Complementing Morgan Pt. 02A

That was exactly what the DCYF report had indicated. It hadn't been Renat Nosov, the man who had invented the purple-five, as Corinne had initially suspected. Nosov had been telling the truth in those last moments before Corinne shot him.

Over the years Corinne had created a system for procuring information related to any of her targets. In particular, it was helpful for tracking the ones who moved or married, changing their names. When Bedlan was arrested in Ohio, Corinne's system flagged the event and even retrieved the official documents relating to the arrest. The key wasn't the police report but the old Rhode Island DCYF report, from Bedlan's youth, which was attached.

DCYF, the Department of Children Youth and Family, child social services in Rhode Island, had detailed records on Bedlan. One of the social workers assigned to her case recorded Bedlan's story of how she initially reported the purple-five glove to the police. That's when she had embarked on her new career as a corrections officer in Ohio.

"My mom, she wasn't the victim," Bedlan admitted. "The people she worked for made her use the glove to steal money. They called the purple stuff in those gloves purple-five. You had to hold it to someone's thumb for five minutes in order for it to work. There was this whole Russian gang run by this one guy, Aaron? No, not Aaron. Anton. Anton Rudnitsky. They gave my mom immunity for testifying. They protected us before the trial. Not so much afterwards. A few years later my mom got shot."

That had been Corinne's work. Back then, Corinne hadn't known about the daughter. She would have taken care of Heidi at the same time as her mother, but it wasn't until much later that Corinne learned of her involvement.

What Bedlan wasn't saying was that her mother had been a prostitute. That's how they used the gloves. The gloves were elegant enough that they weren't out of place, and no one complained if the gloves stayed on while everything else came off. After the sex, there would often be an opportunity to lie together, to hold each other, and in particular to hold hands. A month later, the client's entire bank account would be drained.

Corinne remembered watching the news coverage of Anton's trial. After the FBI raid, every single prostitute got the same deal as Bedlan's mother. Every woman in his organization lined up against him, while not one of his men betrayed him. Anton and the rest of his men went to Federal prison, while the women, the whores, went free.

The rage had welled up inside her. It was the same impotent rage as when her father had been gunned down right before her eyes. As a child, Corinne could only stand there as her father died and the whore that shot him fled the scene. There had been no way to save him or to stop the murdering scum from getting away.

Corinne's father had been the right-hand man of Anton's father, and they died together. Afterwards, Anton took charge and placed Corinne with someone that had no connection to his organization in order to protect her. He even insisted that her name be changed.

He checked in on her regularly, though. At first she'd been young, and it was, of course, strictly Platonic. Over the years she grew up, and throughout that time Anton was the one man who was always kind to her. He became her guardian angel.

By the time she was nineteen, Corinne was old enough to be thinking about men in a more romantic light. It was only natural that she started thinking about Anton that way. He was handsome, and generous, and caring.

She was the one who made the first move, but when Corinne leaned in for a kiss, he didn't push her away.

It was even better than she had imagined.

Everything about him was perfect. It was a dream come true, but it didn't last. She had to watch as the most important man in her life was once again taken away from her by back-stabbing whores.

After her father died, she'd taken an interest in martial arts and firearms. She'd vowed that if anyone ever came again to take what was hers, she would be ready. Except that she wasn't. The whores that testified against Anton had the full backing of the FBI and there was little she could do but watch as he was sentenced to life in prison.

Nevertheless, the world worked in mysterious ways.

From what Corinne could piece together, a small monthly payment failed to arrive at an attorney's office for the first time in over twenty years. That attorney had proceeded to close out the account per his client's instructions and a letter passed to another attorney.

The second attorney opened the letter to find instructions and a second letter inside the first. It was addressed to a client, Corinne's father, who had been deceased for over a decade. After making several calls, the letter was passed to a third attorney who had served as the executor for his former client's estate. Finally, the letter was passed to the woman who had been Corinne's guardian and then to Corinne, who opened it.

