Chloe in Prison Ch. 05
Eyl 5, 2023 // By:analsex // No Comment
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Day Four: Showers
Slopping out proceeded as usual next morning. My knickers fell down again – there was really no way to prevent this whilst walking – but the joke was wearing stale, there was less laughter, and nobody bothered to lift up my skirt.
Back in the cell I waited anxiously for Dawes. Breakfast came and went, and still she did not appear. The stench of stale piss was so rank I could hardly breathe without putting my hand to my nostrils.
“She’s making you sweat,” said Rose.
It was late morning when she came barging in with the faithful Clark following.
“Right,” she said: “I’ve no time to waste: get your knickers off and your legs open. Officer Clark, you inspect Mason.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Clark, who was young enough to be Rose’s daughter, prod about disrespectfully at the older woman’s private parts. Dawes stared at me grimly.
“Open them properly,” she said.
“I opened my legs as wide as I could. Dawes sat on the bed, lowered her head, and began to prod and pull at me. Sometimes she ran her fingertip over my mound, sometimes she stroked me with the back of her finger. I held my breath and prayed that Rose had done a thorough job on me. Dawes continued to poke and squeeze. My legs were getting tired.
“Officer Clark: hold Littlehayes’ legs up for me would you.”
“Pleasure Officer Dawes,” smarmed Clark.
I found my legs being lifted and pulled right back; Dawes began to examine the region around my perineum and anus, pulling and poking most unpleasantly. Her face was inches away from my genitals. I wondered she hadn’t brought a magnifying glass. Finally she stuck her finger into my anus, gave a vicious twist, and told Clark to lower me down.
Then she nodded.
“Your cellmate’s done a good job on you,” she said, with a nod in Rose’s direction. “I hope you showed your gratitude.”
“Yes Sir,” I said.
“Very well: at Showers this afternoon you leave all your clothes outside your cell. When you come back there’ll be clean ones waiting. Any questions?”
“No Sir,” I said. “Thank you Sir.”
Dawes snorted, and Clark, after a backwards sneer, followed her out.
“The bitch stuck her finger up my arse,” I said, once I was certain they were well out of earshot.
“One of her quaint little ways,” said Rose. “Let it go: at least you passed. A few more hours and we might be able to breathe half-decent air again.”
My relief at surviving Dawes’ inspection lasted through lunch – a bowl of watery tomato soup – but had begun to give way to nervousness even before Rose said:
“I need to brief you about the showers. I’ve told you all the women will want a piece of you. Don’t get upset and don’t struggle too hard, but don’t be too forward. Give them some banter, they enjoy that – but make sure you don’t insult anybody. Remember they’re testing you, trying to find out what you’re made of. Show them you’ve got some spunk – but don’t go overboard.
“And remember what I told you about Megan: do whatever she says and do it willingly.”
“Who is Megan?” I asked. “What has she done?”
“Murder, extortion, armed robbery, GBH – do you want me to go on?”
“Oh Jesus,” I said.
“One other thing,” continued Rose: “there’ll be a bit of an initiation ceremony. It’s not very pleasant but you have to go through with it. I’m not allowed to say any more: just accept it with a good grace – and remember: we’ve all been through it. And don’t expect too much from me: once you’re in the showers you’re on your own: there’s very little I can do to help you.”
This did nothing to quell my nerves, and I’d worked myself up into a state of acute anxiety by the time the door clanged open and we were ordered to get ourselves stripped and ready. I took off the damp clothes at last, and following Rose’s example dropped them in the corridor outside our cell, along with our used towels. Women were emerging everywhere: there was a palpable buzz in the air, and more Wardens than I had seen together were pacing the corridor.
Rose and I took our places in the line, and began to file forward. We turned a corner, and ahead I could see a pair of doors labelled SHOWERS. Two Wardens opened the doors, and the women at the head of the queue started to file through. As we approached, one of the Wardens – it was Bradley – eyeballed me:
“You’se going right into the lion’s den druggie girl,” she said: “and you’se gonna be eaten alive.”
I nearly turned tail and fled, but the crush of women behind propelled me forward.
I found myself in a large, white-tiled area. Three of the walls were flanked by wooden benches. Along the far wall were about twelve shower-heads – there were no dividing walls, everything was open-plan – and already water was streaming from the nozzles. The air was warm and steamy, and I was surprised to see that the water was hot: as we had only cold water in the cells I had been bracing myself for a cold, uncomfortable shower. Women were still pouring in behind me: then the doors were closed, and Hardiman, who was standing against Nevşehir Escort one of the walls flanked by five or six Wardens, blew a whistle and called out:
“Cells One to Six into the showers. Five minutes.”
