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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2008.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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Undercover Prison Bitch
by Triple Delta (triple--delta@hotmail.com)

***

My name is Ashley, at let's get one thing straight - 
just because you see me being marched in full prison 
garb into a prison after a conviction does NOT mean I'm 
a criminal. All it means is that I'm an undercover FBI 
agent, working to extract information about a soon-to-
be fellow inmate. Unfortunately, prison life, it seems, 
is part of the job, as is prisoner abuse. (FF, nc, rp, 
v, bd, tor, anal, ws)

***

Author Notes: This is a work of fiction authored by 
Triple Delta. This document is not to be read by any 
individual under the age of eighteen (18), and by 
reading this document, you agree that you are not 
violating any laws, bylaws, and/or court orders that 
may prevent you from accessing such document, in any 
and all legal jurisdictions that apply. 

None of the actions depicted in the following story are 
to be repeated, under any circumstance or with any 
variation, and doing so can lead to criminal charges, 
injury, and/or death. All characters, events and 
locations described in this novel are fictional, and 
any similarity to any person, living or dead, or any 
organization, active or defunct, or any historical 
event, is purely coincidental. The author releases this 
document into the public domain, and it can be 
reproduced, edited, distributed, etc., without the 
author's consent.

***

My name is Ashley Kelly, but let's get one thing 
straight – just because you see me being marched into 
the Arizona State Penitentiary in full prison garb does 
not mean I am a criminal. If you think I am, based on 
the plethora of media reports and my 'trial', that just 
means I'm doing my job right.

I'm twenty-three years old – maybe a little young to be 
serving a ten year sentence. I'm about five foot six, 
weighing a hundred and ten pounds. I'm African-
American, born and raised in New York City, with dark 
brown eyes and jet black hair that's straight and 
loosely combed, going down to my shoulders. I've got to 
say, I've got decent sized breasts and I'm no stranger 
to sex. But that's not important right now. Right now, 
what's important is that I'm an undercover agent 
working for the Federal Bureau of Investigations – an 
undercover prison bitch.

The real target, they tell me, is Jennifer Glee. A tall 
blonde of wealthy stock, Jennifer, a white supremacist 
if there ever was one, was convicted of several armed 
robberies of African-Americans in Bible Belt states. No 
surprise, took them a while to convict her. In any 
event, one of the victims had a rather valuable South 
African diamond in his possession – again, or so I am 
told – which Jennifer stashed somewhere. It's worth... 
a lot, so that's why they put me here.

Of course, the obvious flaw in this plan is: why would 
a white supremacist like Jennifer tell some worthless 
nigger like me? Well, for that exact reason. Arizona 
State's guard employee are known to be sympathetic to 
Jennifer – hence her private cell – and don't to care 
to much for their darker captives. Jennifer, hopefully, 
like most people, can't keep a secret forever, 
especially such a juicy one. Who better to tell then 
some black kid who's not getting out for years after 
she is, and who nobody in the Penitentiary will take 
seriously? Well, that's the FBI's Psyche Department at 
work, not my plan.

We staged a couple of break-in robberies around the 
Phoenix area. I left some fingerprint and hair samples 
at safe houses operated by the FBI, 'stole' some cash 
and jewelery. Let the police do the forensic work 
themselves, arrest me themselves. We even had a whole 
court trial, with FBI actors testifying against me, all 
their statements matching up, etc. It was on CNN for a 
little bit. Well, we hoped someone in the prison 
population would fall for the gag. I was convicted, 
sentenced to fifteen years in jail for multiple armed 
robbery, assault, theft, etc. And that brings you up to 
the present day.

I was in the back of one of those armored prisoner 
transport vans, wearing my old prison uniform from the 
courthouse jail. That's a loose-fitting orange shirt 
and pants-combo with black shoes, pretty plain. My 
hands were cuffed behind my back in the van, the 
handcuffs chained to the wall. My ankles were shackled, 
too, but it wasn't that bad, all things considered. Of 
course, I knew, inside, that things were about to get a 
lot worse.

The prison van pulled up to the gates of the prison, 
where a small gaggle of reporters were waiting, 
streaming video to the local news channel, hopefully 
picked up inside the prison. The doors opened, I was 
lead by two armed guards through two electrified fences 
and a forty-foot wall into the depths of Arizona State 
Penitentiary. Once inside, I went into a room marked 
'Processing'.

