My new teeth didn’t look the same to me because they weren’t the same. My real teeth duplicates were there on the dentures that I assumed were targeted for Habiba. I couldn’t tell if my dentures felt strange because I’d never worn dentures before, or if it were because they were shaped differently than my real teeth. The teeth part didn’t look or feel like my teeth used to, and of course, there was the plastic over my own, somewhat shrunken gums. To my tongue, resting against both, my mouth felt foreign to me.
Eventually, the dentist announced that he was done. He took the dentures out of my mouth, squeezed some adhesive into the lower set, and handed it to me. He told me to note the amount of adhesive, then told me to position it in my mouth and push down to set it in place. I did, gaging a little.
Next, he handed me the uppers and the tube of adhesive, telling me to apply it. I did, he checked, pronounced it okay and told me to push them up into position. I managed without gagging that time. He told me to bite down repeatedly. I obeyed and heard the clicking of the teeth. I couldn’t tell if my bite was right or not, but he seemed to think it was. He handed me a mirror to see the result.
I was astonished to see how much better I looked! I had considered myself so ugly that the difference exceeded what I believed was going to be possible. I can’t have my own teeth again, nor can I ever forgive the denizens of this place who did this to me. Nevertheless, the dentures were fantastic, probably because their absence was so awful. I was pretty again.
Don’t get me wrong, they didn’t look like my teeth. Apparently, whoever made them had mixed up my impressions with Habiba’s, and put my teeth onto her gum impressions. What they used for a model of my teeth was what I could only call generic teeth. Added to the strangeness of my new teeth, I seemed to have a slight overbite which I certainly didn’t have before. The upper teeth protruded forward more than my own had done, and were definitely shaped differently than my originals. Overall, both the upper and lower dentures seemed to fill more of my mouth than my old teeth had, as though they went back in my mouth far enough to cover half of where my long-missing wisdom teeth used to be.
However, they were every bit as white as my real teeth had been. Yes, Tia and I had gone together to get our teeth cosmetically bleached by my real, state-of-the-art, talented dentist in River’s Edge. My natural teeth had been gorgeous.
Were these new teeth gorgeous? At that moment, I honestly thought they were close to gorgeous. I was happier than I’d expected to be. A lot happier. But I was far from satisfied.
Via sign language and pantomime, I tried to ask the dentist if he could get the teeth mix-up corrected.
“The Control Institution only provides this service once. They wouldn’t accommodate any attempt to have the teeth remade. I’m sorry, Karimah, I have no way to get this corrected.”
Did that mean my nemesis, the hated Habiba, was going to be wearing MY teeth? The teeth that matched my own? That thought was too much for my mind to handle at that moment. Luckily, it slid away before I could focus any attention on it.
I certainly looked more like the old me than I did without the dentures, but I didn’t look quite the same. The teeth were slightly different and the increased overbite changed my mouth, my smile, and my expressions somewhat. I realized that with the mix-up in the impressions taken of my old teeth before they extracted them, there was no way to match my new dentures to the molds of my own, lovely teeth. I was going to be like this: pretty again, but somewhat different.
I’m sure the angst about my teeth was an American thing. That said, I was an American, right? I just wanted to be me – as I’d always been. I wasn’t interested in any more changes.
My desires were irrelevant. Everything about this place changed me, at least a little.
When I viewed my situation dispassionately, I knew that I looked so much better! Not quite like before, but good – a lot better than I expected.
The dentist looked at me looking at myself. I had a frown of concentration on my face. I was judging how I would look now. I had expected to be disappointed, angry, and wanting further revenge for what was done to me. In reality, instead of a frown of immeasurable dissatisfaction etched onto my face, I was surprisingly, unexpectedly happy with how I looked. I realized I was about to cry with relief, but I didn’t want to do it in front of the asshole who had taken my teeth in the first place.
“Why don’t you smile now?” He suggested, trying to be friendly and encouraging.
