Chloe in Prison Ch. 18

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I was shaking so much I could barely stand.

“Prana,” I said. “Are you all right?”

“Chloe?” Prana seemed dazed, as if she scarcely knew what had happened. “What are you doing here?”

“I tried to stop you,” I said. “But they think I was helping you. Oh God.”

I felt my bladder almost give way. My knees went weak. I sagged against the wall.

“You tried to stop me?” said Prana? “Then Chloe we must tell them.”

“I’ve tried,” I said.

“Oh Chloe, what did I do?” said Prana.

“You threw your nappy at Dawes,” I said. “I don’t know if you got her though, Clark wrestled me to the floor.”

“She put out her hand at the last second,” said Prana. “Also somebody grabbed at my arm. But for this I would have got her in the face.”

“That was me,” I said.

“So but for you I would not have missed?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had to try to stop you.”

“Chloe, I will remember this always,” said Prana. “If the nappy had hit her in the face I would be eating her shit every day of the year. I would be as good as dead. You have saved my life Chloe. But now you are in very big trouble also.”

I eyed the pallets nervously, and remembered the riding crop. I saw that Prana was trembling.

“Yes, Chloe, I am terrified,” she said. “But I will get you off, I will tell them how you tried to stop me.”

“I don’t care about that,” I said recklessly.

“Chloe, do you know what they will do to us?”

“I heard Hardiman say to ‘hog them’.”

“Do you know what this means Chloe?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Also Dawes will use the riding crop. Believe me Chloe, you do not want to feel that.”

I started shaking again. Terror was taking hold of my body: I was losing control of my muscles; my face was contorting of its own accord. Prana too had an agonised look on her face. I wanted to put my arms around her, but my own arms were pinned behind my back, and in any case my head was spinning, I didn’t know how to move. I looked at her, the funny, feisty, outrageous girl I had fallen in love with, now quivering against the wall, her head shaven, traces of shit down her legs.

“I’m sorry Chloe, I can’t help myself,” she said: and a spurt of fear-induced urine gushed out from between her thighs, and quickly became a torrent, streaming down the inside of her legs and forming a puddle on the floor.

“Me as well,” I said, as the sight and sound of her wetting herself triggered a complementary spurt from between my own legs. My last, hopeless attempt at self-control failed, and urine began to stream out of me. For a minute or two we stood there, facing each other, staring down at the bubbling, steaming rivers of piss. Our legs were soaked. Puddles formed between our feet, then gradually spread out as little rivulets explored the uneven concrete, looking for the easiest channels, flowing this way and that until the two pools began to mingle somewhere between us.

When the last drops had dripped from my pussy I made an instinctive movement to wipe myself: only to be reminded that my hands were fastened behind my back.

The stench of our piss steamed up from the floor.

“We’ll get into trouble for this, too,” said Prana.

“We get into trouble for breathing in here,” I said.

“Chloe,” said Prana: “why aren’t you angry with me?”

“Angry?” The involuntary emptying of my bladder had released something, and helped me to stand without shaking so much, or feeling so faint.

“When you tried to get your head shaved I was angry with you Chloe. I told you it was a stupid thing to do. Now I’ve something one hundred times more stupid, and you tried to help me, and even though we are both in deep trouble you don’t get angry with me.”

“It’s just my nature I suppose,” I said.

“Chloe, I wish I had never met you. I wish I had never come up to you that day in Showers.”

“Don’t say that Prana, please.”

“But I’ve brought you nothing but trouble Chloe.”

“I don’t care Prana: I love you.”

“And I love you Chloe: there, I’ve said it now. But Chloe, you will not think this way when Dawes takes the riding crop to you.”

“I don’t care Prana,” I said. “And Prana: I’m not going to tell them I tried to stop you.”

“Chloe, please: no more being a martyr. I will not let this happen.”

Then the footsteps we had been dreading sounded in the corridor, and the key turned in the lock. In strode Hardiman, followed by Dawes, who had the riding crop in her hand. Behind her, in the doorway, stood Clark, along with Bradley who was carrying several pairs of steel handcuffs. Hardiman beckoned them in: there was scarcely room for us all.

“My God,” said Dawes, noticing the puddles of urine on the floor. “Mind your feet: those filthy little pigs have already fouled their sty.”

“Yes Officer Dawes, we have wet ourselves,” said Prana.

