Chapter 6
THE CELL
The grip of Glynis Woodhaye's bare wealed arm was harsh. The Wardress' stride was forceful, so she was compelled to bestir her lagging steps to keep pace. Around them were bare washed walls and the institutional smell of disinfectant. She was handcuffed.
Glynis was dazed. She was uncertain whether she had lost consciousness under the rain of searing blows from Rolfe Campys' plastic withe, or whether she had remained in a hurt and huddled female ball upon the rug after the blows had ceased. The stripes had been interminable, driving her to oblivion. She had kept her eyes closed as she had been yanked to her feet and handcuffed. It was not until the forced march she had opened them and examined her jailer.
Wardress Bulloch was as large and square as might be supposed. Her attire was severe, the ring with its keys a badge of the office. She turned sardonic eyes.
"You aim to be sensible, honey?" The tone invited hostility.
"Where am I? What...?"
"You're in the pen, sweetheart. That's where you are and where you're likely to stay."
Glynis Woodhaye was no fool. But, bemused and beaten, she had learned caution. Rolfe Campys had tossed her into a snake pit in which, somehow, she must survive. Best not to say too much too soon. She allowed herself to be led through the dreary business of the search and confiscation. She watched the custodian put her several costly trinkets in an envelope and seal it. She stood passive through the fingerprinting and the farce of the mug shots. But the bath house with its fragrance of wet concrete was too much. The unlocking of one cuff and the curt command "Off with them clothes, honey" spurred revolt.
"Look, I know this is-it's just a charade. Something to humiliate me." She gazed appealingly at the large but amused figure of her guard. "I'm Glynis Woodhaye. I'm rich. If you'll help me I can pay you-"
The blow from the open palm drove her to the wet discomfort of the floor. She looked up, dazed and shocked. Her hand, from which dangled the handcuff, caressed her smitten cheek in fear of injury.
"You get punished for bribes, honey. That goes down on your chart. If you owned Fort Knox you wouldn't get out of here. Now! Get up and get them rags off."
Glynis got slowly to her feet, knowing that to strip before this cynical bulk was the last thing she desired. Striving for a moment's grace, she asked feebly, "But why?
Why naked?"
"You're getting a rub down and wash off, rich bitch, that's why." The mocking female voice conceded a tolerance for feminine frailty. "Don't tell me no woman ain't never seen you stripped?" The big right hand was thrust into prominence. "You want I should knock you around a bit first?"
Glynis stripped. She felt utterly demeaned. The eyes of Wardress Bulloch had a maleness ...!
"Damn sweet little cunt! Maybe I'll come to call some evening!" The woman let the promise hang, then added, "After you been in a cell awhile I might be right welcome....And I do love a good thick bush! Got one myself."
Glynis shrank inwardly. She had read enough to know...! Too frightened to demur, she allowed her shackled hand to be cuffed to a ring in the concrete wall. She was now helpless. Delivered to-to what?
The hose was brutal. A jet blast of bitter cold, and then hot. From a purely animal instinct to flee, Glynis tugged at her cuffed wrist, but it held her implacably against the stone so that she was forced to obey the brisk directives of: "Turn. Now the other way. Spread your legs." The jet probed her sexually to provoke the swift demand: "Get that hand off your cunt, girl. Hold it out and away."
Then the soaping. A harsh acrid smelling bar was fric-tioned everywhere upon her nudity to blossom into thick lather by which huge hands were lubricated to their task. The captive legs were kicked apart and the once inviolate sex of Glynis Woodhaye was foamed and frictioned into an unwilling response that was quickly quelled by a liberal insertion of soap where none should be. The most cruel invasion was of the lovely hair, soaped and plastered, the scalp massaged. The naked victim of prison ablutions stood, chained to the ring, moaning in protest against the icy blasts against which she had no defense as they rid her of the disinfecting stuff that clung and clung so that, of her own volition, she turned and twisted to ensure the water laved her clean.
"Damn cute effect, them welts on yer legs and arms, kid." The Wardress snapped the cuff back on Glynis' left wrist so that both were linked before her. "Go look in the mirror."
It was true! Her legs and arms were striated by scarlet and purple marks whilst the rest of her skin was virgin. The blows Campys had inflicted on her clothes had left no wounds. Glynis did not find them cute. Perhaps erotic and strange....They were also tender. She winced when the rough towel dried her.
"Give you a bit of help, honey. Ain't easy for a gal when she's cuffed. Your cunt's 'bout all that comes handy."
No panties, no bra, nothing! The prison tunic was pulled up from below, its waist elasticized to slide over hips and then compress the tummy. It hid her sex with only a small margin of propriety. Its thin stuff hugged and did not hide nipples and breasts. Shoulder straps each had one button-designed for handcuffed girls. A permitted glance in the mirror proclaimed the tunic's color as drab. But it was sexy, outrageously flaunting her gender. Certainly no state or federal house of correction would permit this!
