Backin It Up To The Fence

May 2019

As the godmother of her friend Anna's first child, Connor or "Lil Con" for short, Jean, who also served as Anna's bridesmaid, enjoyed the honor of being the first of her friends to meet the new arrival. When Terry, Anna's husband and Lil Con's dad, answered the door, Jean still did a double take—even though Terry lost all his hair 9 months ago. As she followed the perfectly round parabola of the back of Terry's head, which practically glowed in the dim corridor, bobbing like a pale balloon down the hall to the master bedroom, Jean speculated as to why she still found his chrome dome so jarring.

Obviously, his baldness contrasted sharply with his otherwise youthful appearance. In fact, when Jean first met Terry, shortly after he and Anna began dating, Jean considered his thick brown mane one of his most attractive features. With that gone, he looked homely, she admitted to herself. He lacked the tough guy bravado to pull off the skinhead look. Between his tonsure and bookish demeanor, the hairless Terry gave off a monkish, ascetic vibe at odds with the viral young man her friend married.

Beyond the way his hairlessness spoiled his previous good looks, Jean also puzzled as to why his hair disappeared. Neither he nor Anna gave her a satisfactory explanation. When Jean asked Terry, he grinned sheepishly and said, "It's something I have to do." Expecting a better explanation from her friend, Jean quizzed Anna, who shrugged, and said, "It's a long story. I'll explain it later." Jean still waited for later to arrive, but the sight of her friend and godchild in bed pushed aside all other thoughts.

After the required greetings and exclamations over Lil Con, who slept through all the adoration and present opening, Terry left the room to mow the lawn and, incidentally, give the two women a chance for some "girl talk."

"Wow, Anna," Jean exclaimed after he left. "You and Terry didn't wait very long to get started. If I didn't know better, I'd say Lil Con's a honeymoon baby."

Anna blushed at this. "Oh, no, Jean," she laughed. "Lil Con was conceived somewhere else entirely different."

"Really?" Jean asked, "Do tell." Still sitting on the edge of the bed, she scooted up closer to Anna, who reclined, Lil Con in the crook of her arm.

"All right," Anna agreed, a conspiratorial grin playing across her lips. "But don't let Terry know I told you. What goes on between us is supposed to be secret."

"Mum's the word," agreed Jean.

At the risk of jostling Lil Con, Anna leaned as far forward as she dared and dropped her voice. "The short version is I backed it up to the fence."

Jean scowled. "What on Earth does that mean?"

"That requires the long version." Anna leaned back again, relaxing into her story.

September 2018

When his wife's face suddenly floated into view on the other side of the glass, Terry struggled—but utterly failed—to make himself meet her eyes. With his hair completely shaved off, wearing prison stripes, his wrist handcuffed to the desk, keeping him in his place, he no longer resembled even a pale shadow of the man she'd once known, let alone the handsome groom in the tux that she gave herself to so enthusiastically such a short time ago.

He felt thoroughly, utterly degraded, the consequences of his sinful past fully exposed to her view. His ears flamed with humiliation. He recognized the silliness and futility of his embarrassment. None of this surprised her. After all, the authorities no doubt duly informed Anna of her husband's arrest, trial, conviction on all counts, and his sentence to do time in prison, which also started his first term of baldness of the head for life.

Still, he doubted that that theoretical knowledge prepared her to actually

see

him in this sorry state, sunk to the deepest depths: shorn, shamed, and publicly exposed as a criminal and convict. When he did chance a glance up, he saw his worst fears confirmed. His wife avoided his gaze, looking pained and uncomfortable as she fidgeted in the chair on the other side of the glass. When the phone by his left hand rang, he picked up the receiver with a gulp.

"Hello?" he said.

Anna swallowed then replied, "Hello, dear."

Terry cringed at that last word, normally a term of endearment, doubting she meant it that way at all. He tried to fill the awkward silence that followed with mundane chatter. "How are you? I'm glad to see you."

"I'm happy to see you," Anna sighed. "But just not this way."

"Yes, I know," he said, looking down at the desk. "These aren't the best of circumstances."

"That's not what I mean," she snapped. "I mean I don't like seeing you this way. Your hair was so beautiful. Now, with your head shaved, you look so ugly."

