Accelerated Program

I

The cell was not bad, as prison cells go, Sheryl thought. There was daylight from a low, wide window high up in the back wall. It couldn't be opened, of course, and was too small for a person to slide through anyway. The glass was frosted, too, but it was a window. Beneath it on the floor lay a thin hard mattress with a sort of rubber coating, and there was an ingenious little shower-stall-cum-toilet-cum-sink contraption, made of stainless steel. It even had a board with toiletry articles – soap, shower gel, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, a towel, a roll of toilet paper, a plastic bag of tiny disposable razors. How considerate of them. The ceiling lamp gave off a friendly, warm light, not the harsh fluorescent flicker one usually finds in such places. But that was it. There was nothing else in the cell, except a little LCD touchscreen built seamlessly into the concrete of one of the side walls, and the cameras. And herself.

Sheryl had to lift both hands to her face to wipe a strand of hair out of her eye as she blinked, staring in wonder and disbelief at the little screen. It had to be both hands, because they were chained together by steel shackles, just like her feet. The chains connecting the cuffs were quite short, severely limiting her dexterity and her stride. They couldn't be unlocked either; the cuffs on her wrists and ankles were riveted shut. Riveted! Sheryl swallowed. It would take some serious tools to remove them at the end of her sentence – just as with the heavy steel collar around her neck, from which a silvery steel chain led to a bolt which was anchored in the concrete floor of the cell. The collar, the cuffs, and the chains were all Sheryl wore. She was, in other words, stark naked, if you discounted her spectacular restraints.

The little screen behind its shatterproof gorilla glass showed herself in full figure as a livestream on an Internet website, as taken in by the eye of the camera right above it, and Sheryl took a long time, just standing there, chains tinkling with every little movement, to explore her new look. What she saw was a slender girl with a nice tan, a sweet face, pink puffy nipples on little pointy breasts, a slim waist, shaved, bulging pubes and long elegant legs - naked and in chains. The gleaming steel provided an exciting contrast to her suntanned skin. "Now isn't that a great outfit?", she sighed theatrically, smiling wrily at her image. She found she was remarkably serene, now the time for choices was over. Eventually, she started to turn to and fro a little, even striking some ironic model poses, little pointy breasts jiggling, slender hips swaying, the chains tinkling and rattling. That sound would be her constant companion from now on in her cell for the next 240 months. Better not think about it. But then there was that tingling in her stomach again. I'm permanently shackled. Chained to the floor. Locked into a cell. For twenty years. Stark naked. Everybody can watch me. A 24/7 bondage camgirl. She swallowed, feeling... aroused.

She took the neck chain into her hands, sliding them along the steel links, slowly, almost sensually. "Hope you get a good view, guys", she murmured, trying a pirouette with her arms above her head, but stopping abruptly when she nearly tripped over her ankle chain and lost her balance. The cameras caught her stumbling from all angles at once - there was a round black expressionless eye in the center of three of the four walls, one in the fourth wall above the heavy steel door, and one in the ceiling.

"Fucking chains." Sheryl dropped down on the thin hard mattress – tinkle, rattle –, pulled up her knees and put her arms around them, exhaling deeply, dropping her head forward, sitting still for a while, curled up. There was no sound in the cell except her breathing. Sheryl felt her own body warmth, listened to her own breath. In, out. In, out. Eventually, her fingers started fiddling with the chains again, playing with them a little, even gently stroking the cuffs, tracing the unforgiving rivets with one fingertip. All four of the cuffs, she noticed for the first time, were stamped with the letters DoC for "Department of Corrections" and an inventory number. Unusual as the conditions of her imprisonment might be, she was still in a state penitentiary, after all.

II

The holding cell in San Geronimo Women's State Penitentiary was a dreary, windowless room with battered walls, bathed in fluorescent light. When Sheryl was brought in, there was only one other girl sitting on the steel-grid bench along one wall, waiting to be processed, one hand shackled to the bench. She wore an overlaundered orange jumpsuit just like Sheryl, her feet were bare like Sheryl's, and her dark blonde hair, about the same colour and length as Sheryl's, was tied back carelessly like hers. The girl's ankles were shackled, too, and there was a stout leather belt around her waist from which a rather short chain led to her handcuffs and a longer one to her ankle shackles – the same kind of shackles Sheryl had on her.

