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Next morning Rose seemed chirpier, and straight after slopping-out we got down to shaving.
“They don’t usually come until after breakfast,” said Rose: “but you can’t be too careful: sometimes they try to catch you out.”
So we shaved each other quite hastily, and had only just finished when Raymond and Mrs Tiggywinkle appeared.
“This isn’t up to scratch,” said Mrs Tiggywinkle: with her spiked head between my knees it looked as though I had just given birth to a mine.
“I’ll pass you today,” said Raymond: “but please be more thorough next time.”
“Thank you Sir,” I said.
Porridge arrived, and occupied us for about ten minutes. Then the day stretched out ahead, long and tedious – all the more so after the breaks in routine for Showers and Exercise. Rose settled down with her hand between her legs, and soon my own hand had crept down between mine. That seemed to be happening more and more frequently: before too long I would end up like Rose.
Again my thoughts went back to the previous days. Hardiman and her sick stunt with the laxative I dismissed. Wilson, too, seemed barely worth consideration. But Prana drew my thoughts like a magnet. She was an enigma. She was beautiful and sexy and high-spirited: she was wild and hostile and dangerous: she was a girl just like me, young and trapped and in need of warmth and contact; she was someone who did what she had to, to survive; she was a calculating, professional prostitute. Again and again my thoughts went back to our time in the shower: the way she touched me, the taste and the smell of her. Before I quite caught up with what was happening, I came.
“Good one?” enquired Rose.
“Mmm,” I said.
Minutes later I heard Rose playing catch-up.
“That’s better,” she said.
We lay staring at the ceiling for a time. Then I said:
“Do you know who Prana shares a cell with?”
“No idea,” said Rose.
A little later I asked:
“Do you know how long Prana is in for?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Rose said.
And after lunch, thinking of the names chalked on the cell doors, I asked:
“Do you know Prana’s other name?”
“Why would I know that?” asked Rose.
“I just thought – well, you know most people here.”
“There are over a hundred women in here,” Rose said. “I doubt I know half of them.”
“Well, there aren’t many Asians,” I said: “I just thought you might know.”
“Chloe: forget about her. Put her out of your mind.”
“I’ve tried,” I said. “But I can’t. I’d just like to know she’s all right after yesterday.”
“‘She’s all right?'” said Rose with indignation. “What about you? You’re the one who was hit and spat at and has a bump the size of an egg on her head.”
“She was really sorry,” I said. “She was as upset as I was.”
“She’s dangerous Chloe. Forget her.”
“It’s hard after – after how she was with me in the showers.”
“Of course she was nice to you: you were paying her. Twice the going rate at that. She was a tart before she came here and now she’s the prison tart.”
I mulled this over: I had known one or two girls at University who worked part time as Escorts or Masseuses to make ends meet. I had no moral problems with this, and thought there was probably a generation difference between my attitude and Rose’s, so I didn’t pursue it. To the second charge I said:
“But you told me I should try to get what I could for my services. How would that make me any less of a tart than Prana?”
“There’s a world of difference. I told you you’d have to oblige some of the women or they’d think you stuck up, and that you might as well ask for something. Prana goes touting for business: fluttering her eyes, flirting, acting all seductive. Look at the way she seduced you: you didn’t even realise what was happening.”
“She let me off the chocolate,” I said, trying to think of something even Rose couldn’t construe negatively.
“I should think she did!” said Rose, “After the way she went for you that was the least she could do. Believe me you won’t get much for nothing out of that one.”
We lay silent after this, and again I went over everything that had happened between me and Prana. I hated to think I had made a fool of myself, falling for the wiles of a prostitute, paying for sex with a girl I hadn’t even wanted to have sex with in the first place. The look in her eyes and the warmth of her touch seemed to speak one thing: the fact that she’d charged me, and charged me twice the going rate, spoke another. I was veering unhappily towards the latter interpretation when something unexpected happened.
We were lying on our backs when the dinner trolley arrived. Rose, as usual, had her knickers off and her hand on her fanny as the door opened and in stepped Raymond and Mrs Tiggywinkle. Raymond had her long hair pinned back in a way which emphasised her high cheek-bones, and again I wondered what nationality she was, thinking maybe Danish or Swedish. She looked at Rose and said:
“Today we take delivery of large Nevşehir Escort parcel: I hear from tomorrow all prisoners must wear chastity devices.”
“I heard they were trialling them on the Wardens first,” said Rose.
