Chapter 4: Communal Dessert
The asphalt was hot beneath her knees, a dull burn seeping through the thin cotton of her prison pants. The circle of women tightened around her, a wall of denim and muscle blocking out the bleached sky. Their shadows fell over her like a cool promise.
Alison’s hand remained woven in her hair, not yanking, just holding. A claim. “Who’s first?”
Rizzo stepped forward, her spiderweb tattoo stark in the sunlight. She didn’t speak. She just turned, presenting the back of her faded shorts, worn thin in spots. With a deliberate slowness, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband and pushed them down just enough.
The scent hit Sugar first. It wasn’t just sweat. It was a complex, musky signature—the heat of the yard, cheap soap, and something fundamentally, deeply female. Sugar inhaled, her eyes fluttering shut for a second. This was real. This was payment. She leaned forward, her nose brushing against skin, and let her tongue dart out.
A low chuckle rippled through the circle. “Eager little bitch, ain’t she?” Sketch murmured.
Sugar didn’t hear her. She was immersed. The taste was salt and skin, the texture a landscape of goosebumps under her seeking mouth. She worked with a clumsy, earnest enthusiasm, her hands coming up to grip Rizzo’s hips for balance. Rizzo shifted, pressing back slightly, a soft grunt of approval the only sound she made.
When Rizzo was done, she pulled her shorts up with a crisp motion and stepped back, swapping places with Moose. Moose was bigger, her scent richer, earthier. Sugar buried her face between her cheeks, lapping eagerly, a soft moan vibrating in her own throat. This was better than the boring champagne brunches of her old life. This was an occupation. A purpose.
Alison guided her head from one woman to the next. Cutter’s skin tasted of nicotine and something faintly metallic. Biggs was quiet but her thighs trembled minutely under Sugar’s palms. Sketch, when it was her turn, let out a long, low fart right as Sugar exhaled, the warm, sour gas filling her mouth and nose. Sugar coughed, sputtered, but didn’t pull back. The circle erupted in rough, approving laughter.
“Breathe it in, princess,” Sketch sighed, pushing back harder against Sugar’s face.
She did. She gulped the tainted air and went back to work, her jaw starting to ache in a pleasant way. Alison was last. Her grip on Sugar’s hair tightened, guiding her with absolute authority. Alison’s scent was the most familiar now, a mix of aggression and something oddly like possession. Sugar pressed her open mouth against her, licking and sucking with a devoted hunger, her whole body humming with a desperate, crooked pride. She was theirs. She was good at this.
The sudden, sharp blast of a whistle sliced through the haze.
“Break it up! Now!”
The circle dissolved instantly. Sugar blinked, dazed, as the wall of bodies parted to reveal two guards standing at the edge of the yard. Their uniforms were crisp, their faces set in lines of bored annoyance. Alison smoothly hauled Sugar to her feet, one arm snaking around her waist to keep her upright. Sugar’s knees were numb, her lips swollen and glistening.
“What’s the problem, Officer?” Alison asked, her voice calm.
The taller guard, her nameplate reading VARGAS, eyed Sugar’s disheveled state, the flush on her skin, the unmistakable wetness around her mouth. “Warden wants the new one. Davies. Now.”
A flicker of something—annoyance, respect—passed over Alison’s face. She gave Sugar a little shove forward. “Go on then. Don’t keep her waiting.”
Vargas grabbed Sugar’s upper arm, her grip firm. The other guard, a stocky woman with a severe bun, fell in step beside them as they marched across the yard. The eyes of the inmates followed, a mixture of pity and envy.
Once inside the sterile, buzzing hallway, away from the sun, Vargas slowed. She looked Sugar up and down. “Heard you’re making friends fast.”
Sugar just smiled, a loose, blissful thing.
The guard with the bun, PEÑA, clicked her tongue. “Davies likes ’em fresh.” She reached out, not roughly, and tilted Sugar’s chin up with a single finger. Then she leaned in and kissed her. It was different from the inmates—cleaner, minty gum and authority. Her tongue plundered Sugar’s mouth, tasting the lingering evidence of the yard. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark. “Yep. Fresh.”
Vargas’s hand, which had been on Sugar’s arm, slid down, cupping her breast through the jumpsuit, giving a casual, evaluating squeeze. “And ripe. Come on. Let’s not dawdle.”
They didn’t take her to an interrogation room. They took her to an office at the end of a quiet corridor. The plaque on the door read: L. DAVIES, WARDEN.
Vargas knocked twice, then opened the door without waiting for an answer. “Inmate 78432, as requested, Ma’am.”
The office was unnervingly normal. Framed degrees, a tidy desk, a potted fern in the corner. Warden Davies sat behind the desk. She was in her fifties, with sharp grey eyes and hair cut in a sensible, chin-length bob. She looked like someone’s strict, favorite aunt.
She closed a file folder and set her pen down precisely. “Thank you, Officers. You may go.”
The guards left, the door clicking shut softly behind them. The silence was immense.
Davies looked at Sugar, standing in the middle of the room, still smelling of other women, her jumpsuit disheveled. Her gaze was analytical, devoid of warmth but crackling with a specific kind of interest.
“Sugar,” the Warden said, her voice cool and even. “I’ve read your file. Empty-headed social climber. Married rich, got bored, got caught with enough pharmaceutical-grade fun to sink a battleship.” She stood up, walking around the desk. She moved with a quiet, precise power. “You’ve been here less than forty-eight hours and you’ve already become the personal plaything of Alison Riggs’ crew.”
Sugar said nothing. She just watched, a faint, hopeful smile on her lips.
Davies stopped in front of her. “This can go one of two ways. You can be a problem, in which case you will find this place very cold, very lonely, and very hard. Or,” she said, reaching out to trace the line of Sugar’s jaw with a well-manicured finger, “you can be an asset.”
“I wanna be an asset,” Sugar breathed, leaning into the touch.
The Warden’s smile was thin, knowing. “I thought you might.” She stepped away, returning to her desk. She opened a bottom drawer and pulled out a long, black leather case. Setting it on the polished wood, she unzipped it slowly.
Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a harness. And attached to it, a silicone phallus of impressive size and lifelike detail. It was sleek, obsidian black, and utterly formidable.
Davies watched Sugar’s face. “Alison and her girls… they’re animals. Effective for maintaining a certain order, but animals nonetheless.” She picked up the harness, the straps dangling from her hand. “I prefer civilization. Ritual. Mutual benefit.”
She didn’t ask. She simply began to unbuckle her own trousers.
Sugar’s heart hammered against her ribs. The object on the desk was intimidating, absurd. A giggle bubbled up in her throat, part anxiety, part sheer, unadulterated thrill. The most powerful woman in the building was strapping on a giant cock for her. For her.
“I’m… I’m really popular today,” Sugar whispered, the words tumbling out in her dazed delight.
Warden Davies, now dressed only in her tailored shirt and the complex harness, finished tightening a strap. She looked up, the cool authority in her eyes now mixed with a glint of pure appetite.
“Yes,” Davies said, her voice dropping to a low, smooth register. “You are. Now, come here. Let’s discuss your role as an asset. I believe you’re overdressed.”
Sugar fumbled with the buttons of her jumpsuit, her fingers clumsy with excitement. As the coarse fabric pooled at her feet, she stood naked in the cool, conditioned air, bathed in the fluorescent glow of authority. She wasn’t thinking about her old house, her old husband, the boring freedom of a world outside. All she could think was that here, in this sterile room, on this scratchy industrial carpet, she was finally, completely, and deliciously needed.