Prison Regime By Dawnraider Bob looked forward to Thursdays. It was the highpoint in a rather drab week at a gloomy, almost gothic prison. Being one of the few men at a women's high security prison might sound like fun, but to Bob, it was just a routine security job. It got lonely sitting there in his little office staring all night at the monitors that scanned the different parts of the 19th century jail. But Thursdays were different. Sandra was on duty on Thursday nights. Sandra Best had been a prison officer for almost two years. Before that she'd been in the police service and done a two-year stint in the Royal Navy. Why such a military-style life? Sandra told Bob that it was because she'd always wanted to be of service to others and had a real calling for public duty. It was a lie. Sandra was good at telling lies. Not that Bob was much interested in what she did before she came to the prison. He neither knew nor cared that in fact Sandra was an ex- con herself, five years for armed robbery. "A particularly vicious and unnecessary beating," the judge had said at the time. Bob looked forward to his little gossip: how the female prisoners were doing, the tales of drug pushing, suicide attempts, gang beatings, knife smuggling, the usual stuff. It brought a little light into Bob's dreary life each week, sitting there in his tiny cubicle having a cup of tea with a very fanciable woman in uniform. Bob had a thing about women in uniform. It was the reason he took the job if truth were told. Sandra wore her uniform in a very provocative way: starched white blouse with one button too many undone, knee-length black skirt that seemed to hug her ample backside rather too well. Although tights were the norm among women prison officers, Bob once glimpsed the dark band of a stocking top as she crossed her strong legs while sitting on the table almost at Bob's eye level. Although regulation dark brogues were the rule, Sandra seemed to get away with a rather stylish pair of black ankle boots. As she entered Bob's little room, she always tipped her cap at a rather jaunty angle. As Sandra spoke, Bob couldn't help but notice the big bunch of keys, chrome handcuffs and truncheon fixed to her hip belt. "So, what's been happening this week?" he asked. Sandra took her position on his table, her stockinged legs only inches from Bob's face. "A real shit week. Got a new prisoner, Mary Rogers, from somewhere up north. A real handful." Bob poured the tea rather shakily, trying hard to conceal the erection in his pants. "Oh? What do you mean, 'handful'?" Sandra shifted her weight on the table and struggled to make herself more comfortable by unstrapping the leather truncheon. She held it firmly in her hand, stroking her chin with it as she spoke. "She's pure trouble. Started a fight on her first night. Always lippy, never does what she's told. And last night, as I was trying to lock her in the cell, she spat at me, right here. Look, you can still see the stain." Sandra used the truncheon to point to a tiny stain on her shirt pocket just above her left breast. Bob wanted more than anything to touch it, but he didn't dare. "What'll you do with her?" Bob liked the sordid details of prison punishment, but he tried to sound casual and uninterested. "Well, Miss Rogers has got it coming to her tonight. The Governor is out, her assistant is ill, so in effect I'm in charge tonight. I can do what I like, when I like." Sandra licked her broad lips in anticipation of the personal revenge she could inflict on Mary. "So...so...wh...what do you plan to do?" Bob's defenses were truly down now, he was simpering with anticipation. The thought of his powerful female friend let loose on a prisoner was more than he could imagine. Sandra noticed the bulge in his trousers. She took her truncheon and tapped the poorly hidden erection. "Well, we'll have to see, won't we?" She spoke with surprising coldness that sent a chill through Bob. "Will I see? Can I see?" Bob couldn't hold back. His innermost desires were let ree. Sandra didn't seem to mind. "Why not? You've got your monitor and there's a camera in the punishment cell. Do you fancy watching an interesting programme tonight?" It was all he could do to nod. "Give me 20 minutes to get changed and then turn your monitor to cell 45, the punishment chamber." Suddenly she was gone. His head swam with delicious expectation. What did she mean "Get changed?" What would she do to Mary in the punishment cell? With no one around to check, he loosened his shirt, undid the top buttons of his trousers and made himself comfortable for the best night's television ever. He didn't have long to wait. His black and white monitor was poised on the empty cell 45 when he saw the door open. Although the camera definition was not great, he could clearly see a prisoner being thrown into the room by unseen hands. Her hands were locked behind her back, probably by cuffs, and she had a black hood over her head. She was left to lie prostrate on the floor for several minutes. It was a bare, cold and dark cell. The only furniture was an iron bed without sheets or blankets and a toilet in the corner. The prisoner seemed to be alone. She got