Lady Behind The Wall

"So I stop in, figuring some perp flushed his stash and fouled the trap meant to catch such things and the Chief needs it fixed. Instead, he takes me into his office, closes the door and shows me the form Warden Duffy mailed him. In ten words or less, it wants to know if I'm a felon or an upstanding citizen. It asks about my criminal record, if any. There is enough information requested to allow someone who knows how to run a complete background check, which I suppose Duffy did. The websites dealing with prisoner contact all said that the idea is to keep contact down to immediate family members and perhaps secondary family members like aunts, uncles and cousins. I helped the Chief fill it out and gave him the references he wanted, and that was it, officially.

"Unofficially, he wanted to know whatinhell I was up to, that a prisoner from out of state who was no kin to me wanted me added to her contact list. I probably should have told him to mind his own business, but something told me to level with him. I told him about us and how we'd been corresponding. He opined I was an idiot buying a pig in a poke and pulled your file up on the computer and showed it to me. I told him to let me know when he got to something I didn't already know, which set him back a bit. I explained about subscribing to a service that can access the files he did, which are a matter of public record anyway. He mellowed considerably after that and we went down the street to his favorite watering hole and had a couple. He wound up telling me that he hoped it would work out. As I said, it isn't more than a couple of links between people here and his son, who's one of his patrol officers and due to make sergeant and watch commander next year when retirement opens up a slot, was a year behind me in high school. I know him to say hello to on the street. They know I'm not gay and that I've had live-in girlfriends, but found it odd I'd never married. Little mysteries like that puzzle cops with too much time on their hands, I suppose."

"I've never been married, either. Once I thought I might make it down the aisle, but he and I both drank – this was after I dropped out of college but before I made it out to Vegas – and he wasn't all that happy about my dancing exotic at one of the local clubs where everybody and his uncle got to ogle the Dynamic Duo and the Valley of Delight. He had no problems with the money they made for us, though.

"I stayed for a couple of drinks with the other girls after closing one night, and when I got home there he was, half in the bag and pissed off that I hadn't called to let him know where I was and what I was doing. I told him he wasn't the boss of me, and he said that he was, and then he beat up on me. Blacked one of my eyes, whipped his belt across my tits, knocked me down and welted my ass, and then he hauled me up by the hair, bent me over the kitchen table and took me. My pussy was wet and ready, I don't really know why, but his fucking wasn't something I wanted. That's the difference between sex and rape. The next morning when he went off to work I packed my clothes, got in my car and drove away.

"That was when I got PID, by the way. You've read what I've sent you, John. You know I'm a horny, willing vixen when there's somebody Iwant in my bed. My sex engine is always on slow idle and when the time is right there's nothing I like better than revving it all the way up to redline max! But when I'm in a relationship, I don't play around on my man. That bastard played around onme, and I paid for his little indiscretions. I can never have children again.

"Which is why another boyfriend dumped me a few years back. We'd been seeing each other for almost a year, while I was doing hair during the day and dancing chorus at the Flamingo nights. It felt pretty serious to me. Serious enough that one day after we'd finished making love, he started talking about what kind of a house we should have, what school district it ought to be in, and whether we should have one kid, or two. I sat up and asked him to hold me, and I told him I couldn't ever have children. He didn't say anything. He just held me and stroked my hair and let me cry on his shoulder, and I thought how much I loved him for not holding my sterility against me, that it didn't matter.

"The next night when I got home after my shift at the Flamingo, I found a note on the kitchen table. All the things he'd left at my place were gone. I tried to call him. He'd changed his phone and cell numbers. The note said as far as he was concerned, if I couldn't give him children I was nothing and nobody. I picked up my purse and went back out, got hammered in one of the locals' bars, the kind of place the tourists never go to, and ended the night by having to give a cop a blowjob to keep from being arrested for drunk and disorderly." I heard her sniff back tears.

My heart ached for her. This was orders of magnitude worse than what Debbie had done to me.

"Oh, baby. What a rat bastard. I hope the next girl he slept with gave him the clap!"

