Chloe in Prison

Day Fifteen

Sometime towards morning I had the most intense dream about Prana. We were at the seaside, swimming out to sea. The sea was warm: soon we were a long way from the shore, but were not afraid. We began embracing: the water seemed to be over our heads, and at first I was puzzled, and wondered why we weren't drowning, but I quickly accepted this as normal. I felt overwhelming love for Prana. I put my legs around her waist: we were both naked, and my pussy was pressed against her tummy. I began working myself against her, and felt the sensations building.

Then I woke up. I was grinding my pussy into the mattress, and only by waking had I stopped myself coming.

At first the loss I felt was as intense as the love. I'd been with Prana -- and now she was gone. I longed to go back, back into the dream, and reach some sort of consummation with her. In the dream we had been lovers with no obstacles: even the laws of nature had bowed to our desire for each other.

Then I began to think I really had been with her. Something so intense had to be more than a dream: she had been there, wherever 'there' was, with me. Perhaps this had been her dream too? Perhaps we'd slipped out of our bodies together, into some sort of astral dimension?

A new longing arose in me: I had to find out, had to tell her my dream and see if she had experienced anything similar.

But I couldn't. I had no way of making the slightest communication with her.

I wanted to claw through the prison walls with my fingernails.

After slopping-out and breakfast and shaving inspection, I told Rose.

"Do you think, if I asked Raymond nicely, she might take a message?" I asked.

"No," said Rose. "The Wardens aren't here to take your messages. Very occasionally, if it's really important, you might ask: but never take advantage."

So I was left with the aftermath of my dream: and one aspect in particular left me worried. In the dream, I had not been able to consummate my desire: suppose that were a prefiguring? Suppose I had nothing to offer Prana at Showers, and she wouldn't make love with me? I brooded and fretted and voiced some of my fears, until Rose was heartily sick of it and told me to exercise.

I went through my exercise routine whilst Rose exercised her right hand, though my body was sore from all the pinching, and I was unable to move freely. Afterwards I slumped on the bed, wondering how I would get through the afternoon.

The dream had also, of course, left me randy. Part of me was still chasing the orgasm that had so nearly happened. In my mind's eye I went back to the sea, closing my legs around Prana's tummy: it would be so easy to bring myself off, and discharge all the unsatisfied desire that the dream had aroused. Several times I came close. The first time, lunch arrived to distract me. The second time, my imaginings were interrupted by Rose.

"Chloe," she said: "sorry if I'm interrupting, but you did tell me you weren't going to rub off this week: I've been thinking about Mrs Tiggywinkle."

"Not a nice thing to think about," I said.

"The thing is: I think she may have done something wrong."

"You think?" I said in surprise. "I know she's done something wrong -- how could there be any doubt?"

"That's not what I mean Chloe. I mean something outside prison etiquette, if not prison rules."

"Go on," I said, intrigued.

"Do you remember what Clark said, when you were desperate for chocolate and were asking her if you could do anything for her?"

"She said I wasn't her type," I said. "Bradley said so as well."

"Yes, but do you remember what else? She said it was more than her job was worth. So I asked what she meant. And she said Officer Hardiman would want to have you first."

"I remember," I said. "But Hardiman's had me now, so it doesn't matter."

"I'm not so sure Chloe. Have you ever wondered why none of the other Wardens have been after you? Raymond for one can't wait to get her hands on you, she told me so yesterday. But she hasn't: why not?"

"I don't know," I said.

"I think I do," said Rose. "I think they're all waiting for Dawes."

"For Dawes?"

"Hardiman comes first in the pecking order," said Rose. "But after her it's Dawes. Then all the other Wardens as they please. I think Mrs Tiggywinkle had you out of turn. And if Dawes found out, I don't think she'd be too pleased."

"Rose -- surely Mrs Tiggywinkle wouldn't risk upsetting Dawes?"

Rose shrugged:

"Who knows? Maybe she saw an opportunity and just couldn't control herself. Think about the way she did it -- taking you into the broom cupboard, out of sight, without even another Warden having to know. She wouldn't have dared to have you in your cell: but when the chance came yesterday, she couldn't resist."

"So what does this mean, Rose -- what can we do? If I tell Dawes she probably won't believe me, and I'll be punished for lying."

