BATW Interview: "Athena" (Gwen Harris) -- SweetAsSuga

Convict Interview
Subject: Gwen Harris
Female, 23
Homicide; Arson.


Marcus Bennett looked around the room with a sense of disappointment. This particular Federal Penitentiary catered primarily to "white collar" criminals -- embezzlers, tax cheats, ponzi scheme operators, and the like -- who, despite being here to serve Federal Prison terms, still maintained a sense of comfort, decorum, and style, even behind bars. Marcus had expected their conjugal visitation quarters to be a little more up scale than the typical cheap hotel room that rented to prostitutes by the hour, but it wasn't.

He heard the boots ascending the staircase and turned to see the door open and the two butch guards enter, escorting the female inmate he was there to see. Gwen Harris -- murderer, arsonist, in prison awaiting her execution -- wasn't privy to conjugal visits; a maximum security prisoner, she was only at this medium and minimum security prison because the women's facilities up and down the eastern half of the country were full up.

Even if she had been allowed to partake of a little male company, it was unlikely that she would have chosen the man in front of her. While she may have recognized Marcus -- who "Rolling Stone" had called the most recognizable face in the world, more so than even the President or ANY of the 26 American Idol Winners -- he probably wouldn't have been the first person she would have wanted to get naked with.

So, Marcus wasn't surprised when she entered the unfamiliar room, took note of the bed and the stranger smiling politely to her, and reacted the way she did.

Ladies..." Marcus said, gesturing to the shackles on the inmate's extremities. "... please, if you don't mind."

The Guard nearest him said with obvious concern, "Sir, are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely," Marcus answered. "I don't think Miss Harris is going to be any trouble. She wants to know why she's here as much as I want her to know."

The Guards worked together to remove the shackles, checked with Marcus once more to see if he wanted them to stay in the room, then -- with his polite request that they depart -- headed out to stand on the steps of the small hut.

Marcus had a flight in just over an hour, so he decided to get right to it. "I can arrange for you to be freed from Federal detention and reunited with your son ... to be given a new start, with a new name, new identification, new home anywhere in the world ... and a million dollars--" He shrugged playfully, adding, "--in case Mason needs a new bicycle or something."

His eyes dropped to the loose-fitting, orange jump suit that hung off her like a potato sack. His lips spread in a slight smirk. "And all you have to do ... is take your clothes off."

Shuffling alongside her two female guards, Gwen hid a wince every time the shackles around her ankles bit into her skin. There was no surviving in prison, even if it was cushy, if one showed weakness. And Gwen Harris was anything but weak.

The guards opened a door at the end of the hallway and pulled Gwen inside. Having been unceremoniously yanked from her cell just ten minutes earlier, Gwen hadn't a clue what awaited her inside the mystery room. But what she saw when she stepped inside made her want to turn and run.

Standing before her, dressed in his absolute best, stood Marcus Bennett, producer of the world's most infamous reality game show. A moment of panic seized her and Gwen fought against her shackles, trying to pull away from the two guards who struggled to hold her still. And there Bennett stood, a stupid grin on his face as he watched her fight, as if he was mentally calculating the ratings her appearance could bring to his show.

Because that was why he was here. Gwen knew it without a doubt. That had to be the only reason he would want to see her. Although...Gwen's eyes drifted to the bed sitting in the room. Rape was a prominent feature on Breakfast at the Whitney, was it also part of the "audition"? Gwen prayed it wasn't. She'd had quite enough of that while being shuffled from one prison to another. Cocks, fingers, tongues, make-shift toys - you name it and she had had it shoved up her pussy by male and female guards alike.

The guards finally had gained control of Gwen, despite her best efforts. She glared at Bennett, keeping her mouth firmly shut. There was no way she was letting him get under her skin. She wouldn't let him.

He told the guards to leave and, while they didn't believe they should, they obeyed. The door clanged shut behind them, leaving Gwen alone with this odious man.

"I can arrange for you to be freed from Federal detention and reunited with your son ... to be given a new start, with a new name, new identification, new home anywhere in the world ... and a million dollars--" He shrugged playfully, adding, "--in case Mason needs a new bicycle or something."

