Anger Issues

by TylerRose.

  “You are a felon convicted of murder. You have no rights whatsoever,” he said.

  He was too calm, too collected. Leaving his desk to sit at a sofa, turning his back on her to do so, he pointed to the floor.

  “Come here. Kneel there.”

  She went to the spot but did not kneel.

  “On your knees or you get that first caning.”

  “Can I sit?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Before you earn any privileges, you must submit and obey.”

  “I don’t want privileges. I want to be treated like a human being,” she said.

  “You’re not a human being anymore. In the eyes of the law, you are already dead. Your death certificate has already been signed and dated. According to the letter of the law, you no longer exist. Your actual death is a formality that will happen at our discretion, not when you want it. How well or badly you are treated depends entirely on your level of cooperation and obedience. Before I wash my hands of you and abandon you to the sexual appetites of the wolves outside my door, I want to understand your situation from your point of view.”

  He was being reasonable. Dammit. She lowered to her knees, shoulders slouched a bit in defeat.

  “I’ve spoken with your mother,” he said. “She told me your personality now is nothing like it was five years ago. She says you were kind and sweet, that your condition and its treatments have altered your personality so much that people who knew you then don’t recognize you now. Would you say that’s a fair assessment?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I still feel the same on the inside,” Mally said, emotionless, flat, blunt.

  “She also told me your uncle, her sister’s husband, repeatedly molested you for several years between the ages of eight and eleven. That is true?” he asked.

  “I don’t remember exactly when it started. Eight is my best guess,” she said, perturbed that her mother would talk about it with a stranger. “Sir.”

  He took the small compliance.

  “You are being very careful and I understand why. I appreciate why. I will tell you plainly that if you are going to stick to your story that you planned it all before the day you killed him, then your confession and conviction cannot be overturned. We’ve looked into it to be sure. At present, premeditation precludes any medical condition, however heinous or mind-altering a condition it is,” he informed her. “If you were planning on this for years, there is no harm now in answering me. What happened that day to make you choose to carry out your plan?”

  “I thought about killing him since I was thirteen,” she said out loud for the first time. “Imagined it a thousand times. When it turned to actual planning, I’m not entirely sure. I think I was sixteen when I came up with the vision of stabbing him on his doorstep for all to see. At the time, execution stopped me from doing it. I didn’t want to die. I wanted him to die. For my 18th birthday, I bought the gloves I would wear when I did it. I often put them on and hold the knife and imagine myself doing it.”

  Small smile of satisfaction.

  “On the day,” he prompted. “What happened to make you actually do it?”

  She stared up at him a few seconds, having to stop herself from telling the rest of the five year story.

  “He told me he was going to start doing it to my sister’s daughter when she came to stay over the next weekend.”

  “I figured it was something like that. Other than what he did, have you ever had sex?”

  “Yes. Many times. Sex is fine. I don’t like being touched.”

  “Have you had lesbian relations?” he asked.

  “No and I don’t want to.”

  “Masturbate?”

  “Sometimes,” she said.

  “Would you like to be encased in armor so no one can touch you?” he asked.

  “Like leather?”

  “Leather, latex. We can cover you head to toe and no one sees your face or your skin. They can still touch, but they’d be touching that outer casing and not you. Your own identity would vanish behind a hood. Does that sound appealing?”

  “What would I be required to do in return?” she asked.

  “Anything you were told. Drink service, ashtray service, hand jobs. Some hoods have open mouths, so blow jobs as well. Zippers in the crotch would open for intercourse.”

  She started to weep, crestfallen, lowered to her hip on the floor. “I just want to die.”

  “Therein lies the quandary, Mally. Premeditated doesn’t mean uninfluenced by the tumors. It cannot be proven either way except that there has been a marked change in your personality. Might be that you would never have done it, regardless how many times you thought about it, if the tumors had never happened. It is unethical for us to execute you for something we suspect was out of your control. I can see you aren’t a bad person. Most of our prisoners deserve their fate five thousand percent. They are bad people who did bad things for no good reason except to do it. You did nothing out of actual malice or callousness, but to protect a small child who was about to be violated in the worst of ways. You confessed to the crime. The punishment, by law, is execution; but execution is itself not appropriate to the situation. We have a great sympathy for your predicament. We would prefer to care for you in what may be the last weeks or months of your natural life. To that…”

  He reached into a drawer beside his seat and took out a bright red circle.

  “Come closer.”

  She moved forward on her knees as he opened the circle on its hinge and put it around her neck. Small angled stick in his hand, he closed the circle and twisted a screw tightly in. Onto the front, he clipped a circle bead with the letter L on it. Her room was lettered L.

  “You will be referred to by letter when we can see the tag on the collar. When you are encased and in a hood, I’ll come up with another name,” he said.

  “Oubliette,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a place to put someone you want to forget.”

  “We’ll see,” he said. “Don’t interrupt me again. From this minute on, you are not permitted to speak unless directly asked a question and told to answer. When encased, you will never speak regardless what question you are asked. Your body belongs to the League. You are not permitted to masturbate unless you are instructed to do so. You’ll go back to your room now. The Warden will have things for you to read and do to make your stay comfortable. Your room companion will also be brought.”

