How I Got Sent to Naked Prison and Got Made World-Famous for All the Wrong Reasons

 I wrote this story last night and I could picture being set in the same universe as my novel The Year of Naked Penance, in which a woman endures mandatory nudity in prison where the public is allowed to watch them naked as a form of rehabilitation, this one being entirely and embarrassed nude female story.

How I Got Sent to Naked Prison And Got Made World-Famous for All the Wrong Reasons
Jacinda's fingers hovered over the glass display case, tracing the ghost of a path above a serpentine bracelet studded with emeralds the size of her thumbnail. The price tag made her throat tighten. Behind her, the cloying scent of tuberose and oud from a tester bottle clung to the air, thick enough to taste.
    "Darling, you simply must try this one," came Vona's voice, syrupy and deliberate, from across the room. She held out her wrist to a sales associate, who dabbed a drop of something golden onto her skin with the reverence of a priest administering sacraments. "It's formulated with actual ambergris. You can *smell* the exclusivity."
    Jacinda rolled her eyes so hard her temples ached. Vona's blonde updo hadn't so much as twitched since she'd swept in fifteen minutes ago, her designer handbag dangling carelessly off one elbow like it wasn't worth more than Jacinda's rent.
    The sales associate near Jacinda cleared her throat. "Would you like to see anything up close?" Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
    Jacinda opened her mouth—then shut it. The lie ("Just browsing") tasted like cheap wine. Meanwhile, Vona's laugh trilled through the store, sharp as broken crystal. "Oh, put it on my husband's account. He won't even notice."
    Twelve years old again, standing by the chain-link fence while Vona's friends giggled behind manicured hands. *"Your backpack's from the* thrift store? *Ew, does it have* lice?"* Vona had flicked a sparkly gel pen against Jacinda's chest—*thwack*—leaving a silver smear on her secondhand sweater. The pen had been a birthday gift from Jacinda's mom. Later, she'd found it snapped in half in her locker.
    The sales associate—*Sophie*, her nametag read—was still waiting. Jacinda inhaled tuberose and her own rising spite. "Actually," she said, louder than necessary, "I'll take the serpentine bracelet." Vona's head swiveled so fast a single blond hair escaped her updo.
    Sophie blinked. "It's eighteen thousand—"
    "Put it on *my* account." Jacinda's pulse roared in her ears. Her savings account would scream, but the way Vona's mouth parted—just slightly, like a drawer sliding open to reveal something rotten—was worth every penny.
    Across the room, Vona recovered with a tinkling laugh. "How *adventurous* of you." Her gaze dropped to Jacinda's scuffed boots. "Though personally, I'd invest in *footwear* before jewelry."
    Jacinda curled her toes inside those boots. Same playground, same game. But the rules had changed. "Wrap it up," she told Sophie, and tossed her credit card onto the glass with a *clink* that echoed like a gauntlet hitting concrete.
    The first swipe didn't take. Sophie's manicured thumb hesitated over the keypad. The second swipe—declined. Jacinda's stomach dropped faster than the numbers on the display screen. Behind her, Vona's exhale was a slow, satisfied hiss. "Oh dear," she murmured, plucking a champagne flute from a passing tray. "Did someone forget to check their *balance*?"
    Heat crawled up Jacinda's neck. That damn silver gel pen mark on her sweater flashed in her memory—how she'd scrubbed at it until the fabric pilled. The sales associate's mouth tightened into something between pity and impatience. "Perhaps another card?"
    Vona's laugh was a razor wrapped in silk. "Or perhaps the *clearance* section?" She gestured to the back of the store where neon discount signs glowed like a shameful exit sign. Jacinda's fingers twitched toward her wallet—empty except for grocery coupons and a faded photo of her mom squeezing her shoulders outside that thrift store, both of them grinning like they'd found treasure.
    Sophie discreetly slid the bracelet back into its velvet coffin. The emeralds winked under the lights, mocking. Jacinda could already hear Vona retelling this story at brunch tomorrow, embellished for maximum humiliation. Her throat constricted around the tuberose-scented air.
    She grabbed her purse—an impulse buy from last summer’s street market, its stitching fraying—and pivoted toward the exit. The automatic doors parted with a whisper. Cool air hit her cheeks like absolution. Five steps. Ten.
    Behind her, a hand brushed against the swinging doors—Vona’s manicured fingers lingering just a second too long near the clasp of Jacinda’s bag. A glint of platinum slithered between the threads. Jacinda didn’t feel it. She didn’t see Vona’s smirk deepen as she raised her champagne flute in a silent toast to the security cameras.
    The alarms erupted in a shriek of red light. Jacinda froze mid-step, her heel hovering over the pavement. Hands seized her elbows from behind. "Ma'am," growled a voice thick with mall-security righteousness, "you’ll need to come with us."
    Her purse gaped open on the interrogation room table. Nestled between her tampons and a half-eaten granola bar: a diamond choker worth more than her car. The evidence photo glared up at her, the necklace’s clasp still warm from Vona’s palm.
    Outside the one-way mirror, Vona dabbed at non-existent tears with a monogrammed handkerchief. "Poor thing," she was saying to the store manager, "she always did have sticky fingers." The manager nodded sympathetically, already reaching for the VIP discount catalog to soothe her "distress."
    Jacinda’s phone buzzed facedown on the table. A single text from her mom lit up the screen: *Found your old gel pen in the attic. Still works :)* The silver smear on her childhood sweater flashed in her mind again—this time, though, it wasn’t ink. It was the shape of Vona’s signature, drying on the police report.
    The holding cell smelled like bleach and sweat. Jacinda’s fingers curled around the cold metal bench. "Processing’s backed up," the guard yawned, unlocking the door. "New intake protocol." His gaze slid over her like she was already an exhibit.
    They didn’t even give her a curtain. Just a fluorescent-lit room with a drain in the floor and a female officer holding a bin. "Arms up," she said, snapping on gloves. Jacinda’s shirt hit the linoleum with a sound like a dismissed alibi. The officer’s penlight probed every crease—ears, underarms, between her toes. "Turn. Bend. Cough." The gloves squeaked.
