Hot Neon - Segment 01.4

"I appreciate that. I think I just need to sit down for a second," I tell him, reaching out to grab onto his arm. "I feel dizzy."

He helps me over to a soft chair, not seeming to be too concerned about my unclothed butt settling down on the seat. Or my balls, for that matter. He does offer up a slight, apologetic chuckle. "I'm sure you'd rather at least have your underwear, but Intake has to check out all arriving inmates in order to make sure none are carrying contraband. That's sort of the protocol. And, well, there aren't any female nurses available."

"Yeah. Okay... so, do you know if I'm just going to be stuck among the other women in there, or what?"

The thought of being prodded and checked by the guards isn't exactly making my dick flop around excitedly. Nor the idea of a lot of girls who haven't so much as seen a swinging piece in years committing ravenous assaults on the daily. I like to pork as much as the next gal, but even I have got to take a little time off every once in a while.

"Oh, I don't think that would be a wise idea. Women of your, ah, disposition tend to attract attention. Some might say unwanted attention, at least among a general female population. There are some things you should keep private, no? So I suspect you'll probably be put in I-Block, which is specifically for women with genital modifications of the same type as yours."

My lips purse a little. I'm not sure if I like the prospects better, considering how likely it is that, they, too, will be far too enthusiastic about seeing a fresh, somewhat cute new girl on the block.

In fact, that's probably a lot worse for the sanctity of my... well, I know a lot of the places these girls would probably prefer to stick their business, and I don't exactly want to think too much about it, if I can help it.

I sigh, and gently smack at my thighs. Another long drink of water, crisp and cool, seemingly refreshing my entire body. I blink away the last of the fuzziness from my brain. I look back up at the man standing beside me.

His expression, what isn't masked, is gentle, encouraging. "You're doing fine, Miss... uh..."

"Pepper is fine. I suppose I should go, you know, face the gallows now, but thanks a lot for helping me. If you could give me directions to wherever I'm supposed to go, I can walk there without getting lost. Or, uh, I imagine you've probably got to escort me there so my naked ass doesn't take off and try to run for freedom somewhere?"

He nods. "You got that right. Can't have you slipping medical watch, and it seems like you're not very interested in causing me a headache. I suppose if you're feeling up for it, I'll take you up for processing."

***

"Next inmate, front and center! Move it! The rest of you, back!" A guard's voice echoes through the corridor. I turn to see a tall woman in her midthirties, maybe older. She's thin, wearing a tight gray jumpsuit, her arms folded across her chest. No nonsense. Possibly negative nonsense.

The electronically-sealed shackles on my ankles and wrists clank together loudly as I shuffle forward. Behind us, several more prisoners stand waiting. As soon as I'm through the heavy doors, they clack shut with a resounding noise, and I'm under bright spotlights, flanked by two burly, heavily-augged women who seem built more like fucking tanks than people.

One of them holds a clipboard. Augmented eyes, an unsettling sheen of black. Vivid, blonde ponytail. Smoothed uniform. Muscles on muscles, all brawn. This is, decidedly, not a woman to be fucked with, I can tell that much already. Officer Caden, so says that tag sewn onto the deep black uniform top. "Name?"

"Pepper," I answer. And then, I catch the crackling end of a shock baton, directly on my bare backside. My eyes widen in surprise, and then I yelp in pain.

"I didn't ask for your street name, bitch. I asked for your real goddamn name!" she yells at me. Crack. The baton sparks between my thighs, hitting me squarely in the cock.

I grit my teeth, and the floppy appendage of Little Pepper wilts under the assault, as though wincing away from the blow. "Ow! Fuck, you hit hard."

She laughs, cruel and humorless. "It ain't gonna stop 'til you get processed." Her fingers slip beneath my chin, turning my head toward her. "Name, now, or I'll spark up those nuts of yours next. What'll it be, convict?"

I swallow down a lump of fear and shame. "Marie Victoria Burroughs."

This damned warhorse of a guard gives me a cold smile. "Well, Marie Victoria Burroughs. You're coming along nicely, I see. Syndicate affiliation and position?"

I gulp. "Blank Card. Contract worker." I don't think I have a position per se, but I feel like she'd take that as an excuse to beat my brains out, so I stick with that one.