Inside the room were half a dozen armed guards and a 
few plastic bins. As instructed, I stripped off my 
orange top and pants, then my shoes, leaving me in my 
black bikini. Placing my earlier prison clothes in the 
plastic bin, without being asked, I took off my bra and 
thong, placed them in a bin, too. Unsurprisingly, the 
entire staff was comprised of white men who looked like 
little more than well-dressed thugs. Now nude, my black 
boobs flopping on my chest, the guards pushed me 
through another door, locking in behind me.

Search room. There were four more armed guards and 
another prison employee. Nude, I was walked over to a 
cold, steel table and pressed over it. Ah, this was 
going to be interesting. As part of my cover, I'd 
hidden a set of keys up a container in my anal cavity, 
to give the guards something to talk about and 
strengthen my reputation. Unsurprisingly, face down on 
the table, one of the guards – a man, semi-surprisingly 
– spread my legs apart and shoved two fingers, thinly 
wrapped in a latex glove, up my ass.

"Fuck – keep her down!" yelled the guard, to security, 
as his fingers found the plastic bag shoved up my anus. 
Two of the guards ran over, placing a respective hand 
on my elbow and shoulder, pinning me to the cold table. 
"So, you're a tough girl, eh?" asked the prober, 
tossing away the plastic bag. He shoved his fingers up 
my ass again, probing around the inside, causing my 
muscles to involuntarily shudder at the unusual 
sensation. Then, satisfied there was nothing else 
hidden, he withdrew his fingers, which made a slight 
'pop' sound.

The guards then flipped me over, so I was 'bent over 
backwards', now with my back pressed to the table. Two 
more guards appeared out of thin air and grabbed my 
ankles, spreading them apart – far. My (shaved) pussy 
practically wide open, the male searched shoved two 
more fingers into my vulnerable vagina, which would 
have been a crime in another context. Of course, the 
muscles in my thighs began to shudder, and I let out a 
slight groan – the guy had big fingers! After 
stretching my vagina to its physical limits, he 
withdrew his fingers, apparently satisfied.

The rest, for that room, was trivial. They spread my 
breasts apart to make sure I wasn't hiding anything in 
my cleavage. They looked under my armpits, pointed a 
flashlight in my gaping mouth, shined a light into both 
my ears and ran a finger through my silky hair. 
Apparently satisfied, two guards grabbed me by the 
elbows and dragged me into the next room – a 
barbershop.

I was forcefully sat down in the prison equivalent of a 
barber's chair. My hands were handcuffed behind my 
back, then chained to the back of the chair. My feet 
were shackled apart to the base of the chair, whilst a 
chain ran across my waist. For a final touch, somebody 
ran a short chain across my neck, the improvised collar 
pinning my head to the headrest of the chair. Properly 
restrained, the prison salon's 'barber' set to work.

He started with an electric razor, neatly running the 
buzzing handheld device over my skull. My long, black, 
silky hair, which had long gotten me far on the FBI 
dating scene, fell to the floor in a black heap. Once 
most of the hairs were gone, the man switched to a 
finer electric razor, running it over what little fuzz 
was left on my scalp, until I could properly called 
completely bald. But, apparently, that wasn't good 
enough. The man proceeded to run the electric razor 
over my exposed crotch, then, with some difficulty, 
under my armpits. Finally, the fucking bastard shaved 
off my eyebrows – my bloody eyebrows! I mean, it's 
hardly like I'm going to smuggle a shank concealed in 
my eyebrows!

Once I was completely hairless – and I mean completely 
– I was temporarily released from the chair. I was then 
force-marched into the next room – identification. With 
a guard holding my opposite hand, a prison employee 
carefully took my right hand and pressed by fingers to 
an ink-soaked pad, before matching the fingers to a 
corresponding piece of paper, pressing my fingers down, 
repeating the procedure for the other hand before 
washing my fingers of the ink. Still nude, I was 
weighed (113.4 pounds), measured (162 centimetres), and 
three mug shots taken, followed by three more fully-
body shots of my nude figure. Properly identified, I 
was then moved to the next room, for my new prison 
uniform (yeah!).

My new uniform was a tight-fitting one-piece zip-up 
dress. The florescent orange dress was made of a tight 
fitting rubber. The bottom end of the skirt portion of 
the dress was several inches above my knees, whilst the 
top left a considerable amount of cleavage for a prison 
uniform. The zipper, surprisingly, was actually in the 
back of the dress. Once I was zipped up, one of the 
prison staff put a small lock through the zipper, 
effectively trapping me in the one-piece uniform. 
Across my left breast was the number '57001', and on my 
back were the words 'PROPERTY OF THE PENAL SYSTEM: 
APPREHEND'.

