by Sansa Rayne
Despite her foul mood, she nods, smirking. “Yeah. If I get arrested, would you send it to the media?”
“Done.” I kiss her on the forehead and save the file. “Now get back in place, prisoner. This is a mugshot, not a modeling gig.”
“If this was a real mugshot, I wouldn’t be naked,” she argues.
She’s got me there.
“Fine. Wait here.”
I march out to the next room, where I’d been saving a surprise, but now’s a good time for it. A minute later I return, carrying a bright red prison uniform.
“Oh god,” she mutters, looking at it.
Without a word, I open the padlocks and cuffs binding her, freeing her. She stretches out her limbs, relieved to be let out, but I don’t give her much time to enjoy it before tossing her the outfit.
“Get dressed, now.”
She does it, checking herself out. It’s probably the least flattering garment she’s ever worn; the sleeves and pant legs hang shapelessly; the brown slippers are uncomfortable and ugly. Yet, she smiles, perhaps enjoying the novelty. As soon as she’s dressed, I bind her once again; Sibel groans, but gasps in pleasure every time a chain tightens or a lock clicks into place.
“Wipe that look off your face. This isn’t fucking Halloween, prisoner. Stand up straight. Look into the camera.”
This time Sibel’s photo is a lot more somber — her face sullen and defeated. She’s acting, of course, but that’s all right. Her real mugshot will probably look pretty similar, depending on how she feels when they take it. Will she still be riding the high of her stunt, or will the gravity of the situation finally pull her down? It’s hard to say. Maybe this experiment will harden her against the real experience — but it could remind her that this time it’s not going to start with orgasms and end with kisses.
I give her a second to look at the picture, then grab her by the shoulder and drag her to the last stop: a maintenance closet I’ve converted into a cell: in addition to the sink and toilet installed originally, I’ve furnished it with a cot and a security camera.
“This isn’t supposed to be fun, pet.”
“Sorry, sir,” she mumbles.
“On your knees!” I shout, startling her.
Carefully, she lowers herself to the ground. I unzip my pants and pull out my cock, which stiffens rapidly. She licks her lips when she sees it, so I grab her collar and pull her close. “Think you’re going to enjoy this?”
“Yes, sir.”
I press my cock against her lips; she opens her mouth, but doesn’t expect me to jam my cock down her throat so quickly, and gags. I pull out, giving her a second to cough, but then drive right back in. Without any respite, Sibel jerks around in my grip; realizing I’m not letting go, she forces herself to regain her composure, and tightens her lips around my shaft.
Though I enjoy the way her tongue clings to my cock and how her cheeks cave inward when she sucks, I recognize that this is more fantasy than reality — I don’t want her to be assaulted in prison, and I don’t think she will be — but if it happens, she’s not going to like it. If she’s thinking the same, she’s not letting it show. Even as I fist her hair and jam her head into my crotch, she doesn’t complain. As good as it all feels, I can’t enjoy the idea of her being in such a situation unwillingly.
“Sibel, stop,” I say, pulling out. “Do you not get how serious this is?”
“I’ll… be fine,” she says, trying to catch her breath. “I’m not… going… to super-max. They won’t… put me with… violent, dangerous criminals.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
I nod, lifting her to her feet and then sitting her down on the cot. “What if you’re wrong? What if someone decides they’d like a piece of the infamous Sibel Isaacs? Are you going to give them what they want?”
“No,” she growls, staring me down.
“And what if a guard doesn’t like what you do and calls you a whore? Treats you like a whore? What then?”
I don’t know what it is, but Sibel’s face changes — it’s not obvious, but it couldn’t be missed either. A light in her eyes goes out, or a mirthful line smooths into something vacant, or dead.
“I’ll cope,” she says, sounding far away. “I know how.”
I nod. “We’ll see.”
Then I leave, slamming shut the door to her cell.
