by Siren, Tia
He is all hard-bodied man. Hard where I am soft, unyielding where I am pliable, we fit so well together. Raking my fingers through his hair, I grab and pull him away from my lips. With his head angled back and to the side, I suck on the sensitive skin below his ear, earning a low rumble from his throat.
He groans and pulls me closer to him, grinding his hard length into my soft belly. Raking my nails down his chest, I scrape over his hard nipples and feel him shiver, his breath catching. I release his hair and pull at the front of his shirt. Buttons fly and click-clack along the marble floor, rolling this way and that.
Vince chuckles, finding humor in my haste to touch and taste his skin. As soon as his beautiful pale flesh is bared to me, I plant a kiss in the middle of his chest. Moving across, I rub my lips back and forth over his hard nipple before sucking it into my mouth. His hand tangles into my hair as he holds me to him, tenderly kissing the top of my head.
I feel the zipper of my dress glide down; he helps me out of it, tossing it in a puddle behind him. Pulling my lips to his, he kisses me, his breathing harsh. Arching against him, I swirl my hips, and he turns me around, pressing himself against my ass, and I press back. I’m reveling in our passion, loving how he makes me feel.
Bending me over the back of the black leather couch, his rough hands massage my hips before his thumbs press my folds apart. The first warm lick of his tongue at my core from behind leaves my head spinning. I cry out, trying to steady myself, hoping I don’t crumble face first onto the seat of the couch. His tongue enters my tight channel, thrusting in and out. Flicking back and forth between my swollen nub and my opening, his tongue makes me squirm in pleasure, getting slicker by the minute.
Without warning, I feel his thick cock plunge into me. I cry out, and my nails curl and claw at the cushions as his length fills me. After that first hard thrust, Vince stands still, and I feel every throb of his thick rod inside. He runs his hand across my back, shoulders and down my arms, amplifying the sensation, and I grind against him to take advantage of his massiveness.
Taking my hands from the couch Vince brings them behind my back, holding both wrists at the small of my back. The only things holding me up are the back of the couch and his rigid, throbbing girth.
He pulls back, almost all the way out of me and then, quickly thrusts his hips forward. I bite my lip to keep a scream from escaping. He drives into me hard, over and over, the heavy couch keeping me in place. My moans and screams seem to turn him on even more, as he pounds into my quivering slit. Holding my hair in his fist, he slows down enough to pull my head back to him. He turns my head and kisses me passionately, his tongue thrusting into my mouth. Vince releases his grip on my hands to pinch and twist my nipples.
Pulling from my body, he steps a little away from me, our mouths still joined. I feel empty and cold without him inside me. Turning my body to meet his, I wrap my arms around his shoulders, kissing him with all the love I feel for him. Before long I am on my knees before him. His rod bobbing to meet my lips, I lick his quivering crown and slide him into my mouth.
With every movement of my head, I feel his hands in my hair, fingers massaging my scalp, then gathering my hair in his fist. He pushes himself deep into my mouth. With my right hand, I make a tight seal against my lips, mouth and hand moving up and down in unison while twisting my hand when I get close to the head of his cock. Vince’s hisses and groans are what I live for. The sounds coming from him urge me on.
I lick down the underside of his member. Swirling my tongue down the shaft, I impatiently pull his pants and underwear further down his thighs, hungry for him. I can feel his fist tightening in my hair as he pulls my hand away from his shaft, and thrusts deep into my mouth, pushing to the back of my throat.
Vince pulls out with a moan and lifts me to my feet. He positions me on my back, laying me along the sturdy arm of the couch. Spreading my thighs wide apart, he puts his mouth on me, sucking and licking with his expert tongue. I pant and hold his head closer. He makes me shiver, my empty channel tightening and clenching. Seeming to know that I need him inside me, Vince stands and rubs the blunt head of his cock against my wet furrow. He slowly pushes inside me, my tight flesh clutching at him.
His big hands hold my thighs open as he slowly moves into me. I shudder. Pulling me closer, he thrusts harder and faster. He looks at me from eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure and licks his lips before speaking.
“Touch yourself for me, baby. I wanna feel you come around my cock,” he says in his raspy voice.
The sound of his voice alone almost sends me over the edge into oblivion.
I lick my finger, place it between my legs, and touch my aching body. Vince’s eyes are locked on where our bodies are joined. Watching the easy glide in and out, mesmerized by my finger circling and rubbing my clit.
His thrusts are faster now, and his eyes close for a second, mouth open and groaning from deep in his throat. My body begins to shake as I orgasm. I cry out and reach for him, pull his lips to mine, my channel clutching at him, milking him. He pounds into me, holding me tight, crying my name. He shudders and bucks, emptying himself inside me, filling me to the brim.
Vince collapses against me, and we are precariously on the arm of the couch. Our breathing becomes quick and shallow. He gently pulls away from me, and as soon as he does, there’s that familiar longing to have him inside me again. Gently kissing my face, he stands up and lifts me in his strong arms. Kissing my lips as he walks down the hall with me, he says, “Let’s take this to the bedroom, shall we?”
