Time, of my Life
Time, of my Life
I never knew my father, and when I was old enough to ask, my mother informed me she didn’t know who he was. For all I know, he might be dead, running for office, or in a jail cell. I might have walked past him on the street one day, but forgotten his face as I would any other stranger.
One thing I’ll never forget is the fear and anguish I felt when my mother was arrested, and I was sent away to live with an aunt – a woman who already had six children of her own and didn’t need another mouth to feed. I remember years later, when I was almost finished with high school, when my mom returned. I remember how different she looked than how I remembered her. She was a tired, frazzled woman, not the vibrant and fun loving mom I had built up in my mind.
I decided I wanted to get involved in criminal justice, and wound up as a court reporter. It wasn’t a fancy job, but I felt safer somehow knowing that I was a part of the system. It was like talisman against ever becoming imprisoned by it.
Nothing important had happened on the night in question – at least, nothing that I could notice. I worked an ordinary shift at the courthouse, and went shopping for groceries, and then returned to my modest apartment. I had built a fairly decent life for myself: honest work and a future, which was more than could be said for most of my aunt’s kids. Not bad for a soft-spoken black man who had grown up with both parents absent.
No female companionship, though. I had always had a tough time talking with girls. But you can’t have everything, right? That was my last thought as I drifted off to sleep in my own bed for the last time.
~
I awoke to a bucket of cold water being thrown on my face. My vision was blurry and my head pounded.
“Who are you?” I heard a far off voice ask me. “What is your name?”
“Where am I?” I asked in a funny sounding voice, my head still spinning. Was I being robbed – or kidnapped?
“Who are you?” the woman’s voice repeated.
“Benjamin Lewis,” I said, though I didn’t sound like myself. My voice was still deep, but it had a lilt to it that was unusual and unnerving.
“Who am I?” she asked.
“I don’t know who you are,” I replied. “You’ve got the wrong man,” I added.
“Thank the Goddess!” she said. “No, I have the right man. I can’t believe it, I really can’t. I’ve prayed for years, but I never thought it would really work.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Where am I?” I asked, as my vision finally started to clear.
“You might as well know. You’re at the Anderson women’s correctional facility,” she said in a matter of fact tone.
“Why am I at a women’s prison?” I asked, still feeling a little disturbed that I didn’t sound like myself. But increasingly I was able to make out concrete walls, and bars on one wall. It certainly did look like a prison.
“That’s a very long story,” she replied after a pregnant pause. “But don’t you worry; I think you’ve got the ‘time’ for it, so to speak.”
“I doubt it,” I replied. “I have to be at work in the morning.”
“No, you don’t,” she said. “I have something to show you.” She took me by the hand, and I shakily pulled myself out of bed and took a few steps towards a mirror. When I was directly in front of it, my hazy vision finally seemed to clear, and I got a good look at myself.
Or, rather, I got a good look at whoever was standing there, because it certainly wasn’t me.
Standing in front of that mirror was a woman, a white woman. That much was obvious. She had closely cropped, spiky blonde hair, and several empty piercing locations on each ear. Next to one eye was a small, blue, teardrop tattoo.
The expression on her face was harsh and eye gray blue eyes looked cold - quite different than the hazel, tame eyes I was used to seeing in a mirror. She was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. I glanced to my left and to my right, hoping to spot her standing next to me. All this did was confirm the worst when I saw the women turning to her head in the mirror. Was this woman really me?
“You are Camilla Perkins,” she said. “And you’re serving a life sentence.”
~
When I opened my eyes again, I foolishly hoped I was waking up from a bad nightmare. But I awoke to the sound of a woman’s voice. I knew I was still in the cell. There was never a woman in my apartment.
“Hey. Benjamin? Wake up,” she said. The tone of her voice was distinctly different.
“Yeah,” I groaned.
“You fainted,” she said. “I know, it’s a big shock. But you can’t act soft. This is a prison you know.”
“I can’t be here, I shouldn’t be here,” I said. “I’ve got to get out,” I said, feeling a tightening panicky feeling in my throat.
“Breathe, it’s ok,” she said.
“No, it’s not ok. I’m not a felon. I’m a law abiding citizen, not this white lady. I’m a black man. And I’ve got to explain this to someone.”
“Explain this to who, exactly? You’re a part of the system, right? What would a judge say to your situation, huh?”
“They’d say I was lying or I need medication,” I concluded out loud.
“Camilla found a way out, so I imagine you could, too, with hard work and determination. But for now, you are stuck here. I’m Jill, by the way,” she said.
