Public Punishment Uniform

Pat(ty)

My given name is Patrick. I’m twenty-three, I’m into self-bondage, and I’m a cross-dresser. Not all the time, you understand; I have to work for a living, but cross-dressing is my fetish, and for lack of interest in almost anything else, my one hobby. I’m sure that I probably spend more time and money shopping for shoes & clothes than the average female, but it’s what I like. I’m lucky that I have a body that lends itself to female attire; I’m five feet eight inches tall and slender, at one hundred thirty pounds. My almost-black hair is cut in a ‘page-boy’ style, which I hide by wearing it pulled up into a ‘man-bun’ or up under a hat. With my hair down and make-up on, I’m quite passable as a girl and I often go out dressed as one. I’m not gay, but I love flirting with men while I’m dressed in something sexy.

Cross-dressing is fun, sexy, and a real rush out in public, but my absolute greatest fantasy-driver is when I occasionally spot a woman who’s incarcerated in one of my state’s ‘Get tough on morality’ public-humiliation corrections uniforms; you may have seen one of these women, wearing a too-short little stretchy gray prisoner’s dress. This is worn over large, plastic breast forms mounted to a chest plate. She’ll have a high-security chastity belt keeping two big, bright-orange dildos locked up inside her, her knees are hobbled together with stainless bands and she’s wearing locked-on, super-high-heeled pumps with bright orange stiletto heels. What makes this corrections option legal and morally acceptable is that these women have all volunteered to wear these outfits, out and about in ‘public incarceration’. This form of punishment is offered as an option to going to jail or even prison for some crime that they’ve committed. They’re not just wearing the state’s punishment uniform, they’re also having to pay a pretty high monthly service/maintenance fee for the honor. It’s terribly uncomfortable, expensive and humiliating for them, but they’ll all tell you that it still beats going to prison.

I close my eyes and imagine what it must be like for these women, wriggling along, forced to walk very high on their toes (some of them even wearing ‘ballet-toe’ high heels), their legs sheathed in thick, tight, glossy, back-seamed tan hosiery, their thighs forced to remain four or less inches apart by the short bar between the cuffs just above their knees, this staying located by a vertical bar that tees into the hobble bar and attaches to the crotch piece of their chastity belt, just between the visible ends of the two ‘safety’ orange punishment dildos that protrude out two inches through the belt. To maximize public humiliation, the prisoner’s gray lycra uniform dress is cut very short, too short to cover the crotch panel of her chastity belt and the ends of the bright orange dildos. Can you imagine? Two huge ‘punishment’ dildos are stuffed in her pussy and ass, locked in place with a chastity belt, and her tight little lycra dress is too short to cover it? Anybody who so much as glances at them can see the double penetration that’s part of the punishment uniform.

I try to imagine what having one’s breasts tightly cinched around their bases feels like; that’s what uniformed girls endure, their breasts forced through small openings in the uniform’s locked-on chest plate, and into transparent, high-impact plastic breast forms. These are diabolical; they’re lined throughout with small, conical points that press into the wearer’s swollen, hurting, spherical breasts. Every uniform-wearing female’s nipples are pierced and the piercings are reinforced by permanent grommets as part of the uniform. The grommets are stainless steel and are flared by a machine after they’re pushed through her piercings, making them irremovable. Her nipples, now equipped with reinforced piercings, are pulled painfully through inch-long tubes at the tips of the plastic breast forms and are fitted with ‘D’ shackles to avail them as attachment points, or simply convenient, instant compliance-gaining devices for anyone who cares to slip a finger through them. When (and if) a girl completes her sentence*, these grommets and D-rings are left in place. Opening the D-rings requires a proprietary, state-held tool. It’s as if the State assumes that she’ll be put back in uniform. If she wants to have them removed it’s an expensive procedure that has to be done by a machine shop. Removing the grommets would require disfiguring surgery. As such, the vast majority of post-uniform women simply elect to remain ringed.

* [The conditions of uniform wear are very strict; the slightest slip-up, tardiness for an appointment, fee payment or other infraction carries strict and some say cruel additional time-of-sentence penalties. It’s typical for a woman to end up serving at least twice the amount of time of her original sentence, and often more. As it’s a ‘for-profit’ program and quite lucrative, the state has been inventive and even devious in its positioning of pitfalls to extend the length of incarceration of uniformed women.]

Whenever I see an ‘outmate’ (as a woman on public release in a State punishment uniform is known), what first draws my eye is her collar. ‘Morality program’ uniformed girls all wear a tall, close-fitting stainless-steel collar with leash rings at the front and rear. Their crime is deeply engraved into the metal at the front with a laser. While they’re serving their sentences, their hair is cut short, usually a ‘page-boy’ (I wear my own hair cut this way) style, so that the State’s collar is visible from all sides. The absolute best sightings, the ones that keep me in a weird state of erotic ‘high’ for days and weeks are the felons; seeing the welds running up the sides of a collar that’s around a woman’s throat and knowing that she must wear that collar for the rest of her life makes me absolutely giddy.

These women are the long-timers in the system; they’re the ones who you’ll see with impossibly small waists, closely hobbled and teetering along in ballet-toe shoes. The punishment dildos forced up inside them will invariably be huge. It’s a special treat to see a felony girl after seven in the evening as, like all ‘Morality program’ prisoners, she’ll have an enormous, tubular penis gag locked in her mouth, and additionally, because she’s a felon, her arms will be sheathed tightly together behind her back, pressed together from fingertip to elbows in an extremely tough, flexible, plastic shrink-tube that’s applied to her every night by a machine in her residence. She’ll spend every night gagged from six o’clock and arm-sheathed from seven o’clock until seven o’clock the next morning when the gag is released, and her arms will, providing she gets them into the machine within the allowed five minute window at seven o’clock, be released from behind her. If she is late, the machine resets, locking her out; she will wear the arm sheath for another twenty-four hours before the next opportunity for release comes. As for the gag worn by all uniformed women, felon or not, if it’s not removed by ten minutes after seven o’clock it simply relocks itself until the same time the next day. The gag will only unlock on weekday mornings; it remains locked in her mouth from Friday evening until Monday morning. Over the weekend, the ‘outmate’ can only take liquid meals, squirted down her throat through the half-inch hole in the gag.

I wanted one of these uniforms. I wanted to wear it, helpless, bound, displayed, painfully penetrated and deliciously, utterly, completely humiliated as I wriggled around in public places, high on my toes in the uniform stilettos, on display in a State-sanctioned bondage and fetish punishment uniform. I dreamed of having a big pair of tits so I could suffer in the breast forms with my nipples agonizingly stretched, I wanted my jaw to ache around a long, fat, bright-orange-so-everyone-sees-it penis gag, and I especially wanted to be locked into a too-tight chastity belt, unable to cum, with a great big, safety-orange punishment dildo locked up my slutty little ass.

Phew. Wow. Deep breath. Okay, I need to take a step back. The genuine, official State public punishment uniform was my fantasy, my absolute favorite fantasy, but in reality, I didn’t think I would actually like (or could even endure) wearing it for more than a few minutes.

That said, I still bought myself equipment and hosiery and super-short, stretchy-see-through gray lycra dresses that mimicked the punishment uniform. I had chastity belts that would secure my boy-parts into inaccessible little containers while keeping any of a variety of butt plugs in my bottom. I had my nipples pierced and grommets fitted and wore terribly uncomfortable nipple stretchers under the plastic breast forms of fake State-discipline uniforms. I had collars, knee-hobbles, a number of bright orange penis gags, ‘winghouse’ waitress thick pantyhose, and a variety of pairs of very high, ‘lockable’ (sort of) high heels.

I would wear a combination of the above for hours, sometimes for a full day and even into the next on weekends. I never wore one of these faux-uniforms out in public though, and as good as it was, it was never enough.

Reality be damned, the heart wants what the heart (or more likely some lower part of me) wants, and I really, really wanted a genuine prisoner uniform. I dreamt about wearing a full ‘felony level’ punishment uniform (complete with the high-security ankle hobbles), out in public, and particularly to a Halloween costume contest at a bar I like. I fantasized about taking two weeks off from work before the event, spending all of it continuously locked and suffering in a real punishment uniform, unable to take it off, bound, penetrated, displayed and humiliated, just like the real ‘Morality Program’ outmates were, before finally competing in the bar’s costume contest. In other fantasies I would often climax while envisioning myself being dog-whipped by one of the cruel guards as I did ‘public service’, chain-ganged at the collar with eleven other gagged and uniformed girls as we picked up litter along roadsides.

As I said earlier, Not Realistic.

I mentioned this interest (toned down a long way) conversationally in a cross-dressing-themed online chat-room, and was sent a private message by one of the other users.

“Are you serious about a real uniform?”

 “Yes,” I replied reluctantly, thinking someone wanted to get into some one-on-one fantasy thing that I probably wasn’t going to be interested in.

“I know someone who knows someone. It won’t be cheap and the pieces are fitted for women’s bodies. If you have a masculine build, you won’t be able to wear one.”

Now I was interested, but still smelling ‘scam’.

I cautiously typed, “I’m interested.”

“I’m going to send you a form. Make the required measurements using a fabric measuring tape. You’ll need to be very accurate. Send the completed list to (they gave an email address) with your email address. If items in your size are available, you’ll get photos of them and pricing in one to three days.”

A moment later, a form listing the required measurements for me to make appeared in the text column. I took a screenshot of it and saved it. Okay, now I was interested. I carefully took the measurements, all over my body, resisting the urge to write down what I’d like them to be, and sent them to the email address I’d been given from a throwaway one I only used for going on sites that I knew were going to spam me.

Four days later (a Friday, fortuitously), having heard nothing, I’d given up hope. The whole thing had surely been a scam, or just some pervert playing a little game of his own invention with me. If it was real, maybe they just didn’t have anything that would fit me.

I was at work when the email tone went off on my phone, and I saw that a message had come on the address I’d given. I nearly chewed my nails off waiting for break time so I could read it. I left work early to go to the bank when I saw the pictures. They were clearly genuine uniform articles and there was an entire set. The message stated that the whole uniform could be mine for $5,000 dollars, one electronic key included. They also said that they had a set of felon’s ankle hobbles with the eight-inch chain available in my size, if I was interested.

I met them in the large, well-lit parking lot of a big store that evening, cash in hand. I was shown the uniform by a large woman who couldn’t seem to stop smirking at me as I carefully examined all of the items which were laid out in the back of her minivan. Her male companion stayed in the front of the car. I was terrified that I was going to be beaten and robbed, but there were a lot of people around, and to my delight, the uniform was the real thing. It even included the enema device, necessary but loathed by those who were forced to use it. They had no choice, their asses were inescapably plugged by the State’s anal punishers.

Via email, I’d counter-offered for two extra pairs of the unique, thick, glossy, back-seamed, open-crotch tan pantyhose, an extra uniform dress, and the ‘felon’ ankle hobbles to be thrown in for the $5,000, and they’d accepted. I paid the woman, she counted it, and I couldn’t be away from there with my prizes fast enough.

My stomach was so clenched and full of butterflies that I could only squeak a reply when she mockingly said, “Have fun, sweetie” as I departed.

Safely home I laid out and carefully examined my purchases. The shoes were fantastic; classically styled pumps with no platform, heels fully seven inches high, and they only showed minimal wear. I marveled at how heavily they were built, the inch-wide, springy metal straps that would encircle their prisoner’s ankles and I absolutely quivered at their color combination of penal gray with black soles and safety orange stiletto heels. Where they touched the ground, the orange tips of the stilettos were only a thumb's breadth from the soles of the shoes.

Examining them closely I saw how they were designed to allow soapy shower water to wash down inside them, around the wearer’s feet and toes before draining out of a series of clever little decorative-looking holes in the toes of the shoes. The high-security ankle hobbles were two-inch wide, quarter-inch thick polished stainless cuffs with eight inches of permanently attached chain between them. They were designed to lock on over the shoes’ ankle straps and even incorporated an extra ‘stirrup’ that looped down under the shoe in front of the stiletto heel, doubly securing the shoes in place. The thick, glossy, tan hosiery was simply scrumptious, with its heavy ‘Cuban’ style reinforcement at heels and toes, and its ample amount of lycra to keep them fitting tightly, as they would be worn day and night for two week stints. These special pantyhose (and the dress) were made with hydrophilic and anti-bacterial properties that wicked moisture away from the wearer, keeping her skin clean and dry underneath. You were supposed to take hot, soapy showers while wearing the uniform to keep the material clean, and the remarkable material would dry in minutes.

The chastity belt was positively fear-inducing; its waistband was clearly too small for me to wear without intense discomfort and it was equipped with a pair of punishment dildos that must’ve completely ruined its previous wearer. The front intruder (these were always fitted with a stainless leash ring at their base) was fully twelve inches long, the rear invader (fitted with an enema port) was a merciless ten incher and each was as thick as a soda can. I groaned with frustration at this, I’d hoped that I might be able to somehow take the rear one, but there was no way I could fit this monster up my ass.

The half-inch thick, solid stainless rod that connected to a place between the front and rear dildos on the chastity belt was just the right length, connecting to the three-inch bar between the knee-hobble bands. When closed, these were a little tighter than I’d have liked, but hobbled me very effectively, locking in place just above my knees. Both bars were attached by clever ball-swivel mounts which would eliminate any binding, while still providing total bondage.

The dark gray, thick plastic breast-plate was a very good fit to my small chest, though its wide straps seemed a little short and had no adjustment. After a lot of effort, I managed to put it on, finally getting the straps locked around my torso and shoulders. They bit well into me, and the shoulder loops forced my shoulders way back; it felt like my shoulder blades were touching. My nipples and surrounding flesh pushed out an inch through the three-inch openings in the breast plate, and were immediately engorged with blood and super-sensitive. I loved it, blissfully touching them in front of the mirror.

The heavy, clear plastic breast forms came next, their tubular nipples pointing arrogantly up and out once I’d clicked them into their locking receiver slots on the chest plate. Oh, how I wished I had a big pair of double-‘D’ breasts to fill these torture chambers, I wanted to have my nipples painfully stretched in those tubes and I wanted to feel each and every one of the hundreds of cruel, conical points that lined the breast forms push deeply into the skin of my tender, swollen, root-cinched tits!

The gag was going to cause me problems, something I’d realized as soon as I’d seen it. It was huge, almost as thick as the punishment dildos in the accompanying chastity belt, and it was clearly too long. The slightly smaller ‘head’ of the safety-orange, phallus-shaped device would actually rest in the opening of the wearer’s throat when locked in place with its wide, mesh-steel reinforced strap.

I’d read about this, the reasoning behind the ‘too long’ gag was so that the wearer could not swallow her own tongue and choke to death while gagged. I’d also read that the ‘felony’ version of the gag was an even longer design that extended a few inches down the wearer’s throat. It typically took at least a year for the woman to work her way up to wearing the felony ‘deep throat’ gag.

The dresses were penal gray, short-sleeved, and kind of boringly cut, except for their obscenely tight fit and short length. They were made of the same lycra-based material as the pantyhose, and became semi-sheer when stretched. Like the other items, they were superior quality, heavily sewn, and looked very durable.

Last and most important came the collar; it was tall, more than three inches at the front and two on the sides and back. It was designed to encumber the wearer’s head movement, and it was equipped with thick, inch-diameter attachment rings front and back. Its finish was polished stainless, and I giggled with delight as I read the front, ‘Habitual Prostitute’ and in smaller letters ‘Public Punishment Uniform Program, Florida Department of Corrections’.

The lettering had been deeply burned into the thick collar by laser, and the letters were filled in with durable, bright safety-orange porcelain.

I’m lucky that I’ve never grown much body hair and whatever tried to grow I’ve had removed by laser. As such, I didn’t have much ‘cleanup’ to do before trying on my new prizes. First, I unlocked and removed the breast forms, so that I could see what I was doing below my waist.

The pantyhose were everything I’d fantasized they’d be; squeezing my toes, slightly-too-tight all the way up my legs, with a very tall waistband to prevent chafing under the chastity belt. The much darker seams running up the back almost aligned themselves up my legs, and their length was perfect for me. My boy parts sprung out through the hole at the crotch and were very excited about the goings-on.

The high heels went on next, and like the rest of the uniform they were a perfect (if somewhat snug) fit, their high arches matching mine to perfection. Their ankle straps locked and fit perfectly with no gaps. I stood up and wobbled a little atop the seven-inch heels then wriggled around the room, delightedly admiring myself in the full-length mirrors I’d had installed.

The chest plate and its tight fitting straps were a struggle to deal with, keeping my shoulders way back. I loved the effect though and before locking the breast forms in place over them I put on my most punitive pair of nipple stretchers, then coated the entirety of my already aching ‘titties’ with capsaicin (hot pepper) oil. They began to sting and burn almost immediately and I knew from past experience that this would go on for hours and hours.

I decided to have a try at the too-small appearing chastity belt, first removing (reverentially) both of the huge intruders it had come equipped with. Oww, my poor titties were really suffering now. I pulled my very excited boy parts through the opening (where the end of the front dildo would normally protrude) in the front of the wide stainless steel crotch strap and then spread my bottom to pull the strap up tight. The waist belt looked impossibly too small, but I knew that was how the State fit them on the girls who wore them, so I’d give it a try.

Just pressing with my hands didn’t get the ends of the belt closer than three inches, so I tried using a heavy leather belt with a roller buckle. I routinely used this belt as part of my self-bondage, pulling it as tight around my middle as I could get it and then locking the buckle with a small padlock. Hard pulling on the leather belt allowed me to get the steel waist band within an inch and a half of fastening.

I had an idea; I used a hammer to drive a screwdriver through the tip of the leather belt. Next, I pulled the two halves of my heavy old dining table slightly apart, just wide enough to slip the entire screwdriver up through the gap and turn it like a toggle. I laid on my back and slid under the table, then arched up and stuck the screwdriver up through the gap, managing to turn it so that it lay across the gap. Now I put my weight on the belt, tentatively at first but soon pushing upwards on the underside of the table. I was about to give up, but with one last push and a hard bounce, Click! The chastity belt was locked around my waist.

Getting back on my stiletto-heeled feet was a challenge and trying to breath against the horrible constriction around my waist was an effort as well. Looking in the mirror would have made me gasp if I wasn’t doing so already; my waist was tiny. I measured myself with the fabric tape, twenty inches around the outside of the belt.

I fell in love with my hourglass image in the mirror. I never wanted to take this belt off, except that it was killing me, and my saner self wanted it off right now.

“Beauty requires suffering, you kinky little slut” I said to my reflection in the mirror, hand on my hip and waggling an admonishing finger at my image.

First hooking their stirrups under my stiletto heels, I squeezed the ankle hobbles closed around my ankles; they fastened with a deliciously scary ‘Click!’ and I relished their weight, quality and the fact that they made my already-locked-on stilettos doubly inescapable. I then fastened (with more squeezing) the knee bands closed just above my knees. I could no longer open or close my upper legs more than the three inches that the spacer bar dictated. I practiced walking for a few moments, delighted that I now had the same forced, rolling, writhing sway that I found so intoxicating when I watched the outmates walk.

I pulled one of the little dresses on and giggled at how its hem stopped halfway down my bottom. I loved how it looked stretched across my hugely-nippled breast forms and savored the burning, stinging, nipple-stretched dull ache that was coming from inside them. The way the dress formed to my figure made the not-inconsequential pain of the chastity belt’s too-tight waistband totally worth it. The steel-cinched hourglass of my body even made me appear to have hips.

Now I had to deal with my very aroused boy-parts as they were ruining the feminine illusion of my uniform. I keep a two-pound bag of frozen peas in the freezer for just this purpose, and soon my ardor had retreated before the freezing onslaught. Once small and soft, I stuffed myself into my favorite, smallest and most unforgiving chastity device. It was a narrow, curving, stainless steel tube that forced my parts back between my legs. Except for a small hole to allow urine to escape, it was closed at the terminal end. I had to use a small piece of string, threaded through this hole, to pull myself fully into the small tube. My glands were not very big to begin with, but they were compressed uncomfortably smaller within the attached, hinged-opening cavity that they were sealed into. The device fastened with a built-in, high security lock that closed a heavy ring snugly around where my parts joined my body. There was absolutely no possibility of escape from this device, and I was very, very careful not to mislay its key.

Now, boy parts locked safely (and uncomfortably) away, I took some time to do my make-up and fuss with my hair. In minutes I was gorgeous. I then stood in front of the hall mirror, bobbing, posing, batting my eyes and making little kisses with my mouth. I am so cute.

“I’ll be right back!” I flirted with myself, and wriggled off to retrieve the collar.

“Do you think I should?” I asked the girl in the mirror, who had a wide-eyed, open-lipped, super-sexy look on her face.

She nodded emphatically.

“Ooo, it’s a little tight,” I told her, as I closed it with a deliciously loud ‘click’ around my throat. I could almost hear my chastity tube creaking with the strain of holding me in, down and very small. I moaned and ground my hips in ecstasy and frustration, the collar looked so good, and it felt just like I’d imagined it would. I reveled in how it controlled me when I tried to turn or nod my head and how it fit skin-tight, making its presence constantly known. The safety-orange lettering glowed out at me in the mirror and I read it (backwards) again and again, ‘Habitual Prostitute’ (the sluttiest of sluts!) while I squirmed and writhed while running my hands up and down my body. I was in heaven.

“Two more items to go,” I said, tearing myself away from the erotic vision in my hall mirror.

