Chapter 2: New Bitch
The bunk shuddered with a rhythm that had long since moved past frantic into something deep, predatory, and methodical. An hour had passed, maybe two. Time had dissolved into sweat, pressure, and the raw scent of skin.
Sugar’s cheek was pressed into the thin, damp pillow, her body bent over the edge of the lower bunk. Alison’s bulk was a furnace against her back, one heavily tattooed arm snaked around her waist, holding her in place. The other hand was busy.
“Keep it down, babygirl,” Alison breathed into her ear, her voice a rough, warm scrape. Her palm smothered Sugar’s mouth, cutting off a high whine. Then, four blunt fingers, slick with spit and Sugar’s own slickness, pushed into her all at once.
Sugar’s body arched, a sharp, silent cry caught in Alison’s hand. It was a stretch that bordered on pain, a brutal fullness that erased thought. Alison’s mouth was on her neck, not kissing, but licking—broad, wet stripes from her collarbone to her jawline, like an animal tasting salt. Her teeth grazed the tendon, a promise of a bite held in reserve.
“Takes it so good,” Alison grunted, her hips driving her fingers deeper, curling them in a ruthless, knowing motion. “Don’t you? Dumb little thing built just for this.”
The world narrowed to that relentless, pistoning hand and the oppressive heat of the body covering hers. The cell’s fluorescent hum, the distant shouts from other blocks—it all receded, replaced by the wet, rhythmic sound of the act itself and Alison’s ragged breaths in her ear.
The night unfolded in a series of vivid, jarring snapshots.
Alison pulled her up by the hair, turned her around, and kissed her—a messy, dominant invasion of tongue, tasting of herself. She spit into Sugar’s open, panting mouth. “Swallow,” she commanded, and Sugar did, her eyes wide and glazed.
Later, Alison laid back, a queen on her stained mattress, and directed Sugar with rough taps of her foot. “Up here. Show me what that mouth does.” Sugar obliged, her jaw aching, until Alison gripped her head and ground against her face, cursing softly until she came again, her thighs trembling.
There was a moment of crude, unvarnished physicality that would have horrified her yesterday. Alison, smirking, rolled partially onto her, pressing a thigh over her face. A low, guttural release of gas, warm and intimate through the fabric, filled Sugar’s nose and mouth. It was a violation so complete, so juvenile and demeaning, that something inside Sugar short-circuited. Instead of outrage, a hysterical, breathless giggle bubbled in her chest. This was it. This was the absolute bottom. And she was still here, still breathing.
Alison chuckled, a dark, raspy sound. “See? You’re even my toilet.”
She used every part of Sugar. Hands, mouth, the softness between her legs. She flipped her, folded her, bent her into the limited space. She pinned Sugar’s wrists above her head with one powerful hand while the other played her body like an instrument tuned to a single, brutal note. Sugar’s protests were feeble, performative. Her body, traitorously, sang.
Her orgasms were not the delicate, performative shudders of her marital bed. They were ripped from her, sudden and convulsive, leaving her gasping and blind. Each one seemed to drain a piece of her old self out onto the scratchy sheets. After the third, or maybe the fourth—she’d lost count—a thin, reedy cry escaped her as she clenched around Alison’s thrusting fingers.
Alison leaned close, her sweat dripping onto Sugar’s chest. “That’s it,” she whispered, a horrifying approval in her tone. “Let go for me. You’re mine now. You come when I say.”
Dawn arrived not as a sunrise, but as a slow graying of the cell’s concrete walls. The harsh overhead lights blinked back on with a terminal buzz.
Sugar was on her back, sprawled under Alison like a discarded blanket. Alison’s weight, half on her, was immense and solid, an anchor pinning her to the reality of the bunk. One of Alison’s arms was thrown possessively across her chest, the ink-black tattoos a stark contrast against Sugar’s pale, bruised skin. Alison snored softly, her breath stirring Sugar’s matted hair.
Every part of Sugar ached with a delicious, profound weariness. She felt hollowed out, used, and strangely peaceful. The stale, piss-scented air of the cell filled her lungs. The coarse blanket chafed her bare legs.
Her mind, floating in a drained haze, landed on a single, simple observation. It bobbed to the surface of her exhaustion, dumb and unadorned.
She’d come more times tonight, in this stinking bunk under this terrifying woman, than in the entire last year with her husband. Maybe more than in her entire life.
A weak, utterly confused smile touched her swollen lips just as the morning wake-up call—a brutal clanging of a metal baton against the cell bars—shattered the stillness.
Alison jolted awake instantly, the predator’s reflex. Her pale blue eyes opened, cleared of sleep, and found Sugar’s dazed gaze. That same, possessive approval flickered there. She didn’t move her arm.
“Rise and shine, bitch,” she said, her voice gravelly with sleep. She gave Sugar’s breast a rough, conclusive squeeze. “Day one.”