




                      NO AMNESTY FOR LOIS

                              by

                           Joe Doe


A MENTAL HOSPITAL STORY INSPIRED BY MCSKY'S "THE POOL" (ON INDIAN 
OUTLAW'S SITE) AND BY THE WALL-TO-WALL SHOWINGS OF "CRASH" ON TV 
THIS MONTH.  



Part 1

I was only a few minutes away from winning the first game when 
Amanda's pager went off.  (One of the hazards of playing racket 
ball with a doctor.)  I could tell from the look on her face as 
she spoke on her cell that it wasn't good news.  

"Sorry, but I need to get to the hospital right away."  

"Gee, you'll do anything to avoid losing," I teased.  "I'll shower 
and change, and you can drop me off.  I'll just be a second."

Amanda shook her head.  "Sorry, but they said it was urgent.  
Would you mind showering at the hospital?  It's only a couple 
of blocks from your office, and it has a staff locker room.  
We can both shower and change there."

I wiped my face on a gym towel and threw it into the corner.  I 
could have taken it to the hamper, I suppose, but they had people 
for that sort of thing.

Sixty seconds later Amanda and I, still dressed in our workout 
shorts and t-shirts, were speeding downtown in her Lexus to the 
Lakewood Clinic.  I didn't mind playing along, but I also had a 
secret motive.

For years I had been reading the asylum stories on the web by 
Lakewood, Hal, and Joe Doe.  The Lakewood Clinic was on my way 
to work, and I often stopped to look at the incongruous razor 
wire fence and the barred windows, so odd in an urban setting.  

The articles I had seen in the papers about the supposed abuse of 
the female patients at the facility further fueled my submissive 
fantasies.  The chance to actually enter the facility and look 
around excited me beyond belief.

I wasn't disappointed.  Security was tight.  We went through a 
metal detector and three checkpoints.  Our athletic bags were 
searched.  

The guards and nurses were mostly Hispanic or black, and their 
accents made them difficult to understand.  Those people are 
so lame.  This is America, amigos!  Get with the program!

One of the guards was a bit reluctant to admit me, since my name 
wasn't on the sheet.  But Amanda was insistent, and, in the end, 
I was given a photo-ID badge with the word "VISITOR."  The badge 
had two pins and a clip, and I was instructed in no uncertain 
terms NOT to lose it.  I fastened it tightly to my t-shirt.

The hospital itself was worn and gothic, with thick steel doors, 
iron grates, and reinforced concrete at every turn.  

I watched as Amanda approached the Filipino nurse at the nurses' 
station.  "My name is Amanda Gray, and I'm filling in for Dr. 
Waters while she's on vacation.  You said you had an emergency?"

"Yes, Doctor," the nurse replied in heavily accented English as 
she handed Amanda a thick stack of folders.  "We have three new 
patients coming in today.  We need you to sign their electroshock 
forms."

"That doesn't sound like an emergency," Amanda replied coolly.  
"Couldn't you just have scheduled it?"

"It's hard to get doctors to come here.  We need to get the 
patients on their meds, or they are hard to manage.  Plus we 
always do electroshock."  The nurse was babbling. 

Amanda looked at the orders grimly.  "That's quite a bit of 
voltage for women you've never even seen.  Are they severely 
depressed?"   

The nurse looked blank. 

"Look, I don't care if they're scheduled for head transplants!" 
Amanda snapped.  "You don't call me for an emergency unless it 
IS an emergency.  Where are these patients, anyway?"

"There's been a delay, I think....  And,…well, they may not be 
transferring one of the three patients."

"You paged me to examine patients who aren't HERE?"  Amanda's 
patience was at an end.  "Look, my friend and I are going to 
take a shower and change into our street clothes.  You had better 
hope that your patients show up by then, because I'm out of here.  
If you want to schedule an appointment, call my office; I'll show."