I just looked at him, my eyes filling with tears, thinking for a moment that I wanted to grab his neck and choke the life out of him for pulling my teeth. Then, of course, being the understanding, forgiving soul that I am, I knew that he only followed orders, offered no malice, and did the best for me that he could have done in getting me dentures that were beyond my expectation.
It wasn’t his fault that some idiot Arab had mixed up my impressions with Habiba’s.
No, I’d not ever have my own teeth again, but he had made me pretty again, and done everything for me that he could.
The dentist helped me out of the chair and back into my wheelchair. I managed to hold it in until I wheeled out of the infirmary, then I cried all the way back to my triple. Deep, soul-wrenching, anguished sobs. Surprisingly, they were equally for my lovely lost teeth, and for the relief I felt at having been made at least a little pretty again.
Chapter 13 – Come Softly to Me
I wore my new dentures for the rest of the day without any problem; that surprised me. Every woman in my group stopped by and gave me a thumbs up on how I looked. I knew I looked significantly better and appreciated their acknowledging it. I was trying to get past feeling cheated from having my lovely teeth taken from me so cruelly, and replaced with these generic ones. I knew I could never get my own teeth back, that I needed to move on, and I was trying hard to do that. At least it was no longer eating me alive.
The dentist had told me not to wear my dentures to bed. He said my gums needed to rest and recover every day. That night, I took them out, scrubbed them off and put them in the container of cleaning solution. Then I went to bed looking like a toothless, bald grandma again. Like I would every night. Forever. I could almost hear Tia saying to me, “Suck it up, that’s no big deal. You’ll be fine.” So that’s what I did.
My daily routine was barely affected. When mornings came I awaited my turn in the bathroom. When Altaf finished at the sink, I went in and shaved my head, getting the usual unsatisfied titillation from doing it, thanks to my controller. I rarely found stray brows anymore because by now, after months of daily plucking, they were all but entirely gone, never to reappear again. I stepped into the shower to wash and shave the rest of myself, meaning any faint hairs that might have resisted my teenaged laser treatment.
After my shower and drying off, I took my lower dentures out of the cleaner, rinsed them off, applied adhesive and pushed them easily, comfortably into place over my lower gums. I did the same with my uppers. I opened and tightly closed my mouth several time to seat them completely. Now I had teeth again. I was both glad and unexpectedly satisfied each time. That was in spite of the minor change to my face brought on by the slight overbite the top dentures exhibited, which my own, perfect teeth never had.
As the days passed, I continued to believe that the dentures looked decent, maybe better than when I first got them because they weren’t so foreign anymore. I managed to avoid obsessing about what this place had done to me. I’d forced myself to stop that hopeless exercise, determined to adjust to the way I was and, as much as possible, forget the way I’d been or, at least, put it aside. The constant regret would have killed me and could have destroyed my spirit and self-confidence over the long term. I realized this wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to me. That said, once in a while I would start to think that it didn’t have to be this way! They hadn’t needed to do this to me!
Enough, Karimah, I’d tell myself. You look fine. It’s a little different than it was, but you don’t look u
gly with your dentures in. The new teeth are fine, and the overbite is no big deal.
I had needed to move on and I did. I struggled and mostly accepted myself as I was.
Until, about six weeks later.
The despair I had pushed far into the background came roaring forward one afternoon as I rolled my wheelchair into the outside yard through an open door, and came face-to-face with Habiba. Alone.
Suddenly, there she was in her wheelchair, about six feet in front of me, heading to the door from which I’d just emerged.
We both stopped and stared at each other. She had a look of expectant fear on her face. Her eyes flipped back and forth, I thought in a frantic attempt to see if there were any one nearby who would provide her support. She wheeled forward a foot or so, and I repositioned my chair to block her – an intentional, aggressive move. Her expression of fear instantly became more evident.
I actually pushed myself up by my arms, as though I were about to launch my disabled body right at her, using my upper body strength alone. She immediately waved her hands back and forth and shook her head “no,” in an attempt to stop me. I remained perched off my seat, my arms straining to keep the dead half of me off my chair.
