Pen Friends

Posy Churchgate

I scooped the envelopes off the mat and used a knife to slice them open. I scanned the contents of the first two, then tossed them aside, but the third one looked promising.

Dear Sally

I was blown away by your photograph in L@dz magazine.

You look just the kind of girl I’d like to know better.

I’ll admit I can’t stop looking at you. That little checked bikini fills my head with thoughts, such as wishing I was there, and imagining the smile on your face is for me and not the photographer.

I want to get to know you, would you write back? I hold my hands up –the address looks bad, but let me assure you, I’m just a guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Love Billy

Well Billy, I mused as I sipped my tea, and studied the return address: H.M. Charterville Prison. Being behind bars might deter a nice girl, but lucky for you, I’m not a nice girl.

I smoothed out the letter and placed it with its envelope in a clear PVC wallet, which I laid by my computer. I consigned the other correspondence to the rubbish. Then I went to my bathroom, turned on the shower and planned my reply under the hot water.

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Today I received two letters from the P.O. box. One was so revoltingly smeared, I put it unopened in the bin and washed my hands. But I recognised Billy’s cramped writing on the second, so I opened it with a sense of anticipation.

Dear Sally

I am so glad you want to be pen friends. This place doesn’t do much to encourage making friends and nobody here is easy on the eye like you!

It sounds wonderful that you go swimming in the lake, I can only imagine how cool and refreshing that would be. I grew up in the city, and I’ve never had much free time for recreation.

I can tell that you take care of yourself. I admire that; even your toenails are painted.

I look at your picture often. It’s hidden inside my pillowcase, away from the nosey guy who shares my cell. Don’t want nbody here to ̸c̸o̸r̸r̸u̸p̸t̸ ̸y̸o̸u̸r̸ ̸i̸n̸n̸o̸c̸e̸n̸c̸e̸ ogle my girl. Would you send me another? It doesn’t have to be so recent.

Love Billy

Well Billy, it seems you are under my spell, I mused with a frisson of satisfaction, flicking the switch on the kettle for a pot of tea. I placed this letter alongside its envelope in a fresh plastic wallet, then took up a pen to write my reply. I shook my head at Billy’s naivety: L@dz magazine was sold in most newsagents – he couldn’t keep that picture to himself.

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Dear Sally

Going to a dance sounds wonderful, I’ll bet you shone like a princess. That’s why the boys were too dazzled to ask you to dance. Guys that age mostly think about s̸e̸x̸ cars and beer.

You’re really sixteen? You look younger in your picture, maybe it’s the plaits, which I like by the way.

I got that book you mentioned from the library, but I haven’t had much chance to read it. I gaze at your picture before I go to sleep, hoping that I will dream about you. Please send me another, also with pigtails, this one is getting worn.

Love Billy

I regarded a coffee stain on the corner of Billy’s latest letter, before I smoothed it to slide it into another clear wallet.

I felt rather excited as I tidied my flat, whisking around with the vac and using a fluffy brush on a stick to reach the cobwebs. Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly, I thought, while rehearsing what I should write in reply. No rush though, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

---

Dear Sally,

Thank you for another glorious picture.

At my school there wasn’t a uniform. No kid on my estate dared wear a tie, we’d have got lynched. But look at you with a blazer and a hat. I plan to keep this one safe, in the plastic wallet you sent.

Have I told you my cell mate snores? It’s terrible, like lying under a growling bear. At least I’ll have this picture to look at when he wakes me in the night.

D̸o̸ ̸y̸o̸u̸ ̸e̸v̸e̸r̸ ̸t̸o̸u̸ch Tell me why that book is your favourite. I had to borrow a dictionary to look up some of the words, just like school. What is your best subject? I used to like learning about battles in History.

Love Billy

I experienced a frisson of pleasure reading that letter. The devil is in the details. I knew there was more he wanted to tell me, yearned to ask, his truth was leaking onto the page. All in good time Billy, I smirked, adding this letter to the others I had preserved.

Sitting at the breakfast bar, I wiggled my computer mouse and the page for H.M. Charterville Prison refreshed. It looked like a forbidding place, but I’d researched public transport connections, and it was relatively easy to get to.

---

Dear Sally

I agree, Biology is a useful subject, and the human body is fascinating. I always thought it strange that people say the birds and the bees when they mean sex; that the opposite of what birds and bees do.

I’m glad you feel you can ask me these questions; and yes, boys feel that way too, maybe even more than girls.

I haven’t got to that part in the book, maybe I should skip ahead.

I wish you would send me another picture, the last one got s̸p̸o̸i̸l̸e̸d̸ lost.

Love Billy

So you spoiled the picture Billy? I can guess how. I paced the floor, antsy and keyed up about writing back, because my surprise was almost ready. Easy does it. I would wait a day or two before I sent my next missive.

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Dear Sally

I received your letter and I can hardly credit it. I never dared to hope that you would want to come to see me.

Yes, I will put your name on my visitors’ list, but my worry is that you are too young. The rules state you, or someone with you, has to be aged 18.

