BEHIND BARS (ff, reluc, celeb, AU, prison)
CHAPTER ONE: ARRIVAL DAY
AUTHOR: Zahir al-daoud (firstname.lastname@example.org)
FEEDBACK: Please! It is the only pay received for writing these. And
feel free to offer suggestions. Can’t promise I’ll use every one,
but I’ll at least consider them (barring certain practices that just
do nothing for me at all).
NOTES: This story is set in an alternate timeline, one wherein many
of the famous ladies in our world have led different lives, ending
up as either staff or inmates at a women’s prison.
DISCLAIMER: What follows is a piece of fiction. Legally,
consider it a parody. No comment is made or implied about the
genuine lives or personalities of the celebrities described, nor
about their orientations or tastes. It is a fantasy, pure and
simple. Do not take it seriously, please. And no, I’ve no notion how
to contact any of these people in real life.
FORWARD: Please be warned that as a writer I’m a great believer in
buildup. While no chapter of this will be without explicit acts of
sexuality, most of every single one will consist of sexual tension.
In my opinion, this is far more exciting and lends itself to far
more intense sex scenes. You have been warned.
Transfer to the van on the dock, next to the ferry, proved without
incident. Julianne Moore hadn’t expected anything else. She, like
the other five prisoners, had their wrists handcuffed to chains
around their waists. More, their ankles were manacled together.
Impossible to run. Even if there was somewhere she could run.
Which there wasn’t. She got into the back of the van, hardly
noticing as the guards in their blue uniforms locked the ankle
chains together. Dimly, she wondered what would happen if the ferry
began to sink. Under those circumstances, would the guards think to
unlock the prisoners’ chains? Or would they be left to drown?
Julianne glanced at the sky. Clear. No storms. Hence no reason to
fear or hope for an accident with the ferry.
Everything seemed distant. In fact, she knew these people were
physically quite close. When the girl next to her shifted in her
seat, Julianne felt it, but the sensation didn’t have the kind of
immediacy it should have. Likewise, when the girl across from her
began to whisper to the one beside, their voices were low.
Deliberately. Prisoners might want to talk, but the Guards didn’t
want them to. Rather than make too much fuss, they ignored anything
spoken in a low enough voice. Like now.
“What was that all about?”
The girl beside her paused before answering. “What?”
“Between you and the guard? The asian one?”
“That’s Officer Park.”
It was the kind of whispering Julianne should have gotten used to.
Why hadn’t she? Not that she minded it. In a vague kind of way, she
even paid attention.
“Officer Park” said the girl next to her “likes blondes.”
The girl across from her blinked at that. “You mean you and she…?”
“Look” replied the other girl “I’ve been inside before. And believe
me, you need some kind of protection. A guard is good. So’s the
Was this girl really so naive? Julianne had led a very sheltered
life, or so it seemed to her now. A couple of years in Community
College, but no degree. Instead, she had blissfully married a
dashing (or so he seemed at the time) premed student. Except Brian
never went to med school, ending up instead as a medical supplies
salesman. She hadn’t seen that as any kind of an omen or sign of
things to come. The more fool she. But still–what the girl next to
her was talking about seemed crystal clear. It should have made her
worried. Maybe later.
“Bull as in Bull Dyke.” The blonde beside her explained.
From the way the young girl across from them stared and moved her
mouth without saying anything, Julianne guessed she finally
“Look,” continued the blonde after a moment, “some folks in jail are
just mean. Mean enough you don’t wanna cross them, not even once,
not even by accident. Get yourself someone to protect you. Shouldn’t
be hard. You’re pretty.”
The young girl actually gulped at that. “But…I’m not…I…”
“Okay,” the blonde cut her off. “Here’s your choice. You’re gonna
get fucked, or you’re gonna get raped. Which would you rather?”
