Chapter Text
“Hi, baby.” You coo sweetly, picking up the phone and falling into the bench opposite the glass wall that separates you and Andrew. You settle into the bench as you smile at him, drinking in the sight of him after a long week of only hearing his voice, the only time you can make visiting hours at the prison being on the weekends.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Andrew whispers, hunching his shoulders and glancing around behind your back for threats still unknown to you. You’re sure no one is going to harm you while you’re visiting him, sure no one is going to sneak up behind you and pull a weapon on you while Andrew is incapable of doing anything about it, but you’ll never say that to him. If it gives him some sense of control and power to scan your surroundings while you visit him, you’re more than happy to indulge. “How was your week?”
“Work was so intense, my God.” You groan, rolling your eyes at yourself while the edges of Andrew’s lips pick up in a barely where smile. Barely noticeable to anyone else, but a beacon of light to you, his devoted girlfriend of five years. “You remember earlier this week I was telling you about the new girl, Phoebe?” When Andrew hums and nods for you to continue, you push on, happy to complain about this again and give Andrew a conclusion to a story from your life, a life outside of the prison.
Phoebe is a new junior epidemiologist in your department, fresh out of college and eager to learn everything she can, eager to prove herself worthy and climb the ladder when she can. You admire her enthusiasm, her drive and passion for her job, but the director of your company does not share in your admiration. “Dan, the director, yeah?— he just started yelling at Phoebe for asking him a bunch of questions and asking about opportunities for growth, telling her that she shouldn’t take on more than she knows she can handle and to be happy that she even got the job she has.”
Andrew screws up his face at your story, more than used to hearing your complaints about your boss, before and during his sentence, and is decidedly not a fan of him. He once offered to take care of Dan for you, whatever that meant, and hasn’t brought it up since after you froze in his lap and slowly asked if he was joking or not.
“So, I say something to him, of course—”
“Of course you do.” Andrew interrupts you, voice fond enough to make your angry scowl break around a shocked, pleased grin.
“Anyway,” you start again, letting your smile linger and soften for Andrew to see, to gaze at, to soak in for as long as he wanted. He gets so few pleasures in here, even if he doesn’t really talk about what it’s like for him as a prisoner, you know he’s starved not just for food, and you’re more than happy to let your smile drop slowly so he can see and experience your joy for as long as possible. “I tell him he’s being unprofessional and demeaning and just generally a jerk, and he shouldn’t talk to his employees like that. That went over very poorly, as you can imagine.”
“He yelled at you too?” Andrew asks, and you watch as his hand tightens around his phone, knuckles whiting out with the force and strength of his grip, with the sudden surge of anger that’s overtaking his body, his face. You see his expression darken too, his mouth twisting up into an angry scowl and his eyes lose their usual softness when you talk to him, and you quickly get this conversation back on track before he can get too angry.
“Not really.” You rush to explain, waving a hand in front of you to swipe away his worries and fears. You wish you could touch him, wish you could run your hands down his arms or through his hair or across his chest, wish you could press kisses onto his temples and cheeks and lips until he was soothed and could only focus on your touch and nothing else. “I can handle myself with him, baby, you know that. He gets an attitude with me, I give it back to him, and he goes and sulks in his office until it’s time to go home.”
“Tell me exactly—”
“Listen,” you interrupt him, pressing your fingertips to the glass separating the two of you. You wish you could break it underneath your fist and drag Andrew across the visiting barrier, wrap him in your arms and take him far, far away from here until he could trust the peace you tried so desperately to give him. Andrew slowly presses his fingertips against yours, nostrils flaring as he stares you down through the glass, waiting for you to speak again. “I’m trying to tell you a happy story, a story that makes me feel good about my role. I’m not trying to complain about my asshole boss and have you make me feel better about it.”
Andrew pouts and looks off to the side before he snaps his gaze back to you, as if he didn’t want to waste a single opportunity to look at you while he could. You press your fingertips harder against the glass, the gesture ultimately meaningless with the barrier still there. “Alright. Sorry.” Andrew whispers, sighing as he takes his hand off the glass first.
