Lady Behind The Wall

"John, darling:

"Just to show you how exciting I find your letters, I've enclosed a souvenir for you. This is what your last letter did for me."

I took a moment to sniff the slightly stiff panties. They smelled of female musk, the odor of arousal in a woman that she can't disguise when she starts lubricating in preparation for intercourse. Apparently Deirdre found my erotic efforts acceptable. If this is how turned on she got from reading, I wondered how much more excited she'd be if and when we got together?

"I think we're on similar pages, so I thought I'd see what I can do for you with words until we can meet up close and personal.

"You said you like to go fishing in remote areas. Imagine if we were going to a fishing spot up in the mountains so remote that it's accessible only on horseback. (You do ride, right?) We'd work our way upslope to an Alpine meadow, totally deserted, with a lake in it.

"I'd gallop across the meadow to the lakeshore. I ride hard and I like to be rode hard, too. We'd set up camp as the sun was setting and turn the horses out to graze, hobbled so they can't run away. You'd start a fire and put the coffee on, and I'd go bathe in the lake. When the coffee was done, you'd come to get me, stripped for a quick dip of your own.

"I'd come up out of the water totally naked, walk up to you and tell you to close your eyes. I'd slip behind you and press my body against you, and when your cock leapt to attention I'd take it and stroke it slowly, feeling it get harder in my hand. Then I'd whisper in your ear, 'Darling, close your eyes, count to 100, then turn around three times. If you can catch me, you can have me!' and then I'd run away out into the moonlight, zigzagging to make it hard for you to track me, crouching down in the tall grass so I'm hard to see and finding me will be a challenge.

"You'd turn around and look for me, but Papa taught me how to hide in plain sight. I won't be easy to see. Like the hunter you are, you'd cast about and find my trail. Then you'd track me down. I'm a trophy worth having!

"When you got close, I'd break cover and run, my hair streaming out behind me, silvered by the moonlight. You'd be in hot pursuit. I'd lead you a good chase, but sooner or later you'd get close enough to tackle me and bring me down.

"When you had me on the ground I'd struggle a little, but not too much. You'd pin my hands over my head and get my legs up over your shoulders and roll me back, raising my hips. And then, with us looking deep in each other's eyes, I'd whisper, 'Take me.'

"You wouldn't say anything. You'd just push your hips forward and that big, beautiful cock would slide right into my wet pussy. I'd moan as you filled me all the way up, helpless to stop you and not wanting to, just wanting you to fuck me with your huge cock, wanting to please you as you took me.

"We'd start moving together and the light would turn red as I lose myself in the pleasure your rod would give me. I'd be trying to tell you what felt good, how good it was, never wanting you to stop, begging you to fuck me like an animal. I'd beg you to hurt me so good, to fuck me so hard it was like raping me, rejoicing in my helplessness and your male dominance as you used my pussy to please yourself and me. And then I'd climax for the first time, rockets exploding in my brain and my whole body having a seizure as I came. I'd wrench my hands loose and pull your head down so I could suck your tongue, wanting every hole to be full of you. As I started to come down, I'd beg you to suck my tits and without missing a stroke you'd grab a nipple in your teeth and pull it hard, growling between your teeth and setting me off again as you bit it and lashed it with your tongue. I'd scream my pleasure to the sky like the vixen in heat I am and rake your back with my nails, begging you for more cock, always more cock.

"As I squirmed and shook on your prick, you'd roll onto your back and end up with me riding you, so you could get your hands and mouth on my boobs. Don't be gentle with me, baby. Twist 'em, bite 'em, squeeze them hard! I love a man's hands on my body when I want him, but especially when he's pleasing me the way you are. Your working my breasts, teasing my nipples and even spanking my ass as we fuck would set me off into a string of cums merging into one roiling rapid stream of climaxes so I didn't know or care where we were. I'd be bouncing on you, too caught up in the moment for words, but never stopping as you tortured me so sweetly on your prick. You'd call me names and I'd say "Yes!" to every one. Anything, just to make our pleasure last and last and last.

