This is a re-write of Joe Doe's story, "Number 10,000."  I like the 
original, but chose to re-write it primarily to give both Rachel 
and Otis stronger motivation, and thus to create a more plausible 
story.  (And I've also taken the opportunity to plant the seeds of 
a possible sequel.)  

In order to make the dates fit, I had to reduce Otis's "almost 40" 
years of service to an even 30...and to increase Rachel's age from 
28 to 42.  The former change is relatively minor, I think, but I'm 
sorry about the necessity for the latter and hope the lady can 
forgive me.








                          FINAL EXAM

                              by

                          C. Lakewood        


"THE LAST TIME IS OFTEN THE BEST TIME" MIGHT BE THE MORAL OF THIS 
STORY, AS A RETIRING PRISON GUARD DEMONSTRATES HIS TECHNIQUES TO 
HIS AMBIVALENT FEMALE WARDEN.



    Warden Rachel Hatfield entered the exam room as Otis Hayes 
was packing up the last of his personal items.  Though she was 
a 42-year-old go-getter and far from retirement, she could still 
sympathize (to a degree) with the old guard on his last day.  An 
air of regret hung about him.  He limped slightly as he crossed 
the room to greet her.  (He'd been a medic in 'Nam, twice wounded 
during Tet.)  

    "Ah, Otis.  I just wanted to come down to your domain and thank 
you for the hard work you've put in for so many years," she said, 
warmly.  "You've served this place well."  She beamed a brilliant 
smile at him.  "And I want you to know that, if there is ever 
anything you need from me personally, you have only to ask."

    She looked around the examination room that had been Otis's 
lair for decades.  "A lot of women have been through here," she 
reflected.  "So many self-conscious women to strip, search, shower, 
and delouse.  I imagine that even the cavity searches must have 
become boring eventually." 

    "Not for me," Otis said.  "Each of 'em was different...age, 
size, background, education, attitude, reactions...lots of 
variables.  Some were afraid, and some were brazen, and some just 
tried to pretend they were somewhere else -- anywhere else -- while 
I slowly worked my greasy fingers up inside 'em.  No, each of 'em 
was memorable in some way."  He smiled fondly and then chuckled.  
"But I also got 'visual aids' to he'p me remember...." 

    He pointed to the cameras in the walls and ceiling.  "I started 
here 30 years ago, in 1968, right after my discharge, the same time 
they put the cameras in...and I got every single search on film or 
tape.  And kept a copy for myself.  Learned to edit, enhance, and 
transfer 'em to CD."  He chuckled.  "Even got a signed release from 
each of the women.  And now it's all legal and everything, 'cause 
of the 'Freedom of Information Act.'  My old retired buddies sure 
get quite a charge out of watching all those gals do their 
squats...'specially the ones I processed TDY at the various jails 
hereabouts.  Late 60s and early 70s, the local police forces had 
more 'n they could handle -- you know, protesters -- and they'd 
give most of 'em to me.  I did more of those college coeds in a 
week than inmates here in a month or more...."  

    Rachel looked thoughtful.  "Well, I was only 12 in 1968 and 
didn't go away to college until 1974.  By that time, thank god, 
they had pretty much stopped arresting protesters."

    "Yes, ma'am, from 1968 to about 1973, that was Prime Time."  
He paused and looked at her closely.  "So you did some protesting, 
too?"

    Rachel blushed.  "Oh, you know...young and naive...out from 
under the parents' scrutiny for the first time....  Never arrested, 
though."

    He shrugged.  "The preppy protesters...they were the best of 
all."    

    "You've processed how many women, total?"  Rachel seemed 
slightly antsy, somewhat nervous and uncertain. 

    "Total?  It's 9999 in 30 years....  And that was the number of 
individuals, not exams.  I never counted repeaters...decided that 
in the beginning."  Otis shook his head.  "Still, 9999...odd 
figure...wish I could've done an even 10,000...nice and tidy.  
After all this time, that's my one regret.  Everything else's fine. 
I'll be okay financially...army pension, state pension, extra 
income....  And my nephew's gonna take my place here.  But still, 
I really would've liked just one more."  
 
