

                  TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS

                            by 

                          Joe Doe 


   A 12-PART STORY DESIGNED TO RAISE YOUR HOLIDAY SPIRITS!



Part 1: THE D.A.

Although it was only December 14th, the holiday was effectively 
over for Carrie Paris.  The cards were sent, the packages posted, 
and the decorations done.  With her parents spending Christmas 
overseas and her own on-again/off-again romances totally off, she 
knew she had precious little to look forward to.

Not that she minded.  Emptiness brought with it a simplicity 
that appealed to her, an order and neatness that pleased her 
organizational bent.  Her job as district attorney was less a 
career choice than a state of mind; Carrie was harsh, unforgiving, 
and methodical.

She quickly sorted through the papers on her desk.  Mostly they 
were attempts to delay sentencing until after the holidays so that 
prisoners could spend one final Christmas with their families.  
There were over one hundred such requests, but Carrie was a 
diligent worker, and she knew that, if she called in some favors, 
she could make sure that every last one of the supplicants was 
jailed before Christmas.

Smiling, she briefly scanned Charlie Wagner's latest pathetic plea. 
The mousey little bank teller had been embarrassed when the condom 
had fallen out of his wallet at the bank, but not nearly as 
embarrassed as he had been when one of his rivals had him arrested 
on the trumped up charge of "public indecency."  Most prosecutors 
would have let Charlie go, but Carrie knew that a quick plea would 
increase her already impressive record of convictions.

Charlie had been a tough nut to crack, but when Carrie ordered the 
Department of Children and Family Services to bring his two kids 
down to the station for a custody review, Charley freaked.  An 
amused Carrie soon had the hapless teller confessing the most 
intimate details of his sex life, his fantasies, and even his 
masturbatory habits.

She had agreed to drop the custody review if Charlie registered as 
a sex offender.  Unfortunately, Charlie was so panicked about 
losing his children that he didn't read the fine print about the 
30 days in jail.  Now his children were going to live with his 
ex-wife, and Charlie was afraid he was never going to see them 
again.

Carrie had already arranged for Charlie's incarceration in the 
special "violent sex offenders" section of the state prison.  
Of course, he was not technically violent, but the image of the 
hapless little masturbator showering with dozens of rapists was 
almost too funny for words.

She made a special note to process Charlie's paperwork carefully.  
After all, if he ever got to a real lawyer, the little twerp would 
probably get the whole case thrown out and ruin her record.  The 
very thought made her blood boil.  Well, in prison his brother 
perverts would show him how to use that pretty little mouth of 
his for something other than whining!

Carrie checked the boxes required to seal Charlie's fate and moved 
on to the next envelope.  It was plain and white, with a candy cane 
seal.  She opened the envelope and found a Christmas card with a 
short note in an expansive, cursive script:

	YOU'VE BEEN A NAUGHTY LITTLE GIRL THIS YEAR, CARRIE.  
	I KNOW ABOUT WHERE YOU VISIT WHEN YOU THINK NO ONE 
	KNOWS...AND THE WAY YOU TOUCH YOURSELF WHEN YOU 
	THINK NO ONE IS WATCHING.  YOU'VE BEEN A BAD GIRL, 
	CARRIE, AND YOU'RE GONNA GET A SPANKIN'!

Carrie's heart raced.  Hate mail and death threats had never 
bothered her before, and they didn't bother her now.

What bothered her was the thought that someone knew about her 
clandestine visits to THAT website!

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

     

Part 2: PAPERWORK

It had been a sleepless night, and all the coffee in the world 
couldn't help.  Carrie had planned to spend the day pushing through 
convictions in order to ensure that her feckless "clients" spent 
Christmas behind bars.

But her machine-like efficiency was derailed by one troubling 
question: who knew about her web site activity?

She visited the strip-search site several times a week, delighting 
in the pictures and stories.  The stories, in particular, fed her 
most recurring sexual fantasy: the nightmare of wrongful arrest.

As a powerful prosecutor, she knew how cruel and overwhelming the 
legal system could be.  Its machinery could strip away a person's 
money, freedom, and dignity.  It didn't matter who you were or how 
powerful you might be or how secure you felt.  Once the cell door 
slammed shut behind you, you were in an entirely different world.

It would have been impossible to have thrown away the key on as 
many people as Carrie had without ever wondering what it might be 
like to be on the other side of the bars.

She shuddered as she imagined herself picking up trash in her 
orange jump suit -- or sinking to her knees to earn a piggish 
guard's favor.  As a beautiful woman and a former prosecutor, 
she would be especially vulnerable.  All of her assets -- beauty, 
intelligence, education, grace, and polish --  would serve only 
to make her a target.

She knew that the vengeful prisoners and the minimum wage guards 
would be only too happy to teach her more than one lesson in 
humility.

Her fantasy was deeply disturbing...and unbelievably exciting!

How often had she sat in front of her computer, relishing every 
detail of the latest story by DD or JD or C.L.?  As she read 
each story, she would vicariously enjoy every familiar detail -- 
the heroine's brash overconfidence, the unfortunate circumstances, 
the humiliating tumble from power.  She would read those stories 
only when she was alone, since inevitably her hand would drift 
south....

Of course, Carrie's fantasies were just that -- fantasies.  Try as 
she might, she just couldn't imagine a scenario that would end with 
her own imprisonment.  She was rich, powerful, and successful.  If 
her knowledge of the law made a conviction unlikely, her position 
as an independently wealthy prosecutor made it impossible.  

It would never happen.  But it was still fun to fantasize.

As her mind wandered, she noticed a manila envelope in her inbox.  
The envelope itself was ordinary enough; what caught her attention 
was the small candy cane sticker in the upper left corner where the 
return address would normally be.

She found that the envelope contained a thick stack of arrest 
reports.  Had someone routed it to her by mistake?

Carrie quickly paged through the reports.  They were brief, never 
more than a page.  Also, unlike most arrest reports, each neatly 
printed sheet contained a mug shot of the criminal (and every one 
a young, attractive woman).

An experienced prosecutor, she knew there was no such thing as a 
"criminal look"; the most innocuous-looking grandmother could be 
an axe murderess.

But she was nonetheless surprised to see page after page of what 
seemed to be perfectly ordinary women.  Some were in business 
clothes, and others were dressed casually, some even in college 
t-shirts.  All of them appeared to be stunned, dazed.  If it wasn't 
for the numbers in front of them and the chart behind them showing 
their heights, Carrie might have thought that she was looking at 
photographs of female flood victims.

She read the first report:

PROCESSING NO.: 7383-38383

DATE:		6/1
NAME:  		Natt, Natalie
OCCUPATION:     Graduate student in history 
SENTENCE:       90 days, hard labor
OFFICER:        GUMP, F.

CHARGE:
Perp was arrested during a routine "safety sweep."  A check of her 
oil change sticker revealed that she had not changed her oil in 
almost 5 months, and her car was immediately impounded.  She was 
convicted under ordinance 738-383 (Improper Maintenance of a Motor 
Vehicle).

ADDITIONAL SENTENCING NOTES:
In order to pay for her oil change, she will perform farm and road 
construction labor during the day.  She has also been assigned to 
dance weekends at "Tits & Honkers."  Officer Gump feels her lack of 
dancing ability will not hinder her popularity.

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

Carrie turned the page over, but the reverse was blank.

Most arrest reports that resulted in a conviction ran several 
pages.  But Natalie had been arrested, tried, and convicted 
in fewer than six sentences.

Carrie examined the report closely.  It had apparently been printed 
on a color laser printer.  The text and picture were crisp and 
clear, the paper thick and glossy.  

Obviously forcing unfortunate young women to dance naked to pay for 
their oil changes was not entirely unprofitable.

She looked at the picture.  Natalie's pleading eyes were wide, her 
mouth slightly open.

Flood victim!

If the picture had a caption it might be, "I'm sorry I forgot my 
oil change, Officer.  Please don't make me dance NAKED!"

Carrie turned to the next report.  It featured an attractive black 
woman in stylish wire-rim glasses and business suit.

DATE:		11/17
NAME:  		Walters, Rhonda
OCCUPATION:     Attorney
SENTENCE:       60 days, hard labor
OFFICER:        DELAY, T.

CHARGE:
Miss Walters was pulled off the highway when Officer Delay noted 
the "KERRY/EDWARDS" bumper sticker on her car.  Rhonda was 
convicted under Ordinance 3883-383 (Attempt to Obscure or Distract 
Attention from License Plate).

A search of her purse revealed membership cards for Moveon.org, the 
NAACP, and the ACLU.

After becoming annoyed at Rhonda's repeated complaints about 
"civil rights violations," the Sheriff filed an additional 
charge, 89333-488 (Failure to Remove Political Advertisement 
After Election).  For this offense, he administered 30 strokes 
of the razor strap, bare bottom.

ADDITIONAL SENTENCING NOTES:
She will be auctioned to one of the local plantations where she 
will serve her sentence as a contract servant.  When she is not 
picking cotton or doing housework, she will star in our "Frisky 
Plantation Wenches" video series.

Across the bottom of the form someone had scrawled, "Bet our 
barefoot blue state girl won't be so uppity when they shuck 
her down on the auction block!"

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

Carrie stared at the report in disbelief.  Could they really 
auction off a beautiful black attorney just because she had a 
liberal bumper sticker?

Quickly paging through the remaining reports, she discovered the 
following offenses:

338777-488 (Playing Radio on Sunday)
755882-383 (Use of Cruise Control)
38383-3838 (Lascivious or Lewd Display of Belly-Button)
47474-4848 (Unmarried Woman with Birth Control Device)

All of the police reports shared 3 common factors:
1) "Flood victim" photo of a beautiful woman
2) Dubious charge
3) 30-120 day sentence to a demeaning job, often in the sex trade.

As Carrie stuffed the reports back into the envelope, a tiny 
Post-it note slid out.  It was written in the same large, 
expansive script as the previous note.

	YOU'VE BEEN A NAUGHTY LITTLE GIRL, CARRIE.  
	DON'T THINK I WON'T ARREST YOU FOR IT.

Her heart raced as she put the reports away, jumped to her feet, 
and flew down the hall.  Within seconds she was screeching out of 
the courthouse parking lot in her brand new Lexus.

What did it all mean?  Who was sending her these awful notes?  It 
was criminal....

But she felt a familiar tingle between her legs as she noticed that 
her car was overdue for an oil change.

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



Part 3: RITUALS AND "OLD FRIENDS"

For years, Carrie had comfortably fantasized about being thrown 
into prison, knowing that it would never happen. 

But that was before the police reports arrived. 

Each report presented a documented case of a beautiful woman 
imprisoned on some bogus charge.  The additional sentencing 
notes described the "criminal's" sexual degradations with 
undisguised relish. 

The women were all attorneys, judges, doctors, university 
students.  And they were all young, beautiful, and successful. 

Exactly like Carrie... 

The thin blue line was thinner than Carrie had ever imagined.  
Somewhere there was a Sheriff's office that would be unimpressed 
with her Ivy League law degree or her prosecutorial expertise.  
At this Sheriff's office, a woman's hard-earned credentials were 
actually used to design the most humiliating punishments imaginable. 

Black civil rights attorneys were auctioned as plantation slaves.  
Accomplished female physicians were placed in mental hospitals for 
"psychiatric evaluation."  Female engineers were shackled to chain 
gangs building the bridges they could have designed. 

By the time Carrie got to her office the next morning she was 
exhausted.  A long night with a vibrator and a stack of arrest 
reports will do that to a woman. 

Well, some women, anyway.  Women like Carrie. 

