Making her pop (Chicago, Squish/Pop, prison bitches)
Making her pop
Squish watched the new one through the bars of her cell. She wore her hair in an untidy bun. If Squish was feeling generous she would have called her “unkempt” but seeing the new one next to her at one of the sinks made Squish think of a mangy cat that had strolled into the prison.
A few days later they were sharing a table at dinner. Squish kept her head high, her eyes tracking the movement of her prison mates.
The new one poked at her dinner. Their gazes met for a moment across the rows of tables and Squish smirked.
You don’t grab a cat by the tail unless you want to feel her claws. When Squish came into her cell she remained by the door.
“What do you want?”, the new one said. Alma was her name. Squish had made inquiries.
“What are you in for?”, Squish asked.
“What’s that to you?”
Squish made a show of leaning against the door. “I got nothing better to do.” She got the story and all the juicy details. Alma finished with a finger pointed like a gun. “Pop”, she said with satisfaction.
After that day everyone called her that.
Squish came by every so often. They sat next to each other during dinner. They smoked and played cards. Pop got matches from somewhere and went through half a box during the day, flicking the burning matches away. Sometimes she would hit someone but her viciousness had travelled along with the tale of her boyfriend’s early demise. People learned to ignore the matches and Squish was only mildly annoyed.
“I’m not going to be your bitch”, Pop said one evening. They were in Squish’s cell, a board of checkers between them on the cot.
“I don’t want you to be one”, Squish said slowly.
“Then why are you being so nice to me?”
“Someone has been telling you some high tales, girl.” Pop bit her lips. Her hand hovered over the board.
“Make your move”, Squish said. Pop looked her in the eye and put her hand on Squish’s thigh.
Squish looked down. “Make you move”, she repeated. Pop came forward so that her own leg was touching Squish’s other thigh. The board between them was forgotten, the pieces sliding off.
Pop’s fingers followed the inseam of Squish’s pants. Her thumb pressed against Squish while her eyes searched Squish’s expression for the right spot. When she found it she started to circle her thumb slowly.
Sometimes her eyes would dart to the bars, keeping alert so no one would catch them but mostly she looked at Squish. When it came over her Pop put her hand over Squish’s mouth.
The siren shrilled and voices started yelling at them to go to their cells.
Pop leaned forward, breathing heavy. “Until later”, she murmured, her whole hand caressing Squish between the legs one last time. She left and the door shut. Squish made sure no one watched and put her hand in her pants. She was wet and could still feel her flesh clenching. Somehow Pop had completely undone her, something her other bitches had never managed even when she had pushed their faces in her crotch. Maybe Pop wouldn’t be her bitch then. Maybe the pieces had to be reset when they would meet in the morning. Squish lit a cigarette and made herself comfortable.
She would get back at Pop, she vowed to herself. She would find a way to make her purr.