by Alexis Angel
I have so much adrenaline coursing through my body that my vision becomes blurred. It feels like televisions are positioned behind my eyes. Flight or fight is taking over and despite what he has just told me, I want to run—I want to run as fast as I can and never stop. But that's not what happens. I'm practically frozen with fear and when that fear thaws just enough for me to try and yank my arm free from his grip, he grabs a fistful of my hair in his other hand and pushes me toward the desk.
"Bend over!" he snarls.
"You don't have to do this. Let me go, please—we can pretend this never happened."
"Shut the fuck up! I warned you—I told you to cooperate and by the looks of things, you're not listening. Big mistake."
His body is pressed against mine and my scalp is hurting from how hard he is pulling my hair. He finally lets go—just long enough to firmly grab my hips—and he bends me over the desk with force. His body is pushing into mine. I can barely breath with his weight on top of me and I'm now face down. The top of the desk is fogging up with my frantic breathing. I try to scramble free—maybe I can wiggle out from under him, but this effort only makes him angry. He grabs the back of my neck and squeezes hard, keeping his grip firm and pushing my head down.
"Stay still, doll—I mean it—I'm not fucking playing around."
He grabs my pants and yanks them down to my knees and he again presses his body into mine. I can feel his hard cock against my ass. I'm gripping the desk so hard that the blood seems to have left my hands and my knuckles are white. I feel him pulling down the band to his own pants and I squeeze my eyes shut. I can't believe this is happening. His body is grinding against mine. I go to scream, but it comes out as a squeak—feeble. It's like having a dream where you are being chased, and instead of having the ability to run, your body seems to move even slower, betraying you. I try to scream again and this time it comes out louder.
"I told you to—" he begins to say, and then stops. I feel his body move. He releases his grip and I can breathe again. Now's my chance to try and run.
I hear a loud smack and he stumbles back.
"I should have finished you off back in the yard—should have really fucked you up and taught you a lesson!" a familiar voice growls.
I grab my pants, pulling them up frantically and I retreat to a far corner of the room because the door is now blocked by not one, but two men. I'm having a hard time coming to terms with what I'm seeing, but it's true.
It's Lucien.
I watch as he pulls his arm back—his tense muscles quivering, and connects his fist into the man's face with a sick-sounding crack. A thick stream of blood flows down his face and I watch as he spits a tooth onto the floor. The man tries to retaliate but Lucien blocks the punch and delivers two swift blows to his body and by the looks of it—if his ribs were fine before, they certainly aren't now. He's doubled over but Lucien is rage blind, and doesn't stop until three guard finally rush in. They are holding cans of mace and they waste no time spraying it at my attacker and Lucien. Both men stumble and blink back the burn, their eyes red and watering.
"Grab 'em!" one guard yells, and I watch as they are both handcuffed and dragged out of the room, a trail of blood following them out the door.
"Kerri! Kerri! Oh my god, what happened?" another guard asks, rushing to my side.
"I'm okay," I say. "I'm shaken, but I'm okay. I was assaulted—inmate Stone came to my aid."
"Let's get you checked," he says, but I shake my head.
"There's no need—honest. I just want to go home."
The residual fumes from the mace are still hanging in the air and my eyes begin to water. It looks like I'm crying but it's from the intense, lingering burn. I wipe them with shirtsleeve and as I do this, I look at the ground and I see something blue out of the corner of my eye—my journal. How did it get on the ground? I know it wasn't there earlier. I rush over and scoop it up, quickly thumbing through the pages to see if everything is still intact and my eyes land on a page. I see marks that are clearly not mine. In thick pencil, two words have been circled over and over—The Alcove.
And then I remember Lucien. He must've had my journal. These marks have to be from him. If he hadn't have walked in—no, my mind can't follow that thought any further and I shudder. I don't know what would've happened if he wouldn't have been here, and I don't want to know.
I owe my life to him.
Lucien
This time doesn't feel so bad. I mean, it's solitary, which mean it isn't fun, but at least this time I'm in here for a good reason. I was trying to return Kerri's journal, and good fucking thing I decided to grow a conscience. I couldn't keep that book of hers any more. That woman is like a fucking saint. Kerri. God she's too good for this place. What timing, right? I'm glad I was there to kick his ass. I couldn't let that fat bastard get away with attacking her—or worse. I'd do it all over again.
I'm sitting with my back against the door when I hear the lock unlatching and a guard walks in. I turn around to get a good look at him. From the look on his face, he's all business.
"On your feet Stone. It's time for your exam."