"Now, there's something we best get straight, sugar." The Wardress' voice was sweetly reasonable. "You can fight us all the way and have things rough. Or be sensible and do as you're told. That way it ain't so-well, it ain't so rough."
An answer seemed expected. Glynis ventured, "I'll try and be sensible."
"We got our ways. One of 'em's a guard named Josh. Don't usually deal with women. But if I need help with you hell come running and you'll likely lose that there tunic. Understand?"
"Yes. I understand."
"Good. That's one good thing 'bout rich bitches, they usually got a bit o' brains." Wardress Bulloch's eyes glinted with enjoyment. "But we got a bit more'n Josh. Maybe it's best I show you...."
The silent corridor itself told the story. And the steps-down! Then the room with nothing but the post with its horizontal bar-like a cross. Bulloch fingered the shining metal at each end with pride. "We snaps one of these cuffs on each of your wrists, hon. That leaves you standing facing the post-or mebbe t'other way round, your arms nicely outta the way. Then we strips you naked and whip the tar out of you. Get the picture?"
"Yes, I get the picture."
The Wardress sighed. "Thought you would. But remember something else. We don't have to get an authorization or have you sentenced to bring you down here. I can bring you anytime."
Glynis felt herself curl up inside with horror. But she made her voice as level as she could. "If you'll tell me how I won't offend you-I mean what I must and must not do. I really will try. I don't want to be brought down here-ever!"
"Sensible little sweetheart," Bulloch approved. "But I'll let you in on another little secret. We don't even need an excuse. If me or anyone else feels like putting a few stripes on that pretty skin and hearing you howl, then down you'll come."
It was soul sickening. Her world had gone mad-beyond nightmares. Glynis looked at the woman, smilingly amused by her dismay, looked down at her handcuffed wrists, looked at the stark and evil thing to which she could be chained and whipped at the caprice of people who she had never even seen. Her search for appropriate words was interrupted.
"Oh, and there's one more thing, honey. Come and take a look."
A door opened to disclose the most miserable box of a compartment Glynis had ever seen. No window. No light. She guessed its purpose.
"Solitary, hon. You go in naked. Hands cuffed behind your back so you can't play with yourself. It's dark."
There was a sudden thrust on her back. A moment later Glynis stood in total stygian oblivion. The door slammed shut. A key turned.
It was the most frightening thing yet. The push had disoriented her. In the close blackness there was no up or down or sideways. Glynis could not be certain where the door was-not that it mattered! Most certainly she would not get it open. She reached out her joined hands, even the concrete wall would be better than a dark vacuum. But there was nothing....She took a step, and still there was no contact. She was ready to scream when the door opened and the hateful place was flooded with light from the passage.
"Thought it best you try it out, sweetheart." Bulloch's voice was cheerfully hearty. "There's just one thing 'bout solitary: you don't get it unless you've done something. It don't hot up my pants none to bung you in there. See what I mean?"
Looking back, Glynis knew only shame, but at that moment her need was dire. With an inarticulate cry, she grasped the Wardress' arm in her shackled hands and buried her own tear-stained face on the more than ample shoulder. She sobbed quietly while a large and not ungentle hand patted her back and her bottom.
"My, my! You did take it to heart, love!" Bulloch sounded pleased. "Don't worry that pretty head, now. I'll not be putting you in there unless you give me reason-or someone tells me to."
When the paroxysm of fright and tears wore itself out, the captive girl stepped away from her jailer. She dabbed ineffectually at her bedewed eyes and muttered ashamedly, "I'm sorry-I've never been so frightened...."
"That's good. You and me are going to get along just fine, honey. Come along and see your new home."
Another corridor and a line of cells. Three walls of concrete, one of bars through which an inmate could be open to view at any time. The door itself of bars, sliding back and forth, its lock impressive. Some of the cells held girls who viewed them hopefully as they passed. Some wore the prison tunic, some were naked. All bore some sort of restraint, handcuffs, a chain. One had her hands tied behind her back with rope. There were no introductions.
"You'll be glad of a rest, honey," Bulloch said genially as she opened the awesome door. "In you go, girl. Ain't exactly the Waldorf but it serves its purpose."
It was not the Waldorf! The clang of the closing door and the snapping of its lock said all too clearly that indeed its purpose would be served. Its purpose was to imprison a half naked girl with chained hands. Glynis stood woefully and blurted out on impulse:
"Where is Rolfe Campys?"
The Wardress peered at her in what appeared to be a genuine puzzlement. "You mean that actor guy, honey? How the hell should I know where he is?"
"But he is connected with this place?"
Bulloch guffawed. "I ain't got him locked in no cell, kid, I can tell you that."
It was hopeless! Glynis held up her joined hands and asked wanly, "If this really was a prison I wouldn't be handcuffed, would I?"
"You are in this one, sweetheart. Don't beef, or I'll put 'em behind your back. Bye now...."