"Finally, you wouldn't be able to hold it any longer and you'd pin me on my back again, my legs wrapping around you as you exploded in my womb, your seed filling me to overflowing as you spent yourself into me and collapsed onto my body. And then I'd hold you, kissing you tenderly as we fell back to earth together.

"When we could, we'd stand and you'd pick me up and carry me back to camp in your arms. You'd walk into the warm lake and let me go when the water was up to your chest. I'd wrap my arms around you and kiss you deeply as our hands roamed up and down each other's bodies, reawakening desire. We'd leave the water and lie on the grass, still kissing and fondling, and then I'd swing around into a 69, taking your beautiful prick into my mouth and deep-throating you as you parted my pussy lips and ate me, your fingers in my box and your mouth on my clit, my juices flowing like a river over your face.

"After I came a couple of times but before you could, I jump off you. You'd sit up and find me on all fours, my hands pulling my asscheeks apart to expose my rosebud as I begged you to fuck me in the ass, the final conquering of your slut-vixen.

"My begging and sucking would leave you with a larger cock than you'd ever known. You'd come up behind me and gather my cunt juice on your finger and lubricate my asshole, taking your time, easing first one finger and then two inside to ready me for your big dick. I'd feel the head of your prick slide into my box a couple of times and I'd shiver with anticipation. And then you'd use your thumbs to pull my browneye wide and I'd feel you enter my ass. It hurts so good! I don't want the pain but oh, I need it! I want you to fill my ass right up! Oh god, it hurts so good!

"Finally I'd feel your balls slap my pussy and I'd know you were all the way in. You'd slowly pull out of me and as you started back forward again I'd thrust my ass back against you and before long we'd be moving against each other and I'd be reduced to moaning and cries of pleasure as you ravaged me and I came again and again, you pillaging my ass, ramming my G-Spot, your balls hitting my love button, treating me like your plaything– and I'd love it, every single second of it!

"And when I thought I was as high as I could get, you'd reach around and find my clit and stroke it. I'd go off like a rocket, screaming into the heavens as I exploded into a million stars, lost to everything but the ecstasy of being your sex toy until you came explosively, shooting your cum into my bowels and we fell to the ground utterly done.

"And when we woke in the moonlight, I'd lead you back to our tent and we'd sleep in each other's arms, knowing we were cherished and part of each other.

"My family name suits me in looks and appetite, darling. When I get started, I can't get enough sex. If we click, you'll never need to go looking for any other woman, I promise, John. I'll give you anything you want, any way you want it, whenever you want it. I can be your Barbie, your whore, your slave. Any way you want me, I can be. I feel close to you already too, which I find curious.

"Why curious? I was a stripper off and on for 15 years. I'm no blushing virgin. I know what men are really looking for, not what they think they need. Usually they are totally wrong, after only sex or eye candy, a trophy to show how studly they are, thinking women only want a sugar daddy or a protector. That's not what you want. Oh, an appetite for sex is certainly part of what you want in your partner, but that's not even half of it. You want someone who will be there for you, no matter what; not like the gal who when asked by the preacher if she'd have her husband for richer or poorer, in good times and bad, replied, 'Yes; no; yes; no.' You want a woman who'll share the triumphs with you and comfort you and buck you up in the bad times that happen to everyone. You want a woman who will accept you as you are and not try to make you into something you're not that might suit her better.

"Well, darling, maybe I'm that woman. You read my profile and chose to write me and you've been up front with me from the start. You understand the situation I'm stuck in and are doing your best to get to know me based on a few pictures and a lot of words on paper. I want us to get to know each other better still.

"So I've asked that you be put on my contact and visitor list. Right now, you're probably wondering what that means. Well, John, while the prison authorities can't stop us from sending each other letters they can and do restrict outside voice and personal contact. As I said before, phone calls are a privilege and a limited one at that. Generally, only family members and your lawyer are allowed to speak and meet with you here. I've put in the request and I think it may have a chance of approval. I wrote my lawyer about it. He has a limited power of attorney so he can pay the taxes on my two properties and my car, among other things. I asked him to send you a set of pictures I had made up in case I met someone while I was in here, and to see if there was anything he could do to speed up approval, since the Warden must finally okay any non-family additions.

