Piper's Price

by D. A. Maddox

  Sounds like a warning, Robbie thought. “What … what are you going to do to me, Matron?”

  “Nothing unhealthy,” she said, tipping the bottle to the washcloth, staining it pink. “Your tissue back here is unbroken but still very raw. I am about to treat it with a skin-strengthener, a healing accelerant and rejuvenator, quite different from the sting-softener I applied just after punishments. It will be unpleasant. You will think that I am hurting you. Do you wish for me to get you a bit for your mouth?” She set the cloth back down.

  “How bad?”

  “Once again, you answer a question with a question,” she gently scolded him, squirting a dollop of foaming soap into her hand and reaching under the X-frame.

  Down there, Robbie knew, he was still dirty from the breakfast session, so he was less than surprised when his Matron took his penis in hand, lathered it, then hosed it down with warm water from what looked like an electric squirt gun. She then took a strip of surgical tape and affixed his penis to his belly, leaving his raw scrotum exposed for whatever treatment was imminent.

  “You will not enjoy it. You will find it most disagreeable. Do you wish a bit for your mouth?”

  Horses had “bits”. People took “bits” to crunch down screams as they underwent field surgery during the first Civil War. Apparently, they took them while meekly accepting punishment as well. They would be grateful, Robbie supposed, casually wondering how much it would hurt when she ripped the tape back off his cock.

  At least she was honest with him.

  “Yes, Matron,” he said, lips trembling with anticipation. “Thank you.”

  It had been on the tray the whole time, along with every other instrument of hygiene and torment. But this was his first real look at it: a blue, rubber bone that read “Good Dog” on both sides. Nurse Reyes-Garcia positioned it between his teeth so that the nearest of the wall cameras could see the words right-side up. She patted his head.

  Then she applied the medicine, cautiously dabbing the top of his inner thigh to begin, and Robbie’s world lit with fresh, quick-spreading fire. He bit down reflexively, and he was glad he did instead of spitting the rubber bone out—because his jaws clenched with such power he thought he might otherwise have chipped or broken his own teeth.

  Quickly now, Nurse Reyes-Garcia’s hands went to work on his butt cheeks, mopping them in fast circles, prolonging nothing as Robbie screamed and screamed against the bit, eyes streaming. It felt like every pore in his flesh back there was expanding, gasping for air it should not have, filling instead with molten fire.

  Officer Kersey knelt right in front of him with the handheld for closeups on his face. His Matron’s leading two fingers spread under the exploring cloth and over his balls in a V, making sure the medicine went everywhere, missing no part of his ravaged flesh.

  This could not be right. There was no way this was good for him. His ass was melting away—couldn’t she see that?

  But then came the warm water again. Even though Robbie would not have thought he needed anything warm at that precise moment, it washed the hurt away in seconds, and the medicine worked its way deeper into his flesh without any further pain. Robbie’s jaws relaxed. The bone, now sheathed in drool and pocked by teeth marks, dropped out of his mouth to the floor.

  His mouth kept making noise, though, drawing in gasps of air and hurling them back out in wordless moan-yells as his restrained body shook under waterfalls of pure relief. Suddenly, his butt felt no pain at all, not even the faint residual sting from yesterday. His yells subsided. He sniffled, unable to suck back the trailer now dangling from his nose.

  Disgusted, Officer Kersey yanked a tissue from a box on the tray and took care of that for him. “God, is there anything you’re not a complete pussy about?”

  Nurse-Reyes Garcia leaned over him, massaging his shoulder blades with strong, slow squeezes. “There,” she said. “Better?”

  It was awkward in the chin strap, but Robbie managed to nod.

  “Excellent,” she said. “Now for your shaving.”

  Her hand went to the surgical tape at his belly.

  “But first—this is for Theresa, you naughty thing.”

  And took her time peeling it off.

  ****

  10 AM.

  “My boss asked me to show you this,” Officer Jenny said, giving Jasmine a particularly stern look. “Basically, you already know what to do—but these are controlled judicial humiliations, and Robbie’s not much of a hard case. Anyway, so says the boss. I don’t really know him. Only paddled him once.”