The uniform actually came with an orange cap like you 
always see in all those out-of-date prison films, but 
at least it covered part of my bald head. I was also 
given a pair of black leather loafers for shoes, which 
fit snugly over my feet, but no socks, for some reason. 
Properly suited up in my new wardrobe, they took six 
more photos of me – three mug shots, three full-body 
shots, both sides and front, of me in my new uniform.

I was stood up, and I was introduced, for the first 
time, to what the guards referred to as 'prisoner 
trafficking procedure'. I was instructed to lie face 
down on the ground with my legs spread far apart 
(surprisingly difficult in the tight-fitting skirt) 
with my hands on the back of my head. Once I was in 
this semi-spread-eagle position, one of the guards came 
up behind me and grabbed my wrists from behind my head. 
Bringing my hands to the small of my back, he then 
handcuffed them together, palms facing outwards, 
tightening the cuffs until they were digging into my 
flesh.

The guard than moved down to my feet, where a pair of 
fetters shackled my legs together, although the chain 
was so short they might as well have been another pair 
of handcuffs. At this point, I was stood up, and a 
steel chain run around my waist. The handcuffs binding 
my wrists were then bound in turn to my waist chain, 
fitting tightly above my hips. A second chain than ran 
from my handcuffs to my shackles, binding those 
together, in case I, I don't know, tried to kick out 
with my shackled feet, or something. As a finishing 
touch, a steel collar was fastened around my neck and 
locked. A metal chain was run through a steel G-ring in 
the front, which in turn linked to my waist chains. 
That, I was told, was standard procedure.

Shackled, handcuffed, collared and chained, I was then 
marched to Prison Cell Block 2B, where I would be 
sharing Cell 21 with my target – Jennifer Glee. It was 
a good thing that stolen diamond was in the seven-
figure range, because I wouldn't exactly be doing this 
for fun, if you catch my drift. I was forced to hop due 
to the tight ankle chain, with inmates jeering at me 
from their barred cells. I was then led to Block B, 
which was allegedly more secure than Block A. Like I 
needed more restraints, I wanted to say.

I was lead to Cell 21, which was a solid steel door 
with sliding hatch so guards could see through the 
tiny, reinforced glass window looking into the cell. As 
I stood in front of the cell, waiting for a guard to 
punch in the electronic code on the keypad and another 
to swipe a keycard, I was surprised that nobody was 
moving to undo my restraints. Then, the door swung 
open, I was given a rough kick in the back, face 
planted into the cell, then heard the door slam shut 
and bolt behind me.

"Have fun, Ms. Glee," I heard one of the guards yell, 
somewhat muted by the thick cell walls. I struggled to 
sit up in my restraints, managing to take a look around 
in my cell. The room was about seven feet long and 
eight feet wide, polished steel walls, floors and 
surfaces, with no windows apart from the one on the 
cell door, which was currently slammed shut from the 
other side. There was a toilet in the far corner, with 
a sink bolted to the nearby wall. A bunk bed was 
fastened to the corner of the cell opposite the toilet, 
the top bunk, I could tell, was occupied. A handful of 
magazines were thrown about – and the key!

As I would later find out, the keys to the restraints 
of the prisoners were all tethered to the walls of 
their respective cells, the keys themselves clipped 
onto a hook near the five foot mark of the wall. The 
concept behind was (a) that there was a lower chance of 
prisoners pick pocketing guards for the keys and (b) it 
would teach cellmates to cooperate with one another, as 
the free one would always have to release the 
restrained one. Of course, this policy was prone to 
abuse, as it inevitably meant that whoever was not 
trussed up like a captured hog was completely in 
control.

Jennifer Glee was not the type of person I wanted to be 
in control of me, but such was life, and my job. 
Jennifer was roughly five foot eleven, and had the 
looks of a supermodel, even in the prison environment. 
She had platinum blonde hair that was long, going 
halfway down her back and to the sides of her face, 
that I guessed required some kind of special 
shampoo/conditioner. She had emerald green eyes, rose 
red lips and high cheekbones. I could understand why 
the guards seemed to be falling head over heels for 
her. Her long, lithe legs were largely exposed due to 
the prison uniform, whilst her ample breasts were 
largely visible thanks to the uniform's generous 
cleavage. Christ, how did she even get convicted in the 
first place?

