windar
Teller of Tales
Really?
I'm easy
I see, good enough to cook for you and fuck you, but you don't really respect my mind...
An appropriate thought...
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Barb Behind Bars
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Lovely, Madi. Will insert in chapter 12.
Sorry, I'm a bit late this times....
connoisseurs
Senator
13.
Worse, Stan worried, what if Barb simply had decided that things were over between them? She was, after all, a switch hitter and prison was nothing if not a smorgasbord of possibilities for girl-girl action. He often tried to minimize it in his mind, but he was a good couple of decades older than her and even though they had a hell of a lot of fun together, perhaps she was re-evaluating her life and not seeing any place in it for him.
Worse, Stan worried, what if Barb simply had decided that things were over between them? She was, after all, a switch hitter and prison was nothing if not a smorgasbord of possibilities for girl-girl action. He often tried to minimize it in his mind, but he was a good couple of decades older than her and even though they had a hell of a lot of fun together, perhaps she was re-evaluating her life and not seeing any place in it for him.
Sharkman
Governor
Now it's getting really interesting. Tickets can be bought where? Did the organizers still started selling tickets?
Sharkman
Governor
On sale now at NailusMartyrs.com. Supply is limited.
Hope it's not a daylight-robbery ... else we will send Stan to end the sellout party!
windar
Teller of Tales
19.
Stan Goldman looked at himself in the bathroom mirror of the motel out on Highway 20 a few miles from the Newtown State Correctional Facility for Women. It was a cheap motel, one Barb wouldn’t have liked, though it beat where she was lodging presently. Besides, there weren’t exactly a bunch of 5 star accommodations out here and the prison was over two hours from their home, which was way too far to drive back and forth each day.
He didn’t particularly like the beard and mustache he had grown, but they did the trick, he thought. He clipped the name tag that said “PORTER” onto the breast pocket of the Department of Corrections uniform he wore, and clipped his ID badge with a picture of him in his current disguise to his belt.
The sight brought Stan a little wave of nostalgia, remembering the days when he had started out with the NYPD as a uniformed officer, before he had made detective and got to wear a suit to work like a Wall Street trader, except that his suit was off the rack from a discount store.
Stan repeated his mantra three times, just as he had done when he had gone undercover back when he was a detective. “I’m David Porter, 43 years old, transferred here from Dannemora.” He and his old colleague Harold Coughlin had decided that was a good cover story, since a lot of guards were being transferred from Dannemora after those two convicted murderers had escaped and managed to hide out in the woods for almost a month before one was shot by State Troopers and the other was captured almost at the Canadian border. Fortunately, none had yet been sent to Newtown, and Stan could only hope none would be in the next few weeks, because they would blow his cover in a few minutes.
He had to hand it to his friend Harold. The guy was taking a hell of a risk helping Stan in this totally unauthorized undercover operation. So was Stan, of course, but he had a personal interest and Harold didn’t. Stan hadn’t objected at all to promising him in writing a full share of the royalties from any book that came out of this caper. He hoped Barb wouldn’t mind.
Stan pulled his rental car-he figured that would at least slow down any inquiries about the new guard-into the employee lot. He walked to the gate in the double fence and presented his badge to be scanned. “So you’re the new guy?” the guard on duty asked.
Stan had spent the last week or so practicing modulating his Brooklyn inflection to a flatter upstate one. His son Marty and his girlfriend, who was from upstate, said he wasn’t bad. “Yes, transferring here from Dannemora.”
The guard on the gate picked up the phone and hit a button. “Turner, would you come down here and escort the newbie to see the Warden?” he spoke into the receiver. A few minutes later a heavy-set black female guard arrived and escorted Stan to the Warden’s office.
The Warden stood and shook Stan’s hand as Stan approached the desk, offering him the chair in front of his desk. “Welcome to Newtown, C.O. Porter. You’ll find it a bit different from Dannemora. The inmates are easier to look at, anyway, if you get my drift.”
“Thank you, sir,” Stan replied. He had decided that the less he said, the better.
