Legal Self-Realization

His penis lurched. Why did it do that? he wondered. But he collected himself sufficiently to render his decision and adjourn, before hastening to his chambers.

* *

The trial's proceedings were still firing Steven's imagination, so once he was back in his chambers he wanted to lie on his couch, touch himself and give himself some relief. He'd done that late yesterday upon reading the more explicit parts of the testimony again, but his body and mind were still aflame.

But within two minutes his fantasies were interrupted by a knock on his door.

He pulled his underwear back up, and hurriedly pulled on his robe, stealthily unlocked the door, slipped behind his desk, smoothed his hair, opened a random file, and called, "Come."

It was the straw-haired man from the court room--wearing a khaki uniform and a badge. He was the Sheriff of Cain County.

He touched his cap. "Judge Hill? Personally, I'd like to compliment you on the acumen your verdict displayed today."

He was not entirely unknown to Steven. A couple of years ago, Steven had attended a law-enforcement seminar here in the city, and for two days he'd sat in a seat directly behind the Sheriff's. The Sheriff was so tall and broad that it had been hard to see the presenters at the front of the room so had spent much of the time staring at the Sheriff's broad back and powerful shoulders.

Steven shook his reverie away, and shrugged. "I had little choice."

The Sheriff nodded. "Understood. But allow me to say why I am primarily here. I have an official duty to remind you that, legally, you are considered to have fled my jurisdiction 26 months ago."

"What?!?" Steven exclaimed.

"You left the county to avoid prosecution for a parking violation." He maintained a bland expression.

Steven remembered vaguely having gotten the ticket.

"Well, be that as it may, Sheriff, it's a minor matter, surely. No need for drama. I'm surprised that wasn't just withdrawn out of 'professional courtesy.'"

"Sometimes we do that," the Sheriff said. "But since you're such a public figure--and now an esteemed public figure--an exception has been made. We must set an example."

"Oh come on," Steven said. "Failure to pay a parking ticket isn't exactly an extraditable offense."

The Sheriff smiled. "You're the big-city judge and I'm the rural county sheriff. But I do have some ... advantages at my disposal." He removed some papers from his pocket and separated them into two portions.

"I'm prepared to offer you a choice."

He held up one batch of papers: "An order of extradition--perfectly drawn and signed--for one Steven Hill to answer charges that have now escalated into several felonies. There's also a draft press release, a formal letter to the bar association, and related documents."

"Wh-what... what's the... choice?" Steven croaked.

He held up a single sheet. "Your alternative is quietly to accompany me back to Cain County, where I will deliver you to the Warden's prison, where he will formally acquaint you of this document."

It was, of course, a Special Restrictions Form.

"But... um... my case schedule," he began.

"Already cleared with the clerk," the Sheriff answered.

They had planned everything, Steven realized. "C-could our departure be kept... low-key? No... no handcuffs?"

"That would be my preference, but it ultimately depends on you."

Steven realized that any argument would be pathetic. "Very well." He cleared his throat and stood a little taller. "If you would just step outside for a moment..."

The Sheriff shook his head. "No, I couldn't do that. You're a flight risk. You have a history." He said that last with a smile.

"B-but..."

"I said, No." His voice was harder now. You had a choice, and I'm not going to nit-pick details. Remove the robe and come along, or I'll be forced to cuff you."

"Ummm," Steven said hesitantly, "I should tell you that ... because of the heat ... I'm ... under my robes ... I'm practically naked."

"Immaterial. Just do as I say."

Steven sighed and slipped adroitly out of his judicial robe, then held it in front of him to shield himself from the man's eyes. "I'm uncomfortable with this, Sheriff," he said.

"Drop it," he ordered.

Steven flinched. How dare he speak to me that way... and in my own chambers, he thought, indignantly. But the consequences were... unthinkable.

He tossed the robe onto his chair and stood in just shoes, socks, and underwear. His nipples felt sensitive--from where they'd been rubbing against the robe, no doubt--and his penis was half-erect.

The Sheriff stared for a few seconds but kept any expression off his face. Weirdly Steven felt a slight disappointment.

"Dress," he ordered.

Steven put on his suit pants and shirt efficiently--without haste, but also without dawdling. "It's too warm for my jacket..." so he left it draped over a chair "... and I'll have to ask my secretary to let my wife know I'm going ... out of town."

The Sheriff stepped back and let him go first. Was he merely being courteous, or keeping me under observation?

