Cruel Money: Part 1 free porn video

Part 1: The House. I pressed my back firmly against the wall as I eased down the hallway, taking each step carefully. If Anke was correct and and a little luck went my way, I may just manage to remain out of view of the camera around the corner. It had been knocked ajar by a maintenance ladder some years ago she recalled, and suspected no one had bothered to fix it since. But, as she informed me earlier with a reluctant shrug, it had been quite some time, months maybe, since she had been down here. Most traveled overland by the road, and the tunnel between the prison and the main house was rarely in use these days. Even so, she speculated, any number of things down here may have changed, including reinstalling the camera. But we knew this was going to be risky before I decided to do this. The odds were never going to be stacked in my favor. I moved slowly and carefully, hyper aware of each click of my heels on the jagged cement floor. I looked past my sleek pantyhose encased legs to my high gloss patent leather peep toe stiletto pumps, as if sheer force of will could make them quieter at each step. There would be no removing them, however, to take them off would mean my feet were cut to shreds on this floor designed specifically to prevent the removal of shoes. I had seen it happen to others too many times. This would be so much easier, of course, if I were in the right heels, my platform wedges with their rubber soles instead of these stilettos. Even as it entered my mind, I recognized the irony contained in that thought ... "the right heels" ... once no heels would have been the right heels. Despite all appearances to the contrary, I was after all, a man. But this was not the time nor place to dwell on such thoughts. I simply needed to pull this off - I simply needed to survive, whatever it took. I slid slowly around the corner. My luck had not run out quite yet. True to Anke's suspicions, the camera was still disconnected partially from its base and hung at such an angle that if I remained close enough to this wall, I should go unnoticed. Sliding further approaching the large metal security door, I reached into my bra and pulled out a card key wedged into the cleavage of my tightly pressed together bosom; a bosom which may may look natural and very full to the eye, but was nothing more than an illusion created by a clever bra and silicone pads. I learned long ago, this was the only sensible place to carry anything I needed to grab in a hurry. None of the clothing here had pockets. Pockets, by their very design, hid things. The lack of pockets was just another means of control. I slipped the card key into the slot and a barely audible whirring alerted me that gears were turning and the locking mechanism was about to release. A loud clanging sound, far too loud as it made my heart jump, alerted me the door had opened. I pushed it carefully, peering around the corner, remembering the instructions whispered to me just hours ago, "the uniforms will be in the closet two doors down in the hall to the right." True to Anke's words, they were. Folded neatly in stacks were three types of uniforms, domestic, gardening and kitchen. I looked around quickly, pulling down the stack used for kitchen workers, one of the many who worked in, and had access to, this mysterious house. A place until I had entered it by underground passageway just moments ago, was no more than an image, a grasp of hope, sitting off in the far distance to be stared out from behind a caged fence. I found chef frocks in my size and put them on. Anke was right to give me the matching uniform heels in advance. There were no shoes in here. I took a moment to look at myself in the wall mirror and straighten out my clothing. These aren't traditional kitchen uniforms by any stretch. They were stylized and sexualized, like all the clothing here, and I wondered for a moment how anyone could get anything done in the kitchen wearing something like this. The top was midnight black and form fitting with a dramatic V cut in the front to show off cleavage. Every manner of clothing I had worn since I arrived, emphasized cleavage. Like the sky high heels, the hose, and so many other trapping of femininity I and others are forced to endure, it served as a constant reminder of our predicament. It was a means to keep us powerless and subservient, although they kept insisting these drastic measures were for our own good. I pushed the skirt a bit further down to try to cover up as much leg as possible. The black near liquid like of material of Chef's uniform skirt fell ... no, fell was the wrong word ... clung was more accurate ... clung too far up my thigh and was highly impractical for walking no less moving about in a crowded kitchen. I would not be able to take long strides. Add to the equation my heels which were a full five inches, designed to display my carefully manicured french tip toenails, and I began to suspect that whatever was happening with the kitchen staff, cooking was only a part. Only the traditional chefs hat, although also jet black, spoke of anything resembling a kitchen uniform. I noted a small air vent above me. Anke had told me to carefully hide the card key on my body to be used as a means of escape. But would I be fully committed knowing I had a way out? Too much depended on this. Teetering on the bottom shelf of one of the cabinets, I removed my card key and shoved it, and with it my last chance of backing out, between the grates. With that done, I took a deep breath and steadied myself. It was time to move further into house. "I will get through this." I whispered to myself. It was supposed to be a vow but very much felt like a prayer. I left the closet and weaved my way through the sleek, brightly lit hallways visualizing the map Anke had drawn but I dared not carry. There seemed to be no cameras in this section of the house. None that could be seen in any case. After a few moments, the maze like circular nature of the hallways had me lost. I stood still trying my best not to panic and mentally retraced my steps compared to the map I held in my mind. It was too late. Footsteps. And from the sound of them, not far away. I could take off my heels and silently run. Now that I was in house itself, the floors were no longer the jagged deterrent they were in the prison cells or the tunnel. I turned my head for a quick moment to assess my chances. Curved or not, the hallway was too long, I may be spotted making my hasty retreat. I made an instant decision. Getting caught here was highly dangerous. Getting caught running may be deadly so. I gathered my nerve, and strode forward toward the footsteps. I strode with mock confidence allowing each step of the stiletto to echo loudly as if I held no concerns in the world. It took only a handful of steps around the corner before finding myself face to face with two women. I had been right not to run, they would have surely seen me. They were both wearing a type of uniform I had not seen up to this point. It was vaguely reminiscent the style of those worn by authority figures in the prison, but was not near as militaristic, more that of a police officer. They must be security for the house. "And who might you be?" said the shorter of the two, a woman who inspite of her compact squareness, couldn't have had an ounce of fat on her. I suspected she was quite strong as well. Without pausing, I allowed what I hoped was a winning smile spread across my carefully made up face. "Someone in desperate need of help in finding the kitchen. I am to report for duty today." "The kitchen?" This time it was the taller blonde woman who spoke. She was as tall and thin as her partner was squat and square. Her accent was clearly that of Liverpool, but that didn't surprise me as I had long since grown used to the international flavor of this place. "You're a long way from the kitchen, love. No one's supposed to be down in these parts but security. How do you explain