The second part of this sunny morning provided clarification of the cryptic point “activities”. We gathered in front of that barn-like structure, and with “gathered” I mean “fell in line” – so much we’d already learnt. The gate stood open, and a glance in the dim-lit interior confirmed the barn to be some kind of stable building. An aisle with stalls on each side opened up to a large area under a skylight. Yet I failed to discover any animals. No doggies, no horsies. The only life signs came from inside the corrals across the place, where several uniformed blokes were fiddling about on strange contraptions.
Normal guards were issued with grey applications on their uniforms, whereas medical staff sported a nice blue. Black was the insignia of what I had come to think of as “officers”. Thing was, though: Those guys came in green.
Kandrin halted on her way to us, addressing one of them.
“The Twoers are out?”
“Yes, we’ve got the place for us till noon,” the Green answered. “Wanna start right away?”
“Just give me five minutes to get my folks in the mood.”
She had a distinctive way of getting us in the mood, though. Whilst striding up and down our line, iconic crop lazily waving in one hand, she informed us of our imminent future.
“Theory is that you can be transformed into persons society actually gives two drops of piss about by breaking you of your anti-social behaviour patterns. The techniques used for this honourable task you will experience soon enough. Right now I may outline only one of the basic ideas: negative reinforcement. Seventeen, step forth.”
In the light of yesterday’s events her request gave rise to general concern regarding my well-being. I obeyed immediately to show my good will, yet moved only the tiniest fraction away from the line.
“Further and in the middle, if you please.”
“Take your shirt off.”
“Because it’s Casual Friday. Now get rid of that bloody shirt.”
I followed her bidding, only to stand before her and the group in my bra. I couldn’t help but fiddle with my shirt. She pointed with her crop to a bale of straw near the entrance.
“Put it away.”
I hurried to the bale, put my shirt on it, then hastened back.
“Is that how we fold shirts around here?”
She let her crop point at the entrance anew.
I hurried to the bale again, took the shirt up, re-folded it to A4-perfection and put it down once more before rushing back to my spot. I already expected another round of inmate ping pong, but Miss Cuntling tucked the riding crop into her boot leg and retrieved a sleek cylinder from her belt. On a twist of her wrist the device telescoped out to a length of about two third of a metre. It was a baton of some sort, and she raised it with its tip pointing up and towards me.
“What do you see?”
“Two metal spikes, ma’am.”
Much to my relief she turned the thing away from me.
“The spikes participant 1317 has just identified are electrodes. Between them a voltage up to 650,000 volts can be created…”
Although nobody had questioned it in the first place, Kandrin saw the need to underline her statement by triggering the weapon. A white-blue arc erupted between the electrodes, accompanied by an intimidating crackle. A second later it was gone, but had left vivid imprints on our retinas.
“The discharges can generally be applied to any part of the human body, yet some areas have proven to be preferable. Hands behind your head, Seventeen.”
I haven’t got to mention the collywobbles I was experiencing as I lifted my arms and interlocked my fingers behind my head.
“Such areas are the armpits, the breasts or the pelvic region.”
She prodded the according parts on my body. The heated electrodes made me gasp, especially against the uncovered and stretched skin of my armpits. And any second I expected the light arc again, only this time illuminating me from the inside.
“The baton will be the primary instrument for ensuring obedience – and in the majority of cases the only one necessary.”
Kandrin lowered her obedience-ensuring instrument.
“Back in line.”
She feasted on my mixture of scepticism and relief with a pert remark.
“What is it, Seventeen? Disappointed I haven’t shocked you? Don’t be, there will be plenty of opportunities. Line up.”
Just as I was about to fall in again, she pushed the baton against my bare shoulder and gave me a healthy dose of electrons. The current ran through me for just a split second, but that was enough to send me down to one knee. I’d never received an electric shock before, and the sensation was not only fierce, but also overwhelmingly alien.
“And the next time I give you an order, whether taking off your shirt or doing a headstand, you cut your stupid questions and follow it!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I gasped, all shaky from the high tech sucker punch. And we had been getting along so well…
(Note to myself: If a person has acted like a spiteful cunt without an electric shock device in their hand, they won’t change their attitude once they are holding one.)
“Get out of your clothes, the lot of you. No need get them all sweaty and dusty.”
I’d never heard of anyone who trained in the buff so their clothes wouldn’t get dirty. But maybe I moved in the wrong circles. To make things clear, I’ve got no reason to be anxious about my body. My boobs may be a bit on the sporty side, but then again I’d got them for free – a claim not every DACC inmate could make for herself. Still that didn’t mean I was eager to show off my assets to everybody in broad daylight.
The little demonstration on my costs fresh in our minds, we quickly stripped. There was of course the instinctive covering with palms and lower arms. But standing amongst nudes made being nude yourself a bit easier. It was Zero-One, the redheaded teacher’s pet, who encountered an unexpected problem, though.
“Do I need to take off my glasses, too, ma’am?”
“You won’t be needing them.”
“But I can’t see very well without—”
The discussion was quickly brought to an end with the baton, although it discharged only into the air. It wasn’t deemed necessary to actually shock Zero-One after she had witnessed the funny effects of electricity on me. In some way my suffering had allowed her to get away easy. But that was okay. I’m always willing to take one for the team.
Whilst we were undressing, Miss Cuntling called the green blokes over.
“Handlers, meet your new ponies. Ponies, these gentlemen are your handlers.”
Our what?! And why did they keep calling us “ponies”?
“As your handlers they are authorised to issue directives as well as to choose disciplinary measures. Gentlemen, your turn.”
There wasn’t much time to muse about occupational titles. Our “handlers” ushered us into the barn, down the aisle of stalls and towards the open area in the middle. Why did I have a bad feeling about this?