Complementing Morgan Pt. 01

"Doctor Farrell, uh, Doctor Angela, she always insists on first names, told me I got the job partly because they wanted a guy. Said never to repeat that but, hey, who are you going to tell? She seemed to think a guy would be less likely to have issues than the woman that quit, told me to sit back and enjoy the show. Those were her words: enjoy the show."

Harold went quiet. He seemed to be feeling guilty about his new job. Well fuck him, he should feel guilty. It was as if he expected Morgan to forgive him. That definitely wasn't going to happen. If he had a shred of decency in him he'd quit on the spot and tell that doctor cunt to go fuck herself on the way out.

"Today's my first day. First patient — hah, patient, that's Dr. Angela's word — she got twenty years for armed robbery. Crazy junkie tried to rob a Stanley's, might as well rob a bank. Thirty one years old, and here's the kicker: no S.O. Apparently she had a husband but he filed for divorce the day after she got arrested, wants nothing to do with her anymore. Best case scenario, my boy's going to be going off to Harvard or Stanford, going to parties and getting laid, and she'll still be right here."

He paused for another few moments.

"And when she gets out — gets paroled after fifteen years for good behavior, maybe — When she's forty six, a fritter ex-con, maybe she'll get re-married. Maybe."

"And you know what?" Harold went on. "They tell me that's nothing. Around here, that's your average Thursday. The nurse before me, evidently she left because she couldn't handle the birthdays. There's been a huge spike in female juvenile offenders that get tried as adults but the law says they can't be sent here until they turn eighteen. Then, on their eighteenth birthday it's our job to give them a very special birthday present."

"You're in good shape though, aren't you?" He asked. "Only three years, you're gorgeous and you've got an S.O. Even bought you that blue, what is that, a sapphire?"

Morgan certainly didn't feel like she was in good shape. She wondered if he really meant what he said, or if he was just trying to be nice. She was attractive, above average, sure. Maybe she was gorgeous by prison standards, but her bony ass hardly qualified as genuinely gorgeous in the real world.

Attractive, maybe, but gorgeous? That word had a certain, very specific meaning for her. It was a word she associated with her sister. Growing up she was used to hearing, "Lorelei, you're looking absolutely gorgeous! Oh, and Morgan, nice to see you."

This prick thought he was better than her too. She knew the type, he would feel bad about what he did even while he kept on doing it. He might feel guilty but that didn't mean he saw her as a person, as anything other than another pathetic inmate.

Harold glanced down at his mobile. "Anyway, your second cycle is starting in seven . . . six . . . five . . ."

Morgan braced herself, Harold put in his ear plugs and the second cycle began. It was the same as before. She moaned. She howled. Her entire body bucked and spasmed as the vibrators did their work, pushing her to the edge, past where the edge should be, but never over it. Somehow, she never passed out either.

The shut-off was as jarring and intense as before. Her world blurred. Her head was spinning from the over-stimulation and the hollow need left by its absence.

When she stopped shaking the nurse offered her more water. This time Harold kept quiet. He must already have gotten out everything he wanted to say.

A thought kept nagging at her, as she lay there panting, trying to recover. "Does anyone ever pass out from this?" she asked the nurse.

He seemed surprised that she'd spoken at all. "I hear it happens from time to time, but what do I know? You're my second, ah, patient. Isn't supposed to happen often, though. What did you think the chocolate was for? There's ground coffee beans mixed into that type of chocolate, and the overall effect is like chugging an energy drink. It's a stimulant, it counters the effects of the sedative we gave you initially and helps keep you from losing consciousness during the diagnostic."

That explained it. Chalk another one up for the lying, cunt, bitch doctor.

Time slipped by, but there was no way for Morgan to know how quickly. One more time. She had to make it through one more cycle, without losing her mind and then it would stop. With nothing to draw her attention from the lust coursing through her body, it felt like forever.

Waiting, anticipating what was about to happen when the fiendish devices inside her came alive again was almost as bad as enduring it.

Later, her memories of that final cycle were limited to brief flashes, moments frozen in her mind.

She remembered the jolt of surprise at the initial wave of overwhelming sexual stimulation as the vibrators powered up.

