Things in my life weren’t always as rosy as they are now. My twenties were my rebellious phase, and I delved into things that were both frightening and exhilarating. I owe the flavor of my writing to these times, in part, and I thought it was time that I shared a bit of it. This isn’t easy for me, but as my readers, I felt I owed you the truth, however embarrassing and humiliating that truth might be. There are no embellishments, nor artistic license taken.
The Wilted Rose
It had been nearly a year since I had agreed to be Rosalie’s muse. What it really boiled down to, was that I was her slave. I never was called that, nor did I ever refer to her as anything but Rose, or Rosalie. Everything was implied.
My weekly haircuts at the local barbershop were just one example, where I eventually became a fixture. I think several guys showed up just to watch Ned peel what little blonde stubble had grown on my scalp down to the bone just as he had the first time, and every time afterward.
To be honest, I loved it. The fact that I was just about bald, became such a turn-on for me that I actually looked forward to the weekly routine. I couldn’t imagine having hair, and would often encourage Ned to cut it just the slightest bit shorter each time. Eventually, when Rose finally noticed that I was essentially bald, she started accompanying me.
She didn’t want me bald, saying the crewcut was more degrading. “A woman shaved bald can be sexually stimulating.” She chuckled. “A crewcut; not so much.” And so, I was forced to go a few weeks without, until I had enough to cut into the original knob.
Either way, I was happy. Rosalie treated me well when we were alone, but when she was entertaining or working with clients, I was put in my place. In the dungeon I was her assistant, playing either the submissive or the intermediate domme, depending on the client. Most of the time, I was a slave to a slave, which seemed to amuse Rose no end. After a year, I could play the part, and I wondered at times whether I was playing at all.
During that time, I had been back to the tattoo parlor three or four times. I never had any more ink, at least then, I was pierced numerous times, and in some rather tough places. It started with a septum ring. I’d seen other women with them, so it didn’t seem all that weird. When Rosalie began stretching it to put in larger and larger rings, that was weird. Once the rings were large enough to touch my upper lip, she stopped.
By then I had two labrets, cartilage piercings in my ears, and two dimple suckers in my cheeks. That was it for the face. My nipples had been pierced as well as my clit hood. I drew the line at my clit, although Rosalie would have loved to have that done to me.
Here is where the story takes a sorry turn. I thought things were humming along swimmingly with Rose, but just as suddenly as it began, it ended. Rose picked up stakes and moved to New Orleans and had no interest in my tagging along with her. As much as I begged and pleaded, it was over between us. As far as I could tell, it was over for her too. I never heard of or from her again working the scene in which we had grown so prominent.
For a short while, I stayed with various customers who felt sorry for me, but that was a recipe for disaster in the end. So, after some real soul-searching and a lot of humble pie, I plucked up the courage to move home with my parents.
To be fair, it took a lot of convincing to even allow me in their house. I had divulged a little too much of my lifestyle to them, and this made things awkward, to say the least.
To say my mother was shocked when she saw me might have been the understatement of the century. I had taken to simply shaving my head at that point, losing all direction from Rose, and loving the smooth scalp. Between that and my piercings, she almost turned me around at the door.
As a condition of my staying there, I had to remove all the piercings, at least the ones she knew of, and start to grow out my hair. Left with very few options, I conceded. I must have lost thirty pounds since leaving college and the last time I had seen them. Over the next few weeks, I was basically force-fed. Eventually, I looked human, at least in my mother’s eyes.
The piercings quickly closed over, save for the septal hole, which was far too stretched out to ever do so. I managed to hide the nipple and clit hood piercings from her until she walked in on me in the shower. I’m pretty sure she did this deliberately, perhaps spotting the odd bulge where my nipples should have been beneath my shirt.
The piercings weren’t as much of a shock as the tattoo, as you can imagine. I was almost out the door at that point. She started making inquiries about having the offending words removed, but at the time, lasers were not an option. I compromised with her, saying I would grow my pubic hair, rather than go under the knife, which she seemed perfectly happy to have done and pay for.