up and stumbled around in a bizarre imitation of the game Blind Man's Bluff. She found the bed and sat on it. She must be cold, thought Bob. All she was wearing was a thin-looking track-suit bottom and a black vest. She was left in the cell for at least 10 minutes. "Is this it?" thought Bob. "Is this all that's going to happen, a prisoner blindfolded and bound and left for a night in the punishment cell?" He felt a tinge of disappointment and turned his back to make a cup of tea. As he did so, his unwatched monitor showed the cell door fly open. The flicker on the screen made Bob turn round. He couldn't believe what he saw. There standing in the half-lit doorway was the figure of a woman dressed from head to foot in black. His hungry eyes scanned the figure: tight-fitting head mask, choker, chain corset, stockings and jack boots that came to just below the knee. In the hands of this leather spectre was a thin, cruel-looking whip. The woman in black was caressing the whip as she entered the cell. There was no sound on the monitor, so Bob had to guess at what was happening. Bob watched open-mouthed as the woman, surely it was Sandra, came slowly and imperiously into the cell. Something was said because the prisoner stood up to attention, hands folded behind her back. Sandra seemed to be inspecting the hapless prisoner. She used her whip end to inspect the girl's face, teeth, ears, hair. Sandra plunged the whip into the girl's vest, and seemed to tear it off her body. The girl stood bare breasted, still with her arms at her sides, standing to attention. Sandra was clearly speaking to the girl because she nodded. Once she shook her head and seemed to say something out of place. Sandra calmly put down her whip, took the girl by the chin in one hand and gave her a smart crack across the face with the other. Then she changed hands and repeated the blow. It must have been hard, thought Bob. The girl was knocked off her feet. Sandra's relentless inspection continued. Some order was given and the girl took off her bottoms. Sandra took the whip handle, tucked it into the girl's tight knickers and pulled them down. The girl, it must have been Mary, was completely naked now. Sandra barked another order and Mary stood with her legs wide apart. The next stage of this humiliating inspection began. Sandra produced a pair of rubber surgical gloves and inserted a finger into Mary's vagina with almost clinical precision. The internal inspection seemed to last forever. The girl was clearly in pain and crying. She said something like, "Let me go, I won't do it again." At last, Sandra withdrew her finger from Mary's cunt. It was obviously wet with the girl's juices. Sandra made her prisoner lick her fingers clean. The humiliation was not over for Mary, not by a long way. Sandra barked another order. "My god she's a cruel bitch," thought Bob as his hand searched into his warm and waiting crotch. The girl seemed to be pleading with Mary, but this was answered by a vicious blow of the whip on Mary's breasts. A scarlet mark appeared across both her small but erect tits. She pleaded no more as she got on to all fours. At another order from Sandra, Mary stuck her arse high into the air. She was apparently told to keep her legs wide apart. Sandra caressed the girl's inviting bum cheeks with the end of her leather whip handle, which was about the thickness of a man's fist. Sandra gently probed the girl's anus with the whip, pushing it gently around the opening, describing its perfect circularity. Then without warning, the mood changed and Sandra barked another order. Mary pushed her arse higher. The prison warderess took aim and shoved the whip hard up the girl's rectum so that the whole handle disappeared. There was obviously a scream and another plea for mercy. This was answered by a violent kick from Sandra's jack boot on Mary's prone bum. She went flying and landed at the far end of the cell with her head cracked against the toilet bowl. She may have felt that this was the end of her punishment. But not so. Sandra's appetite for cruelty both alarmed and excited Bob. What would she do next? Sandra marched over to the toilet pan, took down her pants, and urinated into the bowl with the battered Mary under her boots. Without warning, she stood up, her heels digging into Mary's flesh. A last dribble of hot piss fell on the prisoner's face. Sandra turned around and bent over the toilet. Another harsh command. Mary began licking the bottom of her tormentress. Mary was made to use her tongue to the fullest. Every inch of the wardress' arse, peehole and cunt was licked clean. When she was finished, Sandra stood up, yanked Mary to her feet and gave her another savage slap on her face. Pausing only to adjust her boots and seamed stockings, the tormentress left the cell with a slam of the door. Mary was left prostrate and sobbing until the cell lights went out. Bob couldn't help creaming his pants, but even so, he hoped to see more. Surely the show wasn't over. He said it out loud "Surely there's more to come." Just then a voice, cold and harsh, came out of the gloom of his little cubicle, "Oh, yes, there's much more to come, little man. Much more."