Sharon's Luck 3, Patty free porn video

Sharon's Luck part 3, Pat(ty)'s Tale My given name is Patrick. I'm twenty-three, I'm into self-bondage, and I'm a cross-dresser. Not all the time, you understand; I have to work for a living, but cross-dressing is my fetish, and for lack of interest in almost anything else, my one hobby. I'm sure that I probably spend more time and money shopping for shoes & clothes than the average female, but it's what I like. I'm lucky that I have a body that lends itself to female attire; I'm five feet eight inches tall and slender, at one hundred thirty pounds. My almost-black hair is cut in a 'page-boy' style, which I hide by wearing it pulled up into a 'man-bun' or up under a hat. With my hair down and make-up on, I'm quite passable as a girl and I often go out dressed as one. I'm not gay, but I love flirting with men while I'm dressed in something sexy. Cross-dressing is fun, sexy, and a real rush out in public, but my absolute greatest fantasy-driver is when I occasionally spot a woman who's incarcerated in one of my State's 'Get tough on morality' public- humiliation corrections uniforms; you may have seen one of these women, wearing a too-short little stretchy grey prisoner's dress. This is worn over large, plastic breast forms mounted to a chest plate. She'll have a high-security chastity belt keeping two big, bright-orange dildos locked up inside her, her knees are hobbled together with stainless bands and she's wearing locked-on, super-high-heeled pumps with bright orange stiletto heels. What makes this corrections option legal and morally acceptable is that these women have all volunteered to wear these outfits, out and about in 'public incarceration'. This form of punishment is offered as an option to going to jail or even prison for some crime that they've committed. They're not just wearing the state's punishment uniform, they're also having to pay a pretty high monthly service/maintenance fee for the honor. It's terribly uncomfortable, expensive and humiliating for them, but they'll all tell you that it still beats going to prison. I close my eyes and imagine what it must be like for these women, wriggling along, forced to walk very high on their toes (some of them even wearing 'ballet-toe' high heels), their legs sheathed in thick, tight, glossy, back-seamed tan hosiery, their thighs forced to remain four or less inches apart by the short bar between the cuffs just above their knees, this staying located by a vertical bar that tees into the hobble bar and attaches to the crotch piece of their chastity belt, just between the visible ends of the two 'safety' orange punishment dildos that protrude out two inches through the belt. To maximize public humiliation, the prisoner's grey lycra uniform dress is cut very short, too short to cover the crotch panel of her chastity belt and the ends of the bright orange dildos. Can you imagine? Two huge 'punishment' dildos are stuffed in her pussy and ass, locked in place with a chastity belt, and her tight little lycra dress is too short to cover it? Anybody who so much as glances at them can see the double penetration that's part of the punishment uniform. I try to imagine what having one's breasts tightly cinched around their bases feels like; that's what uniformed girls endure, their breasts forced through small openings in the uniform's locked-on chest plate, and into transparent, high-impact plastic breast forms. These are diabolical; they're lined throughout with small, conical points that press into the wearer's swollen, hurting, spherical breasts. Every uniform-wearing female's nipples are pierced and the piercings are reinforced by permanent grommets as part of the uniform. The grommets are stainless steel and are flared by a machine after they're pushed through her piercings, making them irremovable. Her nipples, now equipped with reinforced piercings, are pulled painfully through inch-long tubes at the tips of the plastic breast forms and are fitted with 'D' shackles to avail them as attachment points, or simply convenient, instant compliance-gaining devices for anyone who cares to slip a finger through them. When (and if) a girl completes her sentence,* these grommets and D-rings are left in place. Opening the D-rings requires a proprietary, state-held tool. It's as if the State assumes that she'll be put back in uniform. If she wants to have them removed it's an expensive procedure that has to be done by a machine shop. Removing the grommets would require disfiguring surgery. As such, the vast majority of post-uniform women simply elect to remain ringed. *[The conditions of uniform wear are very strict; the slightest slip-up, tardiness for an appointment, fee payment or other infraction carries strict and some say cruel additional time-of-sentence penalties. It's typical for a woman to end up serving at least twice the amount of time of her original sentence, and often more. As it's a 'for-profit' program and quite lucrative, the state has been inventive and even devious in it's positioning of pitfalls to extend the length of incarceration of uniformed women.] Whenever I see an 'outmate' (as a woman on public release in a State punishment uniform is known), what first draws my eye is her collar. 'Morality program' uniformed girls all wear a tall, close-fitting stainless-steel collar with leash rings at the front and back. Their crime is deeply engraved into the metal at the front with a laser. While they're serving their sentences, their hair is cut short, usually a 'page-boy' (I wear my own hair cut this way) style, so that the State's collar is visible from all sides. The absolute best sightings, the ones that keep me in a weird state of erotic 'high' for days and weeks are the felons; seeing the welds running up the sides of a collar that's around a woman's throat and knowing that she must wear that collar for the rest of her life makes me absolutely giddy. These women are the long-timers in the system; they're the ones who you'll see with impossibly small waists, closely hobbled and teetering along in ballet-toe shoes. The punishment dildos forced up inside them will invariably be huge. It's a special treat to see a felony girl after seven in the evening as, like all 'Morality program' prisoners, she'll have an enormous, tubular penis gag locked in her mouth, and additionally, because she's a felon, her arms will be sheathed tightly together behind her back, pressed together from fingertip to elbows in an extremely tough, flexible, plastic shrink-tube that's applied to her every night by a machine in her residence. She'll spend every night gagged from six o'clock and arm-sheathed from seven o'clock until seven o'clock the next morning when the gag is released, and her arms will, providing she gets them into the machine within the allowed five minute window at seven o'clock, be released from behind her. If she is late, the machine resets, locking her out; she will wear the arm sheath for another twenty-four hours before the next opportunity for release comes. As for the gag worn by all uniformed women, felon or not, if it's not removed by ten minutes after seven o'clock it simply relocks itself until the same time the next day. The gag will only unlock on weekday mornings; it remains locked in her mouth from Friday evening until Monday morning. Over the weekend, the 'outmate' can only take liquid meals, squirted down her throat through the half-inch hole in the gag. I wanted one of these uniforms. I wanted to wear it, helpless, bound, displayed, painfully penetrated and deliciously, utterly, completely humiliated as I wriggled around in public places, high on my toes in the uniform stilettos, on display in a State-sanctioned bondage and fetish punishment uniform. I dreamed of having a big pair of tits so I could suffer in the breast forms with my nipples agonizingly stretched, I wanted my jaw to ache around a long, fat, bright-orange-so-everyone-sees- it penis gag, and I especially wanted to be locked into a