Chloe in Prison Ch. 11


Day Seventeen

Next day I dragged myself bleary-eyed through slops. Back in the cell I would have gone back to sleep, but Rose asked me to check her, to see if she had shaved herself thoroughly.

“I think so,” I said.

“Thinking isn’t enough,” said Rose. “You need to be sure.”

“Well, there’s a small patch here,” I said.

“Please go over it for me Chloe: we can’t afford to take any chances.”

I did as Rose asked, stroking her with the razor until there was not the ghost of a hair to be seen.

“If you don’t mind I’ll give you the once over,” said Rose. “It isn’t easy trying to move someone when they’re asleep.”

“Sorry about that Rose,” I said.

Rose, too, found an area she was not completely happy about, and spent a good few minutes working the razor between my legs again.

“There,” she said. “No one’s going to find fault with that.”

No one did. Raymond and Bradley passed us without comment, and left us in peace.

“You were right about one thing Rose,” I said: “the flannel really makes a difference. I wish I could get one.”

“You’re welcome to use it,” said Rose. “Only remember to rinse it out thoroughly: we can’t send it to laundry, we’d never set eyes on it again.”

“Are you going to do some exercises?” Rose asked me, after breakfast.

“I can’t face it today,” I said. “I still feel low. What happened yesterday: Rose, it was horrible. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.” And as the memory came back to me I started to cry again.

“Come here Chloe,” said Rose: “and this time I want you to talk to me.”

I crossed over to Rose’s bed, and lay in her arms. Between bouts of sobbing, I told her what Dawes had done.

“The worst thing was the hatred. She’s brimful of poison and malice Rose, and she hates me: I’ve never known hate like that before. And yet — Rose, there was something else: I can’t describe it: at one point it was as though she was confiding in me — when she told me how other children had hated her at school.”

“It’s no wonder they did,” said Rose.

“But,” I said: “even though I can’t help hating her for what she is and what she’s done, there was a moment when I almost felt sorry for her. Isn’t that crazy? When I thought that if only someone had reached out to her, shown her some love or something, she might not have turned out this way. And I — this is the craziest thing of all — I almost felt I could do it — somehow reach back and be the one to break the deadlock of mutual hatred, and reach out to her and befriend her.”

“Chloe: everyone has experienced bad things as a child. Very few of us turn out like Dawes. She’s chosen her path: whatever happened to her, it’s no excuse.”

“I know that Rose, rationally. But when somebody does those things to you — there’s a sort of intimacy — it’s like an evil twin of the connection you have when you love someone. And even though you hate the person, and she hates you — there’s a kind of bond. That’s what’s so horrible. That’s why I hate Dawes more than Hardiman. Hardiman is cruel, but it’s a mechanical kind of cruelty — like being hated by a robot. I was able to put it behind me. But Dawes’ hatred worms its way inside you. I can’t shake myself free of it. I keep going over what she did. And she knows that Rose, she knows just what she’s doing; and Rose, I can’t bear it.”

I started to cry again. Rose patted me on the head as though I was a small child: and I felt very small and hurt, as though I had fallen in the playground and was being comforted by a motherly teacher.

When I’d stopped snivelling Rose said:

“I don’t know if it will help, but if you like I’ll tell you something Dawes did to me. It might help you to take her hatred less personally.”

“OK Rose — if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t usually like to talk about what’s happened to me in the past,” Rose said. “And on the whole I’ve been quite lucky. I’ve always tried not to cause trouble, and I’ve never been thrashed like that poor girl Cradock.

“Anyway, this is what happened. About four years ago there was a fire in the kitchen area. Nothing much, no-one was hurt: but there was a lot of mess. Some tables and chairs were burned, and there was smoke damage to the walls. Some of us were rounded up and told we had to clean the mess. We were given scrubbing brushes and buckets of water and ordered to scrub the walls. Dawes was in charge. The walls were coated in this black, tar-like stuff: horrible it was, and difficult to get off. We’d started straight after breakfast, and after a couple of hours of this I needed a pee. Dawes showed no signs of allowing a toilet break, so we carried on. It got worse: I really needed the loo: in the cells I would have been able to go long before. The other women were struggling, too: I could see by their expressions: every time I caught someone’s eye they would wince.

“Finally I said, as politely as I could: ‘Please Officer Dawes, may we have a toilet break?’

