Desire Behind Bars

by Salome Wilde

  Cassie’s eyes drifted to the lower bunk on the opposite wall where Shell lay, bundled in a scratchy wool cocoon. The lights in the cell were off, but it was never completely dark in the prison. The corridors shone with safety lighting at all times. The glow came through the bars and lit Shell’s neck and right cheekbone. Shell’s eyes fluttered and Cassie felt a tiny yearning inside. There was another reason Cassie was awake.

  Shell was a redhead. Outside, Cassie had hated it when women were referred to by their hair color, but if you had to describe Shell, there was no way to do it but to start at the top and move down. Her hair was a vibrant shade of rusty auburn fused with gold; it stood out against the pea-soup pallet of the prison interior. She wore it very long and straight, parted down the middle, hanging like curtains on either side of her angular face. She had a tiny mouth and large, hooded brown eyes that seemed almost out of place on her pale, freckled face. She rarely smiled. Cassie had no idea what her teeth were like or what her laugh sounded like. In fact, she had been scared of Shell for the first month she’d been in. Following the clues she could gather, Cassie finally decided that Shell just had an acerbic personality. She was pissy, but her malice was doled out equally, to both everyone and no one in particular. And her thick accent was as out of place as the rest of her. She had all of the drawl and lilting phrases of a Southern Belle with none of the charm or hospitality. On the outside, Cassie doubted she would have paid her much attention, but here and now she was unique. Like Boots, she was something colorful in a world of gray.

  Cassie finally drowsed into a light sleep when a slight shuffle of bedding stirred her. She inched closer to the edge of the bunk, quietly securing her view, wide-awake again and curious. She trained her eyes on Shell and the lumpy blankets, trying to discern breast from hand from hip. The first time Cassie had watched Shell masturbate, she got so wet that the sheet was still damp when she woke up in the morning. She’d been shocked when she felt it, cold against her upper thigh, a message from her nearly buried sexuality. Was there a secret part of her that could not be captured and restrained? She hadn’t thought about masturbating since she’d gotten here, hadn’t really thought about sex at all. Much like thinking about food from the outside only made the food inside seem worse, so she had concluded about sex. But on that one night, as she watched Shell pleasure herself beneath the gray prison-issue blanket, Cassie discovered she had brought that part of herself along after all.

  Since then, Cassie had been waiting for it to happen again. She tried not to think about it, but found herself longing. She was startled awake by any movement. She would watch—hoping, waiting—and then feel foolish when Shell was merely turning onto her side or adjusting her pillow. Occasionally, she would play with herself and make herself come, and she enjoyed it, but mostly it was just a way to relax and go to sleep. She figured this night would be the same, if she even bothered. Then, she saw movement.

  Shell stirred. Was she awake? She must be. Cassie watched the contour of Shell’s hand as it moved across her belly, settling in slow circles at the junction of her legs. She then noticed the movement of a second hand beneath the blanket, higher on her body, seemingly searching out a nipple. Even though the wool blanket concealed everything below Shell’s pale collarbone, it was thin and she had no trouble picturing Shell’s small breasts and pert pink nipples. They must be so hard now, she thought.

  Shell’s back arched a little and the hand between her legs moved faster. Had she really heard a small moan escape Shell’s lips? Cassie felt her clit swell and her muscles contract as Shell straightened her spread legs and pointed her toes. She was getting close to orgasm, Cassie guessed. Then Shell suddenly pulled her hands away from her pussy and brought both of them to her chest, one on each breast, as she began to buck. It wasn’t wild enough to be noticed by someone outside the cell, more slow and hard, with intent, as if her pussy was being licked by an expert tongue.

  As Shell rocked, the top of the blanket began to slip. Just a little, a bit more with each roll of her hips. Cassie drew a ragged breath. She had never seen Shell fully undressed. Even when they had been in the shower room together, Cassie had stopped herself from giving more than a cursory glance. Shell seemed like the type to get easily offended, and Cassie didn’t want to do anything to upset their distant yet cordial rapport. Now, with Shell’s grinding, the blanket was pulled so low Cassie could see her sleep shirt bunched over her chest. Please, don’t stop, she silently urged.

