Budget Correction

Late in 2020 I decided to edit this story to correct various mistakes and typos. One correction led to another, and I wound up performing a total renovation. I'm trusting that I've improved it and not spoiled it—but that's up to you! Still, I got a kick out of doing the revision!

For those of you who've made this story one of your favorites: if you're revisiting it I hope you'll enjoy it even more. If not, please let me know. It's still the same story; I've just tried to make it smoother and more fun to read.

Penal systems, especially in the West, are in serious trouble.

Prisons are overcrowded, budgets are overextended, and fatalities among those incarcerated for even minor crimes are a matter of rising concern. Imposition of fines for almost all infractions is the alternative usually proposed, since it simultaneously addresses the budget shortfall.

The obvious downside—further aggravating issues of fairness and equity, can be mitigated, somewhat, by scaling fines to ability to pay, but the problem remains that many of those convicted are hard-pressed to pay anything at all. Taking a tip from the Orient, jurisdictions are experimenting with corporal punishment, and the results so far are encouraging. Our modern techno-centric culture frowns on conventional caning or whipping, favoring a more automated delivery system. Precise punishment appropriate to the crime, whether by impact or with electricity, is our preferred approach.

I can vouch for its efficacy, without a moment's hesitation!

How can I be so sure? If you really want to know, read on...

++++

As you probably guessed, I ran afoul of the law—almost five months ago now. The case was ironclad so in short order the dreadful words 'guilty as charged' rang through the courtroom. The judge informed me I had a choice: a stiff fine, or corporal punishment.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing! Why on earth would the state be willing to give up that revenue? No matter; since I couldn't afford the fine, I elected corporal punishment.

The consent form which arrived in my inbox a few days later had all the usual check boxes: identification; preferred language; several optional questions about ethnicity and background, and some which surprised me—do I have 20:40 vision or better in at least one eye.

Huh? I'm not applying for a driver's license, and they have the DMV records—they should already know the answer to that. Don't rock the boat, I reminded myself. Just answer. 'Yes.'

The next question listed half a dozen drugs to which I must not be allergic. I recognized only two of them, but I've had allergy tests, so I checked them all off. A couple more questions concerning privacy were so heavily couched in legalese I couldn't, or perhaps chose not to puzzle them out. I'm not a very private person—after all, I'm writing this! So, check 'I agree' for those.

The medical history section urged me to answer all the questions as honestly as possible. If a medical emergency occurs I'll receive competent treatment, the lead-in to that section assured me, but unless I complete the entire punishment sequence, I'll have to pay the full fine. Given the daunting sum I'd avoid paying by enduring my CP sentence successfully, and to be fair, my intense curiosity, I decided to accept at face value the form's assertion that for healthy individuals the process, though of course painful, has been certified as safe by medical experts. So I checked 'I understand' and went on to answer the rest of that part's questions 'yes' or 'no' as seemed most likely to get the form accepted. I only fibbed a little—I consider myself pretty healthy!

The final question warned me that I should not drive myself to the correctional facility, as I would not be in any condition to drive home upon release. Instead I was to indicate which nearby bus route I preferred to be taken to after serving my sentence. I finished filling in the form conveniently on-line and clicked 'SUBMIT.'

By the end of the week my punishment date was assigned.

++++

I'd long been curious about the forbidding-looking correctional facility only three miles from my home. It's still fairly small even after the substantial addition I'd watched going up over the last couple of years, and as far as I know even now it has no long-term inmates. I'd always assumed it was merely a holding tank for the various courthouses around.

It must be more than that, I concluded, as I read through my instructions; I would be serving my sentence there. I was ordered to appear between 7:30 and 8 am, and warned that failing to arrive on time could result in arrest and a larger fine—and I'd lose the corporal punishment option.

I reported as instructed and found myself in a shabby and very bureaucratic-looking lobby. Apparently the renovations didn't extend this far, I grumbled to myself, feeling vaguely disappointed. An ancient-looking LED matrix display on the wall showed 'INMATE #3 NEXT' in large red letters.