The wealthy and influential Miss Glynis Woodhaye stood in the center of her prison cell looking through bars at a blank wall. High behind her a barred window admitted light. There was a wooden bench on which, presumably, she slept. No mattress, no mirror. The small cell was punitive in its malevolence. She raised her hands and studied the metal bands clasping her wrists. It seemed incredible that humaningenuity could not remove them but she knew she could not, any more than she could open the barred door.
She knew the relief in being alone would not last. But, for this moment, it was good to sit on the bench and strive to place herself in perspective with the impossible. Playing idly with her handcuffs, she reviewed her nightmare kidnaping, Rolfe Campys' insouciant cruelty, the dungeon torturing of the girl, and now this seemingly authentic convict condition in a federal penitentiary from which escape would be virtually impossible. So far as her other life was concerned she had vanished, ceased to exist.
Pain had chastened her. Glynis was shamed by the knowledge of how easily she could be controlled and made amenable. She who had never taken an order in her life! But she would fight them with her mind. Somewhere in this captivity there would be human links weak enough to exploit. One single word to the outside, and they would rally to her rescue, forces to obliterate the Seigneury and all its works. But was she in the Seigneury-was she...? Exhausted, she lay down and slept.
It was thirty days before Glynis Woodhaye once more met Rolfe Campys. Thirty days of gradual conditioning in which the cell had become her life, and the things happening to her therein to be expected and accepted with humility.
There had been lessons.
She was enduring one of the lessons now.
The girl had largely replaced Wardress Bulloch as her guard. A pleasant girl, younger than herself, frightened. Glynis assessed her as a captive, but one who had been given duties. Carelessly revealed flesh had borne whipmarks. She had shyly admitted to the name of Clare.
"Mrs. Bulloch says you have to be naked," Clare had offered diffidently that morning, "She says if you want to make a fuss I'm to call Josh." She had eyed her angry charge with sympathy. "Do you want to make a fuss, Glynis? I don't mind."
"What happens to me if I do?" f
"Well, I suppose hell take your tunic by force. Then you'll be punished."
"And you don't mind?"
"I didn't mean it like that, Glynis. What I mean is I understand. You used to be rich and privileged, and now you're in here. It must be rough."
"Isn't it just as rough on you?"
Clare shrugged. "I wasn't rich. And I've been here so long I've sort of got used to it."
"I've asked you before, Clare. Help me escape. I'll make you rich. Please?"
"They'd catch us and whip us half to death. It's no use. ... "
Glynis sighed. Hopeless! Always hopeless.'llnhappily, she asked, "If I take my clothes off, what happens then?"
"That's sort of bad," Clare admitted ruefully. "I have to cuff you to the bars. It's a sort of discipline. We've all had it."
"But why? Why? Why?"
"There's never any why, Glynis. Not for us. There doesn't have to be."
Clare was sweet. Glynis perceived the underlying cruelty of making her perform these tasks. The child would be shamed and sorrowful and the victim would obey in order to deflect wrath from the innocent head. In a resignation born of many such incidents, Glynis shrugged and made a partial surrender. "Go ahead and fasten me. I won't struggle. But I won't strip. If you know it has to be done you can take my tunic yourself. I won't he able to stop you. Fair enough?"
"You quite sure? You've never been naked?"
"Yes, I'm sure. I've seen it coming. You can come in, I'll be very well behaved."
"You're awfully nice to me, Glynis-all the rotten things I have to do to you...."
It had been just a little worse than expected. Glynis had supposed she'd be attached to a bar by one wrist. But Clare had unlocked one cuff, raised both hands high and locked them around a'"bar above a cross piece so that they could not be lowered. Glynis was not on tip-toe, but the posture would become wickedly tiring.
"I feel miserable about doing this, Glynis."
The fastened girl supposed there was always a first time when a girl would bare her body, for this reason or that, to be scrutinized by someone else. It was an act associated with love or lust, thrilling or joyous, tremendously exciting. But to be stripped in a prison cell! She was being cheated, robbed of an experience sacredly female. Standing tense and mute she endured the apologetic fingers and the tugging.
"Gee, I wish I had a lovely figure like yours!" Clare's tribute was genuine. "They'll never let you go. You're too beautiful." She paused a moment, thinking. "Glynis, is it really awful? Are you sort of-cringing?"
"Yes, I am. But I'm thankful it's you and not Josh."
"Would you like me to play with you a little? Would it help? I can make you come?" The young voice was alive with anxious affection.
Glynis quivered. The cell had defeated her to where she had yielded to Clare's lips and tongue. Loneliness had made her lesbian. But to be brought to orgasm while chained to the bars where Bulloch might appear was a comfort she must forego. Wanly, she shook her head and asked, "Is this it? Or is there something...?"
Clare was forever apologetic. "Well, you'll probably have visitors," she admitted. "That's sort of the idea. You know-make us ashamed of having to stand like that."
"What sort of visitors?"