Carrie paced anxiously as she waited for the mail to arrive.  She 
knew she needed more clues if she was ever going to understand who 
was doing this to her, and why. 

But there was another reason, as well...a reason that Carrie hated 
to admit. 

She had never been so excited in her life! 

Carrie had dreamed about being a prisoner.  And now she had 
documents suggesting that somehow, somewhere, there was a 
place where all her dreams could come true -- if she really 
wanted them to. 

Carrie had visited that strip-search website for years.  For the 
strip-search was an important component of her rich and detailed 
fantasy: 

The bogus arrest by the leering officer... 
The sham trial and unjust sentence... 
The strip search... 
The gang shower... 
The delousing... 
The convict uniform.... 

The ritual was important.  Each crucial step was another crushing 
link in the chain of humiliation.  From the cuffs to the chain 
gang, every step was important. 

The piggish male officers wouldn't want to strip her.  They 
wouldn't want to order her to peel off her stylish expensive 
clothes.  They wouldn't want to watch, and leer, and smack their 
lips, as she slowly stripped down, garment by garment.  They 
wouldn't want to watch as her chic and elegant clothes formed 
a humiliating little pile. 

It was all a part of the job.... 

The sham of "security" and "procedure" would give the chauvinist 
officers the right to do as they pleased with her.  They could 
strip her naked and order to her to bend, and spread, and pose. 

And then they could slip on the rubber gloves and grope her and 
finger her as they pleased. 

They wouldn't WANT to do it.  Oh no, that would be wrong.  It was 
just the law. 

The law would be on THEIR side, a fact that made the search that 
much more outrageous...and exciting. 

Once she was in custody, the arresting officers or her prison 
guards could order her to strip whenever it pleased them. 

And, if she disobeyed them, SHE would be the one breaking the law! 

Yes, the ritual was important.  When it started, she would be a 
smartly dressed prosecutor, in charge and in control. 

When it ended, she would be dazed and helpless, dressed in a scanty 
prison outfit and stinking of disinfectants, shuffling in chains 
toward her new life as a feckless jailhouse bimbo. 

Carrie's ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of the daily 
mail.  She tossed aside the routine memos and ripped open a large 
envelope with a Christmas wreath sticker where the return address 
should have been. 

At first she thought she had opened the wrong envelope.  She 
recognized the mug shot of Carlos Honcho, a pimp she had busted 
a few years before.  His specialty was blackmailing wealthy and 
attractive co-eds into joining his stable.  He took considerable 
delight in forcing pampered and spoiled society girls into scanty 
outfits and turning them out in the seedier sections of the city. 

Carlos made sure his girls learned their place...fast. 

Numerous prosecutors had attempted to nail Carlos, but Carrie was 
the first to succeed.  She smiled as she recalled the enraged pimp 
lunging at her as the judge sentenced him.  She still remembered 
laughing in his face as the bailiffs beat him bloody. 

Throwing Carlos into the slammer had been a pleasure.  But why was 
someone sending her his picture? 

She shook the envelope, and the answer fell out.  It was a CD. 

After closing her office door, she put the CD into her computer 
and clicked on the single icon. 

A plaintive female voice crackled through the speakers. 

"After we showered, the warden made us line up.  A sleazy-looking 
Hispanic guy -- his name was Carlos -- walked up and down the line 
real slow.  It gave the girls chills, the way he looked at us, and 
he was smiling all the time.  When he came to me, he smiled wider 
and nodded to the warden.  The warden told me to open up my towel.  
I didn't want to do it, but the guard behind him was holding the 
spanking strap! 

"Carlos knew I didn't want to do it, and he gave me a big smile and 
let out a wolf whistle when I finally opened up my towel.  I must 
have been blushing 10 shades of red.  He ran his finger over one of 
my nipples and then, playfully, down off my breast and over my 
stomach to my navel.  All the while he's smiling at me, like it was 
some sort of joke.  And I had to just stand there, holding my towel 
open, while he leered at me. 

"He played with my navel for a few seconds, pushing his finger in 
and out, in and out, while he smiled.  But then he pulled his 
finger out and started slowly drawing a line down to my crotch. 

"I shuddered when his finger hit my pubes, but the warden ordered 
me to stand still.  I stood there, and bit my lip, and stared at 
the ceiling, while he slid his finger inside of me.  In and out, 
in and out -- like he was testing me. 

"He must have liked what he felt because that night they put me in 
a halter top and hot pants and made me troll for tricks at some 
sleazy bar.  When Carlos found out I used to be a prosecutor, he 
made sure I got all the kinky ones.  I guess there was some female 
prosecutor who put him away a few years ago, and he was really 
hated her.  The things he made me do....  Oh, god, it was 
disgusting!" 

The woman started to weep in shame as the recording ended. 

Carrie felt a tiny shiver as she stared at the picture of the 
angry, menacing Carlos.  She knew she shouldn't have faked that 
evidence against him, but it was the only way to get a conviction. 

Carrie frowned.  Was Carlos out of prison ALREADY? 

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


Part 4: A VISIT TO THE DOCTOR 

There was no return address on the overnight envelope that arrived 
early on December 17th, but there was a tiny picture of a smiling 
reindeer in the top left corner.  Inside were three pieces of 
paper: 

An appointment slip. 

An official-looking notice from a medical plan that she had never 
heard of warning that, if she didn't get her height, weight, and 
blood pressure certified by the specified physician by end of 
business on December 17th, she would lose her health insurance 
forever. 

And, lastly, a note in the familiar cursive script. 

	HI, CARRIE! 

	PLEASE TAKE THIS FORM TO THE DOCTOR ON THE APPOINTMENT 
	CARD AND PLEAD WITH HIM TO CERTIFY YOUR STATS.  YOU 
	WON'T REALLY LOSE YOUR INSURANCE IF YOU DON'T, BUT 
	THAT WILL BE OUR LITTLE SECRET. 

	TODAY IS YOUR CHANCE FOR A "FIRSTHAND EXPERIENCE," AS 
	IT WERE.  IF YOU DON'T GET THE LETTER SIGNED, I'LL KNOW 
	IT, AND MY MESSAGES TO YOU WILL STOP. 

	MERRY CHRISTMAS?  IT'S YOUR DECISION NOW!

Well, she DID want them to stop....  Didn't she? 

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

The appointment was for 4PM, and Carrie was the last patient of the 
day.  It had taken her most of the day to drive across two states 
to the specified clinic.  The receptionist left for the day as the 
office nurse was taking Carrie's height, weight, and blood pressure.

The procedure was simple, but the point was elusive.  When the 
nurse took Carrie in to see the doctor, however, it all became 
painfully clear. 

"Do you need anything else, Doctor?" the nurse asked, as she handed 
him Carrie's insurance form. 

"No, Cindy," the doctor replied.  "You can go home now." 

The nurse smiled and left, closing the door behind her. 

Meanwhile, Carrie just stood and stared like a deer in the 
headlights as the doctor looked over the form. 

The smiling doctor finally looked up.  "Nice to see you again, 
Carrie," he said quietly. 

Carrie bristled.  The last time they had spoken was when she had 
broken him on the stand.  Dr. Willie Gropers had molested dozens 
of his female patients, and Carrie had been minutes short of a 
conviction, when her superiors had pulled the plug. 

It was agreed that the charges would be dropped, and Dr. Gropers 
would be allowed to keep his license if he agreed to move to 
another state. 

The law was the law, but money was still money. 

Carrie sat down.  "If you'll just sign my form, Gropers, I'll be on 
my way." 

"First off, it's DOCTOR Gropers, Carrie.  If you want me to sign 
this form, you'll have to agree to be my patient.  And patients 
do what they're told....  Did I give you permission to sit?" 

"No," Carrie said. 

"No, what?" he chuckled. 

"No, sir," she said, as she examined her shoes. 

"That's a good girl," he patronized.  "You were always so smart.  
You had all the answers.  Well, you're my patient, and I'm in 
charge.  I have some answers myself." 

Gropers smiled as he ogled Carrie's slender body.  "Take off your 
clothes," he said, curtly.  "All of them.  Now." 

She stared at him in stunned disbelief. 

"You didn't come all this way to get your blood pressure checked, 
did you?  You came here for an examination.  And you know the sort 
of examinations I give young ladies like you, don't you, Carrie?  
In fact, you know better than anyone else.  You interviewed the 
witnesses.  You broke me on the stand.  And now it's your turn to 
find out what it's REALLY like." 

"I-I can't," she stammered.  "I don't want to be examined....  Not 
by you." 

Gropers held out the form.  "Fine, take your form and get out.  
Lose your insurance.  See if I care." 

Carrie considered the proposition.  She wanted to walk out.  No, 
actually she wanted to beat him senseless, walk out, and then 
have him arrested. 

But she knew that, if she did as she pleased, there would be no 
more mysterious letters. 

The ominous meaning of the words "firsthand experience" suddenly 
rang loud and clear. 

This smarmy, grinning lecher was about to teach her what an illegal 
cavity search was all about. 

"Is there somewhere I can...change?" she asked, plaintively. 

"No.  You'll strip right here.  In front of my desk.  With me 
watching.  You can start with those fancy shoes." 

They were indeed fancy shoes; Carrie felt a professional woman was 
never fully dressed unless she was wearing a $300 pair of shoes. 

But that didn't matter.  The shoes came off. 

"Now the jacket.  Here, Carrie, let me put on some music.  Music 
will make it more fun." 

He thumbed through some old CDs as she neatly folded her jacket and 
put it on the chair. 

She winced as the strains of Madonna's "Like a Virgin" filled the 
room.  She had always hated that song. 

"Dance for me, you little bimbo.  Dance and take off your clothes.  
The blouse is next." 

Carrie began to sway her hips and rock back and forth as she 
reluctantly unbuttoned her blouse. 

"You know, Carrie, this is exactly how I pictured you that day when 
you grilled me on the stand.  Now the skirt, Madam Prosecutor." 

"Ohh, you wear a garter belt.  Very sexy.  You can leave the 
stockings on.  After all, I don't want your little tootsies to 
get cold when you put your feet up into those icy steel stirrups." 

At the mention of the "stirrups," Carrie shivered. 

"Now the bra.  I'll need to examine your jugs." 

She gritted her teeth and obeyed. 

"That's good -- keep dancing.  I like the way it makes your udders 
jiggle.  Now the underpants.  Come on, Miss Fancy Pants, time to 
turn 'em over.  After all, I AM your doctor." 

Carrie blushed crimson as she slowly lowered her panties to her 
ankles.  The doctor laughed and applauded as she tossed them onto 
the pile. 

He stood up.  She attempted to cover her exposed crotch as he 
slowly walked around her, surveying the merchandise.  

"Not bad.  Not bad at all.  Once you get stripped out of all those 
fancy lawyer duds, you're really a cute piece of ass.  Nice tits.  
Flat stomach.  Cute little butt." 

The final compliment was punctuated by a hard slap across her naked 
bottom, designed to remind her that she was no longer in charge. 

She flinched and tried to pull away as he reached around her and 
began to fondle her breasts. 

"Relax, peaches," he chortled.  "I have to examine your titties, 
don't I?  All part of the procedure." 

The word "procedure" triggered a familiar tingle in Carrie.  She 
realized that she was being processed...humiliated...dehumanized. 

It was exactly like her fantasies. 

By the time Gropers led her into the examination room, she was 
soaking wet.  But that didn't lessen her fears as he snapped the 
menacing metal stirrups into place. 

"Come on, little lady...up you go," he chortled.  "Time for a 
horsey ride.  Scoot down and spread 'em wide.  I've waited a 
long time for this, and I want a really good look." 

