Janice Is Tagged

The Tagging Centre was in the middle of Wood Green Shopping City. Since the re-introduction of tagging two years earlier, watching cows being tagged had become popular. Many friends and relatives wanted to see – invariably to the shame and distress of those being tagged. Not that there was any way of keeping the matter a secret. The names of taggees and times for their tagging were posted on the doors of each Tagging Centre. Cameras relayed video footage to a small viewing cinema attached to the Centre, where up to 50 women could watch the operation. The seats were free but priority was always given to those who knew the tagee.

Janice didn’t want to know who might be watching her. She simply slumped along, tentatively pushing the door open, having first checked that her name was on the day’s ‘intake list’, as if by some miracle it wouldn’t be and she could go home, reprieved. “Come in!” boomed a voice. Janice gave her name and the Receptionist told me to take off her shoes, tights, skirt and knickers. All the while she was aware that she was being videoed from a multitude of angles by a myriad of hidden cameras.

She also knew that tagees were required to wear skirts or dresses. Some had defied this and worn trousers, only to suffer the additional humiliation of being made to travel back home in only their underwear, with everybody they encountered thus instantly realised that they’d been tagged. The tagger entered.

She was a large, ruddy-faced woman in a white lanb coat. Without ado, she strode over to Janice. “Your blouse is hanging below your navel, dear” she beamed. “I’m afraid you’ll have to remove that as well. You know the rules – all underclothing off and bare from the navel down”. Janice protested that it was a short blouse and only overhung her navel by about an inch. “Doesn’t matter!” her tagger smiled. “Rules are rules – the viewers will want an unobstructed view, so take it off”. Janice reluctantly did so, aware that she only had a white bra on, covering her boobs or udders as she supposed she must now think of them.

“Better!”. The tagger’s constant smiling was really beginning to grate. “Come over here, F342118765”. Janice started to give her name. “No, no, no! You’re F342118765 now. Just a number. Females have names; cattle have numbers” Another inevitable smile. Janice walked over. Without ado, her tagger opened Janice’s labia and exposed her clitoris. She pulled the hood of Janice’s clitoris back and forth several times. She added she would have to cut deeply. “I hope you orgasmed last night” she added, again smiling. “Because if you didn’t, you’ve missed your opportunity, You’ll never do so again”.

Janice was shaking so much from fear she could hardly stand. “Right, there’s a few things to do. “But first...let’s tag you!”. The tagger smiled widely. “Which lip do you prefer?” she asked. Janice mumbled that it didn’t really matter. “They all say that” retorted the tagger, taking Janice’s left labia minora and very roughly kneading it, so it engorged to its full size very rapidly. The tagger’s stimulation was very deliberately unerotic: just brutish. “Right, that’s about OK for punching” she continued, before producing a large pair of old-fashioned hole-punch pliers from the pocket of her white coat.

Janice braced herself but surprisingly felt nothing. When she dared to look down, mere seconds later, she saw a large, neat circular hole in the middle of her left minoral lip. There was no blood. “Clever, isn’t it?” smiled her tagger, who then pushed a very heavy steel oval ring through the hole. This fitted very tightly and the link was sealed shut. To this was added a large tag, made from lead and measuring four inches long but two inches deep.

Janice was staggered by the weight of her tag. To think that something so (relatively) small could be so heavy! She could feel it pulling on her labia all the time. The tagger smiled once more. “They used to be made of aluminium but the Government felt that cows ought to be physically aware they were tagged – hence the heavy lead used!”. Janice saw the tag had her name and National Lottery Number incised upon one side. All that was missing was the grade – and that would be decided in two weeks time.

Janice further noted that she now ‘chinked’ as she walked. No matter how she tried, the ‘chink’ of a tagged piece of livestock was very evident. She knew she’d come in for plenty of ribbing from her friends, neighbours and her colleagues at the library. Many organisations had special rules for tagged staff but Janice wasn’t sure if her library did. As far as she knew, they’d never had a tagged staff member before. Oh well she thought it’ll be something else to find out. She knew that at least twelve of her workmates were viewing her tagging today, so it wasn’t as if she could keep it a secret. Anyhow, they’d all commiserated with her when her name first appeared in the local papers, so they all knew her fate anyway.