too-tight chastity belt, unable to cum, with a great big, safety-orange punishment dildo locked up my slutty little ass. Phew. Wow. Deep breath. Okay, I need to take a step back. The genuine, official State public punishment uniform was my fantasy, my absolute favorite fantasy, but in reality, I didn't think I would actually like (or could even endure) wearing it for more than a few minutes. That said, I still bought myself equipment and hosiery and super-short, stretchy-see-through grey lycra dresses that mimicked the punishment uniform. I had chastity belts that would secure my boy-parts into inaccessible little containers while keeping any of a variety of butt plugs in my bottom. I had my nipples pierced and grommets fitted and wore terribly uncomfortable nipple stretchers under the plastic breast forms of fake State-discipline uniforms. I had collars, knee-hobbles, a number of bright orange penis gags, 'winghouse' waitress thick pantyhose, and a variety of pairs of very high, 'lockable' (sort of) high heels. I would wear a combination of the above for hours, sometimes for a full day and even into the next on weekends. I never wore one of these faux- uniforms out in public though, and as good as it was, it was never enough. Reality be damned, the heart wants what the heart (or more likely some lower part of me) wants, and I really, really wanted was a genuine prisoner uniform. I dreamt about wearing a full 'felony level' punishment uniform (complete with the high-security ankle hobbles), out in public, and particularly to a Halloween costume contest at a bar I like. I fantasized about taking two weeks off from work before the event, spending all of it continuously locked and suffering in a real punishment uniform, unable to take it off, bound, penetrated, displayed and humiliated, just like the real 'Morality Program' outmates were, before finally competing in the bar's costume contest. In other fantasies I would often climax while envisioning myself being dog-whipped by one of the cruel guards as I did 'public service', chain-ganged at the collar with eleven other gagged and uniformed girls as we picked up litter along roadsides. As I said earlier, Not Realistic. I mentioned this interest (toned down a long way) conversationally in a cross-dressing-themed online chatroom, and was sent a private message by one of the other users. "Are you serious about a real uniform?" "Yes" I replied reluctantly, thinking someone wanted to get into some one-on-one fantasy thing that I probably wasn't going to be interested in. "I know someone who knows someone. It won't be cheap and the pieces are fitted for women's bodies. If you have a masculine build, you won't be able to wear one." Now I was interested, but still smelling 'scam'. I cautiously typed "I'm interested." "I'm going to send you a form. Make the required measurements using a fabric measuring tape. You'll need to be very accurate. Send the completed list to (they gave an email address) with your email address. If items in your size are available, you'll get photos of them and pricing in one to three days." A moment later, a form listing the required measurements for me to make appeared in the text column. I took a screenshot of it and saved it. Okay, now I was interested. I carefully took the measurements, all over my body, resisting the urge to write down what I'd like them to be, and sent them to the email address I'd been given from a throwaway one I only used for going on sites that I knew were going to spam me. Four days later (a Friday, fortuitously), having heard nothing, I'd given up hope. The whole thing had surely been a scam, or just some pervert playing a little game of his own invention with me. If it was real, maybe they just didn't have anything that would fit me. I was at work when the email tone went off on my phone, and I saw that a message had come on the address I'd given. I nearly chewed my nails off waiting for break time so I could read it. I left work early to go to the bank when I saw the pictures. They were clearly genuine uniform articles and there was an entire set. The message stated that the whole uniform could be mine for $5,000 dollars, one electronic key included. They also said that they had a set of felon's ankle hobbles with the eight-inch chain available in my size, if I was interested. I met them in the large, well-lit parking lot of a big store that evening, cash in hand. I was shown the uniform by a large woman who couldn't seem to stop smirking at me as I carefully examined all of the items which were laid out in the back of her mini-van. Her male companion stayed in the front of the car. I was terrified that I was going to be beaten and robbed, but there were a lot of people around, and to my delight, the uniform was the real thing. It even included the enema device, necessary but loathed by those who were forced to use it. They had no choice, their asses were inescapably plugged by the State's anal punishers. Via email, I'd counter-offered for two extra pairs of the unique, thick, glossy, back-seamed, open-crotch tan pantyhose, an extra uniform dress, and the 'felon' ankle hobbles to be thrown in for the $5,000, and they'd accepted. I paid the woman, she counted it, and I couldn't be away from there with my prizes fast enough. My stomach was so clenched and full of butterflies that I could only squeak a reply when she mocked "Have fun, sweetie" as I departed. Safely home I laid out and carefully examined my purchases. The shoes were fantastic; classically styled pumps with no platform, heels fully seven inches high, and they only showed minimal wear. I marveled at how heavily they were built, the inch-wide, springy metal straps that would encircle their prisoner's ankles and I absolutely quivered at their color combination of penal grey with black soles and safety orange stiletto heels. Where they touched the ground, the orange tips of the stilettos were only a thumbs breadth from the soles of the shoes. Examining them closely I saw how they were designed to allow soapy shower water to wash down inside them, around the wearer's feet and toes before draining out of a series of clever little decorative-looking holes in the toes of the shoes. The high-security ankle hobbles were two-inch wide, quarter-inch thick polished stainless cuffs with eight inches of permanently attached chain between them. They were designed to lock on over the shoes' ankle straps and even incorporated an extra 'stirrup' that looped down under the shoe in front of the stiletto heel, doubly securing the shoes in place. The thick, glossy, tan hosiery was simply scrumptious, with its heavy 'Cuban' style reinforcement at heels and toes, and its ample amount of lycra to keep them fitting tightly, as they would be worn day and night for two week stints. These special pantyhose (and the dress) were made with hydrophilic and anti-bacterial properties that wicked moisture away from the wearer, keeping her skin clean and dry underneath. You were supposed to take hot, soapy showers while wearing the uniform to keep the material clean, and the remarkable material would dry in minutes. The chastity belt was positively fear-inducing; it's waistband was clearly too small for me to wear without intense discomfort and it was equipped with a pair of punishment dildos that must've completely ruined its previous wearer. The front intruder (these were always fitted with a stainless leash ring at their base) was fully twelve inches long, the rear invader (fitted with an enema port) was a merciless ten incher and each was as thick as a soda can. I groaned with frustration at this, I'd hoped that I might be able to somehow take the rear one, but there was no way I could fit this monster up my ass. The half-inch thick, solid stainless rod that connected to a place between the front and rear dildos on the chastity belt was just the right length, connecting to the three-inch bar between the knee-hobble bands. When closed, these were a little tighter than I'd have