by Carter Blake
But it is ridiculously boring. These people—supposedly the most savage and unlawful bunch of sorry asses around here—have been pitifully easy to dominate. I expected some violence, some resistance.
Maybe I’ll start a war or something. Get everyone throwing chairs around. I’d like that.
Trouble is, they would all make a pile of noise, do a few exciting, violent things, then sit down and whine about it.
It’s boring.
Alison’s not boring.
Even as her body opened like a flower in the sun, she struggled. She fought against herself. She didn’t want to…but she did want to…and finally, her hot pussy won. It beat her mind.
No. I did. I inflamed her so much, she became a thing of passion and desire.
I’m all tantalized, thinking this through. Will she be easier next time? Or harder?
Now that she knows what to expect, will she put up barriers? Maybe she’ll think of her own body as a traitor and work to control it.
I remember the sweet lips of her pussy. The taste. The way she gasped in surprise as my cock went deep into her.
That innocent, sweet, shocked look after I forced my cock down her throat. I’m going to come down that throat, someday soon. Those sweet lips are going to eat everything I can give, and she’s going to love it and beg for more.
I can’t wait to see how she responds to me next time we see each other.
If she will be soft like a lover. Hard like a doctor. Confused, caught between the two.
I can’t even begin to guess, and that’s what I love. I can’t possibly predict it.
The one thing I do know is that I’m right about us being connected. That kind of opening doesn’t just happen in a matter of minutes.
I feel the satisfied smile creeping over my face. She’s been thinking of me. She’s been wanting me.
That out-of-body connection I can feel is real, and she feels it, too.
So I can be fairly certain that even if she reacts coldly or tries to resist me that it’s not her true desire.
Her true desire is to give herself to me. To let go, like she just did.
Is her body on fire right now? Replaying the soft kisses on her pussy, the driving hardness of my cock? Is she laying in bed at night, hot body aching, whispering my name?
I can’t help it. I laugh out loud as I clamp the end of the cigar between my teeth.
I notice a shadow in the door.
“Old Dog!” I call out. “Sorry, fella. I was off in my own little world. You got my ten percent?”
He nods, not speaking, and comes in. On the floor next to my bunk, he drops a small pile of contraband goods. Some smokes. Candy. Some booze.
A guard walks past and looks in on the way past. I give him a salute; he returns it with a nod. They don’t give a fuck what I’m doing.
Lummox trundles through the door. He has the chess board.
“Hey there, Old Dog. You want to play chess with me? Lummox here just doesn’t have the brain power.”
Old Dog shakes his head.
I sit up. Putting my new glass down carefully. “What?”
Old Dog looks up and scowls. “Sorry, Mister Covington. Of course I’ll play chess with you.”
“That’s more like it.”
Alison
Despite my half-hysterical breakdown last night, I arrive to work on time—if a little harried.
I forgot my usual rolling briefcase and found myself having to haul everything in myself. So now, I’m left trying to balance multiple case files (I do have other cases to work, though none are quite as pressing), my purse, thermos, water bottle, and breakfast—all while trying to unlock and open my office door.
I can feel the accordion folders slipping, and I’ve just resigned myself to the inevitability of having to pick them all up, when two large hands slip in and pluck them from their precarious position.
“Here you go, Dr. Hughes. Let me help you with that.”
My hair has fallen like a sheet along the side of my face as I bend to unlock my door, so my vision is partially obscured. However, as the lock clicks open, I raise my head to find myself staring up at the guard Jaxon tried to choke to death yesterday. I blink, momentarily stunned, then smile.
“Thank you so much,” I say. “Larry, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right Dr. Hughes, Larry Krenshaw.” He sticks out his hand and smiles carefully. I notice his lip looks split and tender.
I somewhat awkwardly shift my paraphernalia around and shake his hand, before directing him where to set down the file folders.
“Coffee didn’t leave a stain, I hope?” he asks, hovering at the door.
