Chloe in Prison Ch. 18

I heard her moan, and wondered which part of her body was causing most pain. The desire to touch her rose up in me more strongly: I could barely stand my own pain: I could not bear hers. Using all my strength I tried to worm my way sideways towards her, but there was nothing to grip with or push against, it was no good.

So I tried rocking. Side to side, pivoted on my stomach and chest. As I gathered momentum I knew that if I tried hard enough I could turn onto my side. Would that be an advantage? I didn't care: anything would be better than the position I was in. With a grunt and a final heave I rolled onto my left side, with my back to Prana. I could no longer see her, but I made aah noises as loudly as I could: I heard the creak of a pallet, Prana's pallet, and felt her rocking. Then the rocking stopped, and I heard a gasp. My shoulder, already bruised from my fall in the shower, pressed painfully into the slats, but I did not care: stretching my hands out as far as I could behind me I felt something warm and living: fingertips. Prana's fingertips were touching mine.

It was as though an electrical circuit had been completed. The contact was only tentative: just the sensitive ends of our fingertips, touching, brushing, as our arms strained behind us. But through that flickering contact an energy seemed to flow: love, support, awareness of each other's physical needs and sufferings - above all a connection which said: you are not alone; we are together in this.

It was too much of a strain to maintain. But now I knew it was possible I was determined to persevere. I rocked again, and noticed that every time my body rocked backwards it shifted a fraction towards Prana. By the third attempt I found that the tips of our fingers could interlock. The soles of our feet also met, soaked in piss from when we had wet ourselves, but who cared. Prana too was rocking, and by the time our fingers could interlock fully I realised we had the traction needed to pull ourselves closer together. We gripped, pulled, groaned: there were frequent paused and painful false starts. It was hard to communicate vocally: complicated sounds were difficult to interpret: it was as though we had to invent a new language from scratch. But through trial and error we evolved a simple two sound vocabulary: one lower-register expulsion of breath serving as a stand-in for 'yes', and expressing pleasure, affirmation, the desire to continue whatever it was we were trying; and the other, a shriller and higher sound, indicating 'stop' or 'no'.

In this way, slowly and painfully, we inched towards each other until our whole hands were clasped together. More than that, we could grasp each other's feet and ankles, and by tugging against each other reached a position where our backs were almost touching. Then, by leaning them backwards, we discovered we could touch the backs of our heads together.

The warmth of Prana's body passed into my body, and the warmth of my body passed into her. The sounds we made in our throats were all affirmative: grateful, soothing, sustaining: translated they would say something like: together we can get through this, we can survive.

But this position, like any other, was painful to sustain, and soon I was desperate to move. I thought of rolling over onto my back, but realised I would either topple onto Prana or crush my own arms beneath me. Then I had an idea: instead of pulling Prana towards me, I pushed at her hands and feet, to indicate she should move away. She groaned an affirmative, and so we braced our hands and feet and pushed. When I judged she was far enough away from me, I rocked from side to side, then using all my strength I rolled onto my back and let the momentum carry me over, until I was lying squashed up against Prana on my right side.

This was a huge breakthrough. My face was now against the back of her head: I rubbed my nose against her tiny bristles, then exhaled warm air through my open mouth onto her neck. She made a sound like a strangled purr. I breathed in the warm, living, intimate smell of her scalp. Taking a deep breath and pushing my chest out as far as I could I managed to touch my nipples to the small of her back. Then I sagged with the effort, and lay still.

Prana, for her part, stretched out her fingers, and made contact with my belly: the soles of her feet brushed against the bones of my hips. Since we couldn't join hands we had no way to manoeuvre each other, but by rocking backwards and forwards Prana managed to inch her way backwards, until she could press the palms of her cuffed hands flat against my stomach.

And then she slid them a fraction down, until her fingers just touched my mound.

I gave a squeal of surprised pleasure: which immediately turned to a gurgling scream as pain shot through my bottom again. Prana instantly removed her hands, but by a series of negative grunts I managed to indicate that she was not the cause of the pain, and she let her fingers rest on me once again. She lay still for a minute, breathing heavily: then, as best as she could with her hands locked behind her back, she began to play with me.

It wasn't possible. It couldn't be done. Every flicker of pleasure was negated by pain, sharp pain in my bottom, aching pain in my arms and legs, and the agonising need to swallow and close my mouth. But as the tips of Prana's fingers caressed me, I knew I had to respond. It was not just that the orgasm would dull the pain: as I forced myself to concentrate solely on my pussy, to try to ignore every protest, every painful sensation in the rest of my body, I felt I was involved in some titanic, almost metaphysical struggle: that my tiny bean was pitted against the full weight of all the ugliness and viciousness and oppression in the world. There was no contest: Dawes and Hardiman and everything they represented were all-powerful; they could crush me and all the other women in Sparsebrook Prison with a single edict, a single sadistic act. And yet... Incredibly I began to get wet. Prana, encouraged by my wetness, ignored whatever discomfort she might have been feeling and persevered. She grunted three times: the sounds were impossible to interpret, but I knew, just knew, she was saying Front of House. Pain stabbed through my bottom again; the need to swallow was driving me mad. But the little flares of pleasure refused to be snuffed: the sensations were spreading now, the endorphins were reaching my brain, starting to numb the pains. Using almost superhuman force I managed so shift myself upwards a fraction, allowing Prana's finger to slide right into my crease. I began to gasp with pleasure: the tiny magic bean was gathering in strength, slowly, inexorably, driving back the Goliath of pain.