The first was an inflatable butt plug. I had modified it so that the hand-squeeze pump was removable and so that a small, hinged plate with a locking hasp covered the needle valve (like on a football) air-release valve. The result was that the plug could be pumped up bigger and bigger as I relaxed and was able to take it, but releasing any air from it required a key. When it was even moderately pumped up inside my small bottom I could not take it out without releasing the air first. Reading this, you’d think that I was an old hand at taking toys in my tush; I’m not. I love the idea and I do wear a plug often, but they’re usually small. The much-bigger, lockable, inflatable plug was an anomaly in my collection and I rarely used it.

Tonight I was going to use it though, and I had it in my mind that I was going to be using it a lot more, as it was the only toy I had that could be locked inside me.

It took me a while to get relaxed enough (back there) to admit even the still non-inflated plug, but once in place I began pumping it up. The little lock was already secured on the ‘deflate’ valve and I pumped until I squealed and danced around, flapping my hands. Oww, my poor ring felt like it was stretched tight as a tennis racquet string.

The last item was pretty daunting. I set the big, safety-orange gag on the table to contemplate it as I drank a glass of wine. I saw that the middle of the thing was bigger than its base, and that if one were able to get that huge center part past one’s teeth…

Another glass of wine had me licking it, and pushing it into my mouth a little way. Then I was back in front of the mirror with it, hips grinding as I sucked on it and started fucking my mouth with the huge thing, trying to push it in a little farther and a little farther. I thought my jaw had certainly been damaged when I finally gave the big gag a hard push and forced its fat center section past my teeth, and I spent a good number of seconds shrieking “Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!” through my nose, and minutes rubbing the hinge muscles of my jaw.

I tried to moan, “Oww” but the gag was extremely effective and all that got through it was “Mmm!”. The next obstacle I had to overcome was not gagging on the head of the thing as it sat against the opening of my throat. I was disappointed as I saw that it still needed to go another inch into my mouth, and therefore into my throat, before I could get its wide strap all the way around my head and back into its locking mechanism at the front.

I spent the next two hours wriggling around, dancing to music, learning to knee-hobble-walk, mastering the fabulously high heels, and slowly, more and more deeply, throat-fucking myself with the huge orange penis gag in my mouth. Using a turkey baster I shot squirts of wine into the hole that ran the length of the thing and ended up pretty soused. I believe it was because of this that I kept adding occasional pumps of air to the plug in my bottom, each time causing myself to writhe around flapping my hands in distress. Finally, I was finally able to push the head of the gag deeply enough into my throat to get the locking strap pulled around my head and fastened with a last, yelping push and a ‘click’.

I stood there, stunned, in front of the mirror. It was in. I’d done it. Almost immediately I wanted out of it, all of it, as I was hurting all over. I had the keys in my hands when my little inner voice, the one that causes me all kinds of trouble, said “No, slut. You are locked in your punishment uniform, and you will stay locked in your punishment uniform.” I mewed through the gag. I then did something that I almost immediately regretted; I have a small, time-lock safe with a tamper-proof drop slot on its top. I use it to lock up my self-bondage keys, leaving me helpless for hours in whatever sex-induced predicament I’ve dreamed up. I put the uniform key, the chastity key, and the inflatable butt-plug key into the safe, closed it and, noting the time, midnight, my inner voice said “You may present your slut self at noon tomorrow to see if you qualify for release.”

I set the safe’s tamper-proof timer for twelve hours.

I gasped at what I’d done. While I often used the key safe to lock myself up in some little outfit, even stayed handcuffed, hobbled and gagged for a few hours, I had never done anything even remotely this extreme, or for this length of time before. My heart raced as I took it in; I was genuinely being punished by all these things that I had locked onto and into myself, and there would be no relief whatsoever, no possibility of escape, no sexual gratification until mid-day tomorrow. Everything suddenly hurt so much, especially how tight the chastity tube had just become.

That night and all the next morning were torture; my waist ached in the hose-clamp-like steel grip of the chastity belt, my nipples were terribly tender and throbbed in the tension of the nipple stretchers I wore under the locked breast forms. My jaw felt like it was about to dislocate, and my poor bottom was stretched tight around the over-inflated (do not drink and butt plug) anal toy inside it. It took all of the rest of the day and that evening to recover from the self-inflicted ordeal. When the key safe clicked open, the first key I went for was the one to my chastity; seconds later, I was back in front of the mirror, freeing my poor boy parts from their tiny isolation cell and then spending a few minutes gaining the sexual relief I’d been needing for so long. It was incredible, and I honestly thought I would pass out.

Sunday morning found me waking up, secured again in the too-small chastity device and still in the collar, uniform hosiery, heels and ankle hobbles, as well as the little gray prisoner’s uniform dress. Although I was without the gag and butt plug, my nipples were again in the terrible stretchers as I still wore the breastplate and forms with a pair of handcuffs holding my wrists behind me.

I looked at the clock. It read seven a.m. “Five more hours until the key safe opens,” I thought. I made myself spend the time cleaning house as best I could in my bondage, really enjoying myself despite the pain of being steel-cinched around my waist.

 

This, and soon an ‘every-possible-minute’ schedule became a pattern for my weekends, and while it was good enough for a while, I began to become obsessed with the idea of actually making a foray out in public while locked up in my punishment uniform. I spent a lot of hours researching, and found a company in Germany that would machine (out of surgical stainless steel) a very special chastity device for me; it would have the exact appearance of the protruding end of the uniform’s front punishment dildo. It would look like a short, orange can with a lockable opening in its top, and the State-style, welded on leash ring at its bottom. I would pack all my boy parts into it and click it shut. The opening in the top was quite small (I sent them a measurement) barely closeable around the base of my boy parts, and there would be no way that I could extricate myself from it once it was in place. It would require a special, one-of-a-kind key for its high-security lock to be opened. A small rim (or flange if you like) would run around its circumference, allowing it to fit into, but not pass completely through, the uniform’s front chastity belt opening. With the chastity belt in place, the keyhole for the ‘chastity can’ would not be accessible. For cleanliness and urination, a series of tiny holes and slots were drilled and machined in strategic places, allowing cleansing water to be flushed through it during extended wear. The German company would even powder-coat the device in the correct ‘safety orange’ color for me. I ordered it immediately, maxing out my credit card in the process.

With that ordered, I ramped up my training for the second item that would have to be in place for me to go out in public; I’d need to be able to get the ten-inch long, soda-can-thick monster anal punishment dildo up my tight little ass. My nasty little inner voice informed me that a worthless little cross-dressing slut like me should be made to keep a training device in her bottom at all times, and that the device should always be every bit as large as she can possibly take. Not one to argue with my little inner voice, I obeyed.

Walking around my workplace first with an achingly-large plug and then later with an even larger dildo in my bottom was surreal, I never got used to it. Worse, the stimulation and embarrassment caused my boy parts to get and stay hard. To contain myself I had to wear my chastity device to work, as well as whenever I went out in public, cross-dressed or not. Unfortunately, out of my collection of such items, only the unpleasantly tight chastity device had a low-enough profile to not create an odd bulge under my clothes. My little voice informed me that ‘tight’ was going to be my new, personal theme. Sluts like me not only deserved embarrassment and discomfort but should also be made to wear a tight little corset and some tight, shiny pantyhose at any time that I wore boy clothes. I obeyed. I spent all day, every day cinched in a tight corset (with a tight belt locked on over it), my ass stretched drum tight around a long, thick dildo, my lower body wrapped in slippery, shiny pantyhose and I was locked (keys at home in the safe) in tight chastity. Being at work while breathlessly cinched, locked and stuffed was surreal-feeling and caused me to have a couple of small panic attacks. My two frantic escape attempts in the company bathroom were wholly unsuccessful. After a couple of minutes of clawing at my corset belt and chastity, I calmed down and returned to my desk, still corseted, chastised and with the dildo still up my ass. The way the pantyhose felt sliding around against the inside of my slacks was erotic, but I was sure everyone could hear the swishing sound it made when I walked.

I kept a pair of very high-heeled shoes in my car, and per my little voice, I was not allowed to even move the vehicle until they were on my feet.

It took eight very long weeks, but the chastity ‘can’ finally came from Germany and it was all I’d hoped it would be. It was a perfect visual match to the bottom two inches of a large punishment dildo, the part that would stick out through the punishment uniform’s chastity belt. The welded-on leash ring was an exact replica and I shivered as I imagined being led, leashed at this attachment point, or worse, secured by it to something immobile out in a busy, public area. I had read about this being done to outmate girls by cruel pranksters, leaving the unfortunate girls chained at their dildo to street signs and light poles or padlocked to fences, bike racks, even shopping carts.

The available space inside the device was very small and I had to apply the bag of frozen peas to myself for some time before I was small enough to be stuffed into the can. The high-security ‘click’ from multiple hardened pins engaging when the lid closed actually sent shivers up my spine. I made repeated mental notes about being extremely careful with those keys; I doubted that anyone could cut me out of this chastity device without damaging me irreparably. With that in mind, I took one of the two keys to the bank and secured it in my safe-deposit box.

Halloween was only a week away and I was thinking constantly about the costume contest at the bar I mentioned earlier. It’s a long drive over there, but worth it because it’s very ‘T-girl’ friendly. In order to wear my ‘outmate’ uniform in the event, I needed to get that huge dildo up my poor little bottom. I’d been making myself take bigger and bigger toys every day, keeping them in, day and night, but the genuine, safety-orange State punishment dildo was still thicker and longer than anything that would fit up me.

For the following week, I cleaned myself out with enemas each morning, then continued my regimen of lacing myself as tightly as my waist cincher would go, wearing my very smallest (oww) chastity device, my shiny hosiery and the inflatable anal ‘trainer’ (punisher?) dildo with the lock securing the air-release valve. It would all be in place under my clothes before I left for work and it was very distracting as I drove. Before I’d walk in from the car, I’d give the inflatable dildo in my ass as many pumps as I could take without bursting into tears or screaming, then detach the inflation ball and hose and waddle in from the parking lot. The key to the little lock on the dildo’s air-release valve was at home in the key safe, ensuring that a certain little slut wouldn’t be tempted to let some air out of her anal trainer.

I started to hate going on my lunch break because my cruel little inner voice would always insist on an ‘Afternoon ass-training session for naughty girls’ that meant me going out to my car and using the pump to make the dildo even longer and fatter inside me. Leaving work meant inflating it still more for the ‘Evening ass-training session for sluts’ and I’d be stuck with it blown up like that until the key safe finally opened at midnight. The slut that opened that safe was always in very high heels, full makeup, wrist and ankle chains and an uncomfortable pair of nipple clamps. She’d have put all of this on when she got home (except the clamps) five hours before and spent every night in it.

Saturday arrived, Halloween morning, the day of the costume contest. I wanted to be on the road at six o’clock in the evening and at the bar by seven. I was excited and terrified and generally freaking out, the prospect of being inescapably secured in a full State punishment uniform for a whole evening, gagged, hobbled, chastised, helpless, and paraded around on a stage in front of hundreds of people. My heart pounded from just thinking about it. Adding substantially to my anxiety was the specter of somehow, finally managing to get the ten-inch long, soda-can thick, bright orange, State-issue punishment dildo all the way up my ass and locked in place. Once it was there, I’d have to endure it for hours until I got home and could release myself.

I went to work on the project at seven in the morning, first with two enemas to clean me well out, and then a final, agonizing session of ass-stretching with the inflatable dildo. I used the ‘between pumps and dancing around moaning’ time to make sure that I was as hairless and perfectly feminine as I could be. Now, to try something that I’d just read about online, this was what was done to smaller-breasted girls who didn’t fill out the clear plastic breast forms. I opened my nipple rings and attached a four-inch length of chrome, dog-leash chain to each one. This felt kind of yummy, with the chains sliding back and forth on my smooth breast-skin as I walked around. After make-up, I put on the first parts of the uniform, the special open-crotch pantyhose and high heels. It was too early to be wearing the shoes already, and I knew it would cause me suffering by the evening, but my little voice insisted that “Sluts should be well up on their toes, and those ankle straps better be locked.” I’m no good at arguing against my little voice and obediently locked the ultra-high heels onto my feet.

Now forced up high on my toes, locked into my fetish heels and hose, I was desperately horny, and I doubted that I could even touch myself without cumming. I didn’t want to let that happen yet as it would kill some of my determination to get fully outfitted in my prisoner’s uniform, and I also wanted to let my sexual need build until I got home, probably well after midnight. For these reasons, I secured myself in the new, bright orange ‘can’ chastity that would resemble the bottom of a dildo protruding through the front opening of the uniform’s chastity belt. Doing so required a very lengthy and very uncomfortable application of the two-pound bag of frozen peas from my freezer.

To ensure that I wouldn’t be allowed to succumb to temptation before the event, I locked my key safe, setting the timer for midnight and then dropped the uniform key and the chastity key in through the one-way slot in its top. The rattle of the keys hitting the bottom of the heavy steel box made my still-cold boy parts surge painfully against the inside of their high-security prison. At that point it was only nine o’clock and I was a conflicted combination of excited and panicky at the fifteen-hour chastity sentence I’d just imposed on myself. I know, fifteen hours doesn’t sound like much, but try it when you’re strictly bound in a State public humiliation and bondage uniform, and absolutely dying to cum.

Knowing that the huge anal punisher would be debilitating if I managed to get it inside me, I progressed with struggling into the other parts of the uniform. First was the very difficult waistband of the chastity belt. I was able to get it closed now (due to diet and constant corset training) with only the use of the leather bondage belt, although it still required every ounce of my strength to do it. Next came the breast bondage plate with its relentless, posture-enforcing shoulder straps. I installed my long, cruel, spring-tension nipple stretchers onto their victims, moaning as my nipples were pulled by their grommets into painful points, leaving the attached lengths of chain dangling in space.

Next came the ankle hobbles; I paused to admire how closely the ‘under-shoe’ stirrups and thick ankle manacles fit, encapsulating the shoe’s locking ankle straps inside in grooves mortised into them for that purpose. I took a walk (if you could call it that) around my house, hobbled to eight-inch-steps and I shivered as I thought about the tens of thousands of poor girls and women who spent years and years in bondage identical to this, most of them ending up doing so in ballet-toe shoes. Some playtime on weekends locked in these hobbles and seven-inch stilettos was plenty for me, thanks.

I would wait until everything else was in place before installing the breast forms, as they interfered with my ability to see what I was doing on my lower body. The same was true for the tall steel collar; it limited my ability to look down, so it would be the last thing I locked in place.

That meant it was time to somehow get that big, orange punishment dildo up my slutty little ass.

I released the air pressure on the inflatable trainer and withdrew it. I tossed it into the sink, and immediately pushed the head of the well-greased orange monster up against my still-relaxed sphincter. With a firm push and a short scream from me, the tennis-ball sized head of the thing popped past my ring, and was inside me!

“Ohhh! Ohhh! Ow!” I breathed as I sank to my knees and positioned myself in front of the full-length hall mirror.

I knew that watching myself do this would help and so I knelt with my face on the floor, arched my back and pointed my bottom at the ceiling. My waist looked so tiny in the mirror. The huge orange dildo looked out of scale, too big to be real as it protruded from my upturned butt. Using both hands, I began to push it into me, and pull it back, and push it in, in strokes perhaps a quarter-inch long. That was all I could take at first. I worked and worked and worked, and finally gained an inch of penetration. Sweaty, moaning, crying out minutes went by as I pushed, pulled and pushed again, countless short strokes that gained me another inch, and another. An hour went by.

The last two inches were exponentially harder to achieve than the first ones and I believe it took me another full hour to get the last part of the enormous thing up my poor ass.

When it was in place, I pulled and pulled on the chastity belt’s wide stainless crotch strap. Its front opening popped over the chastity ‘can’, and I admired the extremely realistic illusion it created, appearing for all the world to be the end of a fat dildo that was jammed up inside an unfortunate little punishment slut.

Pulling the strap’s rear opening over the end of the very-real, genuine, State anal-punishment dildo was almost more than I could manage, but with yet another short scream, it was in place. Hands shaking, I snapped the end of the crotch strap into it’s fitting on the belt, and with a loud ‘Click’ I was literally and figuratively fucked. A wave of panic washed over me, could I really do this? I pulled ineffectually at the end of the huge invader and moaned as the realization that I no longer had a choice sunk in. I would be ‘doing this’ whether I wanted to or not.

Moving very slowly, cautiously, I got to my feet. This is not easy with a giant dildo in your ass and only eight inches of chain separating your ankles. Wobbly and a little dizzy, I made my way to my drawer of torments in the bedroom. On went my knee hobbles, which had been dangling from their attachment point on the crotch plate of the chastity. I walked to the other side of the room and back, testing the strict limitation on my gait; I was forced to mince along in a silly, sexy, ass-wriggling manner or not move at all.

Still in a daze, I pulled my breasts a little further through the openings in the breast plate, and then coated them and my nipples with a generous layer of the thick capsaicin pepper oil. I tied a few inches of thread to the short lengths of dog leash chain that I’d put on my nipple rings, and then held up the first breast form for installation. I guided the thread through the open nipple, and clicked the breast form in place. I pulled on the thread, drawing the end of the dog-leash chain that was attached to my nipple ring out through the plastic nipple. I pulled it a little harder than was comfortable and then snapped a small, heavy, brass-bodied lock closed through the chain where it came out. My left nipple was now under even more tension than the spring-loaded nipple stretchers could apply. I repeated the process with the right breast form and my right nipple, made sure the tension was about even, and locked its tension chain as well. In a perfect example of supreme stupidity, I dropped the keys to my nipple-chain locks into the key safe, sentencing myself to many hours of whimpering-level nipple torture.

Again in front of the mirror, on went the collar. I was actually whining out loud about how badly my poor titties were hurting, stretched tight and burning, coated with the pepper oil. I knew within minutes that locking the keys to my nipple chains in the key safe had been a mistake; I was really suffering. Even so, locking the tall, snug collar around my throat and reading the words ‘Habitual Prostitute’ made my boy parts test the strength of their steel cell.

I pulled and wriggled my way into the lycra uniform dress, re-applied my make-up, and looked at the clock. Oh fuck. It was only twelve-thirty. I had five and a half hours left until I even planned to leave the house. If I wanted to leave the house earlier than that, as it was the weekend, I’d have to wrestle the huge gag into my mouth (and throat) because, as you’re well aware, all uniformed girls wear their gags from six Friday evening, until seven on Monday morning. Trying to ignore the din of protests coming from my titties, my crushed waist, my bound-back shoulders, my aching, dildo-stuffed ass and my overworked toes, I made myself lunch.

Only an hour later, the big gag was in place, locked, stretching my mouth to its limit and violating my throat with its head. Getting it in place really tested my ‘tear-proof’ mascara. I wasn’t going to put it on so early in the day, but immediately after I ate, my cruel little inner voice spoke up. It informed me that my uniform was incomplete and that lazy little sluts should not be allowed to lie around the house all day. I was to lock that gag in my mouth where it belonged, then go grocery shopping and run any other errands that I could think of. When the lock clicked shut on the gag strap, I shivered all over; this was it. I was wearing every item of my own, genuine State public punishment uniform. Chills ran up and down my body as I reminded myself again and again that I couldn’t take it off, not any of it. I hurt all over, but it was still delicious.

Fortunately, my small rental house has an attached one-car garage so I never had to show off my various alter-egos to the neighbors; just get in the car, put on a hat, use the electric garage door opener and I’m off. Getting into the car elicited a series of short, gagged screams (through my nose) and moans, and I struggled with getting the seat into a position that didn’t torture me. It turned out there wasn’t one.

I slowly and carefully drove to the local shopping center. Thank goodness I had an automatic transmission as working a clutch in seven-inch stilettos with my knees and ankles hobbled wouldn’t have been good. I was bracing myself to get out of the car and attempt grocery shopping when the nail salon sign caught my eye. Oh, how I’d always wanted to! So I did. I struggled out of the car, clutching a little purse containing my essentials, including a small pad and pen to communicate with. The stares as I wriggled, dildos showing below the too-short hem of my dress, knees hobbled, ankle chain jingling, across the parking lot.

This was it, I was really out here, in public, collared, chained, gagged, high-heeled, chastised, nipples tortured and deeply ass-fucked. It was all really locked on, I really couldn’t get to the keys and I couldn’t escape from a single bit of it. My nipples hurt and my breasts still burned dully from their coating of capsaicin oil. Heart pounding, panting, blushing from scalp to toes, I very nearly turned around to go back to the car, but I didn’t. Breast forms heaving, I made it to the door of the nail salon, and upon opening it, was assaulted by both the chemical smell of the place and the acrid stares of the staff and customers. I should have expected this, people not wanting a uniformed criminal around, especially one whose crime was habitual prostitute! My hand flew to my collared throat.

“What do you want?” said one of the beauticians.

I quickly dug out my pad and pen, and wrote ‘Please do my nails? I’ll pay double.’ She read it, and gave me a narrow-eyed look.

“All right, toots. For double the usual, but only because we’re slow today. We don’t normally take your kind in here”.

I had not been ready for this kind of meanness. She saw the tears brimming in my eyes, and softened up.

“Alright sweetie, I’m sure you get plenty of abuse as it is. I guess I don’t have to be part of it.”

She patted the chair in front of her, gesturing for me to sit.

