The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica (15 page)

Of course, the jug had to come off sooner or later, and nothing was more suited to the purpose than one of Amanda’s heels, deftly wielded by a firm hand, smashing the urn in a thousand
pieces. It was time, then, of course, for bewildered Tory’s tongue to do some work of its own, for Amanda’s own need by that time was, needless to say, quite intense.

Everyone around the office bought the story that Tory had become trapped in the urn through some strange “accident” – which neither she nor Amanda ever explained. Basically
polite people, the workers all refrained from asking further embarrassing questions. They did notice, however, that it was not long afterwards that Amanda and Tory became an “item”, as
it were, and word went around that the romance had been sparked by Amanda’s being so helpful to the trapped and humiliated woman in her hour of need.

Well, they probably weren’t that far from the truth, after all.

Own Gaol

Vav Garnek

Vanessa Clarke took a lot of time and trouble getting ready.

She hadn’t seen Steve for a couple of weeks and she knew he would have wanted her – expected her – to look her best.

She had a long leisurely bath, the water slick with a heavily scented oil that left her skin feeling silky smooth.

Then, pink-skinned and slightly damp, she sat, still naked, at her dressing table and did her make-up. Her hair was a dark, almost chestnut brown, naturally thick and curly, and she piled it up
high on her head keeping it all together with a large, metal clip.

Her face was long, angular even, large hazel eyes set in skin that stopped just short of being olive. Lots of eye-make up – thick black lines on both lids – and shadow in a dark,
bruised purple, blusher heightened her already prominent cheekbones and painted her lips scarlet. Scarlett O’Hara. Scarlet woman. Finally she chose “Obsession” as her perfume
– because it was Steve’s favourite – dabbing it behind her ears, at her throat, beneath her full breasts and finally along the crease of her sex. He’d like that.

Vanessa had carefully lain her clothes out on the bed before bathing: matching bra and briefs in thin black net, so fine and wispy it almost wasn’t there at all. Black, wrap-around
miniskirt that split up one thigh, a transparent black blouse through which her bra was all too clearly visible, flesh-tone lace-topped stockings that shimmered as she walked, swayed, in her black
stilettos and flattered long, toned legs that didn’t really need any help.

Finally she slipped on a tight-fitting puffa jacket, padded in metallic silver, with “FCUK” in large letters emblazoned across the chest. Dispassionately she considered herself in
the mirror and wasn’t altogether sure she liked what she saw. The overall effect was striking right enough, but possibly a little too tarty for her tastes and not entirely appropriate for a
woman of very nearly twenty-nine. But then it didn’t matter what she thought, it was what Steve thought that counted.

She walked the short distance to the Tube, and at King’s Cross caught the Cambridge train and from there to the small market town of Bury St Edmunds, before catching the bus for
Sudbury.

Throughout the journey she’d been aware of sidelong glances from other passengers, mainly men, weighing her up and down. Well let them look, but several times she’d caught herself
tugging her mini skirt down as if in the belief that it has somehow ridden up her thighs. And she’d blushed furiously when she’d noticed the men watching that as well.

At least on the bus there seemed to be a number of other women dressed at least as brassily as she was; most younger and several with small infants in tow.

When the bus finally stopped and she, and they, got off at Barnfield, saw the high fences topped with razor wire and the familiar forbidding sign “Her Majesty’s Prison North
Lodge”, she realized why.

Steve was three years her senior and ran his own small jeweller’s shop in the east London suburb where they lived. They had been married for three years and dated for a further three
before that. Vanessa had liked him from the moment they had met. He was a bit of a Jack-the-Lad, all right, but he made her laugh. And she loved the way he was able to lavish jewellery, gold and
silver, upon her and the way there always seemed to be a big wad of cash in his back pocket.

What she had genuinely not realized until the day her world collapsed with the policeman’s knock at the door was that Steve had been “fencing” most of the stolen goods in the
area for years.

He got four years’ time for the crime and that was what she was doing stood there in the middle of a godforsaken spot in the Suffolk countryside.

