It was another scorching hot day on the chain gang. The sun burned bright overhead, even in the early morning, as I brought my pickaxe once more down on a rock that stubbornly refused to break. Beads of sweat ran down my brow onto my chest, the area between my breasts gleaming with moisture and mixed with dust as I struck another blow.
There were six of us shackled together that morning. Six convicts, each with five years or more left in our sentence of hard labor. Six young women, dressed in an identical uniform of a white tank top, orange Soffe shorts, and work boots, shackled together at the legs to keep us in a straight line of service. The black text printed on my ass matched the heavy metal collar I wore:
INMATE
78-43021
Watching over us was a single correctional officer, sitting under an umbrella in a lawn chair by the side of the dusty highway where we worked. His eyes stared lasciviously at each of our asses as we bent up and down, up and down. The switch and whip, used only sparingly, lay at his side.