“Shut up,” said Hardiman.

“Right,” said Dawes. “You two have committed a serious assault on a Prison Officer. Your full punishment will gorukle escort bayan be decided later: after you’ve had time in here to reflect on what you’ve done.”

“Officer Dawes,” said Prana.

“Shut up,” shouted Dawes.

Prana quailed visibly: but she persisted:

“No Officer Dawes I will speak,” she said. “I admit I attempted to assault you: but Littlehayes had no part in this: she tried to stop me – that is all.”

“Tell it to the Marines,” sneered Clark.

“It is the truth,” said Prana.

“If you say one more word Kumali,” said Dawes, “I will thrash you both until you howl like dogs: is that understood?”

Prana bowed her head.

“You both attempted a concerted attack on me,” said Dawes. “If my fellow Officers had not intervened I may have been seriously harmed. And you two would be looking at another three to five years in here.”

Prana dared say nothing, but ventured a small shake of her head. I had started to tremble and shake: if my bladder had not been empty I would have wet myself again.

“You,” said Hardiman to me: “Step forward.”

I took a step forward.

‘Bend over.”

Trembling in every muscle I leaned forward. Hardiman pushed my head down roughly, then tucked it under her armpit, wrapping one arm around my chest and closing a hand over my breast. I heard an intake of breath from somebody. I heard a swish, as Dawes flexed the riding crop.

The next second I screamed like I had never screamed before. I felt as though my bottom had been slashed with a sword. The pain bit deep into me: I screamed again and again, sank down onto my knees, and was thrown by Hardiman back onto one of the pallets. There I drew my knees up, wriggled and thrashed like a fish on a hook, desperately trying to escape from the pain; and all the while my hands were locked behind my back, useless to help. Tears streamed into my eyes; I had no control over my functions, I could have wet myself or even shit myself for all that I would have known. My fingers flexed, and my mouth and eyes opened very wide as my body tried every trick to attempt to relieve the pain.

I stared up at the Wardens, scarcely able to believe that anyone could deliberately inflict such pain. Dawes was looking at me grimly, Hardiman and Clark with contempt.

“Now you,” said Hardiman.

Prana, too, took a faltering step forward.

“Bend over.”

Through my tears I watched as Hardiman tucked Prana under her arm. Her legs were still wet with piss, and there were brown smears on her bottom.

Dawes raised the crop, swished it, drew back her arm, then brought it down with tremendous force on Prana’s behind. There was a sound like ice cracking, then Prana screamed. I saw a line appear across her bottom, a vicious red stripe along which the dusky skin was puckering. She screamed and sagged. Hardiman held in her position for a moment such that I feared she was going to get a second stroke, then released her, and she fell squirming and crying onto the pallet.

“That,” said Dawes, “is just a taste of what you two are going to get later.”

For a time there was nothing but pain. The pain across my bottom was all that existed; my attempts to ease it my sole preoccupation. I moaned and cried and squirmed, I heard Prana doing the same. Then, when I seemed to have exhausted every attempt to gain some relief, Hardiman began speaking again.

“Pass me the cuffs,” she said.

I opened my eyes again, and saw Bradley hand over the steel handcuffs. Hardiman handed a pair to Dawes, and together they crouched down beside Prana, whose crying had modulated into a whimper. Roughly they pushed her onto her stomach: then working in tandem they spread her legs, bent each one back, and fastened one end of a cuff round each ankle. The other end of each cuff was then locked onto one of her wrists. She cried out, and shook at the cuffs, making the chains rattle. But to no avail. Her arms and legs were held fast behind her: she was hogtied.

Hardiman nodded grimly, as though pleased with her handiwork. Without standing up the two Wardens swivelled around, and Dawes shoved me over onto my stomach. I braced myself: I heard the steel cuffs click into place around my ankles: then my legs were pushed apart, my knees were bent, and my hands and ankles were forced closer together. Seconds later the cuffs were locked around my wrists, and I too was immobile.

My cheek was pressed against the slats of the pallet. All I could see were the boots and legs of the Wardens, and the filthy wall of the cell behind them. My tits were also pressed, uncomfortably, against the slats: one had become squeezed, half through a gap, half against the edge of the wood. I wriggled as best as I could, trying to get my nipples between the gaps, but it didn’t work: whichever nipple hung into a gap, the other was squashed against the wood.

