Her Last Resort

Chapter 2. Detention

The clambering noise of the cell block woke her up to an even more stifling heat as morning sun blazed through the tiny window. She had no idea what time it was. They had taken away her watch, jewelry and shoes. Her expensive Gucci shoes with the three inch heels! She hated to put her bare feet on this nasty floor that was undoubtedly a festering carpet of foot fungus, but she had no choice. She had to use the toilet.

To her horror, she realized she would be in full view of any guard who happened by and looked in. But there was no help for it. Unwilling to let her body touch the incredibly filthy rim of the toilet, she spread her feet wide for balance and hovered just above it as she peed. Sure enough, guards emerged from nowhere to stare in at her through the cell bars, leering at the view between her legs. Torn between offering them this supremely lewd show or sitting on the sickening layers of dried piss and shit that coated the toilet rim (which would allow her to close her thighs), she opted to remain as she was, in her wide open, cunt agape straddle.

Worse than the debasement of having to urinate in public was the dragging of time in which Kevin did not show up to get her released. Where the hell was he? How hard can it be to call a friend or her mother to wire an emergency loan of four lousy grand? She'd only known Kevin for a few months, but he seemed responsible enough. Why the fuck would he leave his credit card behind on a trip out of the country? Could a man with such great looks — black hair, blue eyes, cleft chin, rock muscles, ramrod cock, the whole nine yards — be such a nitwit? Or — the thought added a hot dash of anger to her indignation — could he have been lying? Could it be that he had a card and just didn't want to use it? After all, he'd made no protest when they cuffed her and dragged her off. What was going on?

Many more hours dragged by. The Matron returned with a cup of something to drink. It tasted dreadful! She refused to drink it. The Matron looked sad, but not surprised. She snapped her fingers and the two giant guards appeared in her cell, one with a device which he identified as a cattle prod. He demonstrated it on her bare thigh. They picked her up off the floor and assured her they would not use it again if she would be a good girl and drink the stuff in the cup. She did. Hurriedly!

She spent the next several hours periodically rushing to the disgusting toilet to gush out every trace of last night's expensive meal in torrents of thick, chunky, liquified shit — each trip observed by a laughing, hooting audience. Eventually her intestinal distress calmed, but her anus had grown very sore. There was no toilet paper in the cell (and the Matron merely smiled when she asked for some) so she had been forced to use a corner of her own skirt to wipe herself. It was not only disgusting but totally inadequate.

More hours crawled by. The cell grew dark. No less hot, humid and dank, but totally dark save for the low wattage naked bulb far down the corridor outside the bars of her cell door. She crawled on to the hard plastic pallette and wept herself to sleep for a second night as unseen vermin tippytoed around and over her.

“I demand to make a phone call!” she demanded Friday morning when the Matron brought her another cup of the noxious drink.

“Of course, dear. Drink up first.”

“Do I have to?” she whined. “I haven't eaten real food since I got here and this stuff gives me diarrhea. Please don't make me.”

“This is good for you, dear. Cleans you out. This is the last time you have to drink it, and then you'll be ready. You don't want to make these gentlemen use the cattle prod, do you, hon?”

“No,” she moaned, and choked the wretched stuff down. “Now, please, take me to a phone. Please?”

“Certainly, dear. Do you have money? It's a pay phone.”

“No! Of course I don't. They took away my purse.”

“Well, then, the phone won't do you any good, hon.”

“No! I have a right . . .” Caitlyn began to shout, but stopped quickly as the burly man with the cattle prod moved toward her. Instead, she dissolved into the safer stratagem of weeping.

“That's all right, dear,” the Matron said, patting her head. “It won't be long now. You get yourself all nice and cleaned out. We'll be back in a while to give you a nice bath.”

Caitlyn had hardly been alone again before her bowels began calling her back to the toilet. As always, the male guards invariably showed up to watch and make lascivious remarks as she hovered there, skirt in hand as a wipe rag, spewing a soupy mess into the dirty bowl. This time there were no chunks; just slightly tinted watery effluent.

