From: nogarder@ix.netcom.com(*** )
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Jailhouse Sex Switch [1/2]
Date: 21 Jan 1996 16:19:53 GMT

			    Hartman's Call
			       Part One

	The old man, shoulders aching, sat slowly back in his chair
and rubbed his tired eyes. The dim light from the battered desk lamp
no longer provided him with sufficient illumination as it had some
twenty years ago when he had first brought it to the office. Still,
it was eminently preferable to the sterile glare of the fluorescent
lights set in the ceiling. And the small pool of illumination on the
desk did give his after-hours presence in the office a sense of
comfortable isolation; at times like this - 6:30 on a Friday afternoon
- with the central office empty and dark behind the bare panes of his
office door, he could imagine himself stranded alone in a pool of
light. The lonely silence of the empty office soothed him.

	He sighed and shook his head, smiling to himself. Utter
nonsense. He was just an overly-imaginative old man - barely a year
away from retirement - working late on a Friday afternoon because he
was too slow and inefficient to get his work done during regular
office hours.

	And this was work that had to be done.

	The file sat open on his desk, contents exposed for his
inspection. It concerned one Johnny"Joker" Apeson, convicted of two
counts of armed robbery and one count of kidnapping. Apeson had been
an inmate of the Point Maine Maximum Security Facility for over twelve
years now, and had finally come up for parole. The board had approved
his application, but only by a three to two margin; California state
law required the approval of the Prison Warden before the prisoner
could be released.

	A quick perusal of the relevant documents showed that Apeson
had been a model prisoner for the last several years - no fights (that
the prison officials knew of, anyway); no confrontations with the
guard; he had completed three years of course work for a degree in the
liberal arts...

	The old man snorted. Liberal arts. He recognized the advice of
a clever lawyer there.

	Still...

	The old man knew what prison was like. He had worked at one
facility or another for most of his adult life and had actually been
Warden of this particular penitentiary for over twenty years. He knew
what prison was like; it was not the kind of place one kept a man
unless it was absolutely necessary.

	And some men deserved a second chance.

	Sighing, he signed his name across the approval notice and
slipped the forms back into the folder. That was almost it; just
one...

	"Edgar?"

	The old man looked up, startled. It was Linda Anderson, the
new Deputy Supervisor of State Correctional Facilities. Well, not
really new any more; she had been at the job for almost a year now.
Ever since Betty had...

	"This package was with the Stevens parole application," she
said, placing a thick envelope on his desk. "It fell out of the file
at the Records Desk; they were going to throw it out."

	He ignored the envelope for the moment, looking up at her as
she stood, barely illuminated at edge of the small pool of light
thrown up by his desk lamp. Her long, blonde hair framed a face that
would have been pretty had not her nose been broken and poorly set a
number of years ago. He knew the story: an abusive husband. Tragic,
but she had divorced him a long time ago and moved on with her life.

	Suddenly, he found himself in need of company. Perhaps the
isolation wasn't what he needed just now.

	"You're here late," he joked, trying to keep her talking.
"And on a Friday too. What's up?"

	"Just tidying up," she answered, smiling a tired smile. She
kept to herself, generally. He was surprised to realize that he didn't
really know her at all; even after almost a full year. "Trying to
clear off my desk. Besides, it's kind of lonely at the apartment with
Susan in Europe."

	Susan? Who... ah, her daughter.

	"Isn't she back yet?"

	"Huh-huh. Her and Megan are camping somewhere in Scotland. She
should be back late next week." Linda shifted her purse up on her
shoulder and turned to go. "Don't be working too late now, all right?"

	"This is the last one," he promised her, watching wearily as
she disappeared into the darkness. What must it be like, he thought,
to have a child... a family?

	Shaking his head, he turned his attention to the envelope she
had brought. It was marked RB-006C; part of the Robert Stevens file.
Probably some sort of discretionary comment, by the look of it.
Obviously, someone had thought that this material was relevant to the
decision of whether or not to approve parole.

	He tore it open.

	A piece of paper slid out, followed by another, smaller
envelope, and then a pair of cassette tapes, labelled "A" and "B". He
glanced at the paper, skimming over the handwritten text and then down
to the signature: "Manor".

	Manor!

	He felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared at the
name. Lamont Manor had been the chief liaison between the regional
correctional facilities and the state government. He had also been a
good friend of the old man's.

	He was also dead.

	Cancer.

	The body of the letter was uninformative. It simply read:

		Edgar:

		Before deciding on the Stevens
	application, listen to

		these tapes.

		Manor

	The bastard always had been taciturn.

	Hands shaking, the old man reached into a desk drawer and
pulled out a portable cassette deck, a holdover from the old days when
he had been obliged to interview the inmates directly. Now, of course,
there were just too many inmates, and one needed a masters degree in
something or other before one could so much as look at an inmate.

