No Bad Deed Goes Unpunished

Clay had it all figured out. He knew of a foolproof plan to get insanely rich and a way to avoid the majority of legal repercussions should he get caught.

There may be no perfect crime, but this is pretty damned close,

Clay thought to himself with glee. He watched the pawn shop, trying his best to be subtle, from his park bench across the street. He'd spent a lot of time at that park, and especially on that bench, the last few weeks. He wasn't a man to make hasty decisions. He had ample patience, a virtue he prided himself on. A virtue that enabled him to plan his near-perfect crime. Little did he know, that that very virtue would be tested far beyond his limits in the near future.

A notebook lay opened in his lap with a pencil inside the binding. On top of the notebook rested a bird watching guide, open to the page of a local songbird. He'd also invented his own code, just in case anyone got a good look at his notebook. He wouldn't want anyone to know he was keeping track of the armored car schedules. He had his phone at the ready to take pictures, making sure to take some of the birds that he saw.

A large heavy box truck pulled up in front of the pawn shop. Two men, wearing tan uniforms, sat in the truck. Both guards stepped out of the truck, handguns strapped to their sides. The passenger-side guard walked towards the shop, his eyes wary of any one around him. Clay checked his watch, and scratched a note down in his notebook with the coded time. A satisfied grin lit up his face for a moment, before he pretended to consult his bird guide.

Right on time.

He surreptitiously snapped a few pictures of the truck and the guards. Clay continued to watch with his peripheral vision as the guard entered the shop. Clay made another mark in the notebook. A few minutes later, the guard came out of the building, one hand holding a heavy canvas bag, the other resting on his sidearm. Clay made another mark.

The other guard stood at the back of the truck, his back facing the truck as he watched for any threats. When he saw his partner walking up, he unlocked the back of the truck and pulled the door open, then resumed his watch. The guard with the bag stepped in the truck, and a moment later came back out and closed the door.

Making a last mark of the time, Clay closed the notebook. He made a show of staying on the bench long after the truck left, snapping the occasional picture of a bird and flipping through the book. Then he got up and went home.

The next day, Clay browsed the inside of the pawn shop. He took mental note of the placement of the exit, cases, and back office. He checked his watch.

Just a few minutes.

As expected, a few minutes later a guard walked in. He went up to the counter and spoke to the man behind it, voice tinged with boredom, "Hey Jean, just here for the deposit."

The man behind the counter, Jean apparently, nodded and walked to the back. He came out with a heavy-looking canvas bag and handed it to the guard. "Here you go, take good care of it."

"Always do," the guard said, and walked out with it.

Clay browsed a little longer to allay suspicions, then left the shop and went home.

One week later, Clay was ready. He knew the timing of the pickups down to a science. Always within five minutes of 5pm, except for Fridays when traffic was worse. They were always after 5:10pm on those days. That provided his window. He had enough pictures of the uniforms to approximate one fairly accurately by buying something similar on Ebay, and doctoring it up.

That Friday, he drove his car and parked it in the alley next to the pawn shop. He had a coat over the uniform to hide it. Upon arriving, he removed the coat and checked his fake beard in the mirror.

Looks good.

Five minutes later, he walked out of the pawn shop with a heavy canvas bag of his own.

Like candy from a baby,

he thought with a smile. He threw the bag in the trunk, put the coat back on, and drove off.

It took a few days, but on Monday afternoon Clay noticed red and blue lights blinking through his window. He sighed.

It couldn't have just gone easy.

Moments later, he heard a loud wrapping on his front door. "Mr. Lawson, this is the police. Open this door now."

Knowing he had few options, Clay did as they said. In moments his house was filled with cops, taking pictures and rifling through his things. One of the officers showed him an impressive-looking document, a warrant, and then formally arrested him.

It wasn't long before they were on the way to the police station for booking. Clay sat in the backseat, and despite the situation couldn't help but give a little smile. Then he laughed, a high-pitched, over-the-top kind of laugh.

Clay may not have been as smart as he thought he was, but he wasn't a fool. He knew that despite his careful plans, chances were good that he would still be caught somehow. He had a plan for that too.

