Author's note: The premise of this story is somewhat inspired by Vagrantx's
grim story "Encased," but it goes in very different directions from there. It's sort of consensual, but not very.
This is my first attempt at a 750 word story.
I walked down a long hallway, trying to control my eager anticipation. I knew the money I'd paid to visit here helped to run the prison. Very progressive, I thought. I found the door I wanted, Number Twenty-Seven, and opened it with the mag key I'd been given.
There she was, the one I'd picked from the catalogue. Twenty-three years old. Mid-length auburn hair, slender frame, medium-sized breasts now dangling seductively, fine, chiseled features, not all of them visible above the leather panel gag. On all fours on a Y-shaped bench with padded steel clamps holding her at her wrists, elbows, knees and ankles. Spread by the two arms of the Y. Plugged with a large and institutional-looking buttplug.
In for smuggling fentanyl, the catalogue said. She had probably brought in and distributed enough to kill dozens of unsuspecting users.
I removed my clothes and hung them on a hook. I admired her milky skin and perfect, rounded ass. Sometimes I leave the gag on, but I felt like a chat today. No hurry. I'd paid for an hour.
I unbuckled the strap and helped her get the attached stuffer ball out from behind her teeth. "Thanks. I sure get tired of wearing that fucking thing for six hours a day. Sometimes I like being face-fucked, just so I can have something different in my mouth."