Jennifer was lying on the top bunk of the bed, idly 
reading a fashion magazine when I was shoved into the 
room. Once the door was bolted shut, she slid off the 
bed, her bare feet barely making a sound on the steel 
floor. I was still face down on the floor, my eyes 
locked on the key clipped to a hook about five feet 
above me. Jennifer knelt down in front of me, then 
grabbed my face with her right hand. Her fingernails 
looked manicured, and her hands and fingers looked 
liked those of a piano player. Nevertheless, she had 
deceptively firm grasp on my cheeks, forcing me to make 
eye contact with her.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" asked 
Jennifer, rhetorically, tilting my head to the side. 
"So Superintendent Joe thought it'd be funny to give me 
a nigger for my birthday?"

This, unfortunately, was where the real part of my FBI 
undercover role came into effect. I had to become 
Jennifer's bitch, make her thing absolutely nothing of 
me. When she showed more favoritism to piss and shit 
than me, that was when she would feel confident enough 
to disclose her secrets to me. Of course, to speed the 
process up, I wanted her to hate me, to despite me. 
Then, she would take advantage of me, use me. Not a 
high point of my career, I'll tell you that now.

"What the fuck you looking at, cracker?" I said, my 
head still in her right hand. Before she could withdraw 
it, however, I spat into her palm. "What's a Klu Klux 
Klan piece of white trash doing here? What's the matter 
– mommy couldn't make ends meet peddling her ass on the 
I20?" Yep, that, unfortunately, got the desired result.

Jennifer withdrew her hand, slowly, as if in shock, 
glaring at my saliva in her palm. Then, she gave me a 
proper bitch slap right across the face, followed up by 
a backhand pimp slap in the other direction. My funny 
little orange cap flew off my head. Apparently not 
satisfied, Jennifer stood up and proceeded to kick me 
in the right side of my stomach. Completely helpless, I 
could only gasp in pain as the wind was kicked out of 
me, a massive bruise already spread across my side. 
Once she was sure I was unable to move at all as I 
gasped for air, Jennifer hooked an elegant finger 
through the G-ring in my collar and began dragging me 
across the floor. I was actually surprised she could do 
that, right up until I realized she was dragging me to 
the toilet.

As you probably can predict, my head was shoved into 
the bowl of the toilet, and I was given a swirly. Not 
so bad the first time, but the fourth or fifth time 
started getting to me. There wasn't actually enough 
water in the bowl to be a drowning hazard, but Jennifer 
kept flushing so often the water was always pouring 
into my face. Finally, she pulled me by the back of my 
prison dress out of the toilet, throwing me on my back 
on the floor. This was particularly uncomfortable 
because my hands were still cuffed behind my back, but 
I was hardly in a position to complain.

"Listen, nigger," said Jennifer, towering above me. She 
spat, a glob of saliva landing right on my face, and me 
completely unable to wipe it. "Let's get one thing 
straight – in here, you can fuck the Constitution. You 
black-skinned fagots listen to the Aryan Race in here."

"You know," I said, struggling to catch my breath and 
think up of an Oscar Wilde-grade retort, "the word 
Aryan actually originated as the ethnicity for proto-
Indo-Iranians. And Nazi's swastika is actually little 
more than a historic Hindu symbol rotated on its side?"

"Iran?" said Jennifer, that being the only word she 
seemed to catch. "So we got a fucking towel head in 
here? A Muslim?" That last word had more contempt in it 
that I thought humanly possible. She gave me a swift 
kick in the side again, winding me, again. "Alright, 
bitch, maybe you need to understand who the God is in 
here."

Jennifer walked over to the sink and grabbed a 
toothbrush. She walked over to me, rolling me back onto 
my bruised stomach. I put up a pathetic struggle in my 
chains, to no avail.

"Ever notice that this costume doesn't come with 
panties?" asked Jennifer, rhetorically. Shit, she was 
right. I had no bra, no panties, just this tight-
fitting rubber dress.

Jennifer rammed the handle of the toothbrush up into my 
ass, giving me a deja vu experience from the prison 
guard about an hour ago. She stuck the toothbrush in 
and out, causing me to involuntarily yell in pain. 
Sure, I passed FBI fortitude tests, but they weren't 
exactly designed with anal violation in mind.

That seemed to tick Jennifer off. Walking over to the 
bunks, grabbed three pillows, separate the pillow 
sheets, then walked back towards me, clutching the 
white linen cases. She came around behind me, and 
pressed one knee into my back, causing me to wince in 
pain. She then stuffed one whole pillowcase into my 
open mouth, cramming it in with her fingers. Before I 
could spit it out, she used a second pillow case as a 
cleave gag, tightly knotting it behind my head. The 
stuff gag in my mouth and the cleave gag keeping it in, 
Jennifer used the third pillowcase to blindfold me in a 
similar fashion. So this is what Guantanamo Bay is 
like.

