D.O. Wilson Ch. 03: The Prostitutes

Author's Note:

This is the third story in an ongoing series about Disciplinary Officer Wilson's travels in a totalitarian society in post-apocalyptic southern California. The stories stand alone and can be read in any order but will make more sense read sequentially.

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District 6 was the least populous and most remote of the six towns under the purview of Commissioner Park. Though similar in climate to District 5—dry and hot in the summer, dry and slightly less hot in the winter, with the occasional five-minute rainstorm in January and April and exactly one thunderstorm in July—District 6 could otherwise not have been more different from its sister town. District 5 had revived its citrus groves and some of its farms. District 6 had been resettled as an industrial zone. As my truck rumbled closer, the skyline resolved into factory chimneys and steel high-rises, if they could be called that. Only one was over twenty stories. The buildings clustered together in the center of town, with housing surrounding the town center, giving way to sustenance farming and desert.

The men in this town had taken to the prior Commissioner's new order as if they'd been born to it, and the women had fallen in line out of necessity, but for reasons our scientists could not figure out, over 60% of the adults aged twenty through twenty-five were female, while the age groups immediately older and younger skewed male. No one could figure out what had happened in that five-year period to produce so many more girl babies, but the result was a group of women who had to wait for the next batch of men to come of age before they could marry. It also meant my quarterly visits to District 6 were very, very busy.

I arrived at the courthouse to find Town Manager Dmitriy Markov waiting for me under the awning where I parked my truck. A pleasant breeze blew as I emerged from my truck. It was warmer here in March than in my home district, but quite tolerable, unlike summer when I'd just as soon never leave the climate-controlled environs of my trailer.

"D.O. Wilson," Markov hailed, jogging over to shake my hand as soon as my feet hit the asphalt.

"Mr. Markov. Your fields are looking green and happy." A nice change from my visit in November.

"We had good rains this winter. The farmers report a projected surplus. I've petitioned the Commissioner to expand our agricultural sector."

"Sounds like an excellent plan, Markov." I followed him inside to his office. "What do you have for me this time around?" I asked, eager to get started.

Markov laughed. "You'll like this one," he said, handing me a tablet. "Seems three of the ummarrieds didn't like working as housekeepers and decided to try a new profession."

I raised an eyebrow, then the other, both nearly climbing off my forehead as I scanned Markov's succinct report on the tablet. "'... discovered they could tempt unmarried men—and some of the married ones—into paying them for sexual services in place of their duties as housekeepers and childcare providers,'" I read aloud. "Markov! How long have you known about this?"

"It only came to light last week, unfortunately. One of the accused's sisters learned what they were up to and told her husband, who reported it to me. A quick investigation revealed that the three of them have been at this for two or three months. As far as I know, it's only those three, and quite recent. They're all under lock and key downstairs, of course. Have been since we found out."

"Naturally." Prostitution. Somehow, it always made a resurgence somewhere. "And the men who partook of their services?"

"We know a few names. Honestly, Wilson, I don't know what to do about them."

I tapped the tablet against my fingertips. "I'll speak with the Commissioner, but I suspect he'll recommend a fine, one greater than what they would have paid for a visit to the Home instead."

"That sounds reasonable."

"And, Markov, I suggest you get these single women married off as soon as possible, even if her husband is much older—or younger."

"Don't you worry, Wilson. We have a mass wedding planned for May. There won't be an unmarried woman over twenty-one anywhere in District 6."

"How many?"

"Seventeen!"

"Seventeen? I don't have time for seventeen bridal classes! You should have sent notice. I would have brought another D.O. along."

"I thought maybe you could do a few group classes."

"Group classes? Absolutely not. I'll contact the Commissioner and see if he can send out Jain and a couple of E.O.s next month. But, really, Markov, some warning next time!"

"Sorry, Wilson. You push and push for solutions and then complain when I come up with one. I'm sure it will work out. Anyway, I have some things to attend to, and I'm sure you'd like to get to work."

I should be the one dismissing him, but I did want to move this along. "Fine. I'll let you know what I decide with regard to our little entrepreneurs. Have a good afternoon."

****

I'd known they'd catch us eventually, but I hadn't had any idea what would happen when they did. Being locked up in a jail cell was bad enough, but a guard had told me, smirking, that the Disciplinary Officer was on his way, and the three of us could expect harsh consequences.

