Ron Taylor: Roped and raped

"She looks okay to me," said the other guard, pushing Angela's head back and staring at the bruised, swollen face.

"She's been raped," I replied, "and so have I. Why the fuck didn't you do something about it? Why did you stand out here and simply let it happen?"

"I didn't hear any screamin'," one guard said idly. "Seems like there should have been some screamin' if anybody got raped. 'Sides this is a women's prison. How can anybody rape anybody in a women's prison? Takes a man to rape a woman."

"My God," I said, shocked. "This woman is a nun! How could you – even a pair of meat-headed bulls like you – have allowed this to happen to her? Are you that fucking corrupt? Don't you have even a particle of shame?"

"What the hell's a nun doing in prison? You're both here to learn your lessons and get punished for your crimes. Ain't neither of you any kind of special case. So don't expect no special treatment. Look at this as lesson number one. And you're not going to the infirmary, either. There's nothing wrong with you, or with that skinny little bitch. Bath of you better turn out for work tomorrow, or you'll wind up in isolation."

"Go fuck yourself!" I snapped back, and I led Angela to our cell. What else could I do? Go to the fucking warden? She was in Bermuda this weekend, discussing prison reform with a lot of other wardens.

I sometimes wonder if Angela and I would have become lovers under any other set of circumstances. I had never laid a finger on another woman before I went to prison, nor had I been fingered. Never. Not even schoolgirls playing around and discovering the mysteries of their budding bodies. I had to learn mine the hard way, all alone. And it was the same with Angela. She was raised in a devout Catholic household in Detroit, and she decided to become a nun when she was about ten. In spite of her brief affair with that professor, she was extremely inexperienced.

"I feel like filth," she said to me in our cell after lights out. Her voice was tiny, a whisper in the darkness.

"No," I told her firmly. "You and I are only victims. Think of us as the last victims of the war, Sister."

"Don't call me that," she said. "I'm leaving my order. Anyway, I couldn't stay in. Not after this…"

"'Sister' as in the sisterhood of women," I corrected her. Down the cellblock I could hear female voices moaning in orgasm. Self-induced, lesbian-stimulated – what did it matter? Those women were cooing and groaning. We'd heard them last night, we'd hear them tomorrow night, and we'd hear them every night we were locked away in this big doll house. Not every woman in prison is a lesbian by choice, but I suppose every Sister participates at least once, even if under compulsion. And if you're fairly young, on the attractive side, you damn sure find out what compulsion is. That gang-bang in the laundry room was standard operating procedure for a can like this. You might even call it a kind of sorority hazing. Ugly and cruel, but it was part of the dues.

I settled back on my bunk, trying to sleep, but she was weeping into her pillow, only partially muffling the little tears and murmurs. She'd taken it much harder than I had, in every meaning of that phrase. The dykes had slapped her around, given her a hell of a reaming with that broom-handle prick, they'd forced her to kneel and lick their cunts down the line, and then they'd punched her around a few more times for good measure. I slipped down from my upper bunk and touched her shoulder in comradeship.

"It's not the end of the world, Sister. Be brave."

"I can't! I'm afraid! Oh, Marilyn, will you sit here with me on the bed? Just let me know that you're close, that you care, that you won't let anything else happen to me."

But the bunk was too low for us to sit comfortably, what with my long legs, and we ended up lying side by side, squeezed closely together on the narrow pallet. Her body was warm and tight against mine, and she squirmed to narrow the already non-existent gap.

"Do you know what this reminds me of? When I was a little girl and afraid of the dark, I'd sometimes get into bed with my mother – especially on nights when Daddy was away, driving his truck. And I'd squeeze up close, and she'd hold me and kiss me and tell me that there was nothing to worry about, that soon the day would come again and I'd laugh in the sunshine. You feel just like Mama, especially your b-b-breasts, Marilyn. They're so full and soft, like a pillow, and – oh, I think everything's going to be okay after all!"

She kissed me on the cheek and in a moment she was asleep, snoring softly, like a child. And I lay in the darkness, shivering despite her warmth, wondering why it pleased me so much to be here with her, my arm around Angela's shoulders, my bare legs rubbing her bare legs, her head resting on my full warm tits, the scent of her clean, scrubbed body filling my nostrils.

We slept together the next night, too, and the night after that. I'm not sure exactly when it happened, but it began and neither of us made any effort to stop. We began with kisses – little innocent ones at first, which soon lost their chastity. One night somebody's hand got active beneath the blanket. I won't say whose. Use your imagination. Was it the back-slidden nun or the leggy Jewish intellectual who made the first move? And I wonder – was that caress of a panty-covered crotch as innocent as it seemed to be at first? How did it turn so quickly into a loving symphony of fingers, and then tongues and lips and by the end of the second week Angela and I were lovers. We slept together every night. When we bothered to sleep, that is. More often it was mouth glued on pussy for hours on end, each of us tongue-lashing the other into eruptions and quakes of orgasm that left us shivering and shaking and soaked in girl-cum and perspiration.

I was a head and a half taller than Angela, and I outweighed her by thirty pounds. In prison terminology, that made me the husband and Angela the wife, though we didn't think of ourselves that way. We were just Angela and Marilyn, and we loved doing it. No wonder I'd thought sex overrated! I'd only tried it with men. And that wasn't sex at all. It was only fucking, and the hell with it!

No one bothered us during the rest of our term. The gang-bang was our initiation, and we paired off inseparably before anyone could try a repeat performance. Of course, I managed to steal a small but wicked paring knife from the kitchen, and I sharpened that cock-sucker till it would cut granite, let alone flesh. It was all the protection we needed. Even the fucking guards left us alone.

Besides, we were model prisoners, as prim and proper and well-behaved as you'd ever want to see. Neither of us wanted to be sent to isolation! The only thing that made my life worthwhile, it seemed, was the feel of Angela's tongue in my cunt each and every night, the marvelous shudders of response I could lick from her slit, the orgasmic convulsions that seemed to flog us both with simultaneous thrills. We hardly heard the sounds of other women making love at night any more, for we were too busy making our own.

We spent a year of our two-year sentence behind bars. Someone decided, apparently, that burning draft records wasn't quite as bad an offense as peddling heroin, and so we got out on parole after twelve months. That entire year we'd spent talking about what we'd do when we were free, how we could be together, but economic realities intervened. Angela already had her Ph.D., and she had some pull, through friends, which got her a teaching position at Boonesfield State U., in Kentucky, despite her criminal record. I had a dissertation to finish. So we separated, but only temporarily. She left her order, becoming simple Angela Scopish again, and she moved to Kentucky. I hustled my ass to Boston and took up living quarters in the Harvard Library while I researched the economic structure of colonial New Hampshire. We wrote each other a lot, and we talked on the phone whenever either of us could afford long distance rates; and at Christmas/Chanukah she flew up to Boston to spend the weekend that should have been an eternity.