"Well, just anybody...! Anybody who wants to see a naked girl."
"Not men! You don't mean men?" Glynis was aghast. "Probably...." The single word bespoke Clare's distress.
A vivid awareness of her total exposure struck the captive girl like a blow. Handcuffed as she was she stood in open invitation. Her arms, held high, were a betrayal of modesty. She could be touched...! The bars delivered her but would shield nothing. In an involuntary spasm of revolt she swirled about to face her companion and place her back to the bars. It hurt her wrists and was an additional strain but it was her only defense.
"You're not supposed to do that," Clare said unhappily.
"What am I supposed to do?"
"You have to face the bars-so you're right there-on view."
"But that's awful! They can touch .'..!"
"That's right. They do. You just have to stand."
"But why didn't you tell me?"
"Because then you'd have made me call Josh. This is better."
Better! Glynis could see the logic. She also beheld the two lengths of rope. She was panting. Trapped!
"Don't kick at me, Glynis. Please? I have to do this."
Glynis did not kick. She would not kick Clare-and anyway, what was the use! She looked down dismally to watch her ankles snared.
"I'm afraid you'll have to turn round. You just have to...!" The young voice oozed sympathy.
She could not fight Clare. Fastened as she was she could not fight anyone. The clicking of her handcuffs had taken her beyond the point of no return. With an impatient and dejected sigh, Glynis turned against and thrust her nakedness against the cold bars as though to angrily deliver every particle of her captor's pound of flesh. Grudgingly, she seperated her feet in response to the pull of the ropes. Each ankle was again looped and tied to a bar, cinched tight and snug.
"They want you with your feet apart, Glynis. Are you sure you don't want me to play...?"
She wished now she had let the loving fingers have their way. Now it was too late. Clare had kissed her and gone. It was not until she was alone that the tied girl realized the depth of her need, the unsatisfied longing for feminine comfort. In shame and silent loneliness, Glynis Woodhaye wept, wiping her cheeks against her upraised arms.
She had wondered about the silence. Surely with the other prisoned girls she had seen there would be sounds. But sounds were rare and unidentifiable. She had tried calling out against her own bars-surely some girl down the passage must hear! But there had been no response, and Clare had warned her not to try again. The girl would not say why, nor would she speak of the other inmates. Perhaps they were no longer in their cells! Perhaps she, Glynnis, was the only captive of the block. The silence of the passage was daunting. .
With her feet tied well apart she could no longer turn. She could only stand, finding what support she could against the bars, gazing through them at the passage wall. They were too close to allow her to see much of anything. She could find no easement, no shifting of her stance. To keep the handcuffs from cutting her wrists, Glynis clutched the bar around which ran their connecting link. It was a sorry way for a girl to spend her day. It was a punishment-for innocence. Her breasts peeped pertly. Protruding through the bars in a manner she could prevent only at the cost of hurt wrists. Bored and helpless, the naked heiress allowed her mind to drift back through her tenancy of the cell. A tenancy that, as far as she could tell, might be for life.
She was taken from her small prison only rarely. At such times she was blindfolded, perhaps to prevent her seeing into the other cells and what they held. Intermittently she was chained by her wrist to the ring in the washroom wall and hosed down, made to soap herself, then hosed again. Sometimes Bulloch hosed her, sometimes Clare. It did not matter, the water was as cold either way, the jet as fierce against breasts and vulva. She was never suffered to close her legs.
There had been the one bad journey after her questions had become too insistent for Bulloch's tolerance. She knew she had brought it on herself, but the walk to the downstairs room had been none the less terrifying. "You silly bitches are all the same," Bulloch had assured her jovially, "Push and prod, and then wonder why you get your pretty skins striped."
"Please don't whip me. I'm sorry-I didn't realize."
"You knew damn well, honey. I sometimes think a gal locked in a cell the way you are gets so's she's grateful for a bit of attention-even when it's the wrong end of a whip...."
"No! No, oh, no! Please, Mrs. Bulloch, don't whip me?"
"Sooner eat my cat, honey?"
It was not the first offer or demand. There had been other temptations. If Clare...! Then why not...? Thought of the whipping post had made the decision. "Yes," she said ashamedly. Then, knowing she had best show willing: "Oh, yes, Mrs. Bulloch. Thank you!"
It had been another defeat, utterly demeaning. While Glynis was still extracting the Wardress' pubic hairs from her mouth, the jeering voice spelt out her doom. "You did that damn well, honey. But I didn't promise it would get you off the hook, y'know. You and me are still taking our little walk downstairs."
Glynis' pride was shattered, her fortitude tested beyond its strength. Campys' thrashing of her arms and legs had breached a defense. Being whipped was a thing she could no longer contemplate as an abstract, something that happened to others but never to her. The mere sound of the word made her quail. Forgetting all else save the waiting whipping post, she flung herself at the Wardress' feet and used her cuffed hands to clutch, her cheek to seek comfort against rough cloth.