  Shell continued to writhe, her lips parted with a slight snarl, and soon Cassie could at last see the dimly lit silhouette of Shell’s breasts. This hadn’t happened the first time, and Cassie delighted in the special show. Shell held each nipple between a respective thumb and forefinger, twisting, pinching, and pulling them in time with her hips. Her hips pulsed faster, now swirling against that imaginary mouth, quick and precise. Her hands moved, grabbing and squeezing her breasts, and then at last both hands dove beneath the covers, finding her pussy again.

  Cassie could no longer see what was going on, but by the way Shell’s back had curved as she reached forward, it was clear she was fucking herself with her hand. Once again her movements were hard and intense, but still remarkably quiet. Cassie imagined two, maybe three of Shell’s fingers pushing deeper and deeper. Small flutters beneath the blanket suggested that the other hand had joined in and found her clit. Shell arched again and her taut nipples were once more revealed. She pressed her head back into the pillow. Her legs shook. And as she came, she opened her eyes wide, looking up through the ceiling to the dark starless sky. Cassie’s heart pounded.

  After she rode her long climax, Shell took deep, shuddering breaths, rolled over onto her side and faced the wall. She gathered the blanket up around her neck and went still. A waterfall of her red hair flowed over the side of the bed. Cassie found her own hands moving with urgency between her legs. The pressure within the walls of her pussy demanded that she come, and fast. Replaying behind tightly shut eyelids what she’d just watched, she placed two fingers on the hood of her clit and moved with quick and tiny strokes. Her orgasm was right there. She felt her stomach muscles tighten and her shoulders pull forward. Her mouth and eyes opened as she stared past the bars of the cell and into the shadowy corridor. Her fingers moved faster and she took a few deep breaths to slow and intensify the release.

  The first wave of her orgasm began in the back of her neck. She drew in a deep breath and held it, just as a movement in the hall caught her eye. The fear of whatever, or whomever, was in the hallway became entwined with her orgasm, sending frosty shivers down her spine and ripples of sweet shame into her thighs.

  Suddenly, Boots stepped forward into a pocket of patchy light, looking directly into Cassie’s eyes as she arched and contracted. There was no way to stop it. Cassie stared back, suspended in an impossible combination of absolute shock and fragile ecstasy. Her climax hit, hard and overwhelming. As soon as she could control herself again she turned away and labored to regain control of her breathing, terrified. She closed her eyes tightly, her thoughts spiraling. Maybe she had not really been seen. Maybe she had fantasized Boots’ presence. After all, it was nearly dark inside the cell. The officer was probably just making rounds. She probably hadn’t known what Cassie was doing. Why would she even care? But other, more troubling thoughts crowded in. How long had Boots been there? Long enough to see Cassie watching Shell? Had she realized that Cassie was coming harder than she had in months while looking straight into her eyes?

  Cassie pushed through her fear to open her eyes again. She lifted her head and looked through the bars of the cell into the corridor. She saw nothing. She rose up and scanned the hall. Nothing. Cassie lay back and pulled the blankets up around her ears. She exhaled a quiet sigh of cautious relief. If the CO had been there at all, she was gone now. Cassie could sleep, slip into that foggy place between here and there, where she could almost believe that the bed beneath her was her own.

  At once, she heard a sound: the sharp str
ike of a polished heel on concrete, followed by the brighter tap of a leather toe. Boots was still there. Cassie’s eyes searched the shadows, and she stiffened when Boots’ form came into focus. The officer’s face was still hidden, but Cassie could see her hips moving with each slow and deliberate step to the cell door, her trim waist bound with a thick, leather belt, her badge shining. Cassie couldn’t breathe. Her heart was beating so hard and fast she felt light-headed. Boots pressed her body against the bars that separated their worlds. Cassie faked courage. She let her eyes meet the officer’s, testing her superior to see how she would respond. She hadn’t technically broken any rules, after all.

  When the officer at last came into the light slanting through the bars, Cassie could see more: Boots’ lips were parted, her nipples poked out through her crisp white shirt, and her face was flushed with arousal. Their gazes remained locked for a long, frightening moment; Cassie desperately tried to discern what was happening between them.

