Lady Behind The Wall

"Let me tell you a little more about myself. As you saw from the return address, my full name is Deirdre Little Fox. I'm the result of a marriage between a full blooded Cherokee father and a Eurasian mother. Maman was half French and half Vietnamese. They met when Papa was serving with an A Team in Vietnam.

"The first twelve years of my life, I was what they call a Nomad, an Army brat. Papa was stationed all over. You learn to get along with almost anyone and you get to see a lot of the world, but the price is never having anywhere you can really call home. Then Papa was killed. We never found out where or how he died; theArmy wouldn't tell us. But he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross posthumously, so whatever he was doing was important and involved combat against an armed enemy. That's all I know about it.

"After Papa's memorial service, Grandmother took us into her home on the Cherokee Reservation in Oklahoma. That was like going to another planet. Maman and Grandmother hated each other. Grandmother is the family matriarch and I think she blamed Maman for Papa's death. Maman just left one day. She sent me a letter telling me she'd come and get me as soon as she was settled, but I never saw or heard from her again. When I was a senior in high school I got a letter and a check from the insurance company. That was how I learned Maman had died.

"I went to college in Texas, mainly to get away from Grandmother. I stretched the insurance money as far as I could, but it wasn't enough to pay 100% of my school bills. A girl in one of my classes was paying her way through by working as a stripper and she introduced me to the manager at the club where she worked. He liked what he saw, helped me work up an act, and took me on.

"When Grandmother found out what I was doing, she was so upset she tried to get the tribal council to declare I was not a Cherokee. The elders refused to do that, but ever since then anything I send her is returned, marked 'Refused.' She threw me out of her life and according to my aunt walks out of the room if someone as much as mentions my name. I'm all alone. Aunt Cloud is the only one who writes to me, but her farm keeps her busy and she doesn't have a whole lot of free time to write.

"After I was cut off by Grandmother, I dropped out of college. Nothing seemed to matter. I drank more and drifted out to Vegas. I worked the clubs and took formal dance training so I could become a showgirl. The pay isn't as good, but it's a respectable job. By day I studied and got my cosmetologist's license. By night I danced, either chorus or exotic as finances moved me.

"One thing about being a licensed beautician and a trained dancer: you can travel around the country as the spirit moves you. There's always someplace to work. I worked the club circuit for awhile, then got bored with that and drifted back into chorus work. Even though the pay wasn't great, by working the day shift in a beauty salon and as a dancer in a casino at night I was making good money, good enough to buy a little place in Vegas back before the prices skyrocketed and another place in Fort Worth. Eventually I settled into a routine: in football season Fort Worth, with my old alma mater and shopping in Dallas; winter and spring in Las Vegas; and summers traveling on the strip circuit, living in style because it paid for itself in tips and side trips.

"Drinking was my downfall. Even though a gal who looks like me can talk her way out of getting a ticket or even an arrest by quivering her chin, batting her eyelashes and flashing her tits – no, let me be honest, by using sex to get out of a jam – sooner or later she's going to do something the cops can't overlook. In my case, it was meeting a guy who came to Dangerous Curves who took a fancy to me after my last set, having a few with him in his motel room and then skidding across the Chief of Police's front lawn through a picket fence and fetching up in his wife's prize rose garden. He busted me, wouldn't let the D.A. offer me a plea, and here I am.

"I used to think his wife was behind that since he had me a couple of times when he was younger and maybe she knew it, but I know now it was my own damn fault. I deserve what I got. I'm just lucky I didn't kill somebody or maybe myself.

"But let's change the subject. What's life like in here? It's not as bad as you may think if you've seen a lot of prison movies. This isn't a pen like Alcatraz or Joliet. It's an honor camp, a satellite of the TDCJ's Dumas Prison. That's a low-security prison for women. If you keep your nose clean in there for a few months, they offer to make you a trusty and send you here. Dumas has a 12 foot cyclone fence with razor wire, guard towers and locked doors at night. Here, there's no towers, no locks and the fence is a plank and post type like you'd find on a farm. It's just a symbol, the guards say, more to keep the public out than to keep us in.

