Chloe in Prison Ch. 05

"You are very pretty Chloe," Prana said. Her voice was soft, her Indian accent distinctive.

"Thank you," I said

"You have lovely breasts: I think I too have nice breasts?"

"You do," I said: "and you're very beautiful."

"Thank you Chloe," said Prana. "You can touch my breasts if you like."

I didn't want to hurt Prana's feelings: and she did have the sort of breasts anyone, male or female, would be drawn to touch; so I closed my hands over them: they felt warm and soft and alive in some independent way, as though I were cradling a small, warm furry animal.

"I would like to have sex with you Chloe," said Prana, looking me deep in the eye. "Would you like to have sex with me?"

I was getting used to the direct approach - though it seemed more natural coming from some of the coarse, middle-aged woman than from such a pretty girl. I didn't really want to have sex with anybody: but there was something irresistible about her - she seemed to exist in her own electrical force-field, radiant and mesmerising, like the golden halos in old religious paintings - such that I found it impossible to turn away. And besides: if I was having sex with her I would be safe from the advances of women like Megan.

"I don't know," I said.

"We can make very nice orgasms together Chloe," said Prana, holding my gaze such that a current seemed to spark between our eyes.

I knew I was going to accept: but I had learned a few things since I'd been in prison: I remembered Rose's advice, 'ask for a bar and you might get half a square', and, half-joking, and quite prepared to forget about any payment I said:

"Four squares of chocolate?"

Prana gave me a curious, quizzical look, which I couldn't interpret. Then she nodded slowly and said:

"Four squares of chocolate: yes."

Then she took my hand:

"Come with me Chloe, we'll go somewhere quieter."

She led me to the furthest corner of the room, away from the showers and the main congregation of women. A girl with olive skin was sitting by herself right in the corner, her head bent over her knees, mumbling to herself.

"Fatima is praying," said Prana. "Fatima likes prayer better than sex. But I think sex is more fun."

She put her arms around me - warmth spread through my nipples where they came into contact with hers.

"You can kiss me Chloe," she said. I put my lips to hers, intending just a light peck, but she held my face, one cheek in each hand, and slid her tongue deep into my mouth. I held my mouth open limply, not wanting to pull away, but squeamish about such deep kissing with another girl. Prana's tongue sought out my own, rolled around it, probed under my lips - until it was impossible not to respond in kind. There we stood, kissing. There were a few distant 'oohs' and 'look at those two' remarks, but nobody tried to disturb us. Then Prana began to run her small hands over my shoulders, down my back, over my hips and buttocks - in fact everywhere. I did the same to her: she pressed into me in a very sensuous way: our tummies made contact: she lifted one leg and slid it up and down the outside of my thigh. Despite my misgivings I was getting aroused: I tried to put my own sensations in the background, and concentrate on Prana. I slid my hands up her sides, then over her breasts: she did the same to me, and for a minute or so we stood gazing into each-other's eyes, gently fondling each-other's breasts. Then we slid our hands down, over buttocks and thighs, outside and inside, and finally found each-other's mounds. Her hand was so warm, her pussy too was warm and responsive and moist. We leaned back slightly, mirroring each-other's actions, each with a hand between the other's legs. I was starting to feel wobbly: I tried to concentrate on bringing Prana off, but her hand was working away, it became impossible to focus on anything but the sensation in my pussy, my own hand had slowed to a standstill, Prana was still looking at me with those liquid, come-to-bed eyes, my breath was coming faster and shorter - and then I threw my head back and came groaning into her hand.

It was such a powerful orgasm my legs gave way, and I sank down onto the ground. For a minute I held on to Prana's legs, resting my head against her thighs. Then, as I started to come to, I thought of my responsibility to her. I couldn't drag myself up again: but my face was close to her pussy, and without thinking I pressed my mouth between her legs and started to kiss her. She moaned a little: then lifted one leg and placed her foot on the bench. This gave me much better access. I angled my head, and for the second time that day began to lick between a woman's legs. But compared to Megan, Prana tasted like nectar. Her pussy was young and fresh and trim, her responses immediate: the sweet smell of her flooded my nostrils: I could hear her sighing above me: I drew my tongue over her opening, even tried to push it a little way in, then fixed on her clitoris, at the same time running my hands up the insides of her thighs. She began to give little squeaks of pleasure; her legs started shaking; I licked and licked, until her whole body shook and she came blissfully against my tongue.

"Chloe," she said, as we sat side by side recovering: "this is a lovely surprise. Thank you."

"Thank you Prana," I said.

We put our arms around each-other's shoulders. For a few minutes we sat there, in a wordless, golden haze. Then Prana gave me a peck on the cheek and stood up:

"I'll see you at Exercise with the chocolate," she said, smiling.

"Yes," I said.

Then she disappeared into the female throng.

I sat on alone, not wanting the rough, raw mass of women around me. On the seat next to me the girl Fatima was still mumbling to herself. I heard Hardiman call out numbers, and the next batch of women entered the showers. Minutes passed: I began to wonder that no-one had come up to me, given the way they were all over me at the start of Showers. Perhaps I'd done my duty, I thought. Perhaps it was enough to have sex with just one girl. Then the showers snapped off: the trickling of water ceased, and the sound of voices seemed louder and clearer. A whistle blew, and a voice shouted:

"Ten minutes drying time."