At this a dozen women made straight for the showers, and stood under the streaming water.
This left what seemed like a moving forest of women. There were tall women and short women, old women and young women, black women, white women and women of indeterminate colours and races. They were laughing and shouting and joshing each other, forming little clusters, putting arms around each other, punching one another playfully, all clearly revelling in their hour of freedom.
And they were all stark naked. I saw tits of all shapes and sizes, bellies large and small, legs and thighs and arms and shoulders, stretch marks and cellulite, bare feet and bare backs and bare shaven fannies. The whole ensemble seemed almost like one organism, a giant amoeba-like mass of heaving female flesh, made even more surreal by the steam, by the sound of the water plunging, which caused the women to raise their voices, and by the tiles, which generated unearthly echoes.
I had never seen so much flesh. Every time I took a step I seemed to come up against another naked woman. I felt suffocated, as though I was going to be devoured by female substance. I shrank from it: it was horrible, unnatural. I liked men: men with their hard bodies, their muscles and hair, their penises: I didn’t belong here amongst this seething suffocation of breasts and bellies and thighs.
But there was no way out. And now the women began to take note of me, and surround me. I had my tits felt and my buttocks squeezed: arms were thrown around my shoulders.
“It’s the new girl,” someone said.
“The one who couldn’t wait to drop her knickers,” said another, who I now recognised from slopping-out.
“She’s got them off now alright,” said a third: “come on new girl, let’s have a look at you.”
They milled round me, peering at me, running their hands over me as though I was a beast at a livestock market. There was nowhere to run, so I steeled myself, and remembering what Rose had said I tried to keep smiling, and summon up some banter.
“Come on girls, control yourselves,” I said, twisting away from a groping hand, though the words sounded wrong coming from my lips, and I knew I was no good at this sort of thing.
“Hark at her, playing hard to get,” said a girl with her hair cut in a fringe.
“Come on love, don’t be shy,” said a dark-skinned woman: “we won’t eat you.”
“I would,” said a fat woman with one breast larger than the other.
There was a burst of laughter: to my immense relief it all seemed to be fairly good-humoured. Then a whistle blew, and I heard Hardiman shout over the babble of voices:
“Cells Seven to Twelve: into the showers: five minutes.”
There was a change-over at the showers, and some of the women who had been jostling me left, only to be replaced by others. I noticed that once the women were in the showers, nobody disturbed them, and they did not seem to talk to each other. It was clear that their brief spell under steaming water was the most precious, sacred time of the week for them, and no-one was going to disturb anyone else.
There were bars of soap in the showers, but I noticed that a few women were carrying tiny bottles of shampoo, which evidently they’d brought with them from their cells. Perhaps shampoo was one of the gifts for ‘services rendered’. As though she’d read my thoughts a rather skinny woman of about fifty with loose flesh on her stomach came up to me.
“Would you like to borrow my shampoo love?” she asked.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Give me a kiss then,” said the woman.
If I must I must, I thought: for I very much wanted to wash my hair. I pressed my lips together, and leaned in to her cheek, but she pulled away:
“Not there,” she said: “down there silly!”
She stepped back, leaning back and standing with her legs apart, pointing down at her fleshy genitals. I backed away in alarm. There were hoots of shrill laughter.
“It’s OK,” I muttered.
“Please yourself love,” said the woman.
Unfortunately I backed straight into an enormous West Indian woman, who closed her arms around my breasts, and nuzzled her head against my ear.
“Come and give Mama a kiss,” she said, rocking me backwards and forwards. She pressed her cheek against mine: then planted her rubbery lips on my lips.
“There, she ain’t so shy after all,” she said: “she just like the feel of a real woman. She don’t half stink though”
The shower changeover was called again. The black woman released me, and for a brief moment nobody made a grab for me. I caught snatches of conversation. Everything seemed to be about food or sex: who’d ‘had’ who, who’d ‘done’ which Wardens, who’d earned chocolate, how many orgasms women had managed. Some of the women were pairing off, and shamelessly touching each other up and fingering each other. There was Nevşehir Escort Bayan no sense of personal space, no concern for privacy. This scared me most of all: I wanted to find some space for myself, but it was as though I was trapped in a moving forest of flesh: everywhere I went a breast was heaving or someone was being fingered, and women were climaxing indifferent to the cheers and laughter and jostling around them. A couple of butch older women came towards me dripping with water, and started circling me, their eyes gleaming with lechery.
