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Women Loving Prisoners 1
Copyright 2015 by Night Watch Publishing. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This story contains sexually explicit content and is intended for readers over 18 years of age. By downloading this document you acknowledge that you are over 18 years of age. All fictitious characters who are engaged in sexual acts in this book are likewise over 18 years of age, whether explicitly stated or not.
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I was exhausted. My body was weak from a prolonged sexual excitement that I had never experienced before. Part of me wanted to tell him to stop but I could do little more than moan. He had been making love to me for hours and wasn’t showing signs of slowing down. The only thing keeping me from passing out from exhaustion was the fact that he was still bringing me to orgasm despite my fatigue.
I was on top of him now, because that is where he had placed me last. I was only able to stay upright by leaning forward and placing my hands on his muscled torso. His rippled midsection was one of the few places on his upper body that didn’t have any kind of tattoo ink on it. I thought momentarily how ink might have blurred the chiseled lines of definition in the muscles there. It served him well to leave that skin a blank canvas. He started to touch me between my legs and I gasped with what little energy I had left.
I had stopped moving up and down on him and had slowed to a gentle grind. I was trying to ration what little energy I had left, and I knew if I started moving faster I risked having another orgasm. He didn’t speak but I could sense that he needed the tempo to be faster. I suppose after ten years without a female’s touch he wasn’t longing for a gentle embrace. Still, I would have thought the last couple of hours would have been enough tempo to last him a lifetime.
He reached up and put his arms around me and flipped me onto my back like I was a rag doll. I certainly didn’t have the energy left in me to provide either help or resistance. But I was not the smallest girl either and would have expected at least a grunt from him from the effort. The noise he made when he moved me was not from exertion however. The noise he made told me I was going to be in this for a little while longer once he got me onto my back where he wanted me.
I looked at him as he pinned me down and I ran my hands back up his chest. I felt the scar on his right side nestled between his muscles. I had not asked him where it came from but it had the telltale, rigid signature of a knife wound. There was only one fading scar though, and I imagined whoever swung that knife had probably paid the price for not making the first blow lethal.
In my delirium my mind started to drift. I thought about how a month ago I was as celibate as an orthodox nun. Long divorced and struggling to keep my head above water, dating had been the last thing on my mind. If someone had told me then that in a few short weeks a man like Michael would be making my toes curl I would have thought they were crazy. I choose to help men like this in order to rehabilitate then. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would fall in love with one.
I felt him touch me in that spot again and I felt a jolt go through my body. I snapped back out of my haze and realized he was looking right at me. He must have realized I was slipping away and he started tugging at that spot again which was driving me out of my mind. My back arched involuntarily and I heard myself moaning. I didn’t think I had any orgasms left in my body but I felt myself starting to shake. The last thing I remembered was seeing him smile as he started to pick up the pace again. I felt like he was driving into me with ten years’ worth of pent up energy as I felt myself start to shake and my body started to grip him...
“The rent is late” he said, stating the painfully obvious.
I was standing in the doorway to my apartment looking at my scumbag of a landlord. He had at least knocked on the door this time. Usually, depending on how far I was behind on the rent, he would just let himself in. I was careful to alter my showering schedule around the end of the month, because I swore he seemed to pick the times he knew I would be in the shower to drop by to pick up the rent.