The Warden

“I’m not done with you Benedicta. Sit. Down.”

“Of course you’re not finished with me.” She’s standing, pissed off, and flushed. I wanted to say so many things, but I felt this overwhelming urge to spank the attitude out of her and comfort her simultaneously. I told myself it was wrong. It was out of place. My kink had no business inside this office, my job, or what was currently transpiring between a prison inmate and the warden. Absolutely and utterly wrong to do what I was about to do, inching closer to her. My own body charged by her defiance. I grabbed her arms.

“You know my lawyer tried this shit, and I kicked him in the balls for it too.” Her hot breath skimmed my chest through my dress shirt standing so short next to me.

“Did you now? I would have liked seeing that.” I teased.

Warily she looked away and then back at me murmuring with a shrug, “I’m kind of a ball kicker.”

I laughed.

“Noted. Now I can see how far that got you, Benedicta.” I wasn’t really scolding her, but I did shift one leg so that, if she tried kicking me, I’d get a graze and not a direct hit. I wasn?

??t stupid.

“I hate my name,” she uttered. With her hands fisted in mine, she gets nowhere.

“What can I call you, sweetheart?” She bristled easing her struggles against me.

“Nene, you can call me Nene if you’re going to manhandle me like this.”

“I’d like to call you Nene because you want me to have that privilege… not because I coerced you.” There were plenty of things I wanted from her. Honesty. Trust. Submission. Cajoling her until it frustrated me hadn’t worked. However, the moment I got slightly rough, she simmered down. Her trust was a gossamer wing, easily torn, and she was in need of a firm hand.

My firm hand.

Seven

Nene

“I shouldn’t want you like this, but I do,” he said as his hands pushed me backward bumping against the desk. The hard corner rested against my ass, none too gently reminding me how strong he was compared to me. I was no match for the warden as he picked me up and dumped me on top. Papers drifted to the floor like a B rated porn movie, slowly swishing through the air, landing spread out on the floor. It was a mess—like my life currently.

“Won’t we get in trouble?” I asked canting my hips closer to his greedy with my own needs.

“Fuck trouble, I’m sure I’ve broken enough regulations and rules for us both.” He said looking as disheveled as I felt.

Nervous energy fueled my ill-timed giggle, earning me a hard look from his chiseled face. He belonged in a museum with his perfection of all hard angles and ropey muscles. His looks distracted me from how I ended up in this predicament in the first place.

“Does trouble have a name?” I didn’t recall what the inmates called him beside the grossly inappropriate things said in the showers and in the bunks at night when the lights have gone low.

“Cohen Sheppard. Just-Cohen.” He panted leaning into me.

Cohen’s large, roughly calloused hands caught my ankles rubbing the small bones gently before pulling my legs wide apart. Standing between my thighs, his hard length pressed so close, the heat from him was palpable through the fine wool of his suit pants and the cotton scrubs. Boxed in by his body I couldn’t get the clothes off. It was as if someone had cranked the thermostat in the room solely between my legs, and I couldn’t escape the scorching heat. I didn’t want to escape it. I was vulnerable to him, shaking with both fear of getting caught and my overwhelming need for him.

“Please.” I pleaded for him to treat me fairly, gentle even. I didn’t know if he had done this with scores of other women in my similar position. I didn’t want to know, because it would cheapen this, making my heart empty. Incarceration made me do things, feel things, desperate for things I didn’t think possible before today. I had judged myself harshly. There was no worse critic than the one in my head damning me right now.

Cohen looked at me. Really looked at me as he brushed my hair back, his hands gentle. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Strangely, I believed him as he held me up supporting me by the back of my neck like a rag doll, limp and compliant in his hold. He got as close to me as he could, my legs splayed embarrassingly wide for anyone to see if they barged inside the office.

“God help me, I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said. I reminded myself this wasn’t me. I wasn’t this girl. What the hell was I doing? I let him continue to manhandle me. It felt good and my head swam bobbing up and down the gulf surf prepared to drown in my desires for something good out of this terrible hand of cards I had been dealt.

When my head surfaced from the cascade of emotions rationality set in. My hand press on his still clothed chest. His heart beating frantically like mine.

“We should stop.” My heart pounded a deafening sound dangerously blocking out the sounds of my surroundings, my focus solely on Cohen.

He didn’t move a muscle.

“Do you want me to?” He pulled away for a fraction of a second, and I pulled him right back, not leaving a paper’s breadth between us. This was fucked up, but I didn’t care.