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  Hardened

  By

  Ashe Barker

  Copyright © 2016 by Stormy Night Publications and Ashe Barker

  Copyright © 2016 by Stormy Night Publications and Ashe Barker

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Barker, Ashe

  Hardened

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Shutterstock/Julia Gurevich and 123RF/rook76

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Chapter One

  Leeds, UK

  June 2010

  Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. My cellmate’s tiny alarm clock counts down the endless stream of empty, torturous seconds, the inexorable creep of time as I wait for nothing at all to happen.

  By now I really should be better able to endure the crushing boredom, but it gets no easier. Twenty-five months, three weeks, and five days have crawled past since I heard the three words that marked the beginning of this mind-numbing existence.

  Take him down. The Honourable Mister Justice Merryweather decided in his wisdom that five years’ imprisonment was about right for my part in the bungled attempt to relieve an inner city sub-post office of its day’s takings. That was fair enough, I suppose, even though my job on that fateful day amounted to no more than stealing a fast motor and making sure I was outside the post office at the right time, engine running.

  The rest of the gang I had hooked up with for that one and only job took it into their heads to take shotguns along though. One warning shot brought down the post office ceiling, along with the full weight of the law, which landed full square on all our heads. No judge will stand for firearms. I appreciate that sentiment now, though my resentment was bitter and real enough at the time.

  I was fucking furious to be picked up by the police two days later and identified by a woman who had pushed her pram past the post office that day and happened to spot me waiting in the souped-up BMW. I remembered her too, pretty enough in a harassed, mumsy sort of a way. I watched her arse all the way down the street while my cock throbbed in my jeans.

  My arrest particularly rankled because I’d performed my part to perfection. It was the rest who screwed up and even then all they needed to do was keep their mouths shut about who had been outside in the car. Like most young hotheads I was convinced I was invincible, too clever to be caught. Maybe I wouldn’t have been, at least not for a while, but for the dickhead who fired into the air, then topped it all off by letting his mask slip and was caught on the CCTV. We got away with over twenty thousand pounds in cash, but with the CCTV evidence it was only a matter of time before the plods rounded us up.

  And speaking of time, I’ve had plenty of it since then, certainly more than enough to reconsider my priorities. My two-and-a-bit years older, wiser, and no doubt mellower self is now ready to acknowledge that his honour had a point when he described our gang as greedy, amoral, and a danger to society. I like to think I’m a reformed character these days, but that remains to be seen. The question will be settled more speedily if I’m successful in convincing the parole board to grant me early release on the grounds of good behaviour and a genuinely remorseful attitude. I’ve had to work on the latter, but I have my parole hearing in a month’s time and I rather think I might pull it off. As for good behaviour, that’s a matter of perspective but I lean toward the view that what the screws don’t see the heart need not grieve over. I manage to stay out of trouble by and large, and give the biggest idiots in this place a wide berth.

  So, I spend most of my time cooped up in my cell, as do all the inmates of HMP Leeds, better known to those of us more intimately acquainted with the establishment as Armley jail. It could be worse; I’ve managed to earn myself enhanced status. This means I get a slightly bigger cell and I’m allowed a radio, books, personal photographs, that sort of thing. Oh, and a proper toilet, although it doesn’t have a door. We may live in virtual isolation, but prisoners get no privacy. This is one of the things I most miss about being on the outside, and it’s the main reason that once I manage to get out I won’t be back. Not ever.

  I have plans, and they do not involve an eight by six foot room, bunk beds, and two cell mates who snore, fart, and generally make me want to punch the wall.

  It could be worse. Johnny and Bako aren’t that bad really, and we sort of get along as long as no one touches anyone else’s stuff, which isn’t easy in such a small space. But we manage. Johnny’s doing three years for drug dealing, and Bako managed to con his employers out of a few thousand in trumped-up travel expenses. He’s hoping to be sent to an open prison soon as his was a white-collar crime. He’s non-violent and not considered a danger to the public.

  I wouldn’t describe myself as violent either, but armed robbery is armed robbery and the system sees it otherwise, so I’ve spent my entire sentence in a closed facility. Still, I’m up for parole soon, and meanwhile I manage to maintain my sanity by spending as much time as I can in the prison gym, and by checking out Officer MacBride’s sweet little arse at every opportunity.

  I’m not convinced of the wisdom of female prison officers working in a men’s facility, though I understand the theory well enough. Females defuse situations, and are believed to have a calming effect on us rampant males. I suppose it works, up to a point, as there aren’t that many men, even the hardened criminals who inhabit this place, who would attack a woman without a second thought. Still, it does depend somewhat on how you define calm. The delectable Miss MacBride has a distinctly unsettling effect on me, and I swear she does it on purpose. No woman can fill out a pair of trousers like that, or slink along the corridors oozing sex appeal, and not be aware of it. Can she?