Good question. Julianne considered again how she really should care
about what these two were talking about. After all, she was headed
to the same place they were. The blonde looked no more than twenty
five, probably younger. The young girl (she introduced herself a
while back didn’t she? yes, she did, said her name was Mena
something, something like Solari or Sunari or maybe Sovari?)
couldn’t be older than nineteen. Julianne knew herself attractive,
had had to fend off enough awkward passes at Christmas parties.
Would it make a difference that she was past forty? Or not? And
where was her fear? Mena whatsername looked halfway terrified. Why,
thought Julianne, am I not reacting the same way?
“Me,” continued the blonde “I like a good fuck.” And settled back,
having made her point.
When the young girl looked at Julianne–for support?
reassurance?–she said nothing. What was there to say?
Fucked or raped. Stark, but probably true. And not just when it came
to sex, either.
But which do I want? Do I even care? Evidently not much, because the
terrified little doe eyes Mena’s aiming at me aren’t getting any
“What you’ll going to need,” mentioned one of the other prisoners–a
pretty older woman with short dark hair, “is a good appeal. You need
to be released.”
“Not something you can count on,” said the blonde girl.
“Don’t be too sure. You’d be surprised the kind of technicality that
can get a conviction thrown out. All you need is someone who
understands the system, knows what paperwork to file, and where to
send it. Give me enough time and…”
Before she could say anything else the sixth prisoner interrupted.
“You? Give you enough time?” This prisoner was hispanic, short but
with rippling muscles. She looked like she’d be good in a fight.
“Yes, me,” said the older brunette. “My name’s Terri Hatcher.
Attorney at law.”
“Uh,” muttered the hispanic young woman. “You any good you wouldn’t
“Well, that’d be right if I’d been my own counsel,” answered Terri
Hatcher, “but I listened to that old saying about a lawyer who
reperesents herself has a fool for a client. Turns out I was a
bigger fool counting on one of my partners. But that–and this–is
just temporary, I promise you.”
Mena spoke up. “What were you charged with?”
For a moment she didn’t answer. Then, “My husband was killed in an
accident. It happened the insurance money was really useful when it
happened. The jury, like the DA’s office, simply leaped to
The hispanic girl chuckled. “Yeah, me too. I mean, there I was,
minding my own business–and just cause that creep who robbed me got
his throat cut, and the knife was in my hand, and his blood all over
me–yeah, they just got the wrong impression is all.” She snorted.
Julianne felt a little surge of familiarty with these stories. Like
the hispanic girl, she knew herself guilty–if not of murder, then
at least of stealing nearly a hundred thousand dollars from her
bank. For her husband, who of course had now vanished. With the
money. Maybe Terri Hatcher hadn’t actually killed her husband, but
Juliane guessed she didn’t mind he was dead. Maybe even felt glad at
Like me. I wish Stephen was dead. I hope he is. That would, at
least, be some comfort. Some.
“What’s your name?” the Hatcher woman asked, wearing the same
professional smile Julianne had seen a thousand thousand times. Very
correct that smile. Not overwhelming nor distant, the kind of smile
designed to make folks relax. Bank officers used it all the time.
Evidently, so did lawyers. Well, this one did. She’d practiced it
enough to have it down pat.
“Rodriguez, Michelle” said the hispanic girl, sounding amused.
“My name’s Mena Suvari.”
“Brittany Murphy,” offered the blonde girl.
Hatcher looked at Julianne, clearly expecting an answer. But she
said nothing. Why not? Honestly, she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if
revealing her name cost anything. Still, Julianne remained silent,
watching and listening. After a moment, the Hatcher woman gave up
and turned to everyone else.
