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| dungeonmouse | |
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| Copyright 2002 by dungeonmouse Hi. I'm Diedra. Right now I'm chained to the wall of the dungeon in the Prison for Women. I'm sitting in a straw pile on a cold stone floor. Dim light bulbs in steel cages glow in the corridor outside but the heavy iron cell door blocks that faint light from the cell, leaving the cell pitch black. Short chains hold my wrists to eyebolts just above my head and about a meter apart. I can move them a few centimeters in each direction. The eyebolts for my ankles sit further apart and close to the wall on the floor, pulling my knees up and my ankles apart so I am quite exposed. My waist and neck collars are chained to the wall with very short chain, so I cannot stand to stretch my legs or arms. Heavy steel cuffs welded around my wrists, ankles, neck and waist anchor the chains to my body. Clever locking devices built in the cuffs allow the guards to connect or remove chains on the cuffs without carrying a bunch of locks. Other than the chains, I'm wearing only a plug in my twat. Hilda aroused my suspicions (and a bit more) when she put only one plug in me. Especially since, while quite large, it only has a few knobs and bumps on it. In fact if I wiggle a bit I might stimulate things enough so..........mmmmmmmm. Oops! Better stop that; I’m supposed to lead your tour. There’ll be time later. Hilda strapped the plug in deeply and firmly with a wide leather strap attached to the front and rear of my waist band. I guess I'm not so exposed after all! You’ve arrived during my sleep period and, given Hilda's relatively tender care, I might actually sleep a bit, after I.....well, on with the tour. The dungeon is the lowest level of Prison for Women and is carved into the bedrock. The central room holds the guard station and every instrument of torture ever invented. Long corridors extend outward from the center room with cells carved into the rock off the corridors. Cells vary in size but all have numerous eyebolts sunk in the walls, floors and ceiling allowing an infinite number of prisoner positions. The aforementioned iron doors seal the cells from light and sound. They sure as hell aren’t needed to contain the prisoners - the chains do a wonderful job of that! A large grate in the floor of each cell serves as a toilet. The guards flush our waste and sometimes our blood down the grate during the daily cleaning when they scrub cells and prisoners with disinfectant soap and a stiff brush. At the far end of each corridor, heavy iron lids cover tiny cells sunk in the floor. These cells do not come with straw and the guards clean them rather less often than the regular cells. Naughty prisoners go to the little cells for long periods of time. Beyond the main room lie several large rooms with various girl-driven machines installed. The most common machine, called the “wheel,” consists of a shaft extending up through the floor with large wooden spokes radiating outward. The guards chain us to the spokes and we push the shaft round and round for an entire day. The largest wheel is manned (girled?) constantly and the guards are unusually ferocious in punishing any laziness on it. This wheel allegedly runs the pumps keeping the water in the caverns below from rising and drowning us all. Hilda and Smyrna supervise the two guard shifts. The dungeon has no windows or clocks so Hilda's shift defines “day” because that's when we work and Smyrna's shift defines “night” because that's when our sleep period occurs. Not that prisoners sleep much. Hilda stands about six feet with muscles like steel cables. Despite her size and strength, she has a lovely body and most prisoners, including me, lust after her. Helga has a cruel streak and treats us harshly but at least she is consistent. Smyrna looks like Barbie with even less brains than the doll. We never know what we'll get from Smyrna. Today, she flays the skin off a poor girl for a minor infraction, tomorrow a felony goes unnoticed. Nasty generic female clones make up the rest of the guard detail. They are so dumb and so much alike, I wonder if they are even human. All the prisoners and most guards profess faith in The Bitch. Well, that's what She goes by down here. She's been known as Kali, Athena, Morrigan, the Furies and other names through the centuries. Most everyone here just pays Her lip service except Helga. And me. Helga believes deeply in The Bitch and holds no respect for those who go though the motions. I think Helga leans on me heavier than the other prisoners because she thinks The Bitch will keep me alive and kicking. I believe in Her because She does. Some agency of the Justice Department runs the Prison for Women. The Prison does not appear in any organizational charts, budgets or phone directories. Prisoners get sent here when they piss off the people who know the wrong people. Tom knew the wrong people Tom was my boyfriend. He worked in a Hollywood studio. I cheated on him because I was a slutty actress wannabe trying to suck her way to stardom. Not many pre-Prison memories remain in my head but I have a full-featured, full-color memory of my time with Tom. Giving him head from under his desk while he dictated a letter on the intercom. Both of us butt-naked in his friend's kennel, having doggie-style sex with two dozen shaggy mutts howling wildly at my musky odor. Me howling the loudest of all. Begging off with a headache then meeting Tom's best friend on the beach and screwing his brains out not once but three times on the sand to get a movie role. Sucking Tom's boss off in the executive bathroom to seal the deal. Meeting Tom for drinks that horrible night and seeing his cop-friend in full gear. The knife-blade shock in my shoulders when cop-friend laid me out over the hood of a car by twisting both arms up behind my back. The sharp teeth of the cuffs as they clicked tightly around my wrists. The deeper clink of the leg irons going around my ankles and