It happened to us in San Salvador in El Salvador we were mostly in the historic district we did walk some outside of that. We went into a shop. My wife got a phone call and walked outside. I paid for what we were getting and when I went out there were several police offecers talking to her. I had no clue what was going on. I walked il and one put his hands on my chest to like stop me from approaching and she told them I was her husband, so he kinda let them down. They kept asking us who we talked to and did we buy anything from anyone over and over. We absolutely did not buy anything from anyone on the street or in some sketchy area. After some back and forth they told us we needed to come with them to their station to make a statement and clear this all up. They put us both in the back of a dual cab truck lpolice car that was the next street over. 2 of the officers got in a different car and the other 2 were driving us. It was maybe a 10 minute ride. They pulled up to some dingy looking white and blue building. I remember there were bars on all the windows even at the entrance. They pulled thru a gate and got us out and took us thru a door. We went thru a hallway to a room like an interrogation room you’ve seen in a million police shows. I just remember it was really warm in there and not well ventilated or lit. Another officer was in there already and two of the ones from the street came into this room as well. They started questioning us nonstop for hours. Who we were, why we were there, who we were meeting with, where we stayed, where we went. They insisted we were likely drug traffickers and if we didn’t start cooperating they’d throw us in prison with gang members. It was a blue and white. I’ve never been arrested before or in any significant trouble. My wives worst offense ever was a suspended license. They asked us who we were buying for, what we were buying, who our supplier was etc, it went on and on. I think we were questioned for at least 4 hours. We legit had nothing to do with drugs or anything. They then started asking us personal stuff liek if we were married, how long been together, do we have kids or anyone else in that country. Were we sleeping with anyone else. It was bizarre. The on =e officer questioning us told us then if we weren’t going to cooperate with them we will need to be processed and kept there on a hold for suspicion of drug activity. We both pleaded with them and told them we were just visiting. The other 2 officers told us both to get up and come with them. The other 2 form the street were waiting outside and followed behind us as they lead us to another room.

There were no windows in this room and it was super stuffy and hot. There was a table towards the middle of the room and that’s it. They escorted us to the back wall and told us to stay facing the wall and put our hands on the wall. They told us they needed to make sure we didn’t have anything on us. They frisked me first. He ran his hands over my head thru my hair. Down my shoulders and arms and hands. Ran them down my back and chest stomach. Ran them over my groin and down my backside and legs. He told me to turn around and to open my mouth. He looked inside and felt with his fingers inside my gums and lips. He told me to bend down and take my shoes off one at a time. As I did he moved towards my wife. I asked isn’t there a female to do that for her. He said there’s no female on and in these special circumstances they were allowed to pat her down. My wife told him she had nothing and they had already searched her purse. One of the other officers moved towards me and kind of kneed my on my arm not hard but did and looked at me and pointed down at my shoes and made a motion with his fingers to hand him my shoes. The other one who searched me now started the same with my wife. He ran his hands thru her hair and her hair is pretty long. Ran his hands over her shoulder and arms hands. He ran his hands down her back and then down her front her chest and her stomach. Ran them over her groin area and over her backside down her legs and ankles. He told her to turn around and slide her sandals off, he told her to open her mouth and also ran his fingers in her mouth inside lips and gums. My wife has quite a few tattoos. He then told her he needed to document her tattoos and take photos. One of the other offxers left and few minutes later came back with a note pad and a camera. There were 3 officers in the room and 2 standing by the door. They took pictures of her arm tattoo and back shoulders and other arm and wrist. Ones behind her ear. They asked her if she had anymore concealed. She does and they said they need to take photos of those as well. She was only wearing a black beachy cover up dress that was kinda longer, he told her she’d need to remove her dress. At this point we both protested, she told them she only had underwear on underneath and I said she needed a female officer and we need a lawyer this is ridiculous. He told her they have to document for gang affiliation and it is required. She has one on her thigh and the one on her arm goes down her chest, she also has one on small of her back. She asked if she could just pick up her dress for the thigh one and slide it down some for the others. He told her no and she needs to take it off. I could see how scared and panicked she was. I told them this is ridiculous we are not gang members or even from here. The one who was doing the talking looked at the other 2 in the room and looked back at me. Those 2 now approached me. I was wearing a short sleeve button down shirt and shorts. One of them grabbed the two front collars of my shirt and ripped it open ripping all the buttons off. The one who was talking said to me since you are being investigated for drug activity you are ok for expanded searches. The other officer who did not rip my shirt grabbed my shirt by its back collar and pulled my shirt down my arms off of me. The one that was talking looked at me and said take your clothes off. I just remember looking at my wife and her at me I was terrified. I told him this is not right and we need an embassy representative or lawyer. The one who ripped my shirt snapped his fingers at me and pointed at my waist. The one who was doing the talking told my wife she needed to remove her dress or the other officers would have to do it for her. The one in front of me yelled something and pointed at me. The one to my side kind of behind me grabbed at my waist band and tried to pull it down. I unbuckled my belt and pulled it thru the loops and handed it to the one inn front of me. I looked over and my wife started to pull her dress up towards her waist. She grabbed a hold of the bottom and pulled it up and over her arms and head. One of the officers in the door came in and handed the one talking the cameras and he in turn took my wives dress from her. She was just in her underwear. She was wearing r a pullover strapless black bra and gray panties, He told her to hold her arms out and he took pictures of her arms and told her to turn them over. He asked her if the tattoo that goes down her chest goes further. She said it did and he told her to pull her bra down to where it ends. It ends right before the top of her breast. She pulled it down and he took a picture of that. I wa swatching this as were the guards. The one next to me said something to the one in front of me. He started looked at me again and pointed at my shorts. I unbuttoned and unzipped my shorts and slid them down and handed them to him, I was now standing in boxer briefs only. I dunno why but I had this moment of clarity and embarrassment when I realized I was wearing light pink boxer briefs. Dunno why just stand out vividly.

