This was prompted by public clamor for Part 2 of Katie Smith's 
"Newsbabe Tracey Goes Undercover" and by Lakewood's call for 
Halloween stories.  It is not a sequel to Katie's story, but it 
certainly owes its origins to it.  (It's great to hear from you 
again, Katie.)



               NEWSBABE TRACY'S HALLOWEEN SCOOP

                             by

                          Joe Doe


Part 1

"We're rolling, Tracy."

Tracy straightened her blue blazer and peered intently into the 
camera.  "Today, Snatchworth Prison is a museum and a popular 
tourist attraction.  But for most of its history it was a place 
of torment, a first stop on a shameful ordeal of wrongful 
incarceration, sexual humiliation, and white slavery."

"Do the spirits of the captive women of Snatchworth Prison still 
haunt these halls?  And is it possible for us to contact them?  
To find the answer to these questions, I arranged an interview 
with Martha Chambers, prison tour guide and curator of the museum, 
who was once a guard here."

"Got it!" John said.  Tracy put down her microphone and smiled.  
First time, every time.

John moved the camera into position for the next setup.  "Ready for 
the questions, Tracy?" 

She nodded and motioned Martha Chambers forward.  The old woman 
curator smiled sweetly as she dutifully ambled over.  Martha, a 
gentle, grandmotherly figure in her sixties, spoke in a soothing 
tone.

It was hard to believe she had once been a guard in one of the 
most dreadful prisons in history.

Using the cinder-block wall as a backdrop, Tracy quickly did her 
countdown.  Tonight was Halloween, which meant they had only a 
couple of hours to get this segment back to the station for editing.

"Is it true that this cursed place is haunted?" Tracy asked, 
immediately flipping the microphone so it was directly under 
Martha's chin.

"I don't think I'd call it cursed, dear," Martha said, sweetly.  
"But we definitely have our ghostly occurrences.  Mostly it's 
the usual: cold spots, lights going on and off, and voices."

"Have you ever seen anything more definitive?" Tracy asked.  
"Have you ever seen a ghost?"

"Not precisely," Martha admitted.  "I've occasionally seen an 
unusual blue fog...and blue flickers of light around objects.  
I have a theory that there may be some sort of portal to another 
dimension, and, when events occur that are similar to events in 
the past, that portal opens.  In fact, one of the reasons I 
agreed to your visit was that I was hoping that perhaps...."

"Yes, that's very interesting," Tracy said, in a tone that made it 
clear that it was of no interest at all.  "Do the apparitions or 
strange events follow any sort of pattern?"

"A lot of the more unusual events seem to happen when we have 
attractive young women on our tours.  From time to time one of 
them will get her skirt tugged up, or her pants pulled down.  
The ones who talk out of turn might suddenly feel a good, hard 
slap on their cute little fannies, and the ditzy ones might lose 
a purse or pocketbook.  No harm done, really; we'll inevitably 
find it in one of the guest boxes, tucked away safe and sound."

"Um...processing boxes?" Tracy asked.

"Guest boxes," Martha corrected.  "Our female 'guests' were 
required to place their things in one of our guest boxes, to 
keep them from getting dirty."

"What things?" 

"Watches, jewelry, identification, that sort of thing," Martha 
said, cheerfully.

"Clothing?" 

Martha smiled.  "We usually gave our guests an opportunity to 
freshen up a bit," she said, pleasantly.

"Are you referring to the reception shower?" Tracy said, sharply.  
"Did you also delouse the prisoners?"

Martha flashed her gentle, tollhouse cookie smile.  "I always 
thought of the young ladies who visited us as our guests.  After 
a long and difficult day, there are few things as relaxing as a 
nice warm shower.  There's a certain elegance...."

Tracy cut her short.  "So you took away everything the women 
had...money, ID, jewelry...even their clothes.  You boxed it
up, and then you threw them into the showers.  Naked."

"No, no, no," Martha said, her voice dripping with kindness.  
"The guest boxes were a convenience, so that watches and...."

"You mentioned watches and jewelry," Tracy countered.  What about 
their brassieres?  And their panties?"

"You can't shower in your underwear, dear," Martha replied in her 
pleasant yet unbearably patronizing tone.

Tracy's voice dropped to a rapid, melodramatic staccato appropriate 
to Halloween as she faced the camera.  "Most of the more mysterious 
and unexplainable incidents occur when young women are present.  Do 
the spirits of the damned haunt these halls?  Or is there a darker, 
more sinister presence, still seeking new victims after all these 
years?  To answer these questions, I agreed to let Miss Chambers 
process me in precisely the same way those women were processed so 
long ago...including a strip-search and a reception shower.  Stay 
tuned.  You won't want to miss this."

