Chapter 4

Flossie Durkin, in her white matron's dress, white stockings and shoes, exactly like that of a hospital, was rolling up the sleeves to display her powerful biceps. She had taken off her cap and unbuttoned her dress to give herself a little more freedom of movement, because she had a habit of perspiring when she was giving a good whipping-just as she was about to do now.

She was down in the basement of the prison, and on this north-side section of the basement under the main building, there were two solitary cells known as the "holes," with just enough peepholes for air to get in, but no windows and no light, and only a hard narrow cot and a stool.

Beyond and to the right of these "holes" was a huge cell, with all sorts of equipment for punishment, and here it was that Flossie operated most of the time when she had punishment in mind.

Alma Burbage shared Flossie Durkin's more than nominal interest in all those devices which could be used to make female prisoners uncomfortable when they were being prepared for a good sound spanking or a whipping. There was a pillory, a low, flat bench with several sets of buckling straps, and there was also a very heavy whipping ladder. But Flossie's particular pride and joy, and something she had devised herself from watching an old German movie which had to do with a cruel boarding school where naughty girls were thrashed as they properly deserved, was a very simple and effective device, it consisted simply of a pair of metal rings attached to heavy straps which were lowered from the ceiling by a kind of pulley. Actually, they were nothing more nor less than gymnasium exercise rings, the type with which people do somersaults and cutoffs. But here at Keston, they had a far more sinister purpose. They were about to be demonstrated now, as Flossie Durkin, about to roll up her sleeves, stared greedily at the sobbing, whimpering young girl who was held between two of her subordinate matrons, and who had been sentenced to a thrashing for having dared to slap one of them across the face for making an indecent proposal to her.

The girl was Beatrice Dudley. She was eighteen, she was a runaway from home, all the way from Ohio, she had taken up with a boy in Chicago's Old Town, shacked up with him, and then when he had been picked up by the police for possession of narcotics, she had nobly tried to help him by taking some of the cache and trying to get rid of it herself. When she had been picked up, she had been found with about half a pound of marijuana and a dozen bottles of barbiturates, though she herself was not a user. The upshot was that she was sentenced to Keston for two years. She had been here exactly two months, and because her beauty was vivid, Flossie Durkin had lusted for her cunt, although she knew that Beatrice was no virgin and had had a very passionate love affair with her man before she was sentenced.

But Beatrice found Lesbian love odius, and she had resisted even her cellmate's advances, until the latter, a boldly handsome red-haired prostitute of twenty, had told her, "You stupid little bitch, somebody's going to get your girl-cherry here, and at least if I do it, I can protect you. But if you're that way, go ahead. Get yourself raped by a bull dagger like Henshaw or Burton or even the head bitch, that lousy Flossie!"

And so a few days ago, when Assistant Matron Clara Henshaw had come into Beatrice's cell while her cellmate was having an interview with Alma Burbage, who was about to tell her that her request for parole had been turned down by the board, Clara Henshaw had put a hand on Beatrice's tittie and whispered, "If you're a good girl, you little sweetheart, I can make things a good deal easier for you."

And in her shame and disgust, poor Beatrice had made the mistake of slapping the woman, a cardinal offense.

She had been thrown in the "hole" for twenty-four hours, and now she had been brought out, having lived on a diet of bread and water, and was about to be whipped for her mutinous insubordination.

Mabel Burton, the other matron holding the terrified young beauty, winked at Flossie Durkin: "Should we peel her down, Flossie honey?"

"You said it! Down to just her pants. I don't even want any stockings on her. I'm in good form today, and I want to raise some marks on that cute bitch's bare legs."

"But you're going to leave her pants on?" Clara Henshaw echoed with a scowl.

"Relax, Clara. Maybe I'm going to whip them off her, that's what," the head matron chuckled, and Clara Henshaw grinned and nodded hearty approval. Then she muttered to the weeping Beatrice, "I just wish I was the one to snake you, you uppity little snot! But when Flossie gets done with you, you'll be begging me to come take you to my room and love you up. And maybe I will and maybe I won't. Now you're really gonna get it, baby!"

So saying the two women began to tug off the gray prison dress and the cheap white cotton slip of the sobbing young girl, and then the equally cheap cotton brassiere, then the coarse black cotton stockings and the workshoes. Beatrice was reduced to just her white cotton panties, but these nonetheless molded out her voluptuous young ass like a second skin, and all three women visually devoured those Callipygian charms, as they did the panting young naked titties of the unfortunate young beauty.