  They were in the interview room, where Robbie had answered countless questions about his embarrassment threshold on Day One. It was a first for the girls, though. Custodial staff had cleaned the place mostly out, leaving only the table and the countdown timer on the wall, which was a permanent fixture.

  But when Officer Jenny pressed the “On” switch of her presentation remote, the far mirror wall resolved into video screen. What she was about to show was fully animated—two of her volunteers still hadn’t seen a man naked before, and that special reveal was to be protected—but also very close to the real thing. All of the clips and slides were computer-generated by talented professionals in the film industry—

  …and, typically, whoever had used the program last hadn’t reset it. So, instead of coming up on the main menu, instead her three volunteers were inadvertently treated to the final slide of a transitional woman receiving justice. She was dark-haired, teary-eyed, hanging upside-down with her arms and legs spread in a frame of suspension beams, two middle-aged male volunteers mercilessly toying with her. One was on his knees, stretching her out at the point of a weighted nipple clamp, the other leering down between her legs, running the fingers of an electrode glove through the folds of her high-resolution, computer-generated labia.

  On the righthand side of the table, Heather squeaked. In the middle, Maddy’s eyes went wide. On the left, Jasmine laughed.

  “Oh, fuck me,” Officer Jenny muttered—eliciting a laugh from all of them—and reset the options to menu display. “Why am I the only one around here who knows how to do things? So, as I was saying…”

  She selected “male” from the subject bar. She then shuffled and selected “age eighteen”, “six-foot”, “no body modifications”, “medium-length blond hair”, “blue eyes”, and “demure” to create an avatar close to Robbie McNeal.

  Heather ventured, “How do you know his body so well?”

  “I’ve seen it,” she answered simply. “By now, almost anyone with money who wants to see it has, except for you three. But to the point—you’ve already been shown, physically, what’s an appropriate amount of force and pressure to apply during punishments. The only thing is, the boss doesn’t want you getting carried away on the fly. So, before tonight comes, we’re reviewing—visually instead of physically. Pay attention.”

  She studied them. Far as she could tell, they were attentive, glued to the screen, where it now showed facsimile-Robbie in his green jail jumpsuit, flanked by three shadow women holding torture toys.

  “We call this our Goldilocks presentation,” she said, selecting “paddle” from the punishment menu. “And we’re going through every tool you’ve selected, just for clarity. The first example will demonstrate ‘too light’.”

  The accompanying video clip showed a shadow woman swinging at facsimile-Robbie’s bare ass with the paddle half-heartedly—probably enough to make most men or boys say “Ow”, but not much else. It didn’t even redden his skin. A quick point of view change to his face showed him smiling in subtle triumph.

  “The second, ‘too heavy’.”

  This time, the shadow woman swung the paddle with both hands, her mouth open as though in mid-ululation of a battle cry. The blow over facsimile-Robbie’s already-red ass left an immediately darker imprint. Blood dribbled from the skin. The face shot was a depiction of third-world agony, eyes bulging in disbelief, greenish veins standing out at the temple, tongue jutting forward
through his silent scream.

  “And the third, ‘just right’.”

  One shadow hand was on his shoulder. The other tapped his ass with the paddle—a quick tease before drawing back and delivering a very strong, stiff, wood-backed slap that made facsimile Robbie grit his teeth and cry. She swatted him again, and then a third time—then went for another toy, offering a short respite before continuing his discipline.

  “The sweet spot we’re hoping for is hard enough to make him think it’s your hardest, even though it isn’t. So—Heather, Jasmine, got that?”

  Maddy hadn’t chosen paddles. Tentative as she was, she was also more creative than the other two.

  She had better pan out.

  “Got it,” Heather said. Jasmine offered up an “OK” sign with thumb and forefinger, growing visibly bored. Oh, the attention deficit with kids these days.

  But, like it or not, they’d be here a while. It wasn’t like they had been assigned only a single toy each.