“The thing to do,” she was saying, “is to bend the rules in our
favor. Believe me, there are always loopholes…”
Raped or fucked, Julianne thought to herself. You weren’t really
listening, were you? Maybe you heard, but the idea slid past into
oblivion. This isn’t a law office. Sorry. Raped or fucked. That’s
your choice. Even if you don’t know what the choice is, you still
make it. I did. So are you. Worse, you’re making the same choice as
Katie Holmes finished collating the last file and put it atop the
others. She looked at it, curious why her boss wanted such detailed
records on one prisoner. Yesterday she had had to refill the fax
machine with paper over a dozen times while the courthouse sent
transcripts. Glancing at them, Katie had thought the case a little
unusual, but hardly worthy of this much effort.
But then, she’d been here less than a month, and was still learning
the Warden’s ways.
She did know better than to try and bring these documents to the
Warden now. The clock showed 9:55am and Warden Jansen always arrived
at exactly ten. It didn’t matter whether she spend the night on her
houseboat or in the bedroom she’d had prepared above her office. Ten
o’clock every weekday morning, without fail, she would arrive.
In some ways that made things easier. Katie glanced again at the
pile of files. Was this going to be the rule? New prisoners arrived
every week. That’s what she’d been told and so far it had proven
true. Today was Wednesday. Arrival day. By now the van would be
leaving for the ferry. Inside another couple of hours it would
return. Presumably, one of the new inmates would be the woman whose
trial transcripts Katie had only now finished compiling.
While waiting for the Warden, Katie made herself a cup of coffee.
And pondered. The prisoner’s name was Renee Zellweger. Sounded
German. Up until a year ago she’d been a perfectly ordinary
librarian in a sleepy suburb of San Jose. No one even noticed she
was missing for a week, if Katie had read it right. Then, a month
later, her image started appearing on security cameras in stores
undergoing armed robberies. Eventually, those cameras showed her
holding a gun. Defense counsel had tried to make their client seem
like a middle class version of Patty Hearst–kidnapped and
brutalized into submission by a hardened con. But the jury hadn’t
believed, and now Ms. Zellweger was headed for Santa Fernanda
Correctional Facility for Women. Presumably.
Rumors existed about Santa Fernanda. Not widespread ones, but
persistent. Rumors of abuse, of corruption, of embezzlement and even
one about a porno ring operated from behind these walls. Katie as
yet had no idea if any of these tales contained any truth. But then,
she’d was new. And so far her duties gave her little enough to do
with the guards or the inmates. She had to wait.
Fortunately, she was patient.
At precisely ten, Warden Famke Jansen strode through the outer door.
As ever, she wore the uniform of a career woman–white blouse, dark
coat and skirt, all very conservative without being either too
mannish or feminine. She gave Katie the same kind of smile she
always did–a polite if slighly feral grin–and wished her good
“Good morning, Miss Famke. I finished collating the transcripts.”
“Exellent. Bring them in, then.”
She unlocked the inner door to her office with hardly a pause. Katie
didn’t have a key to that door, nor–she’d been told–would she be
issued one. Privacy, noted the Warden at the time, was a very
special commodity. Especially here. Like security. Gathering the
files in hand, Katie followed her into the office. Not as large as
one might expect. After all, in prison the Warden was for all
practical purposes a combination of school principal, corporation
c.e.o. and military commandant. In other words, she was Queen. Why
then such a relatively small office? Nicely decorated, to be sure,
with panelling and a startlingly think carpet. But only a little
wider than Katie’s own office and exactly as deep. She suspected the
answer lay behind the other door–the one she’d never passed
through. Facing the Warden’s desk and expensive-looking chair were
two doors. The right led to the outer office, where Katie worked.
But the left…!
The left was to the Warden’s private apartment on the floor above,
where she stayed sometimes rather than going home. Katie was vastly
curious about what was up there.
But she wasn’t going to find out today. Instead, she lay the files
on Jansen’s desk. “Anything else? A cup of coffee?”
Jansen sat in her throne. “Not right now.” She didn’t even look at
Katie, but just picked up the first of the files on Renee Zellweger.
“I’d rather not be bothered for anything less than an emergency.”
