Desire Behind Bars

by Salome Wilde

  “There’s a reason I call her, Sweetie,” Mama says, smug.

  Singh’s eyes flip open. “What do you want?”

  Idly, Mama’s hands caress my body as she states her terms. “I need shit brought in. You’ll bring it.”

  “Why me?” Singh demands. “And don’t tell me it’s because of your girl. We all know you’ve got most of the guards in your pocket.”

  “Cause you’re clean.” Mama’s voice has turned snide. “No one would suspect you.”

  “And if I do, I can have her?” The guard can’t hide the thread of need in her voice.

  “Whenever you want, officer. However you want.”

  Singh’s eyes haven’t stopped roving over my body. I feel the heat of her lust against my skin like a brand, but I already belong to Mama.

  “I want her now.”

  “Course, officer.” Mama’s voice is light, triumphant. “Sweetie, lick the nice officer’s pussy.”

  I move, spilling to the floor at Singh’s booted feet. She gasps, rocking back on her heels before she steadies herself, as my hands tear open the buckle of her belt and then her trousers. Her panties are black cotton, not the least bit sexy, but the pussy beneath is beautiful; as golden as the rest of her, the lips shielded by a neat strip of silky black hair. She’s already wet, her arousal smelling like spiced honey. Not bothering to pull her clothes down all the way, I bury my face in her snatch.

  Sweet and sticky flesh melts against my lapping, burrowing tongue. With my thumbs, I hold open the plump folds of her pussy and nuzzle my face closer. Her clit is a fat, swollen button poking out from between her labia. I lash it with my tongue, strumming it until, with a muttered curse, her control gives way. The prison guard’s hands clutch at my hair, pulling me closer until my neck cranes at an awkward angle. I thrust my tongue into the grasping depths of her pussy, flicking the tip against the walls of her sheath until I hit a spot that makes her groan. A spill of fresh juices trickles down my chin. Over and over again I aim for that spot. She shakes against me, and it doesn’t matter that my knees hurt from the hard floor, or that my neck aches and my jaw is tired. I want her orgasm and, with a deep, strangled groan, she gives it to me. She grinds it out on my face, bruising hard, until with a last full-body shudder and a hitching breath she shoves my head away. I fall back onto my bottom, my back banging against the side of the cot, breathing hard.

  With sharp jerks of her hands, Singh gets dressed. Her cheeks are red and the skin around her pretty eyes is tight. Little wisps of hair have escaped from her tight ponytail and cling to the damp skin at her temples. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she says, her voice a taut string on the verge of snapping. Her gaze is locked on Mama, reclining on her bunk with her hands behind her head as she watches the show. “Have her ready.” She doesn’t say anything else before she storms out of the cell.

  Mama chuckles. “C’mere, Sweetie.”

  I clamber back onto the bed with her, the pain in my knees making me awkward. I collapse into her arms and she gathers me close. Tipping my face up to hers, I ask, “Did I do well, Mama?”

  She smiles at me. “You did great.” Her hand tightens in my hair, yanking my head back. I cry out in pain and watch the smile slide from her face.

  Mama’s free hand delves between my legs, her fingers driving into my cunt. She pumps them inside me, hard and deep, and I scream as the electric pleasure tears through me.

  “But you’re mine, aren’t you Sweetie?” she hisses in my ear. “No matter what happens, who I give you to, you’re mine.” Her fingers plunge into me and I can feel my orgasm start to unfurl. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine.”

  My body convulses in her arms, pleasure whipping up a storm beneath my skin, and I wail out my answer. “Yours.”

  “That’s my Sweetie girl.”

  Memories

  by C.L. Boyle

  I lie in bed, staring up at the metal lattice frame supporting my cellmate’s mattress. I can hear her snoring above me, while I’m still wide-awake several hours after lights out. Although in the dormitory of this low security prison there are no bars or doors locking me inside, I can’t get up and walk around when I can’t sleep. I can’t go outside or make myself a snack. I can’t turn on the television or even read a book to pass the time. I have to stay in this bed in the dark.

