Page 63 of Sweet Prison

As carefully as I can, without making the slightest noise, I step inside the darkened bedroom.

The carpet covering the floor is thick, muffling my steps as I approach. Moonlight slips through the gap in the drapes, falling onto the bed where Zahara is sleeping. She’s curled in the fetal position atop a sea of white bedding. Despite the long-sleevednightgown, she must be chilly. Especially with her blanket tossed off and bunched at her feet.

For a moment, I let myself stare at her lovely face. It’s partially obscured by the sleep-tangled strands of her light-brown hair. Her black nightie has ridden up almost to her waist, allowing me a view of the perfect curve of her luscious ass and shapely legs. My dick is instantly a steel rod.

I don’t want to wake her, so I practically hold my breath as I draw closer to her bed. Permitting myself one final, quick look, I lift the edge of the crumpled blanket and carefully pull it over Zahara, high enough to cover her up to her chin. She looks so small. So peaceful. I don’t want to leave her.

Looking around, I spot an armchair nestled beside her desk where it’s set up beneath a window. It’s only steps from her bed and has a direct line of sight. I back away and lower myself onto the seat, all the while fighting to ignore the objections of my painfully hard cock.

For days, I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on in my head, why I have this obsessive pull toward her. Mystepsister. I’ve even gone as far as googling the reasons for my feelings and behavior. This can’t be healthy or normal. Hours and hours I’ve spent combing across various sites, looking at blogs and psychiatric forums covering the issues ex-cons experience as they try to fit back into society.

Who knows if the shit I’ve read is real, especially since multiple disorders seem relevant to me. Several symptoms hit the nail square on the head. Like the constant hypervigilance. The persistent sense that I’m trapped in a rival gang’s territory, just waiting for a shiv in my back. The overwhelming and damn near irresistible impulse to go on the attack, inflicting fear and pain, because for so long it was the only way to keep the cuntfucks in check and myself safe.

The violent urges that I can’t seem to control continue to flow through me. They’re all I know, all I’m used to. Behind bars, the only way to stay alive is to make sure you’re riding at the top. The world around me, I don’t recognize and can’t fucking relate to. Everyone is a potential threat, a potential enemy. Even Salvo. Despite his loyalty to me all these years.

I just…. don’t care anymore. About anything. The fucking Family included. It used to sustain me, like a mental crutch, gave me something to focus on so I wouldn’t go nuts in prison. Like a dog with a bone, not letting go of a bite, for if I did, I’d lose the only thing I had.

That drive is still within me. Iwillsee my plan to the end. But at the same time… I don’t particularly give a shit about it. I want to, though. I want to care, as I did before. Just can’t seem to make myself do it. As if something important, something fundamental that makes me…me, simply died. I feel so lost. And so fucking angry.

One of the articles I came across during my cyber introspection mentioned depression as a possible reason I’m such an irascible bastard. Depression, really? I don’t feel apathy or avolition, which is what I thought defined the condition—a general lack of interest in life. Instead, I want to destroy. Annihilate. Burn the fucking world to the ground, the one that dared to move on without me. Spit on the fate that stole half of my life, leaving me to rot in that hellhole. Kill the cocksuckers responsible for that, those still hiding in the shadows. I want to demolish them, rain death on their miserable heads. Slay everyone.

And amid the chaos, the violence, my wrath, there’sher. My Zahara. My peaceful haven. An angel, offering a hand of salvation to a man burning in his own inferno. She’s grace,kindness, and my last hope. The only thing that keeps me tied to this mortal coil.

I can’t taint the only pure thing lighting up my existence. No matter how crazy it makes me, I won’t put my hands on Zahara, subjecting her to that stigma for the rest of her life.

Deciding that, though, doesn’t make my dick any less hard.

I slide my hand inside my sweatpants and take ahold of my aching cock. Squeezing it to the point of pain that nearly makes me roar into the night.

Yet not a sound leaves my lips. I don’t let it. Won’t risk waking her up to see me losing my sanity. If this was nothing but a physical urge, I’d have an easier time dealing with the madness. Yet, it isn’t. I know it’s not. Because, even with Zahara’s body completely covered, hidden from my eyes, my mind still conjures up her image. It’s not just her sinful curves and ethereal beauty that turn me the fuck on. It’s more.

It’s the idea of having her tucked into my side, my arms keeping her safe. Of having the right to touch her. Whenever and wherever I want. Of being able to bury my nose in her skin, inhale deeply, having the freedom to breathe her in without reproach. This dark abyss I’m facing, I want us to find a way across—together. I want to tell her all the fears that plague me, things I would never voice aloud to anyone else.

Zahara is the only person who I can see standing next to me for the rest of my life. As a friend. And my lover.My wife.God, I’ve even imagined her pregnant with my babies. A son. A daughter. Mine, all mine. I want to claim her, join in the most intimate and carnal way until we are one. Ineedher like I need the fucking air.

I squeeze my dick again, this time even harder. A punishment for my dirty thoughts. I need the treacherous fucker to go down.

It doesn’t work.

It doesn’t fucking work.

Letting go of my choke hold, since it’s apparent I can’t force it to behave, I start to stroke. Imagining what it would feel like to be inside her.

You fucking creep.The voice in my head is brimming with disgust. Even my inner self is appalled by my actions.Tugging on your cock in the dark while you watch the woman sleep. One seriously sick bastard, that’s what you are.

“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, barely above a whisper.

Closing my eyes, I pick up my pace. My cock is long past the normal point of no return, and every stroke sends a jolt of agony through my starving body. Every cell vibrates with electricity. But the damn thing is still an unbending rod. Swollen and angry. As if my hand alone is no longer enough to bring the release I’m chasing.

Nearly roaring aloud in pain, I squeeze again and open my eyes.

Only to find Zahara sitting up in bed. Staring at me with wide, astonished eyes.

Jesus fuck.

I should get off my ass and walk away. I don’t. Instead, I hold her gaze and let her watch me. Maybe this will clue her in on what a twisted son of a bitch I am. Maybe she’ll run, never to return to me. I hope she does. Because God knows, I can’t walk away from her.

Even though I should.