MaleDom FemSub Stories

K7 Prisoner

Maledom/femsub, bondage, humiliation, punishment

Susan Steadle parked her car in the visitor’s car park then gazed up at the seven-storey edifice. The dark granite stone had been made still darker by the effect of pollution over many decades. Even with a cold November wind howling in this late afternoon, the appeal of stepping inside was minimal. It was a foreboding place, and it was meant to be. And it was her job to visit and inspect such establishments.

     The guard beckoned her inside, and she was escorted through the corridors of the administration block. Her journey terminated in the prison governor’s office.

     “The program you’re here to inspect has been running for three months now,” the governor said as she and Susan sipped their coffee on either side of the large mahogany desk. “I fully admit that this treatment is a little unorthodox, but I’m always interested in new theories on prisoner management and control. Our psychiatrist is pleased with the improvement in the well-being of the inmates involved in the program.”

     Susan nodded and peered at her notes, “and they’re all lifers?”

     “Dangerous women, all seven, with a total of twenty murders between them, including the five since they were incarcerated. That’s why they’re in our control and isolation section called the K7 block. There’s an interview room adjacent to their cells, and it’s there that you’ll have the chance to talk to the prisoners yourself.”

     “I’m not just here to talk to them, I’ll be spending the next couple of days here. Is my accommodation arranged?”

     The governor shrugged. This official request from the regional head office had to be catered for. In her thirty-five years service in the penal system, she had come across well-meaning over-educated inspectors and consultants like Susan Steadle many times. Their stays were usually as brief as the prisoners’ were long.

     After finishing their coffee they headed for K7, taking the elevator to the seventh floor. Susan stood in the well-lit interview room. There was a small barred window that commanded views over the city. She could see the big arched bridge several miles away, and beyond that where the city lights faded, her home in suburbia. She heard the unmistakeable sound of clanking cell doors as her first interviewee was being led in.

     Susan had her notes already spread on one side of the heavy wooden table.. On either side of the four-foot square table were matching chairs made of the same heavy beechwood. And on both chairs were heavy steel eyelets fitted to the front of the arms. If she had cared to look, she would have seen similar features on base of the chair legs and the back of the seat, but by then she was more concerned with the approaching clinking of chains.

     The prisoner shuffled into the room, escorted by two stern-faced male guards, each gripping her elbows. She was the source of the clinking chains, courtesy of the manacles about her wrists and ankles, all linked to a bright steel chain that also tightly encircled her waist.

     “How do you do?” said the prisoner extending a hand the few inches her shackles would allow them to move away from her belly. Susan moved forward to shake the proffered hand.

     “DON’T!” One of the guards barked at Susan. “Last month she broke a visitor’s arm.”

     He pushed the woman down into one of the chairs, while his colleague moved behind and clipped a chain from the back of the chair to the back of the prisoner’s waist chain. Thus was she confined to an upright sitting position on the chair.

     “You can leave us,” said Susan to the escorts, “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

     “We’ll be right outside,” said one of them, pointing to a camera in the corner of the ceiling as they left the room.

     Susan paced slowly around the room, observing the prisoner whilst carefully noting how she was chained. The heavy chains might have been excessive, but Susan noted that they were attached in a recognised humane fashion. The prisoner wore the regular prison garb of a loose v-neck t-shirt and full length pants, both in bleached white. The woman, aged around thirty, neither attractive nor ugly, had unkempt blonde hair, cut above the shoulder. By female standards her forearms were muscular, and it seemed entirely plausible that she could have broken somebody’s arm.

     And the prisoner observed Susan too: A demure, well-groomed, smartly dressed woman of around twenty-five. Married, she deduced from the wedding ring.

     “Jane Brascome?” Susan asked as she took a seat on the other side of the table.

     The prisoner sighed and derisively glanced away to the side. “That’s me, notorious serial killer and man-hater. I didn’t do it, you know.”

     “They found a man tied to your bed. He’d been strangled.”

     “Accidents happen. It was just a kinky sex-game that went wrong. C’mon, you never had kinky sex before?”

     Susan ignored the question. “You’re very accident prone. He was your fourth victim.”

     The prisoner smiled. “So they say!”

