Chloe in Prison Ch. 15

Days Twenty-Eight to Thirty-One

I had been in prison for four weeks, and the monotony was really getting to me. The day after Exercise was always the worst: there were four more days of relentless boredom to go before Showers: and with Exercise being such a downer this time, and no sex to keep me going, I started to slide into strange, sometimes morbid, mental spaces. My period was now in full flow: often this was a time of dreaminess for me: only now the daydreams were dark and twisted and nightmarish.

The dreariness of the cell was the first thing to oppress me. The dingy walls, with no variation in colour or texture; the grey prison blankets; the tarnished metal bed-frames. Whichever way I turned there was no relief from the drabness. The cell was a box, regular and uninteresting, and at night in particular it felt like a tomb, the walls so close that Rose and I were not merely locked-up, but entombed there. One day, in desperation, I even wriggled under my bed - just to be somewhere different.

I spent a lot of time masturbating. Once slopping-out was done I didn't bother with skirt or knickers again, and scarcely bothered to cover myself when the Wardens came in at mealtimes. But my fantasies were moving in strange directions. To start with, I couldn't stop thinking about Parker and the Wooden Pony. A sort of 'survivor's guilt' took hold of me. Logically I knew that I had done nothing to merit such a punishment. Yet the fact that I had witnessed it whilst somebody else had undergone it made me feel guilty, feel that I, too, should have had a share in it.

What must it have felt like? How long was it before the pain shifted from bearable to unbearable? How much difference did the weights make? I had a good idea what it must feel like to be hit with a strap or a riding crop, even though I had never suffered those punishments. But I had no idea what it felt like to be sat on the Pony. I wanted to find out, but how? I looked around the cell for something I could put between my legs and press down on. There was no frame at the foot of the bed, but a metal frame did extend above the bed at the head: Rose and I used it to hang our towels on. I wondered if I could straddle it: but it was too close to the wall, and as the beds were bolted to the floor, they could not be moved. There was nothing else that would fit the bill: although one afternoon when Rose was dozing I tried to stand on the edge of my bed and get my knee into the washbasin, then lower my pussy down onto the rim. It was very awkward, and not really comparable to the pony: but as the cold stainless steel pressed hard against me I did get a sense of how excruciatingly painful it must have been.

Perhaps it was because they were omnipresent in prison, but pain and punishment seemed to dominate my sexual fantasies. Instead of making love in beautiful surrounding, I was rubbing off to visions of rape and chastisement and humiliation, in almost all of which I was the victim. And the strangest thing was, I was recreating the very scenes that in real life had caused me so much misery. I relived Cradock's dreadful thrashing, only this time it was me strapped to the vaulting horse, my bottom and thighs on which the strap bore down, and this imagined punishment wrought me to a tumultuous orgasm. I relived my initiation in the showers, where all the women in turn had forced their fingers inside me. I clutched at fragments, such as Prana's mention of her cousin, and I flicked myself whilst picturing him, held down by coarse factory hands, having his scrotum kneaded. I even relived the afternoon Dawes came into my cell with the speculum, and that too, though appalling when it had happened, was turned into orgasm fodder. Hardiman was so terrifying I could not quite bring myself to transform her in this way; but when, in my fantasies, Mrs Tiggywinkle pissed in my mouth I begged for more, and when she pinched my pussy lips I urged her to pinch harder, until I reached a shuddering climax.

"Rose," I said one evening: "I'm having the most disgusting sexual fantasies."

"Don't worry about it," said Rose. "Fantasies don't hurt anybody."

So I carried on. I was a kind of alchemist, transforming the dross of everyday life into the gold of sexual arousal. Only, in the isolated tomb of the cell, where there were no timepieces and the light never varied, where I slept and dozed and woke in the night, and dreamed and daydreamed, I began to lose sight of what was real and what was fantasy.

I was brought down to earth in brutal fashion the day Dawes announced a supplementary Exercise session for the prisoners who were eligible.

This meant that shortly after lunch Rose was allowed outside, whilst I had to remain in confinement.

Although I had no plans for a leisurely shit, having now overcome my inhibitions, I did look forward to having the cell to myself for an hour. I thought of Micky, and all the others confined to their cells, the girls kept in whilst the others enjoyed playtime, and felt an invisible kinship with them.

I should have known it was not to last. Less than five minutes after Rose had gone, keys turned in the lock, and Clark and Bradley barged in, locking the door behind them.