Unfortunately, at least for her, my light blonde wisps of hair did little to hide the half-inch tall letters etched into my mound. Finally, she gave up, content that what was out of sight was out of mind.
Six months later, my hair had grown into a shaggy pixie, and all seemed to be peaceful. Of course, that’s when I was arrested for possession of narcotics. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Not only did they kick me out of the house, but they also refused to help with my legal defense.
I was left being represented by a public defender, who considering the charges against me, was only able to lessen my sentence. I suppose I should have been grateful, but at the time, an eighteen-month stint in a medium-security prison was more than daunting. Shocked and utterly depressed, I was taken out of the courtroom in tears.
The bus ride to Albion in upstate New York was long and unpleasant. How was I going to survive this? The women around me seemed only marginally interested in me, and for that I was grateful. I think everyone was mulling over their poor fortunes at that point.
Of course, everything changed once we arrived at the place. To be honest, the prison looked a lot worse from the outside than it did on the interior. The high fences and razor wire were really the wake-up call for me. This was real. I was going to prison for a long time.
All of the hype and shit you see on television and read about in books is nothing like the real thing, I found. As soon as we were off the bus, the ankle and handcuffs were removed and we were all escorted into the back side of this huge gothic building that looked more like a college than a prison, white columns and all.
I felt really small at that point as we filed into a puny waiting room and were told to sit and wait. One at a time we were taken away. Of course, I had no idea what to expect, so the process was an eye-opener.
When my name was finally called, I was escorted into a small exam room, at least that’s what it reminded me of. Two female guards were in charge of my intake, although I was put off by the preponderance of males in uniform wandering around.
My full name, the charges against me, and my sentence were read out loud to me. I wasn’t given a chance to respond before being told to strip. Each item of clothing was tagged and put in a box with some long number on it, right down to my underwear and socks.
Now, with my mother’s threats abandoned, I sure wish I hadn’t gone back to shaving my pubes. Both women looked down and snickered to one another. “Boy, is she gonna have fun,” I remember the one guard saying. “Crewcut slut, huh?” She shook her head. “Bend over and grab your ankles.”
The two took turns examining my holes, inserting a finger into my asshole, and sweeping the interior of my cunt rather roughly. Tossing a paper towel at me they told me to wipe off.
I fully expected some sort of boiler suit but was handed a plain set of blue pants and a white t-shirt. That, and the utterly utilitarian underwear rounded off the unflattering clothes. There were no socks, but at least they gave me a pair of slip-on sneakers, that had obviously been worn before. Once I was dressed, I was handed a duplicate set.
“These prison-issued clothes are not yours. They are on loan to you. Treat them with respect.” The guard laughed, as she pushed me out of the office and into a long hall, where I was met by the first male guard I would encounter.
He looked me up and down, and indicated the direction we were walking. “Judging by the hair, I suppose you think you’ll fit right in here.” He chuckled, as a door buzzed in front of us and we exited the large building, making our way over a large expanse of walkways and grass. “Things are different in here, Hoskins.” He spat, as we approached another more modern-looking block.
“Watch what you say, and keep to yourself, and you just might make it through your first week without a visit to the infirmary.” He opened the large metal door, and we were buzzed inside once again.
The sound of women, lots of them, echoed down the hall, and as we were buzzed into what I would learn was the common area, he locked the door behind me. Never had I felt so alone in such a large gathering of women.
Most of them paid little attention to me, but I could see a few, staring, glaring I think, but I tried desperately not to look up. Finding an empty table, I took a seat, setting my spare clothing next to me and hoping that I might be left alone. My solitude was short-lived, however.
“Hey.” I heard the course female voice call out. “Hey, I’m talking to you.” Two hands came to rest, palms down on the table just within my field of view.
“Leave her alone, Sue. She’s scared.” Another said, mockingly, from farther away.
“What’s your name?” The woman asked.
Not wanting to be rude, I answered. “Claire.” I managed, in a squeak.
“I’m Sue, Claire. I’m gonna sit here, and we’ll talk, k?” I nodded, not certain whether I had just made the worst mistake I would ever make or not. As soon as she sat, the conversation continued around us, with a few groans melded in. Feeling as though I must, I looked up, seeing Sue for the first time.