  After a few hours of trying and failing to sleep, I’m fully aware of what I want to do right now, what my body is begging for me to do at this point. It’s been too long since I’ve gotten myself off, and I know it’s the only way I’ll have any chance of getting any rest. I also know there’s only one thing, one person actually, that I can think about to get me there.

  When I think about her in the middle of the night, I always imagine she’s standing in front of me and lifting up her skirt, just as she did the first night we fucked. I’m sitting on my couch, looking up at her and smiling as she sways her hips back and forth and then raises her skirt slowly for the big reveal that she isn’t wearing any underwear.

  It was a cold night, and when she arrived at my apartment she was wearing a long winter coat. Underneath, she wore only a thin silky blouse, buttoned up just enough to be considered decent, and a short skirt over knee-high boots. I wondered whether she had arrived without underwear or had slipped them off when she went to the bathroom during dinner, but I didn’t ask and I never found out.

  I had no idea then what trouble she would bring into my life. There were no warning signs as there would be the next few times I saw her. Even so, I ignored them because of the way she straddled my lap that first night. Just the thought of it spreads heat through my body, even now. By the time I knew I was in too deep and that things were very likely to end very badly, it was too late to get out. Honestly, I didn’t want to.

  I’d met her a few weeks earlier at my usual bar. We ran into each other a few more times and flirted heavily. She was sexy and charming and quick to smile or laugh. She had plenty of admirers but never seemed to settle on any of them. Eventually, I suggested she come to my place for dinner and she accepted with a lingering kiss on my cheek that promised more. My stomach still clenches at the memory of her hot breath against my skin. In my bunk, I slip my hand under the elastic waistband of my pajama bottoms and under the thin white cotton underwear we are issued to cup my mound.

  Dinner wasn’t anything special, chicken and vegetable stir-fry and cheap beer. We ate, making the kind of small talk people make on first dates. I rambled nervously while trying to pay as much attention to what she was saying as I was to the way her breasts looked peaking over the top of her bra when she leaned towards me. When we finished eating, I opened us each another beer and we moved to the living room.

  I suggested we watch a movie as we sat down together on the couch. She left no space between our bodies and soon she was rubbing her hand up and down my thigh. I put an arm around her shoulder. Her hair was pinned in a loose bun, and I played with the trailing strands at the nape of her neck. I was too focused on the feeling of her hand against my jean-clad inner thigh to pay any attention to the movie we turned on, but I can recall how soft her hair felt sliding through my fingers, especially contrasted with the coarse curls under my fingertips now. I can still remember the jasmine and grapefruit fragrance of her shampoo even as I smell my own arousal.

  I’m wet and my clit is throbbing after only a few moments of thinking about her. I’m torn between getting this done as fast as possible, mindful of the possibility of getting interrupted at any moment by a patrolling guard or my currently sleeping bunkmate, and indulging in this memory and dragging it out for as long as I can. Now that I’ve started this train of thought, my desire to replay everything that happened that night wins out.

  When the movie ended, she stood and playfully pulled her hair out of her bun to let it fall over her shoulders. She raised her arms over her head as she turned around and, looking back at me, rolled her ass back and forth a few times. Then she walked in a slow semicircle until she was standing in front
of me again. Swaying her hips from side to side, she dropped her arms to rub her hands over her breasts and then down her body, bending toward me as her fingers reached her thigh so I could see completely down her shirt. In bed, my hand takes the same path hers did, squeezing my breast before moving to my thigh.

  She glided her fingertips back up, pulling on the hem of her skirt to display her pussy. I leaned forward and reached out to grab her wrist to pull her towards me. She spread her legs wide to put her knees down on either side of my lap. I slid my hands up her bare legs and around to her ass as she hovered above me. She leaned down and brought her mouth to mine for a kiss that quickly went from eager to sloppy, our tongues sliding against each other. I slipped a hand up the front of her shirt and over a full breast that was spilling over her lacy black strapless bra.