“Mason, you are very funny lady,” she said. “Is long time since we have private time together no?”
“Quite a long time,” said Rose.
“Look at this one!” exclaimed Raymond, looking at me: “she think I mean it about chastity devices!” She laughed again. “You like to wear steel corset stop you from masturbating?”
“No Sir,” I said.
“When this happen I resign,” said Raymond. Then she addressed Mrs Tiggywinkle:
“I like private word with Mason please.”
“Mrs Tiggywinkle, who had also managed a smile of sorts, turned and pushed the trolley out into the corridor. But instead of addressing Rose, Raymond took something out of her jacket pocket and handed it to me.
“This is from Kumali,” she said, in a much lower voice. “She ask me to give it to you. If anyone ask, other prisoner give it you. OK?”
It was a small bottle of shampoo. I looked at it in complete astonishment. I didn’t know anyone named Kumali – why on earth would they want to give me shampoo?
“Thank you Officer Raymond,” I said.
“We make pussy music soon Mason,” Raymond said in her normal voice, before slipping out into the corridor.
“What on earth?” I asked Rose. “Who’s Kumali?”
“For a University student you can be very slow sometimes,” said Rose. “It’s from Prana.”
I felt a surge of happiness out of all proportion to the tiny shampoo gift.
“Rose,” I said. “You see – she isn’t calculating and mercenary. She knew I wanted shampoo. Now we can wash our hair – how many washes can you get out of a bottle?”
“Depends on your hair,” said Rose. “You: about four if you’re careful.”
“Two each then,” I said.
“Prana gave you the shampoo,” said Rose. “Not me.”
“But I want to share it – I insist we share it,” I said.
“We’ll see,” said Rose. “And by the way you owe Raymond: Wardens aren’t supposed to carry gifts or messages, though they do sometimes.”
All through the evening, through a night of fitful sleep, and into the next morning, my mind was in a fever. I’d put the little bottle of shampoo out of sight under my pillow, and several times I reached out to feel for it, still scarcely able to believe in its reality. I longed to see Prana, to thank her, to tell her how much it meant to me. I saw myself hugging her, enfolding her round me. I felt her lips on mine and her tongue in my mouth. I felt the warmth of her back and her legs and the moist heat of her pussy. I rubbed myself off vigorously, urgently, until I was spent, but still I wanted Prana.
“What is it with you today?” asked Rose, as I turned over on my bed for the millionth time.
“I’m just restless,” I said. And then, because I had to tell somebody or I would burst I said:
“I’m sorry Rose but it’s no good – I can’t stop thinking about Prana.”
“I thought as much,” said Rose.
“I know it makes you jealous, but – “
“Hold it right there,” said Rose. “It does not make me jealous.”
“Well – unhappy then.”
“Chloe,” Rose said. “Let me spell it out to you. When they told me I was getting a druggie for a cellmate I was worried. Druggies are the worst of all cellmates: often they’re withdrawing, and they’re half-crazed with need. They can’t sleep, they can’t keep still, they can’t keep quiet. A nightmare to share with. When I saw what you were like I was mightily relieved. Even then, when you told me you hadn’t even done the crime you were convicted of, I didn’t believe a word of it. If everyone in here was as innocent as they claimed the prison would be half-empty.
“But when you explained what had happened, and when I got to know you better, I knew you were telling the truth.”
“Thank you Rose.”
“You’ve been here less than a fortnight Chloe, and in that time I’ve grown very fond of you. You’re like the daughter I’ve never had – the daughter I’d always wanted.
“So that’s why I’m uneasy about Prana. I care about you Chloe. I want you to come through this unscathed, and when you get out I want you to go back to your old life, to go back to University and make something of yourself. I don’t want you to be corrupted.”
“Rose,” I said. “I’m very, very touched. I feel that way about you, too. You’ve been like a mother to me – except I don’t have sex with my mother. I know how lucky I am being here with you, especially when I think of all the people I might have been put in with. Imagine having to share with someone like Wilson! I love the way you look out for me; and I love the way you hold me and touch me shave me and bring me off. And I love touching you too, and giving you orgasms.
“But this thing with Prana – it’s different. It doesn’t change anything about us. It’s hard to explain – it’s like a craving: I long to see her and hear her voice and touch her and smell her and talk Nevşehir Escort Bayan to her: just the thought of her and my pulse is racing. It’s like the sort of feelings I’ve had for boys once or twice – only so much stronger. Rose: I’ve got to say this: I’ve fallen in love with her! Isn’t that crazy? Until a week ago I’d never even touched a girl, apart from once for a silly dare at a party. I didn’t think I could bear to touch a woman – and now this. Am I going crazy Rose?”