Her growing hunger and thirst began to consume all her thoughts. She looked longingly at the water in the bowl. Why were they doing this to her? How could they treat an American citizen so cruelly who had done nothing worse than hand over to their damned casino every penny she owned plus everything she could borrow? And where was fucking Kevin?!!

More hours. She listened to the prisoners down the block as they sang island songs interspersed with American rap lyrics chanted to rhythmic clapping. They laughed and exchanged dirty jokes across the aisle, apparently oblivious to the ferocious heat and lung-clogging humidity. In the farther distance she could hear a radio with rock music, probably coming from the head jailer's office, she decided, the place where she had not been dragged and raped (yet).

Finally they came for her.

The door to the cell block opened with a clang. She heard the voice of the Matron and the clatter of several feet. Her heart leaped with hope! Surely it was Kevin with the money to pay off her debt and get her out of here. She was at once overjoyed at the prospect of freedom and pissed off at Kevin for letting her rot so long in this moldy, superheated hellhole where vermin ran over her at night and the guards gawked while she shit and she had nothing to eat or drink but that goddawful chemical concoction that made her shit her guts out! And not a peep of encouragement from him through the whole ordeal!

Then things took an even more ominous turn.

For one thing the other prisoners in the block had gone utterly silent. That had never happened before.

The Matron was the first to appear at the bars of her cell. Closely behind were the two burly men, one holding the cattle prod, the other a pair of handcuffs. Following them and forming an arc behind them in the corridor were four men she had never seen before: an older man with grey temples and tiny gold-framed glasses highlighting his dark face; a short, fat man with several chins and hands constantly kneading each other; a tall thin man with sad, sleepy eyes and clothes sized to expect another seventy pounds; and a brawny young man in a muscle shirt whose skin was so black is shone blue when the light struck him at a certain angle.

The Matron unlocked the cell door and stepped in, followed by the two burly men.

“Hold out your hands, dear,” the Matron said in her soothing, motherly tone.

With a leery glance at the cattle prod, Caitlyn did as she was instructed. The handcuffs were snapped on to her small wrists and squeezed tight. At least her hands were in front of her this time, far more comfortable than behind her back. She forced herself to look on the bright side: there was probably a rule here, as in the States, that prisoners must be handcuffed during transit. That meant they were planning to take her somewhere. She prayed to the God she didn't believe in that it would be to where Kevin was waiting with the money to obtain her release.

A terrible thought occurred to her. What if they had missed their flight back? How long would she be stuck on this horrible island? She vowed she would never set foot out of her hotel room again until it was time to board whatever flight they could arrange to get the hell out of here.

“Come along, dear,” the Matron was saying. “We have to clean you up for your trial.”

“My trial?!” Caitlyn shouted, her image of rescue shattering.

“It's just a formality, dear. Don't worry your pretty head about it.”

The man with the cattle prod grabbed her left elbow and propelled her forward through the cell door. She didn't resist.

“Where is Kevin?” Caitlyn whined to the Matron's back as she was escorted down the eerily silent aisle. There were no faces watching this procession, she noticed. “This is a terrible mistake,” she pleaded. “Kevin will get the money and straighten it all out.”

The Matron dropped back and fell in at her right side. “Kevin? Is he that handsome white boy with the black hair and blue eyes?”

“Yes!” Caitlyn answered, nearly weeping with joy. At last she was getting somewhere!

“I should have known,” the Matron said with a sidelong grin. “He brings in the most beautiful ones. They just can't resist him. And I don't blame them. If I was young and blonde, I'd volunteer. It'd be worth it for a month or two in the sack with him. You're a lucky girl.”

Caitlyn had no idea what the woman was talking about, so she clarified the situation. “He's gonna borrow the money and get me outta this so I can go home!”

The Matron gave her an appraising look. “You really don't know, do you honey? You ain't got a clue.”

