windar
Teller of Tales
20.
“You don’t waste time, do you, Porter?” the Matron asked, a broad grin on her face. “Your first day on the job and already a prisoner to report. Of course, Moore is an easy target. You’d think someone who is supposed to be smart, a famous detective and author, would have figured out by now how to obey a few simple rules. What did she do now?”
Stan, back in his David Porter voice, described Barb’s offense. “She did a poor job cleaning the serving tray. When I pointed that out, she argued with me.”
“You argued with a member of my staff, Moore?”
Barb looked for a moment like she was going to dispute the charge, then realized that would, in and of itself, constitute a further instance of arguing with a staff member. She sighed deeply. “Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry, Ma’am. I didn’t know Officer Porter and was taken by surprise. It was wrong of me and it won’t happen again.”
The Matron scowled. “That’s a pretty poor excuse, Moore. He’s wearing an official Department of Corrections uniform, which means he’s a valued member of my staff whether you know him or not. I’m beginning to despair of your ever learning Moore, but it’s my duty to keep trying. Follow me; I think you know where we’re going,” the Matron cackled.
Stan didn’t know where they were going but was eager to find out. He followed Barb, watching her tight little ass wiggle as she walked, a sight that he had missed greatly during their separation, as the Matron led the way through a couple of corridors lined with cells. The occupants of the cells leaned out to jeer as the procession passed.
“Oh, look, the cop bitch is in trouble again!” one shouted.
“Shred that scrawny white ass, Matron!” a husky black inmate added.
Finally, the Matron quieted the chorus, “The next one I hear from gets to join her,” she warned. They walked the rest of the way in silence, but every eye still followed them.
Finally they reached a door labeled “Disciplinary Unit” that led to a short corridor with several rooms off it, marked as Punishment Room 1, Punishment Room 2, etc. ‘This looks interesting,’ Stan thought.
The Matron unlocked the door to #3. “Inside, Moore, let’s go!” she ordered. Inside was a bench that looked like the one they had in their basement, only more solidly constructed and better anchored to the floor. “You know the drill by now, Moore. Strip!” the Matron barked.
Back at home, Barb would have given Stan a litany of complaints and back talk and rolled eyes, but, here, there was none of that. Before the echo of the Matron’s command had died off the concrete walls, Barb had her canvas shoes off and was lifting the uniform T shirt over her head. She deposited them on the small table against the wall and quickly lowered her trousers and placed them on top of the other items.
Stan’s cock was standing to attention as he looked Barb’s naked body up and down. It had been a while since he had enjoyed its delights and he was horny. “Get up there, Moore!” the Matron ordered. Barb climbed up onto the bench, kneeling on the platform that protruded from the back of the bench and draping her torso over the top, her breasts pressing into the padding. Stan envied the bench.
“Porter, would you strap her wrists down, while I do her legs?” the Matron ordered. Stan went around to the front of the bench. He took Barb’s left hand and threaded the strap around her wrist. “Make sure it’s tight,” the Matron advised. “The prisoners do tend to struggle when I lay into them.” Stan had little difficulty imagining that was true.
He pulled the strap tight and buckled it, then did the same on the other wrist. He tested them. Barb’s arms weren’t going anywhere. “They’re secure, Ma’am,” he reported. He tried to catch Barb’s eye to re-assure her that this was necessary in order to make this scheme which would ultimately liberate her work, but she only looked down to the bare concrete floor.
Having finished buckling down Barb’s ankles and knees and attaching the thicker strap around Barb’s waist, the Matron walked over to a cabinet that stood against a side wall. Stan stared open mouthed at the assortment of whips, straps, canes and other instruments of chastisement inside. It made their little collection at home look a bit sad.
The Matron selected a rather brutal looking cane. “The strap obviously hasn’t penetrated your thick skull via your ass, Moore,” she announced. “Let’s see if one of these canes does a better job of instruction.” She selected one, swishing it through the air. It made a fearsome sound. Barb wasn’t looking at it, but Stan knew she could hear it.
Satisfied with her choice implement, Matron Armstrong took her position behind and slightly to the side of Barb, testing her placement by tapping the cane softly against Barb’s immobilized lower cheeks.
“Prepare yourself, Moore,” was the only warning she gave before twisting her body, raising the cane behind her and slashing it down onto Barb’s tender flesh. It made a sound like a pistol. Stan was impressed. Matron Armstrong, despite her gender, which he presumed was female, hit considerably harder than he ever had.