“I run a tight ship here, Porter. Any inmate gets out of line, she pays a price. No escapes here, that’s for certain.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you enforce the rules strictly here, we won’t have any problems. Do I make myself clear?” Stan nodded and mumbled agreement. “Well, you go see Matron Armstrong, Porter. Her office is at the end of C Hall. She’ll give you your assignment for the day.”
Stan found his way to the Matron’s office and knocked. “Come in!” a voice almost as deep as his said. Stan opened the door and had to suppress a gasp. Matron Armstrong had removed her uniform shirt and trousers and was wearing only a sleeveless undershirt and shorts. In each hand she held a barbell that looked to be at least 25 lb. She squatted and rose up several times, as Stan gawked at her. Her arms were like tree trunks and her legs were even larger.
“Porter reporting for duty, ma’am. The Warden sent me to see you,” Stan managed to say.
Matron Armstrong continued her knee bends as she looked Stan over like he was a bug she could crush with a finger, an impression which likely wasn’t far from reality. “The newbie, right?” she asked.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Stan replied.
“You’re used to dealing with male inmates, right?” Stan nodded. “You probably think this’ll be a picnic dealing with the females. Well, let me tell you these cunts are vicious criminal scum, every bit as bad as the men and probably worse.”
She finally put the weights down and moved to a punching bag that hung from a hook on the ceiling. She started whacking the bags with fists that looked like the head of a sledgehammer. Stan was afraid the bag would fly off the hook and knock him in the head.
“You have to watch these bitches every second. Never turn you back on them, you hear?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Stan replied.
“Any of them step even a little toe over the line, I want to hear about it immediately. You got that Porter?”
“Absolutely, Ma’am.”
“Good, Porter. See that you follow that and we’ll be good buddies. Now they’re serving breakfast down in the cafeteria. It’s in B Hall and they’re a couple of staff short. You keep your eye on those women and if any of them step out of line, they’ll have me to deal with.”
Stan nodded his acceptance of his orders and quickly turned and headed back down the corridor to the cafeteria. Inside there was a line of women, of all different sizes shapes and colors, all wearing orange uniforms with “Property of Newtown State Correctional Facility for Women” stamped across the front. They waited silently as a number of inmates behind the counter brought large aluminum trays out of the kitchen.
Stan stared as a slim brunette came out carrying a tray laden with what appeared to be scrambled eggs, or more likely, some facsimile thereof, which she dropped into an empty space in the metal counter separated by a dirty looking pane of glass from the rails upon which the waiting inmates at the head of the line had rested their trays.
His heart skipped a beat. It was Barb! She looked drawn out and tired, but at least she was alive and well enough to work.
“Goddamn, you’re slow Moore! I’m hungry!” yelled a beefy looking woman at the head of the line.
“Shut up, Buckner!” a male guard shouted. “Any more shit out of your mouth and you’ll get a good dozen from Matron.”
Stan wondered what the guard meant. ‘A good dozen what?’ he thought. He didn’t think he’d want a dozen anything from Matron Armstrong. But the threat seemed to be sufficient for Inmate Buckner to quiet down and begin pushing her tray down the line.
When Buckner reached Barb’s station, Barb carefully ladled a generous portion of eggs onto her plate, more than she gave any of the inmates who followed, Stan noticed. He casually strolled over towards the line.
There was a momentary gap in the line and Barb looked up and scanned the room. Stan was pleased to see she paid him no notice. He was just another guard in a uniform at this distance.
Eventually, the last inmate made her way through the line and took her food to one of the tables. Stan watched Barb pick up the now almost empty tray of eggs and take it through the swinging door into the kitchen. He decided to follow her inside.
It was a busy scene. The inmate cooks, wearing white smocks and hats just like Marty and his staff wore at Marty’s restaurant were washing down the pots and pans used to cook the meal and scrubbing down the grills and stoves, while the servers were tasked with cleaning the serving trays.
Stan noticed Barb had dumped the remaining eggs in the garbage and was washing the tray in one of the sinks. He went and stood behind her, watching as she carefully scraped the remains off the metal. Once the tray was clean, she set it in the drying rack beside the sink, then turned away to gather up the serving spoons from the next sink.
