Riley had been overseas and out of contact for three months, and she had heard nothing of the changes in her home country.
She had spent the time in Brazil, first backpacking in Brasilia, and then heading away from the urbanised areas to hike, kayak, and finally spend time on a small commune. She had laughed, learned, and made friends. Her body had become fitter and leaner - although she had not acquired the deep tan on her large breasts that some of her friends had, because Riley had never been comfortable in showing a lot of skin, even in swelteringly hot and humid weather.
For most of the time she had had no phone reception, and even when she had, she had barely touched any device. Disconnecting from the world, living off-grid, felt healing to her soul.
But Riley had responsibilities back home - and even if she didn’t, she was the daughter of wealthy parents, who were sure they knew what was best for her, and she suspected if she had stayed away any longer, her father might have sent private investigators to locate her and bring her home.
So now she was arriving back into the busy chaos of an international airport in her home country, already tensing up at the thought of the things she would have to do to reintegrate into urban society.
However, she had no idea of her most important new responsibility, and the first she heard of it was immediately after clearing customs, when two uniformed officers of some kind - a clean-shaven man and a pretty redheaded woman - stepped forward to intercept her.
“Miss Riley Atwell?” asked the man.
“Yes?” asked Riley. “Is there a problem?”
“We understand you have not completed your Female Documentation Process, ma’am,” said the woman. “We received a tip that you were arriving in the country today, and we are here to ensure that your documentation is completed immediately.”
Riley didn’t understand. “Is this customs paperwork?” she asked. “I just did all that. And this is my home country - I don’t need a visa…”
“No, ma’am,” said the man. “This is the Female Documentation Process. As an undocumented female, you need to be processed immediately. Please follow us.”
They motioned her towards a door set into the wall of the public area, and Riley, not naturally inclined to resist a voice of authority, began to walk towards it, even as she struggled to understand what was happening.
“What is this?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“We’re Female Registration and Compliance Officers, ma’am,” said the woman, “authorised by the Female Management Bureau.”
Riley had never heard of that agency, but at this point it made her feel stupid to keep asking questions, so she simply allowed the agents to escort her through the door.
Inside was a medium-sized interview room, which she realised would ordinarily be used by Customs to interrogate people with discrepancies on their Customs declarations or who had been found with banned items in their luggage. There was a small desk and four chairs.
But in this case, oddly, there was also a medical bed, of the kind used by gynaecologists, with stirrups and restraints. And there were a number of cameras around the room - at least six that Riley could see - covering the table and the bed from numerous angles.
And most concerningly of all, in one of the chairs was Tristan Penhill - a man that Riley feared and hated.
Tristan was honestly one of the main reasons Riley had been eager to leave the country. Ever since he had met her in university, he had hounded her - at first plying her with earnest but demeaning compliments about how sexy she was, how big her tits were, how he guessed she would be amazing to fuck - and then later, asking her on dates, undeterred when she told him no in very clear and explicit terms.
He would attend the cafe where she worked, and then follow her home, begging her for a date, a kiss, a fuck, as she hurried to escape him.
And then, when she had taken to threatening him with a Taser, and actively running away to avoid him, he had escalated to insults and threats. He would yell at her that she was a slut, a whore, a big-titted fuckdoll. He would send her letters and emails describing fantasies he had of raping and enslaving her. He would park outside her house and aim telephoto cameras at her windows. He would send defamatory letters to her employers and friends and co-workers, accusing her of a range of imagined sexual escapades.
In the end, she had taken out a restraining order against him - and then fled the country, hoping he would tire of her.
And now here he was.
She balked at the entrance to the room. “What’s he doing here?” she demanded. “I have a restraining order against this man.”
“All female restraining orders have been cancelled, ma’am,” said the male officer. “And all convictions against men for sexual harassment or rape of adult women have been pardoned. It all happened in the Redressing Male Victimisation Act that was passed last month. An important step in fighting the practice of demonising men for their natural sexual urges.”
She blinked. That couldn’t be true, could it? All rapists, pardoned? Her restraining order nullified?
It was the woman officer who spoke now. “Actually, it was Mr Penhill who tipped us off to your return,” she said. “He’s been watching your Instagram. You’ve been inactive, but just yesterday you posted a picture of yourself with the text ‘coming home tomorrow’. Mr Penhill notified us of your arrival, and that you were an undocumented female, and that’s how we’re here today.”
