The processing room was situated at the far end of the cell block. There, on a wooden bench, the guests regarded their captors in fearful silence, trying not to think about what was coming next.

Bob pointed the shotgun at the mother and motioned to her to stand. "What's your name sweetheart?" he asked sternly.

The woman looked down at her feet in silence.

Emma stepped towards her. "Name!" she demanded. She was really revelling in the Gestapo act, thought Bob.

After another hesitation she replied, "Magda."

This piqued Emma's interest. "That's a Russian name isn't it?"

"Polish."

"Well I guess that explains the attitude. And what are you? thirty five, thirty eight years old?" Of course, this was a deliberate ploy by Emma to get information. Overstating her age to force a correction. She had always been good at the old psychology.

"Fuck off! I'm thirty two!" Magda spat, offended.

Bob recorded these facts in his notebook.

He motioned with the gun to the far wall, which had a large circular target painted on it. "Go and stand over there, it'll make it easier to shoot you."

Magda made a funny little strangled noise, her terrified eyes once again fixated on the firearm.

"No, not with that silly!" Emma laughed, "We'll use an SLR." She picked up the camera from the shelf.

When, months before, Emma had insisted on painting the roundel, Bob had protested, saying it was stupid and unnecessary, but now the boner in his pants told him that his wife had been right all along.

Emma took a few moments to take photos of her face, then front, side and rear shots.

"I need your cloze, your boots, and your motorcycle." Bob told Magda, in his best Arnie voice.

"What??"

"Strip," added Emma helpfully.

"What, now?" Magda asked, disbelievingly.

Emma gave her a withering look. "No, next fucking week. Yes, of course 'now'!"

Magda stripped reluctantly, removing a short leather jacket, and green tank-top revealing a luscious pair of G cup titties barely contained by a bulging bra. She started to fumble with the catch behind her.

Emma was tired of waiting, and pulled out her bowie knife. As Magda let forth a little shriek, she deftly sliced through the front band before forcefully ripping the bra away from her and tossing it onto the bench. The ample mammaries, freed of their prison, found themselves at the mercy of Master Gravity, and bobbed downwards to find a new equilibrium.

Bob appraised them with a critical eye. They were full, round, and milfy. He couldn't resist grabbing one with a large paw and his touch caused Magda to gasp. Overflowing the reach of his fingers, the breast was exquisitely soft and pliant. Then he squeezed hard. Magda yelped in pain, and Bob felt a semi growing in his pants. He released his grip, leaving red finger marks on her tender flesh. He gave Magda a nod and a smile. "Okay, now get the rest off."

Magda bent over to remove her white trainers. It was a nice pose, Bob thought. Watching her remove her jeans and knickers was quite a show too, her smooth limbs dancing and hopping as she struggled with the garments.

At last she was stripped bare. Bob looked her up and down, evaluating his quarry.

Tousled mousy hair topped a fearful, bloody and dirt smudged, but still pretty face, with high cheekbones and a straight nose. She had narrow, girly shoulders, which only served to further emphasise her oversized tits. Bob salivated as a random thought popped into his head about how he might destroy them later.

Her torso was distinctly pear-shaped, had a narrow waist, soft feminine tummy, and a deliciously pronounced venus mons. Her hips were wide and womanly, giving her untrimmed cunt the perfect setting. A lush island in an expansive sea of flesh. The whole effect was of a juicy treat, and Bob wanted to dive right in.

"Turn around," he told her, and as she complied her generous bottom jiggled enticingly. Her ass was what Bob thought of as kinda chewy. Seductively soft and plump. A ride built for comfort.

Her legs balanced her torso nicely, her thighs were thick enough not to leave a gap. Bob always thought that a thigh gap looked best, but when you're balls deep, the extra flesh won out.

"It's unfortunate what we find pleasing to the touch and pleasing to the eye is seldom the same," he said to no-one in particular.

Shapely calves were terminated with the standard number of feet, the toenails painted with green spangles. It seemed like a wasted effort in view of what was likely to become of them.

The whole effect of Magda's body was not to exude beauty in its generally accepted sense, but voluptuous sensuality. Bob thought it perfect for the forthcoming trials it would be subjected to.

Emma took more photos, creating the kind of 'clothed and unclothed' sets you might find on 4chan/s. Then Magda was instructed to step onto some bathroom scales, and then stood against the measuring wall. Bob diligently recorded the vital statistics in his little book:

Magda (32) 32G-26-38 1.70m 69kg

He had been compelled to record the height and weight in metric, as if this was a nerdy exercise in engineering. In some sense, it probably was.