





                  WHAT HAPPENS IN MEXICO...

                             by

                          Joe Doe


A FEMALE POLICE OFFICER EXPERIENCES HER FANTASY OF LIFE BEHIND 
BARS...IN FRONT OF HER CHURCH GROUP.  



Part 1

"Which one of you is Rachel Allen?" I asked.

My wife raised her hand tentatively.  "I am," she squeaked.

I said nothing, but walked over and brusquely cuffed her hands 
behind her back.  She winced in pain as the cuffs tightened 
around her wrists.

Reverend Bosh intervened.  "Excuse me, officer, but...."

"I'll be with you in a minute, sir," I said, crisply.

Rachel looked over her shoulder in panic as I hustled her out of 
the room and closed the door behind me.

A few minutes later I returned.  In addition to Rev. Bosh, 
Rachel's church group (now one short) consisted of Bob Peters 
(President of the Family Values Council) and Dee Wallace (the 
portly old maid church secretary).

I pulled back a large, black curtain to reveal a one-way mirror.  
On the other side of the glass my very nervous wife strained 
against her cuffs.  "I'll need to get the paperwork started," I 
said.

I sat down at a desk in the corner and pretended to fill out 
Rachel's admission form, all the while watching the reaction 
of her church group to seeing her cuffed in the next room.

The walls and floor of that room were tiled.  There was an open 
shower stall in the back.  In the center of the room, next to my 
blushing wife, was a full medical examination table.

I watched as the group struggled to conceal their delight.

My wife couldn't see them, of course, but they could see her.  And 
they had no reason not to look.  They were there to observe, 
weren't they?

Rachel is a rent-a-cop, and I'm a senior prison guard.  
Recently, as part of a cultural exchange program with the 
Department of Justice, I had the opportunity to help open 
a prison just over the Mexican border.

They'd learn how we did it in America, and I'd learn how they 
did it in Mexico.

Rachel is working on her Master's Degree in criminal justice at her 
local college.  When she found out that we could live in Texas 
while she worked on her thesis, and that my new salary would more 
than cover the loss of her rather meager pay, she readily agreed 
to take a six-month leave of absence.

She used her time in Texas to take extra classes and become 
involved with the local church group.  She quickly made herself 
indispensable: she taught religious education, joined several 
Bible study groups, and took it upon herself to organize security 
for several church events.

Although I am a believer, I never had much use for organized 
religion, and made it a point never to meet or go near her church 
friends.  I don't object to religion, mind you, but I always found 
her church friends to be a sanctimonious bunch, and (when you 
scratched the surface) more than a little hypocritical.

Even with her myriad activities, my wife got restless, and she 
began pestering me to take her on a tour of the prison.  Although 
she is a very prim and proper policewoman, she also has a wild 
side...which, up to this point, had been mainly unsatisfied.  She 
has a number of Internet sites that she visits regularly and found 
one of the stories, "Policewoman Prisoner," particularly hot, 
because it so neatly mirrored her own fantasies of crossing the 
line and experiencing life on the other side of the bars.

I had to admit the circumstances were perfect.  I was in charge of 
admissions.  No one knew us, and we'd only be there six months.  
And. being a Mexican jail, the opportunities for exploitation and 
humiliation were nearly limitless…

And, as my wife joked, "What happens in Mexico stays in Mexico."

My wife was eager to get started, at least until I upped the ante.  
"If you really want to make it humiliating, why don't you bring 
your church group along to watch?" I teased.  "The only thing more 
humiliating than being ordered to strip down buck naked is being 
ordered to strip down buck naked in front of your friends."

Rachel's face turned as red as a beet.  "Oh!  Can you IMAGINE!" she 
gasped.  "That would be DREADFUL!  But it would never work.  They 
had wanted a tour of the prison, but they'd never let me be abused 
that way."

"Are you so sure?"  I teased.  "They might act all prim-and-proper 
down at the church, when you're in control.  But I wonder how 
they'd act if they had you in their clutches.  Aren't you always 
saying that 'men are men'?"

My wife stared at me, dumb-struck.  "You don't think they'd...I 
mean...my CHURCH group.  That would be SO HUMILIATING!"

"I'm betting they'll strip you down.  You're betting they won't.  
Of course I might let you back out...but then you'd lose the bet."

My comments fired my wife's competitive spirit.  "I won't back 
out," she said.  "And I have NEVER lost a bet with you."

"True enough.  Then it's settled.  We'll leave it up to your 
church group.  I'll take your "processing" only as far as they 
say.  If they're as holy as you think they are, you have nothing 
to worry about."

My wife smiled.  "This could be interesting.  I mean, in prison 
and all.  I'll be totally at their mercy.   They are right wing, 
and their views are sometimes rather...harsh.  Still, they're 
always extremely polite to me."

"That's because you're a policewoman.  I wonder how nice they'll 
be when you're a helpless little jailbird?"

My nervous wife blushed and squirmed at the thought, but when we 
made love that night, she was insatiable.

