Prisoned Series Box Set

by Marni Mann

  I’d thought she’d gag when I hit that dangly thing in the back of her mouth. But she hadn’t. She’d fucking liked it. She’d fucking moaned and batted her damn lashes, like I had given her everything she’d ever wanted.

  I knew by now how much the girl on the left liked to give head. This was the fourth night in a row she had sucked my cock. The girl on the right was new. But Lefty had wrapped her lips around my tip every evening since I’d been in Miami. The first two nights, she’d put a condom in her mouth and sucked me over the rubber. Last night, she’d left the condom off and told me to warn her when I was close. I’d blown my load onto her cheek, between a chunk of blond hair and a smear of red lipstick. Tonight, she had taken it right in her mouth. I wondered what the hell tomorrow would bring.

  “Kiss me,” Righty said to Lefty, licking her lips. “I want to taste him.”

  Lefty slowly turned toward her, sticking out her tongue, and Righty surrounded it with her lips. She even managed to lick off the small white glob from the corner of Lefty’s mouth. The whole time they made out, their glossy fat lips rubbed against each other like those mini hot dogs shoved into a tight can. And their eyes stayed on me while they did it.

  Talented bitches.

  “It’s my turn,” Righty said, stopping the kiss, her hands reaching for me.

  I gazed down at her. “For what?”

  “To be fed your cum.”

  I grabbed her nipple and pinched it.

  “Ow.” She bucked, her lips parting, a string of spit dripping from the bottom one. “Easy, baby. I can’t take it so hard. I’m on the rag.”

  I laughed as I tucked my dick back into my jeans and zipped up the fly. “For you,” I said to Lefty, dropping two hundred on the table for the mouth-beating I’d given her. “And one for your friend.” I left a third bill on the glass.

  “Will I see you tomorrow?” Lefty asked.

  I felt my phone vibrate from my pocket and pulled it out.

  Shank: Airport. 9 tomorrow morning.

  I grazed my fingers across Lefty’s chin. “Afraid not, sweetheart.” I walked out of the room, letting the door shut behind me, and found a seat on the side of the lounge.

  This was Miami’s most popular strip club. The dancers were so high-maintenance, fucking jewels were pasted on their cunts. I wasn’t into high-maintenance. I wasn’t so much into strip clubs either, but I needed something to do now that I was back in the States. It had been a long time since I was here. I wasn’t adjusted yet. Wasn’t used to all the sunlight and food trucks.

  And the smiling.

  There wasn’t much smiling where I lived in Venezuela or at the prison I worked at. There were only concrete and metal bars.

  And screaming.

  That was all I ever heard…and I fucking loved it.

  Then, there was the crying and promises. Everyone made promises when they were locked in a cell.

  It was my job to handle the inmates—their movements within the prison, their feedings, their punishments. Prison guard, captor, torturer—I had many titles. They all meant the same thing; I lived in the dark.

  And here, in Miami, everything was way too light. Like the bright yellow thong some chick was wearing on the center stage. There wasn’t any screaming around me. Not even pants of pain from Lefty when my tip had pounded the back of her throat. Just that shallow cry from Righty when I had grabbed her nipple. But, shit, that sound was nothing. That wasn’t even a whimper compared to what I normally heard.

  I missed the screams.

  I needed them.

  “Has the waitress come by yet?”

  I turned my head, checking out the woman who just sat next to me. She wasn’t dressed like the other girls who walked around this club. She wore black leather pants and the same colored tank. By the movement of her tits, I could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “Haven’t seen one,” I said.

  “Shit. I need something strong.” She looked at my lips as though she wanted to sink her teeth into them. “And stiff.”

  “I can fill that need.”

  She glanced at the stage and smiled. A blonde was walking toward us, wiggling the knot of her string top, her tits falling out of the small triangles.

  “I’m not interested in anything you have,” she replied.

  “What are you interested in?”

  She gazed from the stage to me. “Her.”

  I eyed up the blonde again. Her tits were bigger than I’d thought, more than just a handful, nipples larger than the tip of my tongue. She had a real thick ass on her, too. My dick hardened at the thought of that tight hole milking me.

  “Like what you see?” the girl next to me asked.

  “She’s not bad.”

  “She’s my girlfriend.” She was looking at my lips again. “So, like I said, I’m not interested in anything you have.”

  It was almost a relief to hear. It was also a sick-ass fucking challenge. I’d been with plenty of bisexual chicks but never a lesbian. I could picture the blonde stripper bobbing on the end of my dick like Lefty had done earlier and the brunette next to me eating the blonde’s cunt. I wondered what some cock would do to the brunette. Would she enjoy it, or would she try to find something in the room to shove up my ass?

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Why? Having second thoughts?”

  “Not a chance. But, if you’re going to be staring at my girlfriend’s tits, it seems only fair that I know your name.”

  “It’s Beard.”

  She stared at the untamed mess that hung from my chin. “That’s your real name?”

  Beard had been my name for enough years. It had started when Inmate #326, Kyle Lang, came into my prison. She was the only captive who had ever left my jail alive. Before her, everyone had called me Bush. I liked Beard better.

