DISCLAIMER: I have no ownership of Bad Girls or the dialog used at the beginning.
CHALLENGE: Written as part of the 1001 Nights Challenge - breasts
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Sylvia didn't hate her job. Well, for the most part, anyway. It was the daily stupidity, endless complaints, useless paperwork, and thankless tasks that really grated her. Not one of those inmates was worth her time, but she treated them fair enough just to avoid trouble.
And she wasn't even going to start on the staff
It had been eighteen long years of sacrificing her happiness for a pension. Eighteen years of donning the well worn prison uniform, losing all sense of femininity, and trashing her aspirations. She couldn't even remember what she'd dreamed of becoming as a child.
After Bobby went into the funeral business, she'd grabbed the house by its proverbial reigns and taken control. He'd never once thanked her, or even admitted that his lack of career development had forced her to work in the prison that sometimes felt more inviting than their flat.
He hadn't noticed the dark circles that gathered underneath her eyes, or mentioned the stress wrinkles she'd gained after breaking up multiple fights, riots, and sexual assaults. As long as dinner was served, and the scotch bottle never empty; Bobby was a happy man. She let on that their marriage was a happy one, but it was more like a second job than a relationship.
In walked the short haired, university educated wing governor, who acted like she was the bloody savior-even Jesus Christ reincarnate-of Larkhall. She was so green that it was purely nauseating to watch her interact with the staff and smile nervously at the lifers.
Helen Stewart. The name even rolled off her tongue in an ornery fashion, and Sylvia wanted nothing more than to knock her off a block or two. Who did she think she was, coming in thinking that reading a few books would make her better qualified No-sir-ee. At least Sylvia knew better than to wear clothes that competed with Shell Dockley for the most revealing cleavage.
That kind of behavior would appeal to the likes of Nikki Wade. Sylvia shuddered to think of the disgusting and unnatural things the murderous lesbian must have done, and shook her head viciously to clear her mind of such ungodly images. Why hadn't the Number One accepted her proposal of permanently placing all dykes on the block? The inmates shouldn't be forced to socialize with filth, after all.
and yet, the new wing governor had been spending a lot of time with Nikki. Sylvia played dumb, but had begun keeping track of the times the inmate was called into Helen's office. Five times last week, twice the week before; it was almost becoming a daily escort. She couldn't exactly hear what was going on, but she swore it was more than just prison talk.
She'd seen the looks, heard the whispers, and wondered what they were up to. For weeks she'd suspected, but never had proof.
Finally, one afternoon, she watched as Helen followed Nikki into the potting shed and shut the door. After giving the two women some time to settle, Sylvia quickly walked down the path and peered in through the window just in time to see Nikki place Helen's hand on her breasts.
The reddish hue that creped up the wing governor's neck was unmistakable, as was the jaw clenching, eye brow raising, nail biting expression that covered Helen's face once she caught Sylvia's eye. She finally had one on Helen.
Sylvia didn't stay any longer. With almost a skip in her step, she walked back inside the prison, up the steps, and into the Number One's office.
"Now Sir, I don't mean to pry, and you know I'm not one for gossip "
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