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Ammelie De Jonquieres: Induction

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andy01 said:
Thanks Malins. Good point. Any thoughts on what measures might be applied?
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I have a story that's been on the back burner for a long time that is set in a future where crucifixion has been adopted as a death penalty and is being used to clear out the prisons. Anyone sentenced to more than 20 years is crucified, and these executions are shown world-wide on the 3D television system and through the Internet. Crucifixions are run by an AI named Torquemada. Here's an excerpt where a PhD criminologist is talking about some of what Torquemada does:

Nanobots in the brain of the victim monitor neural responses and chemistry, while a bMRI chip embedded under the skin at the back of her neck provides continuous brain scanning. This essentially enables Torquemada to “read” the victim’s mind, see through her eyes, hear what she is hearing, etc. It also enables Torquemada to control any chemical imbalances with the appropriate drugs to prevent the condemned from escaping the reality of her punishment by drifting into insanity.

These are powerful tools under Torquemada’s control that enable it to manage a victim’s pain with the goal of optimizing punishment and maximizing its entertainment value. It also gives it the ability to moderate the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems, limiting extremes of heart rate and preventing the victim from fainting under torture.
​
This is a bit like what you're talking about, keeping the victim from going insane, keeping her focused.
 
Induction: Punishment pants – the Passive Abrasive Disciplinary System



I was not unhappy to be leaving the oppressive atmosphere of the “cages” and escape to another of FemMain’s corridors.

Opposite the door was a room with a wide window – again with the protective wire mesh – giving a view inside. I could see an orange-clad figure standing in front of a desk where a nurse was sitting.

Viselle opened the door without troubling to knock and held it for me to enter.

As I had supposed it was Jonquières in front of the desk, in prison uniform of smock and trousers, a chain belt around her waist with her hands chained to it on either side, her fists tightly clenched. Two orderlies were standing by, stony faced.

The smock was short, ending above the waistband of her pants and leaving a strip of her strong back exposed.

Whatever they’d put her through must have been fairly strenuous, for her clothing was damp with sweat, the thin cotton clinging around her shoulders and the outline of her knickers plain under the trousers.

That surprised me a little. From the things people had told me earlier, I had the impression that inmates were not provided with underwear. Maybe Jonquières had special treatment, perhaps as a newcomer or because of her former status, or perhaps because her body, at 57, had filled out more than some prisoners.

Yet she was clearly not wearing a brassiere, and it seemed strange that a woman with such full breasts should be given underpants but not a bra.

“I thought she’d be in the exercise suite by now nurse,” said Viselle. “Been giving problems?”

“We set her to clean the toilets this morning, and she reckoned it was beneath her. Particularly cleaning Lister’s – which was rather a mess. You’ll remember Lister’s digestive problems, and with it being her last night she was worse than ever. Well, we persuaded her, but it put us 40 minutes behind schedule. So I put her in a pair of PADS for two hours and she’s been doing her diagnostic exercises in them.”

“Like on the first afternoon,” Viselle elaborated for my sake. “Hard exercise to check blood pressure and so on. Two hours you say?”

“Yes; time’s about up and I was just about to cut them off when you arrived sergeant. Jonquières, get your pants down.”

Standing a little to Jonquières’ side, I could see her glaring at the nurse, her breasts heaving with angry breaths.

“Down! Now!”

After a moment Jonquières’ hands unclenched and she gripped the elastic waistbelt of the trousers and pushed them down to mid-thigh. Sticking slightly, the sweaty garment slipped to her ankles as she straightened up and stared tight-lipped over the nurse’s head, breathing heavily.

The knickers were white and full, covering her from her waist to an inch below her thighs. The sort of thing a rather plump girl might have worn in a very old-fashioned school.

But not quite. There were small loops for a belt sewn into the waistband, and indeed she was wearing a thin plastic belt to hold them up. It bit into the flesh of her waist, which bulged out above it.

Bending forward for a better look I saw that the belt did not have a conventional buckle. Instead there was an eye on one end and through it had been passed the other end, which was toothed like one of those ties we use for freezer bags. Clearly once those knickers were on they were meant to stay on. Though why she was wearing them in the first place still puzzled me.

There was another oddity. From the eye that fastened the belt, another thin strip of plastic descended vertically to her crotch and disappeared under her, digging between her labia. Intrigued I stepped behind her and saw it was fastened tightly to her belt at the back, dragging the material tightly in and emphasising her rather splendid buttocks.