  In the past I would have been certain, but it’s been over two years since I got laid, let alone had the chance to hone my spanking skills on a pretty heart-shaped bottom, so I’m rusty. And horny. And bored. This is always a combustible cocktail in my view, so I check Bako’s travel alarm clock again to remind myself how much longer I have to wait before recreation time. I have an hour’s gym session booked and I need it. It’s been three days since I had a decent workout and I’m wound up tight as a spring. I need to work off some of this bloody frustration, get a sweat on and feel the burn or I’ll go mad.

  Ten minutes to go. I lay back on my bunk and stare at the underside of Johnny’s mattress two feet from the end of my nose. I start to count.

  I reach a steady six hundred and fifty, and check Bako’s clock again. It’s after two in the afternoon. I’m already eating into my session and no screw has arrived to escort me upstairs to the gym. I roll from my bunk to peer out the small peephole in the door. I only have a view of a couple of feet in any direction, but it’s enough to know that there is no officer about to unlock the cell and let me out.

  “Expecting someone?” Bako looks up from the newspaper he’s reading on his own bunk.

  “Gym session,” I reply. “Should be up there by now.”

  Bako shrugs. “Probably short-staffed again. And there’s been bother down on H wing.”

  “Not my fucking problem,” I snap, and I kick the bottom of the door in my annoyance. I know better than to imagine I’ll get time added on at the other end of my workout session to make up for what’s lost now.

  “Sit down, mate. They’ll be here.” Johnny is the more placid among the three of us; I put it
down to the lingering effects of all the weed he’s smoked over the years. He’s content to while away his entire sentence on his bunk and must have gained at least three stones while he’s been in here. One of these days I’m convinced he’s going to come crashing through that fucking bunk and smother me. I really should suggest we swap, but the bottom bunk is best. I had to wait a long time for mine and I’m not giving it up.

  I kick the door again, and drop into the one chair we have between the three of us. “Bloody fucking hell, I hate this,” I announce to no one in particular, and tunnel my fingers through my hair. The sooner I can get before that parole board the better. Meanwhile, I start my warm-ups, just in case the fucking screws do actually remember me.

  It’s twenty minutes before the rattle of keys in the lock signals some action. The door opens, and my mood lightens just fractionally. Miss MacBride stands in the entrance, beckons me out, then steps back to allow me to pass.

  “About time too,” I growl. I might have sworn and kicked up a fuss. I would have if one of the male officers had come along to escort me, but I’m not inclined to this time, not at Miss MacBride. I suppose the prison authorities must be right, she does have a calming effect.

  She offers me an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I know it’s way past your time, but we don’t have enough officers on today and I got held up in the kitchen. You’ve still got half an hour though.” She sets a cracking pace down the wing and I console myself by hanging back a little, just enough to get a decent view of her gorgeous bottom.

  Shit, that pert little arse is just begging to be spanked. I swear my hand is twitching.

  I shove the offending limb in my jeans pocket and follow Miss MacBride to the end of the wing where she pauses to manage the locks. We pass through and head up two flights of stairs, then she stops again to unlock the door to the gym.

  “Is no one else here?” I ask, surprised.

  “Not today. Privileges are withdrawn because of the disturbances down on H wing.”

  “How come I’m allowed up here then?”

  “You’re on G wing, and I offered to do the extra escort duty.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I felt like it. Are you going to do those bench presses or not?”

  I’m at least a head taller than she is but she tilts her chin with a degree of belligerence, which causes my cock to harden. Christ, in different circumstances what I’d like to do to this tasty little piece. I glower at her, but step into the room and stride across the tiled floor to get started on my favourite bit of apparatus.

  I love the weights, could spend all day here if that was permitted. I load up the correct resistances and lay back on the bench to start my workout.

  I glance over at Miss MacBride, stationed by the door. “How long do I have?”

  “I’m off duty at three. I’ll stay until then, and escort you back to the wing.”

  “I had an hour booked.”

  “I know, sorry. There’s no one else to take over though, and I need to be off.”

  “Something better to do?” I know I sound petulant, and this isn’t her fault. Even so, I’m pissed off and she’s the only one I can vent to.

  “I’d stay if I could, but we’ve had some problems with staffing levels, and there’s an overtime ban so—”

  “Yeah, right.” I return my attention to the weights and grasp the bar.

  I spend the next thirty minutes pumping iron, conscious of Miss MacBride’s quiet presence. She doesn’t move from the edge of the room, nor does she do or say anything to disturb my concentration, at least not intentionally. The truth is, she and her hot little arse distract me just by fucking being there. I move from the bench press to the rowing machine to get some cardiovascular action, even though I know I’ll hardly work up a sweat before it’s time to go back down to the wing. Sure enough, I’m just getting into my rhythm when she calls out to me.

  “Time’s up. Could you start your cool-down now, North?”

  I glance at the clock on the wall above her head. It’s five minutes past three. Fair enough, I suppose, but still I don’t hurry.

  I slow my pace and after a few more seconds allow the rowing machine to come to a stop. I take a couple more minutes to complete my cool-down stretches, and to her credit Miss MacBride seems ready to wait even though I know she’s already late and won’t be getting paid for babysitting me.