Now, as she stood in the reception room, fretfully shifting her 
weight from foot to foot as she stared at her reflection, I could 
tell she was having second thoughts.

Her breasts bobbled slightly as she strained against her cuffs.  
She bit her lip.  Tiny beads of sweat formed on her brow as she 
fidgeted in front of the mirror.

Rev. Bosh, Bob Peters, and Dee Wallace watched my wife closely.  
Very closely.

I had tuned a transmitter in our room to a tiny receiver in 
Rachel's ear.  I coughed.  As per our prearranged signal, 
she nervously shifted her weight forward and went up on her 
toes, as if straining to get out of her cuffs.

Although the church group didn't know it, she could hear every 
word that they were saying.

It was a simple plan, with an end result so obvious as to be almost 
inevitable.  I would threaten to "process" Rachel -– and explain to 
her assembled party precisely what that meant.  They would object 
vociferously and thus save her from a needless and gratuitous 
humiliation.

After all, Rachel had committed no crime whatsoever.

She was a respected member of their church.

She was a police officer!

There was no earthly reason to search her.  Right?

Rachel would experience the thrill of a near miss, and the 
delicious embarrassment of hearing her pastor fight for her 
right to keep her panties on.

It was a simple plan.  What could go wrong?

Good.  Rachel could hear me.  Which meant she could listen in 
as the pious goody-goodies of her righteous church council 
deliberated her fate.

Show time!

"Which one of you is in charge?" I asked.

There was a pause.  "I suppose I am.  I'm Rev. Bosh."

I pretended to study a file folder as I spoke.  "My understanding 
is that Ms. Allen is here to experience a day in prison, as part 
of an assignment for her Master's.  And she invited her church 
group along to witness prison conditions?"

"Yes, that's correct, officer," he replied.

"I'll need you to pick out a work assignment for her.  We can have 
her spend the day in the administration building filing.  It's not 
really part of the prison, so she'll be able to keep her street 
clothes.  It's air conditioned, and the work is pretty light.  
You can go with her and watch, of course.  It's a much easier 
assignment than the chain gang."

"The chain gang?" Bob Peters asked.

"Yes, the chain gang," I said.  "The warden is having some of the 
girls dig a new swimming pool.  She'd alternate between digging the 
foundation and spreading hot tar on the new patio.  Of course, if 
we do that, she'll need to put on a uniform."

"A uniform?" Peters parroted, his interest clearly piqued.  
"What sort of uniform?"

"Well, for the chain gang, it's a little tube top with 
'PRESIDIARIO' -- that means "prisoner" -- on the front and 
back, plus a skirt.  That outfit allows them to change 
clothes without us having to remove their wrist and ankle 
chains.  We also leave them barefoot.  It's so hot, we don't 
give them bras.  Unfortunately, that means the tops soak 
clean through."  I chuckled.

"Indecent!" Miss Wallace huffed.  "No wonder these little 
hussies are in jail."

"You could watch her work from the second story porch of the 
warden's house.  He always leaves some binoculars up there, so 
his guests can watch the show.  There's also a wet bar and a 
delicious buffet at lunch time.  It's quite the little country 
club, and the warden told me that, if you care to, he'd love to 
share a patio lunch with you."

"Well, it would be impolite of us to refuse the warden's 
hospitality," Rev. Bosh said, feigning reluctance.

"Are you sure?" I asked.  "I have to be honest with you.  The chain 
gang may be a picnic for you, but it won't be for that little girl 
in the other room.  They work them pretty hard, and the filing 
assignment would be quite a bit easier."

Through the glass I could see my poor wife coming out of her skin.  
She was twisting in her cuffs, bending her knees, and staring at 
the glass, waiting for one of her friends to come to her defense.

She sang in the choir.  She taught their children.  She was on the 
family council.

"How long is a typical shift on the chain gang?" Mr. Peters asked.

"About 12 hours.  They usually work them till it's too dark to 
see," I replied.

"Well, you'd better hurry and get her into a uniform," the pudgy 
Miss Wallace said.  "She's missed half the day, and I don't want 
to be late for lunch."

"Yes, ma'am, right away," I said unctuously.   I turned to Rev. 
Bosh.  "Does she need to be searched?"

In the next room my wife's jaw dropped.  For a moment, I thought 
she'd given it away, but thankfully everyone was looking at me.

"Excuse me?" Rev. Bosh asked.

"Strip searched," I replied.  "Chain gang prisoners are considered 
maximum security, and, as such, they are always subjected to a 
strip search."

"You mean she'll have to take off her clothes?" Miss Wallace asked.

Mr. Peters chimed in.  "ALL of her clothes?   Every stitch?   
Underwear, too?"

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"So she would be stripped...butt naked?  To the skin?" Peters 
asked, still trying to fathom the concept.

Miss Wallace, in a voice that reminded me of the Church Lady on 
"Saturday Night Live," chimed in.  "Serves them right!  The way 
these young women strut around today with next to nothing on.  
They should all be stripped naked, if you ask me."