    Behind the two-way mirror, shadows shifted. Jacinda’s skin prickled. She knew that silhouette—Vona’s updo, tilted just so.
    "Asset forfeiture," the officer said, kicking Jacinda’s bra toward the bin. "Prisoner attire violates the new decency statutes." She tossed Jacinda a laminated card. The governor’s signature gleamed under *Act 391: Rehabilitation Through Exposure*.
    Jacinda’s palms slicked with sweat. "You’re joking."
    The officer’s walkie crackled. "Inmate 2876, report to Block C. Naked rec at 0800."
    Block C’s yard was a concrete pit under floodlights. Jacinda pressed her thighs together on the cold bench. Around her, women hunched or sprawled, their skin mottled with goosebumps. A trustee handed her a sun-faded pamphlet: *Modesty is a Privilege, Not a Right*.
    Across the yard, a camera drone buzzed. Its lens focused—not on the inmates, but on the guard tower, where Vona sipped iced coffee beside the warden. She wiggled her fingers in a wave. The diamond choker glinted at her throat.
    Jacinda’s nails bit into her palms. Same playground. Same game.
    But this time, the rules were written in her skin.
    Jacinda hunched forward on the bench, elbows pressed tight against her ribs as if she could fold herself into invisibility. The concrete beneath her bare thighs leached warmth like a thief. Around her, women shifted uncomfortably—some covering their breasts with crossed arms, others staring blankly at the chain-link fences topped with razor wire. The air smelled of sweat and industrial cleaner, undercut by something floral—Vona's perfume, drifting down from the guard tower. Jacinda's teeth ground together. Of course they'd televise this. Of course the governor needed his "tough on crime" photo op with a line of shivering women as the backdrop. Her stomach twisted imagining the headlines: *Rehabilitation Through Humiliation—How One State is Cracking Down on Petty Theft*.
    A trustee shuffled past, doling out thin gray towels no larger than dishcloths. Jacinda grabbed one and immediately dropped it—the fabric was saturated with some chemical that made her fingertips tingle. "Antibacterial soak," the trustee muttered without meeting her eyes. "Regulations." Across the yard, a teenage girl with matted hair began retching violently into the drain. The sound echoed off the concrete walls, mingling with the drone of the camera's propellers overhead. Jacinda watched as the lens zoomed in on the girl's heaving shoulders, then panned to Vona's satisfied smirk.
    Her nails dug half-moons into her palms. This wasn't justice—this was theater. The governor's signature on Act 391 had been still drying when they'd processed her, the ink smudged from haste. She'd seen the briefing packet on the warden's desk: *Projected 400% increase in prison tourism revenue*. Behind her, someone whispered, "They're live-streaming to subscribers." Jacinda's skin crawled. She could practically see the comments scrolling across some dark web forum—*bet the thief's enjoying her sentence*—while Vona's diamond choker caught the sunlight like a wink.
    A guard's whistle split the air. "Rec time's over!" The women flinched as one, their collective breath fogging in the sudden chill. Jacinda stood too fast, her vision swimming. The concrete bit into her bare feet as she shuffled toward the door, but it was the weight of a hundred unseen eyes that made her stumble. Same playground. Same game. But now the whole world was watching.
    The warden's voice crackled over the PA system. "For those concerned about constitutional violations"—Jacinda's head jerked up—"please refer to last year's *State v. Henley* ruling." Behind the glass, a lawyer in a bespoke suit tapped a briefcase stamped with the governor's seal. "Public shaming," the warden continued, "has been deemed an acceptable alternative to incarceration for nonviolent offenders." Jacinda's stomach lurched. Nonviolent. Like stealing was the same as armed robbery. Like Vona's diamond choker hadn't slid into her purse with the practiced ease of a magician's trick.
    A trustee handed her a jumpsuit—transparent vinyl that clung like oil. "Regulations," she muttered, already moving to the next inmate. Jacinda held it up. Through the plastic, she could read the bold print across the back: *PROPERTY OF STATE CORRECTIONS*. The seams were double-stitched. No pockets. No hiding places. Just like the Middle Ages, they'd said during orientation. Thieves couldn't very well conceal stolen goods if they were naked, could they? Jacinda's fingers trembled. Except now, the walk of shame was live-streamed in 4K.
    Behind her, someone retched again. The smell of bile mixed with Vona's champagne-and-ammonia perfume. Jacinda didn't turn. She already knew what she'd see: the drone's camera zooming in, the warden's satisfied nod, the way Vona's manicured fingers would flutter to her throat—to that damn choker—as the guards led them out. Same playground. Same game.
    But this time, the rules were written in light.
    Jacinda barely had time to adjust to the vinyl jumpsuit's clammy embrace before the PA system crackled again. "Amendment to Act 391," announced a voice like grinding gears. "Clarification on 'exposure' parameters." The guards moved in unison, their gloved hands snatching at the plastic seams. The vinyl peeled away with a sound like tape being ripped from skin. Someone whimpered. Jacinda didn't—her breath locked in her throat as the air hit her bare stomach, the guards' fingers lingering just long enough to raise goosebumps. Behind the observation glass, Vona's champagne flute paused mid-sip. The warden adjusted his tie. Someone had clearly realized transparent vinyl wasn't giving the viewers what they'd paid for.
    The new "uniform" was nothing at all. Just a barcode tattooed onto her inner wrist—scanned now by a guard whose nametag read *Officer Friendly*—and the weight of floodlights turning her sweat into glitter. Jacinda kept her chin up. Let them look. Let them see the chicken pox scar on her shoulder from that summer she'd spent splashing in the public pool. The stretch marks from when she'd gained twenty pounds during finals week. The silver pen mark—faded now, but still there—right over her heart. The camera drone zoomed in, its lens whirring as it captured every flaw in 8K resolution.
