Chaingang

Sharon Sharon cursed to herself as she had to make an awkward little hop-step up a curb, causing a jingling to emanate from her breasts. She cursed her luck, cursed the choice she’d made, and above all, she cursed the short little link locked between her thigh hobbles. People stared at her as she made her forced slow, hip-swaying walk down the pedestrian mall to her office building. They always stared. Why shouldn’t they? She was out walking along in a too-short, too-tight grey-blue state correctional department dress. She hated this. She hated every waking second of this. She subconsciously tried to turn her head, to not see into the laughing eyes of the other pedestrians. For the thousandth time, the too-tight, too-tall steel collar pinched her throat at her jaw bone, stopping her. She was all too aware of the words emblazoned on the collar, in large, clear letters: CONVICTED PROSTITUTE, and under that, FLORIDA DEPT. OF CORRECTIONS. Her formerly long, beautiful hair that had hung nearly to her waist, had been cropped to a short pageboy style, so that the collar with it’s lettering and it’s large, permanent, front and rear-mounted leash rings would show from all directions. ...

“Faster Maggot!” the voice boomed over the loud speaker. Sarah picked up another rock and loaded it onto the cart beside her. The crack of a whip sounded off in the distance encouraging her to continue her work at a brisk pace. As long as it was not her back getting the whip, she felt somewhat safe. Sarah picked up the handle of the cart and began to pull it as fast has her shackled bare feet would allow. This was her lot in life for the next thirty days. The judge had sentenced her to hard labor for her wrong doings. ...