By now she’d been “visiting” often enough that she knew the drill by heart. Friends and relatives gathered in a large reception area, you had to hand over your Visiting Order
in exchange for your “number”, produce your passport to have your identity checked and then your hand stamped with an ultra-violet marker.

You were only allowed to take a maximum of £20 into the prison visiting area. All other personal possessions – bags, phones, keys, papers – had to be put into a locker. Numbers
were called out in batches: 1—10, 11—20,21—30 and so on; and when your turn came you made your way through the electronically-operated sets of barred grilles and into the prison
itself.

In the entrance to the visiting area coats and jackets were examined, you went through a metal detector and were given a pat-down body search. Finally you had to line up against a wall while a
trained sniffer dog gave you a once-over for drugs and then it was in for the visit.

Except that day was different . . . The dog was a friendly, chocolate-brown spaniel that wove excitedly in and out of people’s legs until it got to Vanessa, at which point it simply sat
down in front of her and refused to move.

A female prison officer came across to her, took her numbered ticket and consulted her clipboard: “Sorry about this Mrs . . . Clarke, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to
come with me.”

Silently she followed the officer down a long corridor lined with what looked like steel, cell doors until they reached a room at the very end. It was large, white-tiled, brightly lit, although
windowless, with an examination table in the middle beneath a large light. There was a full-length adjustable mirror on wheels, a small bench to one side, something that looked very much a shooting
stick – a metal pole set into the floor – topped with some sort of canvas sling and what looked like a medicine cabinet up on one wall.

The officer virtually squared up to Vanessa. She was shorter by two or three inches, although Vanessa realised this was probably solely down to her stilettos. She had short blond hair framing
her round, pale face and a solid, almost stocky build. She also had a natural air of authority, a “toughness” of presence that Vanessa found disconcerting.

“Right. We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way. Do you understand?”

Vanessa could only nod dumbly by way of a reply.

The officer lowered her clipboard and fixed Vanessa with a stare: “I asked you a question. Do you understand?”

“Yes, er, yes.”

The officer continued to glare at her while the silence grew between them until it was almost painful: “Yes, what?”

“Oh, er, sorry. Yes, Miss. I mean, yes, Ma’am.”

“Right, that’s better. Now, Clarke, as you know, the drug dog picked you out at the line-up and they’re never wrong. So I have to ask you the following two questions. Firstly,
do you have any controlled substances, Class 1, 2 or 3, about your person?”

“No, Ma’am,” Vanessa replied truthfully.

“Secondly have you eaten, smoked or injected any controlled substances or other substances such as solvents, glues or aerosols, within the last week?”

“No, Ma’am,” Vanessa lied.

“Right, Clarke, fine. Now I’m afraid I’m going to have to carry out a strip search. Please remove all your clothing and place it on the bench over there.”

Vanessa looked around herself in a mixture of desperation and horror for anything resembling a cubicle or even a screen.

“Well, get on with it!”

“But, but where do I change?”

“Right here, Clarke and I have to watch you do it. Don’t worry, though, you’ve got nothing I haven’t seen hundreds of times before.”

“But that’s disgusting. It’s disgraceful! I’m not stripping off in front of you.”

“Well, that is your right and your choice. But I’m afraid that if you want to see that husband of yours then you’re going to have to. You could always ask for another officer
to be present but, as I’m sure you’re aware, we’re very short staffed and there are no other female officers on duty on this wing so it would have to be a male officer. I’m
sure you wouldn’t want that . . . and even if you did, since you’re a woman and he’s a man, I’d still have to be present anyway. So I can’t see that’s much of an
improvement, really.”

Reluctantly, a highly embarrassed Vanessa realized the officer was right and wasn’t joking. Having come all this way, she wasn’t going to go back to London without seeing Steve. So
she walked over to the bench, facing the wall with her back to the officer, and carefully undressed down to her underwear, stilettos and stockings before turning back.

The officer snorted in derision: “Very fetching, but not what the doctor ordered. When I said strip I meant just that. I want you bare-assed naked or you can just put it all back on again
and go home.”