I turned my head and looked at her for the first time, I got a good look at the woman who apparently was my only cellmate. She had pasty, pale skin, brown eyes, and a warm looking smile. Around her neck, she wore what looked like a handmade necklace, which bore a five pointed star pendant. Her orange suit bulged against her soft looking frame.
“So what did you do to get sent here?” I asked. Before she could answer, a guard game by.
“Breakfast,” the good looking black woman said, unlocked the door, and pulled it open. Damn, I thought – I had so many more questions I wanted answered.
“Don’t make a scene and don’t ask any questions that would call attention to yourself,” Jill whispered. “Just act like being in here is your ordinary life, or things could get ugly for both of us.”
I had a momentary temptation to make a run for it, but where was I going to go? I hung my head low and started walking out. “Where do you think you’re going, Camilla?” the guard asked. “We gotta check you for weapons every time you leave. Warden’s orders, remember?”
“You almost shanked someone a week ago,” Jill helpfully called out.
“Oh,” I said meekly and stood still. The guard ran her hands up and down my pant legs to try to detect a blade. Then, she reached under my top to see if I was hiding anything there. She stopped for a few moments on my breasts, giving them a rough squeeze.
Yesterday, I would have thought I was the luckiest person on earth to have such a fine black woman rub her hands all over me. Today, though, I felt violated – and angry.
“I think you’ve had enough,” I said, when the woman’s finger slipped under one of my bra cups and grazed my nipple.
“All right, let me do your girlfriend,” she said with a smirk, and took her hands away. In spite of myself, I felt the nipple getting hard.
Jill got the same treatment from the guard, but she didn’t try to stop it. Instead, she just rolled her eyes at me as she was felt up, as though this was a routine occurrence. When it was over, she led the way to the mess hall.
I wasn’t hungry and I certainly didn’t want to eat with a much of convicts. But what choice did I have? Jill was right, nobody would believe anything I said if I tried to explain the truth to anyone. I had no choice but to go along with routine until I had a few moments to myself.
The fellow prisoners and I – though it still felt weird thinking of myself that way – waited in line while slop was ladled out to each of us. I’m a guy who’s very particular about his breakfast. Every morning I have frosted flakes with a banana on top and tropical punch. The instant scrambled eggs, baked beans, overcooked bacon, and canned fruit cup I received instead was downright repulsive. As soon as I took a seat, I pushed my tray over to Jill.
“Not hungry?” she asked. “You need to eat to keep up your strength.”
“I can’t eat this,” I said, my stomach turning at the sight of it.
“Alright,” Jill said. “I can’t remember the last time I had two fruit cups. One isn’t even that common. Camilla usually took mine,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t even think she – well, you – really like it that much.” Jill said. “It’s just a way to show dominance, that’s all.”
She dug into my fruit cup with a greedy look in her eye, her puffy cheeks expanding as she hastily gobbled the treat up.
“Yard time,” I heard another guard announce. We all lined up and shuffled off to another door to the mess hall. This led to a large, open space, with fences only off in the far distance.
“Let’s play some basketball,” Jill said as she headed to one of the courts.
“Uh, no thanks,” I quickly demurred. I was never much of an athlete, a fact which had caused me much shame in gym class. “I won’t be that good.”
“What are you talking about?” Jill asked. “You’re fantastic. Give it a shot,” she encouraged. She passed the ball to me and I dribbled a few times.
Two Hispanic women walked up to us and indicated that they wanted to play by nodding, or so Jill explained to me in a whisper. I felt nervous and didn’t want to embarrass Jill by losing the game. But Jill accepted the challenge, shouting “It’s on!”
As soon as she passed me the ball, I did a quarter turn and tossed out a fadeaway shot, which I sunk. I successfully scored the next few possessions as well, and Jill and I won the game easily thanks to my prowess. Who would have guessed I’d be better at basketball as a white woman?
“Yard time’s over, time to hit the showers,” the guards informed us. I was always a shy person, but part of me was curious to see the new me.
I hadn’t seen many naked women in my life, so it was a bit unusual for me to witness so many women taking off their clothes in front of me, especially without a hint of shame. Women of all shapes and sizes were present – women who were young, old, fat, fit, and everything in between.
When I finally took my prison suit off, I looked at my body in awe. I didn’t need to see myself naked to know Camilla had honed her body into an efficient machine – she was apparently a great athlete and a dangerous fighter – but seeing the hard flesh in front of me confirmed it. Camilla had arms that were more muscular that my old arms were.