“You wouldn’t think anyone could take objection to that. Well, I hadn’t reckoned with Dawes. I mean, I knew she was a monster, Nevşehir Escort but I thought, seeing as we’d been working so hard all morning.

“‘I’ll tell you when you can have a toilet break Mason,’ she said, and I knew I’d made a serious mistake.

“Then lunch was brought out, and Dawes said: ‘Everyone except Mason can have a toilet break.’ The girls scuttled off as fast as they could: most of them had been crossing their legs for the last hour: but I had to sit and suffer. You can imagine how I felt. They were real lavatories too, not buckets: a treat at the best of times.

“After lunch we had to carry on. I could hardly move by then, especially as I’d just had to drink another cup of tea. I had to bend forward to ease the strain on my bladder. After an hour or so Dawes announced another toilet break — for everybody except me.

“I knew she was going to make me keep on until I wet myself. There was no chance of getting through the afternoon, so I thought I might as well get it over with, spare myself any more pain.

“But it’s hard to wet yourself intentionally. All your training and instincts are against it. So I kept fighting it, and hanging on.

“I could tell from the way Dawes was watching me she was enjoying my misery. Up until then I’d been scrubbing at the middle and lower areas of the wall: but all of a sudden she told me to leave where I was working, and pointed to another blackened area just above head height. So I had to stretch up, as high as I could reach. My bladder was so full I really thought it would burst, and stretching up like that was the final straw.

“So I wet myself. There in front of Dawes and all the other women. God, Chloe, it was a relief in one way — but so humiliating. It seemed to go on and on. Everyone stopped scrubbing to watch. It ran down my legs, it soaked my socks, it made a puddle on the floor. But at least I was empty.”

“Rose, that’s horrible,” I said. “What did Dawes do?”

“Nothing much. She told me to clear it up — with a small foam pad and my bare hands if you please. Then she told me to get back to work. At the end of the day we were sent back to our cells. And I had to wear wet knickers for the rest of the week.”

“That’s sick,” I said. “But it does help, Rose: thank you. You know, I can almost hate Dawes more for what she did to you than what she did to me.”

“And don’t forget what she did to Sandy,” Rose reminded.

Surprisingly, my talk with Rose had taken up the whole morning, and I was still in her arms when lunch was delivered.

“Look at the lovebirds,” Clark sneered; but neither of us heeded, for on the tray, along with the bread and tea, were two fresh oranges.

We ate them slowly, savouring every drop of juice, sucking the pith from the peel then licking our fingers.

“Stops us getting scurvy,” Rose joked.

When we had finished eating and drinking Rose said:

“One last thing I want to say about yesterday Chloe.”

“Yes?” I said.

“This thing about farting: you need to try to get over it. We’re all cooped up together in here: we have to eat together and sleep together, and shit and piss and bleed and come in each other’s company. Our bodies do what they do: there’s no place for embarrassment.”

“I know Rose,” I said.

“So just let it go. It doesn’t bother me one whit. I won’t laugh at you or sneer at you.”

“I’ll try,” I said. “It’s just years of conditioning.”

“Come here a minute,” Rose said, and she swung herself off the bed and perched on the edge. “Come and sit on my leg: that’s it, one leg either side.”

I perched uncertainly astride Rose’s leg just above her knee. Her flesh felt warm against my pussy. Suddenly she locked her arms around my tummy and squeezed.

“Rose: what are you doing?” I protested, but Rose continued to squeeze, and caught by surprise I had no time to wriggle free; my stomach was compressed, and with a muffled sound I broke wind on Rose’s leg.

“Sorry Rose,” I said.

“No need to be Chloe, it felt nice,” said Rose. I giggled awkwardly.

“See Chloe,” said Rose: “you farted. Nobody died, the roof didn’t fall in. Now: no more embarrassment. Next time you want to fart you let go, as noisily as you like.”

“All right Rose,” I said laughing.

“In fact,” said Rose: “next time you feel like farting I want you to lie on your back and draw your knees up and say ‘Rose, I’m going to fart’ and let loose as though you were in a farting competition. OK?”

“OK Rose,” I said laughing.

“There,” said Rose, putting her hand under my chin. “Laughter at last. That’s more like it. Now if you don’t mind I haven’t had a rub today and it’s starting to get to me.”

I returned to my own bed, and heard the familiar sounds of Rose getting down to work. The power of suggestion began to work on me: how nice a rub would be, I thought: and my hand strayed down to my pussy.