“But why is HE here?” asked Riley.
“Any male who knows you is welcome to attend your documentation,” said the woman. “Normally that might be your father or boyfriend, but it can be any man with an interest in seeing you documented, and given that your documentation is happening at short notice, I suppose Mr Penhill is the only man who knows it’s happening.”
“That’s right, Kitten,” said Tristan. “I’m going to be the witness for your documentation. I’m going to make sure it all goes according to the book.” He was grinning - an evil grin - and he had an obvious erection that made Riley turn her head in disgust. She hated that name - “Kitten”. Tristan had decided it was “their special name for her”, and he used it in all his hateful and degrading love-notes to her.
“Don’t call me that,” she said.
Faster than Riley could register, the male officer reached out and slapped her across the face. Riley gasped, and staggered back.
“Show respect to the guest, ma’am,” said the officer. “Mr Penhill has been instrumental in aiding our detection and registration of you. I won’t tolerate any backtalk in his direction. Now say sorry.”
“I will not!” gasped Riley. “How dare you hit me! You can’t do this?”
“Eliza, grab her arms,” said the male officer. The woman - Eliza? - stepped forward and grabbed Riley’s elbows, pinning her arms behind her back. Then the male stepped forward and slapped her three times - twice across the face, and once, hard, across Riley’s large breasts.
Riley felt tears welling in her eyes. Her face stung. Her tits stung. How could this be happening?
The woman was still restraining her. She was helpless.
“Apologise to me, now,” said the officer. “And then to Mr Penhill. Or you’ll be disciplined again.”
She thought about screaming for help. This couldn’t be legal, could it? But neither the male nor female officer showed any sign that they were guilty or secretive about how they were treating her. And that last slap - to her breasts - was the scariest of all. Slapping her in the face was painful and awful - but slapping her in the *breasts* suggested a range of other places they might slap her, and other things they might do.
The fact was she was at the mercy of these people, and she didn’t understand her position, and it was possible that things could get a lot worse before they got better.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she mumbled to the officer. “And I’m sorry, Tristan.”
“That’s better,” said the man. “You’re not entitled to be provided with my name, so ‘sir’ is an appropriate way to address me. And you may address my colleague as ‘ma’am’ or ‘mistress’. The legal landscape in this country has changed while you were away, ma’am, and it’s best that you change your attitude and prepare to comply, or things will go badly for you.”
The female officer released Riley, allowing Riley to rub her elbows where the woman had grabbed her, and as she did so the female officer mumbled, “We’re not supposed to call the documentee by name, or call her ‘ma’am’.”
The male officer chuckled and said, “Oh, that’s right. It’s so easy to forget.”
“What do you mean?” Riley asked. “What’s happened?”
“The government has passed the Female Documentation Act,” said the man. “The purpose is to create a national database of female sexuality, for the purpose of designing and targeting government policies relating to sexual orientation, fertility, sexual promiscuity, milk production, happiness, safety, family cohesion, management of sexual assault and reduction of false charges, utilisation of the female workforce, female education, and coordination of the prostitution, pornography and adult entertainment industries.”
“Every woman is required to be documented,” said the female officer. “It’s an offence to avoid documentation, punishable by imprisonment and/or re-education.”
“Your documentation involves an inspection,” said the male officer. “You are not entitled to privacy during the inspection. There may be persons who enter the room during the inspection, make commentary, and leave, and you are not entitled to know their identities or have them excluded from the area. The door to the room will be left open during the inspection for reasons of probity and accountability, and it may be that travelers at the airport can see in and observe some or all of the inspection. We cannot prevent them from taking photos, if they are inclined to.”
“I will *definitely* be taking photos,” Tristan added with a smile, and patted his mobile phone, which was on the table in front of him.
Riley was progressively becoming more and more terrified. “Inspection? Why don’t I have privacy? What will people see?”
“The inspection will require you to be nude, ma’am,” said the male officer.
“Not ma’am,” hissed the female officer. “Remember?”