“Chloe: strange things happen to people in prison. Locked up in here round the clock with nothing to do: your mind turns over and over on itself. Sometimes people get to know themselves in a way they never have before. They find out the truth about themselves. Maybe you have found your true sexual bent. Maybe you’d just never allowed yourself to like women before.
“But people are also prey to all sorts of delusions and cravings. You can get cravings for food – God knows I’ve had those; or craving for the outdoors, or for something you used to do and can’t do any more. And you can get cravings for a person. I’ve had those, too. When I’d been here about six months I had a crush on another prisoner.”
“Really?” I asked. “Who is she?”
“She’s gone now,” said Rose. “I got over it a long time ago. But the point is, she was somebody I wouldn’t have been interested in anywhere but prison.”
“But – we are in prison,” I said. “I can’t think about how I might feel about Prana outside: only what I feel here and now.”
“Often these feeling – they’re fantasies, Chloe. Delusions. Everything gets heightened and compressed in prison. A bottle of shampoo can seem like the crown jewels. Relationships that would take months to build and develop outside – they can blaze up in minutes in this hot house. And if you’re not careful they can consume you.
“The best thing to do is to rub them away. That’s what I find anyway: cravings seem less urgent after a rubbing session.”
So I took Rose’s advice. I rubbed and I rubbed and I rubbed. I had screaming orgasms, I had whimpering orgasms, I had orgasms that reduced me to tears. I had soft, gentle orgasms and I had hard, aggressive orgasms. When I thought I couldn’t come any more, when I was completely sated, I carried on, shouting at myself, abusing myself, forcing myself to have another orgasm, and another. I rubbed myself sore and I rubbed myself silly.
And still I wanted Prana.
“It’s no good,” I told Rose. “Rubbing-off takes the tension away; it all but obliterates me. But these aren’t the orgasms I need. I need to be doing this with Prana. I’d swap all these orgasms for just one sexy cuddle with Prana.”
“OK Chloe: You’re wearing me out as well just listening to you. But you can’t go on like this. Next Showers you have to tell Prana what you’re feeling. You might not like what she has to say, but you’ve got to tell her.”
“How long is it to Showers?” I asked. “I lose all track of the days in here.”
“Three days,” said Rose.
“How am I going to get through them?”
“Chloe: you’ve got two years to get through! If you can’t manage three days you really are in trouble.”
Talking to Rose, putting my feelings into words and expressing them, had helped a little, but my mind was still in turmoil. At intervals in the night, and for the next two days, I rehearsed the words I would say to Prana, and tried to picture her reaction. I was too sore to masturbate any more, but still full of nervous energy, so after slopping-out and shaving Rose suggested I exercise.
“Where?” I asked.
“In here of course: think they’re going to take you to a gymnasium? Actually, I was going to suggest it before, but with everything that’s been going on I didn’t get round to it. You need to keep fit – but don’t overdo it: we don’t have calories to burn, the food they give us.”
“I’ve never noticed you exercising,” I said.
“I used to,” said Rose. “Then I sort of got out of the habit and stuck with exercising my fingers.”
“OK,” I laughed: “I’ll try anything.”
“You can do sit-ups and press-ups between the beds. And you can do running on the spot and high-kicks against the wall at the bottom. You’d better take your clothes off, so you can move more easily.”
I took off everything except my bra and shirt – I didn’t fancy lying on my bare back on the concrete – and lay down on the floor. I put my hands behind my head, and slowly raised and lowered my feet. My stomach muscles tensed in a pleasing way: it felt as though it was doing me good. After ten attempts at this I turned over and did some press-ups: it took me back to school, and gym lessons. I’d always been quite supple, and enjoyed stretching and vaulting, and various rolls and summersaults. I felt a heavy weight on my back:
“Try now,” said Rose. I groaned and collapsed, and laughing she took her foot away.
“Do a few extra each day,” she counselled.
On my back again I did sit-ups.
“This is fun,” I said.
“You need some aerobic exercise too” said Escort Nevşehir Rose. “Try running on the spot.”
I went to the bottom of the bed, and stood with my back to the wall. An unpleasant memory made me wince: I had not stood there since Hardiman had lifted me up to the ceiling. I began to run.