Meanwhile, Flossie Dukin strode to the wall and lowered the rings. When they were just about at the height of the women's shoulders, Matron Henshaw seized one of Beatrice's wrists and tied it with a cord around the ring, while Matron Burton did the same with the other wrist. Flossie now touched the spring which motivated the straps of the pulley and lofted it slowly, until with a shriek, Beatrice found herself drawn up till her toes just left the floor, her head tilting back, and her magnificent and almost naked body spectacularly displayed. This was what Flossie Durkin loved most, to see a naked girl kick under the blacksnake or the switch or the paddle or the cane, or even the hairbrush or her hand. She was an avid reader of books on whipping and had an extensive library of her own in her private quarters. Sometimes, out of sheer sadism, she would compel a girl who was sentenced to a whipping to kneel down on the floor and read aloud from one of those books, while she sat in-just her slip, which was pulled high up on her thighs to show her hairy cunt, brandishing a paddle or a hairbrush menacingly while the terrified girl continued to read the salacious details of the sound thrashing to some fictional heroine. At the conclusion of the reading, Flossie would enact the particular section with the unfortunate female had been compelled to read to her.

Beatrice Dudley had long black hair, almost down to her hips. She had been mocked as a "hippie" because she had been picked up in Chicago's Old Town, headquarters for the "flower children." Usually such hair was cut upon entrance to the prison, but both Alma Burbage and Flossie Durkin agreed that so delicious a girl looked the more feminine and desirable with long hair, especially if she were clad in nothing but that. So they had simply ordered the prison doctor to inspect her for lice, then give her a good shampoo and fumigation.

She was about five feet six inches in height, with a gentle, wistful, oval-shaped face, blue eyes, a delicate, straight nose and a full, generous mouth. Her titties were really magnificent. They tilted upwards, conical, widely spaced, and they seemed made of pure ivory with tiny blue veins, dark coral, narrow aurolae, and pert, saucy dark nipples. Her bellybutton was deep and narrow, and her cunt was tickly furred with black curls which reached even along the perineum towards her ass-hole. She had beautifully rounded thighs and sleek, curvaceously rounded calves; but best of all, so far as Floosie Durkin was concerned, as she lovingly fingered the blacksnake which she took down from a peg on the wall in front of the distraught, half-naked beauty, was that Beatrice had a soft olive skin which would mark beautifully with the lash.

The blacksnake whip was about five feet long, with a short, thick handle, and Flossie Durkin was an expert at wielding it. She could flick it so that a cigarette would be plucked out of a girl's mouth, and she could tear off a girl's panties with a dextrose flick or two. She had such expertise that she never broke the skin. There was always the possibility of a visit from penal officials, and when that happened, Alma's cousin always warned her in advance. The girls who had recently been whipped or tortured, were naturally sequestered in the "hole" or elsewhere so that one could see them, and the girls who knew the terrible things that had been done to the luckless inmates because they had refused to gamahuch or pussyrub knew better than to blab to any visitor, lest they too find themselves in this "meditation room," as Flossie Durkin herself facetiously called it, where Beatrice Dudley was at this moment destined to experience her punishment.

Flossie Durkin moved behind the sobbing girl, who frantically tried to turn her head over her shoulder to watch her executioner. The other two matrons avidly watched the play of Beatrice's muscles, and they could see the dark tufts of armpit hair dampened by the girl's agony-sweat which began to rivulet down her dark-sheened sides. But their eyes feasted most on the panty sheathed bottom, which was always Flossie Durkin's favorite target. Beatrice had broad oval ass-cheeks, with a gradually widening cleft which the coarse panties shaped out in the most licentious way. They were firm and jouncy, as Matron Henshaw knew from having pinched them while she and her colleague had dragged the pleading, terrified young girl out of her solitary cell to the "meditation room."

"Well now, Beatrice darling," Flossie Durkin purred sadistically as she measured the length of the blacksnake whip and calculated the distance of her target on the shuddering, almost naked body dangling in the air before her, "I'll bet you're sorry now you dared to lift your hand against a matron here, I'll bet."

"Oh yes! But you don't know, Matron, she--she said something filthy to me-she-she-I'm ashamed to tell you-"

"The dirty, lying little bitch!" Clara Henshaw hissed, "skin that ass of hers good for her, Flossie dear."