I laugh as I brush his hair out of his face. “Vince! We’re going to be so late!”
He kisses me passionately again. “But I can’t get enough of you. We’ll get there. Eventually.”
As Vince kicks the door to the bedroom open, I think I may have to text my parents and change the time of our dinner. It doesn’t look like eventually is coming any time soon, and that is fine by me.
Guarding Her
R.R. Banks
1
Don’t come into work Thursday…
The words on the note were running through Whisper’s mind as she approached the imposing fence at the edge of the parking lot.
Don’t come into work…
The words had been scribbled hastily on the corner of a page torn from a book. There was no signature, no identifying mark. I didn’t know who could have slipped it onto her desk or why they would have wanted her to stay away from the prison that day, but I had woken up that morning feeling like something was crushing down on my chest. It had been hard to breathe, hard to fill my lungs with enough air. I didn’t know why the note was affecting me so much. It wasn’t anything more than the threats that my coworkers received virtually every week. In fact, it was tame compared to the threats that were slipped beneath their office doors and spat directly in their faces. The reality that none of these people backed down in response to the threats, never missing work or standing down to the inmates, forced her beyond the gasping breaths and out of her bed that morning so that she stood here now, typing her code into the keypad to open the tall, clattering gate.
Whisper stepped through the gate and heard it slam closed behind her with the ominous metallic crash that told her that she was officially locked down within the prison.
Don’t come…
She made her way through the next several gates and doors until she was fully within the building, and took her place at the desk at the far end of the pod. As she settled in, she couldn’t help but let her eyes travel across the space, taking in the men who were roaming around the open space loosening up their bodies after the long night that they spent locked in their cells. She wondered which of the men had written the note and why they had wanted her to stay away that day. It was possible that the note hadn’t even been intended for her. There was no name written on it, and no reason cited that might indicate that she had done something to upset one of the inmates. Despite this, something inside her told her that the note had absolutely
been meant for her.
In the daily shifting of inmates from their cells to the tables, phones, and cluster of chairs in front of the television in the day room, Whisper noticed a strange space of stillness. One corner of the room was quiet, only two men standing in it. She looked at it, watching as the men spoke in hushed tones to one another, vigilant to detect any signs that they might be passing drugs or weapons. As if he could feel her looking at him, one of the men lifted his eyes and stared directly at Whisper. She could feel his stare burning through her, tingling through her fingertips and settling into her belly.
She knew him only as Crewe, the last name that was printed on his identification wristband and stitched across his prison jacket. There was something about him that was different. It had struck her from the moment that she first saw him on the day that he was transferred into this prison from another several towns over. Something about this man drew her in, and she found herself fascinated by him. There was a hint of something dark in his eyes today, a heaviness in his stare as he looked back at her, and Whisper had to pull her eyes away from him, unable to tolerate it any longer.
They were following through their regular daily routine and were sliding toward when it would be time to call the men together for lunch when a sound cut through the din of the dayroom. Whisper jumped to her feet instinctively, her eyes shooting around the space to try to find the source of the sound. She couldn’t identify it, couldn’t figure out what it might be as it fought with the usual noise of the space, competing for attention. The sound cut through her again, louder this time, and Whisper’s eyes snapped to the balcony above her. It was a narrow walkway that wound around the perimeter of the pod, a tall barrier blocking the edge from the cells that stood in a row against the pale grey wall. Despite the barrier, she could see two inmates trying to force a third over the top. The scream coming from deep within him, seeming to tear out of his soul as he hung upside down, his back arched at an unnatural angle over the bar, dug into her. It was unlike any scream that she had ever heard. It was a scream of pure terror and anguish, and Whisper started toward the stairs that led up to the balcony, her hand going to the radio at her hip to call for help.
She knew that she wasn’t going to be able to get to the men in time. There was no way that they were going to wait long enough for her to run up the stairs and get down the walkway to them before they pitched the man over the top and let him fall to a brutal death on the scuffed cement floor below. The best that she would be able to do was get to the men and subdue them before they were able to choose another victim. Whisper’s feet had touched the bottom step when she heard another scream from the dayroom. This was the type of scream that she was accustomed to, one of anger being unleashed. She couldn’t turn around. She couldn’t try to find out what was happening. She had to get up to the inmates at the rail.
The sound of her feet pounding on the metal stairs seemed to accentuate the growing cacophony of fury beneath her as the inmates gathered in the common space noticed what was happening and divided into factions. Some cheered on the two, encouraging them to turn the third into Superman. Others argued for them to let him go, furious at the realization that this would earn the entire pod weeks’ worth of lockdown when none of them would be able to leave their cells and they would all lose the few privileges and comforts that they had. Others took advantage of the situation to find their own fights and force themselves into cells to raid commissary boxes and tatter the belongings of their enemies. This was quickly getting out of hand. She could feel the tension rising.
Where were the other guards?
