Days Twenty-Eight to Thirty-One
I had been in prison for four weeks, and the monotony was really getting to me. The day after Exercise was always the worst: there were four more days of relentless boredom to go before Showers: and with Exercise being such a downer this time, and no sex to keep me going, I started to slide into strange, sometimes morbid, mental spaces. My period was now in full flow: often this was a time of dreaminess for me: only now the daydreams were dark and twisted and nightmarish.
The dreariness of the cell was the first thing to oppress me. The dingy walls, with no variation in colour or texture; the grey prison blankets; the tarnished metal bed-frames. Whichever way I turned there was no relief from the drabness. The cell was a box, regular and uninteresting, and at night in particular it felt like a tomb, the walls so close that Rose and I were not merely locked-up, but entombed there. One day, in desperation, I even wriggled under my bed - just to be somewhere different.
I spent a lot of time masturbating. Once slopping-out was done I didn't bother with skirt or knickers again, and scarcely bothered to cover myself when the Wardens came in at mealtimes. But my fantasies were moving in strange directions. To start with, I couldn't stop thinking about Parker and the Wooden Pony. A sort of 'survivor's guilt' took hold of me. Logically I knew that I had done nothing to merit such a punishment. Yet the fact that I had witnessed it whilst somebody else had undergone it made me feel guilty, feel that I, too, should have had a share in it.
What must it have felt like? How long was it before the pain shifted from bearable to unbearable? How much difference did the weights make? I had a good idea what it must feel like to be hit with a strap or a riding crop, even though I had never suffered those punishments. But I had no idea what it felt like to be sat on the Pony. I wanted to find out, but how? I looked around the cell for something I could put between my legs and press down on. There was no frame at the foot of the bed, but a metal frame did extend above the bed at the head: Rose and I used it to hang our towels on. I wondered if I could straddle it: but it was too close to the wall, and as the beds were bolted to the floor, they could not be moved. There was nothing else that would fit the bill: although one afternoon when Rose was dozing I tried to stand on the edge of my bed and get my knee into the washbasin, then lower my pussy down onto the rim. It was very awkward, and not really comparable to the pony: but as the cold stainless steel pressed hard against me I did get a sense of how excruciatingly painful it must have been.
Perhaps it was because they were omnipresent in prison, but pain and punishment seemed to dominate my sexual fantasies. Instead of making love in beautiful surrounding, I was rubbing off to visions of rape and chastisement and humiliation, in almost all of which I was the victim. And the strangest thing was, I was recreating the very scenes that in real life had caused me so much misery. I relived Cradock's dreadful thrashing, only this time it was me strapped to the vaulting horse, my bottom and thighs on which the strap bore down, and this imagined punishment wrought me to a tumultuous orgasm. I relived my initiation in the showers, where all the women in turn had forced their fingers inside me. I clutched at fragments, such as Prana's mention of her cousin, and I flicked myself whilst picturing him, held down by coarse factory hands, having his scrotum kneaded. I even relived the afternoon Dawes came into my cell with the speculum, and that too, though appalling when it had happened, was turned into orgasm fodder. Hardiman was so terrifying I could not quite bring myself to transform her in this way; but when, in my fantasies, Mrs Tiggywinkle pissed in my mouth I begged for more, and when she pinched my pussy lips I urged her to pinch harder, until I reached a shuddering climax.
"Rose," I said one evening: "I'm having the most disgusting sexual fantasies."
"Don't worry about it," said Rose. "Fantasies don't hurt anybody."
So I carried on. I was a kind of alchemist, transforming the dross of everyday life into the gold of sexual arousal. Only, in the isolated tomb of the cell, where there were no timepieces and the light never varied, where I slept and dozed and woke in the night, and dreamed and daydreamed, I began to lose sight of what was real and what was fantasy.
I was brought down to earth in brutal fashion the day Dawes announced a supplementary Exercise session for the prisoners who were eligible.
This meant that shortly after lunch Rose was allowed outside, whilst I had to remain in confinement.
Although I had no plans for a leisurely shit, having now overcome my inhibitions, I did look forward to having the cell to myself for an hour. I thought of Micky, and all the others confined to their cells, the girls kept in whilst the others enjoyed playtime, and felt an invisible kinship with them.
I should have known it was not to last. Less than five minutes after Rose had gone, keys turned in the lock, and Clark and Bradley barged in, locking the door behind them.
"All on your ownsome I see," said Bradley.
"Yes Sir," I said. "Rose is at Exercise Sir."
"We thought you might enjoy some company," said Clark.
Unhurriedly the two of them lay down, one on each bed. In unison they crossed their arms behind their heads, and stretched out their legs, putting their leather boots on our blankets.
I felt angry. Tiny as the cell was, it was our sanctuary, the one area of personal space allowed to us. Now they were invading it, acting as though they owned it.
As though she could read my thoughts Clark picked up my prize possession, my blue flannel.
"This yours?" she asked.
"Yes Sir."
"I'm feeling a bit hot and sticky today," she said. "You won't object if I borrow it?"
"No Sir," I said mournfully. Clark then drew up her fat legs, slipped off her knickers, took my flannel and wiped it firmly back and forth between her legs, reaching right under and making sure she wiped her anus. That done she tossed the flannel across to Bradley who caught it.
"You feeling sticky as well sister?" she asked.
"Sure am," said Bradley, who then gave an exact imitation, rubbing the flannel deep into the groove of her black pussy and into the crack of her fat bum-cheeks.
"That's better," she said, tossing the flannel back to Clark, who held it at arms length between her finger and thumb, screwed up her piggy nose, then tossed it into the washbasin and crossed her arms behind her head again.
"So," said Clark: "you like exercise, right?"
"Yes Sir," I said.
"You can exercise now then, whilst we watch."
"Yes Sir," I said, without moving.
"Get your kit off and get going then," said Clark.
I was already naked from the waist down, so I removed my jumper, shirt and bra, and finally my socks.
"Stand by the door," said Clark. "Start by running on the spot."
I started to run, but half-heartedly.
"Faster," snapped Clark. "Get your knees higher."
So I ran on the spot, as fast as I could, bringing my knees up level with my stomach. Soon I was panting.
"Keep going," said Clark. "Don't stop until I tell you."
I was gasping for breath, gulping in air through my mouth before she told me to stop.
"Now some high kicks," Bradley ordered.
Before I could get my breath back properly I launched into high kicks, raising first one leg then the other. Exercises like this were usually second only to rubbing-off in my hierarchy of daily pleasures: but leered at by Clark and Bradley, with no control over what I must do or how long for, I found them hateful.
"Stop," said Clark. "Now some star jumps."
Wearily I threw out my arms and legs and jumped."
"Put some muscle into it," commanded Bradley.
I felt like a performing doll, forced to go through movements which were normally invigorating, but in this context were exhausting and degrading.
"That'll do," said Clark. "Now lie on your back and do some bicycling."
I lay on my back on the cold concrete - at least that gave me a chance to get my breath - and began to bicycle my legs.
"Higher," said Bradley.
With my elbows braced on the floor I pushed my hips as high as I could, and with my bottom stuck into the air I farted and resumed the bicycling.
"Stop!" shouted Clark.
Gratefully I stopped and rested.
"What did you just do?" Clark demanded.