I noticed the one talking was taking a picture of the tattoo on my wife’s thigh. He asked her if she had any on her back and she said she did. He told her to turn around and to pull,her hair forward..he took pictures of the ones on her middle back and lower back. He told her to turn back around. While doing so he looked over at me and told me to keep going. I was confused by what he meant and said what. The one on front of me yelled and pointed at my underwear. The one to the back side of me touched my waist band, I remember saying this is ridiculous I’m not getting naked I obviously have nothing something to thst degree. The one who was doing the talking pointed quickly at the guard and then me. The one to my side grabbed hold of my waistband and I said no stop and grabbed hold myself. The one in front of me stepped towards me but the one who was tasking said no and told me take them down now. I never have felt a rush of panic like that maybe in my life I felt almost light headed. I barely remember doing it but I slid them down and handed them to the one in front of me and covered myself. The one talking looked at the guard next to me and made a downward sign with his finger. The one next to me grabbed my left arm and pulled it down to my side. He then made a motion to the other arm and I just put that one myself at my side. I was now standing naked in front of everyone. I could feel hem leering at me looking me up and down but that was nowhere near as bad as what was next. The one talking after looking at me turned back to my wife and told her you as well take that all off. I immediately said fuck no loudly the one talking I remember turned his head fast at me and thr one next to me grabbed my shoulder hard and the one in front of me stepped a few steps towards the one talking I guess to buffer between me and my wife. The one talking made a motion to the other 2 in the doorway, they started walking in towards her but stopped near the one talking. He told my wife to take the rest off or they will for her. She begged and pleaded with them for a female to do it and begged to tell them whateve they wanted to hear. At this point I was considering just saying yeah I have drugs just to stop this for her. The one talking said no and that drug offenses in their country gave us permission to search and being not from the country we had no rights so take off rest. She paused and didn’t move one of the officers next to him moved towards her and she just said ok I will. She looked over at me and just looked really worried. There was just nothing I could say or do. She put her left hand and arm under her bra and lifted it off with her right hand. She kept her left arm in place covering her breasts. The one talking looked at her for a few moments and said those too pointing at her underwear. She said please no and something else I don’t even fully remember it was like I was out of my body at certain points. I remember him sternly saying “now”. She tried to keep her arm on her chest and tried to slide down her underwear with her other hand but couldt so she bent forward and slid them down and stepped out of them. She then moved her left arm back across covering her breasts and put her right hand over her groin area and stood back up. The one talking told her to bend down and pick up her underwear and hand them to him. She bent her knees and squatted down. She picked them up with her right hand. She then put them in her left hand and recovered her groin with her right hand and stood up. She put her left hand out with the underwear in them. He didn’t take them and instead looked her down staring at her. Her breasts were uncovered and he was looking at them. Eventually after a long pause he took them from her and she recovered herself with her left arm. He very creepily moved the underwear towards his face and then said to her no put your arms at your side. My wife didn’t budge and said no. He looked to the guard next to him and moved his eyes and head toward her. The officer walked over to my wife. I told him to stop but the one talking told me to shut up. The officer in front of my wife grabbed both of the tops of her hands and aggressive pulled them away from her body to her side. He then stared her up and down very creepily. The one talking told her not to move her arms back or he will have them take her to a cell naked and throw her in one filled with men. She and I were both now standing there totally naked in front of all of them. I’ve never had such a powerless and overwhelming felling in my life. They all were just staring at both of us. The one talking looked over at me and told me to lift my arms up toward the ceiling. I had no clue why so I just did. At this point i was already past embarrassed. He made a motion to the one in front of me and he then approached me and got right up on me. He started to run his hands down my armpits and then down my side and ribs area. He ran them all the way down the sides of my thighs and down my legs and ankles. He then turned his hands and started to run them from the inside of my ankles up my ankles up my legs and up my inner thighs. He got to my groin area and ran his fingers inside the area where my groin meets thighs. He then moved then to my pubic hair area and started to slowly run his hands thru that area. He eventually moved them down towards my penis. I dunno why I just instinctively looked over at my wife and she was just staring back at me looking extremely worrried and probably reading the worry in my face. He moved his fingers down and on my penis. I just kinda of instinctively pulled back some. The one talking told the one next to me something and he grabbed both my arms and held me in place. He ran his hands up and down my penis over and over front and back. It seemed like he was trying to get a reaction. I was just trying to leave my body and mind and not think about it but easier said then done. He moved his fingers down and moved them over my balls. He started feeling around there but moved back up to my penis and started to almost kind of fondle me. The shame and powerless-ness I felt was overwhelming. He kept doing it Over and over. I kept trying to just look over at my wife or trying to fight any reaction to it. He did this for what felt like a while until I guess you could say I was somewhat erect which seems like what they wanted. The one talking told me to turn around. I did and he told me to put my hands on the wall flat. I did. The one touching me put both of his hands on my butt. I have never ever had a man touch me like that I just tried to move my hips to the side away from his hands. The one to me side who was holding me before grabbed a hold of my right arm and pushed it towards the wall and held it in place. The one talking told me not to move the other arm. The guy searching me now had both of his hands on my butt and spread my butt. I was full on panicking and asked him to please stop. I told anyone who’d listen o had nothing on me to and to please stop. The one talking said we must be thoroughly checked. The one searching me now put one of his finger on my anis and started to push it in. I just remember yelping out saying no over and over, I looked over at my wife and she looked horrified and I kept saying no and please stop. They did not stop. He now pushed his finger in further until it was all the way in. He started to twist it and move it around. At some point he must’ve hit my prostate because I remember getting a humongously overwhelming feeling and I kinda inadvertently moaned out some. It was so overwhelming. He kept touch there and moving his finger around. He was 100% not subtle or quick, they were clearly looking to just embarrass and get a body reaction out of me. This went on and he kept moving his finger back over thst area. I was trying to just stare at the wall and not make a sound. But it just overwhelmed me. I wasn’t even looking down or at myself. But while he was doing that I felt him move his other hand underneath on my balls. I noticed then from what he was doing my body was reacting. I remember my face just being totally flushed in that moment and I started sweating. Finally after a few more moments he pulled his h finger out. I just didn’t even wanna move but the one holding my arm let go and the one talking told me to turn around must have nothing on me. I didn’t want to move but he said again turn back around and the one searching put hus hands on my shoudkers and started to turn me so I turned back around, I just remember the one talking looking at me up and down They all were staring at me now including my wife; I was facing them. You have no idea about embarrassing until something like this happens to you. The one talking looked at em then my wife and said something liek he must like this type of thing or something. I looked at her and just shook my head I couldn’t even talk at this point.