"Please-Oh, Mrs. Bulloch, please! I did what you asked! I'll do it again. I will, I will! But don't whip me! Oh, please don't whip me...?"
"My, my, you do value that pretty pelt, don't you, honey!" The Wardress had been delighted to have the former Miss Glynis Woodhaye clutching her leg. "I'm not going to kill you, y'know."
"I can't stand being whipped. It's too awful."
"Sooner have twenty-four hours in solitary, sweetheart?"
It was too much! She wept. Then, blindfolded, had stumbled her way to the downstairs room, guided by Bulloch's grip on her handcuffs.
"Itll help you settle down, love. Stop you asking all them silly questions. Don't take on so."
It was just as she remembered. Stark, functional, forbidding! Designed only for the punishment of girls. The unlocking of the handcuffs on her wrists gave no joy, it was a precursor of agony.
"You know where to put them little flippers, honey."
Glynis knew! In a mute agony of apprehension she lifted her arms and inserted her wrists within the waiting gyves. The Wardress clicked the metal bands tightly upon the slender flesh.
"In years to come you'll thank me for this, love." The sardonic voice mocked, "Nothing like learning an early start on how to behave."
"Please...? Oh, please-not naked?"
"Good gosh, gal, you got more 'pleases' than a dog has fleas! You're not expecting to get whipped over that there tunic, are you?"
"I don't know. I'm so frightened. I don't want to scream, but I know I'm going to."
"What a worry wart! Scream all you like, kid. I love it."
Glynis knew herself a bundle of quivering nerves. The preparations and the suspense was demoralizing. She was ashamed of her inability to take her whipping in silence, cling to her dignity. But for her, dignity was a thing long past. Pressed against the vertical timber, her arms spread wide, her wrists hurting, she was bitterly afraid. "Mercy...." she pleaded in a stumbling moan, "Oh, Mrs. Bulloch, please have mercy...."
"Tell you what, honey." The Wardress' tone had been infinitely forbearing. "This ain't what you could call a real flogging. When you get flogged it's from your knees to your neck. This here's just a little lesson in manners for you-real helplful! So, since you're so all fired concerned about baring your ass, I'll just work on your back. I can baste the other half another time."
"Thank you...."
Glynis heard the small lost voice. It was her own! Expressing gratitude that only half her nakedness be whipped, leaving the rest of her...! It was absurd! Outrageous! She was shamed beyond imagining, and she was helpless ...!
"I'll watch out for your tits, sweetheart."
"Thank you-Oh, thank you!" How humble could she get!
"It's going to hurt quite a bit, so scream all you want."
"Yes, oh, yes!"
"And if you think you're bleeding, just forget it. You won't be."
"Yes, Mrs. Bulloch."
"And now this here tunic, love. Real handy the way it buttons."
Handy indeed! Two buttons swiftly freed. Glynis leant back from the post to facilitate the peeling tug baring her back. When the scanty garment reached her hips it was allowed to hang.
"There you are, kid. Only half naked. You got to keep half your modesty. Don't say I never did nothin' for you."
"I am grateful-really!"
And now the harsh wood against her breasts, her armpits exposed. Her arms and hands held as a bird's wings. ... "Here we go, baby."
Don't scream-don't scream....Glynis mutely commanded her inmost self as her back exploded into agony. If you don't scream she'll know you're somebody-she'll respect. She thrust her breasts and belly against the immovable timber as though seeking a haven within its solidity.
This was quite different from Campys. It was a shock to realize that whippings could be different. Each of them specifically awful in this own special cruelty. Or was it the part of her that was being whipped? Was that the difference? Glynis was appalled by the fearful sensitivity of her back. It was cut in two-it must be! Incongruously her bottom was still inviolate. Yet a girl's bottom was supposed to be the first part of her to feel the lash.
"You're doing fine, honey."
This time it was more difficult. The pain was cumulative. One agony on top of another. In a pathetically animal instinct, Glynis sought to bury her teeth in the flesh of her arm. But her bonds denied. Whimpering pitifully, she thrust her nudity again and again at the post to which she was inexorably attached.
"Gals ain't all the same under the whip," Bulloch commented chattily. 'They each got their own way of wiggling or fighting the cuffs. And as for noise...! Honey, the sounds I've heard!"
Glynis knew she was losing control. Even with the blows widely spaced as the Wardress' conversational style dictated the pain was more than she could bear in silence. Could any girl...! The thong circled her waist above the tunic's folds, then lanced the breadth of her shoulders. She was alive and palpitating with agony. Campys and all else had vanished. She was alone with her pain and the post-and a smug female voice somewhere out in space.
"How's your cunt, honey? Cunts ain't all the same either."
It followed naturally that a questing hand should penetrate between her thighs. Glynis dared not demur. She stood mutely in agonized shame as a large palm squeezed the plumpness of her swollen vulva.