Stan wasn’t sure why he did it. Perhaps he was angry at Barb for getting herself in another jam that made him feel obliged to rescue her. Perhaps he wanted to earn the Matron’s trust. Perhaps he wanted an opportunity to get Barb alone. Whatever the case, Stan saw some rather sad looking margarine lying on the counter, dipped his finger into it and smeared some on the tray that Barb had just cleaned.
He walked over to her. Trying as best he could to disguise his voice, Stan said, “What is your name inmate?”
She turned and looked at him curiously. Could his disguise be good enough to fool her? She glanced at his face, then at the name tag that said, “PORTER”. “I’m Inmate Moore, Barbara Moore, sir.”
“You didn’t finish that tray,” he said.
“I did. I’m very diligent.” She looked down at her feet, not wanting to challenge him too strongly.
“Are you arguing with me?” Stan asked.
A look of fear passed over her face, but Stan knew Barb’s natural proclivities were to dispute an untrue allegation. “No, sir,” she said. “But I’m very sure, I cleaned it.”
“Well, let’s see what Matron Armstrong has to say about this,” Stan replied.
Now Barb looked very frightened. Stan could easily imagine that inmates did not relish an encounter with the Matron. “Please, sir, I’ll clean it again.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Moore. Let’s go.” Stan took hold of her arm and began marching her out of the kitchen. She resisted for a moment, then thought better of it, going slack and letting him move her down the corridor towards the Matron’s office.
When they got partway down the corridor, in an area where they were alone, Stan stopped and, in his normal voice said, “Barb, it’s me.”
She stared at him. He could see the recognition slowly dawning on her. He held his finger to his mouth, indicating she shouldn’t yell out her joy and surprise, but should speak in a near whisper. “Stan?” she said.
“Well, it’s not the Easter Bunny.”
“My God, that beard and the mustache and the hair! You look ridiculous.”
“Perhaps, but good enough to fool you,” he replied.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she whispered. “This place is a hellhole. You wouldn’t believe what goes on here.”
“I didn’t get your coughs at first, but then I did and I knew you were in trouble.”
“How did you get in here? You’re wearing a guard’s uniform?”
“It’s better that I don’t tell you until you’re out. I have ways,” Stan said, smiling enigmatically. “Now we better go see Matron.”
Barb pulled back. “You’re not seriously going to turn me in to that bitch, Goldman? You know what she does to inmates who get reported to her? She makes them strip naked, ties them to a frame and flogs them with a big, heavy strap. It hurts like Hell.”
Stan looked at Barb. “Oh, really?” he asked. “That’s totally illegal of course, and I need to observe that so I can report it to the Warden.”
“The Warden?” Barb replied. “He’s worse then she is. You wanna know what he did to me?”
“Yes, of course, Barb, but when we’re alone. The problem I have in the meantime is that everyone in the kitchen heard me say I was taking you to the Matron, so I’m kinda stuck now, Moore. If I don’t do it, she’ll start investigating and the game will be up. So we gotta go see her.”
“Goldman, you fucking bastard, don’t you dare!” Barb protested her voice rising towards the end.
Stan held his finger up to his lips. “I’m on your side, Moore. So keep your voice down. And it’s Officer Porter, not Goldman, OK? We have to play along and get the solid evidence to blow this place wide open. Then, of course, the public will demand your release. In the meantime, we better not keep the Matron waiting.”
Barb glared at him, but reluctantly followed him down the corridor. As they approached the Matron’s office they passed two prisoners, one with dark brown hair and one Asian. “Oh, look at that. Looks like Moore is in trouble again, Cindy, being taken to see the Matron,” the brown-haired one said, laughing heartily.
“The bitch just never learns to behave. It’s amazing she has any skin left on her ass,” the Asian woman replied.
“Poor Moore, she just isn’t too bright, is she?” the brown hair girl said. The two of them laughed uproariously.
When they were out of earshot, Stan turned to Barb, “That wasn’t Deb Morton and Cindy Chao from the hanging cult, was it?”
“Unfortunately, it was,” Barb replied.
“I thought they were sent to Bedford Hills,” Stan said.
“Me too. But they’re here now. And they have made it very clear that they’ll kill me if they get the chance. The Warden is protecting me, but it doesn’t come cheap.”