The one talking then said well since you don’t have anything she must. It broke my trance and I started to try to move towards her, the 2 guards by me both stopped me and each one grabbed and arm and held me in place. I told them to stop she doesn’t have anything At all. The one talking walked over to her and the other 2 officers were behind him. He was maybe a foot from her and told her to lift her arms up. He took out and put gloves on as he was saying this. My wife looked so scared. She did raise her arms and he did the same ran them down her armpits she immediately recoiled. My wife is super ticklish and doesn’t like under her arms or feet touched, when she did this he stopped and looked to the officer to his left. The officer approached her and stood to her left side he grabbed both of her wrists and held them up to the ceiling. He ran his hands down her ribcage and sides and down her hips down her thighs and ankles. He then did same as me he grabbed inside of her ankles and ran his hands slowly up her ankles, her legs and most of her thighs. He stopped at the top of her thigh almost like daring to teasing me or her to say anything, he then stood back up and he put both of his hands on the top of her chest and moved them down slowly. He moved them down to thr top of her breasts and then started to move them down over her breasts, I saw how panicked she looked now and trying to squirm away but she couldn’t. He ran his hands over her breasts and down to her nipples. He ran his fingers over both of her nipples over and over again. Again he was trying to get a reaction out of her and her body. He didn’t stop until her nipples were poking up. He then ran his hands under breasts several times kind of cupping them with his hands. He then moved them down her stomach and towards her groin area. He started to move his finger towards her clitoris area. She jerked away hard when he moved to that area. She looked at me and looked terrified. She said stop a few times. The guy searching her said something like ok fine want this to be more difficult. He turned to the other officer behind him. He then approached her and grabbed her left arm the other one had her right arm and they started to move her toward the center of the room. I tried now to move or shake off the 2 officers holding me but I couldn’t at all. They brought her to the table. The one talking told them to put her on the table. They lifted her up under her arms and place her on the table sitting down. She was sitting on her butt and had her legs pulled up to her with her arms around her legs. He said something to the 2 thst lifted her and they both grabbed and arm and pulled it back to her sides. The one talking approached the table down by her feet. He then said to her to spread her legs. She looked at me and just shook her head and told him no. He then put his hands on both of her knees and pulled them apart from each other. I coukd see she was trying to keep them together but he overpowered her legs and moved them all the way apart. He kinda stuck his arms in between and wouldn’t let her close them shut again. She had no way to cover herself and she was totally exposed . I just felt so awful for her. He now moved his hands towards her vagina and slid his finger over that area and started moving it up and down and over her labia as well and was moving it back and forth. My wife looked like she was going to throw up or pass out. He did this for several minutes and then opened that area with 2 fingers and looked at it moving one of his fingers around. He did that for a few minutes as well. He was obviously trying to get a physical reaction out of her. He then said something that sent me into a panic again. He told the 2 holding her it woudk be easier if they put her on all 4s on the table. The two holding her arms started moving her to her right while the one searching her did the same with her legs. They turned her over like she was cattle. I was protesting them to stop and she was screaming at this point to stop. They turned her over and he bent her legs inwards so she was standing on all fours on the table. He told the on holding her left arm to come hold both legs while the other to hold both arms. They did and now he took his fingers and moved them over her again and moved them to her vagina. He then inserted his fingers into her vagina and I heard her scream and try to move her body. He slowly inserted them and moved them in and out slowly. He kept putting them in more and more every time. This went on and on for a significant length of time. They clearly were trying to get her to react or do something. At one point he turned to me and grinned and said oh she likes this doesn’t she? I just begged him to stop. She clearly couldn’t control her bodies physical reaction to it. I heard her kind of crying no several times. It was super fucked up. After this going on and on he finally stopped. He then looked at the officers and made some motions with his hands. They started to move her. I now yelled for him to stop she has nothing. We both don’t. Let us go and we will just forget it all. She got wind of what they were doing and started to cry and said please no I don’t have anything please don’t. He just did not care at all. He put both of his hands on her butt and spread her butt open. I was just at a loss and so defeated I could only just watch. I’ve rarely even been able to touch her butt in that area and we’ve been together total almost 18 years. He kept her butt spread and was staring at it. He kinda moved his face in closer and was looking at it. The guy holding her legs and the 2 holding me were obviously gawking as well. The one searching press his finger against her anus and started to push it in. I saw her body strongly try to pull away and she screamed no. She might only be 5’3 and 120 lbs but thr guards were even having to use some effort to hold her down. He pushed his finger in slowly but more and more. I could def see how much this scummy guy enjoyed doing this and how much she was reacting to it. As bad as it was for me when they did it to me I was even more embarrassed and ashamed now. I couldn’t do anything. There was so much sexual tension in this small sweaty room it was just palpable. I felt bad for looking but coukd not look away. So when I say this screwed me up this is what screwed me up. I can’t help but watch even though I don’t want to. I’m not into some freaky scenes like this but being in it was almost like I was out of my body. Also I’m extremely glad she was faced the other way because most embarrassing for me was I was completely aroused totally unintentionally but I could not help it the whole thing was like some weird virtual reality fever sex dream. He’s touching her in an area she hates to be touched and I can’t do anything about it. He kept moving his finger around and in and out, she was almost moaning for them to stop at this point. This went on for an obscene amount of time. He finally pulled his finger out. He said something like maybe you were truthful or something to that effect. He told the officers to keep us held in place he would be back. The one who was talking left the room. I told my wife just to be calm it’s almost over trying to reassure her. She was pretty frazzled at this point and I know she was upset but she said for me to get them to stop. I know what she meant but it def stung me more than like anything thus far. There was just nothing I could do. The officers were too,in to each other in Spanish. I know some but not enough. She told me later they were talking abotu us and our bodies and What they’d like to do I really didn’t want more details.

Do you know or have any content (film/video/story etc.) that a female is searched by a male official?

The website photo of Warden Rosco Davis didn't really do him justice.  He was fatter, balder, older, and greasier in person.

We were in Long Beach, at the Convention Center of all places, far from his native Louisiana. Warden Davis stood beneath the ballroom lights at the National Correctional Conference in Long Beach, one hand resting possessively on the podium, his gray suit straining across his enormous stomach. Behind him, a projection screen displayed a photograph of Pine Parish Women's Prison Farm: whitewashed buildings, acres of green fields, and a row of women in short, striped prison dresses looking like something out of the Great Depression toiling beneath the Louisiana sun.

"Many people think of prisons as society's burden," Davis said.  "I think of them as money machines."

A number of people in the audience laughed.  As I looked around, I noticed others were smiling.  He was speaking to hardened correctional professionals, and clearly most of them liked what they saw.  I wasn’t unfamiliar with prisons, having been a prosecutor, but Rosco’s Davis approach to corrections was definitely hardcore.

The next slide showed half dozen women, barefoot and shackled, struggling to carry an enormous tree out of a forest.  “You don’t need no expensive equipment when you get these sweet little honeys workin’”,  he chuckled.  “They can do all the haulin’ and diggin’ and pickin’, without buying gas or repairing equipment.  All you need is shovels, picks, and hoes…” 

He paused for comedic effect before delivering the next comedic punchline.  “And like most prisons, we got lotsa hoes.”  

More laughter.  I wasn’t amused, but I was excited.  It was all so alien to me.  I had spent my whole life being the good girl, the honor roll “A” student.  Now I was looking at pictures of women in leg shackles draining swamps and digging latrines.  I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like, to be one of them.  

The weird part was the thought of joining them excited me. 

"Pine Parish doesn't drain the taxpayer. It pays its own way. In fact, ladies and gentlemen, Pine Parish turns a tidy profit."

Did it ever.  I'd spent three months studying publicly available records before coming to the Correctional Professionals Annual Conference. I had reviewed budget reports and procurement contracts, agricultural sales. I had scoured state appropriations, prison payrolls, maintenance invoices.

Pine Parish had a better cash flow per square foot than an Apple Store.  It was almost absurd, but farming and manual labor can be quite profitable when all of your inputs are free. 

Revenue was flowing into the prison at a rate that should have made the county rich. Yet somehow, year after year, the prison reported expenses that consumed nearly all of it.  It wasn't hard to figure out, once you started digging.   A fortune was spent on consulting fees for services nobody could explain, despite my numerous written inquiries. Equipment purchases at prices that made no sense, for equipment that never showed up on the balance sheet.  Then there were the State Legislators with family members on the prison payroll,  even though they lived in another state.  