"Sit down, I need to secure you", the prison guard who had escorted Sheryl in told her. "You can talk if you want to, as long as you don't get loud, OK?", she said while she locked an extra pair of handcuffs around Sheryl's left wrist and the steel frame of the bench. The guard was a slim, lively young woman with wavy brown hair and kind eyes. "Cheer her up a little, if you can", she added in a low voice. "Someone will come for you in a few minutes." She got up, nodded, and left, the steel door with the wire-strengthened glass window clanging shut heavily.

"What happens now?", Sheryl whispered. Her feet were cold on the bare cement.

The other girl looked up slowly. Her eyes were red but dry, her mouth set. "They strip you. They chain you up. They lock you in your cell. There you stay. That's it", she said in a monotone.

"I'm in for five months, in the Accelerated Program", Sheryl said, mainly to confirm to herself that it was just for five months, then she would be out of here again, in the real world where people were free and the Sun shone. Five months. Just five months. "You?", she ventured.

"Me too." The other girl didn't look at Sheryl.

"How long?"

"Two hundred and forty."

Sheryl gasped, said nothing. Cheer her up a little, right. That's twenty years. She'll be forty when she gets out.

There was a great rattling of keys, the door swung open again and a different prison guard entered, a heavyset, short-haired woman perhaps a bit over forty, clipboard in her hand, looking tired. For one moment she hesitated, looking to and fro between the two orange-clad, shackled, barefoot prisoner girls who resembled each other so much; they probably looked all the same to her anyway after twenty years in uniform. "OK, Cheryl Carruthers?" The other girl looked up sharply, but said nothing.

Sheryl didn't dare correct the mispronunciation of her name, tried to get up awkwardly, couldn't because she was shackled to the bench, said "Yes" instead and got back an automatic "That's 'Yes, Ma'am'", while the guard impatiently took off her extra handcuffs. "OK, let's get it over with." She made a checkmark on her clipboard. "Come along, sweetie."

III

Sheryl Carruthers, 18, had been an unremarkable, though rather beautiful B.A. student in her third semester at San Francisco State University College, majoring in English Literature, when one Friday night an idiot who called himself Jimmy and was probably even younger than herself insisted on driving her home from a club where they both had been drinking with fake IDs. Jimmy had tried to impress Sheryl by stealing a black Lamborghini from the club's parking lot. The car looked like the Batmobile and was obviously not his – he had to do something with the door handle to get it open and shorted the engine to start it, both still possible on a legacy car like this – but she had got in with him while trying to persuade him to get out again. She had even been relieved at first when the cops stopped them about two blocks on because Jimmy, unable to manage the fearsomely powerful engine, was driving "erratically", as the official report would later say, threatening to crash the roaring monster every moment. Being with him when he took the car and sitting in it when they were apprehended made Sheryl an accomplice in an act of "aggravated motor vehicle theft", her defense lawyer had explained to her – "popularly known as Grand Theft Auto", as she added lightheartedly.

Everything seemed to have come together to conspire against her. The car, a classic model 1985 Countach LP 5000 QV, had been of enormous value, which added greatly to the severity of the crime and drove the bail up to inaccessible heights, so Sheryl had to stay in police custody. The judge was elderly and irritated, and it didn't help that there had been audible snickering in the courtroom when he mispronounced the word 'Countach' as 'cunt-ache'. The state prosecutor, a mousy woman with a doughy drooping face, more than once told Sheryl her good looks wouldn't save her and went after her with a vengeance. The jury of her peers consisted of middle-aged hard-working citizens who strongly disapproved of lazy college kids having fun and destroying the property of other hard-working citizens, although none of them could have afforded a Lambo; they literally took three minutes to find her guilty as charged. Sheryl was sentenced to five years "to be served in San Geronimo Women's Penitentiary", without probation, although it was, of course, her first offense. Her lawyer couldn't do much – Jimmy would probably get ten years, she said.