Deirdre laughed a trifle bitterly. "Well, what happened was even better. The choreographer and the lead dancers saw I was shaky and sad, and they took me aside, fed me a drink and got the story out of me. The choreographer at the Flamingo has been in Vegas for, like, forever. He doesn't like it when someone messes with his dancers, and he knows people. He told the story to a friend, who told it to another friend, and things happened.

"My ex was in casino work, in the back; he'd worked up from croupier. The way the choreographer told me the story, he came home and found a couple of rough and ready types in thousand dollar suits tearing his condo apart. They grabbed him and took him out in the desert somewhere and tied him to a chair. They took turns beating him with a rubber hose and asking where the money was. Of course he didn't know anything about any money. Came the dawn, they cut the ropes and advised him to leave town and find another job. He hasn't been seen in Vegas since!"

We both chuckled, but were interrupted by a recorded voice saying, "This call will terminate in one minute."

"Damn! There's so much I want to say, to tell you -"

"Call me next Sunday, darling," I said. "And write a long letter to me soon."

"You too, John. I need you and your letters. I can't wait for next Sunday! 'Bye, darling!" The connection broke.

I hung up the phone and just sat there for a long time, thinking.

I called the office Monday morning and informed my office manager that I would not be available that day, and told her to make the necessary reassignments. I drove into the city and began searching for what I wanted. An antique shop down on Old Town Road turned up a set of upper class 1920s 100% leather suitcases with solid brass fittings and locks. It was complete, down to the lady's cosmetics case with its sterling brushes, combs, and crystal perfume bottle and cologne sprayer. After work, I went to the mall again and wandered through the clothing salons looking for blouses, skirts and shoes I thought my girl would look good in, just window-shopping and filing ideas away in the back of my head.

Given my track record with females I wasn't really sure why I felt comfortable doing this, but the fact remained that it felt natural. This was something I'd need to figure out, but for the moment it was a feeling to savor. I felt happier than I'd been for a long time and didn't go to the Galaxy as often as I had before. Tasha commented on it and was the recipient of many confidences about my long distance paramour. If she had any reservations, she kept them to herself.

Weekly half-hour calls became a Sunday ritual for us. As Deirdre had warned, they were not inexpensive; my phone bill shot up by more than $250 a month. It was almost as if the signals were passing through a time warp to my childhood and back, when long distance service was two to three dollars per minute; but considering the intimacy they were building between us I'd have found them cheap at twice the price. We talked about anything and everything, from inconsequentialities to the profound topics on which relationships are built or upon which romances can founder. Occasionally, I would create a verbal fantasy for her, enjoying the deep breathing and moans on the other end of the line, imagining Deirdre's nipples tightening to the point that their scraping against the fabric of her shirt was torment, and visualizing her free hand slipping down inside her panties to stroke her clit as I excited her. One letter I received after such a call from her told me that she'd had to bite her hand to stifle her cries as she orgasmed. We didn't do that sort of thing often, for I was afraid we ran the risk of Deirdre's losing her phone privileges and good time; but she wasn't sorry when we did play that game.

One day the mailbox yielded a letter from Deirdre, a large envelope from a Texas attorney, and a mass mailing from the plumbing and HVAC business owners' group to which I belong. I opened Deirdre's letter first.

She'd been summoned by the Warden, but not for anything bad. Warden Duffy has just wanted to talk about her cosmetology training program: how it was going and had Deirdre ever thought about writing down course material to go with the correspondence school lessons that formed the basis of the training leading to qualification to sit for the state certification exams; and how to keep the program going after Deirdre completed her sentence and left Camp Jackson. The Warden thought it was one of the most practical vocational programs the joint had, but without a trained and licensed cosmetologist to run it the program might wither away. Deirdre had promised to try and put her practical lessons on paper, and to think about where to get a new teacher that would take on the job for the stipend the Warden could afford to pay. She wanted my input, especially on the second question.

I scribbled a note to myself, to suggest that they look for a retired hairstylist in Dumas to handle the teaching end of things and offer to ferry her back and forth or pay her so much per mile. Styles change, but styling principles don't. Chances were that there would be one or two ladies in town bored in retirement who would leap at the chance to teach.