The nurse wasn't happy, but she knew her place.  "Yes, Doctor," 
she said meekly.  "The locker room is right this way."

She led us into a rather depressing staff locker room -- a concrete 
floor, a couple of sinks with mirrors, two toilet stalls, a bench, 
and a row of lockers.  Three shower stalls with saloon style doors 
stood against the far wall.  

A large sign on the wall read, "PLEASE USE LOCKERS.  UNATTENDED 
ITEMS WILL BE DISCARDED."

"It looks like all the lockers are in use," Amanda noted.  "Where 
do we put our stuff?"

"Leave it on the bench, Ma'am," the nurse replied.  "You'll be here 
the whole time, so it will be fine."

"Could you fetch us some towels?" I said.

I realized from the look on her face that "fetch" had been an 
unfortunate choice of words....  But so what? 

The nurse crossed the room and used her key to unlock a large metal 
door.  It was heavy, and she strained to swing it open.  It had a 
small window about 1 foot square, covered by bars and thick safety 
glass.  

Curious, Amanda and I followed the nurse into the next room.  

A short cinder-block hallway led into a large gang shower, totally 
exposed, with a sunken floor and fixtures suspended from the 
ceiling; a central control panel regulated the water.  An exam 
table was against the back wall.  Towards the front of the room 
sat a small card table with folding chairs.  On top of the table 
was a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

"Is this where the patients shower?" Amanda asked.

"Yup!" the nurse replied casually.  "We delouse them here, too.  
And the table over there's for cavity searches."

I felt an indescribable but thrilling chill as I imagined myself 
standing buck naked in the shower, shivering under the foreign 
nurse's watchful gaze.  

From her crisp manner and the sharp look in her eye, I suspected 
she wouldn't be so diffident then.

Far from the safety of my cushy corporate office, I'd be naked and 
helpless, stripped of everything I had.  "Scrub-a-dub-dub!  Hurry 
up, Lois!  Search and delouse in ten minutes."

Amanda's voice brought me back to reality.  "What are the doughnuts 
for?" she asked.  "Patients snack in the shower?"

"The guys bring them in.  We have to have male orderlies in the 
shower because they're strong enough to control the girls.  It's 
kind of a show, especially when we shower the cute ones."

"Charming," Amanda said dryly.  "Will we need soap, too?"

The nurse handed us each an orange, worn, institutional towel. 

"Will we need soap?" Amanda repeated.

"Spick-a de Henglich?" I asked sharply.

The nurse shot me a dirty look.  "There should be some in the 
shower," she said.  "It might be a bit crusty -– I don't think 
anyone has used those showers in ages.   But you certainly don't 
want to use the soap in here.  It's delousing soap, and it burns 
and stinks."

"This place is just getting better and better," Amanda said.

The nurse led us back to the staff locker room.  "I'm off duty 
in twenty minutes, when the shift changes.  If you can finish 
up before then you won't have to spend thirty minutes explaining 
who you are to everyone as you try and get out of this place."

"Don't worry," Amanda said.  "We won't linger."

"The last thing I need is to try to explain things to a bunch of 
people who can't even speak English," I added.  

Once again, the nurse gave me a dirty look, but said nothing.

As the nurse left, Amanda's pager went off.  "Damn!" she said.  
I undressed as Amanda called in on her cell.  

"Another emergency," she said.  "A real one, this time.  I have 
to go.  Can you get back to your office from here?"

"No problem," I said, my voice trembling.

In truth, I wasn't sure if there would be a problem or not.  The 
mental ward was indescribably scary, but it was also thrilling.  
With Amanda gone, I would be able to enjoy my shower alone, and 
let my imagination run wild.

I was frightened, anxious, and aroused, but Amanda didn't have 
time to notice.  

Within seconds, she, too, was out the door. 

Now that I was alone, I looked around the room.  The peeling paint 
on the cinder-block walls was a hideous institutional green.  The 
cracked floor was dark gray concrete.  The only primary color in 
the room was from the various padlocks on the old, yellowed wall 
of small, rusty lockers.

