Daddy’s Solicitor

Six months before his release and you're pressed against the wall of his cell. Third time this week.

Footsteps on the landing. Someone's radio two cells down. Medication rounds waiting. Your shift ends in forty minutes.

His phone rings. The mobile you brought him last month. Not the first thing. There'd been chocolate before that. Tobacco. The charger. Each time he'd made it sound reasonable.

He answers it while he's still inside you.

"Alright mate." Like he's in the pub. "Yeah, hang on."

Doesn't pull out. Just keeps fucking you while he talks, slower now.

"Where am I? Where d'you think?" He pushes in harder and you feel it in your throat. "Got that screw bent over. The one I told you about."

Your face red.

"Nah, not much cop today if I'm honest. Bit disappointing."

That shouldn't hurt. Last time he'd said you were alright, held your face after and looked at you properly. You'd thought about that look for hours.

"Here, mind if I put you on speaker? Need both hands for this."

Click. Another click. Phone propped up somewhere behind you. Then his hands are on your hips, hauling you back harder onto his cock. Using your body for leverage.

His mate's voice comes through tinny. Another inmate maybe. Someone outside.

"Go on son, give it to her proper."

"Trying to. She's just lying there like a dack of potatoes."

You're not. You're pushing back, trying to be what he needs. Three months ago he asked how your day was. Actually listened. Not like the others who just wanted things or called you names.

"Choke her a bit. They get tighter when you do that."

His hand comes round your throat. You clench around him when he squeezes and he makes an approving noise. Your cunt's doing what your brain won't admit.

"See if you can make her squeal for us."

His palm cracks against your arse. You yelp before you can stop yourself.

"Ssssh." Does it again. "I like them quiet."

From the phone: "Slap her tits."

He reaches round and does it. Your nipple stings through your uniform.

"Take your belt to her."

"Haven't got it on, have I. She made me take it off at the gate."

They both laugh. You're the joke and they both know it.

The first time had been different. He'd made it sound like he needed you. You'd believed him because you'd wanted to.

"Why not have her arse then? That'll get you there."

"Yeah. Good shout."

He pulls out and you hear him rummaging. The lube's in his locker. You brought that too. He'd said it was for his shoulder. Prison gym injury. You'd felt sorry for him.

"Been a while. This'll sort me out."

He drags the nylon down to your knees. It catches on your shoes, bunches there with your knickers tangled in it. You can feel the air on your arse, your cunt. Everything exposed.

His fingers push into you first. Rough. Getting them wet with his cum that's already there, with your own wetness. Then he presses them against your arsehole. Works one in. Then two. Stretching you.

"Fuck, she's tight."

From the phone: "She gonna take it?"

"She'll take it."

He pulls his fingers out and you feel the tip of his cock there instead. Blunt. Thick. You tense.

"Relax or it'll hurt worse."

But when he pushes in it's too fast anyway. One long shove. All the way in. He doesn't care that you haven't prepared, that he was in your cunt two seconds ago.

It hurt the first time too. He'd said it would get better. That you'd learn to like it.

You haven't. But you keep coming back.

"Fuck, that's better." First real emotion since he answered the phone. "This'll do it."

He starts properly fucking you now. Not the lazy rhythm from before. Working for it. Your arse burns. You can feel exactly where you're stretching around him, where it's too much. Your palms flat against painted brick, cold and rough.

From the phone there's breathing. Movement. His mate's wanking to this. To you getting arsefucked in a cell.

"That's it. Give it to her."

"Getting it all, are you?"

"Yeah mate. Perfect angle."

You're not sure what that means. Too focused on the pain, on trying not to make noise. On wondering if he'll look at you properly after.

His hand slides round to find your clit. Rubs it while he fucks your arse. You don't want to respond but your body does. Starts pushing back against him differently. Seeking it.

"There she goes. Knew she'd get into it."

Three more thrusts. Four. Then he's coming, pulsing into you hot and deep. He groans loud enough that someone might hear.

Keeps moving though, getting the last of it out. Making sure it's all in there.

From the phone, similar noises. His mate finishing too.

"Cheers for that."

"No worries. See you tomorrow yeah?"

"Yeah. Gym after lunch."

Call ends. He pulls out and you feel his cum start to leak immediately. Running down, soaking into the nylon that's still bunched at your knees.

You reach down, try to pull everything back up. But it's twisted now, the gusset sitting wrong. His cum spreading through the fabric. Wet and warm then cooling. Your knickers are somewhere in the tangle. You try to straighten it all under your skirt but it's wrong - waistband digging in, one leg tighter than the other.

He's already tucking himself away. Picks up the phone, does something with it.

"Go on then. Fuck off to lunch or whatever."

You smooth your uniform. Your radio's still clipped on. The landing's quiet but it won't stay that way. You can feel everything sagging, the wet patch between your legs. You'll have to walk back through the wing like this.

"Same time Friday?" You hate how hopeful you sound.

He goes quiet. Makes you wait. Then shrugs. "If I'm about. Might have a legal visit."

Legal visit. Some solicitor probably. Professional. Put together. Not standing here with cum leaking out of her arse and soaking through cheap nylon.