Barb appeared to be impressed, too. She let out a loud plaintive moan. Stan could see her arms and legs pulling hard against the straps that held her down, but to no avail, as he and Matron had tightened them quite securely.
He could hear Barb panting as the waves of agony washed over her. The Matron waited until Barb’s struggles died down, then slashed a second, equally brutal stroke across her buttocks. “Owww!” Barb yelled after she caught her breath.
A third vicious stroke followed. Barb issued a loud long wail of distress that echoed off the unforgiving walls, which had doubtless absorbed the desperate cries of countless prisoners over the years. “Are you sorry you talked back to Officer Porter, Moore?” the Matron asked when the wail died down to a low sobbing.
It took Barb a moment to draw enough breath to respond. “Yes, Matron,” she cried. “Please, I won’t do it again. Just please, stop.”
Stan wondered if this clearly heart-felt apology would induce the Matron to stop. But the determined woman was not deterred by such pitiful entreaties. She continued, delivering several more strokes to Barb’s ass, each one eliciting howls of agony and pain.
Stan wasn’t sure how many the Matron administered, somewhere between ten and a dozen he reckoned. Finally, she laid the cane down on the table. Barb was crying uncontrollably by this point.
“I hope you’ve learned your lesson, Moore,” Matron Armstrong said. “This was a mere demonstration. Any more trouble and you’ll find out what a real caning is like.”
She turned to Stan. “Give her a few minutes to control herself, then you can unstrap her and let her get dressed and take her back to her cell, Porter.” She looked down at the bulge in Stan’s crotch. “And if you want to relieve yourself, you can go ahead. You’ve earned it. Good work for your first day. I have a feeling you’ll fit right in here at Newtown, Porter.”
With that, the Matron left the Punishment Room, showing Stan which key on his belt opened the door. Once they were alone, Stan knelt in front of Barb. Her face was streaked with tears, her hair disheveled and matted with sweat. “Use code. They monitor everywhere,” she whispered.
Barb coughed twice. “Thank you for helping to correct me, Officer Porter,” she said.
“I’m sorry that it was necessary, Moore.” He coughed twice. “I was only doing my job. Did that hurt as much as it looked like?”
“Oh, yes, Sir,” Barb replied. “Words can’t even describe it.” Stan walked around behind Barb. Her tight little ass was covered with a number of angry red raised welts. A few drops of blood were leaking from the most punished spots. He gently ran a finger over one of them. “Ohhh!” Barb moaned, without coughing.
Stan went to the sink and got a paper towel, wetting it and gently wiping Barb’s cheeks. She sighed as the cool water eased the burn, if only momentarily. “I suppose I should let you up, now, Inmate Moore,” Stan said tenderly.
“Aren’t you going to fuck me first?” Barb asked.
Stan coughed twice. “Hmm,” he said, pretending to be thinking about it.
“You heard the Matron, Sir. You aren’t going to disobey her orders, are you?” she told him.
“Well, if you put it that way, Inmate Moore,” Stan replied unbuckling his belt and lowering his trousers. He maneuvered his underpants past his throbbing erection and took his place behind Barb. Whether fortuitously or by design, the punishment bench left her pussy at the perfect height and angle for easy penetration.
Stan took hold of his cock and placed the head at the entrance to her pussy and slid easily inside. He couldn’t help noticing how wet she was. It felt just as he remembered, only better for the setting and the long separation.
Stan stroked in and out slowly, relishing the way Barb’s vagina gripped his aching penis. She was mewing contentedly. “That’s it, Stan. Don’t stop.”
“Stan?” Stan said. “You’re mixing me up with that cop boyfriend of yours?”
Barb coughed twice. “I’m sorry, Officer Porter. Please don’t report me to Matron.”
“That’s, OK,” Stan said, out of breath a bit from pounding into Barb hard now. “I suppose I should take it as a compliment.” He could feel a very large load building in his balls. He sped up a bit more. “I’m going to come, Inmate Moore,” he gasped.
“Don’t just talk about it Officer Porter, do it,” she panted. And, though he was a guard and she but a lowly inmate, this was an order he could not ignore. He groaned and emptied himself into Barb, shot after shot, his head spinning with the release, as she moaned, this time in pleasure, rather than pain.