The humiliation she felt as she mounted the table and spread her 
legs was immense.  But it was dwarfed by Groper's discovery that 
she was so aroused.

"Well, well, well," he sneered.  "Our prissy lady lawyer is all 
hot and bothered.  That's why you took my case, wasn't it?  You 
pretended to be outraged, but it turned you on, didn't it?" 

She didn't want to answer, but, as Gropers' fingers teased her clit 
and she arched her back up to meet him, she gasped, "YESSS!" 

"You liked reading about how I stripped them, and gassed them, and 
fucked them, didn't you?" he taunted.  "You thought it was funny 
when I fucked the women who wanted fertility treatments for their 
husbands, didn't you?  You loved it when I knocked up the little 
sows, didn't you?" 

"Yes!" she hissed.  "Don't stop!" 

"You took the transcripts home and masturbated to them, didn't you? 
All the while you were grilling me on the stand, you were rubbing 
your thighs together, juicing yourself!  Weren't you?  Weren't 
you?" 

She shouted, "YES!" as her body quaked through the most powerful 
orgasm of her life. 

"Are you on birth control, Carrie?" he asked, clinically. 

She was still in a daze.  "No," she muttered.  "I'm not...not in 
a relationship right now....  I-I have some condoms in my purse." 

"That's too bad, Carrie," he chuckled.  "Because all the pony girls 
at my ranch are ridden bareback." 

She gasped when he unzipped his pants and pulled out his massive 
cock. 

As he sank it deep inside her steaming twat, he snickered, "Be 
sure to call me in nine months, Carrie.  I want to send my son 
a birthday card." 

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

         

Part 5: THE VALUE OF A COLLEGE EDUCATION

Carrie had thought that Dr. Gropers' violation was the worst 
humiliation imaginable.  But the next day at the free clinic 
was worse.

She had gone there because she was too embarrassed to see her 
regular doctor.  It was a Saturday, and Carrie was surrounded 
by college girls who had had too much to drink the night before 
and now found themselves in need of a visit to a doctor.

Unfortunately, the doctor wouldn't just give Carrie the pill and 
the damn VD test.  He insisted on a complete examination.

So, once again, she found herself in the dreaded stirrups.

And, as if that weren't bad enough, he decided to invite 15 medical 
students to watch as he probed her and lectured her on the price of 
her loose and lascivious ways.  He didn't exactly call her a whore, 
and the male medical class didn't exactly laugh at her.  

Not exactly.

But she got the pill and the test.  As she was getting dressed, she 
noticed several of the "medical students" were wearing t-shirts 
from the same fraternity.  Not a good sign.

There was no package at the office today, just an e-mail at her 
home, a message from an anonymous remailer.  The text was as 
follows:

	FROM: The Sheriff
	TO:   Judge Bean
	Re:   Reception of Female Prisoners

	I'd like to start giving all the girls 20 licks of the 
	razor strap right across their bare fannies.  I think 
	it would be a good addition to our "reception" procedure 
	and an excellent chance to teach these sassy little minxes 
	their place.  The spankings should be hard and crisp and 
	always on the bare.  Also, the women should be scolded 
	during their spankings, so that they feel like the naughty 
	little girls that they are.

	A shameful and humiliating strapping, with a reminder that 
	there is more of the same if they don't toe the line, would 
	be an excellent introduction to their new station in life.

	Did I say 20 swats?  If we get any of those smarty pants 
	college girls, let's make it 25!

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

Carrie downloaded the attachment and pressed "Play."

The clip opened on a tearful young woman, leaning over a huge oak 
desk.  She was wearing a white cutoff prison shirt and blue denim
shorts.  From off-camera a male voice said, "I want to spank you, 
not your pants.  Drop your drawers."

The girl gritted her teeth, but raised her tummy off the desk.  
Carrie watched the woman blush as she lowered her shorts.

"Now, Amy, don't be shy," the Sheriff said.  "You know the rules 
-- underpants, too."

Amy turned to the Sheriff with tearful eyes.  "Please, not on the 
bare.  Let me keep a shred of dignity."

"Do you want me to make it 50?" the Sheriff asked.

Amy bit her lip and quickly slid her underpants down to her knees.  
The Sheriff let out a small whistle as her shapely bottom came into 
view.

Amy stared into space as he playfully rubbed the wicked-looking 
strap across her curvy backside.

"For heaven's sakes, I was just low on washer fluid!  That isn't 
even a real crime!"

His answer was a blistering smack across her rump.  

SNAP!

She let out a lusty scream.

"You're a convict, young lady, duly convicted in a court of law.  
You have no rights except the ones I give you.  The sooner you 
understand that, the better."  

SNAP!

Amy yelped again.  "Yes!" she cried out.

SNAP!  

"Yes, what, Amy?" he prompted, mockingly.

"Yes, sir, I'm a convict!" Amy cried out.

"Will you keep your place and stop acting all uppity?" he taunted.  
 
SNAP!

"Yes, SIR!" she shouted back through her tears.

"Will you show proper respect for my uniform?"  

SNAP!

"Yes, sir!  I respect your badge and your uniform!"

"That's a good girl," he patronized.  "Now what do you think the 
best way is for a girl like you to show respect for the officers 
who arrested you?  What are you good for?"

There was a long silence.  "I have a doctorate in Developmental 
Psychology.  Perhaps I could...."

SNAP!  SNAP!  SNAP!

"Wrong, Amy," the Sheriff countered.  "A girl like you is good for 
one thing and one thing only: wet, sloppy blow jobs.  You're going 
to drop to your knees and use that sassy little mouth of yours to 
give the boys slurpees whenever they want.  You'll suck and lick 
and swallow every drop like it's the yummiest milkshake you ever 
tasted!"

"But I never...." 

SNAP!  SNAP!  SNAP!

"Please, sir!  Let me blow you!" Amy pleaded.  "I really want to, 
sir."

"You REALLY want to give me a hummer, Amy?"  the Sheriff taunted as 
he teasingly tapped the strap against her behind.  "I mean, you're 
a big time college professor, and I'm just a lowly civil servant."

Amy turned and dropped to her knees, not even bothering to pull up 
her pants.

Carrie winced as she watched the tearful college professor unzip 
the tubby Sheriff's pants.

"Well, I guess we could take a little break before we finish your 
fanny tanning," the Sheriff chuckled.

A stunned Carrie closed the video player.  As she did, she noticed 
another e-mail in her in-box.

	CARRIE,

	Sorry I couldn't get you 5 golden rings.  But 5 extra 
	spanks for being a sassy college girl is what you really 
	deserve anyway!  Ho-ho-ho!

Carrie counted backwards.  This was the 5th message.  And there 
were 7 days till Christmas.

Somehow, though, she doubted that tomorrow would bring 6 geese 
a-laying.

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


Part 6: PUT ON YOUR DANCING SHOES

It was Sunday, which meant the next package arrived at Carrie's 
home by a special delivery.

Once again there was no address, just a CD and a note.

The message read: 

	STUDY HARD, CARRIE, OR YOU'LL GET A SPANKIN'!  AND, AFTER 
	WATCHING YESTERDAY'S SHOW, I'M SURE YOU DON'T WANT THE 
	SHERIFF TO CATCH YOU BEING NAUGHTY!"

Carrie put the CD in the drive, and a dialogue began to play.

"But I don't know how to-to...s-strip, Sheriff.  I've never done 
anything like that in my life."

"I know that, Debbie," the Sheriff chuckled.  "That's what makes it 
so good.  Most guys don't want to see some hardened whore peel down 
like a jaded pro.  They want to see a girl like you, blushing and 
squirming and sweating up a storm as she shucks down for one and 
all to see."

"But I don't know what to do."

"Nothing to know," he countered.  "Just get up there and look 
mortified.  You can try and dance some, not that you'll be any 
good at it.  You'll be too busy worrying about all the guys 
wanting to see your pussy to shake your ass graceful.  But, like 
I said, that's what the guys like.  They want to see a woman who's 
as basically bitchy as their boss or secretary or wife really get 
put in her place.  So the more you hate it, the more they'll love 
it."

Carrie heard a little click, and then the music started.  It was 
Madonna's "Like a Virgin," playing in an endless loop.

"Now get up and start dancing, Debbie."

"But I'm not dressed right, Sheriff," Debbie protested.

"We want a girl to dress like whatever her profession is.  It's 
more of a turn-on for the guys if they get to see a real doctor 
or a real lawyer peel down, from her civies to her skin."

"Did you say...'skin'?"  Debbie's voice quivered.

"Yeah, but we'll get to that later," the Sheriff chuckled.  "Just 
start dancing.  You girls at home, you start dancing with Debbie, 
too."

"Please, Sheriff," Debbie wailed.  "I'm a CPA.  I could help you 
with your taxes.  I could do the books at the jail.  Please...don't 
make me do this.  I have an MBA!" 

"Do I have to get the strap?"

Both Debbie and Carrie began to dance slowly, reluctantly, to the 
beat of the music.

"Take off your shoes and socks," the Sheriff ordered, crisply.  
"No...not like that.  Don't stop dancing."

Debbie and Carrie both hopped on one foot as they awkwardly removed 
their shoes and socks.  Carrie timed the little hop-hop-hop noise 
she was making so that it matched her counterpart on the record.

"That's a good girl," the Sheriff chuckled.  "You learn real 
fast....  And you blush real pretty."

Carrie couldn't see herself, but she could feel herself flush as 
the blood rushed to her face.

"Now take off your shirt," the Sheriff commanded.

Debbie must have been wearing a pullover, since Carrie was still 
fumbling with the buttons on her blouse when the Sheriff ordered 
Debbie to take off her belt.

"That's right...let the fellows see your hooters.  Get 'em thinking 
about what it will be like WITHOUT your bra.  Make 'em bounce!"

Carrie felt a little shiver go up her spine as she obediently 
jiggled her breasts.  Even without an audience, she had never 
felt so exposed in her life.

"Okay, Debbie, that's enough tits," the Sheriff said, gruffly.  
"Now it's time for some ass.  Time to drop the trousers!"

Carrie's jeans were tight, and it was tough to squirm out of them 
on command.  She bent her knees a bit as she wiggled the pants off 
her shapely fanny.

After all, despite her humiliation, she wanted to put on as good a 
show as possible.

Carrie had just tossed her jeans to the side when the Sheriff's 
voice again burst in over the music.  "That's a good little slut," 
he snickered.  "You know what's next, don't you?  The guys sure do. 
Let me put on another tape, so you'll know what it will sound like 
on stage.  I want you to shake your tits real nice while the guys 
tell you what they want to see."

Carrie obediently began bopping her breasts as the drunken, slurred 
male voices rose.

"Show us your tits, fancy girl!"

"Let's see your jugs!"

"You don't feel so high and mighty now, do you, peaches?"

"Moo-Moo!  Moo-Moo!  I want a milkshake!"

"Now take it off," the Sheriff ordered.  "Show 'em your honkers."

Both Debbie and Carrie hesitated.  

"Should I get the strap?" the Sheriff asked.

The jeers continued as Carrie unhooked her bra and slid the straps 
over her shoulders.

"Aw, she's shy!  Isn't that cute!"

"Make 'em bounce, baby!  Make 'em bounce."

Carrie dropped her bra to the "stage" in front of her.  As she 
continued to dance and blush, her "jugs" did indeed "bounce."

But the voices on the tape were relentless.  "We want cunt!  Show 
us your gash!"

"Here, pussy-pussy-pussy!  Here pussy-pussy-pussy!"

