Desire Behind Bars

by Salome Wilde

  Jones recalled the feeling when she’d first lifted that flap to find the name Martinez. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” she’d said aloud. A Chola. She’d never had one assigned to her before. What’s more, Martinez embodied every Chola cliché imaginable: penciled eyebrows, outlined lips, jet-black hair and the number thirteen tattooed on her neck. She belonged to the La Florencia 13 gang and had a propensity for violence. In fact, she was still in the hole when that box had arrived. Martinez was a far cry from Mills. Quiet little Mills would do (and had done) anything for some scratch.

  Jones replayed the Martinez scene in her head as she walked to the phone room. She needed to remember everything for this call. The voice on the other end of the line was always demanding and required explicit details.

  “Number thirteen,” the guard said, pointing to the booth at the far end of the hall. Jones smiled at the irony. She wondered, as all inmates did, whether their conversations were being monitored. She didn’t care either way, even as she imagined sweaty guards jerking off to the debauchery that passed over these receivers. She picked up the phone and dialed. Once the operator received the acceptance of the reversed charges, the familiar controlled voice answered with a soft “Hello.”

  “It’s me.”

  “I see you’ve made a new friend.”

  Jones rolled her eyes, but kept her voice even. “Yes ma’am, but it wasn’t easy.”

  “I knew you could do it.”

  Jones thought back over the weeks of work that went into seducing Martinez. First, she manipulated the schedule so that she and Martinez were on the same yard detail.

  The first week, her prey feigned disinterest even as Jones relayed stories of the shitty Johns she had encountered along the way to prison. The second week she began taking some artistic liberties with a few of the stories. Jones was good at reading people. On the outside, her skill at selling drugs had brought money, and not doing them kept her safe. Now she was selling herself as a prostitute, and soon Martinez was buying.

  “This one motherfucker dressed in a diaper and made me cuddle him.”

  A snicker escaped Martinez’s lips.

  “He sucked on my tit and called me Momma.”

  At that, Martinez finally met her eyes. A smile stretched and she began trading stories of Cholos, starting with one so ashamed of his small dick that he would only fuck her from behind.

  “Like I couldn’t feel that small shit! Well, actually, I couldn’t!”

  By the end of the second week, Jones was catching Martinez’s lingering glances and knew she had her.

  Once she’d charmed Martinez, she wasn’t as intimidated by the fact that the Cholas were a rough bunch. Aside from their volatility, the Cholas shared similar stories with all the other inmates. Most of them were raised in a shitty environment and had been busted for drugs in one way or another.

  The working girls weren’t as rough as the Cholas, but they could get bitchy, like when Trixie got a little too close to Allgood in the cafeteria. The look in Brady’s eyes was all Trixie needed to move on. Allgood and Brady had been together longer than Jones had been in. Jones was glad neither of their names had been given to her yet.

  The meth heads were easily manipulated by the promise of a score. So, when Mill’s name appeared, Jones just promised her a little bag of fun, and she followed with no hesitation. The only real mystery in their block was Maccini.

  Maccini kept to herself, often going days without speaking to anyone. She was gray and nondescript, like the walls in the prison. Her clothes hung from her small frame the same way her disheveled hair hung on her head. The only sign of life was something deep within her watery eyes. No one knew why she was in. Some whispered that she’d murdered her family. Others said she was in for embezzlement, and a few thought she was the sole survivor of a failed bank heist. For these reasons, Maccini didn’t fit neatly into any of Jones’ categories. She showed what anyone in prison might become—even Jones, if she didn’t have the promise of her coffee house and enough money stashed away to make it a reality when she got out.

  “Was your new friend as tough as she looked?” The calm voice on the phone brought Jones back to the present.

  “Yes ma’am, but only on the outside.”

  “I knew she’d be a challenge. None of the others have taken you this long. This one might be worth as much as three months.”

  Her palms began to sweat. If this went well she would only need one or two more packages to see her through the gates and on parole. She could smell the sweet coffee shop aroma and hear the jingle of the bell over the door as customers walked in.

  “I haven’t watched the video yet.”

  “I know you’re going to like this one, ma’am.”

  “How’d you break through?”

  “Sharing fucked-up stories about assholes. I don’t think she’s ever been treated like a woman.”

  “Did you treat her like a woman?” The voice on the other end softened.

  “Yes, ma’am. Are you watching the video?”

  “Mm-hmm, the two of you just walked into view.”

  “I could feel her hand trembling when I led her back to the laundry room. It’s cute that this tough girl was nervous.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “No, ma’am, I didn’t give her the chance. I kissed her as soon as we were in there.”

  “Oh, I can see,” the voice said.

  “Mmm, her tongue was sweet. She was a little hesitant at first, but gave in quickly.”

  “I see your hand running down her back.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I could tell she wanted to make out.”

  Jones heard a quiet moan on the other end of the line and knew she was on the right track.

  “She’s a great kisser. I loved the feeling of our bodies pressed together.”

  “Did she smell nice?” The voice always drove the first part of the conversation with questions about the sensual aspects of the coupling. She didn’t like to be rushed.