The fact that my wife was, at her church, the model of propriety, 
and that she was at this moment wearing a very modest dress that 
covered her to knees, was obviously lost on the church lady.  I 
responded to the eager Mr. Peters instead.

"Yes, sir," I replied.  "Ordinary prisoners go through a full 
strip search.  All clothing and jewelry are removed, and then 
they are tagged and bagged."

Rev. Bosh clarified.  "And would she be required to remove her 
clothing in that room?  With us watching?"

"Yes, she would be processed in that room.  If you cared to 
watch...well, that's up to you."

"Um...we are here to observe prison procedures," he said, ogling 
Rachel, as once again he feigned anguished reluctance.  "I don't 
like this one bit, but I suppose we have to."

"Yes, as unpleasant as it may be, we really need to see 
everything," Peters said, eagerly.

"We should hurry up and get started," Miss Wallace urged.  "There's 
only 10 more hours until sundown, and we want her to put in as full 
a day as possible.  Besides, I'm starved.  When did you say they'd 
serve lunch?"

I picked up the phone and summoned the matron.  Carla, a fat old 
lesbian Mexican with slicked back hair, entered the room and 
uncuffed Rachel.

I called Carla using the small two-way radio on my belt.

"The prisoner has a hearing problem," I said.  "Let her keep her 
hearing aid."

Carla looked at the glass and nodded.  Then she turned to Rachel.  
"Take off your clothes.  Now!"

My wife nervously stared at the window as she surrendered her purse 
and jewelry and took off her shoes.

She hesitated for a moment, looking at the glass.  Then she quickly 
unzipped her dress and wriggled out of it.

"Slip, too!" Carla barked.

As Rachel handed each item over, Carla pinned it with a tiny 
laundry tag before dropping it into a clear plastic property bag.

My blushing wife was soon standing in front of her pastor wearing 
nothing but her garter belt, stockings, and lacy white bra and 
panties.

She paused for a moment, obviously hoping someone would intervene 
on her behalf.

No one did.

"Keep going, honey!" Carla barked.

She rolled down her stockings and took off her bra.  She stood with 
her arms over her breasts, staring at the glass and seeing only her 
mirrored reflection.

"Hang on a second, Carla," I said.

Rachel was now stark naked save for her lacy white panties.   She 
nervously bit her lip and hid her breasts as she awaited the next 
move.

The fact that she was keeping her breasts covered did not please 
Peters one bit.  "Are prisoners allowed to cover themselves during 
a search?" he asked.

"Tell her to put her hands on top of her head," I told Carla 
through the little radio.

Carla repeated my order.  Rachel's eyes flashed as she stared at 
the mirror.  But she obeyed.

"My, she does have a lovely figure," Rev. Bosh noted quietly.

"I'll say," Peters added.

"The folder says she's a police officer," I said.  "We could let 
her keep her panties."

Bosh and Peters frowned, but said nothing.  Miss Wallace's piggish 
eyes narrowed with disapproval.

I looked at my nearly naked, shivering wife.  We had a pre-arranged 
signal if she felt things were getting out of hand: she was 
supposed to scratch behind her ear.  She had never thought it 
would go this far, and I could tell that a part of her could 
scarcely believe that she was standing bare-breasted in front 
of three church leaders.

It was obvious that she was humiliated beyond belief.  But there 
was something about the way she was breathing that made me think 
she was also turned on big-time.

I waited for her to give me the signal.  No signal came.

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

                   WHAT HAPPENS IN MEXICO...

                              by 

                           Joe Doe


THIS IS LOOKING MORE AND MORE LIKE THE STANFORD PRISON EXPERIMENT



Part 2

"Of course," I added, looking at Rev. Bosh, "it's entirely up to 
you whether she's allowed to keep her panties...."

He scratched his chin thoughtfully.   "Well, she IS a police 
officer.  And we don't want to humiliate her unnecessarily.  
I mean...if we can avoid it, that is.  Still...."

It was obvious from the bulge in his pants that he wanted very 
much not to avoid it, and to come up with a pretext for seizing 
her panties.

A spirited church conclave ensued, with each member of the group 
deliberating the pros and cons of removing my poor, blushing wife's 
panties.

Through the glass I could see Rachel sweating bullets.  Nearly 
naked, she'd been helpless to say a single word in her own defense 
as the pious hypocrites had stripped her to the buff, one agonizing 
garment at a time.

Her thighs were clenched tightly together.  I was the only one 
standing close enough to the glass to see what she was desperately 
trying to hide -– the wet stain spreading from the crotch of her 
lacy white panties.

Her desperate, pleading eyes told her story.  Had they seen yet?  
No.  She was safe.  No, wait.  They had made her take off her bra.  
Would her panties be next?  No!  No!  NO!

Her panties were her last defense against revealing her shameful, 
humiliating arousal.  She HAD to keep them on....

