Option B: Let him do as he pleases and endure — stay still, accept the fingers inside me, and wait for whatever comes next.

I remain completely still for several long seconds while the possibility of escape races through my mind. The thought of twisting free flashes sharp and bright inside me, almost close enough to touch, because his grip on my wrists has loosened just enough that one hard yank or one desperate thrash might be enough to break away. Yet the cell is made of solid concrete, there is no one else nearby who might hear or help, and if I fight and fail he will certainly not stop at the use of his fingers. The full weight of that risk settles cold and heavy in my chest, and I understand that turning this moment sour could easily become the far worse choice for me.

So I choose the other path instead.

I spread my knees a little wider on the cold floor and deliberately let my weight settle forward, giving his hand more room to move. His fingers push deeper at once, rougher and thicker than any of my own have ever been, the heavy knuckles stretching me open while his short nails scrape lightly along the sensitive inner walls. The sensation stings sharply, yet at the same time it sends a low and unwanted pulse of heat rolling through my core, and my body begins to answer him even while my mind stays clenched tightly against the invasion.

“Sir,” I whisper.

He lets out a short, harsh breath that ghosts across the back of my neck.

“Yes, Maya, bitch. Do you like it?”

I keep my voice soft and carefully measured.

“This isn’t right. You know it isn’t.”

He only laughs once, the sound low and completely dismissive.

“I don’t give a fuck what’s right. I’ve been stuck guarding this empty hole for months without a single woman to put my hands on. You’re here. That’s enough.”

His free hand leaves my wrists just long enough to unbuckle his belt, and the metallic clink of the buckle is startlingly loud inside the small space. Fabric shifts behind me, and then the hard, hot length of his cock presses between the cheeks of my ass—thick, strongly pulsing, and already slick at the tip. At the same moment his other hand comes around and seizes my breast, fingers digging in hard enough that the pressure borders on real pain. The mixture of that rough squeeze and the deep, grinding thrust of his fingers inside me makes my thighs begin to tremble, and a thin, helpless sound slips out of my throat before I can stop it.

I force the next words out carefully, shaping them so they sound almost teasing and almost intelligent.

“Are there other women inside the walls? Anyone in particular you like?”

He stills for half a second while his fingers remain buried deep inside me.

“There are hundreds, but you are right there is one,” he says at last, his voice rough against my ear.

I wait in silence.

“Who?”

“The head of the military.”

Another slow, deliberate stroke of his fingers makes my breath catch.

“Name?”

“General Sloan Mercer.”

His hand tightens further on my breast, squeezing hard enough that another small sound escapes me, and at the same time the head of his cock slides more firmly between the cheeks of my ass, hot and insistent against my skin.

“What does she do?” I ask quietly.

“Commands the whole fucking wall. Every soldier answers to her.”

I remain quiet for a moment longer, breathing carefully through the dual pressure of his thick fingers moving inside me and the heavy length of his cock pressing against my backside. Then, speaking with deliberate care, I ask,

“What if I got her here for you?”

He lets out a short, harsh laugh.

“Impossible. You wouldn’t get within a hundred meters of her. She’s so far above someone like you it’s almost funny.”

I reach back slowly with both hands and cover his, guiding his arms tighter around my naked body until my back is pressed completely flush against his chest and the full heat of him soaks into my skin.

“What if I did?”

His fingers continue moving inside me in slow, possessive strokes.

“There is no way you could ever get her down to a shitty guard post like this. Not willingly. Not ever. You don’t get to offer me things you can’t deliver, Maya. That’s how people end up hurt.”

I keep my voice low and even.

“I know she’s out of my league. I’m not stupid. But you can get me inside the walls. Give me a way in—papers, a name, a job, whatever it takes. Once I’m in, I’ll find a path to her. I don’t know how yet… but I’ll find one.”

He stays silent for a long moment.

“And what if you fail?”

I swallow once.

“Then I will do as you ask. For as long as you ask.”

Another pause stretches between us. Then he turns me roughly by the shoulders until I am facing him directly. My bare nipples drag across the rough fabric of his shirt, and the head of his cock nudges directly against the slick lips of my pussy, hot and insistent. My body wants to tip forward and take him inside, yet my mind knows how dangerous that would be.

He looks down at me with hard eyes.

“All right. You bring General Sloan Mercer to me within one week. Or you present yourself to me—to do with as I please. I have friends inside these walls. If you disappear, we will find you. And then you won’t just be my fucktoy. Understood?”

My heart is hammering so hard that I can feel the rapid beat in my throat. I nod once.

“Understood.”

He holds my gaze a second longer before stepping back. The sudden absence of both his cock and his fingers leaves me aching and fully exposed. He tucks himself away, buckles his belt, and walks over to the metal wardrobe set against the far wall. I remain on my knees for another moment, simply breathing, then push myself up on legs that still feel shaky and begin gathering my scattered clothes.

I dress quickly, fastening the nude bra and pulling on the matching panties, then the soft shirt, the long flowing skirt, and finally the sturdy boots. Every piece of fabric feels heavier than it should against skin that remains flushed and overly sensitive. When I am fully dressed again I pick up my bag.

He returns with a coarse sack and shoves it into my hands.

“Go to Maker’s Spit. Tell Maeve I sent you. Ask for work as a waiter. It’s a sleazy place, but you’ll need the coin and the cover if you want to survive. The general eats there every other day. Keep our deal, Maya. This benefits us both.”

I take the sack, feeling the rough material scrape across my palms.

“I will.”

He unlocks the cell door and holds it open. The corridor beyond is dim and empty. I step through with my original bag over one shoulder and the new sack clutched tightly in my other hand. The door closes behind me with a heavy, final clang.

I am alone again—naked beneath my clothes, still wet between my legs, and now bound by a promise I do not yet know how to keep.

I step out through the final gate.

The wall rises behind me like a second sky, grey and endless. In front of me the land opens into a wide, dusty stretch of hard-packed earth and scattered scrub. There are no people and no voices, only the low wind and the distant creak of something wooden.

A camel ambles toward me along the rough track with a flat wooden carrier strapped across its back. A man sits high on the front seat, one hand resting loosely on the reins. When he notices me he slows the animal and looks me over openly, his eyes lingering on the way the soft shirt clings to my breasts, the long skirt shifting around my legs, and the two bags hanging from my shoulders.

“Need a ride?” he calls in a voice that is dry and practical.

I stop a few paces away and let the dust settle around my boots.

“I need to get to Maker’s Spit.”

He nods once while still studying me.

“That’ll be a cap coin.”

My hands tighten on the straps of the bags.

“I don’t have any coins.”

The camel shifts its weight. The man leans forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees, and gives me another slow look that travels from my face down to my chest and then to my hips.

“Then maybe you can pay another way,” he says. “A blowjob would cover the fare.”

The words hang in the open air between us. Behind me the wall stands silent and closed. In front of me the track stretches empty toward whatever Maker’s Spit might be. I remain still, feeling the residual ache between my legs and the faint stickiness of earlier still present beneath the soft fabric of my panties, and I consider the new price of moving forward.