2 comments/ 37208 views/ 1 favorites Hotel Heiress: Behind Bars By: AudreyHepburn *I would like to thank Istanbulnoir for his partnership as my editor and his terrific patience and commitment. I hope readers enjoy this series and my other writings which without him would not be possible. A Note From The Author: This episode of Hotel Heiress follows the episode entitled Hotel Heiress: New York, so if you want to understand the plot please read that episode before reading this one. * I was on TV again, not in a movie or soap, but in the local news, which covered events after I was discovered in a house in a New York City slum, high on drugs, and standing next to the dead body of an unidentified black woman. The media was having a field day and everyone ate up the juicy story: the young, beautiful rich heiress and daughter of the owners of the world-renown Seasons hotels accused of murder. Right away, everyone believed I was guilty. There were some who loathed me and envied my lifestyle! They wanted to see me behind bars sans luxuries, wanted me to suffer, to experience hardship, for this was something celebrities weren't supposed to go through. The first to speak up was my mother, Ellen, who had recently divorced my father to live with her lover, an oil tycoon from Texas by the name of Clint Weston. She could not believe that her little girl had actually killed someone and immediately cried "set-up". She told reporters that I was being framed, but she did not know why. Ever since I went to New York City on a modeling job, at least two people had disappeared and this bit of news was attached to my own story in the media. Gone was Ron Ash, famed California photographer, reported missing by his wife Linda, who had last seen him with me. No one knew the whole story and suspicions, theories and rumors spread like wildfire. I was in a correctional facility in the meantime, in West New York City, awaiting my fate. An investigation was under way. Detectives acted quickly and sought out anyone who had been in contact with me during my time in the Big Apple. I had only two other close friends, both of them super models, who had grown up with me: Gina King, an African-American girl, former child actress turned fashion model, and Crystal Burke who used to attend ballet classes with me when we were wee little girls. They were both questioned about what they knew about me and the job in New York City. Neither of them had been selected to work with Ron and Linda, and they had not made contact with me while I was in the city. I think it owed something to their jealousy at the time. The investigation seemed to be going nowhere and for a while, everything that had happened remained a mystery. Then, the mother of the dead black girl spoke up. She was in tears and somewhat hysterical, making a dramatic scene worthy of an Oscar. She pointed the finger squarely at me, saying she had seen me in the house having sex with Ron, another man's wife, and that she knew I was there to stir up trouble. It was so unfair. Not even one mention of Alma. No one knew who Alma was. But to be fair, she was the one person who did not possess the notoriety that Ron and I had. The correctional facility was small and very dirty. The bathrooms were unsanitary, and I had never spent a worse night in my life. I lost sleep and weight. It was just me, four walls, a dinky toilet and a bed. I was finally released so that I could see my lawyer for the first time before the court trial. My mother Ellen had found this lawyer and claimed he could help me out of this mess. She was certain I had been unjustly accused of murder and that the real culprit was free somewhere. I could not bring myself to tell my mother the whole story. It would mean confessing my own sin. The fact remained that I did sleep with a married man, despite the fact that he had drugged me and had hoped to get me in a threesome with his lover Alma. But by admitting to this, it would mean that I was behaving like a little slut without any thought of the consequences. My mother was certain this lawyer guy would be my salvation. How wrong she turned out to be. This guy, Vick Hertz, was the lawyer from Hell. I often wondered whether he was even a real certified lawyer. He dressed to the nines in expensive suits and had a clean-cut, game show host type of appearance, sandy brown hair, white and perky. But he was far from perfect. He came to visit me at the correctional facility and we had to talk behind a glass screen. "Don't worry, Valerie, don't worry about a thing," Vick said to me, "I realize that you're high profile and that this is going to make me or break me. You're important to me and I know that you didn't kill that girl." "Of course I didn't kill her!" I shouted, "it's bogus. I need you to clear my name, Vick. I don't want to be locked up in some jail. I wouldn't be able to breathe. I need my freedom." "Trust me, you'll be partying and shopping in no time." I don't think it really hit me then. I had no idea this Vick Hertz would turn out to be such a loser. More than that; he'd be responsible for putting me behind bars. When the date of the court trial came, Vick was late, disoriented and not at all the confident type I had seen when he first visited me in the correctional facility. He was totally unprepared to handle a case like mine. The trial was a nightmare. The family of the dead black girl, Felicia Sullivan, hated my guts. They went on and on about how they did not trust me, and the fact that I was a very