  “Like vanilla, sweetness all through her thick, silky hair.”

  “What did her body feel like?”

  “She was firm and smooth all over.”

  “You liked the way she felt?”

  “Yes, ma’am. She had delicious curves, and I loved how she wriggled in my arms.”

  Another moan came through the line. Jones knew they were getting close to the point in the conversation where she would take the reins.

  “She’s kissing your neck.”

  Jones learned early in the arrangement that the voice needed to be eased into the scene with sensual, tidy descriptions.

  “Yes ma’am. I was pleased at how quickly she went from trembling to pulling my hair and running her tongue up my jawline. Her breath was so hot and eager in my ear.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought she’d be so passionate.”

  “Oh yes, ma’am. She was full of surprises. See how she unzipped my jumper before I realized it?”

  The change of pace in the voice’s breathing let Jones know there would be no more questions. Now she could take control. “Can you see how she cupped my breast and took my nipple into her mouth, sucking and nibbling?”

  The listener on the other end was no doubt watching that very scene unfold on the recorded security video while Jones narrated. She was seeing the two women kissing and each exploring the other’s body. Breasts and thighs would emerge. The exposed flesh would offer a stark contrast to the orange jump suits.

  Jones had arranged laundry bags in front of the camera like a bed. The women had collapsed in a twisted knot of flesh, transforming from incarcerated strangers to lovers. “The feeling of her nipples sliding across my lips and her pussy grinding on my thigh sent shivers down my spine.”

  “I want you to taste her,” the voice whispered.

  “I know,” Jones whispered back. Bars be damned, this was the moment Jones cherished. She was what the other woman wanted to be. Jones was driving the story now and held all the power. The
tight bun, cherry-red lips, pencil skirt, and tall heels of the powerful woman on the other end of the line melted away. During these conversations Jones’ words reduced her to a common pussy-rubbing slut.

  The warden’s voice dipped to a low growl once they crossed the threshold. “She’s working her way down your belly,” she groaned.

  “My pussy was so wet. I opened my legs and caressed her hair, encouraging her to go further.”

  “And she did.”

  “She let her tongue slide over my clit and down my swollen lips. I couldn’t believe how skilled she was. She devoured every inch of my pussy and then slipped her fingers inside me.”

  “Mmmmm, please tell me about her tongue.”

  “It was surprisingly well-practiced. She worked my clit into a tiny knot and spread my lips with her fingers.”

  “Your head is thrown back…and you’re rubbing your breasts.”

  “Her tongue had my clit charged as her fingers filled my aching pussy. You know how I love pulling my hard nipples when my pussy is being eaten. I was on the verge of orgasm and she knew it. Her tongue kept time with my whimpers and her fingers slid in and out of my soaked pussy…”

  “You’re going to…”

  “…until my body seized.”

  The reply was an inarticulate murmur. Her words weren’t clear, but words didn’t matter. Jones had the warden right where she wanted her. “I came harder than I have in a long time.”

  The warden’s heavy breath came in short gasps.

  Jones remembered how Martinez had crawled up her body after she’d climaxed and slid her hot tongue into her mouth. “I could taste myself on her tongue.”

  The warden was panting on the other end of the line.

  “I could’ve held and kissed her all night. The feeling of her hard nipples pressed into my flesh….”

  “Yeah…”

  “But I forced myself to break the kiss. Are you watching how I traced my way down her neck and stopped to play with her huge tits? I sucked her perky brown nipples into my mouth and nibbled them. I ran my tongue all over those tits, but she was growing impatient and pushed my head down.”

  Jones had seen camera footage from her trysts only once, the first time the warden had brought her into her office. She had assumed she was in trouble. The warden had been stern, talking about misconduct and forbidden activity, but Jones quickly identified the same mannerisms she had seen in more than a few dirty street cops who would look the other way for a little favor in their patrol cars. She understood that the woman was more interested in details than punishment and took a gamble on her gut. The first box arrived less than a week later.

  “Her pussy was wet before I even put my tongue to it.”

  “Please, tell me how she tasted?” Desperation was apparent in the warden’s voice, and Jones relished it. Every begging “please” increased the likelihood of another month off her sentence.

  “See how I traced her inner thigh with my tongue? How I kissed the back of her knees and ran my hands up her legs? Her ass was round and full. She moaned every time I touched her, every time I ran my tongue past her pussy. I was careful not to touch it at first. I rubbed my chin in her hairy little mound and kissed her belly button.”

  “Please, quit teasing her.”

  “I wanted her to feel desired.”

  “But she needs you.”

  “Everybody needs to feel desired. I drew my tongue back down her belly.”

  “Mm-hmm,” the warden moaned.

  Jones knew she was close.

  “I let my tongue slide over her swollen clit and down her pussy. I could feel her lips swell around my tongue as I dipped in for a taste.”

  The breathing on the other end of the line was becoming irregular, uncontrolled.

  “Her pussy tasted so good. Sweet and spicy, like cinnamon and sugar. I let my tongue play inside her for a minute, then replaced it with two fingers and moved up to her clit. It was rock hard; I was surprised she hadn’t already come. I looked up as I drew her clit between my lips, sucking it as hard as I could. See how her trimmed tuft of hair was at my nose, and how her big tits sat heavy and beautiful above me? Her head was thrown back and her mouth was wide open, but no sound was coming out.”

