Chapter 3
She ached all over. The dressing gown they'd given her to replace the torn uniform, the same-type garment the patients wore, tied up the back, exposing the split up her ass and a two-inch strip of skin from hemline to neck, did nothing to hide the bruises, angry scratch-marks. She wished she were dead, or that the tile floor of the operating room, where Jack and the others had locked her up for the night, would suddenly open and swallow her shame.
Huddled in a dark corner far away from the door, as far as the room would permit, she hugged her knees and winced from the searing pain at her cunthole. A dry sob came from her throat. She wished she could cry, wash herself. But there were no tears left. There was only the shame, and a dull unexplainable hunger at the pit of her belly.
Outside she could hear the wiry little man called Spider pacing the corridor. She held her breath each time he passed the closed door, afraid he would stop, rush in and again ram his awful dick in her face. Yet each time the footsteps faded, echoing faintly as Spider completed his tour to the end of the hall, paused before coming back, the gnawing at the depths of her womb seemed not to regret but to cherish the memory of hours and hours of every perversion imaginable.
She wished she could sleep. She stared into the dark, mentally identifying familiar objects about the room - the fat oxygen tanks opposite where she sat huddled, the medicine bottles she'd learned to distinguish the contents of by touch, by the various shapes of the bottles. Now all looked alike: phallic symbols! Cocks all around her.
She shiveredl "Nurse, heal thyself," she whispered at the dancing shadows near the moonlit jalousie windows.
But there was no way to sterilize her used body, she knew. There was no way to cure the scars left by filthy black pricks pumping cum up her pussy and asshole, down her throat. There was no cleansing her mind of the images and the threat of what was going to happen tomorrow.
"Miss Simmons?" The soft voice came from beyond the windows, from a silhouette without an identity.
Jeanie gasped. She hugged her knees tighter, trying to make herself small. They were coming again, she was certain. They hadn't locked her up for the night, after all. They'd lied to put her at ease, to bring her guard down, and now they were going to rush in, thinking she was asleep.
"Hey, Nurse Simmons, you in there?" A bandaged hand appeared between the parallel panes. "It's me, the guy you stitched up yesterday. I came to help you."
Tony Giardino! Could it be, she wondered. Did he actually mean what he'd said? For the first time since Jack and the others trapped her early that morning, she dared to hope. She remembered the man's dark good looks, his black wavy hair and brown eyes; she recalled the way the muscles bulged all over his body - including down there! In his pantsleg! - as he braced himself against the needle closing the wounds.
"I ... I'm here," she called in a small voice, still uncertain, unable to make herself move.
"I thought so," said Tony in a hoarse whisper. "I brought tools from the tag shop. I figured they'd lock you up for the night. But I'll get ya out. Don't worry. Come gimme a hand, will ya?"
Somehow she managed to stand and make her trembling legs go. She reached the windows, swayed. It was still a bad dream ... riot and ravishing cons ... the pain and desire intermingled, united to plague her ... Tough Tony, Slick Jack. She couldn't be sure what was real anymore.
"Man, baby, you look beat," observed Tony. "What the fuck did they do to ya, anyway?" "I ... they ... it was awful. Awful!" "Never mind now. Hold the pane." He showed her which one. "If I can get one or two sections out we can squeeze you through. I got it all figured - a hidin' place where no one'll ever think to look. We can hoi' up there 'til it's over. Me 'n' you. I won't let them hurt you anymore."
Jeanie welcomed the touch of the strong bandaged hand upon hers. She sobbed - part relief, part apprehension because he too was a man, a con who had been without a woman for too many years, and she couldn't forget the mighty bulge in his pantsleg. She did as he directed; she gripped the cool glass in both tiny hands, held it steady while Tony cut rapidly away with a hacksaw at the steel tits at each end.
She blinked. Why had her mind labeled the pane hinges "tits," she wondered, her own breasts atingle. And why was Tony Giardino, who, if he were caught by the others, would be beaten, labeled a stool pigeon, perhaps killed - why was he helping her ? Had he seen her backward glance the day before? Had he, while she stood bent forward at the medicine cabinet, ass tilted high, knowing his eyes were devouring her hips, her plump cheeks, creamy thighs - had he read her thoughts when she compared his powerful build to Mike's slender frame? What in heck was wrong with her, anyway?
She felt the two-foot-wide parallel pane give at one end; she felt it yanked from her fingers as the large callused hands took firm hold on the glass, tugged with brute strength and snapped the second steel dowel. She stepped back, knowing that once she went through the opening, was alone with the man, he too would demand something: a reward.
But it wasn't as if she had a choice, she reasoned. As with Jack: it wasn't as if lying still would have stopped him, and that wiggling - excited by the brutal thrust of his long black cock up her belly in spite of the shame - was so wrong. She'd always liked sex. Ever since the first time with Mike, when she learned that the hot hairy hole between her soft legs had a function much more delightful than pissing, a dick made her wild, wanton. But she was a good girl; she'd been brought up to believe sex was something a girl shared with only one man, and that asshole fucking and cunt and cock sucking were religious taboos: horrid perversions. Now, in the space of one day, everything was topsyturvy. Her body was no longer clean. Her thoughts were no longer stable. The world had spun out of orbit, rearranging her life and igniting her pussy so that now, the pain still fresh, her body still protesting the sudden abuse, she almost wished handsome Tony Giardino would take her in his strong muscular arms, soothe the hurt; and, when she grew quiet, relaxed, at peace, would fling her down on the cold tile floor and make violent love not with but to her.
