You all know me as Courtney, Catherine’s Goonette acolyte. But the screws in the jail called me “That Filthy One.” I was nineteen years old, born and bred in Derry, chav to the core, and yeah, I did a stretch for GBH.
I battered a girl who looked at me funny in a nightclub queue, ended up ragging her by the hair and dragging her along the cold, rain-soaked ground until her miniskirt hiked up enough for everyone to see her pantyless cunt.
”Tracey claimed to have never used the wand herself, as she was much keener to use the mouths of 19-year-old prisoners like me. Fuck, she was awful. Her meaty old twat looked like a crime scene in itself and oozed cream before I even put my tongue to it. She demanded repeat orgasms and would drench my tongue and tits with her juices before she’d agree to give me the toy.”
That wasn’t enough humiliation for me. I ended up snapping her nose sideways. No regrets. Catherine says I’ve got the fight of a bitch in heat and the libido to match, and when I landed behind bars, it didn’t die, it fuckin’ grew.
Like, when you’re a filthy-minded Goonette like me, you don’t just switch off the addiction to filth because someone slams a prison door behind you. Fuck no, you adapt and evolve. And that’s what I did inside those grimy grey walls. I gooned like a champ, got inventive with sex toys, and turned my cell into a shrine of slow ruin.
Table of Contents
Cold Turkey and Closed Legs
The first night inside, I was climbing the walls. No mobile, no Wi-Fi, no hypno porn loops of spit-covered cocks, bloodshot eyes of deepthroat whores, or close-ups of girls crying through their orgasms. I felt like a dirty little junkie going cold turkey. My clit was twitching like it missed its morning hit.
That first week in prison was hell. I’d rub against my bunk, trying to remember old gooning sessions from back home when I’d be on my back in front of my telly, thighs spread with my cunt getting pounded by pixelated pornstars, Catherine whispering filth into my ear while she rubbed herself into a frenzy.
I’d equally try to goon to the memories of the porn-fuelled parties Catherine often had me as the pride of place in. The places where I’d put men through forced creampies and assert myself as an alpha Goonette amongst the girls who I could smell were posers.
But after a while, the memories didn’t work, and they weren’t enough to make my cunt sing. After all, this shithole prison wasn’t home. HMP was bleak, sterile, and devoid of porn. I needed to adapt.
Wank Mags & Goon Smut Currency
Then I asked around amongst the other prisoners. Looking at me red-eyed, shaking, and starved, they assumed I was approaching them to ask for drugs, but looked shocked when I confessed I was addicted to porn.
I was pointed in the direction of a sleazy prisoner called Kelly, who, stuffed behind the radiator of a cell in D-Wing, had a stack of proper old-school porn mags. You could smell the dried crusts of decades of desperation on them. The girls in them were all dolled up like it was 1998, high heels, glossy lips, airbrushed tits, but when you’re a filthy little slut desperate for release, it hits.
We started a swap system. One mag for two roll-ups. A Reader’s Wives for a pack of noodles. There was this scouser, a mid-fifties woman called Lianne, who had a stash of old and sticky porn photos from the noughties. She’d lend me her favourites if I let her suck on my 19-year-old tits and finger my cunt. Fair trade.
I’d sit on my metal toilet, pants round my ankles, mag balanced on my knees, three fingers knuckle-deep in my cunt. Slow and low or hard and vicious, just how Catherine taught me. Tongue out, Eyes glazed, and just totally fuckin’ lost in a haze of cheap smut and pixelated pink twat.
DIY Dildos & Cellblock Ingenuity
When you’re locked up with no access to Mr. Hankey’s or Honey Play Box, you learn to get creative. I made a dildo from a rolled-up sock wrapped around a toothbrush, padded with melted-down sanitary pads for girth, then wrapped in clingfilm from a sandwich packet. Industrial, bitchy, brutal. The fucker gave me UTIs but also gave me the kind of screamer orgasms that made the night screws bang on my door and threaten solitary.
Another girl, Beth from Romford, crafted one out of a hollowed-out hairbrush handle and a cocktail of Vaseline and spit for lube. In that shithole prison, a dildo like that felt like heaven. She was a bit of a lesbian in denial, Beth was. She used to lend it around the other girls, knowing few would wash this slit slime off it. I often wonder what she did when she got that sordid shared sex toy back into her cell late at night after it had been around the entire wing.
