I'm tall and dark with a good figure, and people still tell me I look Jewish – Daliah Lavi is the person I'm most often compared to, though I think I look a little more like a younger Jean Simmons. My hair is very dark and thick, and I let it flow down my shoulders, onto the curves of my tits. I used to take a lot of pains setting and straightening it, but not any more. It's my hair and it feels good to set it free. My eyes are black and noticeable, my lips full and pink by nature, and I have a strong, firm nose and chin. I was born in Maryland and I'm a Ph.D. in history. I was also very much in love with Angela Scopish and I didn't give a Goddamn who knew it.
I've known her for several years. We were arrested together, in 1969. I'm not ashamed to say that, because it was in a good cause. We were both activists and got nabbed during a raid on a draft-information storehouse. One of our companions was a pig for the FBI. She alerted the Feds and we were all caught in the act. I was a senior in college then, and Angela – well, Angela was a nun.
We were tried and sentenced in that wonderful year 1970, but neither of us went to jail immediately. Appeals, postponements, all that shit. It was late in 1973 when we both reported to the federal penitentiary to spend our prescribed stir. I'd finished my B.A., my M.A., and most of the work for my doctorate by them, and Angela was on the verge of leaving her order.
It was a great time to be going to prison for war-related offenses. According to the White House, the war was virtually over. LBJ was gone to his final reward; Agnew had been run out of office on a rail, and Nixon was in such terrible shape after Watergate that it was only a matter of time for him as well.
And we didn't get hustled off to any of your cherry, minimum-security, country-club prisons, either. No, those were all filled with politicians and Nixon aides. Angela and I found ourselves assigned to maximum security, the real Big House. I suppose it was to teach us a lesson. A leggy Jewish intellectual and a radical nun cast among the female murderers and heroin addicts and all the other fem violators of federal statutes.
In spite of the maximum security horse shit, the inmates were firmly in charge of the penitentiary, the way they are in every slammer. Our warden was a political appointee who usually found same warden's conference to attend so she could get the hell away from good old Greystone, and the guards were all for sale.
Angela and I checked in together, and we were assigned to the same cell. I hardly remembered her. We drew laundry-room duty, which is low down the scale of prison jobs, but she was so cheery about the whole deal that I couldn't bring myself to bitch too audibly. Our second day in laundry, the guard took a bribe to go outside for a smoke, and Angela and I were gang-raped by half a dozen butches. It was standard procedure for new brides in the house, and they worked us over but good.
It could have been worse, perhaps. I was twenty-six then, long past virginity. As for Angela, well, she'd been growing disenchanted with nun-hood. She'd spent the last few years in college, working on her graduate degrees, and along the way she had had a brief affair with one of her professors. So she wasn't totally inexperienced, but she was not at all ready for what happened to us that day in the laundry room.
Two dykes grabbed her, pulling her to the floor. One of them stuck a hefty thigh beneath Angela's belly, to make her hindquarters stick up. We were dressed in prison uniforms, and it was no trick at all for another butch bitch to flip up Angela's skirt, drag down her panties, and fuck her brutally with a sawed-off, slick-polished broom handle. God, I can still hear her screaming as that thing rammed into her unready cunt!
"Noooooo! Agggggggghhhhhhhh! For the love of Godddddddd!"
I can see it sometimes, as well – Angela shaking and sobbing and screaming bloody murder, her ass bobbing while those bulls held her down and the third fucked her again and again, each thrust seeming to plunge deeper, harder into her cunt. Angela's voice failed her completely, and she could only hack and moan and whimper, her body convulsing in rebellious but impotent resistance.
If I could have helped her, I would have. But I couldn't. I was flat on my back, a skinny black bitch straddling my face and smothering me with her rank pussy. She cackled and gloated as I choked on the vile, fish-piss aroma of her cunt. Two more were sitting on my hands, forcing the fingers to invade their cunts and do foul, intimate things there. I heard them give pleased sighs: "Ahhhhhh, that's it, baby, that's itttttt!" as they used me to get their rocks off. Wet snatches melted onto my hand and jelly-like cunts quivered around my reluctantly probing fingers.
"Ohhhh you fucking bitch!" I yelped in sudden revulsion.
One of them had spread my thighs, lifted my skin, dropped my drawers, and in a moment there was a plastic hardness prying at the mouth of my dry snatch. It was a dildo, strapped to the crotch of a hard-faced but attractive young woman who was doing time for boosting a bank.
"Open up, you cunt!" she barked, working on me till my cunt sphincter yielded.
Then, with a grunt, she rammed deep into my cunt, fucking me without the slightest trace of tenderness, love or subtlety. She slammed her crotch against mine, burying the dildo in my dry cunt, moaning as she thrust home, and – do you know, it reminded me very much of the last time I'd been fucked by a guy? Same Goddamned thing. Spread her thighs and ram on in.
"Goddamn all of you!" I screamed, that black whore's pussy muffling the words, but I screamed them again for good measure.
The fucking I got from the bank robber wasn't such an awful experience. I'd been screwed by too many guys who were nearly as crude! That was probably the reason I'd been off sex almost completely the past year or two. My doctoral work was a good excuse – "Can't spare the time to fuck; I'm busy researching my dissertation" – but it was only an excuse. The fact was I had no interest in getting laid. At twenty-six I assumed I was over the hill, sexually speaking, and it was reassuring. Men were such a pain in the ass.
What angered me, what made me want to kill, kill, KILL was the degradation. They had slapped me around, thrown me down onto the hard concrete floor, stripped me, pawed me, abused my body and invaded its privacy. And, God, if it was bad for me, it must have been twenty times worse for Sister Angela. I couldn't even hear her crying now, nor even those panting gasps. Had they murdered her in the frenzy of their sick, perverted lusts? I couldn't even guess. All I knew was that the black woman fucking my face was dripping onto me a vile, stinking rush of girl-cum that made me gag with its acrid bitterness.
The gang-rape went on for well over an hour. They dildoed us with their crude sex tools, they made us suck their tits and pussies, made us finger-fuck them, and there was no way we could prevent it. At any rate, they finished finally, and went their way, and a sobbing Marilyn helped a pale, drained Angela to dress herself, and we staggered out of the laundry room.
"Where are you going?" demanded one of the guards, a big beefy woman with a dog-like face. She obviously enjoyed her work, for she got to carry a truncheon (and to use it, if she found that necessary). How many times did I pleasure myself with the image of ripping off her skirt and pants, then stuffing that truncheon up her fat ass until its tip came out her mouth?
"I'm taking her to the infirmary," I said, helping Angela stand. "Can't you see she's hurt?"
"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?"