It was a fail-safe, originally setup by Anton's father. If Anton had known about it at all, he must have forgotten to update the recipient. One way or another some element of his organization, probably his accountant, kept making the small monthly payment to the lawyer. When the organization was raided by the FBI, the payments stopped and the fail-safe was triggered.

The letter was addressed to Corinne's father and outlined the nature of the fail-safe. Locations and pass codes for storage lockers were listed below, locations that had never before been shared with anyone who wasn't related by blood to Anton or his father.

Even though Anton may not have known about or updated the fail-safe, he had evidently continued to use the same storage facilities as his father. The fail-safe cache consisted of almost seven million dollars, countless weapons, boxes full of purple-five, along with the accounting documents for Anton's organization. All of it was scattered across storage lockers in multiple states.

When Corinne realized the scale of Anton's legacy, her very first instinct had been to rejoice that she could live out her life in luxury. Then it hit her: to do that would be a betrayal.

What if he had known? What if it had been deliberate? What if he had wanted her to have it all? And even if not, what did it say about her that she was putting herself first? What kind of woman would doubt the one person who was ever good and true and loyal to her, then turn around and use his money for herself after he was gone?

That's what a whore would do.

Corinne had a choice, though. She could choose to be better.

Sitting in a dingy storage unit in a suburb outside of Boston, she resolved to follow the course of action that would guide the next nine years of her life. What would it mean in her circumstances, to rise above that? What wouldn't a whore do? A whore wouldn't be loyal.

What did loyalty mean? Loyalty meant taking her new wealth and using it as it had originally been intended. Loyalty meant avenging the betrayal of the man she loved. Loyalty meant putting every last one of the back-stabbing filth who had betrayed Anton into the ground.

So, that's what she did.

As she talked with Bedlan, Corinne had been busy changing the sheets. She was now almost done with that task and needed to wrap up the conversation.

"Hmm." Corinne pretended to think. "If Sideris is connected, I should probably steer clear."

In reality, there wasn't anyone left. Or at least, there shouldn't have been. Heller made that an open question.

"I looked up your paperwork, you know, when Sideris showed an interest in you." Corinne said. "You have a brother, don't you?"

"Yes, Ma'am." The tremor in her voice made it obvious that Bedlan was still frightened of Corinne.

"It's funny, you know?" Corinne said. She let a little nastiness creep into her tone. "First you turn in your Mom, and then according to what I read, you testified against your brother in exchange for a shorter sentence. Do you have a thing for stabbing your family in the back, or what?"

Bedlan started crying. "Mary, said— She was my public defender. She said I had to. She said it was my only option." Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I didn't want to, I didn't want to. I didn't want to…" Her voice trailed off into unintelligible sobs.

The bed had clean sheets now, but Corinne was fairly certain it would be damp and smelling of oranges again shortly. The vibrator was gone, but stuck alone with her Complement Bedlan's mind was certain to return to dwelling on her unfulfilled needs as soon as she was done crying over her brother.

Corinne hadn't realized that mentioning Bedlan's brother would set her off like that, bawling like a pathetic toddler. It was a bonus. Anything to amplify the whore's suffering was a good thing, as far as Corinne was concerned.

"I'm about finished in here." Corinne said. "I can tell I've given you some food for thought. I'm not your problem anymore, but I'd watch your back when you get out of solitary. I'm sure Sideris has other friends."

Bedlan moved from the floor to the cot, and Corinne heard her return to her sobbing as she left. Crying herself to sleep, no doubt. Beautiful.

Bedlan would be in solitary for the next two weeks, which would leave her time to formulate a new strategy and figure out how to make sure Wronski was well-compensated for her trouble.

Having Bedlan retell her story had her thinking about events all those years ago. The purple-five was at the center of it all. Everything could be traced back to Renat Nosov and Anton's decision to be greedy, to use the purple-five instead of being content with a steady, reliable stream of income from prostitution. Everything.

That was why Anton was forever beyond her reach. That was why she was now a corrections officer in Ohio, of all places. That was why she was determined to make Heidi Bedlan's life a living hell.