“Take messages, right.” She nodded. Like a good secretary. After the
briefest of pauses, which the Warden declined to fill, Katie made
her exit. She noted how thoroughly engrossed the Warden was in her
reading. Yes, something odd here.
She was still reading as the door shut.
Even hours after arriving at Santa Fernanda, after the strip search
and orientation lecture, after bed assignments and work assignments,
after changing from the orange jumpsuit to a loose blue blouse that
reached past her knees, Renee Zellweger’s still kept thinking about
how this prison looked like a castle.
She didn’t ignore where she in fact was. Prison. Sentenced to remain
here for no less than nine nor more than twelve years. Even if she’d
wanted to wander in her imagination to another sort of castle, the
shackles on her wrists prevented that.
Not that she didn’t try and pretend.
Ironic, that. Considering how much time she’d spent fantasicising
about castles, about being carried off to a far-off home by a
handsome dark stranger. Year after year in the Redwood City Public
Library, with little enough to do once everything got properly
organized, boredom and no company had festered lots of dreams.
Now, against all expectation, here she was–inside a new home, one
of weathered stone and round turrets. It was even on an island, so
in a way could be said to have a moat. She had even ended up here
because a dark and handsome stranger. Gina. She of the strong arms
and the laughing mouth, the one who respected no law and who in that
motel room a million years ago refused to take “no” for an answer.
Gina, now hundreds of miles away in another facility, instead of
here where Renee could find solace in her embrace. To have lost all,
little as that all might have been, tasted bitter. Lacking the
reason she had thrown it all away was worse. Longing for her make
her dizzy, made her angry, and also terrified.
Out of nowhere, she asked a question. “Where am I going?”
The guard–a tall blonde with icy eyes–uttered one word. “Warden.”
“But–I haven’t done anything. I only just got here!” A quick shove
down the hall shut her up. No answers. No right really to ask
questions. She had to remember her new status–inmate, not citizen.
Prisoner, not human being. Renee hardly even looked up as she
walked. Obey, said a voice inside. That’s what you have to do now.
Isn’t that what you’ve always done–followed orders?
The door they stopped at was glass, and had the word WARDEN painted
across in a simply sanserif type, black outlined in gold. A young
brunetee got up from a desk to open that door.
“Prisoner Zellweger to see the Warden.” Even the guard’s voice was
clipped, icy, almost devoid of emotion.
At once the secretary (for so Renee assumed she was) spoke into her
intercom. An alto voice replied through the box, commanding Prisoner
Zellweger be brought inside. The guard (Renee had noted her nametag,
which read “J.Ryan”) guided her with one hand on her shoulder. Once
through the thick wooden door, Renee found herself in a small, but
well-decorated office. In truth it was better furnished than the
head librarian’s had been back in Redwood City. Odd. But why not?
“Miss Zellweger?” The Warden–for that who it must be–didn’t rise.
Instead, she leaned back slightly and smiled. Like the secretary,
Warden Jansen was a brunette. But she was an older woman, in her
thirties, with high cheekbones and eyes like a cat. Or maybe it was
just her smile that reminded Renee of something feline. A predator.
“You may go,” the Warden said to the guard, who simply slipped out
of the office, shutting the big wood door behind her. Now, the
Warden stood. She took several quick steps to that same door and
turned a bolt near the top. A deadbolt. Completely out of Renee’s
reach while her wrists remained mancled to her waist as they were.
Then the Warden looked back at Renee, eyes and smile more feline
“Sit down,” she invited, one hand gestured to the sofa to one side.
Renee obeyed. She was good at obeying. Too good. Else she would not
be here. The sofa itself was surprisingly comforable, and deep.
Without pausing, the Warden sat beside her. “Miss Zellweger, I’ve
been examining your records.” She gave a little gesture with her
head to the small mountain of files on the desk. “Of course the fact
is, I have a duty to look over everyone’s files, but this time I
took a particular interest. Odds are, someone back at the courthouse
where you were convicted is mighty curious about why I wanted to
read your trial transcripts. No doubt, you’re wondering the same
thing?” She cocked her head, as if expected an answer. Just like her
last head librarian. And the two before him.
