


       

                      PENDING ARREST....

                            by

                         Joe Doe

 
A LOCAL OFFICIAL AND FAITHFUL READER WRITES IN TO ASK FOR ADVICE. 


Dear Folks,

My name is Heather Grant, and I am a 29-year-old female county 
clerk.  Part of my job involves the approval of county projects 
and budgets, which brings me into frequent contact with our local 
Sheriff.  

The women's prison farm provides most of the labor used for our 
municipal projects, and I frequently work with the Sheriff to 
schedule the chain gangs for road and building projects.  Although 
we live in a rural county, the interstate provides the Sheriff 
with a steady supply of attractive young females for the prison 
farm.  Although I know the Sheriff's practices are not strictly 
legal, as a native I never really questioned the morality of our 
penal system.  To be honest, I derived a secret thrill from 
arranging hard labor for the spoiled, pampered city girls that 
the Sheriff incarcerated out on the farm.  

Of course, I knew the unfortunate women were also used to stock 
the Sheriff's brothels and strip clubs, but I was never involved 
in that part of the business, so I never gave it much thought. 

My attitude about the prison farm changed dramatically a few 
months ago when I refused the Sheriff's request for a chain gang 
to dig a new swimming pool for his mansion.  I told him quite 
bluntly that we needed the young women to work on the new county 
building, and, since he was already stealing a fortune, he could 
easily hire some workers.  Our discussion ended in a shouting 
match, and a dire warning from the Sheriff that he was going to 
"teach me a lesson." 

The next day I was greeted by a sea of sly smiles and smirks from 
everyone in the county offices.  When I demanded that my secretary 
tell me what was going on, she nervously suggested that I walk a 
few blocks down and look in the front window of the Sheriff's 
office.   

Our local Sheriff's office has large plate glass window right next 
to the sidewalk.  As I rounded the corner and approached that 
window, I noticed displayed there a cheap cardboard box, which I 
immediately recognized as one of the containers used to hold the 
clothing of the women sent to the prison farm.  As is customary, 
the name of the prisoner was written on the side of the box in 
large letters with a red magic marker: 

	GRANT, HEATHER

	18383-8383-47478

	INCARCERATION DATE:________  

It was MY name on the side of the box!  There had to be some sort 
of mistake! 

Maybe there was another woman named Heather Grant who had recently 
been arrested, and the box was being used to hold her clothes. 

I looked into the box.  It was completely empty. 

I examined it more closely.  It was definitely a clothing box, 
and, except that it had my name on the side and the incarceration 
date was blank, it was indistinguishable from the countless other 
evidence boxes I had seen the Sheriff process over the years. 

"Process."  It was an ordinary, routine term; as a county 
bureaucrat I used it hundreds of times a day.  But, as I looked 
at the box, something about that simple word sent a chill down 
my spine.... 

As I stood in the window, staring at the ominous, empty box, the 
Sheriff's threat echoed in my mind, "You need to learn some 
humility, young lady!  I'm going to teach you a lesson you'll 
never forget!" 

I stood and stared at the cheap, tawdry box, so brazenly displayed 
in the front window.  The Sheriff had clearly left it there to 
taunt me, to warn me of what would happen if I didn't toe the line. 
The humiliating box would also serve as a message to the rest of 
the town about my impending transformation from respected community 
leader to helpless bimbo jailbird. 

Over the next few weeks, the thought of how it would feel when 
I was finally ordered to put all of my clothes into that horrible 
cardboard box haunted me.  I simply couldn't stop my imaginings. 

I wanted to go into the Sheriff's office and confront him about 
the box, but somehow I couldn't.  Seeing the box with my name on 
it had drained the brass from me, and it took my whole supply of 
courage just to return to work and face my smiling co-workers. 

I was about to round the corner to enter my office when I heard 
two voices.  I immediately recognized that Billy, the college 
student who works in the mailroom, was talking with my secretary.  

"Do you have any idea of when they are going to arrest her?" my 
secretary asked. 

"No, the Sheriff hasn't decided yet," Billy replied.  "He says he 
wants her to sweat it out for a while.  But he promised me that, 
since I'm taking a Criminal Procedures class, he was going to let 
me help out with her strip search." 

