Plum-Haired Prisoner

LYS

"Mmmm-fuck!-♥" He bottomed out in my little puss and she coiled tight to his root, "-Daddy oh my God!♥"

Clawing into his back I bucked my hips wild, driving him into my sink again and again, "Gah-Ahaaahhh!"

"What was that prisoner!?" Legumen called from his table at the end of the hall and I snapped back to reality, yanking "Daddy", my left arm, from my wet hole and bringing him to my mouth to suck him clean, all four fingers, "Mmmph- nuh- nothing!"

The claw-marks along the back of my arm kept the thrill going. I'd been screaming, but only whisper-screaming.

How did he hear!?

My salt rolled across my tongue. I tasted so off, they hadn't let me bathe in weeks, though I still preferred this to the unseasoned gruel I'd been provided. Leg's footfalls echoed down the hall and I rushed to pull up my panties and drop my skirt. It was just the two of us. Prisoners didn't last long to burden the coffers of the Burg of Still Bells. I seemed to be an exception.

Leg had grown used to his silence, and had wasted no time in teaching me not to prattle.

He rattled my bars with his rod, a divoted length of iron bereft of ornament. I stammered out an excuse, "Swear that was someone passing by the-"

"Shut it," he cut me off, "Yer precious pa ain't comin' for ya."

Oh Gods he heard that...

I grimaced, "That's not what I-"

"Quiet," his voice boomed over mine. My throat seized.

Please not again...

I didn't want him thinking me consanguine. My folks weren't like that, but I couldn't wrestle out a squeak.

It's just a term...

Instead I curled into the corner; knees pressed sideways to the floor. I'd spotted him eyeing the hem of my skirt a few times and wanted nothing of it.

Having sufficiently cowered before him, the brute decided to head off, leaving me alone again in **** silence.

Why won't you just let me hang?

This had gone on for months, without the slightest clue why they were keeping me stowed away. I'd seen others pass through, hung within a few days' time for lesser offenses. I pulled a long strand of hair into my mouth to suck.

I clawed at my throat with soft scratches, trying to coax it back open. The last time he did this I'd been mute for a week.

This was the trick I'd come up with. It couldn't be ****, but if I calmed it, it might loose on its own.

"Is she bathed," a voice so unlike Leg's disturbing drawl pressed from down the hall.

I tried to drown them out, focus on clearing my mind. I knew how stupid that was but had no alternative. If I was going to handle whatever this was, I needed my words.

These steps clicked, and rounded at my cell door to find me a mess, rubbing at my throat eyes wide in panic.

She was tall, dressed in black blouse, trousers, and a gleaming silvered breastplate.

Green eyes pierced me, I struggled, **** air from my lungs, "Eeuuuuhhhh-"

Her vision pulled down and to the left, affording me the smallest amount of privacy.

"Tea," she said, and unlocked my cell door, "Quickly now."

The voice was soft but tightly clipped. Without it I'd have mistaken her for a man, her breasts hidden behind plate and her black hair held in a topknot.

My boots sat beside Leg's desk, no socks. She paused and I hurried to throw them on before chasing her out the door.

The hide of my boot-sole, and the soft dirt beneath it felt like a bite of warm bread. Burweld was a collection of thatch-houses built between reclaimed stone steeples, homes for grand bells that'd had their clappers removed.

This could be it, the gallows path.

I dismissed that hope. The others were dragged, not escorted, and they hadn't gone quiet.

She was sure of foot and didn't bother to check on me. I likely wouldn't have spoken up if I had the ability. She didn't invite approach.

We rounded a corner and proceeded up steps, before reaching a stone overlook. Near its edge was a fire-pit and grate, an iron kettle perched atop it, and two watchmen.

They spoke in hand-signs. She gave them a signal, and they grabbed their packs to leave.

As we approached the ledge I ventured a look, wasn't interrupted. The drop was long and ragged. I had the option.

The slow gurgle of hot water rose to my flank, carrying a floral scent I couldn't place.

I weighed my options. What would they find more satisfying? Me taking the out they'd given or their hospitality.

I wanted the tea. I turned.

The sun still lived out here. A flutter of the wind caught my hair, **** a gold and plum streamer ahead of me. I associated plum with her, not myself, my sister Annet. She'd not come back, and I'd come to accept it.

I recognized that the teacup burned my fingers and brought it to my lips. Her stern stare stopped me from parting them; she didn't want me to hurt myself.

I took the steam through my nose, let that cavern of clotted blood and jagged snot soften. My breath caught when it hit my lungs, my eyes tore away.

She provided space. My tea cooled, soft and orange. It rolled under the grit of my parched tongue, carried it into my gut. My throat calmed but I was unsure of what to say.

"You're literate and can hold a blade?"

The wind held her voice, had carried it from somewhere else, her intonation wasn't proper.

"Yes."

"I find you becoming." It only took her a moment to admit, after I'd confirmed my worth.

A mother yelled for her children to come inside for dinner. I smiled.

"H-how?" I was ungroomed, caked in my own filth, and slated for the gallows.

"Your hair," she turned, eyes half lidded, like she'd compared me to the sea, or a doe.

"That's the stupidest..." the statement felt closer to suicide than the ledge. She was unarmed but I was sure, more than capable of strangling me and bashing me **** on cobblestone.

"You share my mother's hue; I have not seen it in these lands."

Boys lust after their mothers, not girls...

It was somehow still the most romantic thing I'd ever heard.

I'm not even interested in girls...

And she looked spurned, turned from me to gaze over the horizon.

I almost wanted to break, but then I realized, I'd been imprisoned for months.

She made me wait for this, suffer for it.