Sheryl's court-appointed lawyer, in spite of all her efforts to help her bewildered client, was probably one of the aggravating factors, too, antagonising the judge at first sight: Julie Summers, Ph.D., Attorney at Law, wore a voluminous head of dreadlocks with beads and little bells woven into them, a tie-dyed top and bellbottom jeans, smelled of weed and went barefoot everywhere, even in court. Sheryl doubted whether this was helpful, even if she envied Julie for her free spirit and her cool outfit, especially the bare feet. When Sheryl once had asked how she got away with that, Julie had propped up her tough, spectacularly blackened soles against the battered table in the visiting room of the police jail, flexed her toes, several of which were adorned with silver rings, and drawled: "I'm a lawyer, I know the tricks. I can play the system. When the first judge I encountered tried to fine me for Contempt of Court, I said going barefoot is a universally recognized sign of humility, so how can it be contempt? They were all so tired of the argument after I showed up barefoot a few times, they simply ignore my attire now."

Now Sheryl was barefoot herself, since for some reason that nobody had cared to explain to her, the prisoners' uniform in San Geronimo did not include footwear. All the women in orange she saw in the prison yard and in the hallways on her way to the holding cell were barefooted, while the guards wore heavy combat boots, as if to make a point who was in power here. Humility indeed, she thought, looking down at her own feet on the greenish cement floor, each soft patter, each hard clinking one step closer to her cell.

Five months, it's just five months, she tried to reassure herself silently again and again. Not five years. I'm in the Accelerated Program, I'll be out of here before I know it.

IV

Sheryl had neither cried nor had she suffered a nervous breakdown when she heard her sentence. She had just stood there and stared into emptiness, not uncomprehending but feeling totally numb. Only when she heard a soft tinkling, she looked down, and saw that it was the sound of the chains connecting her wrist and ankle shackles. She was shaking all over.

Julie, on the other hand, had run up to grand form. "This isn't on. You're not prison material, Sheryl", she had exclaimed furiously under her breath after the court had adjourned and they were waiting for Sheryl's transport in a busy hallway. "Fuck, you'd be dead before the end of your first year in San Jerry."

"Dead?!" Sheryl was wide-eyed.

"Dead. Bullying, fights, gangs, rape, drugs, you name it. Don't forget prisons are full of criminals, and I don't just mean the inmates. We gotta keep you outta there. Let's see..."

"Surely we will appeal?", Sheryl had proposed timidly. People did that on TV, they always 'appealed' after they were convicted and somehow got away.

Julie had shaken her dreadlocks, the little bells jingling. "I don't advise it. An appeal takes months, even years. You'd have to stay in prison all of that time, since you can't post bail. Also, the outcome is inherently incertain – it can be worse than the first sentence. No, but lemme...", her expression suddenly brightened, "lemme try something! Maybe your good looks will save you, after all!", she had called back over her shoulder while digging her phone out of her large knit-wool shoulderbag and marching off into a quiet corner.

One hand over her ear, phone on the other ear, she had talked to someone called Juan for several minutes, nodding vigorously and glancing over to Sheryl again and again. When she had come back, bare soles slapping on the floor tiles, bellbottoms flapping, she looked visibly relieved, smiled and put her hands on Sheryl's shoulders. "They got a slot available, and they will take you in! I signed you up on the spot. Prison admin's already being notified. I'm so glad for you! Sheryl, you're off the hook!", she declared.

"Who will take me in?" Sheryl's heart had been hammering. Off the hook? Could it be...

Slamming and banging at the end of the corridor, a door was thrown open, glaring daylight and the sound of an idling Diesel engine came flooding in. Her transport.

"It's called the Accelerated Program", Julie had explained hastily. "You'll still go to San Jerry, but in that program, each year of your sentence is converted to one month. So you'll just serve five months instead of five years! Which means you'll lose just one measly semester. And the best thing is: You'll get your own cell for yourself! And that means you'll stay alive and unscathed, unhurt, unraped and un-a-lot-of-other-unpleasant-things."

"What? Why..." Sheryl heard ominous footsteps approaching, the tramping and squeaking of heavy boots on the tiles, reverberating in the hallway. "What's the catch?", she suddenly heard herself asking. If something sounds too good to be true, it probably isn't true.