My strip search!  My blood ran cold as I imagined myself slowly 
disrobing in front of the gangly 19-year-old.  I instantly 
regretted all of the times that I had screamed at Billy for 
bringing me cold coffee, or complained to his boss when the mail 
delivery was slow because Billy was studying for an exam....   

"WOW!" my secretary said.  "You mean you're actually going to 
watch them strip her?  You don't think they'll actually strip 
her...BUTT NAKED, do you?" she asked, clearly titillated by the 
idea. 

"Naked as a jay bird!" Billy replied, gleefully.  "The Sheriff 
promised me that, since she's been so bitchy with me, he would let 
me slip on a pair of gloves and help out with the cavity search.  
I'm going to enjoy fingering that tight little hole of hers." 

"I get to do the rectal exam, too!" Billy bragged.  "The Sheriff 
said that I should take my time, and use plenty of lubricant.  But 
that won't be a problem.  I want to do it nice and easy, and make 
her feel it.  I'm going to enjoy seeing the look on her face when 
I work my finger up inside her, good and slow, and wiggle it 
around!" 

I visualized myself standing naked in the Sheriff's office, 
desperately trying to cover myself, as Billy slowly, teasingly 
slipped on a his cheap rubber glove.  I imagined squirming 
helplessly as I watched my grinning subordinate slowly lubricate 
his long, slender fingers.   

I deliberately coughed before I rounded the corner, which spared 
me the humiliation of walking in on their talk mid-sentence.  It 
was the first of countless humiliating conversations that I 
overheard over the next few weeks...and that halted when I entered 
the room, underscoring my sense of isolation and helplessness. 

My life became a nightmare, with no escape from the mocking 
smiles of my co-workers and  "friends."   When I was alone in 
the bathroom, I would stand in front of the mirror and force 
myself to "assume the position."  My eyes would glaze over as I 
pictured myself standing in front of Billy with my hands on top 
of my head, naked and helpless.  I shivered as I imagined him 
commanding me to spread my legs.  And then his greedy little 
hands would run up my bare thighs.... 

My husband was no help.  When I told him about what I had seen 
and asked him to call his fishing buddy, the Sheriff, he said 
that the Sheriff had actually asked his permission before he put 
the box in the window!  "And remember, you're the one who said 
that we might want a trial separation, Heather, so you could date 
other people," he said pointedly.  "The Sheriff said that you'll 
have plenty of 'dates' at the truck stop." 

I protested that being a prostitute at a truck stop was not 
"dating," but my husband just laughed. 

"You made your bed, Heather," he said slyly, before turning off 
the lights, rolling over, and going to sleep. 

When I stepped out of the shower the next morning, I took a few 
minutes to look at myself in the mirror.  I take great pride in 
my appearance, and I still have the same measurements I had in 
college.  But, as I "assumed the position" in front of the mirror, 
I was filled with an almost unbearable sense of helplessness and 
dread.    

I tried to dismiss my mounting panic.  But I couldn't. 

My grouchy, 75-year-old neighbor, Mr. Codger, confirmed my 
husband's story when he told me casually that the Sheriff had 
promised him a chance to “hump me good" when he put me to work 
at the truck stop.  "I'm going to enjoy having those pretty 
long legs of yours wrapped around me," the old geezer teased.  
"You may be too lazy to keep your yard up properly, but I'll be 
paying good money for you, so I expect you to wiggle that tight 
little butt of yours real good when I'm giving you your poke." 

"If you think I'm going to have sex with YOU, you're CRAZY!" I 
shouted, angrily.  "You're nothing but a disgusting, degenerate 
old pervert!" 

Mr. Codger seemed undisturbed by my outburst.  “Keep talking, 
honey," he said, with a lewd smile.  "You have a pretty mouth.  
I suggested making you dance in the club, and the Sheriff thought 
that was a grand idea.  I'm going to bring along a lot of dollar 
bills, Heather.  Do you want to know where I'm going to stick 
them?" 