She was older, maybe forty, her short-cropped hair greying on the sides, framing a plain but not unpleasant face. “Well, aren’t you the pretty one?” She sighed.
I didn’t answer, not that I should have. I did blush, though. Looking around for the first time, I saw that almost everyone was involved elsewhere, save for a small group of women that were interested in us.
Sue seemed nice enough, and after some introductions to the group of women around us. She finally asked the question I had been expecting from the start. “You got anybody on the outside, Claire?”
“No. I did, but she left me.” I admitted, remembering Rosalie’s last words to me.
“Stay out of trouble, kid.” I wished then I’d listened more closely.
“I figured you for a girl’s girl.” She chuckled, followed by the group, who had taken up seats at the table around us. “In here, as shitty as it can be sometimes, we like things nice and simple. If it feels good, do it, as often as possible.”
I managed a smile for the first time, and it seemed to be all the girls were waiting for before descending on me. They stopped short of kissing me, but every part of my body had been groped and handled by each of them. I wondered why the guards hadn’t stepped in, but soon learned that they left us pretty much to ourselves unless there was a fight, and even then, sometimes.
For the first few nights, I was put in a cell by myself. They said something about acclimatization, but I just called it solitary, because that’s what it felt like. After what seemed like a week, I was moved to a different cell, which I shared with a woman named Marta.
Until then, I’d showered and everything else alone. This was the first time I’d had to expose myself to anyone. Thankfully, Marta had been one of the women that had been in that initial group. Sue’s girls, as I would learn.
Marta was just about my age, Hispanic and husky. Like Sue, her hair was close-cropped, and then some, the black curls clippered tight to her skull. On our first night together, I was hesitant to take off my clothes, so I only stripped to my shirt and underwear.
I could smell Marta’s heady scent from the bunk below, and I knew she wasn’t shy about being naked. I knew she was masturbating, hearing the telltale noises a wet cunt makes when it was happy. “Play with me, Claire,” I knew I had heard in the still quiet after lights out.
Knowing I shouldn’t, but desperate for contact, I slipped out of my bunk and into hers, shedding my T-shirt as I did. Her hands quickly found my nipples, squeezing them, eliciting a moan. I felt her press me lower until my mouth was level with her sex.
The thick carpet of black fur was only a momentary impediment as my tongue parted her labia, finding her engorged clitoris almost at once. Squeezing my head between her thighs, I brought her to orgasm, which she managed to have silently, even though I knew it had been intense. “In here, you learn to cum quiet, Chica.” She breathed, running her fingers through my sweaty crop of blonde curls. “You don’t want the attention, trust me.”
With that, she slipped her fingers into my underwear, sliding over my stubbled sex, my pubes beginning to re-emerge. I groaned as her finger slipped through my lips, and pressed against my nub, hard. “Let me help you with this, Guera.” She insisted, slipping out of the bunk, and spinning me to face her, my legs spread around her.
I had to admit to panicking as she began to relieve me of my underwear, but saw no way around it. I raised my legs so she could slip them away from me and off, finding an unknown corner of the cell. The room was almost dark, save for the smallest amount of light, filtering in through the small window in the door.
I felt her breath on me before her tongue touched my sensitive flesh. “Girl, what’s this ink you got?” She asked, pausing her attention for a second before resuming her attention. It was all I could do to keep from screaming out as I came, long and hard against Marta’s insistent tongue.
It wasn’t until after, when we had retreated to our separate bunks that she giggled my secret. “Crewcut slut?”
Even with the light fully off, I knew I was turning every shade of red, as she revealed her discovery. “Please. Marta. Please don’t say anything.” I begged, as quietly as I could.
“Chica, I ain’t gonna have to say nothin’. This shit’s gonna be common knowledge soon enough.” She whispered, pushing on the bottom of my bunk. “Why’d you have that put down there, jeez?”
“Not my idea.” I sighed.
“The showers, girl. Everybody’s gonna see it, everybody’s gonna know.”
