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Punishment is more than she can handle.


Prana jerked her head to the left: I looked, and saw Rose with the curly haired woman. They were standing close, and had their hands between each-others legs.

"Rose will not thank you if you disturb her now," said Prana. "Thank her later."

"Yes. Alright," I said. I was practically jumping up and down with happiness.

"So shall we meet after our showers?" said Prana. "Already time is passing. I must suck Cartwright and then have my shower, then it is your turn to shower."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, that's fine, that's so perfect Prana."

She gave me a peck on the lips, squeezed me hand, then slipped away.

I wandered round in a daze, hardly aware of who was around me. People may have spoken to me: if so I didn't answer. I could only think of what was to come, less than twenty-five minutes away. Not long now I said to the clamouring voice in my pussy. Then I laughed, maniacally: I'm turning into Mrs Tiggywinkle, I thought, talking to my own vagina.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Prana again, standing close to a thickset middle-aged woman with a scar on her cheek and a tattoo of a dagger dripping blood on her arm. I didn't want to watch, so I turned on my heels and paced to the other end of the shower room, where I spotted Fatima, head bent to her knees, rocking and mumbling. A surge of goodwill overtook me, and I went and sat down on the bench beside her. She did not speak, but must have been aware of me as she hugged herself tighter.

"Fatima?" I said gently. She didn't reply, but froze in her movements.

"Fatima," I said again. "I'm Chloe: I won't hurt you." I put my hand on her shoulder: she flinched away. Her large breasts swung as she did so. I felt as though I was approaching a very nervous animal.

"Aren't you lonely, always by yourself?" I asked, trying to engage her eyes: she had a round, pleasant if rather fleshy face, and it struck me she might have been attractive if she were not so obviously consumed with misery.

She didn't reply.

"You could talk to me," I said. "I'm new here, it's still very strange to me."

Then she did speak: with her head bowed, such that against the noise of the showers and the women chattering her voice was almost inaudible, she said:

"You and the Indian girl: you do very wrong things."

"I don't see it like that Fatima," I said.

"Everyone in here does very wrong things," muttered Fatima.

I didn't know what to say: but it didn't matter, because Fatima had taken up her praying or reciting again, and nothing I tried could elicit a further response from her.

Hardiman's stentorian voice was ordering Cells Thirteen to Eighteen into the showers. Prana must have finished with Cartwright, I reflected. Another ten minutes and I would be in the showers. Another fifteen...

I caught sight of a girl I had not noticed before, standing against the wall by herself. She was taller than me, and slim, with a short, boyish haircut and pleasant, urchin features. She smiled at me, and I got the feeling she had been trying to catch my eye. I returned her smile, and looked her up and down. Two things struck me: the first was how hairy she was. Her legs, both upper and lower, were covered with dark hairs, and hair spread across the top of her thighs and up over her stomach. This made the white, shaved patch around her crotch seem strangely anomalous: like a clearing in a dense forest. The second thing was that she had the smallest breasts I'd ever seen on an adult female. For a second I thought she must have had a mastectomy, though she seemed far too young: but I could see no scar tissue, and it was clear that she did have breasts of a kind, albeit they were about the size of a baby's dummy.

"It's Chloe isn't it?" the girl said.

"That's right."

"My name's Michaela, though everyone calls me 'Pancakes'. I prefer 'Micky' though."

"Then I shall call you Micky," I said.

"I expect you want to know about my breasts," Micky said, brushing her hands up and down over her almost flat chest.

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