Inmate? What did I expect? 'NOW SERVING #3'? I was, after all, entering a prison as a convict, even though I expected to leave later in the morning after completing my sentence.

I peered into the retinal scanner screwed to the counter; after a few seconds it beeped and my inmate number replaced 'INMATE #3 NEXT' on the wall. The instant I pressed 'YES' next to 'IS THIS CORRECT?' on the adjacent pad, a door, one in a row of several off to one side, slid smoothly open. The guard, who up to that point simply looked bored, waved me toward the balefully beckoning aperture with a barely suppressed grin.

I stepped in and the door slid closed behind me; it locked with a decisive clunk—and there my journey started, in a small chamber with another door closed in front of me. Though I'm writing over four months later, the memory of the experience which followed is as vivid as if it's happening this very minute.

++++

The tiny space I'm in is ultra-modern and scrupulously clean, in striking contrast to the lobby I just left. A cover opens in the wall beside me. A disembodied voice orders me to remove all my clothes and any jewelry or other adornments and place everything in the exposed bin. Obviously I'm being monitored: as soon as I follow those instructions and finish putting my belongings in the bin the cover closes and another cover opens, revealing a silky-smooth sleeveless white smock. The voice orders me to put my arms through the two smaller holes and slip it over my head. As it settles over my naked torso the lights dim and the door in front of me slides open. I'm ordered to pass through. That door closes behind me too.

What confronts me is frightening—and thrilling!

As my vision adjusts to the near-darkness a blinking red indicator light draws my attention up, up, up to a carriage riding on a track near the high ceiling—the space I've just entered is quite a bit longer, much higher, and with walls and ceiling painted matte black it's far more intimidating, even discounting its industrially sinister furnishings, than the cubicle I was ordered to disrobe in.

As the lighting ramps up my eyes trace the reflections glinting off the steel shaft which descends from the carriage, down, down to about the height of my neck, where my gaze shifts to the rigid rod projecting toward me a little less than the length of my arms. The rod supports a split collar, mirror-smooth polished steel on the outside, black rubber on the inside; the front half is fastened to the rod by means of a quick-release fitting.

The collar's halves hinge together on one side; at the moment they're wide open. The free-swinging rear half sports another quick-release fitting, not presently mated to anything. It doesn't take much imagination: as soon as I'm secured in this collar any attempt at resistance on my part will be futile. I can be transferred from one place to another without ever being released, even for a moment—perhaps I'll even be leading a coffle!

A tube dangling from the bottom of the shaft connects near the floor to a two and a half foot long spreader bar with split ankle shackles at each end, also open. The tube closes them pneumatically? I suppose I'll find out shortly.

Just below the collar rod on the carriage's pole-shaft is a mechanism which appears ready to bind my wrists—extending from a hub-fitting are two springy bands which open into circles facing toward me, large enough circles for my hands to pass through.

I gaze at the apparatus, trembling with excitement mixed with dread. The voice orders me to advance and position myself against the front of the collar while looking straight ahead. The moment I make contact the rear half swings over my back: I hear a sharp click as the two halves lock together around my neck, abruptly terminating any pretence of autonomy. With a soft hiss the cushions inside inflate, caressing me gently, seducing my body, my mind, my very spirit to submit—I'm powerless to refuse the invitation, I acknowledge with an embarrassing flush of arousal.

The collar is a cruel mistress, the loudspeaker warns, albeit worded rather differently. If I fail to comply with instructions I'll receive a shock—I wince as a sample is administered along with a warning that an actual infraction will be treated with considerably elevated severity. Bearing that in mind I obey with corresponding alacrity the order to spread my legs and step into the ankle restraints, which promptly snap shut. They're made of hard material and clatter a bit as I try to move, but they're padded inside and though they fit snugly, they're not especially uncomfortable.

And finally, as I've been anticipating, I'm commanded to pass my hands through the circular bands. As soon as I do, the hub from which they extend winds them in, shrinking the circles securely about my wrists. The bands pass through a one-way clamp as they wind in—once they're tight the hub mechanism pays out a certain amount of freedom without releasing me, allowing my wrists just enough slack to rotate to a less uncomfortable position.

