Whose Body Is It, Anyway?             by: Brandy Dewinter

 

Chapter 7 - No Justice, No Peace

Despite my admonition to my symbiont to be quiet, my next comment was an answer to Titania’s question. *Yes, we can go home, just as soon as they let us contact the Federation counsel. These high cuff things have got to be considered deliberately cruel.*

*Hmmm, I’m not so sure,* Titania disagreed.

*What? They’re tying my arms in knots!*

*Well, actually, they’re not that bad for women. A woman’s shoulders are narrower, and her joints are typically more flexible. They’d be quite bad on a wide-shouldered man, but a woman should be able to hold her arms like this for at least a short while until the continuing muscle tension became acutely uncomfortable. It’s severe, but not necessarily cruel. It’s also quite effective at rendering her helpless, as all restraints are designed to be. This could be justified on that basis.*

*Are you making excuses for them?* I sneered.

*Of course not,* denied Titania, *just trying to be objective.*

*Well, your objectivity is causing strain in *my* shoulders.*

*Oh, sorry,* Titania replied. *I can fix that.*

I felt my arms being gently squeezed so that the tension in my shoulders was distributed uniformly along the entire length of my bound limbs. The position Titania settled *our* arms into prevented any pinching pressures from the rigid cuffs on my wrists. The building discomfort from muscle fatigue also faded under Titania’s cellular control.

*Better?* she asked.

*Well, yes, thanks. But what about other women?* I asked. *These things are still cruel.*

*Pain tolerances vary, of course, but I would think a fit, trim woman could tolerate this posture for, oh, as much as an hour without real discomfort. I have Commander Tryx’s unmodified baseline data for reference, from Bee.*

*Tryx was hardly typical even before she merged with Bee,* I argued, but any further response was precluded by a thumping gavel.

Some sort of bailiff or court clerk made a somber announcement, "The District versus Xora, Outlander, on the charge of violation of Public Ordinance 27-102-6."

"That’s you, girly," the taller Enforcer said, pulling me once again so that I had to rapidly tap in my hobble and heels, this time toward the high bench.

"Has the prisoner been measured?" Herne asked officially from his position as the judge.

The shorter Enforcer looked like he was about to say something, but his partner jumped in first with an answer, "No, Magistrate."

"Measure her," Herne ordered.

Tall Guy pulled a relatively ordinary tape measure from one of the pouches on his belt while Shorter walked to the side to get what looked like a bathroom scale. After measuring my height, and the height of my heels, Tall Guy started to wrap the tape measure around my bust. While he didn’t seem to deliberately fondle me, he certainly let the backs of his hands linger a lot longer than seemed necessary.

"Hey, watch it!" I demanded.

"The prisoner will be silent!" Herne ordered.

"He’s getting fresh," I claimed.

"Shouldn’t a matron be doing this?"

"Why would we expect, or even allow, a woman to determine if another woman has appropriately attractive measurements?" Herne asked in what seemed to be honest surprise. Then he resumed his official voice and said, "The prisoner will not be warned again to be silent unless spoken to."

Tall guy had to check the waist measurement twice, by which time Shorter was back with the scale. They weighed me, and measured a few more things including, strangely, the length from my kneecap to the top of my legs - on the inside. That got another unpleasant squirm from me.

*Well, at least this time we agree,* Titania murmured. *This guy is not one to try and attract.*

*I never try and attract men,* I claimed. But my claim was distracted and without real energy.

Tall Guy handed the judge a scrap of paper with the various measurements noted on it, and Herne considered it for a moment.

"It would seem that you meet our standards for general fitness," he allowed grudgingly. "Not that this is much of a surprise. Let the record show that her bust is two inches larger than her hips, exceeding the requirement to be no smaller. That her waist is 55% of her hips, exceeding - or in this case I expect the correct description is improving upon - the requirement to be no more than 2/3 of her hip size. Let the record also show that her heels are 75% of her basic foot length, exceeding the requirement of 33%. Finally, though her weight is near the upper limits for her height without heels, let the record show that the court officially assesses this as being due to her unusually thick and long hair, which is an approved variance."

