up for the show. Nobody receives mercy. We all get punished. In public. Naked. There in front of the cameras.

Damn them!

They want me to cry.

I can’t stop weeping. How much longer can they keep me here, cooped up in this fucking hell-hole?

They want me to break down.

If it's to be Public Justice, then please get it over with. I can't stand this place.

Nothing to do except play with their toys.

Boredom.

Boring.

Tedious.

Dull.

Victoria said that if you play with the toys they make it easier for you at the end...

Maybe I should try. After all, what else is there to do?

I know they're watching me, all the time, watching with their secret cameras. Watching. Waiting for me to give them a show.

They hope I'll do it.

I can feel it. I feel their eyes. I sense them spying. Right this moment.

Maybe I should do it, tease them a little.

I like this one.

Mr. Stallion is an interesting name.

What do you think? Should I play with their toys?

You might as well tell me.

You vote on everything else. You're as cruel as the weather and as fickle as the sea. So why won't you tell me?

Why won’t you ask me to fuck Mr. Stallion?

I bet I could if I tried.

I bet I would earn my dusty man a bonus. He'd get it for sure if I did it on TV as part of my mitigation. I'd sit in the wench's stool, not strapped in this time, facing the camera with my legs apart and Mr. Stallion in my hand. I'd push him in, touching myself with my fingers. He'd adore that, my dusty man. Men love to see a girl playing with herself. Victoria taught me that. It drives them crazy. They don't think straight. That’s how you fight them… Oh yes, I could give my dusty man something to remember me by.

I bet I could make him shoot his wad over that secretary's bare boobs, across her face and into her hair. I could make him make a real mess if I set my mind.

"Great show, last night," the bosses would applaud, slapping Dusty Man on the back. "How do you do it? Every time! That brunette with the artificial cock, something again. Fantastic job! I really loved the way she stuck it up her ass. That was original. Fantastic! I never thought she'd get it in!"

The stupid pricks!

Perhaps if I puke over their nice clean prison cell! That'll send them into a tizzy. That will make them sit up and take note. And why not? They're going to find me guilty, whatever I say. After all, I've already confessed. So why should I suck up and play their stupid games?

I see girls leaving every morning. They’re herded into the transporters, heads bowed, spirits cowed. Most of them are crying or screaming, aware that this is their end. They're chained one to the other, a long line of human misery. I watch them go: Heather, Susan, Bernadette, they went today. Samantha, Beatrice, Glenda, they left yesterday.

Guilty every one of them. Every single one.

So saith the law.

Heather they plan to roast on a spit. Christ! The pigs! No wonder I want to vomit! Bernadette will be crucified. The inhuman scum! Everyone hears the verdicts. The warders make sure we hear. The vermin! I bet they spend their breaks voting how to kill us. Nothing would surprise me now!

God! What kind of world is this? Have you ever wondered that? How can this be criminal justice?

Can you believe that? Criminal justice!

What a phrase! What a crazy oxymoron!

Criminally unjust, more like!

It’s like the jaws of a mythical monster plucking innocent creatures from their beds and swallowing them alive. In they go! Their testimony is heard. A verdict is reached. Sentence is passed. And who cares whom it hurts?

The dusty men certainly don't.

A decree of life or death in sixty minutes, less if you exclude the commercials.

And they call this democracy!

My head hurts. If I think about this much longer, I will be mad. I know I will.

The executioner stands waiting around the corner. Public Justice awaits.

My mitigation must be planned.

God. I know what I'll do. As the credits start rolling and Linda Luscious, the booby magistrate, dons her blonde wig, I'll peel off my dress and introduce everyone to Mr Stallion. God. That would be so funny. I'd be gasping to give my evidence, hot and begging for it, my pussy dripping and glistening from the heat of the lights. That'd really put the mockers on their farce!

And why shouldn't I play with them, taunt them, ridicule their stupid charade?

After all, Victoria said I should stand firm, that I should resist them. She said there are more with us than with them and that I should watch for those with the sign of the cross.

What the hell does that mean? I keep wondering…

But never mind. I'll soon find out. Victoria promised that I would.

I hope they'll pay commission. For as you know, the makers of Mr Stallion, Magic Moments, are sponsors of Public Justice.

Neat coincidence, eh?

God. At least I've still my sense of humour.

Damn it!

Oh bugger, bugger, bugger! I've just wet myself.

Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn!

I'm fooling no one with this facade.

I'm so scared I can't even hold a cup sometimes, never mind my water.

Bugger.

If you want the truth. I'm scared shitless. That's the truth of it.

They'll kill me. They will. Bugger! Bugger!

I don't want to die. God, help me!

God. Why can’t I stop this weeping?

Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!

                        </Text>

</Fragment>

  <Reference ID="761344" Date="28 May 1978">

                        <Photograph> Dunganny Prison </Photograph>

                        <Photographer> Peter Hancock </Photographer>

                        <Image>    

                        </Image>    

</Reference>

<Reference ID="277956" Date="3 Apr 1984">

                       <Publication> News Online </Publication>

                        <ByLine> Tom Shipman </ByLine>

                        <Name> Investigative Journalist Arrested in Adante </Name>

                        <Text>

                        </Text>

</Reference>