Chloe in Prison Ch. 01

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Squirt

A few years ago, when I was 19, I was sentenced to two years in prison for drug offences. I hadn’t really done anything — my boyfriend was the one dealing in drugs, but because he was operating from my flat, I was charged as well. I was very frightened: I was a well-educated middle-class girl in my first year at University: I’d never been in trouble with the law before, or mixed with criminals. I’d heard terrible stories about the sorts of things that happened to people in prison, but nothing I’d heard could have prepared me for the awful reality.

As soon as the judge had sentenced me my hands were cuffed behind my back, and I was taken from the courtroom to a blacked-out van. Several hours later, on arrival at Sparsebrook Women’s Prison, I was marched along several cold, grey corridors, and finally pushed through a door marked “Processing”. Here I was fingerprinted, photographed, made to hand over all my possessions, including my rings, and ordered by a grim-faced Warden to strip off. Once I had done so the Warden bagged all my belongings and told me I would be given my prison uniform later. Then I was told to wait “until they are ready for you”.

I stood there, cold, naked and feeling very scared and vulnerable, for about half an hour. Then a door opened further down the corridor, and a huge, butch-looking prison warden with a crew cut stepped out, and called:

“Send her in: We’re ready for her now”.

I was marched towards a door marked “Examination Room” and propelled inside. There I was confronted by four prison wardens: the huge, butch one I had seen first; a second, almost equally intimidating woman, short and stocky with a mean-looking face and short black hair, and two others, one black one white, a little younger but no less hostile-looking, and likewise wearing warden’s uniforms, of black jackets and skirts.

“So,” said the Amazonian warden: “who have we got here?” She picked up a clipboard and began to read:

“Littlehayes, Chloe: Age 19, University Student. Twenty-four months Dealing Class A Drugs.”

She put the clipboard down and turned to the others:

“We don’t like drug-dealers in here do we?

“We certainly don’t,” chorused the two younger wardens.

“Scum of the earth,” spat the stocky one.

“Alright blondie,” said the one who seemed to be in charge: “I’m Chief Officer Hardiman; this is my deputy, Officer Dawes, and these two are Trainee Officers Bradley and Clark. You don’t need to remember their names, you address us all as ‘Sir’. Understand?”

“Yes Sir,” I said.

“Good: now get on that couch, stretch your arms above your head and draw up your knees. Let’s see if you’ve been foolish enough to bring any drugs in here with you.”

I stared at the couch — it was like the sort of medical couch you find in a hospital consulting room. There were stirrups at the lower end, and extentions at the tops, to which were attached straps. Behind the couch, along a wall, was a work-top with sinks, shower nozzles, and all manner of tubes and odd-looking appliances.

“Now!” bawled a voice behind me: “When I give you an order you jump to it, do you understand?”

“Yes,” I gasped, clambering quickly onto the couch.

“Yes WHAT?” roared Hardiman.

“Yes Sir,” I said.

“I can see we’re going to have trouble with this one,” said Hardiman, giving her deputy a meaningful look.

I lay on the couch and stretched out my arms, doing my best to comply. The next thing I knew, both my hands had been seized, and straps had been clamped around each wrist, such that I couldn’t move my hands or arms.

“What did I tell you to do with your knees?” demanded Officer Hardiman.

In the shock of finding my arms clamped I’d forgotten to draw up my knees. I did so now. Officer Hardiman took hold of one of my feet whilst Officer Dawes stepped round the couch and took hold of the other. Together they strapped my feet into the stirrups, then pushed the stirrups up and outwards and clamped them fast, such that my legs were drawn up as far as they would go, and spread as wide as they would open, leaving my private parts completely exposed. The four Wardens then stood around the couch, looking down on me: I had never felt so helpless and vulnerable in my life.

“What do you make of this one then?” asked Officer Hardiman.

“Not much of her,” said Officer Bradley, the black Warden.

“Looks like a puff of wind would blow her away,” said Officer Clark

Officer Dawes walked behind me: suddenly I felt my nipples being grabbed and my breasts being shaken from side to side: I grimaced in pain.

“Not much up top either,” said Officer Dawes, whose bosom seemed to be stretching her black uniform jacket to bursting point.

Officer Hardiman then gave me a hard, malicious grin.

“Right,” she said. “Officer Dawes and I are going to give you what they call an Intimate Body Search. As part of their training Officers Bradley and Clark will observe the process. Start by opening your mouth.”