She had known it was going to come to this. She knew that he was going to dangle Mason, the light of her life and her sole reason for living, in front of her like a prize. She just wasn't prepared for the fury that rose within her when he said her son's name.

"Don't you ever let my son's name pass your lips ever again," she seethed, a quiet fury building inside her. The kind of fury that builds under the surface until erupting like a volcano, violent and deadly and destroying everything in its wake. "You're not fit to say his name."

But Bennett acted as if Gwen had never even said a word. His smirk remained and he continued to speak, his eyes raking over her body in a way that made Gwen shiver in disgust. "And all you have to do ... is take your clothes off."

"Fuck you." Gwen spat at him. "I'm not going to be some whore that you can use in that disgusting show of yours, mother fucker."

Marcus' expression held firm during Gwen's rant, his slight smile still present as she went silent and glared at him. He reached into the satchel on the floor near his chair and removed a small laptop, setting on the table before him and opening it.

"I'm sorry to hear that Miss Harris," he said, not a hint of regret in his voice. He tapped a key on the keyboard and turned the laptop to face Gwen. The screen was filled with the handsome face of Mason Harris as he went on and on about how, when Gwen got her parole in May, the Probation Officer had said that the family was moving to a big house and Mason could get a dog and a new bicycle and he'd be able to go to camp in June and all of the things they'd wanted to do but couldn't.

"Oh! And gramma and I bought you some new clothes," Mason went on, "because she said that you'd probably lost weight 'cause she's not cooking for you now and the food where you are sucks--"

Off screen, a woman's voice cut in sharply, attracting Mason's attention for a moment. When he looked back to the camera, he said, "Sorry, momma. Stinks!. Oh, I gotta tell you what happened at school! I won a--"

Without any warning, Marcus reached up and tapped a button, freezing the image of Mason's excited face. He reached down again, lifting a garment bag that was folded on the floor near his feet. He laid it out on the table and unzipped it, saying, "The clothes Mason and your mother purchased for you will be waiting for you after you have won the competition." He could have added presuming you survive, but chose not to. "For now, I think this is more appropriate."

He threw open the front of the garment bag to reveal an outfit that was part Biker Bitch and part Disco Queen. There was a waist-length jacket, fingerless gloves, stylish beret, and spike-heeled boots, all in black leather; for underneath, there were a tight fitting cropped tee shirt with long sleeves and a plunging neck line, as well as mid-calf length spandex tights; and for below those, a tiny, lace-edged thong and a choice of a lacy, semi-sheer strapless bra or a sports bra of such thin fabric that, undoubtedly, the wearer's nipples -- hardened or not -- would be more than noticeable even to the most casual of observers.

"Before you make your final decision about whether to don this ...Gwen," he said, choosing to use her given name, "please understand that should you not live through Breakfast at the Whitney or not..." Marcus glanced up to see how she would react to the blunt way he introduced the most likely result of being a convict contestant. "...I will ensure that your mother has what she needs to take care of Mason for the rest of his upbringing. Clothes, food, medical insurance ...college tuition ...anything he needs, I will make sure he gets it. And all you have to do..."

He reached down into his satchel again and removed a thick sheath of pages, on the front of which was the logo for the competition and the big words, Combatant Contract.

"... is sign this contract ... And put on these clothes."

Marcus returned to his seat, looking up into Gwen's eyes. He smiled his pleasant smile once more and finished, "He's a fine boy, Mason is. He deserves all that you can givs him."

It was all Gwen could do not to cry as she watched her son's sweet face on the computer monitor. She wanted to reach out and stroke his cheek and, if it weren't the man seated across from her watching her every reaction, she would have.

Oh, Mason, I wish I could hold you right now. I've missed you so much. Gwen thought hard, wishing that Marcus could feel her hugging him in her mind.

When Bennett froze the video, Gwen fought the urge to fling herself at him and demand he turn it back on. Mason's smiling face stared back at her, practically begging Gwen to take the deal being offered to her.

"Before you make your final decision about whether to don this ...Gwen, please understand that should you not live through Breakfast at the Whitney or not, I will ensure that your mother has what she needs to take care of Mason for the rest of his upbringing. Clothes, food, medical insurance ...college tuition ...anything he needs, I will make sure he gets it. And all you have to do is sign this contract ... And put on these clothes."