Dark terror was crowding out Caitlyn's flagging hopes. She decided the best way to sort out these scary obfuscations was to yell. “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!”

“Why do you think you're here, hon?”

“I'm here because I won an essay contest. I wish to God I had lost it, now!”

“Ain't no way you could have lost it, hon.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who told you about the contest, dear?”

“Kevin. It was on the internet.”

“And how hard do you think it is to put up a site on the internet, dear?”

“What are you saying?”

“Any fool trolling for innocent girls to lure to a tropical paradise can put an essay contest on the web, hon. Didn't you know that?”

“But it was real! They paid our way here and for the honeymoon suite and everything!”

“Course they did, hon. We always do.”

We? This had to be a misunderstanding. This kindly and rather sizable black woman could not be saying that her Kevin had tricked her into coming to this place with some kind of fake contest. Not the Kevin who for these two months has filled her days with romance, and her nights with outlandish orgasms (and often the days as well). That would be too cruel a twist. Before she could recover enough aplomb to point out this discrepancy, they had arrived at an ugly steel door which the Matron unlocked with a large key and pushed open.

“In you go, dear.”

Caitlyn was propelled through the doorway by one of the two burly men. It was a shower room with an ordinary cement floor centered by a drain. Six ordinary showerheads poked out of the far wall and an ordinary steel sink containing a bucket and a brush stood against another wall. Oddly, a hose tipped with a spray nozzle, the type used for lawns and gardens, hung from the ceiling a few feet from the center drain. In addition, two chains eight or ten feet apart hung down from the ceiling on either side of the center drain, each ending near the floor with one side of a pair of handcuffs. She supposed they were there to restrain prisoners while the door to the room was unlocked.

The burly guard who had put her in handcuffs now used his key to unlock and remove them. At the same time she heard the steel door clank shut behind her. She heard the snick of the dead bolt sliding into place.

“Now, dear, it's time for your bath,” the Matron said. “Take off your clothes.”

Caitlyn was stunned. Could she have heard right? The two male guards were still standing right there! She glanced behind her; the other four men in her entourage were lined up in front of the door watching. No one showed the least inclination to leave the room.

“Hurry now, dear. We're on a schedule,” the kindly black woman urged.

“But . . . but . . . they're still here,” Caitlyn sputtered with an eye roll toward her audience.

“Yes, hon. They're here to observe for their report. Hurry, now.”

“Report? What report?”

“For the trial, dear.”

“But I can't get undressed in front of six strange men!”

“Sure you can, hon. All our girls do. It's required by law. Of course, if you prefer, these two gentlemen . . .” she nodded toward her guards, “. . . will be happy to cut your clothes off for you. They actually enjoy that.” The guard with the handcuffs slipped a switchblade out of his pocket and snapped it open so Caitlyn could admire its razor sharp edge. “But it would be a shame to waste pretty clothes like yours. There are lots of girls on this island who would love to have them. They'd be snapped right up at our next church rummage sale.”

Caitlyn was beginning to feel faint. She didn't like the implications she was catching in the woman's somewhat abstruse references. She couldn't bear the thought of stripping naked in front of a bunch of leering men. But she didn't like the way this smiling burly guard was holding that evil knife, and these were expensive clothes — the mostly cotton, scoop-neck halter with the tropical floral print, the cute red mini with its tantalizing side slit, and her best Victoria's Secret black lace bra and thong — even though everything was soiled and smelly at this point. “Please,” she whimpered in a last ditch attempt to salvage what was left of her badly stressed dignity, “can't I have privacy for my shower? I mean with you here, of course.”

A harder edge crept into the Matron's voice. “No. I told you, dear, the law requires that these gentlemen be present. It's for your own good. You don't want to be classified as sub-standard, do you?”

Caitlyn had not the foggiest idea what she was talking about, but “sub-standard” did not sound like a good category to be in. “No,” she admitted in a barely audible, defeated voice.

“So start undressing, dear, or we'll slice them off. Right now!”

