Page 23 of Babalon

She was sent here to fuck my life up even more. I wouldn’t be surprised if she is planning on using her little side project, whatever it is, to get back at me for this ongoing feud between the two of us— vindictive little shit.

Picking up the pace, the soap bar fell away from my dick, the rope catching on my wrist, preventing it from dropping away and clattering across the tile. Shifting from right to left, I widen my stance while my cock stood out with a slight upward curve. All nine inches of its glory, the velvety yet hard flesh throbbing in my relentless grip. My chest heaves as my breath rakes in and out of my lungs, my hand holding the pace I set just a moment ago, picturing Nadia and that smug face of hers down on her knees before me.

She would be so damn gorgeous stuffed with my cock.

If she is going to be such a damn terrorist here, the least she could do is provide me with what I need—blissful fucking release.

Fuck, she is beautiful, in a hateful sort of way. Those silver-colored eyes surrounded by long black lashes, her puffy lips shoulder length dark hair, and fair complected skin. I could almost feel her under my fingertips at this very moment. My fingers digging into her cheeks while prying that snarky mouth open before I fed my cock down her throat.

Just like I use to do to Emilia.

Instinctively, my hips bucked. Ever since I became incarcerated, I have pictured Emilia anytime I stroked myself, but now that I tried to see her before me, visions of Nadia took her place. My law breaking, emotionally abusive, snitch of a fucking Correctional Officer.

Pumping a few more times, I felt my balls draw up and tighten just as cum spurt from my swollen glands. My teeth take hold of my tongue to keep my moan from being too loud and alerting others to what I am doing all while my thighs tremble from the force of my orgasm. After a few deep breaths, I finally let my shaft go, the muscle growing soft before hanging from the hilt of my groin, still thinking about Nadia.

Finding myself wondering what her story is, and why she is hell bent on toying with me every chance she gets. What happened in her life to make her so cantankerous, pushing back against those who outrank her, while keeping violent men twice her size in check.

Standing under the shower for a beat, I shake my head, internally scolding myself. Grabbing the soap, I return to bathing, gliding the bar over the toned cheeks of my ass and in between. If there was one thing I had control over in this damn prison, it was this, and nothing more.

I feel as good as I can at this point—washed, satiated, and in a clean jumper. After my shower, I dropped by the library, as I told Matias I would, and grabbed the books I needed to study up on. Walking into my cell, I make silent eye contact with my bunkie before tossing the books up on my bed. I’m younger than him, so I was gracious enough to take the top bunk so he didn’t have to jump up there every night. His name is Ronald, 53-years-old, and is here for embezzlement from some big tech company; something around 18 million dollars stolen, and sentenced to 15 years. But then he managed to get into a scuffle while he was sitting in state jail awaiting trial, and broke some guy’s neck.

Needless to say, he’s here because they think he is a danger, but he’s pretty chill if you stay out of his way, and he keeps to himself which is why we are such good cell mates. Though I don’t fight unless it is a matter of life and death, we are exactly alike. I hope I am as collected as him at his age. More concerned with what is sitting in front of me rather than the drama of younger inmates.

Once I grab a quick drink from the sink in our cell, I hop up top and crack open one of the books. Maybe, if I have any sort of good fortune, I can find something to help me out of this shit hole.

Doubtful.

Before I knew it, Zurita stopped by our cell for nightly count, ensuring every inmate was where they needed to be—no extra heads, no missing ones. As he passed by the bars, I know it isn’t going to be more than a few more minutes before the lights turn out. Being proactive, I close the book and jump down, my slides making that annoying plastic-clicking sound when I take the two or three steps to do what I need to do. Placing the slides on my single shelf, both of us allowed just one, I lift myself back up to my bunk. Sure enough, once my ass met the mattress the lights went black; the only time the darkness feels comfortable is ininstances like this one. The cell door jammed shut and locked, keeping the animals out of my space, giving me the security I need to get a few hours of sleep, at the minimum.

Folding my thin blanket back, I push my legs under it and get comfortable, my left arm reaching up to brace under my head while I stare at the cinder block ceiling above. The block is usually still a bit noisy at this point, some of us listening to other inmates’ chatter down the hall while Gary the Karaoke Extraordinaire—that’s what he called himself--singsMr. Sandmanto lull us all to sleep. I’ll have you know, he was sentenced for conspiracy to commit murder and terroristic threats; great voice, shitty person.

We are a group of odds and ends, but we are all here to rot. Then there’s the issue behind the need for violence. If there ever comes a day where I have to choose my life over someone else's, I’m confident that I can do so, that I can protect myself and kill if I need to. I have the body and the means; I’m just not the murdering type. I will do it if it means my survival, though. It’s not like they can send me anywhere worse than this fucking place if I catch another charge.

They say that if Darkwater doesn’t kill you, an inmate will, or you’ll take matters into your own hands—death is the only way out.

With one more long, deep breath, I close my eyes and let the darkness drag me under.

Chapter eight

Nadia

Past - The Bonfire

My arm is on absolute fire.

Dad’s grip is harsher than normal as he drags me back to the truck, effectively throwing me into the cab. I struggle to climb over the center console before he tries to touch me again, quickly dropping down into the passenger side seat and pulled on my seatbelt. My opposite hand instinctively reaches to soothe the pain in my bicep while dad settles into his own seat. Anger rolls off him in suffocating waves. He is livid, I know that, but part of me does not care. He abandoned me on an important day in my short life. He is supposed to be there to support me, whether he resented me or not.

Then for me to walk in on him and his flavor of the week?

Disgusting.

It’s like he hoped I would have disappeared today and never came home after the ceremony. Yet, when I did leave, he went ape shit, throwing a temper tantrum even though I followed his instructions and got the hell out. So here we are, he is pissed, and I am the one to blame, like always.

Listening to the truck fire into a rumble, I stare out the passenger window at the shocked faces of my friends. Their gazes following us as we peel out of the spot I parked in. My friends know my dad is a dick, but this is one of the only times he has put his hands on me, let alone threatened to harm me where other people could witness it. As terrible as it sounds, I supposed I should have anticipated this. Though I am an adult, he will never treat me as one; he only ever belittles me and embarrasses me in front of those that I considered my true family.

Sitting silently, I can hear his heavy breathing while he internally wars with himself over what he is going to scold me over next. Is it the half empty gas tank? The distance back to the house? The time, knowing I should have come home earlier? Who knows. He will find something to nitpick on and I know it’s coming, like fucking clock work.

The tension is so thick I am going to need a chainsaw to make it from one side of the truck to the other. He hates me and I hate him, it is mutual at this point.

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