"Perfect," John said, smiling broadly.  "On to processing!"

"I'll say," Martha chuckled.  "There isn't a male in England who 
would touch the telly after that teaser."

Tracy knew she was right.  She had worked for nearly a year to 
get this story on during the sweeps, since she knew the resulting 
publicity would propel her to bigger things.  Obviously, the 
suggestive shots of her undressing and being hustled into the 
gang shower like a common criminal would be ratings gold.

Naturally, she had carefully arranged to have a female 
photographer.  She wanted to show enough skin to make the 
big bucks -- but not too much.

So she was enraged when John Harris, the station's lecherous lady's 
man, had managed to "rearrange" the schedule at the last minute.   
Unfortunately, Tracy's complaints had fallen on deaf ears.

"Bloody hell, Tracy!  You've been pestering me about setting up 
this story for months," her boss said.  "John's a professional.  
And, if you don't want to find yourself back doing the weather, 
you'd better start acting like a professional, too."

		******************************

As they walked to the central reception area, Tracy and Martha 
conversed.  "You have a very dramatic way of speaking, child," 
Miss Chambers chuckled.  "You make everything sound so ominous."

Tracy looked around at the cold stone walls.  "This is an ominous 
place.  To be honest, I find it more than a little...creepy.  If 
you don't mind my asking, Miss Chambers, why did they put you in 
charge of reception?  You don't seem like the prison guard type."

Martha smiled warmly.  "You have to remember that most of the young 
ladies in my care had been arrested for fairly minor infractions, 
and therefore they didn't see themselves as criminals.  The women 
were usually processed through my visitor's center in groups of 
ten or more, and it was my job to make their transition as smooth 
as possible.

"A fully clothed woman might be inclined to escape -- or at least 
resist -- particularly if she were in a large group.  But once I 
coaxed the little dears out of their clothes, they were much more 
docile.  After their things were boxed and put away, all it took 
was a little slap on the fanny to shoo them into the showers," she 
chuckled.

Up ahead, John paused in the concrete hallway to film into an open 
doorway marked "EXAMINATIONS."

Tracy stopped and looked over John's shoulder.  An old-fashioned 
medical examination table dominated the center of the large, 
brightly lit room.

"Was there a doctor on staff?" Tracy asked, suspiciously.

"Heavens, no, child," the old woman said.  "The girls we arrested 
were all fit as fiddles.  What use would there be for a doctor?  
This table was used for contraband searches."

Tracy squirmed as she felt John leering at her.  "Is the table 
still functional?  Could we use it tonight?"

Martha smiled and walked across the room to the exam table.  Tracy 
winced as the grinning guard lifted up first the right stirrup and 
then the left, SNAPPING them into place.

"Does this answer your question?" she chuckled.

"Does that tub of grease have anything in it?" John asked, 
indicating an ancient vat labeled "LARD" next to the exam table.  

"No, that's been empty for years.  We keep it here for show.  But 
I'm sure we could find some lubricant somewhere," Martha replied.

"Well, there's plenty of light to shoot with!" John said, pointing 
the camera directly between the widely splayed stirrups.

Tracy had heard enough.  She had agreed to be take off her clothes 
for the sweeps, but that was it.  There was no way in hell she was 
going to be "searched" for contraband -– particularly on-camera.

"Sorry to disappoint you, John, but the searches were conducted 
AFTER the showers, and we're only going to do the shower tonight."

"We could do more, if you'd like," Martha suggested pleasantly, in 
her best "would-you-like-fries-with-that?" tone.

"No, I wouldn't like.  Besides, on the tour you said you didn't do 
the searches."

"No, the warden and the male guards handled that," Martha admitted. 
"The judge, the Sheriff, and the arresting officers usually watched 
as well.  The warden felt it was important to supervise the showers 
and searches personally."

"My job was to do the paperwork and to get the girls stripped 
down birthday bare without any silly fuss.  The girls wouldn't have 
given up their clothes so easily if they had known how many eager 
male eyes were waiting for them.  Of course, once they were buck 
naked and their clothes were locked up tight as a tick, they didn't 
really have much choice," she snickered.

"The warden was a stickler for security.  He was a 'hands-on' 
manager, and he personally double-checked each guest.  There 
were never drugs or contraband in THIS prison.  Sometimes he'd 
check a girl two or three times a week.  The warden loved his 
job."