Finally, it was the reason behind the whole situation with Morgan Heller. It was small, but it was an irritation, a nagging detail that needed to be addressed. It probably wouldn't be too hard to resolve.

Probably.

— Chapter 07 — Morgan —

Every day was worse than the one before. Morgan had only been there for two days, but it didn't take long for the pattern to become clear.

She wasn't merely aroused. She wasn't merely horny. Those were the words she might have used before the Complement. They were entirely inadequate to describe what she was now experiencing. On some level, such sensations were invigorating, but they went on hour after hour, day after day, and there wasn't a single thing she could do about it.

She couldn't even touch.

There was a children's game called "the floor is lava," which Morgan had played with her sister when they were both young. The goal was to move through a room without touching the floor. Morgan felt like she was now playing a new, horrible variant of that game called "your body is lava."

Her core burned as if it were made of molten lava and just like lava, she couldn't touch it. Even though touching wouldn't bring release, would only intensify her frustration, restraining herself was a never-ending struggle. And, as bad as that struggle was, it wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that it didn't go away or fade into the background over time.

From the moment she woke up to the moment she went to sleep, her unfulfilled sexual need was all she could think about. Her body twitched. There were moments when she had to pause and catch her breath from the overwhelming sensations coursing through her. She unconsciously swung her hips as she walked.

She couldn't get used to this. It wasn't possible.

As she watched the other inmates she could see it in their eyes and the way they moved: none of them could get used to it either. Her insatiable libido was here to stay; it would never diminish and there was no way she could ever acclimate to what it was doing to her.

No one talked about it, though. It was as hard and fast a rule as any laid down by the guards. To complain was to wallow in self-pity, and to remind everyone in earshot how awful their lives were.

Instead, they all tried—unsuccessfully—to forget about their predicament, to pretend that everything was normal. Rogers periodically put her hand to her head, closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. Carmichael ground her teeth so fiercely it could be heard from across the room. Morgan found herself repeatedly curling and uncurling her hands into fists.

Every woman locked in this place, locked into their own bodies, shivered and squirmed, exhibiting all manner of nervous ticks as the effects of the Complements took their toll.

Something as simple as wiping after using the toilet required a delicate balance between getting clean and going too far. She had to be careful to not so much wipe as blot. Even then, it was enough to send a shock of arousal through her body.

Showering was even worse. The first day Morgan had either been so sleep-deprived she hadn't thought about it, or her desperation had gotten worse since then. On her second morning in Marysville, she was very aware of what it was doing to her.

The ever-present scent of citrus was more noticeable in the showers than anywhere else. It was such a horrible little humiliation, the way the smell of her constantly flowing juices broadcast her arousal to the world. As if everything was fine because it was citrus and not a more conventional female aroma.

When she got out, what would she tell people? "Yes, I just love smelling like bathroom cleaner. Isn't it a delightful perfume?"

The water flowed over her naked skin, caressing her like the lover she so desperately craved. Before the Complement, a shower could be pleasurable but not overwhelmingly sexual, not like this. She moved the washcloth with deliberate, perfunctory strokes to clean her chest and sides. In order to clean between her legs, she had to use a slow, careful motion to minimize the stimulation.

As gentle as she tried to be, the pressure against her body teased her with the promise of the pleasure that was beyond her reach. She felt the hard, unfamiliar bump of the gem embedded in her body as she moved her washcloth over her aching, sensitive flesh. Then she was clean and she had to face yet another long, terrible day without relief, along with the certainty that tomorrow would be exactly the same.

In her current state, her mind twisted everything she encountered into a metaphor for something sexual, but the banana they served for breakfast was nothing short of mockery. As she gulped down the firm, ripe fruit, she tried not to focus on the erotic symbolism. She tried not to dwell on how badly she wanted to wrap her lips around a thick purple phallus with throbbing veins and just a hint of pre-cum at the tip.

That's how she imagined Derek's cock.

The symbolism clearly wasn't lost on the other inmates, either. Some of them were going through the motions of performing fellatio on their unpeeled bananas. Morgan wasn't so far gone that she had any desire to blow a banana. Then again, she'd only been there a few days.

