“Cassidy?” Officer Thompson called, drawing her attention. “Sweetums? Over here.”

Kersey and Grant’s cameras tracked her as she obediently answered the summons. Officer Thompson uncoiled the first of the leather belts in her hand. It forked at the terminus. A cone-shaped rubber sucker with a tiny bulb of red glass at its base protruded from the end of each strip.

“This won’t hurt,” she said, easing Cassidy’s hands down, affixing first one cone to a nipple and then the second to the other. On the opposite end of the leather, a hard-plastic loop for a handle—with a button, which she pressed.

Cassidy gasped when the suckers drew on her, small vacuums, and fixed themselves into place immovably. The little red bulbs lit up.

Officer Thompson reached a bit higher onto the strap and gave a test tug, pulling her breasts forward, the suckers holding firm. “Excellent,” she said. “Get on your hands and knees so you can be walked, love.”

Cassidy knelt, then let herself fall to her hands on the floor, tears dripping onto tiles.

They’re going to walk me? she thought, despairing. Somebody—God—please stop this.

Hard shoes next to her face. Nurse Reyes-Garcia taking a knee next to her, patting her bottom as Officer Thompson called Buddy to step forward. Through her periphery, Cassidy saw that his particular freak leash had only one vacuum sucker on it, which rolled down the shaft of his swiftly swelling member before inhaling itself into place.

“I have made it clear to our visitors,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said. “Yes, you and the others will model our new suction leashes, and you will do everything you are told. But, unlike certain other cases we have had in the past, we will not permit our guests to make you bark like a dog or anything like that. You shall crawl as what you are, as people who are made to do so as a matter of atonement, not as animals.”

Subservient foot-licking suck fuckers, her mind supplied against her will, her head hanging between her arms, rocking up and down, sobbing. Got it.

Nurse Reyes-Garcia’s finger, probing between her cheeks, under them, then farther on until—right … there. Cassidy’s head jerked up. Nurse Reyes-Garcia was sliding her finger up and down her sex.

“Cassidy, you are moistening like an octopus about to ink,” she said. “You will be fine.”

Then, when Peter was called for his roll-on penis tugger:

“I’m sorry, Officer Thompson, ma’am. Got anything ribbed? You know, for her pleasure.”

Cassidy didn’t understand what he meant, but something in the tone made her laugh anyway, even as Peter was added to today’s punishments.

Then came the chains, two sets for each prisoner, each ending in wrist or ankle clasps, each two feet long to allow for movement.

After that came the blindfolds, black strips of cloth with two words in white lettering: LEAD ME. The police—now unseen and effectively anonymous—turned the caps around backward so that the words on the blindfolds might be easily read.

Then they allowed the guests inside.

****

“Come in, come in,” Officer Garcia welcomed them. “Right this way, please. You can see our new inmates are ready to welcome you. You shall be guiding them to our presentation room. We ask that you take turns, that no one hogs them.”

The disembodied voice, slightly amplified above the visitors’ (by what device Buddy could not guess), echoed down the long hall.

“We do ask that you refrain from any skin-to-skin physical contact with the prisoners until we reach our final destination and have them properly mounted for your examination and enjoyment.”

What? Buddy thought, swallowing the growing moan and trapping it in his throat. Mom, tell them they can’t.

His brain simply could not help but go there, even though Buddy knew that his mother, so adept at getting him out of minor fixes in the past, was far away and powerless to stop any of it. She and Daddy had done their best. They’d gotten him the best lawyer they could. It was over. This would happen to him.

One of the guests, female: “Oh, shit—look! They’re totally naked, just like on TV!”

Another guest, male: “Well, duh. You expected something else?”

Laughter.

“Yeah, but this is real. You know, like ‘in the flesh’ real?”

Matron, he thought, let me go hide. Protect me.

But he said nothing, even as footsteps—so many of them—grew louder in his ears. Even as he felt the ambient heat of somebody reach down under his chin to take hold of the leash that, on the other end, was vacuum packed to his stiffened penis.

Officer Garcia: “Ah, here we see a realization of the phrase ‘the early bird gets the worm’ in practical application. Go ahead, miss. And please, do not tug until we are walking, and none too sternly. He will go where you lead him without complaint. If he does not, I shall correct him.”

“Please, Officer, just a little tug? A teensy weensy one, just to see if I’m applying the right amount of … you know, force and stuff? And can I see his face? He’s hiding it.”

“Turn your head up, Buddy. Let the nice woman see your face.”

Buddy turned his head up, as though trying to see through blinded eyes.

“Oh, look at him. So cute. Can I give it a tug?”

No. No. No.

“Oh, very well. Let me see your technique. And let us use this moment educationally. Everyone, gather ’round, and we shall have a demonstration as to how much pressure to apply when leading our prisoners to our various tour stops.”