She reached the top of the stairs and rushed toward the men. The third man was barely hanging on now and his screams had dissolved away into low muttering and whimpers. Now that I was closer, I recognized him. Mullins was the least popular inmate in the pod. His very arrival after he had been sent here from another of the pods after causing trouble there had created enough of a reaction that the pod had been locked down for three days. That was only the week before and Whisper thought that the men had settled down, valuing their time out of their cells and their ability to make phone calls home to their families more than the vengeance that they wanted against the man. It was clear that that was not the case now. They had only been waiting, biding their time so that they could catch him unaware.
Whisper was nearly to them when she felt someone grab her around the waist, yanking her back away. Before she could fight the man behind her off, the two men tossed Mullins forward. In an instant, he disappeared over the side of the rail, the desperate scream returning for a brief moment before it was stopped short by a sickening thud. The inmates in the dayroom below roared and she fought against the hold of the man behind her, using the training she received in the academy to free herself and turn around, bringing the man to his knees with a hard hit. Around her she could hear the pod explode. The voices of two other guards rose above the screaming, but the words that she heard sent chills through her. The two men were calling frantically over the radios for further help, reporting that the doors to the pod had been blocked by inmates and that there was a hostage situation developing.
Unarmed with the exception of the OC spray in her belt, Whisper knew that she had only her training and thinking to rely on. She scrambled down the hallway toward the inmates who had just thrown Mullins over the edge, but before she could reach them, she felt someone else grab her. A hand clamped down over her mouth and the ground disappeared beneath her feet as she felt the man dragging her back toward one of the cells.
2
This was the worst-case scenario. This was everything that Whisper had been warned against when she was going through training to work in the prison. Everything that her mother had said to her when she first announced that she wanted to be a guard coursed through her mind again, so loud in her ears it was as if the aging woman was standing right there beside her, questioning her choices, warning her of the dangers that she would face, telling her how terrified she was. Whisper had brushed off the warnings, reassuring her mother that she knew what she was doing and that there was no need for her to be afraid. Now as she reached out for the wall, clawing against it in an effort to regain control over herself, she now wondered if everything that her mother had said was right.
Being brought into a cell was the worst thing that could happen to the guards, especially the women. In a cell, they were at the mercy of the inmate. She fought as hard as she could not to let the man bring her, but he was far larger than she was and able to contend with her efforts and still bring her beyond the doorway to the cell. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a boot kick the door so that it closed heavily in front of her, obliterating the sight of the erupting pod beyond.
“You should have stayed home,” a gruff voice hissed in her ear.
As soon as she heard it, Whisper fell still. She knew that voice. The hand fell away from her mouth and the tight grip around her loosened in response to her stillness and she was able to step away and turn around. Crewe stood in the center of the cell, staring at her with the same darkness in his eyes that she had seen across the pod.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
“You should have stayed home,” Crewe repeated. “You shouldn’t have come to work today.”
“You left that note on my desk?” she asked.
He nodded and pushed past her to the door, dropping down to look through the open food slot at what was happening beyond. He let out a loud sigh of exasperation and stood up, whirling around to face her.
“Why didn’t you follow it?” he asked, his voice nearly a growl. “Why did you have to come today?”
Whisper was taken aback by not just the anger in his voice, but also the words. She narrowed her eyes and took a step toward him.
“Because this is my job,” she said. “I come every day. If every guard who got a threat did what it said, there would never be anyone here.” A sudden realization came over her. “You knew that this was g
oing to happen.”
Outside of the cell she could hear the shouting getting louder and fear clenched in her chest as she thought of the other guards that had gotten inside before the inmates blocked off the doors.
“I heard a rumor,” Crewe said. “I didn’t know it was going to be this bad.”
He muttered a few obscenities under his breath and crouched back down to look through the food slot again. A few seconds later he got to his feet and opened the door. The inmate he had been standing in the corner with earlier rushed in and Crewe slammed the door again. There were streaks of blood on his uniform and he tossed something onto the floor. Whisper looked down, her hand flying up to cover her mouth when she realized that it was a piece of flesh carved off of another man’s arm. The tattoos looked familiar and she knew that they had once adorned Mullins. This was a souvenir, a reminder of the victory that the inmates had over the abhorred man.
“What is she doing here?” the man she knew as Erickson demanded, glaring at her with such ferocity in his eyes that she felt fear cut through her chest.
Her training and the authority that she had no longer mattered. This was no longer control. A riot was warfare and she was at the mercy of the enemy. Despite this, Whisper struggled not to show her fear on her face. She didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing that she felt vulnerable, or that they had scared her. She needed to keep herself in as much control as she could if she was going to survive this. She started to respond, but Crewe stepped between her and Erickson.
“Because she’s the only one of them who ever talked to us like people,” he said. “She isn’t like the other guards. She doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”
“You can’t honestly think that you can trust her,” Erickson said.
Crewe nodded.
“I do,” he said. “Until this is over, she stays with me.”