Page 2 of Captured By the Convict

Something warm and wonderful, sticky and sweet, inviting and incredible.

Freshly baked cookies?

No.

Fucking.

Way.

It’s the Valentine’s Day cookie delivery!

It started three years ago. Some local Massachusetts politically-correct effort to “humanize” the prison population. Not sure how handing out heart-shaped cookies to a bunch of violent dudes accomplishes that, but I gotta admit, those cookies were fucking good.

And so I start crawling towards that heavenly smell of sweetness and warmth. Soon I’m moving so fast that sweat drips down my face, my scraped elbows leaving a trail of blood. My eyes are wide and alert, almost manic with a relentless focus as I follow that aroma like I’m being pulled by something mysterious and magical.

Now the aroma is so strong I’m salivating, my belly growling with hunger as I get close. Up ahead I can see light.

The light of dawn.

The flicker of freedom.

The sunshine of salvation.

“Hello, Sunshine,” comes a young woman’s chirpy voice from the open end of the tunnel which appears to end high above what must be one of the loading docks out back, near the cavernous prison kitchens. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

The woman’s voice is sparkly and upbeat, with a happy lilt to her tone. It does something to me, something I can’t understand. A strange wrenching in my gut that isn’t from hunger.

At least notthatkind of hunger.

Because there’s another kind of hunger that’s been four years on the build.

Four years without a warm pussy.

Four years without a woman.

“Get your head right, you dumb animal,” I growl under my breath as I creep close to the edge of the shaft. “Get out of here first. Think about pussy later. There’ll be plenty of it in the free world.”

But then the curvy little owner of that voice comes into view, and my dick stiffens and my balls tighten and I know without a doubt that there’s only one pussy that’ll satisfy this savage craving.

And it just so happens to belong to the curvy goddess of a woman who’s going to get me out of here.

Even if she doesn’t know it.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Connie,” comes the drowsy voice of one of the kitchen managers, a gruff matronly woman who sometimes serves the inmates from behind the counter. “Why are you in such a good mood so early in the morning?”

“I’m always in a good mood,” comes the sparkly shiny response from Connie. Again her voice does something to me, like it’s igniting a warmth inside my hollow soul, starting a fire in my cold heart, awakening something inside me that feels different, fresh, shiny and new, rippling with an excitement that’s driving me onwards just like that warm aroma of Connie’s cookies pulled me onwards, led me here.

Led me to her.

“That’s all fourteen cases,” comes the kitchen manager’s voice. “You’re good to go, Connie. I’ll try to put in an order for some muffins next month if there’s room in the budget. The inmates love your stuff.”

“Aw, thank you so much!” Connie says sweetly. “Hey, mind if I use the little girls’ room? Too much coffee this morning, andI have three more deliveries before heading back to Boston to open up my store for the Valentine’s Day rush.”

“Sure, honey,” comes the distant voice of the kitchen manager, who appears to be heading away from the loading dock. “You know where it is.”

Now the sounds of doors opening and closing rise up to me, followed by the most welcome silence I’ve ever heard. Peering from the edge of my hiding place up near the ceiling, my heart hammers with excitement.

Because the loading-dock shutter is still open.

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