liked, but hobbled me very effectively, locking in place just above my knees. Both bars were attached by clever ball-swivel mounts which would eliminate any binding, while still providing total bondage. The dark grey, thick plastic breast-plate was a very good fit to my small chest, though its wide straps seemed a little short and had no adjustment. After a lot of effort, I managed to put it on, finally getting the straps locked around my torso and shoulders. They bit well into me, and the shoulder loops forced my shoulders way back; it felt like my shoulder blades were touching. My nipples and surrounding flesh pushed out an inch through the three inch openings in the breast plate, and were immediately engorged with blood and super-sensitive. I loved it, blissfully touching them in front of the mirror. The heavy, clear plastic breast forms came next, their tubular nipples pointing arrogantly up and out once I'd clicked them into their locking receiver slots on the chest plate. Oh, how I wished I had a big pair of double-'D' breasts to fill these torture chambers, I wanted to have my nipples painfully stretched in those tubes and I wanted to feel each and every one of the hundreds of cruel, conical points that lined the breast forms push deeply into the skin of my tender, swollen, root-cinched tits. The gag was going to cause me problems, something I'd realized as soon as I'd seen it. It was huge, almost as thick as the punishment dildos in the accompanying chastity belt, and it was clearly too long. The slightly smaller 'head' of the safety-orange, phallus-shaped device would actually rest in the opening of the wearer's throat when in locked in place with its wide, mesh-steel reinforced strap. I'd read about this, the reasoning behind the 'too long' gag was so that the wearer could not swallow her own tongue and choke to death while gagged. I'd also read that the 'felony' version of the gag was an even longer design that extended a few inches down the wearer's throat. It typically took at least a year for the woman to work her way up to wearing the felony 'deep throat' gag. The dresses were penal grey, short-sleeved, and kind of boringly cut, except for their obscenely tight fit and short length. They were made of the same lycra-based material as the pantyhose, and became semi-sheer when stretched. Like the other items, they were superior quality, heavily sewn, and looked very durable. Last and most important came the collar; it was tall, more than three inches at the front and two on the sides and back. It was designed to encumber the wearer's head movement, and it was equipped with thick, inch-diameter attachment rings front and back. Its finish was polished stainless, and I giggled with delight as I read the front, 'Habitual Prostitute' and in smaller letters 'Public Punishment Uniform Program, Florida Department of Corrections'. The lettering had been deeply burned into the thick collar by laser, and the letters were filled in with durable, bright safety-orange porcelain. I'm lucky that I've never grown much body hair and whatever tried to grow I've had removed by laser. As such, I didn't have much 'cleanup' to do before trying on my new prizes. First, I unlocked and removed the breast forms, so that I could see what I was doing below my waist. The pantyhose were everything I'd fantasized they'd be; squeezing my toes, slightly-too-tight all the way up my legs, with a very tall waistband to prevent chafing under the chastity belt. The much darker seams running up the back almost aligned themselves up my legs, and their length was perfect for me. My boy parts sprung out through the hole at the crotch and were very excited about the goings-on. The high heels went on next, and like the rest of the uniform they were a perfect (if somewhat snug) fit, their high arches matching mine to perfection. Their ankle straps locked and fit perfectly with no gaps. I stood up and wobbled a little atop the seven-inch heels then wriggled around the room, delightedly admiring myself in the full-length mirrors I'd had installed. The chest plate and it's tight fitting straps were a struggle to deal with, keeping my shoulders way back. I loved the effect though and before locking the breast forms in place over them I put on my most punitive pair of nipple stretchers, then coated the entirety of my already aching 'titties' with capcaicin (hot pepper) oil. They began to sting and burn almost immediately and I knew from past experience that this would go on for hours and hours. I decided to have a try at the too-small appearing chastity belt, first removing (reverentially) both of the huge intruders it had come equipped with. Oww, my poor titties were really suffering now. I pulled my very excited boy parts through the opening (where the end of the front dildo would normally protrude) in the front of the wide stainless steel crotch strap and then spread my bottom to pull the strap up tight. The waist belt looked impossibly too small, but I knew that was how the State fit them on the girls who wore them, so I'd give it a try. Just pressing with my hands didn't get the ends of the belt closer than three inches, so I tried using a heavy leather belt with a roller buckle. I routinely used this belt as part of my self-bondage, pulling it as tight around my middle as I could get it and then locking the buckle with a small padlock. Hard pulling on the leather belt allowed me to get the steel waist band within an inch and a half of fastening. I had an idea; I used a hammer to drive a screwdriver through the tip of the leather belt. Next, I pulled the two halves of my heavy old dining table slightly apart, just wide enough to slip the entire screwdriver up through the gap and turn it like a toggle. I laid on my back and slid under the table, then arched up and stuck the screwdriver up through the gap, managing to turn it so that it lay across the gap. Now I put my weight on the belt, tentatively at first but soon pushing upwards on the underside of the table. I was about to give up, but with one last push and a hard bounce, Click! The chastity belt was locked around my waist. Getting back on my stiletto-heeled feet was a challenge and trying to breath against the horrible constriction around my waist was an effort as well. Looking in the mirror would have made me gasp if I wasn't doing so already; my waist was tiny. I measured myself with the fabric tape, twenty inches around the outside of the belt. I fell in love with my hourglass image in the mirror. I never wanted to take this belt off, except that it was killing me, and my saner self wanted it off right now. "Beauty requires suffering, you kinky little slut" I said to my reflection in the mirror, hand on my hip and waggling an admonishing finger at my image. First hooking their stirrups under my stiletto heels, I squeezed the ankle hobbles closed around my ankles; they fastened with a deliciously scary 'Click!' and I relished their weight, quality and the fact that they made my already-locked-on stilettos doubly inescapable. I then fastened (with more squeezing) the knee bands closed just above my knees. I could no longer open or close my upper legs more than the three inches that the spacer bar dictated. I practiced walking for a few moments, delighted that I now had the same forced, rolling, writhing sway that I found so intoxicating when I watched the outmates walk. I pulled one of the little dresses on and giggled at how its hem stopped at halfway down my bottom. I loved how it looked stretched across my hugely-nippled breast forms and savored the burning, stinging, nipple- stretched dull ache that was coming from inside them. The way the dress formed to my figure made the not-inconsequential pain of the chastity belt's too-tight waistband totally worth it. The steel-cinched hourglass of my body even made me appear to have hips. Now I had to deal with my very aroused boy-parts as they were ruining the feminine illusion of my uniform. I keep a two-pound bag of frozen peas in the