Dear Daddy Read online

  Because my balls are already drawn up tight and I need a release, my dick demanding it. And tomorrow that’s exactly what’s going to happen after I ‘pay the toll’.

  And then I’m going to pay a visit to the person who can help me get to the bottom of this, and by this I mean find out who this girl is. But no matter what I discover I already know the answer, even though it seems absolutely crazy considering my circumstances and where I am at the moment…locked up for life.

  But somehow, someway I already know the most important thing there is to know about her…the one thing that I need to make very clear in the very near future.

  She’s mine.

  Call me crazy. It wouldn’t be the first time. But there’s something she’s going to call me that no one else ever has. She’s going to be screaming it as a matter of fact. One word that ricochets through me, causing a sort of awareness of who I am and a feeling of completion within me, but only when I imagine it coming from her sweet little lips.

  Daddy.

  3

  James

  “Only know him by his last name, just like everyone else,” Red says, picking up some gravel from the prison yard and aimlessly tossing it out in front of us as he describes what he knows about CO Jackson James.

  Red got his name because he resembles, in all ways, Ellis Boyd ‘Red’ Redding, from The Shawshank Redemption. The man can get you what you want when you want it, and it’s not just limited to information.

  “Can you get me a piece of paper and a pencil,” I ask.

  “It’s gonna cost you.”

  At this point, I don’t even care. I’m still thinking about how I’m going to pay back the bathroom inmate who gave me a full ten minutes alone this morning, allowing me to climax not once, but twice, to the thoughts of Josi.

  “I’ve never asked anyone of anything, Red,” I remind him.

  “I know, but I also know how to read a man, and it’s clear you’d pay anything for those two things you could get at a school supply store for a nickel.”

  He’s right because more than anything in the world I need to write her back.

  “Let me tell you something about hope, my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing,” he continues, as if he can read my mind yet is trying to stomp on my thoughts, to damper my enthusiasm. “Hope can drive a man insane. It has no use on the inside. And you should know that more than anyone else, especially after twenty-four years.”

  “You’re right, but I still want those two things if you can get them.”

  Red motions toward the other side of the prison yard and a man even bigger and thicker than my six foot five inch height and two hundred and thirty pounds of pure muscle shuffles over toward us.

  “They’ll be in your cell by the time you get back. Now, go, before the guards see us sitting here together. They’ll think we’re plotting something.”

  We’re not. I am. And thirty minutes later after our time in the yard is over I’m back in my cell and the pencil and paper are there, just as Red said they would be.

  Now the real hard part starts…writing her back.

  I practice a couple of lines on my arm, quickly realizing I underestimated just how hard this was going to be. My hand’s not used to writing and I’ve practically forgotten how to hold a writing instrument, but after a while, I get the hang of it. Now what’s more challenging is doing something I’ve never done before…put my feelings on a piece of paper, or share them for that matter. Feelings are weakness in here, and an easy way to wind up dead. I’m going to write them down, pray to God no one opens the letter before it goes out, and try to express to Josi how much her letter meant to me. All that and I have to figure out a way not to scare this angel when she opens up my letter, if it even gets to her, and sees that the devil himself has written her back. At least that’s what I’m guessing most civilians would think. Yet there’s something about her, something caring, that I’m clinging on to. Something that tells me I just might have a chance. And the time to take that chance is now.

  Josi,

  Thank you for the letter. After asking around and studying your envelope, I realize you were trying to reach CO Jackson James. Due to a mixup here in the prison, your letter wound up in the hands of James Jackson, Inmate 738673. Me.

  It’s the first letter I’ve received in my nearly twenty-four years here. I’m not allowed to receive mail or go to the library on the inside due to the limitations set by the judge at my trial. Like most guys in here, I’m innocent, but I don’t expect anyone to believe that. Still, I just want you to know that.

  I also know that there’s a reason your letter came to me. It deals with something you said… “the world is full of different people and anyone who thinks they might be a bit ‘off’ is probably just fine.” That and that you wanted some information about the psychology of the CO’s and the inmates. Well, I can tell you I thought I had everything in here figured out until your over-the-top feminine letter arrived smelling like springtime with words that woke me up from a two and a half decade long hibernation.

  Enough about me. I’m much more interested in you.

  I want you to know your thoughts are normal, and that you, exactly how you are, are perfect. Trust me, we all are in our own way, even the crazy ones. Scratch that…especially the crazy ones.

  As someone who’s had a lot of time to reflect on life, I’d say that a young girl such as yourself should focus on living the life that you choose, doing what makes you happy, and say ‘screw it’ to everyone else. I’m sorry for my language, princess, but I need to get the point across. Life is short and you don’t want to waste a single day worrying about things that don’t matter. Take it from me, I’m a poster child for understanding that concept.

  Before being locked up I read a lot, even though I didn’t have money for books. I’ve read some of the greats, yet there was something about your words that hit me more than anything I’ve ever read. You’ve awoken something inside me and now I have a decision to make, one I thought I knew the answer to and was steadfast in that decision, but now I’m not sure.