A hundred and forty dollars (I’d brought cash, as I didn’t want to have to show identification with a credit card) and an hour and forty-five minutes later, I was on my way out the door sporting a long, glistening, safety-orange set of acrylic nails. I had not wanted acrylics, nor had I wanted the safety-orange nail polish (at least at first), but when you’re gagged, you get what you get. I had no idea about how I was going to get the things off of me so I could go to work on Monday, but I’d worry about that later. For right now, I’d enjoy my beautiful, sexy new nails. The convenient thing about being gagged was that I hadn’t had to take part in the obligatory chit-chat that comes with getting anything done at any sort of a salon. All I had to do was nod or shake my head to enquiries about being in the public incarceration program punishment uniform. These came at first from just the girl doing my nails and then from about everybody in the place.

“Do they do this to you? What about that? I heard you have to…”

Fortunately, I knew a lot about the punishment uniform program and didn’t give myself away by not being able to answer, at least with ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

Grocery shopping in knee and ankle hobbles and seven-inch stilettos was slow (this was exacerbated by being super-careful with my new nails) and despite how nervous I was, it was actually just as I imagined it would be, humiliating and very sexy. Doing the forced ‘bimbo-wiggle’ in my bondage and ultra-high heels up and down every aisle was really embarrassing, especially because the punishment dildo moved a little in my ass with every gyration. I was terribly aware that people could see the end of the dildo, they would be staring at it, knowing I was being fucked by it right in front of them. I was mortified but also very turned on.

After what happened at the salon, I’d been braced for being scowled at and expected some unpleasant comments as well. It turns out that people in grocery stores aren’t as catty as people in nail salons (go figure), and while I got some disapproving looks from women, that was about it. Men, on the other hand, found me quite interesting. I got watched, leered at, propositioned, and my bottom was squeezed – twice! Both of those came with smiles and winks. It was unnerving, but being smiled at, hit on, and even the unsolicited touches were in the fantasies I’d had about really doing this.

Home again with the groceries I was on cloud nine. I had done it. I’d gone out and done errands and interacted with others while locked up in a genuine State punishment uniform! I couldn’t wait to get the chastity unlocked (and touch myself with these amazing new nails) but the key safe timer still had many hours left before it would grant me parole. The euphoria faded and I was really uncomfortable now; I tried to nap but sleep wouldn’t come. I wished I could get the dildo out of my bottom, or take off the oversized gag, but there was no way. Besides, even as terribly uncomfortable as I was, I was totally wound up to go to the costume competition that night.

Trying to distract myself, I handcuffed myself (behind my back, per my cruel little inner voice) for an hour and struggled through cleaning the house, doing laundry, and vacuuming. Finally I released myself from the cuffs to fiddle with my hair and re-do my make-up. I was so horny I thought I might cum just from watching myself dance in the big hall mirror, but it wasn’t to be. Eventually, finally, it was time to go.

The drive there took a lifetime but the evening at the bar was a blur; somebody (“to go with your costume!”) put my wrists in handcuffs behind me almost as soon as I walked in, I was lifted up to wriggle my painfully overstuffed ass back and forth across the stage again and again, the announcer getting huge cheers when he validated my gender with my photo id. There was lots of dancing (oh, my poor feet) drinks (via a small funnel), a cute trophy for second place (I lost to a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe, so I didn’t feel too bad) and a gift certificate for a nice bar tab.

The dancing was amazing, hot men and sexy girls were all over me, my little purse got stuffed with phone numbers on little pieces of paper from both genders, I got lingeringly felt up, petted, squeezed, spanked, stroked, and I loved it all.

Finally released from my admirer’s handcuffs, I drove home in a dream-like state. I was very careful; I did not want to get pulled over dressed as I was.

As I pulled into my garage and clicked the button to close the door behind my car, everything came crashing back into sharp focus. The back garage door, the one I’d checked before I left, was standing open, its window broken.

“Oh, fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuck Fuck” I squealed unintelligibly through the hole in my gag. “Shit! What if they were still here? Oh no, no, no!”

I thought about calling the police (they’ll come if you dial 911, you don’t have to say a word into the phone), but I couldn’t bear the idea of facing them while dressed and secured as I was, and having to stand out in the street answering awkward questions with pen and paper while flashing red and blue lights woke up everybody for a mile around. I honked the horn to make sure whoever might still be there got every chance to leave before I came in. I struggled out of the car and up onto my high heels. I grabbed the broom from by the door to brandish. Ankle chain rattling and heart pounding, I wriggled slowly through the whole house. I turned on all the lights, checked the kitchen, living room, bedroom, its closet and the bathroom; no burglar. Phew!

I locked the doors and went to assess the damages. My laptop was gone, shit. My old television was still there, as well as all of my old-ish stereo stuff, no surprise. My bedroom drawers had been pulled out and dumped, the mattress moved, and the contents of my closet were in shambles. A sick feeling clenched my stomach and I began digging in the closet, mmmphing out what was supposed to be “NO! Nononono Oh please, please, NOOO!”

The horror flooded over me. My key safe, which looked very much like any other little valuable-containing safe, was gone. The keys that would unlock my punishment uniform, my chastity, and the awful little brass locks that were keeping terrible tension on my nipple-ring-chains were all gone! I shrieked through my nose and collapsed to my hobbled knees, my sobbing muffled by the huge, locked-in gag in my mouth and throat.

The night was long and awful. At one point I had a panic attack, screaming and thrashing around like crazy, trying to escape. The reality that my keys were gone, and I was really, helplessly locked up in the punishment uniform kept washing over me, crashing on me like a wave and making my heart pound. It had gotten very real, I hurt everywhere, and I wanted it all off of me and out of me. I clawed ineffectually at the collar, the gag, the chastity belt and for a long while at the end of the huge dildo up my ass.

“I want it out! Please,” I begged incoherently through the gag to no one in particular, “I just want it out!”

I wept while straining to spread my knees and kicking against the hobble chain. There was nothing I could do, there was no escape from a single item of my punishment uniform. I had no choice, I would remain nipple-tortured, gagged, ass-fucked, chastised and chained until someone else released me, and I had no idea when or who that would be. Finally, exhausted, I passed out. I had terrible dreams where the burglar came back and taunted me with the keys before destroying them with a hammer in front of me. I also had dreams about sex in which I got sooo close, but couldn’t cum. It was maddening.

 

Morning finally came and despite all my soreness, my boy parts fought like crazy to escape their orange, high-security prison and give their customary morning salute. There wasn’t a chance of that happening and I was left with an aching sexual need that I couldn’t do a thing to relieve. Staring at my reflection in the various mirrors in my little house didn’t help at all as in every mirror I looked simultaneously miserable and very sexy. By late morning I decided that enough was enough (forcing the liquefied breakfast through the hole in the gag was awful and using the official State enema kit was even worse) and I would go down to the police department to get myself released. I was now desperate to get the huge dildo out of my ass. Fresh make-up in place I tried to brace myself for the slings and arrows of the total humiliation that I was surely going to face. I had no doubt that pictures (and probably video) would be taken and that I would be giving a long, detailed account of exactly what I was wearing and how it all got there. The part that I was really anxious about was whether or not they’d take away my (very) expensive uniform? And even if they didn’t, where could I possibly get another key? Thank goodness there was another key to my chastity or I’d have been in real trouble. As it was, I’d have to be late for work on Monday so that I could get it out of my safety deposit box.

With all this in mind I wriggled my hugely gagged and dildo-stuffed self nervously into the police building (my steel-tipped stiletto heels and the rattling hobble chain were so loud on the tile floor!), my ID and my pen and paper at the ready, as well as a bag of clothes to change into. After a half-hour’s wait (while being stared at by a couple dozen other people) to see a detective so I could also report the break-in at my house, I was seated uncomfortably atop my dildo ends on a hard, wooden chair, typing rapidly on a Bluetooth-linked keyboard that had been provided. It seems that I wasn’t the only gagged person in a punishment uniform to ever have needed to speak with the police and they’d bought a number of the keyboard-communication devices.

The first thing I had typed was “Can you please let me out of this? I’m really suffering!” That answer was a “No, not until you’ve given a full interview so that we can verify that you’re who you say you are.” All was going well at first, my ID, fingerprints and story all checked out, I wasn’t some girl trying to pull a trick and get out of her uniform. I typed out the story about how I’d obtained it, and blushed furiously while writing why. Deeply embarrassed, I asked if I could please at least have the dildo out of my ass now. “Not until I get clearance from the records department, probably another twenty or thirty minutes.” I squirmed, feeling totally impaled on the huge thing and humiliated to the core. I wrote out the statement about the break-in, really wishing we could’ve done that part after they released me from my uniform.

Forty-five minutes later the detective finally said, “All right, let’s go see about getting you out of that. Don’t feel too bad, you’re not the first person to come in after losing the key to a decommissioned uniform. (They’re only sold to the women who’d worn them) You are one of very few males to do so, however. You’re very convincing by the way.”

I blushed with embarrassment, but was still pleased with myself.

The detective brought me into a glass-walled room that adjoined the women’s holding area, and had me stand while he scanned the faint barcodes that were laser-etched into each part of my uniform. The look on his face clouded over as he read the notation that appeared, blinking urgently on the computer screen.

“Where did you say you obtained this uniform?” he asked, the friendliness gone from his voice.

Now I was scared. I took one of the keyboards from him, and trembled as I typed everything I could remember about the purchase.

“I see. Here’s the situation; the uniform pieces you’re wearing are stolen. I’m placing you under arrest while we pursue the information you’ve given us.”

The room swam around me while he read me my rights.

“You’ll be able to speak to a prosecuting attorney at the beginning of the week. Because of the severity of the additional crimes that were committed during the theft of what you’re wearing, as well as a good deal of other State property that was stolen, you will remain in your uniform and its restraints, and you will additionally be placed into felony-level security”.

“Nooo!” Shaking my head frantically, I needed the dildo out of my ass right now! I needed all of this off of me! I keened and shrieked through my nose and gag as I was led from that small room out to a row of wall-mounted machines the like of which I’d only seen in pictures. These were the felony-level arm restraint application machines, and all the silly fantasies I’d ever had about trying one went right out the window when faced with their stark reality in person. I freaked out and tried to pull away, not that my hobbled, stiletto-heeled resistance meant much to the two-hundred-pound officer. He caught hold of my nipple-chain locks through the front of my stretchy dress, and made me stand up on my toes, squealing and hands flapping in submission.

“Do you want to cooperate, or would you like to add ‘resisting arrest’?” I was asked.

I frantically nodded my intent to cooperate, and my nipple-locks were released. Meekly, eyes streaming, I went to the machine, turned around, and pushed my arms into the funnel-shaped opening in its front. Immediately my wrists were caught, I was pulled further in, and then my arms were forced painfully together. I squealed through my nose and the hole in the gag and stamped my feet; I was not limber enough for my elbows to touch together! The machine decided otherwise and a moment later I was released from its clutches with my forearms welded together behind me from mashed-to-a-point fingertips to elbows.

I was positively racked with pain, both new and cumulative, and I was in such a state of shock that I couldn’t even cry as the detective snapped a short leash on my collar and marched me, holding the leash closely in his left hand and gripping the end of my anal dildo with his right. I was totally, helplessly under his control. It was a long, whimpering, bimbo-wiggling, close-hobbled walk to the cell, stared at along the way by other inmates and ignored by other officers and staff. My breath caught in my throat when I saw that the cell was already occupied by eight or nine girls. Like me, they all wore full State public release punishment uniforms; their mouths strained around huge gags, their asses and pussies were stuffed full and stretched tight around huge, locked-in punishment dildos, their breasts were root-cinched and then encased in point-lined breast forms with their nipples pulled painfully through inch-long tubes at the tips and ringed, their arms were all pressed tightly together behind them in tough, shrunk-on plastic mono-sleeves, they were all knee-hobbled, and like me, their ankles were hobbled with heavy, stirrup cuffs connected by an eight-inch chain. I saw that I was one of only two of us that weren’t in ballet-toe stilettos. I looked at their collars and my heart pounded as I saw that every single one was welded permanently closed around its wearer’s throat. This was the single greatest example of fully-secured felony girls I’d ever seen in one place, and my boy parts fought desperately to get out of their painfully small, solitary confinement.

What I didn’t understand was why all these incredibly sexy girls and women, strictly bound and high on their toes in the most difficult shoes imaginable, were all on their feet and slowly milling about. Not one of them was sitting, lying down, or even leaning on a wall. This was answered by the detective who ordered me to ‘bend over ninety degrees at the hips, legs straight, ass high’. Frightened, I did as commanded. He waved a ten-inch long, inch-thick, polished steel bar in front of my face. I could see that it had threads at one end, and a key dangled from that end. The detective unscrewed the enema-attachment plug from the end of my anal dildo, and slid the bar up into the hollow dildo and locked it in place with the key.

“I guess you probably don’t know about this device,” he said. “A few years ago, it was decided that the punishment-uniformed inmates were too sedentary, and that it was doing them harm. Walking was deemed good enough exercise by the experts. The device I’ve just installed in your backside will trigger and give you a very nasty shock if you don’t move at least two feet every six seconds, or it comes within thirty inches of the floor, or twenty inches of a wall. In addition to the shock, you earn an extra thirty days in uniform for the violation. Punishment uniform girls are kept on their toes and moving in here, from seven in the morning until ten at night, seven days a week. The only time during the day that you’ll stop walking is when meals and clean-outs are done.”

He ushered me into the cell, said “Enjoy your stay” and left, the thick steel door closing with a deep clang and multiple clicks as it locked.

I remembered seeing a clock in the other room and sobbed; it was only just noon, I’d be walking (hobbling in seven-inch heels, my arms welded together behind my back, a huge dildo up my butt and gagged) for the next ten hours.

I wanted to panic, I shouldn’t be here. I wanted to tell somebody, have somebody listen to me, get this stuff off of me and out of me. No communication was possible with the other women in the cell. I realized that I was including myself as female, and why not? I sure looked and felt like one, and it seemed that I had been doing a lot of crying and squealing and was anything but masculine and tough. I needed to try to suck it up as I had to get through this, somehow. The other women weren’t whining even though most of them were ‘en Pointe’, and had been in their punishment uniforms for some time. I already hurt so much though. I felt there was no way I could do this. I wiggled along with the group in their slow circle, my heart pounding and my head spinning. My shoulders hurt so much, pinned back to where my elbows were touching inside the unforgiving arm binder, I was sure that I’d faint at any minute and get horribly shocked by the punishment device in my ass.

Offsetting my panic and misery were my cellmates. As terrible moment by terrible moment passed, I was totally riveted by the amazing sight of all these tiny, steel-cinched waists. I was transfixed at how the girls’ thin, gray lycra dresses were stretched to sheer over their transparent plastic breast forms, and how I could clearly see even the color of each and every stretched, ringed, tormented nipple through the see-through fabric. The women were different races, sizes and ages, I guessed from nineteen years old up to a woman in her mid-fifties (and what a cougar she was, wiggling along prettily on ballet toes!), their builds from slender to very curvaceous, and each of them was intensely erotic in her bondage and punishment uniform. I was mesmerized by the way the other girls (and I) were forced into a back-arched, butt out, tits up and shoulders way back position by the combination of the arm binders and the posture-enforcing shoulder straps of the lexan chest plates. After only a half an hour (or was it two hours? I couldn’t see a clock) I found myself trying not to grind my hips in sexual need and frustration, watching and moving with all of them. Their (our) legs all looked so long up above the amazingly high heels, wrapped in the shiny, back-seamed hosiery, each of us wonderfully, helplessly hobbled at the ankles and knees. The resulting ass-rolling hobble-walk caused the bright orange ends of the enormous dildos that penetrated all of our lower orifices to move with an almost hypnotic metronome swing. I could feel the huge dildo in my own ass move a little bit inside me with each step, and it occurred to me that we were all being made to slowly torment and arouse ourselves with our forced walk. This was soon confirmed; to my delight one or another of the women would frequently moan while thrusting and grinding her hips in sexual frustration. I was glad I wasn’t the only one going out of my mind.

I tried to stay out of everyone’s way, especially after I saw a dispute break out between two girls who had bumped into each other. It quickly turned into a grunting, squeaking, plastic-breast-form shoving match, at the end of which the loser was pushed too close to a wall. From the way her whole body clenched and vibrated for five long seconds, the shock that ripped through her from the bar in her anal dildo must’ve been really intense. She screamed through her nose and gag for the whole time, hitting a weird, warbling, animalistic note. I don’t know how she didn’t collapse. I thought about the fact that she’d also just earned another thirty days in her uniform, and renewed my efforts to stay away from the walls and floor. When I accidentally bumped into one of the other girls, I backed away wide-eyed, and not knowing what else to do, I kipped. This was good enough and she gave me a wink and a sexy little hip shake. I batted my eyes at her and relaxed a bit.

The days dragged by, a combination of boredom, exhaustion, frustration, aches, pains and anxiety, all while stewing and simmering with sexual titillation and need. The nights were spent on foam-rubber mats that were spread out on the floor for us. There were no pillows or blankets, but the cell was kept pretty warm. To my delight, the personal-space issues of the long day were put on hold, and it was considered perfectly okay to cuddle. All of us spooned as best we could in our bondage and used each other as pillows. It was awful when we were awoken sometime far too early by a recorded voice that gave a five-minutes-before-anal-shocker-activation warning. It was very difficult to get to my feet in the hobbles and the way my arms were held. I was so sore. I didn’t want to walk another step, but walk I would, all day.

The only breaks in the monotony of standing and slowly walking around in the cell happened twice a day when we were taken out and linked together collar to collar with thirty inch sections of chain into a coffle. We were ‘encouraged’ to walk in step, double-time, by a female officer wielding a short whip, which she used as punishment, reward, and even to punctuate her sentences. I could feel the stripes she’d lay across my bottom for hours afterwards. We were marched to a courtyard area, and stood in line to be hooked up to an automatic enema dispensing/retrieving machine. We were unclipped from the coffle chains, the standing/moving enforcement sensor rods were removed from our anal dildos, and a two-hose apparatus was inserted and attached into them. I gasped and trembled as I felt a good deal of liquid suddenly fill me. It seemed to keep coming and coming, and I was starting to get panicky about how full I was when it stopped, and reversed. The enema didn’t just gravity feed back out of me, it was suctioned. When I was all the way empty, I got the unpleasant surprise of a second filling and emptying, and then a third. Now completely cleaned out, we each received a liquefied meal. This was about a quart of thick liquid that was squirted down our throats via a dispenser hose that dangled down from above and was stuffed into our gag opening. No swallowing was necessary, the stuff just shot down my throat in a disconcerting and suddenly very filling way. ‘Mealtime’ (all ten seconds of it) over, freshly-charged motion-inducing shock rods were reinstalled in our anal dildos. I noticed how compliant and even eager my fellow inmates were about any activity that involved any contact with one of the guards or service people. For instance, each girl turned and bent way over, presenting her bottom for the insertion of the shock rods, and upon having it inserted and locked in place, gave a happy-appearing little wiggle and flirty look at the guard who’d put it in place. I quickly figured the situation out, the guards were very nice and physically attentive to girls that were sweet, giving them light swats and squeezes on their bottoms, helping move annoying hair out of girls’ eyes, smiling, and generally being pleasant. I made sure that I bent well over, legs straight, ass high, arms up in strappado position to receive my rod. Once it was in and locked, I turned, wiggled sexily and kipped to the guard while batting my eyes.

“Well aren’t you a little sweetie?” she asked. “Come here, Honey, and turn around.”

 I did so, and enjoyed a moment of pure heaven as the guard massaged my aching shoulders for a few seconds.

“There you go, Honey. Be a good girl now!” said the guard, giving me a swat on my bottom to send me on my way to be re-chained into the coffle.

Sunday came and went, and then Monday arrived. I was a little surprised and very relieved when the guards came in the morning and removed our arm binders and gags, making sure to label and bag each gag separately. One woman, the tall, large-breasted, tiny-waisted and very sexy fifty-something cougar did not have her gag removed, and I wondered why. Stretching our shoulders and working our jaws to get them to close again, we walked slowly around in the cell. Conversations started, and I was actually grateful that the gag had left me somewhat hoarse, as it helped disguise my voice. I had spent many hours practicing speaking in a feminine timbre and was pretty passable, but I still didn’t want to be found out.

I found the girl who’d wriggled and batted her eyes at me after I’d accidentally bumped into her and shyly started asking her questions about how all of this worked, and why were girls in public punishment/release uniforms being kept locked up in jail? Her voice was a whisper as she explained that this group of girls had either gotten into some kind of additional trouble and were waiting to see the prosecutor and/or go before a judge, or they were unable to get or keep a job and couldn’t pay their monthly service fee for being allowed to be on public release in a punishment uniform. These girls had turned themselves in so that they could take advantage of shelter, meals, enema service (she giggled hoarsely), and the program counselors who would help them find jobs and housing.

“Why are you and some of the other girls whispering?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s called the felony girl whisper. You get it after you’ve been wearing the deep-throat gag for more than about six months, your vocal chords are permanently damaged.” I was simultaneously horrified, and terribly, guiltily, very turned on.

“Woww,” I stammered then asked “Why did they leave us in the arm binders all weekend? I was afraid that they weren’t going to let us out of them at all.”

“In here you wear them all weekend, just like your gag. We have a little joke, ‘Thank god it’s not Friday.”

I indicated toward the still-gagged woman and asked “How come they left her gagged?” “Oh, she’s married, and her husband leaves her off here while he goes out of the country on business trips. She’s in here for two or three weeks a month. The story is that he caught her having an affair, and to avoid divorce, she agreed to voluntarily wear a uniform. I’m sure she didn’t expect for her husband to stipulate that she wear it for life and remain deep-throat gagged around the clock, though. Her gag is only ever removed to suck his cock, and then it’s immediately locked back on.”