  Finally, the officer broke the silence. With one hand, she slipped the tail of her belt through a final loop. She raised the other to her lips and licked two glistening fingers. “Good night, inmate,” she said quietly, and, as she turned on her heel to continue down the hall, she added, “I’ll be watching you.”

  Lockdown

  by M. Marie

  As sunlight slants lazily across her bunk through the tiny, barred window set high in the wall behind her, Della Straits sighs loudly. It has to be closing in on lunch hour by now, and still the bars confining her in her cell have not yet grated open. The penitentiary’s normal routine has its occupants out of bed and set free from their cages as the sun rises, so this unexplained change of pace has more than a couple of the convicts voicing concerns. As of this moment, however, no guards have passed by to hear their complaints.

  Della taps her foot in boredom against the metal bar supporting the bunk above hers. Her cellmate grunts idly from her elevated bed.

  “This is some bullshit,” a deep voice growls from down the hall. Agreement echoes up and down the cell block.

  “I wanna know why we’ve been locked up since dinner!” an angry voice calls out.

  “Awww, what’s wrong, honey?” Della sings out. “Are you worried you’ll miss your conjugal?”

  A catcall beckons from the far end of the row: “I can help you out with that!”

  Laughter drowns out the volley of curses that are thrown back at Della, but it doesn’t distract anyone from the original question. They are all wondering why their block is still locked down. This is a medium security prison. Normally there isn’t much action, so the sudden commotion among the guards the previous evening and the resulting containment has curious speculations being shared up and down the cell block.

  As far as Della can surmise, the confinement is limited to their wing. Rumor has it that some payback was viciously meted out near the cafeteria for perceived slights against the ruling crew. Della doesn’t know the details, and she doesn’t want to. It’s better—safer—to be left in the dark. As long as her name isn’t associated with the incident, or drawn into any fallout, she doesn’t need to know more.

  She has her own priorities in the joint, and they don’t involve trouble—at least not the violent kind. In fact, right now her primary object of interest is two cells down and crying quietly but steadily, as has been the case, on and off, since the new arrival was processed. Katey Chambers is not adapting well to being incarcerated.

  She’s a pretty woman, younger than the other women in this cell block and slender, with long, dark hair and wide, doe-like eyes. Even at a quick glance, Della can tell she’s obviously unsuited to the harsh sentence she’s been given. According to the tearful story she confessed miserably to her curious cellmate on her first night, Katey has been locked up for committing an impulsive—but arguably well deserved—act of petty vandalism against a cheating boyfriend. Her biggest mistake was not realizing who the cheating bastard’s uncle is. The federal judge had no hesitation about slapping Katey with a heavy sentence for his nephew’s embarrassment and inconvenience.

  Katey still seems to be in shock. She looks mournful and lost as she wanders the common areas, avoiding her peers as best she can. At night, she tries to stifle her sobs as she cries herself to sleep. Della sees and hears it all.

  Despite her morose manner, however, many of her neighbors showed an early interest in the new girl. Day and night, crude propositions and sexual suggestions were directed at Katey. Her tearful reactions only made her harassers goad her more, until Della made it clear that she too was keen on the newcomer. Almost all of the other takers backed down.

  Della isn’t a violent woman, but she is a lifer, which has earned her a certain degree of sway among her peers. And she has a well-known weakness for damsels in distress. Everyone in the cell block knows the older convict plans to reach out to the younger woman and offer her a shoulder to cry on and perhaps a shield to seek shelter behind, with the hopes that these steps will lead to a more intimate arrangement.

  Della isn’t ready to make her proposal just yet. She can tell Katey isn’t ready to hear it. But she can begin laying the groundwork.

  For someone’s whose safest option is to avoid attention as much as possible, Katey’s tears during the lockdown are drawing a dangerous amount of negative interest. Everyone is irritated, and the constant crying is rubbing the wrong way against some very sore nerves. Della can plainly hear the aggravation creeping into various voices as they spit abuse at the weeping woman.

  Aiming to diffuse the situation before she must show her hand by stepping in on Katey’s behalf, Della sits up and calls out down the hall: “What’s wrong, girl? Are you homesick?”

  The kindness of the question in comparison to the other comments being directed at her makes Katey sniffle and fall silent.