"I'm sorry," he shrugged helplessly. "It's not my fault."

"What do you mean it's not your fault?" she nearly spat. "You chose this."

"No, I didn't," he replied defensively, though in his heart he admitted she spoke truth. "The judge ordered this."

"Forget the judge," she scolded. "You knew when you did those things, committed those —acts, you knew you might end up like this, and did them anyway."

"I accept responsibility for my actions and will pay my debt to society," he replied, reciting the speech he'd repeated to everyone—guard, barber, nurse—ever since his incarceration. "I will reform my life—you'll see."

"Well, what am

I

supposed to do until then all by myself?" Anna leaned forward toward the glass to emphasize her point. "

I

didn't do anything, and yet I have to deal with a bald ugly husband who is behind bars while I sit out here all alone."

"It's no picnic in here, you know," he said, but his words rang hollow even in his own ears. After all, notwithstanding his expectation of enforced celibacy in prison, he'd hardly lacked for sexual contact—if not outright sex—so far in his brief incarceration. Even when the women with power over him refused to touch him, such as the nurse, they insisted he touch himself—either alone or in their presence.

As a submissive prisoner, anxious to not only pay his debt to society but to demonstrate that he intended to reform his life, he complied without a murmur of protest to any outrage visited upon him. In addition to shaving his genitals, a sensual experience in and of itself, the nurse ordered him to masturbate in front of her, so that he produced semen samples, which she promptly "lost" by pouring them down the sink right in front of him. The other day, when he'd been in the stocks, that same nurse overcame her reluctance to touch him and "milked" him to get her sample, which she "lost" again—of course!

Though the guard demeaned his manhood as a "leash," he thrilled to her touch every time she grasped his penis and led him by his delightfully stiff, distended member. Then there'd been his guard's very thorough bed checks, as well as her capricious insistence at random times that he "service" her as she bent over in front of him, presenting her beautiful, broad, bare bottom.

Even then, she took great pains to humiliate him, insisting he wear a condom because she "didn't want to become the mother to a filthy convict's child." Those recollections—especially the last—brought a flush to his cheeks even now—and he didn't feel only embarrassment, he admitted to himself reluctantly, but excitement, too. And here sat Anna, all alone on the outside, as she said.

She ignored his complaint about prison and pushed on. "You know, these days, when a see a man with a full head of hair, I think how nice it would be to run my fingers through it. I'll never have the chance with you again."

"I'm eligible for parole in six months," he offered.

"What am I supposed to do in the meantime while you're in here? You know, I'm tempted to find another man—one with a full head of hair."

Terry winced, then decided to try a different tack. "I know it must be hard on you not to be able to touch a man."

"Yes," she grumbled.

"Well," he replied, sounding clever, conspiratorial, and coy all at once. "There may be a way to arrange that..."

"How so?" Anna demanded, practically pressing her nose against the glass.

May 2019

"Well, that explains a few things, sort of," Jean shrugged. "Like why Terry went bald all of a sudden, but," she looked up at her friend. "How did he get you pregnant while he was in 'prison?'" Here, she made air quotes with her red-tipped fingernails. "After all, if you made him use protection ..."

"You mean the prison 'staff' made him use protection," Anna patted Jean's hand as she gently corrected her.

"All right, then" Jean rolled her eyes. "You in the role of 'prison staff.'"

Anna blushed. "For that, Jean, you'll need to know the 'rest of the story,' as the late Paul Harvey used to say."

September 2018

The next afternoon, it hardly surprised Terry that, after lunch, the guard handcuffed and shackled him and led him by his "leash" back to his cell. She thrust underwear at him through the bars as well as striped pants, socks, and work boots, ordering him to put these items on in preparation for another work detail in the prison yard. On the way to the door to the yard, they'd stopped by the prison barber, who'd lathered his face and bald head with sunblock.

The last time the barber did this, the exercise ended with Terry almost panting. After the barber left, his guard, who, as usual, disappeared while the barber performed her ministrations, returned, and, noticing the obvious bulge in her charge's striped pants, ordered him to drop his drawers. He'd done so without standing, scooting the pants and boxers underneath his bottom and letting them fall in a heap at his ankles.