Gagged, blindfolded, shackled, handcuffed, collared and 
chained on the floor of my prison cell, I was, I have 
to admit, at the complete mercy of this white 
supremacist – a bad time to be black. My eyelids were 
forced shut, so I couldn't actually see anything, and I 
could feel the cleave gag digging into the sides of my 
mouth.

I lay there for, well, a while, my arms beginning to 
ache from the continual strain of the handcuffs. I 
struggled in my restraints, but, no surprise, the 
prison equipment was very high-quality. I contemplated 
standing up, but figured, even if I did, there was no 
way I'd be able to reach the tethered key with my hands 
cuffed behind my back. I heard Jennifer idly turning 
the pages of a magazine, completely indifferent to me 
as I lay on the floor. Finally, I heard the voice of a 
guard, crackling over an intercom system through a 
speaker located outside the cell door.

"Prisoners in Cell Block 2B, be advised it is now 
shower tower. Prisoners are ordered to assume 
Imposition One in preparation for transport."

I had no idea what Imposition One was, but Jennifer 
didn't particularly seem to care. The jail diva jumped 
off her bed onto the floor, walked over, and undid the 
gag and blindfold that had isolated my senses for so 
long, tossing them onto the neatly made lower bunk. 
Jennifer than sat on the bunk, whilst I struggled into 
a sitting position, leaning against the wall. We waited 
there for about three minutes before a guard pounded on 
the door.

"Oh, hello Ms. Glee, I didn't know you had a new 
roommate," said the guard, politely. Jennifer just gave 
him a charming smile, flashing pearl white teeth at the 
officer. I struggled to my feet, and Jennifer picked up 
the orange prison cap that'd been kicked off my head 
during her furious beating, neatly placing it on my 
head again. I said nothing. Jennifer, for whatever 
reason, wasn't wearing a cap, letting her long, blonde 
hair flow like a model in a conditioner commercial.

The officer grabbed me by the back of my collar, pulled 
me to my feet (ouch) and force-marched me out into the 
corridor. There was a row of female prisoners, all in 
uniform and the exact same restraints I was, except 
connected to one another by a chain through the G-rings 
of their collars, forcing them to stand about a foot 
apart from one another. The officer pushed me to the 
front of the line, then locked the thin metal chain 
through my steel collar.

Jennifer, however, seemed to have diplomatic immunity, 
so to speak. She walked in front of the chain gang, 
with the guards, laughing and smiling alongside them 
live comrades. Her right hand was playing with the ass 
of one of the guards, whilst her left was resting on 
the neck of another. The word seductress comes to mind, 
but I didn't exactly want to point it out. Nobody else 
seemed to find it important, anyways.

We reached the shower block after a two minute shuffle, 
and, one by one, we were removed from the binding 
chain. As I was at the front, I was released first. 
Carefully, the guard removed the chains around by 
waist, and released my wrists from their handcuffs, 
giving my arms much-needed relief for the first time in 
hours. Of course, my freedom was short-lived. An 
officer undid the lock at the top of the zipper behind 
my back, letting me out of the tight-fitting rubber 
uniform. I was instructed to fold it neatly on the 
floor, placing on top of it my orange hat and prison 
shoes.

Once that was done, my hands were cuffed again, this 
time in front of my body. I was standing in front of 
the prison staff and my fellow inmates, handcuffed, 
shackled, collared, stark nude and bald. I was handed a 
bar of soap (no towel), and pushed into the shower 
room. I was completely alone, apart from the security 
cameras monitoring me, and awkwardly began to soap 
myself up, albeit, with considerable difficulty. Warm 
water was spraying from a dozen shower heads, but it 
was just me, for now. I was just about to give up the 
struggle to wash out my armpits when I realized I was, 
unfortunately, no longer alone.

Three other women had entered the shower block, and 
they could only be described as mini-Jennifers. They 
were all taller than me, Caucasian (obviously), with 
various shades of long, blonde hair. I glanced at the 
door, but it was closed, and one of them was standing 
between me and it. Unusually, they all had towels (one 
of those FBI training things you notice). Even more 
unusually, at least for me, was that none of them had 
the restraints I had. Even nude, they were 
intimidating, given the circumstances.

