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Prisoner Twelve (story)

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montycrusto said:
Part 22


…When she awoke, for a moment she had no idea where she was. Then the reality came rushing back to her, and she groaned. Her jaw felt stiff, and her nose was sore. She tried to raise her hand to her face, but the clink of chain stopped her – of course, her hands were still chained to her waist. She was alone in her cell, and gradually realized that the cell door was open. No-one was outside in the corridor either, as far as she could tell. She carefully swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Each leg still bore its heavy metal cuff, but they were not chained together. Her feet were still sore, but she thought they would take her weight.


She stood up, went to the piss bucket and relieved herself. Still no-one around. Nervously she approached the open cell door, suspecting a trap. Another psychologist’s mind game, no doubt. For several minutes she stood there, just inside her cell, looking around and listening. Nothing happened. Her mind began to work furiously. Could she actually remember the way back to the garage? There had been a lot of corners, and doors. Of course, the doors. They would all be locked, escape was as impossible as ever.


She looked round the cell block, eventually plucking up the courage to leave her cell and walk up and down, peering into the other cells. Each contained a bed, like hers, though none of the others had a cage or a whipping frame. Nothing of any use. A heavy door at the end of the block was locked shut. She ended up at the other door, leading to the neighbouring cell block, which had a tiny reinforced-glass window set into it. Carefully so as not to be seen, she peeped through, seeing as she expected a double row of cells, still occupied by male prisoners. These men were clothed in orange uniforms, and did not seem to be wearing sensor harnesses. Whether they were volunteers like her, or genuine convicts, she had no way of knowing.


Suddenly she saw the door at the far end of the male cell block swing open, and she quickly ran back to her cell, wondering if she should close the door or just leave it. She decided to leave it as it was, and ran back to her bed, hastily lying down and pretending to be asleep. A few moments later she heard the cell block door open, and someone entered. She heard a few footsteps, seemingly approaching her cell, then silence.


She lay still, feeling breathless with apprehension. Whoever had come into the block, it was unlikely to be Dane, who would have swaggered straight in and woken her up. This person seemed furtive somehow. She listened, but there was no noise, not even a footstep. Was someone there, watching her? The tension she felt was unbearable.


She made a sort of sleepy noise and rolled on to her side, snatching a peek through one half-opened eye.


It was Paulson, standing in the open cell door, staring at her.


“I knew you were just pretending to be asleep, you fucking bitch,” he said, approaching the bed. The prisoner opened her eyes and rolled back on to her back, hardly in a position to deny it, or to say anything for that matter. The athletic-looking man stood over her, examining her head-harness.


“So this is what the Doctor’s been working on, the perverted fuck.” He hooked a finger under the strap that connected her nose-hook to the top of her harness and pulled upwards, lifting her head off the bed, stretching her nostrils and forcing the hooks painfully deeper into her nose. The prisoner cried out, and was immediately shocked, causing another cry, and another shock, before she regained control, sobbing gently. Paulson released the strap, letting her head fall back on to the bed.


“That’s fucking insane,” he whispered, though whether in disgust or admiration, she couldn’t tell. Paulson looked round the cell.


“Why is your cell door open?” he suddenly demanded, “Oh, you can’t talk. Do you know why your cell door is open?” she shook her head. “Did you open it somehow?” she shook her head again. “Who was last in here with you – was it Dane, the shaved head guy?”


She hesitated – was she about to get Dane into trouble? Not that she owed him anything – he had raped and beaten her, locked her in a cage, sodomized her with a piece of metal, violated her with his baton, and treated her with continual scorn and spite. Yet… she didn’t know what this was all about, and that made it hard to…


“Answer me, bitch! Was it Dane?” She nodded; it was hardly likely to be anyone else, except the Doctor, and anyway, what difference did it make…


“That fucker. Getting the only girl prisoner, then forgetting to lock her up. Seems like he doesn’t appreciate the quality cunt he’s got right here.” He leaned forward and placed both hands on her breasts, and began to knead them, squeezing them painfully. She struggled to stay quiet, though her hands twitched nervously in their shackles. “The only fucking pair of tits in the whole facility, and he leaves the door open! I’m going to have a quiet word upstairs about your fucking boyfriend, darling. And then, with any luck… you’ll be mine. I always wanted my own fuck slave. And I think I know someone who would pay a lot for you. So when I’m bored of fucking your brains out, I’ll be rich! Won’t that be fucking great!”
Click to expand...
something tells me three days are a long forgotten part of her contract...
 