Carrie looked down.  There was a huge wet spot on the front of her 
pink panties.  If this were truly a striptease, the men would have 
a lot to jeer about.

"Please, Sheriff," Debbie pleaded.  "Can't I keep my panties 
on...just this once?  I'm sorry I topped off my tank.  I promise 
I'll never do it again."

"Now, Debbie, the sign by the pump warns that overfilling your tank 
can create a hazardous condition.  You know what that means?  It 
means that, for the next 90 days, whenever I say 'drop 'em,' those 
cute little underpants of yours are coming down."

He paused for dramatic effect.  "Drop 'em!" he ordered.

Carrie clenched her teeth as she slowly slid her panties down to 
her knees.

"I love it the way you college girls blush," the Sheriff chortled.  
"Blue state girls like you, when you drop your drawers, you blush 
the prettiest shade of red!"

Carrie was indeed blushing red, and, although she couldn't comment 
on the precise shade, she was sure it was deep and rich.

But she kept dancing as she waited for the next order.

"Play with yourself," the Sheriff ordered.  "Get that pussy nice 
and wet.  Spread your legs nice and wide, so all the guys can see." 

Debbie protested, but Carrie didn't have to be told twice.  She 
didn't have to get her pussy wet -- it was already soaking -- but 
she took advantage of the Sheriff's orders to spread her legs wide 
and stroke herself to orgasm....

"That's a good little slut," the Sheriff said, encouragingly, as 
the first wave of orgasm rocked Carrie's body.  "Now turn and face 
the audience, so they can see how hot you are."

Obediently, Carrie turned her head slightly and focused forward.

Carrie loved her old brownstone.  Built in late Victorian times, it 
was was one of the most beautiful buildings in town.  It was so 
wonderful, in fact, that she didn't even mind it being close to 
the college campus.

It didn't matter to her that the college's male dormitory was 
located so near; she never opened the curtains facing the street.

But...why were they opened now?

Her heart skipped a beat.  In nearly every window of the big dorm 
across the boulevard, male eyes were peering down on her.

She was in a daze.  Orgasm...orgasm...boys watching...boys 
watching...HER...orgasm.

It wasn't until the lengthy serial orgasm had subsided that she 
was able to pull herself together enough to close the curtains.

She sank down on the rug as the music on the soundtrack faded.

Who had sent her that tape?

And how did the curtains get open?

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


 
Part 7: A Q&A 

When Carrie opened her e-mail on the morning of December 20th, she 
found that her leave of absence had been approved.

It had been approved both by her boss and by his boss.  Her 6-month 
leave of absence would begin on December 24th.

Everyone agreed it was a capital idea.  She was 10 times more 
productive than the other prosecutors, and she never took a 
vacation.  Her superiors had been worried for months that she 
would burn herself out.

Everyone wished her well.  She got e-mails from several co-workers 
assuring her that they would abide by her request not to bother her 
during her leave.

There was only one problem: Carrie had never requested a leave.

She didn't even know where to begin.  She had been about to shoot 
off an e-mail to her boss asking him if he had been drinking, when 
she noticed that his e-mail was a response to an e-mail she had 
sent asking if the leave had been approved yet....

An e-mail Carrie had never sent.

She traced back through her sent mail.  It seemed to have come from 
her account...it and dozens of others besides --  e-mails outlining 
the terms and conditions of a solitary leave of absence, a leave 
absolute and complete, a sabbatical during which she would be dead 
to the world....

A sabbatical Carrie had never requested.

She was still reading the bogus e-mails when her secretary dropped 
off a signed copy of her approved request.

Carrie frowned.  She had never seen the form before in her life.  
But that was definitely her signature.

She was about to call her boss when she noticed another form 
attached to the back of her leave request.  It wasn't stapled -- 
it was stuck, as if by static electricity.

The page appeared to be part of the transcript of some sort of Q&A 
interview:

Q: Sheriff, most of the girls on the prison farm appear to have 
been guilty of relatively minor misdemeanors.

A: Well...speeding, faulty safety equipment, blue law violations, 
littering, that sort of thing.

Q: What is the average sentence, and how is it determined?

A: The average is about 30 days.  Most of these girls are pretty 
snooty, but we can break in even the toughest girl within a week.  
The process -- the strip-search, the delousing, the spankings, the 
work on the prison farm -- all help break down her self-esteem.  
Once you get a girl whoring for you, the next three weeks are 
just pure profit.

Q: Do you ever keep a girl longer than 30 days?

A: Yeah, if we're short of girls or we need a particular type of 
girl for something special, like a video.  It's kind of funny 
though -- a girl who's been on the farm 30 days is the better 
person for it: more polite, less bitchy, more sensitive to others.  
I think that, in a strange way, sucking all those dicks teaches 
them not to be so full of themselves.

"But, if you keep them for more than a couple of months, then they 
often can take it too far.  You got girls who practically pee 
themselves when a man raises his voice.  You can't send a girl back 
to college when she can't even talk to you without staring at her 
shoes.  Sometimes the girls end up humping at some nickel-and-dime 
whorehouse.  They're just not good for much else!

Q: What's the longest you ever held a girl?

A: Six months.  But that's only if we have a girl who really needs 
to be taught a lesson.

Carrie gasped.  Six months!  The exact length of her leave of 
absence....

She felt a chill run down her spine as she pictured herself locked 
away in some hellish prison for six long months.  No one would miss 
her....  No one would even know she was gone.

She checked the date on her leave of absence form.  It began on 
December 24th.

She swallowed.  That was only 4 days away.

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


Part 8: HITTING THE SHOWERS

The anonymous e-mail Carrie received at her office the next morning 
appeared to be from the same source as before.  The message was 
crisp: 

	GO TO THE POOL AT THE WINSTON CLUB AT THE CORNER OF 
	SYCAMORE AND VINE AT 10AM.  ASK MISS JACKSON, THE SWIM 
	COACH, IF YOU CAN PRACTICE WITH THE GIRLS. 

The message was so succinct that at first she thought it was a 
mistake...or perhaps spam.  But it had come from the same anonymous 
server as the last e-mail, and the corner of Sycamore and Vine was 
only a few blocks away. 

She didn't have time to go home for her suit, but there was a shop 
on the way.  She was able to pick up a discreet, one-piece black 
number.  It was not particularly revealing.  She knew her looks 
were such that she didn't need to brag. 

The guard manning the desk at the entrance to the club confirmed 
that Miss Jackson would begin practice with the girls from the 
junior college swim team in a few minutes. 

"However, it is a private club, and, since you're not a member of 
the team...."  The guard paused and then took a small note out of 
his pocket.  "But...is your first name 'Carrie'?" he asked. 

"Yes, it is," Carrie replied. 

"Then go right on down," he said, with chuckle. 

She tried to read what was written on the slip of paper.  She 
couldn't make out the words, but the script was the same cursive 
style that she had seen on those letters addressed to her.  On 
the very top of the note was a picture of smiling reindeer. 

As she walked down the stairs toward the locker room, she could 
feel the guard's eyes examining her bottom. 

On the way to the locker room, she walked past a classroom where a 
woman was lecturing.  The 25 students appeared to be college coeds, 
aged about 19 or 20.  The door was closed, and she stopped to look 
through the glass panel.  

"Can I help you?" a voice rasped from behind her. 

Carrie turned.  The query had come from a short, stocky female gym 
coach.  She was in her early fifties, apparently, wearing a t-shirt 
and baggy gym shorts, with a whistle around her neck. 

"Yes, I'm looking for Miss Jackson," Carrie said. 

"I'm Jackson," the woman responded, curtly.  "What do you want?" 

"My name is Carrie, and I was...." 

Jackson smiled.  "You're the fancy pants lawyer.  I should have 
guessed from the duds.  Turn around so I can have a look at you." 

Carrie turned slowly in a circle as Miss Jackson looked her up and 
down in a most unwholesome way.  "Not bad...not bad at all," 
Jackson said, approvingly.  "You have a nice little ass on you, 
Fancy Pants." 

Carrie felt herself flush as Jackson laughed, but she went on.  
"Actually, I was wondering....  May I practice with the other 
girls?" 

"Of course you can, Princess", Jackson said.  "After all, I don't 
want a lump of coal in MY stocking, either." 

"If I can just change into my suit...."  Carrie reached into her 
bag and held up her black suit. 

"Not so fast, honey pie," Jackson replied.  "State law requires a 
shower before entering the pool area."  She slowly ran her eyes up 
and down Carrie's lithe body.  "A nude shower," she added, with a 
leer.  "Follow me.  Girls can't shower without adult supervision." 

Carrie wasn't a "girl," and she certainly wasn't in need of "adult 
supervision."  Yet she dutifully followed the forceful Miss Jackson 
into the locker room. 

She felt a rush of panic as she walked past the shower area.  Her 
own health club had private shower stalls, with an enclosed 
changing area. 

In stark contrast, this locker room had a large gang shower.  The 
shower area itself, measuring about 20 X 30 feet, was sunk about 2 
inches into the floor, with numerous grated drains.  A series of 
overhead pipes directed the spray of water over the girls. 

Carrie felt her fear building as she realized that there were no 
walls, no curtains, and no partitions of any kind.  She had gone 
to a private school largely to avoid a shower like this.  Although 
she was extremely good-looking, the thought of showering in front 
of a group of naked women caused her stomach to flip flop. 

They proceeded on into the coach's office.  And Carrie noted, with 
dismay, that the large glass window gave the butch gym coach a 
perfect view of the shower area. 

"Take off your clothes," Miss Jackson ordered. 

"Excuse me?"  Carrie blinked. 

"You heard me.  Strip down to your birthday suit." 

"But...I showered at home," Carrie offered, lamely. 

Miss Jackson frowned and picked up the phone.  "Tell the boys I got 
a girl down here who doesn't want to take her shower.  Yeah, I know 
it's state law.  Tell 'em I need some help." 

By the time Miss Jackson had put down the phone, Carrie was already 
unbuttoning her blouse. 

"There's no need to call anyone," she said. 

As Carrie spoke, the locker rooms doors burst open, and the sound 
of girlish chatter filled the room. 

"Hurry up, Princess," Miss Jackson said, with a smile.  "You need 
to get your scrub down just like all the rest." 

Down to her bra and panties, Carrie hesitated.
 
"Birthday suit, Princess," Miss Jackson said with a tight smile.  
"Or don't you understand what the word 'naked' means?" 

Carrie did indeed understand the word 'naked.'  Unfortunately, so 
did the two guards now standing behind her. 

She was just dropping her underpants into the clothing basket on 
Miss Jackson's desk when she heard the appreciative whistles. 

"Isn't she a little piece of heaven?" the first guard asked. 

"She gets my vote for Miss December," his partner added. 

Carrie tried to cover herself from the admiring gaze of the two 
leering guards lounging in the office's doorway.   She recognized 
the first guard from the front desk, but his older partner was a 
new face. 

"What seems to be the problem?" the first guard asked. 

"Miss Modesty here didn't want to shuck down for her shower," Miss 
Jackson explained.  "Apparently she thinks she's better than 
everybody else." 

"Well, she's certainly not bad," the older guard chuckled. 

"She might have drugs," the first guard said, trying to hide his 
smile.  "Maybe we should search her." 

"But where would I be hiding...?"  Carrie's query was cut short as 
Miss Jackson grabbed her by the back of the neck and forced her to 
bend down, over the desk. 

Hunched over the desk was a humiliating pose, but not humiliating 
enough.  "Spread 'em," the first guard barked, punctuating his 
command by kicking Carrie's legs back, and then apart. 