“It’s okay.” You whisper back, taking your hand off the glass too. You know Andrew doesn’t like to show too much vulnerability in here, and you count yourself lucky you got what you did. You think back to where you left the story, getting your conversation back on track as you recount your day of work to him. “Phoebe reports directly to me, so I take her aside and calm her down, tell her her enthusiasm is a good thing, to never stop asking questions and if she needs anything she can always come to me, that kind of stuff. I take her out for lunch afterwards and we get to talking, and she tells me how nice it is to have a female supervisor and asks if I would be her mentor. Me, baby, as her mentor.”
“That’s great.” Andrew smiles alongside you, taking in your beaming expression and obvious excitement in your words and matching your tone. You know he must not fully understand the meaning of this, considering the nature of his own…job, but he understands the significance of this to you, knows what it means to you to have someone come to you and ask you to be their mentor, what it means to you to take a new female employee under your wing and show her how to stand up for herself and climb the ranks until she has your job, or better. “That must have felt so good to hear.”
“I was really happy, yeah.” You sigh, tilting your head with a little smile. You could look at him all day, could stare into his hazel eyes for hours on end and never lose your interest, could visually trace the slope of his nose and the line of his mouth and the smattering of freckles on his face and neck until the sun sets and wake up with the sunrise and start all over again, day after day until there aren’t any more days left for you. He’s so beautiful, and you miss him so much. “She’s— she’s such a nice girl and a hard worker, and the last thing I want is for her passion and excitement for the work to be smushed out under Dan’s thumb.”
Andrew’s scowl is back in place as soon as you mention your boss’s name. “Shoulda let me take care of him. You could’ve had his job by now and ran that place so much better.”
You blink at the suggestion, once more unsure of how to respond to that offer or how you should feel about how easily Andrew offers it to you. Undoubtedly you could have had Dan’s job by now, but you don’t want to continue this conversation over the visitor phones, unsure if they’re monitored and if discussing Andrew taking care of someone on them is a good idea.
You scooch closer on the bench, getting as close to the glass as possible before you slide off the bench entirely. Andrew watches your body move closer and does the same, as much as he’s able to on his own side. You feel a little bad, potentially getting him excited for a conversation he loathes to have every time you visit him. “Are you doing okay in here? Do you need me to send you anything?”
He drops his gaze from yours immediately, eyes burning as he stares at the small counter that fills out the space between their bodies and the glass window. You swallow thickly, the motion forceful enough to generate a clicking noise, and breathe through the way your heart stutters as Andrew’s eyebrows furrow as he blinks down at the counter.
Andrew hates when you send him money or packages, hates when you fill his commissary account or send him things through the pre-approved prison vendors. He feels like he should be taking care of you, feels like if either of you should be sending the other money or buying them presents, it should be him, him sending you money to spend, him sending you surprise packages, him picking out things he hopes you like and wanting to hear about them when you next talk. He hates that he’s incapable of doing any of that, incapable of providing for you in any way while he’s in prison, his already abysmal self-esteem taking another hit.
It took you six months to figure out that Andrew initially wasn’t using the money you were putting in his commissary account, wasn’t touching that money because he didn’t want to spend any of your money on himself. Telling him you figured that out was a fun visit for the two of you, as was the two months long fight you had until Andrew finally caved and started to use your money.
You’re not hurting for money, is the thing. Your job pays you very well, pays you enough so you’re very comfortable after you take care of all your bills and groceries. You aren’t hurting without Andrew’s income, aren’t struggling to get by or worried about losing your house without his money, aren’t worried about your next meal without Andrew around. You would send him his own money, buy him things with his own money or fill his commissary account from his own bank account, but you can’t access that money anymore. Andrew knows this, knows that account was shuttered when he got convicted, but he still puts up a fight every time, still tries to convince you to not send him anything of your own while he’s locked up.