“I am, yes ma’am.” It was expected, clearly. Also, in this case, it
“There is a simple explanation.” The Warden smiled at that, still
catlike. “You see, a month ago the inmate who had been overseeing
our own library won parole. She did a very good job, at least by the
standards of a women’s prison. But we don’t have anyone else to take
the same care she did, to genuinely look after the books as they
should be. At least, we didn’t until now.”
Renee nodded. This made sense. If fact, it was something of a gift
from heaven. An hour earlier she had felt herself nauseous at the
thought of kitchen duty–her official work assignment. That was
where many newbies began, she’d been told. Cleaning dishes for
several hundred other people. It was also a test, or so they said–a
test to see if she tried to pocket any utensils. To do so would
bring consequences. Laundry duty at least, the hottest and most
exhaustive duty. Solitary at the most, hours and days without hint
of the outside world, not even fresh air or any light. Renee had
found that threat more than persuasive. She harbored no plans to
hide so much as a spoon.
But, to be a librarian instead!
“Yes,” nodded the Warden, evidently seeing the hope in her face, “I
thought you might like that. What’s more, its even true. Up to a
point. Our library is little more than a couple of rooms with some
chairs and a few book shelves. Paperbacks mostly, plus an incomplete
Encyclopedia set I think. I encourage the staff to add their own old
books, and of course we receive charitable contributions sometimes.
But please don’t believe my concern is some kind of great reform.
You’ll need to understand this–I want a good library for the sake
of discipline. Inmates need priveleges they can lose. The more each
privelege is treasured, the more the loss of it becomes a genuine
threat. Which is why I want you to make this library as good a one
as you can manage under the circumstances.”
Almost against her will, Renee brightened at this image, a return to
the familiar if not the desired. Certainly an improvement over what
she had expected. Warden Jansen’s smile broadened. It had never gone
away, and still seemed as catlike as ever. Maybe moreso.
“Of course I’m lying,” she said suddenly. Then she laughed, a low
alto that never rose to the level of a chuckle, but was still
deep–and frightening. Renee’s face fell. “Not about the library,
no. And I do want you to run it, for all the reasons mentioned” the
Warden said. “You do want to run it, yes?”
“Good.” She reached over and patted Renee’s leg once, twice, three
times. “How much? This is important–how much do you want to be our
“I…” How to answer that? What kind of answer did she want? “I
really want to be your librarian, please.” She hoped that was
“Let’s hope you mean that,” the Warden replied. “I did lie, though.
About precisely why I took so much notice of your case. Lucky for
you really, or not. We’ll find out soon enough.” Then she simply
stared at Renee, for an increasingly tense ten seconds, then
fifteen, then twenty. After twenty five seconds, the Warden said a
name that felt like cold water poured into Renee’s heart. “Gina
The color drained from Renee’s face.
“Gina Torres,” continued the Warden, still smiling and not moving
from her spot (which now felt surprisingly close) “was an inmate
here once upon a time. So you see, I know her. Probably better than
you.” That seemed unlikely, until Renee considered just how intently
the Warden was looking at her. “Or at least as well. You see, she
was under my supervision for the better part of two years, and so I
had plenty of opportunity to learn all about her tastes, her
tendencies, and for that matter her talents.”
Memories came swimming back. The stranger who had simply gotten into
the car as Renee left for home. Renee’s terror, not only at the
woman’s gun but her manner. Defiance had never entered into Renee’s
mind. Not even later, at the motel, when this slender amazon of a
woman had ordered her to strip naked. With trembling hands, she had,
under the leering gaze of her kidnapper.
Trembling again, Renee heard herself say “Yes, ma’am,” to the
Warden, whose eyes suddenly seemed very familiar.