	He shoved the "A" cassette in and punched the play button.
The voice emanating from the speaker was immediately recognizable:

	<Hello Edgar>

	It was, indeed, Manor.

	<If things go according to plan, you shouldn't be hearing this
unless I'm dead. If I'm still alive, I'd appreciate it if you would
turn off the tape deck and seal the tapes. OK? Do it now... >

	Silence.

	<Well, if you're still listening, then I guess I am dead
now... Huh, how about that, Edgar? A real voice from beyond the
grave... I Maine I didn't suffer too much. You know, with the cancer
and... >

	Silence.

	The old man brought a hand up to his face and fought back the
tears. Manor's death hadn't been quick and it hadn't been painless.
The memories...

	<Well... anyway... I'm probably long buried by now, so there's
no need to get upset about it. Listen, Edgar, I've got some stuff to
tell you; stuff you should know about regarding the Stevens parole
application. You've got a decision to make. I'm sorry to have to dump
this on you, but at the time, it was all I could think of. Maybe it
was stupid... hell, it was surely stupid - and vindictive, to say the
least - but it's done, and you're going to have to deal with it now.

	I guess the best way - the only way - to explain it to you is
to go over what happened from the beginning. It started with that
prison riot last May. You remember it... >

				* * *

	Betty fought to draw in a breath - to struggle; to do anything
- as she was led down the long hallway towards the checkpoint, but the
blow to her stomach had completely winded her. Weakly, she tried to
pull away, but Uterss seemed to be having no trouble controlling her.
With one of his hands around her shoulder to propel her forward as she
stumbled along, she was helpless to resist. He brought his other hand
around to steady her as they stopped at the checkpoint. The guard - he
looked familiar, Betty thought - stepped forward to look at them.

	still trying ineffectually to put up any kind of a fight. 'He
must!' She felt a surge of Maine when the guard focused on her face
and gave her an odd stare.

	He knew something was wrong. He recognized her!

	A queer smile crossed his face as he turned away. Stunned,
Betty could only watch in horrified silence as the guard made a
gesture to a colleague and the prison gate slid open. Moving quickly,
Uterss half carried, half dragged her through the gate. Her last view
of salvation was abruptly cut off as they turned a corner and moved
into the section of the facility controlled by the inmates.

	She was lost now.

	Her lungs heaved as the knot in her stomach eased up and she
was finally able to draw a deep breath. Uterss stopped moving and
leaned her up against the wall as she gasped and sputtered, trying to
get her strength back. Eventually, she was able to stand on her own.

	Uterss leaned into her while Proxmire looked anxiously around.
There were no other inmates in sight.

	"Listen Ms. Harding," Uterss said, "you might want to start
screaming now, but it wouldn't be a good idea. As things stand, only
Ben and I know you're here." He glared down at her. "What do you think
would happen if your presence in the prison became general knowledge?"

	Her eyes widened in fear. It didn't take much imagination to
realize what would become of her - a beautiful woman in an all- male
maximum security prison!

	"So," he continued, bringing up a hand to squeeze her breast
through the prison coveralls, "I advise you to keep quiet and follow
orders." She tried to squirm away as he mauled her thinly- covered
breast, but it was no use. He grinned down at her, enjoying her fear
and humiliation.

	"After all," he said, smirking, "you're my bitch now."

	His other hand reached down and began rubbing up and down the
outside of her crotch...

				* * *

	<... well enough, I suppose. It started in Cell Block H. They
had taken a number of guards hostage as well as the prison doctor. At
first, we figured the ringleaders to be Parsons and that biker guy who
murdered those cops in LA. Turned out we were wrong, but I guess it
doesn't matter.

	I was called in from LA because the cons didn't want to deal
with anyone from the local prison system. Can't say I blame them, I
suppose, the way things turned out. As I said earlier, you probably
know a lot of what I'm about to tell you, but I'll go over it anyway.
The background will help you understand what I did and why I did it.

	There's a lot you don't know.

	I was called in to meet with the representatives of the
rioters. We met in the visitor's room, outside the area of the prison
controlled by the inmates. I had, however, given them my word that
they would not be taken into custody while negotiations continued, so
they were safe. It was tense, though. I remember the guards watching
as the three inmates walked into the room; they would have been happy
for any excuse to blow these guys away, what with their colleagues
being held hostage and all.

	As we had expected, they presented a list of their demands.
The guy who did all the talking for them was Ben Proxmire. He used to
be a lawyer (before he murdered his partner), so he was pretty slick.
Their wish-list was well drawn up.

	I was surprised at some of the things they were complaining
about, though. According to them, conditions in the prison had become
significantly worse over the last several months. Proxmire listed
things like lack of recreation time, restricted access to facilities
like the prison library and, most important, a severe problem with the
quality of the food. They were complaining about things like rotten
meat, and maggots and the like.

