Chloe In Prison Ch 09

Day Fourteen

In prison, I learned, life goes on. Whatever happens you cannot hide under a duvet all day, or escape with a bottle of wine in front of the telly. Slopping-out has to be done, breakfast has to be eaten, and shaving inspections undergone. Mostly I hated these compulsory activities: but after what had happened the previous day, they offered a kind of normality, the comfort of routine. Seeing the other women with their buckets, chattering in the corridor -- even opening my legs for Bradley and Clark to poke around -- these reassured me that the world had not come to an end overnight. The sight of Rose masturbating confirmed that life could and must go on.

Which meant life without Prana. How was I to survive five days? Well, it was four and a half days now, but still. Not only that: how was I going to ensure I had chocolate to pay her with? I had hoped to earn something at Exercise, or at least get some pledge for earning in the showers. Now there was no guarantee. I couldn't, I wouldn't, go to her without payment. But equally, bearing in mind Rose's advice, I would not promise something I did not yet have.

Then there was the emery board. I had promised that to Prana: the Andrews Sisters were to give it to me at Exercise. Would they still have it next week? Would it have been spent or promised elsewhere?

I was worried. I was also getting randy again: it was three days since I'd had sex with Prana in the showers, and I hadn't touched myself since. I fought a battle with my hand, touching myself, stopping, touching myself again, and when it was clear my hand was getting the better of things I decided to do some more exercises.

This time I took off all my clothes for ease of movement, and lay a folded blanket on the floor to protect my skin from the cold concrete. I went through various sit-ups, press-ups, and bicycling. Then I stood with my back to the wall at the foot of my bed, and did stretching, running on the spot, and leg kicking. I finished off by standing on my head.

All the time Rose was watching me. At first, knowing now that she was getting turned on, I felt self-conscious; then, as I warmed to the task, this passed and I focussed solely on the exercise. Finally, watching her beaver away between her legs with such a rapt look on her face, I started to feel flattered by her enjoyment, and to perform a little, extending each leg in turn then rotating it outwards and downwards, giving her a full-on view of my pussy -- until she brought herself off with a heaving, groaning climax.

"Rose," I said -- it was hard to know which of us was more breathless: "How many times a week do you come?"

"Not as many as you think," said Rose. "Just because I play with myself all the time doesn't mean I'm always coming off."

"I think I'm going to make you start exercising," I said. "How long is it since you even touched your toes?"

"Toes?" said Rose. "I would Chloe -- but every time I try my hand stops half way."

We both laughed.

I felt better for exercising, and pleased that I'd got through another hour without masturbating. I was warm and sweaty, and did my best to dab cold water under my armpits and spread it around with the towel, then lay on my bed to cool down. Presently the lunch trolley arrived with Mrs Tiggywinkle and Raymond, who seemed to be in a good mood, and showed no signs of being affected by the events of the previous afternoon. As well as some bread and peanut butter she had brought in two apples. They weren't the freshest or firmest looking, but my mouth watered at the sight.

Before they left, Raymond spoke to Rose:

"I come to visit you this afternoon, yes?"

"That will be nice," Rose replied.

We ate our apples slowly, savouring every bite, nibbling around the core and leaving nothing that could not be eaten.

Rose said:

"You heard Raymond: she wants to spend some time with me this afternoon. Usually when that happens the cellmate is told to go and sweep the corridors for an hour or so."

"That's fine by me," I said. And as I lay absorbing this information, a new idea came to me. If I was to sweep the corridors, that meant I would get to look at the names on the cell doors. If I went in the right direction I would be able to decipher the enigmatic Zs and Cs and Ws which comprised the name of Prana's cell mate. And as I reflected on this a further notion came to me, which set my pulse racing and my heart pounding: if I could sweep outside Prana's door, and whoever was detailed to watch me was not too close -- I could tap on the door -- maybe call out to Prana -- and maybe whisper a few words to her.

I thought of the surprise it would give her, to hear me outside her door. I though of the pleasure it would give. The notion turned from an idea into something of a plan. If I could I would deliberately sweep my way towards Prana's door. I would sweep all the dust there from one direction, then again from another, so that it gathered there, so that I would spend more time there, maybe sweeping it into a pan, emptying the pan and returning. The more I visualised this, the more excited I grew. I would speak to Prana. I would hear her voice. I would be within inches of her. My pussy had begun to throb: just the thought of being so close to her had me hot and wet again.

"What's up with you?" Rose asked. "Your face is all flushed. I've never seen anyone look so excited about sweeping the corridors before."