  I have a brief opportunity to peruse her. I wouldn’t say she was a classic beauty, though it’s hard to be sure under that shapeless prison service-issue jacket. I’d certainly give her the benefit of the doubt. Her short dark hair is neatly cut close in to her neck, and her build is one I would describe as elfin rather than slender, though I’m not quite sure where I dredged that word up from. It just seems to suit her. Miss MacBride’s features are delicate: a finely shaped nose, deep blue eyes, small but full mouth with a slightly protruding lower lip that in my weaker moments I fantasise about nibbling. Her chin is pointed and all too ready to lift in a way I would describe as sassy if I were to meet her on the outside. In here, it’s just her interpretation of authoritative, and she is trying for that look now as I saunter back across the gym toward her.

  “Come on, we need to move it.” She opens the door and waits for me to pass her.

  I deliberately don’t quicken my pace, just offer her a sardonic nod as I leave the room. She stops to lock it behind us as I continue along the austere, windowless corridor. One day, I promise myself, and soon, I’ll be surrounded by light and fresh air. No more windowless anything for me, not once I’m out of here.

  The sound of Miss MacBride’s stout leather soles tapping on the floor echoes down the hallway, her footsteps rapid as she hurries to catch up with me. I have to wait at the top of the stairs in any case as she needs to unlock the door to allow me through. Resentful, I glare at her under my eyebrows, not quite ready to forgive her for this injustice, which is really none of her doing.

  “I’m sorry, I’d let you stay longer if I could,” she mumbles as she fiddles with her monster bunch of keys.

  I’m inclined to believe her, but I’m still too pissed off to say so. We complete the short walk back to my cell in silence.

  * * *

  I’m late. Again. Andy’s going to kick off. Again.

  I close and lock the heavy steel door, fully aware that North is still glowering at me from inside his cell, then I sprint down the wing and through the double set of lockable gates to reach the octagon. That’s what we call the eight-sided central area, the hub if you like from which branch out the spokes of the eight wings that make up this section of the prison. Armley jail is a traditional Victorian building, austere but very functional, I suppose. There are newer sections—for example the education block, the kitchens, and the gymnasium—but the inmates are mainly housed in the old wings. There are communal areas fitted out with snooker tables and a television room, and a chapel of course, but for the most part their time is spent locked up in their cells.

  I was surprised to learn this when I joined the prison service eighteen months ago. I had an image of the prison as a place of rehabilitation, where offenders might learn new skills, become ready to re-join society. The truth is we just contain the men for the duration of their sentence, then the system turfs them out and hopes for the best. It rarely works out well; the rate of recidivism is horrendous.

  It’s not unusual for the men to spend twenty-three hours a day in their cells, and that can easily stretch to a complete lockdown if circumstances require it. Like now, for instance. We have staffing levels approaching crisis point, and the cutbacks are starting to really impact on the quality of life for the inmates. Education is curtailed, which means the men spend even more time locked up, free association rarely happens, and the gym is used more by off-duty prison staff than it is by the inmates. There is a constant undercurrent of discontent that has become worse recently, fuelled by long-running quarrels and jealousies that always simmer belo
w the surface. It takes very little to ignite the tinderbox and frequent scuffles break out between prisoners, which is why the managers of the prison prefer to keep them locked up and separated. There have been several incidents of officers being threatened. Not me, at least not yet, but we’re all extra vigilant and almost all nonessential contact between prisoners is avoided. The austere regime can’t be helped, but I don’t blame the men for being resentful and sooner or later it’s inevitable that something will erupt.

  There are days when I find it hard to remember what I found so attractive about this job, especially when I know that as soon as I get home I’m in for another round of complaining and criticism from Andy. My fiancé loathes my choice of career. He can’t even start to understand what drew me to the prison service and why I stay, and there are times I can see his point. I’m under constant pressure from him to resign, to find something ‘nice’ to do—maybe join him in the finance section of the local council. I could, I suppose, I got an A level in mathematics, but the idea of working in an office leaves me cold.

  I hand in my keys and radio and head for the staff cloakroom. I could take a shower—the facilities for officers here are excellent—but I don’t. Andy will be tetchy enough because I’m going to be at least half an hour late and he wanted to go shopping. I knew I’d be pushed to get home in time so I suggested he go alone and I’d meet him in town, then maybe we could get something to eat together. He wouldn’t hear of that and insisted I head home first.

  So I do. I nip through the traffic, relieved to have missed the rush hour at least, and dash into the flat we share just forty minutes late.

  Andy is seething, as I knew he would be. He grabs his car keys and stalks out without so much as a word of ‘hello,’ ‘how was your day,’ or anything. I follow, wishing I had time at least to change my clothes. All the way into the town centre Andy refuses to so much as speak to me and I wonder, not for the first time, what he would have done if I hadn’t followed him out to the car. Would he have gone alone as I suggested to him? Or would he have stormed back in, demanding to know what I think I’m playing at?