It was a sweet deal for everyone, except the female inmates.  The few who made it out wouldn’t talk, for fear of being sent back, but there were stories, lots of stories.  Stories of young women sentenced to Pine Parish for petty offenses—public drunkenness, shoplifting, minor drug charges, even parking violations. Many simply vanished.  Mostly it was a one way trip, but  those who did return emerged years later, hardened, frightened, and too scared to discuss what had happened.

The pictures at the conference were bad enough, but they were merely the public face.  Chain gangs.  Women working fields with men on horseback supervising.  But there was more.  Women being punished with a razor strap across their bare bottoms for "sass" or the "laziness" of not meeting their quota. Women being rented out to other businesses, or being sold overseas.

When the presentation ended, I was the first to raise my hand, eager to confront the Warden with a knockout question.

“Yes, we have time for one or two questions,” the moderator allowed.  “The young girl in the front row seems eager to ask something.”

I stood up, hair in a bun, glasses, folder in hand, suit immaculately pressed, the picture of female professionalism.  At 32, I wasn’t “a young girl”, but I’m 5’1, and look young, and moderator’s sexism was not my primary target.

Attempting to compensate for my youthful appearance, I switched on courtroom mode.  “You mentioned ‘job training’ programs that give inmates the opportunities to learn job skills through outside employment.  Do you really consider being a sex worker learning job skills?” I asked pointedly, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

The moderator, and several members of the audience were shocked.  The moderator started to intervene, but Rosco waved him off.

“Everybody don’t have the advantage of no fancy college education,” he said, sizing me up instantly.  “I was barely able to finish High School, and only got my degree after I started working as a guard at the prison.  I’m proud that I worked my way up.”

Rosco’s voice rose.  “Yeah, some of our inmates work in hospitality.  Nothing wrong with service jobs, even if some college folks look down on it.  As for the sex thing, being a young woman, you probably know more about what girls are like these days. Runnin’ wild, at least till we get ‘em hooked up to the plough.”

I couldn’t believe it.  Some people in the audience LAUGHED!  His answer was outrageous, and total bullshit, but somehow he Rosco had twisted making inmates working at a strip club into a problem with my Ivy League elitism.  Before I could respond, the nervous moderator ended the session, and suggested that we “continue our discussion at the bar, and at dinner.”

Rosco Davis left the stage to a standing ovation.  Bastard 

I wasn’t going to be defeated that easily.  I went up to my room and changed, ditching the glasses, purse, and notebook, letting down my hair loose around my shoulders, and switching into a jacket dress with no blouse that showed as much leg as any girl on the prison farm.  

You get more flies with honey than vinegar.  And Rosco Davis was a large, disgusting fly.

I turned a lot of heads walking into the bar.  Even Rosco, holding court with some other pigs, noticed me right away.  Good.  Let him gawk at what he could never have.

I was surprised at how quickly he made his way to the bar.  “Nice to finally meet ya’ in person, Professor Parker,” he said, waddling up on the barstool next to mine.  

I was genuinely surprised.  “You know who I am?” 

“Sure ‘nuff do,” he drawled.  “Yer’s the half-ass Nancy Drew who’s been poking around all our records like a dog sniffin’ for poop.  You think I don’t know all about you?  Former judge, former prosecutor, Harvard law school professor.  Surprised you finally had the guts to show up, though.  I’d pegger you as a lurker.”

I was shocked to discover that he seemed to know all about me.  His smile was creepy, but I was determined not to be thrown. 

He looked me over, his eyes lingering on my cleavage and bare legs.

"I enjoyed your presentation," I said, lying through my pearly white teeth.

That changed his expression.

"Did you, now?” he said. 

"Very much."

He lifted his glass. "Most lady lawyers don't appreciate corrections.  Without punishment, what y’all do in court would be just a lotta yappin’."

"I’m not most lady lawyers.  As you noted, I’ve been a prosecutor, and a judge. I practiced law for years."

“Yeah, well you still look like ya’ should be goin’ to a kegger, ‘specially how yer’ dressed now.  Gotta tell ya’, I don't like college girls."

"Good thing I'm not a girl,” I countered.   "So," I said, turning slightly toward him, "tell me about Pine Parish."

"Pine Parish?" he said.  “Whatcha want to know, that you’ve haven’t already snooped out?”

"You made it sound extraordinary."

"It is."

"I've read about the institution.  I know what the reports say.  I know you got a sweet little hustle going.  But I don’t know much about what the inmates think.”

“Why do you give a shit?” he countered.  “I sure don’t.   Yes, we put inmates to work.  Real work. A lot of people don't understand. Tough.  Prisoners cost money. Food. Clothing. Housing. Medical care. Security. But if you give them useful work, they can contribute."

"Farming?"

"Among other things.  We got some working at the mill, some doin’ laundry, pavin’ roads, recyclin’.  Liberals should like garbage sorting.  You'd be surprised what women can accomplish, with the proper discipline applied.  Question is, why do you give a shit, again, Professor?"

He said the word Professor like it was stuck on his tongue, so I decided to lean into it.  “As you seen to already know, I'm teaching at Harvard.  Or I was.  I took a leave to write about women in the correctional system.  I think Pine Parish could provide a vast quantity of interesting material.

Davis stared at me, hard.  I knew he was wondering how much I already knew.   And that was exactly what I wanted.

Davis set his glass down.  "I don't cotton to snoopy-snoops putting their noses where they don't belong," he said. "And I sure don't like college girls who think they're smarter than everybody else."

I smiled lightly.

"There's no crime in being smarter than you."

He didn't laugh.  His eyes hardened.  "I don't like young women with smart mouths, either."

The smile stayed on my face, but something inside me went still.

"If you were on my prison farm," he continued, muttering to himself, "I'd deal with you proper."

For half a second, I considered walking away.  But the tingling was already starting between legs!

"You've misunderstood me, Warden.  I'm not writing an expose about Pine Parish. My book is about prisoner psychology. What happens to them after incarceration. How institutional environments affect their behavior.  How they change.  You have a close to zero recidivism rate.  I want to know more about the psychological benefits of your labor programs, and your punishments, even.  Your techniques are unorthodox, yes, but that’s what makes your approach so fascinating."

I let the word “fascinating” hang between us.

Davis took a moment to size me up.  He was still looking at my body, yes, but he was looking at me, too, trying to see what made me tick.  "You know," he said, "there's a lot about Pine Parish outsiders don't understand."

"I'd love to understand it."

"I’m sure you would.  And talkin’ to ya’, I’m starting to think maybe you should come see it."  He smiled.  "We can always use some help on the farm."

I swallowed.  "Yes, I'm sure those girls could use legal counsel."

He chuckled.  “We’re not a prison with inmate payphones, or visits, or law libraries.  That’s not what we are.”  

