Jailed Young Housewife Alternate Version

Once the needle went in and the men were gone, whatever fear of pregnancy she’d carried went with them, lost somewhere in the haze. Steve watched from his cell as his wife climbed onto her Black boyfriend, rising and falling to the rhythm of the dripping faucet. Her hips rolled against him before she lifted herself up again, skin shining under the dim light, wetness glinting on his long, thick shaft and between her thighs.

“Kaylah, no—don’t let him finish inside you! You'll get pregnant with him!” Steve screamed, his throat tearing on the words, his hands gripping the bars until his knuckles threatened to split the skin.

She stopped mid-motion and turned toward the sound of his voice. Her pupils were wide and black, swallowing the light, her gaze hollow as the cell itself. For a moment she seemed to surface—her mouth opened, her brow creased—then she turned back, expression soft and distant as she looked down at her Black boyfriend, leaned into his chest, wrapped both arms around his neck, kissed him deep enough that Steve heard it, and continued riding her pussy up and down on his cock, grinding against him in slow circles like she meant it.

Fortunately, they changed position and Reggie was more deliberate. Steve watched him release her hips and pull out while she braced on her elbows, watched her stare down between her own legs as Reggie finished across her stomach and breasts in long, heavy pulses. Semen ran off the curve of her ribs and pooled in the shallow dip of her navel.

“Oh...aah, it feels… so good, baby,” she moaned, the words thick and broken as Reggie slid his wet, heavy shaft back and forth across her clitoris, slow and deliberate, smearing himself through the mess he’d made of her until she shook.

A few minutes later Reggie was hard again, the flesh dark and rigid against Kaylah’s thigh. “Come on, baby. You gonna like it and you won’t get pregnant. You won’t know unless you try it. I’ll be gentle," Steve heard Reggie say to her.

Steve watched from his cage, knuckles bone-white around the bars, as Reggie rolled Kaylah onto her hands and knees. Her shallow panting echoed off the stone, a dry rasp that seemed to feed the silence.

Steve’s throat seized as Reggie’s thumb pressed, slick and insistent, against her back entrance—working it in slow circles while she rocked back onto his fingers—then the thick, blunt head of him began to push into a place Steve had never touched.

She cried out once, high and broken, before the sound dissolved into something else entirely. He could hear every inch of wet resistance, the choked gasp she made as Reggie worked deeper in one long push that took all of him inside her, her fingers splaying wide against the stained thin mattress like she was trying to hold onto it for dear life. This was their new method of birth control utilizing the lubricant Torres had provided.

Steve watched it happen more over the weeks, and it sickened him more each day—his wife coming apart under the hardcore drugs and Torres’s brainwashing, until the man who had raped her became, in her ruined mind, her Black boyfriend. That was the word both Reggie and Torres fed her every day, and she swallowed it the way she swallowed everything now.

Steve heard her on the other side of the bars one morning, making wet, obscene slurping noises as she worked Reggie’s cock with her mouth, unhurried about it, taking all of him like she’d done it a hundred times. When she finished she wiped her chin with the back of her wrist and leaned into his hard chest, running her palm over his smooth dark skin, talking to him in a low, sleepy voice like she truly believed he was hers. The change was shocking to witness. It took a little over three months. Torres’s technique was brutally effective.

“Who you love, baby?” Reggie asked her, smiling over her shoulder at Steve.

“L-l’ve you, b’by.” She slurred it against his neck. “I w’nt s-stay w’d you, Regg’e. Plesh d’n’t let Torres take frm you give’me ot’hr booyfrnds.”

“I know, baby. I’ll see what we can do. Maybe we can work something out with him,” Reggie answered, stroking her hair while he looked straight at Steve. He enjoyed taking Kaylah from him—that much was obvious—and maybe there was a way to make the theft complete.

“Stop talking to him!” Steve screamed from the other side of the bars. “He’s not really your boyfriend! He raped you!”

The weeks went by the same way, his wife and her boyfriend in the next cell, her addiction now total. Then one morning she woke before the light did, and Steve heard her gagging before he saw anything—a wet, wrenching sound that pulled him upright on his thin mattress.

When the light came on, she was on her knees over the toilet, retching, strands of saliva swinging from her chin, and nothing much coming up but bile because there was nothing in her anymore to come up.

Torres was already in the corridor with his arms folded, watching her with the flat patience of a man who had already done the math.

“When was your last period, Señorita Kaylah?” he asked, the way a father asks a daughter he already knows the answer about.

Kaylah’s face stayed turned toward the bowl. Her hair hung in damp strings; she wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and left a shining smear there. Her eyes were unfocused and red-rimmed, and she swayed on her knees like she might tip over into the water.

The fluorescent bulb above the hall flickered once, casting Torres’s shadow long across the floor before steadying again. Somewhere down the corridor a pipe ticked.

“I-I dn’t knah,” she slurred back. Her hand shook as she pushed the hair out of her face.

“We will have to run some tests on you.” He turned toward Steve, and his mouth split into a grin. “I ask myself, what kind of sickness could a girl catch in a cell where she spends all of her time with her boyfriend, symptoms worse in the mornings?”

He said it loud enough for both of them, enunciating each word like he was reading from a script he’d rehearsed, and the grin kept widening until his gold tooth caught the light.