The large, stiff envelope from the lawyer turned out to be from Deirdre too, albeit at second hand. She had requested that her attorney, the one who handled her affairs while she was on the inside, send me some pictures of her. I set the cover letter aside and took out the photographs, looking at them slowly.

8 x 10s, they were shot with 35 mm film sometime in the mid-90s by the look of the furnishings in the background, probably at a hotel somewhere. I riffled through the pictures quickly and confirmed what I'd suspected after seeing the first one: they were amateur pornographic photos of a younger Deirdre, some alone and some with an unidentifiable male.

The first one showed her lying propped up on a bed, legs spread, offering her breasts to the camera with a 'Wouldn't you just love to suck my boobs?' look on her face. The next one had her in the same basic position, but with one hand trailing a lock of hair over a nipple and the other teasing her clit, eyes half-lidded, nipples prominent, obviously enjoying herself as she masturbated. The third had her sprawled volup', her arms over her head and her long legs spread wide, the position of female sexual surrender; it fairly screamed, 'TAKE ME!'

My cock was so hard, it was physically painful. I had to shift position to ease the ache before I could look at the next one.

Deirdre was lying on her back, shot from a three-quarters angle slightly above. A man with black curly hair was going down on her. She was clearly enroute to a mind-blowing orgasm as she panted in the picture, her nipples darkened and thrusting lustily upward, her mons glistening with cunt-juice, while the man's chin was soaked in the camera lights. In the one after that, she was on her knees, eagerly deep-throating her partner while he held her head to his groin and she played with his balls. From the expression on her face, she knew exactly what she was doing and was enjoying it.

The next to last photo had her riding his cock, head thrown back, mouth open, hair wild, skin gleaming with moisture. She was bracing against his legs while he twisted her long, lovely nipples. The angle was such that although I could see all of her, his face was in shadow.

The final pic had her lying on her back in the bed with cum all over her face and her tits, looking satiated and pleased. From the amount of jizz on her, at least three or four guys must have jacked off onto her three or four times, probably after fucking her during a gangbang. Whatever had happened, she seemed proud of herself. She had likely ordered them to shoot all over her.

I realized I hadn't read the note that had accompanied the first photo. I picked it up. It was unaddressed.

"This is part of what I am. I enjoy sex and I'm not ashamed of it or of these photographs. If you are reading this note, you have to realize I'm serious about you. You need to know what kind of woman you are dealing with.

"Maybe I've been around the block a couple of times too often. That's why I can appreciate the kind of guy who would take the trouble to get to know me while I'm in prison. If you want a woman who will give you the kind of devotion they talk about in books, I'm yours for the asking. If you do ask, you'll never miss all the other broads in your life. I can give you more than they ever could. It's up to you.

"Deirdre."

Wow. This was a baring of her soul with a vengeance. Definitely something to discuss in our next call. With an effort, I set the prints down and opened the third letter.

The Association was holding its annual convention in conjunction with a trade show in July– in Fort Worth. Less than a month away, it still wasn't too late for me to register.

I smiled, fired up the computer, made reservations and booked a room. Then I went to the TDCJ website and used an online form to request permission for a personal visit the Sunday of the convention.

*****

Sergeant Carter counted heads and passed out the mail. As Ronnie prepared to march the platoon to supper, she reached out and held Deirdre back. She handed her a form.

Deirdre read it once and then a second time. She looked at the corrections officer.

"Does this really say what I think it does, ma'am?"

"Yes, it does. Your John has been approved for a visit next Sunday. Congratulations!"

"But I can't have him seeing me like this for the first time! I mean, these khakis are about as feminine as burlap bags!"

Carter motioned for Deirdre to walk with her. "You've never had a visitor before, have you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Then you don't know the rules. We allow inmates to meet their visitors in civilian clothes. Nothing slutty, the blouse and skirt you wear when you go to the nursing homes are about right.