that, then?" Her voice remained conversational, but I noted she had opened the release on her holster. She continued, "Don't bother. I doubt I'll believe a word you tell me. I know a liar when I see one. Although I'm not sure how anyone gets down here without the right card keys. Jayla, search her." The security guard Jayla stepped forward and began an intrusive and quite thorough search of my person. The number and level of garments holding me it place, made it slow going as she seemed reticent to loosen anything too much. But, after an eternity, she seemed satisfied, indicating so with a simple shrug. "As I said, I'm new. Brand new. The uniform they gave me ..." my mind raced, barely ahead of the words leaving my mouth ... "Well, I ripped the skirt. So I snuck down here to replace it. I hoping to get back before anyone noticed. I certainly didn't think I'd be shot," I said it as lightly as I could. But my eyes could not help but drift to the open holster. "Look I had to. This is my big chance. If I blow this I'll end up back the cells, I just can't go. I can't. I don't know if you've been over there. But -" I was cut off. "Ripped your skirt, did you? And I suppose I would find a ripped skirt in the closet?" I froze. I was certain she didn't buy my story. The woman from Liverpool looked me up and down, thinking. She looked at her partner and they seemed to come to a telepathic decision. "Ah, you dolls," she said more lightly. "Dolls", was the common derogatory term around here for those of males who looked like women, "you lot are a complete mess. But I'll not be the one crossing Chef Lilly by arresting ... or shooting," her smile was not a warm one, "one of her girls before she gets a chance to see her. That mad witch is as likely to put a knife in my eye as yours." From her tone it was clear she said this not as a joke, but a statement of fact. Armed or not, she had no wish to tangle with this Chef Lilly. "We'll get you to your kitchen love. But you be careful from here out. We'll be watching you with some interest. We like to keep our eyes on the liars." Threats issued, my armed escorts brought me to the kitchen. I walked in, looking around. The kitchen was a hive of activity. "I've been told to report to Chef Lilly. I'm the new ... girl." I hoped my voice didn't betray the nervousness I felt; at the very least it held its feminine tenor, gained from an untold number of practice sessions. "I'm Chef Lilly." A tall woman with raven black hair, moments ago obscured by the myriad of pots and pans hanging above the center kitchen butcher block, stepped into view. My best guess was she was a "genetic," the short hand we used to indicate those who were born girls from the so-called dolls. It was not always easy to tell a genetic from dolls just by looking, not in this place anyway, but genetics were always the ones holding any real position of power. Genetic or not, she was Amazon, despite wearing heels lower than mine. "Carolynne!" she shouted, "bring me the papers, I want to see what we have here." Carolynne, dressed very similarly, and as impractically, as me came jogging across the floor holding a clipboard. I looked down at the slickness of the kitchen's tile and wondered how many people actually fell running so quickly on such high heels - because it was clear from my brief moments here, people ran, and not walked, at the sound of Chef Lilly's commands. If I was concerned for her safety, she was not, Carolynne's movement and speed conveyed she was well practiced. So this is Chef Lilly. The woman even armed guards feared. I wondered for a moment if Lilly was a last name or first, as she studied the clipboard. Her face slowly clouded over into a frown. I held my breath. If Anke was unable to doctor the paperwork, it would all end here and badly. After a pause that was creating nervousness throughout the entire crowded kitchen, she finally spoke. "Bree, is it?" She said referring to the name given to me in the prison. "It says here Bree you don't cook? At all. How the hell did they assign you to my kitchen if you can not cook? What is this exactly?" She looked up from the clipboard and looked at me. There was another long, uncomfortable pause, her face still stern. It was clear why she intimidated people. Whatever was going on in her head was not going to be discerned by her expression. "Oh, I see now. You're a looker, doll or not. I suspect then you are on the wait staff, they like the eye candy over there. Wait staff usually don't report to me. But I guess that's changed since we just ... lost ... the girl who would normally handle filling those positions," the way she said "lost" gave me a slight chill. "Served before?" I nodded quickly, but the Chef shook her head and some of her carefully placed locks escaped from her hat. "Be careful how you answer that. I don't mean slinging chili dogs at some sports bar. I mean can you do full course, first class service?" I nodded again. I had worked for a number of years as a waiter in one of the better restaurants in Los Angeles. "Good. We'll get you started. But first ... follow me to my office around the corner. I will need to explain some things. And, wait staff or not, there is still some interviewing to be done." Her barking laugh contained no lightness or joy, sounding as much as warning as anything. I was not going to enjoy this interview. "Carolynne, you come with me and grab the interview materials." I walked into Chef Lilly's office and looked around for a place to sit for the interview. She determined quickly what I was doing, and in a low, throaty voice told me not to bother, I wouldn't need to get comfortable, "in fact," she said, "you're about to become very uncomfortable." She moved closer to me, we were now standing no more than a foot apart. I could feel her hot breath on my face. She seemed content just to stand there making me stew in my own discomfort as part of some sadistic staring contest. She oozed malice and danger so thick I could smell it on her. I felt my knees becoming weak. Fearing I may sway, or worse fall, I locked my them in place. Carolynne walked into the room, not daring to move I followed her with my eyes. She tossed a small black carry bag onto the middle of the desk. She shot me a look ... what was that ... fear ... sympathy? The woman standing before me stepped in closer, she was now inches away. "Do you know what I like about you dolls?" The question was clearly rhetorical, "I love that you're powerless. By the time they send you to me from that prison of yours, you are just broken shells with your manhood wiped away. Do you even have manhood anymore?" At this point she thrust her hand past my skirt, reaching roughly around the front of my panties. Unable to find my penis which was tucked deeply away between my legs, she laughed coarsely. "That's what I thought, you are for all intents and purposes, dickless." She continued her original thought, "What I like about you broken doll- boys, is all the indignities you have ever heaped upon a woman, I get to heap on you. Because, in this kitchen, in this house, you are powerless. I am the power." At this point she thrust her lips against mine with such force it was more a punch than a kiss. Her tongue probed crudely inside my mouth as her lips painfully pressed mine against my teeth. Reaching behind me, she grabbed my ass with both hands forcefully pulling them against her, through the thin material of the skirt I could feel her nails digging into my flesh. "Carolynne, the bag!" she commanded and stepped back from me. Suddenly Carolynne was kneeling between us. Carolynne assisted the Chef as she stepped out of her skirt, the entire time keeping her eyes focused on me. In my peripheral vision below me, I could see her harnessing the Amazon with something. I knew immediately what it was - a strap on dildo. "If they didn't break you before, I will certainly break you now. Time to conduct the interview." Grabbing my long locks forcefully to guide me, she pushed me