She remembered sometime in the indeterminate middle of the cycle arching her back, clenching down with all her might. In that moment she had been certain it would be enough, even though it was not, and could never be enough.

She remembered her long wail of frustration that stretched on until her throat become raw and ragged. The pain in her throat offset the tension in her groin, mixing with it, encompassing her, conveying a feeling of pure helplessness.

Finally, there was the end, that horrible instant the power was cut and the empty nothingness slammed back into her like a physical blow. She was acutely aware of precisely how unfulfilled she remained, and would remain for the foreseeable future.

Angela stood over her. Harold was no longer in the room.

"You're in luck," the doctor said, as full of smiles as ever. "Your Complement is functioning perfectly. We're going to let you up shortly, and you're going to behave yourself, right? You know what happens when you start touching, so don't start. Tell me Morgan, do you know what the secret to happiness is?"

Morgan shook her head, no. She was still having trouble finding words.

"Self-control," Angela said. "Happiness, the best kind of happiness, the kind that you get from a life well lived, from living virtuously, is all about not giving into your baser instincts. Your Complement is going to force you to learn some self control, something that I find benefits every single one of my patients."

Wow. That was some world-class bullshit.

"As much as I'd like to leave you on that happy note, there's one last thing I want to go over with you," Angela continued. "The Complement was originally designed to help women with a low sex drive enjoy their marriage by giving them a healthy libido. There was a concern that in cases of severe sexual dysfunction the Complement might be ineffective. As a result, there is one way the Complement can increase your sex drive even further. Call it a back door in the system."

Angela raised her hands to make quotation marks in the air when she said the words, "back door", then laughed. "I'm talking about anal sex. You know, doin' it in the butt."

"I don't recommend it," said Angela. "As is, your Complement will give you a healthy libido, at the very upper end of what you might find in, say, an overly-excitable adolescent boy. Well, so long as you behave and don't start touching anything you shouldn't, it's a good comparison. Anyway, Anal sex with your Significant Other will temporarily boost your drive well above that, beyond what you'd find in anyone without a Complement. It tends to be somewhat uncomfortable, so I would advise against it."

It could get more intense than this? Hunt had already warned her about what anal sex could do to a Comped woman, way back when she first explained what they were, but it was hard to believe her arousal could intensify further.

"And, that's it!" Angela concluded. "There will be a copy of the Complement manual provided to you in your cell, and I suggest you read it cover-to cover. There are more copies in the library here, if you lose the one we give you. I'll conduct routine checkups every few months, so I'll see you around. It was good meeting you, Morgan." The doctor patted her on the shoulder, and walked out.

She considered what the doctor had said: Don't touch. Don't do it in the butt. Sage advice, no doubt. Also, not very helpful.

The guard that removed the restraints was a typical brute. She was older, heavy, with short, mouse-brown hair. The name-tag on her uniform read 'Dunne'.

Morgan was led to the showers where she was permitted to wash the sweat from her body. Thankfully, Dunne promptly provided a towel and dumped a pile of clothes in front of Morgan. "Get dressed."

The clothes were an ugly shade of gray instead of orange, but they were much the same as in the county jail: granny panties, a sports bra, a baggy, over-sized jumpsuit and a pair of plastic sandals. They were utterly unflattering, obviously designed to put inmates in their place.

"Bet you think you're a pretty one, don't you? Understand this," Dunne told her. "Every last filthy cunt in that uniform is as sloppy wet as yours. You aren't special. Try and pull that woe-is-me shit, and you'll end up in the infirmary."

"Understood, ma'am," Morgan replied. Right now, her best strategy was not to provoke Dunne. The guard's harsh demeanor was almost refreshing after the doctor's creepy, fake-cheerful attitude.

"That new nurse, the man, he was the one working on you, wasn't he?" Dunne asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thought I'd clue you in, I overheard him talking to the other nurse, the blonde. He's getting coffee with blondie later, and if I know that one, and believe me I do, they'll be at it by supper time. What d'ya think of that?"

"None of my business, ma'am." The one that looked like her sister was going out on a date, while she sat here with this thing inside her. It fit a pattern she was familiar with.

"That's right, none of your business." The guard said with a nasty smirk. "You be sure to remember that after lights-out tonight, when you're all alone, and meanwhile he's falling asleep with his arms around blondie. None of your business at all."