"It's kind of like being in the Army. We have reveille and roll call, then morning jerks and breakfast. After that you report to your assignment, whatever it may be. We send out work teams to the farm – we raise a lot of our own food and supply Dumas too – and road cleanup gangs, and land restoration teams like the CCC had in the Depression. A few of us with special skills like me as a cosmetologist teach training courses. I get to take my students to the nursing homes and work on the old folks a couple of times a week. They don't get charged for it and my girls get to practice on real people instead of working on each other or other inmates.

"But one thing we all have to do is qualify as forest firefighters. It's the wrong time of year for it now, but in season they'll send us out if a brushfire or a forest fire gets out of control. They call us the Camp Jackson Fire Foxes since of course we're an all-girl outfit. Two years ago, before I got here, they sent the team all the way to Colorado to help with the big fire they had and they were gone for five weeks.

"Odd as it sounds, some of the gals here hope for a fire because you get two-for-one good time when you're on the fire line and there's always the chance of meeting a nice guy you can get together with after you get out. After the Colorado fire, three of the gals who went married men they met out there. Others hope for a fire because discipline is relaxed and if you get lucky you can slip off to a quiet spot in base camp for a boinkfest. One thing about smoke-eaters, they're all in great physical shape!

"John, you asked how explicit I like my mail (or my male). You are right that all our mail gets opened, unless it's legal mail pertaining to an appeal or something like that. But the Warden's okay, as people who run prisons go. She doesn't care how steamy your mail gets as long as you aren't plotting an escape or getting religious tracts or propaganda that might cause a problem in the camp. They'll chop your good time for that, or even send you back to Dumas to complete your sentence, which would be dire.

"So tell me what you would do to me if you had me. Do you like me shaved or natural? Would you like to shave me yourself while I was tied down to a four-poster bed and tease me with the shaving brush? Would you like to spank me until my ass glowed and then give it to me anally? It's dirty, but it hurts so good and I can cum so fast that way. Or what would you do if you came home from work and found me waiting for you with an ice cold martini in blood red lipstick and nails and five inch stiletto heels and nothing else? Would you be aggressive or would you want me to be the aggressive one? I can be anything you want me to be. Just tell me what you like and I'll be that for you. Write me something sexy and imagine me lying in bed reading it and getting wet, with my fingers working down there until I explode with pleasure. I'll write back. I can't wait for your next letter, to start being your long distance mistress.

"Imagine my lips on yours, caressing you. But until we can get together, this will have to do.

"Deirdre."

She had kissed the bottom of the last page with red lipstick and carefully folded it so it wouldn't smear. I held the imprint up to my face, somehow pleased that our mouths seemed a match in size. I sipped my bourbon and thought. After a bit, I carried the letter upstairs to the computer.

A couple of terms Deirdre had used were new to me. It took a little digging on the Web, but I found out what she meant. 'Good time' had nothing to do with privileges as I'd thought, but instead was shorthand for 'reduction of sentence for good behavior.' I wasn't able to locate a set of guidelines specific to Camp Jackson, but the ones I found for other prisons were consistent. In essence, a prisoner is awarded good time for positive activities that show his or her intention of reforming and going straight when released. You get it for performing certain kinds of jobs, for teaching, and for passing authorized correspondence courses, GED studies or college extension courses à la Web-based educational institutions, though all of course by mail. I reflected that being rewarded for risking your neck fighting a forest fire with two days credited against time left to serve for each day you were on the fire line wasn't nearly enough, but it apparently was sufficient incentive to motivate these ladies. All things are relative.

"Dear Deirdre:

"Your letter made my day too. It's hard for me to talk to women, much less a beauty like you. I'm always afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing because I just don't understand the unwritten social rules that everybody else takes for granted. I find it much safer, if not always easier, to express myself in writing. That also has advantages. You can't recall an angry or hurtful word if you're talking. When you are writing, you can always edit what you say to make your point without offending or hurting the other person. That is, unless you're emailing or instant-messaging. I find I have to be very careful not to sit down at the computer when I'm angry and to THINK before I type. I suppose the discipline is good for me if sometimes hard on the ego.

