CHAPTER 1
The delicious-looking blonde gunned her powerful four by four into the broad
sweeping drive of her house. After a last deep thrust of the engine she switched off and
slammed the door with an expensive clunk, the bleep of the alarm soon followed - you
couldn’t take chances in this day and age.
For a moment she gazed proudly at her new car and her fairly large house, reminding
herself of the virtues of a good and powerful job in Government, before she let herself in
and called cheerily to her husband.
Life was good for Rachel. She was a drop-dead gorgeous woman on whom many male
eyes lingered, drinking in her doll-like face framed by ash blonde hair with a delicious
figure which cried out to be unpeeled. It was said by many that she had film star looks
and had indeed often been likened to one. Not only was she incredibly easy on the eyes but
she had brains and a sparkling personality to match. But rather than the silver screen,
as a result of a good education, she had by the modest age of twenty five secured a middle
management policy position in the UK Customs and Borders Agency. And having married last
year her handsome boyfriend, Dean, she didn’t believe that life could get much better for
her.
True, in her opinion England in the first quarter of the 21 century seemed to have
been going downhill these last few years and she often longed to live abroad. But there
were maybe signs that the laws were toughening a bit so that criminals and the like would
begin to regret breaking them. And her conscience was clear, she always did her bit,
speaking out when she thought things were wrong.
That evening she lay snuggled against her husband’s broad chest, her lush nude
curves straining against him as their mouths locked together in deep kiss of passion,
tongues entwined. His hands were holding the smooth flexing cheeks of her bottom as he
thrust into her, filling her deliciously just as his tongue filled and explored her
willing mouth. Her legs and mouth were open to him as her hands tightly gripped the hard
mounds of his buttocks, pulling him in deeper to the hot depths of her sex.
After they gasped to a climax she lay contented in his arms, pressing her lushness
against his hard muscular frame. Across the bedroom the television remained on and
ignored. But gradually Rachel’s interest returned to it, a documentary about one of the
new super prisons opened nearby in Kent to cope with the growing crime rate. Such things
were loosely connected to her job. Although the prison was funded from somewhere abroad
Rachel and Dean were in broad agreement that something needed to be done about getting
tough with criminals, who deserved all they got, Rachel all too often cited.
The documentary was speculating on whether it was a good idea to virtually let
foreigners run these places with little supervision or restriction; but why not she
thought, snuggling closer to Dean, pressing the hard buttons of her nipples against his
hairy chest. In her job she had to tow the softly-softly party line all too often. At
least someone was prepared to use a bit of the short sharp shock treatment rather than
treat everyone lightly.
Needing him again, she leaned forward to start suckling and nibbling his nipples
whilst her fingers curled around the rapidly enlarging length of his penis. She and Dean
had returned from a Saturday night out with their friends; Alice and her husband Mark,
also their policeman friend Dave with his wife. And three glasses of wine in the Chinese
restaurant had as usual turned her a bit out of character and into a wanton woman. She
sighed contentedly as his hands found her boobs and bottom whilst his male hardness grew
to brush and stab her belly.
***
Several thousand miles away another person scanned the same television programme at
which Rachel had previously been looking with interest. But he was also trawling
databases of existing and future potential inmates for that prison he owned. Rich and
powerful, but also rather large and ugly, the man of mixed Arabic and Negroid descent was
a lot less pleasing to the eye than Rachel. How could either of them know that within
weeks two such different people would be connected by something a lot more tangible and
menacing than a television programme!
***
“Look, it-it seems that the authorities may be taking further action after you and
Alice took part in that demo a few weeks ago; I know it was peaceful but.....” Their
friend, Dave, who was also their local policeman, looked rather embarrassed when he called
round socially a few evenings later. “They photo-matched your and Alice’s identities to
being connected with customs jobs and it looks like they may want to make examples of you
under the new crack-downs. I’m sorry.”
“But the demonstration was only about tougher sentencing, the anti-immigration
crowd sort of took it over,” Rachel felt as if a hole had opened in her stomach. It might
have been a bit reckless of her to go on any demo in her position but it seemed so
harmless and she had firm views on crime and punishment. “OK I might agree a bit with
what they said about immigration on the demo - but we left when things got a bit ugly and
...” yet Rachel’s words trailed off recalling the warning from her boss in the Borders
Agency not to become involved in such demonstrations in case they ran out of control – and
how she thought she knew better.
***
First came the temporary suspension from work of her and her friend Alice, who was
also her deputy in her office, whilst they faced retraining. To begin redeeming themselves
would apparently require her written apology and a retraction of any views she might hold
against complete open door immigration. That was a high horse too far and she jumped on
it, strongly objecting and refusing to go along with it; she had principles she decided.
Then within a few days the authorities had dredged their databases and found evidence of
her and Alice on some right-wing demo when they were university students. It was enough
in the current society for them to be branded criminals.
They had a choice of a formal trial and probably losing their jobs whether found
guilty or innocent. Or accepting a short rehabilitation sentence for a few weeks and then
continuing with their careers. After much soul-searching she and Alice reluctantly
decided to accept the rehab option. After all, she always said, most people got such
early release from prison that it was hardly worth them going. She and Alice would
probably be back at work in a couple of weeks, wouldn’t they?
Too late, the nature of that retraining became clear when the official letter came.
It was daunting. ‘You will be escorted to HM Correction Centre Gillingham on 10 June,’ it
had read- which was in just two days time. This was one of the new foreign run
short-sharp-shock super-prisons she had recently heard about. ‘You may bring a family
member and there will be a police escort. Expect a complete strip search and an enema on
arrival,’ the awful letter had continued.
Rachel’s heart sank. She knew little of the new facility beyond what was in the
documentary the other week; no-one seemed to have exact details of it. They were just
somewhere to heap the growing mound of prisoners, and with the public pendulum swinging
back against too soft sentencing plenty of blind eyes were turned. Rachel just hoped that
the flood of uncontrolled immigration would be the next thing to slowly change even though
she knew that a certain amount was healthy for the country; if only the authorities would
cater for the necessary infrastructure to cope she thought. Yet she realised glumly,
rather than worry about lofty ideals she now had the more pressing problem of her grim
future.
With a sick jolt she recalled a Muslim woman living in her area who worked in the
prison. Ashanti was her name she remembered. She often saw her gliding down the road fully
veiled and Rachel ensured that she kept out of her way. That was primarily because she had
once checked up on her employment status and although she had recommended the woman’s
deportation back to Iraq, her boss in the agency overruled it. Hopefully, thought Rachel,
the woman would be unlikely to recall that incident if she ever came across her during her
rehab.
| 