“You shouldn’t send me your money.” Andrew mumbles, low and defeated enough to break your heart, to shatter the already fragile muscle with how little Andrew thinks of himself. You’re still having this conversation after two years, and you would give anything to have him finally understand that you want to take care of him, because you love him and you have the means to, that it’s the one thing you truly want in this world above all else. You want to take care of him, and he’s spent so much of his life taking care of everyone else, surely he could at least see where you were coming from in your persistence. “It’s your money, and I don’t—”
“It is my money.” You interrupt him, tapping on the glass with your fingernail until Andrew looks up at you again, eyes wide and sad, like a kicked puppy still desperate for direction. You leave your hand on the glass again, keeping it placed low on the window, not expecting Andrew to mirror your touch again, but wanting to give him this show of support regardless. “It’s my money, and if I want to spend it on you, I can and I will. It makes me happy to take care of you and know that it’s my money taking care of you. Isn’t that why you said to me? You said— you said, ‘I have the money, and if I want to spend it on you, I fucking will. All you have to do is say thank you and show off how you spend my money.’”
He might not remember exactly what he said to you, but you remember his exact wording from that day. You remember the way he stepped right up to you and stared down his nose at you as he grumbled about spending his money on you, remember the way you turned into a stuttering, flustered mess at the display and had no choice but to grab his face and pull him into a kiss, no choice but to push him back onto the couch and ride him until he was whimpering into your kisses and grabbing desperately at your hips.
(“Thank you, baby”, you moaned, rolling your hips on his cock, chasing your orgasm as you grinded against him and hovered your lips over his as you spoke. “You treat me so well, baby, spoil me so perfectly. Think you deserve a reward for that?” “Please”, Andrew gasped, tilting his head up toward your lips, muscles in his neck bulging as he desperately tried for a kiss that you kept denying him. He moaned pathetically as you barely pulled back from his mouth, smirking down at him as you purposefully clenched around his cock and ripped another pathetic moan from his throat. “Please, I want it. Want whatever r—reward you’ll give me, please—”, he begged, hands scrabbling at your hips as you finally reached a hand between your bodies and started circling your clit, your orgasm forcing your cunt to flutter and squeeze around his cock, soaking him for a second time while he still hadn’t come once.
“Say thank you for your reward, baby.” You panted into his mouth, finally giving in and kissing Andrew, sliding your tongue into his mouth as soon as he opened underneath you around a moan. “Thank you.” He gasped as soon as you pulled back, staring up at you with wide, desperate, pleading eyes that nearly had you clenching around him again. “Oh, thank you, thank you, you feel so good—”)
“It’s not right.” Andrew protests again, much to your disappointment. “I should be the one spending money on you and—”
“When you come home, you can spoil me fucking rotten.” You interrupt him again, not wanting to waste your precious time on this conversation again. Andrew blinks at you in surprise, shocked either at the mention of him coming home or you swearing, you can’t be sure. “When you’re home and you have your money back, you can buy me whatever you want and send me any amount of money, and I will smile and say thank you and show it all off however you want me to.”
The tips of Andrew’s ears turn pink, much to your delight this time, and you tamp down your smirk at his reaction to your promises. You’d like to imagine that he was picturing the same thing you were just remembering, but you can’t be sure. The two of you haven’t really…talked about sex, since he was locked up, understandably, and you didn’t want to push anything else today. “When you’re home, you can spoil me any way you want, but for now, please…please, let me do this for you. Let me take care of you right now, please.” You sigh, hoping this will be the time it sticks, but not holding your breath.
“You promise?” Andrew asks you, looking at you from under his lashes with so much hope, a kind of gentle and heartbreaking hope you’re so relieved to see hasn’t been beaten out of him yet, by his family or the prison.
“Yes, Andrew, I promise.” You smile at him as you take your hand off the glass, smiling as Andrew follows the movement of your hand back to your body. You’re not upset that he didn’t mirror your gesture this time, completely understand why and how he needs to keep himself safe in here, and you hope he can tell that from your smile. “The second you come home, you can buy me whatever you want and I will smile pretty and say thank you and show it off so much it’s obnoxious.”