"Very much approved, in fact," Herne interjected, no longer dictating though the court recorder kept entering his words into the notes.

"However," he concluded, "you are undeniably in violation of section C of Ordinance 27-102-6."

"What’s that?" I blurted.

Herne nodded to the court clerk, who picked up a piece of paper and began to read, "Section C. No woman, except those in official custody or those in such assignments as have been approved for exception, shall wear any garments that shall conceal the region between her kneecaps and one half of the distance between her kneecaps and the top of the inside of her legs when standing in an upright posture, unless such covering shall be sheer enough that a contrasting mark against the skin can be detected at a distance of 25 feet."

"Have you anything to say for yourself?" Herne asked, continuing in his official voice.

"I asked about your regulations. I asked you in fact. And no one would tell me. That regulation wasn’t in force 4 days ago."

Herne’s gloating smile was back in place as he pretended to be surprised at her remark, "Why, you’re right. This regulation only became effective yesterday. Still, ‘ignorance is no excuse.’ I believe even your Federation accepts that dictum."

"I want to speak with the Federation counsel," I demanded.

"I’m sure you do," Herne smirked. Then he continued in sonorous tones, "The court, taking due consideration of your compliance with other provisions of the Public Decency for Women regulations, and considering that this is your first offense, sentences you to community service."

"For how long?" I asked. "And I demand to speak with the Federation counsel."

"You demand nothing, girly," Tall Guy sneered, leading me away.

As I shuffled along, I asked again, "How long is this community service thing?"

"That’s up to you," he smirked, his eyes laughing with some joke he didn’t intend to share.

Despite my hobbled stride, we reached a set of cells in only a few minutes. Tall Guy handed me over to another uniformed man, this one’s pot belly showing a lack of regular exercise.

*About like you used to be,* Titania claimed.

*I don’t need this right now,* I snapped.

Titania retreated into silence. After a few seconds, while Tall Guy was still telling Portly about my sentence, I sent my partner an apology, *Sorry, Titania. I’m just a bit upset right now. I do appreciate what you’ve done for me.*

*Not that I don’t want to be a man again as soon as we’re out of this,* I concluded, yet I tried to keep a friendlier tone in my thoughts, making it a thing we shared, rather than something to divide us.

Titania seemed to leap at that statement with a bit of her own amusement, "We’ll see."

Before I could ask her what she meant by that, Portly was grabbing my arm and taking me to an isolated cell - a totally empty cell without even a bunk or a chair. The only breaks in the featureless décor were chains hanging from the ceiling every six feet or so.

"Okay, girly, stand over here," he ordered.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"No talking allowed by prisoners except in direct response to a question. This is your only warning," he declared.

I was about ready to test that rule when he continued in a spatter of quick, rote words, obviously part of a standard lecture.

"Some prisoners have complained that their arms get tired in standard female wrist restraints due to the tendency for arms to sag and pressure to be placed on the edges of the wrist cuffs. To make sure that this will not happen again, restraint of duration to exceed one hour will include support for the prisoner’s wrists."

"That what won’t happen again? The pain, or the complaints?" I asked.

Portly made no response, except to search through the pouches on his belt for a moment. Apparently not finding what he was looking for, he went back to the pile of stuff he had been carrying when he escorted me to my cell. The first thing he took out was a wide leather strap that he fastened around the tall collar of my jumpsuit. He took another strap and hooked it to one of the ceiling chains, then ran it through a ring at the back of my collar, then to another ring on my wrist restraints.

"This will lift your wrist restraints, relieving your arm muscles of any load," he claimed as he tightened the strap. My wrists were pulled even higher, while my head was pulled back to allow the strap to be perfectly vertical.

Next, Portly fastened a small lock from the hobble chain at my ankles to a ring I hadn’t even noticed was set in the floor.

"That will keep you from inadvertently stepping away from the proper position and possibly putting additional strain on her arms," he announced as though my care and comfort were of deep concern to him. That impression faded with the lascivious grin he showed when he turned his face back up to me.

"You’re lucky, girly, that I didn’t have a gag with me when you talked for a second time without permission. For the right incentive, I might forget that infraction and leave you without it."

