“Did somebody do this to you? the First Sergeant asked with a concerned tone in his voice as he entered the room, looking unsuccessfully for something to cover my naked form with. I had no bed coverings, and all my clothes were in my wall locker, locked securely with the key in John’s possession. I couldn’t answer him, and responded with just a blank stare.



“Sergeant Smith said the CO started to say, then interrupted himself. Fuck! He wasn’t bullshitting me.”



“I’m not sure what’s going on, sir, the First Sergeant said, But I think we need to get CID out here ASAP. The First Sergeant was an MP, the company commander wasn’t.



“I’ll go call the MPs. You see what you can find out.”



“No, sir, the First Sergeant replied. Don’t call the MP Station, whatever you do. Get ahold of Chief Warrant Officer Velasquez at CID and tell him I said to get his ass down here pronto. He used to work for me before he got his warrant, and he’ll know how to handle this. Smart kid, you know?”



“Okay, the major replied, heading back to his office.



“Right now, the First Sergeant said, I want this place shut down. Nobody comes down this hall, and nobody within fifty feet outside the window. Post guards, but don’t tell anyone anything. This is now a crime scene, until CWO Velasquez says otherwise.”



“Yes, First Sergeant, the supply sergeant responded automatically. As soon as he was gone, Top turned and looked at me, shaking his head sadly.



“You did this yourself, didn’t you? All I could do was lower my head and nod. I couldn’t let anyone know of John’s involvement. You know, we came here because we thought you were AWOL again, and were going to inventory your property and secure it in Supply. I guess you figured wrong, thought you could get loose before anyone missed you, but something went wrong, huh? Again, I nodded. Well, I guess you have a decision to make, then. You can either lie to the investigator and tell him you got drunk or something, and don’t know what happened, or you can explain you’re a bondage slut who likes to chain herself up and piss in buckets.



So that’s exactly what I did. When CWO Velasquez showed up, he first took crime scene photos making sure he got plenty of shots of my naked body, naturally then processed the evidence, before interviewing me. It really wasn’t much of an interview, though, because it turned out he was one of the many soldiers who used me while I was in residence at Annabella Haus, and he remembered me. I wouldn’t tell him anything, so he just made up a confession for me to sign, and I did.



I went straight from my ankle chain to handcuffs, and was marched still naked through the barracks to CWO Velasquez’s car. He made a show of taking me to the medical clinic, but he explained he knew I hadn’t been raped or anything. He had me escorted to an exam room where, with my ankles strapped into stirrups, he had one of the medics snap photos while he took liberties with my helpless body. He made me cum twice, too, all caught on camera for posterity. I knew these photos would probably never make it into the investigative file; years later, I found them on the internet.



There were ten or eleven charges against me, including Destruction of Government Property, AWOL (again) and a bunch of others that basically amounted to being a pervert. The property destruction was for the mattress, which was saturated with piss and was beyond salvaging, and the bathroom wallpaper, even though I tried to explain it was that way when I moved in. And, while I wasn’t actually charged criminally for it, my pay was garnished to pay for uniforms that I no longer had.



The powers that be wanted me secured somewhere, but weren’t sure pre-trial confinement in the stockade was the most appropriate place, so I was admitted to the psychiatric ward in the hospital in Landstuhl. Because of my alleged instability and concerns that I’d try to harm myself, I spent the next six weeks in four point restraints. What this meant was that I was strapped onto a hospital bed, my ankles secured to the bottom corners with soft ties, with my arms at my sides and straps around my chest just under my breasts and across my shoulders. At CWO Velasquez’s suggestion, I wasn’t allowed any clothing, for fear that if I managed to slip the restraints (fat chance of that!), I might be able to hang myself with them. So, except for being let up every four hours to use the toilet, walk around a bit and maybe have something to eat, I spent my entire time at Landstuhl tied naked on my back with my legs spread. Sometimes at night, I could sense the orderlies looking at my naked body through the isolation cell window, but except for the occasional groping while I was being let up or put back down, nobody touched me.



It was a General Courts-Martial, the most severe kind. By now, John had returned he’d been in the hospital as the result of some sort of injury that happened while he was gone and made a show of coming to visit me in the nut ward. He told me what was going to happen, and what I’d do. I would request a jury trial and plead not guilty to all charges, but wouldn’t provide any testimony on my own behalf. He wanted all the evidence to become part of the public record, just as a further means of humiliating me. I had to agree with him, too, because at that point, I wanted everyone in the world to know that I was just a bondage slut.



That’s just what happened, too. Before a jury of three men and four women the women in particular giving me hateful looks as the evidence was presented I was formally pronounced a pervert, a slut, and a whore. I was sentenced to reduction to the lowest pay grade, forfeiture of all pay and allowances, six months confinement at hard labor, and a dishonorable discharge. Because my sentence was less than a year, I served it in Germany, at the military prison in Heidelberg.