A hand reached over and clasped Renee’s thigh. “Gina–she can be
very persuasive, can’t she? More than one inmate here discovered
that, and frankly, I did enjoy watching that process take place.
Once released, I wondered what she’d do.” Her hand felt impossibly
heavy, as well as much too warm. “The answer turns out to be–you.”
She didn’t–quite–laugh at this last. Instead, she continued to fix
her gaze right on Renee’s face, never wavering. It didn’t even
surprise Renee when she leaned forward.
Lips. Warm, strong, but soft. Against her own. Just like before–a
woman’s mouth taking charge. Of her life. Of her.
Even Renee could barely hear her own moan–in fear? desire?–but to
make it she had to part her own lips. The Warden’s tongue, until
then barely flicking against her mouth, took the opportunity to
invade. Renee allowed it. Kisses in her life had been few. Only
years into adult life had she admitted to herself the kisses in her
dreams were those of other women. Yet only once before had a woman
done so–Gina, first her kidnapper and then rapist, later for all
practical purposes her husband for two glorious weeks. So Renee did
more than allow. She lifted her own tongue and met the
Is this a good idea? Do I have any choice? More–do I want one?
Those questions welled up for a brief terrified second as the
Warden’s hand began to move, slipping beneath Renee’s dress, inching
up and inside her thigh. But as she relaxed into the kiss, the
Warden’s other arm slipping around her shoulders, and the kiss
itself growing deeper, Renee felt those same questions evaporate.
How long the kiss lasted she couldn’t guess, but when it did, Renee
opened her eyes to see the Warden’s face flushed and looking at her
greedily. “Gina must have been thrilled to find you,” she breathed.
Her hand pushed further up.
“Open your legs for me.”
Renee did as she was told, slipping near an inch further down on the
sofa as a result. Now she was further below the Warden’s face. It
felt right. Certainly her beautiful smile grew fiercer. And her hand
slid up Renee’s inside thigh without delay. Fingers began tracing a
pattern against the cotton of her panties.
“What a find you are,” the Warden said. She leaned forward, and
Renee reached with her open mouth to meet her. But the Warden pulled
back at the last moment, giving a silent little laugh. “Oh my, yes.”
“Please? Please what, Renee?”
“A kiss? Is that all you want? Just a kiss?” Those fingers began
pressing harder, pushing and stroking through the cotton. “Tell me,
Renee. Is all you want just a kiss?”
“No,” she whispered back.
For that, the Warden did kiss her–a hungry thing, her mouth sucking
at Renee’s. And this time her moans were easily heard, growing as
fingers continued to tease between her legs. She even began to move
her hips, meeting their touch, pushing against the fingers to
increase the pressure of each stroke. Both manacled hands rested on
the Warden’s forearm, gently holding them there, encouraging.
The Warden laughed. She didn’t stop the kiss, which by now had Renee
sucking on her outstretched tongue. But she did laugh, a throaty
sound full of triumph. It frightened but also excited Renee.
Suddenly, the Warden held Renee’s shoulder’s in a grip of iron.
Fingers ceased their stroking, became instead a clutching fist,
grabbing the cotton panties. Then…a ripping sound!
Renee’s eyes shot open! Pain shot along the tender flesh of her hips
and thighs as the panties were literally torn open!
Warden Jansen pulled away, her eyes even wilder than before–but her
Fingers were back. Pushing not into cotton, but against bare skin,
through pubic hair and into the hot cleft under what was left of her
panties. Into flesh already moist. Stroking began, steady and
insistent, the Warden’s fingers reaching into that flesh, into that
Renee gasped. Then moaned. Partly because of the growing feelings in
her pussy–like an itch steadily growing with every soothing
scratch–and partly because of how the Warden was looking at her.
Bright dark eyes fixed on her like some wild animal on its prey.
That mouth, grinning, still wet from Renee’s own mouth. A mouth that
now approached again, and Renee welcomed it.