  “So you’ll keep me alive against my wishes,” she said, eyes hot with anger.

  “Did I not just say not to speak without being asked a question?” he said.

  “I really don’t give a shit, especially when I’m pissed. The adrenaline flows and so do the words. No caning is going to stop it. Didn’t the doctor tell you or are you just dense?”

  He didn’t get angry. His expression didn’t change. “Is that all it takes to get you going?”

  She wiped a desolate tear from her eye.

  “I really am sympathetic to your predicament, L. Your plan was foolproof until you had the misfortune to be sent here,” he said.

  “So send me to another prison,” she wept, the anger replaced by uncontrollable sadness that fast.

  He waited out her storm, letting her calm in her own time.

  “The only place I can send you is a maximum security psychiatric hospital. They will force drugs on you, not caring what you want. They will turn you into the zombie you don’t want to be. You don’t belong there. We will give you very small doses as the doctor suggested. Just enough that we can see you are not as reactive. Not enough to stop you from functioning. The red collar is a signal to our members that you are not to be killed. Go out to the secretary’s office. The guard will take you to your room. I will forgo the usual introductory suck job today and require it of you another time.”

  “You know I hate you for doing this,” she said, getting to her feet as he also stood. “I hate every fucking one of you.” />
  He grasped her by the collar to pull her close against him, the other hand going under her nightgown to painfully grip her pubic hair between fingers.

  “I hope you get to hate me for a very long time.”

  A finger slid between her labia to stroke over her clitoris. He bent her over by the collar, a telescoping stick of metal coming out to strike her bottom over the nightgown. Five times. Enough to make her shriek.

  “I remove the choice of using the word Sir,” he said. “You call everyone Master. Everyone, from the guard who brings your food to the Manor Butler. Every member. Everyone. The rules will still apply to you, regardless your lack of internal censors.”

  Ten strikes and he released her as suddenly as he’d taken her in hand.

  “Go. Now.”

  She hurried out, eyes blurry with fresh tears. One guard in front, one behind, she walked through the library. The Manor’s front door was open, a man in a blue suit coming in. She bolted for the door.

  “Prisoner! Stop!”

  She did not, running bodily into the guard blocking the door. She screamed with the sharp pain of an impact to the back of her right shoulder. Hard enough to throw her off balance, she fell over.

  “Just kill me,” she whimpered before falling unconscious.

  Chapter Two

  She woke in her room, on the floor and at the feet of that man in the blue suit. Groggy for a moment, sitting up was an effort. He gave her the time in silence. When she was sitting up full, eyes lifting to his, he addressed her.

  “I am the Warden of State Prison 23. You were unconscious for about half an hour. Guards at doors will not kill you for trying to run. They have sedation darts, not fatal bullets. Less cost to clean the carpet. Kneel there,” he pointed to a spot closer to himself.

  She complied, sitting on her calves.

  “Instructions will appear on that screen and come over the speaker,” he pointed. “Obey them. While waiting today, read this and answer the questions.” An electronic tablet device with a stylus.

  He got up to open the door. A calico cat dashed in.

  “This is Chutney. She lives in this room. Can I trust you to take care of her and not harm her?” he asked.

  “I have never harmed any animal. Only one despicable shit of a human,” she replied, the cat already sniffing at her knee.

  Chutney climbed up the slope of her thighs to stand. Paws on Mally’s chest, she leaned in to sniff the new face very seriously. A paw reached up to pat her cheek in a soft touch before she rubbed her cheek to Mally’s chin.

  “A meal will be brought and your instructions will appear,” the Warden said before leaving.

  With his exit, a guard brought in a litter pan. Another placed a tray with full food bowl, empty water bowl, and a selection of toys. The door closed.

  Mally cried. Her perfect plan had been shot to shit by the very thing she was trying to get relief from. Rather than helping, the second hard cry brought on a headache. She decided to lie on the sofa for a while.

  By the time supper arrived, her head pounded so badly she could not sit up. The cat had climbed up, purring hard and refusing to leave her side. A voice ordered her to the spot. She ignored it, the pain too great to speak. Stern order to get up, also ignored. The door opened a moment later, the doctor coming in to see her.

  “You’re having a pain event, aren’t you?” he asked, flashing his small light into her eyes.

  She reacted with a pain response to the light, flinching and whimpering in her distress.

  “The stress of the day, no doubt. I expected it.”

  “I think the cat did too,” she whispered.

  “Animals sometimes know before we do,” he agreed, administering an injection. “Food will be brought when you are well enough to sit up.”

  He left. A guard moved the kitty litter to the bathroom, filled the water dish. She was left to herself again. No clock to be found, she had no idea what time it was except for the position of the sun. She fell asleep while it was light out, woke when the sun was low. Pain gone, she felt much better.