    Vona's laugh trilled over the loudspeakers, piped in from the guard tower like Muzak. "Darling," came her syrupy voice, "you always did overdress for occasions." The diamond choker twinkled under the spotlights. Jacinda's fingers twitched—not to cover herself, but to strangle. Same playground. Same game. But now the whole world could see exactly who'd brought the ball.
    A trustee shoved a mop into her hands. "Maintenance duty," she muttered, jerking her chin toward a puddle of vomit near the drain. The smell of bile and antibacterial spray clogged Jacinda's nostrils. She gripped the handle. Let them make her scrub floors naked. Let them broadcast it to every creep with a VPN. Her back straightened. The mop sloshed. Somewhere above, Vona's perfect updo finally came undone—a single blonde strand escaping to dance in the breeze like a middle finger.
    Jacinda smiled. Game on.
    She smiled even as the drone's camera zoomed in on the gooseflesh rising along her thighs, even as the vinyl jumpsuit pooled around her ankles like shed skin. She smiled when the floodlights hit her bare shoulders, when the guards' radios crackled with laughter from the control room. The smile was armor—thin, flimsy, but better than nothing. Inside, her organs had turned to wet paper, dissolving under the weight of a thousand unseen eyes. She could feel them—the faceless subscribers, the bored bureaucrats, the perverts with their screens paused and zoomed—licking their lips at her exposed collarbones.
    The mop handle was slick in her grip. She dragged it through the vomit-streaked puddle, the ammonia burn stinging her eyes. Every swipe sent ripples across the filthy water, distorting her reflection into something grotesque. Behind her, a trustee whispered, "They're voting on you right now." Jacinda didn't ask what that meant. The heat crawling up her neck told her enough. Somewhere, a digital counter was tallying "likes," turning her humiliation into content. The guard tower's glass gleamed—one-way, impenetrable, but she knew Vona was in there, sipping champagne while scrolling through the live chat.
    A droplet splashed onto her foot. Jacinda blinked hard. Not sweat. Not vomit. The realization hit like a slap—she was crying in 4K. The camera drone buzzed closer, its lens whirring to capture every tremor of her lower lip. She bared her teeth in a grin so wide it ached. Let them see. Let them feast. Her mom's text glowed in her mind: *Still works :)* That silver gel pen mark over her heart itched—not with shame, but with something hotter.
    The PA system crackled. "Inmate 2876," boomed the warden's voice, "report to the shower block for your... *sponsorship session*." The guards' smirks were audible. Jacinda's fingers curled around the mop handle hard enough to splinter the wood. Same playground. Same game. But she'd be damned if she'd let them choose the rules this time. The drone's shadow loomed over her as she straightened, tossing her hair back like it was a runway and not a prison yard.
    The walk to the showers was the longest of her life. Every step echoed. Every breath was broadcast. Somewhere in the world, her mother was probably eating lunch, oblivious. Somewhere, Vona was adjusting her diamond choker, waiting for the grand finale. Jacinda's pulse hammered in her throat—not from fear now, but something darker. Something hungry.
    The shower block doors hissed open. Steam curled out, thick as theater fog. The cameras loved a good reveal. Jacinda stepped into the mist, her skin gleaming under the fluorescents. Let them look. Let them see what happened when you backed a cornered animal into a steam room with nothing left to lose.
    Behind her, the door locked with a sound like a guillotine dropping.
    The shower block smelled of bleach and mildew—but mostly bleach, as if scrubbed raw just before she entered. Jacinda's bladder throbbed. She'd been holding it since morning roll call, when the guards had announced "special viewing hours" for Block C. The metal toilet in the corner had no stall, no curtain, just a stainless steel bowl bolted to the floor beneath a fisheye security camera. Its lens glinted like a wet eye.
    Three women in suits entered, clipboards pressed to their chests. They didn't look at her face—just the barcode on her wrist, then lower. One adjusted her glasses. "Subject appears adequately hydrated," she murmured, pen scratching. Jacinda's toes curled against the tiles. The pressure in her abdomen was a live wire. She could feel the drone hovering outside the frosted windows, its infrared sensors probably painting her body in heat maps of desperation.
    The loudspeaker crackled. "Inmate 2876, you have ninety seconds to comply with mandatory specimen collection." A guard tossed a plastic cup onto the floor. It skittered to a stop near the drain. Jacinda's thighs pressed together. The women in suits leaned forward. One licked her lips.
    Steam curled around Jacinda's ankles as the showers hissed on. Hot water sluiced down her back, turning her skin pink. The cup glistened under the spray. Her bladder screamed. The suits waited. The camera zoomed.
    Somewhere beyond the steam, Vona's laugh trilled through the vents—a razor wrapped in silk.
    Jacinda lay on the prison cot that night, arms crossed over her bare breasts, knees pulled tight against her chest. The fluorescent lights never dimmed. They buzzed like camera drones overhead, bleaching every goosebump, every stretch mark, every tremor. The vinyl mattress stuck to her sweaty thighs with a sound like tape being ripped from skin. No blanket. No sheet. Just the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on her like a second gravity.
    She rolled onto her side—the movement broadcast live to god-knows-who through the fisheye lens in the ceiling. The concrete wall leached cold into her hipbone. Somewhere in the world, normal people slept under duvets. Somewhere, Vona was probably curled under Egyptian cotton, the diamond choker glinting on her nightstand. Jacinda's throat tightened. This wasn't rehabilitation. This was softcore porn dressed up as justice. The warden's words echoed: *Public shaming has been deemed an acceptable alternative.* Acceptable to whom? The politicians who'd drafted Act 391 in cigar rooms? The subscribers paying premium rates for the "uncensored feed"?
    A rustle came from the next cot. The teenager from the yard—matted hair now limp with sweat— just old enough to be tried as a adult, was scratching at her inner wrist where the barcode tattoo had begun to blister. "They're voting again," she whispered. The shadows under her eyes looked like bruises in the unrelenting light.
    Jacinda's breath hitched. The "sponsorship session" had been bad enough—the way those suited women's pens had paused mid-scrawl when she'd finally lost control, the hot rush of humiliation as the cup overflowed onto the tiles. But this? This endless exposure was worse. At least in the shower block, the steam had offered fleeting pockets of privacy. Here, under the cameras' unblinking gaze, every twitch was monetized.