So here I stand, naked under my synthetic white smock, glistening steel surrounding my neck, legs spread wide with my ankles shackled almost three feet apart, arms stretched out in front with my wrists cuffed about even with my shoulders. I struggle a little, gingerly testing my restraints: I feel a warning tingle from the collar.

Reality rushes home. I am truly bound for punishment, not just pretending, not this time. If escape wasn't a viable option before, it is now impossible—I'll soon be suffering as the court has ordered. It is going to happen, whatever it turns out to be. The voice starts again, and reads my sentence.

"You are to be placed in strict punishment bondage. As you are secured in position contacts will be fastened to your body, by means of which you will be made to endure 50 minutes of intense electrical psycho-sexual correction. No impact correction will be administered, nor will any permanent damage to your body be inflicted. You are to be completely exhausted and drained to the maximum practical extent for this punishment duration. If fainting occurs you will be revived and your punishment will resume until the sentence is complete, unless medically contra-indicated. If that occurs, you will have to report again for punishment, or pay the full original fine."

No pro-rating, I think ironically.

Some sentence—six sentences in fact. I reflect on the petty crime I committed, wondering if I've made a foolhardy mistake. Punishment bondage? Am I not already in bondage? 50 minutes—doesn't sound like so much, rings a familiar bell too. Psycho-sexual correction...? I am frightened; I am also extremely aroused, as I have long fantasized about this very situation. I wonder if I still will after the rest of the fantasy has been made all too real. A shiver runs through my body: I'm glad to have the shift over me, even though my legs are shackled so far apart that the slit in the front opens almost up to my crotch—I feel so deliciously exposed, so vulnerable, so mortified to admit how impatient I am to begin serving my sentence. What happens next, I wonder?

I'm forced to wait only a few minutes to find out, but it seems like forever. There's plenty of time for second thoughts, and spread, collared and cuffed as I am, there's absolutely nothing I can do about them!

The horizontal bar holding my collar goes suddenly limp. My ankle spreader softens and with relief I move to ease my position. My wrists are still held fast to the carriage-pole, and my collar remains secure, pressing lightly on my neck.

The voice startles me from my reverie, informing me that I'm about to be transported to the punishment chamber. I receive another sample of the collar's compliance-enforcing capability, more painful than the previous one. Any disobedience, or any speech unless by order, I'm warned, will result in shocks of escalating severity. Although left unsaid, it's clear that the inflatable cushions can choke me if necessary.

The door in front opens and the carriage begins to move, forcing me to follow. Since the two bars are now quite flexible I am able to walk, rather awkwardly. As I pass through the door I observe that the carriage's track is a sort of overhead railway, with paths merging in from several other chambers like the one I just left. They join and the single rail passes down to the end of the corridor where it circles out of sight. There are no attendants visible, and I follow the pole (as if I had a choice!) to the end of the corridor. The carriage makes a broad one-eighty, and I'm at a door labelled 'Punishment Chamber—Inmates Entrance.'

The door slides open momentarily. I'm marched through. I emit an astonished gasp.

I'd assumed I'd be punished alone, but I am to suffer with others—far more economical, obviously!

The punishment chamber is much larger than I was expecting, about eighteen feet wide and twenty five feet long. Seven gleaming stainless steel poles extend downward from the ceiling, lined up about three feet apart down the length of the room. At the far end, poles one and two already host inmates. Pole number three is ready, I realize with a shudder; ready for me, ready to hold my body fast for the duration of my corrective chastising.

How long it will take, I wonder, for all seven of us to be set up, how long until our punishment begins?

As the carriage tows me by my wrists past poles seven through four I size up my first two companions in crime and punishment. The first is a man, the second a woman, another surprise. I wonder if men and women alternate on the poles, and if so, how that ratio can be maintained, given the usual male/female offender ratio.

And I suspect that the bondage I observe is not the final version we will endure—it looks far too comfortable! In a few seconds I arrive at pole three.