ruining my new hose. Cop-friend reading me my rights in a chuckling baritone that said it was all bullshit and I had no rights. The long night cuffed in the holding cell watching my mascara-tinted tears splatter on the concrete. The morning strip search by a brutish female guard who checked every accessible cavity in my body and a couple I would have sworn were inaccessible. Screaming obscenities at the guard until she shoved a rubber gag in my mouth so hard I thought she'd break my teeth. Standing in front of the judge wearing only the gag, the cuffs and the leg irons with an orange prison shirt and no pants. The judge not being able to see my pubic hair from the bench but everyone else getting a good, long look. Not hearing a word of the proceedings because I sobbed the entire time in shame and humiliation. The guards tossing me in the prison van like a sack of potatoes and strapping me to the seat. Realizing that this horrible nightmare was really happening and I was going to prison and they will never let me out and these cuffs hurt so bad and the real pain hasn't even begun yet and the panic hitting me like a hard blow to the belly and the wild twisting struggle against the straps and chains and the horrible burning smell of the vomit as it exploded out of my stomach and slammed into the gag and filled up my mouth and nose and throat and lungs and I can't breathe and I'm drowning and dear god I don't want to die like this..................Waking up in the prison infirmary, secured to the bed with double medical restraints. including a head restraint and chest strap. The gummy vomit plastering the orange shirt to my breasts. Crying for hours and hours soaked with my own urine. Breathing air through a tube but smelling the sour vomit and the rank sweat and the stale urine. And yes, crying big wailing sobs at the musky smell of my damp crotch. The guards dragging me from the infirmary in cuffs and leg irons. The Neanderthal guard ripping the orange shirt from my body. The slashing burns under my arms and across my breasts as the heavy seams resisted his attack and he sawed the shirt back and forth across my skin to start the tear. The terrible burning of the delousing shower and the rasping of the rough sponge. The final cavity search before they led me from the prison proper into the dungeon. The thick, callused fingers of the male guard as he probed the inside of my vagina and rectum (I still thought of them by those names then). The excruciating pain as his fingers rasped away at the soft, wet flesh of my insides. The hideous sound of a screaming animal filling the room. The sickening realization the scream came from me. The long stumbling walk in leg irons down the corridors, past painted brick walls then concrete block walls then chiseled rock walls. Wiggling and whimpering as the guards strapped me to the steel table. Staring uncomprehending as the grimy blacksmith took measurements of my wrist, ankles, neck and waist. Lying for hours listening as the machines and the hammers and the fire shaped the steel. Wondering what the hell was going on, while knowing deep in my gut precisely what was going on but being too terrified to let the knowledge out. Staring hypnotized as the blacksmith fitted the smooth bands around my limbs. Squinting as the fire fused the steel into solid bands snuggled against my skin. Shaking out of control as he fused the last band round my neck. My quivering body throwing a fine spray of sweat and musk to dance in the harsh light. Twitching for hours after they chained me in my cell, too tired to do more than shiver, too scared to stop. The horror and humiliation when Hilda showed Tom into my cell and they drug me to the branding frame and chained me to the X bars. The horrific odor of old burned flesh rising from the iron heating in the brazier of coals. Babbling incoherently, pleading for Tom and Hilda not to add my flesh to the layers charred on the iron. The white-hot explosions when the iron pressed into my flesh, not once but twice, on each side of my butt. The gutted feeling inside as Earth and God and sun and moon and stars and people vanished in the explosion leaving only the dungeon and its ruler, The Bitch. Joining with the violence and the pain, roaring obscenities while battering my body against the chains. The final degradation as Tom raped me on the frame. Crying with loss and delight as each of his thrusts tore away the last shreds of the old Diedra, the Diedra of slinky dresses and just-right accessories and stiletto pumps and mountains of permed hair cascading over tanned shoulders and red convertibles driven too fast and red lips kissing even faster and dancing into the night and sleeping into the afternoon and waking up in new beds. Hating Tom with all my heart and my traitorous body with all my soul when my loins responded to his assault and throbbed to a hot, wet orgasm with him. Waking chained in a pitch-black cell. Reading the brands on my butt by feeling the pattern of pain. Mortified when I read "slut" on both cheeks, then seeing the rightness of the brands and knowing I belonged here. Shaking my wrists to hear the tinkle of the chains. Taking a strange comfort in the irresistible strength of the steel. Dozing off to the sound of their lullaby, snuggling in their powerful hug.......... Sorry, got carried away. Anyway, I think you get the idea. Well. Time for bed. Now how did I do that? Oh yes. Pull up, oomph, with the arms. Push back with my feet, brace my back against the rough stone. Ouch! Not there, that's sharp. OK, here is better. Now curl the hips forward and up, and again and again. Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Ooooh that feels gooooood. Twitch the hips sideways so that big knob rubs just right. Oooohhhhhhaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh............................ >Fade to black.< |
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| To follow the further adventures of Diedra, read The Cage |
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