The nurse rose, holding a small pair of scissors and snipped through the plastic strips then whisked them away. From Jonquières’ gasp it was clear that the lower strap had hurt as it whipped off.

“Right, you can take them off now. And if ever you act up again like you did this morning, you’ll be wearing them for four hours, not just two.”

For some reason Jonquières’ head jolted up at that and her breath hissed through her teeth in what was almost a sob.

Then her eyes shifted to look at me with vindictive hate. “How can you … with that man here?” she snarled.

“Take them off – unless you want me to belt you in them again. Do you want to do your exercise in them all afternoon? Do you?”

“No.” The voice mixed anger with bitter defeat.

“No what!”

“No … Ma’am.” You could hear hate in her voice.

The chains to her wrist-cuffs were long enough for her to grip the garment and start pushing it down, but no further than her knees. Then she had to crouch and bend to get them to her ankles and finally off.

Which of course gave a fine view of her backside. There were quite a few thin welts on it, but the whole surface looked as if it had been scrubbed with a wire brush.

Viselle picked the garment off the floor and flicked it inside out before passing it to me.

“Punishment pants,” she said. “A Passive Abrasive Disciplinary System.”

I looked down at the warm, most thing with some distaste for a moment or two. And then I saw it. The knickers had a lining, a nylon net with meshes only about three millimetres across, extending from waistband to crotch and legs. And from every intersection of each mesh a stiff nylon bristle stuck vertically up, hundreds of them.

No wonder they needed a belt to prevent the wearer removing them. And I remembered the other strap pulling them into her crotch and between her buttocks. Some of those bristles must have been digging against her anus.

“They’re a very useful tool,” Viselle said conversationally. “Especially with Hurfs like this one who think they’re really special and tough. You’d have to wear your arm out caning her to really break her; she’d hold on as long as she could to try and keep what she calls her dignity, think she was being clever. But a couple of sessions in Punishment pants and she’ll learn to mind her manners.”

“I … er, imagine so,” I managed.

“You probably noticed these are a bit on the large size for this one, though she does have a fat arse. We’ve got the measurements now, and the uniform department are making up some knickers and liners. Tomorrow morning, Jonquières can spend a couple of hours sewing the linings in.”

She turned to the nurse. “I take it you’ve finished with her now?”

“Yes Sergeant.”

“Right. Get your trousers on Jonquières. You’re going on the treadmill.”

TBC
 
I often fantasize on female prisons.
According to what I've read, in your story the time spent in confinement is considered as part of the penalty, that will culminate with crucifixion.
For this reason, I would expect the daily routine to be built in such a way to produce many opportunities for punishment and humiliation.
Also, one of my favorite scenarios is the good cop/ bad cop predicament. The victim could be deceived to the point of thinking that there is some form of hope if she submits to degrading practices, only to discover that she has been betrayed.
 
Frank Petrexa said:
Anticipating what is going to happen to you is probably worse than the cell itself. I think people get into a routine, and should be OK for a while.... As long as one is not tortured every day, the mind can probably last a while. People tend to block out a bleak future until it becomes a bleak present.
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In general, I'd say that's true, people are very good at repressing things even if they're inescapable.
But then again we're all individuals. And I do think there are quite a few things in EJMain that serve to deconstruct the humanity of a delinquent... it's not just the anticipation, and the cell ...
...some people pass through incomprehensible atrocities and remain functional, and some people are already at the verge of collapse before they're confronted with such a challenge.
And that might be for some completely unrelated hard truth of their life or nature ... or might have to do with whatever their guilt is ...

andy01 said:
ny thoughts on what measures might be applied?
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Well... we do know there's a thorough evaluation of the condemned from Penal Psychiatry during the appeals process.... so they will probably customize their treatment of the prisoners ... it is obvious they put in quite some effort into each individual execution :eek:! I don't think there'd be a catch-all measure, but,
John Delves Richardson said:
The victim could be deceived to the point of thinking that there is some form of hope if she submits to degrading practices, only to discover that she has been betrayed.
Click to expand...
... it's well worn but still, often works...
 
Jonquières: Treadmill

As the orderlies led her into the treadmill room Jonquières jerked to a halt and, not gasped exactly but hissed through clenched teeth, staring up at the contraption. I suppose it is one thing to be told you are to be put on the treadmill, quite another to see it.

The thing was a huge hamster wheel. The axle, an iron bar a good five inches thick, was at the height of my head, supported by heavy girders rising from the floor. A smaller horizontal bar was a foot or so in front of it, and somewhat higher.