If only I could come. Prana's fingers were tiring: I knew she could not go on much longer: I wriggled and tried to shut out everything except the sensations in my pussy. I was only pussy, my pussy was the whole of me, the rest was just dross, just illusion. My pussy was the hub of a wheel, a Catherine wheel, radiating sparks of sensation, spinning out heat and light through my limbs, gathering speed, spinning towards a climax, an explosion. I had to come: if I never had another orgasm in my life I had to have this one, now. Prana's fingers flicked and tweaked: the soles of her feet pressed and twisted against my thighs: I gurgled, groaned, strained at the handcuffs: and then the tiny, miraculous source of wonder between my legs went into spasm, the orgasm shot through me as though a firework had burst into radiance, my arms and legs flexed hopelessly against the restraints, my body jerked and sparked, my pussy thrust against Prana's finger, and, with the gag in my mouth, I let out the best approximation I could manage of an orgasmic scream.

Nothing mattered. They could tie me up and gag me, they could beat me and half-drown me in slops: nothing could kill the life-force between my legs. My pulse was racing, my heart thumping, I was overflowing with love and gratitude towards Prana, who was lying with her back to me, almost as exhausted as I was. I grunted thank you, thank you, and though she did not respond, I knew she understood.

The endorphins began to ebb, and the pains to return, though not as acutely as before. Now I had to take Prana to this place: but first we had to get into position. I couldn't use my hands to tug her: all I could do was to roll over and trust she would follow. So I started rocking, and once I had built up momentum did as before, rolling onto my back and following through onto my other side. This was more uncomfortable, because of the pain in my shoulder, but I could not bother about that now. I tried calling to Prana, making sounds like the mating call of some seabird, and felt the vibrations through the wooden slats of the pallet as she too rocked herself, and forced herself over onto her left side. She was behind me now, but not quite close enough, so between us we rocked and wriggled until, reaching my hands as far as I could behind me, I made contact with flesh. A few more attempts, and I could lay my palms flat against her tummy. My feet were in the way: they seemed to be pushing her backwards, or at least preventing her from squeezing any closer: I cursed the tightness of the cuffs: an extra inch of two of chain would have given us so much more freedom; but I had to work with what we had. After much anguished wriggling and scraping of feet against skin, I managed to get my fingers where they were needed. Prana gave a long, drawn-out sigh: I knew she needed it as much as I had, and my fingers set to work. It was odd: perhaps because they were almost the only parts of my body I could move with any freedom, my fingers seemed even more nimble than usual: I found I was rubbing and tweaking Prana with a fluency and an instinct for lightness which instantly hit the spot. Or perhaps, having just brought me off, she was already more aroused. Soon her pussy was dripping: despite the discomfort, I felt as though I could go on forever, her responsiveness driving me on, my enthusiasm heightening her responses, in a perpetual erotic loop. I knew by the sounds she was making she was building up to a climax, and I pictured her lovely face contorting, despite the disfigurements of pain and distress, into the beautiful, abandoned lineaments of orgasm. Come on Prana, I willed her, let it happen, let everything go. She was juddering now, her chains rattling, reaching the brink: and then, as though she had fallen off a cliff, she tipped over the edge of an orgasm which snapped her chains and sent her soaring out of the prison cell, swooping free as an eagle, into the sky.

I soared with her, carried in her slipstream. We glided over towering crags, and swooped over purple heather and yellow gorse. The sun gilded our wings, and glittered on the river in the valley below. We watched our shadows chasing over the moorland, raced the tumbling river, and swooped through the sparkling spray. Then we banked and climbed, rose on currents, and soared away towards the heart of the sun.

When we came to earth we were two naked, frightened prisoners, hogtied on wooden pallets in a cell that stank of piss. We ached all over; saliva was dribbling from our open mouths; and from Prana's arse came a distinct smell of shit. The bastards hadn't even cleaned her up, I thought. I wondered if I had shit on me - then didn't care as long as it was Prana's and nobody else's shit.

It was true that nobody could ever undo what had taken place: and perhaps, in years to come, we would look back at this as a defining moment, something that bound us together more strongly than handcuffs and chains.

But for now we were still in a mess: pain and discomfort the like of which I had never thought to experience in my life. And trouble: trouble that was not going to go away. I thought of the riding crop and shuddered. 'That's just a taste of what you're going to get,' Dawes had said. Had she just said that to frighten us? I didn't think so. But what would we get? One stroke had practically cut me in half: I knew I couldn't stand up to much more of the crop.

We took what comfort we could from each other. We shifted our positions so we could touch: fingers here, soles of feet there, a forehead against a shoulder or the nape of a neck. We even managed to face one another, and touched our foreheads together, then tried to make contact with our breasts. But every movement brought pain; and in the end, by mutual consent, we gave up and moved apart: we did not want to be caught in close proximity.