The man laughed again. “Sorry, I don’t know why I find that so hard to keep straight. Yes, my colleague is right. The process is supposed to be impersonal, with no implied empathy between inspectors and inspectee, so we’re supposed to call you ‘the female’ or ‘cunt’ or ‘bitch’. So, yes - the inspection will require you to be nude, bitch.”
Riley felt her knees go weak. “Please, if this is a prank, just tell me. This can’t be serious.”
“It’s definitely serious, cunt,” said the woman. “My colleague is required to be present for the inspection, and take the lead, because he is a man. As a woman, I can’t be trusted to perform my job competently without male supervision, and I can’t be trusted not to collude with my fellow females to falsify results. So I will be in an assisting role today.”
“I would advise you not to resist the process,” said the man. “I’m required to report any resistance or expressions of feminist thought in the documentation, and where a bitch is deemed to be difficult, it can result in her being referred for re-education and corrective rape.”
Corrective rape? This was a nightmare! How had all this happened, and so quickly?
She wondered if she was dreaming - but she knew she wasn’t. This was unarguably, horribly real.
“In the event that you do struggle,” continued the male, “we are authorised to use any necessary method or force to secure your compliance and respect, including but not limited to slapping, restraint, and pain compliance.”
The female officer picked up from the male. “You also have certain responsibilities during the inspection, cunt,” she said. “If, at any time, anyone in the room finds your body or any part of your body unattractive, or your clothes, or your facial expression, then that is your fault, and you are required to apologise. You are expected to be attractive and appealing at all times.”
“On that topic,” said Tristan suddenly, “I’d honestly prefer her with bigger tits. Can she apologise for that?”
“Absolutely,” said the male officer. He turned back to Riley. “Apologise to Mr Penhill, bitch.”
She pressed her lips together in humiliated fury. She didn’t want to do this - but it was clear she had no choice. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
The male officer slapped her. “When you apologise,” he said, “you are expected to be explicit about what you are apologising for. Try again, bitch. And look at him when you apologise, and call him sir.”
Riley had to blink back tears again. She focused her eyes on the hateful face of Tristan and said, “I’m sorry my breasts aren’t larger, sir.”
Her breasts were already larger than she was comfortable with, and the thought of them being even bigger still made her stomach churn - but at least they couldn’t require her to get a breast enhancement.
Could they?
“You are also expected to be naturally lubricated during inspection,” said the male officer.
“What does that mean?” asked Riley.
“Aroused,” said the female. “Your cunt should be wet, cunt. Inspecting a dry pussy is painful for you, and difficult for us. If you’re not wet, you’ll have to apologise.”
Riley didn’t know what to say . Her mouth just hung open in shock and disbelief.
“You will also be deemed at fault, and required to apologise, if your appearance or behaviour cause a sexual response in any inspector or witness,” said the male. “We’re here to perform a process, not to be cockteased. And you’ll likewise be expected to apologise if you behave like a slut during the inspection.”
“Actually,” said Tristan, “her disappointing subpar tits have already given me an erection. Make her apologise for cockteasing me like a whore with her tits.”
The male officer looked at Riley expectantly.
She was crying a little now. One tear ran down her cheek, as she was forced to say the degrading words.
“I’m sorry for cockteasing you like a whore with my breasts, sir,” said Riley, not wanting to look Tristan in the eyes while she was crying, but knowing she would be slapped if she didn’t.
“You’re not forgiven,” laughed Tristan. “Behave yourself, cunt.”
The female officer was making notes on a clipboard. “The female has admitted that her tits are disappointingly small,” she said to herself as she wrote, “and has admitted that she used her tits to tease the witness’ cock.”
Riley looked at the woman. “Have *you* been through this?” she asked.
“Of course I have,” said the woman. “And afterwards I was referred for re-education to correct some mistaken ideas about my gender and my rights. But actually it was good for me, because the re-education allowed me to secure this job as an inspections officer.”
Riley shivered again at the word “re-education”.
“Do you have anything to say before the process begins?” asked the male officer.
Riley opened her mouth. She had a *lot* to say, actually.
But then she thought twice. She thought about re-education. She thought about “corrective rape”. She realised that nothing she said was going to stop this from happening to her.
She shook her head. “No, sir,” she said.
“Very well,” said the male. “Let’s begin the process. Take off your clothes, bitch.”
Riley’s Documentation, Part 1
Story by All These Roadworks.