It wasn’t until Tuesday that I finally got to meet (my hands cuffed and waist chained behind me) with the prosecuting attorney. She was an unpleasant, humorless woman who kept a lot of religious paraphernalia on her desk and it was obvious that she thought any male who enjoyed dressing as a female was a pervert and degenerate. She grilled me at length for details on how and where I’d obtained the uniform pieces that I’d bought, and still wore.

Finally, she said “I don’t think you’re being entirely honest with me. Your little house-burglary and stolen laptop story are too convenient by half.”

I was completely bowled over by this and protested vehemently that I was the victim here, and that I had no idea that the uniform pieces were stolen, and how could she not see that? Her eyes narrowed at me, and I was frightened by the look of disgust and even hate on her face.

“Did you know an officer was wounded in that heist? No? Well here’s what I am going to offer you, princess. We’re pretty backlogged with cases right now, so even though I think you deserve to go straight to jail, I will allow you to go without prosecution in exchange for your signing up to do two years of voluntary uniform wear. You wanted to wear a genuine State punishment uniform? Well now’s your chance.”

“NO! Please!” I began to beg, and she held up her hand to stop me.

“If you don’t want to wear the uniform for two years, out in the world with all your little friends and a job and all of that relative freedom, I am going to prosecute you for possession of stolen State property, accessory after the fact to a violent felony with injury to law enforcement personnel, and impeding the investigation of that crime. The minimum of any of those is two years, with a range of up to ten years, each. Oh, and you won’t do that time out in public, mincing around in high heels with a dildo up your ass, no, you’ll do that in prison. They’ll like someone who looks like you in prison won’t they? They’re going to pass you around and use you as currency.”

I was openly sobbing now, and repeating “I didn’t do anything! Please! Please!”

“Make your choice right now, cupcake. I won’t make the offer again.”

She slid a piece of paper across the desk to where it rested in front of me. It was a voluntary public punishment uniform wear form.

“No, I don’t want to…” I started to say.

“Fine, prison it is.” the prosecutor barked.

“Okay! Wait!” I sobbed. “I’ll do it.”

“Ask nicely to be allowed to wear a uniform, and thank me for the opportunity” the awful woman demanded in a hard, snarky voice. I broke.

“P-Please may I be allowed to voluntarily wear a punishment uniform? Thank you for offering me the chance.” My voice cracked as I wept.

She glared at me and then said “Alright, but I’m putting your gag back on you first, I can’t stand any more of your disgusting sniveling.”

She stuffed the big gag back in my mouth, none-too-gently, and locked the strap. She then removed the cuff from my right wrist to allow me to fill out the voluntary wear form. I shook and trembled as I did so, carefully filling out all my information and writing ‘2’ in the space for years of wear. I noted that I was agreeing to pay the state six hundred dollars a month for equipment and service fees, and my stomach clenched as I read that each month that went unpaid would cause two months to be added to my duration of wear, as well as the addition of disciplinary measures to the uniform. It was all I could do to make myself sign it. This was observed by a second woman in the office, who counter-signed it and then punched the form with a notary stamp. My life was over, if I wasn’t already fired for two days of ‘No call, no show’ at my job, I would be the second I walked in dressed as I would be for the next two years.

The next day, after enemas and feeding, my ‘walk or shock’ device wasn’t put back in my anal dildo. I was leashed and led from the cell (still in uniform, gagged, and again hands cuffed up high behind my back to a waist chain) down to the uniform fitting room. My leash handle was hung on one of a row of hooks at just above head height and I waited, standing in line with a variety of other, also gagged, leashed and similarly handcuffed women for a turn with a ‘fitment’ officer at a workstation. Some of these women were already in uniform, there for their two-week maintenance and possibly a uniform ‘adjustment’ (waist band reduction, dildo and/or gag size increase, heel height increase) all done to keep the level of torment fresh for the wearer. A few other women were there for their first fittings. We were all nervous, but the pre-uniform, fully naked newbies were really freaking out. I saw that they wore panel gags with inflatable inserts (pumped quite full) to keep them from creating a disturbance. More than one was visibly trembling. Those in line got to watch those ahead of them go through the process, and even though I was freaking out about my own situation, I was enthralled by the show. My poor, squashed boy parts made yet another unsuccessful attempt at escape from their orange-painted steel isolation cell.

Watching the myriad of expressions cross the faces of the ‘veteran’ uniform-wearers as they were secured (hands in shackles overhead) and then stripped of their punishment implements was riveting. Seeing a woman react as two great big dildos pulled are out of her pussy and ass after they’d been locked deep inside her for two weeks (and for previous months and years before that) was yummy. The horror on their faces when they were shown how big the replacement intruders would be made me pant. The dildos weren’t just pushed up into these women, who were secured bent over a bench to receive them; each dildo was thrust into and pulled out of the suffering, overstretched opening a couple of dozen times before finally being pushed in deep and locked there with a much-too-small chastity belt. Even gagged, their screams were pretty loud. I must’ve somehow been in denial that I would soon be facing the same kind of fresh hell as the women I was watching. That said, I actually dribbled a little bit of liquid from the slots in my chastity as I watched a tall, curvaceous, thirty-something brunette woman get fitted into her first pair of ballet-toe, orange-stiletto-heeled bondage pumps. Oh how she begged not to wear them.

“You know I’m a waitress!” she wailed, “Please don’t make me wait tables in these! I’m begging you, I still have eight more years left on my sentence!”

The fitment officer just laughed at her. Watching the attractive woman take a hard dildo-fucking up each of her openings then wobble tearfully and awkwardly away, up on her tip-toes in her new shoes, also wearing a new, longer, fatter gag and stuffed with two larger dildos was almost enough to make me climax, chastity can or not.

Watching the newbies get put in uniform was just as delicious; they were so nervous about every little touch, and oh the notes that one of them (a slender, natural-ginger girl with very white skin) hit when her tight little ass got filled for the very first time! She was almost as loud again when she was pierced and the stainless grommets were inserted into the new holes her raspberry-colored nipples and flared, making them irremovable. When the new girls’ fitment into their uniform was complete and they were released, their reaction was adorable; wobbling in their new, locked-on six-inch stiletto heels, they would try ineffectually to pull the too-short little dress down to cover their new dildo-stuffed chastity belt, they would try to cover their painful, freshly pierced and now stretched nipples that showed through the tight, sheer tops of their uniform dresses, they would try to pull the too-big, locked-in gag out of their mouths, and finally, unable to stop crying, they would do their very first knee-hobbled, bimbo-wiggle-walk on their way to the exit.

My turn came. The officer unhooked my leash and I followed obediently. At her station, I wriggled into place and kipped submissively. I did not want to do anything to arouse the ire of the fitment officer and was relieved when she gave me a little smile. I was released from the handcuffs, my dress was removed and then my hands were shackled out of the way up above my head.

“Oh, you’re the ‘special’ one, aren’t you?” the officer said, reading the paperwork in what was apparently my file. “Hey!” she called the other guards over. “Here’s that ‘special’ case’.”

My stomach clenched. I did not want any extra notoriety. Leaving the girls they were working on manacled (high on their toes, or secured bottoms-up, bent over benches) where they were, the other officers came over and watched while my chastity belt was removed. Then the comments started.

“Wow, how did she, I mean he, get all of himself into that little can?”

“Must not be much of a man!” “That’s pretty obvious.”

“He-she sure looks female, except for those itty bitty titties, (giggle)”

“He bought one of those stolen uniforms and managed to get into all of it by himself? What a little pervert!”

“That’s exactly what she is, look at this work order.”

The officers crowded around the document, and shook their heads.

“That’s a serious little pain-slut you’ve got hanging there. Well, give him her money’s worth.”

When my gag was removed a moment later, I raspingly begged (in my girl voice) to know what the work order said.

“You know what it says, it’s the voluntary wear contract you filled out and signed,” said the fitment officer, not unkindly.

“Please ma’am, I didn’t think I asked for anything special, may I just peek?”

She pursed her lips but held the paper up where I could see it. It was indeed the paper that I had filled out, but instead of being mostly blank, it now had every single option box (there were dozens of them) checked off, and I almost passed out when I saw that next to the ‘2’ I had written on the ‘Years of wear’ space, someone had, imitating my handwriting and using the same pen, added a ‘5’. My ‘Voluntary wear’ contract duration was now twenty-five years at ‘Felony restraint level plus’ and would incorporate every punitive accessory and appliance that could be added to it, adjusted for the highest level of severity. Apparently I started inhaling and screaming over and over, because my gag was jammed (oww!) right back in my mouth and re-locked. After I was re-gagged, I guess I went into shock because everything became kind of a blur. I vaguely remember being coated with hair remover, including my face and into the slots in my chastity, and then having it scrubbed off.

I didn’t have any hair on my body anyway, but whatever” I thought, as I floated along.

I was brought back to full consciousness when the fitment officer cleaned my boy parts with them still locked in the chastity device. To do this, she directed a strong stream of cold water at the devices’ top and side vent-slits, added some liquid soap, and then rinsed until there were no more bubbles coming out of the bottom slits. Next came a jet of compressed air from a hose which she used to blow every drop of water out of my chastity can. It was the only contact that part of me had experienced for days, and it was traumatizing. She then pulled the huge anal-punishment dildo out of me, which elicited a good deal of noise on my part. Oh, did it feel weird to be empty back there.

She measured me all over, and then said “Whoever fit you for this stuff did a pretty good job, it’s right about what I’d have started you at. You must be a little butt-slut, this is pretty big for a first timer (she waved the anal dildo around in front of me), and looking at your narrow little pelvis, it might be as big as you can take. Don’t worry though sweetie, we’ll make sure that whatever gets put up your ass really has your attention, even if we can’t go much bigger with it.”

I shuddered and writhed in fear.

“We’re going to get a start today on getting your waist size down, and seeing how well you do in those seven-inchers, I’m going to go ahead and put you in Pointe shoes.”

Wide-eyed, I squealed through my nose and shook my head ‘No! No!’

Hours later, when I finally stumbled out into the daylight, ‘released’ into the public, the ballet-toe, stiletto-heeled shoes I now struggled in weren’t as toe-crushingly awful as I’d feared; they were designed so that my feet couldn’t slide all the way forward in them, leaving my weight supported by my heels, insteps and arches, not completely on my toes. A cruel design element I hadn’t known about was the stiff ‘tongue’ of the shoes that extended up my lower shins. This prevented my feet from moving to any position other than full ballet pointe, and my feet ached while learning to accommodate the demanding position. The strict toe shoes were only one of my problems. I was also trying to come to terms with the permanent grommet and the thick, inch-diameter ring that now pierced my tongue. Also new were the gray plastic bondage gloves that I had been informed could not be cut. These left my fingers free, but curled my thumbs into the palms of my hands where they were now useless. Perhaps worst and most alarming was the fact that my collar, the one that proclaimed me to be a ‘Habitual Prostitute’ was now welded permanently in place. The collar had been the reason I was put into the thumbless gloves; apparently this was done to repeat offenders so that they couldn’t give their customers hand jobs. It made no difference that I wasn’t really a prostitute, I’d arrived locked in a collar that said I was, and then I’d “voluntarily” agreed to stay locked in it. Hot tears ran down my face as I traced the new welds running up the sides of the collar with my fingertips. My neck and head had been protected by special silicone anti-heat mats that fitted so tightly under the collar that I felt as if I were being strangled while the automatic welder welded both the hinge and then the joint. The collar was quickly cooled and released from the mechanism that had held me absolutely motionless. I was permanently collared, permanently marked as a felon and a prostitute. Waves of panic-induced nausea and terror washed over me as I tried to rationalize what this meant for me.

I wore a fresh pair of the heavy crotchless, back-seamed, shiny tan pantyhose. I wore the same breast plate and cups that I’d come in with and my nipples were once again chained under tension with little locks (they’d cut mine off and used stainless-steel State versions), pulling the chains out one agonizing link further than I’d had them. My chastity belt was basically the same as what I’d worn, except for the belt being a torturous half-inch smaller. My knee-hobble link had been reduced to two inches and I again wore the heavy, stirrup-equipped ankle cuffs with the eight-inch hobble chain. I would be doing a lot of walking, as the new, same-sized anal punishment dildo (having screamed into the gag as I received a couple dozen full-length in-and-out strokes with it) that now violated me was fitted with orientation and movement sensors, as well as proximity sensors to the heels of my shoes. If I didn’t stand and walk in my new ballet-toe stilettos for at least six hours a day I would receive punishment shocks, and an extra week on my ‘voluntary’ sentence for each violation. There was no indicator to let me know if I’d made it to six hours for the day, so I’d always have to be sure that I was well over that amount. Bound, punished, freshly butt-fucked and suffering with the huge new intruder locked inside me, I made my way with tiny, knee-and-ankle hobbled ballet-toe steps to where my car was parked. Well, to where it had been parked, as it was gone. I assumed it had been towed.

I finally made it home (hitchhiking is scary, and doing it in what I was wearing was terrifying) and just collapsed onto the nearest piece of furniture, my weeping and wailing almost completely stifled by my gag. I couldn’t take another day, much less twenty-five years of this. My mind tried to reject the possibility that I could really be spending twenty-five years in strict bondage and continuous torment. Who could I go to for help getting this situation fixed? It was obvious that the hateful, angry prosecutor had altered my paperwork (after she’d coerced me into signing it in the first place), so who could I talk to that was above her? A Judge? How could I get to talk to a Judge, and why would they care about helping me? After I ruminated on this for a long while I began to have a terrible feeling that I could be truly stuck in this horrible predicament. My heart pounded and my body shook. I felt like I was going to have another panic attack, clawing at my uniform and thrashing around like an animal, but it never came. I managed to get a little food down and then slept. In the morning the time-lock on my gag released and I finally got to call (lisping around my heavy new tongue ring) into work.

I was curtly informed that I had been fired. No, they would not mail my last check to me. The next day I had to take a number of buses to get to my ex-workplace to clear out my personal belongings and sign a termination form to get my last check. The stares, glares and comments from my former co-workers were every bit as bad as you can imagine and included some loud, stinging slaps on my dildo-stuffed ass that came from the sales guys as I bimbo-wiggled my way past their desks. Everybody guffawed at this as I stumbled, trying to keep my balance. Now carrying a box of stuff while trying to balance in the toe shoes, I had to take another bus to get somewhere near my bank, and then walk (if you can call it that), still carrying the box, six blocks (with lots of honking from passing motorists) more to get the check cashed, and collect my backup chastity key from my safe-deposit box. At first, based on my photo ID they were not going to let me access my safe-deposit box. Thank goodness the bank had a fingerprint-identification machine. Having the key to my chastity was an exercise in futility as I could not get it anywhere near its keyhole while the State’s chastity belt was locked in place on me.

More walking (or rather wriggling like a demented, hobbled, anal-dildo slut) slowly and painfully to the next bus stop, another transfer, another long walk, and I finally made it to the impound lot. Collecting my car took all of my remaining money. The lot attendant apparently saw a number of uniform girls come for their towed cars and was ready to take advantage of them. He handcuffed my hands behind me, snapped a short leash onto my collar and held it as he walked me the long way to my car (“No unsupervised criminals wandering the lot!”), his other hand alternately holding the end of my anal dildo or cupping my ass the entire time. I didn’t dare protest. When I finally made it home, I did so just in time for my appointment to have a State arm restraint application machine put in place in my living room.

Every morning, waking up painfully bound, gagged, chastised and impaled on a huge dildo was shocking.

I’d think blurrily “What a night! Time to get out of all of this” and then the realization would hit that there would be no release, this was what I’d be wearing all day, every day for the foreseeable future.

The worst day was one where I overslept and missed the arm binder release time window. I had to wear it all day and through the night again, thirty-six hours straight. To compound matters, it was a weekend, and I was gagged. I managed to get some water, but no food. I was miserable, hungry, lonely, depressed and unrelentingly horny with no relief available for any of my woes.

The sexual stimulation and denial turned out to be amongst the worst of my torments. It seems that a person can gradually become accustomed to physical discomfort and restraints, at least to the point where you’re not on the verge of a screaming, begging fit at all times. Unfortunately, with this acclimation comes the return of one’s sexual urges and needs. I was helplessly secured in the outfit that had been the very pinnacle of my fetishes, cross-dressed, anally stuffed, humiliated, helpless and increasingly, desperately turned on. I hated my predicament, but knowing that I was really wearing a state punishment uniform and that I was stuck in it with no possibility of escape kept me at a high simmer. I believe the word is “conflicted”. I needed an orgasm so badly I could’ve died, but there was absolutely no chance of getting one.

 

A month went by and my losing streak compounded. My socially conservative and very religious parents disowned me, as did my siblings. I didn’t have a lot of friends and the ones I had weren’t the kind that would understand about a friend having an apparent gender change and getting locked into a State punishment uniform, complete with extra bondage toys. I was alone. I was out of money and I’d had to turn my car in at the dealership to avoid having it repossessed. Jobs were hard to come by for a person in a State punishment uniform, especially one who is without the use of their thumbs and is wearing a welded-on collar that proclaims them to be a habitual prostitute. I found that I couldn’t qualify for a manufacturing job, due to my lack of thumbs. I’d shuddered as I looked at the uniformed girls out on the assembly floor; they were made to stand in their ultra-high or even ballet heels, short-leashed to an overhead ring at their stations all day, no sitting*. Worse than that, their employment contract stipulated that they were to wear their uniform gag (to eliminate time-wasting chatter) while at work, seven-thirty to five-thirty, Monday through Friday. Because they were already gagged overnight and on weekends, this meant that these poor girls were kept gagged at all times, twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five. The resulting liquid diets were working though, there wasn’t a fat girl anywhere to be seen.

*[Even the pretty company receptionist, a very buxom uniformed girl, had to stand en-pointe (and short-leashed to an overhead ring) at a glass-topped, counter-high mini-desk. I watched in amazement as she stood smiling and at attention while passing male employees would casually tug and stroke her nipples through her uniform or give her bottom a squeeze or a slap, to which she would always kip, giggle and exclaim “Thank you sir!” Jobs were tough to get, and she was doing what it took to keep hers.]

Even the strip clubs were no good, they were staffing all the ‘outmate’ girls they could handle to bartend, bus, work the door, etcetera, and there was a six month wait to even apply. How I envied them after I’d been told to try again in a few months. I watched them struggling in their bondage, hurrying to perform their duties, and wished for a job or a break of any kind. I received a letter informing me that two months had been added to my uniform time due to non-payment of monthly State service fees. My lights and water were turned off and I was evicted.

That was on a Saturday and the early afternoon found me gagged for the weekend, discarded and out at the curbside with my belongings. I had no idea what I was going to do or where I was going to go. I sat awkwardly on one of my wooden kitchen chairs, balanced on the two orange projections from my chastity belt. People pulled up in cars and asked if they could have things from the pile and I nodded. Somebody even took the chair I was sitting in (they wanted the whole set) and I was left standing, then finally kneeling by the curb. I didn’t know where I was going to spend the night but I guessed that it would be in voluntary lockup back down at the police station, stuck in an armbinder and tip-toeing en-Pointe in endless circles with the other homeless outmate girls.

I was just about to see if I had any tears left for one more crying, girly, wallow in self-pity when a big, dually pickup truck pulled out from the construction site down the street. I watched as it slowed and stopped right in front of me, shutting off its loud diesel engine.

The window rolled down and the large man inside took a look at me and my post-eviction pile of belongings. He said “You don’t look like you’re having the best day, are you sweetie?”

I shook my head ‘No’ and blinked furiously, trying to hold back tears. I was pathetic. “Do you have a job?” he asked. Staring into the gutter, I shook my head. “Look,” he said, “This is a weird place to do a job interview, but can you type?”

Looking up, I nodded. I was a fast typist and even with my thumbs tucked away in the bondage mitts, I’d figure out a work-around.

“Good. Now tell me, are you locked up in that costume because you steal?” he asked, pointedly.

I shook my head emphatically.

“Alright then, good. Here’s the thing; I need an office manager-receptionist-paperwork handler who can do scheduling, handle payroll, talk to vendors and handle about a hundred other things that pop up every day in my construction office. Are you organized? Can you do what I’m describing?”

I nodded enthusiastically.

 “Okay, good, can you start on Monday?”

I nodded.

“Good. Look, I’m guessing you don’t have anywhere to stay just now, do you?” he asked. Looking down again, I shook my head.

“Okay then I’ll also offer you this; for the time being you can stay at my place if you’ll clean it up, cook me some meals, and…” he laughed, “Do my laundry.”

I nodded, then did the hip-swivel-circle-wiggle thing I have to do to get my legs under myself and stood up. He got out of his truck and towered over me. He was in his early thirties and he looked like a caricature of a lumberjack, with short, curly dark hair and a square jaw with a quarter-inch of trimmed beard on it. He was a really large man, at least six foot five tall, and easily two hundred and fifty pounds. I tried not to stare, but each of his shoulders looked bigger than my head.

I shook the huge hand he held out; he felt the plastic that contained my thumb and turned my hand over.

“The state even put you in bondage mittens, huh? Can’t use your thumbs? Are you sure you can type?” he asked.

I nodded emphatically again.

He lifted my chin with a finger, said “‘Habitual Prostitute’. You don’t have any diseases, do you?”

I blushed as I shook my head.

“Drug problems?”

Another shake of my head.

“Okay. Well, pick out the things you really want to keep out of your pile here and we’ll put ’em in the truck.”