"C'mon!" Tony's tone was urgent. He reached through the space that didn't seem big enough for a child, took hold pf her shoulders, dragged her close. "Get the fuck out before somebody checks 'n' finds me here. This ain't no game, baby. Move!"
Breathing hard, unable to speak, troubled by her own confused thoughts as well as the threat of discovery, she allowed him to steer her head and shoulders into the narrow space. She felt his hands slip to her waist, close tight. She felt herself being lifted - a weightless rag doll. She whimpered as the tie strings snapped open one by one up the back of the hospital gown, and her white ass, the back of her thighs, met the cold upper pane. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as the metal frame dug into her bruised flesh, and she was turned head over heels, Tony maneuvering her like a puppet through the limited space. She heard the door to the operating room burst open as her legs came through the window, heard Spider roar. The ground came up hard, and she wondered how she'd managed to land on her bottom instead of her head. Wide-eyed, still finding it hard to believe the day wasn't a dream, she watched Tony step back and wait until the wiry little man poked his ugly face through the narrow opening. "Dirty motherfuck... !" Spider began. Tony brought his huge bandaged fist up from the ground, connected solidly with the man's jaw. Spider's head snapped. His eyes rolled back white. He went limp. Tony grunted, patted the kinky hair almost affectionately, shoved and sent the unconscious man sprawling back inside.
Suddenly Jeanie couldn't breathe; she couldn't tear her eyes away from the man who reminded her now of the pictures in the Charles Atlas type magazines she'd often sneaked excited peeks at as a girl. She watched him turn, thrust his hand toward her. His cigarlike fingers closed over hers. Again she was lifted - yanked from the ground, the gown flaring wide in back, the cool night air washing the sting from her loins. There was no time to think, to reason. Time only to flee.
The way to the tag shop beyond the infirmary was clear, the rebellious cons having concentrated their night watch at strategic points near Center and the cell blocks. There was thick brush to hide them as they made their way along the banked side of the gravel footpath, Tony holding tight to her hand. She'd never seen this sector of the vast prison complex, never imagined the place was so big. It wasn't at all like a prison, she thought. It was an entirely new concept in penal reform, with trees, open spaces, and constructural design supposed to dispel the reality of confinement. It was why she'd taken the job; why she'd taken the chance after friends and Mike, particularly Mike, had warned her about what could happen. A woman. Young. Beautiful, some said. A helpless minx in a houseful of men. Yet she'd been willing to take the risk, and now she found herself wondering why.
"This way." Tony pointed to a tall building flush with the granite that stretched like the Great China Wall around the complex, tugged her toward it.
Jeanie stepped on a sharp stone, yelped.
"Quiet!"
"Oh ... !" She stopped, lifted her bare foot to soothe the new hurt.
"Will you shut the fuck up 'n' c'mon, or do I have to fucking drag you ?"
She stumbled after the hand he was holding, wanting to yell, to say, "Leave me be! I'm not yours! I don't belong to you or anybody!"
But she did, in fact, belong to him, she knew. Either him or Slick Jack and the others. She was, until the riot ended, a piece of recreational equipment - no better than a punching bag. Silently she followed him into the dark building with a thumping heartbeat of its own.
There was a small room at back, far away from the loud presses, which Tony - at least she supposed it was Tony who'd done it - had stocked with crates marked CANNED GOODS - INMATE COMMISSARY. A naked light-bulb dangled from a cord in the center of the ceiling. There was a sink and a dirty toilet, a sliver of mirror hung on one wall, and a filthy cot, equipped with even filthier bedding and hidden behind the crates piled one atop the other. She shuddered, made a sound of disapproval.
"What the fuck'd you expect?" demanded Tony.
She spun, caught him staring at the open back of the gown, at her bruised ass. "I ... I'm sorry. I didn't mean ..."
Tony moved to the door, paused with his hand on the knob. "You'll be okay here." His gaze moved down the front of the gown to her thighs, her dirty feet, returned to her face. "I gotta make sure nobody saw us," he said in a tight voice. "I'll be back though. You can bet on it."
"Wait!" But he was already gone, the heavy oak door closed behind him. She looked about, frightened. She sat at the edge of the cot. She wanted to weep, to stretch out full length and pound the filthy bedding. Tony's words echoed in her ears: I'll be back! You can bet on it!
She fell back on the cot, on her side, suddenly aware that she hadn't slept in what seemed like a lifetime. She curled up in a tight protective ball, knees almost touching her breasts. She tried to think, to formulate some plan of escape. But her mind refused to obey. Nothing worked. Her body was an uncontrollable mass of Jell-o.
She closed her eyes - but only for a moment! she told herself. Because the gown was open, exposing her backside, the raw wet slit of her pussy. And she knew what would happen if Tony found her like that. She sighed. Before the sound died, the thumping presses, the rhythm vibrating through the walls of the room, the wooden legs of the cot, the crates of canned goods, had lulled her to sleep.