"Better hurry up, those towels will get soaked if you 
leave them in the spray too long," I tried. None of the 
women entering the showers had any of the restraints I 
had, which put me in a somewhat awkward position. 
Nobody laughed at my feeble joke, as usual. One of 
them, obviously the group leader, walked over and spun 
be around, pushing me against the tiled wall, my hands 
awkwardly pressed up against my breasts.

"So, you're the nigger chick who's bunking with 
Jennifer," said the woman. She delivered a swift knee 
to my ass, in what you might know as a 'Red Rhino'. It 
didn't particularly hurt, but it didn't exactly help my 
still-sore ass. She then pushed me down by my 
shoulders, forcing me to kneel on the tile floor, my 
face still pushed against the wall. One of them grabbed 
the bar of white soap I'd dropped and shoved it into my 
mouth. I took the hint and bit down on it, holding it 
in by my teeth.

"Been hearing that you've been disrespectful to her," 
said another one of the girls, in a Southern drawl. 
"But see here, unlike niggerland, we don't let our 
friends get dishonoured, no what I mean?" I didn't, but 
the soap in my mouth prevented me from expressing that 
opinion. "So, we took it upon ourselves to prove our 
point."

The two women who weren't the group leader held me by 
the elbows and shoulders, pressing my form against the 
wall. The leader, however, stood back, towel in hand, 
slowly twirling it inwards. If you've ever been a kid 
at a pool, you probably know what it feels like to have 
a wet towel snapped at you. Well, you can probably see 
where this is going...

The impromptu whip cracked on my bare ass, causing me 
to bite down harder on the bar of soap in pain. It took 
her a few seconds to re-curl the towel, but repeated 
the gesture, this time striking my back. At first, it 
didn't bother me too much. Then, of course, the old 
sores didn't go away, and were magnified by new ones. 
My ass and back got consistently redder and redder, 
with each crack of the whip/towel causing me to bite 
down on the bar of soap in my mouth. I was crying, but 
in the shower room, it was impossible to tell. This 
continued for God knows how long, but finally, the last 
towel snapped on my bare ass. But if you think that was 
it, well, you certainly don't understand vigilante 
justice.

The two women then dragged me away from the wall, still 
by my shoulders, then pressed my face against the tiled 
floor, hard. I was, effectively, in the kowtow 
position, with my bare and sore ass sticking straight 
up in the air. Then, the self-appointed torturer came 
up behind me and, with her own bar of soap, shoved the 
brick-shaped bar up into my ass, causing me to again 
give out a muffled yelp of pain.

I had no prior experience with bars of soap up the 
rectum, like most normal people, but it hurt like fuck. 
I imaging it was partially because the sheer size of 
the foreign object in my anus was causing me pain, like 
the most intrusive anal sex. Okay, yes, I've had anal 
sex before, but this is the equivalent of a twenty-inch 
penis, or something. Of course, the chemicals probably 
weren't doing any favours either, given away by a 
painful burning sensation along the crack of my ass.

Mini-Jennifer walked in front of me, and I struggled to 
keep the tears of out my water-soaked face. She grabbed 
my jaw with her hand, forcing me to make eye contact 
with her in a way very much like Jennifer had before. 
She then grabbed the bar of soap out of my mouth, only 
to stick it back in, repeating that gesture in a form 
of mouth-soaping. I suppose the soap in my mouth was 
supposed to taste horrific, in a sour sort of way – 
which it did, no question – but it worked surprisingly 
well to distract me from the burning sensation in my 
ass.

I take it the showers were on a timer, as they finally 
shut off. Taking the hint, somebody, with minor 
difficulty, pulled the slippery bar of soap out of my 
ass, which felt like a great weight had been taken out 
of me. Mini-Jennifer withdrew the bar of soap from my 
mouth, ending the impromptu mouth soaping. I slurped at 
the puddle of water at my face's level, spitting it out 
in a vain attempt to get the bitter taste out of my 
mouth. As I stood, the doors to the shower block 
opened, and I hobbled out, trying to hide the wince 
that came involuntarily to my face at every step.

Well, meal time was a bland, but not unwelcome, relief 
from the S&M of the day. As you might have guessed, I 
was returned to my prison uniform, still soaking wet, 
with the rest of my restraints reattached – hands 
behind my back, waist chain, leash, etc. I wasn't 
allowed to take the restraints off as I ate, as I was a 
'dangerous offender', which meant that I awkwardly ate 
the salad of the day like a dog from its food bowl. 
Then, unfortunately, I was hobbled back to my cell.