  “It’s what I want you to call me,” I said.

  “Okay.” She shrugged. “Then, tell me what you do, Beard.”

  “Lots of things.” I eyed her nipples, noticing how they seemed to have gotten harder. “Why don’t you tell me about you?”

  “I’m Layla.” She stuck her hand out for me to shake.

  I gripped it hard, like I would a man’s. I had a feeling she was the type who wouldn’t want it light.

  “What is it that you do, Layla?”

  “You could call me a financial advisor.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  The blonde was now lying on the stage, her ass in the air, her legs spread so that we could see the inside of her cheeks. Layla’s stare didn’t move from me.

  “Advise me then.”

  Her eyes scanned my wrist, all the way up my arm, across my chest, and down to my feet. “You don’t appear like the kind of person who has what I’m looking for in a client. I’m more interested in the rich and elite.”

  “And, because of the way I’m dressed, you’re assuming I’m not?” I didn’t wait for her response; it would be a bunch of bullshit anyway. All black clothes and a beard told her nothing about me. “Why don’t you keep talking, and I’ll be the one to decide if you’re worth my money? Give me the specifics.”

  “I help the rich invest their money.”

  “Legally?”

  She moved to the side of her chair—the side closest to me—and crossed her legs. “I know this city. I know the people who live in it. I know the available opportunities. Opportunities for all different kinds, depending on what you need. You’re asking for specifics, but unfortunately, I don’t know you, and I don’t know if I can trust you.”

  “You don’t need to know me. My money will speak for itself.”

  “How much are we talking?”

  “You’re moving too fast, Layla.” I ran my hand over the edge of my beard. “I need to smell you. Taste you. Feel you between my teeth before we talk about numbers.”

  Her expression told me she knew exactly what I was asking, and it had nothing to do with her cunt.

  “I’m going out of town for a little whi
le. Give me your number, and I’ll call you the next time I’m home. Maybe, by then, you’ll have something to show me.”

  She held out her hand, and I dropped my phone on top of it. I watched her type her number before she gave it back to me.

  “Give me a few days’ notice to put some things together,” she said.

  I nodded and stuck a twenty between her girlfriend’s ass cheeks before I walked out.

  Two

  Beard

  When I stepped inside the concrete hallway, the door slammed behind me, the sound of the steel ricocheting off the walls. I took a deep breath, filling my nose with the scent of death. That was the only smell inside here. I’d grown so used to it, I’d missed it while I was back in the States.

  But, now that I was home in Venezuela, I’d get my fill.

  And I’d add to it.

  I checked the four deadbolts, making sure they were latched in place, and I headed toward the cell block. Whenever I returned to the prison, that was always my first stop. I listened to each of the inmates, searching for the noise I wanted to hear the most.

  Once I found it, I leaned against the outside of the prisoner’s cell and whispered, “Scream for me.”

  He was already doing plenty of it. I just wanted to hear more.

  He didn’t respond, so I repeated it in Spanish, “Grítame.”

  That seemed to work because his hands moved to the bars, his face pushed into them, and he screamed. It was high-pitched. Piercing. Frantic.

  Everything I wanted.

  Everything I needed.

  It made me close my eyes and remember the first time I’d heard that noise.

  In a haze of Ambien and Valium, I found myself wandering the cell block. It made no sense to stay in my room. I’d only slept three hours, and I knew I wouldn’t sleep any more than that. The drugs didn’t work that well. But at least they worked. I couldn’t say that about anything else, not the weed I smoked or the vodka I drank. Just the pills, and I took a shit-ton of them.

  It hadn’t always been this way.

  Life had been good for a long time.

  When that had changed, I’d started taking meds.

  I hurt.

  I stung.

  I wanted to torture and kill—but for a whole different reason than before.

  Everything had lost its brightness. Nothing had any real color. No heat, especially no heart. Food didn’t taste all that good, everything smelled like shit, and the only time I liked to be touched was when a chick’s lips were at the end of my cock. No fucking, just head—and even that was too much sometimes.

  My hearing was the only thing that had gotten better. It was so sensitive now, it was like megaphones were pointed at my ears.

  It seemed like I was constantly searching for a sound. I didn’t know why. I just knew I couldn’t find the right one.

  In the cell block, there were all kinds of noises—things hitting the metal bars and cement, puke pouring into the toilet, inmates pissing on the walls.

  But, as I walked around down here, there was one sound making its way through the cloud over my brain. My feet were dragging me toward it. The noise was from a girl who was inside her cell. She wasn’t crying out the names of the people she loved or her last wishes. She was screaming, like she was fighting for something.

  Like the sound coming out of her mouth would change her sentence.

  Like it would save her.

  I fell to my knees halfway to her door. It felt like millions of electrical currents were sparking through my body. Since my legs no longer wanted to work, I crawled across the concrete, and when I reached her cell, I turned around and leaned my back against it.

  I breathed.

  I listened.

  And I breathed again.

  It was the most perfect fucking sound I had ever heard.

  It filled me.

  It made me feel.