The first thing he did was take the bag out into the middle of nowhere and bury it somewhere no one would be likely to come across it. That way, if he did get caught, the money would be waiting for him when he got out.

The second part of his plan was to make sure he could get an insanity plea. He knew he'd much rather spend a few years in some mental institution country club than a prison.

From the moment the police arrived at his house, until his arraignment before the judge, he was in full acting mode. Lots of loud, inappropriate laughter, mixed with bouts of screaming or nervous breakdowns complete with tears. He attacked another prisoner in lockup and then proceeded to kiss him on the cheek. He got his own cell after that. Once in his own cell, he used his meager sheets to rig up a sort of noose. Tying it onto the bars of his cell door, he waited until he knew a guard would walk by moments later and started hanging himself. The guard quickly discovered him and stopped it. Then Clay laughed hysterically.

All the acting paid off, and he successfully avoided prison. He did indeed get an insanity plea, and he was sentenced to five years in a mental institution with rehabilitation therapy, followed by parole based on a psychological evaluation at the end of the five years.

The next day, two burly men in white uniforms showed up at the jail, and escorted him out to a plain-looking white van. As they drove off to the institution, Clay once again smiled and laughed. This time, he didn't have to act. He felt giddy that his plans were working out so well. Just five years of free room and board, and he'd be out and far richer than he'd ever been.

They pulled up to the facility, which lay on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by farm fields and woods. It looked like a peaceful sort of place to spend his next five years.

The two orderlies escorted him inside, where he was placed in a room for processing. They took his orange prison jumpsuit and gave him a simple set of white cotton clothes. White pants, white shirt, white socks.

White, I imagine, is meant to be calming.

After he showered and changed, he was feeling pretty good about himself. They took him to his new room, which wasn't much better than a jail cell, and had padded walls.

I thought those were just in the movies,

he thought with a grimace. Still, he had a TV, a somewhat comfortable bed, and even a short privacy screen in front of the toilet. As they led him into the small room, one of them produced one last piece of white attire. A straightjacket.

"What... no, I don't need that... what is that for?" he asked, suddenly no longer happy with his accommodations. The orderlies ignored his question and strapped the jacket on. Clay continued to protest and ask them, but they simply locked him in his room and left.

Around an hour later, the door opened, and a woman stepped in. "Hello, Mr. Lawson. I am Dr. Clara Hilts," her voice had a sing-songy lilt to it.

Likely mean to calm the real crazies,

thought Clay. He couldn't help but look her up and down. She was about a foot shorter than him, and wore a white lab coat. Despite the coat, he was able to tell there was plenty underneath it to be interested in. She was very pretty, with long blond hair, and he figured she was probably in her thirties. "Come with me... please," she added, heading out of the room.

Clay did as asked, and stepped out of the room. The two orderlies were standing there, obviously ready for any disruption on his part. He gave them no need for concern, and followed the woman happily watching her ass as they walked. He had to use his imagination a bit, because the coat hung down to cover part of her skirt, but it was still more than he'd seen in quite some time in jail.

She led him to another padded room. This one had a table in the center of the room, the top looked to be padded. One end had a depression that Clay was pretty sure was normally used for a person's face when they had a massage.

Am I getting free massages too? Fucking jackpot,"

Clay thought, a grin lighting his face. He did notice, however, that there were four cuffs, one in each corner of the table. His grin subsided a little, realizing he might continue to be restrained.

He walked in and stood waiting for instructions. Dr. Hilts turned to the orderlies, "You can go get some lunch if you'd like, this will be quite some time. I will call when I need you to pick him up."

The orderlies nodded and then headed off. Clara closed the door with a loud click. Even the door was padded on the inside, and Clay saw that there was no handle on the inside.

"Alright, Mr. Lawson. Step over to the front of the table here, please," her voice sounded sweet, but with a hint of command to it. Clay couldn't help but find the combination sexy.

He obeyed, and she removed a Velcroed flap from each side of his jacket, exposing his wrists. She picked the cuffs up from the table, hitting a button to allow more slack on the ropes. She put the opposite of each side on his wrists, creating an "x" with the ropes. Then she undid his straightjacket, letting it fall to the floor. Clay stretched his arms the best he could, enjoying the relative freedom.