Part 23



Paulson moved to the foot of the bed, withdrawing a set of steel leg-irons from his pocket.


“ You lie still, cock sucker, I’m going to give you a sample.” He quickly snapped one cuff round her ankle, above the thicker metal shackle she already wore, then used it to pull her leg out to the side. As the back of her knee scraped across the edge of the bed, her foot dropped to the floor, and he slid the other leg-iron cuff across the floor, under the bed, and began pulling at her other leg.


The prisoner realized what he was doing and began a wail of protest, which turned into a wail of pain as she was shocked, deep in her nasal cavity. As before, she fought for quiet, despite the pain, and by the time she had regained control of herself, he had bent both of her legs over the sides of the bed, and shackled her ankles together underneath it. Her thighs were now painfully widely spread, and she mewled softly into her gag, her hands, still chained at the waist, clutching at the air.


Paulson was in the middle of raping the prisoner when Dane returned. He watched for a few moments through the cell bars.


“Paulson,” he said, quietly, “what the fuck are you doing? Paulson!”


The rapist ignored him, pounding on for several more strokes, then throwing his head back and groaning. The prisoner felt her vagina fill rapidly with hot semen.


“Fuck off, Dane, I’m busy looking after your fucking prisoner.” He climbed off her, wiping himself and rearranging his clothing. “If it’s too much work for you, you know, you only have to ask. Anyway, I’ve done nothing you haven’t done, admit it.”


“We’ll discuss this later, all right? Fuck off now”


Paulson sauntered out, stopping at the door. “This fucking cell door was wide open, you know. You’re really losing it, man.”


“Whatever, just fuck off.” Paulson left, slamming the cell block door. Dane approached the prisoner, cruelly chained with her legs wide open, her rapist’s semen leaking from her pussy and dripping through the metal slats of the bed. She whimpered quietly.


“God, you look fucking hot, Twelve. I leave you to sleep for a couple of hours, and look what happens. I bet that fucker reports me because of the cell door. How the fuck am I going to explain that I left it open because I didn’t want to wake you?”


He unlocked the leg-irons which held her ankles chained together under the bed, and gently straightened each leg in turn, laying it back on top of the bed. The prisoner began to weep silently – she was finding acts of kindness harder to deal with emotionally, than acts of cruelty. She went on weeping, as the guard cleaned her up, muttering something about having to clean up after everyone else.


He helped her to sit upright, and noticing her tears for the first time, he wiped them away with his thumb. “Hey, hey… what’s the matter? Poor baby…”


He sat down on the bed and held her in his arms, as she turned her face into his shoulder and her crying escalated into great shuddering sobs.


“Hey come on now Twelve,” he said, softly, “come on. That’s my girl.”
 
mm, a nice twist in the tale - I think you said 23 would be a bit special...
montycrusto said:
she was finding acts of kindness harder to deal with emotionally, than acts of cruelty.
Click to expand...
that's very perceptive Monty, I empathise very much
 
Part 24


He rocked her for a while, wiping her nose occasionally, as she wept, her tears soaking his shirt. His unexpected acts of kindness devastated her somehow; such emotional defences as she had gathered against her cruel treatment were useless against this. Gradually she grew calm, relishing the warmth of her jailer’s body. Once or twice, he kissed her naked scalp where it showed between the straps of her head harness – a weird and erotic feeling. Although she was chained, naked, and in discomfort from the various tortures and humiliations she had suffered, she felt as if she could live in this moment forever.


The guard had brought her supper, and wanted her to eat it before it went cold; it was soup, and he spoon-fed her like a baby. He had brought fruit juice, too, which he squeezed directly from the carton into her open mouth, through the ring-gag, taking care not to go too quickly and cause her to choke.


He helped her to use the piss-bucket and cleaned her up afterwards.


The prisoner kept making faltering attempts to speak; she wanted him to know she was grateful for his new found gentleness, but all she could do was gurgle through her gag, and she settled for nuzzling his arm when the opportunity arose, such as when he lifted her off the bucket and led her back to the bed.