When I really looked I was surprised at how little I wanted to keep. Besides my make-up/jewelry bag and purse, there were some important papers, my spare uniform dresses, the State’s arm binder machine and the loathsome enema kit. Embarrassed, I stuffed it and my other items into an old suitcase. That was it. The rest was clothing I couldn’t wear for the next twenty-five years, bondage toys that had become redundant (and even silly, compared to what I was locked up in), some crappy furniture, and some photos of a time with a family who didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. The trash service would pick up anything that the drive-by vultures left.

“That’s it?” the man asked.

I nodded.

“Good. Get a fresh start.” He put the arm binder machine and my bag in the back seat of the truck and lifted me up (like I weighed nothing) into the front. As we drove off I looked back in the mirror at the second-place trophy from the costume contest, now perched on top of the pile of my former belongings. I wondered what this man’s name was, and worried about how it would go when he found out I wasn’t entirely a girl.

We drove for a little while in silence and then he said “I should make it really clear, this job is at a construction office. That means construction workers who are not going to be particularly well-mannered about that uniform you’re wearing, or what you did to end up wearing it. Don’t get me wrong, they’ll like you, but they’re going to tell you exactly why they like you and it’s not going to be anything like politically correct. You’re going to get whistled at, propositioned, called all kinds of things, and you’ll probably get your butt pinched, squeezed and smacked on a daily basis. My crews are independent contractors, so we don’t exactly have ‘sensitivity training’ or any of that sort of horseshit,” he chuckled then continued, “So what I need to know is if you have any problem with handling that kind of an environment. If you do, it’s no problem, I’ll turn around and drop you and your stuff off wherever you like.”

I shook my head ‘No.’

“Good girl,” he said. “Frankly, seeing you kneeling there in your little bondage outfit is what made me stop to talk to you. I guess I must be kind of kinky.”

Unable to smile, I winked at him, which made him smile.

My benefactor did finally get around to introducing himself, Mister Lee Smith, owner and operator of Smith Contracting and Construction. His home (and mine, if only for the time being) was a mid-sized ranch style (thank goodness, no stairs) house on a large lot that backed up to the woods. Once inside, I pantomimed writing and was given a pen and paper.

I wrote the following: ‘Mister Smith, Sir, thank you for rescuing me from the side of the road and for giving me a chance. My name is Patty and I will do my very best to make you happy with me. Regarding my State punishment uniform, the schedule I must follow is that I must wear my gag from six every evening until seven the following morning on weekdays. I must wear it from six on Friday night through the weekend to Monday morning at seven, during which time I can only eat liquefied food through the hole in the gag. I have to use an enema kit at least twice a day to get rid of solid wastes. I must be on my feet for at least six hours a day or I will receive punishment shocks from the device in my bottom, and an additional week per offense will be added to my term. I must also wear an arm binder every night. The machine I brought puts it onto me, from seven ’til seven the following morning. If I don’t get to the machine before 7:05 a.m., I have to wait a full day until I can be released. I have to go in every two weeks for maintenance and adjustment of my punishment uniform. I’m very sorry in advance for any inconvenience that my situation causes. My only pressing problem right now is that I haven’t eaten anything for about twenty-four hours and I’m feeling very dizzy. Please Sir, is there something I can have to eat, and a blender so that I can liquefy it?’

I handed the paper to Mister Smith and curtseyed.

Twenty minutes later I was quite full and pretty buzzed on the can of beer I’d been given. When your blood sugar is as low as mine was, beer is pretty potent stuff! The meal had been a microwaved, blended and watered down chicken pot pie, tested for temperature then served through a small funnel. I wish I could’ve tasted it as it smelled like the best thing ever. I felt oddly content, relaxed, and wanted to do nothing more than go to sleep. It was quarter to seven, and so I plugged in the arm binder machine and washed myself up while it initialized and warmed up. As Mister Smith watched, I put my arms behind me and backed up into it. A moment later, my arms were bound together from fingertips to elbows.

“I like that,” he said.

Still a bit buzzed from the beer, I kipped to him, batted my eyes and wiggled my bottom. “Good girl,” he smiled.

I fell asleep on the couch watching TV with him, waking up only briefly as he tucked a pillow under my head and put a blanket over me. I woke up again in the middle of the night, having a brief panic about ‘where am I and what is this weight on my side?’ The weight paw-pawed me a couple times and purred softly as it curled up.

I was up with the light and not knowing the time, I hurried to pee and then knelt waiting with my bound arms in the machine. I did not want to miss my five-minute window to be released from the arm binder. I could hear Mister Smith showering. I thought about it; when my gag finally unlocked the next morning, I shouldn’t address him as ‘Lee’ or ‘Mister Smith’. ‘Sir’ would probably be my best bet. He emerged, dressed in construction attire and smiled at me.

“You’ve still got about fifteen minutes before that machine turns you loose. I’ve got to get going, you’ll find all the cleaning stuff you’ll need when you dig around in the closets and cabinets. I’ll be back by six tonight. Have fun, stay out of trouble.”

While not a complete mess the house was every bit as dirty as you’d expect from a bachelor who works in construction. I worked all day, cleaning, organizing, doing laundry and preparing dinner from what I could put together in the somewhat-randomly-stocked kitchen. I was surprised to find that I was feeling kind of sexy. The reason was obvious; I actually felt somewhat secure in my new situation, I was employed, and I was wiggling around in ballet-toe stilettos, cleaning house while gagged, hobbled, waist-cinched, locked in chastity, and all while enduring nipple torment and a huge dildo that I can’t take out of my bottom. Before it had all gone horribly wrong, I’d have fantasized about doing this. I fixed my make-up and guiltily wished that I had a little French maid outfit to wear while I worked.

Meeting the ‘on-my-feet-for-six-hours’ requirement was not a problem. How tight my chastity device was feeling as I bimbo-wiggled around was a problem, not that there was a thing I could do about it. Lingering in front of the mirrors, touching up my make-up wasn’t helping, nor was my gently tugging on my nipple-chain locks. I was so horny I actually whimpered through my gag.

I found myself thinking about the odd relationship I had developed with the ‘Fitment officer’ as I’d gone to the two maintenance/adjustment appointments I’d had since I’d been put in uniform for real. They fell on Monday mornings for me and during the first one I’d been looking at her. She was in her mid-thirties, medium build, attractive but nothing amazing except perhaps for her rather large breasts. There was something else, though. As I stood on my toes, hands cuffed up above my head, I took a chance and asked (in my femme voice, and still lisping around my new tongue ring) her about what I thought I saw. “Please, ma’am. May I ask you a question?”

“Yes, I suppose. What is it?”

“Not to embarrass you ma’am,” I said very quietly, “but I couldn’t help but notice that you have gag strap marks at the corners of your mouth.”

She glanced at me, her hands flying up to rub at the corners of her mouth.

“I-I’m sorry ma’am, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

She relaxed, gave a short laugh and said “That’s all right, Sweetie. I’m sure you’ll understand, so I’ll tell you. I own a decommissioned punishment uniform; I wear it on weekends for my husband.”

“Mmm!” I said with an accompanying eyelash-bat and hip grind. “Please ma’am… does he keep the key while you’re in it?”

“Nosey thing,” she said, but without any malice. A moment passed and she said in a lower, private voice “If you must know, Miss pervert, yes he does. Each and every weekend, from the time I get home from work on Friday until seven Monday morning, I am locked up in a full punishment uniform, complete with a collar, chastity belt, front-and-rear dildos, chest plate, titty-torture cups and seven inch heels. And yes, unless my mouth is being used, I’m gagged continuously all weekend.”

“Are your nipples pierced?”

“Yes, grommets and rings. Probably half the women who work here have had it done.”

“That is so deliciously hot, ma’am!” I managed to breath out, my hips grinding.

She gave me a warm little smile, and told me her name was Melody.

At my next (most recent) appointment, she’d gone on to confide in me with some more juicy tidbits; apparently every weekend, she was made to do all her errands and the shopping for the week while gagged and enduring the torments of her uniform, and that her husband would take her (with her arms tightly bound) out in the evenings on a leash. “What does your collar say?” I asked her.

“It’s boring, it just says “Florida State Public Punishment Uniform Program, Volunteer. I’ll confess, I’ve wondered what it’d be like to have what you’ve got on your collar.”

I shook my head and told her “The fantasy is better than the reality. It’s totally humiliating. Men are completely condescending and treat me like I’m the lowest, most desperate slut-trash, and the women are openly hostile.”

“I guess I can see how that would happen. When I’m in my uniform, men are a little over-friendly, especially with their hands, and women are like “What is wrong with her?”

I giggled and asked “So, have you ever thought about doing it for real?”

“Actually volunteer for a punishment term?” she responded. “We’ve talked about it. I know it would be fun, but also awful sometimes, and expensive, too. I actually asked my supervisor about it and she said ‘Sure, you could still work while wearing a uniform, no problem.’ Can you imagine?” she giggled.

“You could try it for a year,” I suggested.

“That’s a problem, to be able to qualify for the ‘Husband’s Rights’ clause, where he could still unlock my gag or take out my rear dildo for sex, I’d have to sign up for a three-year minimum.”

“That’s a big commitment,” I’d said, and it was the end of the conversation because she was fitting me with a new gag.

This one was a half-inch longer than the one I’d started with, and was one of the steps towards when I’d wear the full, ‘deep-throat’ model. I hoped that my ‘felony whisper’ would be sexy after wearing a deep-throat gag eventually ruined my vocal chords. Melody fastened me, bent over and with my ass in the air on the work stand. She greased me up and gave me another good, hard fucking with the anal dildo before finally locking it inside me. I didn’t scream (much) but I certainly cried. Then, to my awful surprise, she showed me a whipping cane.

“I know you probably didn’t actually sign up for this, but it’s on your paperwork, and so…”

The new gag was more effective at containing my screams than the old one had been. Melody gave me a dozen good, hard cuts on my bottom, six from each side.

“We’ll start with that,” she said as I sobbed, “and we’ll add to it, then we’ll start caning your little titties every time you come in, too. You’re lucky that you’ve got this,” she continued, and tapped the cane on my chastity can. “If you were anatomically a girl, I’d be caning your pussy, too.”

It was more than a day later before I could even start to lean my poor butt against things.

I was ready when Mister Smith tromped in, filling the door frame from top to bottom and side to side. I kipped, and pointed to his boots, which were carrying some of every place he’d been that day.

“Huh?” he said, and then “Oh, okay Patty, you can take ’em off for me.”

That was not what I’d intended but I was willing to go along with it. He flopped down in a big chair and I got to spend the next couple minutes on my knees getting dirty while wrestling his size fifteen Red Wings off. I realized he was trying not to laugh, and I looked up.

“I know that isn’t what you meant, sweet-cheeks. You’re a good sport, though.”

I rolled my eyes at him, got up, kipped, winked, and gestured that he should follow me. “Wow, you put in a day here didn’t you?” he said approvingly of the gleamingly-clean kitchen and floors. “Good girl. So, I believe I smell some dinner?”

I pointed to what was obviously the chair he usually sat in. He sat, and I served. I didn’t sit while he ate; I’d already blended up something for myself and ‘enjoyed’ it via the funnel. I brought him more servings, beers, but otherwise stood by ready to serve his slightest wish.

“Nice job on the food, Patty. Very tasty. Speaking of which, I’m enjoying watching you wiggle around in that outfit. Don’t know how you manage to walk around up on those tip-toe high heels like that, but it’s sure sexy. You’re like ‘Pervina the ballerina’ or something.”

He smiled at the sound I made when my laugh came out of my nose.

Shortly afterwards, I had to surrender my arms to the armbinder for the night. Minutes later, I was nodding off on the couch, curled up with my legs under me. I was awakened when Mister Smith gently picked me up and carried me off to his bed. I was really alarmed for a moment, but then remembered that he couldn’t expect anything sexual from me, I was in complete and total chastity.

“It’s supposed to get chilly tonight, and you’re going to be cold out on the couch, even with that cat sleeping on you.”

He brushed his teeth and performed his other evening rituals before walking back into the room buck naked. He was well-muscled, hairy, and had a great big cock. I was suddenly really uncomfortable with this whole idea. I may look and act as a girl, but sexually I liked girls, not men.

“With your previous profession being what it was, I didn’t figure you’d mind that I sleep naked,” he said, climbing into bed.

I managed to shake my head ‘No’ while trying not to look terrified. I wriggled over onto my side, facing away from him. He threw part of his blanket over me and, to my horror, pulled me up against him. It seems he liked to spoon.

I didn’t get a lot of sleep and when I did doze off I had disturbing dreams. First I dreamt that he somehow figured out I wasn’t a girl and waking up saved me from the dream where his anvil-like fist was rocketing towards my face. I finally dozed off again, then woke up and thought for a moment that his cock was up my ass. I was frozen in fear for an instant until I realized that what was in my bottom was a property-of-the-State anal punishment dildo, not him. With Mister Smith’s arm over and around me, the cat discovered where his new bed had gotten to and curled up on me.

Morning finally came and dressed-and-ready-to-leave Mister Smith was impatient for the arm binding machine to release me so we could get to the office. He’d already ‘made’ breakfast for me; he had me kneel with my head tilted back while he poured two raw eggs (Ick!) into the funnel that fit into the hole in my gag. This was followed by some mushed-up bread and water and finally some fruit juice to wash it all down. I was grateful that the length of the gag carried those raw eggs past where I could taste them. I almost vomited as it was. As soon as my arms were free, I pulled out my gag, grabbed my purse (with my toothbrush and paste in it) and make-up bag and wiggled for the door.

“Good morning, Sir!” I rasped breathily, trying to get my mouth to close.

I no longer had to remember to use my girl voice as it had become my default speech setting. I’d had no luck getting rid of the lisp caused by my tongue ring and it made me sound like a complete bimbo.

“Good morning yourself, slowpoke,” he said with a smile, and scooped me up (as effortlessly as if I was the cat), carrying me off at a fast walk to the truck.

“Tomorrow, we’re getting going a lot earlier. I’m going to bring that arm-restraint machine along to the office in the mornings, you can use it there. How’d you like your eggs?”

“Yuck, Sir” I responded, and stuck out my thickly-ringed tongue.

“Too runny?” he laughed as he set me on the truck's seat.

The construction office was only a quarter mile from Mister Smith’s house, which was good. Apparently I’d made him a half-hour late to meet with his crews, who already had their trucks loaded and were milling around impatiently. Foremen holding clipboards and rolled-up blueprints met Mister Smith as he was climbing out of the truck, each eager to get their crew rolling to their job-sites. As such, nobody noticed me as I slid my way carefully down to the truck’s running board then, hanging from the door and the seat, the rest of the way to the ground. I’d only managed a little make-up during the quarter-mile drive and was glad it wasn’t really bright out yet. I started on my way towards the building and had made it about ten feet when a Mexican-accented voice said “Holy sheet. Who the hell is thees?”

Seconds later I was completely surrounded by three crews of all variety of grinning construction workers who were giving each other jabs in the ribs while cat-calling, whistling, asking me if I was a ‘baaad’ girl (that got a lot of sophomoric laughter) and causing me to want to go crawl under the truck and hide. I managed to smile, bob, give a little wave and said “Hi guys, I’m Patty, I’ll be…”

 I didn’t get to finish as my name was echoed back as a chorus by the group, who enunciated it like it was the name of some sort of an especially dirty sex act, then hooted while they threw more elbows at each other.

Mister Smith finally looked up for a second from one of the materials lists he was going over and grinned, “Hey you animals, don’t terrorize the new office girl. Why don’t a couple of you help her into the building?”

“Yeah boss,” most of them responded.

Their hands holding my hands (and my ass), two of them ‘steadied’ me as I made my hobbled, ballet-toed way across the rough ground to the smallish, red brick building, where I was first (and meaningfully) shown the coffee maker and then the desk I’d be using. It was deep in piles of paper and envelopes, and had an old computer monitor protruding up like a rock sticking up through a snowdrift. I got one of the guys to pull a second table over next to the desk while I (not one to miss a hint) made coffee.

I was given a stinging smack on my bottom and told “Have fun, sweetness. We’ll see you later,” accompanied by a profoundly lewd wink.

By the time Mister Smith had got his three crews launched and made his way into the office, I’d taken two phone messages for him and waded into the paperwork, initially sorting by oldest and most urgent appearing. The old computer fired up and amazingly it had a new enough operating system for me to do something with it. Already on a cell phone call, Mister Smith nodded approvingly at me as he went by into his office. A moment later, I was hit by a wadded-up ball of paper. I turned to see a still-on-his-phone-call Mister Smith grin and wink at me as he held up a coffee cup. I smiled and wiggled my little ass into the boss’s office to retrieve his cup. He muted the phone and said “Patty, when you come in here, do that little curtsey thing you do,” and then un-muted his phone.

I smiled, curtseyed, and then spent a couple of minutes washing stratified layers out of his disgusting coffee cup. Returning with hot, black coffee and another curtsey got me a playful swat on the butt and told “Good girl!”

Over the next hours I got the paperwork basically sorted, figured out how to hook up my enema hose to the faucet in the office bathroom (and used it, ugh), got the logins figured out for the computer, got lunch ordered and delivered, (tasting and even just chewing food after another long weekend of being gagged was wonderful), got the computer to talk to the printer, made a password list for the email and every other account you can imagine, and began to create some semblance of order in the chaos.

Then, the bomb dropped.

“Patty, come in here, I need your ID to get you added onto the insurance and the security system sign-in, and about six other things,” Mister Smith said.

I’d been so pleased with how things were going, so proud of myself for being so clever at organizing everything I touched, how could I have been so stupid and delusional as to think I wouldn’t get found out? My stomach was instantly in knots, and I was pretty sure I was going to throw up or pass out or both.

“Patty! Today, please.”

Oh fuck. Oh fuckfuckfuckfuck fuck. I got my driver’s license out of my purse and made it as far as the curtsey, just inside Mister Smith’s office door, before I burst into tears. “I’ll just go” I wailed, “I’m sorry, I’ll get my stuff and go, I’m so sorry.”

Mister Smith looked as perplexed as a man could. “No, you won’t.” he said matter-of-factly as I tried to turn to leave.

With both hands, I clutched the little rectangle of plastic to my obscene breast forms. “Patty, bring it here.”

“Please don’t kill me, Sir! I’m so sorry” my voice breaking as I sobbed.

I was a little surprised at myself; I don’t think I’d ever cried that hard in my life. Shaking, I put the card in his huge hand. I wanted to fall down.

“Wow,” he said and paused for a very long few seconds. “That is a bad picture of you, I can see why you wouldn’t want to show it around. Go and lock the front door, then come back in here, you have a story to tell me.”

Still shaking and crying but no longer sobbing, I bimbo-wiggled my way to the door, locked it, and returned to Mister Smith’s office. I didn’t know if I should still curtsey, but I did. He held out a box of Kleenex, which I used a lot of as I stood in front of his desk and told him my whole tale of woe. When I finished, there was another one of those long pauses, while Mister Smith sat and looked at me, appraisingly.

Finally, he said “So you get your sexual kicks out of cross-dressing and bondage and humiliation and you fantasized about being locked up in a State punishment uniform of your own.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded, then added “I did, but I never wanted to be stuck in it for twenty-five years,” my voice rising and squeaking a little at the end of the sentence.

A few seconds ticked by and then he said “Walk back and forth across the room.” Puzzled, I did as I was told. I walked as I always did, mincing along with my elbows in, hands up, fingers spread, ass sticking out behind me like an invitation. I gyrated across the room and back.

“Hmm,” he said, then “Pick up this pen,” he gestured to the pen on his desk.

I obeyed. I’d gotten pretty used to not being able to use my thumbs.

“Set it down again.”

I did so, realizing that I unconsciously held my other hand up and bobbed my whole body during each action..

“Have you always had a girly-sounding voice?”

“It was never really deep Sir, but I’ve been using my female voice ever since everything happened, and now it’s just automatic.”

He nodded. “You say there’s absolutely no way you can get that (he pointed at my chastity can) off while you’re locked up in that chastity belt?”

“No, Sir.” I responded.

“Do you have the key for it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Bring it to me.”

I kipped (I felt silly doing this now that I’d been found out as male) and got the key out of my purse. I didn’t want to hand it over, but I did.

Fresh tears welled up as I asked “Please sir, it’s the only one I’ve got. What are you going to do with it?”

“Don’t worry, I’m going to put it in a very safe place, where it won’t get lost,” then he smiled, but it wasn’t a nice smile that made you feel good. “Get down on your knees, Patty,” he indicated to a spot on the floor, right in front of his chair.

“Please Sir, as I said, I’m not gay.”

“Neither am I, Patty but you look, move, walk, talk, sit, kneel, act and even cry like a girl. Pretending to be a girl got you to where you are right now, all the good and bad parts. So one of the parts that you’re going to do, whenever you’re told, is suck my cock. Understood, Patty?”

Seconds ticked past, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. “Y… Y… Yes Sir” my voice squeaked as I knelt down.

Twenty minutes later, I was back at work. My mind was spinning, trying to come to terms with the fact that I’d just given the great big man in the next room a blowjob. I had joined the list of people who have sucked a cock, and once you’re on that list, it’s forever. I was now a cocksucker. Mr. Smith had made me unzip his pants, and pull his penis out. Each step of the act was like a barrier I had to break through; making myself touch it for the first time, and then touch it with my lips, and then with my tongue. As he got hard, I was oddly grateful for all the jaw-stretching that my every-night and all-weekend gag wearing had provided me. Mister Smith’s cock was big and thick, and his first instruction had been “No teeth, Patty.”