    She looked rueful.  "I'm truly sorry about that.  But it's out 
of my hands, you know.  The bureaucracy determines the allocation 
of new convicts, and state law mandates your retirement date.  I 
wish I could get you one more new prisoner to process, but there's 
just no way." 

    He gave her a sidelong glance.

    "Well, now, Warden, I'm glad you mentioned that, 'cause, well, 
the woman don't rightly have to be a PRISONER."  

    He fetched a black plastic carton and put it on the floor in 
front of her.  She knew it was the kind of container used to hold 
the effects of inmates being processed.  Involuntarily, she took 
a couple of steps back from the ominous box.    

    "I could search any 'propriate female," Otis said.  "She 
wouldn't have to be a current criminal.  She could be somebody, 
say, who'd violated the law when she was...'young and naive'...and 
gotten away with it, but would like to atone.  Could be some 
high-class professional woman...teacher or lawyer or doctor...."  
His smile was becoming a leer.  "Could even be a warden...."  

    She trembled at the implication.  This big black gimp actually 
wanted to strip-search her.  Strip her bare naked and drool over 
her like she was some criminal.  HER!  Because of indiscretions 
almost a quarter of a century ago.  The very idea shocked and 
repelled her...and she felt her nipples stiffen and her clit throb.  

    Rachel chewed her lip and deliberated.  Over the years, she 
had observed Otis's strip-searches whenever possible, "supervising" 
through the big one-way mirror.  And, more often than not, she'd 
imagined herself as the defenseless subject, forced to strip naked 
in front of some man (or men) in authority.  She shivered.  It 
would be so...so deliciously humiliating. 

    But she wasn't like all those other women who blushed and 
sweated and wriggled in front of Otis's cameras.  She wasn't some 
slut felon, some thief or drugee or whore.  She was different....  

    Wasn't she?

    "Well, I don't think...," she began.

    Otis held up his hand.  "You said, 'If there's ever anything 
you need from me personally, you have only to ask.'  Was that just 
noise?  I thought your word meant something."

    "I-I don't make empty promises.  Everyone knows that."  She 
looked away.  "How...um...how much...um...how much w-would I have 
to...you know...t-take off...?" 

    "Bare naked.  I'd have to strip you, and trim your pubic hair, 
and scrub you down, and delouse you.  In order to count it, I'd 
have to run you through the whole process -- by the book...my 
book -- all the way to the end: posture photos and mug shots."

    He limped over to the shower and hefted the long-handled, 
coarse-bristled brush that he always used on prisoners.  
"Scrub-a-dub-dub," he said, winking as he waved the brush 
at her.

    Breathing heavily, Rachel imagined herself standing in the 
shower, arms raised and legs spread wide.  Otis would have a 
hose in one hand and that damn brush in the other.  And then, 
after the initial scrub-down...then...he invariably finished 
off by using his soapy fingers on -- and in -- the "prime" areas.  

    She shuddered.    

    She had watched him scrub down many naked, blushing women, and 
she had often imagined herself in their place.  Even so, she had 
perhaps never fully understood their look of shame and helplessness 
until now.  There had always been a sheet of glass between her and 
the processing, and that tended to mute the effect.  But being 
right here made things more intense....  Now the thought of having 
to stand here buck naked while that grinning old man washed her 
down like she was a dog was so humiliating...that she almost had 
an orgasm on the spot.  

    Her mouth dry, she looked over at the open shower and the 
ominous canister of delousing fluid next to it.  She was sweating.
She knew that the fluid burned and stank.  But, like all the 
previous wardens, she had ignored the cons' complaints.  She also 
knew that most of them didn't have lice, but it was amusing to 
watch Otis put his women through what he called their "flea dip." 

    Rachel swallowed, with some difficulty, and fidgeted.  

    "Couldn't I just...um...s-strip down to my-my underwear, Otis?" 