He still remembered and relished the sticky feeling of the plastic barber chair against his buttocks when she straddled him right there and guided his manhood into her. That's why he'd gotten such a late start on his outdoor chores the last time his guard took him out. Since he'd accomplished so little that time, he felt certain that she'd take him out again, and, as it turned out, he assumed correctly.

This time when the guard returned, she behaved herself, not molesting him in the slightest, despite the obvious bulge at his crotch, but simply led him to the door to the outside. Standing there, before the portal, she substituted a ball and chain around his left ankle for the restraints around both ankles. That done, she plopped a brimless black-and-white cap on his head, unhandcuffed his hands, and, taking him by the elbow, led him into the sun.

Even though he'd been out as recently as two afternoons before, he still blinked like a mole emerging from its hole into harsh sunlight. He squinted as he shuffled along, carrying in both hands the ball attached to his ankle. As he'd expected, the guard steered him toward the same spot she'd taken him just the day before: a small wooden shed with peeling red paint. He'd begun scraping this in preparation for a new coat, but he barely started the job before being led back in, because of the late start caused by his guard's demands that he service her.

In fact, the tools—scraper, mask, and various kinds of sandpaper—still sat in a neat pile on the concrete step in front of the shed, just where he'd left them. As before, the guard stopped in front of the tools and ordered him to get to work. He did so, doing his best with his limited mobility to thoroughly remove the peeling paint. Despite the apparent randomness of his work, he made it a point, however, to work only on the front and sides of the shed, saving the back, which faced the chain link fence that surrounded the yard, for last.

If she noticed anything unusual in the way he went about his task, the guard said nothing. Instead, she periodically, in a bored sort of way, tapped his bottom with her crop just to remind him of her presence. But, once more, as the sun mounted overhead and then started to sink in the western sky, the guard wandered off, warning him that, even if he didn't see her, she kept an eye on him, nonetheless.

As she headed back to the main building, Terry worked his way around the left side of the shed, laboriously dragging behind him the ball chained to his left ankle. While making sure to scrape off the most obvious peels on that side, he skipped the harder parts in favor of working his way around to the back as quickly as possible given his hobble without raising the suspicions of any observers.

When he'd rounded the corner out of sight of the main building, he abandoned all pretense of scraping loose paint. Dropping his scraper and mask in the grass at his feet, he hauled the ball up to him. Grasping it in both hands, he shuffled over to the chain link fence which ran about six feet behind the shed. He peered through the mesh at the other side and freedom—a freedom completely beyond his reach for the time being, but, if all went according to his plan, he'd have a taste of that freedom soon.

Woods covered the land on the other side, the ground carpeted with pine needles, but other than trees and leaves, Terry saw nothing else of note. His heart sank, and he lowered the ball, gently placing it between his feet. Did this mean Anna made good on her threat during her conjugal visit and found another man? He considered calling out but chose not to risk discovery and possibly bringing down more retribution on his shiny bald head. Instead, he decided to hope and wait in silence. He turned his back to the fence then eased into a sitting position on the ground, where he leaned against the metal, wrapping his legs around the cool metal ball.

He sat for so long that, despite his excitement and mounting anxiety, he nearly dozed off in the warm shade, but a rustling, a stirring in the pine needles behind him roused him. He craned his head around and spied her moving cautiously, paralleling the line of the fence, through the trees to her right.

"Anna!" he hissed, relieved to see her. Scrambling to his feet, he breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving that, despite her threat of finding another man on the outside—one with a full head of hair, which he no longer possessed, as she'd pointed out twice during their visit—she came see him instead. He turned to face the woods through the fence.

Pausing by a tree, she looked about, caught sight of him, and padded silently over on sneakered feet. What she wore what looked like a tennis outfit: white blouse, short white skirt, and bare legs. Terry smiled to himself—not the most elegant outfit for a tryst but precisely what he'd told her to wear. In addition to his relief that she'd come to see him, rather than find somebody else, he felt another thrill of satisfaction, one denied to him since his incarceration. For once, he told someone else what to do, and she obeyed.

"There you are!" she whispered throatily, thrusting the fingers of both hands through the metal.