Her eyes burned into her own reflection as she strained to see the 
faces of the smug, self-satisfied jurors casually deliberating 
her fate on the other side of the glass.  She had chosen them 
carefully, and she viewed each of them as her friends.  Even 
Miss Wallace, who had an obvious hatred of young, pretty women, 
had befriended her and had made a point of telling her how she 
was "different than other young women who look like you."

But now that she was in their power, it was clear that they were 
putting their personal friendships aside, and using this as an 
opportunity to process my sweet wife like a filthy little jailbird.

Although she tried not to stare, lest she give the group any ideas, 
I could see that Rachel was already nervously glancing at the exam 
table that stood only a few feet away.

Her panties were more than a defense against revealing her shameful 
arousal.  They were the only thing standing between her and a 
humiliating ride in the stirrups.

She squirmed as the fate of her soggy underpants was carefully 
deliberated.

"Those look like very delicate panties," Peters said.  "So soft, 
so lacy.  I'd hate to see them get ruined...."

"They seem a little snug," Rev. Bosh observed.  Perhaps if she 
turned around...."

"Ask her to turn around, Carla," I said, speaking into the radio.  
"Slowly."

My wife obediently turned, giving her 'friends' a perfect view of 
her shapely backside.

"When we came in, I saw that one of the guards on the chain gang 
was carrying a strap," Miss Wallace said, thoughtfully.  "Do they 
practice corporal punishment here?"

"That's an excellent point," I said.  "If she's going to be on the 
chain gang, I'll need to warn the officer in charge not to punish 
her.  They always trump up some reason to punish new girls on the 
first day, regardless of how well they behave, so they learn their 
place."

"Sounds like a sensible policy to me," Miss Wallace said.

"Tell me...do they punish the girls over their pants?" Peters 
asked, his eyes fixed on Rachel's fidgeting bottom.

"No, sir," I said.  "They always strap them on their bare fannies."

Rachel's lovely bottom cheeks clenched and unclenched.

"Well, well, well," Miss Wallace said, not even trying to hide her 
pleasure in Rachel's predicament.  "I imagine  Miss Perfect will 
lose some of her sass after they paint her pretty little caboose."

"Will we be able to see her disciplined from the patio?" Peters 
asked.

"Yes, sir, you will," I said.  "With the binoculars you'll have an 
excellent view.  Of course, if I tell the guards she's a police 
officer...."

Rev. Bosh interrupted.  "No matter how much we might like to, I 
think it would be improper of us to interfere with the prison's 
disciplinary procedures.  Telling them she's an officer would 
undermine her ability to observe.  Besides, if she's a good girl, 
and does as she's told, there shouldn't be a problem."

"And, if not, then...," Miss Wallace observed, philosophically.

She finished her sentence by loudly CLAPPING her two hands 
together.  At the sound of flesh spanking flesh, Rachel's 
bottom twitched again, but the SPANK was so loud no one 
noticed her reaction.

"Yes, well, young women who misbehave SHOULD be punished," Rev. 
Bosh said, sternly.  "Rules are rules."

And clichés are clichés.

I had made it perfectly clear that she would be punished regardless 
of her behavior, but no one cared.  It was obvious from the gleam 
in their eyes that they were already lusting after the sight of 
Rachel's naked fanny cheeks wiggling and dancing under the kiss 
of the razor strap.

So what if the charges were trumped up?  She should have been a 
"good girl."

"We've seen enough, officer," Rev. Bosh said.  "You can have her 
turn around."

I gave Carla the order, and Carla relayed it to Rachel.  She 
turned, once again exposing her breasts.

"So...should I let her keep her panties?" I asked.

"They are quite lacy, and I'm sure the prison panties would be much 
more practical," Bosh said, pensively.  He sighed.  "If that were 
the sole consideration, the panties she has on would have to come 
off."

"All the way off," Peters agreed.

I decided to point out the obvious.  "I'm sure she'd rather ruin 
a pair of panties than have to surrender them in front of her 
pastor."

"True enough, but there is another angle we haven't considered," 
Bosh said, thoughtfully.  "Those panties are not prison issue.  
Therefore, technically, they are contraband."

"Contraband isn't allowed in prison," Peters said, firmly.

"Of course it isn't," Miss Wallace agreed.  "Contraband must be 
seized."

"Confiscated."

"Forfeited."

I looked through the glass.  My wife's face was a mask of feminine 
helplessness.  She stood shivering, almost naked, while her pastor 
and her friends cunningly reclassified her panties as contraband.

"So what should I do with her panties?"  I asked.

Rev. Bosh sighed sadly, but his tone was firm.  "Tag them and bag 
them," he said, crisply.

I spoke into the radio.  "We'll need to have her panties, too, 
Carla." 

"Underpants off," Carla said.  "Now!"

With an almost unimaginable reluctance, my wife lowered her 
underpants and handed them over.  As per Carla's direction, 
she resumed her stance with her hands on top of her head, 
revealing her curly blonde pubic locks for everyone to see.