"Oh, you're a sweetheart all right!" Bulloch enthused. "Here, look at yourself."
Cheeks flaming, Glynis backed as far as her bonds allowed from the wet evidence of her femaleness thrust against her nose. This, too, was wrong-wrong! What was the matter with her! Sexually aroused! She shrank back against the refuge of the post as the intrusive hand was wiped dry on the bare flesh of her shoulder.
"Should be across your ass for best results," Bulloch mused imformatively. "But maybe if I hit you hard enough I can make you come...?"
"No-oooh!"
The blow came, mercilessly. Glynis surged back against her ironed wrists and screamed in animal fury.
"Lovely-lovely! Sweetheart, you're precious."
Again the hand between her legs. This time with intent. Glynis knew herself consumed by pain-but also something else! She moaned and moaned again ... and then the blows! One after the other in a fury of flogging so that every atom of her being screamed and screamed.
With the final scream and the wild thrashing of her hips, the whipping of Miss Glynis Woodhaye came to an end.
It was an evocative memory. The bars, now, were worse than the post. The naked prisoner tried to shift position but could not. Her tied ankles were a defeat. When she had been whipped in the downstairs room her legs had been free to kick. Now they were rigidly held-and held apart. She could guess what of her sex was visible. And her hands were no longer her own-helplessly handcuffed. Glynis Woodhaye sighed. If she was to stand thus all day the hours would be long. She was jolted out of her reverie by the sound of footsteps.
It was Myrtle, another of the guards, she stood, arms akimbo, and surveyed Glynis' impotent nudity with relish. "Well, look what we've got here!" She simulated pleased surprise. "Pretty nice, eh! Nice tits and twat."
"Myrtle, be nice to me," the captive coaxed. "Untie my legs. I promise I won't try and turn around. I'll keep my front to the bars."
"You know the drill, eh!" Myrtle guffawed. "I'm not untying nothin'. Someone musta' wanted your feet tied or they wouldn't be the way they are."
"It was Clare. She thought she had to. Please, Myrtle...?"
"You'd charm the tail off a cat. Dammit, girl you gotta' be tied to keep your cunt in view."
"I'd keep my legs apart. Honest! I know I can't get loose. But it's so tiring, not being able to move my feet. Myrtle, be nice?"
"What you holding on to that bar for? You're grabbin' it like you're scared it will get away."
"If I don't do that the handcuffs hurt my wrists."
"Gee whiz, gal, you really think you got troubles."
"Well, haven't I!" Myrtle was one you could answer back.
"Sort of....Say, kid, how's 'bout I flip your clit? Make you feel better?"
"No, I'd feel awful after."
"Think I'll do it anyway. Watch you squirm."
"No!"
"You going to stop me?"
Glynis longed to scream. Longed to do anything that would put these people in their place. She knew she would gladly pay a million dollars for her freedom. But Myrtle, too, was impervious to bribes. "No, I can't stop you," she admitted sadly. "Anybody can do anything they like with me. But, please, I ask you, don't shame me any more."
Myrtle did not bother to reply. Her face was that of a happy child. She sidled up to the bars, inserted a hand and arm around the small captive waist, her other hand felt its way between captive thighs. "Say 'please', kid."
"Please, Myrtle." She was too helpless to rebel.
"Please what?"
"Please provoke my clitoris."
"That's a damn rummy way to say it," Myrtle chortled, "But I like it. Comes from being educated...."
Glynis made no pretense of anything. What was the use! Myrtle would do what she wished with her anyway. As the busy finger found its prey she delivered herself over to sensation. She reflected, bitterly, that it might be the one bright spot in her day. It was a gauge of how far she had fallen. To welcome a strange woman's hand within her sex! She, who had once been The Miss Glynis Woodhaye. Tears fought for supremacy over a mounting libidinousness. Her hips began to weave....
It was so unfair.
When it was done and Myrtle went her cheerful way, Glynis stood against the bars in the moist and heated aftermath of orgasm. She wanted to die, to find unconsciousness. Or, by some miracle, blast the Seigneury into oblivion. She supposed she was in the Seigneury! But how could she be sure! Suppose some chicanery had been at work when she was unconscious, some quasi-legal trickery! She might then indeed be a convict in a prison for years and years! A strange penitentiary perhaps. But there was nothing make believe or fake about her cell or the handcuffs, or the place downstairs ...!
She was intensely uncomfortable. The ropes bit at her ankles. Her fingers were numb from clutching the bar. She longed for easing motion but could make none. She wondered dismally what she might have done or said to deserve this. But that was the ultimate cruelty; she had done nothing. She was being punished because she was a pretty and sexy girl. If her breasts had been flat she would be safe at home. She drifted into a pain distilled doze.
This time there were voices, the deep growl of the Male and a woman's tinkling laugh. There were three of them. Wardress Bulloch, Rolfe Campys, and a girl Glynis had never seen, a girl who clung to Rolfe's arm possessitvely whilst looking about her with an intense interest.