"OK, of course it's a trade-off. Everything always is. But five months instead of five years! And believe me, you don't want to be in those hellish inmate dorms in San Jerry. They're ganglands and bully fiefdoms. You wouldn't survive. Under the Accelerated Program, selected prisoners gain a much earlier release and their privacy in exchange for... lemme say, stricter confinement conditions."

"Stricter..."

The tramping boots had almost reached them.

"You won't leave your cell for the whole five months", Julie ticked off on her fingers. "Meaning the door of your cell will be sealed. You'll wear permanent enhanced restraints. This means you'll be chained all the time, with heavy, non-removable shackles. You'll be completely nude. Plus, your whole stay will be streamed live on the Internet."

"Nude. Wait, naked?!"

"Don't worry, your cell will be heated."

"And what's with the streaming?"

"It's how it's financed. San Jerry is privately managed. Don't forget the prison system is a business, too. They need to make a profit. That's why your looks matter. You're quite pretty, you'll draw traffic, so you qualify." Julie had winked at her. "I told you I can play the system, didn't I?"

There was a different hand on her shoulder now, heavy and gloved in black latex, a level, authoritative voice in her ear: "Sheryl Carruthers? Come along, please."

"Good luck, kiddo!", Sheryl heard Julie call after her. "Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on you!"

V

The transport guards, both men, had made Sheryl change into the orange jumpsuit of San Geronimo in the back of the prison van, leaving her barefoot, and exchanged the lighter court shackles of the police jail for the heavy transport shackles, fastened to a locked leather belt. The short chain from the belt to her handcuffs forced Sheryl to keep her hands in her lap, while the longer chain from the belt down to her anklecuffs kept the anklechain off the floor. Sheryl was worried when she became aware she felt uncomfortable in the brief moments when she was not wearing restraints. The constant clanking and tinkling had started to become normal, too.

"That's right. Relax, baby", one of the two guards had said when he locked her belt, obviously sensing her reaction. "You like those shackles, don't you? We sure can oblige. – She's a natural", he had grinned at his colleague.

"She must be." The other guard had brandished a rugged-looking phone, probably DoC issue. "She's one of our new camgirls in that Accely... whatever program – message just came through."

"Hey hey." The first guard had chuckled. "You got your first follower right there, baby. I'll be watching. A 24/7 camgirl for bondage fans. You sure got courage to volunteer for that!"

Thankfully they had then sat her in a tiny steel cubicle inside the van's back and locked the door, saving her from further remarks of this sort. Sheryl had felt secure and protected by her confinement, although it was hot inside the cubicle, nearly dark and there was no elbow room. A natural. Am I? Sheryl had rubbed her bare feet against each other, feeling the anklechain going taut. She wanted to brush a strand of hair out of her eye, but found herself checked by the chain from the belt to the handcuffs. She sighed, leaned her head against the wall, closed her eyes.

VI

"OK, Cheryl, welcome to your new home." The heavyset, fortyish female guard pushed open the massive steel door, stepping aside to let Sheryl pass.

Sheryl had been clanking along awkwardly at her side. Her outfit had changed again, but for the last time in a long while to come. The orange jumpsuit which she had donned only an hour before in the van had been left in the processing room, along with her bra and panties. She was completely naked now. The transport shackles with the belt had been replaced by extra-heavy permanent ones, as the locksmith, a burly, sweaty man with a leather apron, had explained to her. They were non-removable, with rounded edges for long-time wearing comfort, and consisted of a pair of wristcuffs and a matching pair of anklecuffs, both connected by short, very restrictive chains. Cuffs and chains were made of massive steel and made their weight felt at every movement. The locksmith had closed each cuff around the wrist or ankle by a hinge, inserted something like a thick, stubby nail on the opposite side and then proceeded to hammer this nail flat against a short piece of steel H-beam he used for an anvil. He was riveting them shut, Sheryl had realised.

A matching steel collar around her neck was fastened the same way. A chain about seven feet long was already attached to a welded-on D-ring on the collar; the other end of the chain terminated in something like a large screwbolt but with a pin sticking out on top. "Do you know what this is?", the locksmith had asked.

