by D. A. Maddox
And a stirring. Down there.
Oh, shit. Oh, no.
“Say, ‘Yes, Miss Ronnie’.”
Why? You didn’t make the others…
“Yes, Miss Ronnie.”
“Oh,” she purred at him, “I know what you are, Buddy. I may not have the others figured out yet, but I do know you. I’ve met you in other people, other places, different circumstances—but I know. Don’t be so surprised. Miss Ronnie always knows in the end. But you make it easy.”
Huh?
Her thumb, just over the top of his ass crack, making a line up and down, up and down.
“Do you feel railroaded, Buddy? Are you being treated … unfairly?”
He tried to think, to answer her, but it was hard … so hard, and it was becoming increasingly harder in more ways than one as Veronica bent somewhat at the knees, then withdrew the camera only to reposition it just in front of his swelling crotch, her arm curling up between his knees from behind.
He shook his head. He’d volunteered. He’d chosen this to get out of Hell Day. He was the guiltiest one here. “No, Miss Ronnie.”
“Put your hands on your head, young man.”
He obeyed, looking down on the arm and the upturned camera between his legs like it was some kind of horrific growth of his own.
“Give me a word, Buddy,” she trilled gently. “Just … one … word.”
Hands on his head, fully aware of his swelling erection being captured, even under fabric, like the time-lapse footage of a blooming mushroom, Buddy found his own word with no difficulty at all:
“Defenseless.”
The admission of that word, too, was distressingly easy.
“Say hi to America, Buddy. Be a good, friendly boy and give them a wave, won’t you?”
Buddy sniffled. He let one hand leave the back of his head for a wave. “Hello, America,” he said.
Then they were interrupted.
“Ms. Cruz.”
It was another new voice—another woman’s voice. Older, mildly accented but perfectly articulated, a low contralto thick with both patience and command. And the voice came from the door opening from the men’s end of the hall.
Veronica stepped out from behind Buddy and re-emerged around his front, whispering to her live stream, “That’s me busted. Out for now. Kisses.” She thumbed her phone off.
Buddy turned his head to the approaching footsteps, same as everyone, mindful to keep his hands in place.
Wordlessly she came, flanked on either side by two younger officers—one dark-haired with olive skin and strikingly steely eyes, the other fair-haired. Of the three, she was the only one smiling.
As for their boss, she was somewhere in her thirties, rich brown hair up in a bun, her hard shoes polished to ebony reflection. Her sturdy frame might have been cut from stone, but there was a softness, Buddy thought, in her deep brown eyes. Compassion, maybe.
Without preamble, she took a knee right in front of Buddy and made an assessment on the spot. “Just look at you, Buddy Ray Zimmer,” she said. “You are stiff as an Erector Set and we have not even introduced ourselves.”
Second thought, probably best not to mess with her—
She rose, reached out to him, took his wrists. “Put your hands down, you silly thing.”
Buddy let her guide his hands back to his sides.
Then she turned to Veronica. “Ms. Cruz,” she said, the calm reproach in her voice palpable, like heat waves off a summertime grill, “that will be quite enough making feet out of inchworms from you, at present. The interview room is in readiness, quartered and soundproofed. If you would be so kind as to go with Officer Kersey, we still need to get the VR up and running.”
Veronica gave Buddy a finger wave—which caused the subsiding of his rather determined erection to slow—and departed with the steely-eyed officer named Kersey.
There was no doubt as to who was in charge here. Being called a “silly thing” by her made Buddy feel legitimately bad. Somehow, hearing it from her made it the inarguable truth.
She turned to Officer A. Garcia.
He studied his shoes. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Very good,” she replied, then turned to the new convicts. “My name is Nurse Helena Reyes-Garcia. I am a senior punishment warden of this facility and a registered nurse. My husband is Alejandro Garcia, whom you will address at all times as Officer Garcia or sir. It is our job to see that you receive appropriate discipline. It is our responsibility to keep you safe. We take our job very seriously. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’ams” and nods all around.