“What?” I ask, trying to get everything put away and situated. Then what he means clicks.
“Oh! No, no, it didn’t stain. Thank you for your concern.” I finally take a good look at him and notice he’s fidgeting and shifting from one foot to the next. Like he needs to talk.
I feel myself frown slightly.
“Well, I’ll see you around, doc.” He turns to go.
“Wait!” I yell. He stops-mid stride. “Mr. Krenshaw.”
“Larry,” he corrects me with a smile.
I return it. “Larry,” I say gently. “I’d really love to discuss the events of the other day with you, if you don’t mind. Let me just get settled here and—”
“That won’t be necessary Doc,” he says, his eyes widening in what looks like panic. “Nothing to discuss.”
Curious.
“Mr. Krenshaw…”
“Larry,” he mumbles automatically.
I start again. “Larry, would it put you at ease to know that you would have doctor-patient confidentiality? I swore an oath never to disclose what is discussed in my sessions. We don’t have to talk about what happened the other day; we can discuss whatever you like. But you look like you have something on your mind, and I’d like to help.”
As I talk, I can see the panic dissipate. Though he still looks a bit uncomfortable, he agrees to come back in two hours, when he has a break. I nod and say that I’ll see him then.
I spend the next two hours going over other patients’ files. I decided last night, after a hot bath and my second bowl of ice cream that I needed a bit of distance. So, regardless of the deadline, I swore to spend the day detoxing from Jaxon by reading other case files and performing other necessary, but somewhat neglected tasks.
If I want to continue to treat Jaxon (and I’ve really been given no other choice), then I have to compartmentalize my feelings for him and whatever our relationship might be. To do that, I need distance, hence the necessity of the “detox.”
I’m just finishing up an email when I hear a soft rap on my door.
“Come in,” I say without looking up.
“Is now a good time, Dr. Hughes?”
“Yes, of course Mr. Kren—er, Larry. Now is perfect. Please come in and have a seat. I’ll be with you shortly. Help yourself to some coffee.” I wave him to one of the empty chairs in the small sitting area I use for sessions.
After quickly finishing up what I’m doing, I head over and sit directly across from him, setting my notepad and pen to the side. I notice he looks uncomfortable again, like the prison uniform is too tight. He can’t seem to sit still.
He picks up his coffee cup, takes a sip, puts it down, picks it up again, fidgets with it, and on and on and on. I take a breath and slip on my doctor face—bland, unassuming smile, inquisitive, but not probing eyes. I struggle with the empathy often necessary in these sessions but approximate it very well.
“Now Larry, is there anything you’d like to discuss?”
He glances around the room before settling on a point somewhere over my left shoulder.
“Will you…” He pauses, seemingly unsure what to say. Though I remain quiet, I notice him occasionally reach up and stroke his throat.
Nervous soothing? Or a reminder?
Then his words tumble out in a rush. “Will you just…will you just let Mr. Cov
ington know that I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to upset him. I didn’t mean to make him angry.
“I know it was my fault. It was all my fault, and I’d just feel terrible if something were to happen to him because of it. He’s promised to do good by me, and I know he will. I just…I just…”
At this point, he breaks down and begins to sob into his hands.
I calmly hand him the box of tissues, a sympathetic expression on my face. But inside, I am horrified. What has Jaxon done to this man?
He takes a deep breath in an attempt to get himself under control. “Just tell him again how sorry I am for causing that mess the other day.” He squeezes his eyes shut and continues trying calm down.
Ever so gently, I lean forward and place my hand lightly on his arm.
He jumps.
I frown at this but continue in my soothing therapist voice. “Larry, look at me. Look at me, Larry.” He finally opens his eyes and looks at me. “You did nothing wrong. Mr. Covin—Jaxon Covington is a very sick man, and I’m doing my best to help him.
“His actions were in the wrong the other day. Not yours. I need you to know that, Larry. You don’t owe Jaxon Covington a thing. If anything, he owes you for allowing me to handle the dispute and not reporting it.”