wealthy socialite only made them hate me more. They considered me to be a spoiled, no-good rich bitch. Those were their words. They said they wouldn't rest until they saw me rot in prison for the rest of my life. They sincerely believed I had killed their daughter. I was in tears throughout the trial, not able to say anything but "I'm innocent. This is not happening." Vick was awful. He seemed to lose power by the minute. The other lawyer made me out to be a careless, wicked heiress who didn't care that I had taken a life. They were also very critical of Ron Ash, who had betrayed his wife with me; who was several years younger than him, and young enough to be his daughter. I admit now that I had a lot to do with why I was imprisoned. I chose to keep quiet and not name Alma as the one who had actually killed Felicia, just so I could cover up my own misbehavior. That was a mistake. Telling the truth, no matter how it made me look, would have saved me from my time in prison. But I figured I'd win and prove my innocence, and without anyone hearing the sordid details. It was not to be. Vick's incompetence cost me dearly. The jury decided unanimously that I was guilty. I was sentenced to jail, with the possibility of release for good behavior. I walked out of the court house in bitter tears. The whole thing had been televised. I was all over tabloids, newspapers and magazines, with pictures of me looking tearful and forlorn. To many, I was a rich bitch who got what she deserved. It did look as if I had killed that girl, since no one saw any evidence suggesting otherwise. Vick was very cowardly and disappeared after we lost. Felicia's family felt overjoyed that I was going to be in jail and they felt as if justice had been served. When her mother walked past me, she spat on me and said that no money in the world could save me now. Those were the darkest days of my life. The whole world was against me. I was alone, I felt abandoned; suicidal. My mother could not believe any of it had happened and although she called me to cry with me; so did my girlfriends, but they were all powerless to help me. My father called too, saying he still believed I was innocent. It felt good to hear from my father. After the divorce, he settled in Vermont, which he loved, and ran the hotel without mother's assistance. He told me he'd make sure I was not going to be in prison for too long. He had high hopes for me. Even though I was not the son he had probably wanted, he wanted me to follow in his foot steps and run the hotel empire he had begun. But I despaired as I was locked up behind bars, in a cell, surrounded everywhere by other convicts who had really committed heinous crimes. Across from my cell was a woman who was always under surveillance, by both cameras and prison guards. She had killed over a dozen people in various parts of New York, including Long Island. She was muscular, dark-haired, statuesque in her build and had wild eyes. She stared at me like I was a piece of meat she wanted to devour. I cried myself to sleep those first nights in jail. It seemed a vast prison, with a yard that stretched out like a football field. The walls were high and cast dark shadows everywhere. Atop various towers were guards, and this maximum security prison boasted the finest alarm systems and surveillance cameras. They had guard dogs walking about almost everywhere. I wanted so much to forget about this horrific place, that hell I was in; but even long after I had been released, I had nightmares about it. The food made me puke each time I ate it. Every other woman in the jail assumed I was bulimic. I drank mostly water and could only really eat and digest a few little meals. "What's the matter, honey?" said one girl, who noticed how I often just stared at the food in disgust. "Are you down because you can't have dinners with Tom Cruise in here or you can't have your lattes with Julia Roberts or shop at Rodeo Drive?" Hitting the showers was the worst part. I hated to see other women stare at my body with lust as I became glistening wet and soapy. Of course I had heard the stories about prison life. Convicts, be they male or female, could eventually become gay and force themselves on other inmates. Would that happen to me, I wondered; would a crazy lesbian criminal have her way with me? I feared the woman across from my cell. She looked like she could break through the bars and attack me in my sleep. I was not allowed to make daily calls. I could only make one fifteen minute call every Sunday. I told my mother, father and girlfriends about how I felt so alone and unhappy isolated from the world, from the city, from making a life for myself. One night, I had a dream I did not want to wake up from. I was in Cancun again, the sun tanning my skin, the waves crashing against rocks, seaweed scattered on the beach where women in bikinis and men in speedos frolicked. Beautiful hotels everywhere, people lounging in pools and drinking margaritas. I heard the strains of festive music filling the air and remembered how much I loved it there. Then I relived my one night stand with Fernando. I was in that hotel room again, in the nude, with a party in full swing outside, in his arms and in that bed. His tongue skillfully laved my pussy, his fingers sliding into my wetness. I moaned and writhed on that bed, bound by ropes, feeling an intense orgasm coming on. I saw the wet rose as it shimmered in the silver moonlight streaming into the hotel room. Its petals caressed my white