     “How have you been feeling in the last month?” Susan asked, her pen ready to record the answer.

     “Oh, it’s such fun here. Parties every night. The food’s wonderful, and we get to wear such nice clothes and jewelry, even if it is sometimes a little restricting.” She lifted her handcuffed wrists to demonstrate. Chained to her waist as they were, her fingers were only just able to rest on the table.

     Susan wrote down the response, despite the sarcasm, adding her own comment. A minute later she looked up again.

     The prisoner tugged on her chains as if to demonstrate the extent of her bondage, and through gritted teeth said: “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be chained up like an animal every time I leave the cell?”

     Susan kept her composure, despite the attempt to intimidate her. “That’s because you killed a guard and a prisoner a year ago, and they think you’d do so again if you had the chance.”

     “That’s right. Killing’s fun. If these chains came loose right now you could be my next victim.”

     It was the sort of bluster Susan had heard before. Her job was not to psychoanalize the prisoners, simply to record facts and statements. “Why did you have the operation?”

     “On my tits?”

     Susan looked at the Jane’s near flat chest. Only her nipples distorted the drape of the t-shirt.

     “I didn’t need them any more. I’m never getting out of jail why should I carry around two big lumps just for the sake of the guards eyes. It’s just a breast reduction. Lots of women have it done. We’re not allowed bras in here you know.”

     Susan Steadle did know. She knew all about prison conditions. It was her job. She continued her questioning. “What’s your opinion of the new nightly relief program?”

     “It's humiliating, and we have no fucking choice in the matter.”

     “Do you think it’s effective?”

     “In humiliating us? Yes. These bastards use it to control us. To keep us in our place.”

     Susan knew that both were true. “Does it work in relieving you of daily stress and frustration?”

     The prisoner sighed with resignation. “Hell, yeah! Sometimes I need it. And the perverts who carry it out, they’re good at what they do.”

     Jane Brascome’s interview continued with questions about the general routine and food in K7. For a prisoner welfare inspector such as Susan the encounter was typical - a prisoner’s responses ranging from bravado and black humour to introspection and self-pity.

     Susan conducted two further interviews in the same vein, calmly recording the prisoners’ responses to her questions. And in each case it was women in chains escorted in and out by two strong men. The shackling of female prisoners was something Susan was used to and understood, and yet it continued to affect her, even after doing this job for a couple of years.

    ======

     After making a call to her husband, who would have recently returned home, Susan had a light meal in the prison guards’ canteen. She was joined by one of the people she needed to find out more about.

     “I’ve always been fascinated by female anatomy,” said John Willisson.

     Susan smiled at the kindly middle-aged man. “Aren’t most men?”

     “Well, yes, but not many decide to make a professional career of it. I’ve spent the last twenty years helping women to achieve physical satisfaction using some of the latest as well as some of the most traditional methods. A healthy sex life and honest communication of one’s desires between partners is important, don’t you agree, Mrs Steadle?”

     “Of course,” said Susan with a unconvincing smile.

     “That’s why I agreed to participate in this project. The sexual impulses of long-term prisoners can be exploited to make them happier, healthier and calmer.”

     “Whether they want to do it or not? They are forced. Isn’t that so?”

     “Mrs Steadle...”

     “Susan.”

     “...Susan, I’m sure that in your upbringing there were things that you didn’t enjoy first time, but you got used to it, and enjoyed the benefits from it. You’ll see for yourself soon enough.” He looked at his wristwatch, “It’s time to do it now.”

     Susan entered the cell area of K7 for the first time. Ahead of her was a 12-foot wide corridor with a small barred window at the far end. On each side of the corridor were four cell doors, all barred shut. They each had solid steel doors which were open, allowing the inmates to view the central corridor. And in the middle, visible to all cells was a two-foot high frame construction made of iron and several leather straps. Susan swallowed nervously as she caught sight of it.

     “The prisoners are prepared for us by the prison staff before we arrive, as this affords them a degree of privacy,” John explained to Susan, and then nodded to their guard to get the first prisoner. The musclebound crew-cutted prison guard was armed with a foot-long electric prod hanging from his belt. No gun, and no keys, as these were obsolete since the fingerprint recognition door locks were installed.