  My lips traced her jaw and neck with wet, open-mouthed kisses that turned into sucking and licking her skin while she unbuttoned that almost see-through blouse and threw it on the floor behind her. Both of my hands went to her breasts, pressing them in my palms. I tugged the bra down to her waist and took an already erect nipple into my mouth. After sucking for a moment, I bit down, which made her grind her pelvis against my lap. Before I could move to the other breast, she pushed me away and stood up. I groaned in frustration until I saw the way she was grinning at me. She knelt on the floor in front of me, unbuttoned my jeans, and unceremoniously pulled them and my underwear off. She looked me in the eyes once more before lowering her head to kiss her way up my thighs while pushing my legs apart with her hands. Every moment of the evening was better than I’d imagined possible. She was even sexier in my living room than she had been at the bar, and I definitely hadn’t seen her dance for anyone else the way she had for me.

  In bed now, I move my hand between my legs and imagine it’s her tongue spreading open my folds instead of my own finger. I stroke across my hard and swollen clit, barely suppressing a moan when I make contact. I dip my finger lower, gathering my now abundant wetness, before moving it back up and over my clit while I focus on the memory of her mouth. I grip my thigh with my left hand, recalling how her fingers dug into my flesh while her tongue worked against me.

  When I came in her mouth, my fingers tangled in her hair must have pulled so hard that it hurt, and I unintentionally bruised her lower back where my heel dug into her flesh. I hadn’t known I was doing either of those things until I came down from my climax and realized how tightly I was holding her. I clench my teeth as I feel the tension spreading through my body. My fingers flick furiously against my pulsing clit until my orgasm surges through me.

  It’s been months since I’ve allowed myself to remember her in this way. When I think about her during the day—in the prison cafeteria, at my job in the laundry, or through the other interminable hours when there is nothing at all to do but think—I wonder about how much better my life would have been if we’d never met. I haven’t spoken her name since the day I was brought here in handcuffs. No one—neither guard nor fellow prisoner—has ever asked what I’m in for, and I haven’t volunteered the information, just as I have no idea why my snoring bunkmate is inside.

  The past few times I’ve tried to touch myself, quickly during my morning shower or during other sleepless nights, I haven’t been able to orgasm. I know it’s because I haven’t allowed myself to remember that night. Now that I have, my body is hard to satisfy. I steady my breathing to listen for signs that I’ve disturbed my bunkmate, or for the footsteps of the guard. Hearing nothing, I slip back into my memory.

  When I released my grip on her, she lifted her skirt again and straddled my lap a second time. In response, I pulled her down for a consuming kiss, enjoying the taste of myself on her lips and tongue and the way she moaned into my mouth. I put my hand under her skirt and between her thighs. She was wet and swollen. One finger slid easily inside, so I added a second. She moaned and arched away from me, keeping her hands on my shoulders for leverage so she could ride my fingers.

  I simply met her thrusts until I decided to take control of the rhythm. I pumped my hand while twisting my fingers as they moved in and out of her. She pulled herself up and forward until her forehead lay against the couch behind my shoulder, giving herself over to my control. I kissed her clavicle and upper chest, tasting the sweat now coating her skin, and she moaned and whimpered into my ear.

  In my cell, I move my hand lower and spread my legs wider. I want to be elsewhere, pumping my hand hard and thrusting with abandon, scattering sheets and pillows across the floor. Instead, I reach behind my head with my free hand to grab the metal bar of the bedframe in the hope that it will prevent it from banging against the wall. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so aggressive with myself, so one finger suits me just fine. I can still remember how my two fingers felt inside her, how she moved against my hand, and the sounds she made when my fingers angled into the right spot. I picture her writhing on my lap and feel a second orgasm building. Her breath was hot and heavy against my neck as I increased my speed and pressure. Between groans she murmured, “Fuck, fuck, fuck” into my ear in time with the movements of my fingers. I pushed her away enough to palm a breast and suck her nipple into my mouth again. This time when I bit down her whole body trembled, and she came with a series of short, high-pitched moans.