"I'd love that job, too," John said.  "It's too bad this place is 
closed.  I would have loved to have worked here."

He gave Tracy a frightful leer.  "If you'd like to be searched 
tonight, I'd be happy to lend a hand."

"I'm sure we have a uniform in your size," Martha added, helpfully.

Tracy turned her attention to John.  "You're not funny, Harris," 
she said, her voice turning acid.  "When I tell the station manager 
about your attitude tonight, the only search you'll be doing is 
through the want ads.  I hope you enjoy your new job, smart ass."

"Oh dear!" Martha said.

Tracy turned on the old woman.  "I don't have all night.  Let's get 
this over with, shall we?"

Tracy stormed out of the room.  Martha and John followed.

The examination room was empty, but it wasn't quiet.  A tiny blue 
spark -- static electricity, perhaps -- glimmered on the end of 
one of the stirrups, and a slight but scientifically inexplicable 
rattle emerged from the empty lard can.

		******************************


Part 2

Martha waxed nostalgic as she led Tracy and John down the hall.  
"The good old days are over," she said, sadly.  "Tragic, really.  
The time I spent helping the girls here were the best days of my 
life."

Tracy was not in the mood.  "The good old days!" she snapped.  "The 
girls you 'helped' vanished without a trace.  It's too bad there 
wasn't any evidence of what happened to them.  If you ask me, you 
should be living in a prison, not conducting tours."

Martha was unperturbed.  "See what I mean, John?  It's best if the 
guests don't worry their pretty little heads about these things.  
It leads to all sorts of foolishness and girlish chatter."

She stopped in front of a door marked "RECEPTION."  Tracy felt a 
sudden chill.

Martha turned to Tracy and smiled.  "Speaking of which, isn't it 
about time we got you processed, young lady?"

"I-I guess so," Tracy stammered.

"You do understand that, in order to be realistic, once we get 
started here you'll no longer be in charge."

Tracy swallowed hard but nodded.  John looked at her and smiled.

Martha led the way into the room.  As Tracy walked into the room, 
the first stop on the nightmare tour given hundreds of other 
innocent women, she thought she saw a tiny glow around the door.

No.  It couldn't be.  It was only her imagination, but it wasn't 
her fault.  The place was so CREEPY!

The room was cinder-block, but the walls were painted yellow and 
pink.  A wooden bench was suspended from the wall by thick black 
chains.

John picked up his camera and began filming.  "These are pretty 
colors," he noted dryly.

Martha smiled appreciatively.  "Thank you, John.  I picked them 
myself.  Most of the prison is gray, but I thought it might relax 
the girls a bit more if we added a splash of color.  Makes it more 
festive, don't you think?"

"What's in that room?" Tracy asked, indicating the other door.

"Don't worry, dear, you'll find out soon enough.  May I see your 
purse?"

John grinned broadly as Tracy obediently handed over her purse.  
"Now place your hands behind your back, sweetie."

Tracy obeyed.  From over her shoulder she could see John filming 
her heaving chest as Martha snapped the handcuffs into place.  

"That's a good girl.  Now be a dear and sit on the bench until your 
name is called," Martha said, punctuating her command with a pat on 
Tracy's fanny.

John laughed.  Tracy blushed.

She sat down.  Martha exited through the mysterious door.  The 
wooden bench was hard, and, with her hands cuffed tightly behind 
her, it was impossible for Tracy to get comfortable.

Amused, John filmed Tracy squirming on the bench.

Tracy was furious with him, and she was humiliated beyond belief 
that he was the one filming her.  But she hadn't forgotten why she 
was there, and she knew that her anguish was ratings gold.

Tracy turned and faced the camera, determined to milk the moment 
for all it was worth.  "I'm in the 'reception' area of Snatchworth 
prison, with my hands cuffed behind my back.  As I sit here, 
waiting to be processed, my mind drifts to the countless other 
innocent women who sat on this very bench.  Are their spirits still 
here?  And what about the spirits of the men who abused them, who 
humiliated them, who trumped up charges to strip them of their 
freedom, their clothing, and their dignity?  Is the terror these 
women felt strong enough to break the bonds of space and time?  
Tonight I'll find out."

"In a few minutes I'll be processed in Snatchworth Prison.  I will 
be booked, fingerprinted, and strip-searched by a former guard of 
this infamous institution.  I will be given a shower.  I will be 
'processed' in every way imaginable, just like any other prisoner."