Habiba held her hands in the prayer, or begging position, still shaking her head. She seemed to believe that I was really going to attack her, and that I would take her. I remember thinking that was quite perceptive, because I thought that was exactly what was going to happen.
She begged with her hands and eyes and body language. I was now a couple feet above my seat, my arms straining to support me. A bare moment later, Habiba started to cry! Right there!
Slowly, uncertainly she formed a fist with her right hand, with her thumb extended upward. She put her fist against her chest and rotated it clockwise.
I knew almost no American Sign Language, but I knew that gesture. It meant “regret” or “I’m sorry.”
I just stared at her, still off my seat. I suspect pure hatred distorted my face. I was biting down on my dentures so hard it hurt. I managed to push up a little more, threatening her as much as a paraplegic can.
She continued to shake her head “no” and gesture “I’m sorry.” We were at an impasse for several minutes. No one noticed us, as far as I could tell.
Finally, she must have decided I wasn’t going to attack her. Perhaps my expression had relaxed a little. She looked at me meekly, and attempted a weak smile, which grew as I settled back a little, about to return to my chair. My arms were aching in pain. Try holding yourself up by the arms of a chair with no use of your lower body sometime.
There was Habiba at that point, smiling at me. Then her smile got bigger and I could see her teeth and a sense of relief on her face. I was mesmerized by her teeth and immediately recognized them AS MY TEETH! In the mouth of my hated nemesis!
They were images, models, duplicates of my perfect teeth, set in artificial, plastic gums, and in the mouth of my enemy! The woman who had caused me to lose them by her own bullying and dishonesty was wearing my smile as though it were hers! When Habiba opened her mouth, it displayed the teeth that belonged to me! They had taken a part of me and given it to my hated rival to own, to her beauty and my detriment! And she had accepted my smile as her own!
My mind immediately went ballistic. The miserable bitch had stolen my smile! Then I was overwhelmed by outrage, horror, and the nausea that accompanied them. I looked in disgust at Habiba and instantly threw up all over her. I sprayed her from her face down to her lap.
The shock on her face was one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen. Strangely, she continued the sign language “I’m sorry” as she wheeled away. She didn’t even attempt to wipe the slime off herself. I prepared to swing at her, but held it back as she passed by.
But the abomination of her revolting smile, with my own teeth, has stuck with me to the present day. Someday, perhaps many years from now, I will hunt her down, and I will end her miserable life without mercy.
**********
My new morning and evening routine continued, pretty much as it always would, after my encounter with Habiba. About two weeks later, they reversed my paralysis, and I could control my pissing and pooping again. I could barely stand up for even a few seconds though, and I couldn’t walk at all. My muscles had atrophied during my paralysis. I had noticed that my legs seemed slimmer and less shapely, in spite of my overall plump shape. The ninety days of inactivity had taken a heavy toll on my legs, which had lost more than half their strength and about 35 percent of their muscle mass. Yep … it happened that quickly. As a result, I had physical therapy every day for a month, and every other day after that. After about four weeks, I could get around with a walker. About a week later, as far as I could tell, I turned 26. Happy Birthday to me. I was a plump, still-crippled, bald, toothless 26-year-old convict who was sexually frigid.
It took a couple more months before my legs could support me for long periods. Even many months later, though they had completely regained their shape, the muscle tone was still lagging.
I didn’t deserve any of what they did to me, but I was dealing with it.
**********
Once I was no longer paralyzed and had recovered some mobility, about a month after my birthday, I decided to fuck Erij and Altaf. I’d been at the Control Institution for Delinquent Women for over ten months. Cigarettes weren’t enough anymore. They never had been, even though I was essentially chain-smoking sometimes. I was going stark-raving loony with boredom. I needed an orgasm. I needed intimacy. I needed something other than the shit they fed us. I needed my old mouth back. I needed my old life back. I needed the things I’d worked so hard for. I … I … I …
I needed Tia, who seemed to have abandoned me. Of course, she probably was never actually there in the first place.