As was becoming the normal practice, they’d bought a card and all signed it, too. These cards were on sale with all the standard Birthday, Get Well, Sorry You’re Leaving, Mothering Sunday and myriad other messages. They had ‘You’re Going To Be Processed’ in huge bold letters on the front, with a line drawing of a stark naked woman. Inside the printed message always ran ‘Congratulations on your selection in the National Meat Lottery. We’ll all miss you but whether you’re decapitated, hanged, oven-roasted, braised, minced, spitted or otherwise butchered, we’re sure you’ll make a very appetising dish!”. ‘Congratulations’. As if it were something to be proud of; something to look forward to.

She’d never been intimate with any of them except one but, although she resented it, she could understand people that knew her watching her tagging. It was always interesting to see another female naked: or at least, naked from the waist down. Human nature always liked to compares others to oneself and Janice could well imagine Sally and Jess, not to mention others, turning to each other and saying “she’s not like I imagined her to be – down there” or somesuch observations.

Her reverie was abruptly interrupted by the voice of her tagger once more. “This is really going to hurt” Janice was informed. “Best keep you quiet”. With that, the tagger balled Janice’s white M&S cotton knickers up and stuffed them into her mouth as a gag. “Rudimentary but effective” she commented. Janice climed onto an examination couch and was strapped down, legs in stirrups in the air, in the lithotomy position. This meant her legs were spread wide, affording an excellent view for the cameras of her entire sex.

What really got to Janice was the incessant cheeriness of her tagger. She chatted away, as if Janice’s imminent demise was of no consequence. Which it isn’t – to her! thought Janice. She prepares cattle like me all the time. “Christmas is coming up” she commented. “Do you reckon you’ll end up in someone’s freezer cabinet? Looking at you, I wouldn’t be surprised. Or maybe you’ll make pork chops and suchlike. Whatever happens, you’ll make ladies happy!”. Yes, except for this ‘lady’ thought Janice. But I’m a cow not a lady, so it doesn’t really matter to anyone but me...

The tagger rubbed gell on her fingers and felt around Janice’s vulva. She opened her labia and exposed her clitoris, pulling the hood of her clitoris back and forth several times. Much to Janice’s horror, her clitoris got erect. This did not seem to bother the tagger and she remarked that Janice was over sensitive and there was a lot of redness around her clitoris. She also remarked that she would have to cut deep.

“Circumcision time now. I’m going to remove your clitoris hood first. But I should warn you, I like to circumcise cattle as slowly as possible, so I’ll be removing your hood in five pieces, not the single piece I could amputate it in. This is really going to hurt you, of course”. The tagger then pulled Janice’s clitoral hood back and started to remove it slice by slice. She did it slowly like she’d promised and it took exactly 5 strokes to sever and remove it. Inhuman screams came from Janice’s throat as her hood was being mutilated. The excised hood pieces were dropped into a metal bowl.

“Open wide! Time to take out that little stalk!”. No doubt these were joke phrases her tagger used all the while. She thrust her hand into Janice’s vagina, grabbed her small clitoris and promptly – almost without looking – inserted needle tweezers and cut off her clit at the base. “There’s a great demand for clits in salads and most ladies buy bags of Mixed Clitorises. But I doubt that yours’ll be the star piece in any bag. Still...” She shrugged and carefully placed the severed organ in a kidney dish. “It’ll be sent for freezing and pcking in ice with other, larger, clitorises” the tagger continued to smile.

“Look, I’ll show you”. She disappeared, only to return with a similar kidney dish full of severed clits. Janice marvelled at the hues, ranging from pale pink to deep purple to bright red to near white (like hers). She also gasped at the length of most, from one inch to nearly two-and-a-half inches. No wonder the tagger decried my half-inch ‘worm’ she thought. And circumferences also varied enormously, although Janice saw none in the dish that were mere stalk-like thickness, like her own recently-departed clitoris.