“Good, good. And you,” she continued, addressing the women first, “must be Emma Jo Swanson and Cassidy Lee Harper. To you, I am Madam Reyes-Garcia. Let me hear you say it, please.”
Together they said, “Yes, Madam Reyes-Garcia.”
To the boys, she said, “And to you two I am only Matron. Say it, please. Show me what good listeners you are.”
“Yes, Matron,” Buddy said, together with Peter.
“Follow me, please.” With her back to them, she continued, “Walk on the line. Stay in file. Do not speak unless asked a question or given permission.”
They followed her in file, as instructed, ladies leading, Cassidy up front, Peter bringing up the rear.
Over her shoulder, Emma Jo dared a whisper to Buddy—hardly a breath. He almost didn’t hear it at all. “How many times they gotta tell us that?”
Nurse Reyes-Garcia stopped. The line stopped.
“Oh, but I am sorry,” she said. “How forgetful of me.”
She faced them again. She indicated the officer with the fair hair and the kind face, who walked alongside her and might as well have been whistling the whole way.
“This is Officer Jennifer Thompson. Her specialty is corporal punishment.”
Officer Thompson bowed and doffed her cap.
“We shall have a demonstration after interview. I recommend no further discussion. Am I understood?”
From Buddy, right away, “Yes, Matron.” Peter shortly followed.
“Yes, Madam Reyes-Garcia,” Cassidy affirmed quietly.
“Emma Jo? Do you require further clarification?”
Emma Jo bowed her head. “No, Madam Reyes-Garcia. I understand, Madam Reyes-Garcia.”
“Good, good,” the nurse said. “Then we continue with no more foolishness.”
****
The door to the interview room opened by key card, which Nurse Reyes-Garcia swiped and returned to her belt. Inside, Peter could hear Officer Kersey and Veronica Cruz casually discussing maintenance of the Consequences, Live! website, the benefits and detriments to free content…
“We’ll see how it goes,” Officer Kersey was saying. “Seems to me if people can just log in whenever, they won’t see the need to pay for our channel.”
And from Veronica, “Betty, it’s a tease—a complement to the show. You’ve had live streams before.”
“Yes, and people subscribed to them. You know, with money?”
“People will want both, trust me. Snippets, interviews, moments. Not like I’m going to stream the official sessions.”
“Like I said, we’ll see.”
God, Peter thought, this is normal for you people? Might as well be talking about the weather.
As for him, his whole mind was occupied with Emma Jo at present. He felt so bad for her. She’d blown it big time. How would she even be able to focus on the interview?
“Cassidy,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said, drawing a set of four small, thin strips of plastic from her shirt pocket and snapping her fingers, “step forward, please. Hold out your right hand.”
Cassidy went to her, stopping at the open doorway. She held out her hand. She asked no questions as the nurse closed one of the plastic strips around her wrist, where it clipped, hung loosely—and seemed to vanish.
The thing, whatever it was, had thermal camouflage. Pricey. Weird.
Cassidy wouldn’t have noticed. She was staring i
nto the room, which Peter still could not see.
“Go to your number, please.”
“Me first?” she asked, never raising her voice. “But, Madam Reyes-Garcia, why—?”
“Someone must be first, dear, to calibrate the system. The others will be right behind you. Proceed to your number, please. No more questions.”
A whistle from inside. Veronica. “Over there, girlfriend.”
Emma Jo was next. She was shaking all over, clearly wrecked by the realization of what she had done to herself in the intake hall outside the bathroom. It was obvious. She wouldn’t be able to do anything in there.
Nurse Reyes-Garcia clipped the wristband in place, then withdrew a palm com from her belt and clicked it on. Studied it. “Emma Jo,” she said, placing a hand on her shoulder, “you are distraught. I need you to calm down. Say a quick something if you must, if it will help, but then we must proceed.”
Emma Jo’s gaze shot over to Officer Thompson, who stepped forward and started running fingers through her short, unbraided hair, which wasn’t yet even fully dry from her shower.