With no Tia, I needed Dyana. I really, really needed Dyana. I would kill for Dyana.
I wondered how she was.
In my vacant, unstimulated mind, she became the focus of my need.
I wondered why she hadn’t come for me. I wondered why no one had come for me. I was an American citizen, after all. That carried some weight, didn’t it?
I felt that all the world had forgotten about me. Where were my colleagues, my friends, my family, representatives of my government?
The fact that I was stranded here led me to believe that I’d been either forgotten or passed over as too much trouble. As a result, I struggled daily, but cried myself to sleep most every night.
In order to shift my thoughts elsewhere, I was going to fuck the other ladies in my triple.
I took stock of my erogenous zones. Let’s see ... There were … uh … my earlobes. Yeah, that was one. And my … hmm … my inner thighs. Sort of. Then there was my … my … my … yeah! There was my butt hole! I thought about it some more. My lips were pretty good too. I could certainly appreciate a tongue in my mouth. I thought some more. Of course! For whatever reason, I had sensitive, erotic upper arms! I don’t know why, but that had always been a turn-on spot for me. I had my whole, soft, warm body. It was even softer now that I was chubby. I’d use it as best I could. Altaf and Erij were as fat as I was. We could at least finger or tongue fuck our assholes. We could feel our curves and softness against each other.
I convinced myself this might work. Then I set about trying to convince my triple mates. As it turned out, persuading them that this would be worth trying took no effort. Altaf was enamored with me for protecting her and Erij was a lesbian anyway, which was why she‘d been imprisoned and forever deprived of sensitivity in her erotic zones.
And therein lay the problem. Neither wanted to risk a longer prison term, and Altaf didn’t want to gamble with her long-term sensitivity. Frankly, I didn’t either, but I was becoming desperate. When I thought about it seriously, though, I was afraid. A conviction for lesbianism in this miserable kingdom would result in lifelong disabling of our erogenous zones, which had already happened to Erij. As I considered a way to pull it off, I kn
ew we’d have to be extremely careful. That said, I was willing to take some chance. I was so incredibly horny!
I spent the next couple weeks trying to figure a way to be private with Altaf and Erij. Our bedroom was out; there was no door and there was a camera. I had no idea how often they checked the video feed, or when that would happen. All of the other rooms within my group’s suite were also randomly monitored. We weren’t allowed to leave the suite after lights-out.
In the end, it was Altaf who, knowing what I wanted to do, and being just as determined as I was, found a place we could use for a couple of hours in the afternoon. It was a place she’d noticed during her session in the auction house that week. Though we’d have to wait a couple of months, it seemed like it would work. As a result, my triple volunteered to do the next after-auction cleanup, a job hated by everyone so much that the prison actually offered a reward for any triplet that volunteered to clean up the mess in the auditorium where the auction was held, along with the usually disgusting sexual detritus left in the private rooms by buyers trying out potential indentured servants.
The reward wasn’t much but it was something that would cover our clandestine interest in being in the place together. The reward was dinner with the matrons, which meant real, decent food. As my triple was gideen, chubbies, it was an easy sell to the head of housekeeping.
Two months later, Altaf wasn’t bought, and so the three of us set out to clean the auction complex as rapidly as possible, and steal time together in one of the unmonitored private rooms. Three weeks earlier, I’d passed my first year in prison.
Altaf knew that, as a team, we’d be working alone. There was no need for anyone else to be there. We couldn’t run off, and if we didn’t work hard enough and well enough the final inspection would show it, and we wouldn’t get our dinner reward, we’d likely be punished, and we’d have to finish cleaning it anyway. We had all day; the inspection would happen sometime in the mid to late afternoon, once one of us told the head of housekeeping to come and approve the work.
Destiny Taken (Destiny Lost Book 1) Page 25