Hotel Heiress: Behind Bars

The black girl began to suckle Loca's nipples, appearing to be enjoying it. Her small head bobbed up and down over Loca's breasts, taking her big nipples into her mouth. They looked like a naughty incestuous mother and daughter. Loca was moaning deeply and throwing her head back, aroused beyond words. As I stared at them, I saw that Loca was keeping an eye on me. I knew that if I escaped, she'd notice somehow and she would find a way to get back at me. I had no choice but to stay there, but at times I felt so disgusted that I wanted to close my eyes, but I kept them open.

They were both moaning now, their soft voices a passionate mix, growing stronger and stronger in their desire. I don't know whether it was the heat in that dark hallway, or the low lighting that cast a sexy, erotic aura over them, but I gradually found myself somewhat aroused by the whole thing. It surprised me. My heart was racing, my blood was pulsing and I was breathing more heavily.

A palpable lust filled the air, and in the darkness, the two women gave in to their carnal lust. I watched as they began to finger one another, inserting their fingers into each other's wet pussies, groaning with pleasure as they simultaneously pleasured each other. They were in synch, like two porn stars, and they continued doing this as a sort of foreplay. When they were both highly aroused, Loca slowly laid her lover down on the floor. She began to kiss and lave her breasts and then she moved her mouth down over her stomach. She had changed from fierce to tender in a matter of minutes. Now, she was gentle with the black girl, caressing her flesh, using her mouth and tongue in a skilful, attentive manner. She parted the black girl's legs and rested her head between them.

I could see Loca sucking and licking the girl's pussy, and making her very excited. She bucked and arched her back, lifting her hips and moaning as Loca delved her tongue deeply into her pussy. Why I found all of this titillating, I did not know. I had never cared for lesbian sex. My thoughts returned to that night in New York when Ron had introduced me to Alma. Alma was doubtless bisexual. I recalled how skillfully she had laved my pussy, thrusting her fingers and tongue into it. Truth be told, it was erotic in its own sort of way, but I did not care to admit it and I had pushed it to the back of my mind since it happened. But watching Loca do to the girl what Alma had done to me brought back the memory.

The black girl was moaning so loudly that Loca had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep her quiet. She turned to stare at me again, her eyes fixed on mine, as if to read my face. Could she tell that I was turned on by this voyeuristic experience? It was hard to tell. She was so focused on the black girl. After the girl reached a climax, Loca retrieved a dildo from her pants. How could she get away with keeping things like that with her, I wondered? Now she ordered the girl to get up and to slip the thing into her anus. I was filled with a sudden dread. I could not take this any more. It was so wrong. But as I turned my back against a wall and steadied my breathing, I heard Loca's voice.

"It ain't over, Valerie," she said.

I got the feeling that this wild and wanton beast-woman was likely to sexually attack me right after her sexual spar with the black girl. While she was in the act, she looked at me with a look that almost said "You're next!"

I poked my head around the wall and returned to the spot where I had been watching them. The black girl was slowly inserting the dildo, which was black and looked like the penis of a black man, into Loca's anus. Loca went crazy with pleasure as the girl thrust the dildo in and out of her butt rapidly, as if to bring her to the orgasm quickly. She continued to fuck Loca's anus with the dildo for some time, sometimes slowing down and pulling it out altogether, before ramming it into her again. I tried to steady my heavy breathing. I just wanted to get out of there. I closed my eyes briefly.

When I opened them, I saw Loca in the throws of orgasm, her hair in disarray, her mouth wide open, but not emitting a single sound. She was sweating and looked more sensual and relaxed. I could even say that she looked beautiful. The two women did not kiss, but instead began to dress themselves, putting on their suits again. I took a deep breath and walked away, hearing the two of them laugh at me.

Every Sunday, when I had a fifteen-minute phone conversation with my mother, father and girlfriends, I was painfully reminded that there was a world outside, a life; passing me by while I remained locked up, fearing that some girl would lose it and either kill me or rape me, or both. Even if no such thing happened, I hated having only a little garden where I could be alone, hated the food, hated the showers, hated the little bed; hated everything. My mother said that she had tried to sue the lawyer who put me behind bars, but could not find any trace of him anywhere. She said that Clint, her Texas millionaire lover, was working on a way to get me out of prison sooner. She gave no specific details about what this would entail. I did not believe her. I did not like Clint. The man was a greedy oil tycoon who had an accent I couldn't stand, and a personality that was so unlike my more level-headed father. I have no idea why my mother chose to dump dad over this rich pig.