"Ok, off with your clothes. Don't worry, I'll help," Dr. Hilts said, as she helped him pull off his pants. He found that his shirt had snaps at the sleeves, allowing them to come off with the bindings in place. In moments he was standing there in his underwear. "Yes, those need to come off to. No need to be shy," Dr. Hilts chided him, and he could swear he heard some humor in her voice. His underwear came down and off, Clay felt very aware of his inability to cover himself with his hands.

"Ok, very good. Now work your way over on to the table," she commanded in the same voice. "We'll begin on your stomach."

Only begin? Aren't massages always on stomaches?

He followed her guidance, and found that his cuffs now matched up with each corner. She applied cuffs to his legs in the back, then tightened them all up so he could only marginally move his limbs. His face fit into the contraption on the end, and the padding felt cold against his face.

"Perfect. I find it easier to do these discussions from this position. You may be wondering why you're in here," Dr. Hilts noted, as Clay lifted his head up to look. She was perusing some sheets on a clipboard.

It was uncomfortable to keep his head up, so Clay rested it back down. "The thought had crossed my mind," Clay answered lightly.

"First of all, you will refer to me as 'maam'. You are here because your sentence includes rehabilitation therapy. This therapy is a combination of physical massage, traditional therapy, and group therapy. I am a licensed psychologist as well as a massage therapist. This unique combination allows me to provide you with all of this rehabilitation therapy, sans the group therapy, of course. You will be in this room with me every day during your time here. We are slotted for a few hours a day, but I can easily request more if I feel it is needed. I will be giving you massages, asking you questions, and conducting therapy at the same time."

That doesn't sound so bad,

thought Clay.

Especially since she's pretty hot.

"You are a committed individual, meaning that you have no choice to be in this facility. I could, as such, force my treatment plan upon you. But I prefer to give my patients the chance to accept, or reject, my help. If you choose not to undergo my therapy, you will not see me again. The judge will be informed of your refusal to undergo treatment, and they will decide what happens next. This may include a change of sentence to a prison facility, but that is not certain. Know, though, that this is your one chance to refuse. Once you have given consent, your treatment will continue for the remainder of your time here.

So, I choose between possible prison or getting massaged by her? Easy choice.

"I... accept," Clay answered easily, "Uh, maam.

"Ok, Mr. Lawson. If you are sure, I will start this recorder and we will handle the consent officially. When answering, please indicate your name."

Clay heard a click, and then Dr. Hilts' voice, "Mr. Lawson, do you hereby consent to being treated by me, Dr. Hilts, and given such treatment as I deem to be beneficial to your health and rehabilitation?"

Clay responded, "Yes. I, Clay Lawson, do consent."

He heard another click. "Thank you, Mr. Lawson. Now we can begin."

He felt Dr. Hilts hands on his shoulders, beginning the massage. Her hands felt warm, soft, and very relaxing.

Clay grinned again, forgetting his embarrassment at his nakedness.

I really did hit the jackpot. Massages from a beautiful woman every day. That should rehabilitate the fuck out of me.

After a few minutes, she stopped the massage. He heard her pick the clipboard up off the counter.

"I see here that you robbed a pawn shop, yes? And you displayed symptoms of severe mental illness, hence your sentence to here and assignment to me. Look at me for a moment, please," Dr. Hilts instructed as she walked in front of the table. Clay could see the lower half of her legs close-by from his position on the cushion, protruding from her tight skirt. They looked very nice.

Clay lifted his head again, finding it quite uncomfortable on his neck. Dr. Hilts stood quite close, peering at him in the eyes with an intense look. "So, Mr. Lawson. Are you suffering from mental illness?"

Clay was surprised by the question. He almost answered in the negative before remembering why he was here, "Uh... yes maam, I sure am." He put his face back down, as much to hide a small smile as it was to relieve his neck.

"I see," Dr. Hilts said, and Clay heard her scribbling on the clipboard. Then she spoke absently, as if talking to herself, "Yes, I suspected as much. So much the better."

Clay smiled again, deciding his performance must have been satisfactory.

"So, Mr. Lawson, how did you come up with your plan to fake your mental illness? Watched a few too many crime shows?"