over her desk. Carolynne pulled my skirt above my waist, exposing my stocking legs and garter belt to the open air. With surprising care, for such a brutal situation, Carolynne guided my panties down and off my legs. Moving with amazing speed, she managed to get a bit of lubricant on her hands, and rub it onto the stiff rubber cock between Chef Lilly's legs, before the woman demanded she stop. "No, I want her to feel every inch of this." I was now bent over the desk, ass in the air. Lilly placed her heels on the outside of mine, and squeezed my legs inward until they were locked between hers in a vice grip. Grabbing it with both and hands, she pushed it into my tight hole with an unceremonious thrust. My anus exploded with pain as the thick long shaft slid into my canal. Tears welled up in my eyes, and with her second fierce thrust, they spilled freely across my face. At the sight of my wet face, she let loose one of her low angry laughs. The Chef lay against me, pressing her large breasts firmly against my back and held my arms down. As her hips moved in and out I could feel the width of thick dildo straining against the walls of my ass, all the time going deeper and deeper with each pump. The slapping sound of her pelvis slamming against my ass filled the room. I tried to relax my body and go with the movement, but she was pushing too fast and too hard. Her mouth moved down to my ear, she was speaking, almost spitting, in my ear with low rumbling bitterness, "How does it feel? It doesn't matter how it feels because I own you girl. You are my personal fuck toy. Do you understand me? Completely utterly own you girl. Say it!" "I am your girl! You own me! You own me!" I cried out in humiliation, pain and fear. She signalled to Carolynne who moved around to the front of the desk facing me. She worked her panties down to reveal that she, like me, had a real penis. Grabbing the back of my head Carolynne slid her shaft into my mouth and immediately pumped away, fucking my mouth. She and Chef Lilly worked into a rhythm; the Chef would shove me with an ass filling fuck from behind pushing me further onto Carolynne's dick. Carolynne would slam her rod into my face, pushing me back toward the Chef. This went on for untold agonizing minutes. Suddenly, Carolynne body stiffened, and she grabbed my head more firmly ramming her cock all the way down my throat. I gagged and coughed, sincerely believing I was about to choke to death. But she soon exploded, her dick pulsated as wave after wave squirted into my mouth, spilling her seed out the sides. My entire mouth filled with the taste of sticky sperm. And with that, it was over. Sexual energy subsided, Carolynne turned away almost apologetically. Between the tears and my hair having completely covered my face from the rough treatment, I could barely see. Chef Lilly tossed me towel. "Get yourself straightened out, you're a mess. Go find the other wait staff, they are situated in the rooms between the kitchen and the first dining hall. There's a dinner party on tonight and they'll let you know what to do. And for god's sake, wipe those tears. For starting off life as such tough guys, you dolls do like to cry." And with that she laughed. She actually laughed. I stepped out of the Chef's office. Eyes quickly took me in and just as quickly averted. I must have looked the horror. Lilly had made no effort to even close her door. Everyone one heard every last moment; quite by design I suspect. It was the fear and humiliation inflicted by someone with no fear of consequence. This was how Chef Lilly kept everyone in line. They all know if they fall out of favor for a moment, it could be one of them who is in there next. What kind of place was this? How did a chef hold so much power? I was beginning to suspect I was in a worse position than I started. I stumbled into the hallway, my knees weak, my mouth and bottom aching from the angry abuse. Standing not far away were my two new security shadows. Had they heard everything as well? It would be impossible to know from their faces which were impassive masks. I couldn't think about them now. Making it to the bathroom, I leaned against the wall and slid down into a slump as I let what just happen sink in. I could barely say it to myself, but forced myself to anyway "I was ... I was raped. I was just gang raped." This time, I burst into uncontrollable sobs. How did I ever get into such an insane position? The question was rhetorical. I knew exactly how. And why. ***************** Part 2: The Cells Weeks ago: It is said even the most unusual circumstances, after a time, can become normal. I defy the person who coined that particular sentiment to find any sense of normal in the life I find myself currently. It was not normal and would never be so. That is not to say that it couldn't be routine. The days here, time here, moved to a predictable rhythm. I woke up slowly as I always did. I suspected it was my sanity's way of hanging on to the much more pleasant world of dreams. And like every morning, I woke wearing shoes. Not just any shoes; the shoes I wore around the clock were high arching, nearly five and a half inch wedges. This meant my daily routine started by massaging my feet carefully to make sure they didn't cramp. Foot cramps were a major issue around here. I didn't strictly have to sleep in these heels, of course, but I feared getting up in the middle of the night to go the bathroom and, woozy with sleep, forgetting to put my shoes on. Or, that I may roll from this narrow bunk in during one of my frequent night terrors and instinctively plant my bare feet to catch myself. The very first lesson you learn here is you do not touch the floors. Working my feet carefully in my hands, I stared down at the floor today, as I did every day. It was in a way mesmerizing, especially the manner that it sparkled in the early light. The sadistic nature of its design could almost be called ingenious, if not for cruelty in its intent. The cement itself was jagged and sharp, and imbedded into the cement were tiny sharp objects of every conceivable nature: tacks, nails, glass, rocks, razors, and other bits of metal I was unable to identify. These torture traps were given the apt name of "razor floors." We are told this is a control measure. For this floor, as was everything belonging to this giant gray humorless cinderblock building, was that of a women's prison situated off the coast of some Central American backwater. Which backwater exactly is frustratingly difficult to pin down; our "hosts", as they insist on being called, aren't exactly fountains of information. They claim the impractically high heels and razor floors were used to limit the mobility of the highly dangerous female prisoners who were once housed here. But I often wondered just how dangerous a female prisoner would need to be to merit this level of security. I had certainly never heard of such radical measures being used for women, or for that matter, men before. Putting aside the stomach turning human rights issues a prison such as this brings to mind, this all would be fine. The goings on of women's third world prisons were really not my concern, as I am neither a prisoner, nor female. But here I find myself putting in a great deal of effort making sure I appear to be both. I heard stirring from the bunk of above me. Wendy was waking. Although I could not see her, I had seen her wake enough times to know her pale green eyes were still half open under those floppy reddish locks, adjusting to the barely visible light of the early morning hours. The blankets would still be pulled up to her chin hiding skin that was such a sunless, yet pleasantly attractive, pale that it was a little surprising that it didn't give off a glow. Wendy was what is known here as a "genetic". As much as possible, in each of the many cells a genetic was teamed with someone like me, a male who used the female form as a disguise. I imagine in some cells this lead to amourous pairings, although