	I remember your indignation and anger when I reported this to
you, and I knew where you were coming from. It was well known that you
ran the most inmate-friendly facility in the state. Your budget for
food, for example, was the highest, per capita, of any comparable
facility in the country. According to the cons, however, the food was
barely edible. Yeah, they were in prison, and things weren't supposed
to be great, but apparently conditions had gotten a lot worse in the
last few months, to the Point where they just weren't taking it any
more. At any rate, I took the list and promised to look into it.

	You'll remember the two nights I spent going through the
prison accounts. That was where I first ran into problems with Betty.

	Yeah... that's what this is about, really. Betty Harding; your
oh-so-efficient Deputy Supervisor. I think it would be fair to say
that Betty and I had what was known as a "working relationship". We
really didn't like each other, but as long as we didn't spend too much
time in each other's company, we were cool. If we did have to spend
too much time together... Well, that was why I requested that transfer
to State in the first place; I figured two or three times a month was
more than enough time to be spending with that bitch.

	I don't want you to think, though, that this had anything to
do with what happened. Well... maybe it did. A bit. But, really, I
would never have done it unless... but I'm getting ahead of myself.

	As I said, Betty got involved when I was going through the
accounting records... >

				* * *

	"... worth every penny," Phillips concluded, handing over a
small roll of bills.

	"She's been a good bitch," Uterss agreed. "Very easy to train.
Loves to be fucked."

	Crouching below them on the floor of the cell, Betty - the
"good bitch" - stared straight ahead, trying not to react. She was in
what Uterss called her "welcome position": crouched on her heels, legs
spread wide and hands behind her neck. Her master liked this position;
he said it emphasised her best qualities. She was to assume it
whenever he was with her in the cell. Frozen in place, she kept her
eyes turned downward, ignoring the commentary as she ignored the thick
wad of sperm dribbling down her cheeks from where Phillips had dropped
his load. He hadn't been able to afford a full fucking; just a blow
job.

	Betty felt her mind drift as the two men discussed her
abilities as a cocksucker. The last three months had been a pure,
living hell for her. She didn't know how he had managed it (maybe
Manor was involved in some way), but Uterss had somehow arranged
things so that the guards never came into his particular area of Cell
Block H. He kept her like a pet in his cell, usually naked except for
the rare occasions he gave her an oversized prison jacket to wear.
When he didn't want her in bed with him, she slept at the foot of his
bunk, on the cold, concrete floor.

	With the exception of a few blowjobs for Proxmire, he had kept
her to himself for the first few weeks, fucking her two or three times
a day. The worst part of it - well, maybe not the worst, but a bad
part of it - was the fact that she had to suffer the constant rapings
in silence. Uterss held over her the potential consequences of having
her presence known to all the other inmates. It was a potent threat;
the prospect of literally being fucked to death loomed as a real
possibility.

	So, she resolved herself to endure him.

	That wasn't enough, though.

	He wanted more.

	So, after weeks of constant fucking, he began what he referred
to as her "training". It was no longer enough that she lay still, limp
and unresisting as he pistoned his large cock in and out of her raw
pussy. No. Now she had to react; co-operate. Actively take part in
her own degradation.

	He didn't just want a doll.

	He wanted an active fuck-toy.

	A sex-bitch who at least appeared to want him - to enjoy being
fucked - as much as he wanted her.

	So she learned how to react. Of course, she had refused at
first, but a session with his cane - a long, thin piece of wood - soon
convinced her otherwise. With only a few days practice, she was
moaning and panting in simulated lust just like any experienced
hooker. She learned the right words to say; the right ways to squirm;
the correct way to slide her tongue just so along the underside of a
cock.

	In short, she learned how to be a whore.

	Which is just what she became.

	Uterss's whore.

	After less than two weeks of training, Uterss declared her
ready to open shop. Within days, he had arranged for a steady stream
of "customers". He was careful, however, not to wear her out. He had
promised Manor that she would still be in one piece at the end of the
year.

	No more than ten customers a day, he decided.

	So, Betty - now the prison whore - had sex with ten different
inmates each day. She was fucked repeatedly in every orifice: her
cunt, her mouth, her ass. She quickly became even more proficient in
simulating sexual excitement (one of the her first customers had
complained about her lack of response, and Uterss had again used the
cane), and soon became well known as a hot little bitch.

	She was always Uterss's bitch, though.

	Eventually, to her shame, her responses to him became more
than just simulation. Betty experienced her first prison orgasm - her
first orgasm since her early twenties - while crouched over the prison
bunk with Uterss's cock buried deep inside her quivering ass.

	Even with all the other inmates - with all the fucking and
sucking she had been doing - she had never felt as truly a whore as
she did at that moment...

				* * *

	<... in the storage room. Of course, everything was on
computer, but they were down as usual. And I thought maybe I could
find some stuff out from the originals.