No!

A quick tug drew Buddy’s penis forward and to the left. He yelped helplessly, then quickly crawled that way, chains rattling, arms and legs shuffling two paces forward and to the left. And, with the exertion, the sheath on his organ lubricated on the inside and seemed to breathe over him, keeping him hard, making him wail in violation and surprise.

“That is not too bad. Very close, miss. You may lead him a tad more urgently next time, but not too much so. Well, then. Officer Davies, will you be so kind as to explain to our guests the process of taking in new transitional prisoners?”

Buddy remained functionally still, but his whole body shuddered as Officer Davies talked them through the process with each prisoner, one basket of possessions at a time.

****

“Head up, criminal,” the anonymous man said, giving the leash an unnecessary pull, causing the tiny, rubber, somehow insectile feelers inside the suction cups to tickle her nipples to protrusion again. “Up, criminal. Up.”

Criminal, her mind echoed. He’s using that word, and he means me, and no one is correcting him.

Emma Jo scuttled forward, head up—as if it made any difference. She couldn’t make out anything (not that she especially wanted to), and really, how much of her face could he even see with both the blindfold and the hat on?

He sounded young-ish. Happy.

“That’s a good criminal. Girl, you got a hell of a blush goin’ on.”

Of course, I do, asshole! she wanted to scream at him. I’m fucking naked!

How long, she wondered, before I get used to this?

From the cold, hard floor of intake and back to tiles she crawled, periodically helped along by the leash, trying to ignore the rubber nipple ticklers.

“Here,” Officer Garcia said, “our new prisoners must give up the last of what they own and place everything in these plastic bags—”

Another tug. No one stopped him. Maybe they didn’t notice. Emma Jo didn’t dare protest.

Another voice, right next to her walker. “That’s long enough for you. My turn. Give her over, please.” Older and female. She kept her voice low. It would have been impolite to talk over the nice police officer.

“Fine,” the younger man groused, passing her off.

“…and here we require, in addition to the standard cleansing of the outer body, an interior anal scrub with the soap you see in this small vial here. Sir, if you would be so kind as to lead Mr. Gravis into the stall with me, he shall demonstrate to us how this is done.”

From Peter, an uncharacteristic whimper.

“Really? He’s gonna do that here in front of everyone?”

“He will if he does not wish to spend the remainder of this tour with suction cups on his testicles, which would cause him significantly more discomfiture than the simple shaft attachment. For the record, we also have labia attachments—all easily and quickly fetched. So many different options. Mr. Gravis, will you come forward, or do you wish to be led by your fun nuggets?”

Footsteps. The sound of another tug, rattling chains. Hands making tentative, leading steps, like flippers.

Water coming on. A quick exclamation from Peter. Perhaps it had come on cold?

“There you are, Mr. Gravis. Now do it, please. Show our guests what a good boy you can be.”

Small grunting sounds, punctuated by familiar popping noises as his finger went in and out, as his butt tried to make room for it. Smaller Peter-crying sounds.

And from the guests:

“Jesus Christ, the poor son of a bitch really is doing it. Oh, my God.”

“Oooh, my, crime really doesn’t pay, does it? Just look at him. What a nightmare.”

“Gross out. Moving on, please?”

****

The tour led them through the interview room, the storage annex where they’d first been punished—Peter had thought he might be in for some more unpleasantness there, but no—then through both protective custody halls, first the men’s, then Cassidy and Emma Jo’s. But if Peter had been in any way curious as to whether the women had better (or worse) accommodations than the men, he never found out. The blindfold stayed on the whole time.

“We shall now go to the presentation room, where we have some activities planned for you. After that, we will take you to other places with which you may be familiar but our inmates know nothing about. Therefore, this shall be their final stop. No fun if we spoil the surprises before their time, yes?”

Peter was brought along by his third handler, a young woman with an unnervingly throaty chuckle, whose eyes he could all but feel on him every crawl-step of the way. But now, hearing the whole dreaded business was nearing its end for him—for all of them—he recovered somewhat. His breathing returned to normal. The inside of his blindfold started to dry.

Yep, but that was definitely a “major” humiliation back there, he reflected ruefully. Nothing “minor” about that humiliation.

Another tug. He hurried forward, penis hardening under fresh lubricant that seemed to have no end. Before him and behind him, the ongoing chorus: chattering, whispers, sniffles, and tears.

And all of it on TV. According to Officer Garcia, eleven million people had watched him core his own bunghole. He forced away the thought. He didn’t want to get upset again. He wanted to be the cool one. If everyone had a role, that was the one he had chosen for himself. It was his comfort zone in a decidedly uncomfortable situation.

One session nearly down. I can do this.

“Ah, here we are,” Officer Garcia said, speaking normally now, no amplification. “Gentlemen, ladies, the presentation room. Officer Thompson?”