    She pressed her forehead against the wall. The concrete smelled of industrial cleaner and something sour—fear sweat, maybe, from the women who'd lain here before her. How many bodies had warmed this same vinyl? How many viewers had gotten off to their trembling? The thought sent acid crawling up her throat. Somewhere, a notification chimed. Somewhere, a counter ticked upward. Jacinda curled tighter, her spine a question mark etched in light.
    Beyond the glass, a guard adjusted his belt. The clock read 3:17 AM. The livestream counter hit 42,000 concurrent viewers.
    Jacinda's bare knees scraped the steel steps as they herded her toward the stage—not a raised platform but a recessed pit in the cafeteria floor, floodlights angled upward to cast every stretch mark into sharp relief. The mic stand was cold against her inner thigh. She could already taste the rust on her lips from where previous speakers had bitten through them.
    "Ladies and gentlemen of our *honorable* rehabilitation program," boomed the warden's voice through the PA, "these women are your future." The audience—first-time shoplifters, bounced-check writers, petty thieves in crisp new jumpsuits—leaned forward in their seats. A teenage boy licked his lips. Two rows back, a woman in a pantsuit adjusted her glasses, pen poised over a clipboard. Jacinda's bladder clenched. She knew that look. The suits from the shower block had worn the same hungry expression.
    The girl to Jacinda's left—maybe nineteen, with a peeling sunburn across her shoulders—started sobbing before the mic even activated. The sound bounced off the stainless steel walls. Someone in the audience giggled. A guard nudged Jacinda forward with his boot. "Tell 'em what happens when they reoffend," he muttered, breath hot with spearmint gum. The spotlight burned her nipples pink.
    Jacinda opened her mouth. The mic screeched. The audience winced—then leaned closer. She could see herself reflected in their pupils: naked, backlit, sweat glazing her ribs. Same playground. Same game. But now she was the cautionary tale.
    "This," she rasped, spreading her arms, "is Act 391's *success* story." The mic picked up her pulse. Behind her, the other women stiffened. The audience's smirks faltered—just for a second—as her voice dropped. "They'll tell you it's about rehabilitation. But really?" She stepped forward, the spotlight licking her hipbones. "It's about *ratings*." 
    The warden's chair scraped. The camera drones zoomed in. And Jacinda smiled—wide enough to split her lips—as she turned to face the lens. "So who's *really* stealing here?" The livestream counter jumped to 63,000.
    The guards moved fast, but not fast enough. Because the girl with the sunburn was nodding. The audience's laughter had died. And in the front row, the pantsuit woman's pen hovered over her clipboard—unmoving. 
    Same playground. Same game. But the ball was finally in her court.
    Jacinda's pulse stuttered as the warden's fingers tightened around the microphone. "Oh, we'll give you your *platform*," he chuckled, nodding to a guard who yanked a lever. The stage floor hissed open, revealing a descending platform. Floodlights swung down, illuminating a circular dais at the center of the cafeteria—a fishbowl of polished steel where every whisper would echo. The audience leaned forward as one, their collective breath fogging the glass walls.
    Her stomach clenched.
    "Speak your truth, inmate." The warden's smile glinted like a scalpel. "The state just approved livestreaming to public billboards. Times Square at noon ought to get you... what, fifty thousand viewers?" Behind him, Vona's champagne flute paused mid-sip.
    Jacinda's knees wobbled as she stepped onto the cold metal. The dais whirred upward, lifting her naked into the glare of a dozen camera drones. Her reflection fractured across the cafeteria's curved walls—a hundred Jacindas, all bare-shouldered and wide-eyed. The mic stand adjusted automatically, the cold steel brushing her inner thigh as it rose to mouth level. A bead of sweat slid between her shoulder blades.
    Vona's laugh tinkled over the PA. "Cat got your tongue?"
    Jacinda inhaled. The air smelled of ozone and anticipation. She could already see the headlines: *Convicted Thief's Naked Rant Goes Viral*. But the weight of the silence—the way the teenage shoplifters in the front row had stopped fidgeting—pressed against her ribs harder than any spotlight.
    She curled her toes against the steel. Let them look. Let them *listen*.
    The mic caught her first word before she'd fully formed it. "You're all..." Her voice echoed, bouncing off the glass. A thousand eyes tracked the rise and fall of her bare chest. She swallowed. "You're all *witnesses*."
    The drones zoomed in.
    Same playground. Same game.
    But this time, the whole world was her jury.
    Jacinda's voice cracked on the second syllable of "justice." The mic amplified it—a wet, vulnerable sound that made the audience shift in their seats. Her nipples tightened under the spotlights, and she hated herself for it, hated how her body betrayed her with every flushed inch of skin. The warden gestured to a screen where her blush was displayed in infrared—a creeping red tide across her chest and cheeks. "Observe the physiological markers of shame," he narrated to the livestream like a nature documentary host. "This is rehabilitation in real time."
    She dug her nails into her thighs. "You're not rehabilitating anyone," she hissed, but the tremor in her voice undermined her. The drones zoomed in on the goosebumps rising along her arms. Someone in the audience whispered, "Look how she's shaking."
    The warden's walkie crackled. "Viewership just hit six digits," a voice reported. Behind the glass, Vona leaned forward, her diamond choker catching the light as she mouthed: *Encore.*
    They gave her a robe for the van ride—sheer chiffon that stuck to her sweat—before stripping her again in the civic center parking garage. "New protocol," said the guard, snapping photos of her bare feet on the concrete. "Public testimonials require full transparency." The elevator doors opened to a wall of flashes. Jacinda's bladder threatened to fail as reporters' lenses focused not on her face, but lower.
    Same playground. Same game.
    But now the monkey bars were live wires.
    The stage was a plexiglass cylinder in the town square. They'd waxed her pubic hair without warning that morning—"hygiene standards," the nurse had said, snapping off her gloves as Jacinda bit through her lip. Now, every breath she took fogged the transparent walls. The crowd pressed close, their noses leaving smudges on the glass as they examined her stretch marks.