Gina and Crystal were sympathetic and believed me when I told them I was innocent. But they had their own lives to live and told me all about it, to my dismay. Gina had been modeling in Paris and had appeared in a few films, both in the States and in France. Crystal had also modeled in Europe and was trying to land a role in a Hollywood movie. They both sounded healthy, happy and more than that, they were living it up. They were partying in different cities almost every other month. I wish they didn't have to rub it in my face. After every call, I cried.

My prison guard Byron was another troublesome matter in prison. He was beginning to disturb me. I had discovered him watching me shower on more than one occasion. He would lick his lips every time he stared at me. He whispered things under his breath and his dark eyes would fire up with a lusty gleam. One day, as I was brushing my hair and looking at my reflection in the small mirror I had sneaked into the cell, he opened the door and closed it quickly, as if making sure no one had seen him.

"Byron, what are you doing here?" I said to him, surprised.

"It was about time I told you," he said, breathing heavily and stepping closer to me.

My mind was racing. Surely he had come here to have his way with me. A man like him; surrounded only by women and not being able to have any form of sex with them. And he had wanted me since he first laid eyes on me.

"Please, get out," I pleaded, beginning to pant.

"It's not what you think. Well it sort of is. But listen, what if I told you I have the solution to your problem, pretty girl. What if I was the key to getting you out of here for good?"

I was all ears, but I sensed it was some trick.

"Byron, what is it? What do you mean?" "I know you're innocent. You shouldn't be in here. Alma should."

It was then when I realized it was no trick. At the mention of Alma's name, my heart began to leap. He knew; he really knew what had happened. But there was only one question.

"How do you know about Alma?"

"That girl's trouble," he said, and as he spoke I noted a hint of a Southern accent, "you see she used to be my lover. We met in New Orleans, where I grew up. She was working as a stripper then. She often had dreams of marrying a millionaire, so she saved money and moved to New York City. There she fell into the wrong crowd: drugs, thugs, more stripping, probably prostitution. When she met Ron in the city, she believed he was going to be her ticket to living it like a rich woman. She charmed him and became his mistress. You see he was married-"

"Yes, I know, to Linda, I worked with them on a modeling shoot in New York. Linda was very nice to me and she used my pictures in her coffee table book. But tell me, how can you know and keep quiet? You could have saved me months ago. I need to get out of here."

"It's entirely my fault. I was biding my time. I've been investigating what happened to Alma and Ron. That's why I could not come to your rescue right away. I've dug up a few pieces of information, but I don't know much."

"Well, what do you know? Do you know where they're hiding?"

"No, I don't know their exact whereabouts, but I do know that they1re in New Orleans."

"Are you sure about all of this?"

"Positive. Most of Alma's bad friends are there. She has Ron in her thrall. That poor guy will end up hurt and eventually abandoned or killed. Does he do drugs?"

"I don't think he does, though if he does, not that often."

"If he does, that's why he got with Alma. They are probably in some crack palace somewhere in Louisiana, if not New Orleans itself."

"If you know all this, please help me. I want to get out of here. I'm also worried about poor Ron. I feel so terrible. Linda is such a good woman and she must miss him so."

He grinned and stared at me for a while. My blood began to race again. I suppose he had me where he wanted me."

"That's why I'm here, baby," he said to me, his hand on my thigh, "Byron can get you out of here, but you have to do something for Byron."

If you think this situation is straight out of a porno movie, and made up to spice up my autobiography, you're absolutely wrong. This is exactly what happened and it's no lie. When I look back on all this, I wonder what I could have done to avoid scenes like this. There was no way out other than Byron. He had me in his clutches. Being a prison guard, he was able to take me to a private location and discreetly have his way with me. He took me to a secluded part of the prison, in what appeared to be a sort of janitor's closet or storage room full of mops, buckets, boxes and tools that staff in the prison used and re-used. He had the keys to this place and once inside; he locked us in and ensured that no one would bother us. It was just after lunch time, and we were finally alone. He did not look like a big bad black guy, despite his muscular build and his tallness. He had a look of respectability and authority, like a father figure or executive. I must admit that I found him attractive.