Blinking back hot tears of shame, Vanessa shed the last of her clothes and vestiges of her modesty . . . although she still kept one arm across her breasts and the other covering her pubic
mound.

“Over here, Clarke in the middle of the room!” the officer barked. “And you can cut all that ’Miss Innocent’ crap for a start. Hands up, behind your neck and lock
your fingers together. Turn your toes out and bend slightly from the knees. Do it! Now!

“I’m afraid I’ve got to go and search your clothes again now and see if I can find whatever it was our canine friend sniffed out. You stay right here and don’t move a
muscle. Understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” and it was only as the officer moved away from in front of her and over to the bench that Vanessa realized she had been deliberately placed in front of the long
mirror and had no choice but to gaze at her own humiliatingly naked reflection. It was acutely embarrassing but Vanessa realized with an almost physical jolt that she was actually enjoying being at
the beck and call of this stern young blonde, subject to her every whim and helpless to resist because of the power and hold she had over her.

The officer seemed to be gone a long time and, when she got back, walked round and round Vanessa two or three times, stopping directly in front of her. Vanessa realized that without stilettos
she was indeed the smaller of the two women, and lowered her eyes, unable to meet the other woman’s steely gaze.

“Well, that’s much more like it, isn’t it, Clarke? Not quite the snotty bitch any more? It’s amazing how much more obedient people get if you take their clothes and their
dignity away from them. And you’d be a lot more obedient still if I had you in here for even a month or so.

“Now, remember I still have to do this body search, and if you want to see that old man of yours then you’ll do exactly what you’re told, speak and move only when you’re
told. Is that clear, Clarke?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“First things first. I have to have a look inside your mouth. So open wide, tongue right out and say ’Ah’ for me.”

But when Vanessa shook her head, without another word, the officer took her right nipple between finger and thumb, lifting her breast up and away from her chest until it was stretched taut and
then began to pinch the tender flesh with gradually increasing force.

At last Vanessa’s legs began to quiver with the pain and she opened her mouth to draw a long, ragged gasp of breath: “Ahhhhh!”

The officer stopped immediately, but only to turn her attention to Vanessa’s other nipple: “And again,” until she had literally wrung another gasp of pain.

“Good. Well done. I think we understand one another. Right, Clarke, I want you bent over that stool arrangement. Legs spread and when you’re comfortable clasp the back of your calves
with your hands. Don’t move until I tell you.”

Dumbly Vanessa did as she was told. The humiliation was almost too much to bear, although she realized it was about to get worse. What an obscenely lewd spectacle she must present: buttocks
forced up into the air and the plump slash of her sex peeping out from between her parted legs.

The officer stood in front of her, rolled up her sleeves and snapped on a pair of latex gloves: “I’ve got to examine you both anally and vaginally,” she said, almost kindly.
“I don’t know whether you take it up the arse – doesn’t do much for me, I have to say, although I understand some people seem to like it – but it’s not the worst
thing in the world and I’ll use lots of KY jelly. Then we’ll do the other side.

“I’ve searched your clothes and there’s nothing there . . . but the dogs just don’t pick on you if there’s nothing to find.”

Miserably Vanessa wondered if she should tell the officer about the joint she’d smoked the previous evening, but realized it was too late and nothing was going to stop the officer
completing her search now.

Coming round to stand behind Vanessa, the officer squeezed a large portion of KY jelly from a tube onto her index finger and gently applied it to the whorl of Vanessa’s anus. It felt cold
and slightly clammy, but once she was lubricated the officer began caressing the taut, pink globes of Vanessa’s buttocks through the latex gloves.

It felt good, and after a few minutes Vanessa felt herself starting to relax . . . and that was when the officer slipped her index finger into her sphincter and in right up to the knuckle.
Vanessa grunted in surprise more than anything, since the feeling was strange but not exactly unpleasant. And she relaxed still further as the officer’s finger began to slide backwards and
forwards inside her, describing ever-increasing circles as it explored every inch of her back passage.