  It made me want to dig my way out of this haze. That was more than I’d wanted to do in a long time. Because, for a while, I hadn’t been living. I hadn’t even been breathing. I’d just been existing in this prison.

  Scream for me.

  As if she had heard me, her voice got louder. It made me feel even more. It made the numbness start to lift, and suddenly, there was tingling inside my limbs, and I knew I’d be able to walk if I tried.

  Scream for me.

  But I didn’t try. I didn’t want to move. I just wanted to hear her sounds and never leave again unless I absolutely had to. I wanted to bury myself under her music and let those screams of desperation tuck me in.

  Eventually, she lost her voice and turned silent.

  I pulled myself up off the floor and went back to my room. When I lay on my bed and closed my eyes, I slept for two days. I didn’t dream. I didn’t wake up every few hours, thrashing in bed, tossing off the covers, throwing more Ambien down my throat.

  I slept soundlessly.

  And I never had to take another pill again.

  I clung to the screams for a few more seconds, letting the noise fill my body, like it was liquid. Then, I walked toward the office where I hoped I would find the guys. The side of the prison I was headed to was called The Eyes. It was where the guards—Shank, Diego, and I—hung out and where the sweepers, our helpers, would come ask for orders. They did the cleaning, burying, and dumping—all the bitch work.

  I pressed the six digits into the pad outside the office door and waited for it to open.

  “Good to have you back, brother,” Diego said. He got up from the main desk and slapped my shoulder as he hugged me.

  “It’s good to be home.”

  Wasn’t that the goddamn truth? I’d missed the screams more than anything.

  “Did you get some good pussy while you were away?”

  Several yards of rope were wound between Diego’s hand and bicep, which told me he was getting ready to go to one of the cells and that the prisoner was a chick. As soon as he got his hands on her, he’d tie that rope around each tit, weave it down the center to her navel, through the lips of her pussy, and back where it met before it looped around her tits. That was his signature knot.

  “So much fucking head,” I said. My hand dropped to my balls, shifting them around.

  “That’s my man,” Shank said, standing from the other side of the desk. He used the hand that wasn’t holding Demon—his pet rat he took every goddamn place he went—and pounded the fingers that hadn’t been on my balls. “One chick or…”

  “Two,” I said.

  “Pay up, motherfucker,” Shank said to Diego.

  Diego reached into his pocket and slapped a hundred onto Shank’s palm. “I thought you’d settle on one girl. Shank guessed two.”

  “I’m almost offended that neither of you assholes picked three.”

  “It was your first trip back,” Diego said. “Next time, I’m going with four.”

  “Five,” Shank said.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Jesus, I hope I don’t have to go through that many to find one who can really suck.”

  “You’ll be all right,” Shank said. “I’m sure your dick can handle the practice.”

  Damn, it felt good to be back with my boys.

  I’d known Diego for at least fifteen years. We’d gone to high school together and grown up in the same neighborhood. Shank had been my best friend since I was nine. We were practically brothers and had lived together for more than half my life. When my mother had taken off, leaving a twelve-year-old to fend for himself, Shank’s father, Bond, had taken me in. I’d lived at their place until I graduated high school.

  “When do you head back to the States?” I asked Diego.

  Time off rotated between the three of us, and the amount depended on the number of inmates. When we had more than a few days off in a row, the two of them would usually go stateside. I’d stick around Margarita Island, the island where we’d built the prison, which was just off the coast of Caracas. This last trip to Miami was the first time I’d been back
in a while.

  “Next week,” Diego said. “Going hunting for a little bit, and then I’ll be fucking at the beach for a longer bit.”

  “You’re not going to fuck while you hunt?” I asked.

  “He’s got a hell of a point,” Shank said. “You were in the cabin upstate when you blew that girl’s ass out. The one who would only do anal because of some religious bullshit.”

  “That happened after hunting,” Diego said. “I remember because I was covered in rabbit blood, and I made her put on the pelt.”

  “He’s into fur now,” Shank said to me.

  We kept a tab—nothing written down, just a mental list of all of Diego’s fetishes. This was Shank’s way of adding a new one to the list.

  “God, I miss that girl,” Diego said. “She had an ass as tight as a keyhole.”

  I knew they were laughing at the same thing I was, and that was how normal this conversation was for us. We weren’t right in the head. You couldn’t be in the type of business we were in. But we all had different reasons for being at the prison, for doing what we did. Some people consumed a shitload of drugs, and some liked to fuck out their anger.

  We killed.

  And we got paid a ton of money to do it.

  “I gotta get back to work,” Diego said, smiling as he looked at the rope, the door closing behind him.

  I took a seat at the desk and pulled up the footage from the individual cells. Diego wasn’t just a rope master. He was also techie and good at welding. He’d built cameras into the bars of each cell and microphones into the ledges of the windows.

  We saw everything. We heard everything.

  And whatever information we collected, we would report back to the client.

  It’d all started ten years ago when we saw a need for a service like this, and we’d built the prison to satisfy a growing list of buyers. Each customer had certain information they were seeking from the inmate. Sometimes, they’d request a specific punishment. Other times, they’d leave it up to us. But, from the day we’d opened, we’d had more than a steady stream of business.