It was hardly our fault there weren't any available men to marry, and it wasn't our fault that even the married men liked a little variety. Plus, we would do things they couldn't ask their wives to do.

My sister had confided in me about her bridal class last year, with this same D.O., Wilson. It had sounded unpleasant but not intolerable. Since I'd already lost my virginity to a boy I thought I'd marry, I figured it didn't matter if I continued to use what I had and make some money on the side. If that meant a little extra something at my bridal class when I eventually found a husband, well, it would be worth it for the fun I'd gotten to have. And the pocket money.

I hadn't been able to talk to Grace or Shelly since they'd locked us up, so I'd had to sit here spinning out terrible fantasies of what this D.O. would do to me all by myself.

My cell door opened, and the smirking guard entered. "Hands behind your back," he ordered, not unkindly. I knew there was no sense in resisting, but a spark of defiance—and fear—loaned me the strength to toss him a very insolent glare before turning my back and offering my wrists for the handcuffs. He fastened them just tight enough and walked me up the stairs and out through a back door of the courthouse, where an ominous black trailer was parked under an awning.

"What's that?" I breathed.

"D.O.'s truck. You'll meet him in there. Come on." The guard led me to the trailer and knocked on the side, then nudged me up the three stairs to a door when it swung open.

"Come in, Johanna," I heard a pleasant male voice say, and I stepped through. A blond man in a black Disciplinary Officer's uniform stood just inside. He shut the door behind me and then clasped his hands behind his back, mirroring my stance, and appraised me with friendly blue eyes. "What have you been up to?" he asked.

I cleared my throat. "I assume that's rhetorical?"

He laughed. "Yes. I suppose 'why' would be the better question. Why, Johanna? Of all the activities you could have entertained yourself with, you choose this? The basest, most demeaning, most impure of occupations." He shook his head. "I fear our time together will not be pleasant for you."

"You don't look very upset about it."

"Watch that tongue. I will gag you if I have to." He waited, and when I didn't speak, he nodded in approval. "Good. So, you are an unmarried woman who has engaged in sexual relations. That would be bad enough, as you know, but you then offered yourself to numerous men in exchange for money. There's a good chance no man will ever want you."

"What, um, what are you going to do to me?" I wished my voice wasn't so hoarse.

"Well, a stint in the Home is a given, I think. But we must also make examples of the three of you as a deterrent to any others like you who get it in their heads to corrupt themselves like this."

"Examples?" I gasped. I had figured he'd want to have sex with me, and maybe a beating of some kind. I was no stranger to those. But this did not bode well.

"The consequences for prostitution are quite severe. Your offenses hurt not only yourself but the men to whom you offer your services, their wives, and the women who keep themselves pure and ready for their future husbands. You've made a mockery of our society, Johanna."

"We were just having a little fun."

"Fun. Yes. Well, your fun is over." He made a spinning motion with his finger, and I turned around so he could take off my handcuffs. "I will say this: The more cooperative you are, the easier it will go for you." My wrists came free, and I rubbed them gratefully. "Now, I understand you were the ringleader of your little trio."

"I don't know."

"It was your idea."

"I guess."

"As such, you've been summoned first. We'll go over to the courthouse now, where your compatriots are already waiting. They'll witness your punishment, and then they'll take their turns. Tell me, do you think it's worse to be first, to go in blind, with no idea what's to come, or to watch your friend suffer knowing you will be next?"

"I don't ... I don't know. I think watching would be worse."

"Indeed? Maybe so. Well, rest assured, your punishment will be proportionally harsher."

"What's going to happen to me? I thought we would do it, you know, in here."

"Oh, no. Yours is a public punishment. I'm told quite a large number of residents have gathered to observe. But I imagine quite a few of them have already seen you naked."

"Not that many," I grumbled. He made it sound like I'd fucked half the town!

"I've released your wrists because I believe you'll cooperate, but if I get a whiff of defiance, you'll be restrained. Clear?"

"Yes."

"Good. Come with me." He grasped my arm just above my elbow and led me back outside, where two guards flanked us for the short walk to the courthouse.