freezer for just this purpose, and soon my ardor had retreated before the freezing onslaught. Once small and soft, I stuffed myself into my favorite, smallest and most unforgiving chastity device. It was a narrow, curving, stainless steel tube that forced my parts back between my legs. Except for a small hole to allow urine to escape, it was closed at the terminal end. I had to use a small piece of string, threaded through this hole, to pull myself fully into the small tube. My glands were not very big to begin with, but they were compressed uncomfortably smaller within the attached, hinged-opening cavity that they were sealed into. The device fastened with a built-in, high security lock that closed a heavy ring snugly around where my parts joined my body. There was absolutely no possibility of escape from this device, and I was very, very careful not to mislay its key. Now, boy parts locked safely (and uncomfortably) away, I took some time to do my make-up and fuss with my hair. In minutes I was gorgeous. I then stood in front of the hall mirror, bobbing, posing, batting my eyes and making little kisses with my mouth. I am so cute. "I'll be right back!" I flirted with myself, and wriggled off to retrieve the collar. "Do you think I should?" I asked the girl in the mirror, who had a wide- eyed, open-lipped, super-sexy look on her face. She nodded emphatically. "Ooo, it's a little tight," I told her, as I closed it with a deliciously loud 'click' around my throat. I could almost hear my chastity tube creaking with the strain of holding me in, down and very small. I moaned and ground my hips in ecstasy and frustration, the collar looked soo good, and it felt just like I'd imagined it would. I reveled in how it controlled me when I tried to turn or nod my head and how it fit skin- tight, making its presence constantly known. The safety-orange lettering glowed out at me in the mirror and I read it (backwards) again and again, 'Habitual Prostitute' (the sluttiest of sluts!) while I squirmed and writhed while running my hands up and down my body. I was in heaven. "Two more items to go," I said, tearing myself away from the erotic vision in my hall mirror. The first was an inflatable butt plug. I had modified it so that the hand-squeeze pump was removable and so that a small, hinged plate with a locking hasp covered the needle valve (like on a football) air-release valve. The result was that the plug could be pumped up bigger and bigger as I relaxed and was able to take it, but releasing any air from it required a key. When it was even moderately pumped up inside my small bottom I could not take it out without releasing the air first. Reading this, you'd think that I was an old hand at taking toys in my tush; I'm not. I love the idea and I do wear a plug often, but they're usually small. The much-bigger, lockable, inflatable plug was an anomaly in my collection and I rarely used it. Tonight I was going to use it though, and I had it in my mind that I was going to be using it a lot more, as it was the only toy I had that could be locked inside me. It took me awhile to get relaxed enough (back there) to admit even the still non-inflated plug, but once in place I began pumping it up. The little lock was already secured on the 'deflate' valve and I pumped until I squealed and danced around, flapping my hands. Oww, my poor ring felt like it was stretched tight as a tennis racquet string. The last item was pretty daunting. I set the big, safety-orange gag on the table to contemplate it as I drank a glass of wine. I saw that the middle of the thing was bigger than its base, and that if one were able to get that huge center part past one's teeth . . . Another glass of wine had me licking it, and pushing it into my mouth a little way. Then I was back in front of the mirror with it, hips grinding as I sucked on it and started fucking my mouth with the huge thing, trying to push it in a little farther and a little farther. I thought my jaw had certainly been damaged when I finally gave the big gag a hard push and forced its fat center section past my teeth, and I spent a good number of seconds shrieking "Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!" through my nose, and minutes rubbing the hinge muscles of my jaw. I tried to moan, "Oww" but the gag was extremely effective and all that got through it was "Mmm!". The next obstacle I had to overcome was not gagging on the head of the thing as it sat against the opening of my throat. I was disappointed as I saw that it still needed to go another inch into my mouth, and therefore into my throat, before I could get its wide strap all the way around my head and back into its locking mechanism at the front. I spent the next two hours wriggling around, dancing to music, learning to knee-hobble-walk, mastering the fabulously high heels, and slowly, more and more deeply, throat-fucking myself with the huge orange penis gag in my mouth. Using a turkey baster I shot squirts of wine into the hole that ran the length of the thing and ended up pretty soused. I believe it was because of this that I kept adding occasional pumps of air to the plug in my bottom, each time causing myself to writhe around flapping my hands in distress. Finally, I was finally able to push the head of the gag deeply enough into my throat to get the locking strap pulled around my head and fastened with a last, yelping push and a 'click'. I stood there, stunned, in front of the mirror. It was in. I'd done it. Almost immediately I wanted out of it, all of it, as I was hurting all over. I had the keys in my hands when my little inner voice, the one that causes me all kinds of trouble, said "No, slut. You are locked in your punishment uniform, and you will stay locked in your punishment uniform." I mewed through the gag. I then did something that I almost immediately regretted; I have a small, time-lock safe with tamper-proof drop slot on its top. I use it to lock up my self-bondage keys, leaving me helpless for hours in whatever sex-induced predicament I've dreamed up. I put the uniform key, the chastity key, and the inflatable butt-plug key into the safe, closed it and noting the time, midnight, my inner voice said "You may present your slut self at noon tomorrow to see if you qualify for release." I set the safe's tamper-proof timer for twelve hours. I gasped at what I'd done. While I often used the key safe to lock myself up in some little outfit, even stayed handcuffed, hobbled and gagged for a few hours, I had never done anything even remotely this extreme, or for this length of time before. My heart raced as I took it in; I was genuinely being punished by all these things that I had locked onto and into myself, and there would be no relief whatsoever, no possibility of escape, no sexual gratification until mid-day tomorrow. Everything suddenly hurt so much, especially how tight the chastity tube had just become. That night and all the next morning were torture; my waist ached in the hose-clamp-like steel grip of the chastity belt, my nipples were terribly tender and throbbed in the tension of the nipple stretchers I wore under the locked breast forms. My Jaw felt like it was about to dislocate, and my poor bottom was stretched tight around the over-inflated (do not drink and butt plug) anal toy inside it. It took all of the rest of the day and that evening to recover from the self-inflicted ordeal. When the key safe clicked open, the first key I went for was the one to my chastity; seconds later, I was back in front of the mirror, freeing my poor boy parts from their tiny isolation cell and then spending a few minutes gaining the sexual relief I'd been needing for so long. It was incredible, and I honestly thought I would pass out. Sunday morning found me waking up, secured again in the too-small chastity device and still in the collar, uniform hosiery, heels and ankle hobbles, as well as the little grey prisoner's uniform dress. Although I was without the gag and butt plug, my nipples were again in