"Don't you worry, Clara, she'll get her share. But come now, Beatrice honey, you're among women now, just like yourself. What did Clara go ahead and say to you, huh? Tell me. I won't talk to anybody else, you can count on it. I'm the head matron here, and don't your ever forget it."

Thus deceived, and in her frantic shame and even greater fear of the whip, poor Beatrice babbled, "She-she wanted me to-to have s-sex, with her, Matron. But I couldn't. Oliver was my boyfriend, and I loved him, and I couldn't ever-"

"That's enough!" Flossie Durkin snapped, cracking the whip angrily in the air. "Come here and boast about the fucking you did that got you into trouble. Taking up with a drug peddler, no less. Why, if I had been the judge, I'd have given you twenty years? So she wanted to have sex with you, did she? Well, Beatrice, before I'm through with you, you're going to think twice about saying no to any matron here who wants something of you, you understand me? Now, let's just see whether I can heat you up as much as this fine Oliver of yours you keep talking about. Let's just see honey!"

Licking her lips with relish, Flossie Durkin drew back the blacksnake and darted it forward, drawing back her wrist with an expert flick. The cruel whip curled around the tops of Beatrice's naked firm round titties, biting cruelly and leaving a fiery circle of pain, and the naked girl shrieked and lunged this way and that, the pulley straps creaking their protest as she kicked frenziedly about.

"Take her pants off for her, Flossie honey," Mabel Burton advised in a hoarse voice. "I can't wait to see the big firm ass of hers get licked!"

"No hurry, Mabel girl. I just want to paint a little pattern on Beatrice's nice soft skin there, that's all. Time enough to go to work on her ass when I'm through there," Flossie Durkin promised.

"Just wait till I get my second wind."

Without warning, she cast out the whip the way a fisherman casts out a trolling line and drew back her wrist with a savage flick. Once again the blacksnake curled around the half-naked body dangling in the air, this time just under those two shuddering titties, leaving another agonizing circle of crimson torment imprinted on the warm olive satin of Beatrice Dudley's defenseless skin.

"Awrrrrrrrghrrr!! ! Oh my God, it hurts, it hurts! Oh, don't beat me like that-you've got no right-you're not supposed to treat prisoners like this, oh God, I'll tell, I'll tell the superintendent!" Beatrice shrieked in her torment.

"Well, girls, we've got another jailhouse lawyer here, looks to me," Flossie Durkin announced with a wink at her two cronies. "She's right, you know. But you see, Beatrice honey, you ain't never gonna get the chance to tell nobody. And even if you do get to Miss Burbage, it's her orders I'm giving you the snake, if you really want to know. So you just be a nice, humble, obedient girl and do whatever the matrons tell you to the next time, and you won't ever have to be here again. Mmmmmm, you sure have a nice soft sensitive skin. Look at those nice red marks I've left already, and you've only had two cuts. Why, we got all afternoon ahead of us, just you and me, honey. There now, how does that feel?"

This time she struck vertically and diagonally, and the blacksnake cracked against the top of poor

Beatrice's right shoulder and drew an angry welt down to the waistband of the cheap cotton panties. Again Beatrice tilted back her head, kicked wildly forward, dragging on her bound wrists as she swung and twisted madly in the air, uttering a wild, agonized cry of pain.

Now, playfully, Flossie Durkin flicked out the snake to circle the girl's struggling naked thighs, and the crack of the lash was echoed by a piercing scream.

"Oh don't Oh, you're killing me-it burns-it cuts me-I can't stand it-I'll tell-I swear I'll tell-you can't do this-I know my rights!"

"Stupid little bitch, she's just asking for it, Flossie," Mable Burton sneered.

"And she's going to get everything she asks for and a little extra dose besides, for slapping Clara," the head matron of Keston vengefully declared.

Flossie Durkin lowered the whip and contemplated with satisfaction the handiwork she had thus far achieved. Whimpering and moaning, the unfortunate, almost-naked girl dangled from the rings, her fingers clawing them, her naked bubbies rising anf falling in turbulent agitation. Sweat oozed down her naked sides now, and the tufts of her armpits were matted, and the acrid odor of her sweat filled the room. It was a king of cantharide, and it affected the three sadistic matrons. Both Mabel Burton and Clara Hensaw were sent to surreptitiously rub their crotches, to lick their lips, their eyes humid, wide, and glazed with lust. And into Flossie Durkin's cold eyes there came a sinister glow of lustful joy. For in her mind's eye she was whipping the treacherous, pretty little bitch who had taken Mack Radimer away from her.