The iron grip of Miss Jackson's hand on her neck prevented Carrie 
from looking back.  But, reflected in the glass window, she could 
watch the smiling guards slip on their rubber gloves. 

"You first, Lakewood?" the first guard said. 

"No, no.  Please, after you, Searchem," the older man replied. 

Searchem took his time, slowing sliding his finger around, in, and 
up Carrie's exposed sex. 

Carrie could see through the window that a number of the girls had 
finished stripping and were now soaping themselves up in the 
showers.  But the window worked both ways.  The girls nudged each 
other and pointed at Carrie as she winced and grimaced through her 
shameful examination. 

It was obvious the other naked women found Carrie's predicament to 
be the height of comedy. 

"Don't waste time lubing up, Lakewood," Searchem advised.  "She's 
got the wettest beaver I've ever seen!" 

Carrie winced at the embarrassing but altogether accurate 
description of her sopping sex. 

In, out...in, out...all around.  "Now lets check her brownie!" the 
guard said, brightly. 

Carrie bit her lip in anguish as he fingered her rectum.  One of 
the girls in the shower winked at her and then burst into laughter. 

Carrie started to rise, but Miss Jackson's grip was firm.  "Not so 
fast, sweet stuff.  We're just getting started!" 

"Your turn, Lakewood," Searchem said, cheerfully. 

Carrie clenched her teeth as the process was repeated.  In, 
out...in, out.  Every nook and cranny. 

The audience in the showers was larger now.  More naked girls.  
More knowing smiles.  More pointing.  More cruel laughter. 

"Hmmm, her poop chute is really tight," Lakewood observed.  "I'll 
bet that cornholing her'd be like fucking a rubber band." 

Carrie had never had anal sex.  She had fantasized about it, of 
course, but "nice girls" didn't do things like that. 

Of course, "nice girls" didn't get finger-fucked by grinning 
minimum wage rent-a-cops, either. 

She started to straighten up as Miss Jackson released her grip.  
But another hand pushed her down. 

"Your turn, Jackson!" Searchem said. 

The showers were almost full now, and a large and enthusiastic 
crowd watched Miss Jackson finger-fuck Carrie.  Her explorations 
were shorter, but no less enthusiastic. 

Carrie gasped as she felt something warm and gooey spread across 
her sex. 

"No pussy hair in the pool, your highness," Miss Jackson said, with 
a chuckle.  "This will leave you nice and bare.  It'll burn a bit, 
but that bush won't grow back for at least a couple of months." 

It did indeed burn a bit, and Carrie tried to reach back to offer 
herself some relief.  The response was a hard slap across her 
totally exposed bottom cheeks. 

"Keep still; it'll be done in a second." 

Carrie stared straight ahead.  One of the girls in the shower was 
mimicking her, covering her crotch with her hands and then hopping 
from foot to foot as if her pussy were burning.  The other girls 
in the shower laughed heartily at the parody. 

Carrie looked the girls over.  Not a one of them had pubic hair.  
Apparently the ordeal she was experiencing now was standard 
procedure. 

"I'm being processed," Carrie thought, as Miss Jackson rubbed the 
cream into her burning crotch.  "This is why they sent me here.  
They wanted to get me ready.  In prison I'd be processed all the 
time!  I'd be stripped and probed...and disinfected...whenever 
they felt like it!" 

Her thoughts were cut short by another hard slap across her bottom. 
"Go rinse off.  Hurry up, but be thorough!  I don't want to smell 
any of that perfume on you in the pool." 

Carrie obediently headed toward the shower.  Lakewood gave her 
fanny a hard slap as she passed, and she quickened her pace, 
absolutely scurrying the rest of the way. 

She felt sick as she stumbled into the shower.  She was the 
stranger, the outsider. 

She was the "new fish." 

Carrie took her place with the 25 other naked girls. 

As she washed off the cream it became clear to one and all that 
Carrie's pud was now totally stripped of its hair. 

"Bare as a billiard ball," one girl said. 

"I like her better without her pubes!" 

Carrie ignored the sniggering remarks and concentrated on washing 
the burn out of her bare pussy. 

"Do you need some help with that?" a voice said. 

Carrie turned.  The girl who was standing there was at least 6 feet 
tall, with short black hair. 

"I'm okay," Carrie mumbled. 

"Oh, I think you need some help."  The amazon nodded, and two girls 
grabbed Carrie's wrists. 

Carrie struggled in vain as the large butch co-ed stuck her tongue 
into her mouth. 

The shrill of a whistle interrupted Carrie's first lesbian kiss. 

"Out of the showers, ladies!" Coach Jackson barked.  "Time to 
stretch out before you hit the pool. 

"We'll catch you after class, Princess," the large girl warned. 

Carrie tried to head back towards the office to get her suit, but 
Miss Jackson stood in the door. 

"Where do you think YOU'RE going, Princess?" 

"I need my suit," Carrie said, meekly. 

"We swim birthday bare!" Coach Jackson explained.  "Now MARCH!" 

Coach Jackson's command was punctuated by a sharp SMACK! across 
Carrie's wet behind. 

Shuffling submissively out into the pool area, she gathered with 
the other girls by the side of the pool and followed along as Miss 
Jackson ordered them through their warm up exercises. 

There was a knowing smile on Jackson's cruel face as Carrie spread 
her legs and began doing her squats.... 

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


Part 9: ONE WAY TICKET 

The overnight package arrived at 10:30 AM.  It contained only a 
ticket to someplace down south that she had never heard of and a 
rental car reservation. 

The flight was to depart early on December 24, and the ticket was 
one-way. 

Was it a mistake?  By this time Carrie knew too much to believe 
in coincidence.  Sure enough, the answer arrived in the afternoon 
mail. 

	Dear Carrie, 

	Thank you for your letter.  It is not uncommon for women 
	to have the sexual fantasies you described, although I 
	don't get letters like yours very often. 

	Needless to say, you are welcome to tour our facilities.  
	I'll be happy to give you an 'inside look,' as you put it. 
	But I have to warn you that, after seeing that hot picture 
	you sent of yourself, I'm of a mind to think that one 
	'inside look' deserves another! 

	I have got to say I wasn't too pleased with your political 
	views.  Our state is about as red as they come, and we 
	don't like outside agitators, who think they're better 
	than everyone else, telling us how stupid we are.  That 
	article you sent me showing that states that voted 
	Republican were 'dumber' and had a lower IQ than states 
	that voted Democrat was typical of the sort of smart-ass, 
	college-educated, snooty bullshit that makes folks around 
	here hate liberals. 

	Support our President!  Support our Troops! 

	By the way, that joke you made about me looking like a big 
	fat doughnut was really funny.  It reminded me of a new law 
	we had passed about showing disrespect to members of the 
	police department or the armed forces.  I was showing one 
	of the new guys how to type it into the system, and the 
	gosh-darndest thing happened -- an arrest warrant popped 
	out with your name on it! 

	The warrant is attached.  If you bring it my jail on 12/24, 
	I promise you will get a COMPLETE tour of our facilities 
	and an 'inside look' at the procedures we use to turn 
	snooty, elitist liberals into submissive, obedient fuck 
	bunnies.  Try to get here by 1PM.  We're having a Christmas 
	party for some of the old geezers from the retirement home, 
	and I'm sure they'd love to watch me put you through your 
	paces. 

	The Sheriff 

	PS: As to the length of your stay, we'll decide that after 
	you get here.  But, if you get smart with me, don't worry 
	about packing a lot of clothes, as we take care of that 
	sort of stuff for girls like you. 

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

The letter left Carrie stunned.  As a prosecutor, her politics were 
extremely conservative, and she had no patience for liberal sob 
stories about the poor and disenfranchised.  Though her enormous 
trust fund ensured that she would never have to work, she had 
become a prosecutor because she enjoyed putting people in jail. 

She smiled.  She was good at her job, convicting innocent and 
guilty alike.  There was something about that look in a person's 
eyes when the judge slammed the gavel down and they realized their 
lives were over. 

Carrie had had no patience with her liberal professors at Harvard, 
and, after graduation, she had done her best to fix the wagon of 
all who had crossed her path.  The idea that someone had portrayed 
her as a liberal was truly comical. 

There was only one possible conclusion.  The person who had 
written the letter wanted to make sure that she received the 
harshest treatment possible.  She was being led to the altar 
of the culture wars like a sacrificial animal. 

The Sheriff would shear the little liberal of her pride and 
dignity, with all of the old men watching.  She would be alone, 
helpless, and defenseless.  It would be mutton and lamb chops for 
dinner! 

The car rental was a "special."  The person who had made the 
reservation had arranged for Carrie to be getting a Toyota Prius.  
She would therefore be driving the greenest liberal-mobile on earth 
into the land of pickups and SUVs.  She might as well be wearing a 
t-shirt that read, "I'm an elitist liberal snob" on the front and 
"Fuck you, REDNECKS!" on the back. 

Yes, Carrie would certainly be dealt with properly. 

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

Sitting in the bath that night, she read "One Question Too Many" 
over and over.  Her hand drifted south, as she imagined the scene. 
 
A box with her name on it.... 

An open shower stall.... 

A picture window.... 

The gleaming stirrups. 

Her orgasm was so violent that she slopped bathwater over the edge 
of the tub and across the floor. 

As she slipped between the sheets, she considered her options 
carefully.  She could ignore the warrant, of course.  It was 
utterly bogus, and she knew there was no way her attorney friends 
would ever let her be extradited to that hillbilly jurisdiction. 

She could remain in her luxurious home...safe, warm, and dry.  

Dry as a bone. 

Or...she could use the ticket to make all of her deepest, darkest 
sexual fantasies a reality. 

"It wouldn't be that bad," she told herself.  "I'm sure the Sheriff 
is a reasonable man.  I'll just explain that I'm not really the 
kind of girl he's after.  I'm not some liberal lefty who needs to 
be taught a lesson.  I am a career woman, true, but I am his sister 
in law enforcement.  I don't need a lesson in humility...well, 
maybe I do, but that's not the point...exactly.  I'm not just 
another little rich girl that he can transform into some bimbo, 
because...well, because I'm different, that's all.  He'll be 
able to see that the moment I hand him my arrest warrant...surely." 

She decided to wear her gray charcoal suit and her wire-rimmed 
glasses.  No contact lenses; the glasses made her look older and 
more professional.  The Sheriff would know the instant he saw her 
that she wasn't -- and could never be -- some submissive little 
"fuck bunny." 

In her imagination, she became the mistress of the situation.  She 
would explain the mistake to the Sheriff.  She would display her 
credentials, parade her conservative beliefs.  He would laugh and 
shake her hand.  Perhaps he would even buy her lunch...or give her 
the key to the city. 

Carrie's imaginary triumph allowed her to relax enough to sleep.  
Like many a little girl at Christmas, she slumbered, as visions 
of sugarplums danced her head.

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


Part 10: THE CLOTHES MAKE THE WOMAN

In truth, Carrie still had a lot of work in her in-box.  She had a 
whole bunch of people (some innocent, some guilty) whom she had 
planned on chucking into jail before the Christmas holidays. 

Once the mysterious letters started arriving, however, her 
all-important conviction rate began to seem less and less 
important. 

The 23rd was her last day at work, and she spent most of it in 
saying goodbye to colleagues who dropped by to wish her well on 
her six-month sabbatical, and in shuffling off her cases to junior 
staffers. 

She was purposely evasive when people asked her what she would be 
doing.  How could she tell them that she could going to prison -- 
a prison where she would be chained, over-worked, abused, degraded, 
and possibly even pimped out? 