I opened my mouth nervously. Hardiman casino şirketleri pulled on a latex glove — then pushed her middle finger into my mouth and began to run it along, behind my teeth front and back and upper and lower, then between my teeth and my gums. There was something utterly horrible about it, intimate and hostile at the same time, as she lingered, easing out my gums, working behind my teeth, pushing out my cheeks. I wanted to scream at her to stop, I felt violated in a sick, creepy way. Finally she pulled my lips forward, ran her finger along, and withdrew it. Instantly I pushed my tongue around my mouth, trying to wipe out the feel of her.

“Nothing there,” Hardiman said. “Hair next.”

She took off the latex glove, and began to run her fingers through my hair, twisting my head from one side to the other, pulling my ears forward to examine behind them, then wriggling her little finger right inside my ear. Again it was appalling, having my person violated in this way, and being completely unable to resist.

“All clear,” said Hardiman. Then she stood back, looking down at me: the malicious grin was back on her face.

“Now comes the part we like best,” she said. “Isn’t that so girls?”

“It’s what makes the job so worthwhile,” replied Dawes.

I braced myself. I knew what was coming. Just endure it, I told myself: just get through it. Then I was being shouted at again, this time by Dawes.

“What the hell do you call that?” she was saying.

I tried to look where she was looking, though it was difficult to raise my head far. She seemed to be staring between my legs. I said nothing. Suddenly she grabbed a handful of my pubic hair and yanked upwards, so hard I was lifted clean off the couch.

I screamed.

“I said “What Do You Call That?” demanded Dawes. “When I ask you a question you reply. Understand?” She yanked my bush even harder, lifting my bottom ever further into the air.

“Ow, let go, you’re hurting me,” I yelled. “It’s my pubic hair. My pubic hair!”

“My pubic hair WHAT?” shouted Dawes.

“My pubic hair Sir.” I said, practically in tears.

Dawes finally released me. I went to move my hand to clasp my mound and try to muffle the pain, but my hands were bound and there was nothing I could do to comfort myself.

“Your pubic hair,” said Dawes, pursing her lips grimly. “It’s certainly that all right. The thing is, we don’t like pubic hair in here, do we?”

“Indeed we don’t,” said Hardiman.

“It’s unsightly,” said Dawes. “And unhygienic.”

“A breeding ground for germs,” put in Clarke.

“So whilst you’re in here,” said Dawes, “you can say goodbye to pubic hair. Will you do the honours Officer Hardiman, or shall I?”

“You start us off,” said Hardiman.

Dawes then went across to the workbench, clicked a switch, and returned with a pair of hair-clippers.

“Now you be sure and keep still,” she said: “we don’t want to cut that little fanny of yours.”

I kept still. I couldn’t see what was happening, but I heard the buzz of the clippers, and felt the vibrations as the hateful things were pressed again and again over my pubic area, drawn down and across, down and across, until finally the buzzing stopped.

“I’ll take over now,” said Hardimann. “Fetch me the equipment would you Bradley.”

Bradley, the black warden, wheeled over a trolley on which were placed a jug of steaming water, a safety razor, a shaving brush, and a can of shaving foam. Clark, meanwhile, pushed a grey-looking towel roughly under my buttocks.

“You’ll keep very still if you know what’s good for you,” Hardiman said. She squirted foam over me, dipped the shaving brush into the jug of hot water, and began to spread the foam all over my newly clipped fanny, over my mound, down between my lips and almost to my arsehole. Then she began to draw the razor over me, from top to bottom. I kept as still as I could, terrified of what would happen if I gave way to my desire to squirm away from her fingers. Then she took hold of my lips, pulling them this way and that, drawing the razor inwards and forwards. Sometimes her fingers slid inside my vagina, drawing a gasp from me, and a “Keep Still” from Hardiman. On and on it went: I’d never shaved down there in my life, but surely it couldn’t take so long? Then she was working right down, below my opening, over the area between my arse and my fanny.

At last she stopped, dipped a flannel into the jug of water, and wiped the foam and hairs away.

“There,” she said, dabbing me dry with the towel. “What do we think of that?”

“Smooth as a baby’s bottom,” said Dawes admiringly, running a hand over my newly shaved parts, and giving my labia a squeeze. “And that’s how it’s going to stay.”

“Clean, hygienic — and much easier access,” said Hardiman. “You two girls think you could do this on your own next time?”

“Oh yes,” said Bradley.

“Definitely,” said Clark.

Hardiman wheeled away the trolley, and I watched with apprehension as Bradley pulled casino firmaları on a latex glove and began applying some gel to her middle finger.