"I know what Pine Parish used to be," I offered, daring to push him further.   "It was a plantation."

"That's right.  That bother you, Professor Parker?"

"No, but it interests me.  I find it rather extraordinary that so many of the old antebellum approaches seem to have survived."

"Don't fix what ayn't broken," he said 

"You still have women working the fields. Picking cotton. Building roads. You still have armed guards. You still have shackles.  You still use corporal punishment."

"When needed.  Don't feel the need to talk about it to outsiders, much.  Why don’t y’all tell me whatcha’ heard?”

"You strap their bare bottoms when they don't make quota, or they won't put out for the guards."

"I don't know where you liberals get your stories from.  We just don't put up with lazy and back sass, that's all.  Nothing wrong with warmin’ a few bottoms, every now, and then.  No need to punish no dress.  The dress didn’t sass."

"I'm not questioning your methods, but I do want to understand them.  I want to speak with the inmates who actually work those details. I want to understand what happens inside their heads."

"Why?  Who gives a fuck what some barefoot jailbird in a prison dress thinks, like she thinks at all.”

"I care.  A lot.  Think about it. For someone like me, that's as close as I'll ever come to time travel."

Davis seemed genuinely surprised.   "Time travel?  Like in them movies?”

I let my skirt slide slightly higher as I moved closer to explain.  "Imagine being a young woman, standing in a cotton field on land where enslaved people once worked under compulsion. You're wearing prison clothes. You're surrounded by guards, barefoot, in a short dress with no underwear, your feet shackled together. You're told when to work, when to eat, when you're allowed to stop."

I watched his face carefully, even as my own excitement grew at the thought of what I was describing. 

"What does that do to a person's mind?  To be working on a slave plantation?  What was it like in 1840?  I can't ask the slaves, but your inmates are the next best thing.   That's why I need access.  I want to get inside their heads.”

 “You lease the girls to outside businesses, just like slaves were leased.  I want to know what it feels like to be treated as property. To be marched into a field, or a cotton mill. To have a male overseer watch you take a shower. To hear chains around your wrists or ankles. To know that somebody else has complete control over your body and your time."

 "Well, you’re right you can't learn those things at HARRRRvard," he snickered. "You'd have to come to Louisiana."

"I'd be willing."

"You sure? There's nothing glamorous about Pine Parish."

"I'm not looking for glamorous. I'm looking for reality."

Davis gave me a long look.

"Don’t get too excited about visiting Pine Parish, PRO-fessor. The girls probably aren't going to want to talk to you."

"Why not?"

He gave a short laugh.

"Because Chatty Kathys get punished. 

The casual way he said it made my stomach tighten.  I pictured some poor girl, facing the bunk, the other inmates holding her arms, while the matron laid the strap across her bare bottom.

"They're not going to trust you," he continued. "Even an inmate ayn’t dumb enough to spill their beans to some Harvard professor who comes down there to stare at them like they're animals in a zoo.  Look at you!  Ivy League princess.  Rich attorney. People ‘round you hop-to-it when you whistle.”

"Sometimes,” I said, knowing he was right but not wanting to admit it.

"Exactly. And then you expect some barefoot twenty-year-old girl in a prison uniform and shackles to sit across from you and tell you what her day FEELS like? Don’t make me laugh."

"That's precisely why I need to talk to them.  You're right.  I've spent my entire adult life being deferred to. In court, people listened when I spoke. As a Professor, I rule my classroom.”

I moved closer, giving him a look down my blouse and the scent of my perfume.  He smiled, enjoying the moment.

"Maybe to me, they are animals in a zoo," I continued. "A zoo I need to visit to understand. I want to see how they see the world. How they see themselves. What happens to their sense of dignity. Whether they become numb. Angry. Defiant. Frightened.  Or whether they simply learn to survive."

He leered.  "You'd be surprised what a girl will do to survive." he said, enjoying his own dirty joke.

"I would be surprised," I said, punching back.  "If it involved spending time with you."

He frowned.  Ouch.  Good.  I was glad to give the pig a little smack on the snout.

"You've got a smart mouth," Davis said.

"I've heard that before."

"I betcha’ you have. 

He looked me over slowly, then leaned closer.

"But you should understand something, PROO-FESSOR. At Pine Parish, being smart don’t make a girl important.  At Pine Parish, nobody cares where you went to school.  They care whether you follow instructions."

Davis smiled.

"You said you wanted to understand what it's like to have every choice taken away from you.  Be careful what you wish for, sweetie.  Visiting my prison is a privilege.  But so's leaving.  Besides, 

I don't need no nosey parker making no scandal", he said, downing his drink and signaling the bartender he wanted a refill.

"I'm not doing an expose," I said.   "This is deep background. That's all.  The financial information I've found, I won't tell anyone."

"Is that a threat?” he said. 

"No.  I've told nobody," I continued. "Not a reporter. Not another attorney. Not anyone at the conference."

His eyes narrowed.

"I've been on leave, remember? Nobody knows what I'm researching. Nobody even knows I'm interested in Pine Parish."

"Nobody?"

"Nobody."

I let the word settle.

He looked down at his drink, turning the glass slightly between his fingers.

"Well," he murmured.  "That certainly makes things easier."

I smiled as though I hadn't noticed the change in his tone.

I could almost see the gears turning behind his piggy eyes.  A moment earlier, he'd been worried that I might turn his carefully managed institution inside out.  Now he envisioned something else entirely.  Something that depended upon my being alone.  Unattached. Unreported.

"You know," he said slowly, "there might be a way for you to get the kind of access you're looking for.  If you're really interested in understanding Pine Parish, maybe you should see it the way the women see it."

I kept my expression interested, but inside, every alarm bell I'd developed over a career in law was ringing.  And the wetness between my legs was growing.

I knew what he was suggesting.  And a knot formed in my stomach, even as the naughty tingle in my crotch grew.

It was dangerous. Reckless, perhaps even stupid. 

And so, so exciting!

"I know you have plenty of college girls at Pine Parish," I said.  “Spring Breakers, mostly. Girls passing through your little Louisiana town who get caught speeding, drinking, driving recklessly—doing something stupid.  Sassy girls with smart mouths, right?"

He nodded.  "They learn."

"That's what interests me.  The change.  The process.  How a girl gets so desperate she'll submit totally.  She'll give herself to the guards, to anyone.  Even work at the strip club."

"You don’t know shit. Girls beg for them jobs.  Yeah, it gets ‘em off the chain gang, but girls yer’ age are natural born sluts.  Can't help that.  It's in their nature.  I don't like it none, being a man of The Bible, but they're always offering it up, looking for treats.  What’s a fellow to do?"

"Give them enough food to survive?" I said pointedly, “So they don’t have to beg to be sex workers?”

The Warden frowned.

"There goes that smart mouth of yers again. My plan would fix that."

I leaned closer.  "What plan?"

