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Footsteps bang loudly in the hallway, snapping me out of my trance.
I had been walking in circles and humming my favorite songs. Melodies remain as I forget more and more lyrics each day. The fact brings out an intense feeling of worry within me. This place is starting to have a real effect on me, I can’t deny that anymore.
Not just the fact that I’m bound up most of the time, but also the lack of any stimuli is not making me calm and clearing my mind — quite the opposite, I feel like my brain is actively dying. It’s withering, decomposing right in my head, and I'm scared that there will come a time when nothing's left anymore. When I won't be a person anymore.
Well, thankfully they don’t keep me in a full body suit anymore. I can jump and do squats. Nevertheless not being able to train my arms means I feel weak and powerless. I’m not sure why I need this fucking jacket, not sure if they think I’d be a danger to myself or to others.
The workers here are strict when it comes to meal and bath times, which are the only times we do anything other than rot in our cells; cages padded floor to ceiling, not small, yet not big enough for a person to live in. And when outside, you have a taser and a tranquilizer trained on you at all times. Trying anything will get you knocked out. They practically won't even let you think of doing push-ups or attempting to choke to death on your food, nevermind approaching anyone.
The hallway door rattles, the familiar sound echoing off the harsh walls. I enjoy the break from silence. I’m in the first cell from that door.
Whoever is in the hall didn’t come to my door, so I judge that it’s safe to go stand closer to it. If they came in now, I’d be dead. They expect me to be on the opposite side of this room every time they enter. Most are kind enough to knock as a warning, but some enjoy giving out “punishment” for breaking a rule. Punishment being an even smaller room, without light, without regular breaks to eat or take a piss outside. I'll be braindead if they do that to me one more time.
I shake the thought and strain my ears, trying to make sense of the situation.
Someone's clearly trying to get through the hallway door. Could it be an escaped inmate? How long will it take before the guards get to them? My eyes wander as I think, slowly settling on my electronic door. It doesn’t have a handle on the inside, obviously, and it opens outward.
To my shock, I suddenly realise that the door actually is ever-so-slightly ajar.
I had not suffered many hallucinations before, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were to start now. If this was real, however, there’s no way this could be a test, right?
I push the door with my foot. It swings open with a quiet creak. I glance quickly down the hallway to find it empty, then look to the hallway door.
A woman, bound in a jacket of all white, as much an inmate as me, is slamming into the door shoulder-first.
I realise I have no idea what to say. Many times I have fantasized about something similar happening, yet now I’m scared. I’m terrified of us being found outside our cells, and I’m also terrified of her. She could be dangerous, unpredictable, she could rip my throat out the moment she notices me here. But she’d surely think the same of me. I don’t want to accidentally scare her. Self-defense is just as dangerous as murderous intent.
What's the practical thing to do right now? We should try to pick the lock together, with the pins from the belts of our straitjackets. First we need to get them off, which is probably possible with teeth.
She turns around before I get a word out of my mouth. I jump back and brace myself. She seems confused for a moment, looking me up and down. I do the same.
Her hair is dark brown, long and very dishevelled. She’s been locked up here for at least as long as I have. After a moment we both come to the conclusion that the other is not an immediate threat.
“What’s going on?” I finally manage.
“Someone attacked one of the nurses and somehow cut the power to certain parts of the building,” she explains. “My cell’s the one next to yours, and those two were the only doors unlocked in this block.”
How lucky. Seems almost too convenient, or am I being paranoid?
“Do you think you could get your jacket off if I helped you?” Oh yeah, practical. We don't have much time. “We could pick the lock.”
She takes the risk and steps towards me.
“The lock’s electronics still work, so it’d probably just trigger an alarm. I’ve a better idea.”
And breaking through the door wouldn't send an alarm? I stay silent, because I want to hear her out. Still, it would've been nice to try my plan.
She closes the distance between us and pushes me back into my room, shutting the door behind her. It doesn’t close all the way.
“How do you know what happened, by the way?” I question.
“Deduced it,” she states simply. The answer doesn’t satisfy me but I let it drop, still not entirely convinced that she’s to be trusted. She walks towards me, coming awkwardly close, making me step back. Her eyes are big and brown, her almond skin contrasts the pale room.
“But I didn’t come here for chitchat,” she says, inching closer. “I know a way to get us out of here.” My back hits the wall. She’s cornered me. I feel adrenaline kicking in, but I remind myself to keep a cool head.
“We’ll need to play the long game,” she whispers in my ear, like a schoolgirl telling her best friend a secret. “You’ll get me out of here, and when I’m out, I’ll get you out in return.” Her breath tickles my neck.
“Tell me, then.” My voice wavers.
“Sit with me.”
Hesitantly I slide down the wall until I’m sitting. She follows, landing right in my lap, her legs straddling me. Our arms, bound in front of us, keep a little distance, but still her hips on my hips are as close as ever.
“You have to get me pregnant.” She whispers, looking deep into my eyes.
A jolt goes through me, adrenaline replaced with something else. The shock must shine on my face, though, since she continues, “They’ll take me to the doctor, away from here, and I’ll escape.”
