I walked up three steps outside the gloomy looking building into a hallway that was so, so typical of government owned properties, beige, tatty, threadbare cheap carpet, peeling paint and a noticeboard saying in directive terms what is not allowed. A glass screen opened beside me and a dowdy woman with blonde hair (greying roots) and ridiculous glasses with blue-tinted lenses peered myopically at me.

“You, Tatton?”

“No.”

“Well, who are you then?”

“I am Lady Emily Cawston-Tatton.”

“Oh, pardon me, my lady.” There was no hint of apology. In fact, there was a sneer. She read something from her desk. “Six month’s residence in this offender resettlement hostel. You’re sharing with Bailey.”

“Sharing? Darling, I have a fucking castle only six miles outside town. Why can't I stay there?”

“Because, darling, the parole board says you stay here. Make your mind up or it’s back to the nick for you. I don’t care either way.”

Cow. It was true I had a castle, not exactly Windsor but twenty bedrooms, sixteen bathrooms, a ballroom, staff quarters and a few sitting and so on rooms. I’d inherited it from my embittered Uncle Hugo, second son of the late Duke of Bristolshire. The main home had passed to his older brother, my father, along with the title. Uncle Hugo was by far the cleverer of the two brothers but, since he’d been delivered of his mother’s womb thirty-four minutes after his twin brother, by dint of the rule of primogeniture, my useless Pops had got the Dukedom and most of the fortune which was so big even his incompetence hadn’t been able to lose it all. Hugo had not only left me his castle. I’d inherited a business which was hugely successful along with substantial wealth thanks to darling Hugo’s acumen.

The business was run for me by Amelia Fitzroberts, herself a wealthy widow, not long retired from her own business and whom I had met at one of the hunt balls I had hosted before my little recent brush with the law. She had fucked and buggered me rather vigorously in my bedroom that evening. I decided then that a woman who goes to the hunt ball with a strapon in her handbag was a woman who was accustomed to seizing the opportunity and would be perfect for running my company so I could do what the fuck I wanted.

My happy life of luxury was brought to an abrupt end as a result of the death of Gordon Jessop, farmworker and drunk. I’d been having some problems with poachers, particularly of my deer and I was out one evening with a Purdy (one of a matched pair, thanks again, Hugo!) when I’d caught a glimpse of a figure and loosed off two barrels in an attempt to scare the poacher off. Sadly, my aim wasn’t quite up to the task (I blame the light) and caught Jessop full in the chest.

I might have got away with it. I told the police that Jessop had come at me, grabbed me and tried to get his cock out and rape me when the gun had gone off. This was brought into doubt when it was revealed that said Jessop had had a nasty encounter with a baling machine which had torn his testicles off and rendered him unsuitable for any sort of sexual activity, consensual or not.

Manslaughter was the verdict, rather than murder and my barrister assured me that wearing the little black dress had spared me the murder verdict since a woman of my age (forty) cuts a sad figure in widow’s weeds. It had seemed to work. The Judge sent me down for seven years. Here I was, three and half years later and out on parole.

“Right. Show me to my room.”

“Three flights up, third door on the right. Oh, and you’ll need these.” She handed me a bundle of cheap clothes. “Uniform. You start at Paulita’s restaurant tomorrow at lunchtime.”

“Explain.”

“We got you a job, your majesty. See how the other half lives. You’ve got a shirt and trousers and shoes, all black and, yes, the trouser cuffs are wide enough to hide your ankle watch.” I’d been given the additional humiliation of an electronic tag on top of everything else. She gave a mirthless smile.

“Oh, and no men, no visitors, no booze and no smoking.”

Having ascended the staircase and found the room, I knocked on the door.

“Fuck off!” I opened the door. A blond woman in a t-shirt and grey joggers was slumped in a chair. “I said, fuck off.”

“Yes, I heard. Not quite the way to welcome one’s new cellmate I’d have said. I’m Emily.”

“Your bed is the one on the left.” She hadn’t even looked at me. “Don’t snore, don’t fart and don’t ever touch any of my stuff.”