I thought I ought to go and collect a fresh towel from the pile near the door, but I still did not want to move: in fact, I marvelled that Prana had come round so soon. Then there seemed to be a change in the sound: I couldn't define it: but in place of the general background hubbub there seemed to be a focus to, an intent about, the voices. I looked up dazedly, and saw a group of women walking towards me. Four of them formed a sort of vanguard. Instantly I was wary and alert. The women looked very purposeful: my heart started thumping: was this something to do with Prana? Was she somebody else's girl? Had I done something wrong?

The four women approached me, two on each side. Suddenly I was seized, and swept up into the air: one woman had hold of each arm and shoulder, one held each leg, supporting me under my buttocks and knees. My legs were spread and I was held almost horizontal.

"Welcome to Sparsebrook, Chloe," said one of the butch women I had joked with earlier. "We always like to hold a welcoming ceremony for new girls. Now be a good girl and try not to wriggle and it will soon be over."

There were a few titters, and despite what the woman had said I wriggled automatically, but this only caused the grip on my legs and shoulders to harden.

Then it began. The fat woman with odd-sized breasts was first: standing between my spread legs she licked her middle finger and slid it into my vagina. I gasped and twisted but she ignored me, wiggled her finger for a few seconds, then withdrew.

Behind her a queue had formed. Next came a black girl, who likewise licked her finger, thrust it up me for a few seconds, then went away.

"No," I yelled: "Stop it. Stop it, please!"

"Keep nice and quiet," said one of the women, in my ear.

One after another the women violated me. Some I recognised, some I hardly remembered seeing. Prana came, little Prana who not ten minutes ago had been making love with me, and like the others slid her finger inside me, wiggled it for a few seconds, then, without looking at me, disappeared. In and out they went, one finger after another. Megan, who had said she would look out for me, thrust up her chunky digit like the rest. The old saggy women, the girls, the black women, the Asian women, the mincing woman who had offered to lend me her shampoo. Wilson, the skinhead with the tattoos, who fingered me viciously and with a scowl.

"Oh no," I said. "Not Rose. Please not you Rose."

Rose looked away when her turn came: but she, too, like all the others she slid her finger inside me.

Eventually the queue dwindled, and came to an end. The arms of the women holding me must have been tired, for I had sagged since the ritual started, my bottom had sunk and the fingers were reaching for me lower down. By now I had given up all struggle: I offered no resistance as I was handed over to four new bearers, and the four women who had been supporting me took their turn.

"Everybody done?" a voice shouted.

"Wait a minute," replied Wilson. I remained suspended, watching as the skinhead strode into the corner where Fatima was still sitting.

"You too," she said, grasping the girl and propelling her across the shower towards me. Fatima was clearly unwilling, and shrank back, shaking her head. But the skinhead took her hand roughly, prised open her fingers, and forced one inside me.

"Go on fatty have a good feel," she said. She wiggled the girl's hand, then yanked her finger out and pushed her away.

I was lowered to the ground. Dazedly I looked around. At the edge of the room I could see the Wardens, leaning against the wall laughing: they had seen all along what was happening, and had done nothing to stop it. All around me were legs, legs and fannies and tits and faces and women's flesh. The legs seemed to be coming closer: Oh God, I thought: now they're all going to piss on me. I closed my eyes and braced myself. But instead of the sound of piss falling I heard something else: they were clapping. I opened my eyes: it was true: all the women were putting their hands together, clapping and making cheering sounds.

And they were smiling.

I was helped to my feet.

The butch woman who had started proceedings now came up to me - and to my utter amazement gave me a hug.

"Welcome to Sparsebrook Chloe," she said. "You're one of us now."

There was another round of applause.

Then a whistle blew and a voice announced:

"Shower Time is over. Collect your towels and form a line by the exit."

The women melted away, and began to line up as ordered. Rose was at my side with my towel.

"Well done Chloe," she said.

She gave my back a rub with the towel - I was wet from having been placed on the ground - and we took our place in the queue. Hardiman began calling out numbers, and women left the room in pairs.

The prisoners went out two by two hurrah, I thought: I was feeling more than a little fuddled after the events of the last hour.

Five minutes later I was back in my cell. I'd completely forgotten about my change of clothes: but there they were on my bed just as Dawes had promised. I picked up the bra: it wasn't a perfect fit, but it stayed on. I held up the knickers: I thought about all the women who had sweated into them: all the bodily fluids they had absorbed over the years. I could see they were more or less a good fit, but after days of lamenting the fact that I'd been given knickers that wouldn't stay on, I suddenly didn't want anything close to my skin.

"Do we have to wear clothes?" I asked Rose.

"There's no rule says we have to in our cells" she said.

I took off the bra again, and lay down on the bed. I'd been groped, fondled, violated, forced to have sex, made love to, and ritually abused. But it still felt wonderful to be clean.