Stan was about to ask what she had to do to earn the Warden’s protection, but they had reached the Matron’s door and he reached out to knock.
Stan Goldman looked at himself in the bathroom mirror of the motel out on Highway 20 a few miles from the Newtown State Correctional Facility for Women. It was a cheap motel, one Barb wouldn’t have liked, though it beat where she was lodging presently. Besides, there weren’t exactly a bunch of 5 star accommodations out here and the prison was over two hours from their home, which was way too far to drive back and forth each day.
He didn’t particularly like the beard and mustache he had grown, but they did the trick, he thought. He clipped the name tag that said “PORTER” onto the breast pocket of the Department of Corrections uniform he wore, and clipped his ID badge with a picture of him in his current disguise to his belt.
The sight brought Stan a little wave of nostalgia, remembering the days when he had started out with the NYPD as a uniformed officer, before he had made detective and got to wear a suit to work like a Wall Street trader, except that his suit was off the rack from a discount store.
Stan repeated his mantra three times, just as he had done when he had gone undercover back when he was a detective. “I’m David Porter, 43 years old, transferred here from Dannemora.” He and his old colleague Harold Coughlin had decided that was a good cover story, since a lot of guards were being transferred from Dannemora after those two convicted murderers had escaped and managed to hide out in the woods for almost a month before one was shot by State Troopers and the other was captured almost at the Canadian border. Fortunately, none had yet been sent to Newtown, and Stan could only hope none would be in the next few weeks, because they would blow his cover in a few minutes.
He had to hand it to his friend Harold. The guy was taking a hell of a risk helping Stan in this totally unauthorized undercover operation. So was Stan, of course, but he had a personal interest and Harold didn’t. Stan hadn’t objected at all to promising him in writing a full share of the royalties from any book that came out of this caper. He hoped Barb wouldn’t mind.
Stan pulled his rental car-he figured that would at least slow down any inquiries about the new guard-into the employee lot. He walked to the gate in the double fence and presented his badge to be scanned. “So you’re the new guy?” the guard on duty asked.
Stan had spent the last week or so practicing modulating his Brooklyn inflection to a flatter upstate one. His son Marty and his girlfriend, who was from upstate, said he wasn’t bad. “Yes, transferring here from Dannemora.”
The guard on the gate picked up the phone and hit a button. “Turner, would you come down here and escort the newbie to see the Warden?” he spoke into the receiver. A few minutes later a heavy-set black female guard arrived and escorted Stan to the Warden’s office.
The Warden stood and shook Stan’s hand as Stan approached the desk, offering him the chair in front of his desk. “Welcome to Newtown, C.O. Porter. You’ll find it a bit different from Dannemora. The inmates are easier to look at, anyway, if you get my drift.”
“Thank you, sir,” Stan replied. He had decided that the less he said, the better.
“I run a tight ship here, Porter. Any inmate gets out of line, she pays a price. No escapes here, that’s for certain.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you enforce the rules strictly here, we won’t have any problems. Do I make myself clear?” Stan nodded and mumbled agreement. “Well, you go see Matron Armstrong, Porter. Her office is at the end of C Hall. She’ll give you your assignment for the day.”
Stan found his way to the Matron’s office and knocked. “Come in!” a voice almost as deep as his said. Stan opened the door and had to suppress a gasp. Matron Armstrong had removed her uniform shirt and trousers and was wearing only a sleeveless undershirt and shorts. In each hand she held a barbell that looked to be at least 25 lb. She squatted and rose up several times, as Stan gawked at her. Her arms were like tree trunks and her legs were even larger.
“Porter reporting for duty, ma’am. The Warden sent me to see you,” Stan managed to say.
Matron Armstrong continued her knee bends as she looked Stan over like he was a bug she could crush with a finger, an impression which likely wasn’t far from reality. “The newbie, right?” she asked.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Stan replied.
“You’re used to dealing with male inmates, right?” Stan nodded. “You probably think this’ll be a picnic dealing with the females. Well, let me tell you these cunts are vicious criminal scum, every bit as bad as the men and probably worse.”