    "I think you better start calling me 'SIR,'" he said, tartly.  
"Ordinarily, I don't discuss procedure with a con -- just tell 
her what to do and see she does it -- but this case is pretty  
exceptional.  First, though, we need to 'document' our little 
arrangement...."

    He sat down at the PC, brought up a blank Notepad page, dated 
it, and typed a few lines.  Then he moved back to let her take a 
look at the screen.  

    She sniffed and re-wrote it, in the process correcting two 
misspellings, a split infinitive, a comma fault, and several 
ambiguities.  She paused at length before typing the last four 
words.

	1 October 1998

        I, Rachel Hatfield, Warden of Honeypot Correctional 
	Facility, in order that I might purge myself of any 
	lingering feelings of guilt because of various 
	peccadilloes that I may have committed in the past 
	(and for which the statute of limitations has expired) 
	do hereby authorize Officer Otis Hayes to process me, 
        on the above date, as he sees fit.


			       __________________________

    Otis read it over and scratched his head.  "'Peccadilloes'?  
Aren't they...uh...some kind of...?"

    "No, you're thinking of 'armadillos,'" she said.

    He shrugged, printed out the agreement, and laid it on the desk 
for Rachel to sign, which she did, with a flourish of her gold 
Cross pen.  He fetched a form from the desk drawer and passed it 
over, too.  It was headed, "RELEASE."  After only the briefest 
hesitation, she signed that, as well.  Her hand trembled a bit, 
but she knew that she was in no position to quibble. 

    "So you want to stop at your underwear, huh?" he grinned, 
after folding both papers carefully and putting them away 
inside his jacket.  "Well, tell me about your underwear, 
Rachel."  He was positively leering now.
 
    "Wh-what is it you want to know, s-sir?" she murmured, staring 
at the floor.
 
    "What color's your bra?  And your panties?"
 
    "Both ecru, sir," she said.  "Um...beige...." 

    "So you think I'm too ignorant to know what 'okra' is?"

    "Ek-roo" was on the tip of her tongue, but she managed to bite 
it back in time and instead protested, "No, sir...not at all."

    "Hmmm."  He didn't sound convinced.  "Are they spay-shill 
panties?  Lacy and frilly?"  

    "Yes, sir," she said, softly.

    "A thong, maybe?"

    "No, sir, just a bikini....  I don't find thongs very 
comfortable."  

    "Well, I'm sure they's real fine panties, girl," he said, 
shaking his head.  "But they's gonna to have to come off."  He 
reached up and removed her jade earrings as he continued talking.  
"You're gonna have to take 'em off and hand 'em to me...verrry 
politely.  You're the same as a jailbird now, and you can't run 
around here in unauthorized panties.  But don't worry, girl, the 
gummint'll issue you some nice sensible underpants...eventually.  

    He dropped the earrings into the black box and laughed 
as she blushed hotly.  Each woman was unique, but this one 
was a mixture of prissiness and sensuality that had great 
potential.  He licked his lips and, moving around behind her, 
slipped off her oxford grey cashmere blazer.  

    "All your things will have to go into this box, Rachel.  I'll 
be strippin' you bare naked, just like I've done with all the cons."

    She trembled.  Indignation?  Excitement?  Either way, she was 
powerless to protest.....  The words echoed in her head: "I...do 
hereby authorize Officer Otis Hayes to process me...as he sees 
fit."  Oh, god! 

    He gestured toward the exam table across the room.  "Feel 
honored to be the 10,000th cunt to be spread out and 'processed'?  
Anxious to get up in the stirrups and perform?"

    She shook her head no...but tentatively.
 
    "Sure, it'll be 'specially hard for you, you been my boss and 
all, to spread your legs and put your feet up into those stirrups, 
so vulnerable...so completely exposed.  And you'll look up and see 
me smilin' down at you with a thin rubber glove on one hand and a 
jar of lubricant in the other." 

    "'Course, I don't figure I'm gonna to need much artificial 
lube with you.  Right, Rachel?"  He smirked.  "All this talk 
about strippin' and cavity-searchin' you is makin' you all wet 
and juicy, ain't it?" 
 
