Chapter 9: Trapped in the Cell

“Where’s my clothes?” Jaime’s voice ricocheted through the empty dressing area, confusion and frustration a jagged edge in her tone. Naked beside Reggie, she stared at the bench where her tattered sundress and undergarments once lay, now replaced by a folded prison uniform—a shackle in fabric form. Snatching a towel, she scrubbed herself dry, desperate to cloak her vulnerability.

Torres’s words echoed, a cruel gavel strike: “You’re just another prisoner now, señora. No more privilege—wear the drab uniform like the rest. Your old clothes? Useless. By release, they’ll be relics.” Her fate sealed, she faced this cold abyss as an inmate.

“You’re a despicable excuse for a human,” she spat, finger trembling with rage, eyes aflame. “I’ll see you rot for this.”

Torres chuckled, a mocking lash. “You’re the prisoner here, Señora Jordan—no power, no threats. This isn’t America—you’re mine. Dress now, or test me.”

Unfolding the garb, her breath caught—pink silk thong and bra, delicate and perverse amid the stark prison gray. She traced the fabric, soft as a whisper, straps frail as spider silk. A prude even with Steve, she loathed such lingerie. “I won’t wear this mockery—give me something normal,” she snapped, indignation a blaze.

“We rarely get women—those are it. Wear them or face worse. You’ll adjust—maybe even prefer them,” Torres sneered, relishing her fury.

Seething, she couldn’t decide which tormentor was viler—Reggie’s brutality or Torres’s sadism. Slipping into the humiliating silk, anger and shame coiled tight, she buried it beneath the orange uniform, vowing retribution.

“March that pretty ass back to your cell,” Torres boomed, authority laced with cruelty.

“What about my husband? Is he safe? Can I see him?” she pressed, desperation threading her voice.

“Still hung up on that pathetic man? Reggie hasn’t distracted you yet? He’s unharmed—for now. His safety’s on you. I’m keeping Lopez off the cocaine and fentanyl we found, but his reach slithers in here. Cooperate, and I might shield you—defy me, and you’re cartel prey,” Torres warned, voice smooth with menace.

“Cocaine and fentanyl? You planted that—I’m not cooperating without an attorney. Where’s my phone call?” she shot back, defiance a spark.

Their voices clashed off the stone walls as Torres led them back, Reggie trailing, grimly pondering how much of his stash would frame them. The captain’s greed stank like rot, his badge a mask for a darker game. Empty cells mocked their march to isolation.

“You made your call, señora—no answer,” Torres lied, smirk dripping charm. Jaime’s gut screamed he’d blocked her lifeline. “You never let me call, you lying bastard! People will find us—you’ll pay,” she roared, fury trembling.

“No one’s coming, Misses Jordan—not ‘misses’ much longer,” he sneered, slicing her worth. “Why with a sex offender? Why not Steve or another cell?” she demanded, fear clawing as they neared their chamber.

“You don’t run this show,” Torres spat, malice glinting. “Want another negro for a threesome? Be the star?” His taunt was a venomous dart.

“No, p-please,” she stammered, fear choking her. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“That’s better—you’re learning your place,” he purred, unlocking their cell, hinges shrieking. “Show Reggie kindness, cooperate fully—drop your prissy ideals. Your husband’s fate hinges on it—I’m his shield from Lopez. Comprende?”

“Fine, I get it,” she hissed, stepping in, disgust a bitter shroud as the bars slammed shut, her defiance a smoldering ember.

“You’re both Americans, same age—plenty in common,” Torres mocked. “Maybe you’ll grow close through all that intimacy.” His laugh trailed off as he left, leaving her belittled.

“What’s that mean, you sick freak?” she shouted, voice cracking with rage and terror. “You can’t leave me with him!” The cell’s dankness swallowed her pleas, walls closing in, sweat beading as she faced Reggie alone.

He sank onto the mattress, Jaime scurrying to the corner, collapsing on the stone. The captain’s steps faded, the steel door slamming—a final knell. Dankness choked the air, hope a distant ghost. Reggie’s cock stirred, hardening as he glared. “Just us again, baby. Why you pushin’ the Captain to move you? Think your white skin too good for me?” His sneer was a jagged blade.

“No, I-I just thought space would help,” she stammered, fear flickering, gauging his simmering rage.

“Space? Crampin’ your style? Need breathin’ room?” he taunted, rising, muscles taut against his jumpsuit. He yanked her up by the arm, dragging her to the bed.

“Ouch, you’re hurting me!” she cried, clawing at her pants as he tugged, desperate to hide the pink thong. His strength prevailed, ripping them free, exposing the silk Torres meant to entice, his erection swelling.

“No, don’t touch me!” she pleaded, her pussy—damnably—wetting in dread.

“You gon’ get used to me touchin’ you—everywhere, all the time. Shirt off,” he leered, hands clawing her top. She shoved, but he tore it away, leaving her in bra and thong—frail barriers.

His hands gripped her thighs, forcing them apart. “Spread ‘em, or want another spankin’ like mornin’?” he growled, yanking the thong aside, fingers invading her slick folds.

“No! P-please, no!” she sobbed, humiliation a noose as he stretched her open. “Why? Why keep doing this?”

“Shh, lie back—stop fightin’. You soakin’ wet—you want this. I’m doin’ it ‘cause you my girl, and I love you. Your pussy says you love me too and want it,” he sneered, stripping her bare, hovering with lust. Her crucifix gleamed, a mocking relic of lost virtue.

His fingers worked her, thumb circling her clit—a relentless tide consuming her. “Ugh,” she groaned, eyes glazing beneath him, slipping into his thrall.

He savored her writhing, pelvis swaying to his touch, moans a sweet dirge. “Yeah, feels good, huh, baby? You likin’ it,” he purred.

Her haze shattered, disgust clawing back. “Get away ... ah ... stop ... I don’t like it...” She bucked, fighting his thumb’s grip. “I’m married ... Christian ... it’s wrong ... ah ... don’t make me...”