"Oh, my!" Peters said.

"So Goldilocks is a natural blonde after all," Dee Wallace said, 
with a chuckle.

"Yes, well, there is nothing to be ashamed of," Rev. Bosh said.  
"God created us in the glory of our nakedness, after all."

The other two chimed in their "amens" as my wife squirmed and 
blushed for their lascivious viewing pleasure.

Carla smiled faintly she noted the wetness in the crotch of 
Rachel's panties.  She smiled, and Rachel blushed beet red.

Carla bagged the underpants.  She looked directly at my wife, 
and made a big show of SEALING the bag, as Rachel looked on.

Carla walked over to the exam table.  Rachel's eyes flashed with 
panic as Carla snapped first one stirrup, and then the other into 
place.

"Ah," said Rev. Bosh.  "Getting the table into game position, I 
see."

I spoke into the radio.  "Hold up, Carla."

Rachel was absolutely, completely, stark naked...but her audience 
wanted to see still more.

"Are cavity searches standard procedure?" Mr. Peters asked, 
hopefully.

"Yes, they are," I admitted.  "In fact, sometimes the girls call 
that the 'Derby room,' because every prisoner who visits the room 
she has to 'mount up' -- put her feet in the stirrups -- and go 
for a ride."

The tension in the room eased as all three of the church visitors 
laughed heartily at this display of penal wit.

"The Derby room!" Miss Wallace cackled.

"I love it!" Rev. Bosh said, laughing out loud.  "Classic!"

"It does seem...appropriate," Peters agreed.  "And, since it's 
the standard procedure...."

From the corner of my eye, I watched my blushing wife clench her 
thighs tightly together.  Her pleading eyes spoke volumes.

I felt it was time to draw the line.  "Yes, but she is a police 
officer, not a criminal.  Truthfully, if she showed her badge, 
she wouldn't even be frisked."

"She's on leave, I believe," Miss Wallace said, crisply.

"Still, no reasonable person could possibly believe that she 
is concealing contraband.  A cavity search would be entirely 
gratuitous."

"Would it?" Miss Wallace asked.  "True, WE know she isn't carrying 
contraband.  But you haven't even told the officer searching her 
that she's a police officer.  If Rachel really wants to experience 
what life is like behind bars, she'll need to take the good with 
the bad.  Stopping now would be inexcusably slipshod.  I'd have 
half a mind to call her professor and suggest that he flunk her."

"Hear, hear!" Peters seconded.

"In addition, there is another, far graver reason," Bosh noted.  
If she isn't searched, and drugs and contraband are discovered 
in the prison, wouldn't she be the prime suspect?  Remember she 
volunteered to go to prison.  Not searching her would throw her 
motives into question and place her in a highly vulnerable 
position."

The position would hardly be more vulnerable than the one Rev. Bosh 
was angling to place her in now, but I decided not to argue, and to 
leave it up to my wife.

Instead of the radio, I used the phone on the wall and called the 
room next door, asking Carla to put Rachel on the phone.

"Hello, Ms. Allen? I need to ask you a question.  I suggested 
forgoing the cavity search, but Rev. Bosh is concerned that it 
might make you vulnerable to allegations of smuggling.  He and 
the other members of your group feel quite strongly that you 
should experience the entire procedure.  It's entirely up to you, 
of course, but I wanted to share their concerns."

My wife hesitated for a moment as she looked at the glass.  I could 
read the hesitation in her eyes.  She had told me that she would go 
as far as they wanted her to go, but she had never DREAMED it would 
be THIS far.  Would she back out now...and lose the bet?

Rachel looked down at the ground.  "I'll...leave it up to Rev. 
Bosh," she said, quietly.  "Whatever he thinks best."

"Very well," I said.  I hung up the phone and turned to Bosh.  
"She said it's up to you."

"I see," he said, once again feigning contemplation.  "Well, it's a 
tough decision.  On the one hand, we have Officer Allen's dignity, 
and the near-certainty that she isn't carrying any contraband.  I 
think it's entirely clear that a cavity search would be unspeakably 
humiliating and obviously unnecessary."

"Pointless," Peters echoed.

"Wholly unnecessary," Miss Wallace said.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Rachel's nervous frown ease.

"On the other hand, we still have the uncomfortable necessity of 
maintaining proper academic rigor."

"Quite right," Miss Wallace chimed in.

"And we wouldn't want her to be accused of smuggling anything," 
Peters said.  "Why, we'd be doing her a favor to have her 
searched."

"Yes, we would," Bosh agreed.  "But there is another, more serious 
reason, I'm afraid.  I hate to say it, but, from time to time, 
Rachel has shown a certain unbecoming brashness, an independence 
of spirit, that I have found most disagreeable.  There's no room 
for her sort of cockiness in prison."

"Absolutely," Miss Wallace agreed.  "Put her in the stirrups.  That 
will show her."

"Yes," Peters said.  "A slow, thorough cavity search -- under our 
supervision of course -- is exactly what is called for."