In the moments of realization, the punished prisoner found herself beset by decision. What to do! What to say! How to behave! But, for the former Miss Glynis Woodhaye there were no decisions. She would stand as she was and endure what she must. The thought of bowing her head and closing her eyes was untenable. She would give them stare for stare. She would not plead.
Mrs. Bulloch had adopted a guide's omnipotent drone. "We have here an interesting case. A young woman of good family and great wealth. The factors leading to her becoming a convict can be studied her file. At the moment she is enjoying a day of discipline."
The girl tittered. Glynis judged her to be a screen aspirant exchanging sex for whatever favors Rolfe Campys might pass her way. There had been a string of them. Few had become stars. Like all of them she was highly decorative. She was also immensely intrigued by what she beheld. "Did you say enjoying?" The question bubbled amusement. "She doesn't look as though she's enjoying it one little bit."
"A figure of speech," Bulloch said gruffly. "Our girls are disciplined regularly. It keeps them amenable."
Rolfe Campys was frankly enjoying every inch of Glynis' skin. His eyes roved impersonally from breasts to thighs. "Beautiful girl," he conceded. But his regard was clinical. It would be possible to believe he had never seen this naked woman in his life. His eyes were masked. They refused to meet Glynis' challenging stare. "Is a girl of this type ever flogged for misdemeanors?" he inquired casually.
"Such a punishment would be within our terms of reference, sir."
"You have had no occasion to flog her?"
"A mild whipping only. She is a highly intelligent girl who tries not to break our rules."
"I'd find it interesting to see a girl of this type flogged," Campys mused reflectively. He turned a shrewd eye upon the Wardress. "D'you think a thousand dollars might bend the rules a bit?"
"Oh, Rolfe!" The girl sounded genuinely shocked. "Don't be so cruel! Can't you enjoy her the way she is? Gee, I know I wouldn't want to have to stand like that."
"Probably do you a world of good, poppet."
"We are not subject to bribes, sir." Mrs. Bulloch sounded starchy.
"Gosh, Rolfe, why don't you offer the thousand to get the poor thing off the hook right now? I bet she's hating every moment-probably hating us too. But, gollies, what a figure! Look at those breasts and that waist ... wow!"
The old Campys was never far below the surface. He grinned down at his protege. "Perhaps I can persaude Mrs. Bulloch to let you take her place, Tess?"
"Rolfe, don't be horrid. You scare me sometimes." Tess turned to their guide. "Mrs. Bulloch, may I speak to the-the prisoner?"
"Of course you may, Miss Lynton. Her name is Glynis."
"Never known a girl of that name," Rolfe Campys said blandly. "I still think she'd make an interesting subject for a flogging?"
"Don't listen to him. He always talks like that." Tess had moved closer to the bars and was peering at the fastened naked girl with avid interest. "Is it really hurting-the way you're fixed, I mean?"
"Yes, it's hurting."
Glynis had debated keeping a surly silence. But Bulloch would not like that. Best play it safe. "And you've actually been whipped?"
"Yes."
"I'm told being whipped gives a girl the hots. Did it work that way with you?"
"No."
"Glynis!" The Wardress' tone was sharp. "You know damn well it did. Remember my hand!" She winked at Tess. "Feel her now. I bet she's soaking."
Tess was both eager and contrite. "D'you mind?"
"Go ahead." Glynis met the laughing eyes. "I can't stop you."
"She's up for grabs," Campys chuckled. "My turn next."
It was another of the steps-down! To be naked and publicly fingered! Glynis writhed inwardly as the small hand cupped beneath her pubic hair. Her cheeks flamed as her vulva was tested. She saw only Rolfe Campys' amused absorption with what was being done. She cared little for Tess' excited "Wow!" or the wet and glistening palm held for all to see. Her secretions under punishment were as much a mystery to her now as they had ever been.
Tess had become both serious and curious. "Is it the being punished?" she asked slowly, "Or is it being naked-and having to just stand there for us to look at?"
"I don't know. I wouldn't have been able to tell-Glynis met the searching eyes levelly. "I'm certainly not sexually excited, if that's what you mean."
"She has a subconscious longing to be thrashed," Campys contributed brightly. "Most girls have. It shows up at times like these."
"You could be right, sir. I've often wondered...." Mrs. Bulloch pondered.
"You're both unkind." Tess pouted. "I don't think we should talk about the poor thing while she's listening like this. I bet she hates us." She turned, impulsively, to the amused Wardress. "Couldn't you untie her-unfasten those things on her wrists? I mean, we've had a good look...."
"Sorry, miss. She's there for the day. We've found it unsettles them to show intermittent kindness."
"Didn't know you did social work, Tess," Campys mocked. "Save your tears, she's probably enjoying every moment. Think of the thrill: three distinguished people at one time, all looking at her cunt."
"Don't call it that; Rolfe." Tess pouted. "I think we should go."