He was actually too short to look me in the eye as I stood on my towering heels. I could see him trying to decide if he could raise up enough to steal a kiss, and I turned my head away.

*If that slimeball kisses me, I’ll puke in his face,* I groaned.

*I can stop that," Titania promised, *but I don’t think it will be necessary.*

Portly must have decided it was too much effort to stand tall enough to kiss me, so he contented himself with running his hands along my sleek legs, then upward to my narrow waist, then . . .

"Oww, that hurt! You pig!" I cried as he pinched my nipples.

"I’ll take that as a response to a direct question," the guard snickered. Still laughing he turned away. As he locked the cell door behind himself, he said, "Someone will be along shortly to fix your clothes."

*I wonder what he meant by that,* Titania mused.

*I thought you could protect me like I had armor,* I grumped, trying to squirm enough to get my abused nipples to stop hurting.

*Oh, sorry,* Titania said with genuine contrition. *I didn’t think he’d try that.* Even as she spoke, the pain in my nipples melted away.

What do you suppose he meant by ‘fix’ our clothes? Titania asked again.

*Huh? I don’t know,* I answered. Then I recognized the problem, too. *You ARE our clothes.*

*Quite,* Titania said.

I tugged fruitlessly at my bonds and looked around the stark cell for some means of escape. *It looks like we’re going to exceed your one-hour limit on these cuffs.*

*Yes,* replied Titania. *If I weren’t suppressing the signals, your arms would be very painful by now. I’m also preventing any harm, though, so there’s no real danger.*

*There would be for any real woman, though,* I said.

I understood Titania’s internal nod, though I couldn’t have described how the sensation came across. Before we could say anything further, Portly was back at the cell door.

"Dela will see to your clothes," he said.

Dela turned out to be a young and very pretty woman. Her hair was so red that if it had been Earth, I would have expected it to come from a bottle. I wasn’t sure if Machovia had such cosmetics, though. The woman was very fit, with a figure that would have been spectacular in any room that didn’t have a symbiont-enhanced woman in it. Her dark green top left little to the imagination, and the black skirt she wore was clearly compliant with Ordinance 27-102-6 Section C. She had a small kit with her as she entered the cell. Portly closed the door behind her, locking her in, then left.

"What are you going to do?" I asked as Dela tapped in her own heels over to me.

Dela jerked a little at the sound of my voice and put her hand to her own lips in a sign to be silent.

"Look," I whispered, "I have to know. My clothes are not like yours. What do you intend to do?"

Dela looked furtively at the cell door, then crept silently back to look down the corridor. Only once she was satisfied that no one could hear what was said did she come back and whisper, "I am to cut the legs off your suit so that the skin shows in accordance with the regulation."

I whispered again, "I have a, uh, variable suit. I can make the legs disappear. Will that do?"

Dela nodded, eyes wide in wonder at this offworld magic. True to my claim, the legs on the dark red jumpsuit faded into porcelain-smooth expanses of warm ivory.

"Oh, my," Dela breathed. "That would be so wonderful. Um, can you do boots? Tomorrow’s regulations call for boots at least calf-length."

The red color shimmered back into existence, some play of the dim lights in the cell making them seem thicker than the jumpsuit had been, as though they were fine leather. Titania grew them up to just below my knees, with a small, stiff portion just before the knee to cover the kneecap.

*That should meet the regulation,* Titania said with satisfaction.

"That should meet the regulation," Dela whispered in praise, not knowing that she echoed my hidden partner. "Can you do a skirt?"

A quick internal consultation and then I asked, "Like yours?"

"Well, for the day after tomorrow it needs to be fuller, with petticoats, though no longer than halfway from, um, feminine mound to knee."

"I’ll have to work on that. Do the regulations change every day?"

I asked.

"At least, and they change from place to place, too."

"How do you ever keep up?"

Dela blushed and said, "Not everyone can. But I have a protector."

"Protector?"

"Yes, one of the past sector champions has accepted me."

"I’m lost, could you explain more?"

