“Strip!” barked the guard.

“All right! I heard you the first time,” Heather
Stanton replied. As an FBI agent, Stanton made
countless trips to prisons around the United States,
but she was accustomed to more preferential treatment
under the aegis of her gold badge. Today she signed
into the prison visitors’ area as Shelby Taylor, and
she had a role to play.

Stanton normally wore business suits and subtle
cosmetics. In the guise of Shelby Taylor, she wore
platform shoes, bell bottom dungarees, a baby doll t-
shirt, bright lipstick, heavy dark liner around her
blue eyes, and reddish-brown fingernail polish, a
color named “Morrocco” that deserved a less exotic
label like “Mud”. Shelby Taylor would have been the
finest example of trailer trash womanhood imaginable,
if not for the corrections officer in the room with

The CO’s dark hair was combed down flat against her
head. A severe part ran down the middle exposing a
strip of her white scalp like the center line of a
divided highway. Her jowls sagged, but looked almost
high and firm compared to her double chin. She had the
body of someone who had super-sized her McDonald’s
lunch a hundred times in the past year, and a vacant
look in her eyes that indicated despite her
familiarity with the Big Mac, she still had no idea
what the sum of $3.79 and 39 cents was. The strip of
bakelite pinned to her uniform had the name “Drury”
etched into it.

Stanton made a mental note of Drury’s name, and
started to take off her shoes. She looked away from CO
Drury as she unlaced and kicked off the platforms, and
then wiggled out of her blue jeans. Drury glanced at
Stanton’s legs, and her eyes narrowed. Normally Drury
liked to rush this along and make things as unpleasant
as possible on visitors, as she had when she called
this one out of line and into the room for a spot
search, yelling orders in a clipped voice. Now,
though, she thought it might be nice to slow this
sweet thing down, get her to take her time getting

“Wait a second,” Drury said. She pointed to a shiny
band around Stanton’s ankle. “What’s that?”

“Ankle bracelet,” Stanton replied.

“I know that, missy!” Drury snapped. “What’s hangin’
from it? Some kinda contraband?” There was no ‘r’ or
‘d’ in the way Drury pronounced the word, and somehow
an extra syllable slipped in. It sounded like

Stanton mimicked the pronunciation. “It’s not
‘conchabayin’. It’s just a charm.”

“Let me see it,” Drury said, licking her lips. “Put
your foot up on that chair there.”

As Stanton obeyed, Drury moved closer, took hold of
Stanton’s ankle with one pudgy hand, and examined the
heart-shaped charm. Her face stood inches away from
Stanton’s bare knee. Drury looked up from the cheap
piece of jewelry. White cotton panties covered
Stanton’s crotch, and Drury looked them over far
longer than she had examined the charm. She knew she
was going to see it all soon enough, and the sight of
the flimsy underwear and the contours of the mound
underneath only increased her anticipation.