The New Hilton


"Hilton, Paris. Number 11669. Isolation cell #3," the voice rang out in her head, over and over again.

A goddamn number. How on earth did they think that they could reduce her to a goddamn number. Fucking dumb cops and their stupid little jails and uniforms. She couldn't believe that they would assign her a number and make her wear these terrible clothes. With an exasperated sigh, the young blonde waif slapped the whitewashed stone wall behind her.

Her agent had promised her that they would get her into a three star hotel at worst. Looking around, she felt betrayed. There were two sheets, one toilet in the rear of the cell, and a bolted down metal frame that was to pass for her bed. The whole thing seemed surreal. They just didn't sent people like her to places like this.

Everything had seemed like it was going so well, like the lawyers had said it would. Her sentence would be reduced. They might even let her off altogether. Then the complaints had started, and the judge had made her an example for young people everywhere. "Don't Drink and Drive!"

Fuck it all, she thought, her slender well manicured nails slipping through her hair. She straightened it and toyed with it, trying to pass the hours.

The itchy clothes and shitty bed would keep her awake the entire first night in jail. By morning, she was groggy and pissed. When her cell door had clanked loudly she had bolted from her seat, muscles suddenly informing her that they were sore from the lack of exercise and stretching. Tapping the back of one knuckle against the door, the other hand on her hip, she waited for what the clank would bring.

A large wall of a man stepped into view and pulled the door open.

"Prisoner 11669. Step forward please," his deep hollow voice echoed.

Paris gave him a little bit of her trademark strut when she stepped out into the hallway. Dumb minimum wage rent a cop she thought with a smirk.

"The beds here suck," she mentioned.

"I'm sorry," he replied, his voice bemused with her complaint. "We'll have to change that for you, Miss."

"Thank you," she replied, her voice suddenly prissy. She sensed the sarcasm, but two could play at that game. "Where are we going?"

"Breakfast," came the one word reply.

"What's for breakfast," she queried, her voice still a caustic whip. Apparently the wall didn't want to talk any more, so the only sound was the heavy footfall of his boots in time with the whisper of her slippers.

The walk was not too long, but it was depressing in the endless silence and repetition of scenery. Paris thought the worst thing about prison was how drab it all was. Even her onesy uniform was a drab grey with her number written on it. She picked at the black screen printed numbers as she walked.

A large hand grabbed her bicep and pulled it down. "No need for that 11669. Destruction of prison property is a violation of the penal code."

Paris smirked. Penal code, I'll bet. Probably some slang joke among these guards for their tiny dicks.

When they finally did arrive in the mess hall, Paris was the only one.

"Where's everyone else," she asked. She had always thought of prisons as noisy bustling places. This one seemed downright bland.

"You're in isolation, and because of your," cough, "celebrity status, you won't be intermingling with the rest of the population," came human wall's response.

Paris didn't grace him with a reply. Instead she focused on the simple red plastic trays that were piled high. She took one and slid it slowly down the food line. Nothing was discernible. There was some white mush, some more white mush with some orange flakes, and then black little discs that may have been pancakes.

"I think I'll pass," she groaned as she realized exactly what tortures she would have to endure over the next twenty-six days.

The old woman behind the counter gave her a scowl. Paris scowled right back. Fucking loser.

The guard once more took her by her elbow and marched her down the long sterile hallways to her cell. By the time the heavy steel door clicked behind her, she felt exhausted. Even the shitty cot sounded good. But to her dismay it was gone.

Whirling towards the door she yelled, "Where the fuck is my cot?"

There was no reply.

"Fucking asshole," she yelled into the solid cold expanse of the hall.

Still nothing.

She spent the next few hours on the floor, against a rough hewn wall, her knees pulled tightly up to her pert chest.

When dinner time came around, she was pretty steamed. Another loud clank of the door and the Human Wall was in front of her. His nameplate said Devlin. She liked Human Wall better.

"Prisoner 11669, please step forward."

Obediently she stepped from the cell, her backside aching from the harsh treatment of the last few hours.

"Where's my bed," she grumbled.

"You didn't like it," his smirking voice replied.

"That piece of shit was better than the floor."