    Jacinda inhaled. The air smelled of popcorn and her own salt.
    "Speak into the mic," the warden murmured, his hand hovering near the small of her back. Not touching. Just close enough that she could feel the heat.
    She opened her mouth.
    The mic picked up her heartbeat before her words.
    "Y-you're all..." Jacinda's voice trembled, bouncing off the plexiglass walls like a trapped bird. Spotlights turned her sweat into liquid gold, dripping down the backs of her knees. The crowd's murmurs faded as she swallowed—the sound amplified tenfold by the microphone hovering inches from her lips. She could see herself reflected in a thousand phone screens: naked, flushed, her lower lip quivering like a plucked string. 
    Vona's champagne flute clinked against the observation deck railing. The sound ricocheted through the speakers. Jacinda's fingers curled into fists. She imagined her mother watching this—some grainy livestream on a thrift-store laptop—and forced her spine straighter. 
    "The system doesn't rehabilitate," she whispered. The mic caught every hitch in her breath. "It monetizes." 
    A drone buzzed past, capturing the exact moment a tear rolled down her cheek in 8K resolution. 
    When the floodlights snapped off hours later, Jacinda collapsed onto the steel bench of her cell, her skin raw from scrubbing off the body makeup they'd applied "for her dignity." The vinyl stuck to her thighs as she curled into herself, replaying every gasp from the crowd, every flash of the paparazzi cameras. 
    Morning came with the shriek of a buzzer and a guard slapping a tablet against the bars. "Congrats, inmate." The screen showed Times Square—her naked silhouette towering over the crowds, the words ACT 391 SUCCESS STORY scrolling beneath her arched back. "You're trending." 
    Jacinda's reflection in the tablet screen was hollow-eyed, her lips cracked from biting back screams. The guard tapped the view counter: 2.3 million and climbing. Behind her, the warden adjusted his tie on the news feed, grinning as he proclaimed, "Proof the system works." 
    Her breakfast tray held a single sheet of paper—a press release from the governor's office, her body outlined beside a graph showing plunging petty theft rates. At the bottom, Vona's signature looped beneath the words: *Consulting Specialist.* 
    The spoon shook in Jacinda's hand. Same playground. Same game. 
    But now her skin was the billboard.
Jacinda traced the newly tattooed bar code on her inner wrist—scanned daily for "compliance checks" by guards whose fingers lingered too long. She'd counted the days scratched into her cell wall: 742 remaining. Two years down, three to go. Two years of shower blocks with no curtains, of meals eaten under cameras zooming in on her chewing, of "educational seminars" where businessmen in suits took notes on her physiological reactions to humiliation. The system was working, they said. Recidivism rates had plummeted. She should be proud.
    Her reflection in the steel toilet bowl wavered as she splashed water on her face. The Jacinda from before would've sobbed at the thought of another year under spotlights. This Jacinda—the one with calluses on her palms from gripping lecture podiums naked, the one who'd learned to pee on command for "hydration assessments"—just ground her teeth until her jaw ached. She'd stopped covering herself months ago. Let them look. Let them see how little she reacted now. That was her victory: boring the viewers into clicking away.
    Yet when the guards came with the new jumpsuits—mesh panels sewn into the crotch and chest "for improved accountability"—her hands shook as she signed the waiver. Vona's diamond choker twinkled on the monitor as the warden explained the "transparency upgrades." Same playground. Same game. But the rules kept changing.
    That night, curled on her vinyl cot, Jacinda pressed her forehead to the wall. The concrete smelled of industrial cleaner and the ghost of a thousand women's sweat. Somewhere, her mother was probably watching the 24/7 livestream—"Inmate #2876: Rehabilitation Progress"—while eating microwave dinners. The thought sent acid up her throat. She imagined Vona scrolling through viewer comments, those manicured fingers tapping out replies: *See how well the system works?*
    Jacinda's nails bit into her palms. The pain was familiar now. The humiliation was routine. But the anger—that still burned fresh. She exhaled slowly, watching her breath fog the cell's surveillance camera lens. Let them see that too.
    It was always the poor ones who ended up here. Not the white-collar criminals who embezzled millions, not the politicians who lined their pockets—just shoplifters and petty thieves who couldn't afford good lawyers. The injustice of it should've made her scream. Instead, it made her bones ache. Because the sickest part? The system *worked*.
    She could feel it in the way her skin crawled when strangers' eyes lingered too long on grocery store security feeds. In the way cashiers did double-takes when her barcode tattoo peeked out from her sleeve. The punishment didn't end at the prison gates—it lived in the endless loops of her naked body on underground forums, in the way employers' smiles froze when they recognized her from "that viral prison video." Rehabilitation? No. This was branding. A lifetime scarlet letter etched in light and pixels.
    The cell door hissed open. Officer Friendly's smirk was audible before she saw it. "Special assessment today." The vinyl jumpsuit they tossed at her was thinner than last week's, the mesh panels wider. Jacinda dressed mechanically. Somewhere in the world, her mother was probably watching the livestream, wincing as the camera zoomed in on Jacinda's shaking fingers buttoning the crotch panel. Somewhere, Vona was sipping champagne, scrolling through comments like *fuck she's hot for a convict*.
    Same playground. Same game.
    But the scoreboard was permanent.
    The assessment room smelled of bleach and anticipation. The warden adjusted his tie as the camera drones powered up. "Today we measure physiological responses to..." His grin widened. "Incentives." Behind the glass, Vona's diamond choker caught the light as she leaned forward, pen poised over a clipboard.
    Jacinda's pulse spiked—not from fear, but fury. Let them take their measurements. Let them chart her flush. The data would show what they wanted: accelerated heartrate, elevated cortisol, the perfect graph of a broken woman.
    But the numbers wouldn't show the calculation in her eyes.