A few minutes later, they were in the Sheriff's official van and headed toward the road to Cain County.

* *

They drove in silence for about an hour. Steven was lost in thought, speculating on what the next week (or whatever) might bring. The intellectual part of his mind was resentful that he was being imposed upon this way... but, physically, he was squeezing his thighs together, rhythmically, in time with the throbbing of his penis.

The Sheriff grunted and Steven looked up to see a big "Entering Cain County" sign ahead.

As soon as the van passed the sign the Sheriff pulled into a byway and said, "You know, those expensive clothes are suitable for the big city but not out here in the county. And if you show up at the prison wearing those fancy shoes, the staff and the other prisoners might single you out for special treatment."

That makes sense, Steven thought, but didn't say anything.

"I can offer you a change of clothes, courtesy of the County."

Steven thought that his good clothes would be stored away and less likely damaged. "Okay."

The Sheriff indicated a small bag on the floor. He said, "Slide into the back of the van and change. You'll have enough privacy there. I'll put your clothes in that bag and give you the replacements."

Changing clothes in the van was awkward, but Steven had undressed down to his underwear when the panel in the compartment's front wall slid open with a clatter. The Sheriff squinted at him, zeroing in on his crotch. "Are your underwear wet, Steven?"

"Well..." he knew there was no use lying. "Yes."

"Then they'll have to be bagged. Hand them over."

He wanted to demand privacy, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, red-faced, he wriggled out of his soaked silk briefs and with downcast eyes handed them over. The Sheriff expressionlessly observed Steven in his naked state for a moment, took the silk briefs and in exchange tossed a few items of clothing at Steven's feet.

"Carry on," he said, dryly, and shut the panel.

Steven found that his new clothes were a t-shirt, shorts, and thin flip flops. That's it.

Not even underwear.

The t-shirt was a pale red, and the shorts and flip-flops were white.

The clothes did fit... barely. The t-shirt was tighter and the shorts were more like micro-shorts. He slid his feet into the flip-flops and, feeling very self-conscious, moved from hot and airless back of the van up to the front seat again, but now seated on a towel that the Sheriff had spread across his seat.

* *

Steven wriggled, uncomfortably. It was cooler here than in the sweltering rear compartment, but he felt a sheen of sweat all over his body. His nervousness grew as he glanced down and saw how tight the t-shirt was. It hugged the contours of his pectoral and allowed his stiff nipples to be noticeable. The shorts squeezed his genitals uncomfortably and the seam at the rear seemed to want to ride up between his buttocks.

When he glanced over, the Sheriff almost seemed to have a smile on his lips, but that may have been a trick of the light.

A few minutes later the Sheriff said, "Prison food's not the best. I can offer you a meal at a restaurant. The county's budget can stretch that far."

Steven noticed that the man's accent was growing more rural the farther they went, but what he said did make sense.

"Y-yes... good idea."

A last meal before prison. But the miles rolled on with no sign of a restaurant, and Steven's mind drifted back to the courtroom trial and the list of allegations of what happened at the prison.

Eventually, he was roused from his fantasies when the Sheriff turned off the road and into a truck stop--a dozen parked big trucks, some gas pumps, a service station, and the "Hard Times" bar and grill. On one side of the truck stop was a strip of motel cabins and on the others was a building with no windows and one door with a neon sign above it that said "Adult XXX".

"Best if you wait here," the Sheriff said, "rather than me taking you inside in a place like this." He cuffed Steven's wrists to the sturdy hand-grip above the passenger door. "Especially the way you're dressed."

Steven had not wanted to mention it, but he blurted out, "I really need to use a restroom." The pressure from his bladder had become uncomfortable, and he had no idea how much further it was to the prison.

The Sheriff looked at him for a moment, and said, "Okay. But we'll make it quick." He un-cuffed Steven and stepped back to allow him to get out of the van.

The cooler air outside was a relief, and he felt a breeze move gently over his exposed skin. But he was now doubly aware of how thin his t-shirt was and how little his micro-shorts covered the curves of his groin and buttocks. As well, the cheap flip-flops on his feet offered hardly any protection from the sharp gravelly surface of the parking lot.

"You're bound to get some attention and comments from the customers inside. Just ignore them," the Sheriff advised, taking Steven by the elbow to guide him.