the terrible stretchers as I still wore the breast plate and forms with a pair of handcuffs holding my wrists behind me. I looked at the clock. It read seven a.m. I thought "Five more hours until the key safe opens". I made myself spend the time cleaning house as best I could in my bondage, really enjoying myself despite the pain of being steel-cinched around my waist. This, and soon an 'every-possible-minute' schedule became a pattern for my weekends, and while it was good enough for awhile, I began to become obsessed with the idea of actually making a foray out in public while locked up in my punishment uniform. I spent a lot of hours researching, and found a company in Germany that would machine (out of surgical stainless steel) a very special chastity device for me; it would have the exact appearance of the protruding end of the uniform's front punishment dildo. It would look like a short, orange can with a lockable opening in its top, and the State-style, welded on leash ring at its bottom. I would pack all my boy parts into it and click it shut. The opening in the top was quite small (I sent them a measurement) barely closeable around the base of my boy parts, and there would be no way that I could extricate myself from it once it was in place. It would require a special, one-of- a-kind key for its high-security lock to be opened. A small rim (or flange if you like) would run around its circumference, allowing it to fit into, but not pass completely through, the uniform's front chastity belt opening. With the chastity belt in place, the keyhole for the 'chastity can' would not be accessible. For cleanliness and urination, a series of tiny holes and slots were drilled and machined in strategic places, allowing cleansing water to be flushed through it during extended wear. The German company would even powder-coat the device in the correct 'safety orange' color for me. I ordered it immediately, maxing out my credit card in the process. With that ordered I ramped up my training for the second item that would have to be in place for me to go out in public; I'd need to be able to get the ten-inch long, soda-can-thick monster anal punishment dildo up my tight little ass. My nasty little inner voice informed me that a worthless little cross-dressing slut like me should be made to keep a training device in her bottom at all times, and that the device should always be every bit as large as she can possibly take. Not one to argue with my little inner voice, I obeyed. Walking around my workplace first with an achingly-large plug and then later with an even larger dildo in my bottom was surreal, I never got used to it. Worse, the stimulation and embarrassment caused my boy parts to get and stay hard. To contain myself I had to wear my chastity device to work, as well as whenever I went out in public, cross-dressed or not. Unfortunately, out of my collection of such items, only the unpleasantly tight chastity device had a low-enough profile to not create an odd bulge under my clothes. My little voice informed me that 'tight' was going to be my new, personal theme. Sluts like me not only deserved embarrassment and discomfort but should also be made to wear a tight little corset and some tight, shiny pantyhose at any time that I wore boy clothes. I obeyed. I spent all day, every day cinched in a tight corset (with a tight belt locked on over it), my ass stretched drum tight around a long, thick dildo, my lower body wrapped in slippery, shiny pantyhose and I was locked (keys at home in the safe) in tight chastity. Being at work while breathlessly cinched, locked and stuffed was surreal-feeling and caused me to have a couple of small panic attacks. My two frantic escape attempts in the company bathroom were wholly unsuccessful. After a couple of minutes of clawing at my corset belt and chastity, I calmed down and returned to my desk, still corseted, chastised and with the dildo still up my ass. The way the pantyhose felt sliding around against the inside of my slacks was erotic, but I was sure everyone could hear the swishing sound in made when I walked. I kept a pair of very high-heeled shoes in my car, and per my little voice, I was not allowed to even move the vehicle until they were on my feet. It took eight very long weeks, but the chastity 'can' finally came from Germany and it was all I'd hoped it would be. It was a perfect visual match to the bottom two inches of a large punishment dildo, the part that would stick out through the punishment uniform's chastity belt. The welded-on leash ring was an exact replica and I shivered as I imagined being led, leashed at this attachment point, or worse, secured by it to something immobile out in a busy, public area. [I had read about this being done to outmate girls by cruel pranksters, leaving the unfortunate girls chained at their dildo to street signs and light poles or padlocked to fences, bike racks, even shopping carts.] The available space inside the device was very small and I had to apply the bag of frozen peas to myself for some time before I was small enough to be stuffed into the can. The high-security 'click' from multiple hardened pins engaging when the lid closed actually sent shivers up my spine. I made repeated mental notes about being extremely careful with those keys; I doubted that anyone could cut me out of this chastity device without damaging me irreparably. With that in mind, I took one of the two keys to the bank and secured it in my safe-deposit box. Halloween was only a week away and I was thinking constantly about the costume contest at the bar I mentioned earlier. It's a long drive over there, but worth it because it's very 'T-girl' friendly. In order to wear my 'outmate' uniform in the event, I needed to get that huge dildo up my poor little bottom. I'd been making myself take bigger and bigger toys every day, keeping them in day and night, but the genuine, safety-orange State punishment dildo was still thicker and longer than anything that would fit up me. For the following week, I cleaned myself out with enemas each morning, then continued my regimen of lacing myself as tightly as my waist cincher would go, wearing my very smallest (oww) chastity device, my shiny hosiery and the inflatable anal 'trainer' (punisher?) dildo with the lock securing the air-release valve. It would all be in place under my clothes before I left for work and it was very distracting as I drove. Before I'd walk in from the car, I'd give the inflatable dildo in my ass as many pumps as I could take without bursting into tears or screaming, then detach the inflation ball and hose and waddle in from the parking lot. The key to the little lock on the dildo's air-release valve was at home in the key safe, insuring that a certain little slut wouldn't be tempted to let some air out of her anal trainer. I started to hate going on my lunch break because my cruel little inner voice would always insist on an 'Afternoon ass-training session for naughty girls' that meant me going out to my car and using the pump to make the dildo even longer and fatter inside me. Leaving work meant inflating it still more for the 'Evening ass-training session for sluts' and I'd be stuck with it blown up like that until the key safe finally opened at midnight. The slut that opened that safe was always in very high heels, full makeup, wrist and ankle chains and an uncomfortable pair of nipple clamps. She'd have put all of this on when she got home (except the clamps) five hours before and spent every night in it. Saturday arrived, Halloween morning, the day of the costume contest. I wanted to be on the road at six o'clock in the evening and at the bar by seven. I was excited and terrified and generally freaking out, the prospect of being inescapably secured in a full State punishment uniform for a whole evening, gagged, hobbled, chastised, helpless, and paraded around on a stage in front of hundreds of people. My heart pounded from just thinking about it. Adding substantially to my anxiety was