Now, taking a deep breath, she began to whip in earnest. The blacksnake whip curled wickedly around Beatrice's belly, waist and upper thighs, sparing the button and sparing the titties themselves, for these were to be treated to Flossie's own viciously cunning dosage later on, to compel the young brunette prisoner to surrender herself to the perversities of Lesbian love.

Sometimes, out of caprice, the head matron of Keston sent the blacksnake whip coiling around one of those beautiful naked arms dragged up, and once or twice she deftly flicked the whip right into Beatrice Budley's mossy armpits, drawing frenzied and prolonged shrieks of agony, followed by the most salacious and involuntary kicks and gyrations. Spinning around like a puppet on a string jerked by a capricious master puppeteer, the tortured young girl writhed and twisted and kicked and bent interminably, while the eyes of the other two matrons riveted on her body, registering every spasm, every involuntary kick, every rictus of that lovely, beleagured face.

After about thirty lashes, Beatrice's head sagged, and her stertorous breathing indicated that she was almost unconscious. Her body was covered with circular weals, diagonal and horizontal welts, some bright, some turning dark, and some already turning livid with purple tint of intolerable pain. Her body was drenched with sweat, and in her agony she had even pissed, for at her crotch was a huge damp stain of body fluids showing on her cotton panties, a fact which the other two matrons commented upon with obscene merriment.

Flossie Durkin made a sign and Mabel Burton picked up a bucket full of brine, water into which several pounds of salt had been steeping overnight. This she sloshed over the half-fainting girl's shuddering body, and slowly Beatrice raised her head, her eyes glazed and huge with suffering, trying to speak, inarticulate groans escaping her trembling lips.

"M-m-mercy-h-h-have m-m-mercy-I-can't st-stand any m-m-more-oh my God-you haven't any right-you're killing me-oh please, that's enough-let me down-i'm dying-"

"You're faking, you mean, you little slut," Clara Henshaw sneered as she walked forward and gave Beatrice Dudley's bottom a vicious pinch, making the girl jerk and scream and kick and twist.

"Don't you worry. Flossie knows how to wake you up. Go on, Flossie, tear those pants off now," Clara urged.

"Not this time. You can pull them down, though, if you've a mind to, Clara honey," Flossie Durkin laughed.

The stout, gray-haired matron waddled forward, inserted her hand into the waistband of the garment and yanked it down until the panties twisted around the middle of the victim's thighs. The thick bush of her cunthole was seen now, and the untouched, olive-sheened oval-shaped globes of her magnificent ass was completely exposed.

Then Glossie Durkin took a step backwards, slightly more to the left, swung back the whip and brought it straight down across the summits of the girl's naked ass-cheeks. With a wild cry, the young brunette plunged forward, the pulley creaking wildly, and she twisted her contorted face over her shoulder to implore mercy.

Again and again the blacksnake attacked the luscious nether globes of the unfortunate young sufferer. After a dozen cuts, Flossie expertly made the whip curl around the loins and ass of the unfortunate sufferer, and Beatrice at last cried out, "Oh stop-I'll do anything-are you going to kill me-Oh my god-have mercy on me-I can't stand it-I'll do anything!"

"Let's just see," Flossie purred. Raising her arm again, she whisked the whip forward. A maddened shriek attested to the accuracy of that new blow: the blacksnake whip curled exactly across the centers of both panting titties, marring their satiny perfection with the livid, ignominious mark of the lash. Frenzied, unable to bear such indescribable suffering, Beatrice Dudley kicked and jerked her body wildly, uttering shriek upon shriek, and then a tumult of babbling words professed her willingness to obey, her repentance for having struck a matron, her eagerness to prove her obedience and submission.

At a sign, Mabel Burton lowered the pulley until Beatrice sprawled upon the ground, panting and groaning, tears coursing down her contorted face.

"Go to it, Clara!" the head matron panted.

And then, cackling obscenely, the stout gray-haired matron tugged off her uniform, her slip, and then the heavy lycra corselet and then her panties. In only her shoes and stockings, grotesquely naked, blabby, she flung herself down on the whimpering, nude young girl and began to cuntrub, commanding Beatrice to kiss her and to rub back unless she wished to be returned to the rings and to dance in the air under the blacksnake again. And this time Beatrice did not rebel.