     Privacy? It seemed a strange concept until the guard brought out the first prisoner from her cell. She was naked and her hands were in regulation prison cuffs, fixed behind her back. Her privacy came in the form of a black cotton hood. Susan couldn’t see the prisoner’s face. John explained to Susan that he had never seen the prisoner’s faces, nor had they seen his. All he knew were their bodies, their behaviour and whatever conversations he’d had with them.

     John opened his briefcase on the floor beside the frame. “The guard will fix the prisoner in position and then we’ll get started.”

     The prisoner - caucasion, slightly overweight with obvious cellulite on her thighs, and tattoos on both arms - was forced to kneel by the frame. Hooded and cuffed, she offered little resistance, the guard’s grip upon her elbow being more for guidance than control.

     Susan watched intently as the woman’s ankles were buckled into leather straps at one end of the frame, obliging her to keep her knees apart. The guard then pushed her shoulders forward and down until it rested horizontally on a padded section. Finally, another leather belt-strap was buckled loosely at the back of her neck. Susan noticed the prisoner’s heavy breathing distorted the shape at the front of her hood with each breath she took. The prisoner struggled a little against her leather and metal confinement, perhaps just getting comfortable, supposed Susan.

     By the time Susan had taken her eyes off the woman, kneeling as if for some kind of execution or sacrifice, John had placed clear latex glove over his right hand.

     He hovered around her body, studying her intently, sometimes touching her, making her more and more aware of his presence and his intentions.

     John took Susan to one side and whispered: “With this one, we go nice and gently, and with these little touches she’ll gradually become ready for me.”

     He knelt down behind the kneeling and bent-over prisoner, briefcase close to hand beside him. His latex-covered right hand pawed at the woman’s sex, patting and rubbing, fingers slightly invasive, all the time gauging her responses. Gradually she became more vocal, betraying her growing arousal with an array of sighs and grunts. John then took a vibrator from the case and switched it on. The woman struggled against her bindings, as if steeling herself for the stimulation to follow. Her hands, pinned together behind her, became animated, fingers bending and stretching in vain towards her sex.

     Now she was John’s to play like an instrument, and he did; the pressure of his touch, the position of the vibrator, the speed, removing it altogether for some moments just to let her stew.

     It was five minutes before John brought her to orgasm, taking her to several grunting and growling climaxes.

     Susan knew exactly how long it had taken because she kept looking up at the clock on the wall and recording the times in her notebook.

     “One down, six to go!” said John as he got to his feet. While he removed the latex glove and wiped down the tools of his trade, the guard returned the trembling woman to her cell. The barred door clanged noisily behind her, and Susan was shocked to observe that the woman was still hooded and cuffs, and left to sit manacled and in darkness on her bed until the whole of K7 had been attended to.

     The guard fetched the next prisoner, who was less acquiescent than the last. She was a black woman, as tall and heavy as the man holding her arm, although not in as good a shape.

     “You want me to use the prod again?” the guard yelled at her, having had enough of her pointless struggles. “Kneel down right now, or you get it!”

     Susan didn’t need to see the electric prod in action to know how effective it was. The threat of it was enough to get the woman to her knees. The guard and the prisoner both muttered their mutual antipathy towards each other. He quickly buckled her ankles and pushed her forward to fix the neck strap.

     “Ow, it’s tight!” the woman complained as he fastened the buckle at her neck a notch further than he might normally.

     “Next customer ready for ya!” said the guard with a smile.

     The guard, although a diligent professional, seemed to enjoy his work, manhandling some of the country’s most lethal and unpleasant female offenders. Although Susan had seen nothing improper on her visit she was aware of this gender dynamic - women firmly under the control of men, usually with the aid of chains and cuffs, and in the current scenario naked and hooded too. It had been officially sanctioned as necessary to utilise men in this department because the prisoners were just too violent for female guards. Susan could see why.

     And if the men enjoyed working in this block, she couldn’t really blame them. Wasn’t that the way of the world since the Garden of Eden? Men dominating, and enjoying their power over the weaker sex? A more pertinent question she considered exploring in her report was how it made the female inmates feel. Did they respond differently to orders being given by a man than a woman? And what about the restraints? To be placed in their transport chains by a fit (and often) younger man in uniform? Did the underlying sexual dynamic make them more biddable and more likely to please, than if it had been a female guard> These were questions that Susan would attempt to answer when she wrote up her report.