—
Except for a medical emergency, I’ve sworn not to open that door for at least four hours. I’m sixty feet away, viewing her through the security camera. She looks up at it often, undoubtedly knowing I’m watching. Remembering the first time I left her confined, when she waited happily for nearly half an hour, I expect her to take some time to crack. She proves me correct.
For the first hour, she’s calm — pleased, even. She enjoys the confinement, playing with her chains, trying to work her way out unsuccessfully. She gets up and paces across her cell, though it only takes two steps; she bores of it before long. She writhes in her bonds and giggles at the futility, utterly unconcerned.
During the second hour, however, her mood begins to deteriorate. She tries to disguise her boredom, but soon she’s sighing, blowing stands of hair out of her face and humming to herself. She lies down on the cot, which is more comfortable, but does little to alleviate her isolation.
“Having fun?” she calls out, gazing up at the camera. “You think this is pretty hot, don’t you?”
She knows me so well.
“Why don’t you come here and have some fun with your prisoner?” she asks. “I’ll suck you off,” she sings.
Tempting, but I can wait.
“No? Don’t you want these pretty lips wrapped around your thick, hot cock?”
Her sultry tone gets me hard as oak, but I don’t budge.
Nice try, pet.
The third hour is the first to bring tears. She gets up to kick at the door, every so often losing her slipper and having to get it back on. Each blow to the door echoes through the building, but I don’t let her go. I don’t even punish her, as she probably would be in jail.
When she runs out of steam, she stares up at the camera, evoking all the misery and desperation she can muster. It nearly works, but I hold off — it’s a lot easier to win a staring match when your opponent can’t see you. Eventually, she gives in and carefully lies back down, burying her head in the pillow.
“They’re not going to put me in solitary!” she screams during the last hour. “I’m not a fucking psycho killer! This isn’t what they do!”
She’s right, but it doesn’t matter. If she wants to risk her freedom to send a message, she should know everything that could entail.
Once you go to prison, I can’t keep you safe.
“Please, Pierce! Come back! I get it, okay?” she wails, gazing up into the camera.
Do you, though?
“Let me out of here!” she pleads. “I’ll do anything, I swear! Please! I’ll call off the show. Is that what you want to hear? Fine! I’ll do it! Just let me out of here!”
I didn’t throw her into the cell to extract such a promise; hearing it breaks my heart, enough that I give up on the last twenty minutes of her “sentence.”
She breaks down in deep sobs when I open the door and wrap my arms around her. I unlock her chains and toss them onto the bed, and soon she’s embracing me, her body shuddering.
“I don’t want you to call it off,” I say after a while. I speak softly and brush her hair. “I just wanted you to understand what you’re getting yourself into.”
“I know,” she replies. “I appreciate it. Really. But I’m going ahead with the show.”
“If that’s what you want, I’m with you. As long as you’re ready.”
Sibel shakes her head. “I’m not. I don’t know if I ever can be. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not backing down.”
We wait in Pierce’s truck, watching the joggers and tourists. Though we rolled down all the windows, the breeze is too light to coo
l us; it’s unpleasant, how much we’re sweating, but at least I’ll look right for what we have planned. Plus, Pierce is nice enough to wipe down my forehead for me, even fanning me with a newspaper.
I can’t do either for myself because my hands are cuffed and chained to my lap, just like they were several days ago. I’m wearing the prison uniform from that day as well, and it’s definitely too heavy for a hot summer afternoon.
“Ready?”
Central Park bustles with activity; we should be able to attract a big audience, much bigger than the show at Bowling Green.
“Still no. But it’s time.”
Stationed outside are a handful of pretty good looking women watching our truck, phones occasionally pointed at us — Pierce’s girls, hired to record surreptitiously. I recognize a few from his website, but not all of them.
It must be interesting to be behind the camera, filming Pierce for once, I muse, grinning to myself.
“You sure?” Pierce asks one last time.
Part of me wishes Steph could be here, keeping an eye on us instead of these women I’ve never met. At least Steph got through her exam — right now she’s hopefully in her PJs, reading a book or binge-watching one of the hundreds of shows she hasn’t had time for throughout the past few months. Or is she surfing the web, waiting for my plan to unfold?