He's looking at his phone now. Not at you.

"I could get you more credit. For the phone."

He glances up. Thinks about it. You can see him deciding whether to let you.

"Yeah alright. Fifty quid should do it."

You nod. Grateful he's letting you help. Fifty quid. Same as last time. You're covering your own arse on the cameras, bringing contraband in, risking your career. For a man who rubs your clit while he fucks your arse and puts you on speaker so his mate can wank.

But you'll do it. Bring the credit Friday. Bend over against this wall again.

Because sometimes he makes it feel like you matter.

"You still here?"

"Going now."

You unlock the door. The corridor's clear. You slip out and he locks it behind you.

Everything rubs as you walk. Sticky. Clinging. The seam's twisted at your ankle. You stop at the end of the corridor, lean against the wall like you're checking your radio. Reach down to sort it. Just makes it worse.

Your colleague Lucy's coming out of the servery. "There you are. Wondered where you'd got to."

"Just doing a welfare check."

"On Robinson? A82201CT?" She lowers her voice. "He's a wrong'un, that one. Got stabbed last year for dealing. Deals in all sorts. You want to be careful."

"Just doing my job."

Sarah gives you a look but doesn't push it. She knows something. Doesn't say what.

The staff toilet. Everything's sagging now, slipping down under your skirt. You lock yourself in a cubicle and pull it all down.

The gusset's soaked through. His cum mixed with blood. Just a bit. Enough. The nylon's darker where it's wet. You grab tissue and start cleaning up. It takes ages. Blood smeared on your inner thigh. More of his cum leaking out. You wipe and wipe but it keeps coming.

You pull it off completely. Ruined anyway. Bunch it up and shove it in the sanitary bin. Stand there in just your knickers and skirt, feeling the air on your legs.

There's a spare pair in your locker. You always keep one now. Have done for weeks. You tell yourself it's in case of ladders.

You know why you really keep them.

You wash your hands and look at yourself in the mirror. Thirty. Decent career. Pension building. Your mum thinks you're seeing someone. You haven't corrected her. Let her think it's someone nice. A teacher maybe. Someone from outside who doesn't fuck you in a cell while his mate listens.

Back to your locker. The spare pair's there in the packet. You open it and pull them on. These sit right. Clean. The waistband where it should be.

Back to the wing. Medication rounds. You're professional. Efficient. No one would guess where you've been, what you've done. What's been done to you.

Robinson's door is closed when you walk past. You don't look.

Friday you'll bring the credit. He'll fuck you again. Maybe your arse, maybe not. Maybe the speaker phone again. Maybe his fingers working your clit while he does it, making you respond when you don't want to.

Maybe he'll look at you after. The way he did that time.

You'll wear the good ones. The expensive ones. Won't matter. They'll end up in the bin too.

You tell yourself you'll stop. Tell yourself every time.

But you won't.

Because three months ago he asked how your day was and actually listened.

Because once he held your face after and looked at you like you mattered.

Because sometimes, if you bring him what he needs, he makes it feel real.

Even when he's touching your clit while he fucks your arse and you come anyway.

---

Three o'clock that same afternoon. Carl Robinson sits across a consultation room table from a woman in an expensive suit.

She's leaning forward, hand under her skirt. Been talking for ten minutes. Can't stop now.

"Fuck me," she says. The word sounds different in her accent. Cambridge maybe. Private school definitely. "Grab my hair to give you purchase. Squeeze my nipples to make me beg. Put a belt in my mouth and hold the ends like a bridle."

He's not moving. Just watching. Taking it all in.

"Pay no attention whatsoever to the back of my neck, or the soft parts that you want to kiss romantically. Stuff your fingers, your cock, your hands wherever they'll go, and make me look into your face while you screw me with them."

Her other hand grips the table edge. She's close now.

"Tell me I'm a bad girl but -- and this is very, very important -- treat me like a bad girl too. Don't call me a slut. Make me your slut. Ruin any hopes I had of cuddles and kisses before bed."

He lights a cigarette. The officer outside doesn't care.

"This isn't a desire. It's a need. It's the reset button on my sexual energy. The only thing which drags me out of a low, listless anti-sex drive and into the world I'm happy in."

She's shaking now. Coming. Trying to keep quiet.

"Please fuck me. Use me. Hurt me. Make me cry."

She does cry. A little. Her body going rigid. Hand still working under her skirt, soaked through now.

He waits until she's finished. Until she's tried to compose herself. Straightened her suit. Wiped her eyes.

"Six months," he says. "Then I'm out."

She nods. Still catching her breath.

"I'll make it real. Every word you just said."

She believes him.

She gathers her papers. Her briefcase. Tries to look professional walking out past the officer.

He watches her go.

Then picks up his phone. Scrolls through. Finds the video from earlier. Linda against the wall. Her face when he'd answered his mate's call. The moment his fingers found her clit and she'd started pushing back differently.

Deletes it.

Doesn't need it anymore.

He's got better material now.

---

"Daddy," Linda whispers that Friday when he's inside her again. When it hurts again but she's wet anyway. When she needs reassurance that this means something.

His hand comes round to cover her mouth.

"Quiet," he says. "I'm on the phone."