  Flooded with arousal at the remembrance of those sounds, I add another finger, just as I had with her, and bite my lower lip to avoid crying out. I only manage to stifle the sound as I immediately feel my walls contracting. I press the base of my palm down hard to create some friction against my clit and pump my fingers until my legs are trembling and my hips jerk off the bed as I spasm, shaking the bed enough to scrape my knuckles against the concrete wall behind me. I try to control my breathing while waiting to see if my cellmate is going to stir. When I hear a snore, I shudder out a sigh, gently remove my fingers, and wipe them on the inside of my pajama bottoms.

  My body and mind are mutually exhausted at last. In the middle of the night I can forget that she’s the reason I’m in this place. I can just focus on her mouth, those perfect lips and that talented tongue. I can reminisce about how she lifted her skirt for me, how my fingers felt inside her, and the sounds she made when she came. I can remember it all, take pleasure from it as I cannot during the day, and finally drift off to sleep.

  The Telephone Game

  by Chase Morgan

  The rich aroma of Colombian beans lingered in the air as the smooth flavor passed her lips. Ms. Jones sat at a booth in her coffee shop. Local art decorated the walls and the shelves were jammed with random paperbacks. John, one of her regulars, sat in a corner chair, filling out a crossword and sipping from an oversized mug.

  “Jones!”

  The sound of her name ended the daydream. The rich Colombian blend was acrid swill from the bottom of a large industrial pot, and she became painfully aware of the institutional plastic upon which she sat. The seats were attached to the table like an elementary school cafeteria. Here it was to prevent inmates from turning them into weapons.

  “Jones, you hear me, girl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You off in la-la land again?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How can you drink coffee in the afternoon?”

  “It soothes me.”

  “Shit, I’d be wired like a motherfucker if I had coffee this late. Anyhow, you got mail. I put it on your bunk. Must be nice to have somebody thinking about you on the outside. One of these days you gonna tell me who it is.”

  “Just a friend.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you always say. You okay?”

  “Yeah, just thinking.”

  “Girl, you always ‘just thinking.’”

  “What else am I gonna do?”

  “True. I gotta go finish passing this shit out. You let me know if you got a little surprise in there for me again. ”

  The arrival of the package filled her with a strange combination of hope and indifference. Jones kn
ew exactly what was in there: three packs of smokes, a Snickers bar (the irony of its slogan, “Gonna be awhile,” wasn’t lost on her), a bag of Doritos, vanilla-scented lotion, a quarter and the name of another inmate, written discretely under the bottom flap.

  In the last eighteen months, Jones had acquired a stack of quarters from her “friend.” She was two years into a five-year stretch and the agreement tied to the items contained in the cardboard gave her hope for early parole. Jones didn’t need money. She had invested plenty before going away, and all of it was sitting collecting interest. Her only hurdle was getting out of prison.

  The Snickers bar was for Trixie, her primary source of information on other inmates. The Doritos went to Hopkins, who stood guard in the laundry room when Jones needed a private space. The smokes went to the matriarch of whichever family or gang the name given to her belonged. The lotion was Jones’ only indulgence. She loved the smell, and the process of rubbing it into her skin helped her mentally escape the physical confines. The quarter indicated it was time to make the call and pay her dues.

  Jones tipped the plastic mug to finish her bitter coffee. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, allowing herself one more glimpse of her imaginary coffee shop before standing and heading to her space. The box was sitting on her bunk, right where Trix said it would be. Jones sighed and opened the already untaped lid, finding exactly what she expected. Every item was neatly placed inside so that it couldn’t move or be crushed, indicative of the sender’s personality. This was a business deal: neat, orderly and mutually beneficial.

  She toyed with the idea of lifting the bottom flap to peek at the new name, but decided against it. She needed to stay focused, finish one thing before moving to the next. Her payment of good-behavior time was directly related to the quality of her phone calls. The most recent assignment had been particularly difficult and taken almost a month to complete, worth plenty if she handled this final step well.