Gwen stared down at the papers and bag of clothing that Bennett sat in front of her. Everything in her told her that this was a bad decision, that she should fight for her freedom rather than sign her life away. There was no guarantee that she would come out of this alive. Then again, if she stayed in prison, it was the needle for sure. Slowly, she reached for the pen sitting atop the papers. With one last longing look at Mason's beautiful face, Gwen signed the contract.

Now for the worst part of all.

She stood and unzipped her jumpsuit, showing Bennett her old pink bra and panties. Shame washed over her, but she didn't dare show it. Gwen stared Bennett in the eye defiantly as she unhooked her bra and let it fall to the floor. Her panties soon followed.

"Go ahead," she sneered, "have a good look at the merchandise."

Marcus was impressed; until now, the only photographs he'd seen of Gwen were family pics his Assistant had borrowed from Mason's grandmother when she'd stopped by to record the message Gwen had just watched; and, of course, the murderess's mug shot photograph. None of the images showed Gwen's womanly features below her neckline.

And womanly they were. As her bra fell away from her, large firm breasts spilled out for Marcus' viewing pleasure. And, considering the immediate stirring below his belt line, pleasure was the appropriate word. He marveled at her nipples -- deep pink, with wide areolas -- as they quickly hardened, exposed to the room's chilled air. She had a flat, firm belly and a wonderful hour glass figure highlighted by a narrow waist and wide, smooth hips; on her left side, she sported a tattoo of her son's name, only further confirming Marcus's belief that Gwen would do just about anything for her little boy.

Marcus was nearly solid down below by the time the convict shed her panties, revealing a neatly trimmed pubic area. Perfect, he thought to himself. No wonder she was knocked up at 17 ... 'cause the "boys" would never have been able to stay away from this for long.

"Go ahead," Gwen said with a sneer, "have a good look at the merchandise."

"You're a very beautiful woman," Marcus responded without hesitation. "The audience is going to love you."

Although he didn't, Marcus could have added, They're gonna love to hate you. The Breakfast audience was an amazing entity; there were fans who hated convicts, hated cops, rooted for the most brutal of either, and cheered on the most sympathetic of either, too. No two followers of the program were the same. Marcus would bet real money that Gwen's story -- a beautiful single mother, a son being raised by his grandmother, a passion murder -- would make her a favorite of the crowd, for all the good reasons, as well as the bad.

He watched her redress with great interest. Marcus had been called an odd duck on occasion because, even more than watching a woman slip out of her clothes, he loved to watch a woman don them. Watching Gwen slip the thong into place, positioning the string waist bands over her hips, adjusting the tiny triangle of cloth over her trimmed muff; watching her slip the spandex tights up her calves, her thighs, over her firm round buttocks ... was, to Marcus, a joy to experience. He watched her lift the choices of bras -- functional sports bra versus tiny, lacy strapless -- and give Marcus a glance. He smiled at her choice; she'd gone a different way than he'd anticipated, showing that even he didn't know his [people as well as he thought he did.

As she finished donning the outfit, Marcus returned the laptop and contract to his satchel, then stood and came around the table to view her. Again, he smiled, pleased, saying only, "Gwen ... it's perfect."

"You're a very beautiful woman," Marcus said. "The audience is going to love you."

"Fuck the audience." Gwen bit out as she grabbed the clothes on the table and started to dress.

She noticed Bennett's eyebrow go up in silent surprise as she hooked the strapless lacy bra over her breasts. His eyes continued to survey her as she finished dressing.

Let him look, Gwen thought as she pulled on the t-shirt. He'll get his soon enough. I'll see to that if it's the last thing I do. And, seeing as she was headed to nearly certain death in the arena, Gwen was more determined than ever to make sure that Marcus Bennett got what he deserved.

Finished dressing, Gwen faced Bennett.

"Well, Mr. Bennett," Gwen said, sarcasm dripping from each word, "I am yours to command. Where do we go from here?"

"I am yours to command," Gwen said. "Where do we go from here?"

Marcus smiled and said simply, "Home."



