by Salome Wilde
“Greedy bitch, look at you, look at how much you’re taking…”
She had two fingers in now, pumping them, loosening me up. I imagined what it was like for her, the heat of my body closing around her like a vise. I was good at not making noise, but I couldn’t do anything about the wet slurping sounds as her fingers pumped in and out of my hole.
“You gonna fuck boys out there?” she growled. “You gonna let them put it up your ass?”
“No, god no,” I babbled, automatically remembering to keep my voice low. “Women, women, just women, just like this, oh god…”
She paused for a moment, but then she went back to it, cramming three fingers in and then four, to my astonishment. She was fucking me, harder and harder, until it felt like she was punishing me, marking me, using me up and wearing me out so that I would never forget her.
“You wanna see if I can get my whole fist up there? Want me to make you gape wide open?”
“N…no, please,” I said, and she eased off.
“Hand between your legs,” she said.
Groaning with gratitude, I slid one hand under my belly, finding my clit. She pounded me in the ass with her hand, hard enough that I was rocking forward with each thrust, and I twisted my fingers against my clit, muscles squeezing hard around her hand as I rubbed.
My body was tight, so tight, and the first shudders of my orgasm were hard, unmerciful as I worked my clit and she pounded my ass. I squeezed my eyes shut, bore down on her hand, and let her push me.
Oh god, I thought, her fingers are inside me. She wants to fist me, to have me leave Naylor with my ass gaping for her…
The orgasm had no mercy on me. I pressed myself flat on the mattress, straightening my legs and shaking, just shaking and burying my face into the mattress.
Judy hummed with satisfaction, and I realized that it was the last time I would hear that sound. I was getting out. I was never coming back. She pulled her hand out of me, making me wince, and I heard her wiping her fingers on the blanket.
I could feel sweat and lube on my ass. I had made a mess of her blanket, and I didn’t care. The nerves I had earlier were gone. I felt open. I felt empty. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream.
Judy pulled my pants up for me, giving me another hard pinch through the fabric.
“Get back up there before the guards remember to do their jobs,” she said.
For a long time, I didn’t sleep. I lay still, thinking of Judy on the bunk underneath me. I wondered what she thought about, on the long ride. I wondered if she was staring up at the bunk I was on. I wondered if she was happy that her blanket smelled like my come.
Finally, somehow, I slept.
* * *
When it happened, it happened fast.
They called my name, and Judy and I got to exchange just one look. I started to say something, but then the guard was there, and you don’t talk in front of the guards. Judy had taught me that. They took me to receiving and discharge, where my sister had left me some clothes. I was swimming in the sweatshirt and jeans, but the shoes fit. Then they were pushing me out the door to where my sister was waiting.
Nina hugged me tightly, told me there were people who couldn’t wait to see me, and we were gone.
The next days were rough. Everything looked too big, too bright. I kept wanting to ask Nina if I could use the toilet, if I could shower. It was too quiet, and then it was too loud. I cried a lot.
Finally, after the first visit with my parole officer, I was riding on the bus, and it was like waking up. I could see the last three years again. I could see my life before that, and I could see the life in front of me. I wasn’t looking at my feet anymore. I got off at my stop, crying into my cupped hand. I went to my room at my sister’s place, and I borrowed my niece’s notebook and a pen. I sat down and watched her watch TV.
Dear Judy, I wrote. I’ll never come back, but I’m thinking of you…
Ready for Me
by Kiki DeLovely
“Go into the walk-in and start with this.” Tucker slipped a sizable cucumber into my hand. “I want you ready for me.”
Those were her first words of seduction.
I could tell from the look in her eye that Tucker meant business. Precisely the type of business I was in desperate need of. Not exactly my idea of romance, but that’s what passes as foreplay in a women’s prison—the promise of a five-minute fuck and an offering of a shapely gourd. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I scurried off, entered the cooler, clicked its massive door shut behind me and inhaled the chilled air.