I moved over to the sink and smiled at myself in the mirror.  
Although I never considered myself to be a beauty queen, I am 
athletic, and I looked quite fetching in my white t-shirt and 
blue running shorts.

I took the ribbon out of my hair and let it hang loose.  Better.

I very carefully undid the clasp and the double pins that held my 
photo ID to my t-shirt.  I could have left it clasped onto the 
shirt, of course, but I knew how important the ID was.  Somehow, 
leaving it tangled up in my clothes didn't seem right.

I wanted the ID to be visible, out in the open, close to me, where 
I could see it.  Fun was fun, but there was something about the 
personnel in this place that gave me the creeps.

The sink was closer to the showers, but there was no room on the 
tiny sink for the rest of my clothes.  

I took off my shoes and socks.  The floor was freezing.

I took off my shirt and shorts.  

I hesitated for a moment, then removed my bra and panties.  

I sat on the bench to get my feet off the frigid floor and piled my 
clothes next to me.  I considered putting them in my athletic bag, 
but decided I wanted to keep them handy in case I needed to dress 
quickly.

I went into the first stall and turned the handle first to the 
left and then to the right.

No water.

I tried the second stall.  No water.

I tried the third and final stall.  The pipes groaned.  A few 
seconds later my face and hair was sprayed with a fine orange 
rust.  I coughed and sputtered as I turned it off.   Clearly 
the nurse wasn't kidding when she said the shower hadn't been 
used in ages. 

I wrapped myself in the coarse orange industrial towel and walked 
back to the sink.  I wiped away the rust, being careful not to get 
the stuff in my eyes.  I tried to rinse my hair in the tiny sink, 
but the water pressure was pathetic.  

I tried to get my head under the faucet, but succeeded only in 
hurting myself.  I cursed as I un-wedged my head.

Freaking foreigners, with their freaking tiny heads!

My efforts had knocked my ID onto the floor, and it was now sitting 
only a few inches from the drain.   

I picked it up and put it back on the sink.

I looked at myself in the mirror.  With the orange streaks in my 
hair and my orange face, I looked like an overgrown ompa-loompa.  

Too bad.  I had to get back to work.

It was then that I noticed that the door into the patients' shower 
room hadn't been completely closed, and the lock hadn't caught.  

The stupid nurse had left the security door ajar.  Shows what you 
get for minimum wage.

I walked across the room.  A sign read, 

	THIS DOOR MUST BE LOCKED AND BOLTED AT ALL TIMES

Ha!

I walked through the door and peeked around the corner into the 
patients' shower room.

The room was empty.

I could see the water dripping from the shower nozzle.  Clearly 
THESE showers worked.

I hesitated.

I desperately wanted to clean my face and hair.  I couldn't go back 
to the office looking like a clown.

I could always call my secretary and take the afternoon off.  
I have plenty of accrued vacation and sick time, and nothing 
important was on my schedule.  On the way home, moreover, I 
could pick up some day laborers outside Home Depot to finish 
digging out my old septic tank.

I looked at the shower room and smiled.  It was exposed, worn, and 
institutional.  How often had I fantasized about being "forced" to 
shower in a room exactly like this?

Of course I wasn't REALLY being forced.  I COULD go home.

I bit my lip and fidgeted with my towel as I became aware of the 
growing wetness between my legs.   

I could take the afternoon off.  But that would be so...so  
unprofessional.

My stomach was in knots.  What if a staff member came in while I 
was showering?  What if the new patients finally arrived?

I looked at my watch.  I wasn't wearing one.  How long until the 
shift change?  I stood, irresolute, staring at the ominously open 
shower....

Then I turned and headed for the door.  My hair was orange, but a 
cab was definitely the safer choice.