An image popped up in her mind of this huge man, in an excess of enthusiasm, accidentally slicing off a breast. It pushed her over the edge into the start of her very first public strip tease. She pulled the frail little halter up over her head and handed it to the Matron. That was easy. She unsnapped the top of her mini skirt, pushed it down her long legs and stepped out of it. That wasn't too bad, either. She had bathing suits almost as skimpy as what she was still wearing. Now came the first really hard part. She bit into her lower lip in a useless attempt to distract herself from her extreme embarrassment as she reached behind, unsnapped the little lace bra and slowly peeled it away from her breasts. Thank God her back was to the four new men, but the burly guards beside her made no attempt to hide their interest in her firm, well-proportioned tits, the nipples naughtily erect in response to an extremely unwelcome stirring in the place yet to be revealed. She wasted as much time as possible handing the flimsy bra to the Matron as she girded her mental loins for the final and most excruciating unveiling. Leaking tears, she subdued her sniffles by holding her breath and carefully pushed the tiny, nearly transparent thong away from where it was clinging to her very damp crotch and let it drop to her ankles. She could feel her face burning up as she stepped out of the little bundle of lace and bent over to pick it up, providing the audience behind her with an unimpeded view of her lovely round rump and a peek preview of the rosy lips between her legs which would soon be on much better display.

The Matron accepted this final delicate garment and stepped out of the way as the two burly guards seized her elbows, turned her around and centered her over the drain. Now she was on full frontal exhibit for all six men. Somehow their appreciative grins helped lessen the extremity of her discomfort. She knew (although it wasn't couth to admit it) that she had an exceptionally beautiful body with slim shapely limbs, tiny waist, flat tummy, trim ankles and exactly-the-right-size-and-shape breasts. She was well aware that her boobs were large and firm enough to draw the eyes of every male in a fifty foot radius; large enough to fascinate every man who had ever been allowed a more intimate acquaintance with them; but not so large as to flop or hang like the droopy bags of some girls she knew. She could be confident that when she crawled on hands and knees over her lover's aroused body, or presented herself doggy style for his eager obelisk, her tits would remain firm and perfectly shaped. On the other hand, she found herself becoming painfully self-conscious about her cleanly shaved pussy. They were staring at it! Was it because they associated a hairless pubis with sluts and tramps? Or was it simply that they were indulging the typical male fascination with naked cunts?

The Matron, having ditched the cast off clothing in the sink, arrived back at Caitlyn's right side holding one of the cuffs suspended from the ceiling by a chain. The guard on that side grabbed her right forearm and helpfully extended it toward the Matron who snapped the cuff over the proffered wrist. The Matron made sure it was locked, grunted with satisfaction and ambled over to the other cuff hanging from the chain on Caitlyn's left. She brought it back to her prisoner and when the guard presented Caitlyn's left arm to her, locked that cuff on as well. Now Caitlyn was tethered in place, her arms held out away from her body. No chance now of covering herself with her hands from the steady gaze of the six men. She was helpless to do anything but accept whatever they planned next.

The Matron's next order doubled her humiliation. “Spread your legs, dear. Nice and wide.”

The guard with the cattle prod brandished it in front of her face when she hesitated. Obediently, she separated her feet as far as she could, lewdly exposing her genitals.

This was all in preparation, of course, for her “nice bath.” The Matron armed herself with the bucket and brush while the guard without the prod found a large wash cloth. The bucket turned out to be filled with soapy warm water which they thoroughly lathered all over Caitlyn's body. The guard apparently decided her boobs and labia were especially dirty because he spent an inordinate amount of time attending to them. He even had to use his bare hand to help work the lather into her fair skin and pink nipples. She had and urge to bite a finger while he was lathering her face, but the other guard was only a few menacing feet away tapping the cattle prod on the palm of his left hand (his finger carefully removed from the trigger).

