Chloe in Prison Ch. 04

Day Three

The next day began in the same way: sudden light followed by banging on the door. In my prison uniform slopping-out wasn't such an ordeal: there were comments from the women, but none of the frenzied clawing, though my outsize knickers fell down twice, which drew hoots of laughter and catcalls, and once someone lifted up my skirt.

Breakfast arrived: porridge again, but mercifully free of piss. Then, shortly afterwards, Dawes and Clark appeared.

"Fanny inspection," announced Dawes. "Get your knickers off and your legs spread: both of you."

We did as we were ordered. Dawes gave Rose a cursory inspection, ran her finger over her mound, and said: "You'll do." Then she turned to me, and screwed up her face in what seemed to be an expression of puzzlement.

"You know, for a University tart you don't strike me as being very bright. Haven't you worked out yet that when I tell you to do something you do it?"

"Yes Sir," I said.

"Perhaps there's a problem with your memory then?"

"I don't think so Sir," I said, with growing apprehension.

"Stranger and stranger," said Dawes. "Because I don't have a problem with my memory. And I distinctly remember telling you to keep your twat shaved. Or am I wrong about that?"

"No Sir," I said - finally realising what this was about. "But -"

"But nothing," said Dawes. "This twat hasn't seen a razor for at least twenty-four hours."

"No Sir, but - "

"Stop interrupting me," shouted Dawes. "I told you to shave your twat. You haven't shaved your twat. Which means another visit to the Examination Room for you. Clearly you enjoyed yourself so much last time you can't wait to go back."

"No Sir," I said desperately, "please Sir, you told me not to take off my uniform Sir, I didn't dare disobey you Sir. Please."

Dawes stared at me. She had a trace of stubble across her upper lip which seemed to bristle when she was angry.

And then, to my immense relief, she nodded her head.

"Until I tell you different," she said, "you keep your uniform on all the time EXCEPT when you shave your twat. I'll be back here in the morning: and if I find a single hair where it shouldn't be, you'll be for it. Got that?"

"Yes Sir," I said. "Thank you Sir."

"Come on," said Dawes to Clark. "It smells like a cesspit in here."

And with that they left.

"Phew," said Rose when they'd gone: "that was a close shave." And though my heart was still pounding, for the first time since I'd arrived in prison I managed to laugh.

Once I'd recovered from Dawes' visit I eyed the razor.

"I suppose I'd better make a start," I said. "How come Dawes didn't bawl you out? I don't remember you shaving?"

"My hair doesn't grow as fast," said Rose. "I can get away with every other day."

"Lucky you," I said.

"You'd do better to wait until later in the day," said Rose. "Less time for it to grow again. And Chloe: it isn't easy trying to shave yourself: usually the girls help each other out. The front isn't too hard, but it's impossible to see down below. You can say no if you like, but given what Dawes has said it would be better if you let me shave you."

"Oh," I said. Here was yet another invasive aspect of prison life it seemed I was going to have to put up with. "Well, if you think it's best."

"I do," said Rose. "It's not as easy as it seems - especially with cold water."

It was late afternoon, after a miserable lunch of bread and jam, when Rose decided the time had come for us to shave.

"I'll do you first," she said, "then you'll have a better idea of how to do me. There's quite a knack to it. First of all we've got to choose the best position. Basically there are two ways: you can lie on your back with a towel under you, which is more comfortable but you have to be careful with the water or the bed gets wet; or, you can squat over the bucket: not so comfortable, and not too pleasant for the person doing the shaving because of the smell, but you can be more generous with the water. There is another way, but I don't recommend it."

"What is it?" I asked.

"You squat over the washbasin," said Rose.

I looked at the washbasin: what she was suggesting seemed all but impossible.

"What about the shelf?" I asked.

"The shelf can be removed," said Rose. "Then you sit between the brackets with your back to the wall and your legs spread over the sides of the basin. It's good for water and access - but none too comfortable. I couldn't do it, I'm too heavy. But you might be alright."

"I think I'd rather lie on the bed," I said.

"OK," said Rose. 'Start by squatting over the bucket and splashing your fanny with water."

I took off my skirt and knickers and did as she asked, feeling very clumsy and self conscious. Rose folded my towel and placed it on my bed.

"Now rub soap over yourself," she said. "And whatever you do don't drop the soap in the bucket."

Very carefully I soaped myself.

"Now lie down."

I lay down. Rose adjusted the towel so it was directly under my privates. Then she filled the jug with water and took up the safety razor.

"Here goes," she said.

Perching on the edge of the bed, she began to draw the razor down over my pubic bone, dipping it frequently into the jug of cold water. Despite my efforts to keep still, I couldn't help squirming.

"Chloe," said Rose. "I've done this hundreds of times: I'm not going to cut you. Keep still and trust me."

"Sorry," I said.

"The art," continued Rose, "is to be as economical as possible. Use as little soap as possible, and make as few strokes with the razor as are necessary. If you go scraping this way and that, the razor will be blunt in no time. And trying to shave your fanny with a blunt razor is no picnic, believe me."