		

Edited by C. Lakewood

_________________________________

Editor's Note 1:

Is this really The End?  Well, maybe....  Then again, maybe not.  
Joe has written a long, spicy alternative ending.  Whether this 
sees the light of day, however, is up to you...and to me.  I'm 
under orders to post it ONLY if enough of you group members make 
some good arguments why Lois should take the riskier path.

Consider, for example:

1) The pros and cons of showering vs taking a cab.
2) Is it really unprofessional to ditch work for an afternoon?
3) Should she waste time taking her ID and clothes into the 
   patients' shower room, or just hop right into the stall 
   and rinse off quickly?
4) What should she do if a staff member walks in?
5) Is there enough time before the next shift change?
6) Etc.


Below is a sample response:

	Hi, Lois!

	I can't believe you'd miss a chance like this.  Of course, 
	there is an element of risk -– that's why it's so exciting. 
 
	Showering in the patient area would be deliciously naughty 
	-– all the more delicious because naughty girls sometimes 
	get punished.  

	Isn't putting your hand in the cookie jar all the more 
	exciting when you know that if that big meanie Mr. Nerdly 
	catches you he'll spank your little buns?  Doesn't the 
	danger make the cookie sweeter?

	Relax.  If you get caught, it will be no big deal.  After 
	all, it's not like anyone might actually think that YOU 
	were a mental patient.  The very idea!

	I'd leave your ID in the other room.  There is nowhere to 
	set it down in the patient shower area, except for that 
	yucky doughnut table.  And you don't want to take the 
	chance that some diabolical doughnut muncher might steal 
	your precious ID.  Then you really WOULD be in a pickle.  
	No, leave your ID on the sink, safe and sound.  

	Fun is fun, but you need to be careful.  You never know 
	when some minor, seemingly trivial event could turn the 
	situation against you.  After all, we don't want to turn 
	this into one of those horrible Joe Doe stories.

	I know you don't have your watch, but I've been keeping 
	track of the time for you.  You have plenty of time 
	before the shift change, but you have to go RIGHT NOW, 
	young lady!

	Don't worry, Lois -– I have everything all planned out.

	Love,

		Joe
 

Joe is hoping to get at least five responses of two or more 
paragraphs each.  As always, he'd especially like to get the 
women's perspective and is encouraging Natalie, Amanda, Andi, 
Andrea, and others to respond.  

He is also, however, leaving the final decision up to me.

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

Editor's Note 2:

The response was typical.  Out of virtually 10,000 group members 
(in "stripsearchthree"), there were four responses that could be 
deemed adequate.  A couple of them, however, were very good.  The 
best was written by Jacques Moore, and, in recognition, I am 
inserting a copy here: 

	Dear Lois,

	When will you get a better chance to live your fantasies 
	out in real life?  After all, it's not everyday that you 
	get to visit INSIDE a mental institution like the 
	Lakewood Clinic.  Imagine...you can act out your strip 
	search fantasy and let your mind see the leering guards, 
	the smirk on the lezzie nurse's face... and do it where 
	you can smell the actual scents of institutional soap, 
	the coarse towel and the sound of doors locking you in....

	You can ALWAYS ride in a cab, but right now you're 
	destined for a better ride...IF you stay around and have 
	the guts to take it.  Besides, you can just imagine the 
	horror of losing your dignity by parading around with 
	orange hair and face.  The cab driver will have a field day 
	telling every customer and co-worker about the professional 
	woman he dropped off (and he'll know exactly where you 
	work) who had so little pride in her appearance that she'd 
	appear in public like that.  Better get cleaned up first. 	
	Safer.

	Okay, it IS unprofessional to ditch work for an afternoon, 
	especially if there's no reason to take the time off.  But, 
	if you've been admitted to the Lakewood Clinic it's not 
	"unprofessional" -- it's educational.  You can't pass up 
	the chance for a learning experience like this.  THAT 
	would be unprofessional.