Best not keep her waiting.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s go.”
He gets out a black balaclava from the glove compartment and puts it on, shifting the opening for the eyes until he can see. Then he puts on his navy blue, eight-point cap and gets moving. He lets me out, slams the door behind me loud enough to turn a few heads.
Pierce’s costume isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough: between the outfit, the walkie-talkie stuck out of his pocket and the unloaded Beretta holstered at his hip, he passes for a New York City cop.
Of course, cops don’t usually drive consumer-model pickup trucks while on duty, which is why one of Pierce’s performers is going to quietly drive it away once we draw the crowd’s attention with us. This doesn’t prove very difficult: it’s not every day a cop drags a shackled, female prisoner through the park for no apparent reason.
Though we practiced the routine many times leading up to today, I’m still caught off-guard by how harshly Pierce manhandles me. Several times I lose my footing and am kept from a fall only by Pierce’s steely grip.
“Watch your step, bitch,” he grouses, loud enough to be overheard.
I can hear the whispers already — the growing commotion following us to our staging area. Phones are coming out, recording everything.
Perfect.
As far as I can tell, no one has recognized me: I’ve shortened my hair to a pixie cut and re-dyed it a nice chestnut shade. This should throw people for most of the act, which really begins now.
In the shadow of the Met, in sight of the statue of Alexander Hamilton, I suddenly jam my foot into Pierce’s and break into a run. Chains connecting my ankle cuffs keep me from sprinting, but I go as fast as I can, having practiced the technique for weeks.
“Help!” I scream. “Somebody!”
I head southish, through the woods toward Cleopatra’s Needle; when I look over my shoulder, Pierce is on my trail, affecting agitation and a limp. Behind him, the crowd streams like a flock, not wanting to miss what’s happening.
I shout, “I didn’t do anything wrong! This isn’t right!”
Have any of them called the police yet? Or do they see Pierce and think, he is the police?
At the Obelisk I stop, trapped by a series of barriers, which Pierce and I set up earlier whilst wearing plainclothes. The permit I obtained from the city, this is what it’s for: a small, clearly marked staging area. Except nobody’s looking at the posted signs right now; they’re watching me.
Waiting for us, untouched by any passersby, is an old, wooden chair covered in a black tarp. This is where Pierce “catches” me; I’m boxed in with nowhere to go, surrounded on three sides by barriers, and Pierce blocking the last.
Striding up to me like a killer out of a slasher flick, he throws off the tarp and pulls me down onto the chair. A jolt of pleasure shoots through my body, stemming from the egg-shaped toy lodged in my pussy. Running with it inside has gotten me worked up, but I don’t show anything but fear.
It took a while, but I’m finally acting.
“Hey, man, what’s the matter with you?” a spectator yells out at Pierce. Tall and heavyset, he looks like he could handle himself in a brawl.
“Official business, stay back!” he commands, holding out one hand and reaching for his gun with the other. The spectators comply, not knowing the weapon is unloaded, and practically ancient. They walk back, but they don’t go. Instead, they take out even more phones.
“Whatever you’re doing to this woman, the world is watching,” says the brawler.
“Fine,” Pierce growls, buckling me into the chair with a series of straps across my chest, thighs and shins. I look like he’s setting me up for an execution. Fighting the bindings does nothing but send another wave of pleasure through me, but to the crowd I look like I’m desperate to escape.
Pierce pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket and opens it. “Read,” he says, setting it in my hands.
“Fuck you, pig!”
I have to force myself to stare at him, and not check out the audience; their worried mumblings are tapering off into silence, transfixed by the scene. As I watch, Pierce takes out a remote control smaller than a deck of cards. He flips the switch on, then presses its button.
