by Shelly Pratt
I almost cry out when he pulls away, his touch already wanted so much. I’m left panting as he tugs my steel-capped boots off. I lift myself up off the bench so that he can access my trousers, which fall swiftly to the ground as they’re yanked off my ass and down my legs.
All that’s left are bare flesh and flimsy panties. I want those gone too. His fingers pry the thin material to the side and his tongue finds its way to my folds. This feels way better than it should, yet I can’t deal with that in my head right now. All I know is that I just need him more than dry earth needs rain in a drought.
Hands skim over my legs while I buck against his tongue that’s sliding in and out of my wet depths. My panties feel like they’re going to tear off at any moment, but I’m way past caring. I let his rough hands work me into a frenzy, making me close to uttering all kinds of things out of my mouth. He may just get me begging after all.
‘Saxon…’
He hears me, and knows what I need. He yanks his T-shirt off and picks me back up off the bench, choosing to thrust me up against the wall instead. The parts of my body now bare to the touch caress the smoothness of his own skin. There is no denying how good it feels to be held in his arms, his warm body doing all kinds of wonderful things to me. Our mouths find each other again and I can feel him freeing his erection.
It’s been a while for me, but my slickness offers no resistance as he nudges his cock deep inside. I want to grab him with everything I have, holding tight and rocking with him as he pleasures me in ways I thought I’d never feel again. He lets me grip around his neck, climbing higher for purchase as his thrusts slam me against the wall. I’m so turned on I can hardly think of anything else.
His hands squeeze my ass, pulling me as close as possible so that I can grind against him. He growls like a wounded animal, a feral side of him on show as he nears climax. The sound spurs me on, building the ache deep within. I let him stroke me, faster with each and every thrust.
‘Mercy, I’m sorry, sweetheart.’ He pants rapidly, desperately trying to slow his impending orgasm, but he’s too far gone to do anything about it. I feel him as he stills against me, the wall propping us both up. The excitement of him coming tips me over the edge, too. My body shatters around him, thrumming with pleasure as an orgasm rocks me to my core. I hold on to him, needing him more than I even realized.
My body is flooded with a million emotions all at once. Euphoria, gratification, contentment and exhilaration wash over me. With it comes sadness and guilt.
Deep breaths become soul-wracking sobs. I cling to him and bury my face in his neck, not wanting him to see me as I fall apart. I cry—for Daniel, for me and for Saxon too. I’m so overcome with emotion I don’t even know how I’m going to turn it off.
He holds me, shushing me, letting me cry it all out.
‘It’s okay, Mercy. You’re not alone. I’m here. You’re not alone anymore.’
Even though he’s still catching his breath, his voice is gentle and quiet, soothing me into silence. I didn’t expect to find comfort in the arms of another man, but something about Saxon made it seem okay. He knows what loss is. He understands the depths of my despair, and just how deep my loneliness runs. He knows how to take the ache of my grief away with simple words and actions.
Saxon is becoming a cathartic fondness that could swiftly steal my heart away before it has even had the chance to become whole again.
#18
I wasn’t expecting the raw emotion that Mercy Cole was dishing out. It rolled off her in waves and threatened to drown me too, which I’d happily sink under all over again if she’d only give in to me once more.
Her pain runs deep, that much is certain. I don’t know if I can make a difference in her life, but she sure as hell makes a difference in mine. And for that, I’m guilty of being selfish enough to continue my affair with her whether she’s ready or not.
Yesterday was a rush. My body felt things I’ve only dreamed about in here, which made the whole experience seem so surreal—almost like it didn’t happen. All my need and want were taken away and appeased, a release so strong it had ripples and affected her, too. It made me feel like she trusts me now, our bond sealed shut with secrets, affection and fear.
It’s amazing the difference one single day can make. In a place like this, it can mean the difference between heaven and hell.
Yesterday was heaven, today, hell. Mercy never works on a Sunday. It means I’m subjected to the reality that, yes, I’m still stuck in this shithole and not about to get out any time soon. It’s back to the real world for me. A world where toilets need scrubbing, meal times mean watching your back and sleep is the only cure for boredom.
I read a little, although my heart isn’t in it. I’m curious as to what she’s doing today and wonder absently what she’d be wearing on her day off. Does she go out, venturing into the world, or does she stay home, cocooning herself within a space she feels comfortable—a place where outsiders can’t see through her fragile veneer?
It’s funny how the mind works, how it functions in order to protect itself. I like to imagine that she lives a certain way while she’s away from here, but it’s only because I can’t be a part of that life that I make it so she’s unreachable by anyone else. Does her mind replay every single touch and kiss, or has my mark on her body already been washed clean like it never even existed in the first place?
Monday’s reunion will tell the truth, although it stabs a little fear inside of me to be so vulnerable.
Late afternoon sees the inmates from my cell block out in the rec yard. I go and find my usual spot at the top of the bleachers, prime real estate for catching the late afternoon breezes that bring the scent of the salty ocean with it. The air is frigid, but the only way to feel alive is when it bites at your face with vengeance.
