She Sends Kisses
Part One: Très Involved
She Sends Kisses
Challenge requirements: bunk beds, showers, cafeteria, prison yard, solitary confinement, female guard(s), contraband, strip search, prison brawl/riot, laundry room, cigarettes, mail, shiv/shank, barbed wire, tattoos, lights out, lock down
She worked Lost & Found, I put your face on her all year
From five rows of photos when you wrote
Of posed you, dressed blue, a backyard boat.
Signed at the bottom with this quote:
(#4 North Shore--a cape may address, your new one I guess)
`All`s well in hell and all, here`s hoping` [..]
Past Seven Wrecks I read your four answers:
1. Your move 2. I`m très involved 3. Move on 4. Love, Beth [..]
She sends kisses in envelopes stamped w/ `Hope & Hearts` - ripped right open
She sends kisses, but I`m corrupt--I wrote back "Good luck."
- The Wrens, 'She Sends Kisses'
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Part One: Très Involved
-----------------------------------People don't even try to hide it here, there's no shame in prison. Lights out and my cellie's grunts and groans in the bunk above mine inspire me into my own, my hand rubbing my slick heat faster and faster while I stare at five pictures stuck to the wall with gum.
One. Blonde hair, green eyes, laughing smile like a dagger in my heart. Two. A flash of red from that summer she ran away to live on her own. Three. A redhead and a brunette in the school hallway scratched out with a fingernail, because they are a part of some other life and I don't want them staring me in the face accusingly as I jack off. Four. Penetrating green eyes in a closeup with puffy pink lips that I just know feel amazing pressed against mine. Five, and I come, staring at the last, the only picture in existence of us together and it brings me off.
She sent it to me torn in half in her first letter.
She sent me a piece of tape in her second.
That's B for ya.
Her third letter she listed the things she'd do to me if I ever got out. Kicking, punching, and creative murder were popular items. I wrote back with a list of things I planned to do to her body when I get out.
Dear B,
There's a girl here who does laundry that looks nothing like you and I made her lick me last night til I came all over her ugly birdlike little face but she had blonde hair and that was enough to get me off, just to look down there and see that mass of blonde between my legs.
Love, Faith.In her fourth letter was a lock of her hair with a note saying how that was as close as I'd ever get to having the real thing gripped in my hand.
I laughed and laughed and cried a little and forced the bird girl's head a little harder between my legs that night, abusing her the way I wanted to abuse B.
Some of us want to be abused. I don't know what her story is and I don't care, all I know is she's a suitable replacement for the time being and she likes me to hurt her like I want to hurt that pretty blonde head waiting back in Sunnydale for me, biding her time until I get out. Waiting for the final battle. The big showdown.
Oh, she wants me to fuck her. That's what all these little games are about. Sending me her hair clippings and ripped up pictures. It's all a dance, a mating ritual. The pain game. Emotional torture.
I called her once, the day after I got myself off with that lock of her hair pressed to my nose. It smelled like her, like sweat and overpriced body spray and her fruity shampoo.
I dialed the number. Busy. Hung up. Dialed again. Big bull dyke behind me's waiting her turn, but after I busted a couple heads my first weeks, nobody fucks with me anymore. Yeah, the week in solitary was a bitch but cracking skulls gets you a lot farther in prison than playing nice. Butchy can wait her turn.
I light a cigarette and dial a third time.
"Hello?"
I grin. "Hey baby."
The line goes silent, and I wonder if she hung up.
"What do you want?" she mumbles, and I picture her turning her back and burying her face in the corner so no one knows what she's up to.
"Thought you were overdue for an obscene phone call. What are you wearing?"
"Oh, go to hell, Faith."
I snort. "You first."
"Did you have something important to say, or were you just calling to be an asshole?"
"Mostly to be an asshole, but you knew that. Now I'm just wonderin' why you haven't hung up."
I hear her breath catch unsurely, and I smirk. Just barely, I hear a male voice thick with a Cockney accent, murmur, "Hang up, love."
Her breath hitches a little and I frown. "Is that.. Spike?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?' her voice is sickly sweet now, and it's pissing me off.
"What are you, fucking him now?"
"What's the matter, Faith?" Her breathing gets a little heavier. "Are you jealous?"
"Why the fuck would I be jealous, B? Some of us only get off on fucking the living, yunno." All kinds of little noises are coming through the line now, and my body tenses angrily at the same time I feel myself getting wicked turned on.
"Just.. figured.. you might be jealous," she pants into the phone. "Since you're not over me."
I snort and curse myself for sounding so damn unsure. "Please, I get more ass here than a proctologist. You're the one talkin' to me while you get off. Maybe it's you, not over me."
"Oh, I am all kinds of over you, baby," she says in that sugary tone again, and then she moans and something thumps and I lose it.
"Fuck you!" I spit into the reciever.
"You wish you could," comes the tinny answer as I pull the phone from my ear and slam it down so hard the whole wall vibrates.
I turn around and about ten bitches from the laundry room have left behind the boiling sheets and taken up spots in the hallway to stare at me. "Enjoy the fuckin' show?" I snarl, and the butch chick waiting for the phone backs up a step. I glare at all of them on my way out, daring them to say something.
Luckily, I manage to make it back to my cell before I start crying.
God, I fucking hate her.