	I had just pulled the expenditure file when she walked into
the room. You remember how she was... sexy as hell, but a real bitch
(yeah, I know... you never thought so: a bitch, that is). As usual,
she had her blonde hair done up in a tight, little bun, and was
wearing a short skirt. Quite the little cockteaser.

	"What are you looking for Harry?" she asked. The bitch knew I
hated being called 'Harry'. I was determined to be polite, though. I
had enough on my plate without playing games. I thought maybe if I
just didn't react, she'd go away.

	"Accounting records," I told her, opening the file.

	"Little old-fashioned, isn't it?" She gestured towards the
rows of filing cabinets. "This stuff is all on computer. The only
reason paper records are kept is because state regulations require
certain forms."

	I ignored her.

	"Well, you won't find anything there," she went on. "All
expenditures regarding prison welfare are kept in the State office."
She smirked at me. "You should know that."

	Something didn't seem quite right.

	"How do you know what I'm looking for?" I asked.

	That was it. I'd kept the inmate's allegations to myself,
wanting to check them out before making them public. I figured if
there was anything in them, you'd want to know about it first, Edgar.
No one should have known what I was looking for.

	Betty just shrugged her shoulders and looked away.

	"Just guessed," she muttered. She seemed suddenly
uncomfortable. "Word gets 'round."

	She left the room and I went back to work. Sure enough, all
records regarding expenditures for things like food and medical
supplies had been removed. The place in the file where they should
have been just contained a reference to a State file at the LA
offices.

	That was where I looked next. I did a lot of thinking during
the drive back up to LA, and by the time I got there, I had a pretty
good idea what I would find when I checked things out. Sure enough,
the records weren't there either; just a reference note to check the
files of each individual institution.

	All of the expenditure records for your prison were missing
Edgar. I'm sure you have a pretty good idea of what that meant. I know
I did.

	Next stop was the Computer office at State.

	I was able to access most of the records from my desk, but
everything there seemed in order. The statements indicated that
expenditures regarding prison upkeep had actually increased in the
last several months. That didn't sound right. If that were the case,
why were the paper records missing? And what were the inmates
complaining about?

	That's the problem with computer files Edgar; they're just too
easy to change tracelessly.

	Not so the tape backup.

	Don't say it; I know what you're thinking: no one is supposed
to have access to the tape backup without a court order. Still, there
are ways, and one of those ways is a former girlfriend who works in
the IT department at State. We hadn't been going out for some time,
but we had remained pretty good friends, and I was able to convince
her to make duplicate copies from the tape. It was illegal as hell,
but it worked.

	The results were interesting, to say the least. It only took a
couple of hours work before I realized what the problem was. Someone
had been skimming up to 20% off the top of a number of welfare
expenditures for the last several months, including food purchases.
The records I could access from my desk showed no changes, but the
tape records told a different story: someone was robbing the state -
and your facility - blind.

	It didn't take long to realize who it was. I know you'll think
it was just personal animosity - and maybe you're accurate about that
- but... well, I'll just go over this as it happened.

	She was cool about it, though; I'll say that for her.

	"Oh no," she cried out, mocking me when I confronted her with
my evidence, "you've found me out. Whatever will I do?"

	I kind of blew up. I'd been expecting denials or excuses
maybe, but not this.

	"This isn't funny," I shouted, slamming the folder down on her
desk. "This is theft. When I go to... "

	"Go where?" she laughed. "What do you think you'll do with
these ILLEGAL records? You never got a court order. I'd have heard if
you'd applied for one. If you try to use these, you'll be the one in
trouble."

	I fell silent.

	She was right of course.

	The bitch.

	"And even if you could use them," she continued, "all of those
expenditure orders went through the Warden's office. Whose name do you
think is on the authorizations?"

	I couldn't believe it.

	"You mean... "

	The bitch laughed again.

	"Don't be such a jerk. Hartman's too fucking naive to get
involved. He's just stupid enough to sign the forms without looking.
Asshole trusts me."

	I swear that's what she said. I know this must be difficult
for you to hear, but... just listen.

	It gets worse.

	I left her office in a bit of a daze, leaving the useless
records behind. Even before I got down the hall, I heard the electric
whine of her shredder reducing my evidence to scrap. Not that it
mattered. Even if I could have used the records, she had covered her
ass too well. I couldn't touch her. And worse, I couldn't do anything
about the inmates' problems. They would only keep the hostages alive
for so long.

	It was then that I had the idea... >

				* * *

	From: nogarder@ix.netcom.com(*** )
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Jailhouse Sex Switch [2/2]
Date: 21 Jan 1996 16:21:08 GMT

			   Hartman's Call
			       Part Two

	"Noooo... "

	Uterss grinned down at her as she thrashed about.