I’m extremely sceptical and totally convinced at once. I might have to throw my practicality out the window for this one.
“Do you want to have a child?” I ask. It’s not like I even need any assurance — I feel my dick already begging for action, just at the thought of a woman’s touch for the first time in I don’t know how long — I just wonder if she’s sure about what she’s getting into.
“I want an abortion. You’re not sterile, are you?”
Oh, she's sure as hell.
“No, unless they put something in our food,” I say, half-joking.
“Why would they, they’re not expecting us to ever interact,” she says, frustrated, like she’s talking to someone who’s a little slow. I can’t bring myself to be offended. She grinds her hips. I hold back a moan.
“So?” She presses.
“Never in a million years could I resist you.” My voice sounds quiet in my ears.
I was sold the moment she first asked me. Now, I shift uncomfortably, as the inflexible fabric of my trousers is starting to feel quite uncomfortable, restraining my rapidly-growing erection.
“Then take my jacket off,” she demands. “Use your teeth.”
She gets off of me, wriggles, manages to pull her arms over her head, then turns around. I undo the belt latches on her back and pull the leather straps free.
She practically tears off the whole thing when I’m done at last. She stretches, wearing only thin pants and a sleeveless shirt. Seeing her curvy body be liberated from the bindings has gotten me a throbbing hard-on. She wouldn’t turn heads on the street, but to me in that moment she is the most beautiful woman in the world. My gaze is drawn to her breasts, her nipples showing through her top.
“Can you take mine off now?” I lean back against the wall, taking a deep breath. I feel goosebumps rise on my skin from the anticipation.
“Afterwards.” She only undoes the strap that goes between my legs and tugs my pants down halfway.
“C’mon, why?” I want to stretch, too.
“No time.” She takes off her own pants and panties, then kneels over me. “And just in case, cuz you might be dangerous.”
Guiding my length with her hand, she eases me into her. “I’m not actually worried about you, doll,” she whispers, again like telling a secret. I almost come right away, forgetting all about my straitjacket.
What does she think of me? I'd love to get to know her. My thoughts scatter fast as she bottoms out.
She starts riding me, making us whimper simultaneously. There isn’t anything for me to do except lean back and buck my hips involuntarily. At any moment, guards could barge right through that door, yet I’m not paying any mind to that.
I wish I could make this moment last. I’m not gonna last long, which I would be terribly embarrassed of, if the situation was of any other kind.
“Oh fuck, I’m gonna–” I stifle my groans by pressing my face into her chest. She didn’t take her undershirt off, so I leave a wet splotch of drool there. She wraps her arms around me. I want to grab onto her but instead I ball my fists and tug at the insides of my sleeves.
“Come on, daddy, knock me up.”
It’s an order that my body obeys immediately. My eyes are squeezed tightly shut as the most pent-up orgasm of my life makes my entire body go rigid. She makes sure I finish deep inside her.
A sense of accomplishment washes over me as my body relaxes again. It doesn’t matter if the guards catch us anymore. The damage, though it could hardly be called that, has been done.
She slips off me and undoes my jacket. I pull it off and stand up. My exhaustion evaporates. I stretch until I’m light-headed.
When I return my attention back to her, I see that she’s taken my place sitting down, absent-mindedly fingering herself, pushing dripping cum back into her pussy, all the while eyeing me up and down and up and down. Being admired like that makes me flush. I feel blood rushing to my groin, as well as my face.
I admire her, too. The white room contrasts her tan skin, making her look like a painting come to life. She beckons me closer.
I kneel in front of her, kissing her softly.
We've been touch-starved for eternity. It makes a gentle kiss seem incredibly intimate, the touch of our lips conveying more emotions, more need, than words ever could.
I would be content with lying down and cuddling, but the momentum of sexual contact has gotten us so turned on it’s just impossible to stop yet. She deepens the kiss. Our tongues press and slide together, hungrily exploring each other’s mouths. I bring my hand to her used cunt, feeling how wonderfully wet she is. She breaks the kiss to get some breath. It feels like the air in the room is lacking oxygen.
“What’s your name, daddy?” She asks with a sly smile.
I have butterflies in my stomach. Quite refreshing to hear someone speak to me like I'm an actual person, and she’s probably — hopefully — not wrong in calling me daddy. It makes me feel important, like she cares about me. And I feel like I'm really starting to care about her, too, despite knowing nothing about her.
“I’m Michael. You?”
“Shelley.”
“It’s good to meet you, Shelley.” My mouth splits into a genuine smile, as does hers.
I lean in to kiss her neck, slowly pushing my fingers into her. Shelley moans my name, her voice cracking. My dick stands to attention again. I pull her undershirt off, playing with her nipples and kissing her all over for a minute before going down on her.
My face between her legs I start thrusting my fingers properly. The stubble on my chin scratches against her. I lick and nibble her clit, and curling my fingers in her pussy, I hit her g-spot.
“Stop!” She cries out when I know she’s just about to reach her climax. I freeze and look up at her.
