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Meanwhile back at the Pizza Parlor...
There was a silence: the women were no longer fooling: and after a second's hesitation I sank obediently to my knees. Megan thrust her pelvis forward: I wriggled into the best position I could manage, hooked a hand round each of her tree-like thighs, angled my head up, took a deep breath - and put my lips to her cunt.
The smell hit me at once: strong, yeasty - over-ripe like a cheese left to ripen too long. I might have recoiled, but two hands were resting on the back of my head, and strong fingers had taken a grip on my hair. There was nothing for it: I stuck out my tongue and began to lick. Her mound was deep, I had to press my face right into her to reach fully inside, and the taste was like the accompaniment of the smell - powerful and ripe. I wanted to come up for air, but my head was clamped in place, and with every breath I took the smell of ripe, rank, vaginal essences grew stronger. I rolled my tongue around, pressed it into her fleshy, meaty lips, then found her clitoris and ran my tongue over it again and again. I built up a rhythm: I could feel the sturdy woman above me oscillating: tremors began to run through her legs and thighs. Again and again I tongued her: she was rocking into me now, gripping my hair so hard it hurt. My tongue was tired: for pity's sake come, I prayed: then she thrust her pubic bone hard against my mouth, coming in hard fierce relentless spasms, until the grip on my hair relaxed and I slid onto the floor.
Megan staggered back, and sat down hard on the wooden bench. She was staring, but out into space, beyond me rather than at me. Gradually her eyes regained their focus, and locked onto mine.
"Welcome to Sparsebrook Chloe," she said, still panting for breath. "Anybody give you any trouble, come and see me."
"Yes," I said. "Thank you Megan."
Megan closed her eyes. I took that as a sign of dismissal.
The other women began talking again. A few put their hands together and gave me a round of subdued applause.
"Well done love," someone said.
Then Rose was next to me, with her arm round my shoulders:
"Well done," she said, giving me a squeeze. "Now listen out for the whistle, we're due in the shower in about three minutes."
It was as well Rose had warned me, I was in such a daze. I'd done something I'd never done before: I hadn't enjoyed it: my tongue and neck ached, and the rank smell still filled my mouth and nose. And yet... I'd won approval. I'd been clapped and complimented, and above all I'd passed through an ordeal. If somebody had told me, when I was filling out University application forms, that a year on I'd be in a women's prison, sucking off a dangerous gangster on the floor of the showers, I would have dismissed it as a sick fantasy, about as likely as my flying to the moon. Yet that was what I'd just done.
The whistle blew:
"Cells twenty-five to thirty," Hardiman shouted. "Into the showers: five minutes."
Rose shepherded me into the showers, and for the next five minutes I stood there blissfully as the water cascaded down, blotting out every other thought and sensation, warming and purifying me, drenching me, annihilating all thoughts of past and future, washing me clean. I was sorry when the whistle blew: I could have stayed there for hours.
Feeling faint I went and sat down on a bench - far removed from where Megan had sat.