	It was futile, of course. Betty had been securely fastened
over the small, metal table; her legs were strapped to the legs of the
table and her upper body was held down by two thin chains clipped to
her shiny, silver nipple rings and attached to the surface. It had
been months since she had displayed this kind of rebellion, and Uterss
was surprised to find how much he had missed it.

	Still, it wouldn't do to let her know this. He brought his
hand down and began administering a vicious spanking. It was nowhere
near as bad as the cane, but it was bad enough. She immediately
stopped struggling and began babbling out wild apologies. He slapped
her exposed ass a few more times and then stopped.

	Reaching down, Uterss gripped her blonde hair and pulled her
face up.

	"You're my bitch, aren't you?" he asked.

	"Y-yes," she agreed, tears running down her beautiful face.
"I'm your bitch... your whore... your f-fuck-toy." By now, she knew
what to say - what was expected of her.

	She knew what he liked.

	"Is there something you'd like to do to show how sorry you
are?" She strained to look up at his face, trying to guess what he
wanted. Fortunately, it wasn't at all difficult.

	"P-please," she begged. "Let me suck your cock."

	The large inmate nodded. That was the correct response. But
there was still one more thing.

	"As you wish," he stated. "But only after you apologise to Mr.
Trevor here, and ask him to do what I've paid him to do."

	Betty chocked back a sob, but knew better than to resist.

	"Mr. Trevor," she said, sniffling. "I'm sorry for m-making a
fuss. Please... please tattoo the words...

				* * *

	<You remember that the meeting was set up without guards in
the room. The prisoners had agreed to meet in the area that we
controlled, but only the three of them, myself and Betty were actually
in the room. Of course, they had been searched before being allowed in
with us, and they had to go through a checkpoint to get back into the
inmate-controlled area of the prison, but still, we were alone with
them. That was also part of my plan.

	Betty never suspected a thing. She had even been flattered
that the inmates wanted to talk to her personally. I dunno... I think
maybe she imagined that she could singlehandedly bring an end to the
riot and be a hero. Particularly after I had failed to do so. Whatever
the reason, she was there. Beats me how usually intelligent people can
do such stupid things sometimes.

	The bitch really never suspected a thing.

	Even when I pulled the knife - the guards never searched me -
and held it against her throat, she didn't really believe it what was
happening. She just tensed up, eyes widening in surprise. It wasn't
until I ordered her to strip that she really began to panic.

	"Lamont... " My full name now. No more 'Harry'.

	"Just strip, Betty," I told her. My nerve was starting to
slip, and I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

	Stevens began to pace furiously back and forth around the
room. Proxmire had a nervous smile on his face. Uterss just sat and
stared, expressionless.

	Shaking, Betty began to strip. Slowly.

	"Jeez, man," Stevens whined, "get her to hurry up. Just get
her naked." He looked like he was about to panic. I knew what he was
feeling.

	"Relax," Uterss ordered, the first words he had spoken since
entering the room. "We need her clothes intact." The big inmate nodded
his head towards where Betty stood, frozen, half undressed.

	"Continue, Ms. Harding," he said quietly. His voice was
surprisingly high and mild sounding.

	Betty continued taking off her clothes. First the sweater;
then the pants; then her shoes.

	"That's enough." I was beginning to get even more nervous.
Any moment now, a guard might walk in the door. Besides, there was no
need for her to take off her bra and panties.

	Not yet, anyway.

	Betty turned to face me. There was a look of intense hatred in
her face.

	"When I get out of here," she growled, "you are a dead man."

	I didn't answer. I just continued to hold the knife to her
throat. I remember wondering just what she thought was going to
happen? Did she imagine that she would walk out of there?

	Stevens knew what he had to do. Moving quickly, the little rat
shrugged off the jacket and slipped out of the prison coveralls. In
his underwear, he walked over to where Betty's clothes lay in a pile
on the floor and began putting them on. They were a tight fit, but he
managed; I had chosen him because of his size. Then came the wig and
padded bra, both from my briefcase. Of course, he looked nothing like
Betty, but he was about the same size, and - wearing the same clothes
and the wig - he could pass for her at a distance.

	In fact, that's just what he did.

	Proxmire then made himself useful. He walked forward, picked
up the discarded prison coveralls and started forcibly dressing Betty,
manipulating her arms and legs like one would a doll. She started to
resist, but a small cut from the knife convinced her otherwise. In
moments, she was dressed in the coveralls and jacket. Stevens's
baseball cap completed the ensemble, covering her blonde hair.

	"All done," Proxmire announced, a nervous giggle in his voice.
He took the opportunity to cop a quick feel of Betty's breasts through
the coveralls. She jerked away from him.

	Uterss stood up. As I said, he was a big guy. I was holding
the knife, but it was clear who was in charge in the room. That was
why I handed it to him when he reached out his hand. The other hand
grabbed hold of Betty's collar and pulled her close to him. She gasped
and started to struggle in his grip, but it was no use; he just
dragged her up by the collar and shook her until she fell limp.