"So, you're not really here to cause trouble, huh? Good." She looks over my paperwork. "And this says you're not quite twenty yet, no major augs. Two reactive tattoos, a few piercings, hair pigmentation... hmm. And, let's not forget, genital modifications. You'll be an I-Block girl, that's for sure."

I shift from one foot to the other, feeling uncomfortable. She steps forward, easily a foot and a half taller than me, and with a few decided taps on the keypads, releases my shackles. It's a small comfort to be freed from restraints, but a comfort nonetheless, and I rub my achy wrists for just a moment before her voice makes me tense up all over again.

"All right, convict. Time for the fun part. Turn, and put your hands on the wall behind you, nice and slow."

As soon as I comply, those powerful mitts of hers grab hold of my wrists, and she pulls my arms apart more, her knee pushing in, spreading my legs wider. I squirm slightly, and she paws at my breasts with her free hand. I grimace, trying to keep from showing any sign of discomfort, because I know exactly where she's going.

"All right, nothing of concern here. Open your mouth. Gotta be sure there's no contraband hidden inside."

I draw in a breath, and she reaches up to stuff two fingers into my mouth, brushing the inside of my cheek, probing around. This whole experience feels thoroughly violating already. I suck in air sharply when she pushes her fingers beneath my tongue, and wiggle my hips to avoid being pressed against the wall.

When she pulls her hand back, she lifts up the corner of my lip, peering closely at my teeth. Then she takes another step back, letting my arms fall again.

"There. Now, let's go a little further down," she tells me, and I feel her fingers slide down my front, down towards my groin. They find my pubic mound, and I shiver involuntarily. Her fingers wrap around the root of my penis, squeezing firmly.

This is not a fun touch. Actually, having her almost crushing my soft meat is a very, very bad feeling.

"What have we got here?" she murmurs, her fingers stroking up and down.

My thighs tense. At least if she's trying to get me to firm up, there's basically no chance of that.

"Nothing important," I squeak out, to which she nods her cold approval, with a heartless little smile.

"Oh, nothing of concern?" she adds. "Nothing else?" she asks, her tone bored and clinical. "No drugs? No implants? Anything that might be of importance to mention during your term? Now would be the time to get that all out in the open, rather than later on."

Her grip is painful. I try not to whimper as I shake my head quickly, unable to speak much with the powerful, clutching pressure on my dick.

"Good, good," she intones, almost bored-sounding as she cups and rolls my balls in her palm. "Now, if you'll just bend down a bit, that'd be great."

My heart is pounding now, and I feel sweat running down my spine. I lean forward as I'm able, my bare ass sticking out towards her, and she lets off my junk to reach out and put her palms on my buns.

She grabs both cheeks simultaneously, pulling my buttcheeks open, exposing my asshole. A small sound escapes my throat. She applies a little bit of lubricant to a finger, and... well, I think I know where this is headed.

"Well, that's quite a cute little pink starfish we've got here." She presses her fingertips gently against my anus, opening it wide. With one quick motion, she sticks her finger into my rectum. Ouch. I wasn't ready for that.

"Hmm. Bet you'll be making some friends in I-Block with a backdoor like that. Nothing hiding up here either." She slides her middle finger deeper into my body until it meets resistance, and then digs in a little harder. My knees buckle as her digit plumbs around my insides, exploring every nook and cranny.

On the one hand, I only discovered recently that I'm sort of into that kind of thing. But not like this. Not with a guard who could snap me like a twig.

I tremble and groan, pucker clutching almost reluctantly, as she eases her finger slowly out of me. I can tell by the way her eyes are trained on my face that she's enjoying herself too much, bullying and breaking in a new prisoner, putting her in place and reminding her who's boss.

A last, resounding spank across my buttocks sends chills through my body. "Right then. All clean. Exit to the left and you will be assigned your uniform. Make sure to stay within sight of the guards or you'll get a real beating, understand?" she offers up, careless, as she turns to rinse her hands in the sink along the wall.

Not a bit of me seems to be left inviolate; my jaw is sore from her shoving her fingers under my tongue, my crotch aches from her rough manhandling, and my poor little rear end is throbbing with pain. It feels like a thousand tiny pinpricks of fire. She definitely did not have to go that deep in my butt, not with those hefty digits of hers. No, that little extra was just to screw with me, to make me hurt that little bit more.

A horrible ordeal to go through, I won't admit to any less than that. But still, I have to admit: I'm glad to be done with this. Somehow, I doubt it's the worst thing that'll happen to me here, but it's better to at least have that behind me and to get on to other, likely equally-unpleasant things that lie ahead. At least I'll get to cover up my nakedness soon.