Jennifer was already waiting, looking quite smug, 
probably unsurprisingly. As the door was slammed and 
bolted behind us, I sat down on the toilet seat, whilst 
Jennifer, lying prone on the bottom bunk, stared at me 
with a cat's smile on her face.

"So, I heard Mary helped show you who's the boss around 
here," began the platinum blonde, almost perversely 
sweetly. I opted not to respond, as she swung her legs 
over the side of the bed. "You know, they have security 
cameras in the showers. And there are always guards 
watching, believe me. Wonder why they didn't come to 
your help? Because nobody cares about a nigger down 
here, bitch! You're on your own, so you better start 
playing by my rules!"

Now, or at least, soon, was when I'd pump her for 
information. She thought I was completely alone, 
abandoned. She'd be dying to tell her secret to 
somebody completely unimportant, completely submissive. 
Getting off the toilet, I knelt at the floor in front 
of her feet, and began licking her black leather shoes. 
She seemed to like it, as she extended her feet, 
allowing me to lick the black leather until it was 
almost perfectly polished. Once my tongue had covered 
every surface of both shoes, I kissed the toes of both 
of them, before shuffling backwards, pushing my 
forehead to the floor.

"There, now that's a little better," sneered Jennifer, 
examining her shoes. She walked over to my kowtowing 
form, putting her crotch directly above my head. "Come 
on, look up," she commanded. Well, shit. Piss, more 
accurately.

Jennifer had decided that urination was an effectively 
humiliation technique, and her pussy had opened up with 
a stream of yellow urine, flying directly into my face. 
I instinctively tried to turn my head, to look away 
from the yellowness splashing my face, but I turned 
back.

"Come on, drink up," Jennifer commanded. I reluctantly 
obeyed. I opened my mouth, letting the follow-tasting 
yellow liquid into my mouth and down my throat. It 
splashed over my face, then onto my jumpsuit and 
between my breasts. When Jennifer finally ran out of 
steam, so to speak, my face and upper body were 
completely soaked in urine, which was beginning to 
itch. Then, there were two muffled pounds on the door.

"Alright, night time," said one of the guards, before 
swinging the door open. To my horror, but perhaps not 
surprise, he was carrying a long wooden board, the type 
you sometimes see lifeguards using to carry spinal 
victims out of swimming pools. There were several belts 
instead of straps. I shuffled backwards, pressing my 
face to the floor, but he didn't seem to notice the 
yellow liquid shining on my body.

"Alright, 57001, time for bed," he said. I awkwardly 
got to my feet and shuffled forward. He spun me around, 
undoing the handcuffs from behind my back before (can 
you guess?) cuffing them in front, again. The wooden 
board was laid across the bottom bunk – my bed – and I 
was laid atop it. I was already pretty restrained, 
particularly for sleep, but apparently I could 
do....stuff... at night.

Brown leather belts were buckled tightly over my 
ankles, knees, waist, atop and below my boobs and 
finally over my neck. The board itself was then locked 
into the bunker with several locks, before the guard 
gave me a friendly squeeze on the boob goodnight. I 
heard the sound of lips on a cheek in the bunk above, 
and the officer walked out, closing the door behind 
him. A second later, the lights went out, and the room 
was pitch-black, apart from a small crack of light 
slipping in from beneath the door.

A second later, Jennifer had hopped out of bed, 
pillowcases in hand. I accepted, submissively, the 
stuff gag in my mouth, with a cleave gag on top of 
that, accompanied by a blindfold. I could barely move, 
so resistance was futile.

The night began with two fingers up the pussy, probing 
about the search officer had hours ago. It was an 
almost ticklish sensation at first, until I began to 
build up a sweat. Jennifer wasn't stopping – she was 
pumping those fingers in my pussy. I was moaning 
through the cleave gag, but completely unable to move, 
only awkwardly moving my crotch about. Finally, I 
orgasmed, and only then did Jennifer pluck her fingers 
out of my vagina.

With a sticky sensation spreading over my crotch and my 
own sweat sticking to the rubber dress of my prison 
uniform, Jennifer undid the cleave gag, sticking the 
two fingers that had been in my vagina into my mouth. I 
began sucking them, letting to fluids coating them to 
be sucked down my throat. Once her fingers were clean 
of pussy fluids, she withdrew them, laying on top of 
me, letting her fingers stoke my tits.

"So," she began, with a seductive tone of voice I 
expected she used to make the men bend over backwards, 
"what'd you do?"