I sat down. Prison holds few fears for someone who went to a girls’ boarding school where the bullies were smaller, and the food was worse. Those were pretty much the only differences. “Okay, I get that your pissed off having to share but so am I. I’d very much appreciate it if we could try to rub along.”

She turned slowly to take a look, took in my dress, the tag and the heels. “Hmm, I bet you were popular in the nick. Get a big mama to look after you, did you? Rub along? Careful what you wish for.”

“As it happens, I didn’t have a ‘mama.’ But then, I don’t need looking after.” This was true, thanks to the inappropriately named Bella Combe, our large and ugly PE teacher at school. She had taught us martial arts amongst other things, and I had excelled despite my slight frame.

Bailey was straight. Disappointing, I know but she was and that was that. I’d had a few moments of delight during my time in the three prisons I’d been sent to during my incarceration. One was with a real thug called Billy.

~

“That’s my seat.” I looked up. Quite a few of us were gathered to watch a film. I have no idea what the film was, but I do know I’d never have gone to see it in ‘real’ life but any distraction from prison life was welcome. Seats assume disproportionate importance inside. People, some people anyway, use them as status symbols. The woman looking down at me, feet slightly apart, hands hanging like a real fighter’s, was very masculine but I found myself thinking, wow. I knew of her. Known as Billy, she was a ‘capo,’ one of the bosses. Since everyone wears pretty much the same stuff (T-shirt and joggers and trainers), a body shape assumes a different importance and hers was hard, athletic and her face could have been a lot worse. Now, I’m not the biggest fan of tattoos but they are increasingly prevalent and hers were at least tasteful and artistic.

Fight or climb down? That was my dilemma and I didn’t have a lot of time to decide. I stood up.

“Then you’d better have it.” She was about four inches taller than I and I looked up into her eyes, smiling. Eye contact is another thing. It gets some people wired, others enjoy it. She enjoyed it.

“Thanks, posh girl.” She pointed to the seat next to it. “You can sit here.”

“No, thanks. I don’t think I want to watch the film anyway.”

“I said, sit here.”

“I heard.”

I turned to leave and felt a strong hand on my shoulder. Thanks to Miss Combe I was pretty sure I’d win if it got to a fight but, hey, who needs a fight?

“Okay, I’ll sit but, if I hate the film, I’ll never speak to you again.”

She laughed. “You’ll enjoy it.”

It was a shit film but, no sooner had the lights gone down than her hand had too, inside my joggers. I leaned and whispered, “Isn’t it traditional to kiss before fingering?”

“Time,” she said quietly, “is of the essence.” Her finger wormed its way into my cunt.

“Do we have to watch this crap?”

“We’ll go when I am ready.”

She was ready pretty quickly. She took my hand in a powerful grip and stood up, leading me out of the theatre and into a side room. Her joggers came down as soon as were there. Hefting herself up onto a table and spreading her legs, she said, “Come on, posh girl, tongue time for Billy.”

I could have said no. I could have left her and there would have been a fight that I’d probably have won but, well, it had been a while since I’d tasted cunt and, it has to be said, hers looked pretty inviting so, eagerly, I got down on my knees and gave her my best efforts. She seemed to enjoy those efforts because she took to me and I became her girlfriend. I was, I admit, sad when she was moved to another prison. She knew how to fuck a woman.

~

I stuck the hostel and the job for the six months. Bailey turned out to be ok and we formed a sort of friendship, a friendship that was strengthened by the fact that I was adept at smuggling vodka into the hostel and sharing it with her. You see, now, how a boarding school prepares a girl so well for later life.

I lost the tag, left the hostel and, finally, went to live in my own home. I had, for the first time in years, a long, hot bath and a glass of champagne as I wallowed in it. Then I threw away all the clothes I’d had returned after I left the prison and got myself dressed in a good, silk dress with all the underpinnings I had missed during my sentence.

Feeling more like a woman again, the first call I made was to Amelia Fitzroberts. She said she’d come over immediately. On arrival, she gave me a detailed run-down of the fortunes of the business and, satisfied that I was still ludicrously wealthy and hadn’t been ripped off in my absence at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, I called a friend and neighbour, Lilly Caterham.

