New Cellmate

The female officer sighs contentedly, her powerful legs finally releasing your skull. Your head throbs, vision blurry, as you slump against the cold tile floor, coughing and gasping for air. Her slickness covers your face and drips from your chin.

She pulls her pants back up, zips them casually, and looks down at you with a satisfied smirk. “Not bad for a scared little straight girl. Maybe I’ll pull you out for round two later.”

She yanks you to your feet, barely giving you time to wipe your face before cuffing your wrists again. Still completely naked and trembling, you’re marched out of the strip search room and down a short hallway. She opens a heavy metal door and shoves you into the holding tank.

The cell is dim, crowded, and reeks of sweat, piss, and vomit. A handful of rough-looking women glance up from the benches — some drunk, some glaring, one openly sizing you up. The door slams shut behind you with a deafening clang. You stand there naked, cum still drying on your back and thighs, face sticky with the officer’s juices, trying to cover yourself with your cuffed hands.

After a few shaky minutes, you approach the small barred window in the door and call out in a hoarse, broken voice: “Excuse me… I get a phone call, right? Please… I need my phone call.”

A bored guard’s face appears briefly on the other side. He looks you over, smirks, and laughs. “Yeah, you’ll get your call. Eventually. Might be a few hours. Or tomorrow. Depends how busy we are… and how nice you are to the staff.” He walks away, leaving you standing there exposed in the tank, the weight of everything crashing down on you.

You stand there naked and shivering in the middle of the tank, arms wrapped around yourself as the other women stare. After what feels like forever, the door opens again. A guard tosses a bundle of orange scrubs and cheap canvas shoes at your feet. “Get dressed, princess. No more free show.” Your hands are still trembling as you pull on the rough, ill-fitting orange top and bottoms. The fabric is stiff and smells of bleach and old sweat. The top is too big, the pants barely stay up on your hips. You feel no less exposed. A short while later, another heavy door opens and you’re moved from the general tank into a smaller two-person cell. The guard locks the door behind you with a loud clang. Your cellmate is already there.

She’s a big, imposing woman — late 30s, heavily tattooed, with a shaved head on the sides and a thick dark ponytail on top. Her arms are muscular and covered in biker ink, and she’s built solid from years on the road. She sits on the bottom bunk in her orange scrubs, sizing you up with a slow, appraising stare. A butch lesbian biker, through and through.

“Well, well… fresh meat,” she says, her voice low and gravelly. A smirk tugs at her lips. “Name’s Razor. What the fuck did a pretty little thing like you do to end up in here looking like you just got ran through?”

You hesitate, hugging yourself, still feeling the dried mess on your skin and the ache between your legs. Razor stands up, towering over you in the small cell. She steps closer, but not threatening — yet.

“Look, I can see it in your eyes. You’re scared shitless. First time in the system?” She chuckles darkly. “This place will chew you up and spit you out… unless you got someone watching your back.”

She reaches out and gently but firmly tilts your chin up with two fingers, making you meet her gaze.

“I can protect you in here, baby girl. Keep the other bitches off you. Make sure the guards don’t pull you out for any more ‘special searches.’” Her thumb brushes your lower lip. “But protection ain’t free. You understand what I’m saying?”

Her eyes roam over your body, hungry and possessive.

“You play nice with me… and I’ll make sure you walk out of this hellhole in one piece.”