She finally put the weights down and moved to a punching bag that hung from a hook on the ceiling. She started whacking the bags with fists that looked like the head of a sledgehammer. Stan was afraid the bag would fly off the hook and knock him in the head.
“You have to watch these bitches every second. Never turn you back on them, you hear?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Stan replied.
“Any of them step even a little toe over the line, I want to hear about it immediately. You got that Porter?”
“Absolutely, Ma’am.”
“Good, Porter. See that you follow that and we’ll be good buddies. Now they’re serving breakfast down in the cafeteria. It’s in B Hall and they’re a couple of staff short. You keep your eye on those women and if any of them step out of line, they’ll have me to deal with.”
Stan nodded his acceptance of his orders and quickly turned and headed back down the corridor to the cafeteria. Inside there was a line of women, of all different sizes shapes and colors, all wearing orange uniforms with “Property of Newtown State Correctional Facility for Women” stamped across the front. They waited silently as a number of inmates behind the counter brought large aluminum trays out of the kitchen.
Stan stared as a slim brunette came out carrying a tray laden with what appeared to be scrambled eggs, or more likely, some facsimile thereof, which she dropped into an empty space in the metal counter separated by a dirty looking pane of glass from the rails upon which the waiting inmates at the head of the line had rested their trays.
His heart skipped a beat. It was Barb! She looked drawn out and tired, but at least she was alive and well enough to work.
“Goddamn, you’re slow Moore! I’m hungry!” yelled a beefy looking woman at the head of the line.
“Shut up, Buckner!” a male guard shouted. “Any more shit out of your mouth and you’ll get a good dozen from Matron.”
Stan wondered what the guard meant. ‘A good dozen what?’ he thought. He didn’t think he’d want a dozen anything from Matron Armstrong. But the threat seemed to be sufficient for Inmate Buckner to quiet down and begin pushing her tray down the line.
When Buckner reached Barb’s station, Barb carefully ladled a generous portion of eggs onto her plate, more than she gave any of the inmates who followed, Stan noticed. He casually strolled over towards the line.
There was a momentary gap in the line and Barb looked up and scanned the room. Stan was pleased to see she paid him no notice. He was just another guard in a uniform at this distance.
Eventually, the last inmate made her way through the line and took her food to one of the tables. Stan watched Barb pick up the now almost empty tray of eggs and take it through the swinging door into the kitchen. He decided to follow her inside.
It was a busy scene. The inmate cooks, wearing white smocks and hats just like Marty and his staff wore at Marty’s restaurant were washing down the pots and pans used to cook the meal and scrubbing down the grills and stoves, while the servers were tasked with cleaning the serving trays.
Stan noticed Barb had dumped the remaining eggs in the garbage and was washing the tray in one of the sinks. He went and stood behind her, watching as she carefully scraped the remains off the metal. Once the tray was clean, she set it in the drying rack beside the sink, then turned away to gather up the serving spoons from the next sink.
Stan wasn’t sure why he did it. Perhaps he was angry at Barb for getting herself in another jam that made him feel obliged to rescue her. Perhaps he wanted to earn the Matron’s trust. Perhaps he wanted an opportunity to get Barb alone. Whatever the case, Stan saw some rather sad looking margarine lying on the counter, dipped his finger into it and smeared some on the tray that Barb had just cleaned.
He walked over to her. Trying as best he could to disguise his voice, Stan said, “What is your name inmate?”
She turned and looked at him curiously. Could his disguise be good enough to fool her? She glanced at his face, then at the name tag that said, “PORTER”. “I’m Inmate Moore, Barbara Moore, sir.”
“You didn’t finish that tray,” he said.
“I did. I’m very diligent.” She looked down at her feet, not wanting to challenge him too strongly.
“Are you arguing with me?” Stan asked.
A look of fear passed over her face, but Stan knew Barb’s natural proclivities were to dispute an untrue allegation. “No, sir,” she said. “But I’m very sure, I cleaned it.”
“Well, let’s see what Matron Armstrong has to say about this,” Stan replied.