I’d prefer you to come alone. Perhaps with some make-up and your hair styled differently (you have to know I love your plaits) you can look old enough. I hate suggesting you mess with your natural beauty, but all the same, I am gagging to meet you.

Love Billy

Oh Billy, I don’t plan to mess with my natural good looks, I want you to see me at my best.

I smirked as I stowed away his letter, as I’d done with all the others. Nothing left to do but sit back and wait for the slow wheels of bureaucracy to turn.

---

Two weeks later I received e-mail notification from H.M. Charterville: I was named as a visitor for Billy.

I studied their schedule of visiting days and times. Even reading the long list of rules and exceptions did nothing to burst the bubble of excitement swelling in my chest. Soon I would be talking to Billy face to face, and I could see his expression when I shared my surprise.

The day of my planned prison visit, I dressed conservatively. I knew there would be detectors and a search, and I expected to be under the hungry scrutiny of other men who were incarcerated with Billy. So I didn’t dress to call attention to myself, instead I took care to look serious, brushing aside Billy’s concerns that I might appear too young.

I rode in on a bus, together with the other visitors, who were predominantly wives and girlfriends. Some were hard-faced, others downcast, many looked tight-lipped and austere. But this was an adventure to me, and in my head the song “I’ve got the key” was playing on repeat. Gradually the atmosphere got to me, and by the time I had passed through the security checks, I was a little fidgety

We were shown into a room of tables and plastic chairs, reminding me of school. I sat down and crossed my legs at the ankle. When all the visitors were seated, a buzzer sounded and the prisoners were shown in by more guards. The inmates wore high-vis tabards over their uniform of navy sweats.

I easily guessed which one was Billy, because of the way his eyes scanned the room. His hair was thinning and grey, and his waistline sagged over his joggers. Of course we’d never met and, in the end, one of the guards had to show him to my table.

“Hello, Billy,” I beamed my greeting.

“What’s going on?” He was guarded, snippy. “Where’s Sally?”

“That would be me.” I offered him my sweetest smile. “Salvadore Jenkins.”

He glared at me, frowns creasing his face. “But you’re a … She’s not … I thought…”

Each time Billy tried to get to grips with the facts, that the person in front of him was not who or what he’d expected, he faltered. I decided to help him out.

“I’m not female. In fact Sally is not real. I’ve received and replied to all the letters you’ve been writing – and I’m not impressed with your sleazy attempts to groom an underage girl.”

Billy blanched, as pasty as a church candle, and his mouth hung open.

“I realise it’s a lot to take in.” I simpered.

I reached into my folder, and produced photocopies of all the correspondence in my possession, and fanned them out on the table. A warder stepped closer to take a squiz at what I was sharing, but when he saw that it was just paper, he stood against the wall and resumed monitoring the room.

“But you – your picture …” Billy’s complexion was mottled, and his fists clenched and unclenched

“That picture was one of several I found in a book purchased from a charity shop,” I explained, folding my hands smugly.

“I sent it into L@dz magazine, and gave a PO box number as my return address. Plenty of people replied, all deviants, writing utter filth about what they would like to do to Sally, a girl who looked nearer to sixteen than eighteen.

“But you, Billy, wanted to become her ‘friend’. I found that both interesting and telling, and so our correspondence began.”

Billy’s knee bounced and his mouth twisted, which I put down to the duress of conflicting emotions. He might have landed a punch on me, but the warders would surely intervene. So I sat and waited.

“What – wadda’ye want from me?” He eventually ground out. His mouth was a mean line with bubbles of spit at the corners.

“What do we catfishers always want?” I smiled pleasantly. “Money.”

While Billy was lost for words, I continued.

“You’re up for parole soon, and I am sure they wouldn’t think you such an exemplary prisoner if your pedophile tendencies were brought to light. My silence has a price Billy. I will contact you with my bank details, and when you’re released you’ll deposit £25,000 in my account. I know you’re good for it, your family is rich.”

“Twenty-five grand?” Billy leaned forward to whisper-shout. “My family won’t just hand over that kind of money to me.”

“That ‘poor boy from a rough area’ story you spun in your letters didn’t fool me, you scrote,” I continued speaking in a soft voice, taking care to smile. The screws wouldn’t guess I was insulting Billy.

“Sell your shitty Z4, or put your mother on the game. I don’t care how you get the money. But if it isn’t in my account within a day of your release, I’ll take the originals of these to the police.” I tapped a finger on the photocoped letters.

As I stood to leave, I gathered the papers, then smoothed down my slacks and adjusted my cufflinks. I doubt Billy watched my firm backside as I walked away; I was male and at least ten years too old, I really wasn’t his type.

© Posy Churchgate 2026

Posy Churchgate started writing female-focused erotic fiction in 2016. On her blog, which ran til 2019, she diversified into different genres and styles. She has since written for sex positive platforms (such as Meet Rosie) and anthologies, her fiction features relatable characters and depicts women and men keen to explore their sexuality. Published in several anthologies, Posy regularly contributes stories for FrolicMe, and is her own boss on Ream and Substack. Having won a Golden Pigtail Award for Smut 3 years in a row, her next goal is to publish a book.

You can find her HERE

Coming Soon from Byker Books…