knowing the cameras were on us at all times may inhibit that a bit. But people are people, and we have been here a very long while now. "Good morning Sunshine." My greeting to her was a largely friendly sarcasm, for she was anything but sunny, "Good morning Princess." Her nickname for me, "Princess" or "Princess Bree", sounded amusing to some, to others a bit nasty. From day to day I was never entirely sure myself. Wendy spoke in that straightforward, often caustic manner, common to Boston working class Irish. Her father worked in a beer bottling plant and her mother, the educated one, was a secretary for a hit and run lawyer. They shaped her view of the world to be a narrow one compared to a Los Angeles native like myself. And Wendy's view of gender roles and sexuality was even narrower still. To find herself in this situation was hard enough; it was for us all. But to find herself trapped in a world full of dolls, whether we were willing participants or not, ate at her like a slow cancer. With a yawn, she asked, "What time do you think it is?" I shrugged, then realized just because I could picture her clearly up there, does not mean she would be able to see me, "I'm not sure. It's still a bit dark. I suspect it is before six?" It was a much a question as a statement. There were no watches or clocks here. "Wonderful," was her answer, although she didn't sound wonderful at all, "I am grabbing a little more sleep." After a quick bit of shifting, her heavy breathing told me she had indeed gone back to sleep. I had miscalculated the time I realized as the lights burst on, suddenly and blindingly, shortly after Wendy returned to sleep. Wendy groaned disapprovingly at me as though I was the one who controlled the rotation of the Earth, "Princess you said it was before six," I had quick laugh, "I said wrong apparently. Now up and at 'em Sunshine. Our host will be here shortly." As true as my word, the metal door on the western side of the cell slid open noisily. A woman, tall with black flowing hair and steely brown eyes, strode toward our bunks with a great sense of purpose. Her uniform of a fitted gray jacket, tight black stretch pants, and black impractically high, high heeled boots gave off a decidedly militaristic, even fascist vibe, despite it being decidedly feminine in cut. It was not anything a prison guard in the US would be wearing. But Anke was no prison guard as she reminded us countless times. She was our host. Her job, as she described it, was to make sure we remained safe. And that safety, first and foremost in her mind and those who ran this place, began with hiding us from the rebels. "Bree. Wendy. Good morning. It is time to start our day. Wendy you will assist with Bree today in the changing room. Come with me please," Her tone was always formal even when trying to sound casual. She was from the Netherlands and her accent was quite prominent. I was never certain if this linguistic formality, and her tendency to speak in direct sentences, arose from her disposition or her style of speaking English. I suspected a little of both. Wendy and I started in on her immediately, "I didn't hear any gunfire last night, does that mean the rebels have moved on?" I asked. Before she could take a breath Wendy inserted her question, "Which side of the island was the rebel camp? East? Because last time I heard shots from the east." This was all part of the plan. We relentlessly peppered her with questions day in, day out, purposely designed to test the information we'd be given before. Because as calm and professional as our host Anke Janssen may be, we occasionally moved her off her talking points and got a nugget of information that was new, or didn't quite sit right with what we were told before. This morning she seem unperturbed and very much on script, perhaps she had grown used to our tactic, "You have never heard gunshots from the east. The ocean lies over the mountains to the east. We do not know what direction the rebel camp resides, other than, as I said, it can not be to the east. Lack of gunfire last night or not, this is a rebel stronghold and they are unlikely to move on until the government brings in major forces to clear this island. The rebels do not negotiate. They are killers." Making reference to an anti government group known to terrorize parts of Central America, I tossed in another question, "So these Red Fist are tough customers," Our host smiled, "I did not say they were 'Red Fist'. We call them simply 'rebels' for that is what they are. Whatever this group calls itself, does not matter, we do not give them the respect to use their illegal monikers." She sidestepped the question expertly, neither confirming or denying. Anke may be holding steady, but we were unfazed, Wendy went straight to the heart of the matter, "Do you know what I've never understood? How the rebels can keep attacking tour busses on the mainland, month after month, year after year, yet the survivors of the attack always seem to find themselves on this island in the middle of ... somewhere ... you never do tell us." Anke interjected, she seemed disinterested in playing the game this morning, "Keeping certain things from you is for your own safety, and the safety of everyone here, in case you are caught and interrogated. This is why we won't tell you where you are, or even which country." She sounded almost bored. In an almost robotic manner, she continued into the spiel we had heard countless times. I almost marveled in the fact she is willing to retell it, knowing how many times we've heard it. We listened closely for any changes or variations that would help give us some clues, "The rebels are targeting and attacking foreign tourist buses in in the region in the hope to cripple the country's tourism revenue. The reason you've not heard about this in your news at home, is we prefer to keep it quiet. The government's military repels many of the criminal insurgents, but at a great cost, although I have no fear, we, our government, will ultimately prevail in the end. When we find survivors from the attacks we bring you here, offshore to this women's prison because it has the only medical facilities in the area able to handle these numbers of people who often as not arrive injured. Here you will be safe. "That said," she continued, "a facility of this sort could be used to house weapons, soldiers, or any other manner of things that would make the rebels uncomfortable. As you have seen on occasion, they make sure that is not happening by conducting sweeps, or inspections, if you will. We can not spare the soldiers to stop them, so we allow this. For now. It is also the reason we are forced to disguise everyone, men included, as female prisoners and pretend this is a still operational facility despite being closed some time ago. If they ever find out differently, they will kill everyone within these walls. The first rule for getting everyone out of here and home safely is to keep everyone alive." The answer had not varied an iota. I was almost willing to bet the cadence was similar to the last time it she told it. Her change in tone, although subtle, told us question time was over, "Now, let us go to the changing rooms." *********** From the design, it looked as though the changing rooms were once exactly that, a locker room, although one much different than any I had been in previously. It was in some ways nicer than locker rooms I had seen for professional sports teams. For starters, it was roomier with huge lockers and individual benches and a square of plush carpet in front of each. The floor here, as with a few limited places around the facility, was not the jagged dangerous cement, but a hard smooth tile. The ceilings were high, with rows of lighting overhead making the entire place both airy and very bright. The walls not housing lockers were covered in mirrors, each individually lit. Everything was painted a bright white contrasting with the gray cinder block colored cells. The showers were