"Yes, as much as I hate to say it, a good probing might be just the 
thing to knock her down a peg or two," Rev. Bosh said.  "And it IS 
the 'Derby Room.'"

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



                  WHAT HAPPENS IN MEXICO...

                             by

                          Joe Doe


THE EXPERIMENT REACHES A CLIMAX (IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE).



Part 3

"So you're saying...?" I asked.

Bosh's tone was measured, but it was obvious that he was relishing 
his power.  "Yes, officer, I think it's time to tell our haughty 
little girl to straddle her mount and take a ride in the derby."

"Quite right," Miss Wallace agreed.  "She won't look so uppity with 
her feet in the stirrups."

"Hear, hear!" Peters said.  "Break the little filly in.  A nice 
ride around the track will be good for her."

I looked Rachel, who was staring at the glass, mouth agape, in 
stunned disbelief.  My voice crackled through the radio.  "Mount 
her up, Carla.  Check front and back.  Slow and thorough."

Carla smiled broadly.  "Up on the table, cupcake," she ordered.  
"And spread 'em wide!"

"Please," Rachel squeaked, her voice cracking with panic.  "I'm not 
carrying drugs.  I'm...I'm a good girl!"

Carla made an elaborate bowing gesture while holding out her arm, 
as if ushering Rachel to her horse.  "Your steed awaits, Princess," 
Carla snickered.

Then she slapped Rachel across her naked fanny.

"OW!"  My wife said, jumping and jiggling.

"That was a good one!" Miss Wallace snorted.

"See?  Naughty girls DO get spanked," Peters chuckled.

"Up on the table!  Now!" Carla barked.

Carla raised her hand to deliver another spank, but Rachel was too 
fast.

My three visitors watched with gleaming eyes as my blushing wife 
obediently scampered onto the table.

She daintily put her feet in the stirrups, being careful to keep 
her knees together and her hands over her crotch.  But Carla was 
having none of that.

Carla rudely spread the stirrups wider -- and spread my wife's 
knees as well.  "Hands on your head, convict.  Lace your fingers."

Rachel reluctantly obeyed, and Carla moved to the sink, leaving 
my wife completely exposed.

"Look at that!" Miss Wallace said.  "The little trollop is sopping 
wet!  I don't believe it!  She's enjoying this!'

Rachel, who could hear every word, stared at the ceiling, legs 
spread, totally vulnerable, totally helpless.  The twitching of 
her toes was the only evidence of her unspeakable embarrassment.

At the sink, Carla loudly whistled the Tom Jones classic, "Pussy 
Cat, Pussy Cat" as she washed up and SNAPPED! on her rubber glove.

"Well, it seems Ms. Allen isn't as innocent as we were led to 
believe," Rev. Bosh chuckled.  "I'm starting to think I've been 
far too easy on her.  I think a harsh dose of discipline is 
exactly what this randy little vixen needs."

"Hear, hear!" Peters said (yet again).

"A little razor strap justice," Miss Wallace added.

Carla chuckled as she slowly ran her fingers over Rachel's exposed 
sex.  "Well, it looks like we won't need any lubricant," she 
snickered.  "In fact...."

Carla looked at the glass and grinned.  Much to my surprise, she 
inserted two fingers inside my wife's pussy, while using her 
thumb to rub the exposed clitoris.

Despite her humiliation, Rachel moaned and pushed back.  "Look at 
that," Peters said.  "The little whore is humping her hand."

"Outrageous!" Bosh concurred, his eyes glued to the glass.

"Scandalous!" Miss Wallace agreed.  "If I had a whip I'd skin her 
fanny right now!"

It didn't take long for Rachel to orgasm.  She craned her neck up a 
bit to look at her reflection in the glass.  Despite her arousal, 
there were also tears of humiliation in her eyes.

How had she fallen so far, so fast?

Carla ordered Rachel up onto all fours.   As Bosh, Peters, and Miss 
Wallace watched, my wife spread her luscious fanny cheeks so Carla 
could probe her rear winker.

After that, Carla ordered her off the table and into the shower 
area at the back of the room.

Rachel jumped slightly as Carla turned on the icy water.

"Her bottom cheeks have a delightful bounce to them," Peters 
observed.

"They'll bounce more when they get the strap!" Miss Wallace 
chuckled.

"Are you using a disinfectant soap?" Bosh asked.

"Yes, sir," I said.  "It burns and stinks, but it will kill any 
lice."

"Good!" Miss Wallace said.  "If it were up to me, all of these 
dirty little strumpets would be stripped butt-naked and scrubbed 
down, head to toe, with a coarse bristle brush."

"Perhaps she should face us while she showers," Rev. Bosh 
suggested.  "After all, we need to ensure that she is 
properly disinfected."

"Yes, particularly that filthy little strawberry patch between her 
legs.  Did you see how juicy she was?" Peters added.

"Scour her out!" Miss Winters said.  "Give me a toilet brush, and 
I'll do it myself."