But some aspects of my new body were still feminine. My breasts were small, round, and pert, with salmon colored nipples. My hips flared a little, and my vagina tingled as I soaped it up. It was a very unusual, but pleasant sensation.
The whiteness of my skin still seemed to startle me every time I glanced at it. The texture of my hair was different, too. It was so much finer and softer.
I’d lie if I said I’d never fantasized about women in prison when I was a man. Now that I was living it, though, the reality was a lot less sexy than my imagination. Most of the women didn’t look like they had walked out of a fantasy. Quite a few had large, crude tattoos decorating wide swaths of their generally unremarkable bodies. Perhaps being a woman myself was dampening my interest in other women?
When I turned to look at Jill, though, that theory went out the window. Jill wasn’t exactly a looker in the traditional sense – she was too curvy for that – but I couldn’t stop staring. Her soft upper arms shook slightly as she soaped up her large breasts, which sagged just a bit on her large torso. Her round tummy jutted out slightly and her perfectly rounded butt poofed out behind her just like a big bubble.
Without any explanation, she started to shampoo my hair.
“Why are you doing that,” I asked her reluctantly. I wanted to know, but I was hoping that questioning it wouldn’t cause it to stop. The swirling motions of her fingers dancing on my scalp caused a pleasant tremor to make its way down my spine.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I just keep forgetting you don’t know the rules here. It’s just a prison thing,” she said.
“Huh, alright,” I said. “Turn around,” I told her when she was finished my hair, and I started running my hands through her lovely brown locks.
“You don’t…oh, never mind,” Jill said. It took me a lot longer to do her hair than it took her to do mine, because of the length, but I was enjoying every minute of it.
Following our shower, we had a few hours of ‘free’ time. Jill explained that the options were working for the prison facilities as a janitor, a cook, or a laundress for an extremely low wage, or making use of the prison library.
“Does the library have a computer?” I asked.
“Yes, but the internet is extremely restricted and usage is monitored, so even if you find a way around the filters you’ll get punished,” she explained.
“Still, I have to try. I have to see if there’s any precedent for what’s happened to me.”
Online access to scientific journals was apparently ok, but my search was fruitless. No peer reviewed source had ever heard of a body swap or anything remotely like what had happened to me. Even the scientific search for the soul itself had been utterly fruitless. The only explanations for what had happened to me were paranormal, and I wasn’t ready to accept that. I was a man of reason. The man part might have been taken away, but the reason couldn’t be driven from my mind.
My failure to find even a hint of a rational explanation left me feeling frustrated, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected. And although I felt angry at what had happened, when dinner came I felt comfortable eating it, though the food was gross.
“Glad to see you have your appetite,” Jill said as I wolfed down a chili bowl.
“A hunger strike isn’t currently part of my strategy to get out of here, so I’m eating. It’s not because I want to,” I explained.
When I made my way back to my cell, I felt exhausted, both physically and emotionally. But I knew that now that I had some privacy, it was time for Jill to answer some questions. My first question, fittingly enough, was what to ask first.
“Jill, I’ve gone along with what you asked – please, let me know what’s going on.”
“Ask away,” she said with a sigh.
“Jill, what did Camilla do to get sent here?” I asked.
“Running with the wrong crew,” Jill said. “That’s enough to get you life.”
“Explain,” I said.
“She was innocent. She had nothing to do with that bank job. But her old crew named her as the mastermind who planned it. And since a security guard was shot, she got indicted for murder as part of the ‘overall conspiracy,’ and got life for a job she had nothing to do with,” Jill said.
“Why does this story sound so familiar?” I asked, scratching my head.
“Because you were the court reporter for the case three years ago,” Jill explained.
Now I remembered. At the time, it was just another day at work. Nothing about the case was remarkable. But now that I really thought about it, I could see Camilla in my mind. Her hair was longer, her body less chiseled – but it was her on the witness stand.
“And I presume that has something to do with what’s happened. You expected it, right? Somehow you knew this was going to happen?” I asked her.
“I was the one who made it happen,” Jill said. “I dabble in witchcraft. Camilla wanted me to try a spell to swap her soul with another, to give her freedom. I’d never tried it before, but I had to pick someone connected to her life, so I picked you.
“Why?” I asked.
“You looked young and unimportant. She’d have no problem pretending to be you, at least for a while,” Jill said. “I’m sorry I did this. I didn’t think it would work. And before you ask, no, I wouldn’t know how to reverse it. I certainly know you don’t deserve to be here. Neither did Camilla. Neither do I.”
“Are you innocent?” I said, looking into her deep brown eyes.