The following morning, Marta’s prophecy was fulfilled as twenty of us were marched into the communal showers. There was no time to hide or hesitate, the clothes were off, and I was on display. By that afternoon, I was known as “Crewcut”, my new prison name, betrayed only by the blonde curls that danced around my ears and forehead.
A few days later and none too soon for everyone involved, a guard was escorting me to the prison salon, which was nothing more than a fancy barbershop. There had been some bartering going on earlier, and I think the girls had pitched in to get it done. I hadn’t earned enough to afford a haircut yet.
“What am I doing, blondie?” The rather stout-looking stylist asked, obviously a prisoner herself, her dour clothes a dead giveaway. The deal was, I couldn’t speak. The women had made that crystal clear. All I was allowed to do was lower my pants and underwear and give the barber a show. With the male officer standing right outside the door, I did just that. “Well, I guess that’s clear enough.” She chuckled.
She nodded, quickly, indicating I should pull them up. “You don’t want them seein’ that, sugar.” She grinned, fingering a guard onto a well-broken-in set of Oster clippers. “I guess you know what you’re getting’ so let’s not dawdle.”
I climbed into the chair, allowing her to swing a long cape around my shoulders. As the clippers fired up, I could see the guard peeking in the window, shaking his head disappointedly as the blades cut a two-inch-wide swathe of stubble into my curls. When I say stubble, I meant nothing much at all. Again, betrayed by my light blonde coloring, the more the clippers worked, the closer to bald I looked.
Oh, I could feel it, but there was no seeing it. Obviously having fun, the barber trimmed the back and sides down to the skin, the guard left on the counter next to a few longer ones. “Can’t shave it like I should, but it’s close.” She said as she uncaped me. “You know, honey. That tush is gonna get you in so much trouble.” She managed, before the door opened and the guard ushered me out.
“Why’d you go and do something like that?” He asked, as we made the walk across the courtyard.
“Not my idea,” I admitted truthfully, but loving the look on his face as he took in my next-to-bald head.
My new look was met with some mixed reactions, but the group of girls I had started to hang with, loved it. I did worry about others trying to have their way with me, but that’s for another chapter.
Everyone copped a feel of my bristled head, saying how much hotter I looked, and each expressing just how they would treat me given the chance. And they all had their chance.
Marta quickly showed me that she was in control once we were in the cell at night, calling me exactly what I was. Even though our play was mostly reciprocal, I was well aware of my sudden reduction in status; not only to Marta but to everyone.
Somehow, Marta had managed to sneak a blade into our cell and would painstakingly shave my cunt so my tattoo was out there completely by shower time. I was used to showering every day, so the twice-a-week shower regimen made for some rather interesting times in between. It was just something you got used to.
The curly-blonde-gone-skinhead look, also seemed to catch the unwanted attention of a few of the male guards. I think having gone from a potential fuck to someone who was too gay to play with irked a few of them.
I remember one evening, I got caught alone as I was heading back to the cell, the guard slamming me up against the wall. “You ugly-as-fuck dyke! Hell, you used to be almost fuckable. Now, look at you!” Too shocked to react, I managed to turn my head as the line of spittle hit my cheek and dribbled down my neck. I doubled over as a fist landed square in my gut, and he walked away, leaving me in a heap on the floor.
After I knew he was gone, I managed to get to my feet, hurrying to my cell before lock up. Marta was waiting for me and saw the distraught look on my face. “Did he fuck you?” Were the first words out of her mouth.
Shaking my head, I managed to speak through the pain. “No.” then I doubled over again, holding my gut as she tried to comfort me.
“Motherfuckers.” She spewed, but her words were only that. She knew as well as I did, that it would be my word against his. There was no recourse, so I tried to forget.
I was one month into an eighteen-month sentence, and I was out to the entire place. I tried to imagine a way where this would end well, but the lies I told myself were just that. I had eaten more pussy and been fucked by more women than I ever had in my life, but what should have been bearable would soon become a nightmare.
I know this is dark; darker than it probably should be for this place, but bear with me. Know that what I am telling you is true, as well as I can remember it. These were the darkest days of my life.