Word Count = 472



James was shaking as he shuffled forward in the line of five men, dressed alike in the baggy blue prison uniforms. This wasn't happening, wasn't happening. He was going to wake up: his lawyer was going to come in with a reprieve. Anything.

A guard came in with a clipboard, looked at the numbers sewn on the jackets and changed the order of the line. Bloody hell, he was at the front now. He jerked around looking for.. who knows what.

The door in front of them opened and the guard with the clipboard pointed at James. "Come!"

James shuffled slowly out into the bright mid morning sun but froze in fear no more than two steps into the dusty yard. "Come! Come!" The guard was pushing at him.

With the guard shoving at him James stumbled out to the centre of the yard. The blood was buzzing in his ears as he took in the scene in dreamlike slowness. Two guards over by the wall chattering and joking. A man in a white coat. Another big, burly guard with sleeves rolled up. And a heavy bench of dull, dark wood with thick brown leather straps attached.

The white coated man stepped up to him, looked him over in a cursory fashion and addressed a brief word to the two guards by the wall. They walked over to James and pulled him towards the bench. His momentary resistance was expertly deal with by flicking his legs from under him so he slumped forward, guided onto the bench by a guard either side.

He was no sooner down than his hands were forced into position and the straps tightened around his wrists. A thick leather pad was placed across his lower back and another broad strap secured it. James kicked ineffectually as his trousers were pulled off and his ankles secured. The prison did not issue underwear.

The burly guard was standing in front of the bound James, talking to the one with the clipboard. The cane in his hand, a full four feet long and half an inch in diameter quivered with an oily suppleness.

James didn't remember starting to scream as guard set to work. One moment he was paralysed speechless, next he was screaming. He was still screaming eight strokes later as they dragged him back to his cell.

As he lay in his cell he realised that as bad as - worse than - the pain would be the daily humiliation of facing the guards who had seen him carried screaming and sobbing back to his cell.

"I'm never gonna set foot in this fucking barbarian country again when I get out of here," he yelled at the cold stone walls. "What sort of fucking laws do you call these?"

"Ones which work?" came a laconic voice from the next cell.


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