“Now,” she said: “let’s see what you’ve been hiding up there.”

I braced myself as she slid her finger deep into me, and began twisting it round. It would only have taken seconds to establish that I had nothing “up there”, but Hardiman was clearly going to draw out the search as long as possible. She began tugging at the walls of my vagina, moving her finger round like the hand of a clock, pulling me outwards, crooking her finger as though to probe hidden cavities. Then she pushed her finger up as far as she could reach, practically forcing her knuckles between my labia. All the time she was staring straight at me: I closed my eyes once, but she ordered me to open them again, then stared me straight into they eyes, seeming to bear down into my whole being, crushing me utterly. “I’m top dog here, and I can do anything I like to you because you are nobody,” her eyes seemed to be silently saying. I shrank from her: but there was nowhere to shrink to, nowhere to hide from her penetrating stare. Finally her probing finger was too much, and I gasped and squirmed.

“Squirmy little thing, isn’t she?” said Hardiman, finally withdrawing her finger. “Seems to be clean, though.”

“I’d better check,” said Dawes. “They’re crafty, these druggies, you can never be sure. If there’s anything up there I’ll find it.”

Now Dawes put on a latex glove, and seconds later it was her finger probing inside me. Her hands were thick and strong, and she was even rougher than Hardiman, pulling me this way and that, yanking me almost up off the couch.

“She doesn’t seem to like this,” observed Dawes

“She’s going to have to get used to it,” said Hardiman grimly.

“I’ll bet she’s had a few cocks up there,” said Dawes

“Lost count probably,” said Hardiman. “She looks the sort that drops her knickers for the price of a Babysham.”

“They’re all the same, these University types,” said Dawes, giving her finger a vicious twist that made me wince. “Liberated, they call themselves.”

“Slags we call them,” Hardiman said.

“She’s going to be disappointed if it’s cocks she’s after,” said Dawes.

“No cocks in here,” said Hardiman. “Just fanny. Lots of stale, stinking, sweating cooped-up fanny. As she’ll soon be finding out.”

At last Dawes pulled out her finger:

“She’s clean,” she said.

“Must be her other hidey-hole,” said Hardiman. Then with no warning she leaned over me again and slid her middle finger straight up my arse.

“Oh” I gasped.

“Shut your face,” said Dawes.

I’d never in my life had anything pushed up my bottom before. It felt so strange — like I needed to do a poo. My muscles began contracting, desperately trying to expel the odious finger, but the finger remained, probing deeper, twisting round and agitating my muscles further, so that the feeling of needing a poo increased. Round and round went Hardiman’s finger, whilst she stated at me with that relentless, menacing stare.

I though she would never take her finger out. I felt as though I would spend the rest of my life with Hardiman following me round, her finger skewered firmly up my arse.

But at last she did pull it out, held it up to her nose, pulled a face of disgust, and took off the latex glove.

Dawes, seeing and enjoying my discomfort, took over.

“Tight as a duck’s arse,” she said, forcing her meaty finger into my arse.

Again I endured what must have been five full minutes of being probed and mauled, until eventually Dawes withdrew. At last, I thought: at last it’s all over.

“Find anything?” asked Hardiman

“Feels to me like she needs a shit,” said Dawes.

“We’ll give her an enema,” said Hardiman.

And then I couldn’t help it. I’d been so restrained, so careful not to provoke them, not to wriggle or protest, and to remember to call them ‘Sir’. But just when I thought it was over — I really couldn’t bear any more.

“No,” I said plaintively: “I don’t need an enema.”

I realised my mistake the second the words were out of my mouth. The two trainee wardens gasped. Gone were the malicious smiles: Dawes and Hardiman stared at me, first with disbelief, then with pure, unbridled hostility.

“What did you just say?” demanded Hardiman.

“I — nothing,” I said. “Nothing — I’m sorry — I didn’t mean it. Sir.”

“Dawes and Hardiman looked at each other. Without a word Hardiman slid on the latex glove, smothered it liberally with lubricant, and thrust first one then a second finger up my vagina.

“What did you say?” she demanded.

“Nothing — I’m sorry — Sir,” I whimpered.

She thrust a third finger up me. My vagina, which was only small, was being stretched unbearably. A fourth finger began to probe for a way in.

“What did you say?” asked Hardiman again.

“I said — I said ‘I don’t need an enema'” I sobbed.