When the scrubbing stopped, Caitlyn dared not open her eyes lest the soap on her face get into her eyes. In a way, it was a blessing; she didn't have to watch her audience ogling her. She pressed her lips tightly together and waited for the hosing. Would it be hot or cold? She heard the water being turned on and a few seconds later a blast of cold water hit her in the belly, answering her question. She yipped, but ground her teeth and accepted the watery assault as stoically as she could. At least it wasn't scalding hot. In fact, after a minute it didn't feel cold at all. It was a huge relief from the murderous heat of this tropical torture pit. It was so wonderfully refreshing that she almost complained when it stopped; but when she opened her eyes, she changed her mind. There stood the gargantuan guard tapping his ever-ready prod, looking like he was just waiting for an excuse to use it. They left her dripping wet, which was almost as good, anyway.

Now the lineup of men gaping at the spectacle of her helpless nudity began to move away from the wall, coming directly toward her. She swallowed and wondered if it would be okay to close her legs again. A glance at the vigilant guard with the prod told her not to risk it. She tried to look defiant, but it only came off as scared.

“Come on, men, get on with your inspection!” the Matron said. “I've got to do her hair.”

In a moment they were all over her, touching her where they shouldn't, squeezing her arms, tits, legs, butt. Running fingers into her. Tweaking her nipples. Examining her like a whore in a bordello. Or a slave on the auction block. My God! Was that it? Were these people white slavers who had tricked her into their lair? Her spirits sank several notches closer to despair, but she dared not say a word with that damned prod only inches away.

“All right, men, you've seen enough.” The Matron was unlocking the steel door. “This is an open and shut case, so go get set up for the trial while I wash the poor girl's hair. It's a smelly mess. And such beautiful hair, too. She'll want it to be nice and clean and shining at her dispatch.” She made shooing gestures with her meaty hands and four of the men filed through the door, leaving only the two burly guards behind.

While the Matron was locking the door again, the handcuff guard was releasing Caitlyn from her wrist restraints. The other guard dragged a salon chair from a far corner of the shower room and backed it up to the sink. Caitlyn was led to the chair and ordered to climb up into it. In short order she was handcuffed to the arms of the chair and tilted back so the Matron could sweep her long hair into the sink. What followed was a heavenly half hour of hair washing, toweling, combing, brushing and drying.

“By the way, dear,” the Matron said as she ran a large comb through the blonde tresses, chased by the blow dryer, “how would you like your meat prepared: boiled or roasted?”

The question was so out of the blue that Caitlyn didn't quite know how to respond. Until now they hadn't offered her anything to eat or drink except that dreadful milky stuff that gave her the major runs. She was glad they were finally getting around to it because she was starved and dehydrated. The fact that they were giving her a menu choice was a pleasant surprise.

“I don't know that I've ever had boiled meat,” she said, wrinkling her brow, “except maybe in stews, but even that was cooked first, I think. But I do know I like roasts, so I'll go with roasted.”

“I'm so glad, my dear. That's my favorite way, too. I'll be sure to tell the cook.”

This was certainly an unusual jail, she thought. First they throw you in an abysmal cell and starve you, then they make you strip naked in front of a bunch of men and string you up so they can molest you, then they give you a lovely shampoo and a choice of boiled or roasted meat. Weird! But at least they were finally planning to feed her. As she pondered these mysteries, one of the guards sauntered over with a pair of leg irons and locked them on her ankles. The chain between the cuffs was only about a foot long. For God's sake, just how dangerous a desperado did they think she was? she wondered. It's just a damned unpaid bill and she'd pay it if they let her use the fucking phone! Her mother would loan her the money. She'd done it before. It would be worth the inevitable barrage of lectures she'd get about her reckless gambling and fornicating with a man she'd only known for two months. She studied the sweet face of the Matron and decided to make one more appeal to her motherly nature and sense of rightness.

“Please,” she purred, “there must be a way I can use a phone. I'll call collect. I can pay the casino the money I owe them if I can just use the phone to arrange it.”