  Jones often wondered whether the warden had a hand down her skirt, or if she was lying back in her chair with her skirt hitched, legs spread, and heels on the desk. Judging by the whimpering pleas, she imagined the later right now. After a pause intended to keep her listener on edge, Jones continued. “I felt her body tense as she ground her pussy into my face. She was clutching the balled-up sheets beneath us. Her nipples were thick and pointed when I flipped her switch. Her muscles locked and the only sound she could make was a low, feral grunt.”

  Jones heard a small crash on the line, like something falling from a desk. She grinned. It was time for the finishing touch. “After she came, I winked at the camera because I knew you’d be watching. Looking at me slide those pussy-soaked fingers in my mouth to lick them clean.”

  The line went dead. The warden never let Jones hear her come, but the mental image of the powerful woman with her chin to the sky, manicured fingers buried deep inside herself, and cherry-red lips open to the world was satisfying enough. Well, that and the three months off her sentence. Jones hung up the phone with a smile.

  Walking back to her bunk, she could feel her pussy, wet. Normally, she wasn’t turned on by the phone calls, but the tryst with Martinez was different from the others. She was proud of herself for rising to the difficult challenge but she was also surprised that Martinez had been able to make her come so hard. Maybe she would break her own rule and pay Martinez another visit.

  Entering her cell, Jones looked at the box Trixie had left on her bed; her next challenge was waiting under the flap. What name would bring her one step closer to realizing her coffee-filled dream? Surely, no one could be more difficult than Martinez had been. She lifted the flap.

  MACCINI

  “You gotta be fucking kidding me…”

  Night Watch

  by Claire Caine

  Cassie lay on the top bunk, her back pressed against the cold wall of the prison cell. The flat, limp pillow did little to comfort her, so she cradled her head in one curled arm, her ear pressed into her shoulder. In the twelve weeks that she had been incarcerated, she had almost managed to forget what a comfortable bed felt like. The metal bunk creaked when her bunkmate, Banks, rolled and shifted below, her snoring body searching the mattress for a sweet spot that didn’t exist. God, Cassie thought, how does she sleep like that in here? Like a fucking log. Cassie lay awake till two, sometimes three, nearly every night, her mind racing at first, then merely trolling the landscape she had created for herself. Three to five years had seemed like a bargain when she had made her deal with the prosecutor.

  She hadn’t changed her opinion, but time passed differently on the inside. When you were doing time, you were both acutely aware of its passage and feeling as if it had come to a complete stop. The women Cassie had seen released seemed suddenly just not there. It surprised her that no one talked much about getting out. There were no farewell parties or well-wishings. Cassie had done laundry all day with Susan the day before she was released, and she had said nothing about leaving, as if saying it out loud would somehow be a jinx. Like mothers during the Depression who were afraid to name their babies until they were sure they were going to live, the women in Cassie’s block didn’t talk about getting out. They were doing time. And one day, if they were lucky, they wouldn’t be.

  Cassie yawned, feeling sleep beginning to settle in. The block had gone mostly quiet as the women turned in for the night, mentally checking off another day. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, reluctantly, and then peeked again through heavy lids. On the outside, Cassie had hated any bout of insomnia, however minor. But in here, she didn’t mind these quiet hours. In fact, Cassie rather liked this time: a small sliver of the day when she felt most like herself. Yes, she was still b
eing monitored, but not as intensely as throughout the rest of the day when she was ordered what to wear, what to eat, when to speak. At this time of night, she could almost relax as the prison simmered around her. Shift change brought in a new staff of guards and their required head counts. Voices fell to whispers as inmates prepared themselves for bed. The ventilation system hummed. Cassie knew the nightly routine, and it had become comforting to her. She could think more clearly this time of night. Things seemed more balanced. Cassie was watching, even as she was being watched.

  She tuned in to the rhythmic clunking of the correctional officers’ shoes as they paced the hall. In her first days, those boot clicks were a steady source of anxiety. Each step was an auditory reminder that she was being watched. Constant surveillance, not surprisingly, was the most difficult facet of prison life to get used to. Day one she felt as if each and every correctional officer was looking straight through her, judging her, sizing her up, just waiting for an opportunity to assert her will. Now, three months in, she realized that for most of the COs she was just part of the scenery—someone of no consequence until she committed an offense requiring the annoying protocol of paperwork. But there was one CO on the night watch who was different. Shell, Cassie’s second roommate, called her “Boots” because she polished hers to a high gloss and walked at a determined clip, her head held high. Boots was tall with caramel skin and shining dark eyes. She kept her black hair pulled back tightly in a simple bun, but always accented her full lips with deep red lipstick. She did not smile. But when she came by the cell, she made a point to look each inmate squarely in the eye for just a beat too long. It was both disconcerting and validating: her eyes conveyed what Cassie came to think of as a cool empathy. She could hear Boots’ distinctive gait now, making her first lap around the second level of the women’s ward.