Jailed Young Housewife Alternate Version

“Huh... what’re you— oh... doin’? Ah, no... no more, baby,” Kaylah mumbled, surfacing from another heavy high, half-aware she was stretched out on the prison mattress with her boyfriend's hands on her bare breasts, his mouth working one stiff nipple. She couldn’t recall how she got there or how her top came off. She didn’t know whether it was day or night. The dim light bulb buzzed and flickered, and Kaylah tried to fix her eyes on it. Below her waist, Reggie was pulling at the loose green pants of her jail uniform; her fingers closed on the waistband without her asking them to. “Don’t... mustn’t... anymore, baby,” she protested, already drifting again.

Time lost its shape in the chemical fog. She surfaced to the familiar pressure of the mattress and the heat of his body beside her. A low, coaxing murmur reached her through the haze. “Come on now, baby. Open up for me. Let me back in that sweet pussy.”

Her eyelids were heavy stones. She managed a slit of vision, enough to see his dark shape hovering over her. Her own voice came out thick and foreign. “You want to love me again?”

“Yeah, baby. You got me all worked up again. Always do.” His thumb stroked her jawline. “You remember how this goes. You love this. You love me.”

The words were a worn path in her mind. Her lips formed them by rote. “Love you…”

“That’s right. I’m your boyfriend in here. Say it.”

“My boyfriend…”

“And you want this Black dick.”

A dull ache throbbed between her legs, a memory of use. Her head lolled on the thin pillow. “Want it…”

“Torres says if you can take a brother like me, you’ll do fine with anyone,” Reggie said against her ear. The drugs had done their work; her thoughts were cottony, her body limp on the thin mattress. She felt his hands, practiced and sure, working her green pants down over her hips. Her own fingers had been clutching the fabric—some last, fraying instinct—but he peeled them away one by one without effort.

The pants went, then her panties, baring her to the flickering light. He guided her legs apart until they dangled off the edge of the bed, then used his thumbs to part her, exposing the slick pink flesh beneath. The broad head of his cock traced slow circles at her opening.

“N-no…don’t…” she slurred, her hand fluttering down in weak protest.

He caught her wrist and moved it aside.

“Shh, baby. It not wrong,” he said against her ear. Your world be different now. You belong to the cartel.” His thumb stroked her inner thigh. “I’m your boyfriend in here.”

A drugged sigh escaped her. “My boyfriend…”

He pressed the slick head of himself against her, and sensation bloomed—a slow pressure that drew a moan from her throat.

“You feel that?” His voice came from somewhere outside the warm fog.