Fixed to the axle just inside the supporting girders were two heavy iron wheels about two foot in diameter, with rims the texture of coarse sandpaper.

“You’ve changed the friction bars, I see,” Viselle remarked to the corporal who was helping the orderlies push Jonquières onto the wheel, on a step below the smaller bar. “Good, I’ll take Patterson’s with me when we leave.”

I noticed that two square iron bars were pressing against the coarse surface of each inner wheel, held on presumably spring-loaded clamps jutting in from the girders. They were around six inches long and half an inch thick, pressing down along the line of the circumference.

“Friction bars,” Viselle explained, “to slow the wheel down. Without them it would turn too easily and the exercise would be no harder than just raising and lowering her feet. With them she has to push to move it. It’s like climbing stairs carrying two heavy shopping bags.”

Jonquières hands were now fastened to the bar above her head with leather cuffs, and the corporal was turning a crank to raise it until her arms were stretched. The prison trousers, still sweat-damp, were clinging revealingly to her full backside. It had been pleasant to follow her along the corridor from the Medical Room in those trousers. I’d noticed too that she was jerking her shoulders up and down in short, uneasy movements as she walked. “Still feeling the rack from yesterday,” Viselle remarked. “It takes a day or two to get over it, maybe a bit longer for someone her age.

The corporal finished adjusting the bar. “Bit taller than Patterson, this one,” she remarked.

Viselle moved to stand where Jonquières could see her, or rather glare at her.

“When Corporal Graner gives the word, you will start walking. The medical team have set a very precise target. You will turn the wheel four times in five minutes. That will be 184 steps in all – about half the distance from the ground to the first floor of the Eiffel Tower. Then you will rest for three minutes, then do another five-minute shift. You will do seven shifts in all, which will take you to nearly three-quarters of the way up the Tower. I hope you enjoy the view.”

Jonquières snarled in disgust.

“You can see whether you are meeting your target on these panels in front of you. This one shows minutes and seconds, this one the number of steps you have climbed. The corporal will make sure you keep at it. Those cotton trousers will not give you much protection from a swagger stick.”

The corporal pulled a lever and barked “Start.”

Jonquières gritted her teeth and moved her left foot to the next step and put her weight on it. Very slowly the wheel started to turn. Over the next fifteen seconds or so it began to turn more steadily, but still not fast. I heard a grinding sound as the friction bars did their work.

We watched for a minute, then Viselle said: “I suggest we leave her to it, and come back in forty minutes or so. It will be more interesting then. Let us look at the other exercise systems.”

On her way out, she picked up a small canvas bag that was hanging by the door.

As we walked she said: “That may have looked as if we were going easy on her – two steps every three seconds – but the medics have calculated it very carefully. Even at that pace, her heart will struggle to keep up. The powerhouse muscles in her thighs will working overtime to move her upwards. Soon she’ll feel them start to tighten. If we pushed her over the limit they would freeze up altogether. She’d hit her lactic acid threshold. Which we don’t want. So we start with a level that will push her right to the edge, and little by little we’ll set the bar higher, so to speak.”

We arrived at a room with a heavily constructed rowing machine.

“Excellent general exercise, this,” said Viselle. “Legs, arms, stomach, back, all get a workout on this. Excuse me a moment. I must just attach Patterson’s friction bars. She’s due a session here next.”

There were two wheels similar to those on the treadmill, but set down near the floor on axles protruding from the rowing machine. Just as with the others, each had two clamps facing the surface, but these had no bars. From her bag, Viselle took out the bars and fixed them into the clamps, clicking their square heads into a slot that would hold them firm. When Viselle released the spring each clacked down against its wheel, pressing against it.

You could see how much work those bars must have done, for the friction had worn them down almost to points at the end.

“These are quite soft iron,” the sergeant remarked, “and wear down fairly quickly. We turn them over every time we use them, so each face wears down at the same rate. When they’ve worn to a point, we use a hardening process to finish them. After that we’ll replace them with hardened bars that won’t wear down.”

She waited for understanding to sink in.

“I wonder how long it will take,” she said, “before Jonquières realises she is grinding the nails for her own crucifixion.”


TBC
 
malins said:
!!!:eek: -- I think that's a new idea, at least to me...
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Yes. We've had cruxees carry their nails around their neck, but not create them. Elegantly cruel, which describes much of this story. I have often thought around the theme of crux and fitness, ie that in modern crux there would be a physical examination and only those who were sufficiently fit and healthy would be subjected to the cross. This story goes the extra mile, the condemned is obliged to become fit so as to better endure the cross. I love it.
So far the idea of racking as a diagnostic tool has really captured my imagination. I know that the lady is still not in peak shape, but I see her stoically enduring, hour after hour, while they take readings and grind her powerful will down. I think she will fight to the end.