I dropped trou and plopped down in the far corner, unconcerned about bruising the apples boxed below me. Circling my clit furiously with my left hand, I teased my opening with the tip of the cucumber. My eyes glued to the door, I hadn’t even inserted half of its length before I saw the handle turn, my heart beating even harder at the possibility of getting caught or the promise of her presence. Exhaling a prayer of thanks at the sight of Tucker’s half smirk, I took in the look of hunger in her eyes. She licked her lips lecherously in the three strides it took her to reach me, grabbing the vegetable and flinging it aside. I made a mental note to search out which rack it rolled under later. I didn’t want to deal with a rotting gourd covered in my juices in two weeks’ time. And considering that I was the newbie on kitchen duty, it would inevitably be me who would be given the task of cleaning up moldy, long-forgotten vegetables.
Tucker quickly buried a couple of her fingers deep in my cunt, pounding me up against the cold metal wall before going in for the kiss. Smothering my moans with her mouth, she wasted no time. We could’ve been interrupted at any moment and the consequences for sexual act infractions were far from pretty. I didn’t take my eyes off the door, except for the briefest moment when she curled her fingers up, hitting my g-spot so sublimely that my eyelids flickered shut as I came in her palm. Her tongue brusquely wrapped around mine, my hand questioningly reached for her. Tucker stopped me short, as I had assumed might be the case.
“I don’t…” her sentence trailing off. I needed no further explanation. I had been with my fair share of stone studs and my role in this dynamic suited me just fine. Her desire resided solely in getting me off, just as my submission was only for her. We finished before the slightest chill had the chance to set in and were back at work before any of the guards could’ve missed us.
I didn’t mind the brisk nature of that very first refrigerated rendezvous. I was hot for Tucker. A slow burn that began the first time I saw her, weeks prior, when we first noticed each other over a vat of reconstituted potato flakes. After months of being locked up, taught to suppress my basic human needs, let alone desires, I was finally feeling something again. Just the feel of her hands on my body was worth risking the inexplicable hell of the hole. And I knew full well the bitter taste of that particular underworld. I’d been sent to solitary confinement three times before I met Tucker, but even once was a hundred times too many. My first two times in the hole were unwarranted, at least in my mind. I was trying to quietly organize my fellow inmates around their basic rights being violated. My corrections officer and I didn’t see eye to eye around the legality of this. Considering how severe the repercussions can be for such behavior, I got off relatively easy those first couple times.
Back when I first arrived, I’d been too traumatized, too terrified to run my big mouth. Prison life takes a lot of adjusting—it’s not sexy or glorified, as we see it on TV. It’s a culture all its own and the shock alone is enough to take you down. If the other inmates or guards don’t destroy you first. So, I kept quiet the first several weeks. I was trying to take in the unspoken rules, trying to keep my head down and out of trouble, trying my best just to survive every day. Maybe what made me begin to act out was that a life lived just for survival isn’t a life at all. Or maybe it was all that silence. My words bottled up for so long, rage bubbling under the surface, finally sent everything crashing down.
I had been an activist most of my adu
lt life, focusing on antiracist and prison abolitionist work, so I’d had a critical analysis of the prison industrial complex prior to ever getting arrested, let alone sentenced to those three years. But work from the outside could never prepare me for the reality of the inside. The actuality of it—from being denied tampons or pads to racist comments from the guards—infuriated me. I quietly tried to organize my fellow inmates, to somehow get a movement started around our basic human needs being violated. The first time, the warden let me off with a slap on the wrist, sending me to solitary confinement for just a couple of days. The next time, when a guard caught me distributing pamphlets about prisoners’ rights, I was given a couple weeks. After the first two times, my anger began boiling over and I mouthed off to a guard in response to some mundane order. She didn’t take kindly to this and told me to watch myself, calling me a derogatory name. That was the final straw. I can still see it in slow motion in my head. It felt like I was no longer in my body when I attacked her. I was floating above, watching it play out, cheering myself on.