She directed her thoughts to Derek, her one ray of hope. He believed her, or at least he said he believed her. It wasn't the same thing as believing in her, but it was more than she could say about anyone else.

He would show up for the conjugal visits. Of course he would. He was a straight, red-blooded American male with a pulse. Men always wanted sex, right? The problem was that while men might always want sex, she needed it. If Derek didn't submit the necessary paperwork or overslept, he could roll over, jerk off and apologize later. She didn't have that option.

Unfortunately, the earliest time they would allow her a conjugal visit was over a month away.

After her second day in the domes she returned to her cell to find a letter from Derek with more bad news. He had looked up what was required to schedule a conjugal visit, and it wasn't straightforward. The bastards here seemed to have deliberately made it as difficult and convoluted as possible. Derek had to fill out a long form before every visit, then two weeks later she had to fill out another form, and then wait another three weeks.

Five weeks total, bare minimum. Every hour with the Complement was a trial, and those five weeks might as well have been five centuries. She needed relief now, but that didn't change the reality that it wasn't physically possible.

All day she had been sitting on a hard seat that pressed against her body in a very distracting way. She felt like she was about to lose her mind. Even though she was now back in her cell with an hour and a half of "free time" before dinner, it wasn't much of an improvement.

She lay on her bunk, her thighs tensing, squeezing her sopping-wet panties beneath the material of her prison jumpsuit. From across the room, Rogers let out another long sigh as she read a book.

Laying on her stomach, she could feel her sensitive nipples pressing against the mattress through her shirt and bra. What if she massaged them, just a little? It wouldn't be as intense as touching further down, would it? Maybe that would be okay?

On second thought, that sort of thinking was probably an express ticket to solitary. She rolled over.

"Look, I'm not trying to bitch," Morgan announced to her cell-mates, "but I have to ask. What helps?"

Rogers looked up from her book and made a face. "I read. Sometimes I write. Get distracted, don't think about it, and don't talk about it." She reached under her bed and tossed a fat book over to Morgan. "Here. The Count of Monte Cristo. Read."

Morgan picked up the book. Before she could open it she noticed that Carmichael had gotten up and was heading out of the cell.

"Where are you going?"

"Gym," Carmichael grunted. Morgan had noticed that Carmichael didn't say much. When she did speak, she used only a few words at a time.

Morgan's less talkative cell-mate was older, probably in her mid-forties. Unlike that disgusting guard, Dunne, who had first escorted Morgan to her cell, Carmichael wasn't fat. She was merely short and stocky, built around a wide frame. Given her physique, it was hardly surprising she chose to make use of whatever exercise equipment they had here.

While Morgan had never been an exercise fanatic, the idea of burning off some of her frustration through physical activity sounded more promising than sitting on her bunk, trying to read. "There's a gym? Can I join you?"

Carmichael shrugged. "No one's stopping you."

As Morgan got up and moved to follow Carmichael, Rogers called after them. "You're both crazy. So you know, when you work out, you feel it."

She knew exactly what Rogers meant but chose to ignore her. Every time Morgan stretched her legs she could feel her muscles straining, pulling against other sensitive areas of her body. On the other hand, Carmichael chose to visit the gym anyway and Morgan was ready to try almost anything at this point. Doing something seemed a better alternative than stewing in her cell.

The gym was not impressive. It was small and it smelled. Ominously, it smelled of citrus. Did it come out in sweat too?

"Hey, is the smell from sweat, or…?"

Carmichael didn't turn around. She shrugged again. "Both."

There was only so much exercise equipment, and that meant the inmates lined up to use it. Carmichael joined a long line for one of the weight machines. The other machines had equally long lines. There was only a short line for the treadmills. Neither of the exercise bicycles were in use. In retrospect, she probably should have wondered about that.

As Morgan headed toward the bicycles she saw a few heads turn towards her. Initially, she put that down to curiosity at someone they hadn't scene in the gym before. However, after climbing on and pumping the pedals, she immediately understood.