I told Rose.

"God, you've still got it bad," she said. "Just be very careful."

I waited, full of nervous anticipation. I wasn't sure which Warden I hoped would be monitoring me, as long as it wasn't Hardiman or Dawes, but in the event it was Mrs Tiggywinkle who followed Raymond into our cell.

"Mason and I spend some time alone," Raymond said to me. "You please go with Officer Causer and sweep the corridors."

Of all the Wardens I had had dealings with, Mrs Tiggywinkle was the most enigmatic. Short, round-faced, well-padded, with her ridiculous spiky would-be-punk haircut, she always seemed to remain in the background, to occupy a junior position even with Officers many years younger. I guessed she was just one of those women destined never to rise in their profession: someone lacking in drive or aptitude or the necessary intelligence, forced to watch as junior colleagues are promoted ahead of them.

I followed her into the corridor, and was slightly surprised to see she had no broom with her.

"Follow me: we'll go to the broom cupboard," she said.

We walked down the corridor: to my delight we were heading towards the Exercise Yard: each cell we passed bore a lower number: we were already nearing Prana's cell. However, before we could get there, Mrs Tigywinkle stopped opposite a pair of double doors, leafed through the jangling bunch of keys on her belt, and pushed one into the lock. The doors opened onto a gloomy interior: Mrs Tiggywingle stepped inside and switched on a light.

"Come in," she said.

I followed her: for a cupboard the room was remarkably large, more of a store room really. I could see brooms, buckets, ladders, bowls and all manner of cleaning utensils. There were cardboard boxes, some piled quite high, bearing the names of products: some seemed to contain household materials, some dried foodstuffs, others stationary and office accessories. There were boxes of razors, boxes of soap, and boxes of light bulbs. I saw, with a shudder, that this was also the storage home of the whipping horse, now resting innocently behind a stack of boxes. Behind it I could also make out another piece of equipment that looked as though it belonged in a gym, a sort of vaulting horse, but wedge-shaped, wide at the base and narrowing to a ridge at the apex.

I was aware of the door being shut behind me, and a key turning. I suddenly felt uneasy.

"Which broom shall I use Sir?" I asked, going over to a row of brooms which were leaning against the wall.

Mrs Tiggywinkle ignored my question. She had taken a seat on a cardboard box, her short fat legs barely touching the floor. She indicated a similar box close to her.

"Sit down," she said.

I sat down cautiously.

For a moment there was silence. Mrs Tiggywinkle peered at me.

"Were you ever pinched as a child?" she asked abruptly.

"Pinched?" I asked in astonishment.

"Pinched," she repeated. "By your parents."

"No," I answered, so puzzled I forgot to say Sir, though Mrs Tiggywinkle did not seem to bother.

"Spanked then?" she asked.

"No," I said. "My parents never hit me Sir."

"That's the problem," said Mrs Tiggywinkle. "That's why you're here now. Children should be spanked or pinched. Pinching's better. It teaches discipline. Take that girl Cradock: I wouldn't have thrashed her."

"You wouldn't?" I said.

"No," said Mrs Tiggywinkle. "I'd have pinched her. Pinched her all over until she was black and blue."

She gave a short, high, cackling laugh.

"I was pinched when I was a girl," she went on. "Two big girls I was cheeky to. They pinched me until I cried. I wasn't cheeky again. It taught me a lesson. When a younger girl cheeked me I pinched her. She didn't cheek me again."

"No Sir," I said, thinking longingly of the broom and the corridor.

"Adam and Eve and Pinch Me went down to the river to bathe," said Mrs Tiggywinkle: "Adam and Eve were drowned, who do you think was saved?"

"I -- I don't understand," I said.

"It's very simple," said Mrs Tiggywinkle a shade testily. "Adam and Eve and Pinch Me went down to the river to bathe, Adam and Eve were drowned, who do you think was saved?"

"Pinch Me," I said, with a sinking heart. "Ow!"

The second I had spoken Mrs Tiggywinkle had reached out and given the inside of my thigh a vicious pinch. I recoiled, and clutched at the pain.

"I'm going to pinch you now," said Mrs Tiggywinkle. "All over. Take your clothes off."

"No," I said in alarm. I looked round for escape. The door was locked, the keys secure on Mrs Tiggywinkle's belt. I eyed the piles of boxes.

"Disobeying a Warden is a very serious offence," said Mrs Tiggywinkle sternly. "That girl Cradock..."

She let the sentence hang there, unfinished.