clean with semi opaque separators to give a modicum of privacy, allowing both genetics and dolls to use the same showers without concern, not that the people who ran this place cared. Off of the main area were other rooms which now functioned as mini makeover salons, used most heavily by the so-called Level Reds and Yellows, although other levels would occasionally be made to go in for maintenance hair trims or manicures. Only the guard station and locked weapons lockers in the corners of this multi room area served as reminder of where they actually were. I often wondered what the rebels made of such a place when doing their inspections or if they were somehow able to hide it completely. It was certainly drastically out of sync with everything else in this building and contained things far more difficult to explain than simply weapons. But whatever purpose this room once served it was now, as we would say with sarcastic pointed antipathy, where the "magic happened." And in the very rare moments I allowed myself to be detached enough, I had to admit there was more than a bit of magic involved. This was the place where they pulled, prodded, poked, pushed, primped and painted, until men became a working facsimile of women. Not that it was as difficult now for me as it was when I arrived. Looking in one of the countless mirrors that hung in this room, I could see the noticeable differences. I was thinner, much thinner. My body was clean shaven as were my legs, although, these days I grew close to no body hair at all. And were it visible through my panties, a little neatly shaped triangle would be seen as all that remained of my pubic hair. The hair on my head was long enough now that I no longer required a wig. Even now, with hair freshly wet from the shower, it was not difficult to see that it had been styled into a decidedly feminine manner, curling underneath my chin. When dry, the bangs and curls would help drastically minimize both my forehead and give the illusion of a much thinner face. My nails, both toes and fingers, were longer and manicured in the french tip style with an overall slightly pinkish hue. My eyebrows were plucked into a thin arch. The collagen I injections I was subjected to made my lips full, almost pouty, and my chest would curve into full mounds that swayed and moved with my body with the help of padded bra and breast pads. I sat down in front of one of the lockers and pulled out a blow dryer, and began drying my hair. I then carefully combed it into place. My sandy blonde locks were styled and full by the finish. I looked across the room seeing many others involved in the various phases of getting ready. Dolls sat undressed, save a pair of pink thongs, on each of the benches in this massive room. The genetics, standing behind each of the sitting dolls, as Wendy grudgingly did now, assisted in small and big ways depending on how much help was needed. To an unknowing eye it would look like a huge troupe of chorus girls, readying themselves for a show. In some ways that would be an apt description. Wendy was prodding me to move quicker. Of all the places in the building, this one made her the most uncomfortable. But I was reluctant to do so. Just to sit here, not wearing impossibly high heels for just a moment, not to be belted and pulled into all the shapewear that sat in front of me, was welcome a relief. Wendy could intellectualize the discomfort in all of this, of course, perhaps she has worn similar at one point or another. But I guarantee nothing she wore would have needed to be as tightly pulled and cinched as it did when I wore it. I brought out the coffee color hose, pointed my foot downward, and carefully slid them up slowly across my carefully manicured feet and my freshly shaved legs. In spite of the emasculating purpose it served, I had to secretly admit it was one of the sensations that I had quite grown to enjoy, as was the feeling of the nylons encasing, almost massaging, my legs. Staring down at my toes through the nylon, I no longer had the mental disconnect I once did when this madness first started. I accepted that these feet, that to the neutral eye would actually be called, "pretty", were mine. I stood up and slid the hose over my butt, and the nylon pulled my ass slightly into place. Wendy began tugging at the corset, tighter and tighter; I suspected there was barely disguised anger behind those tugs. She truly hated this room. My midsection sank into the hour glass form it had been trained to over much time. My waist was actually quite small in this state. I dreaded to think what changes this constant tightening each day had done to my internal workings. I applied the light makeup; a bit of foundation, eyeliner, eyeshadow, lipstick, and mascara. The key was to look like I had makeup, to bring forth my feminine qualities, without attracting attention by being overly made up. This was something I could pull off thankfully easily because my face was hairless this morning, as it had been for countless mornings now. I had long stopped thinking about why it was I no longer had to shave my face, and my legs and body very infrequently. It was their doing, clearly, and I would find out exactly how even if I already knew the why, but I had bigger concerns most days. The duo preparing themselves beside us, looked over their shoulder and quickly moved down a locker. I was about to question this odd behavior with Wendy before the doll Samantha sat down on the newly opened bench with her genetic bunkmate Fiona standing behind her. After working with her make up for a while, Samantha looked at me and said casually, "Your lipstick is a bit blotchy, here, take this." She handed me a napkin from inside the locker. I had just applied my lipstick and could see in the mirror it was near flawless. I opened the napkin just as casually to read the words "New Information. Lunch. Courtyard." I used the napkin to wipe off my lipstick until all the words she had written were obscured, and reapplied my own. Fiona exchanged an instant glance with Wendy to let her know I would be telling her more later. They, like us, were not buying the official line we were being fed, too much didn't add up. And like us, they dug around to find more. Apparently, they had something worth telling us. Since this was Samantha, the prison's information broker we were dealing with, this something would come with a price. Without looking at the pair of girls to my right, I slid my prison shirt over my body. It was closer to a tight mini dress than shirt, and it hung just below my groin area. When wearing heels with this shirt, the only way to move around was in very short steps. Slipping back into my heels with a sigh, I gave myself a look in the mirror. I was what I would called leggy. And, if I allowed myself the truth, I was what I would called attractive. I strode over to the line which was forming at the exit situated by the shower Wendy standing beside me. On both sides of the locked door sat two women on stools. Each newly dressed doll stepped up and was looked over carefully by the two women. Some were sent back to improve something wrong with their makeup or wardrobe, but all were assigned their levels for the day. In this world of restricted movement, levels were everything. There were an entire host of colors, but the important ones were those of the basic traffic system: Green, Yellow and Red. Level Green was the "best" rating, it meant that you looked the most feminine, most like a woman. It was also the level that allowed you access to the library, the lounge, the nicer lunch room and importantly, the courtyard, the only place you would see the sun. Like everything we were told it was a another precautionary measure. The prison must look populated to the rebels looking in on it from the mountains or when they did the occasional fly over in the glorified crop dusters they called planes. Our hosts populated the areas with windows, which, coincidentally or not, happened to be the nicer