I lay there, abandoning myself to Rose's practised touch. Sooner than I would have imagined she had finished shaving my front, and was rinsing the razor.

"I'm going to soap you between your legs now," she said. "I'll need you to keep them wide open for me."

I drew my legs open as wide as I could: I felt the soap being worked over my labia and my opening, then round underneath me and over my anus.

"I wouldn't normally go this far," said Rose: "but after what Dawes said we can't be too careful."

I felt her fingers, holding my labia, and the razor being drawn from the side to the middle, over and again. Rose's fingers seemed to be everywhere, pulling and examining me, making sure every secret crevice was exposed and shaved clean. Strange, warm sensations began to envelop me. I felt myself getting wet. I began to wriggle again.

"Chloe: I can't do this if you're going to keep on fidgeting."

"I'm sorry," I said. "It's just - you're making me feel randy."

"Try and control yourself until I've finished. Then if you want me to I'll sort you out."

"I'll try," I said.

Rose finally let go of my lips, and began to run the razor between my two openings, over my perineum. I twisted and groaned aloud.

"This is no good," said Rose. "I'm going to have to sort you out before I finish."

She put down the razor and put her hand over my vagina: I felt as though it was going to melt. Then she did something extraordinary: she gripped one of my lips between her thumb and forefinger and the other lip between her two smallest fingers, and with her middle finger slotted firmly over my clitoris began to knead me. The sensation was amazing: not just my clit but the whole of my fanny was being massaged and stimulated at the same time. My lips were swelling, my clit was swelling: I felt as though the whole area between my legs was on fire.

"Oh my God Rose," I gasped: "Oh oh oh oh oh."

It was a wonderful, mind-blowing orgasm, which left me reeling with sensations I'd never experienced before.

"Jesus, Rose," I said when I'd recovered my breath. "How on earth did you learn that?"

"Years of practice," smiled Rose. "Now can we get on with your shave?"

"Yes," I sighed.

She carried on, shaving my perineum, parting my buttocks and shaving around my arsehole, stopping now and then to soap me some more.

"Right," she said. "I think you're done, but I'm going to go over you again, and make sure I haven't missed anything."

She leant right over me, scrutinising me, parting my lips and exposing any hidden crevices, occasionally making a little scrape with the razor.

"There," she said. "How's that look?" She took the mirror and held it behind my bottom: I could see the reflection of my parts from below: they looked unfamiliar, as though they belonged to somebody else and not me. It was too far away to detect any hairs.

"Smooth as the day you were born," said Rose. "Now rinse yourself over the bucket and get dried."

"Thank you Rose," I said, doing as she instructed, though I was still almost drunk from my orgasm. Then I lay back on the bed with my legs open, enjoying the sensation of air on my fanny.

"You're very sensitive you know," said Rose. "Very quick to rouse."

"Am I?" I said. "I'd never thought of it before."

"With some women it's like rubbing a stone," said Rose. "You can diddle them for an hour before they come."

"You know Rose," I said, "I always used to hate the idea of shaving. I thought it was something only gullible women did to make themselves look like porn queens, or because their boyfriends liked it. But actually it feels sexy. Like taking off a last layer of clothes you never knew you were wearing."

"That's a good way to think about it," said Rose, "since it has to be done anyway. But you ought to put your knickers back on, just in case Dawes makes a surprise visit."

Reluctantly I put on the skirt and knickers, without pulling the latter up tight.

"Are you ready to do me yet or do you want to bask?" asked Rose.

In truth I just wanted to savour the afterglow of my orgasm: but I didn't like to keep Rose waiting, so I told her I was ready.

Rose now put her folded towel on her bed, wet her fanny with water from the jug, soaped herself and lay down. I noticed the line of her pubic hair started much higher up than mine, and I began to draw the razor down, over her two-day stubble, over her mound.

"Not so hard," she said. "You're not scraping paint. Let the razor do the work."

I drew the razor lightly, and found it worked just as well. Then, seeing I had missed a small area I drew the razor back upwards."

"Ouch," said Rose. "Only from top to bottom, with the direction of the hairs please."

"Sorry," I said. "When Hardiman shaved me she did it every which-way."

"She would," said Rose.

I carried on, trying to keep a light touch, drawing the razor as delicately as I could, teasing out Rose's fleshy labia to shave around and underneath. There was so much of her, I reflected: her parts seemed so much more substantial and involved than mine. By the time I reached her perineum she too was wet, and struggling to keep still. I drew the razor lightly over her anus, until she said:

"That'll do. Now for God's sake rub me before I explode."

I closed my hand over her pussy and began to knead. I tried to do what she had done, gripping her labia between my various fingers, but it was more complicated than I'd imagined, and I was aware of my clumsiness.

"Just rub my clit," said Rose. So I let my finger sink between her folds and rotated it, trying to keep an even tempo and pressure. Her breathing grew rapid, her fanny was slippery and wet.