Very reluctantly I stood up and took off my clothes.

"Come here," said Mrs Tiggywinkle. I went and stood before her: she remained seated.

Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my right leg, just above the knee. I'd barely had time to flinch before a similar pain stung my stomach. After that, the pinches came thick and fast: on my legs, on my bottom, on my sides and my tummy, on my arms. Everywhere there was any loose flesh to be gripped, it was gripped. As fast as I flinched away from one stinging pinch, another one caught me. Mrs Tiggywinkle's arms were shooting out so rapidly I had no idea where the next pinch was coming from. It was as though she was performing some ancient skill, some sort of insane weaving, that she had mastered after decades of practise. Every pinch hit its mark: her fingers never seemed to slip or falter. I screamed, ducked, pulled away, tried to dodge, but the pinches came thick and fast: it was like being stung by a swarm of wasps. I felt my nipples being pinched, my breasts, my calves, even the fleshy bits under my armpits. Finally, as I stood, twisting and writhing and trying to press the most painful areas, she started pinching my pussy.

"This is where the trouble starts," she said, taking a grip on my labia. "This is what gets girls into trouble. What is she called?"

"What do you mean?" I asked desperately.

"What is she called?" she repeated impatiently.

"My pussy," I said, hoping and praying that was the right answer.

"A very common name," said Mrs Tiggywinkle, finally letting go. "What do you think of 'Jenny?'"

"Jenny?" I asked, still writhing and rubbing at myself. "Jenny's a -- a nice name Sir."

"Why don't you say hello to Jenny?" said Mrs Tiggywinkle. And so saying she took off her belt and laid it down carefully just out of reach, then took off her black leather uniform skirt and her black knickers.

"Sit down," she said. I sat down on the box again, and she stood before me. I stared in revulsion at the roll of fat that bulged from her stomach, the fat thighs that merged together, and the pink, shaven v in between.

"Here's Jenny," she said, planting her feet wider apart and pushing her bottom forward. It was hard to see her mound clearly for all the surrounding fat.

"Hello Jenny," I said woodenly.

"Jenny's been naughty today," said Mrs Tiggywinkle: "she needs to be pinched."

To my amazement, she began to grip the flesh on her mound, pulling it away from her bones, and administering several vicious-looking pinches.

"You can pinch her now," she said.

I'm in a madhouse, I thought. I'm trapped in a madhouse with a raving madwoman.

There was nothing else for it: I took a grip on her mound and pinched. It wasn't a hard pinch -- I was afraid to hurt her, though the pinches she had administered herself had not seemed to pain her.

"Harder," she said.

So I pinched harder, several times, the pain I was still feeling goading me into pinching harder and trying to hurt her. Eventually she did flinch: I expected her to stop, but when she did not I pinched her again, giving her flesh a twist as I did so.

"Stop now," she said. "Jenny's crying."

My face was only inches away from her vagina: as she ran her hands over it and parted her lips I could see she was wet.

"Kiss Jenny better," she said. I moved my face closer: the smell of her wet pussy assailed me, and added to my revulsion. I hesitated. Mrs Tiggywinkle clasped my head and drew it into her.

There was no help for it. I pressed my lips against her fleshy wetness and kissed her. Then I tried to pull away, but my head was held fast.

"Make Jenny feel better," said Mrs Tiggywinkle.

So I licked and sucked, all the time handicapped by the flesh that pressed in on me.

"Lie down," said Mrs Tiggywinkle, when it was clear I was struggling to get a satisfactory position.

I lay down. The floor was cold on my back, and my body hurt from the pinching. Mrs Tiggywinkle knelt over my face, parted her vagina, and lowered it onto my mouth. I sucked. I licked. I took her labia between my lips, fought back the temptation to bite them, and rolled my tongue around, backwards and forwards, flicking her clitoris. Mrs Tiggywinkle began to moan. Then out of the blue, before I thought I had built her up nearly enough, she came, making high little whimpering noises.

For a while I just lay there, quietly. I couldn't move my head, pinned as it was between her fat legs, and any sounds I made were muffled by her vagina.

Eventually she said:

"Jenny's got a present for you," and started cackling. For a moment I thought of chocolate or toothpaste: then something hot and wet was trickling into my mouth. Within seconds the taste hit me: it was piss. Mrs Tiggywinkle was pissing straight into my mouth. I squirmed, I made a frantic effort to wriggle free: Mrs Tiggywinkle's fat thighs pinned me fast.