Seven hours later, she was on the B3 level -- what had once been an underground parking garage -- below the Arena. Vince Timms pulled the black hood off of Gwen's head, gave her a moment to blink her eyes against the sudden brightness, and said with a cheery tone, "Welcome to your new home. I know it isn't much, but hey, you just got outta the Pen', right, so ... this is probably heaven, am I right?"

Gwen's quarters were essentially a cinder block box, 15 feet by 10, with a low 7 foot ceiling. There were two doors, one leading into a small half bath and the other -- currently with a Guard clutching an urban assault rifle -- leading out to a darkened hallway. There was a comfortable looking double bed with a stack of folded, clean bedding below two pillows; a desk with a totally cleared surface and an accompanying chair, each bolted to the concrete floor; and an empty plastic closet rod attached to the walls in the corner, creating what counted as a corner closet for clothes Gwen would presumably be given later.

Vince pointed a finger upwards, toward the wire mesh that stretched tightly from wall to wall, just below the ducts, conduits, and pipes that filled the overhead. "Once upon a time, one of our convicts tried to break a pipe out of the ceiling and make a weapon out of it, so..."

As if they'd demonstrated this on multiple occasions, the Guard at the door stepped further into the room, pulled a telescoping billy club from his waist, flicked it out to full length, and reached upwards, touching the wire mesh. Sparks spat with an electrical sizzling smell. When the Guard brought the billy club down, the spot upon it that had touched the wires glowed a bit before finally turning into a dark spot. The Guard stepped backward again ... without his stern expression ever having changed.

Vince smiled to Gwen and said with a friendly tone, "So ... now that we're covered that, let's go over your schedule."

As he walked around the space, casually inspecting it, he launched into a quick run down of her schedule. "Tomorrow will be a bit unusual, what with it being your first day, of course. Oh-six-hundred, up and at'em for breakfast, shower--" He looked to her with a raised eye brow. "Not optional. We live in close quarters as you can see, so ... hygiene is a must around here."

He leaned back upon the desk and let his eyes drop to her form, still contained by the leather and spandex his boss had so appreciated earlier in the day. Vince appreciated the woman's look as well, and -- unlike some of the other Overseers -- he didn't have any problem getting naked with the women who were in his care. Hygiene is a must, he thought, 'cause when we fuck, I don't want you to smell of anything but passion's sweat and pussy juice, baby.

"Oh-eight-hundred, medical physical and an okay to participate in the competition," he continued, lifting his gaze back to her face. Vince found Gwen ... absolutely ... darling. He was amazed how from one angle she looked very much like the hard-edged, prison weary 23 year old murderess that she was and then, from another, she suddenly looked like a sweet, innocent naive 14 year old. "Be nice to the Doc. She's the one in charge of fixing you when you're broken during next month's fight. Be nice to her, and she's got all kinds of good little drugs to dull the pain ... and even hop up your adrenaline when you need it."

He returned to his feet and headed for the bathroom, continuing, "Oh-nine-hundred, some more paperwork for the Justice Department."

Justice Department... what a joke, he thought. The past couple of decades had seen radical changes in how society felt about violence and crime and the criminals who committed it; and some of the most unbelievable changes had come from how the various governmental entities -- Local, State, and Federal all -- dealt with the punishment of those criminals. A series of blunders by police and prosecutors during the Twenty-teens, followed by public outrage and, in some cases, city wide riots, had caused criminals to lose just about any rights, guarantees, and privileges they usually could have counted upon. Miranda Rights were almost totally ignored any more; cases were no longer thrown out for police misconduct or violation of the criminals' rights. Cases were investigated, prosecuted, and closed at alarming rates. Death penalties were being carried out in weeks, not the years and decades that had been common in the last century and even the first two decades of this one.

Vince's concern wasn't for the rights of criminals, of course; his concern was that with the rush to punishment these days, a greater number of innocent people were being rushed off to prison these days. He hadn't personally known anyone convicted of a crime they hadn't committed, but the news was full of examples of such people.

He looked back to Gwen again and realized he knew nothing about her case, except that she'd killed people during an act of arson. Did she deserve the death penalty...? Did she deserve to be here...? If she had killed those people with no regard to their lost lives, did she deserve the second chance that Breakfast was giving her...?