***

The uniform they hand over to me is standard issue for I-Block: a no-frills, button-up top and baggy, one-size-fits-most pants, sweats almost, colored a highly visible shade of orange. The fabric is thin, but durable enough.

Basic, laceless sneakers and plain white socks, bra, and panties complete the outfit. The underwear is cotton, which is fine for everyday use but not so great when the weather heats up

Cheap, vaguely smooth, and probably stifling in the heat. I don't expect the greatest insulation or aircon in the cell block, so that's something to look forward to, no doubt.

There isn't even an undershirt included, which is irritating, because I do like to wear them. Guess I can't exactly count on luxuries in a prison facility.

They also give me a set of plastic slip-on sandals, presumably to keep my feet dry during showers.

When I'm dressed and ready for processing, I'm led off into another room, where I get some full body photographs taken from the front and side. One of the women in charge checks over the prints, checking to make sure that they're clear and in focus, before giving her approval.

Without further word, she points me to the door and waves me away to where my armed escort awaits, ready to take me to the cell block where I'll be spending the next few days. That assumes, of course, that my syndicate comes through and gets me out of here soon.

I follow the two guards down the hallway, trying hard to ignore the way they eye me up and down. Their expressions remain blank, but there's something predatory about their gazes. I knew I wasn't going to like this place anyway, but the looks these two are throwing at me aren't doing anything to ease my nerves.

The hallways are wide, long, worryingly quiet, so as to make every footstep reverberate for what feels like miles. The air is stale, cold, and smells of disinfectants and bleach.

The evening sun, casting through the reinforced holo-windows, shows none of the city skyline I'm so used to. Hoverbuses warble by every now and again, coming and going, bringing in new waves of prisoners or packing them in for transit to other facilities. They pass by without slowing down. No one looks outside, and no one says anything.

My pulse quickens as I trace our path through the labyrinthine structure, signage helpfully pointing us to the various parts of the facility. Library, upstairs left. Commissary, downstairs right. Cafeteria, straight ahead. Medical center, third floor left. Workroom, second floor right. If I broke free, I'm pretty certain I'd be hopelessly lost.

I look down at the inmate number emblazoned across the front of my top: SCCF-1145-0055. The lettering is neat, crisp, and bold. I try not to wince when I read it. For all intents and purposes, I'm just a number, like everyone else here. A number, and nothing more than property. And if that makes me feel a bit sick inside, well... I guess I should've expected that.

There's a security station outside of I-Block, where a woman sits behind a desk, handheld scanner in her lap, as she keeps herself occupied playing a game on her comm. She gives us a bored glance, only sitting up a bit more when the guards approach.

"Hm. New one today?" she concludes, aiming the scanner at my face. A grid of green lasers crisscross my face, blaring right into my eyes in a sharp, thoroughly disorienting light show. Then we wait while she runs the scan. Three chipper beeps signal that everything's good, and the woman nods once.

"Go on in," she advises, tapping a button on her console and waving us past. The hydraulic door whirrs, taking several painfully-long seconds to open. My heart sinks. I suppose it begins to click, to settle in, that I'm going into a cell, into a small space designed specifically for confinement, surrounded by people who will probably want to hurt me. Not to mention, I have no idea how long I'm going to be stuck in here.

I feel the painful weight of trepidation as I stare down the tiled hallway lined with cells, stretching four tiers up and bustling with activity, murmured conversations, rapid whispers.

It's like gazing into the yawning mouth of the void, the black hole that sucks you in and never lets go. It's already too easy to imagine that my help, my salvation, is simply never going to come. I've got nothing left to hold on to, nothing left to fight for. Nothing.

I've done a lot of dumb shit in my short span of years, and luckily never got caught. More recently, I've done some pretty bad things to line my pockets. Still, I never thought I'd be locked up like this. In prison. Fucking prison.

I can't will my feet to take a step forward, even with the guards prodding at me. It's like I'm frozen in place, in that moment before, when all hope has gone and all legs buckle under the weight of despair.

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to do better. To work harder. To succeed. Now? What the fuck am I supposed to do with myself now? How many times did I think that I was finally going to get out of this fucking life? When was the last time I felt any real sense of freedom?

I don't know. Maybe I'll never know.