Not that something like that would REALLY happen.  After all, she 
hadn't committed a crime.  She would stroll into the Sheriff's 
office and slap the bogus arrest warrant onto his desk. 

She could be extremely persuasive.  Yes, the Sheriff would be no 
trouble at all. 

Carrie spent a lot of the afternoon thinking about her shoes.  The 
Guccis made her look taller, but they might be a tad too dressy.  
Perhaps the Versaces would be better....

Which would the Sheriff prefer?  She knew the Sheriff would like 
her.  And, once she explained who she was and how much she admired 
his approach to justice, she was confident that they would be come 
friends. 

Maybe the Sheriff would allow her to prosecute one of the little 
bimbos he'd run in for speeding.  Court appearances were always a 
power trip, and the knowledge that she'd be sending an innocent 
woman to the chain gang gave Carrie a wicked thrill. 

The final package arrived just before 5, by special delivery.  
Pasted to the top was a tiny decal of an elf wrapping a package.

	CARRIE, 

	PLEASE DON'T WORRY YOUR PRETTY LITTLE HEAD THAT YOU'RE 
	NOT AS LIBERAL AS THE NOTE TO THE SHERIFF IMPLIED.  
	AFTER ALL, YOU'VE NEVER BEEN PARTICULAR ABOUT WHAT YOU 
	SENT PEOPLE TO PRISON FOR -- OR WHETHER THEY WERE GUILTY 
	OR INNOCENT -- AND I SEE NO REASON TO START NOW. 

	SINCE YOU'VE COME THIS FAR, I THOUGHT MAYBE YOU'D LIKE TO 
	GO A LITTLE FARTHER.  ENCLOSED IS THE OUTFIT YOU ARE TO 
	WEAR TOMORROW WHEN YOU VISIT THE SHERIFF.  YOU MUST WEAR 
	THESE CLOTHES -- AND NOTHING ELSE -- OR THE DEAL'S OFF, 
	AND YOU WON'T GET YOUR PRESENT. 

	YOU MAY ALSO BRING YOUR DRIVER'S LICENSE, THE ARREST 
	WARRANT, AND $50 IN CASH IN THE ENCLOSED PURSE.  (AND 
	WEAR THOSE CUTE WIRE-RIMMED GLASSES OF YOURS.  I WOULDN'T 
	WANT YOU TO HAVE AN ACCIDENT, AND, BESIDES, THEY MAKE YOU 
	LOOK SO INTELLECTUAL.)  PACK NOTHING ELSE. 

	I'LL SEE YOU TOMORROW NIGHT.  ALL OF YOUR QUESTIONS WILL 
	BE ANSWERED THEN. 

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

Carrie twirled in front of her bedroom mirror.  No matter how 
slowly she moved, the ultra-short denim skirt always seemed to 
flip up and show her panties, emblazoned with candy canes. 

Not that the top was much better.  It was a HARVARD crop-top 
t-shirt that just covered her candy cane bra, but left her 
midsection attractively bare. 

The sneakers and white ankle socks she was wearing were definitely 
not Gucci. 

She frowned as she examined her reflection.  She had planned to 
present the image of a sophisticated professional, but the girl 
who was staring back at her looked like a co-ed bimbo. 

How was she going to convince the Sheriff that she was a real 
prosecutor, someone to be taken seriously, if she couldn't bring 
her badge or her credentials?  How was she going to explain that 
she wasn't just another bimbo ripe for processing if she looked 
like she'd just jumped off the front of PLAYBOY's "Girls of the 
Ivy League" issue? 

It was hopeless. 

The arrest warrant would be executed. 

And then she'd be processed. 

Why did it have to be HARVARD?  She did get her law degree there, 
but she'd had no intention of telling the Sheriff that. 

It was like having a "LIBERAL INTELLECTUAL ELITE" label stamped on 
her forehead. 

If college girls got extra spanks for being "snooty," how many 
spanks would a HARVARD girl get?  Carrie felt her fanny tighten 
as she pictured the empty wooden spanking bench. 

It wouldn't be empty for long. 

Mindful of airport security procedures, she decided to wear a sweat 
shirt and jeans (and carry her bimbo top and skirt in a paper bag) 
until she got off the plane, despite instructions.  

She went to bed early that evening and did her best to sleep.  She 
knew tomorrow was likely to be a very long day.

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


Part 11: DIXIE

The flight itself was a uneventful.  And, after picking up her 
rental car, Carrie drove a few miles before stopping at a gas 
station to change into her bimbo outfit.

The transformation was dramatic and instantaneous.  When she 
entered the station and asked where the ladies' room was, the 
respectful young attendant addressed her as "Ma'am."

But, when she emerged from the rest room, the same attendant 
greeted her with a wolf whistle.  "Where did you come from, 
sweet cheeks?" 

She glanced out the window at the obnoxious "Kerry/Edwards" bumper 
sticker on her rental Prius.  "Do you have anything that can remove 
a bumper sticker?" she asked the leering clerk.

"Why don't you suck it off?" he replied.  "That hot little mouth of 
yours looks like it could handle anything."

She should have slapped his face.  But whether it was the clothes, 
or her nervousness, or just the fact that it was Christmas Eve, 
Carrie found herself blushing as she scurried out to her rental 
car to avoid the clerk's lascivious laughter.

		******************************
              
A couple of hours later, she reached her destination, well before 
1PM, and seated herself nervously on a park bench a few yards from 
the Sheriff's office.

She was at the right place, at the right time, and wearing the 
right clothes.  All she had to do was to go through the front 
door.  But she was petrified.

Her panic attack was interrupted by a nervous teenage voice.  "Did 
you really go to Harvard?"

She turned, to discover that the voice came from a thin, gawky 
teenage boy who was staring at her cropped "Harvard" t-shirt.

"Yes, I did," she replied.  "I graduated with honors from Harvard 
Law."

"Wow!" the boy said.  "Is it really as tough as they say?  My 
grades are great, but I don't know if I could afford Harvard."

"There are a lot of scholarships," Carrie replied.  "If your 
grades and test scores are good enough, there's nothing you 
can't accomplish."

The boy sat down next to her and began to discuss his academic 
plans.  She quickly learned that his name was Timmy, that his 
favorite subjects were history and math (but that he got an "A" 
in everything, and that he had just turned 18 today.  He wanted 
to go on to college, but his grandfather wanted him to join the 
Sheriff's office "to make some real money."  Timmy didn't have a 
girlfriend, and Carrie was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

The conversation was warm and congenial, with Carrie easily batting 
away the younger man's fumbling attempts at flirtation.  It was 
only when the subject turned to her presence in town that things 
grew tense.

"I kind of...um...got this arrest warrant in the mail...by 
accident," she said, as she showed Timmy the document.  "I 
was supposed to show up today to talk to the Sheriff, to get 
this all cleared up."

Timmy surveyed the warrant gravely.  "I don't think you should 
go in there, Miss Paris.  Just leave the warrant with me.  One 
of my friends is a deputy -- he'll take care of it.  You should 
just get out of town."

"I don't understand," Carrie said.

"My grandpa is going to meet me here in a couple of minutes," he 
explained.  "It's my 18th birthday, and the Sheriff promised 
Grandpa that I could watch them process some little bimb....  I 
mean...they're going to get some girl ready for the prison farm."

"Are there any girls waiting to be processed?" she asked.

"No...not yet," he said, nervously.  "Do you trust me, Carrie?"

"Um...I guess so...."

"Good.  And you know I'm trying to help you, right?  So you'll do 
what I say?"

Carrie considered the proposition.  Timmy was so earnest and 
wholesome.  If she had let outside forces get her into this, 
maybe it was best to let another outside force get her out of it.

"My fate is in your hands," she said, truthfully.

Timmy smiled.  "Like I said, if you give me the warrant and 
leave...."

"You'll do no such thing," another male voice crackled.

Carrie turned to see a wizened, bald figure waving his cane in the 
air.  "What's wrong with you, boy?  You trying to screw up your 
present?"

"Grandpa!" Timmy said.  "I wasn't expecting you so soon.  Let me 
introduce you to my friend, Carrie Paris...."

"She ain't your friend, she's your present," the old man barked.  
"Get your skinny ass over here."

The old man put his shopping bag down and waved Timmy over.  Carrie 
couldn't hear most of the conversation, but at one point the old 
man's voice rang out, loud and clear:

"Well, she may or may not be your FRIEND, but if you want to FUCK 
her, you'll do what I say."

Timmy walked over to Carrie.  "Do you want me to leave, Timmy?" she 
asked.

"Uh...I haven't decided yet," he replied, tentatively.  "I need to 
talk to the Sheriff first.   But give me that arrest warrant."

She handed over the warrant.  She looked into Timmy's eyes and 
could sense his desire to do good.  She knew he would do the 
right thing.

Timmy walked across the street to the Sheriff's office, leaving 
Carrie alone with the old man, who carefully kept his distance.

She glanced at the shopping bag that the old man had left near her 
bench when he had pulled Timmy aside.  To her amusement, she 
noticed a large package of adult disposable diapers sticking out 
of the top of the bag.

So the man who was obviously conspiring to have her thrown into 
jail had an embarrassing vulnerability.  Her prosecutor persona 
awakened instantly.

"What's the matter, Grandpa?  Can't you hold your water any more?" 
She smiled, brightly.  "Cleanup in Aisle 3...."  

The old man hobbled over to stuff the diapers deeper into the bag.  
"Damn whippersnapper!" he cursed.  "I'm still young enough to teach 
you a good lesson, college girl.  You won't be so smart when the 
Sheriff tans your pampered ass."

"Don't get your hopes up, Grandpa.  Even now, your offspring is 
arranging for the charges to be dropped."

"Are you sure about that?" the old man asked, pointing at the 
window.

Carrie looked through the huge picture window built into the 
front of the Sheriff's office.  She could see Timmy talking 
to a buck-toothed deputy.

Timmy appeared to mesmerized by the sight of the grinning deputy 
snapping the shiny steel stirrups into place on the examination 
table.

She grimaced.  Even from a distance, the evil stirrups glistened 
venomously.

As a final, mocking touch, a tiny Santa ornament had been attached 
to each of the infernal stirrups.  Carrie felt a chill as the 
smiling Santas swung back and forth.

Obviously curious, Timmy carefully examined the stirrups.  It 
was clear that the young man found the widely splayed stirrups 
strangely fascinating.

The examination table was directly in front of the big picture 
window.  If Carrie WERE arrested, she would be spread out nicely 
there, for one and all to see.

Carrie's trance was broken by the sound of another old croaker's 
voice.  "Is this the little honey who's going to take a ride in 
the stirrups for us?" an old man was asking Timmy's grandfather.

"No!" Carrie replied, angrily.

"Yup!" Grandpa chuckled.  "She's going to spread those long legs of 
hers nice and wide!  Bet she loses some of her sass when she sees 
all us old geezers staring at her gash."

But then a friendly voice interrupted.  "It's okay, Carrie.  I've 
taken care of everything."

She turned at the sound of Timmy's voice to find that her young 
defender had returned from his trip to the Sheriff's office.

She gave Grandpa a triumphant "I-told-you-so!" smile before turning 
back to Timmy.

"So I can go?" she asked.

"Uh...no.  Well, you have to check in with the Sheriff's office 
first.  They'll take care of it in there."

Carrie looked over at the picture window.  The stirrups were still 
in place.

"Are you sure?" she asked, nervously.

"You said your fate was in my hands," the boy replied.  "I guess 
that means you pretty much have to do what I say."

Carrie looked at the two old men.  Now it was Grandpa's turn to 
grin.