"A plan for getting the women to talk to you, Miss Ivy League.  If you really want to understand the women, Professor, you can't expect them to open up to you while you're standing there as Natalie Parker—the Harvard lawyer, the former judge, the woman who can walk out whenever she wants.  You have to be like them.  An inmate."

I widened my eyes and gave an incredulous little laugh.  "Me? An inmate? I'm a law professor.  How on earth could someone like me possibly end up in prison? Working a chain gang?"

My outrage and shock were deliberately theatrical.  I wanted him to explain.  It was the game, a game that was turning me on.

"Going undercover won’t work,” I said. “If anyone in the prison knows, word will get out.  The inmates won't talk."

“Then we won’t tell anyone.”

My stomach tightened.  "Even the guards?"

"Especially the guards.  No need to bother the Judge or Sheriff none, neither.  Fewer people that know, the better.

He let the silence stretch.

"You wanted to know what it feels like to have no authority," he said. "Then you can't have no secret escape hatch."

"What happens if I decide I've had enough?"

Davis's expression barely changed.

"This ayn’t a hotel. You'll have to wait until your release."

 "You're serious."

"You asked for authenticity."

I stared at him.

"How long?"

"Long enough."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting.  You want real?  Fine.  For the first time in your life, you won't be able to solve a problem by explaining who you are. 

That was precisely what made the proposition so terrifying. And precisely what made it impossible for me to dismiss.

I had come to Long Beach looking for a way inside Pine Parish.  Now the warden was offering to take away everything that made me an outsider.

"What would I even be arrested for?" I asked, the question feeling small and fragile against the backdrop of the bars ambient noise.

Davis leaned in, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Does it matter?  You could give yourself a flat tire just outside of town and walk toward the filling station for help. Or maybe you wander into the local diner, tell the waitress your phone is dead and you need directions. That’s all it takes. The locals will size you up right quick.  They’ll stall you, keep you talking, just long enough for the Sheriff to roll in. Once he sees you, he’ll find a reason. We’ve got plenty of old laws still on the books—dusty things that only come out for smart mouth college girls like you."

"Will the Sheriff know who I am?" I asked.

The Warden smiled.  "He doesn't need to.  He'll just see a cut little piece of jail tail he can haul off to the Judge for a quick run through." He traced the rim of his glass with a greasy finger. "Driving an unsafe vehicle. Vagrancy—that’s a favorite. If you’ve got less than two hundred dollars in cash on you and you aren't a resident of Pine Parish, you're a vagrant in the eyes of the law.  Maybe a tail light will mysteriously break when you're having a cup of coffee at the diner.  Or perhaps you just happen to resemble someone on a wanted poster. The Sheriff might decide he needs a couple of weeks to mail your fingerprints into the state crime lab just to be sure." He paused, his gaze sweeping over me with a slow, calculating appetite. "All sorts of reasons, really, for a pretty girl like you."

"Two weeks," I whispered, the number hanging in the air like a sentence.

"Two weeks for paperwork," Davis countered, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly hum. "But the truth is, Natalie, your sentence will be for however long the Judge says it will be. I don't make the rulings; I just run the fence and make sure the guard dogs get fed and the work gets done."

“But what crime could justify…”

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it," Davis murmured, his voice now a thick, syrupy drawl that seemed to coat the space between us. "As for the crime, and for the how long your stay is, that's up to the Sheriff and the Judge. I won't interfere, none. Not in the arrest, not in the processing, and certainly not in the discipline. I don’t want anyone getting suspicious, and the last thing the Sheriff needs is a Warden whispering in his ear about how to do his job."

"The discipline?" I asked, the word feeling heavy, almost tactile, on my tongue. I shifted in my seat, the fabric of my skirt sliding against my skin, reminding me of exactly how much of me was currently exposed. "What happens if I don't make my quota? If I'm... slow. If I'm "lazy." Will I actually get my bare bottom strapped, just like a real prisoner?"

Davis let out a low, wet chuckle.

"Now, see, that right there is a 'smart mouth' talking," he murmured, his eyes narrowing with a predatory satisfaction. "And in my experience, a smart mouth is just a precursor to a smart bottom. You won't be LIKE nothing.  You'll be a convicted criminal.  And we don't negotiate with inmates. We correct."

I could see the trajectory: the handcuffs clicking shut, the cold vinyl of a cruiser's backseat, a sham trial, and a short trip down a long, dusty road to Pine Parish. The thought should have sent me running for the hotel elevators, but instead, I felt a magnetic pull toward the abyss.

"I heard you like to watch the inmates in the showers," I said, my voice dropping to a challenging, intimate velvet. "With cameras. Adjustable cameras.  Cameras that record. 

Davis didn't blink. He just leaned back, the leather of the booth creaking under his weight, and smiled.

"But," I continued, leaning in so far that my breath brushed the side of his greasy neck, "sometimes you and your buddies get bored with the screens. You go right into the showers. The big gang showers. You just stand there, out of the steam, watching the naked women while they scrub themselves. Totally naked. Totally exposed." I let my eyes drift down to his hands, then back up to his eyes. "If I were in those showers, Warden... would you watch me?"

"Duty is a heavy burden, Natalie," Davis murmured, his voice thick with fake seriousness. "Keeping a close eye on every single operation in my prison—from the mess hall to the laundry to the showers—that’s my job. I can't have things slipping through the cracks."  He put a special emphasis on the word "cracks".  

I thought he would be embarrassed by the confrontation, but I was the one who was blushing.

His gaze didn't just look; it weighed. He leaned back, and his eyes began a slow, deliberate tour of my body, starting at the curve of my neck, dipping down into the shadow of my cleavage, and lingering on the pale expanse of my thighs where the skirt had ridden up. He was imagining me in the showers, and he liked what he saw.

I imagined myself, stark naked, with 100 other girls, and the Warden grinning as he watched me lather up.  Would me make me turn around, to make sure I scrubbed everywhere?  I wouldn’t put it past him.

“What about the strip club?” I said.  “Where the girls dance for the guards and the locals. The truck stop brothel, where the girls have to prance around in hooker outfits in front of a row of truck, begging to give a blowjob for $50?  Am I going to end up there, for some bullshit broken headlight?”

 "That’s up to you, Natalie.  If you’re cooperative, and the guards like you, they might give you a chance to get one of those easy work details.  A work detail where you could earn your money doin’ what comes natural, to young girls like you.” 

It was outrageous, and beyond insulting.  Once again, he was making me being forced to strut my stuff in front of a row of parked trucks into MY perversion.  It was infuriating.  But I was too excited to stop.

I remembered Davis's presentation. I remembered the photographs of the women in their short, striped prison dresses, chained together along the roadside, bent over their work beneath the Louisiana sun. And I remembered the jokes Davis had told, and the way he had described the scene.  Cars passing slowly beside the work crews, men leaning out of windows, horns honking, people hooting at the women. He said passing cars would yell that they smelled worse than the pigs, and the audience had laughed.

