Give her the fake ID

I slowly reach into my pocket, careful not to let the officer notice the movement. My fingers find the fake ID, and I pull it out, handing it to her with a **** calm. She doesn't even glance at it. Instead, she snaps a cable onto my collar and yanks hard, sending me stumbling forward onto all fours. She waits just long enough for me to push myself halfway upright before clipping the cable to a gleaming chrome bar overhead—what I instantly recognize as part of the internal Lead system.

The conveyor above me hums to life, tugging the cable relentlessly. I'm **** back down onto my hands and knees, scrambling to keep up as it pulls me forward. A few of the other girls stumble too, caught off guard by the sudden jerk. Some manage to walk briskly in time with the Lead's pace, but others like me end up crawling as fast as we can to avoid being dragged. We're all pulled along in a humiliating single file through the courtyard and into the building.

As I crawl, the phallus buried inside me pulses with those maddening, periodic buzzes, sending unwelcome shivers through my core.

The building feels strangely austere compared to the opulent, decadent Torei I've known—grey and turquoise walls, empty corridors with hardly a soul in sight. The Lead guides us in a straight line through hallway after hallway, the left side lined with simple barred cells that promise nothing good.

Finally, we reach a long corridor with eight doors on the left, each one evoking those public wardrobe machines I've seen before. The Lead halts with a sharp clunk, and the cable nudges me sideways into one of the individual booths.

The door slams shut behind me. Still on all fours, I look up and see the familiar diagram glowing on the wall, accompanied by a single, impersonal instruction:

"Stand."

I brace my hands against the narrow walls and haul myself upright, legs trembling from the effort. As I rise, some hidden mechanism above takes up every bit of slack in the cable, refusing to let me sink back down. By the time I'm fully standing, the cable is holding me in place as much as it's **** me whenever I sway even slightly.

I don't dare fight it. I stand as still as I can, waiting for whatever comes next. A cool bar presses against my back, and I feel the liquid laminate begin to recede, flowing upward like a tide in reverse. It peels away from my feet first, finally freeing them from those agonizing shoes. But the cable gives me no extra room—I have to clutch at it desperately, rising onto my toes to keep from strangling myself.

Next comes the mask. Cool air kisses my nose as it retracts, then spreads outward across my cheeks, my lips, my entire face and head. I flex my jaw experimentally, savoring the freedom after hours of silence. The sensation is almost soothing, like sinking into a warm bath only to feel the water slowly drain away.

As the laminate continues its retreat up my body, the contents of my pocket—my real diplomatic ID, my only lifeline, and the Mistress's card—tumble out and clatter to the floor.

"As a result of the severity of Subject's crime, personal effects will be destroyed."

Severity? The word hits me like a slap, but before I can even process it—Destroyed?—the floor beneath me shifts into a grate. My cards slip through the openings, and a grinding, crackling noise rises from below. Gone. Irretrievably gone.

The last of the laminate slides away, leaving only a minimal pair of latex panties that cradle the buzzing intruder still lodged deep inside me.

"Fuck..."

"Applying processing laminate."

The flow starts again from the bar at my back, but this time it's different—lighter, airier, barely grazing my skin as it envelops me. It doesn't cling or squeeze; it drapes loosely, almost teasingly soft against my bare flesh. I've never felt laminate like this before.

I wait, tense, expecting restraints—cuffs, heels, something humiliating—but nothing comes. Glancing down, I see a translucent, baggy jumpsuit hanging from my shoulders, concealing rather than revealing. It's... generous? On Torei? The thought unsettles me more than tightness ever could.

Before I can even touch the strange fabric, the cable yanks forward again, pulling me out of the booth. I'm back in line with the other Truants, marched single file beneath the chrome rail through yet more endless corridors.

We file into a large shared cell. Some of the women around me seem resigned, almost familiar with the routine; others look shattered, eyes wide with fresh terror.

The vibration inside my pussy intensifies suddenly, a cruel spike of pleasure that does nothing to drown out the knot of anxiety twisting in my gut. I'm truly imprisoned now—no ID, no escape, no idea what's waiting for me. Part of me wants to scream, to pound on the bars and demand they contact my family, invoke diplomatic immunity, anything. But there hasn't been a single human face since we entered this place, and worse—I can't bear the shame of my family knowing what I've done. What I let happen. I'll have a lawyer soon, a judge. I just have to hold on until then. Keep my composure. I can't break now.

There are nine other women in the cell with me. Bunk beds line two walls; behind a frosted modesty partition, I glimpse showers and a basic bathroom. The overhead lights are harsh and unforgiving, making it painful to look up.

The door clangs shut. In perfect unison, our collars release, and the cables whisk upward into the ceiling.

Free—at least within these bars.

I scan the room, taking in my cellmates. Three nervous girls huddle together in one corner; two of them look like Torei is entirely new and terrifying. One sits on the floor, cradling her feet still trapped in those cruel boots I know too well. The others seem to have been stripped of their laminate entirely.

Across the cell, two women catch my eye immediately—one standing tall and imperious, the other kneeling devotedly beside her, cheek pressed affectionately against her thigh in quiet submission.

A couple more have already claimed bunks on opposite sides of the room, turning away to sulk in private shadows I don't dare disturb.