After that unfortunate run-in, I was sent to solitary for the third time. I was in there for months—the days just blended together endlessly. If one wasn’t already suffering from mental illness beforehand (and, trust me, most of the women were), staring at nothing but the blinding whiteness of the walls would be enough to push an inmate over the edge. The interminable screaming, all hours of day and night, was what broke me down. I wanted out. I didn’t care how. Yet once they released me back to general population of the prison, I was afraid. Afraid to not be in the hole anymore. It’s hard to come back. Most women suffer psychological and physical trauma from solitary isolation—everything from PTSD to hallucinations and hypersensitivity to light and touch. The other inmates could sense that I might snap at any moment, could see that look in my eyes, so they mostly just let me be. I kept to myself for weeks, the rage mounting inside me silently. Then one day I went through Tucker’s line. She scooped up that mush they call mashed potatoes and slapped it onto my tray without taking her eyes off of me. I felt a flicker of something appealing for the first time in months.
“Hold up a sec. I’ve got something for you.” Her voice was so low I thought I was hearing things.
She slipped it to me discretely, and I opened my palm only after I sat down. It was one of those foil-wrapped squares that on the outside everyone takes for granted. Probably more of them end up in the trash than in people’s bellies. But this was the inside, where the smallest token speaks volumes. And it was the real thing. Not some nasty imitation-flavored margarine. Wooed with butter. I stared at its precious golden wrapper as if it were actual gold.
During quite the extended and creative courtship, I realized that engaging our desire was the most revolutionary act we could express within the prison industrial complex. And Tucker helped me come back into my body. After our first encounter in the dinner line, a lot was said with the exchange of glances. Well, glances and a steady stream of little gifts that ran the gamut from hard-to-find to downright contraband. Razors, tampons, lip gloss, even a hot plate—nothing was beyond her reach. Tucker didn’t run the kitchen, but she may as well have run the whole joint. Everyone seemed to owe her favors, even the guards, and after only a few weeks she had me transferred to kitchen duty. I was grateful to get to spend more time with her, and the regular proximity made it easier to engage in more risqué activities. It was also torturous. Although not impossible, it was definitely a challenge to sneak sex.
Once we started working together, Tucker would take every opportunity afforded to her to whisper dirty things under her breath, drawing out the torture all the more deliciously. “I’m gonna hurt you, babygirl,” she’d tell me. “Then you’re gonna beg for more.”
She delighted in watching me squirm, knowing the longer we were made to wait, the faster I’d come the next time she touched me. She clearly got off on her power over me and, undeniably, so did I. “You’d better be ready for me.”
Tucker became my big, butch Daddy. She protected me in all ways, most especially from the unwanted advances of other stud broads. We were opposites in practically every way. Not just the obvious fact that she was the Black butch dominant to my light-skinned Latina femme submissive. I was also irrational and quick to anger to her levelheaded calm. Where I was impulsive, she thought through every possible detail before making a move. Perhaps that’s why Tucker was so well-respected and seemed to keep everyone under her thumb, when I’d kept getting myself into trouble. Until I met her. Then my Daddy was all the trouble I needed. The kind of questioning that landed me in solitary vanished.
I could never figure out exactly what materials Tucker used to fashion herself a cock, I never dared to ask. I knew all I had to know: it was my Daddy’s cock, and I wanted it every chance I could get it. “Mmmmm…I just want to take it out and touch it a little,” I’d beg. “It’s too big for your pants, isn’t it? Much too tight in there…” I’d rub my palms against the tops of Tucker’s thighs, doing my best to coax indulgence out of her.
She always loved to feign grave contemplation, making the little girl in me grow impatient. Tucker was good at acting like we had all the time in the world, like we weren’t just a hair’s breadth away from getting caught.
“Please, Daddy!” The slightest hint of brattiness in my voice and she was ready to deal.
