Page 22 of Babalon

“Fuego?” I asked.

“Si, that red hair and his shitty attitude, like he crawled right out of hell to spite me.”

I chuckle at his statement then turn back to the TV. The news has finally swapped over to Friends reruns. The One Where Everyone Finds Out.

After about an hour, I finally excuse myself from the rec room. My back is aching from the hard bench seats that are attached to the tables, ensuring no one could pull one up and use it as a weapon. We have a good hour or two before lights-out, but before I head to my cell, I want to grab a quick shower now that the bulk of the inmates have already been through. Leaving the room empty and the water was likely cold, which is cool.

I know, stupid pun.

Stopping by my cell, I grab a new jumper, under shirt, boxers, socks, and my single bar of soap. Mom, somehow, found one of those all-in-one bars that helps cut down on the shit I must tote to and from the showers. She thought of everything— God love that woman. I will feel like shit for the rest of my life, knowing that I ruined her reputation outside of my dad bailing on us when we were little. She still stuck it out for me and my sister, taking up both roles in a way I never thought she would have to.

Though Nadia moved all my commissary funds around, she has no control over the gifts my mom sends me, not yet anyhow. I may not be able to buy things like paper, stamps, or envelopes to write anyone outside of these walls but mom was sure to get me something as simple as soap— the things we take for granted once they become scarce.

As I head over to the showers, I look across the cell block and connect with Zurita’s’ judgmental gaze. He stars at me, impassive as hell, as always. It must be his turn to work the night shift. Each guard changes out every week; one week on nights and one week on days. Meaning the she-devil would be back in the morning to work her shift. She is usually nicer on the night shifts, the little night owl. So, when she comes back, I’m sure she’s going to be roaming around here like some pissed off snake.

“Lucky me,” I huff to myself.

With a nod towards the showers, I let Zurita know that I wasn’t going to go far since communication, and sometimes the lack thereof, is important in prison. I need him to know that I’ll be in there so he didn’t wig out if he couldn’t find me during a count, and if anyone tries to rough me up again. For a 39-year-old man, I can’t really handle the beatings anymore, so I rely more on the officers. As shitty as it sounds, they are usually slower to respond than other inmates so I had a 50/50 chance that I was going to make it out of the showers in peace or in pieces.

I came to Darkwater as a man who never had to fight, but now I must be prepared for anything to happen—to survive or die—and I have no fucking training. Lord knows boxing and MMA training is not allowed here. So, it’s fight and figure it out, which I have not been able to do since I am always jumped.

Just as I expected, the water is bitter cold. I hiss when I step my bare ass under the torrent; gooseflesh crawling across my arms and down my thighs, nipples instantly reaching stiff peaksfrom the nearly unbearable temperature. I prefer warm water, as did everyone else, but this is as good as it is going to get. Grabbing the all-in-one soap, I create a lather before diving into my platinum strands. The rope of the bar slid down my arm, now hanging from the ditch, while I scratch and scrub my scalp. The blobs of suds slap down on the dingy tile beneath my feet.

With my eyes closed, I turn and tilt my head back under the spray. Rinsing the bubbles from my messy yet straight strands, the sides buzzed down into a low fade thanks to the one inmate they allow to barber. This is my favorite part of a shower, very few things feel better than scrubbing your scalp and hitting those shallow pressure points that pump endorphins into my blood stream. Creating a sense of calm and relaxation that I wouldn’t trade for anything. That is a fucking lie; I’ll trade it for freedom, for the touch of someone who didn’t want to leave bruises along my flesh or break things.

Maybe Nadia. No, bad Kace.

Pulling the soap-rope, I worked the bar along my shoulders and upper back, then down my chest— watching as I went. I’m not the skinniest fuck in here but I am still on the thinner side and toned in the right places, especially in my arms, chest, and back. Then there are my legs, muscular but not too bulky, strong. When I first got here, I busied myself with working out in my cell while my cellie sat on his bunk and read comics.

You can’t go wrong with push-ups, squats, and crunches. Sure, there’s limited range of mobility, but you adapt by combining the movements together into shit like ‘around-the-worlds’ and ‘burpees.’ Big gym-bro type shit, but what else is there to do other than what I do now?

I used fitness as a means to distract myself from the fact that I was in prison and that I had been sentenced here indefinitely unless something catastrophic happened. Coping mechanism or not, I obsessed over it. Before I pulled myself out of my funk,I was ripped in places that I didn’t even know could be so defined. After sitting with the therapist, I was able to find a different strategy that was healthier than running my body into the fucking ground.

Lathering the soap down my torso, I scrubbed the bar along the muscles there and the Adonis V at my hips, moving down to my thighs and legs. Stopping at my ankles and feet, I always wash those last—hygiene and all. Feet come after your crotch and your ass, prevents hookworms, at least that’s what I was told growing up.

Working my way back up, I run the bar along my groin. Though firm, the soap slid along my flesh with ease, coating me in just enough suds where the bursting bubbles tingle. Aligning the bar along the underside of my shaft, and unable to stop myself, I stroked from hilt to the tip. With a low groan, I find myself stiffening almost immediately. Reaching out, my free hand circles the pipe that connects the knobs to the shower head and squeeze, my other mimicking the same level of pressure just the way I liked it.

Tight.

Suffocating.

Pained.

Sucking in a breath, my head tilts forward, memories drifting back to the day in the hallway with Nadia. Her smaller hand gripping me through the front of my jumper, much different from how my calloused hand feels wrapped around my dick now. Hers was softer, not as tight, but if the harlot did anything even remotely close to that again… I’d be sure to tell her to go harder.

Lie, I’m a fucking liar.

I’ve never told anyone how I like it, I just fuck how I want. I slammed into wet mouths and tight, eager bodies, taking what I pleased. The way the primal side of me yearns to force myselfinto Nadia, and feel her pussy squeeze me each time I pump into her while she quakes with the need to come for me.

“Fuuuuck,” I moaned into the empty shower.

Releasing the pipe, my hand reaches up and runs through my sopping strands. Brushing them back while I also tilt my head, trying to get the annoying clumps of hair out of my damn face. Closing my eyes again, my hand never stops stroking, picturing her hot mouth mumbling around my cock, gagging her with every forward thrust. Saliva pouring over her lush lips, coating her chin, dripping down onto her naked chest, and using her for my pleasure. Tit-for-tat, snitch, humiliate her, just like she has done to me in the hallway.

Jesus Christ, what in the fuck was I thinking? I’m not this type of… Yes, I am… Well, I was.

Nadia… she is the devil. Yeah, that’s… that is it.

Holy fuck the things I wanted to do to her in this moment.

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