At this, he huffs a sad, rueful laugh. “It wouldn’t matter if I did. Every person here is in his pocket.” Then his face twists. “Even you.”
I sit back, a bit stunned. Then, as if he realizes he’s just said something he shouldn’t have, his face again grows panicked.
“I’m sorry, doc! Oh, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean that at all. Please don’t say anything to Mr. Covington.” His eyes are rolling around in his head like a panicked horse.
I lean forward again and touch his arm in an attempt to soothe him, but I swear I just make it worse. He jumps at my touch.
“Th-th-thank you for the coffee,” he stammers out. “But I need to be getting back. My break’s been too long.”
“Of course,” I say softly. “My apologies for keeping you. Everything you’ve told me will remain just between us.”
He nods gratefully, and then he’s gone.
As the door clicks shut, I’m unable to move from my seat. I can feel myself have a bit of cognitive dissonance, because I’m fairly certain this is the chair Jaxon and I fucked in.
The thought arouses me but also sends a cold shiver of dread down my spine. My stomach churns in disgust.
I thought we’d made progress. I actually thought Jaxon was capable of reform. But after listening to the abused guard apologize for triggering Jaxon and recoiling in fear at the mere thought of upsetting him, I’m no longer sure.
In fact, I can be sure of only one thing: I will remain his doctor because I have no other choice.
But everything else between Jaxon Covington and me is through. No matter what this thing is between us. No matter how much I may think I love him.
I won’t be an idle party to his corruption.
I cannot be a Bonnie to his Clyde.
Jaxon
Old Dog sits across from me, sitting on an overturned bucket. Chairs are hard to get up the stairs. I’m sitting on my bunk, chess board between us on an old milk crate.
We’ve been playing for a few hours now. Not many pieces left on the board. I quite like playing with Old Dog. He’s shrewd. Not really that smart, but he definitely got a gift for planning ahead.
“What did you do before you hit the joint, Old Dog?” I ask softly, ready to move my knight.
We’re sharing some candy, biscuits, and booze. We picked up another pack of smokes, and there’s a bit of a party feel in the air. One of the guards even found us a radio.
“English professor.” Old Dog chews on a smoke.
His teeth are yellow, and so are his fingers. He likes to roll his own cigarettes and smoke them right down to the skin.
I smack my leg, laughing. “No kidding? Really? I never would have guessed.” I take in his long, lanky grey hair, his tough skinny build.
I move my knight, taking a piece, making him hiss through his teeth. I’m trying to imagine him with a haircut, shave, and decent suit. It’s difficult.
“How long you been in here, Old Dog?”
“Twenty years.” He rubs the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Thereabouts.”
“You ever getting out?”
“Nope.”
“What did you do, Old Dog?”
He looks up at me, clear blue eyes steady. “I killed one of my students.”
“Well, mother fuck me. Care to tell the story?”
I can tell he doesn’t want to, but he also knows I’m just looking for an excuse to beat on him again. He still has a nice purple bruise across his neck. The chess is not quite occupying me as much as I’d hoped.
“I disciplined the little fucker.” He moves pieces on the board. “I can’t remember rightly. I caught the little shit egging my car. My wife had just divorced me that day. I don’t rightly recall, but apparently, I beat him to death with my briefcase.”
I start laughing, slapping my knee. “You’re kidding? A briefcase?”
“Yup. As I said, I don’t rightly recall, but they showed me the footage.”
I’m laughing so hard now, tears are leaking out of my eyes. “You…you were caught on camera?”
“Yep. Whole school was covered by cameras. Not like I was thinking.” He looks up, grinning. “The final shot was the briefcase to the throat. The little fuck was probably dead already, but the last hit almost took his motherfucking head off.”
“You don’t say.” I’m still laughing. “Well, I’m impressed, Old Dog. You miss anything from outside?”
He studies the chess board. He probably misses everything.