"You see, I have Asperger's Syndrome. It's a mental defect, you might say. Asperger's is distantly related to autism; but let me make this clear. I'm not Rain Man or some disconnected kid rocking in the corner and beating his head against the wall. I look and act normally. I'm not a weirdo who walks down the street talking to himself and drooling as he looks at the pretty girls (although I will happily make an exception in your case; do you have any more pictures?). What it means is I don't pick up on facial cues or body language very well. Except to people I know, I seem a little 'flat' at first because I'm so afraid of saying the wrong thing or laughing at something that isn't funny because I can't read them, that I've learned to keep a mask in place and to not visibly react to what is said. It's why I prefer to write and use words carefully; their meanings do not shift nearly as far on paper as they do depending on facial expressions and tones of voice when used in face to face dialogue. It's why I get on well with most pets. They don't talk, but their body language and growls, purrs, yips, barks and hisses, etc. are always very clear to me. I can tell what they are about. It's a common enough presentation of the syndrome. Animals don't hold it against me that I'm not normal.

"I'm fortunate that I'm good at something that does not require interpersonal diplomacy and can deal with people over the phone for a lot of it, and that my customers understand that when I ask to be left to get on with the job I'm not being rude, simply practical. My reputation around town is that of somebody who is blunt-spoken and won't sweet-talk the customer, and who can explain the problem that brings me to their home simply so they'll understand what was done when they get the bill. That actually works for me!

"Something I'd like you to do for me, Deirdre, is tell me if there is anything you need. I know the State takes care of your clothing and personal needs, but I also know there are little things they may allow you to have that you might not be able to get from the camp canteen or the PX or whatever it's called. If you need something, maybe I can get it to you through ladiesbehindthewalls.com; they have a gift shipping service. Just send me the guidelines as to what the Warden will and won't let you have and I'll see what I can do for you. I'm not sure why or how, but you've already touched me even though we have never met in person.

"As to what I'd like to do with you if I could have you: oh, you've no idea of the things I'd like to do to bring you and me pleasure! Your boobs arouse the beast in me, and I fantasize about your wrapping your lovely long legs around me as I bury myself in you.

"If I had you spread-eagled on that mythical four poster bed, firmly tied down with silken cords (let's get into the fantasy world by all means), yes, I would shave you clean. I'd prop your oh so luscious ass up on a down pillow and shave you with a straight razor that I'd strop right before your eyes, whose sharpness I'd prove by plucking a hair from your head and dropping across the blade so you could watch the two halves fall away, severed by their own weight. I'd rub spice and sandalwood scented oil into your pubes to slicken the skin, and then I would use just the lightest coating of unscented shaving cream on the hair to soften it for the razor, applied with a badger bristle shaving brush.

"I'd take my time with the shaving, working carefully to get every last hair off your mound of Venus, leaving it bare and clearing the way for later. After rinsing you off, I'd rub in more oil, with particular attention to your labia and the clitoral shaft, gently working on them until your own pussy oils seeped out to mingle with the scented oil on your skin. I'd be guided by your moans and whispers and whimpers as I worked on you. My goal would be to make you willing and compliant, eager for my touch.

"Next, because you're tied down like a slave girl and have surrendered your will to mine, I'd put nipple clamps on you, adjusted to constrict blood flow rather than cause pain. While I waited for your nipples to swell and empurple, I'd begin to finger you and gently lick your clitoral shaft, persuading your clit to emerge from hiding so I could nibble it. I'd be aware of your reactions; watching for the sexual flush and hopefully listening to you tell me what you're feeling as I drove you toward orgasm.

"You see, darling, I want to make you cum while you're absolutely helpless to resist my attentions. It pleases me to pleasure my partner; I find it incredibly exciting and erotic. The sense of power and satisfaction I get by making you willingly climax is ultimate intoxication.

"When I sensed you were almost there, I'd take a Wartenburg Wheel and run it over your turgid nipples, then down your belly and along your clitoral shaft while I probed for your G-spot with my fingers. I want to set you off like a firecracker and drive you clear out of your mind into a place where only the pleasure you are feeling matters.