"All on your ownsome I see," said Bradley.

"Yes Sir," I said. "Rose is at Exercise Sir."

"We thought you might enjoy some company," said Clark.

Unhurriedly the two of them lay down, one on each bed. In unison they crossed their arms behind their heads, and stretched out their legs, putting their leather boots on our blankets.

I felt angry. Tiny as the cell was, it was our sanctuary, the one area of personal space allowed to us. Now they were invading it, acting as though they owned it.

As though she could read my thoughts Clark picked up my prize possession, my blue flannel.

"This yours?" she asked.

"Yes Sir."

"I'm feeling a bit hot and sticky today," she said. "You won't object if I borrow it?"

"No Sir," I said mournfully. Clark then drew up her fat legs, slipped off her knickers, took my flannel and wiped it firmly back and forth between her legs, reaching right under and making sure she wiped her anus. That done she tossed the flannel across to Bradley who caught it.

"You feeling sticky as well sister?" she asked.

"Sure am," said Bradley, who then gave an exact imitation, rubbing the flannel deep into the groove of her black pussy and into the crack of her fat bum-cheeks.

"That's better," she said, tossing the flannel back to Clark, who held it at arms length between her finger and thumb, screwed up her piggy nose, then tossed it into the washbasin and crossed her arms behind her head again.

"So," said Clark: "you like exercise, right?"

"Yes Sir," I said.

"You can exercise now then, whilst we watch."

"Yes Sir," I said, without moving.

"Get your kit off and get going then," said Clark.

I was already naked from the waist down, so I removed my jumper, shirt and bra, and finally my socks.

"Stand by the door," said Clark. "Start by running on the spot."

I started to run, but half-heartedly.

"Faster," snapped Clark. "Get your knees higher."

So I ran on the spot, as fast as I could, bringing my knees up level with my stomach. Soon I was panting.

"Keep going," said Clark. "Don't stop until I tell you."

I was gasping for breath, gulping in air through my mouth before she told me to stop.

"Now some high kicks," Bradley ordered.

Before I could get my breath back properly I launched into high kicks, raising first one leg then the other. Exercises like this were usually second only to rubbing-off in my hierarchy of daily pleasures: but leered at by Clark and Bradley, with no control over what I must do or how long for, I found them hateful.

"Stop," said Clark. "Now some star jumps."

Wearily I threw out my arms and legs and jumped."

"Put some muscle into it," commanded Bradley.

I felt like a performing doll, forced to go through movements which were normally invigorating, but in this context were exhausting and degrading.

"That'll do," said Clark. "Now lie on your back and do some bicycling."

I lay on my back on the cold concrete - at least that gave me a chance to get my breath - and began to bicycle my legs.

"Higher," said Bradley.

With my elbows braced on the floor I pushed my hips as high as I could, and with my bottom stuck into the air I farted and resumed the bicycling.

"Stop!" shouted Clark.

Gratefully I stopped and rested.

"What did you just do?" Clark demanded.

"Bicycling Sir," I said, baffled by her evident displeasure.

"What else?" Bradley demanded.

"I don't know Sir," I said.

"She doesn't know," said Bradley to Clark, as though despairing of my ignorance.

"You'd better start thinking," said Clark unpleasantly.

It began to dawn on me:

"I farted Sir," I said.

"At last," said Bradley. "At last we've got there."

"Why did you fart at a Prison Officer Littlehayes?" asked Clark

"I didn't Sir... I mean, not at you Sir, I just... farted."

"Sounds more to me like a deliberate insult," said Clark. "What do you think Officer Bradley?"

"Sounds to me like she needs a good clean-out," said Bradley, screwing up her nose. "Why don't you empty your bowels properly Littlehayes?"

"She can empty them properly now," said Clark. "Stand by the wall and don't move until I return."

With that Clark swung her chunky boots off my bed, pulled her knickers back on, unlocked the door and slipped out of the cell. Bradley continued to eyeball me.

"You'se gonna learn to show some respect to Prison Officers," she said.

Moments later Clark returned. In one hand she was carrying a small black attaché case. I did not like the look of that attaché case, it reminded me too much of Dawes' holdall. But I liked even less what she carried in her other hand: a child's plastic potty.

She locked the door and placed the potty on the floor in front of it.

"Sit there and empty your bowels," she ordered.