	Time's running out, though.  Unless you want to be there 
	after the shift changes and take the chance that the nurse 
	forgets to brief her relief, you need to get that shower 
	done pronto.  Just leave all your ID and other stuff right 
	there in the staff area and dash into the patient area and 
	under the shower.  Remember, the quicker you start, the 
	sooner you're done.  You really do NOT want to be in there 
	when the new patients arrive and chance getting mixed in 
	with the patient population, even by accident.

	That exam table has the look of recent use, and your 
	fantasies have always included some real indignity, 
	but there's no sense tempting fate.  Is there?  Better 
	be fast, however.  You wouldn't want to have to run, 
	desperately trying to cover yourself, if people enter 
	during your shower.  They might think you were trying 
	to escape and THAT would mean you'd get punished.

	Just remember, the Lord's will is getting done even if 
	we can't see how.

	Hugs & Kisses,

		Jacques


All in all, the responses were (barely) enough to earn Part 2.

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




                     NO AMNESTY FOR LOIS

                             by

                          Joe Doe



Part 2: The Alternative Ending

I turned to leave.  I didn't belong here; these were the showers 
for the mental patients.  These open stalls were for women who 
had no legal rights, no recourse, no choices.  Doughnut table 
or not, they HAD to shower in front of the leering, swarthy 
orderlies.  Having been declared incompetent, they had no right 
to refuse or to even protest.  

And if they DID protest, who would care?

Those showers weren't for me.  I wasn't some nut job to be paraded 
around for the amusement of a bunch of minimum wage bedpan 
scrubbers.  I was well-educated and sophisticated, a woman of 
substance and means.

Why then, was I SO excited?

I hesitated.  I wanted to drop my towel.  I wanted to shower off.  
I wanted to go slumming and play, if only for a moment, the role 
of the helpless, hapless victim.

But I couldn't.  As much as I wanted to, I just couldn't drop my 
towel.

It was rather ironic.  The illegal aliens who worked at the clinic 
were supposed to be the ones with no rights.  They were supposed to 
be the victims, the exploited ones, the ones with no legal recourse.  
But here, they seemed to be in charge.

Those women might be incompetent, but in one way at least they 
were more fortunate than me.  They truly had no choice -– the 
humiliation they faced was utterly involuntary.  Unlike me, they 
didn't have to decide whether to throw in the towel.  The decision 
would be made for them.

My ponderous ruminations on the paradoxes of free will were cut 
short by a harsh metal sound.  

A loud CLANK, followed by the sound of metal SCRAPING against metal.

I was so lost in my thoughts that it took me a moment to realize 
what had happened.  

The heavy metal door connecting me with the staff locker room had 
been closed, the lock had CLANKED shut and the huge secondary metal 
bolt had SCRAPED into place.  I was cut off from my clothes as 
effectively as if I had been blasted into another world.

I ran back down the tiny hallway.  The floor of the patients' area 
was several inches lower, and I was forced to stand on my tip-toes 
to peek through the tiny window and discover the identity of the 
person who had locked me out of my world.

I peered through the thick wire mesh glass.   Two Latina cleaning 
women were cleaning up the staff locker room.  I recognized their 
uniforms; they were apparently from the same company that cleaned 
my office.

The older woman was quite portly. The younger woman, obviously her 
assistant, was thinner and appeared to be 18 or 19. 

As I looked through the glass, the younger woman filled her bucket 
while the older one switched on a boom box.

La-la-la-la bamba!

I tapped on the glass.  They couldn't hear me over the blaring 
music.  I tapped harder.  I pounded.  Still nothing.

Damn Greasers!  Damn Greaser music!

The older woman began mopping the floor.  The younger one scrubbed 
the toilets.

My shoes and bag were on the floor.  My clothes were on the bench. 
My precious ID was on the shelf above the sink.

Mop, mop.  Scrub, scrub.  Pound, pound!

La-la-la-la bamba!

Why couldn't they hear me?  Why didn't they turn off that damn 
noise?