     “Who’s the other one here today?” demanded the kneeling prisoner. “I thought these were private sessions. It’s a woman ain’t it?”

     “She’s an observer, checking on inmate welfare. How did you know it was a woman?” asked John.

     “I can smell her perfume. it’s only faint, but I can tell it’s expensive. She’s a white girl, ain’t she. What’s she look like?”

     To Susan’s amazement, John answered, looking directly at her as he did so.

     “She’s slim, five-foot-four, shoulder-length auburn hair, big brown eyes, pale skin, although blushing a little now. She’s wearing a brown jacket and matching skirt, it’s cut above the knees, and close fitting, and a scoop necked top of white satin.

     “Ooh, I like ‘em like that,” said the prisoner, her sizeable ass grinding on thin air. “Why don’tcha just strip her nekked, tie up her hands and feet, and put her in the cell with me. I could sure have some fun with that. Teach her a thing or two about sucking nigger pussy, but mebbe she ‘ready knows that! I sure don’t want to underestimate her, do I?”

     John gave an indulgent chuckle as his fingers massaged the woman's clitoris. Their verbal foreplay was doing the trick.

     “Yep, I’m imaginin’ her doin’ that to me right now, and it sure feels good. This white bitch has talent. Ain’t no law ‘bout me thinkin’ what I want, is there?”

     “No Ma’am,” said John, “whatever turns you on!”

     Susan gave a wry smile at John’s pertinent remark. She stepped away, fanning herself with her clipboard to reduce the flushing in her face, as John applied a vibrator to the prisoner’s sex.

     The woman never stopped talking to her fantasy image of Susan, even as the vibrator brought her to an extreme state of arousal. Suddenly, she started to buck, muscles clenching and jerking, pulling against the frame like a wild animal caught in a trap, and all the time John kept the vibrator against her sex, pushing her over the edge and keeping her there, ignoring her pleas to stop, until her blasphemous prayers for mercy convinced him she was spent.

     Susan came closer and noticed the wetness on the concrete floor between the prisoner’s knees.

     “It can be a messy business,” said John, wiping down the woman’s sex and buttocks with a small towel before wiping her drippage with it.

     The sexually sated black woman showed considerably less attitude than before as the guard returned her to her cell with barely a whimper.

     This frame... is there any chance of someone breaking out of it?” asked Susan of John.

     He just laughed. “If I buckled you into it now, I can say with a 100% certainty that tomorrow you’d be just as I left you!” Susan swallowed hard at the thought of spending a night strapped to such a mean contraption.

     The guard promptly returned with the next woman, a Mexican, Susan surmised by the skin tone, and not so different in size and shape to herself. Suddenly it seemed crueller, the woman’s slender body so totally held by the sturdy handcuffs and the frame’s leather straps about her ankles and neck. She was already breathing heavily.

     “This one won’t take long,” John said with a wink towards Susan. He went straight to work on the latina, this time just using his fingers, rapidly moving two fingers in and out of her sex. She gasped a strange rhythmic chant in time with the movement of John’s fingers.

     All the time during this activity, he was looking up at Susan, giving her the benefit of one of his theories: Women are more much likely than men to be aroused by exposure - visual or aural - to sexual acts taking place around them. The arousal will usually manifest itself as vaginal lubrication, thus preparing them for the possibility of their own involvement in a sexual act. The latina is a good example - already aroused just by the sounds of the black woman’s orgasm.

     He was right. It didn’t take long for the latina to cum, and this time, unlike his previous clients he desisted with his actions almost immediately.

     As John cleaned her up, the woman was sobbing, and she managed a humble ‘muchas gracias’ as the guard returned her to her cell.

     Three down, four to go, and Susan was greatly affected by the scene at that point. Three women now behind the bars of their cells, exhausted by their forced orgasms. They sat on their beds, still naked, still hooded, still handcuffed, with no propect of release until the other four in the block had been similarly administered.