“What?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m the bitch.”
“She really is,” Reed snorts. “You’ll see, Quinn. If we don’t punish her every day, she gets really cunty. When she’s uncuffed, fucking watch out. That’s why she’s really volunteering.”
He jerks her hair back, then lets her go. She raises her hands as much as she can and gives Reed the finger with both hands, but he’s already turned his back on her. Her face full of loathing and bile, the bitch turns to me — this time, I quickly look away.
What the fuck is wrong with this place?
“Amber, how’d you like to show Quinn how to sew?” Reed asks.
The mousy girl nods. He unlocks her cuffs so she can get out of her seat, but he locks her wrists back together.
He doesn’t trust any of us, I realize. Of course, why should he?
“Good,” says Reed. “Everyone else: assume the position.”
While Amber hurries across the room to retrieve stacks of cut fabric, the rest of the women rise from their seats. Moving almost in sync with one another, they lower their pants, exposing their asses, and bend over. Byron gets up and opens a cabinet in the corner, where a series of whips, paddles and floggers hang in a row; he takes a few and hands them out to Corbin and the other two guards.
“Quinn, have you ever seen a flogger before?” Byron asks, drawing the long, leathery lashes through his closed fist.
“Not in person.”
It’s the truth. I haven’t been with many men before, but I’m not a prude.
When Amber gets back, she starts demonstrating how to thread the sewing machine, throwing terms at me like spindle and bobbin; I try to listen, but my attention is drawn to Reed and the guards, who commence swatting the rears of all the other women. Yelps in a dozen different voices ring out as the men walk up and down the aisle, giving each prisoner’s ass a hard slap.
“Quinn, watch,” says Amber.
“Sorry.”
Amber curses and starts over, but it’s still impossible to stay focused. I can’t not watch as their asses turn an angry shade of pink, or listen to the chorus of moans. I yearn to take their place — to endure every drop of punishment in their stead, even though the pain would be unthinkable. My inner thighs grow wet as I imagine every sting concentrated on me. I’ve never been so horrified, or confused, in my life.
“Hey, Quinn! I said watch!” Amber snaps.
“You better listen to her,” Reed cuts in. “We’ll stop when you sew one of those shirts and get it right. From scratch.” Reed swings hard, eliciting a sharp shriek from one of the women, a skinny, short-haired blonde.
“Okay, okay!” I shout, shaking tears from my cheeks. “I’ll do it!”
Amber starts again. This time I follow along, hands flat against my head to block my sight of the others. Threading the machine isn’t as complicated as it first seemed, and operating it strikes me as pretty straightforward. High-pitched cries and thethwacksof leather on skin continue while Amber sews on the sleeves and collar.
“Now you do one,” she says.
“No,” Reed interrupts. “She has to thread it too. Set it up, Amber.”
“Yes, sir,” she replies, removing all the thread. I watch carefully, then take the spool for myself.
Though I feel good about how to do it, my hands shake; urgency spikes my adrenaline, as all I can think about is making the punishments stop.
“I’m sorry,” I squeak as my hand slips, missing the spindle. “I’m trying!”
Reed walks over and points to Amber. “Pants down.”
She obeys, lowering her pants and bending over the desk.
“You have thirty seconds to thread the machine, Quinn.”
I don’t even waste my time responding. With the bobbin full, I work the thread through the guides, the tension assembly, the take-up lever and finally down to the needle. I insert the bobbin, crank the handwheel and draw in the thread.