	"That's better," he said, lowering his prisoner to her
unsteady feet. "I'll expect better co-operation from you Ms. Harding.
You belong to me now."

	Betty moaned and looked over at me.

	"Mr. Manor," Uterss said, "it seems you've kept your end of
the bargain. She's the one responsible?"

	I nodded. "Once she's out of the picture, the food and other
welfare expenditures should return to their normal levels."

	He nodded.

	"We're finished here, then," he announced. "The hostages will
be released within the hour, and the riot will end soon after."

	Still holding Betty by the collar, he turned to his companion.
"Let's go." Proxmire obeyed immediately.

	I wasn't finished yet.

	"Just a second," I called out. "I want a word with Betty.">

				* * *

	The cell doors slammed open and Betty automatically assumed
the "welcome" position. Eyes down, hands clasped behind her head, and
crouching with her legs spread, she waited anxiously. It was Uterss;
she could tell that much from what she could see of the lower part of
his body. 'Oh god,' she thought, 'please let him be in a good mood.'

	She felt him clasp her chin and turn her head up to face him
as he towered over her. She smiled and tried to look sexy; he like
that.

	"Ms. Harding," he announced in his soft voice, "How are you
feeling?"

	"Horny," she answered, again automatically. "Please fuck me,
sir."

	He grinned down at her. She almost collapsed with relief; her
rear end was still sore from the last time he had been in one of his
rages. She had fucked and sucked so many guys by now that the sex
meant nothing to her; it was just something she got through as best
she could. But the pain...

	That was a different matter.

	And so was the sex with Uterss, though she hated to admit it.

	Uterss reached down, gripped her nipple rings and pulled her
to her feet.

	"You like it here, don't you?" he asked, guiding her painfully
to the cell bunk.

	"Yes sir," she answered quietly, moving as he directed. It was
best not to disagree with Uterss.

	"You've been my bitch for almost a year now." He released his
grip on the nipple rings with a painful twist and sat her down on his
lap. One hand reached down and began to play with her shaved pussy.
Submissively, she moved her legs apart to give him easier access. "You
know what that means."

	Betty fought to ignore his fingers and concentrated on his
words. One year? That meant...

	"Stevens's going to be paroled," he continued. "That means
you'll be set free. Unless... "

	"Unless?" She couldn't keep the note of Maine and longing out
of her voice.

	Uterss grinned at her. She still wasn't entirely broken; after
all this time.

	"Unless the Warden decides otherwise. He has the final say in
all parole applications."

	Edgar! He'd approve the application. He almost always did.

	"Your friend Manor has muddied the water a bit, though."

	Betty felt the familiar sense of burning anger course through
her at the sound of that man's name. Manor! He was the one responsible
for where she was now. He was the one responsible for her being turned
into a... a fuck-toy for the inmates. She had been both pleased and
disappointed to learn of his impending death from cancer. Pleased
because his dying was proving to be long and painful; disappointed
because she would be denied the pleasure of killing him herself.

	He wasn't expected to last through the next month.

	"He's arranging for the Warden to get the real story of what
happened to you." He reached up and tweaked her nipple ring and
laughed as she flinched. "The true story of what happened to his
favourite assistant." Still laughing he dropped his hand to her crotch
and began playing with her again. By now, she was wet down there. She
hated it, and hated her reactions more than anything, but she was
powerless to stop herself. After all this time, her body was dealing
with the constant sexual activity as best it could.

	"He asked for some final proof of your condition and I've
decided to make a tape for him. And for the Warden."

	"A t-tape?"

	Gripping her cheeks, he turned her frightened face around
until he could stare straight into her wide, blue eyes. Slowly, he
brought his lips to hers and invaded her mouth with his tongue. Betty
squirmed, humiliated, on his lap, but still returned the kiss. She
knew better than to do otherwise. By the time their faces broke apart,
she was panting with lust.

	Damn her traitorous body to hell!

	"A tape," he whispered, his face close enough to hers that she
could smell his odious breath. "A tape in which you're going to tell
the Warden just how much you like it here. How much you want to stay."

	Betty fought back the urge to pull away from his rough
embrace. Edgar would never believe...

	"He won't buy it," Uterss smirked, reading her mind, "but
that's not really the Point, is it?"

	Before she could formulate an answer, the large man had
shifted her off his lap and over the edge of the bunk. Automatically,
she spread her legs and gripped the sides of the thin mattress. She
knew this position well.

	Uterss reached over and placed a small tape recorder in front
of her face. "Just remember," he told her, slipping his pants down.
"You like it here. You want to stay. Anything else earns you a new
tattoo and a caning."

	Betty shuddered. She had the words "UTERSS'S BITCH" tattooed
in large, garish letters across her left buttock.

	Numbly, she nodded her understanding.