"Well, you need to get used to the floor."

"Fuck you. I want to talk to my attorney."

"Can't do that," came the cool response.

"Why not?"

"You requested isolation. You get isolation. No phone calls or visits are a part of the rules. You don't get bothered by the big bull dykes, and we don't get bothered by family members, journalists, or your attorney. Isolation is isolation."

"What the fuck? I want to see my attorney," she yelled as she stamped her foot. She wheeled on the guard quickly, her eyes filled with what she considered righteous anger.

But his grip on her arm suddenly became a clamp and sharp starbursts of pain erupted from her slender bicep. She felt herself being rushed up against the wall, her back hammering into the uneven surface.

"Fuck," she cried in pain and surprise.

"Do not fight with prison officials. Do not disobey commands that are given to you. And stop fucking swearing," his voice rumbled in a deathly low and threatening manner. "Dinner privilege is suspended. Back to the cell," he said as he yanked her from the wall.

The stunned heiress' eyes went wide. This really wasn't going to be an easy month. Fuck, she thought.

Her tall slender frame shifted slightly that moment. The proud arch of her spine, the backward slope of her shoulders, and the coy thrust of her chest all folded inward. Here, unlike anywhere else, she didn't matter. And Paris Hilton, prisoner 11669, didn't like it one bit.

She spent the next two days sulking on the floor of her cell, refusing food and drink, and not leaving for any meal or exercise opportunity. Wasting away to nothing and emerging emaciated from prison seemed like a great vindication of her suffering. Officer Wall would be fired for her abuse and she would be martyred in the press. It was the only thing that made her smile.

But on the third day, the officer didn't come by. When she woke in the morning there was a tray of food beneath her cell door. She flushed the indescribable mush down the toilet and threw the platter back between the bars. It clattered loudly in the hall, and she grinned. But no one ever came to pick up the tray. In fact, no one came the rest of the day.

By the fourth day, Prisoner 11669 was beginning to feel queasy. The ability to refuse food had come with modeling, but this much of the same monotony, of nothingness was driving her insane. She still sat against her wall, but she had started to wish for just the simple command to step forward. Food did not come again.

On the fifth day, 11669 woke to find that another plate of breakfast had been set outside her door. She eagerly engulfed it, ignoring the repugnant taste of the terrible mass cooking. She surprised herself by how desperately she ate, by how quickly she engulfed it. Immediately she felt better. Still exhausted from the amount of laziness that sitting on a stone floor for several days in a row brings, she had trouble staying awake.

The sound of heavy boot steps down the hallway woke her and eagerly she slipped to the bars, her slender feminine form accented by the press of the bars against the non descript uniform.

"Hello," she called out.

The boots just kept marching, closer and closer and closer.

The Human Wall finally emerged in front of her. In his hand, the same bright red tray with the same formless mud that was supposed to be food.

"Hello," she repeated.

He just smirked at her.

"Can I go out," she asked.

"No, exercise for isolation prisoners is past. You'll have to wait for tomorrow."

"Shit, you haven't let me out in like four days. Maybe five," she puzzled.

"That's your own fault, not ours."

"Well, what's a girl supposed to do around here," she flirted. The idea of maintaining the conversation with the guard was like a glimmer of hope. Being unable to talk much, let alone at all, had seemed inconceivable before the last few days.

"Nothing. Its called prison," he replied. His massive hand reached out, the tray perched easily on his fingertips. "Dinner."

Paris glanced at him, her hands absentmindedly brushing stray strands of hair out of her face.


She took the offered tray and shrunk back to the rear of the cell. The Wall stood watching her for a few minutes, his expressive eyebrows arched in amusement.

The next few hours passed more slowly then ever. The momentary contact with another human were invaluable. Paris desperately wished that it had lasted just a second or two longer. Just one more word or another.

But her idle mind quickly grew bored of wishing and her eyes started to scan the walls around her again. She counted the stones in the walls for the fifth time and reexamined the lettering on the sink. She had the make, liter output, and place of production memorized.

A steady headache growing, she slipped the prison pants down around her ankles and sat on the cool stainless seat toilet. Her thighs goose pimpled at the contact but as her urine flowed from her vaginal opening, the polished surface would warm.