He looked round the cell. “This place is in a fucking state,” he muttered. “I’m going to get the cleaning things, and when I get back you can make yourself a useful little cunt and help me out.” Dane patted her on the head and left, taking the supper tray with him. This time he did close the cell door, sliding it firmly shut with a metallic bang.


Prisoner Twelve reflected on the guard’s change of behaviour. She still more than half suspected it was a trick, or another mind game. Of course it was preferable to the relentless brutality that had preceded it, even though it was troubling, somehow, and made her feel uneasy. She stood up and stretched her limbs, as far as her chains would allow, and paced up and down the cell like a zoo animal, waiting for its keeper to reappear. The soles of her feet were tender, but she needed some exercise, and so she marched herself up and down behind the bars of her cell, occasionally stopping to flex her knees or her neck.


She was still doing this when Dane returned with a collection of mops, brooms and buckets on a trolley, which he negotiated through the cell block door with some difficulty, fighting against the door’s powerful spring. She heard a few male jeers waft through the half-open door as he entered; the male prisoners were making lewd guesses as to the purposes of all this equipment. “Told you she was a dirty whore”, was one comment that carried to her ears.


Dane grinned at her, holding up the head of a broom, that he had detached from its handle.


“You’re doing the floor, fuckpet. I’ll do everything else”


He placed her on her knees in the middle of the cell, leaving her hands chained to her waist. The broom head had a plastic projection in the centre which enabled it to be attached to the handle; he took out a roll of black duct tape and began wrapping it round this short plastic tube, thickening it considerably. The prisoner was mystified by this until he held it up to her ring-gagged mouth to check his progress; then she understood. Unsatisfied, he wrapped more of the tape around this bit of the broom head, fashioning the projecting part into a round and pliable knob, which could just be pushed past the ring into her mouth with a little effort, and would not fall out.


“Fucking suits you, actually” he said, not unkindly. He poured out a patch of warm soapy water in front of her. “Go on then, little scrubber. Get scrubbing”. She bent awkwardly to the task, using her back muscles almost entirely to drag the broom head across the wet, soapy floor. Without the use of her hands, her weight fell forward on to the broom and the only way she could move it was by arching her back. Dane watched her for a minute, pouring out more water in front of her and patting her encouragingly on the buttocks with his nightstick.


“Good girl, that’s it. You missed a bit there.”


The girl sweated with the effort, but didn’t protest. Her tongue wrapped around the tape-swaddled plastic of the broom head, and her drool trickled slowly out and added to the wet puddle she knelt in. She began using smaller movements of her neck to scrub the floor, as her back became tired. Dane meanwhile busied himself washing down the cell’s furniture and bars, and for a while they worked together, not speaking, just sharing this duty. Were it not for the fact that one of them was naked and kneeling in chains, it might have seemed like they were colleagues, or comrades.


The guard finished his cleaning duties first, and watched the prisoner scrubbing the last corner of the cell with her mouth. She had not been able to reach under the bed, where a small puddle of Paulson’s sperm still lay. Dane moved the bed out of the way by propping it up on its end, then he guided her over that way, prodding at her bottom with the baton. Another puddle of water was poured, and the chained, kneeling girl continued her exhausting task, her whipped feet waving in the air, trying to counterbalance the weight of her upper body, and the brush head emerging bizarrely out of her mouth as if she had swallowed the whole broom handle.


The guard announced himself satisfied, freeing her mouth from the broom head and removing all the cleaning materials to the trolley in the hallway outside the cell. He placed the bed back on the floor, and helped her on to it. She leaned into him, exhausted and still panting from her labours, and nuzzled his arm when he laid her down on her back.


“That’s quite enough of that fucking shit,” he tutted, good-humouredly, “don’t think you can get round me like that, fuck-pet. You get a good rest, now.”


He patted her on the head, and sauntered out of the cell, slamming the door behind him. He had called her “fuck-pet”, but made it sound like a term of endearment. As he reached the door into the next cell block, and just before he put out the light, he turned to her, and blew her a kiss. Then she was plunged once more into darkness, and solitude.
 
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