“You said you don’t need an güvenilir casino enema,” repeated Hardiman, as though she still couldn’t believe it. “When I had just told you that you were going to have an enema. Is that right?”

“Yes,” I sobbed. “Yes Sir.”

“Do you know where you are?” asked Hardiman: by now her fourth finger had found it’s way inside me; her hand was twisting round, stretching me beyond endurance, almost tearing me apart.

“Yes Sir, I’m in prison Sir,” I gasped.

“That’s right little miss University tart, you’re in prison. Not at home; not in some posh hotel; not in the University library. You’re in Sparsebrook Womens Prison. Of which I am Chief Warden. And whilst you’re here, you eat when I tell you to eat, you sleep when I tell you to sleep, you piss and shit when I tell you to piss and shit. Do you understand that?”

“Yes Sir,” I gasped.

“So when I tell you you need an enema, you get an enema — do you understand?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Good. Because if you contradict me or any of my Officers again I will put one fist up your fanny and one fist up your arse and I will work you like a glove puppet. Got that?”

“Yes Sir,” I said. “I understand Sir. I’ll never do it again Sir.”

With a final stare, she withdrew her hand. Never had my vagina felt so sore and mauled and abused.

“Get her enema ready,” said Hardiman to the two trainees. “And make it an extra strong one.”

I lay there trying to fight back the tears, listening to the sounds of a kettle heating, water being poured, a spoon stirring something. I looked up at the wardens: Hardiman like a human gorilla, towering over me with her arms folded; Dawes, her face like a boar’s, red and bristling and squashed into a permanent scowl of hatred; the two trainees bent over their tasks. Bradley, the black one, impassive on the outside but with generations of racial oppression festering vengefully below; and Clarke, the youngest, fair-haired but hard-looking, eager to be accepted by her superiors, on the lookout for any opportunity to prove herself. I thought: I know these women, or people like them: these are the grown-up versions of the girls at school, the ones who would barge you out of the way in the corridor, the ones who would give you a Chinese burn in the playground, or thrust their over-developed breasts in your face in the shower, all because you were too clever, or too pretty, or because your own breasts were too small. These were the girls whose hearts were full of resentment and revenge: the girls I thought I had left behind for ever when I left school. And now here I was, surrounded by their adult incarnations risen to positions of absolute power. Here there were no teachers to appeal to, no threat of sanctions to keep them in check. Here I was completely at their mercy. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

“I’m always suspicious of a girl who doesn’t want an enema,” said Dawes. “Makes me think she’s swallowed something she doesn’t want us to find.”

“This will flush it out,” said Clarke, as she wheeled another trolley into my line of vision, and I could see, raised up high on a metal pole, what looked like a large, transparent hot water-bottle. The bottle was almost full of liquid. A long rubber tube led off an opening at the bottom.

I almost fainted when I saw Hardiman take up a black nozzle and attach it to the end of the tube: it was about 5 inches long, and as thick as my wrist.

“Say one word and you’ll get the large one,” Hardiman said.

I hardly dared breathe. I watched her lubricate the nozzle and hold it ready.

“Right blondie,” she said: “have you ever had an enema before?”

“No Sir,” I said.

“It’s very simple,” said Hardiman. “We fill your bowels up with water, and you shit for England.”

I took a deep breath and resigned myself to my fate. There was one consolation: my arms were sore from being stretched out behind me, and my legs were stiff from being clamped wide open. At least in a few minutes I would be sitting on the lavatory, even if I was being forced to “shit for England”.

My anus felt as though it was being pulled apart as Hardiman slid the nozzle in. My muscles fought against it, desperately trying to keep it out, but Hardiman was far stronger, and the nozzle slid in, inexorably. I felt as though I was being impaled.

At that moment the door was opened, and the hatched-faced woman who’d bagged my clothes walked in.

“Come to watch the show?” asked Hardiman.

“Thought I’d give it a look-in,” said the woman, joining the others who stood in a semi-circle at the foot of the couch. Hardiman stepped back, and I squeezed frantically on the nozzle, but it was held in place by some sort of clamp. Then Hardiman nodded at Dawes, who turned a lock on the bottle.

At first I didn’t feel anything: then, as the water began to flow inside me I began to feel increasingly bloated, and in need of a shit. My muscles were trying to go through the motions of expulsion: but because of the nozzle nothing could get out. My stomach began to swell: the need to evacuate became more and more urgent. Then I felt sharp, shooting pains in my stomach, which had me wincing and crying out.

“It’s only cramp,” Hardiman said. “Breathe through it.”

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