“Why do you smell of piss?” one of them demanded.
“Maybe Dawes has pissed on her,” the other suggested.
“She pissed on me once,” said a freckled girl, for a crowd was forming around me again. “Right in my face. Made me drink it as well.”
“Go on, you loved it,” said one of the butch women.
“I did not,” said the freckled girl. “Stank like hell. Tasted like – well, piss.”
There was laughter:
“What you expect it to taste like – champagne?” asked the other butch woman.
“Well, why do you stink of piss?” the first butch woman demanded again.
“Dawes pissed on my clothes,” I said. “And made me wear them.”
The butch women nodded:
“Sounds like Dawes,” said one.
“She would,” said the other.
“And we were going to lick you all over,” said the first. “Just have to wait for another day.”
“I’d lick her anyway,” said the freckled girl: “especially her fanny.”
“You’d lick a Gloucester Old Spot if it had a fanny,” said a tall woman.
“What’s all this about licking fannies?” said a voice, a voice so deep that for a moment I thought a man had found his way into the showers. The women instantly stood back, and their postures changed, became deferential.
“Hello Megan,” said one of the butch women.
“Just passing the time with the new girl,” said the other.
The woman called Megan now planted herself before me. If ever a human being could breed with an ox, their offspring would surely resemble Megan. She was short, she was square, she was thickset, she had muscular arms and thighs, she had huge breasts with rubbery nipples, she had a flat nose that looked as though it had been broken more than once – and she spoke with a harsh Welsh accent. Her hair was black and cropped short, and there were scars down one of her forearms.
“You the new girl?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“What’s your name?”
“Chloe,” I said.
“What you in for Chloe?”
“Drugs,” I said.
“Drugs? You bring anything in with you?”
“No,” I said.
“Pity. Which side do you bat for, Chloe?”
I looked around for help: some of the women tittered.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean do you like cock or fanny, Chloe?” said Megan.
“Oh. I’m not sure,” I said, not wanting to lie but not wanting to offend or alienate anybody. “Cock I suppose.”
“So do I Chloe,” said Megan, “so do I. You see any cock here?”
“No,” I said.
“You haven’t looked,” said Megan. “Have a look around.”
I looked round: fanny after fanny after fanny, rows of fanny stretching away into the showers. As I looked at them some of the women began pouting their hips, pushing their fannies forward and gyrating them in a hideous, mincing way. Then others started to reach round their bottoms and push a finger between their legs then waggle it, up and down, like a tiny penis. This caught on: others followed, until all of the women around me were pressing their hands to their cunts and extending a finger, camping it up and laughing.
“Well,” said Megan: “see any cocks?”
“No,” I said.
“No,” said Megan: “neither do I – just a bunch of silly mincing lezzies. So we’ll have to make do with fanny, won’t we?”
“I suppose so,” I said.
“Are you any good at cunnilingus Chloe?” asked Megan.
“I don’t know,” I said, my heart racing: “I’ve never tried.”
“Time to start,” said Megan. “Get down and suck me off.”
She planted her feet apart, and looked me squarely in the face. Not friendly, not exactly threatening – but a look which said: ‘don’t mess with me’.
This was the moment Rose had briefed me about: a challenge, a demand I could not refuse. There was a silence: the women were no longer fooling: and after a second’s hesitation I sank obediently to my knees. Megan thrust her pelvis forward: I wriggled into the best position I could manage, hooked a hand round each of her tree-like thighs, angled my head up, took a deep breath – and put my lips to her cunt.
The smell hit me at once: strong, yeasty – over-ripe like a cheese left to ripen too long. I might have recoiled, but two hands were resting on the back of my head, and strong fingers had taken a grip on my hair. There was nothing for it: I stuck out my tongue and began to lick. Her mound was deep, I had to press my face right into her to reach fully inside, and the taste was like the accompaniment of the smell – powerful and ripe. I wanted to come up for air, but my head Escort Nevşehir was clamped in place, and with every breath I took the smell of ripe, rank, vaginal essences grew stronger. I rolled my tongue around, pressed it into her fleshy, meaty lips, then found her clitoris and ran my tongue over it again and again. I built up a rhythm: I could feel the sturdy woman above me oscillating: tremors began to run through her legs and thighs. Again and again I tongued her: she was rocking into me now, gripping my hair so hard it hurt. My tongue was tired: for pity’s sake come, I prayed: then she thrust her pubic bone hard against my mouth, coming in hard fierce relentless spasms, until the grip on my hair relaxed and I slid onto the floor.