His second instruction, some ten minutes later was “Swallow it all, don’t spill a drop.” This took me lots of frantic, disgusted gulping. Some moments later, after both our breathing had slowed down, he said “Good girl. Grab me another cup of coffee would you?”

I poured myself a cup too, although it seemed like there was no amount of coffee that would take the taste of his cum out of my mouth. I initially tried to rationalize, telling myself that I only did it because I really needed this job, and I really needed a place to live. Both of those things were true, but they hadn’t occurred to me at the time. The truth was, I had gotten down on my knees for him simply because he told me to. There had been no threat in his command, only the command, and I had obeyed. The reality that it was just the first of many, many blowjobs that I’d be giving Mister Smith loomed over me. The really troubling fact, the one that was tying my stomach in knots, was that I’d kept wishing there was a mirror there. I’d wanted to watch my girl-self being made to suck cock.

From that first day, Mister Smith often said that he wished he had a key to take my gag out whenever he liked, so that he could ‘enjoy that pretty mouth of yours’ more often and when it was more convenient. After only two days I confessed to him about what I wanted.

“Not straight anymore?” he teased.

I told him that watching ‘her’, the girl in the mirror, kneel and suck would be a lot easier (and sexier) for me than it was when I did it. He thought about that and then he bought a nice, large, full-length mirror, which is mounted on the wall next to his desk. That was nice, and a real improvement for me psychologically. [The girl in the mirror is the little cockslut, not me!] Even so, giving him blowjobs has been made more difficult for me; one day, my hands were cold when I cupped his balls. He used a wide, plastic zip-tie to secure my wrists behind me as punishment. He liked watching me struggle to perform without the use of my hands, and now my wrists are always zip-tied behind me while I service him. He also found that he could inspire me to higher levels of energy by pulling the top of my dress down, and then playing with the locks attached to my nipple-torment chains, making me squirm and squeal while I service him. I am so conflicted as I watch myself, all made up and wearing a too-short dress, hands bound behind me, tormented, chained, penetrated, chastised and forced to suck a huge cock; I hate that I am doing it, and I hate myself for enjoying watching myself do it in the mirror. It’s gotten to the point where pre-cum drips out of the slits in my chastity, which adds to my shame immensely.

That weekend, gag in place and after lots of chores (I’m sure I looked ridiculous, slut-wriggling along in toe shoes behind the lawnmower) and cleaning, I was treated to fresh acrylic nails and hair styling, repairing my collar-length, page-boy cut with bangs. I liked how it looked, it reminded me of Taylor Swift. When Mister Smith escorted me into the same salon (yes, I chose it) where I’d had my nails done the first time, the reaction from the staff was a lot different. They were so nice now that I’d walked in with ‘Mister tower-of-studliness’. He told the somewhat stunned manager to text him when I was a half-hour from being finished, and left. The collective, goggle-eyed stares could’ve burned the shirt off his V-shaped back! Two of the beauticians actually argued over who got to work on me. While I was in the chair, the discussion (none from me, securely gagged as I was) turned to whether or not an outfit like mine might help them get a man like that. I gave them my best ‘Couldn’t hurt’ shrug, but then I brought my long, slender, pretty (well they are!) chained-together legs out from under the smock and twirled them around together up high in a slow, sexy, strippers’ dance move. I flipped my hair, and did a ‘Who, me?’ double-blink. That pretty much stopped all their optimistic conversation. When my hair and nails (safety orange again) were done I took the opportunity to select a little pile of items to refresh my waning make-up supply.

When Mister Smith came in to get me I curtseyed, batted my eyes, and pointed to what I hoped he’d buy for me, already sitting on the counter.

“Hello Sweetness, don’t you look all pretty? Sure, you can have that stuff too” he said, tossed a credit card on the counter and gave me an affectionate touch on the tip of my nose with his index finger. I wiggled my hips just a bit and batted my eyes again. There was a collective, jealous little sigh from the salon full of catty bitches.

“Envy me, sluts!” I thought as loudly as I could while I gave them a little ‘good-bye’ wave. My ankle chains rattled and my steel-tipped stilettos clicked as I bimbo-wiggled my way out the door.

“I may actually be male and straight, but I’m pretty, I’m a good little cock-sucker and I’ve got an incredibly hunky boyfriend,” I thought to myself, and giggled.

“What?” he asked and then laughed with me after I’d written it all out for him.

“So that’s why you got me to drive you all the way over here? To show me off and have some kind of revenge-thing on some beauty-shop girls that were mean to you once?”

I nodded, became embarrassed and felt my ears burn as I blushed. That got him started laughing again, and he said “You’ve really got this whole ‘girl’ thing down, don’t you?”

That was another thing; after that first Monday when my big secret was revealed (and also my heretofore undiscovered talent for fellatio), no more mention of my actual gender was brought up. Mister Smith treated me just like everybody else did, like a somewhat-too-sexy girly-girl. He adopted the crew’s nickname for me, ‘Sweetness’. Being almost formally known by that moniker now (“Take that to Sweetness and have a check made out” “I don’t do the scheduling anymore, go see Sweetness”) was embarrassing, as was the fact that I secretly liked it. Conversely, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to being in his bed at night.

 

I don’t like my new paperweight. Late in the day at the end of my second week, a small, heavy package arrived, addressed to Mister Lee Smith. This was unusual, in that most things came addressed to Smith Contracting and Construction. I presented it to him at his desk. He was on the phone (as usual) but read the return address and gestured that I should stay. I kipped.

He cut the tape on the small box as he talked to the client on the other end of the phone call and then unwrapped a baseball-sized, perfectly clear, perfectly spherical (except for one small flat spot, so it wouldn’t roll away) glass paperweight. Suspended, frozen solidly in the center of the glass ball was the key to my chastity. My eyes started to tear at this cruelty, but I didn’t get time to really pout, as he pulled a large zip-tie out of the bag he now kept in his desk. Thirty seconds later, I was kneeling in front of his chair with my wrists secured together behind me. The becoming-familiar sensation of his cock growing hard in my bobbing mouth had my attention, as did the image of the bound, chastised, ass-dildoed little cocksucker in the mirror. The two little tears under her eyes were actually kind of sexy. So was the fact that Mister Smith was still on the phone, how totally humiliating to the little blowjob-slut under the desk; what she was doing was not important enough to interrupt a phone call. I suspected that my chastity was dripping and I blushed furiously. Some ten minutes later, when I was finished swallowing a big mouthful of Mister Smith’s finest, I got to my wobbly toes. I turned to have the zip-tie cut (he was still on that phone call), which he did and he also gave me the paperweight. Somehow, I knew that it was to remain on my desk; my own special, personal, little humiliation and torment decoration.

 

A couple of days later, another small package arrived at the office. After the last one, I was a little wary when I presented it to Mister Smith. This was reinforced by him smiling that not-very-nice smile as he opened it. Inside was a round, shiny, stainless steel bell, about an inch in diameter. It was sturdily built and had a ring welded onto its top. The other item was a three-foot long leash made of flattened-link chain, again in stainless steel, with a tough, synthetic rubber loop handle. Curiously it did not have the usual spring-loaded snap hook at the end. The last thing in the box was a small plastic bag with a pair of open, inch-diameter stainless rings. I had a really bad feeling about this and started to back out of the office. I was intercepted in mid-exit curtsey,

“Come here, Patty.”

“Please Sir, I don’t need a leash, I’m a good girl!”

I couldn’t believe I just said that.

“A good girl wouldn’t make me tell her to do something twice, Patty.”

I swallowed, kipped, and wiggled my way over to his desk.

“Stand here”

He pointed to a spot right in front of his chair. I knew that spot; I spent a good deal of time kneeling there. I stood, hands behind my back, trying to keep absolutely still as he attached the bell to the leash ring on my chastity. He used pliers to squeeze one of the stainless rings shut and I heard it latch closed with a ‘click’. I shuddered as I realized that there would be no escape from the bell, the rings were permanent-closure.

“Good girl, now turn around and hold up your hair.”

I obeyed. There was another ‘click’ and the leash was permanently attached to the back of my collar.

“Face me.”

I did. He brought the leash over my shoulder and held its handle in front of my lips. Tentatively, I opened my mouth. He put the handle in my mouth, cross-wise like a bit. I held it in my teeth.

“Good girl. Walk back and forth for me until I tell you to stop.”

The bell on my chastity was really loud and swung around like crazy. The leash chain swung back and forth too, hanging down between my big plastic breast forms. As I walked back and forth, I could see myself in the big mirror next to Mister Smiths’ desk, my lipstick-painted mouth pouting sexily around the leash handle. I blushed hotly, deeply embarrassed at my new level of degradation.

“Unless you are gagged or using your mouth for something else, you are to have your leash handle between your teeth at all times.”

I took the handle out of my mouth for just long enough to say “Please sir, why?” while holding up the leash with one hand and pointing to the bell with the other.

“Because you like it, Patty”

He smiled, laid one of the thick zip-ties on his desk and then gestured to the spot in front of his chair. He held the leash handle and tugged at my nipple-locks while I sucked him off, my new bell jingling faintly as I worked. When my hands were free again, I burned with shame as I wiped the bell clean; my chastity had dripped all over it.

The work crews were delighted with my new accessories and I got to enjoy a lot of their attention as I had been assigned to wiggle around, leash held between my teeth, with coffee pots every morning, topping up cups. My previous nickname, ‘Sweetness’ was abandoned and I was now known and addressed as ‘Jingles’, or the formal ‘Jingle-bell’.

I got to enjoy being told “No pets off the leash, Jingles!” about a hundred times. This was almost always accompanied by a swat, squeeze, stroke or pinch on my bottom. I had been ordered to kip when this occurred, as it meant that I had been paid a compliment. The butt area of my pantyhose would actually get dirty from all of their hands, and I had to scrub my behind with a wet washcloth every morning after the crews left. The customers that came to the office were initially shocked by my appearance, but (if they were male) would almost always join in with the jokes and remarks within minutes. I am living proof that a person cannot be embarrassed to death, although I think I’ve been close a few times. I also think that I may have established that a certain amount of blushing can count as a cardio workout. Wiggling all around the property with my clipboard (“Materials are not going to inventory themselves, Jingle-bell”), clenching my leash handle in my teeth with my very loud pussy bell (the crews’ name for it) ringing like some sort of fetish alarm was the most humiliating thing I could imagine. The reality that this was my life, all day, every day, shook me to my core.

 

I went in for my bi-weekly cleanup, ready for a maintenance and equipment adjustment with Melody the fitment officer. She would come and unhook my leash from the row of hooks in the staging area where uniform girls would stand waiting, gagged, with our hands cuffed behind us to waist chains. She would unlock my bondage mittens, trim my thumbnails, strip me down to my skin and wash me from nose to toes, trim my toenails, cane my bottom then fuck it with my big dildo, adjust my nipple torment, re-bondage, dress and gag me, and then send me on my way.

During this time, we’d chat, and I couldn’t wait to hear the next installment of “What my husband made me do while I was in my uniform this weekend” as it was always delicious.

What greeted me on this Monday was even better; Melody was in a punishment uniform! When she saw me get led in she had just finished with the previous girl and wiggled over to get me. Other girls who had already been waiting, standing handcuffed and leashed to an overhead hook for some time, groaned indignantly around their gags.

“Any problem, ladies?” Melody asked, and there was an emphatic shaking of heads. Nobody wanted to annoy a fitment officer, whether or not she wore the same punishment uniform they did.

 

“I like this,” Melody said as she jingled my new bell. “And this, too,” she tugged on my new, permanently-attached leash. “Very nice”

She released me from the handcuffs and gag, and I burst out with questions as I kipped. “Melody, you did it! When? How long did you sign up for? Wow, you look so hot!”

“I hope I haven’t made a huge mistake,” she replied.

I was visually drinking her in as she told me the details; her waist was nicely cinched by her chastity belt, she was in seven-inch stiletto heels, she had a four-inch knee-hobble bar (mine was only two inches) and her tits looked absolutely huge, but weirdly bumpy under her tightly-stretched dress.

“So apparently my husband was talking to my boss about me still being able to work here if I’m wearing a uniform, you remember that I told you she said it’d be no problem? Well, apparently there’s some special deal where staff and corrections officers can get a big discount on the monthly fees, it’s like a quarter of what everybody else pays. The problem is, to get the discount you have to sign up for a ten-year minimum term.”

“Ten years? Melody, that’s crazy, is that what you did?” I asked, astonished and turned-on beyond belief.

She nodded.

“There was some peer pressure from my co-workers, and John kissed me really deeply and stared into my eyes and said ‘Let’s do this, darling’, and before I knew it, I’d signed the paperwork.”

She saw that I couldn’t stop staring at her breasts, and said “Oh, and you haven’t seen this before. It’s the brand-new optional breast bondage for husbands-rights girls. It lets your husband touch your boobs. Wanna’ see?”

I nodded, practically drooling. She smiled and pulled her elastic uniform dress down under her large breasts.

“You still have the old chest plate and posture harness but now your boobs are stuffed into these cages. They still root-cinch you at the bases, they’re still lined with really uncomfortable little points like the plastic breast forms, and they’ve still got the built-in nipple stretchers at the tips. The difference is that now your tits look like a pair of Christmas hams.”

That is just what they looked like, I thought. Her big, soft tits were locked into perfectly spherical, wire cages and her flesh bulged out between the wires giving them a quilted look. She’d finished washing me at this point, and had released my hands from the overhead cuffs.

“Melody, could I… Please?”

“I knew you’d want to, go on,” she smiled mischievously.

I gently ran my fingers all over her caged, taunt tits, then gave her nipple rings the lightest of tugs.

“Fresh!” she said as I grinned and kipped.

“You look amazing, Melody,” I said, much pleased that she hadn’t pulled the top of her dress up. “Is it the ten-year thing that has you worried?”

“No. Well yes, but not really. What’s not as good is that to get the reduced-rate deal you have to sign up for the felony level of restraint, confinement and punishment. I did get a new collar, though.”

“Are… Are you telling me that your collar is…?”

“Welded.” She finished for me and tilted her chin up.

I read the words ‘SLAVE SLUT’ in tall, orange-embossed letters, and saw the welds running up the sides of the collar. My boy parts made a desperate bid for freedom and my hips ground in a circle.

“And there’s more. As soon as they’re delivered, today I think, I’m getting put into a set of eight-inch ankle hobbles just like yours. And just like you, I’ll be getting caned, on my ass, tits and my pussy, every maintenance appointment. Patty-cakes, something is dripping out of your chastity.”

I blushed furiously, and tried to turn away.

“It's okay sweetie. You make me a little hot and bothered, too” she giggled.

Surprised, I smiled and then asked “Are you scared about being caned?”

“Terrified. They caned my ass when they first put me in uniform and just the twelve made me scream my lungs out.”

“I bet your husband is delighted with you though,” I said.

“Yes he is, and that’s another problem,” she said as she was securing me, naked except for my collar (leash still attached) and chastity (bell still attached and really loud), bent over on the ‘fucking and caning’ bench.

“It turns out that when you sign up for ‘Husband’s rights’, you are legally giving up the right to say ‘No’ to him. He can use your mouth or your butt anytime he likes, and you may not deny him.”

I thought about this for a moment as she was greasing up my ass and my freshly-washed anal punisher.

“That’s actually kind of hot, isn’t it?” I asked tentatively.

“I thought so too, until he made me suck off five of his friends that were over watching a football game this weekend. Then he put my gag back in, took out my anal dildo, and fucked me up the ass in front of them while they cheered us on. They called it ‘The halftime show’ and are coming over again for the game next weekend. Open.”

I did so, and Melody pushed my big, long gag into my mouth and throat then locked the strap. I was proud of myself for not screaming as much as I used to when she fucked my ass with the punisher. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to take it quietly? Probably not. I know I won’t ever be able to take having my ass and titties caned with any dignity, I started screaming on the first stripe.

“Patty, you’re dripping again.”

 

Two weeks later I had my own big surprises for Melody. The first was, I was now married.

When I’d appeared for my maintenance, she scolded me “You’re late today, it’s already two in the afternoon. What is this?”

She untied the plastic bag from the front leash ring on my collar.

“Oh, you little slut! A garter-belt and fishnets! There are only a couple of other slutty-sluts in the entire program who wear these with their uniform and you wouldn’t believe me if I told you who they were!”

Yes I would, I thought to myself. Then she spotted the ring on my finger. It was a broad, plain, stainless band with a small leash-ring mounted on it.

“Oh, did someone get engaged? Melody teased as she relieved me of my handcuffs and gag.

I shook my head ‘No’ and said “More than engaged.”

“Wait, what?”

“Mister Smith made me his wife,” I said.

She looked at my face and said “Why do I get the impression that this wasn’t your idea? Besides, I thought you told me that you’re actually straight, despite appearances, and so is your Mister Smith.”

“He is, and I think I am, but I’m not sure if I qualify anymore, I said mournfully.”

“Well spill, what happened?” Melody demanded as she removed my bondage mittens, washed my hands and trimmed my thumbnails. I smiled as I saw that she was now wearing ankle hobble chains like mine. I was a little creeped out when I saw that my thumbs were getting really skinny from the lack of use and I could only barely move them.

“He called me into his office to sign some papers. I did, thinking it was some usual business thing, adding me to some authorized purchaser list with a vendor or something. He told me to make three sets of copies and bring them back. I did, and he handed me two sets of the papers back, along with this,”

I held up my hand to show the ring I now wore.

“One copy of those is for you to read over, get the others out in the mail today,’ he told me.

I thought the ring was just a little gift and that he liked it because it goes with the rest of my uniform. I thanked him for it and then I went and started reading through them. It turned out that I’d just signed a prenuptial agreement, a marriage application, and a ‘Husband’s rights’ form.”

Melody looked somewhere between stunned and amused.

“So you were a good little subby and mailed them all off like you were told?” she asked. “I… I rationalized that it was just so that he could take my gag out for a little while on evenings and weekends. I mean, I knew I’d be on my knees in front of him more, sure, but I thought maybe he’d want to talk sometimes, even just a little bit. Turns out, not so much, my gag only comes out when he wants me to suck his cock.”

Melody laughed in a commiserating way and said “Believe me, I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

She continued, “So you’re really…?”

“Yup. I’m Mrs. Smith, now. We went down to the courthouse and signed everything after the papers came back.”

“Aww, Patty, I could’ve been a bridesmaid!” Melody teased.

“That’s another thing,” I said. “That's why I’m late today. I had to go in front of a judge this morning to get my name changed.”

“So you’re Patty Smith now?” Melody asked.

At this point, she had my hands cuffed up over my head and was washing me down.

“I wish,” I said, ruefully.

She stopped washing me and dropped the wash mitt into the bucket.

“Well, what, then?” she asked, hearing the shame in my voice. I sighed.

“My legal name, from now on is…” I paused.

“Spit it out!” Melody was practically nose to nose with me.

“Jingle Belle Smith.”

I think Melody tried to hold it in, but only lasted for part of a second. She snorted. Then her tightly-caged tits shook, as she tried not to laugh out loud. Then she started giggling, and finally openly laughed, long and loud. I blushed red with embarrassment and shame from top to bottom. Everyone in the large, prisoner-uniform-maintenance room and the waiting area were all staring over at the unusual sound of peals of laughter.

Melody climbed carefully up onto her knees atop the caning/fucking bench at her station, waved her hands and announced loudly “Ladies, we have a newlywed with us today, and she’s just been before the Judge to get her name changed. Those of you who can please give a round of applause for the newly minted Mrs. Jingle Belle Smith.”

I was stuck on display, beet red, high on my toes, hands cuffed well above me, as laughter and applause filled the room, along with high-heeled feet stamping and gagged squeals of mirth from the waiting area. Melody climbed carefully back down, wiggled over and gave my ‘pussy’ bell a shake, resulting in a fresh round of laughter and applause.

Somebody called out, “Did you have to take lessons to learn to play that instrument?”

It went downhill from there. Somebody else suggested I should shake my ass over a donation pot during the holidays, it was mentioned that I could stand in as a reindeer in case one got sick, and somebody asked me to play ‘Carol of the bells’. Well, if you don’t laugh at yourself, the rest of the world will do it for you. I shook my hips good and hard for about five seconds, jingling like crazy while those who could laughed, applauded and whistled. I wondered how I could get to be the one to give Melody her canings.

“So, ‘Jingle Belle’, how’s married life? Is the sex good?” Melody asked as she took me down from the overhead cuffs to secure me onto the caning/fucking bench.

“He’s huge, and he’s horny all the time! I’m so sore.” I lamented, which brought fresh peals of laughter from my tormenter.

“Do you cum?” Melody asked, teasingly.

I was glad I didn’t have to answer as she pushed a new, slightly longer gag into my straining mouth and a little ways down my throat. My eyes watered, and I tried not to gag.

“Oh, I hadn’t told you yet. Your boss, now your husband, put in a request that we not ruin your vocal chords with a full-length deep-throat gag, as he needs you to be able to use the phone for business. So this gag is about as long as you’re going to get, at least for the time being. Better keep that job though, or it’s one of these in your pretty mouth.”

She held up a truly humongous gag that would extend well down the hapless wearer’s throat. As it was, my ‘friend’ Melody cinched my poor waist another quarter inch with a new chastity belt, gave me eight strokes per butt cheek with the cane, and then caned my poor titties for the first time.

My tiny tits were cones that protruded through the openings in my breast plate. They had been pulled into existence by the unending tension put on my nipple rings by the short chains that were fed through the nipple portion of my breast forms and then padlocked. My tits were each the size and shape of an old-fashioned ice cream cone, and existed as my body’s reaction to their bondage and torment. The reinforcing grommets in my nipples were really put to the test by the tension put on the rings that went through them.