flesh, and Fernando's hot mouth and mustache pressed against my nipples, down my belly and back to my aroused pussy. I felt him take me with his cock, over and over again, feeling my pussy ache with pleasure and pain from his hard thrusts. My pussy contracted and squeezed his cock as it delved deeply inside me. Then I reached my climax and before long, he had his own roaring orgasm. The dream continued, but now Cancun vanished in a strange grey mist. New York City appeared, skyscrapers rising from the mist and everything covered in the dark of night. City lights glowed in specks of yellow, red and green little lights. I saw myself in the nude through the glass of a window in a Park Avenue pent house. There was Ron, surrounded by his paints, easels, canvases; photo camera, blank sketch papers and a red light filled the room. I was in his studio, being fucked by Ron. He had that savage look on his face, the one he never used on Linda; his cock like steel penetrating my pussy as I wrapped my legs around him and held on to him tight. We were both in orgasm mode, our faces contorted as we screamed in pleasure. But I didn't hear any sounds. It was all in 'mute.' Then, we were standing up and he was taking photos of me bending over, arching my back and fingering my pussy. The camera was still on and he came up behind me and fucked me anally. I had one orgasm after another as he thrust his cock into my anus, filling it up, pumping into me, pulling my hair and making me cry out. It was just too bad the dream had no sound on. But I woke up with a sensual, tingling sensation in my pussy. In the days that followed, I lost hope. Already, I had become the butt of many jokes both in prison and out of it. Jay Leno of the Tonight Show constantly poked fun at me, and so did at least one comic film. Looking back, the experience was probably just a humiliation and did not really change me. I was innocent after all, but I was too stupid to get myself out of it. The fear that I would be sexually assaulted by a lesbian was so persistent that I made sure I was protected at all times. This was the only service I was granted. One of the prison guards looked out for me exclusively. He said he was hired by my mother, but I didn't believe him. Something about him was off. His name was Byron, he stood six feet tall, and he was strongly built. He was African-American and he said he would make sure that no harm came to me. Everything was alright at first. He would wake me up when it was time for breakfast, he would make sure I showered alone and he would stand just outside my cell each night. But he would stare at me with the same degree of lust and carnality that some of the other women had. I even noticed that he would get an erection whenever he was near me. He was hung, obviously, and it sort of frightened me. A man in his position could easily abuse his power and rape me, without anyone knowing about it. But he never made a move, at least not for those first weeks and months. I had no idea that months had passed. I hated everything about prison life. Most of all, I hated the women around me. It felt like I was in a sort of school for adults, and they treated us like we were little girls in a school. The women often got into big brawls, just as if they were men. They would fight over stupid little things. I couldn't understand some of the ethnic slang and prison jargon, so at times I was in the dark about what they fought about. I doubt it was over which one was the prettiest. None of them looked even mildly attractive to me. They looked dirty even when they had showered; they had wild eyes and bad manners. It was like a gang of Hell's Angels women. If ever there was a queen for these types, it was "Loca", which I learned was Spanish for crazy. She was a strongly built, athletic looking Latina gal. She could have been the Mexican Serena Williams. She had a deep voice and she lifted weights. She was supposedly the toughest, nastiest piece of work in the prison. She had injured cell mates and guards, had attempted to escape without success several times, and was said to have many lovers in the prison. I was more than certain these lovers were women, all of them prisoners like her. I kept my distance from her for as long as I could. Nevertheless, Loca found a way to get me alone. She must have been spying on me or observing my daily routines. She knew, for instance, that I enjoyed being alone in the little garden just outside the prison building. This is where I came to relax, to think, to breathe. The other inmates preferred to smoke or talk by a place they called the Terrace, which was nothing more than a group of benches underneath a large tower's balcony. I made it clear from day one that I did not want to socialize with any other prisoner and that I preferred to be alone. Guards and other authority figures in the prison, knowing my celebrity status, ensured that my wishes for privacy would be observed. But Loca managed to sneak into the garden. I was sitting on a small chair drinking coffee one morning, smelling a rose that reminded me of the rose Fernando had given me in Cancun. When she approached me, her tall shadow covered me. I looked up. She flashed a wicked smile. "Good morning, Hollywood," she said to me. Hollywood was the nickname the other prisoners had given me; a reference to my Hollywood connections. "You're not supposed to be here," I said, "there are orders against you being here." "Shut up. I could kill you with this knife right now if I wanted