My name is Marilyn Bergman and I am twenty-nine years old, which seems a little mature to be head over tumbling heels in love, particularly with another woman; but if you've never tried it, don't knock it.
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?"
"I didn't hear any screamin'," one guard said idly. "Seems like there should have been some screamin' if anybody got raped. 'Sides this is a women's prison. How can anybody rape anybody in a women's prison? Takes a man to rape a woman."
"My God," I said, shocked. "This woman is a nun! How could you – even a pair of meat-headed bulls like you – have allowed this to happen to her? Are you that fucking corrupt? Don't you have even a particle of shame?"
"What the hell's a nun doing in prison? You're both here to learn your lessons and get punished for your crimes. Ain't neither of you any kind of special case. So don't expect no special treatment. Look at this as lesson number one. And you're not going to the infirmary, either. There's nothing wrong with you, or with that skinny little bitch. Bath of you better turn out for work tomorrow, or you'll wind up in isolation."
"Go fuck yourself!" I snapped back, and I led Angela to our cell. What else could I do? Go to the fucking warden? She was in Bermuda this weekend, discussing prison reform with a lot of other wardens.
I sometimes wonder if Angela and I would have become lovers under any other set of circumstances. I had never laid a finger on another woman before I went to prison, nor had I been fingered. Never. Not even schoolgirls playing around and discovering the mysteries of their budding bodies. I had to learn mine the hard way, all alone. And it was the same with Angela. She was raised in a devout Catholic household in Detroit, and she decided to become a nun when she was about ten. In spite of her brief affair with that professor, she was extremely inexperienced.
"I feel like filth," she said to me in our cell after lights out. Her voice was tiny, a whisper in the darkness.
"No," I told her firmly. "You and I are only victims. Think of us as the last victims of the war, Sister."
"Don't call me that," she said. "I'm leaving my order. Anyway, I couldn't stay in. Not after this…"
"'Sister' as in the sisterhood of women," I corrected her. Down the cellblock I could hear female voices moaning in orgasm. Self-induced, lesbian-stimulated – what did it matter? Those women were cooing and groaning. We'd heard them last night, we'd hear them tomorrow night, and we'd hear them every night we were locked away in this big doll house. Not every woman in prison is a lesbian by choice, but I suppose every Sister participates at least once, even if under compulsion. And if you're fairly young, on the attractive side, you damn sure find out what compulsion is. That gang-bang in the laundry room was standard operating procedure for a can like this. You might even call it a kind of sorority hazing. Ugly and cruel, but it was part of the dues.
I settled back on my bunk, trying to sleep, but she was weeping into her pillow, only partially muffling the little tears and murmurs. She'd taken it much harder than I had, in every meaning of that phrase. The dykes had slapped her around, given her a hell of a reaming with that broom-handle prick, they'd forced her to kneel and lick their cunts down the line, and then they'd punched her around a few more times for good measure. I slipped down from my upper bunk and touched her shoulder in comradeship.
"It's not the end of the world, Sister. Be brave."
"I can't! I'm afraid! Oh, Marilyn, will you sit here with me on the bed? Just let me know that you're close, that you care, that you won't let anything else happen to me."
But the bunk was too low for us to sit comfortably, what with my long legs, and we ended up lying side by side, squeezed closely together on the narrow pallet. Her body was warm and tight against mine, and she squirmed to narrow the already non-existent gap.
"Do you know what this reminds me of? When I was a little girl and afraid of the dark, I'd sometimes get into bed with my mother – especially on nights when Daddy was away, driving his truck. And I'd squeeze up close, and she'd hold me and kiss me and tell me that there was nothing to worry about, that soon the day would come again and I'd laugh in the sunshine. You feel just like Mama, especially your b-b-breasts, Marilyn. They're so full and soft, like a pillow, and – oh, I think everything's going to be okay after all!"
She kissed me on the cheek and in a moment she was asleep, snoring softly, like a child. And I lay in the darkness, shivering despite her warmth, wondering why it pleased me so much to be here with her, my arm around Angela's shoulders, my bare legs rubbing her bare legs, her head resting on my full warm tits, the scent of her clean, scrubbed body filling my nostrils.