	Uterss hit the record button and then positioned himself
behind her. With one vicious thrust, he buried his large cock into her
damp pussy.

	At first, she was unable to speak. The feel of him inside her
was, as usual, overwhelming. It was never like this with anyone else;
just him.

	She hated that.

	Involuntarily, she started to moan, but fell abruptly silent
when he grabbed her hair and jerked her face towards the recorder. The
tape.

	"Edgar," she gasped. "Edgar... I just want you to... "

	She fell silent as Uterss reached his hands around and began
to maul at her breasts.

	"Oh... oh... oh... "

	Trying to ignore the sensations surging through her abused
body, Betty tried to complete the message to Edgar. She didn't want
even to consider the cost of failure.

	"Edgar... I just have to... w-want to tell you how much I... "
She groaned, momentarily unable to continue as a small orgasm rippled
through her body. Behind her, Uterss stepped up the pace.

	"H-how much I... I like it h-here."

	The large man was now fucking her so hard that the sound of
his crotch impacting against her ass was clearly audible. Betty hoped
that it wouldn't be picked up by the tape recorder. She sniffled as
tears of frustration and humiliation began to run down her face.

	"P-please, Edgar," she continued, almost sobbing. Please.
"Please... d-don't approve B-Stevens's application. Please... let me
s-stay here. I love it so much... Ah... ah... "

	She stopped speaking, the sensations radiating out from her
sopping pussy too much for her. Behind her, Uterss's breathing
indicated that he too was just about finished. Overcome with lust,
Betty madly humped her ass back against his cock, screaming her short,
clipped scream as they came together in a frenzy of passion.

	Exhausted, she fell forward on the bed, Uterss on top of her.
She opened her eyes to see the mechanism of the tape recorder, only a
few inches from her face, spinning the cassette tape around and
around...

	The tape! What would Edgar think? She had experienced a loud
orgasm on tape. He mustn't believe it; he couldn't. She had to let him
know. Panicking, Betty clutched at the recorder.

	"Edgar!" she screamed. "Help me! Help... "

	Uterss's large, muscular hand reached around, jerked the
recorder from her grasp and hit the stop button. Sobbing, she tried to
bury her face in the thin, prison blanket, but he denied her even that
privacy. Betty felt his hand grip her hair and pull her face up to
meet his angry gaze.

	He was mad now.

	"What would you like first, Ms. Harding?" he asked in that
deceptively mild voice she knew as well in her nightmares as in her
waking hours. "The caning or the tattoo?"

				* * *

	<Uterss turned and looked back at me. For a moment, I thought
he was going to refuse, but he just shrugged his massive shoulders and
jerked her around to face me. She still had the dazed look on her
features. I walked up until I was staring her straight in the face.
Her blue eyes widened in fear as I began to speak.

	"Betty. You were right about the records. There was nothing I
could do with them that wouldn't fuck Hartman worse than it would fuck
you. So I decided to take a different approach. Since it's been the
inmates who have been suffering so you could make a few extra bucks, I
felt that you should be making it up to them. Personally. So that's
what you'll be doing."

	"You... "

	"I've sold you to Uterss here. Or, traded is more accurate.
In exchange for you joining the prison population, Uterss will release
the hostages and bring the riot to an end."

	She began to struggle furiously, but in vain.

	"Sounds like a good deal to me.

	"Manor, if you... "

	"Stevens's up for parole in one year. Uterss here has promised
that you'll still be alive then, so you should be set free then."

	"Nooooo... "

	"If, of course, there's anything left of you to set free."
Maybe that last bit was a bit too much, but I'm a vindictive person.
Betty started to struggle and thrash about, but Uterss just brought a
fist around and punched her heavily in the stomach. She fell silent as
the wind rushed out of her, and would have doubled over had not the
massive inmate held her up.

	"That's enough," he grunted. "You haven't made things any
easier for me."

	I just shrugged. I'd said what I had to say.

	Keeping one arm around her shoulder, he turned and guided the
gasping Betty out of the room and down the hallway towards the
checkpoint. This was the risky part of my plan; or, at least, the most
risky part.

	The guard on duty, however, was Myers. You remember; the one
who you had been forced to put on three month suspension after Betty
made that complaint of sexual harassment? I can't say for sure that
this was the reason they got through, but maybe it had something to do
with it. It was dark, and the guards were more concerned with people
getting out rather then getting in. Myers gave them a good look, but
quickly waved them through.

	It was no accident that Myers was the guard on duty at that
particular time.

	As for Stevens and me, it was a simple matter to slip him out
the side door and straight to Betty's car without anyone getting too
close a look. He was gone within minutes, and by the time the chaos
from the hostage release and the ending of the riot had died down, her
car was in the river and Stevens long gone.

	You know they never found Betty's body in the river. Now you
know why.