“You always smile pretty.” Andrew tells you, so sweet, so earnest, so genuine your heart nearly shatters underneath all of the love you have for him. Jesus, you miss him so fucking much. You want him, want him for more than fifteen minute phone calls and sixty minute visits allow you to take from him, want him in your home and in your bed and on the other end of a phone that wasn’t hooked up to a prison. You want to talk to him without fifty other people surrounding you, without Andrew constantly on edge and scanning your surroundings, without Andrew having to worry about appearing too vulnerable or soft to safely survive another week in here.
“I…I’m in here for four more years.” Andrew adds on, shame clinging to every whispered word and shuttered expression, and you’ve never wanted to hurt his family more than you do right now. His stupid, selfish, awful fucking family, grooming him into an attack dog and abandoning him the second he fulfilled his role—
“I know.” You whisper in return, biting back a wave of stinging tears at what he’s trying to tell you, what he’s trying to get you to understand. You can wait four more years, you can send money for four more years, you can have this conversation every day for four more years and be grateful for every repeated second. You were there for his sentencing, after all, knew what you were getting into as soon as they took Andrew away and your heart finally gave out. “I’m here, all four years. I swear.”
Andrew sighs heavily, audible through the phone, and you’re bracing yourself for another protest or dismissal, so you’re pleasantly surprised when he mumbles, “I don’t need anything. I still have money.”
“Okay. Okay, good.” You nod to yourself, relieved to hear that he still has plenty of money to spend, but you could have guessed that already. You’re only able to barely top off his account every time you check it to add more funds, the commissary account still largely unspent every week you want to add more money. “You can spend more, you know. Buy more things every month.”
“Don’t push it.” Andrew grumbles, clearly playful and teasing, but with an undercurrent of truth to his words. He just accepted the fact that you want to send him money, that you want him to spend your money, so you guess it’s fair to not demand he spend more of your money. Not yet, anyways.
You laugh, a wide smile growing around your surprised bark of laughter at his joke, and Andrew offers you another barely there smile, eyes brightening and corners of his mouth pulling upwards, but one you could spot from a mile away. You could always spot his joy, his happiness, his pleasure, learned to expertly identify his happiness when it was so rarely shown at first, when you had to learn the tells he was trying to show you and only you.
An alarm blaring startles you and Andrew both, Andrew closing his eyes in a painful flutter as you look around the visiting room in a panic, trying to figure out what was happening. Your heart thuds against your chest as you look for a threatening person, a weapon being waved around, some kind of threat that would warrant an alarm blaring loudly in the room, but find nothing but a room full of confused and resigned people. You look back at Andrew when you don’t see an immediate threat, when you need the security of Andrew at this moment when you’re scared and off balance. “What’s going on—”
“I love you.” Andrew rushes to say, clearly knowing something you don’t. He presses his hand against the glass again and you rush to do the same, widening your eyes when you see his fingers shake just before he presses them against the glass. “I love you, I’ll see you—”
A CO is suddenly standing behind Andrew and ripping the phone off of his ear, pulling him standing with rough hands underneath his arms and dragging him away from the visiting booth. Your breath catches in your chest as you watch the scene unfold, as you watch Andrew be forcibly dragged away from you not even a half hour into your visit, without an explanation or a chance for a real goodbye, as you watch his body be dragged and pulled away from you without any real fight. You stand quickly, slamming your hands against the window, crying out and hoping that Andrew can hear you over all the commotion and the growing distance between you. “I love you! I’ll come back tomorrow, first thing—”
You get one last look at Andrew’s face, a hasty glance thrown over his shoulder in a desperate bid to make eye contact with you, and then he’s gone, shoved through a door with all the other inmates into the prison facility. You stare at the spot Andrew was just occupying, the spot he was just smiling at you from and looking at you so happy, your breathing starting to even out as you stare listlessly ahead of you, as if in a daze, as if any second Andrew might be allowed to come back out and finish his visit with you. As if this whole thing had been some kind of horrible nightmare, and in the next second you’ll blink and you’ll both be back home, Andrew curled into your chest as you run a hand up and down his spine to gently wake him up.