Dela glanced furtively at the door again, then whispered, "Men who reach certain levels in the tournament can accept the responsibility and privilege of protecting unmarried women until they are chosen by a husband. Dacton has accepted me. If I do something wrong, he has the responsibility to determine my punishment. He has to pay a fine for not keeping me in line, but his punishments are a lot easier than the court’s."

"Ah." I stalled quietly. Then she asked, "what sort of punishments does he require?"

Something in my tone, perhaps some echo of the call girl suggestive voice, made Dela look up.

"Oh, nothing sexual. A protector cannot *ever* become intimate with one of his charges. That’s a very high crime. Only husbands combine protection with sex."

*Well, there’s at least *some* honor in this screwed up world,* I mused. That reminded me of my own impending fate, though.

"What does it mean to be sentenced to "community service"?"

Dela’s face now took on a look of horror. "Oh, no! Is that what you have to do?"

I nodded, or at least tried to with my neck tied to the overhead chain, and tried to be patient in the face of this unspoken hazard.

"You’ll probably have to participate in the Games," Dela whispered, as though that told me anything.

"Games?"

"Yes," Dela said, finally realizing that I didn’t understand.

"The Games are for the amusement of the men in the town. Women are forced to compete against each other. The winner is freed, and the losers go back in the pen."

"Pen?" I whispered again, wishing Dela would just explain the damn thing instead of requiring each aspect to be pulled out.

"Those in the pen at the end of the day are put back in confinement until the next Games."

I sighed. I had heard of this sort of thing. Probably mud wrestling or something. Typical male fantasies of battling women in degrading settings. Even the old me had been above any enjoyment at that sort of thing.

"If I can get back, I’ll try to help you get ready in the morning," Dela promised. "Maybe you can get selected by mid-day, at least."

Something in her tone tried to raise the fine hairs on the back of my neck.

"Is that important?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," Dela nodded sharply. "The Games get . . . uglier as the day goes on. By the end of the day, it’s things like carrying dead rats from one barrel to another, in your teeth."

"Uggh," I shuddered despite my restrictions. "What do you have to do to get chosen early?"

"Well, each event has sponsors. The sponsors choose girls from the pens. You need to catch the eye of a sponsor. But don’t do it too early. There are favored girls who are entered by their protectors just for the sport of it in the early events. They’ll be well rested, and very fit. After a night in this place, you couldn’t compete with them. You need to try for a midmorning event, when the sporting girls are through and all that’s left are prisoners."

"What are the early events like?" I persisted.

"Mostly races," Dela said. "Then sometimes obstacle courses. It’s later that they start the fights, and the nasty things."

Just then Dela jerked up and gathered her things together. Even as

I was realizing what she was doing, Titania said, *The guard is coming.*

He was too close for even a whispered word, but my eyes thanked Dela for all her help, and the seamstress nodded in return. Portly’s steps paused for a few moments just out of sight. He was probably listening to see if they were talking, too stupid to realize that his heavy tread had given him away long before.

"Ain’t you done yet, girly?" he asked as he stepped into view.

"Just finishing, sir," Dela claimed, standing up.

He unlocked the door and stepped into the cell again. His glance, lascivious before, was positively lewd now at the display of toned flesh shown by my exposed legs. It appeared he was going to reach out and fondle my thighs when he stopped suddenly and looked at Dela.

"Good job, girly," he said, controlling himself in front of the witness. "How’d you do the boots?"

"The material of her suit has some unusual properties," Dela explained, a statement that hid a large truth inside a smaller one.

Portly nodded, not really interested in women’s work, and jerked his head to get Dela to leave the cell. As he locked it once more behind himself, he said to me, "Sleep tight, girly, you’ll need it."

"You can’t leave her in a temporary cell all night!" Dela exclaimed.

"Special orders," Portly claimed, then made an order of his own, "and you be quiet or you’ll join her."

Dela clearly wanted to protest some more, but she clamped her mouth shut and looked sadly at me. Still, there was a look of determination on her face, and Portly noticed it. He looked at me one last time, too, something wistful battling with lust for space in his eyes.

 

(continued in part 8)

 

 

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© 1999 by Brandy Dewinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.