I looked at my side of the door.  It was thick, with metal rivets.  
No keyhole on my side, not even a door handle.

I was powerless...completely, utterly helpless.  

And then I started to feel a maddening, indescribable tingle 
between my legs.

You might not think that watching someone scrub a toilet was 
erotic.  But my situation was unique. I had no money, no ID, 
no clothes.  I was buck naked save for a coarse, institutional 
towel.  The towel wasn't even mine, and I was acutely conscious 
of the fact that I might be forced to surrender it at any time.  

The women on the other side of the door were unimportant.  Illegal 
aliens, probably, uneducated and exploited.  Had I seen them 
before, cleaning my offices?  If so, I had paid them no notice.  

After all, why would I bother looking at a cleaning lady?

I had sometimes wondered what it might be like to be a pretty but 
impoverished Latina.  What would it like to be unable to speak the 
language of those who had authority over you?  Would I end up in 
a whorehouse?  Would I blow someone to get across the border?

If my American boss assaulted me, what could I do?  If I complained 
to anyone, I would be sent back.

The irony was thick.  These two women, who had been beneath my 
notice before, now held my fate in their hands.  They were in 
charge, and I, nearly naked, scrunched my toes and desperately 
attempted to make eye contact with one of them so that they would 
open the door.

Mop, mop, mop.  I watched in horror as the fat cleaning woman's mop 
ran closer to my athletic bag and shoes.  

Mop, mop, mop. 

The salsa on the boom box ended.  

And then it began again.  Damn repeat!

La-ba-ba-ba-bomba!

The woman swished her mop in the bucket.  Mop, mop, mop.

At last she reached my shoes and bag.  She leaned her mop against 
the wall, and picked up my shoes with one hand and my bag with the 
other.

For a moment I thought she was going to put my things on the bench.  
Instead, she casually compared the shoes to her own elephantine 
feet, shrugged, and tossed the shoes and bag into the large black 
garbage can on her cleaning cart.  

The garbage!  Those were my things!  My purse...my wallet...my car 
keys...my driver's license...my precious business clothes....  

I was an American citizen, damn it!

The ignorant peasant of a cleaning lady mopped on, obvious to the 
enormity of what she had just done.  Mop, mop, mop.

La-la-la, indeed.

The younger woman finished with the toilets.  She walked over to 
the cart and sprayed some cleaning fluid onto an old worn rag.

I watched intently as she ran the rag down the bench.  She stopped 
at my gym clothes.  She stopped for a moment and picked them up -– 
my socks, panties, shirt, shorts, bra.  She looked at them 
quizzically.  

I pounded on the glass.  Look my way!  Look my way!

But she did not.  

To my despair, I watched her toss my athletic clothes into a yellow 
bin on the back of the cart.  The bin was market LAUNDRY, and an 
orange towel, identical to the towel I was wearing, hung casually 
over the side.  

The younger woman flicked her hand and the towel fell in atop my 
clothes. 

I squeezed my thighs together.  I was soaking!  Her casual disposal 
of the towel reminded me of the precarious nature of the towel 
wrapped around my own naked body.  

I knew a casual flick of the finger could send the towel I was 
wearing into the laundry basket, too

One hand continued to pound on the glass.  

My other hand slid between my legs.  

The younger woman used a feather duster to give the top of the 
lockers a rudimentary cleaning.  The older woman continued to 
mop. 

It might not SEEM like an erotic situation, but it was.  The music 
was pulsing.  My clothes and purse were lying discarded in their 
bins.  My fate was totally in their hands.

All they wanted to do was mop and sing along to their damn salsa 
crap.

By some miracle, I finally caught the younger woman's eye.  

I must have been quite a sight.  Only my eyes were visible, and my 
little fists, pounding futilely on the glass. 

She gave me a perplexed look.  Then she tapped the older woman on 
the shoulder and pointed at me.