These were all good questions, but they were above his pay grade, as he would have said during his time in the Navy. His concern was Gwen's schedule ... and how to get her out of her clothes without Marcus learning of his extra-curricular activity with her.

He ran down the rest of her schedule, from exercise periods to meals to free time. "Oh, and you're one of the late arrivals, so tomorrow, you'll get to meet some of the other girls. Nice bunch, actually. I think you'll enjoy them."

His last comment came with a bit of humor in the tone. Vince loved to watch The Girls interact with one another. The only thing the female combatants ever had in common was the reason that brought them here: a wish to escape the needle. Above and beyond, no two of them were ever the same. He liked that...

"Welcome to your new home. I know it isn't much, but hey, you just got outta the Pen', right, so ... this is probably heaven, am I right?" Vince Timms, the man who had been assigned to Gwen was nothing impressive. He seemed like a complete chuckle-head, always joking around and not the least bit funny. Gwen was quite certain that the man thought the sun shone out his ass.

She hid, or rather failed to hide, the roll of her eyes as Timms gave her a brief "tour" of her new cell. It wasn't much to look at, but as long as Gwen had room to do her push-ups and sit-ups, she was fine.

Vince pointed a finger upwards, toward the wire mesh that stretched tightly from wall to wall, just below the ducts, conduits, and pipes that filled the overhead. "Once upon a time, one of our convicts tried to break a pipe out of the ceiling and make a weapon out of it, so..."

As if they'd demonstrated this on multiple occasions, the Guard at the door stepped further into the room, pulled a telescoping billy club from his waist, flicked it out to full length, and reached upwards, touching the wire mesh. Sparks spat with an electrical sizzling smell. When the Guard brought the billy club down, the spot upon it that had touched the wires glowed a bit before finally turning into a dark spot. The Guard stepped backward again ... without his stern expression ever having changed.

Gwen winced at the zap of the electric charge. She'd dealt with her fair share of electrical charges, it was never a fun experience. And, even if she had considered trying to fasten a weapon or even using the air ducts as a means of escape, she never would follow through. There was too much at stake here. If she pissed off any of the higher ups, especially Marcus Bennett, then Gwen could kiss her chances of ever seeing Mason again good-bye.

Timms began to rattle off Gwen's schedule, she noticed that he made sure to mention the importance of hygiene - and she did not miss the way his eyes raked over her body as he did so. This was nothing new for Gwen. Being used by men came as naturally as breathing. It had been happening to her since she was fourteen and joined up with a gang back home. From the moment she joined, Gwen's sole purpose was to do the bidding of every man in the gang, to fulfill whatever their hearts desired. Mason's father was one of those men. Gwen wanted out of that life long before Mason was born, but her pregnancy put a halt to her plans. After all, the only way out of the gang was a hardcore beating and Gwen wasn't going to risk losing her unborn child. It wasn't until after Mason's first birthday that Gwen had finally taken her stand and demanded her freedom. She'd spent three weeks in the hospital recovering from that day.

He ran down the rest of her schedule, from exercise periods to meals to free time. "Oh, and you're one of the late arrivals, so tomorrow, you'll get to meet some of the other girls. Nice bunch, actually. I think you'll enjoy them."

Gwen knew men like Timms. He was hoping that he could catch some good girl-on-girl action and, if he was lucky, join in on the fun. While Gwen wasn't going to have any of that. Best to put this bastard in his place before he got any ideas.

Walking up to him, her hips swaying seductively with each step, Gwen pressed her body up against the man. Making sure the other guard couldn't see, Gwen grabbed Timms' cock roughly and squeezed.

"Let's get one thing straight," she whispered in his ear, her breath brushing his skin. "I'm here to win my freedom and get the hell away from this place. I may get on my back or my knees to do this, but you can bet that you will never be the person that joins me." She gave his cock one last hard squeeze. "Do I make myself clear."

With a smile that was so sweet it could put one in a sugar coma, Gwen stepped away from Timms, releasing his cock from her vise-like grip.

"Now, I do believe I'll be taking that shower. If you'd be so kind, I'd like at least a semblance of privacy."