to, and I'd have the satisfaction of having killed a stuck-up supermodel and actress who makes more money than I ever did in my life," she said; her voice choking with malice. I realized that she wasn't kidding when I saw that she retrieved a sharp knife from her pant pockets. I shuddered and my face became pale. Did she come here to kill me? What was she up to? I had previously heard stories from other prisoners that she delighted in threatening other inmates and forcing them to do sexual acts with her or watch her having sex. This could well be the reason she was "visiting" me. "What do you want?" I said to her. "Listen up, pretty bitch. Tonight, just before lights out, I'm going to be with a lover of mine by the small, dark hallway next to the cafeteria. You know, the place the girls call "The Spot." I remembered some of the girls talking about how this was a prime location for sexual encounters; most of them involving Loca. "Loca," I said to her, "I'm not gay. I'm not even bisexual. I played a lesbian in an art house film once but the film didn't have any sex scenes and it was just a job." "I know you're not one of us, but I want something out of you. It would give me tremendous pleasure to have a celebrity like you watch me having sex with a girl." "All you want me to do is watch?" "That's right. And you're gonna do it, too because if you get cold feet and don't come to the Spot tonight, I'll find a way to humiliate you and to hurt you. I can easily mess up that pretty Hollywood face of yours. You've had it pretty easy here so far." "I have not! This place is hell. I can't stand it any longer. I want to get out of here." "You may never get out. You killed someone, remember. How did it feel by the way? I remember my first kill." "I did not kill that girl. Her family was lying and just wanted to soil my reputation. I'm innocent." "Is that right? Well, hey, we're all innocent in here. It's the same old story. Look, Hollywood, get used to living like a caged rat. You aren't going anywhere, pretty one. This is your home now. Now, you will be at the Spot directly after dinner and before you return to your cell, got that?" I nodded and she hurriedly exited the garden, taking care that no one had seen her. As she walked away, I dropped the rose, visibly shaking. Night fell and I had finished dinner. I don't recall what I ate that night or whether it digested in my stomach properly. Every breakfast, lunch and dinner seemed to be the same piece of slop every time. It was truly the worst food I had ever had, worse than some British food I ate during my trip to England with my folks when I was a girl. I pretended that I was going to take a shower before bed, but sneaked away to the dark hallway where Loca waited for me. I arrived on time and I was grateful the place was veiled in darkness and with only low lights. Loca was barely visible at the end of the hallway. I could see her profile against the light on the wall. A smaller woman was beside her. She looked African-American and she was already in the nude. I caught a glimpse of her big nipples from afar. She was smiling and flashing white teeth when she saw me. Loca glanced in my direction and smiled in approval. Neither of them said a word and they began their lovemaking, if you could even call it that. Loca was still clothed in her suit. She had a toned, strong body and the suit clung to her and revealed her sturdy physique, large breasts and firm thighs. The little black girl was a stick figure next to Loca's bigger frame. I could not recognize the black girl in the dark, so there was no way of knowing whether I had seen her before. There must have been over a hundred and thirty prisoners in the large prison, so it was possible I'd never seen her. Loca took her by the face firmly and planted a fierce kiss over her lips. They were kissing like they were eating one another's mouths. They did not even resemble two women, at least not Loca, with her domineering frame. After they had kissed, Loca removed her suit briskly. Her body was big and brown, and her breasts stood out in the dim light. As for the other girl, I found it hard to believe such a small woman could possess such big boobs. Maybe she had had breast enhancement surgery. 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. Hotel Heiress: Behind Bars Byron allowed me to spend a few days visiting my loved ones. But it was only for a short time. He wanted me to accompany him to New Orleans, where police and detectives were already actively searching for Alma. I visited my girlfriends, who were at the time in New York on a tour. I saw Linda again and gave her hope, telling her that Byron knew the woman who had kidnapped Ron. In a way, it was fitting that I would take part in bringing Alma to justice. She had been responsible for my wrongful imprisonment and she had kidnapped Ron, a man whom I had come to love. These feelings were a mix of friendship and some erotic longing, but I knew that we could not be an item, considering his wife Linda being in the picture. But I wanted to help find Ron and finally get back at Alma. I was in New York only for about three days and before long, Byron Johnson was urging me to pack my things and get ready to fly with him to New Orleans. He told me to be fully prepared. I must say it was all very exciting. There was a touch of danger in all of this, but I felt safe with Byron, and with the gun I was told to procure. Everything was set and we were off to the Big Easy down South in Louisiana.