Grandpa couldn't walk very fast, so the march across the street 
to the jail proceeded slowly.  To her disgust, Carrie noticed 
the second old man moving to get a front row position in front 
of the enormous picture window.

The deputy was placing a large black carton in the window.  The 
label on the carton read:

			PARIS, CARRIE
			#338-3838-3484

Carrie swallowed.  It was her processing carton!

Timmy noticed Carrie's look of horror as her carton appeared in the 
window.  "Like I said, I've taken care of everything," he said, 
lamely.  "The judge will need to hear your case to throw out your 
warrant.  That's probably just the document box they'll put the 
legal papers and stuff in."

"It's not for...m-my cl-clothes?" she stammered.

Timmy smiled and pushed Carrie through the now open door.  "There 
may be some...er...sanitary procedures," he said, lightly.  "But 
I'm sure it's for your own good."

She felt queasy as she saw the smiling Santas swinging jauntily 
from the stirrups.  "You must be Carrie Paris; I'm Deputy Chester," 
the man on duty said.

"Yes...sir," Carrie replied.  "I don't belong here.  That warrant's 
a big mistake."

"Of course it is," Chester replied, assuming the air of man who has 
seen it all before.  "If you'll just follow me, I'll show you to 
one of the specially appointed waiting rooms we've set up for 
upstanding young ladies such as yourself to await the results 
of our lowly paper shuffling."

Carrie was led towards the back of the jail.  She paused in 
confusion as the deputy opened the cell door.  "Right this way, 
your majesty," he said, as he shoved her inside.

She turned as the cell door clanged shut behind her.  She grabbed 
the bars and called out.  "This is a mistake.  You can't put me in 
a cell.  I haven't done anything wrong.  Timmy, you said you took 
care of everything."

Timmy smiled indulgently.  "I said that I'd take care of your 
warrant," he said, as if explaining simple facts to a child.  
"The judge will rule on the validity of the warrant...after 
you've been processed."

"Processed?" Carrie gasped.  "What do you mean...'processed'?"

Grandpa chuckled.  "Do you still have that checkers set, deputy?" 
the old man asked.  "I'd like to teach my wet-behind-the-ears 
grandson that his Grandfather still knows a thing or two about 
the game."

Carrie watched dizzily as the smiling old man set up the checkers 
on the examination table.  Timmy and Gramps pulled up two stools 
and began to play.

They used the stirrups as cup holders for the Christmas eggnog.

To her humiliation, she noted that Grandpa had placed the board to 
cover the exact spot her bare ass would rest during her upcoming 
"examination."

As predicted, Grandpa beat the boy hands down.  Each time he took 
a piece, or got kinged, the old man would look over at Carrie, 
smile, and playfully flick one of the little stirrup Santas so 
that it spun around.

Carrie clenched both the bars and her teeth as she watched the 
"game" in helpless frustration.

Tick, tock, tick tock.  With each passing moment, the crowd in the 
picture window grew.

As promised, the bus from the retirement home arrived right on 
time.  It was warm outside, almost balmy, so it was easy enough 
to line up the seven wheelchairs so that each of the geezers had 
a front row seat.

By the time Grandpa clinched the game, the picture window was 
filled with eager spectators.

Men, dragged out by their wives for last minute Christmas shopping, 
found something better to watch than ESPN on the department store 
television.

Carrie suffered mixed feelings as Grandpa cleared away the game.    
On the one hand, she was glad that the endless waiting was over     
and that there would be no more time for other spectators to arrive.

But she knew what the empty examination table meant.

"That sure was fun, Grandpa," Timmy said.

Grandpa laughed.  "If you think THAT was fun, wait until you see 
the next game piece we put up here."

Carrie blushed as Grandpa cheerfully patted the end of the exam 
table to denote where the next "game piece" would go, and the 
three men laughed at her expense.

She was led out of her cell and ordered to stand on a large red X 
directly next to the examination table.

Chester asked Timmy to bring the carton over, and he dutifully 
complied, giving Carrie a playful little "sorry!" shrug as he 
placed the carton on the exam table and tossed her tiny purse 
inside.

"I expect you to cooperate, Carrie," the deputy intoned solemnly.  
"If you don't, I might have to ask Timmy and some of the boys 
outside to give me a hand.  Now, are you going to be a good 
little girl and do as you're told?"

Carrie stared at her shoes and nodded.

"Say it, girl!"

"I-I'll be g-good...a-a good l-little girl...s-sir."

"Well, I hope so," Chester patronized.  "Take off your shoes and 
socks, and put them in the carton."

Carrie complied.  As she took off her first sock, she braced 
herself by grabbing one of the stirrups.  It gave her a tiny 
shock, and she wobbled awkwardly for a moment.

"Those stirrups come as a shock to a lot of girls, I imagine," 
Grandpa snorted.

She removed her second sock and placed it in the crate, while the 
three men once again shared a laugh at her expense.

"Take off your shirt," Chester ordered.  "Fold it neatly, and put 
it in the carton."

As she pulled the HARVARD t-shirt over her head, Carrie once again 
heard the old man's creaky voice.

"Ever think you'd see Harvard hooters, son?" 

"Only in my dreams, Grandpa," Timmy replied, enthusiastically.  
"Thanks again.  This is the best birthday present ever."

The deputy chuckled as the little candy canes on the bra came into 
view.  "Well, aren't those Christmas-y?"

"I wonder if her milk is peppermint flavored," Grandpa snickered.

"Now the skirt, Princess," Chester ordered.  "In the box with the 
rest of it."

Carrie grimaced.  She had been working like a Trojan to keep her 
candy cane panties covered by her minuscule skirt.

Gritting her teeth, she obeyed.

"I see Paris, I see France, I see candy cane underpants!" Timmy 
snickered.

But Grandpa's eyes were keener still.  "Look at that stain in the 
front," he said, gleefully.  "I thought I smelled something.  The 
little vixen's wetter than a Havana whore house!"

Carrie tried to cover her underpants, but it was too late.  Even 
the men in the window had seen her shameful stain.  She blushed 
and squirmed as the men laughed and pointed and made sly remarks 
at her expense.

She was almost relieved when the order came to remove her bra.

She turned her back in order to keep her breasts shielded for a 
few moments longer.  Naked, except for her panties, she looked 
tearfully back over her shoulder at the huge crowd of grinning 
lechers. 

"Get the baggies, Timmy," the deputy ordered.  "The Sheriff likes 
to bag squirrel covers like hers when they're hot and wet."

She involuntarily clenched her thighs together.  Her panties were 
definitely hot...and soaking wet.

Timmy extracted a baggie from the box and attached a bar-coded tag 
with her name and prisoner number.

The deputy extracted a picture of Carrie from a file he had sitting 
on his desk.  The photo was part of a press release that had named 
her "Prosecutor of the Year."  The woman in the picture was dressed 
in a smart charcoal business suit.  She looked nothing like the 
knock-kneed bimbo who trembled next to the exam table wearing 
nothing but her candy cane underpants!

Carrie felt dizzy as a smiling Timmy walked up to her with the 
humiliating panty bag.

"Please, Timmy....  Please don't bag my panties.  They'll put 
them in the window next to my picture, and then everyone will 
think...they'll think...."

"They'll think we got ourselves a fresh piece of high class gash 
for Christmas," the grandfather snickered.  "When they see how wet 
you are, the men'll be lining up to give you a pony ride."

"Please, Timmy," Carrie said.  "Don't let them search me!  I swear 
I'm not hiding anything!"

"It's your birthday present, Timmy," the deputy said.  "We can skip 
the panty bag -- and the search too -- if you want.  We could just 
let her get dressed in the Sheriff's office if you want."

Time seemed to stop as Timmy considered his options.  Carrie looked 
at the 18-year-old with tearful, pleading eyes.

Timmy looked Carrie up and down slowly before reaching his decision.

"Those little underpants are so cute, it would be a pity not to let 
the whole town see them.  And...if you didn't want it, why are you 
so wet?"

Carrie looked at her bare feet, too embarrassed to answer.

"You were pretty sassy out there, when you thought you were going 
to get off," Timmy observed.  "Teasing me about being a virgin and 
all.  Well, maybe Grandpa is right.  Maybe you DO need to be taught 
a lesson."

Timmy smiled and held up the bag.  "Those panties sure do look cute 
on that sweet little ass of yours.  But they're going to look even 
cuter in the bag.  Take 'em off."

Carrie bit her lip and slid the panties down to her ankles before 
stepping out of them.

Even through the glass Carrie could hear the laughter and whistles 
from the crowd as her shapely bottom came into view.

"My, aren't they fragrant!" Grandpa chuckled.  "Smells like she was 
diddling herself all the way from Harvard."

Timmy snapped his fingers twice as Carrie nervously clutched her 
panties.  "Hand 'em over," he said, clearly relishing his position 
of authority.

She reached over her shoulder and dropped the panties into the open 
bag.

"No, no, no...that'll never do," Timmy chuckled.  "They need to be 
folded nicely, so the candy canes are all lined up, and people can 
see the red trim outline.  There...now that big, wet, gooey stain 
is right below your name!"

Carrie bit her lip as she watched the smiling youngster seal the 
bag...and her fate.  From now on, no matter what she did or how 
high she climbed, she would have to deal with the reality that she 
was just another bagged bimbo in the Sheriff's enormous collection.

"So what's next, Timmy?" the deputy asked. "It's getting kind of 
late.  We can just get her dressed, if you don't have time for 
the search.  It's not like she's carrying any contraband."

Timmy smiled as Carrie stared at him with huge, doe-like eyes.  
"I'm not so sure," he said.  "Are you carrying any contraband, 
Carrie?"

"No.  I-I mean...no, sir."  She hoped that deference might buy 
leniency from the grinning young man.

Timmy slowly ran his hand over a cold metal stirrup and down to the 
table.  She blushed as he playfully patted the end of the table -- 
exactly the spot where every eye would be focused...if he decided 
to examine her. 

"Mount up," Timmy said quietly.

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


Part 12: THE...ER...CLIMAX


"Mount up," Timmy said, quietly. 

"Please, Timmy," Carrie begged.  "Y-you can't do this to me!" 

"Maybe we should get the strap," Grandpa said.  "She'll jump up and 
spread 'em from sea to shining sea after we tan her fanny." 

Carrie obediently hopped up onto the table.  Acutely conscious of 
her nudity, she blushed crimson as she put first her left and then 
her right foot into the stirrups. 

"Scoot down," Deputy Chester ordered. 

Carrie obeyed. 

"Now spread 'em." 

She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and complied. 

The "oohs" and "ahhs" as her bare pussy came into view burned her 
ears. 

"Why doesn't she have any hair, Grandpa?" Timmy innocently asked. 

"Looks like someone's already shaved that randy little twat of 
hers," Grandpa replied. 

"Sluts and whores do that sometimes," the deputy said, knowingly.  
"Down at the strip club, a lot of fellows like it bare." 

Carrie looked up.  Grandpa and Timmy were bad enough, but, in the 
window, she could see dozens of male eyes focused on her bare, wet 
cunt. 

She was so distracted by her audience that she didn't even notice 
the deputy slipping on his glove. 

"Geez, she sure is wet!" Chester guffawed as he unceremoniously 
slid two fingers into Carrie's twat.  "That sure is some hot, wet, 
American pie!" 

The deputy's exam was thorough, but mercifully brief.  "She's a 
tight little slut...probably too stuck up to get fucked regular.  
But we'll take care of that.  Carlos and the guards will put that 
little rubber band of hers to good use!" 

"Could I...have a feel?"  Timmy asked, tentatively. 