===
Riley had been overseas and out of contact for three months, and she had heard nothing of the changes in her home country.
She had spent the time in Brazil, first backpacking in Brasilia, and then heading away from the urbanised areas to hike, kayak, and finally spend time on a small commune. She had laughed, learned, and made friends. Her body had become fitter and leaner - although she had not acquired the deep tan on her large breasts that some of her friends had, because Riley had never been comfortable in showing a lot of skin, even in swelteringly hot and humid weather.
For most of the time she had had no phone reception, and even when she had, she had barely touched any device. Disconnecting from the world, living off-grid, felt healing to her soul.
But Riley had responsibilities back home - and even if she didn’t, she was the daughter of wealthy parents, who were sure they knew what was best for her, and she suspected if she had stayed away any longer, her father might have sent private investigators to locate her and bring her home.
So now she was arriving back into the busy chaos of an international airport in her home country, already tensing up at the thought of the things she would have to do to reintegrate into urban society.
However, she had no idea of her most important new responsibility, and the first she heard of it was immediately after clearing customs, when two uniformed officers of some kind - a clean-shaven man and a pretty redheaded woman - stepped forward to intercept her.
“Miss Riley Atwell?” asked the man.
“Yes?” asked Riley. “Is there a problem?”
“We understand you have not completed your Female Documentation Process, ma’am,” said the woman. “We received a tip that you were arriving in the country today, and we are here to ensure that your documentation is completed immediately.”
Riley didn’t understand. “Is this customs paperwork?” she asked. “I just did all that. And this is my home country - I don’t need a visa…”
“No, ma’am,” said the man. “This is the Female Documentation Process. As an undocumented female, you need to be processed immediately. Please follow us.”
They motioned her towards a door set into the wall of the public area, and Riley, not naturally inclined to resist a voice of authority, began to walk towards it, even as she struggled to understand what was happening.
“What is this?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“We’re Female Registration and Compliance Officers, ma’am,” said the woman, “authorised by the Female Management Bureau.”
Riley had never heard of that agency, but at this point it made her feel stupid to keep asking questions, so she simply allowed the agents to escort her through the door.
Inside was a medium-sized interview room, which she realised would ordinarily be used by Customs to interrogate people with discrepancies on their Customs declarations or who had been found with banned items in their luggage. There was a small desk and four chairs.
But in this case, oddly, there was also a medical bed, of the kind used by gynaecologists, with stirrups and restraints. And there were a number of cameras around the room - at least six that Riley could see - covering the table and the bed from numerous angles.
And most concerningly of all, in one of the chairs was Tristan Penhill - a man that Riley feared and hated.
Tristan was honestly one of the main reasons Riley had been eager to leave the country. Ever since he had met her in university, he had hounded her - at first plying her with earnest but demeaning compliments about how sexy she was, how big her tits were, how he guessed she would be amazing to fuck - and then later, asking her on dates, undeterred when she told him no in very clear and explicit terms.
He would attend the cafe where she worked, and then follow her home, begging her for a date, a kiss, a fuck, as she hurried to escape him.
And then, when she had taken to threatening him with a Taser, and actively running away to avoid him, he had escalated to insults and threats. He would yell at her that she was a slut, a whore, a big-titted fuckdoll. He would send her letters and emails describing fantasies he had of raping and enslaving her. He would park outside her house and aim telephoto cameras at her windows. He would send defamatory letters to her employers and friends and co-workers, accusing her of a range of imagined sexual escapades.
In the end, she had taken out a restraining order against him - and then fled the country, hoping he would tire of her.
And now here he was.
She balked at the entrance to the room. “What’s he doing here?” she demanded. “I have a restraining order against this man.”
“All female restraining orders have been cancelled, ma’am,” said the male officer. “And all convictions against men for sexual harassment or rape of adult women have been pardoned. It all happened in the Redressing Male Victimisation Act that was passed last month. An important step in fighting the practice of demonising men for their natural sexual urges.”
She blinked. That couldn’t be true, could it? All rapists, pardoned? Her restraining order nullified?
It was the woman officer who spoke now. “Actually, it was Mr Penhill who tipped us off to your return,” she said. “He’s been watching your Instagram. You’ve been inactive, but just yesterday you posted a picture of yourself with the text ‘coming home tomorrow’. Mr Penhill notified us of your arrival, and that you were an undocumented female, and that’s how we’re here today.”