  Undeterred, Della continues with a hopeful smile in her voice. “Do you miss your home? Your family?” Katey doesn’t reply, but Della knows she is listening. Della coaxes softly, “What do you miss the most?”

  Her query is met by a barrage of crude suggestions and boisterous laughter from the other convicted women in their cell block, but the intended audience remains silent.

  “Do you know what I miss the most about the outside?” Della asks, as though her earlier inquiry had received a response. “Baths.”

  The unexpectedness of the statement is enough to startle Katey’s tongue loose. “Baths?”

  Della grins at the girlish amusement in her voice. It’s a sound she could easily get used to. With a chuckle coloring her own husky voice, she confirms, “Mhmm…I love them.” Della waits a moment before continuing. “I love waking up late in the morning to the sound of the water running. I roll out of bed and follow the sound to the bathroom. When I push the door open, I’m hit by a wall of stream. It wraps itself around me like warm arms, pulling me into the room…

  “The first thing I see after I shut the door behind me is my girl. She’s lying back in the water with her eyes closed and her head resting on a rolled-up towel.” The usual noise on the cell block fades away as Della reminisces. Her voice is the only one now. Her neighbors all seem to be listening, to be transfixed by her words and the delicious imagery they paint. “Without looking over, she gives me shit for letting cold air in.”

  Della laughs and enjoys that her amusement is echoed by a number of her eavesdropping peers. Once the cheerful sounds fade, their storyteller carries on in a lascivious tone. “There’s nothing I love more than fucking my girl when she’s just stepped fresh out of the tub and is still dripping wet.

  “I love the way the bath oils leave her smooth skin slick and glistening, the water rolling down over her curves. Mmm. And her body is so warm and inviting from the hot water.” Della purrs with desire and her left hand begins to slide up her pant leg towards her crotch.

  “There is something so sexy about my girl approaching me while wearing nothing but a towel. The short fabric emphasizes her firm breasts and the generous curve o
f her ass.”

  The bunk above Della’s head creaks loudly, betraying her heavyset cellmate’s attention. Lorrie Kenner is an extremely private woman. She typically wears a disinterested expression, and most of Della’s attempts at conversation have been blatantly ignored. She discovered quickly that appraising glances in the showers were particularly unwelcome by Lorrie, so Della now gave the other woman a wide berth. Lorrie’s intimidating size and countenance also firmly dissuade her neighbors from paying her too much notice. Della has always been curious though, and feels a thrill that her bunkmate has finally taken a keen interest in what she has to say.

  And she isn’t the only one. Bedsprings squeak from Katey’s cell. Della grins wolfishly as she imagines the other woman kneeling on her mattress to lean forward against the bars, silently prompting Della to continue.

  “My girl lines up the opening slit of the towel so that it cuts down her front, just to tease me. I let my eyes rove up and down, appreciating the valley between her heavy, full breasts, the swell of her soft belly and how the towel comes to an immodest stop just an inch or so below her sex. Standing still, her pretty little pussy is hidden by the thick terry cloth, but when she moves…”

  When Della pauses, the voice from the bed above hers groans in protest. The sound elicits a knowing smile, but she wants more feedback.

  “Should I go on?” she inquires.

  There are a number of crude affirmations, but she remains silent until Katey’s hesitant voice answers breathlessly, “Yes. Please.”

  Della’s voice is colored with arousal as she resumes. “When she moves, even just a step towards the mirror or to raise her arms and lift her long, wet hair away from the back of her neck, the fabric parts, letting her sexy snatch peek out.”

  Della sighs as she recalls the provocative sight. Closing her eyes, she lets her fingers slip under the waistband of her pants to seek out the warm arousal that her reminiscing has awakened. Her index finger begins to slowly trace the slit of her own pussy through her slightly damp panties as she begins to describe her lover. “Her pussy is always so plump and pink from the warm water. Her outer lips swell up sweetly and open like an oyster, inviting me to come admire her hidden pearl,” Della coos to her captive audience. “The room gets hot fast. Steam is rising from the water, fogging up the mirror and making everything feel kinda like a dream. I step close and brush my fingertips over her pussy.”