Megan staggered back, and sat down hard on the wooden bench. She was staring, but out into space, beyond me rather than at me. Gradually her eyes regained their focus, and locked onto mine.
“Welcome to Sparsebrook Chloe,” she said, still panting for breath. “Anybody give you any trouble, come and see me.”
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you Megan.”
Megan closed her eyes. I took that as a sign of dismissal.
The other women began talking again. A few put their hands together and gave me a round of subdued applause.
“Well done love,” someone said.
Then Rose was next to me, with her arm round my shoulders:
“Well done,” she said, giving me a squeeze. “Now listen out for the whistle, we’re due in the shower in about three minutes.”
It was as well Rose had warned me, I was in such a daze. I’d done something I’d never done before: I hadn’t enjoyed it: my tongue and neck ached, and the rank smell still filled my mouth and nose. And yet… I’d won approval. I’d been clapped and complimented, and above all I’d passed through an ordeal. If somebody had told me, when I was filling out University application forms, that a year on I’d be in a women’s prison, sucking off a dangerous gangster on the floor of the showers, I would have dismissed it as a sick fantasy, about as likely as my flying to the moon. Yet that was what I’d just done.
The whistle blew:
“Cells twenty-five to thirty,” Hardiman shouted. “Into the showers: five minutes.”
Rose shepherded me into the showers, and for the next five minutes I stood there blissfully as the water cascaded down, blotting out every other thought and sensation, warming and purifying me, drenching me, annihilating all thoughts of past and future, washing me clean. I was sorry when the whistle blew: I could have stayed there for hours.
Feeling faint I went and sat down on a bench – far removed from where Megan had sat. I sniffed at my arms and armpits: the soap was carbolic, not exactly my favourite scent, but it was so good to be smelling of something other than piss. After a few minutes I spotted Rose, deep in conversation with a curly-haired woman, and thought I’d go and join her: but by the time I crossed the shower room to where she had been she had disappeared. I stood around trying to spot her: and found myself looking up at a bulky white skinhead woman, with tattoos of snakes in lurid reds and blues coiling down her forearms. Although she was big there was something flabby-looking about her: her tits and her belly hung loosely; there was a red rash where she’d shaved. One of the hands had HATE tattooed on the fingers, and her left shoulder sported a swastika.
“Chloe isn’t it,” the woman said. She had a sort of smile on her pallid face, but it was far from friendly.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why don’t you suck me off Chloe?” she asked.
I took a half-step backwards:
“I’d rather not,” I said.
“‘I’d rather not?'” the woman mimicked. “Why not you little tart? You sucked Megan off: what’s that piece of shit got that I haven’t?”
“My tongue’s sore,” I said. “I’ve had enough sucking for one day.”
“Stuck up little cow,” the woman sneered, as I tried to back away. “I’ll be watching you.”
I hurried for the safety of the crowd, hoping somebody would protect me, hoping to find Rose again. To my relief I saw the skinhead woman had gone the other way, and seemed to be browbeating another girl.
I noticed the freckled girl, who claimed to have been pissed on by Dawes.
“Who’s the tall skinhead?” I asked her.
“The one with the tattoos? Her name’s Wilson. Nobody likes her. Why?”
I explained what had happened.
“Take no notice,” said the freckled girl. “She’s all blubber and bluster. And her fanny stinks.”
Somewhat reassured I gave a laugh, and the freckled girl, catching somebody’s eye, waltzed away.
I had a joke with one or two women, and the skinhead passed out of mind. I listened to a woman complaining she couldn’t sleep because her cellmate snored, and then I heard my name called.
An Indian girl stood before me. “Chloe?” she asked again. She was extraordinarily pretty: long, dark, wavy hair, beautiful almond eyes, and an enchanting smile. She was small, about my size, nineteen or twenty years old, with a lovely supple body and breasts slightly larger than mine.
“I’m Chloe,” I said.
“My name is Prana,” she said: then she put her hands together, raised them to her face, and bowed. It was impossible not to mirror such a winsome gesture, and I too put my hands together as though in prayer, and made a return bow.
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