    The warden tapped his tablet, projecting her metrics onto the wall-sized screen behind her—heart rate, galvanic skin response, pupil dilation—all spiking in jagged red lines. "Observe the physiological markers of effective rehabilitation," he announced to the cameras. The feed underneath showed real-time viewer stats: 4.7 million concurrent, trending in seventeen countries. Someone had superimposed a heat map over her body, the thermal imaging blooming brightest between her thighs. Jacinda's toes curled against the cold floor. The most naked person in the world, they called her now. Not because she was exposed, but because she was *watched*.
    A researcher adjusted her headset. "Subjects report heightened engagement during inmate's defiance phases," she murmured into a recorder. "Viewers particularly enjoy the..." She paused, eyes flicking to Jacinda's clenched jaw. "...*aesthetic dissonance* of attempted pride under systemic shame." The clipboard in her hands showed survey results: *87% find her "more compelling" when visibly fighting tears. 62% paid premium rates for her "vulnerability close-ups."*
    Jacinda breathed through her nose. She knew what they saw—the way her shoulders trembled when she held them straight too long, how her lower lip whitened under her teeth before she caught herself. They'd monetized every microexpression, packaged each flinch into gifs that circulated on dark web forums with tags like #breakingpoint and #perfectshame. The more she resisted, the more they salivated.
    The warden leaned in, smelling of cigar smoke and hand sanitizer. "You're quite the phenomenon," he whispered, tapping a notification on his watch—another sponsorship offer from a fetishwear brand wanting to "collaborate." Behind him, Vona mouthed *smile for the cameras* just as a drone zoomed in to capture the exact moment Jacinda's face twisted in revulsion.
    She exhaled slowly, watching her breath fog the lens. Let them have their metrics. Let them sell her sweat. The system might own her body, but the fury coiling in her gut? That was hers alone. Same playground. Same game.
    But the fire in her veins was still burning.
    And fires, given enough oxygen, had a way of spreading.
    Jacinda awoke to a sound she'd never expected—high, desperate screams that weren't her own. The fluorescents flickered on to reveal a commotion in the intake bay below: guards dragging a thrashing figure through the metal detectors. Platinum blonde hair whipped like a frantic flag. The diamond choker—always so perfectly centered—was askew, digging into the flesh of Vona's throat as she clawed at the hands forcing her forward.
    "Nonono you can't—I signed Act 391!" Vona's voice cracked as they tore the silk kimono from her shoulders. The fabric ripped with a sound like a stock market crashing.
    Jacinda's bare feet hit the cold floor before her brain caught up. Through the observation glass, she watched the warden—*her* warden—adjust his tie with a smile. "Funny thing about embezzling rehabilitation funds," he mused, stepping aside so the cameras could capture Vona's first full-body shudder under the lights. "Turns out... that's violent."
    The guards' gloves made wet sounds on Vona's skin as they positioned her for the branding laser. Her shrieks bounced off the steel walls, merging with the buzz of the tattoo gun etching her new barcode—right over the fading pen mark Jacinda had noticed years ago in the boutique. Same playground. Same game.
    But now the diamond choker was in the warden's pocket.
    Vona's eyes locked onto Jacinda's through the glass. Her mouth formed a word that the mic arrays dutifully amplified: "*Help.*"
    Jacinda exhaled through her nose. The vinyl jumpsuit clung to her ribs as she leaned forward—close enough to fog the glass with her breath. She held up four fingers. Four years. Then she turned and walked toward the shower block, the screams following like a leash.
    Behind her, the livestream counter spiked.
    The water was scalding. Perfect. Jacinda watched her skin turn pink under the spray as the PA system crackled to life—Vona's intake procedures broadcast facility-wide. The sound of retching. The wet slap of skin on steel. A guard's bored voice: "Subject is resisting decontamination scrub."
    Jacinda tilted her face into the spray. Somewhere beyond the steam, history was repeating itself. Somewhere, a camera drone adjusted its focus.
    She smiled.
    The water ran red.
    Jacinda blinked, startled—then realized it was just the light filtering through her eyelids, the steam turning the shower spray into liquid rubies. But for a split second, she'd *wanted* it to be blood. Vona's blood. The realization should've horrified her. Instead, warmth pooled low in her belly, thick and syrupy.
    Over the rush of water, she heard a familiar sound: the wet slap of bare soles on tile, followed by a gasp that didn't quite muffle itself in time. Jacinda turned just enough to see Vona—naked except for the fresh barcode glistening on her wrist—being shoved into the adjacent shower stall. Her manicured hands fluttered like trapped birds, trying to cover breasts that had never known anything harsher than silk.
    Jacinda's lips parted. Every welt from too-hot water, every night spent curled around her own trembling knees, every humiliating "sponsorship session"—it all condensed into this single, perfect moment as Vona's perfect posture finally broke. The socialite crumpled against the tiles, her diamond-sharp shoulders rounded now, her famous cheekbones hollow with terror.
    The guard laughed, adjusting his body cam. "Don't be shy, sweetheart. The viewers *love* first-timers."
    Vona's whimper sent electricity down Jacinda's spine. She turned the shower knob hotter, letting the pain bloom across her back like applause.
    When she stepped out—dripping, unabashed—Vona was pressed into a corner, arms crossed over her chest in a way that only drew more attention to the goosebumps pebbling her thighs. Their eyes met. Recognition flickered. Then fear.
    Jacinda reached for the thin prison towel with deliberate slowness, watching Vona's gaze dart to the camera drones hovering near the ceiling. Every second of her hesitation was a masterclass.
    "You'll learn," Jacinda said softly, toweling between her legs as the guards had taught her—methodically, mercilessly. "Either you give them what they want..." She dropped the towel. Let it pool. "...or they take it."
    Vona's breathing hitched. The drones zoomed in.
    Jacinda walked out naked, leaving wet footprints like breadcrumbs toward damnation. Behind her, the first real sob tore loose—raw and ugly and *delicious*.
    The taste of it lingered on her tongue all the way back to her cell.