Imagine, stretched fractionally minute by minute, hour by hour, as your vital signs are recorded and analysed.
3_1028059.jpg
The inevitability of this pain, observed dispassionately, a soul destroying experience for such a proud woman.
She may not have looked like the woman above, possibly more like this
1-320x240 (1).jpg
Her middle aged body not yet shaped to the optimum crux ready state. That will come.

And what rack would they use? Something like this?
f09e4794dc66ace4e385d13d222bca00.jpg
 
And what rack would they use? Something like this?
View attachment 510544[/QUOTE]
Something controlled electronically, I think, capable of minute adjustments calculated very precisely by the Punitive Medicine technicians, probably observing through a soundproof window from an adjacent room (Health & Safety regulations - some Hurfs produce screams that could damage the ear).
The Hurf would be securely strapped at the waist so it is only the upper body and arms that are under strain.
 
Jonquières: Interview with the Governor

An hour or so later I was shown into the Governor’s study, a large room marked somehow into two areas, one formal in front of his imposing desk, one informal with sofa and armchairs grouped around an ornate marble fireplace.

The Governor put down his coffee and rose to greet me. “Ah Congressman, come in. You know Dr Miller, of course.”

The doctor looked up from the chessboard. “I hope Sergeant Viselle showed you all you wanted,” she said.

“She showed me a great deal,” I answered. “Enough to whet my appetite to see more. I had no idea just how much goes into your preparations.”

“And how did you leave Jonquières?”

“Panting like an old steam engine … face bright scarlet … sweating like a pig. Your corporal was really putting her through it.”

“Yes,” said the Governor. “Graner’s not a high-flyer, I doubt she’ll rise higher than sergeant, but she’s the best we’ve got when it comes to the hamster wheel.”

“I don’t think she’s recovered from the racking yet,” I told them. “When she was being taken down the corridor, she was moving like her shoulders were still very stiff.”

“They will be,” the doctor said. “It’ll take her a few days to recover, and we bear that in mind when setting her work levels. She’ll be fitter next time we rack her.”

“Next time?”

“Oh yes, two more sessions, one a month. Yesterday’s data are very useful, but it’s the progression of data over time that we really need. The physiological changes as she get fitter and tougher.”

Over the next half hour, over excellent coffee, I learned more about this extraordinary institution. Then the Governor glanced at his watch and said: “She’s due to be brought here for interview at five. They’ll be getting her showered and ready. I imagine she won’t be too happy about it, given her background. The warders have been told to give her a little bit of rope at first, and she'll probably need it. She'll learn over time. It might be useful for you to watch, if you’d like.”

I would indeed like, and the Governor crossed to his desk and pressed a button. A warder entered and was asked to show me to the cages.

Where we found Jonquières shuddering with cold as she frantically tried to rub some warmth into herself with a threadbare towel. She was quite a sight.

One of the attending warders reached into a cupboard and produced a pair of rubber pants that she tossed to the prisoner.

“Put these on.”

Jonquières looked at them with disgust. “What are these?” she demanded.

“Rubber pants. So you don’t piss on the Governor’s carpet.”

Holding the towel over her breasts Jonquières glared at her. “I don’t know how it is in your home,” she spat, “but I do not piss on carpets.”

The warder did not rise to the bait. “In my home,” she said, “we don’t crap into a hole in the ground. Prisoners being taken to the Governor wear rubber pants. You will put those on, either as they are or with a pair of Punishment Pants underneath, it’s up to you. I’ll give you five seconds to decide.”

After three seconds Jonquières bent and began to pull the garment on. It was an undignified struggle, for the elastic at the base of the legs was tight. By the time she had worked them into place, half-way down her thighs, the flesh was bulging over them.

“Made to measure for you Jonquières,” the warder said. “Just like the suits you used to order from van Helpen, or was it Vauthier?” She handed her a freshly ironed top and trousers. Jonquières looked at her for a moment as if calculating how to take revenge, then put them on.

They locked the chain round her waist, clicked the cuffs on her wrists, and led her out towards the Governor’s office. I followed behind. “They do, you know,” my escort remarked. “Lister wet herself every time she was on Report after the first time the Governor had her caned. So does Patterson as often as not. Jonquières will in the end. I think she’ll hold out quite a while, but FemMain wears them down – it’s designed to. We’re running a sweepstake on her actually; my ticket’s for the 38th day as the first one she wets herself. I reckon I’ve got a good chance.”