“I’m sorry I talked,” Emma Jo managed, her breathing picking up. “I was dumb. Madam Reyes-Garcia, please, I don’t know if I can take it.”
“Let me tell you a few quick things, Emma Jo,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said, squeezing her shoulder. “First, I accept your apology. But before we go any further, you tell me: Have you never received corporal punishment in the past? Your record in preparatory school was exemplary.”
“No,” Emma Jo insisted with fervor, “I’ve never been in any trouble before last week. Please—not on camera. I’m sorry, I mean it. You don’t have to do this. I get it, Madam Reyes-Garcia. I’m scared…”
Nurse Reyes-Garcia squeezed her shoulder again, locked eyes with her. “Intake day punishments are not broadcast, Emma Jo Swanson. And you will be fine. We know what we are doing here, and this is for the best. You see?” She turned the palm com to her. Even from the back of the line, Peter could see the screen, too. Looked like the lines on an EKG or something.
“That bracelet you’re wearing,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said, even as Emma Jo’s full-body shuddering intensified, “tells me heart rate, blood pressure—many things more complicated than that. It tracks all stimuli. I can read the actions of your blood vessels when you blush, the pain messages sent by your nervous system. Other, more intimate things, too—secretions, what have you. Think of it as a Clit Bit Plus, if you will.”
Emma Jo sniffled back an involuntary laugh. Took a deep breath. Relaxed a little.
And, good lord, Buddy was crying out of pure empathy for her.
“You will not come to harm under my care, Emma Jo. But you will take your medicine like the grown-ass woman you are. Yes?”
Emma Jo dried her eyes. “Yes, Madam Reyes-Garcia. I’ll—I’ll try.”
Officer Thompson patted her on the back.
“You will be fine,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia again assured her. “In you go. Find your number, please.”
****
The numbers, Peter saw, were stone tables—four of them, one parallel to each wall. Their numbers, 200-203, were chalked into the center of each. Along with the numbers, there was also a black, plastic headset, complete with blinders and headphones. The walls of the room, minus the one with the door, were black glass—probably one-way, he figured. He’d seen cop shows on TV.
There were no chairs, but by the time Peter was brought in, Emma Jo already stood behind her table, opposite his, and Buddy stood behind the table at his right. A glance to his left revealed Cassidy, already wearing the headset, her hat discarded on her table. Her whole body was quivering.
“Yes, Officer Garcia,” she said.
But Officer Alejandro Garcia was still behind him, and he hadn’t said a thing.
Cassidy gasped. Her hands went to cover her breasts, her crotch, even though she was still wearing the jumpsuit. Behind the blinders, tears rolled down her cheeks, unrestrained.
“Yes, sir,” she said, then returned her hands to her sides, lowering her head.
She snapped her head up again, fast.
“Stand at your table, please,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said, nudging him forward into the room with a slow but strong finger at his shoulder.
Peter stepped forward. His table was right there. He didn’t have far to go at all.
At a smaller table with a built-in keyboard and monitor, Officer Kersey tapped keys, squinting over information Peter could not see. Behind her, standing, Veronica watched attentively.
“That,” Officer Kersey said, tapping first one corner of the screen, then another, “is what our precious woodland princess-slash-supermodel over there can see right now. And that field will light up once the Swiss Miss stops sniffling and puts her rig on. This one’s for Misunderstood Emo Boy—”
Here, Veronica smiled back at Buddy.
“…and this last one’s for the Prep Lord. God, that one’s fucking made for sweaters with letters.”
Under other circumstances, Peter might have laughed and come back with something witty. He didn’t even take it as an insult, although he was sure it was intended as such. No, he knew better. No talking. He stood in front of his headset and awaited instruction, even while—just six feet to his left—the girl he’d been secretly crushing on for eight days began to sound increasingly like she was under some kind of torture.
“Yes, Officer Garcia… N-no, sir… Please, may I … have a break, sir?”
