Wednesday, July 6, 2011

'96 Months' II

The Saudi government does not spend much money on prisons. The women’s prison was relatively new but of plain design. Concrete and steel bars. I was relieved of the cape I wore while traveling and placed naked in a solitary cell. The cell was some ten foot wide and deep but very low. I could not stand. Although the ceiling was high, bars had been placed about four feet off the floor across the cell preventing all but the shortest people from standing Three walls were concrete. No window. The fourth wall was comprised of steel bars from floor to ceiling and completely open to the corridor. The entrance way was a three foot high hinged set of bars which allowed the guard to lift so a prisoner could crawl in. Another smaller set of bars also opened to pass in food and a water bucket. There was no western style toilet. Only a hole in one corner which, once a week, was flushed with a bucket of water. I slept on a mat. Uncomfortable at first, but I became accustomed to it. Prison rules required that it be rolled up during the day. Therefore I learned to either sit on the concrete floor or squat.

Abdul was right about masturbation. It was strictly forbidden. The open bars did not provide for privacy and at night my wrists were cuffed. All the guards were female, but I learned that most of them had indeed been trimmed and therefore were envious of western women whose genitalia were intact. Countless times I was commanded to kneel with my backside pushed against the smaller opening so that a curious guard could inspect and play with my labia and clitoris.

Showers came once a week. I pillory device was slipped into the cell and the larger door would not be opened until I put it on. It was very basic but effective. Two boards some three feet long were attached by a hinge at one end. Three areas were cut into the boards, one for my neck, two for my wrists. It was tricky to learn how to put it on, but if I didn’t I would not be allowed out of my cell for a shower. The easiest method was to place the boards open on the floor, lie face up with my neck in the large opening and my left wrist in one small opening, then carefully reach with my right and fold the top board over, making sure the right wrist was aligned with the other opening as I lowered it. I would then remain lying on the floor until a guard reached in and padlocked the two ends opposite the hinge. Only then would the door be opened allowing me to crawl out. I was then allowed to walk to the shower room with my hands locked in the pillory which when I stood upright rested on my shoulders.

The weekly shower was my only recreation. The other prisoners were likewise pilloried and we showered at the same time in a large tiled room. We could touch and rub our bodies together. The human contact was comforting. It was during the weekly shower that we were shaved. Standing in line, one by one the prisoners would lie on a table where a nurse with a straight edge razor removed all body hair. The Arabic prisoners were curious about me. Most had been trimmed and therefore when I spread widely for the nurse the other girls would crowd the table to view my genitalia. When the nurse instructed me lift my knees to my chest and keep my thighs parted my little man would flash its head and the girls would murmur comments in Arabic.

The hair on our heads was also cut short. Occasionally the head of a recalcitrant prisoner was shorn for punishment.

Rules were strictly enforced at the prison. One morning I was late rolling up my mat and a guard merely motioned me to the small opening and placed a cloth sack over my head and recuffed my wrists. I was thus blindfolded, except for feeding for two days. I was exceptionally timely after that.

The food was bread and some rice. Once a day. Carefully rationed.

Yes. Abdul was right. The endless days of boredom would only be punctuated by the short trips back to the court house where I was caned. I counted the days. In an odd way I anticipated the excitement.

During my second week, a guard posted at large sheet on the wall outside of my cell. Printed on it were two long columns. One started with a zero then the numbers 1 through 96. Beside each digit was the number "5" with an occasional "6". It wasn’t until I looked at the bottom and saw the column total "500" that I realized it was to be a record of my canings.

"It’s from Abdul," the guard explained. And she crossed out the first "5" with a red marker. 96 months. 495 more strokes. When I realized how long the column was, I became depressed.

0    5
1    5
2    5
3    5
4    5
5    5
6    5
7    6
8    5
9    5
10  5
11  5
12  5
13  6
14  5
15  5
16  5
17  5
18  5
19  6
20  5
21  5
22  5
23  5
24  5
25  6
26  5
27  5
28  5
29  5
30  5
31  6
32  5
34  5
35  5
36  5
37  6
38  5
39  5
40  5
41  5
42  5
43  6
44  5
45  5
46  5
47  5
48  5
49  6
50  5
51  5
52  5
53  5
54  5
55  6
56  5
57  5
58  5
59  5
60  5
61  6
62  5
63  5
64  5
65  5
66  5
67  6
68  5
69  5
70  5
71  5
72  5
73  6
74  5
75  5
76  5
77  5
78  5
79  6
80  5
81  5
82  5
83  5
84  5
85  6
86  5
87  5
88  5
89  5
90  5
91  6
92  5
93  5
94  5
95  5
96  5

It was in my third week that I developed a friendly relationship with a young guard. One evening at mealtime, she appeared with my food and opened the small door with a smile. I discovered the feed pail contained an extra piece of bread. By prison standards that was extravagance! I was grateful. I ate quickly hoping she wouldn’t realize the error. Then I unrolled my mat and waited for her to return to cuff my wrists behind my back for the evening. She spoke politely and I learned the extra food was no error. She offered more bread on a continuing basis for a small "service". I had been slowly starving. How else could I respond?

Her name was Solana. She was young, dark and pretty. She was a lesbian in a country where engaging in homosexual practices was illegal. She was sexually frustrated and thus became a prison guard. Where else could a lesbian in an Arab country develop contacts? I was not of her persuasion but did need food. The arrangement was useful to both of us. Late in the evening she would open the small food door and awaken me. I would silently crawl to the bars and push my head through lying as best I could on my back. Solana would lift her skirt and calmly sit on my face. At that hour there is no one else of authority in the prison and therefore Solana would squat and I would service her for hours with my tongue. Night after night. She was insatiable.

As many evenings as possible she would encourage my ministrations. And don’t, dear reader think that I grew fat from her largesse. A single extra slice of bread was delivered the evening following each encounter. Nothing more.

My first month came to an end. A guard placed the pillory in the cell. I lied down and closed it over my neck and wrists. She reached in and padlocked it and opened the door. I crawled out and the guard draped a cap around me. I was scared and a second guard was needed to assist me to the truck for the short ride to the courthouse.


EDWARD said...

glad to have you back posting again.96 months sounds very good so far,looking forward to more cane strokes.

Chris Bellows said...

Thanks for the encouragement. I will attempt to conjure an ending.



Anonymous said...

Though I've read well past this chapter, I find myself returning again & again to this one ... actually to a particular paragraph: the 3rd from last.

Somehow the 'story within a story' of the self-cloistered, yet self-sufficient outcast, Solana the Guard, begs further development.

Their nightly wordless trysts, each performing their deeply covert roles within an atmosphere of a strictly controlled regime, seems pregnant with possibilities. That their exchange is just barely voluntary, makes their illicit conniving even richer in sexual tension.

It is somewhat akin to Abdul's "offer" of slightly less than full application of the cane, in exchange for her 'voluntary' performance of certain duties.

These both are private 'bargains', contracts struck despite the confines of what, on the outside, seem like tightly controlled outcomes. Such creative "mini-plot" manipulations which you've managed to weave into your story :)

Her inability to masturbate, or otherwise have any sexual release at all for weeks on end, would seem to convert her nightly illicit pleasuring of the guard into her sole window on pleasure - none for herself, but yet somehow (and, notwithstanding her likely initial revulsion at lesbian activity) twisting their clandestine rendezvous into a new version of her sexuality - yes, a perverse one - but the ONLY one available to her during the long, solitary month between visits to Abdul ...itself another one.

Perhaps the story of Solana the forlorn manipulatrix, may yet have light shed on her via your skilful hand ?