“You don’t waste time, do you, Porter?” the Matron asked, a broad grin on her face. “Your first day on the job and already a prisoner to report. Of course, Moore is an easy target. You’d think someone who is supposed to be smart, a famous detective and author, would have figured out by now how to obey a few simple rules. What did she do now?”
Stan, back in his David Porter voice, described Barb’s offense. “She did a poor job cleaning the serving tray. When I pointed that out, she argued with me.”
“You argued with a member of my staff, Moore?”
Barb looked for a moment like she was going to dispute the charge, then realized that would, in and of itself, constitute a further instance of arguing with a staff member. She sighed deeply. “Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry, Ma’am. I didn’t know Officer Porter and was taken by surprise. It was wrong of me and it won’t happen again.”
The Matron scowled. “That’s a pretty poor excuse, Moore. He’s wearing an official Department of Corrections uniform, which means he’s a valued member of my staff whether you know him or not. I’m beginning to despair of your ever learning Moore, but it’s my duty to keep trying. Follow me; I think you know where we’re going,” the Matron cackled.
Stan didn’t know where they were going but was eager to find out. He followed Barb, watching her tight little ass wiggle as she walked, a sight that he had missed greatly during their separation, as the Matron led the way through a couple of corridors lined with cells. The occupants of the cells leaned out to jeer as the procession passed.
“Oh, look, the cop bitch is in trouble again!” one shouted.
“Shred that scrawny white ass, Matron!” a husky black inmate added.
Finally, the Matron quieted the chorus, “The next one I hear from gets to join her,” she warned. They walked the rest of the way in silence, but every eye still followed them.
Finally they reached a door labeled “Disciplinary Unit” that led to a short corridor with several rooms off it, marked as Punishment Room 1, Punishment Room 2, etc. ‘This looks interesting,’ Stan thought.
The Matron unlocked the door to #3. “Inside, Moore, let’s go!” she ordered. Inside was a bench that looked like the one they had in their basement, only more solidly constructed and better anchored to the floor. “You know the drill by now, Moore. Strip!” the Matron barked.
Back at home, Barb would have given Stan a litany of complaints and back talk and rolled eyes, but, here, there was none of that. Before the echo of the Matron’s command had died off the concrete walls, Barb had her canvas shoes off and was lifting the uniform T shirt over her head. She deposited them on the small table against the wall and quickly lowered her trousers and placed them on top of the other items.
Stan’s cock was standing to attention as he looked Barb’s naked body up and down. It had been a while since he had enjoyed its delights and he was horny. “Get up there, Moore!” the Matron ordered. Barb climbed up onto the bench, kneeling on the platform that protruded from the back of the bench and draping her torso over the top, her breasts pressing into the padding. Stan envied the bench.
“Porter, would you strap her wrists down, while I do her legs?” the Matron ordered. Stan went around to the front of the bench. He took Barb’s left hand and threaded the strap around her wrist. “Make sure it’s tight,” the Matron advised. “The prisoners do tend to struggle when I lay into them.” Stan had little difficulty imagining that was true.
He pulled the strap tight and buckled it, then did the same on the other wrist. He tested them. Barb’s arms weren’t going anywhere. “They’re secure, Ma’am,” he reported. He tried to catch Barb’s eye to re-assure her that this was necessary in order to make this scheme which would ultimately liberate her work, but she only looked down to the bare concrete floor.
Having finished buckling down Barb’s ankles and knees and attaching the thicker strap around Barb’s waist, the Matron walked over to a cabinet that stood against a side wall. Stan stared open mouthed at the assortment of whips, straps, canes and other instruments of chastisement inside. It made their little collection at home look a bit sad.
The Matron selected a rather brutal looking cane. “The strap obviously hasn’t penetrated your thick skull via your ass, Moore,” she announced. “Let’s see if one of these canes does a better job of instruction.” She selected one, swishing it through the air. It made a fearsome sound. Barb wasn’t looking at it, but Stan knew she could hear it.
Satisfied with her choice implement, Matron Armstrong took her position behind and slightly to the side of Barb, testing her placement by tapping the cane softly against Barb’s immobilized lower cheeks.
“Prepare yourself, Moore,” was the only warning she gave before twisting her body, raising the cane behind her and slashing it down onto Barb’s tender flesh. It made a sound like a pistol. Stan was impressed. Matron Armstrong, despite her gender, which he presumed was female, hit considerably harder than he ever had.