"Sure!" Chester said.  "The more the merrier!  The gloves are on 
the table." 

More was not merrier for Carrie, and she looked up at the deputy in 
stunned disbelief. 

"I'd rather not use a glove," Timmy said, sheepishly.  "I'd like to 
feel my first pussy bare." 

"Suit yourself," the deputy replied. 

"No!" Carrie shouted.  "He's just a kid!  He's a VIRGIN, for Pete's 
sake.  You can't let him finger me." 

"He's 18 today," Chester said, brightly.  "And, as for the virgin 
part, I'm sure a nice civic-minded Harvard liberal like you would 
be happy to help out a young man in need!" 

Carrie winced as Timmy ran his finger over her hot, wet pussy.  
"Are they always this wet?" he asked the deputy. 

"It depends on the girl," Chester said, adopting a professorial 
tone.  "Some girls don't warm up to it, but others really get into 
stripping for an audience.  That's why it's good to do the searches 
this way.  When you have a girl who humps your hand in front of a 
100 guys, you know you have a natural for the club." 

Timmy took his time, slowly working his fingers into 
her...probing...massaging.  "Is this her clit?" he asked. 

"Yup, that's it," Chester replied.  "If you really want to get to 
her, rub it while you search her for contraband." 

The "search" was really just an extended grope, and now Carrie had 
to deal with the added humiliation of being masturbated in front of 
crowd of horny onlookers. 

She forced herself to open her eyes and look up.  Timmy was 
standing to one side as he diddled her, so that each onlooker
had an unobstructed view. 

She surveyed the leering crowd.  Every man, young and old, had a 
smile on his face and a bulge in his pants. 

"Please stop," she pleaded.  "You're going to make me...." 

But Timmy's hand was relentless.  Within a few seconds, Carrie 
started quivering. 

She surrendered to the most monumentally humiliating, shameful, and 
powerful orgasm. 

"Look at the little slut's hole twitch," Grandpa said.  I think 
she's cumming!" 

"Keep rubbing her button, boy," the deputy said, eagerly.  "Let's 
see if we can get her to do it again." 

Much to her consternation, they did indeed get her off again...and 
again after that. 

By the time the deputy ordered her to get up "on all fours," Carrie 
was a wasted, exhausted mess. 

Though she was somewhat dazed, a sharp SPANK! across her fanny 
re-awakened her to the grim reality that she was there to follow 
orders. 

She pressed her nose against the table, raised her fanny high, and 
finally, reluctantly, spread her legs.  The obscene pose brought 
her wet pussy and puckered anus into full view. 

"Look at that little brownie," Grandpa chuckled.  "Tighter'n a 
dime." 

"Yeah, I'll need some lube for this one," Chester agreed. 

Carrie listened to the sound of the deputy unscrewing the lid of 
the jar of lubricant. 

"Your finger still looks way too big to get up there," Timmy said, 
thoughtfully. 

"Don't talk that way, boy," Grandpa snickered.  "You're making her 
pucker up!" 

Carrie's sphincter was indeed contracting as she mentally prepared 
for the arrival of the unwanted explorer. 

She clenched her anus tighter as she felt Chester's greasy, gloved 
finger poke against her tight rear hole.  But the finger soldiered 
on. 

Carrie winced in humiliation as the finger sank in, first to the 
knuckle, and then all the way to the hilt. 

She turned her head toward her tormenter.  As if the examination 
wasn't bad enough, every man in the window was watching...and 
grinning. 

Ha-ha-ha.  The stuck up Harvard girl was taking it up the ass.  
What a riot. 

Since a squeamish Timmy declined his chance to debase Carrie 
anally, the second examination ended more quickly than the first. 

The deputy tossed her a bag with some clothes.  "Get dressed," he 
ordered.  "It's time for your trial." 

"But these are jailhouse clothes," Carrie said.  "Won't I get to 
dress like a civilian for my trial?" 

"Why would we waste time dressing you?" he snickered.  "We'd just 
have to strip you again when it came time to send you to the 
prison farm." 

"But...I'm innocent," she protested. 

"Tell it to the Judge," he snorted. 

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

Carrie, her hands cuffed tightly behind her back, trembled 
nervously in front of the enormous judicial bench.  She was 
wearing the outfit of a prison farm convict: cheap sneakers 
with white ankle socks, skimpy orange gym shorts, and a white 
half t-shirt with no bra.  The back of the t-shirt had the word 
"INMATE" in red letters -- and the front displayed her prisoner 
number. 

It wasn't lost on Carrie that her prison farm number had been 
assigned to her even before her trial had begun. 

The courtroom was Carrie's domain, and she relished the feeling of 
power it gave her.  How many times had she flirted with the jury, 
wrapping them around her little finger as she sealed some poor 
loser's fate? 

But now she felt anything but powerful, for the poor loser was 
herself. 

Her legs quivered.  Her voice faltered and squeaked.  The cool 
breeze from the ceiling fan caused her nipples to poke against 
the front of her tight t-shirt, but, despite the chill, she felt 
a cool trickle of sweat run down her face. 

Carrie couldn't wipe the sweat away.  Her hands twisted helplessly 
in her cuffs as the obese, lip-smacking judge leered down at her. 

"I should warn you, young lady, that I don't like sass.  If you are 
willing to plead guilty, and perhaps meet with me in my chambers to 
discuss your case in more detail, I might be willing to let you off 
with 30 days." 

Carrie's breasts bobbled provocatively under her t-shirt as she 
nervously shifted her weight from foot to foot.  It was clear 
from the disgusting smile on the judge's face what the "session 
in chambers" would involve. 

"But I'm innocent," Carrie squeaked.  "If you'll let me defend 
myself, I'll be able to prove...." 

The judge's wooden gavel silenced further argument.  "Have it your 
way, smarty pants," he said.  "I find you guilty and sentence you 
to 6 months hard labor on the prison farm...AND 15 strokes of the 
strap across your bare, sassy behind.  You won't be so quick to 
back talk after a good fanny warming!" 

Carrie gasped.  SIX MONTHS!  The maximum?  But...she was innocent! 

Before she could speak, the deputy had gripped her by the scruff of 
the neck and begun dragging her towards the door. 

"Your Honor, I have something to say.  This is not justice!" 

Carrie turned at the sound of Timmy's voice.  Her heart leapt with 
joy! 

"How so?" the judge asked. 

"She's from Harvard," Timmy observed.  "Doesn't that mean an extra 
five strokes?" 

"That it does!" the judge bellowed.  "Make it so, Deputy." 

"With pleasure, Your Honor," the deputy replied, as he resumed 
dragging Carrie towards the door. 

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

Carrie shivered as the smiling deputy teasingly rubbed the razor 
strap across her shapely buttocks. 

"Do you promise to be a good little girl?" he teased. 

SNAP! 

"Yes!" 

"Yes, what?" 

SNAP! 

"Yes, sir!  I p-p-promise!" 

"Grandpa was telling me what a pretty mouth you have." 

Despite the vulnerability of her position, Carrie snapped.  "There 
is no way I would let that disgusting old geezer...." 

SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! 

"I-I'm sorry!  I'll do whatever you say!" 

"Will you suck him dry?" 

SNAP! 

"Yes, sir!" 

"Will you swallow every drop?" 

"Yes, sir!" 

"Will little Timmy be a virgin when he leaves the station tonight?" 

"Please...don't make me do that," she pleaded.  "Don't let 
Timmy...f-fuck me!" 

SNAP!  SNAP! 

"Oh, god!  Yes, I'll do it!" 

"Will you wrap your legs around him really tight, and wiggle your 
fanny, and tell him how special he is?" 

SNAP! 

"Yes, sir." 

She was a broken, contrite girl.  She would blow Grandpa, and she 
would fuck Timmy.  She would do anything and everything she was 
told, no matter how disgusting. 

Her bottom tensed and squirmed.  There were still 11 strokes to go! 

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

She was still pulling up her shorts when Grandpa entered the office.

"Sounds to me like a young lady learned a lesson in respecting her 
elders!" he chortled. 

"Yes, sir," she said, meekly. 

"I'll leave you two alone...to get better acquainted," Chester 
said.  "If she gives you any trouble, sir, just let me know, 
and I'll come in and give her another dose." 

Carrie's eyes widened.  ANOTHER SPANKING? 

"No, please!" she said, desperately.  "I'll do anything you say.  
Just don't...don't s-spank me again!" 

"That will be up to him," the deputy said, nodding towards Grandpa. 
"If I were you, sugar, I'd make it sweet." 

The deputy closed the door, and Grandpa beckoned a very nervous 
Carrie closer.  "You're a very pretty girl," the old man said, as 
he playfully ran his fingers through her hair.  "But you really 
need to learn some respect.  You thought it was pretty funny when 
you saw that package of diapers, didn't you?" 

Carrie grimaced.  She had forgotten the insult, but she knew it 
would cost her now. 

The old man put his hands on her slender shoulder and pushed her to 
her knees.  She felt a wave of revulsion as the wizened old man 
unzipped his pants and extracted his wrinkled dick. 

"Now this will probably take a long time, but I have a nice big 
load all saved up for you," he said.  "You can start by kissing 
the tip, and licking those few drops off the end." 

She felt like puking, but she didn't.  Instead she obeyed. 

The old man sighed as Carrie took his member in her mouth.  "That's 
a good girl.  Don't worry none about getting satisfaction.  When 
you're done with me, Timmy's waiting outside, and he's just dying 
to give you a good poke.  He'll do it the old fashioned way.  And 
I bet you'll wiggle that sore little bottom of yours real sweet 
when he gives you your poke." 

Carrie tried to ignore the old man's insults and concentrate on the 
business at hand.  Despite her ministrations he was still partially 
flaccid, and she knew she had a long night ahead of her. 

		****************************** 
                                     
Carrie sobbed softly into the mattress of the filthy cot that 
was her bed.  She would have cried into her pillow, or even her 
blanket, if she'd had one. 

She was alone now, and the jail was dark.  The deputy had gone 
home.  In the morning, Christmas morning, she'd meet the Sheriff.  
He'd drive her out to the prison farm to be stripped and showered 
and deloused anew. 

And then she would begin her sentence. 

At least the crowds were gone.  The deputy had placed the box with 
her Harvard t-shirt and shamefully wet panties right in the front 
window, next to her picture. 

Pedestrians would stop and look at the picture of a successful 
prosecutor in her crisp business suit. 

Then they would see the wet candy cane panties and the humiliated 
girl sitting in her cell. 

The men and women would look at Carrie, blushing and squirming as 
she sat on her cot in her skimpy chain gang outfit. 

The men all had bulges in their pants.  Carrie knew that many of 
them would be future customers. 

And the women, even the young, pretty ones, all looked at her with 
sly, sadistic smiles.  She knew what their cruel smiles meant: as 
far as they were concerned, Carrie was getting just what she 
deserved.

She cried herself to sleep.

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

Early on Christmas morning, she was awakened by a noise. 

A fat, white-bearded man was quietly crossing the room, carrying 
an enormous bag.  He left a brightly wrapped package at each desk.  

He turned to her and smiled, and the smile said it all.  HE was the 
one who was responsible for everything that had happened to her in 
the last 12 days...and all that was going to happen in the next 6 
months.... 

Carrie clutched the bars tightly.  Her stomach ached with hunger as 
she watched the fat man devour the milk and cookies the Sheriff had 
left for him.

He looked at her again...and winked...and laid his finger beside 
his nose...and went on his way.


MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM SEARCH'EM, LAKEWOOD, AND JOE. 



Edited by C. Lakewood