Terry pushed her fingers through as well, and they overlapped. "Oh, it feels so good to touch you," he gushed. "I'm so glad you came."

"It's so wonderful to touch you," she replied, keeping her voice low, imparting a confidential urgency to her tone.

Terry felt a thrill run down his spine, a thrill that stabbed deep into his crotch, which stiffened despite the impenetrable physical barrier that separated them.

"If only I could put my arms around you," Anna said, voice catching as she started tearing up, but she caught herself.

"Soon, very soon, darling," he replied. "Even sooner than you think."

"Not if we get caught," she cautioned, looking over his shoulder toward the prison's main building, a meaningless gesture since the shed completely obscured the view, but Terry got her point.

"Then we'd better get moving," he agreed.

Anna frowned, looking a bit puzzled. "I'm not entirely sure what you had in mind to do."

"Well, first, silly, I drop my pants." Terry inserted his thumbs beneath the waistband by each hip and pushed down. The loose-fitting striped prison pants as well as the boxers nestled in them tumbled into a pile at his ankles but only after they hung for a second on his rigidly distended manhood, which stood out at a right angle from his freshly denuded crotch.

"Oh, I see they shave you there, too, huh?" Anna asked, obviously rhetorically.

Terry looked down, feeling a surge of pride, not only at the apparent tensile strength of his hard-on but at the smoothness of his mons pubis as well as his scrotum and shaft. He still marveled at the way that, without a curly bush to obscure its base, his denuded penis looked so much longer than before. "Yes, they're very thorough, but the barber makes me shave myself down there. Didn't I do a good job?"

"I suppose so," she shrugged. "But I preferred your full bush."

He shrugged in return. "It's out of my hands, but in a second, it will be in yours."

"How are you going to manage

that

?"

He stepped forward and, flexing a bit at the knees, bent down slightly and thrust his manhood through an opening in the mesh. He felt the delicious shock of the metal against his bare skin, still singing with sensitivity from its recent scraping with a razor. He swallowed hard to keep from panting with excitement and asked, sounding as casual as possible, "How's that?"

"Impressive," she admitted and wrapped the fingers of her left hand around his manhood.

He noted with a smile her bright red fingernails. "You got your nails done," he gasped.

"Just like you asked," she replied with a knowing smirk as she looked up through her lashes and the chain link of the fence. "Just like you like them." She started stroking him.

"That feels wonderful," he panted. "But let's not waste this."

"What do you mean?" she paused, scowling.

"Back it up to the fence."

"What?"

"Turn around, pull down your panties, flip up your dress, and back your bottom up to the fence." The words came out in an urgent rush, filled with immediate need and desire.

"Really?" she gasped in mock horror. "What kind of a girl do you think I am?"

"One who's visiting her convict husband in prison," he hissed impatiently.

"You weren't a criminal when I married you," she insisted, teasing him, enjoying hovering just beyond reach.

Terry admitted to himself that he enjoyed the teasing as well, but their time together grew short. "I was a criminal—I just hadn't been caught."

"Just because you fooled everyone, including me, doesn't mean I'm some kind of cheap whore who'll just 'back it up to the fence' on command."

Terry began to feel himself starting to sag. "I thought you said you wanted to touch me."

"Yes," she conceded. "I can do

that

." So saying, she reached out with her left hand and began stroking again. Like some enchantress, her fingers instantly, magically revived his hard-on.

Terry groaned and swallowed. "Don't you want that inside you?" he demanded.

Anna smirked, enjoying her power over him. "Say, 'please.'"

"Please," he hissed, desperately.

"Okay," she chirped, relinquishing her grasp on him. She spun around, leaned forward and flipped up her brief skirt to reveal her bottom: deliciously white, broad, and bare.

"You didn't wear any underwear," he gasped in surprise.

She bent over, looked between her legs, and smiled at him upside down. "I didn't want to waste time." Even through the fence, he whiffed the musky lubrication of her crotch. Despite her show of reluctance, her vagina dripped with wetness, ready for him all along. She reached up with her left hand, touched the tip of this penis, the sticky warm semen covering her fingers as she started to guide him into her ...

"Wait!" he hissed again.

"Now what?" she husked back.