Behind my wire mesh, nearly naked, with the two women pointing at 
me, I felt a bit like an animal in a zoo.  But now,  at long last, 
I had their attention.

I couldn't explain, of course.  Not through the door, with the 
music blaring.  

And it wasn't like either one of them spoke English.

But it was obvious what had happened, wasn't it?

I raised my hand in the air, and pointed down on the lock on their 
side.  I couldn't open it from my side.  The room I was standing 
in had been designed for women whose door-opening days were gone 
for good.

The young woman turned off the radio and walked towards the door.  

I quickly explained.  "I'm a VISITOR!  You accidentally locked me 
out.  My clothes are in your trash bin.  Please open the door."  

The younger woman smiled at me sheepishly.  "No inglés," she 
replied.

No English! 

I desperately tried to remember my high school Spanish.  "Por favor 
-– la puerto?  Las puertas?   Mistak-i-co.  Mucho grande mistako!"

It was so FRUSTRATING!  I had to make them understand!  

The older woman nodded and smiled.

She understood.

Then she turned to her companion and began casually drawing a 
circle in the air around the side of her head, in the classic, 
"she's crazy" gesture.

Actually, under the circumstances, "loca" might be the appropriate 
word.

The momentary diversion I provided quickly ended.  The older woman 
shook her head, smiled, and resumed cleaning.

The younger woman clicked on the radio.  

La-la-la-la bam-ba!

Wait!  I wasn't crazy!  I didn't belong here!

Unfortunately, the proof was now in the garbage bin.

My ID was still on the counter.  When they saw THAT, they would 
recognize me, and I would be free.

Wouldn't I?

They could only see my eyes and my forehead, of course.  And the 
confident, steely gaze I had on the visitor's badge was quite 
different from the panicked, deer-in-the-headlights look I 
doubtlessly had now.

But when they saw the badge, they'd know.  They'd know, and they'd 
see, and they'd unlock the door.

We'd all have a laugh.  Heck, I might even give them a tip.  

I had several hundred dollars in my purse.  What should I give 
them?

I decided $20 each -– U.S. -- would be right. 

Well, maybe $10.  Yes, they could split $10.  You can't be too 
generous with that sort.

The older woman finished mopping.  The younger woman dumped the 
water down the drain and packed up the supplies.

I stared at the garbage bin.  

I felt so helpless.  

Once again, to my shame, my hand got busy.

The older woman took a rag off the cart and quickly wiped the sink 
down.  My ID was just sitting there.  Didn't she see it?

The woman stooped and picked up a discarded paper towel that had 
missed the waste basket and was now in the sink.

How often had I left a piece of trash on the floor to be picked up 
later?  Often enough, I suppose.  After all, there were people to 
take care of those things.

The fact that one of THOSE people held the keys to my prison was 
both chilling and thrilling.

As the woman turned to leave, she caught sight of my ID.  My heart 
raced as she picked it up.

I was saved.  I was saved!

Wait.  Why wasn't she looking at it?

Why was it in the same hand as the discarded paper towel?

I watched in horror as she dropped my precious ID in the trash bin.

The women laughed.

At long last, La-bamba stopped, and Mr. Valens took a well deserved 
rest.

I pounded on the glass for all I was worth, but neither woman 
looked.  

I gritted my teeth in frustration as they jabbered happily in 
Spanish. 

My company had offered free Spanish lessons, but I had scorned 
them.  After all, this WAS America.

I suddenly regretted my choice.

The older woman led the way.  She held the locker room door open 
for the younger woman, who pushed the cleaning cart through.  

As she exited she looked back, smiled, and waved me a mocking 
"bye-bye" with her hand.  Then she burst into laughter.

I watched the door slowly swing close....  

And I was rocked by the most intense orgasm of my life.

My face pressed against the cold metal door.  My head was buzzing.  

It all was so intense that it was several minutes before I became 
aware of the voices behind me.