“But why is HE here?” asked Riley.
“Any male who knows you is welcome to attend your documentation,” said the woman. “Normally that might be your father or boyfriend, but it can be any man with an interest in seeing you documented, and given that your documentation is happening at short notice, I suppose Mr Penhill is the only man who knows it’s happening.”
“That’s right, Kitten,” said Tristan. “I’m going to be the witness for your documentation. I’m going to make sure it all goes according to the book.” He was grinning - an evil grin - and he had an obvious erection that made Riley turn her head in disgust. She hated that name - “Kitten”. Tristan had decided it was “their special name for her”, and he used it in all his hateful and degrading love-notes to her.
“Don’t call me that,” she said.
Faster than Riley could register, the male officer reached out and slapped her across the face. Riley gasped, and staggered back.
“Show respect to the guest, ma’am,” said the officer. “Mr Penhill has been instrumental in aiding our detection and registration of you. I won’t tolerate any backtalk in his direction. Now say sorry.”
“I will not!” gasped Riley. “How dare you hit me! You can’t do this?”
“Eliza, grab her arms,” said the male officer. The woman - Eliza? - stepped forward and grabbed Riley’s elbows, pinning her arms behind her back. Then the male stepped forward and slapped her three times - twice across the face, and once, hard, across Riley’s large breasts.
Riley felt tears welling in her eyes. Her face stung. Her tits stung. How could this be happening?
The woman was still restraining her. She was helpless.
“Apologise to me, now,” said the officer. “And then to Mr Penhill. Or you’ll be disciplined again.”
She thought about screaming for help. This couldn’t be legal, could it? But neither the male nor female officer showed any sign that they were guilty or secretive about how they were treating her. And that last slap - to her breasts - was the scariest of all. Slapping her in the face was painful and awful - but slapping her in the *breasts* suggested a range of other places they might slap her, and other things they might do.
The fact was she was at the mercy of these people, and she didn’t understand her position, and it was possible that things could get a lot worse before they got better.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she mumbled to the officer. “And I’m sorry, Tristan.”
“That’s better,” said the man. “You’re not entitled to be provided with my name, so ‘sir’ is an appropriate way to address me. And you may address my colleague as ‘ma’am’ or ‘mistress’. The legal landscape in this country has changed while you were away, ma’am, and it’s best that you change your attitude and prepare to comply, or things will go badly for you.”
The female officer released Riley, allowing Riley to rub her elbows where the woman had grabbed her, and as she did so the female officer mumbled, “We’re not supposed to call the documentee by name, or call her ‘ma’am’.”
The male officer chuckled and said, “Oh, that’s right. It’s so easy to forget.”
“What do you mean?” Riley asked. “What’s happened?”
“The government has passed the Female Documentation Act,” said the man. “The purpose is to create a national database of female sexuality, for the purpose of designing and targeting government policies relating to sexual orientation, fertility, sexual promiscuity, milk production, happiness, safety, family cohesion, management of sexual assault and reduction of false charges, utilisation of the female workforce, female education, and coordination of the prostitution, pornography and adult entertainment industries.”
“Every woman is required to be documented,” said the female officer. “It’s an offence to avoid documentation, punishable by imprisonment and/or re-education.”
“Your documentation involves an inspection,” said the male officer. “You are not entitled to privacy during the inspection. There may be persons who enter the room during the inspection, make commentary, and leave, and you are not entitled to know their identities or have them excluded from the area. The door to the room will be left open during the inspection for reasons of probity and accountability, and it may be that travelers at the airport can see in and observe some or all of the inspection. We cannot prevent them from taking photos, if they are inclined to.”
“I will *definitely* be taking photos,” Tristan added with a smile, and patted his mobile phone, which was on the table in front of him.
Riley was progressively becoming more and more terrified. “Inspection? Why don’t I have privacy? What will people see?”
“The inspection will require you to be nude, ma’am,” said the male officer.
“Not ma’am,” hissed the female officer. “Remember?”