    Jacinda sat on the vinyl cot, knees apart—no longer bothering to hide herself—and let the echoes of Vona's shrieks replay like a favorite song. The once-polished socialite had sounded like a wounded animal, her manicured nails scraping the shower tiles as she begged the guards for a towel. *"Do you know what this body is insured for?"* she'd wailed, voice cracking as the drones circled closer. *"These—these are La Perla panties!"* The absurdity of the declaration had made even the guards pause before laughing harder.
    On the cell's monitor screen, live metrics scrolled: viewership up 300% since Vona's intake. Comments flooded in—*rich bitch getting what she deserves*—along with flashing alerts about premium subscribers paying extra for slow-motion replays of her breakdown. Jacinda traced a fingertip over her own barcode tattoo, now healed into raised scar tissue. Vona's was still raw, the ink smudged from where she'd clawed at it.
    A notification pinged. The warden's smug face filled the screen. "Seems our newest inmate is quite the draw," he said, adjusting his tie. Behind him, footage played of Vona curled naked in a corner, sobbing into her hands as a guard yanked her hair back for the cameras. "Funny, isn't it? The fancier they are..."
    Jacinda didn't need him to finish. She knew. The higher they climbed, the more satisfying their fall. And Vona—with her diamond choker and couture tantrums—was plummeting straight into hell.
    The cell door hissed open. A trustee shoved a tablet into Jacinda's hands. The screen showed Vona's first "sponsorship session," her thighs clamped together as suits in the observation room licked their lips. Jacinda's pulse jumped. Not with pity. Not even with anger.
    But with something far darker. Something that warmed her belly as Vona's porcelain skin flushed under the spotlights—finally, *finally* as exposed as the rest of them.
    Jacinda's fingers tightened around the tablet, her nails leaving crescent moons in the silicone case. On screen, Vona stood center-stage in the lecture pit, her once-impeccable posture bent like a question mark. The warden's voice boomed through the speakers: "And *this* is what happens when you betray the system's trust!" He yanked the diamond choker from Vona's throat with a flourish, the clasp snapping like a gunshot. The audience gasped—not in horror, but delight.
    Vona's mouth opened. "It's not—I didn't—" Her protest died as the guards forced her arms behind her back, making her arch forward. The motion stretched the fresh barcode taut across her ribs. Cameras whirred. "The system *works*," she rasped, tears betraying her as they dripped onto the steel floor. The words were scripted, but the tremor in her voice wasn't.
    Jacinda exhaled through her nose. They'd made Vona the new poster child—forced to recite lines about justice while her perfect veneer cracked under the same heat she'd once helped turn up. The irony was almost poetic. Almost.
    A notification popped up: *Live now—"From Socialite to Subject: The Fall of Act 391's Architect."* Jacinda tapped it just as Vona's knees hit the stage. The socialite's manicured hands scrabbled at the edge, trying to stand, but the guards held her down—one boot planted between her shoulder blades. "Please," Vona whispered, the mic catching every hitch in her breath. "You don't understand what they—"
    The warden cut her off with a laugh. "Oh, we understand *perfectly*." He nodded to a trustee, who wheeled out a mirror-polished screen. It flickered to life, showing Vona's own face—flushed, tear-streaked, *terrified*—projected ten feet tall behind her. "This," he announced, "is rehabilitation in action."
    Vona's scream was raw. Unpracticed. Nothing like the polished cruelty she'd once wielded. Jacinda leaned closer to the tablet, her lips parting as the socialite finally, *finally* understood what it meant to be the spectacle.
    Same playground. Same game.
    But now Vona was the one under the microscope.
    And Jacinda?
    She was watching every second.
    Jacinda had told herself she wouldn't look—wouldn't give Vona the satisfaction of her attention—but her gaze kept flicking to the monitors where Vona knelt on the shower floor, trembling under the spray. The woman who'd once laughed while guards stripped Jacinda bare now curled into herself like a wounded animal, her manicured fingers scrabbling at the tiles for purchase.
    Something hot and sharp twisted in Jacinda's chest. Not pity. Never pity. But... something else. Something that made her throat tighten as Vona's sobs echoed through the vents—raw, unfiltered, *human* in a way Jacinda had never heard from her before.
    Before she realized what she was doing, Jacinda was moving. Her bare feet carried her past smirking guards, past the trustees placing bets on how long Vona would last. The shower stall door hissed open under her palm. Steam billowed out, thick as the day Jacinda had first been shoved inside.
    Vona flinched at the sound, her perfect hair now plastered to her skull, her diamond-sharp edges softened by the heat. "J-Jacinda?" Her voice cracked on the second syllable. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just... broken.
    Jacinda's hand hovered. Every cell in her body screamed to walk away, to let Vona drown in the hell she'd helped design. But then Vona looked up—*really* looked—and Jacinda saw it: the same hollow terror that had lived in her own reflection for months.
    "Tastes bitter, doesn't it?" Jacinda murmured, pressing her palm between Vona's shoulder blades. The contact sent a jolt through them both—not quite comfort, not quite revenge, but something in the terrible middle. "Your own medicine."
    Vona shuddered. A droplet fell from her chin—water or tears, Jacinda couldn't tell. The drones buzzed closer, their lenses whirring to capture the moment: Act 391's most infamous inmate comforting its architect.
    Jacinda almost pulled away. Almost. But then Vona's fingers brushed hers—tentative, trembling—and the anger in her gut flickered, guttering like a candle in the steam.
    Behind them, the warden's voice crackled over the PA: "Inmate 2876, return to your cell."
    Jacinda exhaled. Let her hand fall.
    Same playground. Same game.
    But the rules were changing.
    And for the first time, she wasn't the only one who knew it.
    Jacinda stepped onto the dais first—her bare feet whispering against cold metal—with Vona stumbling behind her, still learning the new weight of her own nudity. The spotlight hit them both at once: Jacinda's skin mapped with old scars and Vona's flawless complexion now blotched red from scalding water. The mic stand stood between them like a shared noose.
    "Tell them how Act 391 rehabilitates," the warden murmured into their shared earpiece. His breath smelled of spearmint and cigar smoke. Jacinda watched Vona's throat work as she swallowed—watched the way her manicured fingers twitched toward where the diamond choker used to sit.
