Complying, I shuffle my feet as fast as I can. My ass tingles where he slapped it — even through my clothes, it hurt enough to leave a lingering throb. I’m reminded of my restraints, and their feel around my body. There’s something about the sensation I don’t entirely dislike, though I get the impression a serious spanking from Reed would be extremely painful.
Passing through a set of wide double doors, we enter a small auditorium. Two columns of red theater seats line a central walkway to a raised, wooden stage. Sitting quietly in the chairs are at least twenty women: all my age and pretty, they don’t strike me as being a typical sampling of criminals. Their hair has all grown long, as though they don’t have anyone cutting it here in this place. Though they wear gray prison uniforms and a shock collar matching the one I’m wearing, my eyes are drawn to their wrists, which are bound to their seats by shackles built into the armrests. As we pass by, some watch Reed and I make our way toward the stage, but most keep their heads down, afraid to look.
Fucking hell, what is this place?
My mind reels, horrified by the sight. Why are they all bound to their seats? Are they so dangerous? Do they think I’m the same? Do they think I’m a violent person, because of what happened to Lance? That’s ridiculous.
It’s because of Prescott, isn’t it? That’s why I’m here. It’s personal for him. But who are these other women? What did they do?
Reed directs me to a set of stairs leading up to the stage, and then to its front and center. As we go, another man emerges from the wing: middle-aged but in decent shape, he smiles as he rakes his gaze up and down, taking me in for the first time. He wears a gray sports jacket, slacks and a white button-down shirt, but no tie. Though thin from balding, his hair is unnaturally dark — dyed, I assume. He carries himself with authority, unhurried and at home — nothing unusual is happening here, as far as he’s concerned.
“Quinn Harris, welcome to Walker,” he says. “My name’s Byron Ashworth, and I’m the warden. They say you met my friend Darren, Congressman Prescott, earlier today. Isn’t that right?”
“Your friend?” I spit, bile rising in my throat.
His smile widens. “For more than thirty years. So when he asked me to make sure this place breaks you so badly you barely remember your own name, I told him it would be my honor. That’s why I got this.”
He directs my attention to a wooden stockade being wheeled onto the stage by Reed. Like the kind seen at historical theme parks, it features two blocks separated by a seam, with openings to bind one’s wrists and neck.
“At Walker, disobedience is punished without mercy or exception. There is no talking out your feelings or expressing grievances — if you act out, you will be whipped, isolated, humiliated and more. For all intents and purposes, we own you. There are no guidelines or rules regarding your treatment — my word is law. It’s harsh, and often unfair. I’d tell you to get used to it, but if you do, it means I’m not doing my job correctly.”
“I hate you,” I murmur, trying to hold back tears. “You’re a monster.”
Byron shrugs. “Call me whatever you want. I’m the boss here.” He points to the stockade. “You ever been put in one of those before? Have you ever felt what it’s like to be locked up?”
“No,” I snort, but I’m blinking fast to keep my eyes from burning. “I’m not a fucking criminal.”
Laughing, Byron gestures to the guards, who immediately set to work removing my cuffs and chains. “Whenever I have a new resident, I like to give her a real taste of what she can expect here. Isn’t that right?” he calls out.
Soft mumbles drone from the audience. I don’t want to face them, but I have no choice after Reed locks my head into the stock. They’re watching with more interest now, though their vacant stares bring no comfort.
“Ladies,” Byron continues. “This is Quinn Harris, and she is here to pay for the assault that robbed Congressman Darren Prescott of his son, Lance. Due to the seriousness of her crime, her disobedience — and she looks like she’ll be disobedient, doesn’t she — will result in an excessive rebuke. If you think you’ve had it bad before, wait until you see what happens to Quinn here. I’m telling you this because you will help make her feel unwelcome. You will not take pity on her, be kind to her or take her side, ever. The first one to even speak to her will be severely punished. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the women respond in unison.
I start struggling against the stock the second Reed locks it into place: the clicking sound flips a switch in my mind, as I realize I’m fully incapacitated. With my body secured by the device, I can’t even attempt to run. My hands twist and shake while my knees flex, but nothing budges — there’s no escape.
To make matters worse, I feel hands along my waist, followed by the rush of cool air against my skin as Reed pulls down my pants. Thrashing in place as I futilely attempt to kick him away, my shriek fills the auditorium so loudly, I see the other women flinch.
“Don’t fight,” Reed warns as he tugs my panties down to my knees. “It won’t help.”
He may be right about that, but my instincts say otherwise, refusing to settle down. “Please let me go,” I cry. “I don’t belong here! I was only defending myself! Please, don’t do this to me!”
“Beautiful,” Byron says, circling me, arms folded in front of his chest. I can’t help noticing the growth of an ominously large tent in his pants. “I love putting girls like you in the stock. Right now you’re feeling helpless and angry — you want to fight, but don’t know how. As your term here goes by, you’ll eventually accept that you can’t fight. The best you can hope for is that it will end well, but it won’t. At some point you’ll end up back in the stock, vulnerable and exposed, as someone like me does to you whatever he wants. It won’t change, Quinn.”
He steps behind me, and after a moment I feel a sharp sting across my ass.
“You said you were only defending yourself,” he says. “Look around. You’ll see a lot of people who claimed the same thing. It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”
The whip cracks this time as it lashes my cheeks. I howl, writhing as the pain spreads into my body. Byron only waits a few seconds before swinging again, and this time it’s even harder than the first two. Pushed beyond my breaking point, I sob openly as the prison warden punishes my ass. The looks on the inmates’ faces offer no succor, so I squeeze my eyes shut. I cry out with each stroke of the whip, overwhelmed by torment I never could have imagined.
When Byron finally stops, my skin feels scorched, throbbing a heat that refuses to subside. I shake uncontrollably, and tears soak my face.
He steps to the front of the stock to face me and takes my bound hands in his. Leaning in close, he whispers, “Quinn, by the time your sentence is over, you’ll wish you’d just let Lance rape you.”
Chapter 3
Watching Byron punish Quinn so savagely, his cock straining hard as steel in his pants, I want to rip that whip from his hands and push him off the stage.