My so-called "neighbor" delighted in describing how he was going 
to make me jiggle my "HOOTERS" and wiggle my ass for him.  He 
said the Sheriff had promised him a front row seat for my "stage 
debut," and I shuddered as I imagined him grinning up at me as I 
slowly stripped down for the first time.  First my shirt...then 
my skirt...then the moment of truth when I would be forced to 
reach back and unhook my bra.  I would look away from him in an 
effort to avoid his triumphant smile, but I would know he was 
there.  "Then off with your panties!" he cackled.  He held up a 
$1 bill, and sneered that he was saving it for my first tip, “but 
you'll have to squat and spread, so I can work it in real good!" 

After only a few days of lewd and knowing stares from everyone in 
town, I broke down and telephoned the Sheriff with approval for 
his work order.  The Sheriff responded by saying that no approval 
was needed, since he had simply gone around me and arranged for a 
chain gang directly with the warden.    

I nervously asked him if he was going to take the box out of the 
window. 

The Sheriff laughed and said the box would stay in the window 
until "you put your clothes in it, and I can put it in storage 
with the rest of the boxes." 

"Am I under arrest?" I asked, my voice trembling. 

"Not until you commit a crime, Heather," the Sheriff replied, 
calmly.  "But I told my deputies to be on the lookout, since I 
promised to teach you a lesson.  There are a lot of folks you've 
insulted over the years, and the whole town is looking forward to 
giving you a few weeks of vacation out on the prison farm.  I'd 
watch my step, if I were you." 

My job has become a nightmare.  Each time I arrange for a chain 
gang to drain a cesspool or harvest a field of cotton, I do so 
with the full realization that I might be called on to complete 
the task myself.  I shiver as I imagine myself dressed in a 
midriff-baring t-shirt and denim shorts, my wrists and ankles 
chained, while a grinning deputy with a razor strap supervises 
me under the broiling sun… 

Whenever I see Billy grinning knowingly at me in the hallway, my 
mouth goes dry, and my pulse begins to race.  Despite my efforts 
to remain calm, I always end up clenching my thighs tightly 
together as I stare at his long, probing fingers. 

A prison supplier whom I had recently disqualified for poor 
quality goods called me and said that he had talked to the warden 
about arranging a demonstration of some of his products when I 
arrived at the prison farm.  "You won't think our delousing fluid 
is 'watered down' when you're on the receiving end," he snickered.  
"Our rubber gloves will feel plenty good enough when my fingers 
are up inside YOU!"   

I protested that his visit wasn't necessary, but he said that he 
had already arranged a "complete demonstration" of his company's 
product line with the warden.  "I'm particularly looking forward 
to demonstrating our new razor strap, Heather.  I'm going to enjoy 
snapping the strap around that curvy little bottom of yours, while 
you promise to be a good girl.  I'm going to enjoy wiping that 
smug, sassy little smile off your face." 

A few people in town seem to feel sorry for me, but most of them 
use my predicament as an opportunity to make sly remarks or lewd 
references to life on the prison farm.  My appearance on a local 
radio station to announce a county roads project was prefaced with 
the song "Jailhouse Rock," and the interviewer taunted me with 
lewd questions about whether I would soon be "entertaining the 
troops" at the local brothel. 

For the last several weeks, I've been a nervous wreck.  I've 
stopped driving to work and, instead, walk 45 minutes, rain or 
shine, in order to avoid a traffic stop.  I've studied the zoning 
and yard maintenance ordinances carefully, and I've spent every 
weekend doing home repairs and yard work to make sure my property 
is up to code.  I even sent my little dog, Yappy, to live with my 
cousin so that I wouldn't be in violation of the noise laws, much 
to Mr. Codger's delight.  

Mr. Codger licks his lips and blatantly ogles me whenever we 
meet; the other day he even pinched my bottom while I was 
hauling groceries into my house!  A few weeks ago I would have 
knocked his block off, but now I just blushed and scampered into 
the house like a frightened kitten while he laughed cruelly at my 
humiliation. 

I have transformed myself into the obedient, submissive plaything 
of my husband's dreams, in the hopes that he might appeal to the 
Sheriff to spare me.  Although he clearly enjoys his foot massages 
and blowjobs, he just smiles when I tell him about my feelings of 
helplessness and terror.   

I am writing in to this forum, in the hopes that your readers 
might have some suggestions on what I should do.  Is there any 
way to restore my standing in the community and not lose my mind? 

Hysterically, 

Heather Grant



Edited by C. Lakewood

