Caught by the Convicts

“I know, baby, you’re ripe for fucking,” he rasps, trailing his mouth down her throat, back up to snare her lips. “Put my cock in, Ruger. Right where my fingers are.”

Lust slams into my belly like a launched brick.

Did I hear him right? He wants me to touch his dick?

There’s a rushing river of sound in my ears, hot shivers passing through me, head to toe. Klay and Wendy are kissing passionately, her hands trapped overhead, her body arching, and they’re moaning brokenly. The last piece of the puzzle is Klay being inside of her. He needs it.

And I can help him. I can do for him the way he’s always done for me.

I move behind Klay, my hand shaking as I press a knee onto the edge of the bed and reach between his legs, gently fisting his thrumming shaft. Jesus. Jesus, it’s like hot steel, shaped like it has been sculpted by an artist. “Can I jack it a little?”

God help me, those words are out of my mouth before I know what I’m saying.

I watch tension ripple up Klay’s spine with a sense of dread and self-loathing.

But then he grunts, “Just a little.”

Oh my God.

Unable to breathe properly, I tighten my hold and he shudders, the muscles of his buttocks flexing, visible because his pants are down around his knees, the curve of his cheeks only inches from my face. Taut and covered in a light layer of hair that reminds me of the peach fuzz on Wendy’s belly. Biting down on my bottom lip so I won’t make any embarrassing sounds, I pump Klay’s dick in my fist. I jerk him off at the same tempo I’ve watched him employ in our cell when he thinks I’m not watching. I thumb the slit every time I reach the top and it swells while he makes choked noises, his hips beginning to rock subtly.

“Goddammit,” he grounds out.

But he doesn’t make me stop.

I go faster, my pulse accelerating with the pace of my strokes. Through the upside-down V of his thighs, I watch his balls seize up and turn a mottled color. I watch the sheen of sweat appear on his backside. When he makes a ragged sound, I know I’ve pushed enough. I’ve taken enough liberties. I can’t push my luck. So I guide him to the hold between Wendy’s legs, eager to watch the pulsing length of him sink into her cunt. Eager to hear her whimper when he’s fully seated and watch them race toward pleasure together. Just to be a witness to these two people fucking makes me the most fortunate man alive.

“Oh fuck!” Klay shouts through his teeth once I’ve got him buried halfway. “Fuck, it’s so tight.” The muscles of his ass shift and he buries himself the rest of the way, making Wendy cry out, the lips of her sex wet and stretched around the fat base of Klay’s cock. “Prison bars can’t hold a man when pussy this hot and tiny is waiting on the outside. You should have been expecting us.”

“I was,” I hear her whisper. “I…I couldn’t help…”

“What?” Klay prompts her gruffly.

“Hoping,” she says, her voice barely audible.

“Baby…” Klay pumps into her hard, almost like a reward for that confession—and she screams with pleasure, her thighs opening wider, her hips lifting to greet his next rough pump. “Ruger,” Klay says, laboring for air, his sleek body bucking between Wendy’s legs. “Lift this shirt up. Show me her tits.”

Before he’s even finished speaking, I’ve climbed onto the bed alongside of them and started gathering the nightshirt in my hands, raising it to her neck, exposing two small bouncing breasts, bare this time, peaked with dusky rose-colored nipples. She looks up at me while I expose her, her mouth open in a cry of pleasure, eyes glazed and…trusting. She trusts me. That realization is so humbling, I can’t seem to swallow.

“Ruger hasn’t been able to shut up about your sexy rack, Wendy, and good God, he wasn’t wrong. You’ve got tits like a spoiled daddy’s girl, don’t you?” Klay pants, eyes glittering with lust, hips rolling, his jaw slack as he enters her again, again, again. “Do you want Ruger to play with them while I finish off this exquisite little pussy?”

I hold my breath, only letting it out when she nods. “Yes.”

Christ, I fall on them like a man being offered a meal after a week of starvation. Maybe that’s what I am. I latch onto her nipples and worry them between my lips, licking them like ice cream with embarrassingly eager strokes of my tongue. Sucking on them, right then left then right, as if she can nurse me back to health. As if she can heal every wound I’ve ever sustained on the inside.

My hips slam up and down on the mattress, causing myself pain, but I can’t stop. My hunger is so violent. So urgent. My need is not for one person, but two, and that doubles the sharp burn for relief. It amplifies everything. So I’m almost felled by gratitude when Klay says, “For the love of God, mate, take out your cock,” he rasps. “Stroke it properly.”