Already my arms and legs were aching.

“Where are the gags?” a voice, Hardiman’s, demanded.

No-one answered.

“Fetch nilüfer escort bayan them Officer Bradley” – that was Dawes speaking.

I heard the door open and close. For a time I heard nothing except the heavy breathing of the Wardens: then a voice, faint, strained, that seemed to come from far away, like the last words of a person dying:

“I’m sorry Chloe.”

“Shut up,” snapped Dawes.

The door opened again, and I heard the heavy tread of boots. The next thing I knew a hand had hold of my hair, and something round and red, about the size of a ping-pong ball, was being pushed into my mouth.

“Wider,” said a voice: I no longer knew who was holding me or who was speaking as the whole of my mouth was suddenly full. I struggled against the invading ball with my tongue, but a strap had been fastened around the back of my head, and I could not push it away. I found I could not swallow, panicked and tried to cry out, but the sound came from my throat, a strangled, drawn-out groan. Saliva built up in my mouth, saliva tasting of rubber; again and again the muscles in my throat began the motions of swallowing, but could not go through with them. I swivelled my eyes sideways as far as I could, and looked up pleadingly and the Wardens. Clark caught my eye and chuckled:

“Looks like a pig with an apple in its mouth,” she said.

“Right,” said Dawes: “let’s make sure they haven’t brought in anything they shouldn’t, and get out of this stinking sty.”

I felt a hand slide up the inside of my leg; then a finger was pushed roughly into my vagina. I gurgled – the only response I could make – as the finger was worked around then withdrawn. The same, or maybe another, finger was then forced into my anus, making me feel like I needed to shit. I felt it twisting and flexing: there was nothing I could do, no movements I could make, in response.

“This one’s covered in shit,” Bradley said, and I heard the pallet next to me creak as someone manhandled Prana.

The finger was withdrawn from my anus; I heard Prana gurgle; then I was aware of the Wardens standing once more.

“Are we done in here?” asked Dawes.

“Almost,” said Hardiman. I heard the door open, and felt a draft on my back. Boots began to tramp out.

“Officers Clark and Bradley,” said Hardiman from the doorway: “round up half-a dozen slop-buckets and empty them over the prisoners.”

“It’ll be a pleasure,” said Clark.

Then the door closed.

They can’t, I told myself. No-one, but no-one, could do that.

Then I remembered that these were the people who had pissed in my porridge and forced me to eat it; these were the people who had forced a girl to eat Dawes’ shit.

I gave out a long strangled groan.

Then my thought processes contracted, and a sort of atavistic, survival instinct took over. In a forensic, almost detached, way, I inventoried my predicament. The pain across my bottom was still excruciating, but it must eventually diminish. My movements were almost completely curtailed: but what exactly could I move? My legs for a start: I could not move them up or down, but they had been left spread open, and I found I could just about bring my knees together – in this way I might be able to shield my private parts from the slops – though this was a strain, and the easier position was to leave them as they were. I could open and close my eyes: at least I could keep the slops out of my eyes. If I pressed down with my shoulders I could just about raise my head, and if I wanted to, and didn’t mind scraping my cheek on the pallet, I could turn it from side to side. My mouth was the problem: I could not close it: how was I going to keep the slops out of my mouth? This scared me more than anything: I might gag or choke on them; I couldn’t swallow, but some would surely slip down my throat, and then I might catch some disgusting, perhaps even fatal disease.

I raised my head slightly, and repositioned myself face down. My nose pressed painfully against the wood. I moved it slightly, so that it rested between two slats, and the weight was taken by my forehead and chin. This was very uncomfortable: but at least my mouth was facing downwards: unless the slops ran down the side of my face I might be able to keep them out of my mouth.

But supposing they turned me onto my back?

They couldn’t do that. No-one, surely no-one, could do that?

I couldn’t think of Prana; all I could do was try to survive. I was like a wounded animal holed up somewhere, whose body has all but shut down.

Pain seared through my bottom. My arms and legs ached. I kept trying to move them, even though I couldn’t: for my body’s natural instinct was to adopt the foetal position, the protective, back-to-the-womb position that stricken animals are programmed to revert to in times of great stress. But I was stretched and bent into one of the most unnatural positions a body can be forced to adopt.