"We tell the sheep from the goats by issuing the visitors ID badges that they must wear at all times. They can't get out of the visiting area without a badge, and we take pictures of them before we issue the badges. If the face doesn't match the badge, they can't leave. No one has ever made a serious attempt to escape from here but we don't take chances, obviously.

"Now I know the next thing you're going to ask is, 'Do you allow physical contact?' The answer is yes, but within limits. Brief kisses are okay, french-kissing isn't. Hand-holding and hugs are allowed but fondling will cause the visit to be instantly terminated and your visiting privileges revoked. Cuddling is acceptable, but at the discretion of the officers on duty.

"I know it sounds harsh, like we are out to tease both of you; but Warden Duffy's policy is more liberal than many. Most wardens don't allow any physical contact at all between inmates and visitors. She thinks – and I agree with her – that by making it clear visitation is a privilege that can be taken away, most of you are too smart to do anything that would risk having your visiting privileges revoked.

"He won't be allowed to bring anything in from the outside for you. There are vending machines for soda pop, ice cream, prepackaged baked goods and candy in the Visitor's Hall, and he can carry up to $20 in quarters to use in them. There's a screened pavilion outside the Hall with tables and chairs." She paused as if trying to make up her mind, then went on.

"There are a couple of wooden couches at the far end of the pavilion in the corners. I suggest you and John stake out one of them, and then let him go get the goodies. They're big enough for you to lie in his arms or vice versa, and the officers patrolling don't always walk all the way down there. Understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am." Deirdre hesitated, then took the plunge. "Are you on duty that day, ma'am?"

"Well," smiled Carter, "as a matter of fact, I am. Billie Sue needs braces and the overtime will come in handy. Besides, I want a gander at your John. I want to be sure he's okay for one of my girls. So I put in for extra duty that day and got it."

Deirdre understood perfectly. "Thank you very much, ma'am."

*****

The convention was just as dull as I had expected. There were only two seminars I wanted to attend, and naturally they were scheduled opposite each other. The hotel was your basic anonymous place serving banal, bland hotel food; but from overheard talk it seemed I was not the only one intending to put in a token appearance and then spend the rest of the convention sowing wild oats, eating barbeque, chasing wild, wild women and generally behaving like a drunken tourist far from home. For decades, one of the hooks Fort Worth has used to attract conventions has been "Dallas for Business, Fort Worth for fun," and my fellow conventioneers were out to see just how much fun they could have and how fast they could have it and how much of it they could write off as a legitimate business expense. I had other plans.

After Saturday's seminar, I took a courtesy bus back to the airport and climbed aboard a turboprop commuter flight to Dumas, where I had a rental car and a room booked. Dumas is the county seat and about 20,000 people live there. I drove around for awhile, mostly to fix the land and the roads in my head before heading back to the hotel. Time seemed to drag, but finally Sunday noon arrived. I left the hotel and drove to Camp Jackson.

The entry road could have been that of any of the ranches in the area. A mixture of dirt and gravel, at least it had been graded and compacted recently and the worst of the potholes filled in. The only indication that it didn't lead to a ranch was a carved wooden sign with the Texas Department of Justice and Corrections seal and the words, "Jackson Honor Camp." Proceeding at the posted speed limit of 15 mph, I read the signs that appeared every 50 yards or so, like the fabled Burma-Shave signs of years gone by.

"Possession of Alcohol or Drugs on These Grounds is a Crime."

"Firearms and Knives Must Be Left in Your Vehicle. Attempting to Bring Weapons into the Facility is a Crime."

"Do Not Pick Up Hitchhikers on This Road!"

"The Road is Under Surveillance. If Your Car Breaks Down, Stay With Your Vehicle and Wait for Help to Arrive."

An attempt at humor; I wondered how it had gotten past the Warden. "Do Not Feed The Inmates."

And as I reached what had once been the main gate of an army base and now served as the main entry to Camp Jackson, "All Visitors Must Stop for Inspection. Have A Nice Day." I slowed and stopped at the guard shack, my way blocked by a counterweighted hunk of sturdy steel pipe straight out of an old war movie. A female guard came to my window with a clipboard.