“No. I don’t have a heartbreak story like you. I’m here because I killed my brother in law. He was abusing my sister. But that didn’t matter. Self defense only counts if it’s your life that’s threatened, or your partner or your kids,” she said.
It was hard to believe the witchcraft story, but I had no other explanation. I wanted to be furious at Jill, but I just wasn’t. People will do anything for freedom.
“Didn’t Camilla mind leaving you behind?” I asked. “The guard said you were my girlfriend.”
“Camilla protected me. In return, she wanted many things from me. My magic, my fruit cup, shampooing her hair, and me pleasuring her. That was the extent of our relationship,” Jill said, her voice filled with pain.
“I think she was a fool,” I said. In spite of what she had done to get me here, I felt increasingly drawn to Jill. I climbed up and moved over to her bed.
“I’m not a lesbian,” Jill said. It was the first time I had ever felt disappointment at learning a woman I wanted was heterosexual.
“But the fact that I know who you really are inside there is quite a turn on,” she added. “I loved feeling your hands on my hair today.”
As Benjamin, I always felt awkward and nervous around girls. But now I felt so confident and at ease. I rubbed my hand across Jill’s broad shoulders and snuggled up to her, before giving her a kiss on the forehead. She let out a soft, feminine giggle that was driving me wild. It felt so different to get wet panties instead of having an erection to express arousal.
I didn’t have sex with Jill, though. I just held her throughout the night. With her in my arms, I felt safe. There was nowhere I’d rather be.
~
When my eyes fluttered awake the next morning, I had the suspicions that the previous day’s events might have been a dream. If that was the case, should I be relieved or disappointed? I couldn’t decide.
“Morning,” Jill said, as she snuggled up to me. The feeling of her soft flesh against me was delicious. I looked at my hands just to make sure: they were still white women’s hands. The nails were a short and a bit dirty, and the fingers carried heavy calluses that were likely accrued by fighting and working out, but these were women’s hands. My hands. And this was my life in my life, in prison.
The day started much like the day before – though today, I scared the guard from feeling Jill up. I ate my breakfast this time, but I kept the custom of giving Jill my fruit cup. When it came time to shower, I took extra time with her hair, too. I used the subterfuge of washing to gently give her a kiss on the back of her neck. Nobody noticed, but when she turned around she was blushing.
I had a plan for free time. During the trial, I remember the public defender being remarkably incompetent. I wanted to look up the trial transcripts I had written to see if there were any glaring problems with the case.
Reading my own words in prison was in interesting experience, to say the least. It was one of the only times I ever saw my work doing any good, because I immediately noticed tons of problems with the way the defense handled things. I knew enough about the system to know that granting a new trial wouldn’t be hard at all. In fact, Camilla had a fairly good chance to go home free, with a good lawyer. I could get my life back, or at least, I could get my freedom back.
When Jill asked me how my search went over dinner, the words stuck in my throat. If I was getting out, that meant leaving her behind.
Even when we got back to our cell, I couldn’t bring myself to say it right away. I waited an hour after lights out before I had the courage to speak up. “I think I could get a retrial, and an acquittal,” I said. “It might take a year or two, but there’s a good chance I could be free.”
“That’s great,” she said, turning away from me. “Congratulations. I knew you’d find a way out, just like she did.”
“I didn’t finish,” I said. “I said I could get a retrial. I didn’t say I’d pursue it.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” she asked. She was still avoiding my gaze.
“Because if I have to choose between you and freedom, I’d choose you,” I said as a wide grin broke out across her round face. I leaned in and kissed her passionately. Her lips were succulently soft, and before long our tongues were dancing.
“I don’t want you to be my ‘prison girlfriend,” I said, breathing hard. “I want you to be my lover.” How ironic that I’d get more action locked up than in my own home, I thought as my hands roamed up her shirt and squeezed her impossibly soft, large breasts. “How long were you attracted to me?” I asked her.
“The whole time” she said, her warm breath falling on my sensitive ear. “From the first moment you opened your eyes, I knew I wanted you. And then you were so decent, so respectful, so kind...” I felt her hands move across my female form and my skin tingled. Being touched never felt so good. I kissed my way down her cheek, over her big brown nipples, and over her soft, round tummy. Soon my head was between her thick, warm and juicy thighs. Nothing felt more natural, and I loved the feeling of her hands gently stroking my hair in appreciation. I’d knew that’s what I’d be thinking about when she shampooed my hair tomorrow.
When she returned the favor, I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out with pleasure.
That night our passions ruled us, and we didn’t sleep. Life in prison didn’t seem so bad, as long as my life was with her.