the specter of somehow, finally managing to get the ten-inch long, soda-can thick, bright orange, State-issue punishment dildo all the way up my ass and locked in place. Once it was there, I'd have to endure it for hours until I got home and could release myself. I went to work on the project at seven in the morning, first with two enemas to clean me well out, and then a final, agonizing session of ass- stretching with the inflatable dildo. I used the 'between pumps and dancing around moaning' time to make sure that I was as hairless and perfectly feminine as I could be. Now, to try something that I'd just read about online, this was what was done to smaller-breasted girls who didn't fill out the clear plastic breast forms. I opened my nipple rings and attached a four-inch length of chrome, dog-leash chain to each one. This felt kind of yummy, with the chains sliding back and forth on my smooth breast-skin as I walked around. After make-up, I put on the first parts of the uniform, the special open-crotch pantyhose and high heels. It was too early to be wearing the shoes already, and I knew it would cause me suffering by the evening, but my little voice insisted that "Sluts should be well up on their toes, and those ankle straps better be locked." I'm no good at arguing against my little voice and obediently locked the ultra-high heels onto my feet. Now forced up high on my toes, locked into my fetish heels and hose, I was desperately horny, and I doubted that I could even touch myself without cumming. I didn't want to let that happen yet as it would kill some of my determination to get fully outfitted in my prisoner's uniform, and I also wanted to let my sexual need build until I got home, probably well after midnight. For these reasons, I secured myself in the new, bright orange 'can' chastity that would resemble the bottom of a dildo protruding through the front opening of the uniform's chastity belt. Doing so required a very lengthy and very uncomfortable application of the two-pound bag of frozen peas from my freezer. To insure that I wouldn't be allowed to succumb to temptation before the event, I locked my key safe, setting the timer for midnight and then dropped the uniform key and the chastity key in through the one-way slot in its top. The rattle of the keys hitting the bottom of the heavy steel box made my still-cold boy parts surge painfully against the inside of their high-security prison. At that point it was only nine o'clock and I was a conflicted combination of excited and panicky at the fifteen-hour chastity sentence I'd just imposed on myself. I know, fifteen hours doesn't sound like much, but try it when you're strictly bound in a State public humiliation and bondage uniform, and absolutely dying to cum. Knowing that the huge anal punisher would be debilitating if I managed to get it inside me, I progressed with struggling into the other parts of the uniform. First was the very difficult waistband of the chastity belt. I was able to get it closed now (due to diet and constant corset training) with only the use of the leather bondage belt, although it still required every ounce of my strength to do it. Next came the breast bondage plate with its relentless, posture-enforcing shoulder straps. I installed my long, cruel, spring-tension nipple stretchers onto their victims, moaning as my nipples were pulled by their grommets into painful points, leaving the attached lengths of chain dangling in space. Next came the ankle hobbles; I paused to admire how closely the 'under-shoe' stirrups and thick ankle manacles fit, encapsulating the shoe's locking ankle straps inside in groove mortised into them for that purpose. I took a walk (if you could call it that) around my house, hobbled to eight- inch-steps and I shivered as I thought about the tens of thousands of poor girls and women who spent years and years in bondage identical to this, most of them ending up doing so in ballet-toe shoes. Some playtime on weekends locked in these hobbles and seven-inch stilettos was plenty for me, thanks. I would wait until everything else was in place before installing the breast forms, as they interfered with my ability to see what I was doing on my lower body. The same was true for the tall steel collar; it limited my ability to look down, so it would be the last thing I locked in place. That meant it was time to somehow get that big, orange punishment dildo up my slutty little ass. I released the air pressure on the inflatable trainer and withdrew it. I tossed it into the sink, and immediately pushed the head of the well- greased orange monster up against my still-relaxed sphincter. With a firm push and a short scream from me, the tennis-ball sized head of the thing popped past my ring, and was inside me! "Ohhh! Ohhh! Ow!" I breathed as I sank to my knees and positioned myself in front of the full-length hall mirror. I knew that watching myself do this would help and so I knelt with my face on the floor, arched my back and pointed my bottom at the ceiling. My waist looked so tiny in the mirror. The huge orange dildo looked out of scale, too big to be real as it protruded from my upturned butt. Using both hands, I began to push it into me, and pull it back, and push it in, in strokes perhaps a quarter-inch long. That was all I could take at first. I worked and worked and worked, and finally gained an inch of penetration. Sweaty, moaning, crying out minutes went by as I pushed, pulled and pushed again, countless short strokes that gained me another inch, and another. An hour went by. The last two inches were exponentially harder to achieve than the first ones and I believe it took me another full hour to get the last part of the enormous thing up my poor ass. When it was in place, I pulled and pulled on the chastity belt's wide stainless crotch strap. Its front opening popped over the chastity 'can', and I admired the extremely realistic illusion it created, appearing for all the world to be the end of a fat dildo that was jammed up inside an unfortunate little punishment slut. Pulling the strap's rear opening over the end of the very-real, genuine, State anal-punishment dildo was almost more than I could manage, but with yet another short scream, it was in place. Hands shaking, I snapped the end of the crotch strap into it's fitting on the belt, and with a loud 'Click' I was literally and figuratively fucked. A wave of panic washed over me, could I really do this? I pulled ineffectually at the end of the huge invader and moaned as the realization that I no longer had a choice sunk in. I would be 'doing this' whether I wanted to or not. Moving very slowly, cautiously, I got to my feet. This is not easy with a giant dildo in your ass and only eight inches of chain separating your ankles. Wobbly and a little dizzy, I made my way to my drawer of torments in the bedroom. On went my knee hobbles, which had been dangling from their attachment point on the crotch plate of the chastity. I walked to the other side of the room and back, testing the strict limitation on my gait; I was forced to mince along in a silly, sexy, ass-wriggling manner or not move at all. Still in a daze, I pulled my breasts a little further through the openings in the breast plate, and then coated them and my nipples with a generous layer of the thick capcaicin pepper oil. I tied a few inches of thread to the short lengths of dog leash chain that I'd put on my nipple rings, and then held up the first breast form for installation. I guided the thread through the open nipple, and clicked the breast form in place. I pulled on the thread, drawing the end of the dog-leash chain that was attached to my nipple ring out through the plastic nipple. I pulled it a little harder than was comfortable and then snapped a small, heavy, brass-bodied lock closed through the chain where it came out. My left nipple was now under even more tension than the spring-loaded nipple stretchers could apply. I repeated the process with right breast form and my right