The true story goes something like this: I am a lawyer, he is my client. He is in prison and I go to see him. We sit across a small table; the seats remind me of preschool and we are far too large to take up such a small space. I have to ask a guard if I can hug him.
The guard, disgusted, says, "Yes, if you'd want to."
I am wearing a suit that covers up everything but the bones of my collarbone, delicate and dainty, revealing my sexiness. If the eyes are not trained to see that, you see a lean woman with a classic suit. Dark colors, pants, flat shoes. Mostly business except for the smile.
He is brought out, he is not handcuffed. We hug, it is awkward, many of the other men in the room imagine what it would be like to hug me. My feminine energy is palpable and tasty; the other women are much larger than I and are wearing polyester.
I have a ballpoint pen tucked behind my ear. There are papers on the table and we look at them, talk about them. There is talk of cases past, of numbers, days left, parole plans. It is all a facade. My body is divided; multitasking. I am talking and I sound believable. You'd want me to be your lawyer if you heard me. I will defend you. But in my heart, there is a dance party, pounding, swirling, one leg off the ground, being tossed and turned and dipped. And in my panties, a river.
In my fantasy, I ask the guard matter-of-factly, "Can I fuck him now?"
In my fantasy, the guard has brought him out of a cage with his prison clothes on. He is in handcuffs. It is just the three of us. The room I am in is bare and concrete. There is a table in the middle, it is metal and col. I sit in a chair.
In my fantasy, I am wearing heels, navy rubber ones with a pointy stiletto and a thin strap around my ankles. I am wearing fishnet thigh highs and a short skirt, navy blue. I am wearing a low-cut tank top, a necklace made of metal. My lips are moist with gloss and the wetness in my mouth.
In my fantasy, the guard brings him in front of me. He is in between me and the table. We look each other in the eyes. The guard tells him not to move. The guard inserts the key in the handcuffs and turns it. Click. It is the only sound.
The handcuffs are off and he stands with his hands at his side. The guard tells him to strip. He looks at me as he takes off his jumpsuit. He hands it to the guard. He takes off his socks.
I look at his feet and legs. His skin is white; most of it is covered with the blue and black ink of tattoos. There are skulls and crosses, roses and scrolls. There are birds and flames and words. They start on the top of his feet, move up his calves. I take him in. I have never seen so much of him. My face does not betray my excitement. I am still, my eyes running over his body. He takes off his shorts and then his t-shirt in rapid succession.
He is naked standing in front of me. His white skin resumes, his upper thighs and pelvis and hips and penis are bare, no ink. Soft and smooth, untouched by the pen, untouched by a woman for two years. I look at his cock, then back at his eyes, then back at his cock. Just this micromovement of my eyes and he gets slightly hard, the blood has gone there and he bulges. I see his heartbeat in the shaft.
His chest is an art piece. The story of his life, his passions, his fears, his obstacles. There is no open space on his chest or his neck or his arms. There are gemstones, there are colors, there is abstraction and definition. I cannot tell where one ends and one begins. Part of me wants the guard to strip him farther, take off the tattoos, reveal him to me raw and untouched. Beat him until his skin bleeds. This place makes me feel brutal and violent and although I ache to do nothing more than hold him and kiss him, I feel angry that he has been covered and touched by the hands of the artists that own his body.
In my fantasy, the guard searches him, bends him over and tells him to spread it. He does, willingly. Even this touching, part of a daily routine, turns him on in front of me and I see him get harder, knowing I am watching. He is bent over for this procedure and I see his spine folding down, towards the ground, his black hair almost touching the floor. He is over six feet tall and muscular, carpenter, the sinewy back revealing years of using the muscles to weld and build. Although that has all been taken away from him in here, he is still tight and wiry.
I am getting antsy. My nipples have perked up; it is cold in the room and I am tingling with the heat of seeing his naked body. He stands back up and the guard takes him to the table and lays him down. I see his backside flinch as his ass touches the cold metal and his shoulder blades. He takes a deep breath and sinks into it and gives his ankles and wrists over willingly to the guard who straps him into place.
"All mine?" I inquire knowingly.
I know the guard will leave. I know he has told me this is private. I know that he will be watching with the others. I know that they will hear us.
I stand up, my heels click the floor as I walk; the sound of an adult woman. I stand at his feet and touch them with my hands, warming them. I ground down, feeling my own energy in this place. I go there to show him that I worship him, that although he is strapped down and unable to move, I am all his.
I walk up to his head and stroke his forehead and his hair. He is so soft in my hands. Years in this place and he has become a new man, connected to God, he has found peace amongst the bare walls. He finds the sky and the birds and the water. He has found the pen and the books. He has found his way out of this hell even while still locked in it. He is completely open to me after years of our correspondence. In my fantasy, I kiss his forehead and then his lips. They are warm and inviting and he keeps my mouth there as he puts his tongue inside it. It is the first time we have touched like this and it overwhelms me completely. At the same time my pussy becomes wet, my eyes do too.