"From what I understand, what happens is that the Warden sends a form to your chief of police or local sheriff and asks him to interview you and fill it out. I think they check the NCIC too. As you might guess, the TDCJ isn't real big on having ex-cons visit inmates. So when the cops call you, don't be surprised or afraid. It's just SOP.

"But if they approve you, we'll be able to talk on the phone and if you can arrange it, maybe we can even meet! That would be wonderful!

"As far as your sending me anything, I've enclosed a list of gifts we can accept. We aren't allowed to have much and they actually keep inventories on us and will confiscate anything we have that isn't listed. Generally, we have to buy from the camp commissary using our inmate account. We aren't allowed cash money for the obvious reason. It's why cigarettes used to be currency in prison. Today, it's barter.

"But one problem I have is with brassieres. My big tits need support and these prison bras just don't cut it. I end up with an aching back by the end of the day. If you could come up with a couple of bras that don't have steel underwires but do provide good support, I'd be so grateful! They don't need to be sexy, we can worry about sexy after I'm out. But they need to be sturdy and able to stand up to washing machines. If you can get me some, I'll make it worth your while (wink, wink).

"And you wouldn't have to worry about knocking me up even if you weren't shooting blanks. I had a bad case of PID about 10 years back. The gynecologist says the scarring is so severe that I'm barren now. Does that bother you?

"Oh, I hope the approval doesn't take too long. I'd really like to hear your voice! We have a lot to talk about, I think.

"Sweet dreams, darling.

"Your Deirdre."

I looked at the list she'd sent. It was a sixth or tenth generation photocopy and not easy to read. The things prisoners could have sent to them from the outside did not have much wiggle room. It was intended to keep anything that might make escaping easier out of their hands.

They could receive paper and envelopes, but only plain white. Notepads or pads of lined paper had to be glued, not stapled. No ballpoint pens. No fountain pens or rollerball pens, either; only felt tip markers. Stamps were okay, but no more than 40 at a time. Photographs were allowed provided they weren't provocative, whatever that meant, but no more than ten in one letter.

Subscriptions to magazines and newspapers were allowed and so were non-controversial books, but they had to be sent direct from the publisher or a bookstore. I decided to talk to Antony, the barber who owns the unisex hair salon where I have my hair cut, and find out what professional magazines I should send her. I could arrange for subscriptions to newspapers from Fort Worth and Las Vegas myself. On reflection, I decided to include one to our local weekly and toSmithsonian and theNational Geographic too. Those would give her and the women in her barracks some color, and the weekly would acquaint her with my town.

No razors of any kind. No homemade baked goods. I wondered if the Warden was thinking some idiot who'd seen too many B-movies might actually try to bake a file or a disassembled gun or drugs into a cake or something. Didn't they think the public knows jails have X-ray machines, metal detectors and sniffer dogs? No electronic games. No board games unless shipped direct from a store or website. I reflected that whoever put this list together had spent entirely too much time reading Stanley Lovell, Paul Brickhill, P.R. Reid and Lloyd Shoemaker.

Tobacco products were forbidden. The TDCJ was determined to run smoke-free prisons, which when I thought about it made sense for a number of reasons. Therefore, no matches or lighters were required.

Cosmetics were limited to lipstick and non-alcohol-based hair gel, purchased at the commissary. Unscented stick deodorants could be sent, but nothing else.

On clothing, the okay-to-send list was a bit more liberal. Underthings were allowed, again provided they were not provocative. I took this to mean plain, white and not cut sexy. If a prisoner had a job that required personal interaction with the outside world, tasteful civilian clothes were authorized subject to approval by the corrections officer in charge. Jewelry other than a cheap watch or a wedding band was not permitted. Footwear was limited to sneakers and slippers. If an inmate worked in the real world as Deirdre sometimes did, shoes were okay to send; but only flats, no high heels.

However, thirty days before an inmate's release date, she could be sent anything in the way of clothing and it would be held for her until release day arrived, so she didn't have to walk out of prison in hopelessly out of date clothes or a prison dress that proclaimed her an ex-convict. I made a note to ask Deirdre for her dress size, shoe size and preferences in cosmetics.