“Foreigners with gambling debts must use the pay phone, dear. It's the law. You need fifty cents to reach the operator for a collect call. Doesn't look like you have it, hon.”

“But I do! I do have it! It's in my purse. You must have my purse here somewhere.”

“All we have is what you were wearing, dear. No purse.”

“Then Kevin must have it back at the hotel. Call him! Tell him to get his ass down here with my purse.”

The Matron chuckled. “Ain't no way that boy is gonna bring you your purse. Besides, it's against the rules. I can't call for you. Prisoners have to make their own phone calls.”

Caitlyn wanted to scream in frustration! “I need a lawyer. If I'm going to have a trial, I need a lawyer. Someone has to call me a lawyer.”

“Okay, dear. You're a lawyer.” The Matron giggled at her wit as she put down the comb and dryer.

“I'm serious!” Caitlyn was screaming now, which swiftly gained the attention of the guard with the prod. At the sight of his swift approach, Caitlyn shrank back in the chair, eyes wide with fear. “I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” she pleaded. “Please don't use that! I'll be good! I promise. Please, please, please!!”

Her terrified contrition seemed to appease the guard because he stopped beside her without zapping her with the diabolical device.

“All right, dear, time to get out of the chair,” the Matron said.

The second guard unlocked her from the chair and helped her to her feet. She shied away from the altogether too close cattle prod, her steps now reduced to a shuffle thanks to the leg shackles. She relaxed only when she was certain she had escaped it's fiery touch. There was no mirror, but she could see as she straightened up again that the hair flowing down over her tanned shoulders was back to its soft, golden glory.

The guard drew her hands behind her back, cuffed her wrists and pulled her over to an old fashioned weighing scale with a rusty slide and weights. The Matron was waiting there with a clipboard.

“All right, dear, step on the scale,” she said.

A physical, too? Caitlyn was thinking.

The Matron fiddled with the weights until the beam balanced. “One hundred sixteen pounds,” she announced, and made a notation on the clipboard. The machine also included a device for measuring height. She settled the horizontal bar on the top of Caitlyn's head and made another notation. “Five feet, three inches. Your age, dear.”

“Twenty two.”

She wrote it down. “You're perfect!” From a locker next to the weight/height machine she retrieved a white terrycloth robe which she wrapped around Caitlyn's shoulders. Actually, it wasn't a robe at all; it was a cloak. No sleeves. It was held together in front by a single frog at the neck. She looked her charge over with a satisfied smile. “All right, dear, time to attend your trial.”

“But I need a lawyer,” Caitlyn murmured meekly. “Please,” she added, eyeing the cattle prod.

“Hon, unless you can magically come up with fifty cents for that phone call, you gotta be your own lawyer.”

“Can't you please loan me fifty cents? Please!”

“No, dear. It's against regulations. But don't you fret. A lawyer won't make no difference. This case is open and shut.”

That was the second time she'd said that. Caitlyn definitely didn't like the sound of it. Furthermore, Kevin's continued failure to show up and rescue her was making the Matron's chilling intimation that he had actually tricked her into this situation seem more and more plausible. But what was the point? They weren't giving her a chance to pay the debt. Could it be she really was in the hands of white slavers? But that didn't make seem right, either. This was a real jail and these people wore official uniforms and badges and everything.

So when the Matron said, “Come on, dear, the Magistrate is waiting,” and they started to march her toward the door, she panicked!

“Wait!” she squealed. “I'm not dressed.”

“Of course you are, dear,” the Matron replied as she unlocked the door. “You look lovely. Hush now. You don't want another touch from that nasty old cattle prod, do you.” It was a statement, not a question. And it was true.

Mortified, wishing she could just pass out and be spared this unspeakable humiliation, Caitlyn was led down the aisle between the cells once more, her inadequately fastened cloak gaping open as she shuffled along. This time, once again, the bars of the cells were filled with huge white smiles on dark faces taking in the peep show with a cacophony of cheers, explicit suggestions and obscene compliments.