“C’mon, honey.” A voice calls out next to you. You turn your head toward the voice slowly and see a woman you don’t recognize, an older woman with dark brown hair to her shoulders and wrinkles lining her mouth, gesturing impatiently for you to stand up and head out, like everyone else was doing, apparently. It was time to go, then. Andrew wasn’t coming back today, and you had to go home now.
“First time?” The woman asks you as you grab your purse from the floor, somehow walking out of the facility in line with her, trailing behind the fifty other people being herded to their cars right now. She doesn’t ask you the question condescendingly, like you’re just some young thing who doesn’t know any better, a girl who’s out of her depth and should learn sooner rather than later. She asks you like she genuinely wants to know if it’s your first time visiting, first time at the facility and seeing the true horrors that await everyone here, first time having someone ripped away from you without any warning.
“No.” You mumble, getting your bearings back slowly, feeling the ground steady underneath your feet with every step you take. You glance over at the woman once more, taking note of her smile and raised eyebrows, cataloging her face more seriously, just to be safe. Just to make sure you don’t actually know her. “No, I’ve been coming here for two years. That’s just never happened when I’ve been here, somehow.”
“Two years?” She whistles, shaking her head at you as her gaze turns more assessing. “You must really love that bastard.”
You feel your eyes narrow at her choice of words but force yourself to relax with a slow exhale. She didn’t mean anything by it, she couldn’t have, because she doesn’t know you. She doesn’t know who either of you are and has no idea that something like that would bother you. She has no idea that you’ve gone to bat with people for saying far less about Andrew.
“I do.” You whisper, blinking as you finally hit the parking lot, trying to figure out how you’re visiting time with Andrew turned into this strange conversation with an even stranger woman.
“Piece of advice, if I may?” The woman asks you, but before you can agree to her advice or reject it, she’s giving it anyway, gesturing up and down your body with her hand. You have a brief moment to be shocked before she starts speaking, before your shock turns into mild offense at her advice. “Show a little more skin when you visit, yeah? Your man might appreciate a peek of your tits and ass if he’s been locked up for two years and going without. It keeps ‘em sane, you know, something to think about as the days drag on and the nights get lonely.”
“What the—” you start, not even really sure how you’re going to finish your sentence, but then the woman is gone, separating herself from you in the parking lot and heading to her own car. You stand frozen in your spot for an embarrassing number of seconds, watching her walk away in her tight jeans and thin tanktop, and look down at yourself in your relaxed jeans and regular fit top, wondering if there was anything worth considering in her advice.
~~~
There was a trend coming from your side of the visiting booth that you would be stupid to have missed over the past two years.
The women who visit men in prison often dress…sparsely. They wear low cut tops, lacy push-up bras that peek through the neck line and leave imprints through the fabric, low rise jeans that expose a strip of their stomach or a pair of underwear hiked high on their hips, mini skirts that show a flash of their ass if they move or bend over a certain way. You noticed this almost immediately upon starting your regular visits with Andrew, were unprepared to see so much bare skin upon walking into the visiting room, unprepared to walk into a men’s prison and see so many exposed female bodies. Maybe you should have been expecting it, but you weren’t.
Not what you were opposed or offended or taking the moral high ground here. If those women wanted to dress however they did for whoever they wanted, let them. If those women were comfortable dressing in plunge tops and mini skirts and lacy lingerie, good for them. If those women were comfortable pushing their tits together with their arms as they leaned into the glass window, if they proudly showed off their ass as they pretended to bend over and search for something in their purses, if they were so inclined to spread their legs and give their men a lengthy view of their cunt as they talked them off through the glass, more power to them.
It’s just— you don’t know if you’re brave enough to do all of that, to strut into a prison with your tits out and lacy panties hiding underneath a skirt to secretly show off for Andrew as you sit across from him. You don’t know if you’d have the guts to walk into the visiting room and face Andrew like that, so exposed and on display in a room full of strangers, a room full of other men who didn’t seem to be opposed to letting their eyes wander at times. In the privacy of your own home— sure, you’d dress however you wanted for Andrew, wear whatever you wanted and do whatever you wanted to tease him until he was begging or rile him up enough to make him break and fuck you. In the privacy of your own home, you would wear lingerie underneath your clothes for Andrew to discover, would wear a skirt that barely covered your ass until Andrew couldn’t help himself, you would spread your legs and play with your clit as Andrew sat across from you, unable to touch you, but it was different in public, obviously, different in a setting of a prison.