John zoomed in to show the rivulets of sweat she couldn't wipe 
away.

At last, the door opened.  "Tracy Smith?" Martha said, as if 
calling someone in for an interview.  "You're next, dear."

Tracy and John, camera in hand, followed the guard into an office.  
Martha sat at a desk in front of a typewriter.  There was no chair 
for Tracy, so she stood quietly in front of the desk.

To her surprise, she saw that the contents of her purse had already 
been dumped out and sealed into a small plastic bag.  An empty 
cardboard "guest box" sat on a side table.  On it were the words:

			SMITH, TRACY
			 #3838-3738

Tracy swallowed.  Her prisoner number had been assigned.

Tracy's license lay on the desk; Martha had used it to fill in the 
miscellaneous information for her paperwork.  Tracy watched Martha 
roll her arrest record out of the old-fashioned typewriter. 
 
"You've been convicted of illegal parking.  Is that right, dear?"

Tracy noticed the parking ticket from her purse lying next to her 
license. 

"Oh, that was just a misunderstanding.  The meter was broken, but 
it was easier to just pay the fine."

Martha smiled up at Tracy.  It was a condescending smile, an 
"oh-aren't-you-the-silly-one" sort of grin.  Tracy's trivial 
parking misdemeanor was precisely the sort of trifling offense 
that earned young women lengthy sentences at hard labor in 
Snatchworth.

Tracy watched Martha crisply sign, staple, and STAMP! her form.

Processed!

Martha undid the cuffs, and Tracy urgently massaged her throbbing 
wrists.  Her relief was short-lived.

John chuckled as Martha hung the humiliating black "mugshot sign" 
around Tracy's slender neck.  The black sign bore her name and 
number, and the words, "CONVICT, SNATCHWORTH PRISON" in cheap white 
block plastic letters.

Tracy clenched her teeth.  She realized now that Martha had been 
chosen because her soothing, sunshine presence made "processing" 
seem less threatening.  Martha was treating Tracy like an animal 
at the meat processing house, soothing her with happy colors and 
a melodic voice so she wouldn't think about what was around the 
corner.

The most horrible part was that it was working.  Tracy moved like 
an obedient zombie as Martha gently positioned her against a wall 
that marked her height as 5'6".

"My, you are a pretty little thing," Martha patronized.  "As pretty 
as a picture.  Now hold still, dear."

FLASH!  "That's a good girl.  Now turn to the right.  Good girl!  
Now move the sign over your shoulder so the camera can see it.

FLASH!  "VERY good!" she said brightly.  "We're almost done.  
Now turn left.  No, your other left, sweetie.  That's a good 
girl.  No, now remember what I said about the sign?  That's 
right.  We need to let the camera see.  That's a good girl."

FLASH!

Tracy watched as the old woman yanked the polaroids out of the 
camera and set them on the desk.  "This will take a minute, dear.  
Why don't you put your earrings and watch in the bag while we wait. 
I'd feel dreadful if you lost them."

John filmed Tracy removing her diamond earrings, watch, and rings 
and placing them in the plastic bag.  Martha added Tracy's parking 
ticket and driver's license.

The camera was old-fashioned, and the pictures were not at all 
becoming.  Tracy wondered where Martha got the film.

The bimbo in the photograph looked dazed, confused, helpless.

Tracy grimaced as John zoomed in on her mugshot.

"I look stupid," Tracy mumbled.  "I look like a woolly little lamb 
ready to be sheared."

"You look perfect, dear," Martha said.  

("Yeah...perfectly stupid," Tracy thought.)

"I need to take your fingerprints, honey.  Maybe you should take 
off your jacket so I don't get it all inky."

Tracy took off her jacket and looked for a place to set it down.  
Martha took it, folded it, and put it in the guest box.

Martha rolled each of Tracy's fingers in the purple ink and then 
on the processing form.

There were no smudges, and each fingerprint was perfect.  Martha 
had had a lot of practice.

"Just like old times," she chuckled.

She gave Tracy a disapproving look.  "My, you certainly are 
perspiring.   I hope you didn't ruin that pretty silk blouse."

"Oh, my!" Tracy said as she noticed the stains under her arms.  
"I am a little nervous and...."

"I understand, dear.  I bet a nice, refreshing shower would feel 
good right about now."

"It certainly would.  It's too bad there's no shower, because 
I'd...."

Tracy stopped mid-sentence as she realized what she had just said.  
The trap had been sprung.