“Knees higher,” said Rose. “I brought my knees higher: soon I was out of breath and sweating.
“Take your top off,” said Rose.
I took off my shirt and bra and resumed.
“Higher,” said Rose. “Faster – come on, keep it up.”
“You sound like a Sergeant Major,” I gasped.
“Come on, no slacking!”
I had to stop.
“Well done,” said Rose: “can you imagine me doing that? My boobs would be flying off to the ceiling. Now try some leg raises.”
I raised each leg in turn, until they were horizontal.
“You can go higher than that,” said Rose. “Really stretch: feel those muscles working.”
The muscles in my thighs began to ache, but not unpleasantly.
“Now stretch up,” said Rose.
I stretched my arms up the wall, stretched out my fingertips.
“Good,” said Rose. “Now go into a sitting position – keep your upper legs horizontal – that’s it – and your back upright against the wall.”
“My knees are giving way,” I panted.
“OK – stand up and touch your toes.”
I did this ten times: my back was aching.
“Now stand against the wall – and pull your stomach in – tight as you can – I’ll count to twenty – “
And that’s where I was standing when the door opened and Clark and Bradley came in with the lunch trolley.
“What are you doing hiding there?” Clark demanded.
“I was only exercising Sir,” I panted, red-faced and suddenly self-conscious.
“Exercising were you? Do you enjoy exercising Littlehayes?”
“Yes Sir,” I answered.
“I shall have to remember that, shan’t I Littlehayes? Now come and exercise your jaws on your lunch.”
I sat on the bed and started eating. Like Dawes, Clark had a way of making everything sound like a threat or an accusation. Still, the endorphins were flushing through my brain, and despite being breathless and aching, I felt better.
“I’m going to make you do this tomorrow,” I told Rose.
“You’ll have to put a gun to my head first,” Rose said.
After lunch I flopped on the bed. The air, always stale, now smelt of sweat. Before long my thoughts were returning to the familiar groove.
“If only we could have a book,” I grumbled. “Or a pack of cards. Why aren’t we allowed anything?”
“We’re supposed to be meditating on our crimes,” said Rose, who had her hand in pole position. “Thinking about what we’ve done wrong and how we’re going to be better people. Instead we spend all our time thinking about our fannies.”
“I don’t know what to do with myself,” I said.
“You can give me a rub if you like: if you’ve got the energy. I didn’t half get wet listening to you yesterday: I’ve never known anybody go at themselves so hard.”
“I think I’ve rubbed-off more in the last week than in my whole life previously,” I said.
“That’s prison for you,” said Rose.
“You’re very wet now,” I said, clamping my hand over her vagina.
“To tell you the truth Chloe, I rather enjoyed watching you exercise.”
“Rose Mason you swine!” I exclaimed: and then without thinking what I was doing I thrust two fingers up her vagina.
“Chloe,” Rose said, surprised. I too was surprised: for all that we’d rubbed each other and shaved each other, we’d never kissed or sucked, or put fingers inside each other.
“Sorry,” I said, pulling my fingers out again.
“No,” said Rose: “leave them there – if you want to.”
So with mounting curiosity I worked my fingers around inside Rose’s sopping pussy. She was so wet and slithery, and so responsive, and gyrated so heavily, I had to concentrate to stop my fingers slipping out again. I did my best to clamp the pad of my thumb over her mound, and work her clitoris: her fanny was opening up enormously, there seemed to be so much space in there I wondered if I should slide even more fingers inside, but her breathing told me she was on the verge of coming, so I kept up the same motions until I felt her vaginal muscles contract, and she gripped my fingers and came in a noisy, bed-shaking orgasm.
“Oh Chloe – you don’t know how good that was,” she said presently.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I chuckled.
“What made you slip your fingers inside me?”
“I don’t know – just an impulse.”
“It was a very good impulse – thank you.”
“You don’t feel – invaded?”
“Yes,” she said: “but very happily so.”
Prancing about naked, then bringing Rose off so happily, had stirred my juices again, but my pussy was still a bit sore – and something else held me back from Rose’s offer to return the favour. There were only two days to go – and I wanted to save myself for Prana. So I squatted over the foul-smelling bucket, then lay on my bed, and gave myself up to thoughts of the showers. Soon I was drifting off, into happy visions of meeting Prana again, telling her how much the shampoo meant to me, holding her close. For the rest of the day I rubbed myself intermittently, not intending to bring myself off, just daydreaming: and in that manner I daydreamed myself into sleep.
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