  “Next one’s for you, Maddy,” said Officer Jenny.

  ****

  11 AM.

  He was shaved. He had showered. He was a glistening, deforested, ruddy-cheeked spectacle of penitent rapscallion, the vision of health and fitness—and obviously uncomfortable with her striding into the shower commune like it was nothing, her tech waddling in after her with his Coke-bottle glasses and his clipboard, dragging in a duffel bag of measuring tools behind him, sloshing through floor water.

  “You are right on time,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia greeted her. “He is ready for you.”

  He didn’t especially look it. Robbie wore only a towel about his waist, and it was hardly long enough to wrap around him. He clutched at the ends of it with his right hand, where Lillie could catch a good glance at some side-butt, if she craned her head just so.

  Why so shy? she thought. You should be used to this by now—and I’m practically a doctor.

  Technically, she was a sports therapist. But the human body was her trade. Had been for fifteen years. Lillie Gardener was renowned in her field, famous for putting star athletes back on the field after suffering injuries that could have been career-ending. Lately, she’d made a name for herself in preventative treatment as well, readying the subjects of Consequences, Live! for their final sessions. With the help of her tech—a short, balding medicine ball of a man named Mr. Musgrove—she made sure the adjustable punishment furniture was rigged to the correct settings for every inmate they entrusted to her.

  She hadn’t watched the program this time. She was a busy woman, and she really hadn’t expected a man of this age to be so handsome—not just pretty and fresh, but … interesting. It was a quality most men grew into over time, if they ever got there at all.

  She nodded to Officer Kersey, who tended to remain present behind the camera for these sessions when the subject was male. And that was all to the good. Lillie liked being on television, and she enjoyed being listed among the “contributors” to the production of the show. But they’d never exchanged words.

  “Thank you, Nurse Reyes-Garcia,” she said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “This time I will stay,” answered the nurse. “I wish to see you work in person. I have no appointments.”

  Odd, she thought. But, Fine. As long as that’s all you do.

  Behind the glasses, Mr. Musgrove’s massive, protuberant eyes fluttered over Robbie. “You’ll need to lose the towel,” he said, pointing at the towel in question, licking his lips.

  But if this senator’s son, this Robbie McNeal, had been trained in taking orders, Lillie as yet saw no evidence of it. He was both reluctant and passively disobedient. A born sub, she thought. He recreates the shame in his mind every time he has to get naked, no matter how many times it happens. The disobedience invites consequences, but he does it anyway.

  Oh, isn’t he delicious?

  She felt so bad for him already.

  “None of that, you,” she said, stepping up, taking him by the wrists and positioning his hands, palms out in an upside-down V display position. The towel dislodged from his waist and puddled at his feet, the terrycloth embodiment of abject surrender. “My name is Mrs. Gardener, but to you I am Miss Trainer. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Miss Trainer,” Robbie said, head down. “Shouldn’t we go back to the—”

  She slapped his face. “What’s the matter with this one?” she demanded.

  Nurse Reyes-Garcia shrugged. “Everyone is different,” she said, offering nothing more.

  Lillie returned her attention to Robbie. “Keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told, you fucking lowlife criminal punk-ass bitch. Listen to me. It’s my job to make sure you take as much pain as possible without getting injured, and I won’t let you distract me from doing my job. Capisce?”

  Robbie didn’t answer. Head still down, from the corner of his eye, he was watching Mr. Musgrove ogle him. He was a kind soul, Mr. Musgrove, but he’d married his husband thirty years ago and enjoyed the sight of a good-looking young stallion as much as anyone.

  She slapped the other side of Robbie’s face. She leaned in close enough for her words to blow his hair back. “Say something, asshole!”

  “Yes, Miss Trainer,” he said, already crying.

  “Thought you were so clever, didn’t you? Thought the rules didn’t apply to you. But you got in trouble too big for you, and now Daddy and Mommy aren’t here to protect you. Don’t you fucking know that yet?”

  “I know, Miss Trainer. I—I’m so sorry…”

  She was getting wet now. The pity was almost more than she could stand.