“Emily, darling. I’m so pleased that your little inconvenience is over. Obviously, I will throw a party to celebrate your return.”

“I felt sure you would! No matchmaking though.”

“As if! Let’s go out to dinner tomorrow and discuss things?”

I agreed and rang off rather hastily because Amelia was running a hand up my stockinged leg and the feel of her nails on the skin above the stocking tops was getting me a bit hot.

“Been a bit deprived, have we?” she asked.

“We have. Sadly, it seems that the justice system doesn’t encourage inmates to fornicate. But, one managed.”

“I’ll bet one did.” Her finger went up the leg of my loose legged, silk shorts and found my cunt. “Still, it would be a shame not to welcome you home properly, and you seem ready.” She licked her finger. “Mmm.”

She stood up, went to her briefcase and extracted a strappy. “It’s the same one I used at the hunt ball. I do love nostalgia.” As she spoke, she was dropping her skirt and strapping herself into the harness, having first positioned the little dildo that went into her. “Would you mind giving this strap a tug, darling, we don’t want it slipping off at the wrong moment, do we?”

I tightened the strap while she removed her blouse and bra. Tightening it obviously put some delightful pressure on the inner dildo because she gave a groan of delight. Her large but firm breasts, topped with large, dark nipples were liberated and she fed me one nipple then the other. I gave them a good suck and a little bite.

“Oh, that always goes straight to my cunt, darling. Now, on your knees and let the dog see the rabbit.” Amelia wasn’t one for extended foreplay. She didn’t want me undressed. “You look so much more slutty with your dress up around your hips and your knicker around your knees.” She pulled said knickers down as she talked. “I’ve often thought about your lovely, tight little arse while you’ve been away. I wondered if anyone had had access to it.”

“Disappointingly not.”

“Well, I can't say I am disappointed. It’ll still be nice and tight for Amelia when I get to it, won't it?”

I’d have agreed but her hand pushed me down so my face was buried in the cushioned back of the sofa and her strappy slid rather forcefully into my cunt. She slapped my arse and was off. Horse women are so good at letting their mount know who is in charge. She curled her body over me and spoke into my ear.

“Since you’ve been away I have had to make do with that little whore who works in the pub. Then the stable girl, do you remember her? The one with long black hair and huge tits. She was talking to arouse herself really but it had a knock-on effect. “Then the vet. She was excellent but didn’t enjoy a slap.” She gave my arse a hard one as if to emphasise the point. “Nor did she like me to take the tradesman’s entrance. So bourgeois.”

All the while, she was thrusting away, her tits slapping my back, her hands everywhere. I thought her tales of her conquests were somewhat exaggerated since she seemed pretty desperate herself.

Frankly, I was getting a bit close to the edge and was hoping she’d push me over it when she stopped.

“Time for me to widen the circle of my friend,” she said with a chuckle. She worked a couple of fingers into my cunt and, satisfied they were wet enough, she pushed one against my arse, gently at first until it overcame my resistance and worked it in. A few stroked with one finger and then she worked the second in. “There we are. God, Emily, you aren’t just tight, you’ve almost healed over. Seems I got to you just in time.”

She eased her fingers out and positioned the tip of her cock. Once again, she curled over me and, gripping one nipple tightly between finger and thumb while the other hand steadied my back, she pushed that lovely, firm rod into me. Once the tip was in, she held it there for a moment or two before slowly, easing the slippery cock into me. I groaned. It hurt rather nicely, enhanced by the fire in my nipple and if I had been close to that precipice before, I was clinging to the edge by my fingertips when she started thrusting again.

She was quieter now, panting and I knew she wasn’t far from the edge either. Her breath was hot on my ear when she released my nipple and the hand reached lower to strum my clit.

That did it for me and I arched and bellowed as my orgasm threw me down the abyss. She wasn’t far behind me and we landed at the bottom with her body on top of me, still impaled in me and her body heaving gulps of air, or was that me?

A few moments later she licked my neck. “Clean me up, darling. That lovely little tongue of yours needs to give me another burst of pleasure.”

How could one refuse?