But I was only toying. There was only one day to go now before Showers: I was far from certain I would be able to earn enough in time to pay Prana, but I wasn’t going Nevşehir Escort Bayan to give in now. This, though, would be the last time I would set myself such a feat of self-denial.

It occurred to me that, illness apart, a week was the longest time I’d ever been without an orgasm. I started thinking about the other women, and realised that this was also the daily lot of over one hundred other prisoners. There we all were, lying on narrow beds two to a cell, spending the day masturbating. In my mind I had a bird’s eye view: lines and lines of women lying in parallel masturbating simultaneously. What was the point of it all? It was insane. It was life in prison.

I was aware of Rose falling into a post-orgasm doze: when she surfaced a little later she said:

“Mrs Tiggywinkle hasn’t been round for a couple of days: we need to have a strategy ready for when she turns up again.”

So we discussed what should be said, and how the situation should be handled, until I was almost looking forward to the encounter.

There was a brief interruption when Clark appeared at the door with a broom, and a bag, like a peg bag, over her arm.

“Here are your new razors,” she said, handing us each a safety razor out of the bag and taking the used ones. “Now get this sty of yours swept out.”

There was so little floor area it took Rose about two minutes to sweep the dust into the corridor, where a couple of prisoners were pushing brooms listlessly.

“One thing you can say about life in a cell,” said Rose: “it doesn’t take long to do all the housework.”

On our own again, and wanting to talk to take my mind of the demands of my pussy, I said to Rose:

“You remember once you started to tell me about Megan: you said you’d tell me more one day. How is it she has so much influence here, even with the Wardens?”

“Well, to start with she’s a lifer. That doesn’t really mean she’s in here for life, but she’s in for a long time, which means she has a lot less to lose than other prisoners. Then she’s tough: she’s fought herself to the top and the others are mostly afraid of her. But that doesn’t explain everything. She still has contacts on the outside, and she’s the only prisoner who gets to use a phone. As you know there isn’t a phone for prisoners, but every so often she gets to use the phone in Hardiman’s office. Ask yourself why, Chloe.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Neither do I — precisely,” said Rose. “But I’ve a good idea. You’ve heard of witnesses in trials being threatened? Or their families being threatened?”

I said I had.

“Well Prison Wardens have families too. Even the dykes in here have parents, and maybe brothers or sisters. And Megan knows some very ruthless people. Now I’m speculating here, so if you value your life do not go around repeating it: but I think something like that is at the root of it.

“Or it’s maybe that her friends out there are paying backhanders to Hardiman. Or some combination of the two. It’s even possible that Hardiman is involved in some racket, or that Megan has some sort of hold over her. I don’t know for certain.

“What I do know for certain is that once there was a fight: a new Warden said something to Megan that upset her, and the Warden ended up with a broken arm. About six other Wardens came rushing up, and separated them. All that happened was that Hardiman went off with Megan to her cell: and nothing more was said about the incident.

“Can you imagine if it had been some other prisoner? They’d have been beaten to a pulp. I know Megan’s tough, but she’s no match for three or four trained Prison Officers — no match for Hardiman come to that.”

“What happened to the Warden?” I asked.

“She never came back. Quit as soon as she got out of hospital. So there you have it. I don’t ask questions, and frankly I don’t want to know the details. But one thing is certain: it isn’t Megan’s come-to-bed eyes that get her preferential treatment.”

And this was the woman I’d sucked off in the showers, I thought, as we fell silent again. If nothing else I’d have some tales to tell when I got out of prison: though I doubted many of my old friends would believe me. Thoughts of Megan inevitably led to thoughts of Prana, and worries about payment. I pictured the women bartering in the Exercise Yard, the hair bands and toiletries and fruit. Then something struck me — and at once I experienced an awful, sinking feeling in my stomach. One of the women had had an orange: and not three hours ago I had unthinkingly eaten an orange. An orange I could have traded. An orange that could have been my means to paying for sex with Prana.

“Rose,” I asked shakily: “what’s the value of an orange? I mean, how much chocolate would it equate to?”

“Depends how plentiful they are,” said Rose. “Usually two squares of chocolate.”

Silently I cursed myself. How could I have been so dumb? I’d been praying for such an opportunity: the opportunity had arrived: and I’d missed it.

My spirits sank. This was kismet, fate. Opportunities don’t come knocking twice. Escort Nevşehir All at once I was very pessimistic about the morrow.

