With a facility filled with the most vicious offenders in the federal prison system, there are few criteria for evaluating the performance of its management.

       How many successfully escape... and what are the incidences of violence involving guards and other staff. That is all. There are no other performance measures.

       All other benchmarks... inmate health... rate of recidivism... inmate death rate... inmate complaints... are superfluous.

       With the type of criminals incarcerated at Lockwood Penitentiary, no one cares about the well being of the so called ‘residents’. Protecting society is the goal... the only goal.

       And under Warden Laura Davidson’s tutelage, the small drab institution, located in the remotest area of Colorado, is rated as the most effective at protecting society. Thus it receives the most violent and the most incorrigible of prisoners.

       In order to earn a stay at Lockwood, a prisoner must have been sentenced to a life term and have, at some point in his term of incarceration, committed an act of violence against a guard or other prison official. Only the truly truculent arrive. And as Laura Davidson smugly suggests to newcomers, only the truly dead leave. The Lockwood facility is for those who are never eligible for parole. The only escape from Lockwood is in a coffin.

       So with Laura Davidson’s exemplary record... no escapes... no reported incidences of violence... success is left to its own devices. How such a record is achieved, none care to learn. In the minds of the high ranking officials at the Bureau of Prisons, to send a recalcitrant inmate to Lockwood is akin to permanently solving potential problems. He is never heard from again.

       As a result, few questions are asked. For example, no official file or document highlights the fact that every member of Laura Davidson’s phalanx of guards is female. No one questions the unusual purchase orders for expensive custom made stainless steel restraint devices... the constant purchase and delivery of batteries for the cattle prods. No one notices the paucity of orders for prison uniforms...

       “Sign here and he’s yours,” a rugged federal marshal of considerable stature pushes forth a clipboard. His sense of relief is palpable. He has transported the notorious ‘day care bomber’ some fifteen hundred miles without incident. Despite the ineluctable bonds used and the weaponry at his disposal, separating himself from the vicious killer is akin to ridding himself of a heavy load. The five guards accompanying him, standing by with loaded shotguns, feel the same.

       He disguises his amazement in encountering the sang froid of the woman who signs for possession of the well shackled demon. Spending three days on the road with the psychopath was bad. This woman will have him for a lifetime. And the contrast is striking. The scruffy prisoner...  forcibly hunched in his bonds, three days growth of facial hair, bad prison haircut... appears to be more animal than human, chained as he is. The woman, on the other hand, is a true beauty, dressed not in a uniform but a smartly cut business suit. Golden hair well coifed, lively blue eyes, manicured nails, pleasingly even features; she could be an influential executive secretary for a Fortune 500 company. But instead, she stands in a chamber of concrete dealing with Earth’s lowest life forms.

       “Be very careful, ma’am,” the marshal suggests most condescendingly.

       Laura Davidson smiles demurely.

       “Oh, I think we can handle him. We’ll make him very happy. We have some girls here who very much enjoy cleaning, cooking, and bringing a man his pipe and slippers at days end... the keys please.”

       The flippant remarks, humorously ironic in Laura Davidson’s mind, bring a look of both concern and confusion to the imposing marshal. He is aware of Lockwood’s exemplary reputation and record. Could it be that the envied results are truly due to some misappropriated level of care? That the prisoners do not attempt escape or commit violent acts because they are coddled?

       He does not intend to stay and find out.

       Keys which fit the half dozen cuffs and locks are surrendered. Such secure the many feet of chains encircling the limbs and torso of the most hated man in the country... the psychopathic killer of dozens of children. The marshal gestures to his squad. They depart the receiving area without further exchange, relieved to be freed of their obligation.

       The heavy steel door, the only portal to the outside world, clanks shut.

       “Welcome to Lockwood, John Dullsworth Tubbs,” Laura formally announces with solemnity. “I am Warden Laura Davidson, and this is your new home... your last home.”

       She smiles in imparting the ominous notion to the vicious killer that he has made his final trip, seen the outside world for the last time. John Dullsworth Tubbs remains silent, a typical reaction of the truly evil... threatening with diabolical looks and disturbing reticence.

       Laura nods to guards standing at the ready.

       “Some housekeeping chores before you’re taken to the Indoctrination Chamber.”

       A uniformed woman of notable brawn places a heavy box at the feet of the well trussed prisoner. It is the guard known as Gloria... Miss Gloria to the fifty inmates of Lockwood Penitentiary.

       “Miss Gloria is going to prepare you. We enjoy a certain look among the inmates, and we have our own system of restraint here at Lockwood. Our own way of doing things. I trust you won’t find such too confining...”

       Laura laughs with her own pun as Miss Gloria works. The worn shackles are slid towards the elbows providing space for broad, smooth bands of shiny steel which are placed around each wrist and then snapped shut. The milling and machining are precise. When closed, no seam can be detected, and no hinges can be detected without the closest of inspections.