Byron was in his uniform and I had on my work clothes, which was a very different outfit from the prison suit. This was used for outdoor manual labor. I was sweating and my hair was in a ponytail. Byron stared at me from the doorway, his dark eyes beaming and a smile slowly appearing on his face. He approached me slowly.

"Don't worry, white girl," he said to me, "Byron's not going to hurt you. You won't feel any pain. I want to pleasure you. I want you to like this and feel good. So, please, just relax and let me do my thing."

I steadied my breathing and stood perfectly still, as he walked over to me.

He was standing right in front of me and we were in each other's faces. He put a hand on my shoulder gently and looked down at me, his white teeth flashing. His eyes searched my body, as if inspecting some piece of priceless art, and after a while he drew a sigh.

"You're very beautiful, white girl," he said to me.

I noted he kept calling me that. I wondered if he did this deliberately to sound erotic, or if he was unaware that I was Valerie Masters, the heiress to a hotel business and fortune. I suppose he knew I was a celebrity, like everyone else in the prison, but to him, I was just a 'white girl'.

His hands were on my shoulders and then he began to move them down my arms. Slowly, he began to undress me. He had deft fingers and fast too, and I was out of my clothes in a matter of minutes.

I was not allowed to bring lingerie or my preferred underwear or bras, so I was just wearing an ugly, white potato sack type of nightgown that the prison gave to all the women. Still, the gown showcased my lower body quite well and Byron's eyes feasted on my hips, thighs and legs.

"Turn around," he commanded.

I turned around and he looked at my backside, and from the grateful murmurs I heard, I could tell he was enjoying the view of my toned and well-shaped butt. Then he put his hands on my waist and stood directly behind me. His hands splayed over my breasts and he began to caress them, feeling them through the fabric of the gown. Quickly, he tore the gown off of me; the thing falling into a pool of cloth at my feet.

"That was my only nightgown," I told him.

"You won't need it anymore," he said, "I'm going to help you get out of here. You'll be able to wear any kind of lingerie you want. And I hope I can see you in that."

He produced a low growl of lust and his eyes burned with a sort of demonic passion. He dipped me, like in a tango dance, and his hands were on my throat and he began to kiss down my neck, forgetting about my mouth. With one firm hand, he held me by the waist to keep me from falling. His kisses were fevered and intense, and I instantly felt aroused and my legs began to quiver. Already, I felt moistness between my legs.

"You don't know how badly I want you," he whispered seductively.

He was evidently pleased with how I looked nude. He had seen me nude in the shower before, or perhaps only a glimpse of my nakedness, but now he was delighted beyond words. He began to kiss me, this time on my lips. He was an expert kisser. His mouth engulfed me with his big lips and he slowly inserted his tongue into my mouth. His kisses lingered for a while. At the same time, he explored my body with his big hands. I closed my eyes and gave in to the rising wave of sensual pleasure that he was providing. I felt him suddenly stop and I opened my eyes.

Briskly, he removed his own suit and he stood there, allowing me to check out his body. I was mesmerized. He looked like a football player. There was not a trace of hair on his athletic body. His chest was smooth, as well as his legs, and he had the aura of an African God. Of course, I don't have to go into detail about his cock. It was the biggest I had ever seen. It was a monster-size cock and it frightened me. I knew I would feel pain when he was going to thrust that thing into my tight pussy. I knew that I could not fit it into me. What if he asked me to suck his cock? I wouldn't be able to take it into my mouth fully.

"Ever been with a black man like me?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"There's a first time for everything."

My experience would be memorable. To this day, I dream of Byron and replay the scene in my mind often. Maybe it was because I had never been with a black man or with a man who possessed such a big cock, but the whole thing had an exotic flavor that aroused me. Slowly, he lowered me down to the floor. The floor was hard and made of wood, and the room was pretty chilly, but none of these things mattered. A heat began to emanate from the two of us, and we were in synch, acting out what could have been a fantasy buried deep inside us. My heart raced and my eyes glistened with bliss. He parted my legs and he firmly held me by the waist, making sure I would not move.

In my growing excitement, I had already begun to move my body, gyrating and writhing while at the same time I was moaning. He covered my mouth with his hand suddenly and he held me so fiercely that it made me cease my movements.