"As you reached that peak, I'd remove the nipple clamps and suck on your nipples hard and pull them mercilessly until you were thrashing on the bed ... and then I'd mount you, forcing my cock lubricated with your own pussy juice between your nether lips, thrusting deep inside until our pubic bones met. Perhaps you'd scream, perhaps you'd beg me to take you, perhaps both at once. We'd fuck each other for a long time, with I hope many orgasms on your part, until I couldn't hold back any more and grabbed hold of your tits and shot my cum deep into you, with us climaxing together if we were lucky and merging in that magic moment so our souls touched as deeply as our bodies.

"After we came down off that high, I'd untie you and hold you in my arms as we fell asleep together. And when we awoke again, if you liked what I did to you I hope you would start something so I could pleasure you again ... and again ... and again, until you were worn out and satiated. I suspect a woman who looks as sensuous as you do would be difficult to bring to that point, but it would sure be fun for me to try to do that to you and for you.

"To change the subject, you may have noticed I did not mention condoms or The Pill or contraception in our little fantasy. I am presuming you have no sexually transmitted diseases of any kind, including HIV and AIDS. I have none, but you also need not fear my knocking you up. When I was 21 I came down with a bad case of the mumps that left me sterile. Having had the disease as a child doesnot confer lifetime immunity as the doctors used to think. It wears off after 15 years or so, they say today.

"I shoot blanks in the bedroom. I can't sire children. If this is a problem for you, we need to talk about it. We probably should talk about it even if it's not a problem for you.

"So let me know what you need, and if you think I can give it to you. Write back soon.

"John."

I printed out the letter and put it in an envelope. I went through the pictures again, found two that showed the house and added them in before I stamped and sealed it. This time I didn't hesitate. I walked down to the foot of the driveway and put the letter into my mailbox for the mailman to pick up tomorrow. As I headed for what I thought was a well-earned drink, I wondered how Deirdre would react to it.

*****

Deirdre was still getting used to receiving letters and postcards after months of never hearing her name at mail call. Following the custom of her barracks, she read the postcards and then stuck them up on her locker or the bulletin board to brighten the bland colors of the place. Today she got a letter, several pages by the size of it. She tucked it inside her shirt to read later.

After dinner, while the other inmates gathered in the social space at the far end of the barracks with its TV and card tables to watch the tube, play cards or just talk, she walked outside and stood under the streetlight that illuminated the company street and read the letter from John. She went back and reread the part dealing with her being tied down on a bed, shaved, teased and then thoroughly fucked, feeling her nipples tighten and her pussy loosen and swell. Without a doubt, he had a vivid imagination! She hoped he would be ready to act on it, that he was not all talk. Looking at the rising moon, she returned to the barracks, stretched out on her bed and started to write a reply.

When lights out came, she crawled under the covers. Deirdre waited until the settling-in noises had turned to the deep breathing and snores of sleep before she shucked out of her panties and pulled her bra cups under her boobs. Replaying the scene from John's letter in her mind, her fingers went to her breasts and between her legs. She pinched her nipples hard with her nails and slid two fingers into her cunny while her thumb rubbed her clit and her hips bucked gently against her hand, imagining that it was her lover using her. As she masturbated, she lifted one heavy breast to her mouth and sucked on the nipple, pulling it with her teeth, loving that it hurt so good. Before long, her body's demands would no longer be denied and she climaxed, smothering her squeals against her own tit.

Getting up, she quietly opened her locker and removed a clean pair of cotton panties, taking the ones she'd worn to bed with her as she padded softly to the bathroom. She cleaned herself up, wiping the juices from her legs and her vulva with the old pair, careful to get every drop. As she went back to bed, she thought that John was going to receive a real surprise with her next letter.

*****

I'd taken to checking the mailbox on my way into the house after work, instead of on my way to the shop every morning. A thrill ran through me as I spotted a bulky envelope in Deirdre's handwriting. Once I was inside, I sat down and tore it open. A pair of panties fell out. I held them in one hand and her letter in the other.