We slept together the next night, too, and the night after that. I'm not sure exactly when it happened, but it began and neither of us made any effort to stop. We began with kisses – little innocent ones at first, which soon lost their chastity. One night somebody's hand got active beneath the blanket. I won't say whose. Use your imagination. Was it the back-slidden nun or the leggy Jewish intellectual who made the first move? And I wonder – was that caress of a panty-covered crotch as innocent as it seemed to be at first? How did it turn so quickly into a loving symphony of fingers, and then tongues and lips and by the end of the second week Angela and I were lovers. We slept together every night. When we bothered to sleep, that is. More often it was mouth glued on pussy for hours on end, each of us tongue-lashing the other into eruptions and quakes of orgasm that left us shivering and shaking and soaked in girl-cum and perspiration.
I was a head and a half taller than Angela, and I outweighed her by thirty pounds. In prison terminology, that made me the husband and Angela the wife, though we didn't think of ourselves that way. We were just Angela and Marilyn, and we loved doing it. No wonder I'd thought sex overrated! I'd only tried it with men. And that wasn't sex at all. It was only fucking, and the hell with it!
No one bothered us during the rest of our term. The gang-bang was our initiation, and we paired off inseparably before anyone could try a repeat performance. Of course, I managed to steal a small but wicked paring knife from the kitchen, and I sharpened that cock-sucker till it would cut granite, let alone flesh. It was all the protection we needed. Even the fucking guards left us alone.
Besides, we were model prisoners, as prim and proper and well-behaved as you'd ever want to see. Neither of us wanted to be sent to isolation! The only thing that made my life worthwhile, it seemed, was the feel of Angela's tongue in my cunt each and every night, the marvelous shudders of response I could lick from her slit, the orgasmic convulsions that seemed to flog us both with simultaneous thrills. We hardly heard the sounds of other women making love at night any more, for we were too busy making our own.
We spent a year of our two-year sentence behind bars. Someone decided, apparently, that burning draft records wasn't quite as bad an offense as peddling heroin, and so we got out on parole after twelve months. That entire year we'd spent talking about what we'd do when we were free, how we could be together, but economic realities intervened. Angela already had her Ph.D., and she had some pull, through friends, which got her a teaching position at Boonesfield State U., in Kentucky, despite her criminal record. I had a dissertation to finish. So we separated, but only temporarily. She left her order, becoming simple Angela Scopish again, and she moved to Kentucky. I hustled my ass to Boston and took up living quarters in the Harvard Library while I researched the economic structure of colonial New Hampshire. We wrote each other a lot, and we talked on the phone whenever either of us could afford long distance rates; and at Christmas/Chanukah she flew up to Boston to spend the weekend that should have been an eternity.
We spent that weekend making love after love after love. I didn't ask her if she was being faithful to me, because I respected her individuality and privacy. Besides, I'd been kicking it around occasionally with a couple of women I knew around Cambridge – not because I didn't love Angela any longer, but because I had to do something.
Neither of my part-time friends was very satisfactory, and that pleased me, because it made me pant and yearn all the harder for the day when I'd be with Angela all the time, instead of simply dreaming and wishing and longing. She'd called me long-distance to advise me of an upcoming history vacancy at Boonesfield, and I was hungering for that job with all my heart. Indeed, I took a masochistic pleasure in comparing the poor performances of my sometime lovers with Angela's splendid proficiency in the art of sex.
Men? Well, I had offers. Certainly more than I wanted, and I didn't want any.
And here we were now, Angela and me. Her body warm, soft, cradled against me, my snatch still wet from the honey she'd licked out of it I kissed her as she slept, moistening her lips with the taste of her own cunt, and she stirred fitfully.
"Mmmmmm… mmmmmm… darling Maaarrrkkkk…" I heard her say, and my eyebrows lifted. Mark? Had she really said that? Oh, of course not! It was only an inhalation, a little gasping which punctuated "Marilyn". Nothing else. I kissed her again, and she purred for me, and my hands covered her tiny tits, delighted beyond measure at the supple firmness, yet soft roundness as well, of her little tits. The nipples heated in my palms, and I wanted to wake her for another round of mutual cunt-lapping, but I had that interview at ten in the morning, and I wanted to be bright-eyed and chipper for it. I had best get back to sleep.
"Good night, my love," I whispered across her moist lips.