you're too young & eager to love

More randomness!

I've always wanted to write some type of prisoner + therapist scenario. In my quest to improve my porn, I decided to use those molds. Granted, there's no back story and there's no plot, but oh well. I just think the idea is interesting, and I kept (very loosely) Harley Quinn and The Joker in the back of mind for a reference. A physical attraction with a deep sinisterness lurking everywhere.

I have no idea what to tag this as.

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He’s been locked up for a while. He’s got the hungry stare of all the others, a rippling beneath his surface that intimidates you. (You had classes on this, of course, and internship hours where hardened criminals spoke vulgarities against your face and you never once flinched. You went home and cried, but you set your shoulders and raised your chin during work hours.)

Your tongue is heavy from chewing ice the first time he’s brought into your office. You touch your stiff collar and stand behind your desk, smiling like your teeth don’t hurt.

He stares at you hard. You can feel the low burn in your belly, the way his gaze slides from your modest heels, up your legs, over your sensible skirt and blouse, skates over the drape of cotton at your breasts, and finally to your face.

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“You raped a woman.”

“Sure did.”

He places his hands on your shoulders, and his fingers are rough. Calloused from gripping prison cell bars or working out in open cement yards. He has a stretch of tattoos on his skin and they look odd against you, like he’s trying to place a watercolor over you, trying to blur your edges.

Your mouth is smiling, but your eyes are so sad.

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He pulls you on top of him in the middle of the floor. His feet hit the chair and it rolls gently backward, bumps lightly against your closed door. He kisses you slow, and you didn’t think rapists could do that, so you answer savagely, biting his lip and licking the back of his teeth.

The uniform inmates are required to wear don’t have belts. Convenient, because your hands are shaking so badly that you don’t think you could have undone one. You can barely pull his cock out. You move so quick that he takes you by the arms, stopping you, and he’s got this aching expression on his face all of a sudden – his body already anticipating how you will feel. But his words suggest differently as he sweeps your hair back from your face. “Hey, easy,” he says into your clavicle. “Slow it down.”

He makes you stand, and you feel so small beside him even though he isn’t much taller. Two inches shy of six foot but with hard, flint eyes. Still in his twenties. Still attractive despite the atrocity of his criminal record.

Down on his knees, he rucks up your modest, conservative skirt. (You dress like a matron. It’s a necessity, but it hardly seems to have made a difference now.) He parts your knees, and, before you can think about this, licks a long stripe up your cunt. You steady yourself with a hand tangled in his short hair, somewhere between throwing up and bucking your hips. He opens you up with his hand and mouths at you hungrily, like he’s starved. You’re not as turned on as you pretended, but he can work on that, so he gives you two fingers, feels you clench and your back arch.

It takes a long time, but he makes you come for him, all musk and wet heat crashing against his mouth.

He tells you that he’s going to love you forever, and the cry you make sounds like a sob.

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