nipple, made sure the tension was about even, and locked its tension chain as well. In a perfect example of supreme stupidity, I dropped the keys to my nipple-chain locks into the key safe, sentencing myself to many hours of whimpering-level nipple torture. Again in front of the mirror, on went the collar. I was actually whining out loud about how badly my poor titties were hurting, stretched tight and burning, coated with the pepper oil. I knew within minutes that locking the keys to my nipple chains in the key safe had been a mistake; I was really suffering. Even so, locking the tall, snug collar around my throat and reading the words 'Habitual Prostitute' made my boy parts test the strength of their steel cell. I pulled and wriggled my way into the lycra uniform dress, re-applied my make-up, and looked at the clock. Oh Fuck. It was only twelve-thirty. I had five and a half hours left until I even planned to leave the house. If I wanted to leave the house earlier than that, as it was the weekend, I'd have to wrestle the huge gag into my mouth (and throat) because, as you're well aware, all uniformed girls wear their gags from six Friday evening, until seven on Monday morning. Trying to ignore the din of protests coming from my titties, my crushed waist, my bound-back shoulders, my aching, dildo-stuffed ass and my overworked toes, I made myself lunch. Only an hour later, the big gag was in place, locked, stretching my mouth to its limit and violating my throat with its head. Getting it in place really tested my 'tear-proof' mascara. I wasn't going to put it on so early in the day, but immediately after I ate, my cruel little inner voice spoke up. It informed me that my uniform was incomplete and that lazy little sluts should not be allowed to lie around the house all day. I was to lock that gag in my mouth where it belonged, then go grocery shopping and run any other errands that I could think of. When the lock clicked shut on the gag strap, I shivered all over; this was it. I was wearing every item of my own, genuine State public punishment uniform. Chills ran up and down my body as I reminded myself again and again that I couldn't take it off, not any of it. I hurt all over, but it was still delicious. Fortunately, my small rental house has an attached one-car garage so I never had to show off my various alter-egos to the neighbors; just get in the car, put on a hat, use the electric garage door opener and I'm off. Getting into the car elicited a series of short, gagged screams (through my nose) and moans, and I struggled with getting the seat into a position that didn't torture me. It turned out there wasn't one. I slowly and carefully drove to the local shopping center. Thank goodness I had an automatic transmission as working a clutch in seven-inch stilettos with my knees and ankles hobbled wouldn't have been good. I was bracing myself to get out of the car and attempt grocery shopping when the nail salon sign caught my eye. Oh, how I'd always wanted to! So I did. I struggled out of the car, clutching a little purse containing my essentials, including a small pad and pen to communicate with. The stares as I wriggled, dildos showing below the too-short hem of my dress, knees hobbled, ankle chain jingling, across the parking lot. This was it, I was really out here, in public, collared, chained, gagged, high-heeled, chastised, nipples tortured and deeply ass-fucked. It was all really locked on, I really couldn't get to the keys and I couldn't escape from a single bit of it. My nipples hurt and my breasts still burned dully from their coating of capsacin oil. Heart pounding, panting, blushing from scalp to toes, I very nearly turned around to go back to the car, but I didn't. Breast forms heaving, I made it to the door of the nail salon, and upon opening it, was assaulted by both the chemical smell of the place and the acrid stares of the staff and customers. I should have expected this, people not wanting a uniformed criminal around, especially one whose crime was habitual prostitute! My hand flew to my collared throat. "What do you want?" said one of the beauticians. I quickly dug out my pad and pen, and wrote 'Please do my nails? I'll pay double.' She read it, and gave me a narrow-eyed look. "All right, toots. For double the usual, but only because we're slow today. We don't normally take your kind in here". I had not been ready for this kind of meanness. She saw the tears brimming in my eyes, and softened up. "Alright sweetie, I'm sure you get plenty of abuse as it is. I guess I don't have to be part of it." She patted the chair in front of her, gesturing for me to sit. Eighty dollars (I'd brought cash, as I didn't want to have to show identification with a credit card) and an hour and forty-five minutes later, I was on my way out the door sporting a long, glistening, safety- orange set of acrylic nails. I had not wanted acrylics, nor had I wanted the safety-orange nail polish (at least at first), but when you're gagged, you get what you get. I had no idea about how I was going to get the things off of me so I could go to work on Monday, but I'd worry about that later. For right now, I'd enjoy my beautiful, sexy new nails. The convenient thing about being gagged was that I hadn't had to take part in the obligatory chit-chat that comes with getting anything done at any sort of a salon. All I had to do was nod or shake my head to enquiries about being in the public incarceration program punishment uniform. These came at first from just the girl doing my nails and then from about everybody in the place. "Do they do this to you? What about that? I heard you have to . . ." Fortunately, I knew a lot about the punishment uniform program and didn't give myself away by not being able to answer, at least with 'yes' or 'no'. Grocery shopping in knee and ankle hobbles and seven-inch stilettos was slow (this was exacerbated by being super-careful with my new nails) and despite how nervous I was, it was actually just as I imagined it would be, humiliating and very sexy. Doing the forced 'bimbo-wiggle' in my bondage and ultra-high heels up and down every isle was really embarrassing, especially because the punishment dildo moved a little in my ass with every gyration. I was terribly aware that people could see the end of the dildo, they would be staring at it, knowing I was being fucked by it right in front of them. I was mortified but also very turned on. After what happened at the salon, I'd been braced for being scowled at and expected some unpleasant comments as well. It turns out that people in grocery stores aren't as catty as people in nail salons (go figure), and while I got some disapproving looks from women, that was about it. Men, on the other hand, found me quite interesting. I got watched, leered at, propositioned, and my bottom was squeezed - twice! Both of those came with smiles and winks. It was unnerving, but being smiled at, hit on, and even the unsolicited touches were in the fantasies I'd had about really doing this. Home again with the groceries I was on cloud nine. I had done it. I'd gone out and done errands and interacted with others while locked up in a genuine State punishment uniform! I couldn't wait to get the chastity unlocked (and touch myself with these amazing new nails) but the key safe timer still had many hours left before it would grant me parole. The euphoria faded and I was really uncomfortable now; I tried to nap but sleep wouldn't come. I wished I could get the dildo out of my bottom, or take off the oversized gag, but there was no way. Besides, even as terribly uncomfortable as I was, I was totally wound up to go to the costume competition that night. Trying to distract myself, I handcuffed myself (behind my back, per my cruel little inner voice) for an hour and struggled through cleaning the house, doing laundry, and vacuuming. Finally I released myself from the cuffs to fiddle with my hair and re-do my make-up. I was so horny I thought I might cum just from watching myself