Davis had called it accountability. He'd said there was something “mighty fine” about folks seeing justice being served, seeing prison trash working up a sweat and making them pay their "debt to society." The professionals around me had nodded in agreement—respectable people, men in suits or sports jackets, women with expensive handbags, professionals who considered themselves decent, law-abiding citizens. They had nodded as though Davis were offering them something reassuring, something that confirmed the world was still arranged the way it ought to be

But I remembered their smiles now, and I saw something underneath them that I hadn't wanted to name at the time. It wasn't merely satisfaction that criminals were being punished. There had been something darker in those smiles—malevolence, cruelty, an almost palpable pleasure in seeing the women reduced, dirty, sweating, and working beneath the eyes of people who considered themselves better than them.

And suddenly I understood why the photographs had excited me so much. It wasn't simply the chains, and it wasn't simply the work; it was the public spectacle of it, the people watching, the people who could drive past, laugh, honk their horns, and continue on with their comfortable lives. 

I imagined myself in one of those photographs. Not in my professional clothes, not in the tailored jacket and expensive shoes that announced exactly who I was; those would be gone. So would the watch, the jewelry, the handbag—everything that told the outside world to treat me with a certain measure of respect. In their place would be the prison dress, the chains, bare feet, dirt, and sweat.

And I knew what frightened me most. The people who had treated me with courtesy at the conference would no longer see me the same way. The men who had opened the door for me, the women who had listened politely when I spoke, the people who had deferred to my education and my profession—they would see the uniform first, then the number, then the prisoner. They would look at me and smile, pleased that I was getting what I deserved.

I imagined a car slowing beside the work crew, and some Bayou bozos face appearing at the window, followed by a laugh and a horn. And I imagined myself standing there in the striped dress, dirty and exhausted, knowing that the person inside the car would never imagine that I had once been a judge. That was when the realization struck me hard: the respect I had always assumed belonged to me could actually be taken away, just like in my fantasies.

"But it can't be that easy." I heard the disbelief in my own voice. "Surely they'd have to present evidence. There'd have to be a trial.  I mean, if I didn’t do anything…"

"Oh, there'll be a trial,” he said, his voice casual.  "But it’ll be a quick run-through." He continued as though he were explaining an appointment on a calendar. “You know the drill.  You be a good little girl, and stand in front of the judge, head down, all nice and proper, hands cuffed behind yer’ back, while they read the charges.  The public defender will explain the sensible thing was to plead guilty, pay the fine, and ask the judge for a suspended sentence.  “Naturally, you’ll plead guilty.”

Davis smiled. "Of course the judge doesn't have to agree. Your lawyer can recommend one thing. The judge can impose another."

I knew that as a Harvard-trained lawyer, I could defend myself. In an ordinary courtroom, I would know what questions to ask, what objections to make, what rights were implicated, and when someone was trying to push me past a line they had no authority to cross. I had spent too many years in courtrooms not to understand the machinery of the law.

But this would not feel like my courtroom. This would be a courthouse where I was the defendant, surrounded by men who knew the local system, knew one another, knew the routines, and had done this countless times before. I imagined sitting cuffed beside a public defender whose only interest was speed, and to keep me quiet and get me to cooperate. I imagined some hillbilly Judge towering above me, the prosecutor waited across the room, and the sheriff stood nearby with the authority to take me away when it was over.

And suddenly I understood that my legal knowledge might not disappear, but my role would render me mute.  “Sass” would only make things worse.

I knew all about how “justice” was dispensed in Pine Parish, and who did the dispensing.  I imagined Judge Tom Gomer presiding over the old courtroom, a place that looked like it was left over from the 1920s.  They called him "Gavel 'Em Gomer," a nickname earned through the rhythmic, aggressive silencing of any woman who dared to articulate a defense in his courtroom. Every time a female defendant opened her mouth to plead her case, the heavy thud of his gavel would cut her off, effectively erasing her voice before she could even finish a sentence.

Judge Gomer was infamous for trading lives for kickbacks, and for the speed with which "justice" was dispatched.  I'd feel very small, standing with my hands cuffed behind my back in front of his massive wooden bench.  That was the idea.

I squeezed my thighs together, enjoying the sensation as I imagined myself, small and trembling, my gaze locked onto Judge Gomer's heavy lids. I imagined the pleading look in my own eyes—a desperate, silent prayer for mercy—while he barely glanced at my arrest record, flipping through the pages with a bored, clinical indifference as the prosecutor’s voice droned thru ridiculous, fabricated charges.

The incentive for Judge Gomer wasn't just the legal thrill of an unfair trial and the tidy kickback for every woman he banished to the Pine Parish Prison Farm. Gomer was a frequent guest at the neon-lit truck stop brothel where the "work release" inmates of the farm were forced to work. I might well end up having justice served with me on my knees, with this fat old tool in my mouth.

I would have to play the role.  Objecting would only make it worse.  Listening while the men in charge talked and whispered amongst themselves, and passed papers back and forth.  Things would move fast, and my panic would only make it harder for me to understand.  

I imagined trying to keep up with them, the smart men deciding the fate of a confused, frightened girl from another world.   I could almost hear the patronizing voice: Just listen to your lawyer. Don't make this harder than it has to be.

As a prosecutor, and a judge, I had seen it countless times: frightened defendants who were either too stupid or too frightened to comprehend the well choreographed legal dance happening all around them. The thought that I could be in that situation was unthinkable, which is why I found it so exciting.

Don't worry your pretty little head, sweetie. The men will take care of everything.

For once, my intelligence would not be the thing that defined the encounter. The misfortune of being an attractive female defendant in thePine Parish County Courthouse would seal my fate.

Even though I would know what was coming, as sentence was pronounced I would stand there, frozen in shock, mouth agape, looking like a baffled Bambi as the trap door opened beneath me, and the noose snapped tight around my neck.

Natalie Parker, having been found guilty as charged, you are hereby sentenced to serve your term at HARD LABOR at Pine Parish Prison Farm for Women, where you will work every day you are ordered to work, for as long as you are ordered to work, under whatever conditions the prison deems necessary to carry out your punishment, and your correction. The court hear by immediately remands you to the custody of the sheriff for transportation to Pine Parish Woman’s Prison Farm.

The gavel would SLAM down, and my trial would be over.

I pictured myself standing there with my mouth hanging open, catching flies, looking stupid and dazed, and no different from the countless other girls he had railroaded into unjust sentences and sent off to perform slave labor, all to line the Judge's fat pockets.

Immediate meant now, and the Sheriff's hand would close around the back of my neck to lead me away from last chance at justice. Yes, the paperwork would follow, although I'd never see it, and that was just bookkeeping. I would be transported to Pine Parish. There would be no dramatic conspiracy and no undercover story, just a proceeding in which everyone else knew his role: the lawyer, the judge, the sheriff, the guards—and me, the defendant. The ordinary quality of it was what made it so terrifying. 