Morgan's pussy clenched in frustration. She tried not to let the words get to her, didn't want to give Dunne that satisfaction, but it was a struggle.

She was led to another room, where she was forced to sit quietly in a hard, uncomfortable chair. Four of the other six inmates that arrived on the transport with Morgan that morning, one of them Amato, were already seated. Another entered soon after her. Then they waited.

There were two guards in the room and they kept the inmates quiet, but it was clear the new arrivals were all feeling antsy. Antsy — that was the polite word. They were hornier than cats in heat.

Earlier, after the vibrators had shut off and she was no longer shaking, it felt like a reprieve. Compared to that intensity, it was. However, now that she had had time to recover, it was becoming clear that the unnatural arousal she felt while lying on that table before Angela began her 'Calibration' wasn't going to dissipate. This was her new normal.

She couldn't stop thinking about sex. She desperately needed it right now, needed Derek, would do just about anything to get some relief. A hundred sexual fantasies danced through Morgan's daydreams.

She remembered thinking what she experienced before in the county jail was the very definition of frustration. That was nothing. It was the difference between a candle and a bonfire.

After waiting for what felt like hours, the seventh and last inmate that had been on the transport with them that morning was escorted into the room. She was followed by another brutish corrections officer, who was a bit slimmer than Dunne but otherwise could have been a clone. She introduced herself as Assistant Warden Hagan and proceeded to belt out the rules and regulations all inmates were expected to abide.

At the end of her lecture Hagan demanded, "Anyone here with jockey experience raise your hand." Two of the seven women raised their hands. Morgan wasn't one of them, she'd never had to stoop to that.

"Good," Hagen said. "You earn your keep here. All inmates report to the domes after breakfast, at eight o'clock sharp every morning. Those of you with experience are ahead of the curve, but if you've the sense god gave a turnip you'll get it right-quick."

As Dunne escorted Morgan to her cell, there was a commotion in the hallway. Morgan watched as, without warning, a guard pulled out her stun baton and jabbed it into an inmate's back. The guard grabbed the inmate by her long, straight, jet-black hair as she fell and forced her to the ground. The guard brandished her baton in the inmate's face with one hand, pinning the inmate down with the other. Another guard stood beside the first, there to help if needed, but content to let her partner do all the work.

What made the scene particularly bizarre was that the first corrections officer could have stepped straight off of a movie set. She could put Lorelei to shame. The guards' uniforms were clearly meant to be functional, not flattering. Nevertheless, this woman managed to fill hers out with style, especially, and most prominently in the chest. She was as tall as Morgan, and probably about the same age. Her bleach-blonde hair was tied back in a tight bun, and her icy blue eyes were full of malevolence.

The other guards, not to mention the other inmates, were mostly unattractive thugs. This woman's appearance seemed entirely out of place, though her instinct for violence seemed right in line with the other corrections officers.

"We found the toothbrush, Bedlan," The blonde guard sneered at the inmate she'd forced down. "You think you're clever, cracking it, sharpening it, then taping it back? You think we wouldn't find your little shank?"

Bedlan was cuffed, pulled back to her feet, then frog-marched away. Everyone in the hallway went back to what they had been doing, as if it never happened.

"You see that officer back there, Heller?" Dunne asked Morgan.

"Yes, ma'am." She was hard to miss.

"That's Officer Jaanson. Don't get the wrong idea, there isn't one of us that wouldn't be happy to beat you bloody if you take one step out of line. But, mark my words, you cross that one and you'll end up on a slab in the morgue. When Jaanson first got here they called her the Ice Queen until she caught one inmate, name of Kelley, calling her 'Queenie.' Kelley is no longer with us, and now, when they whisper, they call her the Ice Demon. Impossible to say, really, but I don't think she minds."

As ominous as that sounded, it wasn't Morgan's problem right now. Her main problem was the distracting tension building inside her that she had no way to relieve. Everyone acted as if she was supposed to simply live like this, as if it was nothing. It didn't seem possible. She would go mad.

"This is your cell." Dunne told her, then pointed out a bed. "This is your bunk. Your cell-mates will be back from the domes in the next few hours. Follow them to the cafeteria for dinner, then back here for evening role-call. Tomorrow morning you follow everyone else to the domes after breakfast."