    Rachel, blushing furiously, nodded almost imperceptibly.  Her 
cunt was throbbing.
 
    "Tsk, tsk.  When I ask you a question, fish, you answer me loud 
and clear.  Unnerstand?  Now, you gettin' wet and juicy, girl?"

    "Yes, sir.  I-I'm getting very w-we-wet, very j-jui-cy...."

    "Then we better get started, young lady," he said, sitting down 
in a well-padded chair.  "I gots me a schedule, you know, and the 
warden, she don't like me to lollygag.  So...you just go ahead, now. 
Put your shoes in the box and then shuck that nice white blouse."

    Regardless of how humiliating this was becoming, she obeyed.  
Her toes curled when her stocking feet came into contact with the 
cold linoleum, and her fingers fumbled clumsily with the tiny 
buttons on her blouse.  She cringed under his smug look and 
glanced up at the cameras that were impassively capturing every 
second of this.  They were photographing her from every angle, 
and she knew that Otis could pick and choose when he edited a 
perfect film record of her humiliation. 

    She imagined the dirty old men friends watching with glee 
as she bared herself...over and over again...with intimate 
close-ups and slo-mo and.... 

    What would they say about her, those horny old men?  Would they 
like her better than the thousands of girls who had gone before?  
Would they have any idea how excruciating all this was for her?  
Would they perceive that she was DIFFERENT?

    Wasn't she? 
 
    She took comfort in regarding her designer clothing, her Rolex, 
and her expensive jewelry.  She WAS different.  First of all, she 
wasn't a criminal; she was a former ATF agent with a BA in criminal 
justice, an MA in psychology, and a Stanford law degree...top of 
her class in school, top of her class at the Academy, and now, 
at age 42, possessed of considerable political clout and even 
thinking about elective office.  

    Striding purposefully along the hallways, she was the very 
image of an assertive professional woman, with an air of natural 
authority, clothed in understated elegance.  Anyone who'd ever 
seen her that way knew immediately that she had to be a leader, 
a VIP.  But, if people witnessed Otis parade her down the hall 
to a cell, barefoot and wearing only shackles and an orange 
mini-smock, how would they see her then?  

    She stared at the ugly plastic crate that now held her shoes 
and earrings.  In a few minutes, everything else would be in there, 
and then what?  When she "bare naked," would she really look 
substantially different from the other 9999?  True, she was in 
good shape (trim, with no flab or cellulite) and well-kept (no 
exotic piercings or tattoos or C-section scars).  She knew she'd 
be a bit older than many of the subjects, rather prettier than 
some, perhaps, and a lot more humiliated AND excited than most.  
But in the end, she would really be just one more tape or CD in 
Otis's collection of porn-for-rent.  Hers would be a new face and 
body, though, so probably popular...and profitable for him....  Oh, 
god!  Was she actually hoping...?  

    At that moment, Otis grinned up at her and relished her look of 
abject humiliation.  He was proud of his ability to make a woman 
blush just by looking at her.  He was older, now, and couldn't cum 
as often as he once did, but he was wiser, more patient, more 
adroit at manipulating his women.  

    Not long ago Rachel had been a cool, powerful, sophisticated 
woman -- even a bit arrogant -- but she certainly wasn't now.  
She was red-faced and puffy-eyed, breathing through her mouth 
and sweating heavily.  She could barely unbutton her blouse.  
Her bra wasn't even visible yet, and she was already a wreck.

    He had stripped many women over the years, and he particularly 
liked doing the my-shit-don't-stink ones -- like Rachel.  Each of 
them may have entered his (what had she called it?) "domain" snooty 
and tight-assed, but stumbled out naked, well-fingered, and 
stinking.  Just another number.
 
    He watched closely as she obediently folded her blouse and 
stowed it in the box.  She nervously started to cross her arms 
over her chest, protectively, but thought better of it and just 
stood there, submissively waiting for his next command.

    Otis nodded.  Yes, Number 10,000 was going to be memorable.  
For both of them.