       “I’m sure you were curious as to why you were given a full body scan and measured so carefully. Now you know.”

       Yes, weeks before his transfer, a sedated John Dullsworth Tubbs spent nearly an hour in a magnetic resonance imaging machine. As a result, there was forwarded to Lockwood a host of data which was passed along to, among others, the high tech foundry which makes the metal bands. There, computer controlled milling machines worked to create restraints which fit the various anatomical parts of John Dullsworth Tubbs to within tenths of millimeters.

       The dour guard slips up the pant legs of the denim prison garb. The old fashioned ankle shackles are slid towards the knees and similar bands are enclosed around the ankles. John Dullsworth Tubbs finds that though snug, the smoothly polished inner surfaces make the bands most comfortable. But for the notable weight, the adornments can barely be felt.

       “Internal spring locks, Mr. John Dullsworth Tubbs. Once the bands are closed, there is no way to remove them other then by blow torch. Very annoying for the prison undertaker.”

       Laura smiles as she detects a slight shudder from John Dullsworth Tubbs. Like most psychopathic killers, he has difficulty contemplating his own death, as if meting finality to others makes himself invulnerable to the grim reaper. 

       “And I think you’ll find your new jewelry to be comfortable. We’ve learned that comfort can be a very important aspect of long term bondage.”

       John Dullsworth Tubbs stares at the alluring warden. His hate is palpable. Her calm, cool good looks make his immobility even more unbearable. He pictures her beautiful flesh ripping open after she opens her desk drawer to discover one of his clever home made bombs. For her, he would program a delay in the trigger... just enough time so that there would be cognizance over the horror of pending death... but not enough time to avoid it.

       ‘Boom...’ He must stifle a smile as he hears the explosion in his mind and feels his imaginary hand stroking himself, bringing forth the bizarre combination of death and ejaculatory climax which has driven his life of serial killing.

       Miss Gloria stoops to retrieve a larger circle of metal from the box. It is the neck collar for John Dullsworth Tubbs. She has spent enough time around psychotic killers to know to avoid his mouth. Biting is always a threat even with the most well bound prisoner. She steps behind the hunched form, working to avoid potential contact with incisors, which can be the last effective weapon of the criminally violent.

       Her hands work quickly. As with the other finely crafted circles of metal, the open collar closes with remarkable precision and with the sound of a firm click. To the attending staff of women, the sound has a satisfying finality.

       “Collared... just like a dog,” Laura taunts, heightening her tone of mockery.    

       There comes a ceremonial pause. Two other female guards, standing at the ready but not proximate enough to draw attention, step closer. Each holds a cattle prod.

       “We’ll need to remove all those nasty restraints in order to adorn you properly. But first, a little introduction to how we encourage good behavior.”

       Laura nods to the guards. Each steps forward and casually points the only weapon permitted within the Lockwood Penitentiary facilities... specially designed electric prods... designed for use on cattle.

       “I’m sure you’ve seen such devices. It’s best you also experience a little feel.”

       With a nod, the two guards point the prods and, most casually, touch his right arm and left and gently press the triggers. John Dullsworth Tubbs makes his first sound at Lockwood. It is a pitiful cry of agony, bringing a smile to his newest adversary, she who will occupy his mind with unending plots for an explosive demise.

       “A low setting. The prods can completely incapacitate when desired,” Laura calmly explains. 

       A stoic John Dullsworth Tubbs slowly sinks to his knees, involuntarily genuflecting to a woman he has quickly come to despise and more quickly than all the mothers to whom he sought to bring the ultimate grief with his diabolical incendiary devices.

       The cattle prod bearing guards step away in a practiced choreograph. Miss Gloria approaches with a larger box. With the new arrival remaining stunned from the instantaneous charges, Laura steps forth and gruffly captures an ear in each hand. She rarely touches a prisoner but knows that one initial controlling grasp can aid in instilling a lifetime of servitude. Yes, there will come hate... but there will also come respect and fear... as intended.

       To add to the ignominy of being brought to his knees by a cadre of women, John Dullsworth Tubbs must endure the secure yet oddly tender grip on his ears. The perfume of his captor invades his nose. He finds that the woman smells as good as she looks; her controlling hands transmitting a message of knowing authority. It is apparent that he is not the first vicious offender she has brazenly touched... demonstrating her intrepid governance.

       “Now for our signature piece. It will feel a bit awkward at first. But you’ll have plenty of time to become accustomed to it.”

       From the large box is extracted a four foot length of equally smooth and shiny stainless steel. In the center, there is a hole, the inner edge is grooved and large enough to accommodate the collar encircling the neck of John Dullsworth Tubbs. The guard bends the length to open the hole at the center and quickly places the four foot length over the shoulders of the stunned prisoner. She instantly straightens the thick bar and the opening closes around the permanent neck collar. There comes another click as some type of clasp secures the opening. The device is heavy, weighing many pounds.