I never knew my father, and when I was old enough to ask, my mother informed me she didn’t know who he was. For all I know, he might be dead, running for office, or in a jail cell. I might have walked past him on the street one day, but forgotten his face as I would any other stranger.
One thing I’ll never forget is the fear and anguish I felt when my mother was arrested, and I was sent away to live with an aunt – a woman who already had six children of her own and didn’t need another mouth to feed. I remember years later, when I was almost finished with high school, when my mom returned. I remember how different she looked than how I remembered her. She was a tired, frazzled woman, not the vibrant and fun loving mom I had built up in my mind.
I decided I wanted to get involved in criminal justice, and wound up as a court reporter. It wasn’t a fancy job, but I felt safer somehow knowing that I was a part of the system. It was like talisman against ever becoming imprisoned by it.
Nothing important had happened on the night in question – at least, nothing that I could notice. I worked an ordinary shift at the courthouse, and went shopping for groceries, and then returned to my modest apartment. I had built a fairly decent life for myself: honest work and a future, which was more than could be said for most of my aunt’s kids. Not bad for a soft-spoken black man who had grown up with both parents absent.
No female companionship, though. I had always had a tough time talking with girls. But you can’t have everything, right? That was my last thought as I drifted off to sleep in my own bed for the last time.
~
I awoke to a bucket of cold water being thrown on my face. My vision was blurry and my head pounded.
“Who are you?” I heard a far off voice ask me. “What is your name?”
“Where am I?” I asked in a funny sounding voice, my head still spinning. Was I being robbed – or kidnapped?
“Who are you?” the woman’s voice repeated.
“Benjamin Lewis,” I said, though I didn’t sound like myself. My voice was still deep, but it had a lilt to it that was unusual and unnerving.
“Who am I?” she asked.
“I don’t know who you are,” I replied. “You’ve got the wrong man,” I added.
“Thank the Goddess!” she said. “No, I have the right man. I can’t believe it, I really can’t. I’ve prayed for years, but I never thought it would really work.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Where am I?” I asked, as my vision finally started to clear.
“You might as well know. You’re at the Anderson women’s correctional facility,” she said in a matter of fact tone.
“Why am I at a women’s prison?” I asked, still feeling a little disturbed that I didn’t sound like myself. But increasingly I was able to make out concrete walls, and bars on one wall. It certainly did look like a prison.
“That’s a very long story,” she replied after a pregnant pause. “But don’t you worry; I think you’ve got the ‘time’ for it, so to speak.”
“I doubt it,” I replied. “I have to be at work in the morning.”
“No, you don’t,” she said. “I have something to show you.” She took me by the hand, and I shakily pulled myself out of bed and took a few steps towards a mirror. When I was directly in front of it, my hazy vision finally seemed to clear, and I got a good look at myself.
Or, rather, I got a good look at whoever was standing there, because it certainly wasn’t me.
Standing in front of that mirror was a woman, a white woman. That much was obvious. She had closely cropped, spiky blonde hair, and several empty piercing locations on each ear. Next to one eye was a small, blue, teardrop tattoo.
The expression on her face was harsh and eye gray blue eyes looked cold - quite different than the hazel, tame eyes I was used to seeing in a mirror. She was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. I glanced to my left and to my right, hoping to spot her standing next to me. All this did was confirm the worst when I saw the women turning to her head in the mirror. Was this woman really me?
“You are Camilla Perkins,” she said. “And you’re serving a life sentence.”
~
When I opened my eyes again, I foolishly hoped I was waking up from a bad nightmare. But I awoke to the sound of a woman’s voice. I knew I was still in the cell. There was never a woman in my apartment.
“Hey. Benjamin? Wake up,” she said. The tone of her voice was distinctly different.
“Yeah,” I groaned.
“You fainted,” she said. “I know, it’s a big shock. But you can’t act soft. This is a prison you know.”
“I can’t be here, I shouldn’t be here,” I said. “I’ve got to get out,” I said, feeling a tightening panicky feeling in my throat.
“Breathe, it’s ok,” she said.
“No, it’s not ok. I’m not a felon. I’m a law abiding citizen, not this white lady. I’m a black man. And I’ve got to explain this to someone.”
“Explain this to who, exactly? You’re a part of the system, right? What would a judge say to your situation, huh?”
“They’d say I was lying or I need medication,” I concluded out loud.
“Camilla found a way out, so I imagine you could, too, with hard work and determination. But for now, you are stuck here. I’m Jill, by the way,” she said.