Electricity and vibrations from within sting me and stir my desire. The shock isn’t very strong, but from right inside my pussy, it feels plenty potent. I scream, lurching in place, though the pain is well below my tolerance threshold, and I enjoy every second of it. I’ve tested the device with Pierce plenty — he knows exactly how much punishment I can take.
“Are you enjoying this, you fucking freak?”
I smile at him and give him the finger. The gesture earns me another jolt. Pierce leans on the button a little extra too.
I’m not the only one getting into the role.
“You’re a sick cunt, you really are. Now read the confession!”
“Fuck off,” I snarl, my teeth gritted.
Pierce shakes his head, then looks out into the crowd. “You!” he says, pointing to a male spectator. Middle-aged, wearing a suit and balding, he turns back and forth, not certain Pierce means him.
“Yes, you, I need a hand. Get over here.”
“No-no thanks,” he says, turning to leave, shouldering his way through the audience.
“How about you?” Pierce asks, pointing to a woman my age.
She sneers and gets out her phone to start recording.
Pierce scans the crowd for a moment, then settles on a man probably a couple of years younger than me; tall, crew-cut and blonde, he wears a white polo shirt and khakis, and he’s got out his phone too.
“You. Get over here, now,” Pierce orders, walking up to him. “I’m not fucking around.”
The man pockets his phone, looking Pierce up and down for a minute. “What do I have to do?”
Pierce moves the barrier aside so the man can enter. “We’re teaching this whore a lesson. Just do as I say.”
For a second I see hesitation on the man’s face, but one glare from Pierce shuts it down. The man turns to me, but can’t meet my eyes.
“What’s your name?” Pierce asks.
“Tim.”
Pierce hands him the control to the egg, though he doesn’t let go at first. “Tim, all you have to do is press this button when I say so. Clear?”
“Yes. Yes, uh, sir,” Tim says.
Pierce moves back to me, beckoning for Tim to follow. He rips the paper from my hands and holds it up to my face. “Read it, cunt.”
“Suck my dick, pig,” I spit.
“Hit it, Tim.”
The volunteer doesn’t hesitate. He jams his th
umb on the button, sending a sustained flow of power through my pussy. The extraordinary sensation makes me belt out peals of pain and pleasure, as I climax hard. Shaking in my seat, I laugh, jaw hanging in ecstasy until Tim lets the button go.
“Read. It,” Pierce asserts.
More and more people are approaching, bringing with them less noise, as they all go quiet, trying to see and hear.
I stare back at Pierce, whose gaze is unrelenting. Then, I begin.
“Under penalty of future prosecution and incarceration, I hereby admit to the charges of sedition… against the patriarchy and entrenched powers… No, you know what? No. Fuck you, I’m not reading this.”
“Tim?”
The volunteer shocks me again. This time I shed tears, unable to contain my agony and euphoria. My shouts rouse the crowd from whispering to outcry, though most remain passive as statues.
“Don’t make me tell you again,” Pierce warns once I’ve settled down.
“My… my actions are nothing more than stunts…” Savoring the lingering stimulation, I continue, reading from the script. It’s the one part of this performance I haven’t prepared; Pierce wrote all of it, and I trust that he knew more or less what it should say. We debated whether or not I should read it in advance, but I decided it would sound more realistic if I tripped over it, or became emotional. The last thing I wanted is for it to sound even slightly rehearsed.
“Stunts meant to agitate and upset, without artistic merit or… reasonable intent. They were nothing more than… salacious displays of shameless depravity and… pathological vanity…”
Fucking hell, Pierce.
“I can’t,” I say, shaking my head. “Please.”
Pierce snaps his finger, not taking his eyes off me. A second later, I feel it. I’m becoming sore and sensitive, and I feel the jolts more than the vibrations. Though I can tolerate the torment, each dose feels more punishing than the last, and the crowd can tell.
“Hey, this isn’t right!” someone shouts.
“Leave her alone!”
Pierce pivots with such speed and fury, the crowd starts with fear. “Shut the fuck up. My conduct is fully mandated. Do not question my authority or interfere, or you will be subject to prosecution.”