Another flash of memory. The motel room that first night. Her
kidnapper’s hand slapping Renee’s bare bottom, while its twin played
with her pussy. She had no idea how many times she’d come that
night. But she remembered precisely how it felt to kneel before her
naked goddess and begin worshiping her, using her mouth as she’d
dreamt of for years.
Giving up control. Accepting the commands of another strong woman
with dark hair and eyes.
My dark prince. Or princess, she thought. In a castle, even. With
strong but smooth lips claiming her even now, while fingers kept
rubbing her privates into a growing fever. Surrender, a part of her
was saying. No need to say that word very much. Renee could hardly
imagine doing anything else. Instead, she moved her hips in matching
rhythm with those insistent fingers. Faster and faster. Deeper and
Oh gods…! Soon…! Yes…!
“Are you mine?” The Warden pulled her mouth away long enough to ask
in a husky whisper.
“…yes…please…!” Don’t stop. I beg of you.
“Said it then. Say it!”
“I’m yours” she said immediately. Although her voice didn’t sound
like her own. Not that she cared. “All yours…yours…yes…belong
to you…belong…belong…to yoooouuuuuuu…” This last became a
long moan as she neared her climax. Years and years of frustration
had hardly been sated, even by three weeks of sexual slavery to
Gina–and that nearly a year ago. Renee’s body and nerves longed for
more. Her back arched in hunger at the insistent stroking in her
“…god…!” Here it was. Like liquid fire in her veins. The
Warden’s busy fingers moved faster and faster, and Renee’s body
began to buck uncontrolably. “…GOD…!” Pain! Glorious, wonderful
pain! The kind of pain that feels great! So great she couldn’t even
form words, but only gutteral sounds, as the climax exploded
“Good girl,” purred the Warden “such a good little fuck toy…”
Renee barely heard her.
Toes curling, lungs gasping, Renee just let the sensation wash over
her. She was like someone dying of thirst diving into cold water.
Dizzy. Wanton. Heat washing over her nerves like a caress, as if
they were melting. She nearly wept at how good it all was–the
spasms, the burning, the cascading chills up her spine, the way her
hips still ground against the Warden’s fingers yearning for more,
How many years had she spent, dreaming of some stranger with dark
eyes sweeping her away? Of forcing her to submit to ecstacies both
wrong but totally addictive? When all alone for those years in a
studio apartment, she had coaxed the sensations she craved from
herself, letting the dreams color each touch. Her imagination
created lovers behind those four walls where almost no one ever
visited. The lovers had all been tall, and dark, refusing to allow
her any respite but insisting she become theirs completely.
Sometimes a pirate, other times a prince or even a police officer,
she had enjoyed the most intense climaxes while imagining being
forced to submit. Exactly when did Renee realize her dream lovers
had changed? That their growing power over her in fevered dreams had
included the fact they weren’t men? She didn’t remember any longer.
Nor had she cared, not for years. Being kidnapped had been a fantasy
come to life, one she had welcomed with open arms, open legs, even
She had thought her erotic fantasy over, turned into a nightmare.
Renee floated, nearly blind. The fingers withdrew, a delightful
torture that, but then a pungent odor was in Renee’s nostrils.
Without thinking, she opened her mouth. The Warden’s fingers were
for sucking right now–she knew this, and did it eagerly. Her own
juices covered those fingers, and she licked them off. Like a good
girl. Or–what was it the Warden had called her? A fuck toy? She
liked that. Renee licked and sucked the fingers gently, thoroughly,
“You have a lot of talent,” she heard the Warden say. “Tonight,
you’ll be staying here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Renee said, gazing with devotion at her new princess,
her mouth still suckling against the royal fingers.
“I have a bedroom upstairs, and that’s where you’ll be sleeping
tonight. Eventually.” Her dark eyes glowed as she said all this.
Then she kissed Renee again.
Renee welcomed it, whimpering a little in her joy.
TO BE CONTINUED