I turned my head and looked at her for the first time, I got a good look at the woman who apparently was my only cellmate. She had pasty, pale skin, brown eyes, and a warm looking smile. Around her neck, she wore what looked like a handmade necklace, which bore a five pointed star pendant. Her orange suit bulged against her soft looking frame.
“So what did you do to get sent here?” I asked. Before she could answer, a guard game by.
“Breakfast,” the good looking black woman said, unlocked the door, and pulled it open. Damn, I thought – I had so many more questions I wanted answered.
“Don’t make a scene and don’t ask any questions that would call attention to yourself,” Jill whispered. “Just act like being in here is your ordinary life, or things could get ugly for both of us.”
I had a momentary temptation to make a run for it, but where was I going to go? I hung my head low and started walking out. “Where do you think you’re going, Camilla?” the guard asked. “We gotta check you for weapons every time you leave. Warden’s orders, remember?”
“You almost shanked someone a week ago,” Jill helpfully called out.
“Oh,” I said meekly and stood still. The guard ran her hands up and down my pant legs to try to detect a blade. Then, she reached under my top to see if I was hiding anything there. She stopped for a few moments on my breasts, giving them a rough squeeze.
Yesterday, I would have thought I was the luckiest person on earth to have such a fine black woman rub her hands all over me. Today, though, I felt violated – and angry.
“I think you’ve had enough,” I said, when the woman’s finger slipped under one of my bra cups and grazed my nipple.
“All right, let me do your girlfriend,” she said with a smirk, and took her hands away. In spite of myself, I felt the nipple getting hard.
Jill got the same treatment from the guard, but she didn’t try to stop it. Instead, she just rolled her eyes at me as she was felt up, as though this was a routine occurrence. When it was over, she led the way to the mess hall.
I wasn’t hungry and I certainly didn’t want to eat with a much of convicts. But what choice did I have? Jill was right, nobody would believe anything I said if I tried to explain the truth to anyone. I had no choice but to go along with routine until I had a few moments to myself.
The fellow prisoners and I – though it still felt weird thinking of myself that way – waited in line while slop was ladled out to each of us. I’m a guy who’s very particular about his breakfast. Every morning I have frosted flakes with a banana on top and tropical punch. The instant scrambled eggs, baked beans, overcooked bacon, and canned fruit cup I received instead was downright repulsive. As soon as I took a seat, I pushed my tray over to Jill.
“Not hungry?” she asked. “You need to eat to keep up your strength.”
“I can’t eat this,” I said, my stomach turning at the sight of it.
“Alright,” Jill said. “I can’t remember the last time I had two fruit cups. One isn’t even that common. Camilla usually took mine,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t even think she – well, you – really like it that much.” Jill said. “It’s just a way to show dominance, that’s all.”
She dug into my fruit cup with a greedy look in her eye, her puffy cheeks expanding as she hastily gobbled the treat up.
“Yard time,” I heard another guard announce. We all lined up and shuffled off to another door to the mess hall. This led to a large, open space, with fences only off in the far distance.
“Let’s play some basketball,” Jill said as she headed to one of the courts.
“Uh, no thanks,” I quickly demurred. I was never much of an athlete, a fact which had caused me much shame in gym class. “I won’t be that good.”
“What are you talking about?” Jill asked. “You’re fantastic. Give it a shot,” she encouraged. She passed the ball to me and I dribbled a few times.
Two Hispanic women walked up to us and indicated that they wanted to play by nodding, or so Jill explained to me in a whisper. I felt nervous and didn’t want to embarrass Jill by losing the game. But Jill accepted the challenge, shouting “It’s on!”
As soon as she passed me the ball, I did a quarter turn and tossed out a fadeaway shot, which I sunk. I successfully scored the next few possessions as well, and Jill and I won the game easily thanks to my prowess. Who would have guessed I’d be better at basketball as a white woman?
“Yard time’s over, time to hit the showers,” the guards informed us. I was always a shy person, but part of me was curious to see the new me.
I hadn’t seen many naked women in my life, so it was a bit unusual for me to witness so many women taking off their clothes in front of me, especially without a hint of shame. Women of all shapes and sizes were present – women who were young, old, fat, fit, and everything in between.
When I finally took my prison suit off, I looked at my body in awe. I didn’t need to see myself naked to know Camilla had honed her body into an efficient machine – she was apparently a great athlete and a dangerous fighter – but seeing the hard flesh in front of me confirmed it. Camilla had arms that were more muscular that my old arms were.