Why bother bringing me out here just to take me back inside? Maybe D.O. Wilson hadn't quite decided what to do with me. Inside the building, terror consumed me, and my feet dragged. D.O. Wilson yanked on my arm to keep me moving. We arrived at the main courtroom, more an auditorium than a hall of justice. A judge sat at a high desk at one end of the large room. In the center, a raised platform hosted a tall wooden post with wrist cuffs dangling from the top. A chair sat on one side of the platform, and a table and chair on the other. Several rows of seats lined the sides of the room. Men filled the section to my right, and quite a few women occupied seats to my left. In the middle of the front row, Grace and Shelly had been chained to chairs where they'd have an excellent view of the platform and the post.

D.O. Wilson approached the judge, and as soon as he let go of my arm, my knees gave way. The two guards caught me before I collapsed and hauled me forward to the platform. A stage, really.

"Up you go," one of them said, helping me climb up.

I spotted the Town Manager front and center on the men's side. I scanned the crowd and did not see my father or brother, thankfully. It wouldn't be right for them to see this. I wondered if they'd watch Grace and Shelly's punishments, though.

D.O. Wilson joined me on the stage, and the judge spoke.

"Johanna Chen, you are accused of fornication and prostitution, among other lewd acts. You will be subject to a public punishment in proportion to your crimes. D.O. Wilson, will you read the applicable statute?"

Wilson punched up something on his tablet. "A woman accused of fornication, defined as sexual intercourse with a man prior to her wedding or any sexual contact with a man not her husband if she is married, shall be stripped of her clothing and subject to discipline administered by a Disciplinary Officer consisting of no fewer than fifteen and no greater than thirty lashes with a belt, strap, or tawse, at his discretion, followed by oral, vaginal, or anal penetration with an object of the D.O.'s choosing not to exceed seven inches in length and one-and-one-half inches in diameter. A woman accused of prostitution, defined as offering sexual contact or activity in exchange for money, goods, or favors, shall be put before the Court, consisting of the judge and at least three men and three other women, where she will be stripped of her clothing, bound to the whipping post, and administered no fewer than thirty and no more than fifty lashes with a belt or cane, at the Disciplinary Officer's discretion, followed by penetration of her anus with an object not to exceed eight inches in length and two inches in diameter. At the discretion of the Court, she may then be transported to the Home for Female Rehabilitation to serve a sentence of four weeks under the supervision of the Home's Director and subject to its rules and regulations." Wilson handed the tablet to one of the guards and turned to the judge. "If it pleases the Court, I ask that Your Honor pronounce sentence on this woman."

A murmur rose among the spectators. I caught the words "cane" and "home," among other opinions on what my punishment should be. Fear hollowed out my stomach, and I fell to my knees.

"The accused will stand," the judge ordered.

D.O. Wilson was kind enough to help me up. "Your fear is good. It shows you have remorse," he said quietly.

"It is the opinion of this Court that Johanna Chen be subject to the maximum punishment allowed by law, given the extent of her offenses. She shall be bound to the post, stripped of her clothing, and administered thirty lashes with the belt. The Disciplinary Officer will then penetrate her vaginally. A further fifty lashes with the belt will then be administered, followed by anal penetration before the Court. She will then be transported to the Home for her four-week sentence. Are there any appeals for clemency by an advocate for the accused?"

The room was silent.

"Please," I whispered. Eighty lashes? I couldn't possibly stand it. "Please, no."

"None. Then we shall begin," the judge intoned.

The guards wrestled me to the post, though I was too stunned to resist. They fastened the cuffs around my wrists and adjusted them so that my arms were stretched so high I almost had to stand on tiptoe. They turned me to face outward toward the men's side. D.O. Wilson produced a knife from his pocket. I shied back, but he just sliced my blouse down the front, then the sleeves, and pulled the scraps away from my body. Next, he unzipped my skirt and let it drop to the floor, cut my bra between the cups and at the straps, and bared my breasts to the watching crowd. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, and I squeezed my eyes shut as whoops and cheers rang out from the spectators. D.O. Wilson paused to knead my breasts.

"You're doing well," he murmured. "Continue to cooperate, and this will go smoothly."

He could have just pulled my panties off, but he cut them off instead, for the entertainment value, and then stepped aside to give everyone a good, long look before turning me to face the post. He fastened a strap around my waist to hold me securely against the rough wood.