areas of the prison with genetics and dolls that would stand up to the scrutiny of a set of binoculars. But we suspected it was more than that. In a whispered conversation some months ago in the courtyard, Samantha hit the nail on the head. "If that were really the case," she surmised, "they would simply fill these places with genetics only, there are more than enough. I've been told off record its a motivation tool. The harder we try to be like women, the more privileges we get." Wendy made another astute observation that day, "and notice how the cell mates, the genetics cell mates I mean, also are assigned the same level as their doll. That makes no sense. Genetics always look like genetics. Unless, of course, it is a form of punishment meant to spurn both the doll and genetic into playing along." "Ahhhh," I said at this point, "it is one thing for me to say 'screw this' and sit in the bowels of this place and never see the sun. But it would be tough for me to do that to you because I refused to do what was needed." The care the women took in inspecting each doll meant the line moved slowly. When it was my turn to be looked over by the rating women, they started at the very tip of my feet and worked their way up, dwelling particularly on my face. After a moment, the older of the two said, "Green". I sighed with relief. I could see Wendy was pleased. I had been a Green for going on ten weeks now without fail. I looked back over to the bench where Samantha sat and gave her a quick wink to show we were on. Samantha, a small framed Filipino who I imagine walked through the door practically as a Green, hell, maybe even lived that way in the real world, gave a half nod of acknowledgement. We would now all be able to meet this afternoon in the courtyard for lunch. ******* The courtyard was one of the places where the absurdity of the situation was on full display. Moving about in a manner of well practiced femininity, were perhaps fifteen dolls and their bunkmates, sitting chatting, smiling, generally performing as they were expected to. It looked to be a quite happy scene, these women in their short, low cut tight shirt dresses and attention grabbing high heels - not to mention the perfectly crossed legs, table manners, and highly practiced feminine flips of the hair. The smiles, the dresses, the heels, the general attitude of frivolity was not what you would expect to see from women ... highly dangerous women .... held in captivity. Wouldn't there at least be a few hardened butch types in such a group? More than a few? And it struck me most that the rebels looking in beyond these walls would find it equally absurd as well. Yet somehow they didn't. Or we were led to believe they didn't. We spotted Samantha and Fiona across the yard. Samantha was holding a brown bag lunch issued for outdoor meals in one hand and her flimsy spork in the other. She moved from table to table, greeting some, engaging in lengthy conversations with others. Even in a world where it was often very difficult to determine the genetic girls from the rest, Samantha was one of the hardest. While the rest of us dolls, despite the countless hours of voice training and other classes forced on us "for our safety" which taught us to mimic femininity, would all occasionally slip, Samantha never did. For her it seemed to come naturally. Even the way she was perched in her unnaturally high heels spoke to a lightness and comfort in them most of the genetics didn't posses. Ostensibly, we were all on the same side looking for answers, but Samantha went about it in a much different fashion. Answers were not the only thing she sought. Power, to be queen bee in this tiny enclosed world was the other. Samantha's bought power with favors, she traded in them heavily. Trading favors got her information, contraband and our hosts to often look the other way while she did things others would never be allowed. And while we were not sure what favors she traded with those who held the reins, she made no bones about the price she asked us in exchange. It was unquestionably quite steep, but it was something we paid, however bitterly. We would do anything as long as it meant being one step closer to being rid of this place. We waited for Samantha to do her rounds and worked our way around to one of the open table on the far side of the yard, sitting down as if our pairs had arrived independently. I eyed Samantha from across the table. She was a pillar of confidence. In many of the cell pairings, the genetic female was the more dominant and assured as they were living a life and not playing a role. It was the dolls who looked upon the genetics with respect, taking cues on acting, speaking and moving from the real girls. In this scenario it was clear Samantha held the power. But not just with Fiona, but the much of the prison over all. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the hosts were also in her debt in one respect or another. Doll or not, she was the undisputed alpha female, and went through a great deal of effort to remain that way. She proved the old adage that information was power. We sat down and made small talk for a few moments, but got down to business shortly. Turning her back slightly to make it difficult for others at the table to hear, Samantha spoke in low tones, "We found something good. Really big." "How big?" Wendy asked. She eyed Samantha warily. There was an unease and tension in their relationship. The way Samantha morphed into this role of female, so convincingly, so easily, pushed against Wendy's moral compass. It was not hard to believe that for Samantha that this was no forced change, she enjoyed it this way. Samantha had picked up on Wendy's discomfort with her some months ago, although never one to think something when she could say it aloud, it was not difficult to know how Wendy felt about much. I imagined this barely disguised disgust made Wendy's having to pay Samantha's price, that much better for the latter. It was a confirmation of power; a reaffirming of the prison's hierarchy. "What are you asking for this info?" Wendy knew the answer before she asked the question. "Patience dear, patience. This isn't just 'information'. It is a revelation. I would call it an absolute game changer," Samantha waved her spork around for emphasis as she spoke. "Game changer is not descriptive enough, throwing 'absolute' in front of it or not", I added, "since you'll want your payment ..." I shot Wendy a look, but her eyes were green laser beams locked on Samantha's. I started again, "Since you always ask for your payment in advance. You'll have to give us a little bit more." Understanding, Samantha stood up and beckoned us to follow. She circled around the courtyard past the women having their lunch until she reached the towering chain link fence. "See that?" She pointed to a huge house sitting far off in the distance. "That," she said stressing the word, "is part of this. And I don't mean a part of this place long before we got here, as they keep telling us. I mean it is a part of what goes on here now." She paused to let the information sink in, "And let's just call that the tip of the iceberg." Samantha's smile stopped just short of smug. She was right. This was big information in a world where every scrap is valuable. We often looked upon that mansion in the distance wondering if it could provide the key to our escape. Maybe if we could just get there, then sane, normal people, would help us along our way. If not, perhaps there were cars to steal. Phones to use. Maps. Boats. Anything. It presented far better odds than sitting in these cells. When we questioned our hosts about this house, they gave us vague unsatisfactory answers about it being an old, abandoned warden's house. But I suspect even in the most corrupt of places in the world, no warden's house was that palatial. It was difficult to see all of it as the house sat just outside our clear field of vision, but the rooms look countless. And I imagine if we