++++

The woman and the man are naked; both are attractive. Their ankles are still in the shackles they came in with, but their spreader rods, now attached to fittings at the bottom of their poles, have re-stiffened, once again separating their legs. The bands still circle their wrists, but their arms are now cuffed above the elbows also. Always attentive to detail, I observe some unusual features on the arm-cuffs. In addition to the expected D-ring each cuff has a couple of small protuberances which look an awful lot like mechanic's grease fittings, and a multi-contact socket—bringing to mind the word 'electrical' in my sentence.

The inmates' arm-cuffs are clipped to horizontal rods supported by attachments clamped to the backs of their punishment poles, drawing their elbows back and up, pulling their shoulder blades firmly to their poles. Their wrist-band hubs have paid out enough slack so that their hands are now at their sides, the straps pulling the hubs tight to their bellies, pressing their buttocks to their poles as well. Their collars are mated at the back to fittings which appear to be able to slide slightly up and down their poles, and not surprisingly, they are not speaking, though they are not gagged.

The carriage turns me by my bound wrists to face the front wall. The rod attached to my collar re-stiffens, forcing me backward towards pole three. At the same time my spreader bar stiffens, forcing my legs apart. A hook on a mechanism attached to the bottom of the punishment pole drops over my spreader and latches, preventing me from moving my feet any more. The hose to the carriage-pole disconnects and reels in. I have just one moment to reflect that my companions are naked; I am not.

That doesn't last.

While my carriage was swinging me around to face forward an attendant strode in through another door—he's approaching me now. His job, I presume, is to bind me like my neighbors. He rips apart a Velcro seam in the back of my smock, and opens two more seams at the shoulders. The garment drops away, uncovering my nakedness: I flush with shame.

Punishment pole three's sliding socket telescopes outward to engage with the rear of my collar: I wince again as a shock confirms the completed rear connection. The front collar rod disengages and falls away limply as the rear connection telescopes inward, drawing my neck back. I feel my ankle-spreader tugging—I execute a little two-step as my feet are pulled back, as I'm drawn above and below to the pole.

My wrists are still cuff-banded to the transport carriage, so I must stretch my arms straight out in front or risk choking myself. The attendant buckles upper-arm cuffs, like the ones inmates one and two are wearing, snugly around my out-stretched arms, facing the D-rings downward. Mine have the same grease-fittings and electrical sockets, I can't help but observe.

The attendant clamps an attachment supporting a horizontal bar like the ones I see binding numbers one and two, a bar which I know will shortly immobilize my shoulders, to the back of my punishment pole. Two sockets into which the attendant can insert a cordless power-driver control the bar's position: one moves the bar up and down the pole; the other, in and out—I'm about to discover just how helpless this bar will make me feel.

The carriage-pole telescopes suddenly downward and tilts toward me, forcing my wrists down to my belly, folding my elbows back; by the time I realize my cuffs' D-rings have approached the binding bar behind me the attendant has already trimmed its position to bring the end-clips into alignment and attached them. He cranks the bar back and up—my shoulders and elbows have no choice but to follow. As he continues cranking and my arms go further and further back my front wrist-cuff hub pays out some strap, allowing my wrists to slide around to my sides. But the payout is frugal: the straps on each side tug firmly on the hub, forcing my back to the pole, and in seconds I'm as immobilized as my neighbors.

The carriage-pole detaches from the hub and returns to vertical. The carriage rolls away on its overhead track to the exit, where I suppose I will be marched out later, when my punishment is over. How long will that be from now? What will I feel like then, I wonder.

The payout wasn't quite frugal enough, it turns out. Noticing that my wrists are a little too far back, the attendant inserts his tool into my front hub and winds the bands tighter. Thanks for the personal touch, I think to myself as I squirm against my even more unyielding bonds.

++++

Although this process sounds complicated, the whole thing took all of thirty seconds from when I was first turned front-facing until I was securely bound to the pole, and I reflect that at no time during this transfer have any of my limbs been free. The attendant would have been perfectly safe at every moment were I ten times as strong. The job is suitable for a strong person or a slight one, a man or a woman. If both do it here, I hope the pay is equal (it is, I later learned).