Chapter 1

As towns go, Susan was not the kind of town that one would want to visit to see beautiful buildings or scenic delights. In fact, few would argue the fact that Susan was not the sort of place that most people wanted to have as a destination unless it was for some business that couldn’t be avoided.

The closest city was a beautiful spot on the uniquely scenic Bay and it was a romantic hideaway for starry-eyed soul-mates. In the opposite direction, the faraway mountains beckoned with deceiving promise of adventure and carefully hid the hint of danger that hit with such devastating force when one least suspected it even existed at all.

My name is Dutch.

I know what you are thinking.

No, I am not some sort of foreigner with poor grasp of the King’s English. In fact, my vocabulary was unique and I seldom made an error in grammar that would embarrass me in front of some upper-class snob from that crowd with a corner on assets kept untouched regardless of economic swings in either direction. I got the name of “Dutch” from some nasty types up in the Folsom Prison area that delighted in re-naming fresh meat sent to the human grinder for some unwanted rehabilitation of antisocial proclivities.

Fortunately, I only had a three year stretch in front of me and I hoped the thirty-six months would go quickly and not drag out like a blind date with somebody’s cousin from Albuquerque. I remembered that torturous evening I stood on the yellow line like it was a slow-motion movie with me in a starring role.

The yard was covered with a light smattering of still frozen white flakes. Strangely, I thought it looked quite pretty and never appreciated the danger hidden in the warning of a fast approaching storm. The only other times I had actually seen snow it was scraped up by huge garbage trucks and carted off to God knows where like trash slowing people down and making driving impossible.

The snow was the real deal. The prison was the real deal and I soon learned to keep my trap shut and my eyes open to avoid any unnecessary confrontations with the hardened criminals all around me. It only took me a few short weeks to realize there was no chance I would be able to survive three full years in the “joint” and I would have to make my escape sooner rather than later if I wanted to get out in one piece and with my self-esteem still intact.

My careful study of the opportunities settled on the laundry truck as the most likely because it made round-trip runs almost every day and the guards were so used to seeing it that they tended to overlook the possibility of some shifty felon using it as a convenient escape route. Sure, they poked the dirty bags but not too up close and personal because they contained some ugly smelly secrets best left to the heated cleaning vats that pounded the clothes and sheets and towels into neatly packaged fresh stacks of hygienic piles for inmates and guards alike.

I had already decided the best hiding place was actually under the truck hanging onto the rails that kept one away from the hot drive train and the raw surface of the poorly constructed road. There was a mirror on a stick that stood at attention right at the front gate, but the guards were so used to constant travels by the laundry truck that they just waved it on through and continued to shoot the shit about this, that and the other thing that helped fill the long empty hours of endless boredom.

The laundry facility was located right on the outskirts of Susan. About all I knew of Susan was to see the sign on the highway that simply said,

“Next Exit ... Susan!”

I had no idea if it was a big or a small town, a quiet place to raise children or a wild stop where all sorts of sins were constantly repeated by residents and visitors alike. I did see that they had the almost inevitable “MacDonald’s” and even a twenty-four hour waffle house that promised fresh brewed brown stuff made regular like clockwork. It brought to mind a waffle house in San Diego that found me escorting a smiling Senorita with long black hair and an ass that waved in front of my greedy eyes like a patriotic call to duty making my little guy stand to attention as soon as we got through her front door. We didn’t even make it to the bedroom and simply fell to the fluffy white carpet like we were casualties of the game of love. That girl was so ready that it was like sinking into a pool of fire and she peppered me with a constant barrage of Spanish that made me think I was in school and learning a new language by the process of total immersion.

The girl in San Diego was called Teresa and she was constantly brushing her long silky hair sitting half naked on a low stool in front of a mirror bordered with photos of family and friends. Most of the people in the photos were on the chunky side, but Teresa was a delicate slice of petite female nubile passion. She was thin pretty much all over except her backside that jutted out like a pair of twin peaks of promised pleasure. I have to confess that sometime after midnight, I got lost in the valley between her soft skinned cheeks and her grunts of joy made me so hard that I threw all caution to the wind and entered her from the rear without any protection whatsoever.

Teresa had the tightest entryway I had ever encountered in a pick-up waitress with an interest in masculine assets and not making money on the side. I considered a proposal we might attempt a rear door entry but the religious statues on the bureau and her reference to her two kids made me shy about suggesting something so obviously kinky and insulting to her dignity. It was not until the next morning that she put a pillow under her tummy and gave me sign language that indicated she was yearning for that sort of humiliation and need for stretching of her anal entryway. I don’t believe I had ever met a female that enjoyed ass fucking more than that woman. I liked the way she positioned her torso in front of the bureau mirror so she could see me perched on her back pumping as hard as I could driving my business up her beautiful cheeks with serious intent. It was inspiring to see a girl that enjoyed that sort of kinky playtime without any pretense of being above such nasty desires.

I rolled out from under the laundry truck only a short distance from the waffle house. Of course, I was still dressed in the prison jumpsuit and made a beeline for the nearest clothesline with men’s clothing. The guy that filled these trousers must have been eating for two people because the waistline was almost double my size. I pulled a horrible shirt down over them to hide the fact they didn’t belong to me and hoped nobody would recognize the silly pandas that made it look better suited to a female teenager than a slightly battered adult male with a need to stay incognito. I valued my new-found freedom enough to try anything to make it work.