I dunno why Beth kept her lesbian tendencies under wraps. Like, there was no shame. We’d compare our creations during laundry duty, giggling over girth and texture. It was like Blue Peter, if Blue Peter was run by desperate, dripping convict sluts with too much time on their hands.
There was a good reason why Beth and I volunteered for laundry duty, too. It was she who gave me the idea. There was some ripe Goon Fuel to be had in there, and it came in the form of a few misplaced pairs of panties that I would huff on while I burned my clit out deep into the night. Still, everything changed when someone whispered down my ear: ‘’Have you had a go of Tracey’s vibrator, yet?’’
Tracey the Sadist Whore
I’d been told to steer clear of Tracey from the moment I was first locked up. In her mid-seventies, she was said to be more dangerous than she looked and had committed some serious crimes in her time. But fuck it, she had something I wanted. Somehow, Tracey had managed to get a powerful clit wand onto the wing and wasn’t shy about lending it out in exchange for some favours.
Tracey claimed to have never used the wand herself, as she was much keener to use the mouths of 19-year-old prisoners like me. Fuck, she was awful. Her meaty old twat looked like a crime scene in itself and oozed cream before I even put my tongue to it. She demanded repeat orgasms and would drench my tongue and tits with her juices before she’d agree to give me the toy.
I remember one night, feeling particularly desperate for orgasm, and with her smelling my hunger, she ordered me onto my knees in the corner of the cell and pissed all over me while groping one of her meaty tits and snarling ‘’not so pretty now, are you? You trashy little cunt. Open wide!’’
I did as I was told and scuttled off to my cell with the vibrator stashed, still reeking off her granny piss but not giving a shit. I’d also be lying if the sordidness of it all didn’t make me cum ten times harder.
Oral Sex Behind the Bins
There’s a certain breed of girl in prison who gets that sexual hunger. Not all the girls were into it, but the ones who were? Feral. I had a little gang of gooning deviants: me, Chelsea, Lianne, and Nadz. We’d sneak behind the laundry bins or into the unused shower stalls when the screws weren’t watching.
I ate more pussy in those 16 months than I ever did outside. Chelsea had this peach of a cunt that was plump, sticky, always smelling of cheap shampoo and sweat. Nadz was a Pakistani girl from Lancashire who was raised in a sex-free, hyper-religious house. We soon changed her when she was introduced to the feeling of a woman’s tongue on her tight cunt.
Catherine didn’t just save me, she rewired me. Before I got locked up, she was already grooming me into a filthy little sub-Goonette and taught me how to edge, how to stay wet for hours, how to drool over men’s spunk like it was holy water.
So inside, I became the Goon Priestess of my block. I’d hold secret “goon sessions” in the cell during lights out, teaching the other girls how to breathe through the edging, how to use your brain like a porn loop, how to sniff dirty knickers like a meditative ritual.
We’d all sit in a circle, fingers buried, muttering filth I remembered from old porn vids. Sometimes we’d all cum together, moaning into our pillows like a cult of cum-drunk witches.
Release Day: Still Soaking, Still Feral
When I got out, Catherine picked me up outside the gates in hr car. She wore red lipstick and had a leash in her lap. She barely even spoke. Instead, just handed me a bottle of lube and a buttplug the size of a Coke can and a laptop with a playlist of her favourite Goon Hypno PMVs on it.
“Welcome back, you dirty little cunt,” she purred, ‘’I’ve got a little surprise planned for you back at mine. There’s some hard Gooner cocks who’ve missed edging themselves in your pretty little slit.’’
I shoved the plug in on the motorway and gooned in her passenger seat.
Prison didn’t break me, it just made me a better slut.
No toys? Make your own. No porn? Wank to memories. No cock? Eat cunt.
Gooning is a mindset. You carry it with you whether you’re in a Soho fetish dungeon, a Prague gangbang, or a grey prison cell in the north onf englang. Catherine says I’ve got the kind of filth in me that can’t be cleaned and she’s fuckin’ right. I’ll always be the chav Goonette with cum on her breath and a toothbrush dildo stashed in her knickers.