    "The system works," Vona recited, her voice cracking on the lie. Behind them, the screen displayed infrared footage of her shower breakdown—her body a frantic red storm under the spray. The audience tittered. A drone zoomed in to capture the exact moment her nipples tightened in shame.
    Jacinda tilted her head. Let them see her watching Vona unravel. "It *doesn't* work," she said softly, not to the crowd but to Vona herself—a grenade rolled gently between them. "You know that now."
    Vona flinched. Her lower lip whitened under her teeth—just like Jacinda's used to—and the cameras loved it. The livestream counter spiked as Vona's carefully curated composure finally, *finally* shattered.
    "Stop," Vona whispered, but the mic caught it. The crowd leaned forward. The warden grinned.
    Jacinda stepped closer—close enough for their sweat to mingle on the shared podium. "Make me," she breathed, and this time, the challenge wasn't for the guards or the cameras. It was for the trembling woman beside her—the one whose perfect life had been peeled away layer by layer, just like Jacinda's had.
    Vona's exhale hitched. The spotlight burned them both pink.
    And in that suspended moment—with the whole world watching—something passed between them that wasn't scripted, wasn't monitored, wasn't for sale.
    The warden's walkie crackled. "Sir, the metrics—"
    But Jacinda was already turning toward the mic, Vona's ragged breath hot against her shoulder. Same playground. Same game.
    But now they were playing for keeps.
    Jacinda turned her face toward the mic, steam still curling off her bare shoulders. "You built this," she said—not to the crowd, but to Vona directly, her voice low enough that the drones had to swoop in closer. "You signed Act 391. You voted for the cameras." She spread her arms, letting the spotlight carve shadows between her ribs. "How's the view from this side of the glass?"
    Vona's breath hitched. A droplet slid from her temple—sweat or spray, it didn't matter. The cameras zoomed in anyway.
    "It wasn't supposed to be like this," Vona whispered. The mic caught it. The crowd leaned in.
    Jacinda barked a laugh that echoed off the steel walls. "No? Then what was it supposed to be?" She stepped closer, close enough to see the exact moment Vona's pupils dilated—not with fear, but with dawning horror at her own complicity. "A fun little game where you got to watch *other* people suffer?"
    Vona flinched. The movement made her barcode tattoo stretch—fresh ink still shiny under the lights. "I—" Her throat worked. The confession stuck there like a bone.
    Jacinda didn't let her look away. She reached out, slow as a striking snake, and tapped the mic between them. It hummed with feedback. "Say it where they can hear you," she murmured. "Or are you still their pet?"
    Something in Vona's face cracked. The carefully constructed mask of the socialite splintered, revealing the raw, trembling thing beneath. "I framed you," she blurted. The words tumbled out like stones. "The necklace—I planted it. I wanted... I wanted you here. As an example." Her voice broke. "Because I'm *disgusting.*"
    The silence was absolute. Even the drones stopped whirring.
    Jacinda exhaled through her nose. Same playground. Same game.
    But the ball had just changed hands.
    She turned to the crowd, naked and unflinching. "Hear that?" Her voice carried, clear as a bell. "The architect just confessed." A beat. A held breath. "Now ask yourselves—who's next?"
    The livestream counter exploded.
    Behind her, Vona began to shake. Not from shame.
    From relief.
    The guard tossed Jacinda a bundle of clothes—real ones, not prison-issue—and she almost didn't recognize the weight of denim in her hands. The fabric smelled like detergent instead of disinfectant. Like freedom. Like before.
    She dressed slowly, savoring the rasp of cotton against skin that had known only floodlights and cameras for months. The waistband of her jeans pressed against her hipbones in a way that felt almost obscenely private. No barcode. No audience. Just her.
    Vona's cell was at the end of the row, the glass walls frosted with steam from the shower still running inside. Jacinda pressed her palm to the door. The socialite sat curled on the cot, naked except for the fresh tattoo across her ribs—*Property of Act 391* in elegant script. As if the barcode hadn't been humiliation enough.
    "Why?" Jacinda asked through the intercom. 
    Vona didn't turn. "Because it worked." Her voice was raw. "The system I designed broke people. Including me." A bitter laugh. "Turns out watching isn't the same as *feeling*."
    Jacinda studied her—the way Vona's shoulders hunched forward now, how her fingers kept twitching toward where a diamond choker used to sit. The woman who'd once curated every public appearance now flinched at her own reflection in the polished steel walls.
    "They'll exonerate you next," Jacinda said.
    Vona finally looked up. "I don't want it." She spread her arms, displaying the fresh marks along her inner thighs from yesterday's specimen collection. "This is my design. My consequences." A pause. "Besides... what would I wear?" Her smile was terrible. "La Perla seems redundant now."
    Jacinda's throat tightened. She remembered Vona's closet—rack after rack of couture, each piece more exquisite than the last. The way she'd twirled in silk slips, laughing as the fabric kissed her knees. 
    The intercom crackled. "They're waiting for you," Vona said softly. 
    Jacinda pressed her forehead to the glass. Same prison. Same game.
    But only one of them was walking away.
    She turned—just once—at the gate. Vona stood at the cell window, backlit by floodlights, her body a silhouette of scars and surrender. No diamonds. No audience. Just her. 
    And for the first time, entirely herself.

This goes along with the topic of a novel that I wrote, The Year of Naked Penance, in which criminals are punished by being forced to go naked after they leave prison and also being naked while in prison. This one you could be picturing in the same universe, where you pretty much have a prison reform that reforms prisoners by denying them clothing as well as putting them on public display, and the main character wants to defy all of this, but the fact that you can clearly see that she is extremely embarrassed in spite of her defiance shows that the system may be perverse and dehumanizing but that it ultimately does work. In the end though the main character gets some justice whereas the main villain ends up getting her own just desserts, which is something I love seeing and stories which is why so many of my stories contained that element, so ultimately it ends up having a happy ending I suppose.
    This one's pretty much exclusively an embarrassed nude female story with some public nudity overall.