  After a trip to the toilet, the voice told her to go to the spot. A tray of food was brought in, placed on the small dining table. A supply of nightgowns was put in a shelf of the cubby holes. Another something was put on the next shelf down. The guard left, door opening again to shoo the cat back inside.

  She took the electronic tablet to the table and answered the questions while she ate. What books did she like? What movies? Television shows. What foods did she hate the most. She answered them all honestly over a delicious meal of onion soup, crispy coated pork chop with mustard dipping sauce and two steamed vegetables. A fresh baked sour dough roll with butter sat on a little dish, next to it a custard tart layered with fruit and finished with whipped cream. People always joked about how terrible prison food was, but this place had terrific food.

  She finished the meal and the questionnaire. Within minutes, the screen turned on with her instructions. She was to shower, shave her legs and her armpits, dry herself very well, and put on the outfit provided in the second cubby.

  She went to the outfit first, to see what it was. A one-piece body suit of dense black cloth, with gloved hands and thinly padded feet. There was a zipper in the crotch that closed with a little lock. The zipper up the back had a lock hanging in one of the top loops. There was a second piece that fell to the floor when she opened the suit. A hood. Zipper across the mouth, snaps around the neckline.

  Interesting.

  She went for the shower. The bathroom had no door. The shower stall had a glass door. Looking in drawers, she found the shaving kit, a manicure kit, bobby pins. She’d not been told to wash her hair. She pinned it up and put on the plastic bonnet.

  The House Master glanced to the screen to see her go to her shower. Peaceful, calm, obedient. Back to the reading of the coroner’s report and something caught his eye. The police had written up that the murdered uncle had urinated on his death. He looked at the photograph of the crime scene. Yes, his pants were wet. The Coroner’s report, however, said the front of the uncle’s pants were soaked with female ejaculate.

  She’d been straddling him while she killed him. He picked up the transcript of her confession. Yes, she had stabbed him twice in the doorway, then kicked him and straddled him to continue stabbing him.

  She had gotten off during the act of murdering him. She’d gotten off so hard that she’d ejaculated her cum all over the uncle’s pants.

  He picked up the phone to call the Detective on the case.

  “Did you go to her home? Look for any evidence of sexual deviance?”

  “Like what?” Hornell asked.

  “A knife used to pretend? To practice the motion? Some object she practiced straddling? A cushion, perhaps? Or a pillow?”

  Hornell scanned down the list of things taken into evidence.

  “There is a notation of a large stuffed bear with stab marks in its chest. It was wearing a strap-on dildo.”

  Hank smiled to himself. “Thank you, Detective. Send that to me.”

  He next called down to the workshop to have a name tag engraved. He called the Butler to ask for one of the 45 to 50 year old male prisoners to be taken to the Kill Room at once and prepared as usual.

  “I will need my strap-on harness with a dildo. Medium sized. Nothing harsh. Also my lubricant and a butcher knife. Put the knife on the surgical tray. The others on the rolling platform parked next to the table. Pad the platform with something. I’ll be there within an hour.”

  “All will be ready House Master,” the Butler promised.

  Hank entered an unscripted initiation scene to start at 6:30 and his attention went back to the screen. She looked annoyed, was trying every few seconds to adjust the water.

  Sensitivity to changes in temperature. Her outburst in the rec room shower. He would have to ask about that.

  She gave up on comfort, picking up the soap to wash, and was out of the shower in a few minutes. A few more to dry
and be naked in the air and she got into the suit. Cloth covered hands slid over cloth covered breasts in an obviously pleasurable way.

  “Order Prisoner L to the spot. I’ll be right there,” he said into the intercom to the Announcement room in the prison section.

  “Prisoner to the spot,” came over the screen. She obeyed immediately.

  Hank left his office.

  Knowing the suithad a zipper in the crotch, she used the toilet one more time before putting the thing on.

  The material was thick, elastic, silky. Hands into the gloves, she had a hard time with the zipper. Someone would be along eventually. She could ask for help then. She ran her hands up and down her torso, over her breasts, enjoying the sensation of being touched without actual skin contact.

  “Prisoner to the spot.”

  She was mostly already there, taking a couple steps over. She stood for a couple minutes before the door opened and closed. Strong hands slid around her ribs from behind, grasping her breasts over the silky material. She reacted to jerk and open her arms to knock the arms away. His upper arms locked in place.

  “Stop that,” he said.

  The House Master, his hands not pausing in their pursuit. Anxious, not liking the forcible touching, but she stopped struggling.

  “Any man in this facility can touch you in any way he wants,” he told her, thumbs twanging over nipples gone hard despite her annoyance. “If you fight, they can do what they want to subdue you and then do whatever it was they were going to do in the first place. I suggest you pick your battles unless you like being punched and smacked around.”

  “I never wanted to be a sex slave,” she protested.

  “Maybe not but that is what you are. We would prefer you like sex, but you certainly don’t have to. Some men will very much enjoy a good fight. You’re about to have your first session. It will be for my enjoyment alone. No one will be in the room to watch. I have a theory and I’m going to test it.”

  He released her and zipped up the back. He pulled the hood up through the back of her collar and over her head.