I do as I'm instructed and I stand up. I grimace a bit, but suck it back. I landed on my ankle wrong in yesterday's fight, and I think it’s a bad sprain. I've had this before. I hobble over to the guard with a pronounced limp and he places the handcuffs around my wrists.
"What do you think I'm going to do?" I ask. "You think I'm gonna run or put up a fight with this ankle?"
"This is protocol Stone. Save your questions and come with me."
We walk out of the cell and down the hall, and continue walking. I look at the other cell doors and wonder how many people are currently being held in solitary. We walk until we reach the infirmary. I sit in a plastic chair to take the weight off of my ankle. It feels good to be off it. It was a bigger pain in the ass getting here than I thought it'd be. And then, a few moments later, I see her in the doorway. Her hair is alight with the sun from the window and her breasts are firm and I can't stop looking at them. I tell myself to look at her face and not her tits, but I can't help it. I immediately want to reach out and touch her—to touch that red halo of hers. To let her know that she's made me want to be a better man.
"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 s
o 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. Come 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.
"Yes and no," I said.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I might have a soft spot for an inmate, but not for the one who attacked me."
"Get the fuck out of here! You have to be joking. Please tell me you're joking, Ker."
"I wish I were, but I'm not. I'm serious as a heart attack."
I could hear her let out a long breath. "Well, shit. Who is he? He's hot isn't he? I can tell by the way your voice just went up an octave."
"It did not go up an octave," I say, rolling my eyes and thankful she can't see the warm flush creeping across my face. Maybe I'm just feeling warm from the wine.
"Just admit it," she prodded again.
"He's hot for a convict, okay? He's a little rough around the edges and I know he's not someone I should be falling for, but seeing him lying there on the exam table—"
Brie cut me off. "Wait—so you've seen him naked and sized up the whole package?"
"Well, I—uh, I may have done a little more than that."
"Shut up! You fucked this man?"
"No, no, no! I didn't mean that—I mean, he saved me from being attacked, and of course I've had to examine him, and—you know what? Never mind. Let's pretend I never mentioned it."
A warm flush spread across my entire body as I remembered him laying there, his chiseled abs like mini mountain ranges just begging to be explored—and my hand on his— I cut the memory short when I realize I still have Brie on the phone. I shift uncomfortably on the couch when I realize that the thought of him is sending an electric jolt right between my legs.
Brie laughs. "Whatever you say. Just don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Now that's funny. Brie changes men as often as most people change shoes. Every season, she has a new flavor.
"Don't worry. Nothing will come of this. He's serving a life sentence, and I know that anything we do will put my job in jeopardy."
"Oh god, a life sentence? What is he, a murderer?"
"Well, he says he didn't do it."
"Wait, let me stop you right there. Do you hear yourself, Ker? This man is serving a life sentence for murder and you're willing to overlook that just because he's hot? I don't know what's going on, but now I am more convinced than ever that you need to get the hell out of there. Come to me."
"Thanks, girl—you know I appreciate it. I'll give it some thought, okay?"
> Brie decided that answer was sufficient for now and we both promised to keep in touch before we hung up.
My mind snaps back to the present. Maybe Brie is right. Maybe a change of scenery would do me some good. And why am I allowing myself to get hung up on an inmate? The old me would have never done something like this. But this man is different—I swear there is an intensity and—despite what he is incarcerated for—a gentle honesty about him. And I have no idea where I would be right now if he hadn't have walked in on my attacker. For that I owe him.
I look at the clock and see that it's time for me to take my lunch break. I grab my bag and decide to head to the Alcove. At least there I can get lost in my thoughts and not worry about anyone finding me. When I get there, I find that I am still so conflicted. I should leave. There's no use hanging on to something that does not have a future. Shit. Why does this have to be so hard? I dig in my bag for a pack of cigarettes. I'm not a smoker, but I keep a pack for emergencies—situations where nothing else will calm my nerves. I look around, making sure no one is nearby and I flick the lighter on, inhaling until I see the orange glow. The smoke fills my lungs and I lean back into the wall. I exhale, and bat away a cloud of blue with a wave of my hand—I don't want anyone to see me. I close my eyes but the feel the presence of another person and quickly open them again. There's no one in front of me, but when I look to my left, I see a silhouette. It's an inmate standing at a distance. His eyes are looking at me intently and there's a palpable intensity in the gaze. He steps closer—slowly at first, unsure of what to say or how to approach me. I put my cigarette out and tuck my bag under my arm. He's now close enough to touch me and I see that it's Lucien Stone.