I looked down in dismay. The potty was tiny, the yellow plastic worn and faded. How on earth was I supposed to sit on it?

"What are you waiting for?" asked Bradley.

So I lowered my bottom onto the potty. It was very uncomfortable: my buttocks spilled over the edges, and my knees came up to the sides of my face. I felt like a child sitting there, small, embarrassed and vulnerable.

Clark looked at her watch.

"You've got five minutes," she said.

"You'd better do what you'se supposed to," said Bradley. "Otherwise you'se in big trouble."

I must have spent the first minute trying to sit on the potty without unbalancing, as well as trying to take in the fact that the two Wardens were in earnest. Then I tried to concentrate, contracting my muscles, trying to summon up the necessary peristaltic movements.

Nothing happened. It was all but impossible for me to shit to order in the most relaxing of circumstances. Seated on a child's potty with two Prison Wardens staring at me it was hopeless.

"Two minutes gone," said Clark.

But I had to try. So I started straining, closing my eyes, working my stomach muscles, willing something to happen, praying my bowels would cooperate.

Still nothing happened. I grew red in the face with straining.

"One more minute," said Clark.

The potty dug into my bottom. I tried to change positions, briefly stood up and sat down again. Still I could not produce what Clark and Bradley demanded.

"Time's up," said Clark.

"Not very cooperative is she?" said Bradley.

"Let's be generous," said Clark. "Let's give her another five minutes."

"You'se too kind-hearted for your own good Sister," said Bradley. "Let's hope she repays your kindness."

They fixed their eyes on me once more. I knew it was hopeless - but I had to go on trying. I squeezed my sphincter, pushed with all my might, and managed to squeeze out a fart.

"Three minutes left," said Clark.

Tears were welling up behind my eyes. I fought them back. The rim of the potty was hurting me: whatever they were going to do, I hardly cared as long as this could end, and I could get off the infernal potty.

"I can't do anything Sir," I blurted.

Bradley tut-tutted.

"One more minute," said Clark remorselessly.

I gave up, just sank there with my head between my knees and my arms hanging limply.

"Time's up," said Clark. "Stand up Littlehayes, let's see what you've done. Bring the potty over."

I stood up: my legs ached. I picked up the potty.

"Bring it here," said Clark.

I carried it between the beds: the two Wardens peered into it.

"I don't see nothing," said Bradley. "You see anything Sister?"

"Not a dicky bird," said Clark. "Not very cooperative is she? Well Littlehayes?"

"I tried Sir," I murmured. "I couldn't do anything."

"We'll just have to help you out then, won't we?" said Clark. "Out of the kindness of our hearts."

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

Clark snapped open the attaché case. Inside was an assemblage of funnels, nozzles, rubber balls, and tubes coiled like nesting snakes. Clark drew out a red rubber device which seemed to comprise a length of tubing and a rubber ball somewhere between the size of a football and a cricket ball. She unscrewed the tubing, put the ball under the tap, and proceeded to fill it with water. Then she reattached the tubing.

Bradley meanwhile took from the attaché case a tube of lubricant and squeezed some onto her middle finger.

"Bend over and spread your cheeks," she ordered.

I leaned forwards, reached back and spread my buttocks. I felt Bradley's finger, smearing cold lubricant on my anus then sliding deep inside me. I winced. The finger rotated, flexed, and was drawn backwards and forwards before it was finally withdrawn.

"Touch your toes," said Clark.

I leaned right over. I saw Clark, behind me, take the enema ball, and felt the tip of the nozzle against my anus. Seconds later it was inside me.

"Sorry about the cold water," said Clark: "hot's off today."

She squeezed the red ball, and cold water flooded into my bowels. Instantly I felt the need to shit. More water flowed into me: my muscles, which had refused to cooperate whilst I sat on the potty, now went frantically through the motions of expulsion: only, because my passage was blocked by the enema tube, I could not go through with it.

"Please Sir I need to go," I couldn't help saying.

"Changed your tune now have you?" said Bradley.

"You wouldn't cooperate with us," said Clark: "why should we cooperate with you Littlehayes?"

"How long did you keep us waiting?" asked Bradley.

"Ten minutes," said Clark. "So now she can wait ten minutes."

I groaned. I was creased-up, doubled up with the need to empty myself. On top of that I had cramping pains from the cold water. I threw pleading looks at Clark and Bradley. I begged, I cried, I pleaded: it was no good: I might as well have been pleading with statues.