“Hey, Lummox!” I bellow.
He’s standing by the door like he’s Old Dog’s personal assistant. Maybe he is. Maybe they’re boyfriend and girlfriend. Anything is possible.
“What you in for?” I call out.
“Robbery,” he speaks over his shoulder.
“What did you steal?”
“Shoes.”
I’m laughing again. Oh, this is too good.
“You’re in jail! For stealing shoes!” I roll back on the bunk, roaring with laughter. “It’s not the answer I expect from a fat cunt like you, but maybe you have fine taste in fashion. What the fuck do I know?”
Lummox turns around. Looks right at me. “Hey there, Mr. Covington. You don’t know what it’s like. To not be able to afford decent shoes. Your feet hurt everywhere you go. You get cold and wet, and if you can’t afford good shoes, you can’t afford to get sick. And sick is what you get if you walk around in holey shoes.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes, sitting up. “You know what, Lummox? That actually made a certain kind of sense.”
He doesn’t turn around. Just grunts.
I’ll have to ponder this at some length. People too poor to afford shoes. Huh.
What about socks? I don’t even know who buys my fucking socks. I usually have some say in the shoes, but it’s all put together by a tailor. And sometimes stuff just arrives for free.
What a world.
I look down to the board and mop up Old Dog with my final move. He exclaims in surprise.
“I didn’t even see that coming, Mr. Covington!”
“That’s the whole idea.” I waggle a smoke at him.
I don’t let him call me Jaxon yet. But maybe soon.
I already had some respect for Old Dog. Finding out his crime has only impressed me more. Maybe he’s a bit crazy.
I like that.
“May I go now?”
“You got a date or something?”
“I suppose not. We can play again. Or I can get some cards. You like poker?”
“I do like poker.”
“Then we should play. Unless you want us to fuck off for a bit. I know you like your space.”
“Yeah, sure, Old Dog, you and Lummox can fuck off. Hey,
what have we here?”
Benny’s at the door with a skinny-looking kid. New guy.
I gesture at Old Dog and Lummox to stay. Benny hangs in the doorway.
The two guards nearby raise their heads, and we share a second of eye contact. I wish some of my criminals were as dependable as these guards.
“He demanded to be brought to the big boss, Mr. Covington.”
“Did he now?” I take a hard drag, squinting through the smoke, “What’s your trouble there, young man?”
He’s twitchy, looking at walls furtively and scratching the back of his arm. His eyes dart around before falling on me.
“I’m crazy, you see.”
“Uh-huh.” This should be good.
“Like really nuts.” He looks right at me as if this should mean something.
“Go on kid. I’m losing patience with you, but what the hell.”
He twitches some more. “I need to speak with the boss guy. Let him know I don’t mean nothin’. Don’t go stabbing me in the shower for mouthing obscenities and such. I can’t help it.”
I’m starting to think the little fuck is trying to intimidate me. I don’t believe he’s that crazy, not for a second. I think it’s an act.
How do I know this? Because I see crazy every time I look in the fucking mirror. It doesn’t look like this.
Crazy isn’t what you think it is. It doesn’t show, not on the surface. Not the real crazy.
The real crazy lives so deep in the mind, it hides itself. It’s like it has its own survival instinct. It blends in.
It’s not as obvious as this poor little fuck.
He takes a step forward, looking at my face, eyes jittering back and forth.
“Is this supposed to scare me? Little Punk. Little crazy. Hold on. I have to find a name that sticks.” I puff my smoke, looking at the ceiling, trying to come up with a decent word. Something descriptive that I’ll remember.
“My name’s Mike.” He looks confused.
“No, it’s not. Its Mozzie. Because mosquitoes are little and annoying and fucking useless. Get out of my cell, Mozzie.”
“I told you!” He takes two steps towards me. “I’m fucking crazy and dangerous, and my name is Mike.”
He looks desperate. Maybe this act works on the non-crazy. I’m sure it does.