I crept to the doorway of the patients' shower and peeked in. 

Three women were there -- a beefy black matron and two rather 
attractive white patients in their mid-20s to mid-30s.

The newspaper article had hinted that many of the patients in 
this private institution were "inconvenient" step-daughters or 
heiresses.  Their commitments effectively sheared the little 
lambs of their property, along with all of their other legal 
rights.

The white women were obviously scared, but they appeared to be sane 
and intelligent.  In fact, they looked rather like me.  

Particularly since they were naked, save for the worn institutional 
orange towels wrapped around their bodies.

I watched as two stout Latino men in their early twenties walked 
into the locker room. 

MEN in the woman's showers!  That wasn't right.

"All yours, boys," the black matron said.  "I already searched 'em, 
so no need for a pussy check."  So saying, she left.  

The smaller of the two Mexican men turned toward the trembling, 
frightened women.  "Don' worry, ladies," he sneered.  "Juan an' 
Carlos, we gonna treat you jus' fine!"

Juan stood directly in front of one of the women, a short, cute 
blonde.  She trembled as she plaintively tried to explain.  
"Please, mister...I don't belong here.  My uncle...."

Her explanation was cut short.  I watched in horror as Juan ripped 
off her towel.  She screeched.  

Juan  slapped her bare fanny and laughed as she scampered into the 
shower.  

Both men appraised the blushing woman's body with a lusty series of 
whistles and cat calls.

Juan wadded the towel into a small ball.  It flew across the room 
and landed in the laundry basket.  

"All net!" he hooted.

He moved to the second woman.  "Your turn, Princess."

"Please, sir," she said.  "I don't belong here.  It's a terrible 
mistake.  My husband was having an affair with our Polish nanny.  
And, when I threatened to divorce him, he put me in here."

Juan looked at her quizzically.  "Wait...I know you.  You're Mrs. 
Johnson, on Park Drive, right?"

The woman looked back at him.  "Yes...I am.  I'm sorry, do I know 
you?"

"No' really," Juan sneered.  "I used to clean your pool. I was 
fired when you complain about how my partner an' me was ogling 
you an' your frens.  You jus' loved prancin' aroun' in your 
little bikinis.  But, when we looked, you got real shitty."

"I'm sorry, what was your name?"

"You call me 'Sir,'" Juan said.  "An' now, Mrs. Johnson, it is 
time to see what you look like withou' tha' cute little yellow 
bikini."

He ripped the towel away.  Another girlish shriek.  Laughter.  
A sharp SLAP! across her cute bare bottom.   More laughter.  
Whistles.  Cat calls.  Another basket.  All net!

Carlos, the larger of the two, walked over to the table and began 
removing exam gloves from the box there.

"Good idea," Juan chuckled.  "Wit' snatch thees hot, it def'nitely 
calls for a second poossy check.  But...why three gloves?"

"There's three folders, man.  We supposed to have three girls.  
Better get our fun now.  All three are schedule for electro-shock 
thees afternoon, an' I don' wanna finger fuck no zombie."

"Three girls?" Juan said suspiciously.   He looked around the room. 

My heart leapt as he spotted me peeking around the corner.  "Here, 
chica, chica, chica!"  And he made clucking noises.

I couldn't run.  There was no where to go.

For the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like to be 
trapped.

I nervously made my way across the freezing floor to submit my 
plea to the grinning Mexicans.

"I know everyone says this," I began, trying NOT to sound like the 
others while sounding EXACTLY like them.  "But I truly DON'T belong 
here."

He smiled.  I watched in disbelief as my orange towel sailed 
through the air.  

All net. 

A hard slap across my fanny propelled me in the shower.  I blushed 
and squirmed as Juan and Carlos lewdly appraised my "fresh, gringa 
poossy."

I trembled as they SNAPPED on their gloves.  The disinfectant soap 
burned and stank, but I knew there would be no amnesty for me. 


Edited by C. Lakewood