       “You’ll be heartened to know that the Martin Rigid Stock is not a permanent fixture, Mr. Tubbs. You’ll be able to earn a respite from it. But, for now, we like the mobility of our new arrivals to be completely limited.”

       The keys acquired from the shot gun bearing posse are used to unlock the more conventional wrist shackles, ankle shackles, and accompanying chains. Metal loops at each end of the Martin Rigid Stock are pried open. The kneeling prisoner realizes that such will soon encapsulate his wrist bands.

       “Now, be a good boy for us and lift your arms up and away from your shoulders. I think you know where I want your wrists, and I should remind you that there are well charged batteries in those prods.”

       Realizing that the team of women has successfully garnished dozens of prisoners with the curious system of restraint, having felt the unbearable jolt of the cattle prods, John Dullsworth Tubbs, vicious killer of dozens, slowly lifts his hands in somber compliance. The knowing Miss Gloria quickly inserts right wrist band and then left into the openings. The bands fit perfectly within the circumference of the rounded metal openings. With a click and another click, the vicious killer finds his wrist bands encapsulated just as is his neck collar... within the grooved circular apertures of the Martin Rigid Stock.

       The length of the stock is perfect. With arms held well out to the sides, the biceps of the prisoner are horizontal to the floor. The elbows are bent at ninety degrees, and the forearms point straight up to the ceiling. Hands, forced to uselessness, rest atop the four foot length at the level of his face. The awkward posture insures a good degree of practical bondage with a tinge of humiliation in being forced to assume such a humbling stature. 

       Miss Gloria adds another metal piece, seemingly as an after thought. A slim but sturdy bar of steel is clipped to the right ankle band and then the left, connecting the prisoner’s feet.

       Laura releases her grip and tenderly pats the top of his head.

       “Such a good boy. You’ll find that you can somewhat twist your wrists, arms, and head. You’ll walk a little funny with that spreader bar. And, of course, there will be no kicking. But otherwise, any further mobility must be earned.”

       Laura steps back. Little does John Dullsworth Tubbs realize, the brief, brusque, and unorthodox feel of her fingers, resolute hands using his ears as handles, is the first and final occasion of experiencing her touch.

       “He’s all yours, ladies,” Laura declares with a gleeful smile.

       Such unexpected wickedness from a woman who ostensibly represents law and order. The guards who wielded cattle prods now approach with small tools in hand. Is that a cackle being suppressed?

       “Box cutters, Mr. Tubbs. We have not found any tool more practical for the function required.”

       The hapless John Dullsworth Tubbs, one time gruesome killer, now kneels while women of purpose slash away. And the object of their flailing hands? His prison uniform... the sole remaining possession representing a system of incarceration from which John Dullsworth Tubbs has been banished. He is now at Lockwood... and will exist under the rules of Warden Laura Davidson.

       There ensues a frightful interlude. Razor sharp blades cut and tear. John Dullsworth Tubbs startled at first, helplessly watches as heavy denim is shredded to meaningless strips of cloth... no longer useful as covering... not even useful as rags.

       “Say goodbye, Mr. Tubbs. It’s the last vestige of covering for you. We prefer out inmates naked and vulnerable.”

       With all elements of the tattered uniform removed, John Dullsworth Tubbs kneels completely naked before his new captor. For Warden Laura Davidson, it is a glorious scene of male supplication. She feels a twinge within her loins as Miss Gloria reaches for the final bands.

       There come two more clicks as the thighs, right and left, are encircled with similar bands just above the knee.

       John Dullsworth Tubbs glares at his new found adversary. His thoughts run rampart. Perhaps he will fuck her before binding hands and feet and inserting a stick of dynamite into her vagina. A slow burning fuse placed near her clitoris should provide delicious moments for terrified thought and contrition...

       “Make the genital ring nice and tight, Gloria. I find his look amusing... but he needs to be humbled.”

       One last finely crafted piece of steel is drawn from the box. It is another band but with a metal post threaded through the circumference. There are also holes drilled within the perimeter for purposes unknown. Miss Gloria twists and the tip of the post intersects the circumference and slowly invades the inner diameter of the band, as a bolt works its way through a nut.

       “You’re going to feel pressure where a man feels things the most, Mr. John Dullsworth Tubbs. From that recent magnetic imaging body scan, we were able to ascertain the measurements of your most intimate anatomy. And the adjustable post makes is impossible to slide off.”

       Miss Gloria, smiling for the first time, stoops and abruptly gathers in her left hand the male package of the newly arrived prisoner. In her right is the band, and she tugs with her left, deftly encircling the base of the penis and testicles. The band snaps closed with an authoritative click. It is tight, yet the finely milled inner surface does not abrade. The tip of the adjustable post can be felt just under the ball sac.

       “Feel like someone is holding your balls? Some prisoners refer to the genital ring as the long hand of Warden Davidson, Mr. Tubbs. Over time you may come to think of it in the same manner.”

Email the author: Chris_Bellows@hotmail.com