DJ had always silently held it against her that his step-sister was born mere months after his father’s passing, but she’d never told him that it had been Sean’s idea for him to fuck Lauren’s dad. Whose name she didn’t even know. She’d just done it to make Sean happy. That was why he married her, after all—lots of women just hooked up with him, passed it off as a crazy one-time thing, but Morgan had gotten turned on—like, crazy, out-of-her-mind, insatiably comefuckmerightthisfuckingsecond turned on—at every outrageous demand he made of her. He’d loved her for it.
Then he’d gotten sick, and then he was gone. She thought to reunite DJ with his birth mother, but had no idea who that even was. Besides, it had been Sean’s last request, to look after his son. Even after he was gone she just couldn’t say no to him. So she’d settled down, lived off his considerable assets, and raised his boring son.
Only suddenly, he wasn’t boring any more. Something of his dad had evidently rubbed off on him after all. The confidence, that wild party—and, of course, the endless parade of hot women in his bed. That top-heavy blonde from school. Lauren’s friends (who’d always struck her as prudes, but that wouldn’t have stopped Sean either). Lauren. And, of course, Morgan herself.
Fuck it had been good. She’d probably frigged herself off a few dozen times just thinking about it. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed Sean, the way he could push people around, get his way, take charge of any situation. She’d missed a man who could just demand the world—and get it. Could just make her his bitch, any time he wanted, without even asking.
The girls were expecting him; they were waiting out back in the hot tub, each sporting the sluttiest bikini they could find. (Morgan knew because that had been DJ’s request, and she’d been included in it.) The girls were only too happy to comply, enjoying their youthful dalliance. She’d talked to them all about birth control, but beyond that, there was only so much she could say on the subject. Even if she didn’t enjoy it every bit as much as them, she wasn’t such a bad step-mother as to deny DJ his fun.
It was all pretty harmless anyway. In the years ahead, this would be a fun little story to brag about at bachelorette parties, how they were once young and uninhibited and had a four-way with a dangerous older guy. Jody was going to Brown in the fall to study political science, as it apparently didn’t impinge upon her feminist values to get tit-fucked while her whole family listened in. (Yes, she’d heard all about that one. Lauren’s door was thin.)
Brianne and Lauren were both entertaining notions of following in DJ’s footsteps at State. That was a load off for her; weirdly, even if he sometimes treated the girls like his personal fuck toys, she still trusted him to make sure they kept on their studies.
She heard a car door slam shut outside, and her cunt was wet before DJ even walked in the door. In the time it took him to set down his bags, untie the string holding her bottoms on, and bend her over the arm of the couch—all without speaking a single word—it was gushing.
What a good boy—a real chip off the old block.
“Lights out!”
Somewhere one of the guards pulled the lever, and throughout the cell block darkness asserted itself. Ashley Vandoren—Prisoner #50511—settled in for her fourth night in prison. The fourth, and 9,127 nights to come. With no possibility of parole.
The judge had been lenient, her lawyer assured her. He could have given her a life sentence, or even the death penalty. She’d pled not guilty, of course. What she’d done had been necessary, logical, and victimless—ending that cunt’s life was no different than swatting a mosquito. Whatever the consequence, they couldn’t make her say that she’d killed a person. Emily Turner hadn’t actually been a person, not in any real sense. She was a wet hole for men to shove things in, a configuration of flesh to do Ashley’s bidding. When it was her mistress’s will that she die… she’d done so. Like a good girl.
Still, the police had found the suicide note saved to her computer, and the pills in Ashley’s purse matched the chemicals in Emily’s system from the autopsy. The asshole himself had even shown up to testify, told the whole courtroom all the things she’d said after she sucked his cock. The things she’d communicated during the blowjob, with her eyes. He’d spared no details, and pretty soon the whole courtroom looking at her like her chest was two amazing tits and no heart.
The jury hadn’t deliberated long.
Prison was going to be hard on her, this was clear. However tough she’d been in the world of privileged college students, it meant jack shit here. Here, she was a pretty young white girl who’d already been felt up half a dozen times and propositioned twice as many. Some of them, she thought, were purely meant to be flirtatious. Ashley tried not to throw up at the thought of being a dyke—she’d done gay shit for the asshole’s amusement, but only when she couldn’t wriggle out of it.
Still, the winks and cat-calls and crude gestures and wandering hands weren’t all mere flirting. Some were just flat-out intimidating her.
It was working.
Her life was over. She had no friends any more—not even on the outside now, thanks to that cunt Emily—and even her family wasn’t speaking to her. Her ex-roommate, that cunt Janet, had come into court as a “character witness” and made up a bunch of bullshit Ashley had done just to make her sound bad. Well, she had done those things, but still. Janet had no fucking sense of humor about it, and wasn’t the least bit grateful for her improved social standing after Ashley got a half dozen linemen to run a train on her.
She’d be forty-six years old when she got out. Older than her mom was now. In the meantime, she’d be fending off advances from a whole building full of violent offenders who saw her as nothing but a piece of fresh, tasty meat.
That night, Ashley lay there sobbing into her pillow, careful not to let the sound carry to the ears of her cellmates (two of whom had told her they’d beat her ass into the infirmary if she kept them up again like she had the first night). She couldn’t handle this. Whatever purpose her life had, it couldn’t be this, to wind up a discarded convict at the mercy of people who were in here with her precisely because they had none.
She was weak. Deep down inside in those places in her heart she seldom acknowledged, she knew it. She was no stronger than Emily had been, her life ruined by that asshole just as surely, just as effortlessly. She wished she were stronger—that she could stand up to these bitches here, that she didn’t have to live in constant fear that one of them, or one of the guards, would get her alone. She wished she wasn’t lonely and afraid of every single thing that was happening to her.
As she drifted off to a fitful sleep, Ashley just wished that she could endure it all.
She was awakened by the presence of one of her cellmates in bed beside her. It was still dark in the prison, so it took her a moment to recognize Jonesy, who’d introduced herself by saying she was in for six counts of aggravated assault and told her not to tempt her into seven. She was also one of the women who’d felt her up, cornering her in the showers and enjoying a lengthy squeeze on her tit while another hand toyed at her own pussy.
“Mornin’, College,” she whispered. Ashley learned quickly that her education was not to her credit in this place. “Ain’t nobody else up yet. You and me got a little time to get better acquainted finally.” The woman’s hand was already under Ashley’s tank top, and settled quickly and firmly on one plump tit.