Prisoner 4053

Prisoner 4053 was frightened.

She was not, as a matter of course, someone who ran; she had reported to the facility at the appointed time. It was easier that way. She had heard of men and women who, once convicted, had cut off their ankle monitors, packed a bag that evening and disappeared as best they could, but their best was rarely sufficient. A border officer would notice their fraudulent passport, perhaps, or the camera outside of a shop would pick them up a few days later, a hundred miles away in a different city, and then the collection teams would arrive, and they'd have years tacked onto their sentences for running. Four-oh-five-three wasn't sure she was clever enough to escape the law, and she knew she had no appetite for sleeping in barns, cutting across the border, wondering if the kindly rural neighbors were planning to turn her in... no. Better to get it over with.

Which is how she found herself in front of the intake center that day, working up the courage to go inside. There was already no going back -- her ankle monitor had been registered, and someone would stop her on the way out of the government center -- but entering the door ahead of her had a symbolic finality that was, frankly, terrifying. She had read about what this would be like, and in her previous life it had even turned her on a little, but reality was... well. Different. Reality wouldn't end when she climaxed.

She opened the door, and stepped into the intake center.

It was a tiny lobby, with another door at the far end, and three doors to either side. A large sign on the door opposite explained that she should choose one of the six side doors, and that further instructions would be given once she was inside. The door behind her fell closed, and she heard the lock engage with a metallic rattle that dropped her heart into her stomach.

"Room five, please," said someone, over a PA. And then, when she hesitated, it repeated, now sounding slightly irritated: "Room

five

, please."

Room five was a tiny vestibule with a table and shelf, and its far end had another door as well, this one with a wired glass window slit. Four-oh-five-three closed the door behind her, and heard its lock engage, and past the door, the lobby's lock whirred again, opening.

"Undress, please, and fold your clothes neatly."

She was shaking now. It felt like a doctor's office, but it wasn't. There was no paper robe she could cover herself with. No one who did anything to her would be doing it for her own good, and from here on out, her consent wasn't necessary for any of it. She had fucked up. She had fucked up so badly, and this was

happening

, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. Already her clothing felt like some kind of joke, the property of an unconvicted woman who had the right to exist in the world, who had been able to keep her skills up to date, who had worked hard, who had been

worth

something. She wouldn't cry, though. She stumbled out of her pants and the cool air of the building sent goosebumps up her legs.

"You're doing well," said the voice, without sympathy.

Four-oh-five-three took a shaky breath, and stepped out of her underwear, then unbuttoned her shirt. It didn't feel

real

. She reached back and unhooked her bra, and her nipples went hard at their sudden exposure.

"Take a bag from the shelf and place your clothes in it. They will be returned to you at the end of your sentence," said the voice. When she had done so, slowly, to steel herself against what came next, the voice added, "Put your hands inside the two holes in the machine to your left and grasp the handles."

Four-oh-five-three, with her arms across her chest, looked at it with despair. The voice, to her surprise, didn't chide her. It simply waited for her to do what it had asked.

The holes were not large enough for her to see into unless she stooped, but she didn't need to look inside. She had researched facilities like this during her trial, and knew what it would do; if she hadn't, the track that protruded from the top of the machine would have explained it sufficiently. This was it, then. This was maybe the last moment she would have full use of her arms and legs, the last moment she'd be able to scratch herself at will or stretch or --

She put her hands in and closed them around the handles.

The cuffs that encased her wrists were cold, padded vinyl. They were not uncomfortable. Quietly, the machine tested its grip and then the box climbed the track, tilting forward as it did, until 4053's arms were fully extended and she stood, just barely, on the soles of her feet.

This was where, she had read, most people panicked.

"You will be collected shortly," said the voice on the PA, and there was a sharp static bark, as though it had hung up.

All 4053 could do was wait.

She heard the voices outside the door before it opened, and that kept her from panicking when the handlers walked in. She turned to look, but the machine was in the way, and before she could brace herself, she felt a hand at the base of her head. While she was reacting to that, another hand slipped a soft foam gag past her teeth and buckled it around her face. The straps attached to a flat handle that protruded from her mouth, so she could close her mouth -- mostly -- but not speak. The hands gathered her hair from her neck, and from the coolness, she could tell she had been sweating.

"It's all right, love," said a voice. It was a different voice than the one from PA.

A pair of opaque goggles came into view. Something was happening around her feet as well, but it was too much to think about, and she was too frightened to give that her full attention. The handler buckled the goggles to her face as well, and she could see nothing.

More hands brought a belt around her waist, and her vulva throbbed. Was it going to happen now? Could they tell she was turned on? She struggled against the cuffs and heard the clatter of chains as she kicked. She didn't

want

this. However her body was responding, she didn't want it. The belt, thick, was pulled snug, and the chains around her feet lifted.

"You're okay," the voice continued.

A pair of cuffs were attached to her wrists, further up, and then the machine released one arm. "Behind your back," the handler said, and 4053 didn't struggle as her arm was guided to the back of the belt and clipped into place. "Other one," he continued. "Good."

She trembled in the cool air, colder now that there was a sheen of sweat all over her body.

A door opened, and she was led through it, with a handler on either side.

She was acutely aware of how helpless and exposed she was. Anyone here could see her; her only coverings were the goggles and the belt, and they left little to the imagination. It wasn't illegal for anyone to touch her, either; one of the handlers could reach over and roll her nipple between his fingers or pinch her clitoris, and she wouldn't be able to do anything about it. They would, at some point, she knew, or at least the one assigned to her would -- it was part of the job. Part of her sentence. In a fugue of terror she shuffled between them -- the leg chains kept her from taking full steps -- and waited for one to strike her for being slow, but they didn't. Instead, they... talked.

"Anyway, so I'm standing out there in my boxers, trying to figure out where this fucking noise is coming from, and meanwhile it's something like eight degrees outside..."

She was surprised to find herself so insignificant. This was the biggest, most terrible moment of 4053's life, and the handlers were barely paying attention to it. For them, it was just another day.

The acoustics changed, and they passed from the hall through another doorway. "All right, honey," said one of the men. She was near a wall, she thought. There was a whir of machinery, and then the hands pushed her back a step. "You're going to lean forward. Stretch out your neck. Nothing to worry about." The hands of the other handler guided her, and then moved her gently back until her neck was inside a padded vinyl yoke. She felt something move in front of her face, and the yoke closed in front, supporting her chin. One of the hands stayed on her upper arm, and the machine whirred again, lifting until she was standing straight up, but all her weight was still on her legs.

The hands came again and pulled her hair free of the yoke.

"Is she wet?" said the other handler.

The hands disappeared, and then one pressed into the small of her back. Fingers slipped between her labia and moved down the length of her vulva, then back up again. They gave her clitoris a firm little rub and withdrew. By the time she gasped, shocked, it was over, but her body was screaming for more. She thought they would laugh at her, and humiliated, flushed all over, but the first handler said simply, "Yeah. Most of them are at this point."

They left her there, helpless, and continued to talk as they went back down the hall.