“You make me feel so good, I need you to fill me again,” she pleads. “I think I’m ovulating. I need to be fucked.”
I lift her to the centre of the room, glad to notice that my arms have retained some strength at least. I spread her legs, this time vowing to take my time, not to waste this special moment.
I push my cock into her warmth, then I stop moving to allow myself to adjust. She tugs at my shirt. I let her take it off. She trails my abs and chest with her fingers, touching the mostly faded scars that still linger and whisper stories from my past.
“You're so tight," I mutter.
“You’ve been stabbed,” she says almost dreamily. There’s something in her voice, but I doubt it’s pity.
“You should have seen the other guy.” I swallow. “But this is all my work too.”
“That’s hot, you look really good with these.”
“You’re not scared that I’ll hurt you?”
“No, Michael, I’m not.” She giggles. “I’m your only chance of ever getting out. You wouldn’t blow it, no matter how insane you might be.”
She has a point, not that I was particularly intending to do anything to her otherwise. But you never know when dealing with people classified as insane.
She moves a little and clenches her pussy, making me groan.
“You're so big, making me feel so full,” she says.
When I start moving, I do it slowly, carefully, savouring the moment. She begs me to go faster, and I admit I’ve never struggled with self-control as much.
I go harder, grabbing her waist and basically lifting her off the floor. I make every thrust reach as deep as possible, making her walls stretch and accommodate my size. Her desperate voice gets louder when I find the angle that grinds against her most sensitive place, eventually sending her over the edge.
Considering that I’ve never wanted children, it seems almost insane that I’m trying my best to put a baby in her. But to be completely honest, it’s absolutely the hottest sex I’ve ever had. Some doubts still circulate in my mind, like what will happen to us when we're found out. Fuck that, there isn’t anything to be done about it, and we’ve knowingly taken these risks. I focus on the moment.
Finally I stop holding back and go faster, pushing her body against the padded floor. We repeat each other’s names like they’re the only ones we’ve ever known.
She locks her legs around me, and I come, hard, deep, as close to her womb as possible. She doesn’t let me pull out until I’m soft again. No cum drips out when I do. I lay my hand on her lower belly and I imagine what’s happening within. I could just keep fucking her every day when she's pregnant, as her belly would grow and breasts get bigger…
We kiss and cuddle, hot skin pressed against one another.
I consider asking her what she's been locked up for, yet ultimately decide against it. Instead I ask if she wants to know my story.
She does, so tell her my story about a half-failed murder-suicide (take a wild guess which part I failed). I explain what led up to it, how it wasn't exactly anything new for me, and how it felt bleeding to death in a back alley, but then waking up strapped to a hospital bed and hooked up to all kinds of machines. Maybe I really did die, and this is my purgatory.
She listens silently, then shares her story in return, not going into much detail. She had been ill for a long time, and finally decided to take it out on her bastard of a husband. He suffered in her hands for months before dying.
We talk and listen with a level of understanding that the average person probably couldn't grasp, but I can't say that we're being completely non-judgemental. I wonder how dysfunctional we would be together, how we'd possibly end up.
Far too soon, she points out that she should be back in her cell when the guards arrive, if possible, to avoid being found out and punished right away. Only one of us can be tied up again, and I insist it be her. She puts on the jacket, and I tie the back and the sleeves. When I get to the last harness, the one between the legs, I can’t bring myself to put it through the hoop and tighten the straps.
Shelley's so pretty tied up. I could do anything to her.
“Maybe the third time’s the charm?” I suggest, not so innocently.
“Let's find out, daddy.” She winks.
My cock twitches. She’s so wet, from a mix of her own fluids as well as mine. And, shit, she’s tight, and so, so warm.
I fuck her carelessly, grabbing her strong thighs. Debilitated like this she has no choice but to trust me. It's the same power she must have felt when riding me.
Under her straitjacket, I imagine how (or maybe I’m trying to manifest it) her belly’s already bulging, her nipples ready to drip milk. I’m free to use her however I like, to make her mother my children. A protective instinct flares in me. If she's vulnerable, I need to be the one to protect her. I kiss her sloppily, out of breath.
I make a promise to myself that when we get out, I will look after Shelley — even though she isn't really a person who needs looking after. I freely accept the risk of ending up like her late husband.
For the third time, I shoot my thick load into her, breeding her hungry cunt.
I pull her pants back up, leaving her leaking, and fasten the last leather belt. She rubs her thighs together, a wet spot where they meet. I carry her to her room, putting her down gently.
“Let's hope for the best, yeah?” I say and kiss her goodbye.
“Yeah. Thanks, Michael,” she gives me a bright smile that I return.
Maybe ten or so minutes after I've returned to my room, guards sprint to our doors, ordering us to get down on the floor. I lie on the floor face down, anticipating the blow that’s sure to come, as my jacket isn’t tightened as it should be. I fleetingly wish that they won't mete out a punishment to me.
The door to my cell flies open, and as I feel the prick of the tranquilizer, I hope for two things: that Shelley will be safe and our plan successful.