Melody expertly delivered four sharp, short strokes with the cane to each of my tits, two on top and two on the underneath of each. I wanted to touch the livid welts, both on my ass and on my poor boobies, but she’d waist-chained and handcuffed me to prevent this.

She’d heard what I’d said about the soreness of my poor anus (just used that morning), and let me off with only a few in-and-out strokes of my anal punishment dildo. Soon I was dressed, new garter belt and fishnet stockings in place, and out the door. I wished that I’d been able to tell her about the conversation that I’d had with the judge that morning.

Earlier that morning, after the initial hearing during which my name was changed, the Judge had asked me to stay and speak with her after her docket was cleared. When she led me into her office, she instructed me to sit and asked me if I was comfortable. She was referring to my hands being cuffed behind my back and held up high by a close-fitting waist chain. It was the standard practice for all uniformed girls to be secured in this manner when in these buildings. She said she might be able to have an officer come and release me. I told her that I was comfortable enough as I was, and that I’d just have to be re-secured to go to my maintenance appointment.

She laughed and said “You know I still get handcuffed and leashed when I arrive? They walk me here to my office and then release me.”

I must’ve looked completely confused, because she said “Oh, right, you don’t know. Here, I’ll disrobe.”

She smiled at her pun as she took off her high-necked Judge’s robe to reveal that she was fully secured in a State punishment uniform. She was beautiful; her round, caged tits were quite large, her waist was tiny, she was absolutely perfect in her Pointe stilettos and she was wearing fishnet stockings held up by an eight-suspender garter belt over her uniform hosiery. My boy parts made a fruitless escape attempt.

“A number of years ago, I wanted to sign out and wear one of the uniforms for a few days so that I’d have an idea what it was I was sentencing so many other women to. It seemed only fair. I was pretty traumatized after the uniform had been fitted and installed on and in me, and I didn’t notice that what I was signing was one of the new-at-the-time ‘Voluntary Wear’ forms, and I certainly didn’t notice the length of wear that I was agreeing to.”

“How long?” I asked.

“I accidentally, or maybe I had some help from that fitment officer, signed up for Indeterminate/Lifetime wear.”

I gawked. She was doing a voluntary life sentence in a public humiliation and punishment uniform with no possibility of release.

“I think I’ve heard of you,” I said. “Does your collar really say…?”

“It does,” she said, then leaned in toward me and raised her chin. “Slutty little masochist, cums when caned” she recited along with me as I read aloud, and we both blushed.

“Conversely,” she said “Your collar’s not accurate at all, is it dear?”

“No. I had a regular job and a life, I would never even have thought about doing prostitution.” I said.

“Hmm. It’s too bad I can’t get that changed out. That’s not why I asked you into my office, though. She paused and then said “I’m aware of your ‘special circumstance’ (she indicated my belled chastity device) and have read your case file. You were offered the option of a voluntary wear term by a certain prosecutor to avoid facing charges of theft, accessory to robbery of a State facility and possession of stolen state property.”

“That’s right, but I didn’t do any of those things. I just bought a used State uniform from somebody I met online.”

I tried not to whine.

“That’s neither here nor there right now” the Judge said then asked me “What number did you write in the ‘Duration of Wear’ section of the Volunteer form?”

“Two years, and that’s another thing,” I started and the Judge held up her hand to stop me.

“There are at least a dozen cases that have come up of women who signed voluntary wear forms for that particular prosecutor and then swear that they never signed up for the severity of discipline or the duration of term on their paperwork. At first it seemed like ‘buyer’s remorse’ on their part, having found out just what uniform wear is really about. But the pattern emerged of sentences that were always suspiciously long, and always two digits, and every case originating from the same prosecutor. So, Mrs. Jingle Belle Smith (the startling first time I was ever addressed as such), would you be willing to sign a sworn statement regarding what happened to you, and testify in court?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “That woman ruined my life.”

“Did she? Not a happy marriage then?”

The judge cocked an eye at me.

“I… I guess I don’t know, I’m still trying to get my head around the idea,” I said lamely.

“Is your husband abusive to you?” she asked.

“Oh no, never,” I said. Often there were spankings and additional bondage, but that was all playful, never mean.

“Is your sex life…?” She asked.

“Well, there’s the thing, see, I’m actually straight (this bought a raised eyebrow in an ‘oh really’ from the Judge), I like girls, and he likes girls, and I look like a girl…”

She interrupted me.

“You look just like a girl, and a pretty one at that. And he uses your pretty little mouth and ass just like he would any other girls’?”

The Judge double-blinked and smirked at me.

“Yes, and he’s a very big man,” I complained, my voice rising shrilly.

I squirmed and pulled at my handcuffs, thinking about the hard fucking I’d gotten earlier that morning. She gave a dirty sounding chuckle, which made me blush. Then she said “I’ll bet you agreed to get married, thinking that he’d use his ‘husband’s rights’ key to take out your gag sometimes on evenings and weekends, didn’t you?”

I couldn’t meet her eyes.

“You thought you’d get to eat meals normally instead of blended up and maybe even have some nice conversations?”

I kept looking down, but I nodded.

“And that’s not how it’s gone has it?”

I shook my head ‘No’.

“You’re still quietly eating your meals through a funnel, but now you also have to put out, anytime and either way he wants.” She chuckled. “I’ve heard this little tale before, believe me. Oh, and are you aware that it’s actually illegal for you to refuse him?”

I nodded.

“He owns your little ass, girly” she smirked as tears filled my eyes.

In a nicer tone she then said “You’ll probably get used to it. My husband’s got the key to my mouth and bottom, and he uses me as he pleases. I’ve actually grown to enjoy his control over me, and if I’m honest, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

She smiled and stroked my face with her hand.

I gave her all my contact information and she said she’d be in touch with me about the case against the corrupt prosecutor, and not to discuss the matter with anyone.

As I was about to leave, she said “I’ve noticed that you haven’t been able to take your eyes off my stockings.”

I nodded, it was true.

“They’re professional dancer-grade, so they’re tough enough to be worn with the uniform for the two-week stretches between maintenance appointments.”

“How did you…?” I asked.

“My girlfriend’s doing a long sentence in a uniform, too. Her husband came up with the idea of making her wear them and made her take some along with her to a maintenance appointment. My husband liked the way she looked, and now I have to wear them too. I didn’t think there was a way to make the State punishment uniform any more slutty-looking and humiliating, but I was wrong. Having one’s stocking tops constantly on display is somehow way worse. I’m even embarrassed when I’m in the middle of a group of other uniform girls.”

I couldn’t help myself. I ground my hips and I think I may have even moaned, softly. “You little slut” the Judge exclaimed “You like it, don’t you?”

I nodded and smiled, embarrassed.

“Well I’m going to make you a very happy little slut then. I happen to have some extra pairs of new stockings and a couple of extra garter belts that I keep here for my maintenance appointments.”

 “Please your Honor, no, I’m sorry. I don’t want to…”

She held up a hand to silence me. She smiled an evil/playful little smile as she said “Too late, Jingle slut. The court hereby orders that you, Jingle Belle Smith, shall henceforth wear fishnet stockings and a garterbelt at all times, in conjunction with, and as part of, your State punishment uniform.”

I was shaking my head and I begged “Oh please your honor, no!”

“Zip it before I make you wear a big orange bow on your head, and another one on your ass,” she smirked, “I’ve already a couple of girls out there modeling that look, and I think it’d be cute on you too.”

I call Mister Smith ‘Master’ now. I said it once, accidentally, and he liked it. I didn’t mean to say it, it just slipped out. Now it’s how I address him, and it’s become how I think of him. Master likes how I look in the fishnet stockings and the garterbelt. I was made to go online and order a supply of both. The Judge was right about wearing them with the uniform; it’s a whole new level of humiliation. Before, I was just another uniform girl. A spectacle to be sure, but there were more girls imprisoned in uniforms just like mine, and undergoing public punishment just like me. Now, I’m like some sort of bonus version of that, extra wanton and slutty.

Master has made it even worse; now, I am to wear lots of slutty make-up and huge earrings. He cut the chain out of a set of handcuffs and attached a bell (the same kind that the crew calls my ‘pussy bell’) to each cuff. These are my ‘bracelets’ and they’re locked on my wrists at all times that I’m not in my armbinder. If for some reason my leash is out of my mouth, my safety-orange painted lips are to be kept in an ‘O’. Further, if I’m on my feet, my hips are to always be in motion, even if I’m standing in place. Obeying is terrible for me, especially when I’m doing things like getting groceries on weekends, or standing there in one of the interminable lines down at the permit office waiting to get something approved, leash clenched between my teeth, ‘pussy’ bell softly jingling as I slowly grind my hips. Oh, the stares and the comments. At least the Judge didn’t follow through with making me wear big orange bows on my head and bottom… yet, that is, she keeps threatening. At least my new ID card looks like me and they screwed up on which sex I actually am.

My ‘honeymoon’ had been less than romantic. Before we’d left the courthouse, new marriage license and Husband’s rights key in hand, on went the new pair of handcuffs (along with the ‘bracelets’ which I already wore) he’d bought for the occasion. No rice was thrown as, hands fastened behind her, the new bride had hustled along on her ballet toes behind her husband back to the truck, her leash clenched in her teeth and her bells jingling frantically. I was carried (over his shoulder) over the office threshold.

At least he locked the door before saying “On your knees Jingle, you’ve got work to do.” I watched the handcuffed, fishnet-stocking clad bondage-slut in the mirror suck her Master’s cock. She was getting really good at it.

“Good girl. Now get up, and get that little ass in the air.”

I was terrified. I’d known this was coming, and had been having nightmares and small panic attacks. I also knew there was absolutely nothing I could do about it, now it was even his legal right to jam that monster cock of his up my little ass anytime he felt like doing so. It would actually be illegal for me to deny him.

“Please Master, be gentle? It’s my first time with the real thing,” I begged curtseying as prettily as I could before quickly turning around, bending over his desk, and getting my bottom up in the air as ordered.

I guess I made a lot of noise as Master removed the punishment dildo from my ass. He paused to stuff my gag in my mouth and lock it. My leash was used to tie off my cuffed wrists very high up my back, up between my shoulder blades. I trembled uncontrollably.

His cock was every bit as big as my anal dildo, and let me tell you, getting actively and energetically fucked by a live cock is a whole lot different that just being occupied by an inert object. The uniformed punishment slut in the mirror looked terrified, her eyes were huge and watering, you could see that the big man’s cock was hurting her. Somehow, that made it even more erotic to watch, as did the fact that she kept her back very arched and her little ass well up in the air for her Master. She kept her pretty submissive posture just right for him, despite all the noise she was making through her nose and gag. I was ashamed for her as I saw that her chastity was dripping, what a little slut!

Some ten or fifteen minutes later, I made my way back to my own desk, wobbling even more than usual. My dildo was locked back in place and it was keeping a nice serving of Master’s cum sealed up my ass. It took me a couple more minutes to realize that if I was going to answer the phone, I’d probably need to get Master to unlock my gag. The reality of my situation, that I was going to be a chastised, bound and punished fuck and suck toy for decades to come was shattering. My cruel little inner voice, now unable to make masochistic demands of me, had taken to heckling.

“How’s that big load of spunk in your slutty little ass feel, slut? Oh, are you a little sore? Get used to it ‘Jingle-Belle’, you’re just property now.”

Melody and the Judge had been correct; the only evening/early morning time my gag was taken out was to make room for Master’s cock. I was feeling kind of low about this one evening as I knelt with my arms behind me in my armbinder and my head tipped way back so the funnel in my gag would be at the right angle to receive my blended-up dinner. We’d gotten back late from the office and Master had whipped up a portion of what we called ‘slut slop’ (this was a nutritionally-balanced, pre-packaged product that was sold specifically for gagged uniform girls to eat) to feed me.

Master noticed the look in my eyes and said “What is it princess? You need some attention?”

I nodded, hoping that he would take my gag out. Instead, he poured the grayish stuff slowly into my funnel. When it was gone, he poured some water after it to clean out my gag-tube. As for the attention he’d mentioned, it turned out that pouring the slut-slop down my funnel constituted foreplay.

Master hooked me up to my enema machine (a newer, electric version which warms the water, so much nicer) to make sure I was nice and clean for him. I keened through my nose as he pulled the dildo out of my ass. He casually lubed me up with a finger full of Vaseline and then fucked me, bent over the kitchen island. He’d taken to bending my mono-gloved arms at the elbow and folding them up my back, leaving me in a reverse-prayer configuration that I couldn’t escape without help. It was uncomfortable, but kept my hands out of the way while he fucked me. I’d been in this position a lot lately, squealing through my nose as my ass was plundered, but this time something was different. He’d never had me on the kitchen island before; it was taller than his desk, and changed the angle that he entered me. Something felt strange. Something felt… Amazing. I realized that he must be hitting my ‘G’ spot, and the sensations were like nothing I’d ever experienced. In moments, I was whipping my hair around, grinding my ass on him, pushing back as he pushed into me, and then it happened… I had a mind-blowing, weird, chastised-slut anal orgasm. I shuddered and writhed and made little ‘Eee! Eee! Eee! noises through my nose. A lot of liquid dripped out of my chastity and onto the floor, narrowly missing my hobble chain. Master finished almost at the same time I did, and chuckled at me as I continued to squirm around, still impaled on him, luxuriating in my post-orgasmic haze.

“You’re sure you’re not gay?” he teased.

I shook my head, no, I was not sure. After I did my best to wipe up my mess off the floor with a rag and the toe of my stiletto, Master wiped me up front and rear and re-inserted my punishment dildo. Ooo, I was little tender back there. Wiggling, jingling and rattling I followed him to where he’d flopped down on the couch and turned on the TV. I knelt down on the floor and stared up at him.

Finally he noticed me and said “What?”

I batted my eyes at him, nuzzled his thick, hairy leg and then rested my head on his thigh. “You know, you’re not a bad little wife, Jingle,” he said and stroked my hair absentmindedly.

I wiggled to show my pleasure at this praise. I just hoped he’d remember to let my arms back down from the reverse-prayer position sometime before we went to bed.

I’ll admit it. After I figured out that I could cum when Master fucked me, I got pretty wanton. I went from ‘unwilling but obligated’ to ‘yes it hurts, but I want it’ and Master was entertained that his little slut wife was begging him for sex multiple times per day. I went online and ordered the French maid outfit I’d been thinking about since the first time I cleaned his house, paying extra for fast shipping.

He surprised me with an announcement only a week later; “I talked to somebody over at the building where they run your uniform program, and they said it’d be no problem to allow you a sabbatical for medical reasons.”

He saw the alarm on my face and laughed.

“Oh right, I didn’t tell you. I’m buying you a nice, big pair of tits to fill out a pair of those titty-cage contraptions. The doctor said F-cup is no problem, and we can pump you up to ‘G’ size if I think it’ll look better”.

I managed to get out a ‘Thank you Master’ and a curtsey, but my stomach was clenched like a fist. It was always somewhere in the back of my mind that one day, my sentence would end. One day, I might be able to choose to go back to normal again. That would be a lot more difficult sporting a huge pair of tits.

My consultation with the doctor was the next day and the surgery was two days after that. It was weird, Master and the doctor talked about me as if I was a car to be repaired, or a pet that needed some work done by the veterinarian. I heard the doctor mention that he was going to put me on a strong regimen of female hormones. This would create an overall softening of my body, making me a little more ‘plush’ like other girls. My butt would get a little more shapely and it would help with making my body accommodate the big implants I was going to get.

Having my breast forms, nipple stretchers and chest plate off was even weirder, I’d gone in like I was there for a maintenance appointment, waited in handcuffs and leash, and then simply been released from my breast forms and chest plate, then sent on my way. Oddly, they told me I needed to take the chest plate with me. I hadn’t walked ten feet before I felt totally self-conscious; I was quite used to having the big breast forms in the lower periphery of my vision, and also having my nipples under tension. I felt as if my breasts had been removed. I didn’t like it. I really didn’t like how I looked without them under my stretchy little inmate dress. I was more than a little conflicted.

Even weirder than having my breast punishment removed was finally being able to touch my little pair of super-sensitive, cone-shaped titties, products of the months of having my poor nipples under tension. Coming out of anesthesia was miserable and the realization that I was wearing the chest plate again was puzzling. I carefully felt around the dressings and found that my tits, their bases constricted by the small openings of the chest plate, were now perfectly round, and only slightly smaller than a pair of softballs. They were firm and taunt. My nipples were hugely erect. My boy parts made about their millionth ill-fated escape attempt from their tiny prison as I lightly traced my fingers around on my new breasts.

My reverie was interrupted by the doctor checking in on me. For almost the first time, he spoke to me directly.

“Ah, you’re finally awake, good. Any problems, nausea, pain?”

I shook my head to indicate ‘No’.

 “Alright then. You’ll be able to go home in a few hours. A nurse will give you a post-surgery care sheet.”

He turned to leave.

“Doctor? Please, why am I wearing my uniform chest plate?” I asked.

“Your new breasts are just at their first size, and the implants haven’t been filled yet. Over the next weeks and months, we’ll be filling them 100cc’s at a time with a syringe that’s inserted into a small, one-way valve just under the skin at the base of each of your breasts. Very soon, they’ll become way too big to be pulled back through your chest-plate’s openings.”

“So… How will I take the chest plate off?” I asked, stupidly.

“You won’t,” he smiled, “You’ll be wearing it from now on. Good day.”

He left the room as my eyes flooded and my lip trembled. The realization sunk in that I was going to be stuck with huge, caged, punished and root-cinched tits forever, with my shoulders strapped well back to show them off! There would be no escape, no reprieve. There was only a lifetime of uncomfortable breast and posture bondage to look forward to. I wondered how bad the prick-point lined cages and nipple stretchers were going to be. I wondered if my tits would be as big as Melody’s, or maybe even bigger? Tears were still coming as my hips ground in an involuntary little circle. I think I was setting some kind of new record for being conflicted.

I was allowed eight weeks of recovery time, enjoying myself immensely (and gazing up at him adoringly, shameless slut) as Master rubbed a special lotion all over my breasts multiple times per day to help the skin with stretching to accommodate the implants. The female hormones were already having an effect, both on my body and my brain. I found myself being extra emotional, and even hornier than before. Physically, I was indeed softening here and there. Even my facial features seemed somehow slightly smoother. I know my butt was definitely getting rounder, and I put on five pounds.

Melody was all over me at my maintenance appointments, petting, squeezing, licking my nipples, and then attaching a pair of cruel little clamps to my nipple rings. It turned out that her husband had attached an identical clamp to each of Melody’s nipple rings with a couple small links of chain and that she was made to wear them during any sexual act. The ‘Husband’s Rights’ style breast-punishment cages had wire stands to hold the wearer’s nipples uncomfortably stretched, allowing her husband to pinch and roll her exposed nipples, or in this case, put clamps on them. With as many blowjobs as Melody was giving her husband’s friends when they came over to watch football, she must have been spending a lot of time with her nipples painfully clamped.

As she told me about this, she said “I immediately begged my husband to make up a second pair for you, these really hurt, and I know what a little pain-slut you are.”

With that she put the clamps on my nipples and I broke into a squealing, writhing, titty-shaking, hip-thrusting pain dance, helpless with my wrists cuffed to the ceiling chain above me.

I was a full ‘F’ cup and still growing (100cc at a time) when the prick-point lined breast cages were put onto me. I loved how they looked and hated how they felt. My huge breasts appeared quilted, although not so much as Melody’s did. My breasts were firmer, and didn’t bulge out between the wires so much. My nipples were pulled out tight and the open stretcher stands were snapped shut over them, behind my big, thick, uniform nipple rings. My clamps dangled in space below my punished teats, and I shuddered to think that now my super-sensitive nipples were never more than an inch from being painfully clamped. The cage’s interior points dug into my perfectly round orbs everywhere, and were really punitive.

 My eyes were tearing as I asked Melody “How long does it take to get used to these?” “You don’t get used to them,” she said. “They’re always going to be awful.”

I whimpered, and stifled a small sob.

“They’re going to be really bad after I use the cane on those great big fun-balls at your next maintenance appointment!” she grinned evilly then locked my gag in place and strapped me down onto the ‘dildo insertion and caning’ bench. Gagged or not, I screamed all the way through the two dozen hard swings she took at my ass, and then moaned through the couple dozen hard thrusts up into it that she performed with my anal punishment dildo. This hurt, but it also made me terribly horny. I was embarrassed when I realized that I was looking forward to what was going to happen when I showed Master my new titty-punishment cages.

Having been released from the bench, panting and wobbly, I was surprised when Melody wrapped a waist chain around my middle and secured my wrists in handcuffs to it behind me. I looked at her quizzically, wasn’t I done with my appointment?

“You have someone waiting to see you,” she explained with a little smile.

She walked me (holding my leash, lest I bolt. Yeah, right!) to the waiting area where punishment uniform girls stood, handcuffed and gagged and short leashed to high hooks. Among them, just as silenced, leashed and bound was my Judge friend, the one I’d spoken to about my case, and who had ordered that my uniform be ‘upgraded’ with fishnet stockings and a garter belt. I was surprised to see her here; I usually went and visited her at her office after my appointment. After I’d confessed (tearily) to doing it the first time, Master had laughingly given me permission to make out with her, and engage in all the heavy petting, spanking, nipple sucking and fondling we cared to do. It was madly frustrating, we could get each other so close but neither of us could cum. This didn’t stop us from trying though, and by the time I’d make it back to the office I’d be positively frantic for Master’s cock.