And it wasn't just you that you had to consider here. You had no idea if Andrew would even want any of that, if he would want you to wear more revealing clothes to the prison, if he would want you to flash him with your ass or tits through the glass, if he would want you to touch yourself over your panties for him to see. You had no idea if Andrew would be comfortable with any of that, no idea if he would want other people to see you in that state, no idea if he would even like it. You can’t imagine prison is the most…comfortable environment to relax in, can’t imagine Andrew finds himself with any privacy to touch himself and get off to thoughts of you anyways, much less after you’ve shoved your tits in his face for an hour and he wasn’t able to touch you. Hypothetically. If you were to do that.
You don’t talk about sex anymore. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but it’s something that’s definitely happened. There isn’t any sex to talk about anymore, of course, and it feels cruel to tell Andrew about how you humped your vibrator to thoughts of him until you came all over your bed, and then did it again when it wasn’t enough. It feels cruel to tell Andrew about how you’re still freely able to touch yourself and make yourself come when you aren’t even sure if he’s getting off in prison, if he’s even able to get hard while he’s bunking with a stranger and forced to share living accommodations that surely disgust him and make his fingers itch for a sponge. It feels cruel to bring up sex when Andrew hasn’t even hinted at it, when you get the impression that it’s better for him this way, better for him to not talk about sex or his desires while he’s in prison. It feels cruel to both of you to rile each other up across the glass window all while knowing nothing more can come of it.
Still, the woman’s words rattle around in your head as you lay in bed that night, staring at your closet. You do have clothes that could work for showing off your body in the prison, have a section in your closet dedicated to tight dresses and short skirts and plunge tops, a delicate drawer of lingerie that Andrew’s bought you that could easily fit underneath your clothes. You have one skirt that’s basically a guarantee that Andrew will get hard, pink and frilly and short, the hem sitting high enough that the shape of your ass pushes it outward, the curve where your ass meets your thigh peeking out every time you take a step, one careless act of crossing your legs while wearing it guaranteeing that someone gets a flash of your panties, or a little more.
You have a tight black dress with a plunging neckline, framing the curve and size of your tits perfectly, almost all of your tit showing around the dress from the severity of the cut and the size of your tits. Andrew really likes that one, likes to stare at your chest while you’re wearing it, the way your tits move and bounce freely in the exposed cut of the fabric, the way you touch yourself as you rub your body oil into your skin for a little extra shine, the way he can eventually see your nipples through the fabric of the dress when he stares at you long enough to turn you on. He likes the way you pull the top of your dress down and climb onto his lap, shoving his head into your chest as he moans gratefully, as he sucks on your nipples and grinds your cunt against his cock, as he licks and tugs and squeezes and mouths at your tits until you shove him on his back and ride his face until he’s moaning into your cunt too.
You have a pair of panties that Andrew bought you, a lacy, dark maroon pair that has a hole cut out in the crotch of the panties, right over your cunt, perfect for spreading your legs and letting him see you and have you—
“Shit.” You whisper, rolling over and getting your knees underneath you, spreading your legs wide and reaching a quick hand to your cunt, not bothering with your vibrator tonight. This won’t take long, if the way you’re already circling your clit and panting into your mattress is any sign, if the way you’re reflexively arching your back and rocking into your hand is any indication of what’s to come.
“Oh, God.” You pant, shoving your face into your pillow, imagining showing up the prison in your mini skirt, sitting back on the bench and spreading your legs for Andrew, showing him your panties, showing him your already soaked cunt, the way the panties we’re already molding and sticking around your cunt from how wet you were, how desperate you were to show off for him, to be good for him and give him something to feel good about.