"What about lunch, ma'am?" Morgan asked. The mention of dinner reminded her that she hadn't eaten all day. Her stomach grumbled.

"I hear you got chocolate for lunch," Dunne said. "Nothing further until dinner, doctor's orders. You stay here. The door is open during the day, but leave without good reason and you'll be stopped and then you'll be in the shit. We can track you through your Comp and you better believe someone's always watching the cameras. Stay here. Go to dinner. Don't cause trouble. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And Heller?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Do yourself a favor and keep your hands out of your pants."

"Yes, ma'am."

The guard left.

She sat on her bunk, one of four in the cell. She was hungry, she was horny and she was alone. A day ago, she would have killed to be alone like this, but now it didn't do her a single bit of good.

Every fiber of her being was screaming at her to reach down and take care of business, but Angela had made her point with the 'diagnostic.' Touching was a bad idea.

She wanted to hit something, someone. She had the urge to scream, to yell, not just yell but yell at someone. There was no point in yelling if there was no one around to hear. She felt the need to lash out, but for the first time in over a month, there was no one to lash out at.

She sat on her bunk, tightly gripping her bed, willing herself to remain in control.

"Who the fuck are you?" A tall, thin woman, an inmate, was at the cell door. She had dark, shoulder-length hair and light skin with a long aquiline face. She didn't look happy.

"I'm Heller, I just got here. Who the fuck are you?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no, fuck no. I need my beauty sleep, they did not just put a fresh screamer in here."

"Let's try this again," Morgan said. "I'm Heller. I just got here. Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Rogers, and I'm the one who's going to break your neck if you wake me up tonight hollering about your poor little pussy. Tell you what, I'm going to give you a break. You haven't said one word about your crotch yet, and this is your chance to impress me. You just sit there, hands on the bed, nice and quiet, and we can be best friends, how about that?"

"You going to break my neck if I ask about dinner? They said I should follow you."

"Dinner's not for another three hours," Rogers told her. "The rig they had me on shit the bed, so they let me stop early."

Rogers pulled a book from under her bunk and started to read. Morgan continued to sit in silence, her mind unable to come to terms with the sensations coursing through her body. The sensual, teasing need couldn't be satisfied and it couldn't be ignored. She kept her hands where they were, balled into fists. The silence of the cell was broken only by her heavy breathing.

"Goddammit." Rogers slammed her book shut, the noise reverberating through the cell. "You're about to lose it on me, aren't you?"

"I didn't say anything."

"Right. Okay, here's what we're going to do. Please tell me you can read and write. Pretty please?"

"I'm not a fucking idiot," Morgan said.

"Thank god." Rogers reached under the bed and pulled out a notebook, a hardcover legal textbook and some tiny pencils. Very carefully, so as not to rip the paper, she removed three sheets from the notebook. She handed the pencils, the textbook and the paper to Morgan.

"The book is from the library and they give you the golf pencils for free," Rogers told her, "but they charge you up the ass for the notebooks at the commissary. There are these little postcards you can get for free, but real paper costs real money. Comes out to something like a buck for five pages. I want you to understand, I'm doing you a major favor here."

"I don't get it. . .?" Morgan said. It was half a statement, half a question. She was already familiar with writing letters to Derek using the post cards they gave her at the county jail, and suspected the situation here was similar. Still, she didn't quite see what Rogers was expecting her to do with the paper.

"Every woman locked in here is just like you, understand? Everyone. It doesn't go away. Just the opposite, but you learn to live with it. Here's the thing: You don't talk about it. Listening to some bitch going on and on makes you think on it, which makes it worse. Don't be that bitch."

"But this?" She held up the book, the paper and the pencils.

"Write it down. Everyone screams and bitches and cries the first night. We call the new girls screamers. So, here's what you're going to do. You feel the need to bitch, you take those pencils and write it down on that paper. The book should work as a hard surface to write on. Say whatever you want, write all in caps, just don't open your mouth. You write, and you don't stop writing until you've got it out. Write small if you can, use both sides. Put it down on the page, and give everyone else a break. I'm giving you the paper because it's an investment, you see?"