dance in the big hall mirror, but it wasn't to be. Eventually, finally, it was time to go. The drive there took a lifetime but the evening at the bar was a blur; Somebody ("to go with your costume!") put my wrists in handcuffs behind me almost as soon as I walked in, I was lifted up to wriggle my painfully overstuffed ass back and forth across the stage again and again, the announcer getting huge cheers when he validated my gender with my photo id. There was lots of dancing (oh, my poor feet) drinks (via a small funnel), a cute trophy for second place (I lost to a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe, so I didn't feel too bad) and a gift certificate for a nice bar tab. The dancing was amazing, hot men and sexy girls were all over me, my little purse got stuffed with phone numbers on little pieces of paper from both genders, I got lingeringly felt up, petted, squeezed, spanked, stroked, and I loved it all. Finally released from my admirer's handcuffs, I drove home in a dream- like state. I was very careful; I did not want to get pulled over dressed as I was. As I pulled into my garage and clicked the button to close the door behind my car, everything came crashing back into sharp focus. The back garage door, the one I'd checked before I left, was standing open, its window broken. "Oh, fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuck Fuck" I squealed unintelligibly through the hole in my gag. "Shit! What if they were still here? Oh no, no, no!" I thought about calling the police (they'll come if you dial 911, you don't have to say a word into the phone), but I couldn't bear the idea of facing them while dressed and secured as I was, and having to stand out in the street answering awkward questions with pen and paper while flashing red and blue lights woke up everybody for a mile around. I honked the horn to make sure whoever might still be there got every chance to leave before I came in. I struggled out of the car and up onto my high heels. I grabbed the broom from by the door to brandish. Ankle chain rattling and heart pounding, I wriggled slowly through the whole house. I turned on all the lights, checked the kitchen, living room, bedroom, its closet and the bathroom; no burglar. Phew! I locked the doors and went to assess the damages. My laptop was gone, shit. My old television was still there, as well as all of my old-ish stereo stuff, no surprise. My bedroom drawers had been pulled out and dumped, the mattress moved, and the contents of my closet were in shambles. A sick feeling clenched my stomach and I began digging in the closet, mmmphing out what was supposed to be "NO! Nononono Oh please, please, NOOO!" The horror flooded over me. My key safe, which looked very much like any other little valuable-containing safe, was gone. The keys that would unlock my punishment uniform, my chastity, and the awful little brass locks that were keeping terrible tension on my nipple-ring-chains were all gone! I shrieked through my nose and collapsed to my hobbled knees, my sobbing muffled by the huge, locked-in gag in my mouth and throat. The night was long and awful. At one point I had a panic attack, screaming and thrashing around like crazy, trying to escape. The reality that my keys were gone, and I was really, helplessly locked up in the punishment uniform kept washing over me, crashing on me like a wave and making my heart pound. It had gotten very real, I hurt everywhere, and I wanted it all off of me and out of me. I clawed ineffectually at the collar, the gag, the chastity belt and for a long while at the end of the huge dildo up my ass. "I want it out! Please, (I begged incoherently through the gag to no one in particular) I just want it out!" I wept while straining to spread my knees and kicking against the hobble chain. There was nothing I could do, there was no escape from a single item of my punishment uniform. I had no choice, I would remain nipple- tortured, gagged, ass-fucked, chastised and chained until someone else released me, and I had no idea when or who that would be. Finally, exhausted, I passed out. I had terrible dreams where the burglar came back and taunted me with the keys before destroying them with a hammer in front of me. I also had dreams about sex in which I got sooo close, but couldn't cum. It was maddening. Morning finally came and despite all my soreness, my boy parts fought like crazy to escape their orange, high-security prison and give their customary morning salute. There wasn't a chance of that happening and I was left with an aching sexual need that I couldn't do a thing to relieve. Staring at my reflection in the various mirrors in my little house didn't help at all as in every mirror I looked simultaneously miserable and very sexy. By late morning I decided that enough was enough (forcing the liquefied breakfast through the hole in the gag was awful and using the official State enema kit was even worse) and I would go down to the police department to get myself released. I was now desperate to get the huge dildo out of my ass. Fresh make-up in place I tried to brace myself for the slings and arrows of the total humiliation that I was surely going to face. I had no doubt that pictures (and probably video) would be taken and that I would be giving a long, detailed account of exactly what I was wearing and how it all got there. The part that I was really anxious about was whether or not they'd take away my (very) expensive uniform? And even if they didn't, where could I possibly get another key? Thank goodness there was another key to my chastity or I'd have been in real trouble. As it was, I'd have to be late for work on Monday so that I could get it out of my safety deposit box. With all this in mind I wriggled my hugely gagged and dildo-stuffed self nervously into the police building (my steel-tipped stiletto heels and the rattling hobble chain were so loud on the tile floor!), my ID and my pen and paper at the ready, as well as a bag of clothes to change into. After a half-hour's wait (while being stared at by a couple dozen other people) to see a detective so I could also report the break-in at my house, I was seated uncomfortably atop my dildo ends on a hard, wooden chair, typing rapidly on a Bluetooth-linked keyboard that had been provided. It seems that I wasn't the only gagged person in a punishment uniform to ever have needed to speak with the police and they'd bought a number of the keyboard-communication devices. The first thing I had typed was "Can you please let me out of this? I'm really suffering!" That answer was a "No, not until you've given a full interview so that we can verify that you're who you say you are." All was going well at first, my ID, fingerprints and story all checked out, I wasn't some girl trying to pull a trick and get out of her uniform. I typed out the story about how I'd obtained it, and blushed furiously while writing why. Deeply embarrassed, I asked if I could please at least have the dildo out of my ass now. "Not until I get clearance from the records department, probably another twenty or thirty minutes." I squirmed, feeling totally impaled on the huge thing and humiliated to the core. I wrote out the statement about the break-in, really wishing we could've done that part after they released me from my uniform. Forty-five minutes later the detective finally said, "All right, let's go see about getting you out of that. Don't feel too bad, you're not the first person to come in after losing the key to a de-commissioned uniform. (They're only sold to the women who'd worn them) You are one of very few males to do so, however. You're very convincing by the way." I blushed with embarrassment, but was still pleased with myself. The detective brought me into a glass-walled room that adjoined the women's holding area, and had me stand while he scanned the faint barcodes that were laser-etched into each part of my uniform. The look on his face clouded over as he read the notation that appeared, blinking urgently on t