"If they hear us, it's all over," he said; "we have to be real quiet in order to get away with it."

I took a deep breath and became quiet. Through my misty eyes, I saw his large erect penis begin to slip into my pussy. It was as I had expected and it was a painful entry. He was grunting quietly and his hips bucked as his cock penetrated my wet pussy. Our hips smacked together and the primal act went on for a while. He reached orgasm pretty quickly.

"I'm sorry, it's been so long, so long," he apologized.

"Are we done?" I said in my confusion.

"Hell! No!"

Alright, so what happened next is a bit of a blur. Sometimes, that happens. We remember lovers; we remember the sex we had with them, but not in full detail. The human memory is not perfect. What I do remember, though, is Byron being a lot less forceful, as if trying to make up for having forcefully fucked me with his big cock. I remember his head between my legs, his tongue, his fingers, pleasuring my pussy. I had several orgasms and it was hard to keep quiet, but somehow, I managed. When my voice would increase in volume, Byron would cover my mouth with his hand, and the consequent effect would be that I would become even more aroused. He laved and licked my pussy gratefully until his hand and mouth was coated with my wetness.

I also remember that we tried another position. Standing up, he had me bend over and he held me by the waist as he stood behind me. The violence and tenderness that followed was what stuck in my memory. His cock penetrated my anus, and up until then, it was the first time I had anal. I had avoided anal even with my white boyfriends, but with Byron, it became natural. He had done it before and he knew how to slow his thrusts and make me feel good, his cock deeply buried in my ass and inducing a big orgasm. He would slap my ass and pull my hair and it was a real surprise why no one could hear us as we moaned or hear the sounds of our heated anal sex.

"Mmmm, baby, baby," he repeated over and over.

I blacked out and remember feeling Byron kissing me gently and lifting me into his arms. Somehow, he had brought me back to my cell. When I woke up, I saw him standing guard outside, as if nothing had happened.

"Byron, how did I get here?" I said to him.

"I took you here, I carried you," he replied, "told everyone that you got sick after lunch and fainted."

I was silent for a moment and looked at him. There he was, looking stiff and dour, like a bodyguard, as if the anal sex we had only an hour or so before had not happened. My mind wandered. Would he really be able to get me out of this prison?

My answer came when one morning, Byron awoke me, shaking me and slapping my face, the sting of his hand, a combination of eroticism and pain, really got me up; more than any cup of coffee could.

"What is it?" I said to him.

"Listen up. Today is your luck day," he responded, "if everything goes according to my plan, you'll be out of here and your name will be cleared. Everyone will know that you didn't kill that girl."

My heart leapt with joy. I hugged him gratefully and we kissed briefly. Finally, finally, free! I wanted to laugh and dance at the thought of being released from this terrible place. I longed to see my loved ones again, my girlfriends. I wanted to feel the sun on my skin again, wanted to shop at Rodeo Drive again, wanted to hop a plane to Europe or Australia, to see if my agent had landed me a role in some film. I wanted to be in front of cameras again, modeling or acting. I wanted to eat gourmet foods again.

"But, you remember what the condition is, don't you?"

"I thought you got what you wanted.

"Naïve white girl. There's more to it. You can't get something for nothing."

"What more do you want, Byron?"

"I want us to be lovers," he said, his dark eyes suddenly lighting up, "I want to feel you waking up next to me in the morning. I want to take you out to nice restaurants; I want you to be my woman, for as long as it pleases me."

"You're asking for a lot more than I had expected," I said, "and a lover is not the same thing as a boyfriend. You're talking about being my boyfriend."

"I want you to be exclusive with me, yes. It's up to you. But if you say no, you won't get your liberty. That's just how life is. Have we got a deal?"

"Yes."

How he did it, I don't remember well. He spoke to all the right people. He became a figure in the media, like me, owing to his link to me. No one suspected we were lovers, or knew that he had forced me into this relationship. The tabloids and the more respectable news made him out to be a sort of heroic figure, rescuing a wronged celebrity. I had been falsely convicted of a crime I had not committed and imprisoned unjustly. But along came Byron Johnson, who identified the real killer and who even volunteered to work with authorities in finding her. A man hunt was on and a reward would be paid to anyone who could locate Alma, whose full name was Alma Chavez. She was said to be somewhere in Louisiana, most likely in and around New Orleans.