And worst of all was my mouth. With bursa otele gelen escort bayan my mouth open I felt more vulnerable than ever. I needed to swallow, but could only allow saliva to dribble out of me. My jaw ached: I was defenceless against any airborne invader: a spider could crawl in, an insect could fly inside. And the air itself felt unnatural: it was external air instead of the warm, contained air that was usual in a mouth. It was the wrong temperature; it was unlimited; it was invading a space it had no natural business to occupy.

Time passed. I wanted only for it to be over; for Clark and whoever else to lug in the slops buckets and get it on with it, tip the things over me and be done.

Then there were footsteps in the corridor. I started trembling. Reflexively I tensed my muscles, tried to close my orifices where fingers had recently been. The footsteps stopped outside the cell. There was a voice, then laughter: then the footsteps passed on.

I heard Prana making a sound in her throat. Repeated, two or three times.

It dawned on me she was trying to communicate: with an effort I twisted my head and turned to face her.

Did I look like that? Mouth open like a gaping fish, with the red ball of the gag clamped inside? Prana’s eyes were half-closed, her forehead creased with pain. She had a bruise above her left eye, where she had crashed to the floor in the showers. I knew now my instinct to look away had been right: the sight of her almost broke my heart: but I needed all my energy to deal with my own predicament.

But it was too late now. I had looked at her; she had looked at me: and by the way she was shaking her head she seemed to be trying to say something. At first I thought she was just commenting on the sorry mess we were in, so I gave a half nod, trying to let her know I understood. But she frowned at this, and tried to shake her head more vehemently, making it clear that whatever she was trying to say I had not understood. I wrinkled my brow as best as I could; she looked away, frowned again as though trying to work out a different way of expressing herself, then failing to come up with anything more expressive, merely shook her head again. I continued to frown: then suddenly it was as though a tiny electrical spark had leapt from her mind to mine, telepathically, and I understood: she was trying to tell me that the Wardens were not going to empty the slop buckets over us at all.

I opened my mouth and eyes as wide as I could, and nodded vehemently. Satisfied, Prana nodded acknowledgement; then her eyes closed again.

For a moment the relief I experienced approximated to joy. The awful, revolting thing was not going to happen after all. I could almost forgive the Wardens their sick joke, almost laugh with them at the way they had fooled and terrified me. They weren’t as evil as I had believed: they were decent human beings after all. Then I started to cry: the very sickness of the trick they had played was almost as cruel as the act itself would have been.

But it’s hard to cry with your mouth clamped open, and I quickly pulled myself together and took stock again. So we weren’t going to be drowned in slops: but that had only been the disgusting gloss on our punishment: it was past, almost forgotten: whereas the pain, the strain, and the prospect of a long unbearable stretch of enforced immobility remained.

It was hard to know where the discomfort was worst. My tits were pressed painfully into the wooden slats; my jaw ached; my bottom still rang with pain from the riding crop. But above all I needed to move: my arms and legs were rebelling against their constraints, desperately seeking some new position, some relief. Any position, it seemed, must be less uncomfortable than the one I was in. But apart from my head the only parts of my body I was able to move were my fingers and toes.

I opened my eyes again. There was Prana, hogtied in precisely the same position, suffering exactly as I was. She seemed to know I was looking at her, or maybe it was just random, but a moment later she opened her eyes and looked back at me. I made a sound; she made a sound back; I tried to smile: and realised how unlike a smile my attempt must have seemed when, with her mouth clamped open, she made the same gesture back. I made another sound: she made a similar sound back. Despite the meaningless nature of these noises, I realised that we were communicating; that in some primitive, wordless way we were letting each other know we were there, making vocal gestures of empathy.

There were crumbs of comfort in this. It served, however briefly, as a distraction from the pain.

But we could not keep it up. There is only so much you can express in a grunt, and you can only grunt so many times before the activity palls. By mutual accord we gave up, and closed our eyes.

If only I could touch her, I thought. If I could reach out a hand, a foot, anything to extend the contact, to give her a morsel of comfort, to say something more than could be said with a grunt. Be careful what you wish for, I thought wryly. I had spent hours, days, longing to be alone with Prana in a cell: now here we were: my wish had come true: only, instead of being snuggled up under her blankets, we were hogtied on wooden pallets, just inches apart but unable to speak or touch.

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