A needy, desperate whine breaks free from your mouth at the thought, at the thought of rubbing your clit over your panties as Andrew watched you, staring at your fingers and your cunt through the glass as he breathed heavy through the phone, eyes dark and hungry as he watched you touch yourself for him, desperate to give him something to hold onto until you could visit him next. You imagine how he would talk you through touching yourself, demanding you go slower or faster, rub at your clit harder or softer, teasing yourself and dragging it out for him if he wanted, pushing yourself toward a quick release if he wanted, all of it for him, every touch and gasp and weak moan, the entire display for him, so you could be good for him—
“Please.” You moan, to nobody, to an imaginary Andrew, spreading your legs farther apart and sinking deeper into the mattress as you rub more vigorously at your clit with your thumb, as you cup your cunt with the rest of your fingers and hump your hand against the bed for quick and dirty friction. “Please, Andrew—”
Panties are useless now, sweetheart, your mind supplies you words in Andrew’s rumbly voice, picturing him sitting across from you as you fall apart with a hand in between your legs, a dirty sight for him to seek pleasure in and nothing else. Soaked right through them, I can see your cunt right through the lace, so fucking wet just from touching yourself. Might as well take them off, yeah?
“Yes, yes.” You gasp, humping your hand more intensely now, whining and moaning to yourself as you imagine taking your panties off in the prison, showing Andrew how wet your cunt was, slick cloying and sticking as you spread your legs even further and stretched your cunt just because he asked you to. You imagine touching yourself without the barrier, touching yourself in public without a flimsy excuse of a pair of panties, spreading your cunt and rubbing your clit bare and raw because Andrew wanted it, because it made him feel good, because you were going to come in the prison for him. You imagine touching yourself in a room full of strangers, an unknown number of potential eyes on you as you show off your cunt and fall apart in front of Andrew, everyone seeing you but doing it all for Andrew, everyone seeing you be so good for him—
“Fuck.” You whine, your thighs clamping tight around your hand as your orgasm rushes through you, as you rub yourself until you’re aching, Andrew’s imaginary words and voice praising you in your ear. That’s it, sweetheart, there it is. Showing off for me just like I asked, my good girl. Everyone knows your mine now, watched you fall apart so pretty for me, spreading your legs just because you wanted to be good for me. My fucking girl, and now everyone here knows it, can see it on you— see it dripping down your pretty legs when you walk out of here.
You moan pathetically as you collapse onto your belly and twitch against your hand still cupping your cunt, debating the merits of getting off again. The fantasy was collapsing around you as each second ticked by, the reality of what you just did and imagined curdling in your belly as you slowly slip your hand off your cunt and wipe it on your shirt. You can’t believe you just did that, can’t believe you just got off to the thought of touching yourself in the prison, with Andrew watching and talking you through it. You can’t believe you liked it so much.
You feel stupid, horny and stupid and driven only by your neediness that’s grown exponentially since Andrew’s been in prison, since he wasn’t here to fuck you anymore. You know it was just a fantasy, and a fantasy can remain just that, but it feels— it feels like more than that, feels heavier and bigger than something you’d think about at night sometimes, something you’d whisper into Andrew’s ear to make him lose control and fuck you like you need. That’s probably not even how it would happen in real life— not that it’s happening at all, but if it were, it probably wouldn’t be so…dirty. Maybe.
You would not actually take your panties off in the prison, would never let your bare ass or cunt touch the bench that countless other people sat on, doing God knows what on top of that. Andrew probably wouldn’t even talk that much either. He would if he was in your house, but in the prison, he probably wouldn’t talk that much or talk like that, wouldn’t run his mouth the way he might at home. He didn’t like to offer too much of himself to the prison, to the people around him. He wouldn’t be so demanding, domineering, wouldn’t make much noise except to breathe heavily through the phone and whisper little words of encouragement to you, to plead with you when you were getting close.