Martha smiled like the cat that ate the canary.  "Well, luckily 
there IS a shower here, sweetie.   Why don't you just slip out 
of your things and put them in the box, and we'll give you a 
chance to rinse off?"

Tracy looked over at John, who was grinning devilishly as he 
filmed every moment of Tracy's slide towards doom.

Tracy swallowed.  How many girls had fallen for Martha's trick?  
Tracy was just one more helpless, stupid little lamb.

"What I meant to say was..., I mean, I could use a shower, 
obviously, but not now...well, now, but not here."

Martha gave Tracy her best "aren't-you-a-silly-little-fool?" smile.

Tracy decided to argue in character.  "Look, I don't even belong 
here," she said, dropping her voice. "I mean...it's a parking 
ticket for god's sake.  I know all the other girls probably said 
the same thing, but I'm different because I really am innocent.  
I mean, not innocent, really.  I mean I pleaded guilty, but I was 
innocent.  Really."

Tracy fell silent. The more she tried to sound like she was 
different, the more she sounded like just another prisoner.

Martha gave her a most heartfelt look as she too, answered 
in character.  "Tracy, I can tell you're a nice girl.  I 
mean, it's obvious that this must be a big mistake.  I can 
talk to the judge, but he's not going to listen to me unless 
you cooperate.  Now just go behind the screen and slip out of 
your things, and I'll talk to the judge while you freshen up."

Tracy looked over.  The screen was short, and small, but it did 
provide some protection from John's prying eyes, and, more 
importantly, from his camera.

"I think things would be easier for everyone if you started doing 
as you were told, dear," Martha patronized.

John adjusted his lens and his pants as Tracy resigned herself to 
her fate and walked behind the screen.

Tracy began to undress.  Shoes...blouse...skirt...stockings.

As she disrobed, she handed each garment over the screen to Martha, 
who placed it in the box.  "That's a good girl," Martha simpered.  
"We'll put these pretty things away where they won't get dirty.  
We'll give you a nice refreshing shower, and you can get all spic 
and span."

Tracy reached for the towel that was hanging nearby on a wall-hook, 
but Martha jerked it out of her hand.

"Underwear, too, dear," she said, brightly.  "Rules are rules."

Tracy looked over the screen at John who was filming, filming, 
filming...and smiling. 

"Hurry up, dear.  The sooner we put your things away, the sooner I 
can talk to the warden and get this all straightened out."

Yeah, right.  Treating Tracy like an idiot in front of millions of 
viewers was really funny.

Tracy wanted drama, but Martha and John were having a grand old 
time making her look like a feckless little bimbo who was being 
tricked out of her clothes.

She silently vowed to edit these scenes out.

Tracy unhooked her bra and turned her back as she shucked it off 
her shoulders.  John zoomed in to see as much as the screen would 
allow.

"Underpants, too," Martha added, in a voice that dripped 
cheerfulness.

Tracy surrendered her panties.  From over her shoulder she watched 
the John film Martha's sealing of her so-called "guest" box with 
thick black tape.

Martha held the towel up, just out of reach, so Tracy had to stand 
on tip toe to reach it.  Too late she realized that her stretch 
for the towel had bared her breasts to John and his damn camera.

Martha wore a maternal smile as Tracy wrapped the tiny towel around 
her body and came out from behind the screen.  The towel was short 
and barely covered Tracy's assets.

She stared directly at the camera.  As she spoke, her voice 
dripping with melodrama, John focused first on her naked feet, 
fidgeting on the cold stone floor, and slowly moved the camera 
up her shapely bare legs....

"I am now a convicted criminal, prisoner number 3838-3738.  I have 
been fingerprinted and photographed.  I have been stripped of my 
identification, my legal rights, and even my clothes.  I am as 
naked as the day I was born, save for this flimsy, well-worn, 
state-issued towel.

"I am now a convict, with no rights whatsoever.  All I have is this 
towel.  However, the towel is not mine, and it can be taken away 
from me at any time.

"Stay tuned.  In a moment, my towel will be confiscated, and I will 
be sent to the showers.  Naked."

"Perfect," John said, as he once again adjusted the front of his 
pants.

Tracy's voice returned to normal as she struggled to adjust the 
towel.  "You don't allow a girl much modesty around here."

"You don't know the half of it," Martha said, pointing at the 
ceiling.

Tracy looked up.  To her horror, she saw that a corner mirror 
perfectly reflected the area behind the screen for John's 
viewing pleasure.  "How dare you!" she shouted.  "I'll have 
you fired for this."

