First Time in the Prison Parlor: Nervous Lust After Betrayal

The visiting room in Chartres prison smells of stale coffee and bleach. Small table. Two plastic chairs. Guard in the corner, back half-turned, pretending not to watch. My heart thuds like a drum in my chest. First visit since the shooting. Agnes walks in, escorted by lawyer Makarov. She’s pale, eyes red from crying. Skirt loose, blouse buttoned high. Makarov nods, whispers strategy, then slips out. Leaves us alone. Sort of. Guard coughs. I swallow hard. Betrayal burns fresh – her naked with him on our stairs. But two years locked up, her letters pleading forgiveness. My cock twitches despite the rage. She sits close. Our knees touch. Electricity. ‘Laurent,’ she whispers, voice shaky. Hand on my arm. Skin hot. Pulse races. I want to hate her. Can’t. Desire builds, thick, urgent. No turning back. Guard shifts. We freeze. Then her fingers lace mine. Lean in. Lips brush. Soft at first. Hungry seconds later. Tongues tangle. Breath quickens. Heart hammers. This is it. First time like this. Exposed. Risky. Prison rules bend for love. Or lust. Her scent – perfume mixed with nervesweat – hits me. Hand slides to my thigh. I groan low. No words. Just need.