"I'm nearly there" said Rose, "keep going, keep going, I'm nearly there - oooh, yes, yes, yes, perfect, perfect, perfect. Aaah."

Her hips flexed upwards and she bounced on the bed as she came, pushing her vulva into my hand, and finally shaking her legs and feet in the air as the orgasm travelled down through her body, then subsided.

"Magic," she said, and her groans turned into post-coital laughter: "Chloe Thumb and the Magic Bean."

"I think it was Jack who had the magic bean," I laughed. "Tom Thumb was a different story."

"Who cares," said Rose.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Dinner this time was macaroni cheese, brought in by Raymond and the dumpy woman. I noticed again how tall Raymond was: at least six feet, probably as tall as Hardiman, but slender and less bulked-out with muscle. She had long fair hair - the only Warden I'd seen who did not have her hair cropped short - and her skirt seemed very short: though it may just have been that her legs were so long. Her face was slightly asymmetrical, and her nose very slightly bent.

The other Warden had a face like a hamburger that had been squeezed top and bottom. Her chin was small and squashed-up, her nose was stub, and her forehead low. As if to compensate for this her hair was gathered up into little spiky mounds, like corn stooks, and set with gel.

"Like your new belt," said Rose, feeling the rim of Raymond's skirt.

"Mason, you make the joke, yes?" said Raymond. It was the first time I had heard her speak more than a couple of words, and I realised she was not English but North European.

"I never joke with you," said Rose.

"Now Mason, you tease me," said Raymond. "My skirt - is not short?" She picked up the rim of the skirt as though pretending to examine it, giving Rose and myself a good sighting of her white knickers.

"For a belt it's long," said Rose, and Raymond sniggered.

"You eat your dinner Mason," she said: "we discuss this some other time." Then she turned to me, and sniffed:

"This is not good," she said: "you must have clean clothes soon."

"I hope so Sir," I said.

"Yes," she said, nodding.

Then the two Wardens left.

"Rose," I said, when we'd finished our meal: "tell me about the Wardens: you seem to get on well with Raymond."

"Raymond's all right," said Rose. "About the only decent one here. She's a raving nympho, but not a sadist, and she'll do her best for you if she can. Yes, I get on well with her."

"What about the little fat one?"

"Mrs Tiggywinkle?"

I spluttered.

"Her name's Causer. If you ask me she's unhinged. She made me suck her off once, then by way of thanks she farted in my face and laughed like a drain"

"Mental," I said - wondering if the same thing would happen to me.

"Hardiman you've experienced for yourself. Fortunately you don't see too much of her day to day. Word is, she wanted to join the Marines, but they turned her down because she's short-sighted. So she's been taking it out on prisoners ever since.

"Dawes is the most twisted person I've ever had the misfortune to meet. Clark's her protégé: you've seen the way she follows her around like a little pot-bellied pig. She'll be just like Dawes one day. Bradley's all right if you're black - otherwise she's got a chip on her shoulder a mile wide. Another one you've got to watch out for is Hackett."

"Hackett?" I said, remembering the slight, bony-headed woman with the sharp nose: "I haven't seen her since the Examination Room."

"You don't want to either," said Rose. "She's not a proper Prison Officer, just works in Admin, and she's jealous as hell of the real Officers and the power they wield. But sometimes if they're short-staffed she helps out - and tries to make up for lost time. She'll find fault with anything you do, and she hands out punishments no sane person would dream up in a lifetime."

"What sort of things?" I asked.

"One time the girl who was here before you was feeling miserable. 'No long faces in here,' said Hackett. 'I want to see happy smiling prisoners.' So she made this girl, Emma, strip off and sing Nursery Rhymes whilst dancing. After five minutes Hackett said: 'now do it again and this time keep smiling.' So Emma had to prance about singing Hickory Dickory Dock - all the time with a big stupid grin on her face. Can you imagine that? You're practically dying of humiliation, all you want to do is curl up and cry - and you have to sing and dance and keep smiling.

"Then there was an incident in the Exercise Yard: somebody said something Hackett didn't like, and was made to strip off and do squat jumps round the yard, all the time quacking like a duck. The poor woman was dropping with exhaustion before Hackett let her stop. Her voice had gone, her legs wouldn't support her: the other prisoners had to help her back to her cell.

"There are other things - she made a girl stand in the corner of her cell with a bar of carbolic soap in her mouth once for what Hackett called 'impudence'. But if you don't mind I rather talk about something more pleasant."

There was a bit of an awkward silence, as I tried to dismiss these perversely compelling pictures from my mind. Then I asked:

"Rose: what did you do before you were put in here?"

"I worked in a bakery," said Rose. "But I don't like to talk about it."

"Was it tough?" I asked.

"No," said Rose. "It's just that whenever I think about it I remember the smell of bread. Freshly baked bread, crusty and toothsome - not like the pap we're given in here. And it's best not to think about what you can't have. That way you stand a chance of staying sane."