She giggled at how entertaining peeing was. It was inconvenient most of the time- a sidebar between parties. But here, it was the most exciting thing to do. As she dabbed her lips with the bit of toilet paper they provided, a thought sent a shiver up her spine.

Was it the most exciting thing one could do, alone in a cell for twenty two more days. The idea was illicit and naughty, but definitely more interesting then the alternative.

After flushing the toilet, Paris quickly stripped, unbuttoning the orange top and trousers and carefully laying them out on the floor. The fluorescent materials made up a decent blanket and her naked body slipped down over them.

Closing her eyes and imagining someplace far away, Paris began to touch herself. She pictured a tropical beach bungalow, with a natural construction and a cute island native to be her companion. She would pick him up like she always did, at some quaint bar or club in the higher end section of town. He'd by her a few drinks, his eyes enamored with her beauty and her celebrity.

He would know her name, and she wouldn't know his. And she would flirt, and laugh, and drink, and somehow not care that she didn't know his name.

They would end up back at her private rental, his eager hands moving over her thin model's body.

Her hands drifted from the cold stone floor of the prison cell to her breasts, her fingers wrapping beneath the small globes of flesh and caressing them, as her imaginary native boy did. In her fantasy, as he played with her nipples, his warm mouth encircling her tautness, she would enact it in reality.

Paris's fingers pulled and tugged at her pink nubs, hardening them, teasing them, preparing them for their imaginary sexual encounter. Little whimpers and gasps of pleasure would escape the lean frame of the young woman as she toyed with herself in her cell.

Those long beautiful fingers, so gentle and perfectly trimmed, would slide down her stomach, moving from her breast to the stubbly little thatch of hair beneath her belly button. Her brow furrowed over closed eyes at this detail- normally she was perfectly shaven or waxed, but a week without any maintenance and her hair was growing.

One hand would continue to ply its trade atop one of the soft mounds of flesh at her chest. The other would find gold in the moist pinkness of her cunt. Eagerly two fingers would slip over her clitoris, rubbing the small nub with constant pressure while a third dipped into her wet tunnel. As her need increased her ability to multi task her attention failed.

Soon the hand atop her tit was clenched in a tight grip, while the other plunged its three fingers into the wetness of her channel. Her fragile voice echoed her cries of pleasure into the stone cell. Panting heavily, her sex scenting the whole room, she would cum. Once more her voice would cry out and her body would curl into a tight ball atop her prison clothes. Sweet release.

She allowed her body to tremble and shiver, savoring the moment of climax and its aftermath. Her nipples remained hard as the cold air pervaded beneath the warm sheen of her sweat, bringing her temperature down.

The little stupor she was in, was interrupted by the footfall of heavy boots moving away from her cell. Nervous and embarrassed she quickly grabbed at her clothing and dressed. When she turned back to the cell door, there was no more sounds from the hallway. But a blanket and a meal were waiting for her.

Curious, she grabbed at both the food and the blanket and slipped back into her three walls. The blanket would raise some questions for her.

Was he bringing the blanket anyways? How much had he seen? Was the blanket a reward for the behavior? Was he a pervert or a creep?

Paris had no way of knowing. But the cheap, rough blanket felt wonderful over her shoulders and she had no problem falling asleep that night.

The next morning she awoke to her customary meal of mush and more mush. She ate hurriedly, sad that she had missed the Wall. She had expected that seeing him would tell her a lot about his intentions and about what he had seen. She was certain that he would have seen something, but what, was another question. Had he witnessed the whole of her masturbation? Had he listened to her climax? Paris wondered whether or not he watched all the inmates in the women's prison.

The thought made her moist. Being arousing to another human being had always been a turn on for her. She loved the attention that she got from men, the jealous looks of their girlfriends as they caught their partners peeking. She had to admit she was a bit of an exhibitionist and was always up for a good show.

The more she thought about it all, the warmer she felt the space between her thighs grow. Soon she could feel the moisture of her sex soaking into the thick coarse material of her uniform. Another coy grin on her face, she slipped a hand beneath the pants and began to caress her nether region.