"B&E," I said, adding, "ma'am," to the end of the 
sentence. Jennifer continued stroking my nipples. "Some 
things around Phoenix." Jennifer began pinching my left 
nipple, hard, but almost completely oblivious to it.

"Oh, so you got caught in the act?" said Jennifer.

"Not really. My boyfriend turned into a total dick. One 
of our gang, Melissa, had an arrest warrant and a $5000 
bounty on her head for smashing an ATM. So the fucker 
turned her in, and the next second I know, Phoenix SWAT 
is blowing in my windows." My left nipple was beginning 
to get sore, but I didn't want to say anything. "I know 
it's not my place to ask, ma'am," I began, "but may, I 
inquire, what did the Mistress do?"

"Oh, I got caught on armed robbery," she said, finally 
letting go my nipple in favour of my bottom lip, "but 
it's the theft they really want me for." There we go. 
She was beginning to spill her guts, so to speak. "We 
got this nigger from South Africa, ambassador's wife, 
or some shit like that. She had this massive ass 
diamond she was touring with. Well, the cocky fucking 
bitch shouldn't stick her head out where it don't 
belong, know what I mean? So, I got her at her hotel, 
but the cops were on us fast, and I had to bury the 
damn thing right outside the fucking hotel! Can you 
believe it? Millions of greenbacks and it's just 
collecting dirt next to a sewage drain!"

Bingo! Uno! Eureka! I had it! I had finally got what 
these hours from hell had been for. Hotel near the 
sewage pipe – FBI would be devouring that the moment I 
leaked that. And I had a scheduled prisoner 
conversation in the morning!

Well, the rest of the night wasn't really fun, but I 
had the joy of a mission well done to sustain me.

After reapplying my gags, Jennifer began pinching my 
exposed thighs. At first, it didn't hurt much, but she 
had pointy fingernails, and my thighs were still sore. 
She was pinching skin right next to my crotch, causing 
my muscles to spasm. Once she was satisfied with my 
constant moans of agony, she moved back to the 
toothbrushes.

The handle of a toothbrush was shoved up my pussy. But 
then Jennifer decided that wasn't original enough, and 
instead, plugged in the brush end of the toothbrush. 
Small fibres normally used for cleaning teeth were used 
to 'clean' my pussy, as she genuinely seemed to be 
brushing it. I climaxed again after some brushing, 
coating the toothbrush in fluid. Jennifer simply tossed 
the toothbrush away, in favour of a cleaner one.

The brush rode in and out of my vagina, sending me 
through wave after wave of agonizing yet sensational 
object sex. Jennifer repeated this technique with her 
two fingers, before pressing her body atop mine and 
sliding her hands between the board and my ass (a very, 
very tight squeeze), and began pressing her fingers up 
into my anus. The rape continued, moving back to 
fingering the vagina. The night wore on...

When I awoke in the morning, I felt a sticky sensation 
between my thighs. My gag and blindfold were still on, 
as were both my steel and belt restraints. My shoes had 
been taken off, at some point, and my toes were wet. My 
face felt like it had been recently drenched in sweat, 
and my rubber uniform was sticking to my body.

After another humiliating doggy-bowl-style breakfast, I 
was hobbled over to the Prisoner Viewing Room. Shackled 
and chained into a chair, I was pressed up to a 
microphone, and on the other side of a layer of 
bulletproof glass was my handler, an indistinct Asian 
man named Tony Nakamura. I rapidly relayed the 
information I'd learned to my FBI contact, whilst 
struggling to and failing to itch my face.

"That's great, Ash, real great," said Tony, smiling. 
"We'll have search teams out there before you can 
spit."

"So, you're getting me out of here, then?" I asked, 
hoping I already knew the answer.

"Oh yeah, ASAP," said Tony, standing to leave. "We're 
talking to the Phoenix judge now. We should have you 
out in the next three weeks or so. Just hang on!"

With that, Tony left the room, without a look back. A 
guard came in, unchained and re-chained, and began the 
march back to my cell.

END

[Author Information] This work was authored by Triple 
Delta, also the author of the stories 'Cleaning Room 
211' and 'Pacific Islander in Nebraska'. This author is 
open to any and all forms of comments, criticisms, 
suggestions, etc. This author is also open to story 
request in ANY field of erotica. If you would like to 
request a certain story be written, in any sub-genre, 
style, with characters or types of sex/bondage, etc., 
feel free to e-mail the author. The author can be 
reached at the following e-mail address:

triple—delta@hotmail.com

Please note that there are 2 dashes between 'triple' 
and 'delta'.

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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 57