That decision brought me up against two different presumptions on my part. First, I was operating on the assumption that Deirdre would want to come and be with me, which based on past experience was not as yet warranted. Second, that she had asked me if I could do anything in the way of providing her with a couple of sturdy bras that she really needed, from which I inferred she expected me to get them for her.

Well, table the first presumption for now. I headed for the shower so I could do something about the second.

An hour later I was standing in front of Victoria's Secret in the mall. The displays were of opaque plastic mannequins with impossibly long legs and arms, tiny waists, flat butts and teeny tits. I looked dubiously at them, but finally plucked up my courage and went inside.

The sales associate in the brassiere department flashed me back to high school. She was the spitting image of a cheerleader who had graduated a year ahead of me, a classic example of the speciesbitchius populare Americanus. The cheerleader I remembered was of theHeathers variety, the kind who used her position in the school to make people's lives miserable just because she could. I had been a regular target of her cruelty until she made the mistake of running for student body president.

She didn't realize that my 'flat affect' and ability to move silently with no one noticing me unless I wished to be seen made me the next thing to invisible to many people in that stalag, students and faculty alike. As a result, I heard and learned many interesting things. The principal, who kept a watchful eye on students he thought might be at risk, once remarked to the vice principal who handled discipline that I probably knew more about what was really going on at the school than he did.

When election week rolled around, during the Candidates Q&A Forum in the auditorium I'd stood up and asked the cheerleader if she'd gotten over the case of clap she'd caught from her best friend's boyfriend yet. Her response was lost in the uproar as her best friend (and campaign manager) charged out of the wings and treated the delighted student body to a Jerry Springer moment resulting in torn clothing, two pairs of bare tits, hunks of hair ripped out and a serious clawing before teachers could separate them. The result was two broken relationships among the Beautiful People, one friendship destroyed, two trashed reputations, a week's suspension for the campaign manager, and a humiliating loss at the polls for Angelique the cheerleader. It was one of my favorite high school memories.

This one seemed cut from the same cloth. Her brows rose when she finally noticed me. When she spoke, her voice was just short of a sneer.

"Is there something I can help you with ... sir," delivered in a tone that implied there wasn't anything I could possibly help her with in any part of her life. However, I wasn't the same person who had been tormented by Angelique Corbeil back in the day.

"If you want to keep on working here, Jennifer, you could put some respect in your tone, for starters," I riposted. "I'm sure your manager would be very interested if I were to call her over and file a complaint."

She backed up a step as it dawned on her she had seriously misjudged the old fart. "I –"

"Never mind. What I am looking for is a plain white bra in 38D that offers firm support without underwires. What do you have that might fit the specifications?"

Jennifer frowned and twirled a strand of hair around her fingers, perhaps trying to wind her brain up so it would think. She walked over to a set of shelves, looked, and then tossed a "Let me check in the back," over her shoulder as she headed into the stockroom. Three minutes later she returned.

"I'm sorry, but we haven't anything that fills your bill. All the support bras either are lace, with underwires or both, or they don't go up to that cup size. We don't stock much in D-cups; we don't have much call for them."

"Where would you suggest I look?"

"Fredericks of Hollywood has bras in that size. If you strike out there, try the ladies floor in Macy's. They have a wide selection and go up to size D. I got my mother a good D-cupper there before a party last month."

"Would your mother's name be Angelique, by any chance?"

Jennifer's jaw dropped. "How did you know?"

"You look just the way she did at your age. It's a shame you act like her too, but you learn from your mistakes faster than she did. When you next see her, tell her that John Middleton sends his regards. Thanks for your help." I could feel her eyes on me as I walked out. With any luck, Angelique might have an unpleasant time explaining how it was she knew me.

Fredericks was on the next level up at the opposite end of the mall. I looked at the window displays. A sun and fun setup showed off bikinis and patterned underwear on substantially bustier dummies. I looked at one in particular, posed hipshot, one leg bent up, looking over her shoulder with a pair of sunglasses perched on the end of her nose. That decided me.