I warm my hands by blowing into them, my eyes doing a steady dance from one inmate to the next. If you’re not always on the lookout for threats then you may as well be asking for trouble.
Activity around the yard seems quiet. The self-imposed segregation of gangs sees ethnicity spread to the four corners. It’s only the whites that seem to cross all barriers without any care for color or creed.
My interest spikes when I spot Jessop on the far side of the yard. He’s the old timer who happily delivered my kite in exchange for a little of my soul. He weaves in and out of the inmates, roving freely without preamble or restraint.
I watch, seemingly uninterested as he slowly makes his way towards me. There is no beeline – I can just feel that I’m his destination.
When he reaches the bleachers, my curiosity is piqued. He takes the briefest of pauses, taking note of those eyes that are on him. He’s weighing up something, although I’m not privy to his internal debate.
He takes each step with caution, careful not to slip as the condensation from the cool air starts to settle on the aluminum benches. His hands are in the pockets of his pants – whether for warmth or concealment I’m not sure. I’m on high alert, never knowing just who I can trust in here. Friendships are nonexistent and loyalty unheard of. It’s best to act first and ask questions later. But he’s older than me and I’m quite confident he’d come out second best if he has any intention of getting the jump on me.
With caution, he approaches, and then sits down without invitation. He says nothing, but sits quietly and surveys the yard with watery eyes and dripping nose. The cold bothers some more than others. This guy looks like he could do with a hanky. I try to ignore him despite sneaking glances at him out of my peripheral vision. After five minutes, he still says nothing.
‘Did you want something, old man?’
He tuts, his disapproval evident.
‘Aren’t you mister impatient? Well since you asked, I thought I could offer you a very valuable bit of information.’
‘Is that right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And what made you want to share this information with me?’
‘Well, after
our little arrangement last time, I assumed you’d be willing to get your friend on the outside to make another generous deposit into my canteen kitty in exchange for the drop on the gossip that’s circulating the wire.’
‘What makes you think the information is important?’
‘Well now, I’d assume anything to do with your life in here is important, son.’
‘I see.’
‘So, do we have a deal?’ He looks at me now, his watery, pale blue eyes searching my face.
‘Yes, we have a deal. So give.’ I go back to staring out across the yard, as though Jessop isn’t interesting enough to hold my attention. Appearances are very important around here.
‘They’re planning on paying you a little visit, son. You might want to rethink sleeping tonight.’
‘Who?’
‘Those boys you pissed off when they were trying to have a piece of your cherry pie.’
‘You got a time?’
‘Midnight’s good. Witching hour, isn’t it?’
‘Could be, old man, could be.’
Message delivered, he removes himself from the seat and meanders off, losing himself amongst the sea of inmates that are finishing their workout before we’re called inside.
When rec time’s over, I follow slowly in the back, wanting my ass covered by a guard bringing up the rear as opposed to an inmate who might see it fit to shank me right now.
We march single file to the mess hall for dinner. I grab my tray and do the smart thing by seating myself right under a guard’s nose. It may seem cowardly but I’m only buying time. I’m going to have to confront these assholes, and I have no problem with that. I just don’t want to do it here where I can be made and have more time added to my nightmare.
The unease I’m suffering makes it hard to get the gluggy mess down, but I know it’s a long time between meals so I push through it. Nobody pays me any attention and I’m satisfied that for the time being, I’m safe enough.
I’m relieved when it’s time to go back to my cell for lock up. While the bars keep me in, they also keep others out. Usually. Not tonight, though.
Time passes slowly. All thoughts of Mercy have left me as I have an anxious wait ahead. I rest on my bunk, but sleep will not come any time soon. I’m on high alert, every muscle taut and ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
Dark comes to Silverwater, and with it the night din that reverberates off the walls. We’re like animals – wolves that echo off vast landscapes in the middle of the night. It would be extremely disturbing to ears that have never heard it before.
The pattern of routine continues. Inmates start to snore. Guards change shift. Rounds are made. Somewhere down the cell block coffee is being made. Chatter from a distant television can be heard and I swear I can hear the tick-tock of a wall clock somewhere. Witching hour encroaches and I decide I can’t be still any longer.
I slide off the bunk quietly, landing on soft feet before padding to the front of my diminutive cell. I press myself against the concrete wall, one ear to the bars so I can keep my senses tuned towards any sound that’s out of the ordinary.
I hear a door buzz near the guard’s station. That would be the night guard doing his rounds. That means F Block is left temporarily unmanned.
The chink of keys reaches my ears. Fuck. I’d love to know whose dick they sucked to get a set of those. I ball my fists tight, preparing myself for the worst. I strain my ears to listen hard, to really hear every sound in the prison. Movement comes from the opposite side of the cell block, hushed voices communicating hurriedly. They only have a brief window and we both know it.
Two pairs of feet exit a cell, but only one shuffles in my direction. I can hear the soft pad of his socked feet, inching their way along. Whoever it is stops short of my bars, close enough to whisper, but far enough out of reach.
I tense up, the unknown killing me more than the certain.