"Thirty with the belt," Wilson announced.

Without warning or ceremony, the first lash bit into my naked buttocks, drawing out a cry of surprise and pain. I wailed, ashamed of my weakness, of my body on display, of myself. How could I ever face anyone in town again? The second lash punctuated that thought, and I cried out again. The third, the fourth, the fifth, and I knew I wouldn't make it to thirty, much less eighty. My ass already throbbed, each strike of the supple leather leaving fiery stripes that pulsed in time with my heart.

I gripped the chains suspending my wrist cuffs from the top of the post. The lashes fell in a steady rhythm, the judge counting them off in a monotone, just loud enough to be heard over my piteous pleas for mercy. Mercy that would not be granted, I knew.

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen ...

I felt like I should care more about the naked part, but all I could focus on was the sting of the belt, the ache in my buttocks, the strain on my shoulders. This was just cruel.

"You're cruel!" I shouted after number twenty. "How can you do this to a person?"

D.O. Wilson chuckled, but there was no break in the lashes.

"You're all sick! Lining up to watch this! Is this entertaining?" I screeched as twenty-eight, twenty-nine, and thirty came in steady, even strokes.

Thirty.

I sighed with relief. But this was far from over.

"The accused will now be penetrated vaginally," the judge pronounced.

With what? Surely he wasn't going to fuck me here in front of everybody! What was the point of this?

Wilson lowered my wrists so that I could bend my elbows, then crouched to fasten cuffs around my ankles. He coaxed my legs open wider, then hooked the cuffs to chains bolted to the floor, making it impossible for me to close my legs. He caressed my legs all the way up, fingering my vagina, then continuing up my sides to pinch my nipples. I shuddered. With his mouth close to my ear, he murmured, "Would you like it better if I paid you?"

He retreated out of my line of sight and returned with a glass rod longer than his hand and as thick as three of his fingers. It was rounded at one end and shaped at the other to fit comfortably in his fist. Standing beside me, he nudged the rounded end against my vaginal opening.

Oh.

He shoved it into me, the glass hard and unforgiving, the lack of lubrication causing painful friction, until the rounded head bumped my cervix. I squealed and rose up on my toes, trying to escape the intrusion. He pulled it partway out, then pushed it in with as much force as the first time. I gritted my teeth as he continued to fuck me with it, impersonal and detached.

"Look," he said to me, pointing off to my left. I turned my head with some difficulty and saw a screen displaying a closeup of my vagina as the clear glass slid in and out. My face heated. "There's a camera in the floor," he explained. "So everyone can see."

"Will there be video for them to enjoy later?" I spat.

"Yes, of course. Of your anal penetration in a bit, too."

I jerked in my restraints and clenched my buttocks. "You're not really going to do that to me, are you?" I'd never had anal sex, though I'd been asked for it once or twice. Grace had. She'd told me it felt really good, but it was a little painful at first.

"You heard the judge."

"But I've never done that!" I panicked, tried again to rise up off of the object inside me, to avoid his patient, nonstop motion. "Please, you don't understand. I've never done that. You can't!"

"All the more of a deterrent, then, isn't it?" His tone was mild. "You'll have to do it at the Home anyway." He finally removed the glass rod, showed it to me, shiny now with my own juices. "Open your mouth."

"Why?"

He seized my jaw as I asked the question and forced my teeth apart, then slid the object across my tongue. I heard appreciative comments from some of the spectators. "Back to the belt now?"

There was no point in responding. I swallowed, trying to clear the flavor of my vagina from my mouth. I'd had a client or two ask me to blow him after he'd been inside me, but I hadn't ever gotten used to tasting myself.

"Fifty lashes with the belt," the judge said.

"They like it when you scream," Wilson advised, then took up his lashing, striking me hard across the middle of my ass.

I screamed, more in surprise than pain. Another, and another, and I found myself wishing to go back to the penetration, humiliating as that had been, just for the relative lack of pain. Was what we'd done really so bad? I didn't believe it. They just wanted to control us—needed to control us—by hurting and shaming us into submission, in service of the greater good or some such bullshit. Stay pure until your wedding night. Give yourself only to your husband. Obey your husband in all things. Be available to him when he asks.