The crowd inside the Hard Times fell silent when the two of them entered, the door swinging closed behind them. The Sheriff was of course a big and noticeable man in a distinctive uniform, but after taking him in everyone's eyes focused on Steven. He saw a dozen pairs of eyes scanning him up and down, and he became especially aware of the contrast between the Sheriff's official uniform covering almost all of his body and his own scanty clothes covering almost none.

The Sheriff guided him over to a counter with a man behind a register, and Steven felt like he could still feel the eyes now watching his backside.

"Give me two burgers and fries," the Sheriff ordered, "and two bottles of water." He slid a bill across the counter to the man. "To go. And make it quick."

With that he turned, still with his hand gripping Steven's elbow, and guided him firmly through the scattered tables and watching eyes towards an illuminated sign said "Toilets in Back".

A long slow whistle sounded from somewhere across the room, joined by a couple of catcalls. "Who's your girlfriend, Sheriff?" a man's voice shouted out, and several others laughed at his joke. A female voice piped up, "With an ass like that, he'll learn what being a woman means up there at the prison." More laughing.

Steven wondered if the Sheriff was known here or only by his uniform. Not that it mattered, as the grip on his arm tightened until they were through the crowd and standing outside the toilet room. "You go on in and do your business," the Sheriff said. "There's no window or way to escape, so I'll be right here until you're done."

After attending to his pressing bladder, Steven took a few minutes to compose himself, staring at the image he presented in the large mirror above the sinks. It seemed already a long time ago that he had been recently showered and dressed in his bespoke suit and silk tie, hair groomed. The man he saw in the mirror had skin that shone with a sheen of moisture, mussed hair, and ... he had no words to describe the nearly unclothing he wore.

The toilet room had no air-conditioning to speak of, and he started sweating again. It stung his eyes and dripped off the end of his nose, trickled from his armpits down his sides to be soaked up by his t-shirt, ran down his stomach and under the waistband of his shorts to seep between his legs and join into the ... activity ... that was already there.

Since he'd been young, Steven had taken pride in being clean and well-groomed, and this was making him miserable. He knew again he would have to cross the crowded bar again and hear more vulgar words ... and yet... his imagination was busy.

The Sheriff gave a rap on the door. "Time to go."

* *

Back in the van, the Sheriff handed over a paper bag with the food and a large bottle of cold water. The burger and fries were surprisingly delicious, and the entire bottle of water was soon a memory.

Within ten minutes, they were turning off the main highway and onto a smaller paved road. A minute later Steven caught a glimpse of a sign that said "County Prison" and then the van was pulling into parking lot and coming to a stop in a parking slot place-marked: OFFICIAL VEHICLES ONLY.

For some reason, Steven felt a chill.

* *

The gray stone building was large and undistinguished. The Sheriff guided Steven into a room marked 'Receiving.' Two male deputies were waiting on duty. The room had a large glass window through which another room with an examining table could be seen. Beyond that was an open shower area.

"Hey, Thomas and Terence," the Sheriff said to them. "Let the Warden know he's arrived."

"Yes, sir," one of the deputies replied. "I'll call him right away."

The Sheriff released Steven from his cuffs and handed him the bag of clothes.

"If you can just sign here on the delivery record," the other deputy said, "I'll counter-sign, and then we'll take over and get him processed."

The Sheriff signed.

"Don't forget this," the Sheriff said, laying the Special Restrictions Form on the table. "The Warden will want to add his own signature, just to make it official--supposing of course that after ... processing ... our prisoner agrees to its terms and signs too."

He gave Steven one more expressionless look up and down, as if filing the image away in his memory, and left.

* *

While they waited for the Warden to arrive, Thomas and Terence were making a series of appreciative noises and comments as they checked out Steven's good looks and his slim athletic body in his tight shirt and micro-shorts.

A side door opened, and Steven saw the solid form of the Warden's body enter the receiving room. Their eyes met, and they remembered that it had only been earlier that day that they'd seen each other in the courtroom. Then the Warden's eyes looked downward, scanning Steven's body.

The Warden's voice: "What the hell is he wearing?"

Terence replied: "That's how he arrived, sir. We haven't processed him yet."

"The man's a judge, not a 20-dollar prostitute," the Warden said, "so why is he dressed like that?"

"I don't know--that's how he arrived when the Sheriff dropped him off."

"Ahhh, that explains it," the Warden said, with a smile cracking his normally impassive face. "Sometimes our Sheriff likes to play his own little games with the men he brings in."

He gave a short laugh, and then said, "Well, strip him down and get him into the shower."

* *