"Come on in and have a seat," she says, motioning toward the room.
I walk into the exam room and I notice that she is giving me a soft smile and it's taking everything I've got to not touch her and tell her what's on my mind. I want to kiss her and breathe in her scent.
"Go head and lie back for me," she says, patting the table, and the guard takes my handcuffs off so that I can lie back. The guard then steps outside of the room and we find ourselves alone. She asks me if anything is hurt and I tell her about my ankle. I'm also careful to say that I don't think it's anything serious, but she says she wants to take a look anyways.
"Can you rotate it?" she asks, and while I can, technically, it hurts something fierce, like someone has lit a match in a gas tank. But then I feel her hands stop. They're resting on my ankle, ever so softly. She looks at me and then slowly drags her hand up my leg. I'm wondering just how high up her hands are going to go.
"You'll be okay," she says.
"What makes you so sure?" I reply. "I'm stuck in here for life. I'll never be okay with that. If I had the opportunity—another chance—if I could rewind my life—I'd do a lot differently. I've been wrongly convicted—I don't expect you to believe that because you probably hear that from men all the time in this place, but for me, it's the truth. But I've hurt people, and I've fucked a lot of things up, and those are the things I would change if I could rewind and do it all over again."
She ignores my question. "I want to thank you for yesterday—you saved my life—I owe you."
"You don't owe me anything."
"That's where you're wrong—I do."
She places one delicate finger on my lips, and rubs them softly. She then rubs the back of her hand affectionately against my cheek. The gesture is so tender. But her movements then change and I feel her once again touching my legs. She is slowly working her way to my thighs. She is letting her hands wander, and is now touching my abs—gently raking the tips of her fingers against the ridges, and then dragging them up and across my chest, stopping to swirl her finger around one of my nipples. Desire is starting to swell inside of me. I can feel it flaring through my groin. Her fingers dip down to the waistband of my pants and my cock twitches. I feel it harden in anticipation. I look at her mouth—her pink lips—and can imagine them wrapped around my cock—wet and tight. We both look at each other. We look at the doorway. There's still no guard in sight; we're in the clear, but we know our time is limited. We can read each other's thoughts without saying a word. We're treading dangerous territory; we can both be in trouble—we know that there are serious repercussions for this, but this thought only spurs us on.
She wets her hand with her mouth and then moves her hand inside of my pants and reaches for my cock.
"Shh…" she says, looking at me. So I let her lead. Her firm grip takes me by surprise, and she begins to move her hand in slow, rhythmic strokes. And then she's jerking my cock hard, in a fast rhythm that causes me to let out a low guttural moan no matter how much I try to suppress it. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut. Her touch is almost too much to bear. I feel an electric buzz traveling down the length of my spine and my balls clench. I brace myself. She can sense that I'm on the verge, and she jerks me faster, slowing only momentarily to spread her fingers against the tip of my glans and again, I can't help but moan in a near whisper. "Oh fuck, you're good," I whisper.
Waves of pleasure are washing over every muscle in my body and I still don't dare to open my eyes. I figure if this is a dream, I never want to wake up.
She spurs her movements and I can't hold it back any longer. Just like that, an explosion works its way through my body and my cock is spasming against her hand and then it shoots thick ropes of cum—the ropes turn into a river and some of it splashes onto her cheek. I keep gushing into her hand, and even when I don't think I have anything left in me, she continues to milk me. Finally, it slows and I exhale deeply. I watch as she raises her cum-filled hand to her mouth and I know she isn't finished. She wants more. She is ravenous. She opens her mouth wide and sticks her tongue out, licking the white cum until her tongue is coated with it. She continues until her entire mouth is filled with my warm cum, and watching this makes my cock twitch again. She then picks up the cum from her cheek with two fingers and I watch as she then slides those same two fingers into her mouth, sucking them dry and then swallowing all of the cum inside of her mouth.
She then glides her tongue across her lips, licking them to pick up every last drop of my cum that she can find. When all of the cum is gone, it's as if the spell is lifted and the reality of our situation hovers over us again. I want to embrace her, but I can't.
"I know this is wrong," she says.
"If it's wrong, I don't ever want to be right."
Kerri
I don't know what came over me. One minute, I'm thinking about getting as far away from this place and Lucien as possible—maybe finding a hospital job—anything outside the walls of this prison—and the next minute, I have his cock in my hands. Lucien Stone. The man who saved my life. There's something about him that makes me want to make bad decisions—to say the hell with it to everything I thought I knew. The moment I see him, I want to be defiled by him. Shit, why does life have to feel so cruel? You'd think I would've learned my lesson after Jonathan.
I think back to the phone call I had with my best friend Brie last night. I was sitting on the couch, sipping a glass of wine to try and unwind my nerves because I was feeling anxious and tight as a rubber band, and I found myself posting an offhand, cryptic comment about the assault on Facebook: "Sometimes, kindness doesn't win; it breaks you," it read. I wasn't ready to lay it all out there and explain everything in detail, but I at least needed to get that much off my chest. Within minutes people where commenting and wondering what I meant by that. My closest friends were especially concerned, and then my phone rang. I debated whether or not to pick it up. I prefer text messages, but I saw that it was Brie and it's rare that she ever calls, so I thought I better answer.
"Ker—are you okay, girl? I saw your post. I have cat-like reflexes when something sounds wrong because I've known you for so long. So tell me the truth. You know I'm here for you."
"I'm fine—really, it was just work. Some psycho inmate tried to attack me."
"Oh my god, what happened?"
I proceed to recount the events for her and I could almost imagine her shaking her head on the other end of the line. "You've got to get out of that place. Seriously—and before you protest—I know you're tough—there's nothing to prove—but that place is a shithole. Com
e meet me in Florida. I'll set you up with something better."
"I wish I could, but I can't."
"Okay, let me stop you right there, and I swear to god I'm not trying to sound cheesy, but Ker—you know the old saying that the only thing holding you back is yourself? I hate to say it—and don't get defensive—but that's you right now. You CAN get out of there. It's simple. You just pack your shit and leave."
"I'm not ready to pack up and leave."
"Why? Because you've suddenly grown a soft spot for psycho inmates?"
She had no way of knowing it, but that question had some serious truth to it. I hesitated, and wondered whether or not I should tell her about Lucien. Would she even understand? I decided that if I were going to share this with anyone, it would be with Brie.