  So fucking precious. I could eat you alive, Robbie. I really could.

  But she couldn’t. What she could do—what she always did—was make sure the kid went home without tearing any muscles or ligaments and without wearing any plaster of Paris. And she could make him remember her—oh, yes—she would make him remember her for a long, long time.

  “We’re fine right here, to begin,” she said more calmly, her breath heavy but steady. “Hamstrings first. Back up against the wall, Mr. McNeal. Mr. Musgrove—compass angle measure, please.”

  Musgrove fished through the duffel bag as Robbie took up his commanded placement.

  ****

  12 PM.

  Maddy fished her uniform out of the dryer and laid out the pants on the board. She was behind the other two because she’d had to teach Heather how to iron. Now her friends had most of their things up on hangers while she was only beginning to steam and press her shorts. But she wasn’t too bothered. There was plenty of time. Most all they ever did around this joint was wait.

  “Want me to take care of your shirt?” Heather offered. “Least I can do.”

  Maddy shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ve got it.” She didn’t want to add that, in matters like this, she preferred her own hand, liked doing it her own way.

  Through the walls of the laundry, it was easy to hear the general population of the prison having lunch—a cacophony that dwarfed any cafeteria din Maddy had ever been subjected to in her life. And such language… She was glad there was a host of cops between them and the doors to the laundromat.

  “Either of you two ever have second thoughts about this?” she asked, keeping her tone conversational, unworried, as she hung up her shorts and laid out her Humiliator vest. For herself, all the second thoughts had come and gone. They were too close now. She’d fought that battle. It was over. But a little emotional solidarity with a friend or two couldn’t hurt.

  Heather didn’t answer.

  “Oh, hell, no,” Jasmine said. “We don’t even get to watch this shit on TV. No way was I missing out on this.”

  Maddy acknowledged the point with a semi-affirmative tilt of her head.

  Then the door to the laundromat opened, and Officer Jenny bounded through it. “It came!” she said, holding the dress out for them to see. “Talk about last minute. That’s what we get for finalizing the punishments only yesterday.”

  Maddy studied
it through the protective plastic. It was for her, for the second part of Robbie’s final session. Officer Jenny had found the addition necessary, based on Maddy’s chosen implements of punishment. The costume department of Consequences, Live! were said to have been altering it to fit her all night.

  “What do you think, Mads?” Officer Jenny wanted to know.

  But Heather answered first. “It’s scary,” she said with a suitably nervous giggle. “Oh, my God.”

  Jasmine looked jealous.

  Officer Jenny reached in through the top and withdrew the critical accessory: a crown of woven black metal laces, studded with glittering red stones.

  “It’ll do,” Maddy said, and kept on with her ironing.

  ****

  3 PM.

  Robbie was still getting over his first session of “informative calisthenics and calibration” when it came time for the second one. He was sore all over. Confused, too, because he couldn’t understand how this would do anything other than weaken him, make him less ready for whatever hell got going later in the evening.

  Most of it, after standing him against the wall of the shower commune and stretching his legs up one at a time—almost straight up, like doing a standing split—had happened on the X-frame. It had been like rack torture, but with the added discomfiture and embarrassment of Mr. Musgrove performing “measurements” on him with strange instruments, quoting them aloud and reading them into his speech-to-text clipboard. Robbie couldn’t imagine what they planned on doing with the information.

  “At rest hamstring left, 147 degrees. Right, 145 degrees—that’s better than standing.”

  Miss Trainer would hold him in position until he “tapped out” with a hand or the back of his head, indicating he was close to the breaking point. Then she’d relax a fraction of an inch, and Mr. Musgrove would take a measurement with the “compass angle” thing, a device that looked quite a lot like an oversized compass from geometry class, only without the pointy bit. And Mr. Musgrove wasn’t shy at all about where he anchored it.

  On the X-frame, they’d also taken readings on “spread-eagle hip stress,” before standing him up and ordering a host of standard stretches that took half an hour.