Page 50 of Imprisoned

“Get dressed,” he says, his tone clipped but with an undercurrent of something else—perhaps confusion or discomfort with the intimacy we just shared. “I’ll see you at our next session.”

I quickly gather my clothes, pulling them on with trembling hands while Axel does the same. He moves to the door and gives Martinez three sharp knocks—a prearranged signal.

“Axel,” I call softly, but it’s too late. The door opens, and Martinez appears, refastening the cuffs around Axel’s wrists before I can say more.

As Martinez leads him away, I stand there fully dressed but somehow still feeling exposed, the plug and lube still visible on my desk. I hastily tuck them into a drawer as the reality of what just happened comes crashing down. My life will never be the same again. Neither, perhaps, will his, though he’s clearly not ready to admit it.

22

AXEL

Ipace my cell like a caged animal, my muscles coiled tight with frustration. The unrelenting stone prison closes in, suffocating me with its familiarity. Every time I close my eyes, I see Willow - her flushed face, those pretty lips parted in pleasure, the way she surrenders to me completely.

“Fuck.” I slam my fist against the wall, welcoming the sting of pain. It’s better than this maddening need coursing through my veins.

The memory of her scent lingers on my skin despite the prison-issue soap. Sweet orange blossom mingling with arousal. My cock hardens instantly at the thought of her cunt wrapped around me, those little whimpers she makes when I’m buried deep inside her.

“Morrison! Mail call!” The guard’s voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts.

I ignore him, continuing my restless circuit of the cell. Eight steps forward, turn, eight steps back. The routine usually calms the mental cacophony, but today, nothing works. All I can think about is Willow wearing that plug, preparing herself for me like the good girl she is.

My fingers twitch with the need to grab my phone to send her another message, but I wait. Risking the uncorrupted guards catching on to our little arrangement is too dangerous.

“You belong to me,” I whisper to the empty cell, imagining her reaction. “Completely fucking mine.”

Willow Matthews belongs to me now—mind, body, and soul. I will spend every moment until our next session planning exactly how to prove it to her.

The morning roll call drags on until Thompson’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Two bodies found in Block C. Gutted like fish, just like the Morrison case files.”

My blood runs cold. The familiar itch under my skin intensifies as memories of past kills flash through my mind. But these deaths? Not my work.

“The fuck you looking at me for?” I snarl at Martinez when he locks eyes with me. “I’ve been in my cell all night.”

“Sure you have, Morrison. Just like you were ‘in your cell’ when Karen Mitchell disappeared.”

Red clouds my vision. I lunge forward, chains rattling. “You want to say that again?”

The other inmates shift away, creating a bubble of space around me. They are smart, and they know what happens when I lose control.

“Stand down, Morrison!” Thompson raises his baton.

“Someone’s trying to frame me.” I bare my teeth in a feral grin. “And when I find out who?—”

“That’s enough!” Martinez jabs me with his stick. “Out of your cell.”

I grab the baton, yanking him close. “Touch me again, and you’ll be next.”

It takes three guards to wrestle me down. My face scrapes against the concrete as they cuff me tighter. The demons in my head scream for blood, demanding retribution.

“Solitary for you, Morrison. A few days in the hole may calm you down.”

“Fuck you!” I thrash against their hold. “I didn’t do this! Check the cameras!”

But I already know what they’ll find—nothing. Whoever’s playing this game is smart. They know my history and my methods. They’re using my past against me.

As they drag me away, one thought cuts through the chaos in my head: Willow. If someone’s digging into my activities here, it’s just a matter of time before they notice our daily “therapy” sessions. One of the guards Martinez pays off could talk. Someone could review the security footage, check the sign-in logs, and notice the pattern. The thought of anyone else discovering what’s mine makes the noise in my head turn deafening.

---