"Drink it all down," said Mrs Tiggywinkle in a sing-song voice. "You don't want to offend Jenny do you?"

I had no choice. My mouth was full, I was gasping for air, so I swallowed. The taste was revolting like nothing on earth. I'd been forced to consume piss before, mixed with porridge: that had been repellent, but at least the porridge had helped to dilute the intensity of the piss. This, however, was neat piss: hot, steaming, straight out of Mrs Tiggywinkle's bladder. And worse even than the taste was the knowledge that some disgusting essence of this vile woman was being forced inside me, into my mouth and throat, down into my stomach, where it would permeate my organs and enter my bloodstream, violating the very cells of my body.

I gulped, swallowed, fought down every natural instinct to expel the repulsive liquid -- until at last the stream slowed to a trickle and dried up.

"Say 'Thank You' to Jenny," said Mrs Tiggywinkle, at last lifting her jelly-like bulk off me.

"'Thank you Jenny'" I managed to mutter.

Mrs Tiggywinkle got dressed. I lay on the floor, speechless, immobile.

"Time to get dressed," said Mrs Tiggywinkle. "Time to go back to your cell now."

Back in my cell I felt as though I'd just emerged from a car crash. I was going to blurt out everything to Rose: but when I saw her I stopped short. She was lying on her bed looking utterly wiped-out: her eyes were glazed, and she looked as though she could barely lift a finger.

"Rose: are you alright?" I said.

"I'm fine," said Rose, and she half-smiled as she spoke. "Only that woman -- well, she's insatiable."

"Oh, I see," I said. Then Rose, with an effort, reached under her pillow and pulled something out.

"Look what I've got," she said. I took a square of beige cloth from her.

"It's a flannel," I said.

"Do you realise what this means," said Rose: "how much easier it will be for us to wash and shave? I had a flannel once, only it disintegrated over the years. Now I've got a new one."

"That's wonderful Rose," I said, not quite able to share Rose's joy.

"That's not all," said Rose. "Look at this."

Again she reached under the pillow: this time her hand came out clutching half a bar of chocolate.

"She gave me chocolate as well," Rose said.

I burst into tears.

"Chloe -- whatever's the matter?" asked Rose, making an effort to rouse herself. "You haven't had another barney with Prana have you?"

"I didn't even get to speak to her," I sobbed. Then I told her everything.

"She's mental," I concluded. "Completely off her trolley. She should be in an asylum, not a prison."

"I always thought she wasn't right," said Rose: "though in here it's hard to tell the difference. Come here and have a cuddle."

"In a minute Rose: first I've got to wash my mouth out."

I drank several glasses of water. I brushed my teeth. The taste of piss remained, not just in my mouth, but also in my throat, and down into my chest and stomach. I looked at the apple cores, wondering if there might be an edible morsel left that would help to take the taste away, but there was nothing. I lay down in Rose's arms and cried again.

"Chloe," Rose said when I had sobbed myself out: "this calls for an emergency pick-me-up."

She pulled the chocolate from under the pillow, broke it in half and then broke two squares in half again.

"Eat this," she said, giving me one.

"No Rose, it's yours," I said. "You earned it."

"Chloe: just eat it. Look, I want a piece myself and I shan't have one unless you do, so please eat it. It'll help to take the taste away."

"Alright Rose: thank you."

I put the square of chocolate in my mouth: Rose did likewise. At once the luscious flavour spread over my taste buds. I sucked, and rolled the chocolate around my mouth, wanting to spread it into my cheeks, behind me lips, everywhere. I was careful not to bite it, wanting to make it last as long as possible. Slowly it began to dissolve, and I swallowed the chocolate-flavoured saliva, willing it to drive away the taste of Mrs Tiggywinkle's urine. The nugget of chocolate shrank: finally, when it was dissolved to almost nothing, I swallowed that too.

"Rose," I said: "I have never in my life enjoyed a piece of chocolate so much."

"Its good chocolate isn't it?" said Rose. "But if you don't mind I'll keep the other two squares: my period's due soon, and I get the most intense craving for chocolate."

"Rose! You should have said. You shouldn't have let me eat this. Now half of it is gone."

"Doesn't matter Chloe. There's still half left. This was an emergency: and besides, it's good to treat oneself sometimes."

"You are the kindest person I've ever known," I said, snuggling up beside Rose on the bed again. Is there anything I can do for you? Would you like a rub or something?"

"To tell the truth Chloe, for once in my life I'm completely spent. But I could give you one: I think you need one a lot more than I do."