"And leave the dear girl to her secretions! Well, I suppose...."
"You had mentioned an interest in our downstairs room, Miss Lynton?" Bulloch was anxious to please. "Down there is also the solitary."
"I'm not so sure now-after seeing this one like this. Gee, I keep thinking of myself! But I suppose...." Tess grinned impishly at Rolfe. "I bet you can't wait to see it."
"They should call it the rehabilitation room," Rolfe quipped. "Brings the sweet things face to face with themselves. Sure, let's go."
The voices drifted away down the corridor, there was the closing of a door...! Bulloch had led the way brsikly. Tess' smile had been commiserating sympathy. Campys had bestowed a kindly nod at a suffering stranger. Once more Glynis was nakedly alone with immobility.
She seethed with anger. Rolfe Campys was teasing her, playing with her a game of cat and mouse. But there was something wrong! Something that did not add up! His surname had not been mentioned. His association with Wardress Bulloch was not casual. Penitentiaries did not exhibit their female inmates naked for the delectation of privileged visitors! Or did they? Who knew what went on behind the masses of concrete and stone and steel confining the living vital flesh of girls!
Tess Lynton signified nothing. There would always be a Tess clinging to Campys. They were part of a long succession to which she had refused to belong. What mattered, and what hurt the most, was Rolfe's bland refusal to recognize or be recognized. It was part of the game, but what! Glynis was suddenly overwhelmed by the prisoner's blind panic at having perhaps allowed a chance to slip by, a chance to deflect him from his course. Should she have pleaded, accused, blurted out the truth, enlisted Tess' aid, planted a doubt in Bulloch's mind! The possibilities aligned themselves in a row, and she had availed herself of none of them! She had used only the same haughty silence she knew infuriated him. Perhaps if she had uttered the right words she would now be free! The thought was agonizing.
Miserably, she fought her bonds for painful and frustrating moments before relapsing into the naked impotence from which Campys had derived so much satisfaction.
But the thought persisted. Surely she could have said something to send at least one of the trio away with an intent to aid the chained and naked beauty that had once been Miss Glynis Woodhaye. Somewhere in those three must lurk compassion! Resolve formed. It was a panic resolve, but it was there. Glynis waited, quivering, for the footsteps....
They were long in coming. Perhaps they would not come at all-some other exit from downstairs! She could picture Campys gravely expounding the virtues of the flogging of girls, his eyes twinkling mischief, and Tess' negative but fascinated rejoinders. The Wardress would be politely attentive, offering statistics....What did it matter to any of them that she stood, palpitating, against the bars!
"Fascinating study: penology." Campys's voice was formally conversational. "It's hard not to see masochism in the way these girls get themselves into situations...."
Words droned as the steps approached. Glynis drew a deep breath.
"Rolfe Campys! Stop this nonsense! Get me out of here!"
Polite embarrassment! That was all. His enquiring glance at Mrs. Bulloch. 'The girl's up to something. Any idea?"
"They'll try anything, sir. That's why visitors are not encouraged. She thinks you're that movie star fellow."
"It often happens," Campys admitted modestly, "But I don't see her motive."
"Rolfe, don't be so beastly to me! Make them let me go. You can, I know you can!"
"She's likely thinking of the parole board, sir."
"I'm not! I'm not! I'm thinking of you, Rolfe. Get me out of this. Look, I'll do what you want! There! I've said it."
"Sad, isn't it?" The male voice was impersonally observant. "Is this a common reaction?"
"I'm afraid so, sir. But she'll have to be punished."
"A flogging?"
Glynis could swear his question was hopeful.
"Hardly that, sir. Perhaps another day as she is or a period in solitary."
"Mrs. Bulloch, this man is Rolfe Campys. He does know me. He has used his influence to get me in this fix. Please help me." Glynis made her pleading as urgent as she could. She would be punished anyway, so she might as well make it good.
"Glynis, you're asking for trouble." The Wardress' voice was coldly disapproving.
"Rolfe, please, I beg. Show me mercy. I'll be as humble as you like. Please, please, please!"
"Perhaps we should leave...?" Campys' voice held only male embarrassment at a female lapse in mixed company.
"Rolfe, don't go! Don't leave me like this! Oh, please...?"
"Terrribly pathetic...." He was already on the move. "I am sure it must be very hard for them not to-clutch at straws...."
The faintly stilted exchange drifted slowly away. In desperation, the naked girl tied to the bars cried out her agony:
"Rolfe! Rolfe ... please! Rolfe?"
The slamming of the door was a final punctuation.
Then silence.
This time the captive did not fight her bonds. Instead, she wept, sobbed in a desuetude utter and complete. Her fingers clutched the bar above until the knuckles showed white. It was not until she again lapsed into hopeless resignation that the obvious struck her like a blow. Tess Lynton, laughing and lovely, had gone downstairs with Campys and Bulloch ...!
But she had not come back.