Now Barb looked very frightened. Stan could easily imagine that inmates did not relish an encounter with the Matron. “Please, sir, I’ll clean it again.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Moore. Let’s go.” Stan took hold of her arm and began marching her out of the kitchen. She resisted for a moment, then thought better of it, going slack and letting him move her down the corridor towards the Matron’s office.
When they got partway down the corridor, in an area where they were alone, Stan stopped and, in his normal voice said, “Barb, it’s me.”
She stared at him. He could see the recognition slowly dawning on her. He held his finger to his mouth, indicating she shouldn’t yell out her joy and surprise, but should speak in a near whisper. “Stan?” she said.
“Well, it’s not the Easter Bunny.”
“My God, that beard and the mustache and the hair! You look ridiculous.”
“Perhaps, but good enough to fool you,” he replied.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she whispered. “This place is a hellhole. You wouldn’t believe what goes on here.”
“I didn’t get your coughs at first, but then I did and I knew you were in trouble.”
“How did you get in here? You’re wearing a guard’s uniform?”
“It’s better that I don’t tell you until you’re out. I have ways,” Stan said, smiling enigmatically. “Now we better go see Matron.”
Barb pulled back. “You’re not seriously going to turn me in to that bitch, Goldman? You know what she does to inmates who get reported to her? She makes them strip naked, ties them to a frame and flogs them with a big, heavy strap. It hurts like Hell.”
Stan looked at Barb. “Oh, really?” he asked. “That’s totally illegal of course, and I need to observe that so I can report it to the Warden.”
“The Warden?” Barb replied. “He’s worse then she is. You wanna know what he did to me?”
“Yes, of course, Barb, but when we’re alone. The problem I have in the meantime is that everyone in the kitchen heard me say I was taking you to the Matron, so I’m kinda stuck now, Moore. If I don’t do it, she’ll start investigating and the game will be up. So we gotta go see her.”
“Goldman, you fucking bastard, don’t you dare!” Barb protested her voice rising towards the end.
Stan held his finger up to his lips. “I’m on your side, Moore. So keep your voice down. And it’s Officer Porter, not Goldman, OK? We have to play along and get the solid evidence to blow this place wide open. Then, of course, the public will demand your release. In the meantime, we better not keep the Matron waiting.”
Barb glared at him, but reluctantly followed him down the corridor. As they approached the Matron’s office they passed two prisoners, one with dark brown hair and one Asian. “Oh, look at that. Looks like Moore is in trouble again, Cindy, being taken to see the Matron,” the brown-haired one said, laughing heartily.
“The bitch just never learns to behave. It’s amazing she has any skin left on her ass,” the Asian woman replied.
“Poor Moore, she just isn’t too bright, is she?” the brown hair girl said. The two of them laughed uproariously.
When they were out of earshot, Stan turned to Barb, “That wasn’t Deb Morton and Cindy Chao from the hanging cult, was it?”
“Unfortunately, it was,” Barb replied.
“I thought they were sent to Bedford Hills,” Stan said.
“Me too. But they’re here now. And they have made it very clear that they’ll kill me if they get the chance. The Warden is protecting me, but it doesn’t come cheap.”
Stan was about to ask what she had to do to earn the Warden’s protection, but they had reached the Matron’s door and he reached out to knock.
Last edited by a moderator:
Goldman’s attempts at humor are always soooo pathetic...
Well .... yeah, he will ...
My tight little is amazingly resilient
Idiots
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
Porter enjoys the 'play' while Barb suffers.
Surrounded by all these women, Porter starts to think there are worse places to work.
Porter's invited to one of the Warden's parties.
Sod Goldman, Porter now has a new career.
Barbara Moore? Never heard of her.
windar
Teller of Tales
windar
Teller of Tales
Exactly. Wanting to see the Matron punish Barb played no role whatsoever in Stan's plan. Zero... This all part of a very careful plan, right Moore? You're happy to take a dozen for the team, aren't you? Moore? Moore???Good strategy from Goldman/Porter to gain the matron's trust!
Sharkman
Governor
And there's the understatement of the year.
There are rules?
So, nothing out of the ordinary for Stan. Should be a doddle.
Maybe later, eh? After you get more accustomed to the, er, "rules" you're supposed to be enforcing.