"I think she would believe you," Rose said. "She probably wouldn't admit it, and yes, she probably would punish you for lying. But privately I think she'd know you wouldn't invent something like that, and Mrs Tiggywinkle would get a rocket."

"That wouldn't be much help to me," I said. "No Rose, I'd rather leave alone."

"I'm not suggesting you tell Dawes," said Rose. "I need to think about this some more: but I'm pretty sure that Mrs Tiggywinkle wouldn't like this to get out, and especially she wouldn't like it to reach Dawes' ears.

"She'd deny it," I said. "There were no witnesses: she'd deny it ever happened."

"She would if you told anybody," said Rose. "But I'd bet, given a choice, she'd rather not have to make that denial."

"Go on," I said again.

"So suppose you were to mention casually that you were going to tell Dawes how much you enjoyed being pinched in the broom cupboard? Not a threat exactly, that would be too confrontational and she might call your bluff -- but something ambiguous, so she's not quite sure if you're threatening her or not. As I say, we need to think about it: but there might be a bit of leverage with our friend Mrs T over this."

"Rose -- I don't know: the woman makes my flesh creep -- the less I have to do with her the better."

"Well, let's see," said Rose: "we don't have to decide anything now."

I mulled over what Rose had said. And thinking about Mrs Tiggywinkle distracted me for a time. But the combination of intense emotion and intense lust was too powerful, and the afternoon was one long battle with myself. After dinner, when I tried to shave Rose, my hand was shaking so much she had to speak to me sharply, demanding I concentrate. By the time she came to shave me I was all but lost. The strokes of the razor sent shivers of pleasure all over my pussy, and fluttering sensations through my tummy, making me feel faint. Once Rose started fingering me, easing my labia aside to draw the razor inwards from the top of my leg, I knew I could hold out no longer. I was squirming so much Rose could hardly do her job anyway, so breathlessly I said:

"Rose, just bring me off: I can't hold out any more."

"Sorry Chloe," said Rose. "You told me a week; you told me you were determined to save yourself for Prana: If you want to rub off that's your choice, but I'm not going to be the one to spoil your resolution."

"Rose," I groaned: but it was no use: Rose finished shaving me briskly, and left my pussy to throb. I squatted over the bucket and splashed myself with cold water, which temporarily doused the fire, then lay down again to resume the struggle.

Day Sixteen

I'd hoped to dream of Prana again that night, but my dreams were fragmented and unsatisfactory, and mostly consisted of waiting for trains that never came, or riding on trains without knowing where I was going. Slopping-out and breakfast proceeded as usual, but at shaving inspection there was a surprise announcement, made by a sullen-faced Warden named Wilkes I'd only seen once before.

"Exercise this afternoon at 3pm," she said. She had a speech impediment, which made her sound as though she was talking out of the side of her mouth.

"Rose," I said, excited: "Is this in place of the Exercise Session we lost watching Cradock?"

"Sorry Chloe," said Rose. "Don't you remember me telling you that prisoners who had been here over a year were allowed a second Exercise hour every fortnight? This is it. They don't hold it on a regular day, they just announce it when it suits them."

"Oh," I said, disappointed.

"So you'll have the cell to yourself for an hour this afternoon," Rose said. "Make the most of it."

I reflected on this for a while, then asked:

"Do you know if Prana will be there?"

"I'm not sure," said Rose. "Yes, wait a minute, she is: she's just qualified."

The thought of Prana out in the Exercise Yard, free to talk and mingle with the other women, made the prospect of my confinement in the cell seem doubly punitive.

"Please can you give her a message Rose?" I asked.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I'm not sure." How could I express all my feelings and all the torments of the past week into a message passed on by a third person? "Anything -- you decide, you'll know what to say."

"I'll tell her you miss her," said Rose. "That OK?"

"Yes," I said. "And that I'm looking forward to seeing her at Showers."

"All right," said Rose. "I'll do that."

"Thanks Rose."

To pass the time I did some more exercises. The pain from the pinching had more or less worn off, and I put more energy into the movements than the previous day. I even managed to do a bridge, in the aisle between the beds.

"Do you know what I'm going to do when I get out of here?" I asked Rose, who as usual was busy diddling herself.

"Tell me," she said.

"I'm going to find a sandy beach -- or a nice new-mown lawn -- and I'm going to run like the wind, and do hundreds of cartwheels."

