The armored detainee transport pulled through the stately front gates, passed high stone walls and meandered through towering topiaries before stopping before the resplendently bright white mansion. The vehicle stopped and two of the Sheriff's men stepped out, one holding a shotgun, just should the need arise. The door in the rear was unlocked and two more guards exited into the bright spring sunshine, pulling in tow with them the burly, hulking form of their charge, clad in an orange jumpsuit, his hair clean but running low over his eyes, a half day's stubble freckling his cheeks and chin with black. His wrists were bound to his waist and his ankles shackled together. Even so, the guards stood ready, as if he may burst from his bonds and trample them in his escape.
The guards marched the prisoner up the steps to the front porch, one of them reaching out to ring the doorbell. From deep within the house, great brass chimes boomed their arrival, and with only the shortest pause, the door was answered by a man who dwarfed even the stocky guards and the bruiser they led in chains. Without a word, he motioned them inside and the assemblage trekked onto the marble floor in the grand foyer, their footfalls echoing off the high ceilings. Another pair of footfalls were evident, lighter, clacking majestically along the hard surface. In a doorway appeared a petite young woman, with fine blonde hair that fell to just below her shoulders. Despite the heat of the day and the presence in her own house, she wore a trench coat that revealed only her slim and shapely calves caressed by white stockings and her feet, clad in short white heels, the tips coated in shining chrome. She stopped before the men, and beckoned the behemoth who answered the door away.
As if on cue, one of the guards stepped forward, eyeing his official document and stealing a glance at her legs in the process. He spoke:
"Ms. Celia Anderson, you are being charged with the duty of incarceration and rehabilitation of Dennis Calder until such time that he is deemed by the court to return to society. I'll need you to sign here," She reached out for his pen with graceful slender fingers and signed as he pointed out the spots, "and here please. And initial here. And one final signature here. Thank you, Ma'am.
"You're welcome," she replied, her voice husky and sonorous, commanding a voice unbefitting such a slight creature. The men began to file out of the house as one guard unchained the prisoner. Once he was unshackled, they seemed to exit faster and took no time in reboarding their vehicle to make a hasty get away.
Celia eyed her new charge, and without a word, peeled her coat sideways, displaying the white lacy bodysuit she wore, her small breasts stretching the material, her nipples erect, and the white stockings that topped out just over her knee.
Dennis rubbed his wrists with his big, rough hands, eyeing the strippling woman up and down through his hair with eyes of cold hatred and lust.
"Well, let's get started, shall we?" she said, starting to walk away in the direction from which she had come. She paused, as he had not taken a step to follow her, and she turned to address him.
"Let us get something straight," she paused to eye her copy of the document, reading his number out loud, "147382. I am in charge here, and per the Dominatory Rehabilitation Act, I am going to turn you into a model citizen. This will be accomplished because you will follow my commands to the letter, and only when I see fit, will I call the court to have you evaluated. Do you understand?"