Sheryl had silently shaken her head.

"It's a concrete anchor." He had let that sink in for a few moments.

Sheryl had looked at him, then at the boltlike thing, terrified – and fascinated at the same time.

She was carrying the concrete anchor and the chain connecting it to her collar in her shackled hands now as she approached her cell – all the chains and cuffs and the collar together made quite a load.

Something like a pressure cleaner on a two-wheeled cart but heavier and dirtier was parked outside the door. Another guard was waiting beside it. Sheryl found the device somehow familiar but couldn't put her finger on it.

A draught of warm air was seeping out of the cell into the rather cold corridor – the cell would be heated, as Julie had promised. The door was a heavy steel plate with a little spyhole at eye height and a sort of pet door at the bottom with its own keyhole and hinges.

And there was a transparent plastic sleeve taped to the door, containing a printed sheet of paper, and Sheryl got the shock of her lifetime when she gave it a curious glance in passing.

The sheet listed the prisoner's details as one would expect, but it read:

CARRUTHERS, CHERYL B.

NUDE INMATE # 12 (ACCELERATED PROGRAM)

TERM LENGTH: 240 MONTHS

ENTRY DATE: MARCH 24, 2026

RELEASE DATE: MARCH 24, 2046.

VII

All of Sheryl's desperate protests had been of no avail. "Look, sweetie", the heavyset guard had said impatiently, "I understand you're clutching at every straw now, and I won't hold it against you, but it's pointless. You are not this Sheryl Carruthers person. You are not here for five months. You are Cheryl Carruthers. You said so yourself when I called you up in the holding cell. You've been sentenced to a combined 240 years in prison for, how many was it, for 56 counts of cryptocurrency fraud, Cheryl, causing almost a billion dollars in damage. You should thank your good luck, or rather your good looks, you got into the Program, serving just twenty years. Now, in you go. And you better try to make your followers happy for the next 240 months, or you will have to serve those 240 years after all."

She had given Sheryl a firm push between her shoulderblades, Sheryl had stumbled forward, with the guard right behind her and the second guard looming in the background. The woman, being an experienced warden, had given her no time to think. "OK, in the middle of the floor you'll find a little borehole prepared. Insert the concrete anchor into it."

Sheryl had obeyed, partly out of fear, partly automatically. She had quickly become used to doing as she was told while in custody. She knelt down, pushing in the bolt at the end of her neck chain awkwardly with her chained hands as far as it would go.

"Now screw it in all the way." The woman handed Sheryl a large ring spanner.

Sheryl obediently fitted the tool around the bolt's head and began to turn it until the bolt was in all the way.

"Hand me the wrench. OK. Take this hammer", the guard instructed her.

Sheryl obeyed. She knew what was coming, but she obeyed. Deep inside her, at the back of her brain, something stirred that wanted to do this.

"Now hammer the pin into the bolt. This will cause the bolt to expand in the concrete and lock the head at the same time. Neither you nor anyone else can pull it out or unscrew it after that. I'm waiting."

Sheryl lifted the hammer and struck. It took only five blows to hammer the pin in, and with that, she had chained herself permanently to the floor. Her mouth was dry with excitement.

"Your meals will come in through here three times a day, as will your TP, toothpaste, tampons, and so on." The guard pointed to the locked trap in the door with the toe of her boot. "Empty containers go out the same way. Have fun, Nude Inmate Number Twelve. See you in 240 months", had been her last words as she stepped out of the cell. She had not even been sarcastic, just bored.

And then suddenly Sheryl found the door was closed and locked, and she was alone in her cell. As she stumbled onto her feet, the riveted-on collar heavy on her neck, the long chain dragging across the floor, then lifting and swinging free, her body totally naked and exposed, her hands and feet permanently chained together, she heard a low, raspy buzzing from outside the door.

It was a welding torch. That pressure cleaner outside the door had been a welding torch. They are welding the door shut.

Sheryl found that thought made her stomach tingle. To her own surprise, it was not an unpleasant tingle at all.

***