Barb appeared to be impressed, too. She let out a loud plaintive moan. Stan could see her arms and legs pulling hard against the straps that held her down, but to no avail, as he and Matron had tightened them quite securely.
He could hear Barb panting as the waves of agony washed over her. The Matron waited until Barb’s struggles died down, then slashed a second, equally brutal stroke across her buttocks. “Owww!” Barb yelled after she caught her breath.
A third vicious stroke followed. Barb issued a loud long wail of distress that echoed off the unforgiving walls, which had doubtless absorbed the desperate cries of countless prisoners over the years. “Are you sorry you talked back to Officer Porter, Moore?” the Matron asked when the wail died down to a low sobbing.
It took Barb a moment to draw enough breath to respond. “Yes, Matron,” she cried. “Please, I won’t do it again. Just please, stop.”
Stan wondered if this clearly heart-felt apology would induce the Matron to stop. But the determined woman was not deterred by such pitiful entreaties. She continued, delivering several more strokes to Barb’s ass, each one eliciting howls of agony and pain.
Stan wasn’t sure how many the Matron administered, somewhere between ten and a dozen he reckoned. Finally, she laid the cane down on the table. Barb was crying uncontrollably by this point.
“I hope you’ve learned your lesson, Moore,” Matron Armstrong said. “This was a mere demonstration. Any more trouble and you’ll find out what a real caning is like.”
She turned to Stan. “Give her a few minutes to control herself, then you can unstrap her and let her get dressed and take her back to her cell, Porter.” She looked down at the bulge in Stan’s crotch. “And if you want to relieve yourself, you can go ahead. You’ve earned it. Good work for your first day. I have a feeling you’ll fit right in here at Newtown, Porter.”
With that, the Matron left the Punishment Room, showing Stan which key on his belt opened the door. Once they were alone, Stan knelt in front of Barb. Her face was streaked with tears, her hair disheveled and matted with sweat. “Use code. They monitor everywhere,” she whispered.
Barb coughed twice. “Thank you for helping to correct me, Officer Porter,” she said.
“I’m sorry that it was necessary, Moore.” He coughed twice. “I was only doing my job. Did that hurt as much as it looked like?”
“Oh, yes, Sir,” Barb replied. “Words can’t even describe it.” Stan walked around behind Barb. Her tight little ass was covered with a number of angry red raised welts. A few drops of blood were leaking from the most punished spots. He gently ran a finger over one of them. “Ohhh!” Barb moaned, without coughing.
Stan went to the sink and got a paper towel, wetting it and gently wiping Barb’s cheeks. She sighed as the cool water eased the burn, if only momentarily. “I suppose I should let you up, now, Inmate Moore,” Stan said tenderly.
“Aren’t you going to fuck me first?” Barb asked.
Stan coughed twice. “Hmm,” he said, pretending to be thinking about it.
“You heard the Matron, Sir. You aren’t going to disobey her orders, are you?” she told him.
“Well, if you put it that way, Inmate Moore,” Stan replied unbuckling his belt and lowering his trousers. He maneuvered his underpants past his throbbing erection and took his place behind Barb. Whether fortuitously or by design, the punishment bench left her pussy at the perfect height and angle for easy penetration.
Stan took hold of his cock and placed the head at the entrance to her pussy and slid easily inside. He couldn’t help noticing how wet she was. It felt just as he remembered, only better for the setting and the long separation.
Stan stroked in and out slowly, relishing the way Barb’s vagina gripped his aching penis. She was mewing contentedly. “That’s it, Stan. Don’t stop.”
“Stan?” Stan said. “You’re mixing me up with that cop boyfriend of yours?”
Barb coughed twice. “I’m sorry, Officer Porter. Please don’t report me to Matron.”
“That’s, OK,” Stan said, out of breath a bit from pounding into Barb hard now. “I suppose I should take it as a compliment.” He could feel a very large load building in his balls. He sped up a bit more. “I’m going to come, Inmate Moore,” he gasped.
“Don’t just talk about it Officer Porter, do it,” she panted. And, though he was a guard and she but a lowly inmate, this was an order he could not ignore. He groaned and emptied himself into Barb, shot after shot, his head spinning with the release, as she moaned, this time in pleasure, rather than pain.
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