But some aspects of my new body were still feminine. My breasts were small, round, and pert, with salmon colored nipples. My hips flared a little, and my vagina tingled as I soaped it up. It was a very unusual, but pleasant sensation.
The whiteness of my skin still seemed to startle me every time I glanced at it. The texture of my hair was different, too. It was so much finer and softer.
I’d lie if I said I’d never fantasized about women in prison when I was a man. Now that I was living it, though, the reality was a lot less sexy than my imagination. Most of the women didn’t look like they had walked out of a fantasy. Quite a few had large, crude tattoos decorating wide swaths of their generally unremarkable bodies. Perhaps being a woman myself was dampening my interest in other women?
When I turned to look at Jill, though, that theory went out the window. Jill wasn’t exactly a looker in the traditional sense – she was too curvy for that – but I couldn’t stop staring. Her soft upper arms shook slightly as she soaped up her large breasts, which sagged just a bit on her large torso. Her round tummy jutted out slightly and her perfectly rounded butt poofed out behind her just like a big bubble.
Without any explanation, she started to shampoo my hair.
“Why are you doing that,” I asked her reluctantly. I wanted to know, but I was hoping that questioning it wouldn’t cause it to stop. The swirling motions of her fingers dancing on my scalp caused a pleasant tremor to make its way down my spine.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I just keep forgetting you don’t know the rules here. It’s just a prison thing,” she said.
“Huh, alright,” I said. “Turn around,” I told her when she was finished my hair, and I started running my hands through her lovely brown locks.
“You don’t…oh, never mind,” Jill said. It took me a lot longer to do her hair than it took her to do mine, because of the length, but I was enjoying every minute of it.
Following our shower, we had a few hours of ‘free’ time. Jill explained that the options were working for the prison facilities as a janitor, a cook, or a laundress for an extremely low wage, or making use of the prison library.
“Does the library have a computer?” I asked.
“Yes, but the internet is extremely restricted and usage is monitored, so even if you find a way around the filters you’ll get punished,” she explained.
“Still, I have to try. I have to see if there’s any precedent for what’s happened to me.”
Online access to scientific journals was apparently ok, but my search was fruitless. No peer reviewed source had ever heard of a body swap or anything remotely like what had happened to me. Even the scientific search for the soul itself had been utterly fruitless. The only explanations for what had happened to me were paranormal, and I wasn’t ready to accept that. I was a man of reason. The man part might have been taken away, but the reason couldn’t be driven from my mind.
My failure to find even a hint of a rational explanation left me feeling frustrated, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected. And although I felt angry at what had happened, when dinner came I felt comfortable eating it, though the food was gross.
“Glad to see you have your appetite,” Jill said as I wolfed down a chili bowl.
“A hunger strike isn’t currently part of my strategy to get out of here, so I’m eating. It’s not because I want to,” I explained.
When I made my way back to my cell, I felt exhausted, both physically and emotionally. But I knew that now that I had some privacy, it was time for Jill to answer some questions. My first question, fittingly enough, was what to ask first.
“Jill, I’ve gone along with what you asked – please, let me know what’s going on.”
“Ask away,” she said with a sigh.
“Jill, what did Camilla do to get sent here?” I asked.
“Running with the wrong crew,” Jill said. “That’s enough to get you life.”
“Explain,” I said.
“She was innocent. She had nothing to do with that bank job. But her old crew named her as the mastermind who planned it. And since a security guard was shot, she got indicted for murder as part of the ‘overall conspiracy,’ and got life for a job she had nothing to do with,” Jill said.
“Why does this story sound so familiar?” I asked, scratching my head.
“Because you were the court reporter for the case three years ago,” Jill explained.
Now I remembered. At the time, it was just another day at work. Nothing about the case was remarkable. But now that I really thought about it, I could see Camilla in my mind. Her hair was longer, her body less chiseled – but it was her on the witness stand.
“And I presume that has something to do with what’s happened. You expected it, right? Somehow you knew this was going to happen?” I asked her.
“I was the one who made it happen,” Jill said. “I dabble in witchcraft. Camilla wanted me to try a spell to swap her soul with another, to give her freedom. I’d never tried it before, but I had to pick someone connected to her life, so I picked you.
“Why?” I asked.
“You looked young and unimportant. She’d have no problem pretending to be you, at least for a while,” Jill said. “I’m sorry I did this. I didn’t think it would work. And before you ask, no, I wouldn’t know how to reverse it. I certainly know you don’t deserve to be here. Neither did Camilla. Neither do I.”
“Are you innocent?” I said, looking into her deep brown eyes.