The cell seemed to spin around me. I put my hands on the wash-basin to steady myself. Never again, I thought: only that morning I had been rubbing-off whilst imagining I was being given an enema. I had lain on my bed, pretending that my bowels were opening whilst a group of Wardens looked down on me, laughing. It had brought me a momentous orgasm. But there was nothing remotely erotic about the pain and distress I was now feeling.

"Five more minutes," said Clark, who was counting down.

I clung to one thought: I had been through this before. In the Examination Room I had been filled-up with I don't know how many litres of water, but far more than could be held in the red ball Clark had used. And I had survived. My bowels would not burst, no matter how much it felt like it.

I felt the rubber tube starting to slip out of me as my muscles gripped and tried to expel it: Clark immediately pushed it back in again.

"Two more minutes," she said.

I started counting silently, forcing myself to pay attention to the numbers. Ninety-six, ninety-five, ninety-four... thirty-two, thirty-one, thirty.

I thought of the Apollo countdown: ten, nine, eight, seven...

"All right," said Clark: "time's up."

I groped for the potty.

"Not there," snapped Clark. "In the bucket."

She took the lid off and tossed it onto the floor. With the nozzle and tube still up my anus, and Clark holding the red ball, I positioned myself over the stinking bucket.

"You'd better make sure it doesn't go on the floor," warned Clark, "or you'll be cleaning it up."

Creased with need I made sure I was positioned fully over the opening, with my bottom as low as I could get it. Suddenly Clark whisked out the tube: there was a moment's hesitation, as though my bowels couldn't believe their good fortune: and then I exploded.

"Now why couldn't you'se have done that earlier Goldilocks?" asked Bradley, as I continued to shit into the bucket. "Saved us all a whole heap of trouble."

I couldn't speak. My whole being was caught up in what was happening inside my bottom. The shit turned to liquid; the liquid turned to air; and at last I was finished.

"Get yourself clean," said Clark. "You can use that nice flannel of yours if you want to."

I didn't want to. I used the jug, splashing cold water over my anus and buttocks.

"Perhaps you'll learn to empty yourself properly," said Clark. "Because next time you fart at me I shall put you on the potty at Exercise in front of the whole prison."

"Yes Sir," I said miserably, drying myself.

"Now wash this," she said, handing me the enema bulb and tubing. I did as I was told, dried it reluctantly on my towel, and handed it back. Clark packed it back in the attaché case.

We heard footsteps in the corridor. Bradley stood up and put her knickers back on.

"Your arse sore?" she asked.

"Yes Sir" I said.

"Get your cellmate to kiss it better," she said, as the door opened and Rose returned.

With that Clark and Bradley took their leave.

"Kiss what better?" asked Rose.

"Nothing Rose, it doesn't matter," I said. I replaced the lid on the slops bucket, then washed out my flannel, several times over.

Then I lay down on my bed. I was so drained it was not until after dinner I realised that Clarke and Bradley had left without me having to suck or in any way pleasure them.

I told Rose what had happened whilst she was shaving me. She nodded, as though it was something she had been expecting, but said little. After I had shaved her she asked me if I fancied a cuddle, but all I wanted to do was curl up in my own bed, and I was glad when the light went out. I tried to go down the well-worn route, but my heart wasn't in it: all of a sudden I'd lost my appetite for sick sexual fantasies. I wanted love and tenderness. I wanted stroking and laughter. I wanted another hand between my legs, another voice in my ears, and blissful, mutual orgasms.

Mercifully it was Showers next day, and I would see Prana

Day Thirty-Two

"Is there anything they don't spoil?" I asked Rose. It was the following day, after breakfast: the time I would normally have used for exercising. Only, after my experience with Bradley and Clark, even exercise seemed sullied and unappealing.

"Think of it this way," said Rose: "Hardiman and Dawes have had you. Raymond and Mrs Tiggywinkle have had you. Wilkes is in hospital. Now in their own way Clark and Bradley have had you. There aren't many more left. It was always going to happen: just be pleased it's over."

"Did I tell you what they did to my flannel?" I said. I told Rose now. "I really thought Clark was going to drop it in the slops bucket."

"She's a nasty piece of work," said Rose. "But she didn't do that: you've still got your flannel."

"I suppose. Rose, I'm sorry if I was distant last night."

"I'd put it down to what Clark and Bradley did to you," said Rose. "Only you've been in a world of your own all week."