His cock spasms once, and I slide my mouth all the way up to his glans. It spasms again and I roll my lips out, slowly sucking as his cock pops out of my mouth. A wide smile on my face, I start to stroke him as hard as I can, moving my whole arm as I go up and down his cock. The third time he spasms, his cock shoots a thick rope of cum in my direction, his semen flying in an arch and hitting me straight in the chest. I don’t stop moving my hand, his semen completely covering my breasts and dripping down my stomach. He’s still spasming when I feel strands of his sliding down from my chest to between my thighs, blending in my own wetness.
Wanting to taste him, I angle his cock upward and open my mouth, sticking out my tongue. In a heartbeat he coats my tongue, the flavor of his warm semen making my mind buzz with delight. I wait until I feel my mouth brimming with his cum and, as soon as his cock stops spasming, I smack my lips and swallow, my eyes never leaving his.
“Good girl,” he says, smiling while he reaches for my lips with his thumb and wipes off a stray drop of cum. Slowly, I peel my fingers off his cock, the last strands of semen still dripping down his shaft.
“This… was amazing,” I mutter, my body still alight with pleasure.
“No,” he replies, that kind smile of his dancing on his lips. “It was perfect. It always is with you.”
Lucien Stone, where have you been all of my life?
Lucien
You know, my life has been pretty fucking shitty so far, but for the longest time if you’d have asked me, I wouldn’t have given a fuck.
Not so, anymore, amigo. I’ve got a fucking purpose now all of a sudden.
Sure, I’m still a fucking inmate. I’m broke, fucked up because of a life sentence for a crime I didn’t commit, and constantly on the lookout for anyone who might want to try and make himself a rep by stabbing me with a home made shiv.
But aside from all that, I’ve got purpose and determination. I know what I need to do.
You probably already know why, but let me spell it out for you just in case you need to understand one last time.
Kerri Curtis. The fucking light of my life.
Am I falling in love with her? I don’t know, man. But I will tell you this. Three weeks ago, if you'd have asked me that question, I would've either laughed at you or hit you in the fucking nose depending on who you were and where you were asking. But now? Now…I’m just going to shrug it off and tell you I don’t know the answer to that question.
It’s not just the sex, either, if that’s what you’re thinking. Sure it feels unreal fucking Kerri and sure she’s got the body of a fucking angel that gets my cock so big and fucking hard that it ends up with its own heartbeat.
But that’s not the only reason I’m falling in love with her. I know that for sure.
The way she looks at me when I’m inside of her. When she can’t talk. When she can’t breathe. When she’s gasping for air. In the throes of her fucking orgasm. The way she makes herself vulnerable. After everything she’s been through. It takes a lot of fucking courage to let yourself be vulnerable like that. I could never do that.
The way she makes me feel calm. At peace. Like the world isn’t such a shitty place that chews you up and fucks you before tossing you out like fucking trash. Like there’s a little bit of hope left. A little bit of goodness left in people that hasn’t been trampled and stamped out by cruelty and malice.
She makes me want to be a better man, even in here. She makes me feel regret that I had to meet her in here. That I couldn’t have met her on the outside.
But I need to fucking snap out of it. I'm inside. There’s no denying that fact. And no amount of fucking daydreaming and happiness is going to change that.
The best I can do is protect her from what she doesn’t understand. What I hope she’ll never have to understand.
The only way I can do that is to become the one thing that scares her. An inmate. A criminal.
Yeah, pretty fucked up, right? Ain’t got no fucking other option in this joint, babe. No other way.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I walk up to where Grinder is standing in the prison yard. He’s talking animatedly to Spider. Three other people stand around him. All mob guys, all part of the same gang I used to be in. Shaved heads. Tattoos up and down their arms. I know a few of them. The tall, fat guy—his name’s Earl. The skinnier dude with the close-cropped blonde hair, that’s Slim. And the short guy with the big ears and weasel-like face is called, you guessed it—Weasel.
That leaves Spider and Grinder.
Grinder has his name because he’s built like a fucking truck. His arms are the size of steel beams and he’s got a barrel chest that's deep like a tree trunk. He’s bald, and has jail tattoos all the way up his body, neck, and face. And his face. Jesus fucking Christ. It’s contorted in a twisted approximation of evil. His eyes are dark brown, basically black. And they turn toward me, his entire muscular frame moving as he sees me walk up to him.