“No. I don’t have a heartbreak story like you. I’m here because I killed my brother in law. He was abusing my sister. But that didn’t matter. Self defense only counts if it’s your life that’s threatened, or your partner or your kids,” she said.
It was hard to believe the witchcraft story, but I had no other explanation. I wanted to be furious at Jill, but I just wasn’t. People will do anything for freedom.
“Didn’t Camilla mind leaving you behind?” I asked. “The guard said you were my girlfriend.”
“Camilla protected me. In return, she wanted many things from me. My magic, my fruit cup, shampooing her hair, and me pleasuring her. That was the extent of our relationship,” Jill said, her voice filled with pain.
“I think she was a fool,” I said. In spite of what she had done to get me here, I felt increasingly drawn to Jill. I climbed up and moved over to her bed.
“I’m not a lesbian,” Jill said. It was the first time I had ever felt disappointment at learning a woman I wanted was heterosexual.
“But the fact that I know who you really are inside there is quite a turn on,” she added. “I loved feeling your hands on my hair today.”
As Benjamin, I always felt awkward and nervous around girls. But now I felt so confident and at ease. I rubbed my hand across Jill’s broad shoulders and snuggled up to her, before giving her a kiss on the forehead. She let out a soft, feminine giggle that was driving me wild. It felt so different to get wet panties instead of having an erection to express arousal.
I didn’t have sex with Jill, though. I just held her throughout the night. With her in my arms, I felt safe. There was nowhere I’d rather be.
~
When my eyes fluttered awake the next morning, I had the suspicions that the previous day’s events might have been a dream. If that was the case, should I be relieved or disappointed? I couldn’t decide.
“Morning,” Jill said, as she snuggled up to me. The feeling of her soft flesh against me was delicious. I looked at my hands just to make sure: they were still white women’s hands. The nails were a short and a bit dirty, and the fingers carried heavy calluses that were likely accrued by fighting and working out, but these were women’s hands. My hands. And this was my life in my life, in prison.
The day started much like the day before – though today, I scared the guard from feeling Jill up. I ate my breakfast this time, but I kept the custom of giving Jill my fruit cup. When it came time to shower, I took extra time with her hair, too. I used the subterfuge of washing to gently give her a kiss on the back of her neck. Nobody noticed, but when she turned around she was blushing.
I had a plan for free time. During the trial, I remember the public defender being remarkably incompetent. I wanted to look up the trial transcripts I had written to see if there were any glaring problems with the case.
Reading my own words in prison was in interesting experience, to say the least. It was one of the only times I ever saw my work doing any good, because I immediately noticed tons of problems with the way the defense handled things. I knew enough about the system to know that granting a new trial wouldn’t be hard at all. In fact, Camilla had a fairly good chance to go home free, with a good lawyer. I could get my life back, or at least, I could get my freedom back.
When Jill asked me how my search went over dinner, the words stuck in my throat. If I was getting out, that meant leaving her behind.
Even when we got back to our cell, I couldn’t bring myself to say it right away. I waited an hour after lights out before I had the courage to speak up. “I think I could get a retrial, and an acquittal,” I said. “It might take a year or two, but there’s a good chance I could be free.”
“That’s great,” she said, turning away from me. “Congratulations. I knew you’d find a way out, just like she did.”
“I didn’t finish,” I said. “I said I could get a retrial. I didn’t say I’d pursue it.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” she asked. She was still avoiding my gaze.
“Because if I have to choose between you and freedom, I’d choose you,” I said as a wide grin broke out across her round face. I leaned in and kissed her passionately. Her lips were succulently soft, and before long our tongues were dancing.
“I don’t want you to be my ‘prison girlfriend,” I said, breathing hard. “I want you to be my lover.” How ironic that I’d get more action locked up than in my own home, I thought as my hands roamed up her shirt and squeezed her impossibly soft, large breasts. “How long were you attracted to me?” I asked her.
“The whole time” she said, her warm breath falling on my sensitive ear. “From the first moment you opened your eyes, I knew I wanted you. And then you were so decent, so respectful, so kind...” I felt her hands move across my female form and my skin tingled. Being touched never felt so good. I kissed my way down her cheek, over her big brown nipples, and over her soft, round tummy. Soon my head was between her thick, warm and juicy thighs. Nothing felt more natural, and I loved the feeling of her hands gently stroking my hair in appreciation. I’d knew that’s what I’d be thinking about when she shampooed my hair tomorrow.
When she returned the favor, I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out with pleasure.
That night our passions ruled us, and we didn’t sleep. Life in prison didn’t seem so bad, as long as my life was with her.