	That's really about all there is to tell. Uterss kept his end
of the bargain; he sent me proof of Betty's well-being (or, at least,
continued existence), and even sent a tape near the end. The proof is
in the envelope and the recording is on the other tape. I guess you
should check them out, but just let me finish first. I'm almost done.

	Listen, Edgar, I'm sorry for dumping this on you, but what
else could I have done? Betty was fucking you and she was fucking the
whole facility, and there was nothing I could do to stop her short of
violence. I won't deny that I enjoyed what happened to her, 'cause I
did. Still...

	I know what you must think of me. If there's anything I
regret, it's that you're the one who has to make this decision. If
you approve Stevens's parole application, Betty will be set free and
you'll have to deal with the consequences. It doesn't matter to me;
I'm dead. If you deny the application... well, Betty will likely be
right where she is for at least another two years...

	It's up to you, Edgar; it's your call... >

				* * *

	The tape fell silent, except for a quiet hissing.

	The old man reached over and hit the stop button. He sat there
in silence for a few moments, face expressionless as he tried to
digest what he had just heard. Then he reached over and pulled open
the smaller envelope.

	Eleven pictures; Polaroids.

	They were numbered. The first one featured Betty - it WAS
Betty - crouching on a prison bunk, holding a newspaper from last
June: proof of when the picture had been taken. She was dressed in
loose-fitting prison fatigues. Her usually neat blonde hair was in
disarray, and her blue eyes were wide with fear.

	He flipped quickly through the pictures, never dwelling for
too long on any one image. It was just too painful.

	Number three: August. Betty was wearing only a pair of panties
in this one. The paper sat beside her on the bunk while she cupped her
ample breasts towards the camera, as if offering them to the viewer.

	Number five: October. Her face was visible only in profile as
it nuzzled against an unidentifiable man's crotch. Only the base of
his penis was visible, but one could clearly see the bulge in her
throat as she accommodated its bulk. A thin line of drool dangled from
her lower lip and onto her naked breast.

	Number nine: February. This one was taken from behind as she
was obviously being sodomized, again by an unidentifiable man. She
had her face turned back over her shoulder towards the camera. Her
mouth was open and she appeared to be panting, although whether it was
in fear or lust he couldn't really say.

	Number ten: March...

	The old man threw down the pictures in disgust. He felt a
catch in his throat and was forced to swallow back the tears.

	"Manor," he muttered, "you asshole." What have you done?

	He took a deep breath.

	Emotions again under control,the old man reached over to
exchange tapes. He hit the play button:

				* * *

	<There was the sound of some heavy breathing... and then some
moaning. It sounded like woman. It must be...

	"Edgar." It was; it was Betty!

	"Edgar... I just want you to... " Her sentence dribbled off
into a series of rhythmic gasps. "Oh... oh... oh... ">

	The old man leaned forward in his chair turned up the volume
on the tape deck. Was she being...

	<"Edgar... I just have to... w-want to tell you how much I...
" She groaned.

	"H-how much I... I like it h-here." A rhythmic slapping sound
could be heard in the background. He could hear her sniffling as she
tried to speak her lines.

	"P-please, Edgar... please. D-don't approve B-Stevens's
application. Please... let me s-stay here. I love it so much... Ah...
ah... "

	Her moans grew in strength and volume until finally they
peaked in a series of short, staccato screams, which quickly died
away. There were a few moments of silence, with only heavy breathing
and then:

	"Edgar!!! Help me! Help... "

	Her voice was cut off suddenly as someone brought the
recording to an abrupt end.>

				* * *

	The old man - Edgar Hartman, Head Warden of the Point Maine
Maximum Security Facility - sat in stunned silence while the tape deck
hissed impotently on his desk. The glow of the desk lamp, which had
seemed so dim and inadequate only one hour earlier, now seemed to him
to be all too bright; he felt exposed and vulnerable.

	A target.

	What should he do?

	Free Betty and take the consequences? He couldn't prove
anything, but he now had no doubts regarding her guilt in embezzling
prison funds; Manor's story had rung true on that Point. But that
didn't mean she deserved what had happened to her. Still, if her
situation was brought to light, he knew that he would have trouble
proving his ignorance; in all likelihood, the best that would happen
would be that his career would be ruined and pension lost.

	The worst? Well, he didn't want even to consider it.

	Leave her there? Was that really an option? How would he sleep
at night if he did that? How could he ever forget her final, pathetic
cry as the recording was cut off? He and Betty had been friends once;
or, at least, he had considered her a friend. Evidently, she had held
a different view on the matter.

	It was an agonizing decision to make.

	Still...

	Still and all, Edgar Hartman had not reached his present
position by being unable to make tough decisions. This was one of the
hardest, but he had to face facts and do the best he could.

	He straightened up in his chair, his mind made up.

	Really, he had little choice.

	Moving slowly, he reached down and...

			       The End