"I hope I'll be there to watch you," said Rose.

I lay back on my bed, perspiring. Then I began to think about the afternoon. Much as I liked Rose, it would be nice to have the cell to myself for a time. I began to think about what I would do, with no-one to watch me and no-one to hear me.

Lunch came and went as usual, and Rose was making little signs of anticipation, clearly looking forward to Exercise. At last the door banged open and her name was called.

"See you later Chloe," she said.

"You won't forget?" I called.

"I won't forget," she answered. Then she was gone, the door was closed and locked again, and I was alone in the cell.

No matter how well you get on with somebody, being locked in a tiny cell with them round the clock is a strain. There are times when one of you wants to rest and the other is restless, times when one wants to talk and the other to be silent. There are even times when just the existence of somebody else in so confined a space is intolerable. Usually Rose and I were sensitive to each others needs, though, and there was rarely any tension between us.

I'd grown used to doing things in the presence of Rose that previously I had only done in private. The lack of personal space and privacy was a given in prison: there was nothing to do but accept it. But there was one activity I could never seem to grow comfortable with: using the bucket. Pissing wasn't a problem: it was done quickly, the awkward postures we had to adopt were abandoned before they became uncomfortable. But emptying my bowels was still a bit of an issue. Rose was very regular: every morning just after breakfast she would squat down, hands on the rim of the wash basin, and do her business swiftly and efficiently. But my bowels had not yet adjusted to prison food, and were far less regular or co-operative.

We always turned our heads away, towards the wall, when the other was using the bucket. So it wasn't as though I was being watched. But it was still off-putting having to try to empty yourself with somebody else's head just a couple of feet away.

Most of all, I was self-conscious about farting. You can shut your eyes, but you can't shut your ears, and I hated the thought that Rose could hear every sound I was making. One morning she had made a joke about me 'playing my trumpet'. She hadn't meant any harm, she was only trying to make light of it: but ever since then I had been acutely self-conscious, and struggled to muffle or avoid making noises.

This made the whole business even more of a trial, and I could never fully relax and empty myself in the satisfying way I had done at home.

Now, with Rose out of the cell, I intended to have a good, long, relaxing bowel movement.

I had been building up to it most of the morning. After exercise I felt a definite stirring in my bowels. Lunch added an extra impetus, and shortly afterward I was ready to use the bucket. The need had grown: any other time I would have got on with it. But knowing I would have the cell to myself, I decided to hold on, to fight back the urge until the time came when I could empty myself freely and without inhibition.

The time had now come. I began by taking off all my clothes: even a dangling shirt could be a hindrance when you were trying to balance and support yourself simultaneously. I took the lid off the bucket, and prepared to squat. The contents of my bowels were urging themselves towards release. Then I hesitated, and wondered if there might just be a better position, something I had not previously considered. With no-one around I was free to experiment: so I climbed onto the beds, and tried standing with my legs wide apart, one foot resting on the edge of each bed, the bucket in the aisle beneath me. That was quite comfortable: I could stand like that for longer than I could squat, albeit my head was touching the ceiling. But I was too upright. So I tried leaning forwards, resting my hands on the rim of the basin, letting them take some of my weight, and bending my knees slightly. That was better. I was still high up over the bucket though. I wasn't certain I could get my aim exactly right. Perhaps it would be better to just get down again. And yet something appealed to me about shitting from this unconventional position: a small, private breaking-out of the narrow restrictions that governed every aspect of our lives. Whatever I did, though, it had to be soon.

I'll get down, I thought: this is too silly. But before I could move the door clanged open.

I froze. I froze like an ice sculpture. The only movement was the pounding of my heart.

Standing as I was, bent over, facing the rear wall of the cell, I could not see who had entered. Pray to God it's Rose, I thought. Then someone spoke:

"Just what are you doing Littlehayes?"

It was Dawes.

My tongue was as frozen as the rest of me. I had no idea what to say. Dawes repeated her question, with more impatience in her voice. I had to speak.

"I was just -- experimenting, Sir," I said.

"Go on Littlehayes."

"I needed a poo Sir: it's uncomfortable sitting on the bucket: I just thought I'd try to find a different position. Sir."

I was aware of Dawes sitting down on my bed.

"I've been a Prison Officer for twenty-two years," she said. "During that time I thought I had seen it all. But today, Littlehayes, you've surprised me. No don't move: stay exactly as you are."