Would the Sheriff drive me out to the prison?  Would there be other girls with me?  Would I be in a transport van or a squad car?  It didn't matter, except to me.  When the gavel fell, I'd be just another inmate at Pine Parish Prison Farm.

I'd be photographed and fingerprinted.  My money and credits would have been taken away during my arrest, but I'd still have my clothes.  But not for long.

They'd strip me naked.  I knew that.  Everything off.  Down to the skin.  Nothing from my old life would follow me into my identity as a prison inmate.

"You. Next. Feet in the stirrups. Now."

I had heard sometimes the Warden liked to "supervise" the strip searches, to get a look at the new arrivals, and "scout new talent" as they put it.  He'd drop in to watch, if he wasn't too busy.  I was sure he'd make time for me.

I imagined him grinning as he stared directly up between my legs, while the matron remarked on how hot and wet my pussy was.

I would be processed quickly. A short striped prison dress that barely covered my ass, and few hard slams of the hammer to flatten the rivets of the heavy, antique but indestructible iron shackles that might chain my tiny feet together for the rest of my life. Judge Natalie Parker, Professor Natalie Parker, would be gone, and another girl would be added to the string on the chain gang, picking cotton, or digging a sewer line along a county road.

I imagine myself on the prison farm, not undercover and not pretending to be an inmate, but actually standing among the women as one of them, wearing the short, striped prison dress and looking down at my own shackled, dirty bare feet as I work. I imagine the humiliation of seeing myself that way—the woman who once walked into courtrooms in tailored suits and expensive shoes now reduced to a prison uniform and a quota of cotton.

I imagine bending over rows of cotton, my fingers aching, the sun beating down on my neck, or walking along the roadside picking up garbage while cars pass only a few feet away. I imagine myself trembling under the gaze of the guards on horseback, watching us from above, their presence making me feel smaller than I ever have in my life. I will be thirsty, exhausted, frightened, and increasingly aware that I cannot simply decide to stop. I will begin watching the guards carefully, trying to understand what they want, what will keep them from “freshening up” my bare bottom with the strap.

And that is where I imagine the humiliation becoming something deeper. At first, I will tell myself I can endure the work, that I am strong enough to withstand a few hours of heat and dirt and exhaustion, but as the thirst grows and my body begins to ache, I will start thinking about what I could offer to make it easier. I will find myself becoming willing to say almost anything, agree to almost anything, if it means getting out of the worst detail and into something shaded, something lighter, something that will let me rest.  I will become one of the little sluts the Warden sneered at, when my dignity becomes a luxury I can no longer afford.

I'd have an escape plan.  I would write an e-mail with a delayed send to Peter, my old boyfriend, the FBI Agent.  I'd tell him where I was, and what had happened to me.  I had dumped him, but he was still in love with me.  The thought of him seeing me dressed as inmate was strangely exciting.  I'd try to hold off going to the brothel, if I could.  I wouldn't want Peter to see me like THAT!

The truth is, I had strung Peter along, and been a bit of a tease. I wouldn't want him to see me strutting in front of a bunch of the headlights of a row of parked trucks, and climbing into the cab of whomever honked their horn to demand my services.

Warden Rosco Davis smiles at me.  He knows I’m hooked.  “I gotta go, Professor.  Fun to talk to pretty girls, but I got to talk the fellas ‘bout work stuff.  You wanna chat again, you just drop by Pine Parish.  Anytime.” 

Inspired by the TIBOOL style pictures on chainganggirls.com and the pictures by Join20211082021 https://www.deviantart.com/join20210821/art/Lisa's-Story-(10)-1191065611-1191065611)

Not Again!

*Please do NOT send me chat requests, this post is NOT partner-seeking or role-playing solicitation\*

Last year I posted a collection of strip search prompts and a few stories. Here's a link to that post https://www.reddit.com/r/StripSearched/comments/1lwsolq/a_collection_of_strip_search_stories_and_writing/

And here are some new strip search stories and prompts. *Important note for those unfamiliar with the DirtyWritingPrompts subreddit, the stories are in the comments.\*

The two colleges have a tradition of students stealing each others mascots, getting arrested, and then having the Deans drop the charges the next day. A new law mandating thoroughly strip searching everyone arrested for theft made the tradition a bit spicier...

Here's a link to the story.

https://www.reddit.com/r/DirtyWritingPrompts/comments/1tqrgtq/wptt_the_two_colleges_have_a_tradition_of/

After reading an article about strip searches at music festivals, an exhibitionist buys a concert ticket and downloads a dog whistle app on her phone. Pretending to text, she activates it as the K9 unit walks by. "Ma'am, please come with me."

Here's a link to the story.

https://www.reddit.com/r/DirtyWritingPrompts/comments/1neyhv7/wp_tt_after_reading_an_article_about_strip/

"Strip searches are almost always conducted by an officer of the same sex as the suspect..." the female police chief says to the male cadet(s). "However, you must be trained for rare emergency cases where you must strip search a woman. So, as part of your training you'll be strip searching me."

Here's a link to the story.

https://www.reddit.com/r/DirtyWritingPrompts/comments/1p4bz5p/wp_strip_searches_are_almost_always_conducted_by/

The Strip Search Adventure! An exhibitionist finds a way to live out her strip search fantasy without getting a criminal record...

After the state voted to legalize pot, most police departments stopped making arrests for weed even though the law had not yet gone into effect. A tough-on-crime sheriff made headlines by announcing his department would still be strictly enforcing the current law. "Dope is still illegal until midnight on the 31st of the month. If any of my deputies catch you with it before then, you're getting arrested!" Civil liberties groups condemned the sheriff. "On the 1st all criminal records for cannabis will be expunged and sealed. The sheriff's department will be subjecting people to embarrassing and humiliating strip searches for no reason." An exhibitionist with a strip search fantasy sees the opportunity of a lifetime. The night of the 31st, she stands in front of the police station. She pulls a joint out as she sees a cop and lights it. "Ma'am, you're under arrest! Come with me!"

Here's a link to the story.

https://www.reddit.com/r/DirtyWritingPrompts/comments/1rsdyvf/wp_tt_the_strip_search_adventure_an_exhibitionist/

This last story isn't technically a strip search but a very similar situation.

It was a typical day in the chemistry class of the women's college when a student accidentally mixes the wrong beakers POOF "Oops!" Now firefighters must strip the class naked and thoroughly scrub every inch of their bodies as part of a decontamination process.

Here's a link to the story.

 https://www.reddit.com/r/DirtyWritingPrompts/comments/1nlr764/wp_tt_it_was_a_typical_day_in_the_chemistry_class/

And here are two prompts that didn't get any responses.

The photo journalist for the college newspaper on assignment at a police station is told "This is the room where female suspects are strip searched, men usually aren't allowed in here but there are exceptions for medical professionals and journalists."

"Our law firm is suing the city jail for it's new policy of strip/cavity searching lawyers and legal interns visiting their clients. We're confident we'll eventually win, but in the meantime there is still work that must be done in the jail no matter how embarrassing it may be..."