I spoke to Carla through the radio.  "Tell her to turn around.  We 
need to see her crotch scrubbed out thoroughly.  Tell her to work 
up a real lather between her legs."

Carla repeated the order.  Rachel obeyed.  She spread her legs, and 
rubbed the harsh, stinking soap between her legs as her friends 
congratulated themselves on their moral correctness.

"I'm glad to see the little bitch is getting a proper scrub down," 
Miss Wallace said.

"Yes, she shouldn't be allowed to run around loose, with all that 
filth between her legs," Peters said, piously.

"I'd like to thank you for allowing us to come today, Officer," 
Rev. Bosh said.  "This has been an eye-opening experience."

"Yes, a revelation," said Peters.

"I used to think that Mexican prisons were overly harsh," Bosh 
added.  "But now I'm glad that there's a place where shameless 
harlots can be given the discipline they need."

"Hear, hear!"  This time it was Miss Wallace who seconded.

After the shower, we watched as Carla made my wife shake out her 
hair and prance around in various poses for a very thorough 
delousing.  Despite her coughing and sputtering, the toxic 
procedure met with hearty audience approval.  Miss Wallace 
was particularly pleased when Carla sprayed the noxious, 
burning chemicals directly on "that putrid little stink hole 
of hers."

The group watched as at long last a very humbled police officer 
was given her new uniform: a white tube top that covered her 
breasts like a second skin, with the humiliating word "PRESIDIARIO" 
emblazoned on it, and a denim mini-skirt.  

Rachel was assigned to the chain gang.  

When I explained why the chain gang wasn't issued panties, the 
group agreed that having to go bare bottom was indeed "appropriate" 
for a woman of her low character.

She'd get no shoes or socks, either, but ankle and wrist bracelets 
would need to be fastened on.

Carla led my barefoot wife to the blacksmith shop, with the church 
group following close behind.  We were greeted by Rufus, a muscular 
black man in his late fifties with a shock of white hair and an 
enormous smile.  As he caught sight of my wife, he laughed.  "My, 
yo' sure are a pretty one.  It's going to be a pleasure to slap 
the shackles on yuh."

Rufus chatted with Carla as the metal pegs heated in the fire, 
while the group stood with me, expressing their admiration for 
the harsh discipline in general and the chain gang concept in 
particular.

"I'm glad to see you're putting these lazy little sluts to work,"  
Peters beamed.

"I couldn't agree more," Rev. Bosh said.  "No point in having them 
live like queens at taxpayers' expense."

"Discipline is what they need," Miss Wallace added.  "A good 
bare-bottom fanny-tanning...."

My wife could hear everything, of course, but she was rather 
pointedly excluded from the conversation.  After all, she was 
a prisoner now, and it was clear that her opinion was of no 
concern.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched her gently stroke her wrists 
as she watched the iron pegs turn red in the fire.  She looked at 
the heavy chains hanging on the walls, and I could tell that she 
was imagining what they would feel like on her wrists and ankles.

Carla came over and tapped me on the shoulder.  "We have a problem. 
The folder says we are only going to hold her until tomorrow.  But 
Rufus is going on vacation for two weeks -- beginning tonight.  If 
we put her on the chain gang, we won't be able to strike off the 
shackles and release her until he gets back."

"We could always put her on another assignment," I suggested.  "The 
office, perhaps."

Given her current status, Rachel didn't dare speak, but I saw her 
eyes brighten at the prospect.

But Rev. Bosh would have none of it.  "This young lady needs 
discipline, not a cushy sinecure in some bureaucrat's office."

"I really think that's her decision," I said.

"Is it?" Bosh asked, pointedly.  "Rachel, come here."

Rachel, her head bowed, walked over and stood in front of her 
scowling pastor.

"Rachel, would you rather work in some stuffy office, or enjoy the 
fresh air and sunshine of the great outdoors?" he asked.

"I'd like to work in the office, sir," she said, meekly, staring 
at her bare feet.

"Rachel, during your examination we couldn't help noticing 
how...excited you were.  Are you excited right now?"

She said nothing, but continued to stare at her dirty, bare feet.

"Do I need to...check?" Bosh rasped and flexed his thick fingers.

She looked up at him in panic.  He wouldn't!  He couldn't!  Could 
he?

"Ye-yes, sir....  I guess I AM still excited...." 

"That being the case, and, after what we all saw today, do you 
think that you DESERVE to work in an office?"

My wife bit her lip.  "Yes," she squeaked.  "I'm still...I'm still 
a decent person.  I don't deserve...to be punished."

"Really?  Is that so?  Well, it is your decision.  But I'd hate to 
have to tell the congregation what I saw during your examination.  
Masturbation -- and lesbian masturbation at that -- is a grievous 
sin."

My wife's eyes flashed wide with panic.  Was he really going to 
tell the congregation?

"Of course, I'd have to tell your academic advisor as well," he 
said, sadly.  "I might even have to call your boss back at your 
old department, so he knew what sort of woman he was employing."