Already my legs were starting to tire. Instinct also told me that whatever Dawes was going to do or say to me, I should confront it face to face -- not with my bare bottom thrust out towards her. And more pressing than either of these was the fact that the poo which I had held inside me for so long could not be denied any longer.

"Sir," I said, slightly emboldened by the fact that Dawes was not bawling at me in her customary way, but had been speaking quite reasonably: "I really do need a poo: I can't hold it in any longer."

'"I really do need a poo,'" sneered Dawes. "What kind of baby talk is that? If you need a shit then say so."

"I'm sorry Sir," I said. "I really do need a shit Sir."

"You'll shit when I tell you to Littlehayes," said Dawes quietly. "And not before. Now stay like that while I decide what to do with you. And I think we'll put this back where it belongs," she said, sniffing, and replacing the lid on the slop-bucket.

I tried my hardest. I used all my muscle control and willpower. But I had waited too long. Like a baby that has to be born, that turd could not be contained any longer: I felt my muscles contracting: then my ring opened and the turd slid out, and landed with a muffled thud onto the lid of the slop-bucket.

"Oh dear," said Dawes.

"I'm sorry Sir," I said. "I really, really had to go: I couldn't help it Sir, honestly."

"'Couldn't help it'" said Dawes. "Now where have I heard those words recently? Oh yes: that's what Prisoner Cradock said when she knocked her slops bucket over Officer Clark."

"Oh no Sir, please Sir," I said in panic: "that was an assault on an Officer Sir, I would never do that Sir, never."

"Just as well Littlehayes, or you would be in even bigger trouble than you are already. I'm just going to fetch something: you stay exactly as you are until I return: do you understand? You don't move so much as your little finger."

"Yes Sir," I said miserably.

Dawes left the room, and I heard the key turn. Uncomfortable as I was, I did not dare to move: I didn't trust Dawes not to wait outside for a few seconds then try to surprise me. I did move my eyes though: and by lowering my head just a fraction I could peer back through my legs: what met my eye was my own turd, lying on top of the lidded bucket. And the most awful thought came to me.

She was going to make me eat it.

I felt sick as I'd never felt sick before. Sick and terrified. My mouth was dry. I was sucking, trying to moisten it, but my tongue wouldn't work properly. I stared down at the turd: already in anticipation I had the hideous thing in my mouth. I retched, but nothing came up. Rose's words came back to me: I don't know how long it took, but they got it down in the end. I tried to tell myself that at least it was my turd; Sandy had been force-fed one of Dawes', and somehow she'd survived. Only she hadn't survived: according to Rose she'd aged ten years and ended up in Broadmoor.

When Dawes returned she was carrying a black leather holdall.

"Alright Littlehayes," she said: "you can get down now: I'm sick of the sight of your arsehole."

I got down. I was trembling and shaking.

"What's the matter with you Littlehayes?" Dawes snapped. "Sit down for goodness sake."

I sat down on my bed, next to her. I couldn't keep still: fear seemed to grip my body and twist it about, like a ferret shaking a rabbit.

"Now Littlehayes," said Dawes: "let's get things clear shall we? Because I've found in the past your University education has left you a little slow in understanding. I believe I told you that you could empty your bowels when I told you and not before. Is that correct?"

"Yes Sir," I said, very quietly.

"Did I tell you you could empty your bowels Littlehayes?"

"No Sir."

"But you did empty your bowels didn't you?"

"Yes Sir, I couldn't --

"Quiet! You emptied your bowels without permission: I'm not interested in your reasons."

"No Sir."

"So that," she pointed at the turd, "should not be there."

"No Sir."

"Where should it be Littlehayes?"

"Inside me Sir," I whimpered.

"Speak up Littlehayes: where should it be?"

"Inside me Sir."

"Correct Littlehayes, inside you. And that's exactly where it's going."

Now I knew. My stomach felt queasy: I was so weak I almost fainted. I could barely see for tears.

"Please," I begged: "for pity's sake, please Sir."

"Pity has no place in a prison cell Littlehayes."

Dawes opened the holdall. This is it, I thought: clamps, and who knew what horrors. She took out a shiny steel object. It was shaped like a pistol: the 'barrel' resembled two slender opposing tongues, or shoe-horns; the handle involved a lever and some silver screws.