My man is in prison. I am not going to tell you what for, it doesn’t matter. But he is in prison,one of those Victorian prisons, with high walls with a big, fat tube stuck on top to stop you climbing over, and a gatehouse with towers and turrets, like some parody of a castle.He is somewhere inside on a big echoing wing, in a small cell with walls of green-washed brick, and a high barred window that shows him the grey sky but nothing of the world outside, the buses trundling along the road outside, the schoolchildren pouring noisily out of school before falling silent as they pass beneath the walls, knowing that this will be the fate of some of them. Prison. Even the word sounds ugly if you say it too often, it sticks on your tongue and roughens it.
My man is in prison. I sleep alone and the bed is too big. I reach out in the night and there is o one there. His pillow is still there, the pillow case unchanged still smelling of my man who hasn’t laid his lovely head on it for nearly a year. I inhale him, I want him but he is not there, his gorgeous cock wasting and withering behind those brutal walls. I wake up horny, needy, I think of him, lying restless on a prison bunk that shakes with the frantic wanking of his cell mate. My man is thinking of me, I know, picturing me here, parting my legs, arching my back as I push a finger, two fingers into my sopping wet cunt, place my thumb on my swelling clit and rub. And then I come, I shout for him and he is not there, he is behind the walls on a narrow bunk, looking up in despair as the searchlight sweeps the ceiling of the cell. Or does he despair? Or does he just have a wank and roll over on the cumclammy sheet and go of into a deep sleep. Does he give a shit about my needs? Or the children? Or anything at all? Apart from himself of course.
And then as I lie in the dark and my post orgasmic low I start to resent him.I think about that first visit, the formica topped table, the horrid vending machine tea, him in his blue prison clothes and a grubby red bib. How we sat there saying nothing, what is there to say? Well, after the awkwardness I began to tell him about how the children were doing at school, well a little bit, I couldn’t mention the bullying, or how our daughter had been spat at on the school bus, how….no I couldn’t go on it was all too painful and he hardly seemed interested, he was far away and the light had already gone from his eyes. The ritual humiliations of prison life had dulled him. I said there a bit longer, I took his hand and gave it a squeeze but he didn’t respond. I turned and left and didn’t see him being escorted back to the wing by two officers, I didn’t see him break down and cry, the last thing you want to do in prison. I found out these things later. I was angry. I even tried to fantasise about his prison humiliations, imagined him being forced to kneel and suck cock, or bend over the bed and be buggered. But I couldn’t get off on it.
How long have I been awake? I switch on the bedside light. It is four o’clock. I punch the pillow again. Then I take my well thumbed copy of Fetish Hotties magazine, open out the centrefold and masturbate to Dolores.
It was on the second visit that I met Dolores. I had popped into the shabby paper shop on the corner opposite the prison to buy a motoring magazine for my man, a real petrolhead until the need to buy a fast car got the better of him. She was dressed in a hoody and grey leggings, hair tied up, showing the roots that really needed doing. She was thumbing through the top shelf magazines. She caught my surprised look and asked me
“Are you visiting too lovely?”
“Is your bloke inside?”
I said nothing, looked down, feeling the shame rising within me.
“First time is it? I remember my first time. That was a few years ago, different nick, different sentence…”
“Do they let you take magazines in you know…. “
“Dirty mags? Christ no! Some crap about good order and discipline”
“Darling I am in this one. I do a bit of modelling. I have to earn somehow don’t I?”
“I guess so”
She took down Fetish Hotties, opened it in the middle and turned it through ninety degrees. It was recognisably her but her hair was platinum blonde, short, razor cut at the back. She was dressed in black leather, a coat, trousers and her ankle boots had stiletto heels and decorative buckles. She looked fierce. She turned a page and there was another picture of her this time without the coat but in a white blouse with long black leather gloves, carrying a whip. The tagline read “Domina Dolores demands your submission now!”
“Wow!” I said with a sharp intake of breath.
Two hours later I stepped through the big prison gate and breathed a sigh of relief. I was glad to be away from the smell. I was depressed. Rain began to fall from a grey sky.
I began to walk briskly towards the bus stop, pulled up the collar of my coat. As I opened my umbrella. I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Come with me.”
“Do as you’re told little girl. Do you I think I haven’t been inside too? Don’t fucking mess with me”
“Sorry I ….”
Dolores grabbed the collar of my coat and steered me across a patch of waste ground to a secluded spot underneath the prison walls.
“The one place the cameras don’t cover.”
I stood there, saying nothing.
“If you want me you can have me.”
She pulled me towards her pushed her tongue roughly into my mouth, her hand gripped the back of my head, the fingers pulling painfully on my hair.
I responded. I hadn’t been kissed for so long and this raw physicality was making me wet, I felt my swollen clit rubbing against my knickers.
She knelt on the rough ground, lifted my skirt, buried herself in it, moved my knickers to the side and began to tongue me vigorously, voraciously, I felt the whipping, the soft friction and then she was on my clit, and I saw stars in the greyness as I came. She came out from under my skirt and stood up, brushing gravel from her knees. She winced. It had obviously hurt.
“Just think lovely. We could do a robbery together, then share a cell with me and we would do this every fucking night after lights out. “
She walked away.
“Can I have your number? I would like to…”
But my words were lost in the hum of the traffic. .
I never saw her again. I was told her man had been transferred to another prison in another part of the country. But I masturbated to her that night. The following day I went back to that grubby shop and bought a copy of Fetish Hotties. I stood in our spot against the prison wall and masturbated to her.
I masturbate to her most nights. I need to. She said she wanted to be mine. And she is. For as long as new editions of Fetish Hotties appear on the top shelf of a grubby shop next door to a prison.
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