Rachel freaked.  "Please, sir, I couldn't help it.  I swear...."

He spoke with the authority of an accomplished actor, expert at 
his part.  "You'd be banned from the congregation, thrown out of 
school...," he said, gravely.  You might even lose your job.  It 
would break my heart to do it, of course, but it would be my sacred 
moral duty."

"On the other hand, if you were to agree to take your punishment 
here and now, as a sincere act of contrition, I'd be willing to 
let it go at that."

"What happens in Mexico stays in Mexico," Peters said.

"There's more to it than that," Carla said.  "They're looking for 
putas at the whore house.  When the pimps visit tonight, they'll 
probably rent her from the warden for the weekend.  With those 
chains around the ankles and wrists, she'll end up at one of the 
cheap places, where they'll work her hard."

Miss Wallace laughed out loud.  "Imagine that!  Little Miss 
High-and-Mighty, being whored out as a 100-peso hooker.  I'd 
love to see that."

Rufus chuckled.  "Prob'ly the place they call 'Taco Pussy.'"

"Tell me," Peters said, thoughtfully.  "Are the girls allowed to 
choose their customers in these places?"

"No," Carla said.  "If they refuse a customer, they get the strap."

"Even if it is someone they know?" Peters said, all the while 
ogling Rachel lasciviously.

"Even if...it's a woman?" Miss Wallace asked.

The last question shocked me.  Carla's answer didn't.

"Putas take on all comers, and they do whatever the customer 
wants."

Bosh, Peters, and Miss Wallace smiled broadly.

Bosh turned to Rachel.  "If you are taken to one of these 
establishments, Rachel, it will be our moral duty to visit 
you, to monitor your rehabilitation.  Of course, to maintain 
our cover we may require you to do...things that you might 
consider unsavory.  But if you keep our secret, we'll keep 
yours."

My wife looked to me with desperate, panicked eyes.

"You can always back out," I said softly.

She looked at me, then at her group.  She submissively dropped her 
head and stared at her feet, too humiliated to make eye contact.

"I'll do whatever Rev. Bosh says," she said, her voice barely a 
whisper.

He frowned.  "No, I'm afraid that's not good enough.  It really 
must be your choice.  Now, tell us, do you truly deserve to be 
punished?"

"Y-yes, sir....  I-I do," she murmured.

"Do what?"

"I DO truly deserve to be punished, sir...."

He looked over at me grimly, and then nodded, as if making a 
regrettable but inescapable decision.

"Hook her up," he said.

Rachel lay on the floor of the blacksmith shop, with her bare foot 
over the anvil, as Rufus fitted her slender ankle with the heavy 
cuff.

"Make it nice and tight," Miss Wallace directed.  "We don't want 
the little vixen to get away."

"Don't yuh worry yo'sef 'bout 'dat, ma'am," he replied.  "Ain't 
no bitch never slipped a leash that Rufus made."

Rufus fitted the cuff and patted Rachel's leg.  "Hold still, now," 
he ordered.  "Ah don' wants to burn yuh."

My panicked wife froze like a statue as Rufus expertly inserted 
the red hot rivet and quickly hammered it flat, locking the 
humiliating cuff.  Before the heat could transfer through the 
thick iron, he dunked her foot into a handy bucket of water.

"Easy as pie," he chuckled.

Rachel stared at her chained ankle in disbelief.  "Will it chafe?" 
she asked.

"Yup," Rufus said cheerfully as he positioned her other ankle over 
the anvil.  "Don' worry none.  Yo'll callous up right quick.  Hold still now."

Another hot rivet, more hammering, and another dunking, and 
Rachel's other ankle was secured.

He held up the chain that ran between the two ankle cuffs.  "She be 
real easy to hook up to anything, now that we got these cuffs on 
her.  Heck, you can chain her up just like a bicycle."

"I hope you've got enough chain there.  She'll need to be able to 
spread her legs...wide," Carla said.

"Ah sure did, ma'am," Rufus said merrily.  "Heck, Ah might jus' 
mosey home early, an' pay this little cupcake a visit ma-self."

Rufus spun my wife around like a rag doll and slipped the wrist 
cuff on, even as he positioned her hand over the anvil.  "Hold 
still now," he said as he slid the next hot rivet into place.

Bang!  Splash!  Left hand.  Bang!  Splash!  Right hand.

The group chatted about this and that as Carla used the wrist chain 
to lead the newly-minted prisoner off to her work assignment. 

That afternoon on the porch, the warden entertained his guests with 
cucumber sandwiches and tea as they watched the girls toil in the 
sun.  The cons all looked the same, but, with the binoculars, it 
was easy to spot the cute little blonde on the end, particularly 
when the guards flipped up her skirt and tanned her bare fanny with 
the leather strap.

Who exactly was that new girl?

Did it matter?  

After all, what happens in Mexico...stays in Mexico.



Edited by C. Lakewood

