Scanadlous(104)

I tried to be a straight arrow in school. And for a minute, I thought that maybe I had a real shot. Maybe I'd graduate and go to college. But who the fuck was I kidding? I never had a shot. I was on the losing end of the stick from day one. And once I realized that, I stopped caring. Then fast forward a few years and I meet Billy and the whole gang of those assholes—stealing cars, fucking women, and getting sucked into the crazy web of mob politics. Fucking Billy. If I would've known I was going to be framed, I would've put my fist so far down his fake-ass mouth it would've came out of his asshole. I should've rearranged his face, that's for sure. Too bad I'll probably never get that chance now.

I let out a sigh and lay down on the bed. The pillow is flat, but it's still better than the few months I found myself sleeping in a car—it's impossible to get comfortable in a small car, and if you've never tried it, I don't recommend it. I look at the blue journal again and flip through the pages. My eye lands on one page in particular. The handwriting seems hurried with the letters written in large loops. It reads:

"I saw a homeless man outside of the grocery store yesterday and I gave him $100. It was a lot to give, but it made me feel good. Then, later I was flooded with old memories. If I wasn't burdened by J--, I wouldn't be here, hiding in the alcove with bags under my eyes. I can't stop crying today. I feel stupid. He's not worth crying about anymore. I want to be the bigger person. I want to forgive him, but I can't. But at least I have this secret spot—The Alcove—it's my one sanctuary in this place, where no one finds me. At least here I can cry without anyone asking questions."

The Alcove? I'm guessing she means a secret spot here in the prison. I wonder where though? And who is J? Sounds like a Grade-A bastard if you ask me. I continue to flip through the pages and a loose picture falls out. It flutters to the floor of my cell in slow motion. I bend over and pick it up. It's a picture of Kerri. She's standing by a pool in a red bikini that nearly matches her hair. She is dipping one toe into the water and her head is tilted back into a smile. I can't help but look at her tits—those perfectly firm mounds, and her legs—toned and long. Holy shit. I've seen her outside of her uniform and she looks even better than I imagined. I picture myself moving my hands up her legs—as if I am at her feet and working my way up, and then in between her smooth thighs, and inside of her secret crevices. I kiss her warm skin and drag my lips upward.

Then I looked back at the picture—at her tits, and I envision my mouth wrapped around her nipples—maybe even gently holding them in between my teeth. I'm giving them a little nibble, only enough to send a shiver down her spine. And then I look at the tight crevice between her tits; I picture sliding my cock between them. Warm and tight. That thought puts me over the top. I notice that my cock is throbbing and erecting a tight tent inside of my pants.

I wet my hand with my mouth and reach into my pants, grabbing my cock with a firm grip. I imagine this grip is really the crevice of her tits hugging my cock, and I stroke it, slow and steady at first, and then I increase the tempo as if I were fucking those sweet tits of hers. Oh fuck, I say, just above a whisper. I move faster. I feel my balls clench. My whole body is pulsing with desire. Shit, I can't hold back any longer. My body bucks and ropes of hot cum shoots out of my cock and into my fist. I keep coming and some of it shoots onto the floor. I continue to milk my cock, even when I think I have nothing left. Wave after wave of cum is spilling around me.

Finally, resigned, I take a deep breath and open my eyes. I look back at Kerri's picture. It hits me. While I'm innocent of the crime that I'm doing time for, it's fucking karma.





Kerri





This guy looks familiar. I've seen this spider web tattoo before—yes, that's right. Now I can place him. He's the man who cracked Lucien's clavicle.

"It hurts right here," he says, pointing to his ribs. He's mouthing this to me through the glass door, and I'm reading his lips. The guards are changing shifts and it seems odd that he's standing outside of my door unattended. He has a wild look in his eyes and a strange feeling settles into my gut, but he grimaces and the skin around his eyes wrinkle, and I feel bad. Maybe he's just in a lot of pain and needs treatment. I'm sure someone must have sent him. It's my job to help these people without bias, right?

"Can you describe the pain that you're feeling?" I ask. I'm talking loudly and using hand gestures through the glass.

He has a confused look on his face. "I can't hear you."

I repeat myself, this time even louder. I'm practically yelling.

He shakes his head. "I still can't hear you." And then I see him grimace again, and he is bending over at the waist, holding his side. It looks like it could be serious and I hold a debate in my head. Should I open the door? One part of me says I should have opened it when he approached. This inmate deserves treatment and should be examined. But the other part of me knows that it's inherently dangerous to treat patients without the safety net of a guard standing near by. I look at him again and feel bad, so I decide to open the door. Kindness wins.