When they returned for us and took off the cuffs, I could not stand. There were four of them: Dawes, Bradley, Raymond and Clark. They started with the gags.

"Say one word and they go back on," said Dawes.

She needn't have bothered: I was too busy with groaning and swallowing to be capable of speech.

Whoever removed my cuffs worked my arms for me, until the blood was flowing freely again and I could move them, albeit painfully, on my own. My legs, too, were bent and straightened and moved this way and that, until I thought the life had returned: but when I tried to stand up I collapsed.

"Hold her up," said Dawes. She was talking about Prana, who with head sagging was propped up by Bradley and Clark. "Get her back to her cell."

"I carry this one," said Raymond. Dawes nodded, and Raymond held me up, then ducked her head under my armpit and swung me up over her shoulder in a fireman's lift. I hung down, my face pressed against the leather of her jacket, my legs hanging down over her chest. She turned around, bobbed down as she went through the door, and carried me off down the corridor.

Inside my cell, Raymond laid me down on my bed.

"You must move your legs," she said, bending a leg and straightening it again. "Do not let them stiffen up."

"Yes Sir," I said weakly. Rose was perched on the side of her bed, watching me anxiously. Raymond pursed her lips, and glanced back at the door. Then she delved into her jacket pocket and produced a small tube.

"Here," she said, giving it to Rose, but speaking to me. "This will take away the pain of the crop. You can use it now, but you will need it even more after Exercise. Please keep it under your pillow and do not let it be found. Now I must go."

With that Raymond left. As soon as she was gone Rose sank to her knees, rested her head on my pillow, and put her arm across my waist. I reached out and touched her head.

"It's all right Rose," I said. "My legs are just stiff. Ouch."

Pain flashed across my bottom again.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" Rose asked.

"They hogtied us," I said. "And stuck us on wooden pallets in a stinking cell. But it's over now. Oh, and Dawes hit us with a riding crop."

"Raymond gave me this," said Rose, holding up the tube.

"What is it?" I asked: my eyes weren't focussing too well.

"It's an anaesthetic cream," said Rose. "If you can turn over I'll rub some in for you."

I turned myself over: the thin prison mattress, which had seemed meagre when I first arrived, seemed luxurious after the pallet. Rose squeezed out some cream and began to apply it to my bottom. I screamed.

"Sorry," she said. "Look, this is going to be agony when I touch you: what shall I do?"

"Keep going Rose: ignore me. If it numbs the pain it will be worth it."

"So Rose gently rubbed the cream into the painful line across my bottom. I winced, flinched and screamed twice more: but once it was done the pain began to diminish, and numbness set in.

"Rose: that's a miracle," I said.

"You're very lucky," said Rose. "Raymond would be in trouble if anybody found out: these are kept for accidents only."

"I'm grateful," I said. "Do you think she's given one to Prana?"

"I doubt it," said Rose: "she's taken a risk taking one. What did she mean about you needing it more after Exercise?"

"I think they're going to flog us," I said. "That's what Dawes implied."

"Oh Chloe," said Rose, getting to her feet and pacing fretfully. "What the hell have you done? Do you know how worried I've been? What on earth happened in the Showers? Hardiman said you'd attacked a Warden: then some of the women said that was right, and others said no, you'd tried to stop Prana attacking somebody."

"Rose, relax," I said. I was so relieved to be lying on my own mattress in my own cell, able to move my limbs and able to swallow and speak, I was in a sort of trance of peacefulness. "I'll tell you what happened. Prana ran at Dawes with her soiled nappy: I tried to stop her throwing it. I managed to stop it hitting Dawes in the face: but the Wardens thought I was joining in."

"So why didn't you tell them?"

"I did, Rose, but they wouldn't listen. So I gave up."

"Prana," said Rose grimly. "This is all her fault. Why oh why did you ever get involved with that girl? I told you she was trouble - I told you Chloe, again and again - and now look at the state of you."

"You can't blame her Rose. You saw what they did to her. That stinking nappy. They were going to make her wait until showers were finished, then take it off her, in front of everybody. No wonder she went for Dawes."

"But why did you have to get involved?" Rose actually banged her fist on the cell wall: I had never seen her so agitated.

"I was trying to stop her," I said.

"And now they're going to thrash you for your pains."

"It looks like it," I said.

"What's up with you Chloe? You sound almost as though you don't care."

"Rose: after what I've just been through I'm grateful to be alive. And besides, there's nothing I can do."

Rose sat down on her bed and put her head between her hands.

"You won't feel so sanguine about it tomorrow," she said.

"Maybe not," I said. "But I can't think about it any more. My brain is just cutting out Rose: I need to go to sleep."

With that I curled up in the foetal position I'd longed to be able to adopt in cell 54, and, trying to blot out everything except the memory of the orgasms Prana and I had given one another, I fell asleep. I woke briefly when the dinner trolley arrived, and though I couldn't eat anything I allowed Rose to help me drink a mug of tea. I dreamed Rose was shaving me, and was aware or nothing else until the lights came on, and the call went round for slopping-out.