And as though she couldn’t even hear the suffering taking place in the same room with her, Officer Kersey matter-of-factly continued to Veronica, “Middle of the screen’s current Pay-Per-View audience count. They’ve got this screen on a quartered feed, just like we do.”
“One hundred eighty,” Veronica said, frowning. “Seems low.”
“Better than average for a thousand-dollar PPV ticket. All this is free to our subscribers in the archive once the sessions start tomorrow, so anything here is all gravy.”
Nurse Reyes-Garcia stepped around Peter’s table, came to the center of the room. She addressed her charges, turning to face one, then another:
“When I give you the command—any command—you will have thirty seconds to comply.”
The three walls of black glass lit up with a digital 0:30.
“If you take off the headset during the interview, you fail the interview. If you answer any question incompletely or with a falsehood, you fail the interview. You will know you have successfully passed the interview when I take the headset back from you. Then we shall proceed to your final processing and corrections before dinner and bed.”
Cassidy screamed.
Buddy, forgetting himself completely, blurted, “What the hell are you doing to her? Stop!”
“That, Buddy,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said, “was unfortunate. Please do not concern yourself. She will be fine.” She clucked her tongue at him.
Buddy, wide-eyed, turned his gaze down to the table.
“Two down,” Veronica said, grinning with teeth. “Two to go.”
Officer Kersey shrugged. “This shit always happens,” she muttered. “It’s like they fucking want it.”
Nurse Reyes-Garcia crossed her arms. “Put them on,” she said. “Do not be afraid.”
Easy for you to say, Peter thought, watching the digital countdown with dread: 0:24, 0:23…
He took off his hat, lifted the headset, paused with it over his head until the others followed suit. He shared a look with Emma Jo first, then Buddy—then silently mouthed the numbers, three, two, one…
And as one, they entered the interview.
****
It was as though the visor was transparent. Buddy didn’t understand. He was still in the room—but none of the others were.
Only Nurse Reyes-Garcia.
“What you are watching right now, Buddy, is prerecorded,” she said from directly in front of his table. “For each of my questions, there will be only two possible answers. If you do not respond with
one of the two possible answers, I will repeat myself. Is everything clear to you so far?”
“Yes, Matron.”
“Baseline questions first, so that we may calibrate the polygraph function. Is your name Buddy Ray Zimmer?”
“Yes, Matron.”
“What color are your eyes, Buddy?”
“Brown, Matron.”
“What color is your hair, Buddy?”
“Black, Matron.”
“When flaccid, does your penis dangle below the scrotum or against it?”
For a moment, Buddy thought his heart had stopped. Had he heard her right?
“Matron, I’m sorry—what…?”
“When flaccid, does your penis dangle below the scrotum or against it?”
Buddy felt his cheeks light right up. He didn’t think the others in the room—the real room, he reminded himself—could hear anything he said. He couldn’t hear them. He reminded himself, too, that the punishment handed down by the judge was “controlled judicial humiliations.” He supposed this was part of it. And he had bigger worries, like what was going to happen to him, now that he’d opened his big mouth, even after watching Emma Jo try to beg her way out of punishments and fail.
Don’t think. Answer before you blow it.
“Against it, Matron,” he said, hitching his breath, already fighting tears, wanting to go somewhere and hide. He didn’t add that, when he was at full attention, he thought he had a pretty decent-sized penis. It hadn’t been part of the question.
“Very good, Buddy. You have established a baseline early. Now for the more difficult questions.”
Buddy clenched his hands, readied himself. How could the questions get worse?
He both saw and felt his clothes disappear—every stitch. “Hey!” he started, covering up immediately.
“Buddy,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said, glancing up and down, “this reflex is expected, but the interview may not continue until you return your hands to your hips. Expose your genitals, please.”
Buddy, jaw agape, blinking, put his hands back down, revealing his cock at half-staff.
Remember Cassidy, he said to himself. Not real—all VR. All illusion.
Looking down, he saw subtle differences. His VR body was an interpretation, a guess made by the VR headset. It was close, but not one hundred percent. He tried to relax.