The man laughed again. “Sorry, I don’t know why I find that so hard to keep straight. Yes, my colleague is right. The process is supposed to be impersonal, with no implied empathy between inspectors and inspectee, so we’re supposed to call you ‘the female’ or ‘cunt’ or ‘bitch’. So, yes - the inspection will require you to be nude, bitch.”
Riley felt her knees go weak. “Please, if this is a prank, just tell me. This can’t be serious.”
“It’s definitely serious, cunt,” said the woman. “My colleague is required to be present for the inspection, and take the lead, because he is a man. As a woman, I can’t be trusted to perform my job competently without male supervision, and I can’t be trusted not to collude with my fellow females to falsify results. So I will be in an assisting role today.”
“I would advise you not to resist the process,” said the man. “I’m required to report any resistance or expressions of feminist thought in the documentation, and where a bitch is deemed to be difficult, it can result in her being referred for re-education and corrective rape.”
Corrective rape? This was a nightmare! How had all this happened, and so quickly?
She wondered if she was dreaming - but she knew she wasn’t. This was unarguably, horribly real.
“In the event that you do struggle,” continued the male, “we are authorised to use any necessary method or force to secure your compliance and respect, including but not limited to slapping, restraint, and pain compliance.”
The female officer picked up from the male. “You also have certain responsibilities during the inspection, cunt,” she said. “If, at any time, anyone in the room finds your body or any part of your body unattractive, or your clothes, or your facial expression, then that is your fault, and you are required to apologise. You are expected to be attractive and appealing at all times.”
“On that topic,” said Tristan suddenly, “I’d honestly prefer her with bigger tits. Can she apologise for that?”
“Absolutely,” said the male officer. He turned back to Riley. “Apologise to Mr Penhill, bitch.”
She pressed her lips together in humiliated fury. She didn’t want to do this - but it was clear she had no choice. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
The male officer slapped her. “When you apologise,” he said, “you are expected to be explicit about what you are apologising for. Try again, bitch. And look at him when you apologise, and call him sir.”
Riley had to blink back tears again. She focused her eyes on the hateful face of Tristan and said, “I’m sorry my breasts aren’t larger, sir.”
Her breasts were already larger than she was comfortable with, and the thought of them being even bigger still made her stomach churn - but at least they couldn’t require her to get a breast enhancement.
Could they?
“You are also expected to be naturally lubricated during inspection,” said the male officer.
“What does that mean?” asked Riley.
“Aroused,” said the female. “Your cunt should be wet, cunt. Inspecting a dry pussy is painful for you, and difficult for us. If you’re not wet, you’ll have to apologise.”
Riley didn’t know what to say . Her mouth just hung open in shock and disbelief.
“You will also be deemed at fault, and required to apologise, if your appearance or behaviour cause a sexual response in any inspector or witness,” said the male. “We’re here to perform a process, not to be cockteased. And you’ll likewise be expected to apologise if you behave like a slut during the inspection.”
“Actually,” said Tristan, “her disappointing subpar tits have already given me an erection. Make her apologise for cockteasing me like a whore with her tits.”
The male officer looked at Riley expectantly.
She was crying a little now. One tear ran down her cheek, as she was forced to say the degrading words.
“I’m sorry for cockteasing you like a whore with my breasts, sir,” said Riley, not wanting to look Tristan in the eyes while she was crying, but knowing she would be slapped if she didn’t.
“You’re not forgiven,” laughed Tristan. “Behave yourself, cunt.”
The female officer was making notes on a clipboard. “The female has admitted that her tits are disappointingly small,” she said to herself as she wrote, “and has admitted that she used her tits to tease the witness’ cock.”
Riley looked at the woman. “Have *you* been through this?” she asked.
“Of course I have,” said the woman. “And afterwards I was referred for re-education to correct some mistaken ideas about my gender and my rights. But actually it was good for me, because the re-education allowed me to secure this job as an inspections officer.”
Riley shivered again at the word “re-education”.
“Do you have anything to say before the process begins?” asked the male officer.
Riley opened her mouth. She had a *lot* to say, actually.
But then she thought twice. She thought about re-education. She thought about “corrective rape”. She realised that nothing she said was going to stop this from happening to her.
She shook her head. “No, sir,” she said.
“Very well,” said the male. “Let’s begin the process. Take off your clothes, bitch.”
(TO BE CONTINUED)
===
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