“Be a good girl and show Daddy what you can do.”
My hand made its way into her trousers.
“Thank you, Daddy! I’m gonna make you so happy. So happy and hard. I promise. Oh, you’re soooo very hard already, Daddy. And I haven’t even done anything but take your cock out.”
My teasing words and tentative touch made Tucker all the more excited. Her breath caught in her throat—a sure tell that would’ve been lost on others, but I took note of her every reaction, no matter how subtle. My fingertips slowly explored the length. I rubbed all the way down, and then let just one finger trace over the tip. Though she seemed in control, I sensed her eagerness mounting. She wanted to just force it into me, to take me fast and hard. But she fought that impulse—a thick vein on the side of her neck throbbing just as hard as my clit.
I never knew that this type of role play would do it for me. Funny how life in prison does that. It brought to the surface unknown depths. Like being stripped down day after day and eventually all that was left was the truest, most hidden parts. My babygirl self emerged, bringing to light an entirely new intensity to my submissiveness.
Sucking on my bottom lip, I ruminated on my approach while eyeing that pulsating vein in her neck. My endgame was always in sight. I was beginning to pick up on her habits. Incarceration may not have done anything to reform me but Tucker’s presence sure was working some magic.
“Can I kiss it, Daddy? Pleeeease! I need to!”
A look that flashed across her face wordlessly spoke to the fact that demands would get me nowhere. So I turned on the princess. She always knew how to plead politely.
“Pretty pretty pretty please? I’m gonna be such a good girl and make you so proud. I promise.” I threw in a few eyelash bats for good measure.
“That’s more like it.” And that was all it took for me to decide she had conceded, my lips swiftly making their way south, the taste of greed on my tongue.
But I had skipped over the part where Tucker would give me permission and before I could reach my goal, my head was snatched back fiercely by my hair, my mouth left wanting.
“I don’t want to hurt my precious babygirl, but sometimes you give Daddy no choice.” Tucker had to teach me a lesson: Little girls shouldn’t push their luck. “Bad girls don’t get to pick and choose which hole.” In an instant, I was treated to the sound of fabric ripping and a whoosh of chilled air on my most sensitive parts. Damn. (I’d have to shell out at the commissary for new panties again.) “You’re lucky it’s your pussy I want right now because I have no patience for lube.”
Like most things, we had to get creative when it came to lube.
Cooking oil from the kitchen was an obvious choice given our work detail. But I didn’t have any on hand that particular day.
The smell of impetuous desire permeated the air, anticipation of the delectable pain of forced entry flooding over me. My throat had been ready, open and waiting to take her in. That other hole was not. I was dying to scream and cry out, though given our surroundings, I was forced to beg with whispers alone. But no amount of beseeching would make her stop. It only added fuel to the flames. Tucker told me to take it, to take every last inch, and so I did just that as she pummeled me harder and faster with that unyielding cock of hers.
Dripping for her, my pussy betrayed me, telling her all my secrets, exposing the truth when my mouth was filled with lies. My cunt spilled truth all over her cock, all the while my lips telling her, “No, Daddy, please, no. You’re hurting me…” I knew all she heard was the slippery, saturated truth of my pussy coating her cock. She knew I needed this just as badly as her. So badly that sometimes I had to pretend I didn’t want it at all. My need was so all-consuming that it was hard for me to bear. So Tucker carried it for me.
I truly believe she saved my life. Each time the oppressive atmosphere on the inside threatened to separate my soul, she brought me back to my body. So it’s only fitting that here I was, six months after my release, waiting on the other side of the bars. Ready to bring my Daddy home. Heart pounding in my chest, I exhaled a prayer of gratitude when the gate slammed shut behind her. In the three strides it took her to reach me, Tucker’s typical half grin broke into the first full smile I’d ever witnessed on her face. She grabbed hold of my waist as I flung my arms around her neck.
“You ready for me, babygirl?”
Gloves
by L.E. Chamberlin