Further down the cell block I can hear the jingle of the keys again. This confuses me no end. I know it must be the Lebanese guys, out for a little retribution. What has me stumped is why they’ve split up.
The low moan of solid bars creaking makes my ears prick up. One of them is entering another cell. It hits me then just what they’re up to. I’m about to yell out when a low, menacing voice outside of my cell confronts me.
‘Do you know why we kill the messenger?’ His voice is mocking me, thick with an Arabic accent. I have no time to process his words or what they mean before he continues. ‘Because it sends a message.’ He draws out the last word, a long hiss whispered out of his mouth.
My blood runs cold, and the hair on my arms stands on end. I can hear him run then, back to his cell as a terrifying cry sounds out down the block.
I know who they killed.
All hell breaks loose as the poor guy surely bleeds out. They sent a very clear warning to me by killing Jessop. They want me to know that they can get to me anytime, anywhere they choose. Anyone even thinking of helping me is going to end up in the same boat.
There will be no stopping them until they’ve secured their payback. If someone gets in the way they’ll just be collateral damage.
If I’m going to survive the next eight months of my sentence, I’m either going to have to watch my back or start pleading with the parole board to fast track my application for an early release.
Something tells me I may just run out of time before they can make that happen. Despite doing everything I can to stay out of trouble in here, somehow it’s found me anyway.
#19
The battle still rages, forcing my subconscious to the forefront of my mind, making me face a reality that I’d sometimes like to bury. I’m not under any illusions, though. I know what this is, and it isn’t love. Well, maybe it’s love of a different kind. It’s comfort and solace and a deep understanding of pain and pleasure and what they can both do to a person. Saxon makes my pain easier to bear, the pleasure a helping hand in doing that.
He takes me away from reality, and I let him willingly. I don’t hide from it anymore. I grab, steal and force the moments from him because of the way he makes me feel. And trust me, it’s a hell of a lot better than dead inside.
There is something about him that gives just as much as he takes. While he’s also gaining something from the moments we share with each other, I feel him giving me more of him than he rightly should. He wants to fix the broken side of me, the woman who needs to be shown that life does indeed go on. Even when there are no words exchanged, his example is all the explanation I need.
Sometimes he catches me. He knows where my headspace is at. He hates that the grips of Danny’s ghost still cause me anguish – causes me to second guess myself and him. What he doesn’t realize is that I’m relying on him more and more to replace the sadness that Danny’s memory fills me with. That in itself only serves to make me feel guilty as sin.
There are moments when I shudder to think what Daniel would say about my continued affair with a convicted criminal. He’d roll over in his grave, I’m sure.
The only comfort I can give myself when these moments come, are to convince myself that Daniel wouldn’t want me to be miserable. He’d want me to be happy, and as much as Saxon is every wrong choice on paper, he’s the only one who makes me feel like me again – the me who was once young and vibrant, willing to embrace each day as opposed to shying away from it.
He’s watching me now, knowing that I’m thinking again. Stewing is probably a better analogy. Without a word he puts his brush down and wipes his hands on the rag hooked over the waistband of his pants. He takes a quick peek out of the library door before coming over to sit next to me. Without permission or caution, he sweeps me up into his lap and holds me close against his firm chest. His embrace is warm and comforting.
‘Talk to me,’ he commands. His voice is warm and husky, and although he wants me to tell him what’s on my mind, he’s by no means forceful.
‘This will all be over soon.’ The sound of my voice bo
thers me more than it should. I sound troubled again, which I know is not what he or I want.
‘Hey, look at me.’ I half turn to gaze upon the planes of his face. Dark stubble covers his features and his green eyes twinkle with warmth. His hair is a lot shorter than when I first laid eyes on him, but it suits him. He swivels me all the way around so that I’m straddling him.
He grabs my ass and slides me closer towards him, his arms running up the length of my back and pulling me closer to his chest. I lean forward and kiss him unexpectedly. He deepens it straightaway, always ready to take more than I’m offering.
‘We should have these kinds of chats more often,’ he says.
‘The library will be finished soon.’
‘Hey,’ he grins, lifting my chin so I look him in the eye. ‘I can always tell the warden I’d be happy to work on the flooring.’
I haven’t wanted to tell him, but I’ve already met with the warden recently. I know our time is almost up, yet I can’t bring myself to believe that this is all there is.
‘They’re getting a professional in to contract the job. We’re finished in here as soon as you put the last lick of lacquer on the bookshelves.’
‘Well, I’ve got a meeting with the parole board early next week. You never know, they could always approve me for early release. My jacket certainly doesn’t show any bad behavior since I’ve been in the joint.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Mercy Cole, I might think you’re starting to care about me.’
‘I just—’
‘I’d miss you, too, sweetheart. You’re not alone, okay. I’m still here and I’ll find a way to be with you.’
I run my hands under his shirt, wanting to cling to him while I know he’s still here.
‘Jesus! Your hands are like ice.’ He removes them and brings them up to his mouth, blowing hot air across my fingertips to warm them up. His breath tickles me, dancing across my skin like feather tips.