Clay's smile vanished, and he felt icy fear creep through him. "F-fake? I'm not faking, m-maam."

"Oh, Mr. Lawson. You will find it unhelpful to lie to me. Especially about things I already know the answer to. From your file I felt confident you were faking, but now that I've met you and looked in your eyes, I know it for certain. Any mental illness you may have is not the variety to cause you to commit crimes, be violent to prisoners, or to harm yourself. You succeeded in fooling the judge, however. So, you're here for the next five years. At the end of the five years, my report will determine your future. If I tell them I determined that you were faking, you will find yourself quickly transferred to prison for a much longer sentence. Judges do not appreciate being made fools of."

Clay's heart pounded. He felt suddenly very afraid.

"I don't have to write that in my report, however. We shall see. We have a lot of time together before then to figure all that out. In the meantime, I chose to handle your case specifically because I believed you were faking it," Dr. Hilts explained, her voice somehow still sounding sweet. "You see, I feel it is my duty to punish those who end up in my care under false pretenses. You spending five years here happily receiving massages and chatting about your childhood before heading home would be a total miscarriage of justice. If, however, I feel at the end of the five years that you've been sufficiently punished and are truly remorseful, I will sign off on your release. So, you see, my punishments are really in everyone's favor."

Clay felt relieved when she said she might let him go at the end of the five years, but quite frightened of what her punishments might look like.

"I have more good news for you. I'm not going to harm you. Don't worry about some sort of cruel punishment involved torture devices or the like. I'm not a monster. But I'll make sure that you're severely punished, just the same."

Clay felt very uncertain now, not knowing what she was intending to do to him. He felt very vulnerable, naked and strapped down to the table, in a locked, padded room with no windows.

"Yes, you notice your situation, don't you? You are completely powerless here. You are at my mercy," Dr. Hilts said, her voice losing some of its sweetness. "And I am rather sparing with my mercy."

Her hands returned to his shoulders, and slowly massaged down his back. Clay felt confused, getting mixed signals hearing about punishment while being treated to her relaxing touches.

"It's confusing isn't? You're probably wondering right now, how am I punishing you? I'm making you feel good, yes?" she asked, continuing the massage.

Clay could only grunt in assent, breathing deeply as he enjoyed the massage.

"I rarely inflict pain. I prefer to inflict pleasure. I will torment you in ways you didn't know were possible." Dr. Hilts explained, as her hands moved lower still to his exposed buttocks. She massaged his butt cheeks, something Clay had never experienced before but found he enjoyed. He found his body reacting to these touches in ways he was sure were quite inappropriate.

Inflict pleasure? That doesn't make any sense. Which one of us is supposed to be the crazy person?

Clay thought with some humor.

She seemed to be able to read his mind, over and over again. "That doesn't make sense, right? Inflicted pleasure? That's just nonsense," she parroted his own mind, as her hands traveled lower still to his upper thighs. Her hands massaged up and down the backs of his thighs, at time making their way in between them. They got close to his balls, but never seemed to quite make contact.

Clay was definitely reacting to the touches now, and he felt his dick harden uncomfortably against the tabletop. He was grateful for the padding.

"It will all make sense, in time," she assured him, continuing her ministrations.

"I think that's enough time for that. Let's get you flipped over," she said, and Clay felt a moment of panic as he knew she'd see how her touches had affected him.

She undid one cuff at a time, moving it to the ropes on the opposite corner of the table. Then she helped flip his body over to match. Clay's face turned a very deep shade of red as his hard erection sprang up, now freed.

"Tsk tsk, are you that excited already? You're going to have a difficult time of things, aren't you?", she commented, her voice once again sweet.

Clay wasn't sure what she meant, but he was having difficulty thinking straight. She resumed her massage of his thighs, this time on the front. Her hands traveled in between his thighs, up on top, over to his belly, and back around. She kept getting maddeningly close to his balls and dick, but never quite touching either of them.

Clay felt his dick throb and move, seemingly with a mind of its own. He bucked his hips, trying to get some contact with her hands. "Now now, you're not to move, Mr. Lawson. How am I to properly massage you if you don't stay still?" She chided him, but he heard the amusement in her voice. "I think I'd better weigh you down."