I was what they called a special case, and like at Landstuhl, they put me on suicide watch. This time, though, it wasn’t four point restraints, but what they called a stripped cell. I spent the time inside my cell with nothing at all except a paper gown that barely covered me. The idea was that I wouldn’t be able to cause myself any harm, though I admit to considering stuffing it down my throat and causing suffocation. At night, they tossed a mattress not unlike the one I’d ruined and been charged for back in the barracks but no blankets. When I wasn’t in my cell, I was in prison attire, scratchy unpressed cotton fatigue pants and shirt, and a pair of combat boots. Prisoners who brought underwear with them were required to launder them themselves; I had none, so I went without.



We were sent out in chain-gang style, shackled to each other at the ankles, to perform menial labor like picking up litter and clearing brush from the installation perimeter. I was the only female inmate on that crew; nobody could ever say the Army wasn’t into equal opportunity, because they treated us all the same. Especially when it came to hygiene. If we were on a crew and had to piss or shit, we were expected to drop our trousers and just do it. I never had much of a problem, being not just a slut but an exhibitionist, but the some of the men did. I guess they were concerned about letting me see their dicks or something. I’m sure a lot of them jerked off after seeing my naked ass squatting on the ground; I always made sure to face someone when I did, just because.



The day after my sentence ended, I was escorted to Rhein-Main the next day, put on a plane and basically kicked out of the country. I was in a dress uniform for the first time in a long while, and the first time in over a year that I was wearing underclothes. Brand new, issued along with the blouse, coat, skirt and pumps that I was wearing. There was no rank on my sleeve, though, and the Military Police Corps wanted no part of me, so I was wearing the twin U.S. collar brass of a soldier without an occupational specialty. Most other people didn’t notice anything untoward, but I could tell the few who did. There was generally only one type of soldier sent back from Europe with no rank and U.S. collar insignia, and that was the one identified as homosexual. Well, I wasn’t gay, but I wasn’t about to explain my story to anyone, either. Let them think what they wanted to think.



I was met at the Fort Dix main gate by two Military Policemen who escorted me directly to the stockade, where I’d remain until my outprocessing was completed. I was technically no longer a prisoner, but they didn’t know what else to do with me, so they locked me up in a segregation cell. Someone had seen that I’d been on suicide watch for my entire six months in Heidelberg, so they decided I should remain that way. They didn’t have paper gowns at Dix, so they let me keep my panties. Not my bra, though, because that was considered a security risk. I might hang myself with the straps. Even though I’d been fucked in the most degrading ways by more men than I could count, the three days in the Fort Dix stockade was the most humiliating time of my life. Whenever I had to pee or shit, I had to ask for toilet paper and to have the water in my cell turned on so I could flush. My meals were finger food sandwiches, carrot sticks and the like because they couldn’t trust me with even the flimsy plastic flatware the prisoners were given. The first night, when my period started, I had to nearly beg for a tampon, and even couldn’t get a fresh one until I turned the old one in.



On Monday morning, I was given my uniform back and allowed to dress under the watchful eyes of a female MP who glared at me disdainfully. She made it clear that she thought I was a degenerate freak. After that, I was escorted to the Adjutant General’s Office, where a Staff Sergeant I was apparently unworthy of seeing the AG himself explained my veteran’s benefits to me. With the discharge I received, there wasn’t much to explain. I could continue my life insurance for a few years, but any hopes of educational benefits or a VA home loan were long gone. My court martial was a matter of record, and was considered a federal court felony conviction, so my rights to vote, hold government office, and even possess a firearm were non-existent now. I would never be a cop, which had been my plan for after I completed my military service, and probably wouldn’t even be able find a job as a security guard. I only had one other skill, and that was of marginal value, but perhaps I could find a pimp to work for. At least I’d be able to have a place to live and keep food in my belly. I walked out of the building thirty minutes after arriving, with nothing but a folder containing my discharge papers, a check for the 153 the Army had owed me, and the clothes on my back. I had nowhere to go, and no way to get there.



I figured I could make a few bucks hanging around the back gate like whores at other bases I’d been at did, so paid a week in advance for a 12 a night room in a seedy no tell motel, found a mini skirt, halter top and pair of fuck me boots at a Goodwill store down the street, and went into business. I’d learned a lot since my time at Annabella Haus, and among them was that prices varied by location. I quickly found out that the going rate for a blow job was 15, a fuck was 30, and an entire night cost between 100 and 150. I did okay that first night, bringing in 180 with two fucks and eight blow jobs. An ass fuck would have been at least 50, but I had no takers that night.



I managed to continue working for myself until the fourth night, when I was approached by a tall, lanky black man who asked me unabashedly what the fuck I was doing working on his street corner without paying him rent. I’d just finished a session with two young soldiers who’d taken me simultaneously in the ass and cunt, and was in no physical shape to argue. He told me that if I wanted to continue working here, I’d have to pay him half my earnings and put out for him and his friends whenever they demanded it. It was going to be just like whoring at Annabella Haus, I realized, so I gave him what money I already had and just left. I never went back, spending the last three days and nights locked in my room, worrying about what I was going to do. It was about nine at night on my last night when there was a pounding at my door.