Chapter 3

Marcie did such a good job of pleasing the warden and all the other top guards that she was allowed to work in the library and not in the God-awful laundry or the machine shop where accidents were known to happen when one of the “new girls” didn’t show the proper respect or a have a good attitude for the old-timers with lots of tricks up their sleeves.

She wondered why her bail hadn’t been posted yet and assumed it was just a mix-up because of the holidays. At least her indignities and her humiliations were of the sort that she could live with and never give them a second thought. Her only fear was that some crazy would be so violent that she might wind up with a scar or a black eye for moving too slowly for her liking. The civilian volunteer lady in charge of the library was the wife of an ex-diplomat and she had seen strange sexual customs from all over the world. When Marcie described her treatment in the warden’s office, the older woman hiked up her fashionable daywear and let Marcie look at her naughty French undies with the slit in the crotch designed to allow carnal relations without slowing down to get fully undressed. They both giggled at the things and Marcie wondered how the older woman would find a man to take care of her need for cock. The older lady was actually on the shy side in such matters. Her name was Heather. She didn’t look like a “Heather”. She looked more like an “Edith” or a “Hyacinth” and should have been wearing dreadful all white granny knickers and not a pair of naughty French things that made most males form a terrible erection needing prompt attention without delay.

It was the librarian with her contacts on the outside that filled Marcie in on the fact that it was her boss, Mister Honeywell that had caused her to be incarcerated. Apparently, his scheming wife had gotten wind of his May-December romance with Marcie and had decided to teach her a lesson she would have a hard time forgetting. The entire episode in the upscale department store was entirely a setup and she was the juicy morsel caught in the spider’s web. Even his nymphomaniac daughters had been in on the plot to have her thrown into jail right before Christmas day.

Heather Twatworthy was definitely “old-school” from her French undies and her nylons and garters, but she longed desperately to be taken with passion by muscular men with hard dicks. She liked men that didn’t ask permission for anything and just reached out and grabbed what was near and available and made them feel those happy “tingles” that calmed them down sooner rather than later. If they wanted to use her back door, she really had no objection because such things were more at the instigation of the male rather than the female because of the female’s inherent delicacy of being the supposed softer sex.

Marcie liked talking to the older woman and since she was giving her lots of details about what was going on in social circles on the outside, she pretended she didn’t notice when Heather slowly inched her fingers up the inside of her prison trousers and started to pet her core of passion like some lover hiding the fact of perverted desire. The other patrons in the library were involved in their own little tableaus of carnal distractions reading intimate descriptions of assorted positions and impossible contortions in a nocturnal setting.

The neglected housewife Heather was in close contact with Marcie’s pretty little cunt and backside now with inquisitive fingers and, in all honesty, Marcie found her attentions a source of heated satisfaction. She spread her knees silently hoping no other readers could see under the table and witnessed her carnal capitulation to the demands of her temporary supervisor. It was not much different than simply giving in to the advances of her boss, Mister Honeywell with his stiff thick cock that seemed to stay hard no matter how many times he spurted his juices all over her nice clothes.

Marcie liked taking orders, no matter how degrading and how much they robbed her of her last shreds of personal dignity. She started to blush like a schoolgirl when the impatient woman loosened her trousers and pushed them down enough to make her bare privates and bottom easy targets for her grasping but well-manicured fingertips. She felt her tiny pucker being stretched by no less than three digits in a way that approximated the thickness of an average man’s hardness. It was a delight and made her slit brim over with her juices that lubricated the entry of almost the entire other hand sliding up inside like some declaration of ownership without benefit of words of seduction or some simple “I do” in a meaningless ceremony.

It didn’t really take very long for Marcie to fall into her familiar cycle of orgasm. She did her best to pretend to be reading some boring tome about rice production. Heather leaned in over her shoulder and pointed out a meaningless chart with a smile on her face and bored in deeper reaching her trigger point that started her chain of “tingles” in a way that she knew from experience would not cease until they had made her a lump of stupefied DNA breathing in irregular gasps and unable to form logical thought. If any other female reader were to look at her at that moment there would be no doubt in her mind that Marcie was in the throes of passion and that Heather was the culprit that put her there.

The very next day, Heather introduced the library patrons to a delegation of inspectors from the Mayor’s commission on Incarceration Standards. It was only a group of three, the leader was Gloria Steinmart. Ms. Steinmart was a sharp-eyed petite thing with a tight skirt that constantly rode up in the back showing her suntanned legs and chunky cheeks. The other two members of the commission were Tommy Hardin, a young lawyer in his late twenties and Alfie Higgins, a middle-aged man with a definite “beer belly” and a gleam in his eye every time he ogled Ms. Steinmart’s delectable hindquarters.