Melody attached the handle of the Judge’s leash to the front ring of my collar, coffling us together. We were then escorted to her office by a riding-crop wielding guard, the Judge and I jingling and rattling double-time as the crop found spots on our bottoms. Having just taken two dozen with the cane, this caused me to make a great deal of noise, despite my gag.

Delivered to her office and released from our handcuffs and gags, the Judge and I curtseyed deeply and thanked the guard graciously for his time and for the invigorating trot that we’d ‘enjoyed’ getting here. He smiled and departed.

“I like him,” the Judge said. “He’ll occasionally trot me all the way around the building.” “Isn’t that something like a half-mile?” I asked.

“Just over. My butt is on fire from that crop of his by the time he’s finished with me,” she blushed, and then continued “I came to get you today because there’s exciting news about your case.”

She touched a remote control, and a large-screen television above her desk turned on. I reached my hands around her and caressed her full, round, caged tits as she toggled through the various screens, selecting one showing a cell containing two women. The image was startlingly high-definition and I could clearly see that the women were both naked and their hands were secured behind them with handcuffs that were attached to chains dangling down from the ceiling with their wrists held at an awkward and uncomfortable six feet above the floor. Their mouths were occupied by the ‘new-inmate’ style pump gags, which were clearly pumped up to a painfully large size. Their ankles were uncomfortably fettered in handcuffs, allowing them only two-inch steps to try to relieve the discomfort of their strappado position. The handcuffs had deliberately been fastened slightly-too-snugly around their ankles and they were trembling with the strain of staying high up on their toes to relieve the painful pressure the handcuffs were putting on their Achilles tendons. One of the women had clearly been crying as her mascara was streaked all down her face. The other though, looked defiant and angry.

“Is… Is that the prosecutor?” I asked.

“It is.”

“Who’s the other one?” I asked.

“She’s the little co-conspirator who notarized and submitted your documents, knowing full well that they’d been tampered with” the Judge smiled, cattily.

She continued “We quietly collected an enormous amount of evidence against them, video, witness testimony, boxes of paperwork. When they were presented with it, they had no choice but to confess.”

“What’s going to happen to them now?” I asked, trying unsuccessfully to conceal the glee in my voice.

“We offered them a deal,” the Judge said. “Twenty-five years in uniform or prison for little Miss Notary Public and life with no possibility of parole in prison or uniform for the corrupt prosecutor.”

“Life?” I exclaimed.

That seemed a little extreme.

“Her sentence is based on how many years she’d added to women’s sentences, which actually came to multiple lifetimes.”

“Wow! So… What did they choose, prison or punishment uniforms?” I asked.

“They’re being fitted for their uniforms in about an hour, and I knew you’d want to watch,” the Judge smiled, and peeled her uniform dress off over her head.

We spent the next forty-five minutes kissing, licking and petting each other up into boiling sexual cauldrons of frustrated need.

I wasn’t the only one who wanted to watch those particular uniform fittings; almost every other ‘outmate’ whose paperwork they’d tampered with was there as well. The atmosphere was smug with righteous indignation and a sense that karma was a real thing.

The mousey, middle-aged Notary went first. A man stepped forward and said something quietly to the fitment officers, who smiled unpleasantly and nodded. I was surprised to see them slather the permanent hair removal solution on her head as well as the rest of her body. It turned out that the man was her husband, and he’d asked for a fully hairless and humiliated little slave wife. The Judge and Melody and I, all terrible perverts, were standing together and trying to keep our involuntary hip grinding out of sight as the woman was completely depilated and fitted with her restraints.

She screamed through her new gag with horror when all of her hair washed away forever. She screamed when her gag was briefly removed so that her tongue could be pierced, the grommets fitted, and a thick, permanent ring was installed. She screamed, wide-eyed with disbelief as each new piece of her bondage was fitted, and she screamed herself hoarse around her jaw-stretching gag while she was caned. She hit her loudest notes when she was fucked front and rear with large punishment dildos before they were locked in place deep inside her. I smiled at the smallish, base-ball-sized breast cages she was fitted with.

My tightly-caged, oversized new breasts were on the scale of honeydew melons, and while still conflicted about their permanence, I was more than a little proud of them. The Judge touched my arm, making me realize that I was touching the tips of my throbbing nipples through my uniform dress. A couple of the others had noticed and were giggling at me. I am sure that every bit of me turned beet red. Embarrassed or not, I still enjoyed it when the husband stepped forward to show his wife the collar that she would wear; emblazoned on it in thick, safety-orange block letters almost as tall as the collar itself was the word ‘BIMBO’.

She cried and fought hysterically, stumbling in the unfamiliar six-inch stiletto heels as she was frog-marched over to the machine that would carefully cover her neck and head with a formed, heat proof silicon shield while the collar was welded permanently around her throat. She was ultimately put into her tiny, tight, see-through uniform dress, then an armbinder sleeve pulled her forearms tight together behind her. You could see and hear that she’d never been in that position before, and it was excruciating. That done, she was delivered on a short leash to her husband. As she struggled against the new agony of having her forearms welded together behind her, he put a very slutty, safety-orange wig on her head. Oddly, she didn’t struggle against this at all, perhaps thinking it was better than being bald. Her husband then showed her his new ‘Husband’s rights’ key and then patted her meaningfully on her dildo-stuffed, lycra-wrapped ass. She shook her orange-coiffed head ‘NO! NO!’ The horrified look on her gagged face at his cold laughter was priceless. The last I saw of ‘BIMBO’ that day was her comedic effort to ‘heel’ on her new leash with her knee bands linked two inches apart and her ankles only separated by eight inches of chain.

“Watching that never gets old,” confessed the Judge. “Going to be a looong twenty-five years for “Bimbo”, it looked like they had a pretty big stack of unresolved marital issues.”

I added a thought, remembering about the slightly evil smile that had never left her husband’s face during the entire fitting; “As a felon, she can’t work in her previous position anymore.” Melody joined in, “And most ‘stay-at-home’ married outmates are kept gagged by their husbands around the clock.”

“Except to suck cock,” I added.

“Except to suck cock,” the Judge agreed.

“It’s going to be a quiet twenty-five years,” I smiled.

“Especially in about three months, when she’s fitted with her first deep-throat gag” Melody concluded.

We all smiled nastily, and our hips ground. My ‘pussy’ bell jingled softly. It was nice to have friends who understand you.

Watching the corrupt little Notary get fitted into her punishment uniform was a nice appetizer for what came next. The ultra-religious, morally ‘high and mighty’ crooked prosecutor was next. She managed to hold it together while she was chained spread-eagled, hands cuffed to a chain from the ceiling. She glared at the room while she was roughly scrubbed and hosed off. What she hadn’t anticipated was that the guards had decided to make her hairless all over as well, and she threw a violent, struggling, screeching (through her gag) fit as the permanent hair removal solution was applied and rubbed into her scalp along with every inch of the rest of her. Melody had stationed herself behind the Judge and me, and was covertly squeezing and stroking our bottoms. I wondered if my friends were looking forward to getting their asses fucked when they got home as much as I was.

Her piercings came next, and she yowled as her tongue and nipples were pierced and, just like her ‘friend’ before her, the grommets fitted and then thickly ringed.

I was surprised when the fitment guards held her down on the bench and pierced her clit, then (despite frantic, tongue-ring-slurred begging, “Pleath, pleath, No! Don’ put thah on me, pleath!) pulled her most sensitive piece of flesh through a short, tubular device and fitted her bright red, angry nub with a piercing ring that looked somewhat too thick for that location. Its new wearer blubbered incoherently.

“That’s a new thing,” the Judge explained to me, “That little metal cage they just put on her clit will hold it uncomfortably stretched, and it’s lined with small prick-points. It’s supposed to be absolutely awful to wear, especially mashed down under the crotch strap of the chastity belt.”

“Oww” I exclaimed involuntarily, trying to envision what that would feel like.

“I’m going to be finding out just how bad it is when I go in for my next maintenance appointment,” the Judge said. “I got put on the list to get one, and so did my girlfriend.” “So did I,” Melody added in “Because my rotten husband heard about it and called my boss to get me put on the list.”

 “Who’d he hear about it from?” the Judge asked.

 “Me,” said Melody ruefully.

“Careful what you wish for!” I said, smirking, and jumped as I got a sharp pinch on my bottom for it.

I started to ask a question “Your Honor, I…”

“Your Honor?” Melody interrupted, “You two aren’t on a first name basis?”

The Judge scowled at her.

“Ohh,” giggled Melody, “You haven’t told Jingles what your legal name is, have you?”

I shook my head, ‘no’.

“Oh, well, let me formally introduce you then, Jingles, this is…”

“I’ll tell her,” the Judge snapped. “My husband…”

“Your Master, you mean” Melody interrupted.

The Judge glared at smirking Melody, while I made my little ‘o’ with my lips.

“Fine, yes, my Master made me legally change my name to the nickname he called me.” “Which is…?” teased Melody.

“Boopsie.” A few seconds went by.

“That does suit you,” I said in an upbeat and chirpy tone.

“Go suck a dick!” said Boopsie.

 “Definitely, as soon as I get back to work,” I giggled.

“Me too, as soon as he gets home,” added Melody.

“How about you, Boopsie? Are you going to suck a dick too?” I teased.

“Yes,” said Boopsie sullenly, then added “The first second I can get my lips on it, I’m going to, and then I’m going to beg like a little slut to have my ass fucked.”

That got us all giggling and Melody went back to covertly stroking and squeezing our bottoms as we watched the former prosecutor get put further and further into her punishment uniform.

“You’re going to be part of a new, trial program” the lead fitment officer was explaining to the former prosecutor, who was now wearing the shiny uniform tights and looking shocked at the sight of her freshly mitten-encased hands. The mittens were very small and tight, constructed of indestructible hard plastic like the ones I wore. Unlike mine, they encompassed her entire hands, firmly curling and compressing her fingers over her thumbs which were trapped against her palms. She had been informed that the only time the mittens would come off was for a few minutes or so every two weeks for cleaning and nail trimming.

“To decrease aggression amongst male inmates in the State prison, we are going to select life-sentenced and uniformed female felons that have been deemed incorrigible and position them for use inside the male prisons.”

The now bald, pierced and mittened former prosecutor shook her head, wide-eyed and began to shake.

“You will be mounted on a special stand inside the men’s prison for ten hours a day and male prisoners will be able to make use of your mouth or anus to relieve their sexual tensions. There will be a condom and lubricant dispenser mounted to your stand for the male inmate’s hygiene and comfort needs.”

The other two fitment officers installed the prosecutor’s chest plate next, strapping her shoulders way back and roughly pulling her large, soft breasts through the small openings.

“You will wear the ‘Husband’s Rights’ style breast cages so that the male inmates may enjoy squeezing your breasts and pinching your nipples while they use your mouth and ass,” the lead officer explained as the prick-point lined, softball-size cages with their built-in nipple stretchers were installed onto the keening woman’s breasts.

“Due to the severity of your crimes and the duration of your sentence, we’re going to bypass the usual nicety of an adaptation period for the high heels. We’re going to put you straight into the ballet-toe style, and you’ll have to learn as you go,” the officer explained as gray and orange pointe shoes were being fitted and locked onto their hapless wearer.

We all watched breathily as the woman was then secured to the ‘dildo/caning’ bench and enjoyed the show as her hosiery were pulled down and she took two dozen vivid red stripes from the cane. She was fitted with an inflatable gag for this, as the screaming would’ve been intrusive to the proceedings. Next, with her tights back in place, she was ‘fitted’ with a pair of large, bumpy, pussy and ass punishment dildos. She looked like she was having convulsions as she bucked against the straps trying to get away from the hard front and rear fuckings she was taking. It took all three of the officers to get the chastity belt and crotch strap squeezed down tight enough to lock around her, securing the big intruders inside her. Her knee hobbles went on without much fuss, as did her ankle hobbles. I saw that she was only allowed an inch between her knees, and that her ankle chain was only about six inches or so, two inches shorter than the ones that Melody, Boopsie and I wore.

“As I said, you’ll be fastened on a stand, orally servicing and being used anally by male inmates for ten hours a day, usually two at a time,” continued the lead officer. “followed by six hours of parking lot sweeping or grounds raking. We have special fittings on the brooms and rakes to secure them to your mittens. The rest of the day will have you being fed, washed, flushed out, and then secured in an armbinder, in the more demanding ‘back prayer’ position. You will then be kenneled for the night in as small a dog cage as we can squeeze your body into. You will of course remain in back-prayer in your armbinder through each day at the men’s prison, for the duration of your time on the fuck-and-suck stand. You’ll do this six days a week. On Sundays, you will participate in sixteen hours of roadside cleanup as part of a coffle of a dozen other uniformed girls. From today forward, for the rest of your life, you will remain gagged at all times other than when an inmate’s cock is in your mouth. You are now going to be fit with your permanent collar and oral accessibility device. Do you have any last words? This will be the last time you will ever be able to close your mouth or speak.”

The prosecutor’s last words were a rising, pleading scream of “No. Not thah! Oh pleath, NO!”

The lead officer was showing her the collar that she would wear, and its associated device. The collar was emblazoned largely with the word ‘WHORE’, which the officer explained was the name of the special new program that the former prosecutor would be participating in, and that it was the only name that she would ever be addressed by again. The ‘oral accessibility device’ was a painfully large ring gag that was permanently attached to the collar. With it in place, the wearer’s mouth would permanently be held open to its widest, always ready to receive a cock or a silencing gag.

It took all three of the fitment officers to get the collar and gag in place on the frantically struggling and screeching woman, and to get her positioned in the welding machine. Next the armbinder was fitted, and the incoherent, wide-open mouthed protests that came with having her forearms suddenly pressed tight together behind her in the cruel sleeve.

“This has been dipped in a numbing agent,” the lead officer explained as she showed the weeping, drooling, squalling woman a large, long, hollow, penis-shaped deep-throat gag. “Normally, we would allow you some months to work up to wearing a gag of this size and length, but since you saw fit to make dozens of other women wear them via your little ‘falsified document’ hobby, we’re just going to let you learn on the fly.”

The two other officers held the woman as the third pushed the ten-inch long cock into her mouth and down her bulging throat, before securing its locking band in place.

“See? You can still pretty much breathe,” said the lead officer to the silent, bug-eyed, thrashing, snorting woman.

 “Alright, haul her out to the van. We’re dropping her off at the men’s prison in an hour for her first session out there.”

The formerly high-and-mighty prosecutor, now bald and bound and tormented in every worst possible way, was led on a leash through the crowd of women that she’d had falsely imprisoned in the same equipment. Stumbling, shocked, weeping silently and pleading with her eyes, she found no sympathy.

“I’m absolutely soaking wet,” Melody mumbled in our ears. “Does that make me a bad person?”

Boopsie and I shook our heads. I was actually panting a little from what I’d just watched, and Boopsie said “Sploosh” which started Melody and me giggling.

“So, have you decided what you’re going to do now?” Boopsie asked.

“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled. “About what?”

“Didn’t you get the letter?” Melody asked, “Everybody whose case and uniform wear contract were affected by that prosecutor falsifying documents got sent a letter and a new voluntary wear contract, in case you wished to continue your incarceration.”

My blank look made it clear that I had not gotten the letter. Boopsie explained further. “Since your voluntary wear contract was found to be altered, it’s null and void. You could petition for release and be out of your uniform as early as your next maintenance appointment.”

I hadn’t really thought about this possibility, or if I had, I hadn’t internalized it as a real thing. I was shocked at the idea that I could be completely free, out of bondage, able to walk normally, get my chastity key out of that glass paperweight ball, and…

“You’re stuck with the collar though,” said Melody. “And you mentioned that those lovely melon-sized tits of yours can’t fit back through the openings in your chest plate” Boopsie added.

My head was spinning.

She continued “It was in the letter, the uniform program is offering a deal for anyone whose contract has been voided. If you choose to re-submit a voluntary wear form, they will reduce the maintenance cost to what the officers or employees would pay, about a quarter of what you pay now. Also, they will make it retro-active to your original ‘start-of-wear’ date, which will mean that you’re pre-paid for some time to come.”

“Or, you can simply get released and be on your way,” Melody said.

I kissed each of them and excused myself to go get an Uber driver to take me back to the office. I should have been elated, I should have been relieved, I should have been thinking about what I was going to wear once I was out of my punishment uniform, but I wasn’t. I was thinking that Master wouldn’t want me anymore. I was thinking that I would be divorced, out on my own trying to find a new job and a new place to live. I started to cry softly as I arrived back at the office. I didn’t want to lose this, I thought to myself, realizing that I loved it here. I loved my home. I loved that stupid cat that slept on me every night. Mostly though I loved my Master. He was sweet and thoughtful, always wrapping me up with his big, warm coat on the chilly mornings. He was funny, carrying me playfully over his shoulder or under his arm or even twirling me around over his head, which made me giggle and scream. He was also rotten, leashing me to things and then ‘forgetting’ where he’d left me for a while. I’d be forced to wriggle in place, hips moving, bell softly jingling and lips held in an ‘o’ until he came back.

I realized that I was going to miss being held in his arms every night and the waterworks really started. I must’ve been a sight, standing out in front of the building, facing the office door, crying and slowly undulating my hips while I held my leash handle between my teeth. The yard’s public address speaker crackled, and Master’s voice came over it.

“Jingle, quit fooling around and wiggle your little self in here. I’ve been out of coffee for hours.”

That caused me to giggle, interrupting my crying momentarily. I curtseyed, did my involuntary slutty bondage wobble through the door and went to the coffee machine.

Master saw me, a trembling wreck, loading the fresh coffee while performing my obligatory hip-sway and said “Jingle! What the heck? Get in here. What happened?

With all the crying I’d been doing I realized that my eyeliner and make-up must be most of the way to my chin. Sniffling and blowing my nose, I started in on what had happened and what I was thinking about, and…

He interrupted me, “Oh, right, yeah, calm down. A big envelope came for you. I thought it was another bill or something. There was a letter and some terms that sound like a pretty good deal. Here, I filled this out for you, you’ll still have to go get it notarized and take it in.” He slid the small pile of papers and their envelope across the desk to me, I just caught it before it would’ve ended up on the floor. The voluntary wear form was on top and I skimmed over it, noting that Master had signed me up for just about any and every terrible little torment that was available, including the option for ones that they hadn’t come up with yet. What stopped me in place though, was the ‘Duration of wear’ line.

He’d checked off the ‘Lifetime/indeterminate’ box.

My stomach clenched and I made a kind of a wheezing sound.

He glanced up from what he had gone back to doing on his computer and I managed to squeak out “Lifetime, Master?”

“Well yeah, how long did you think we were going to be married?” he replied in the tone of someone pointing out something very obvious.

“Oh. Okay. Coffee.” I managed, got my leash handle back in its place between my teeth, and wiggled out clutching the forms.

I made the coffee, fixed my face, organized my desk, brought Master coffee, showed him my new nipple clamps, got my ass thoroughly fucked, and had two(!) very nice orgasms, despite, or possibly with the aid of my nipples being in new and terrible agony. I was helpless to remove the clamps until Master released my handcuffed wrists from high up on my back where they were held by my leash. This took a good deal of earnest, on-my-knees begging, batting my eyes, sucking on Master’s fingertips and promising to be a very good girl, which we both knew I was going to be anyway.

My post-orgasmic glow slowly faded as I sat, back at my desk, my finally-unclamped nipples stinging and throbbing. I stared at the voluntary wear form. My bottom spasmed and clenched at the punishment dildo that was locked in place up my ass, it always did that after sex. I never thought that Master would tell me that instead of going free, I was to willingly sign up for a lifetime of public humiliation in strict, continuous bondage, torment, and chastity. I realized that as I was contemplating this, I was lightly rubbing the tips of my sore, cruelly stretched nipples. I thought about what my life had descended into; I was a strictly bound, tormented and totally obedient, tiny-waisted, huge-titted sex dolly whose entire existence revolved around pleasing her master in every way she could.

If, for some reason, I was crazy enough to go in front of a notary and sign this document it would mean spending the rest of my life with my toes pointed, locked into ballet-toe, stiletto-heeled shoes with my ankles chained closely together. There would be no escape from the knee-hobbles that made my every step that of a wiggling, bimbo fuck-toy. It would literally be illegal for me to deny my Master (husband) use of my mouth or bottom. My mitten-covered hands, my thumbs held useless across my palms, felt their way over my great big, round tits, their surface a pattern of raised squares due to the tightness of the punishment cages locked onto them. My hands descended to my tiny waist, only nineteen inches around now, and lingered on the wide steel belt that practically cut me in half. I touched the bright orange chastity can that my long-imprisoned boy parts languished in. I ran my long, safety-orange fingernails gently up and down my legs, making them tingle under their fishnet stockings and shiny hosiery, then reached one hand up to trace the welds that ran up the sides of my collar. I blushed as I thought about how it told anyone who read it that I had been a ‘Habitual Prostitute’. A moment passed before I picked up the phone and dialed a number from a card on my desk.

A familiar voice answered, “Hi Jingles, what’s up? Miss me already?”

“Definitely,” I answered and then asked “Hey Boopsie, are you a Notary? You are? Can I come over? I have something I need to sign in front of you. Okay, see you in a bit. Kisses.”

 

And that’s the story of how I found my happy place in the world, and how I had the good luck to realize that despite initial appearances, it was indeed my happy place.

Kisses

Jingle Belle Smith