"I don't think you're in much of a position to fire anyone, 
sweetie," Martha said, gently.  "This way, dear.  I think 
we've given John and the viewers at home enough of a show."

Tracy certainly agreed with THAT, and she didn't resist as 
Martha led her through the door into the next room.

Tracy cleared her throat.  "Martha, maybe you could hold the 
camera and get a couple of shots of my bare back as I soap up.  
After that build up, I'm going to show the viewers something."

"Whatever you say, dear," Martha replied.

The shower room was steamy.  Had Martha started the water already?  
Tracy edged closer.

"In you go!"

Tracy gasped as Martha ripped off her towel and propelled her 
into the large gang shower area with a sharp SLAP! across her 
fanny.

She groped her way forward through the steam.  It was a weird 
sort of steam, blue almost, with little snaps of electricity.

The steam thickened.  Where was she?  Where was Martha?  It 
seemed as if she were traveling a long time...through a tunnel.

She heard running water and...voices?  Female voices?

Tracy looked around.  There were a dozen other women in the shower. 
And each of them was as beautiful, humiliated, and naked as Tracy.

Tracy looked straight ahead.  The Chief Constable stood next to 
the judge, who stood next to the warden.  All three men grinned 
broadly as they watched the naked, blushing women shower.

"First day here?" a male voice said.

Tracy turned, but the guard was not addressing her.  He was talking 
to a new guard, in his early twenties, who seemed to be as amazed 
by his surroundings as Tracy.

She gulped.  It was John!

Dressed as a prison guard!

The older guard smiled as he surveyed the room of blushing, naked 
women.  "Quite the smorgasbord, isn't it?  Well, take a good look.  
Since it's your first day, the warden's going let you pick one of 
the girls out for a little pussy poke."

The guard surveyed the naked women.  "So much pussy, so little 
time," he guffawed.

John looked at his shirt and badge.  Where was he?  What was 
happening?

"Which one will it be, mate?"

Tracy watched as John stared, mouth agape, at each naked woman, his 
eyes lovingly ogling each and every curve.

He hadn't spotted her yet.  He was staring at a redhead's chest.  

After that, he still didn't see her because he was ogling a natural 
blonde.

Tracy flinched as John moved on to the tall brunette standing next 
to her.

She debated turning her back.  But, with the mirrors on all the 
walls, what was the point?

Her heart raced.  This couldn't be happening.  She was stark naked 
in a prison shower room, with no way of covering herself.  She was 
a helpless, naked prisoner.  

And John was a guard.

John was moving from girl to girl...and Tracy was next.

His eyes began at Tracy's toes and slowly slid up her luscious, 
blushing form.

When he saw her face -- and realized who he was looking at -- his 
jaw dropped.

Tracy blushed crimson as he broke into a wide, knowing grin.

Then she was distracted as she noticed a young woman carrying in a 
box with her name on it.  Tracy watched as the young woman handed a 
file to the warden and set the box atop a stack of boxes already 
positioned for transport on a dolly.  Tracy read the box labels 
from bottom to top:

			MARSH, ASHLEY
			 #3838-3736

			WOODS, HOLLY
			 #3838-3737

			SMITH, TRACY
			 #3838-3738

And she stared harder at the young woman who had stacked the boxes.

It was Martha.  She was younger now, and fit, and beautiful.  But 
it was definitely Martha.

Martha stopped and gave John a playful pat on the arm.  "Enjoy 
yourself, dear.  Remember -– these are the good old days."

		******************************

"Looks like someone thinks the parking laws don't apply to her," 
the warden snarled as he perused the file.  "All right, honey 
buns.  Up on the table.  Officer John is going to have to take 
a look."

Tracy dutifully climbed up on the table and placed her feet into 
the shamefully splayed stirrups.  She swallowed hard as John opened 
the enormous can of LARD and scooped out a huge wad of white goo.

John was slow, gentle, and thorough.  Tracy bit her lip and stared 
at the ceiling as he slowly massaged her clit and teasingly slid 
his fingers around and around, searching every nook and cranny.

She had been right about one thing.  John did enjoy his new career.

It had taken months for Tracy to figure out a way into prison.  
Would she be as lucky finding a way out?

What happened to the girls of Snatchworth?  Were they really sold 
as white slaves?  Tracy knew she had the scoop of the century!

The only problem was that it was the previous century.



Edited by C. Lakewood