Day Eighteen

This time it was a river. We plunged in together: the water was warm and soon we were swimming out of our depth. Prana was ahead of me, her body arcing like a dolphin, diving and surfacing. Then she was sitting on a rock, shaking out her hair. Prana is a mermaid, I thought: and this was like a revelation: it seemed to provide the explanation to everything. I swam towards her, but just as I reached the rock she dived into the river and disappeared. I swam round, searching, then felt a great sadness because I knew her home was deep down, at the bottom of the river. I woke up without finding her.

Longing for the Prana of my dream stayed with me throughout slopping-out and breakfast, then gradually gave way to longing for the real Prana as I shook off the last remnants of sleep, rudely forced into the daily prison round by Clark trying but failing to find fault with my shaved pudenda.

“Exercise,” said Rose. “I can’t stand a morning of you twitching with nervous energy like last week.”

So I made an effort to pull myself together for Rose’s sake. I did some star jumps and running on the spot to try to work off some of the tension. Then I set to press-ups and sit-ups. For these I lay on a blanket between the beds. I finished off with some bicycling, supporting my hips with my hands, pushing them as high as they would go, and rotating my legs rapidly. It was a vigorous way to energise my body, perhaps too vigorous for the early morning: suddenly I said:

“Rose, I’m going to fart.” Still upside down I opened my legs and bent my knees and a sound like the tearing of paper rent my bottom and echoed throughout the cell. Unrepentant I met Rose’s eyes, as if to say there, how about that then? Rose beamed at me and started clapping.

From that moment I overcame my self-consciousness about farting, and was able to relax when using the bucket.

It was just as well: my nerves had affected my tummy, and three times that morning I found myself squatting over the bucket.

And then, with my bowels taken care of, lust gripped me even more strongly. I daren’t touch myself down below, I knew that: but I’d reached the point, after a week-long abstinence, when every part of my body was eroticised. I touched my shoulder: and electric spasms of desire ran up and down my arms; I touched my knee, and tramlines of lust extended up and down my legs, into my feet and over my thighs, terminating in a renewed pulsating in my pussy. I put on my clothes, to try and create a barrier against temptation, but the prison bra made my nipples tingle, and the gusset of the prison knickers tantalised my pussy unbearably. I could have come anywhere, against anything. When lunch arrived, and I picked up my mug of hot tea, I longed to thrust it between my legs, to feel the heat surge into my pussy. I was just one massive orgasm waiting to happen.

In this near-deranged state I thought out a strategy. Rose had spelled out the difference between touting for business and accepting a small reward if propositioned, but I no longer had time for playing hard to get or for waiting. I would put myself about: I would tout for business. What did I care if people thought the new girl was being presumptuous? What did I care if I became a prison tart? I had to do business: when you needed an orgasm as badly as I did, all other scruples flew out of the window.

It must have been a relief to Rose when the call to Showers finally came, as I had spent the previous hour or so alternately twitching on my bed and pacing the cell like a caged leopard. I took off my clothes, gave Rose my shampoo to look after, and dropped clothes and towel in a pile outside in the corridor. The sight of all the naked women, chattering with excitement as they formed up into a line, sent my pulse racing and my pussy salivating. Then we were on the march, and through the double doors into the steaming showers.

I looked around for familiar faces: my first thought was to find the Andrews Sisters again, as they had shown such a liking for me, but with over a hundred naked women milling around it was always difficult to locate anyone quickly. I saw Rose make a bee line for the florid, curly-haired woman I had seen her with the previous week. I saw Wilson barging about, already in an argument with another girl. I saw Fatima take herself straight off into the farthest corner.

Then I saw Prana. Almost simultaneously she caught sight of me, and came straight towards me. We did our strange little bow, and then I threw all restraint to the winds and hugged her to me, all the pent-up desire of the past week bursting out from me.

“Chloe,” she said, laughing and gasping: “you are squeezing the life out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said: “I’m just so, so pleased to see you. It’s been such an awful week — you wouldn’t believe — I’m just so pleased to see you.”

“And I you Chloe. It has not been a good week, with that poor girl Cradock. But I am here now Chloe. And soon we will go and have lovely sex together, and all will be well again. We can have sex now if you like, but it is better to wait until after we shower, then we can have half an hour together. Also I have to suck Cartwright: I do not want to do this, but she is a friend of Megan.”

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