were ever allowed into the courtyard at night, we would find it not abandoned, but fully lit. The expression on Wendy's face told me she was mulling over what we had heard, and measuring it against the toll which would be extracted. "Okay," she said, "so you say this could actually be something. As you say, something big. But just because the house isn't abandoned..." Fiona interrupted this time, her Scottish brogue thick with excitement, "You have no idea how big this is! I'm still in shock ..." Caught by surprise, we all turned and looked at her. Her role in this has always been the same: keeping her mouth sealed while Samantha did what she did best, negotiate and extract favors. We suspected this arrangement was not by choice, she was explicitly warned to do so. Fiona's inability to keep her own counsel and blurt out like that tipped the scale. This must be a doozy. It seemed to make up Wendy's mind, "Ok. You've got a deal. What's the price? If you're going to ask me to - " Samantha held up her hand. "No. Not you. I'm not going to ask you to do anything. I think we'll make it a little different this time. Up the price, so to speak. Same as last time only ..." She turned to me and pointed the spork, "Only this time Bree. It's your turn Princess," using Wendy's nickname for me. I almost laughed. But Samantha's face told this was not in fact not a joke. I looked around the table. Wendy's expression told me nothing. Perhaps she was waiting to see how this played out. Perhaps she was relieved that it was in fact going to be me. Fiona didn't seem surprised by Samantha's statement at all. I tested the water with sarcastic humor to make sure things stood as I believed I heard them, "You do know how to flatter a girl..." She smiled. It was surprisingly warm considering the conversation on the table, but her smiles always did hide the steel of her will, "We do not have much time Bree, and the host doing me the favor will have a shift change soon. Meet me in the stairwell." She wasn't going to give me time to think. She stood and walked straight to the stairwell, her hips swaying in a way that mine never could. Samantha spoke quickly to the host guarding the door before putting something I couldn't see in her hand. The black uniformed woman looked around several times, before unlocking the door and letting Samantha slip in. Wendy and Fiona both remained silent as I rifled my options through my mind at lightning speed. I kept coming back to the same answer: we all have had to make sacrifices. Wendy had made them. I made them every day I get dressed in the morning, every moment I am awake pretending to be a woman. For these type sacrifices to ever end, I was going to have to make another larger one. Fearing Wendy would try to talk me out of it if I told her my decision, I quickly stood up without a word, and made a direct line for the stairwell. The uniformed host let me pass and locked the door behind me. This had been set up some time in advance. There were blankets carefully placed around the stairwell. I wondered not for the first time, or the last, how much pull she had in this prison. As Samantha watched me walk in, a slow, sly smile spread across her face. I wondered if she expected me to come at all. "This will be so worth it to you Bree," Samantha purred, "and not just because of the information." Samantha stepped toward me. She had a liquid grace that reminded me of a river moving languidly through the countryside. Her face was as inviting as any woman's I'd seen, more so, because there was a mischief in her eyes that spoke of secret pleasures. I shook my head in an attempt to free me from the notion. I backed up against the wall. She slid up to my side, her foot escaping her heel, she moved it slowly it up my hosed enclosed leg, the feeling of nylon against nylon felt good. Her hand moved caressingly, knowingly, across top of my bosom. Her head was barely taller than my shoulder; she found it perfect to rest it there. Her long thick black hair smelled of flowery shampoo. She could feel the tightness in my body, "Oh, you've never done this before ... you're a virgin ... this will be nice, I promise. I'm not going to hurt you." Her smile was the warm one I had seen earlier, her eyes were enticing, but gentle. She pressed her lips lightly, and teasingly, against mine, then pulled away coquettishly and whispered, "Such nice full lips. Perfect for what I'm going to slide between them." She took my face in both of her hands, her voice oddly serious, "I like you, I really do. I'm going to teach what you need to succeed here. To do what needs to be done when you learn what I'm going to tell you. You, Princess, are going to learn to fuck like the woman you are. No, even more than the woman you are." She stepped out of her shirt dress, sliding her panties down seductively. She was a tiny doll with a body that would be declared womanly in spite of her gender, with a noted exception. I was shocked to see such a large penis dangling from that little girl. She spoke to me in low hypnotic, soothing tones. She was teaching me, "Lesson one, make them believe you are loving it," She placed her hand on the back of my head and gently guided me to my knees before her stiffening rod. "Savor it," She pushed her shaft just in the opening of my mouth, before pulling it out, "You have to lick it, you have to love it Princess." There was a seductive, mesmerizing truth to her words. I could feel the sincerity. She was equipping me with the skills to manipulate others, the skills escape this place. I fell into her truthful spell and took her dick into my hand firmly yet gently stroking it back and forth until it roared into full hardness. I let my tongue dance around the head of dick, before licking the underside. My free hand tickled her sack, rolling her balls in my fingers. I parted my thick lips, and pressing firmly, slid them down the length of her rod, and back up again. I moved my wet mouth back and forth for some minutes, until Samantha let out a low girlish moan, "That's my Princess ... now let's teach you the real stuff." She slid behind me pushing me onto all fours, "Remember you're hungry, you want this cock," She reached under a blanket and produced some lubricant, spreading it over her finger and inserting it into my ass, moving it in and out slowly, before slipping in a second, maintaining the same rhythm. "Moan a little Princess, be inviting. Make me believe no one will fuck me like you. Now get ready and relax," There was a slight sudden bolt of pain as she put three fingers together and shoved them in my hole, but it went away quickly as I relaxed the best I could, letting the fingers slide in and out easily. Satisfied I was ready, Samantha pushed her engorged shaft to the tip of my canal and pushed into the opening. She was inside me. She pushed gently deeper, and to my great surprise it felt good. Blood rushed to my own penis as it stiffened in response. I moaned, this time with true pleasure as my sphincter relaxed. Samantha reared back, slipping her cock all the way in me, filling my ass with an, until now, unknown pleasure. I moaned again, this time loudly, lustily. "That's it Princess, now push back, sway in time with me, squeeze on my dick every time I push it in you. Fuck me good girl." Both Samantha's hands were now on my hips, she reared back, and shoved her rod in and out of me with abandon, her hips pounding against my buttcheeks. I shoved back to meet her thrusting cock, clenching my ass cheeks tightly around her dick as it pressed pleasurably against the sensitive walls of my canal. I groaned with ecstasy, throatily urging the lithe womanly doll to shove her thick pole deeper into my hole, "That's it," I almost sung out, "that's it, that's right, fuck me Samantha, fuck me good! I want you in me! Deeper, deeper!" Samantha's hands dug into my hips and she shoved her dick into me as deeply as she could in one final thrust. Her dick pulsated as she ejaculated, shooting sperm into my tight