  I’ll keep this letter short because I’m not even sure you’ll receive it, but if you do, know that your letter meant everything to me. If you have the time to write me back I’d be honored. I just ask you to address the letter the same way, in the hopes that the same mistake in handling it is made and I receive it again, although I can’t promise I will. Also, by enclosing a self-addressed stamped envelope, like you did, it helps a lot. I’m not allowed to buy stamps or write so your help means literally everything. I promise to repay you one day, and ultimately prove to you I’m not a bad person, and I didn’t do the things I’m accused of doing.

  Psychology 101…inmates rarely take responsibility, which you can use for your research. But the real psychology for me is, what happens in that rare case that it’s actually true? Does anyone on the outside believe him, and even if so, does anyone care?

  I care about you and I hope you do well on your paper and your parents learn to appreciate and respect you for the unique person you are. I know if I was free I would.

  James.

  P.S. I don’t have friends either. Making friends in here can be just as deadly as in the real world. (Joke…kind of.)

  Before I can second guess myself I fold the paper and slide it into her envelope. Once it’s time for our next meal I’m going to drop it in CO Jackson James’ outgoing mail slot, figuring that’s the most likely way to get it out of the prison and hopefully to Josi.

  And for the first time in so many years, I have hope. Because of her.

  I smile, having forgotten what that feels like after all these years. And does it ever feel good, because I have a reason. And that reason is my new pen pal, but she’s so much more than that. She’s my little girl.

  4

  Josi

  I walk into the house and pour myself a glass of Kool-Aid from the pitcher, sitting at the kitchen table and remind myself that sulking isn’t going to solve anything. Anoth
er day of school where I didn’t talk to a single soul, didn’t even open my mouth. Heck, at this point when I do actually get in a conversation I might very well forget how to actually move my mouth to form words.

  And that’s not the only thing I need to form. I need to put together my psychology paper before the end of the semester and there still hasn’t been a reply from the corrections officer. I’m going to have to send out some more letters to other people and probably some emails too.

  I tip back the last of my grape sugar water and mope out to the mailbox, knowing I’m not going to find anything in it for me.

  Until I open the mailbox door and see, right before my eyes, my self addressed stamped envelope.

  My eyes light up and I jam my hand in the box, catching a finger on the edge and causing it to bleed a bit but I don’t even care right now. Jerking the envelope from the tin contraption, I skip back into the house, literally skip, as I hum On The Good Ship Lollipop.

  I race into my room, tossing my backpack on the chair, and dive onto my bed as I carefully open the letter, making sure to keep the envelope intact as I have a feeling I might want to hold onto this. Something tells me it’s going to be good, although I’m not even sure why I have that feeling.

  As I read the last word and my attention slightly shifts from the letter back to the present moment I realize my heart is pounding. I made a mistake in how I formatted the letter and it resulted in an inmate receiving it.

  Goosebumps cover my body and I think about all the psychological possibilities for my paper, but those quickly fade. Much more important is a different kind of feeling for this man. He seems…not like I’d expect an inmate to seem. Something about him seems more genuine, caring, and tolerant than anyone in my real life. I wonder if he’s had so much time locked up to be retrospective on everything and it’s made him more calm, thoughtful, and caring about others than the boys my age. And I also wonder where I can find more about him.

  I race to my phone and Google his name. It takes a while, as the case was so long ago, but I’m pretty sure I’ve found him.

  Seems he was sentenced to life in prison for arson…a forest fire which burned out of control for days, resulting in billions, with a b, dollars in damage and the loss of lives. He claimed he was homeless, living in the woods and sometimes when it rained, would sleep on the front steps of a deserted vacation cabin to avoid catching pneumonia. He testified he never actually entered the home, only sleeping on the porch where the blaze was suspected to have originated. There’s even a picture of him, or more accurately a mug shot.

  He’s handsome, very much so, but he’s also only sixteen years old. He’s younger than me by two years, and if my math is right now he’s forty. Good grief, this all happened before I was born. He’s been locked up a lot longer than I’ve been alive. Suddenly the ‘prison’ that I call my life, because of my parent’s restrictive ways, doesn’t seem so bad after all. I’m still not happy about it, but I need to stop using that word. This man knows what it’s really like to have everything taken from him.

  But why is it, for the first time in my life, I feel like giving him something that no man has yet to take from me?

  I shake my head, trying to shelve the idea and continue reading.

  It seems he saw a woman in the area where firefighters think the fire started, and she was ‘burning something.’ Despite not much of an attempt by anyone to track down this woman, the public defender quickly advised him to plead insanity. James refused.

  Then they tried to offer him a plea deal. And he refused that too, saying he wouldn’t confess to something he didn’t do.

  I admire his courage and everything, but it didn’t seem like he was going to get a fair trial. And he didn’t. His whole court case lasted a mere two days and he was thrown behind bars on the third, sentenced to multiple lifetimes in incarceration.