A fire there awoke brightly, as fantasies overwhelmed her, and her own boredom with prison contributed to the lustful desires she possessed. Her fingers squished into her sex, hurriedly penetrating the tight little channel, working her into a frenzy.

She paused when she heard the boot steps coming once more. With a little more subtlety she resumed her self exploration, her fingers swishing lightly back and forth within her tight folds.

The Human Wall appeared in front of her. His hand was stroking a rather sizable tent in his pants. Leaning against the stones behind him, he dropped a pillow on the ground. His massive frame slipped down atop it, his legs sprawled before him.

"Pillows for you. If you put on a good show."

Paris stared back at him, her eyes exploring this newfound bargaining chip. What the hell she though, she was stuck here after all. And the pillow would be good.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just put on a show. You know how," he replied casually. Paris wondered vaguely what that you know how meant. He'd probably watched her porn she decided.

Slipping from her seat on the wall, she moved towards the bars of the cell door. She sauntered instead of walked, her hips sashaying and her shoulders thrusting her tits forward. He was right, she knew how to put on a show.

She danced quietly, to some imagined music beat. Her body shifted and swayed, dipped and rocked in a rhythm that only she could understand. The Wall's eyes were focused on her, the stern blue shade piercing through her clothing, studying her every detail.

Her dancing slowed as she heard him speak. "You're wet," he informed her. Paris glanced down to her sex and saw that her little bit of toying had left her with a dark stain of moisture in the crotch of her pants.

Smiling, she resumed her dance, her hands suddenly moving over her body, caressing her tits, her sex, her ass, through the heavy weave.

One hand began to pop the buttons on her top free, slowly and in time with a particular moment in her imagined song. Soon the material hung over her tits, held in position by the hard erection of her nipples. She smiled and hissed as she finally shrugged it free, her naked chest on display before the hungry eyes of her prison guard. Their eyes met, as his hands went to his trousers. He tugged down the zipper on the garment and freed a rather sizable cock from its recesses. He grinned at her, pride evidenced in his smile. He was well hung.

Paris' mouth watered at the sight of the cock and her dancing slowed a little as her concentration was challenged. The young tart played with her tits as she watched him lazily stroke his cock, pumping it in the thick embrace of his palm. It had been a long time since she had seen a dick that big.

Breathing a little more raggedly, she slipped her pants off of her hips and pushed them down past her knees. One hand reached out and gripped the bars of the cell door. Leaning back, her weight supported on that one arm, she let the other hand slip over her body as she continued her dance.

Her fingers quickly found the apex of her womanhood in its perch between her thighs. Paris had wanted to be more subtle, to toy with him a bit longer, but the sight of his heavy cock and balls made her eager to fill herself with something. Soon several of them were buried in her twat.

The feeling of having someone's eyes watching her naked expression of lust was sexually rewarding. It was perhaps why she was so prone to creating her home videos. Being seen, and having her beauty celebrated and admired was fulfilling. And her groaning voice and trembling knees were a testament to that.

The Human Wall's patience would break first as he rose from his sprawl across the way from her. His long arm reached through the cell doors and grabbed one of her thighs. Paris was startled how easily her leg fit into one hand. He drew her forward, until her naked body was pressed into the cold cell door. His other hand grasped her other thigh and she was trapped, pinned against the metal. But her fingers would not release their claim on the depths of her twat and as hungrily as ever she fucked herself.

Her head rested against the cell door as she watched the massive square skull approach her pussy lips, only an inch of metal and air separating the two. His strong jaw line relaxed, his tongue flicking out, darting towards the plunging motion of her digits.

The red muscle lapped firmly, evenly over her fingers and labia, cleaning the exposed juices from both surfaces. Again it lapped, and again. The feeling of his tongues texture on the outer lips, her clit hidden beneath her hand, was exciting and foreign. Finally she managed to surrender her hold on her pussy and his tongue flooded her depths with juices at first contact.

"Fucking eat me, you fucking jerk," she swore. Her hands braced against the back of his head, holding it firm against the door. The feeling of having the massive man curled up before her, pleasing her was indescribable elation.

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