hole, wave after wave. I squeezed my ass tightly until every drop was left inside me. Then I pushed forward and her now limp dick fell from my ass. I turned toward her and launched toward her, giving her a deep, long, lusty kiss, stroking her hair with my hand almost lovingly. "Thank you," I whispered, "you're wonderful." Samantha smiled. Even so, her eyes narrowed with curiosity. I could see her trying to determine how much of that was acting per her lessons, and how much of that was real. I was saying nothing ... in truth I wasn't certain myself .... I would leave her to guess. "Samantha I think that could be called payment in full." I was mildly surprised to hear I was still speaking in seductive tones, "Now tell me what you know." And she did. Samantha laid it out in more fantastic, barely believable, detail than I expected, but she had facts and a steady drumbeat of logic to back up what she was saying. When she finished, I realized my mouth had fallen open. ****************** The primary thing captivity teaches you is patience. And no matter how incredible the information I had on hand was, it was going to have to wait. When I returned from the stairwell it was immediately time to launch into the routine for the remainder of day. The hosts were already clearing the courtyard and I managed to barely slide into the throng moving for the main door into the building. It could be hours before I was able to tell Wendy what I learned. With all the cameras inside and the sheer number of hosts moving about, I didn't dare risk it. I also welcomed locking my day into a very pre-programmed schedule. I didn't feel like talking to Wendy about what happened with Samantha at the moment, even if I was bursting at the seams to tell her what information I learned. I needed to sort out the feelings I had in stairwell, and exactly what that meant. I had moaned with true pleasure at the feel of that woman's shaft inside me and I felt dirty, confused, and more than a little guilty. I also felt like a new door had been opened. My silence on the matter didn't stop Wendy's eyes constantly searching me for a glimpse of my internal workings. I couldn't imagine how the Boston bottling plant worker's daughter, and her discomfort with with dolls in general, felt about two dolls engaged in carnal union together - voluntary on my part or not. The length of my time behind these walls, and the number of consecutive weeks I'd been a Green meant there were certain classes designed for the lower levels I wouldn't have to attend, but in their place more advanced training was to be had. And while some classes like Heel Training were beneficial for both genetics and dolls alike - bandaged hands and legs covering severe cuts from falling down was not exclusive to dolls - others could be considered a waste of time for genetics, like Voice Training. But cell mates were treated as an inseparable pair, what one did, the other did as well. The only course which seemed to be enjoyable to both was a cross between improv and acting class called "Realism Course". It was one of the few places genuine laughs were to be had. In this class, the girls were asked to act out specific situations and critiqued by instructors on every minute detail. For the dolls the emphasis was less on the ability to act, but the ability to remain in perfect female character. So counterintuitively, there were times when a doll would get high marks for an extremely poorly acted scene because she looked and acted just like a real woman doing a poorly acted scene. The mid afternoon saw us back in the changing room getting make up freshened and, in most cases, an agonizing tightening of the corset. There were only a few of the very best greens like Samantha, who could navigate an entire day with a touch up, even without a speck of makeup she looked the part. I welcomed this mid day break because it was a rare opportunity to kick off my heels again and rub my feet. Reds and Yellows, who I saw less and less of these days as I was given more privilege to move around in the less restricted areas, could find themselves spending every moment they weren't actively in training or classes, back in the changing room. The rest of the day moved in the steady routine it had most, ending with the abrupt sound of cell doors locking and the lights going dark. "Wendy," I whispered when the dark was upon us, hoping she would follow my lead, "I think its time that I paid you a visit on that top bunk of yours Sunshine. I'm feeling a bit lonely." Wendy was quiet for a very long time. I suspected even if she understood what I was trying to convey, she was not anxious to have a doll crawl under her covers, friend or not, if she didn't have to, "Come on up Princess." I moved into the top bunk nestling behind Wendy, spooning. Lying on top of her would have been better, easier to get my mouth right next to ear, but I felt it would be too much. I began to move my hips back and forth pushing my penis against her panty clad rear in a simulated act of sex, while she, taking the cue, moaned to cover the sounds of my whispering. I was growing hard as my cock shoved up against her firm yet soft bottom, but I didn't care, what I had to say was too important for minor feelings of embarrassment to get in the way. When her fake moans became loud enough, I told her what I learned in the stairwell. I didn't dare say too much at once and only hit a couple of the high points, "Before Anke was a host she was one of us, a prisoner. They all were, all the hosts. It's part of the reason no one here is actually Central American. French, Dutch, English, Canadian, German, sure, but you'll notice, few latinas. Like us, they were all foreign tourists at the start." Wendy stopped abruptly, shocked by the news. We had previously bought into line that the hosts were hand picked internationals, and not locals, to avoid rebel influence or spies. I prodded her in the back with my finger to keep going, her undulating started anew, more vigorously pushing against me. My stiffened cock could not hold on, and in spite of myself, I spilled my load into my panties, wetting her back with my sticky sperm. I could feel myself turn flush. At least it would look real for the cameras if they were watching. I put my shame aside and continued to tell her a tiny part of what I learned, "And that house is where they train dolls to take over running this place. And if we play our cards right, it is also our guaranteed way out." Wendy let out a loud half moan half scream, her entire body shuddering orgasmically. If I didn't know better, I would have sworn she actually climaxed. ************************ Part 3: Rebels Something was different. Very different. We walked into the courtyard to find the dolls and genetics not seated or milling about, but standing silently watchful by the fence. Standing among them, 40 strong, were hosts, each wearing pistols instead of the usual batons they carried. The sing song noise of true women's voices mixing with the carefully practiced mimicry of the dolls that usually rang around the courtyard, was replaced by the sounds of silence; save the birds and occasional animal cry from the hills. I followed their gaze to the mountains. Narrowing my eyes from the sunlight, I took in the full 360 degree view around us. We were nearly surrounded. Populating the rugged hilly terrain enclosing us, were scores of highly armed rebels, sitting, waiting. The alarm felt was palpable, it hung over us like an electric fog. We had all seen rebels before, granted, although not very often. But it was always in the teams of five or six that were allowed to search the prison. Accordingly, we had never been truly sure that the rebel force was as sizeable as described. And the more I had been learning from Samantha about this so-called prison over the past few weeks during our ... information exchanges ... the less I knew to trust anything I was told or even saw. But the artillery, the beat up jeeps, the armed men in their