  A tear trickles down my eye as I continue Googling as much as I can about his case. As much as I love watching crime shows I love it even more when innocent people are found to finally be innocent, and they walk.

  Maybe my mind is too warped from viewing too many of these types of programs, but I feel like I’m not too bad at spotting a real bad person from one who just hasn’t had a fair shake. And it sure seems like someone needs to shake some sense into the judge and jury who convicted him so quickly with what seems like little evidence if you can even classify it as evidence.

  From what I can see he was homeless, an orphan, and found in the wrong place at the wrong time. No prior convictions or anything, but yet he still served as the perfect scapegoat. I roll my eyes and Google the list of prosectors California has had over the years, and sure enough, my suspicion is confirmed.

  Election year and the prosecutor wanted to show they were capable of doing their job and to bring justice to everyone after this horrific event. Jeez, can you use more buzzwords in a speech, I wonder as I watch a super old Youtube video on the case.

  I roll over onto my back and think about what James’ life must be like. A lot of emotions rush through my head but there’s one in particular that really surprises me.

  Possessiveness.

  I feel like his story, what he might share with me in these letters if he’s able to get them out of San Quentin, are going to be too personal. I feel a certain protectiveness of him, which is strange as I’ve always felt like I’ve needed someone to watch and protect me.

  Even looking at his picture from when he was so young it’s clear to see he’s athletic, built, and tall with very broad shoulders. I imagine all the rage he must have pent up for being locked up for something he didn’t do, and how he could unleash that whenever he wanted.

  And I doubt he’s been allowed any conjugal visits over the years. Imagine if he…if we…oh my.

  But aren’t prisoners manipulative, some of the greatest sociopaths on earth? I need to be careful and keep these letters at a distance, not revealing any personal information about myself. He already has my home address.

  I swallow hard, realizing I made a dumb mistake. I should probably just let it go now and not write him back. He’ll forget me soon enough and this will all blow over.

  Or I could get my pen and stationery and write him back, and open a Mailboxes Etc. tomorrow to receive his letters.

  I need to do this for my school project in order to graduate, right? That’s what I’m telling myself at least, but I know that this is so much more.

  And it’s time to find out more about him, and that starts with… I swallow hard. Revealing more about myself.

  To a convicted felon.

  5

  James

  I stalk the mailroom, waiting for the new inmate who works there, who’s name I still don’t know, to head to the bathroom. And the second he does I move toward the incoming mail pile.

  Moving fast I see it, but then again how could I miss it? It’s bright pink and addressed just as it was last time. Just as I asked.

  I grab the envelope and slide it into my trousers. Seeing that we don’t have a way to fasten our trousers, as belts or shoelaces could be used as weapons, it doesn’t want to stay put. I shuffle sideways out of the mailroom and bump square into the new guy.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “Just went to ask you a question, but you weren’t there.”

  “Well, I’m here now,” he says suspiciously. “What do you need?”

  “Just wanted to know if you needed any help sorting the mail.”

  “How about you worry about your business and I’ll worry about mine…,” he says, letting his sentence trail off as he waits for me to say my name, which I don’t. I turn on a heel and get out of the area as regularly as I can if you can consider it regular that my heart is thumping wildly in my chest and the rush of having received another letter from Josi has me head sprung.

  I move into the bathrooms, sitting down in one of the stalls, which unfortunately don’t have doors, but our cells are closed right now so it’s all I’ve got.


  Bringing the letter up to my face I inhale deeply, taking in her scent again and my cock immediately springs to life.

  Hi James!

  Wow…what a surprise receiving a letter from you. Thank you so much. :)

  I have to admit, I Googled you and your case and it does seem like you didn’t get much of a fair trial. I’m sorry about that. You mentioned that you don’t have many friends, like me, so we can be friends. :) If you need me to try and help with something I can and will. I have time and even if I was busy I would make some for you.

  A bit more about me. I’m still trying to figure out if I’m going to go to college and where. My parents are really pressing me, but I just don’t feel like it would be right for me. My stepdad wants me out of the house, and my mom is taking his side. I know they want me to ‘grow up and be an adult’, their words, not mine, but I feel like this is more just them trying to get rid of me. I also know my stepdad doesn’t want kids, as he’s made that very clear. In his eyes, he doesn’t have any right now because I don’t count, because he isn’t my biological father. Sorry if I sound like I’m throwing a pity party, it’s just that this is what I’m reminded of on a daily basis and it permeates my thoughts.

  I don’t feel like it would be any better if I went off to school. What can a boy my age offer me? Keg stands, hangovers, and a lack of maturity? No thanks. Maybe there’s no hope for me! Hahaha

  I wish I could meet you in person one day and tell you how sorry I am about the hand life’s dealt you. When I think about my ‘troubles’ they pale in comparison to yours. I know I can learn a lot about life just by the way you’ve handled yours. I was amazed when I read you turned down plea deals for confessions, that you had principles and would rather live with a free mind and an incarcerated body than a free body and an incarcerated mind, having agreed to plead guilty just to get back into society…the same society that failed you.