As we entered to office it seemed Jonquières had decided her course of action. Without waiting for the Governor to speak she took the offensive.

“I am registering a formal complaint against these officers. I have been abused, humiliated, treated disgracefully. I have been tortured. In a prison run by a civilised state, or so-called civilised …”

“Lieutenant,” the Governor said. “Would you take the prisoner away and explain to her the protocols to be followed in this office.”

“Sir,” she answered. She and her partner swung Jonquières round. Each passed an arm around her waist, gripping her biceps with their other hands. They were standing almost shoulder to shoulder behind her. Then the lieutenant brought her knee up in a hard jolt into Jonquières’ thigh, kicking her forward. Her partner did likewise immediately afterwards and so, with synchronised kicks, they propelled her from the room.

I had heard of the frog-march, of course, but I had never seen it.

When she was brought back she was walking stiffly, red-eyed and with a tear-stained face. She looked the Governor in the face, breathing heavily, but clamped her mouth shut.

“It is my duty,” he said, “to explain some things to you. Since you are sentenced to be crucified, there will be an automatic appeal against both your trial and the sentence. That appeal is already being prepared. If it is successful, you will be removed to a remand centre and there will be a re-trial.

“As your property has been confiscated you will not be able to hire your own lawyer, so the state will provide a public defender to present your case. Alternatively the lawyers you have used for, I believe, the last 20 years, may act for you without fees on a pro bono basis. After all, you have been a lucrative source of income for them in your numerous lawsuits.”

“Those buffoons,” Jonquières burst out. “After the pig’s ear they made of my trial I’d rather have a monkey from the zoo defend me than those incompetent bastards.”

The Governor regarded her for a long ten seconds. “If you interrupt me again, I shall suspend this interview. Tomorrow morning you will be put in Punishment Pants and you will wear them throughout the day as you work and exercise. And we will resume the interview tomorrow evening.”

He spoke quietly with no apparent change in his tone, but there was something in his voice that made it clear he would do as he had said and that he had ample authority to make it happen. I realised I had underestimated the man. He carried his authority so lightly I had not realised how formidable he was. I saw now how he had come to hold the position he did. After a pause, he resumed.

“The appeal court will scrutinise the conduct of your trial to ensure everything was done properly and fairly. That your defence team were provided with all relevant documents and information by the prosecution. That the witnesses were not suborned. That the judge did not unfairly overrule any objections, comment in a prejudicial way or sum up the evidence unfairly. And so on. The conduct of the trial will be minutely examined.

“If the verdict is upheld, there will be a second appeal, before a different court, this time against the sentence. If the court, after examining the criteria and the details of your crimes, judges the sentence to be unduly harsh, it will impose a lesser penalty, possibly even just one of imprisonment.

“These two appeal processes will typically take a little over two months and unless your appeal is successful you will remain here under our control.

Jonquières’ head jerked up and she almost burst out again, but bit her words back.

“I must advise you that when a felon is sentenced by the Supreme Court to be crucified it is seldom that the Appeal Court declares a mis-trial; the Supreme Court judges are among the best jurists in the world and their handling of trials is very seldom flawed. Nor do they often make mistakes in sentencing.

“It is therefore unlikely that your sentence will be overturned on appeal.

“The final stage is an Appeal for Clemency to the President of the Union. At that point, the Clemency Committee will, among many other factors, take into account your behaviour here, whether you show remorse for your crimes and give evidence that you submit to the law and have resolved to behave as a decent citizen. It will take two or three weeks for the Committee to find a window in their schedule to assemble and consider your case.

“Very well, lieutenant, you may take her away.”

They turned her and marched her out. The Governor let out a deep breath and rose from behind the desk.

“I think it’s time for a sherry,” he said. “Or would you prefer a whisky Congressman?”

TBC
 
You are handling this story with consummate skill, Andy!

The slow, grinding break down of Ammelie's spirit, the final cross casting its long shadow over the various stages of the process.

Interesting that I feel less empathy for her than I often do, but perhaps that will grow as the story continues.

But :clapping:
 
Great story concept of preparing the condemned physically, in order to lenghten the agony on the cross as much as possible. Another view on a today application of the sentence.:clapping:

Empathy? Yes I do! The way she is stuck in the procedures of the justice system. The way the outcome of the appeal procedure is predicted. I smell a rat.
 
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