You have a hard time imagining, now that you’re not mindlessly fucking yourself raw, that Andrew would actually want you to spread your legs wide and show off your cunt in the visiting room, that he would want to show everyone how you got off for him in order to stake his claim on you. You don’t know how he would even handle you coming so publically, so close to so many people he didn’t trust, in a place where he could not entirely control the environment and the people in it.
So— so it’s just not going to happen. It’s a fantasy, and maybe one day you’ll tell Andrew about this, maybe one day when the sting of his time in prison isn’t so strong, you’ll tell him about how you got off on this idea and let him take it from there. Let him decide what to do with it. It’s not going to happen now, and that’s the end of it.
~~~
It’s not going to happen, but you can’t stop fucking thinking about it.
You showed up at the prison for your visit the next day, first thing in the morning just like you promised, sat down across from Andrew and pestered him with questions about the alarm and if he was safe until he folded and admitted that it was a security alarm, someone had gotten stabbed in the yard and it turned into a brawl and the place had to be locked down until it was under control. Your heart sinks after he shares that but you try not to show it, try not to show how your heart breaks every time he shares what it’s really like for him inside, lest he stop sharing things like that with you.
You go about your visit as usual after that, telling Andrew everything you were unable to share with him yesterday, telling him about how you were starting a garden in the backyard of your house, how your neighbors were selling their house and you were dreading the open house traffic sure to build up on front of your house, how you started a new book about a woman who was ripped from her timeline as a queen and of all of her memories, and forced to find her way back with the help of a handsome historian.
Andrew listens raptly, listens to you talk and ramble in that specific, intense way that only he can pull off. If anyone else stared at you like they wanted to take a bite out of you while you talked about what kind of flowers you were planting in your garden, you might run scared, but never with Andrew. If anyone else stared at you without blinking and made you feel pinned in place by their eyes, if they bit their lip and flexed their fingers as you talked endlessly about nothing of importance, you might grow wary of them, but you knew better. You knew Andrew.
This intensity, while appreciated, while loved, while expected, also often came with the promise of a very intense fuck before prison. So, you can’t help it, really, when you start to squirm on the bench, when a pit starts to grow heavy in your cunt as Andrew tips his chin down and stares at you underneath his eyebrows, when you keep crossing and squeezing your legs to give yourself even a little bit of relief as Andrew unknowingly winds you up while he just looks at you, while he has no idea what’s running through your mind now, because how could he.
You just– you can’t stop thinking about it, can’t detach the fantasy from your mind now that it’s taken root, now that the memory of getting yourself off to thoughts of touching yourself in the prison you’re currently sitting in were pushed to the forefront of your mind. It’s just– half of the fantasy is happening right now, Andrew staring at you through the window while you’re dying to touch yourself and your panties soaked as you barely start your visit with him, wet and desperate and needy just from a little staring and talking.
You can’t stop thinking about spreading your legs and touching yourself while Andrew watches through the window. You can’t stop thinking about dressing like a slut in your little pink skirt and lacy white panties and touching yourself for Andrew until you come on the bench across from him, staring into his intense and hooded eyes as be begs to see you. You can’t stop thinking about slipping the panties down your legs once you come in them, soaked and sticky with your come, sliding them over the top of the window so Andrew could stuff his face in them when he got off later. You can’t stop thinking about just ripping open your jeans right now and making yourself come as fast as possible, if only to pause your seemingly eternal suffering and horniness over this stupid fantasy.
“What’s wrong with you?” Andrew abruptly asks you, eyebrows furrowing so deeply lines form in the space between his eyebrows. You still in your spot, in the middle of crossing your legs again, just about to squeeze at the top of your thighs to put a little pressure on your clit, staring at Andrew with wide eyes as he drags his eyes over your body, assessing you, trying to figure you out. “You keep moving.”
“Nothing’s wrong.” You deny, shaking your head as you clench every muscle in your body, forcing yourself to stay still and not squirm like you must have been doing, squirming so much Andrew felt the need to ask you about it.
“Don’t lie to me.” Andrew demands, voice lowering, tightening his fingers around the phone again, eyes hardening as he tilts his head at you, pressing you for an answer you aren’t ready to give. The sight of his determination does little to help your situation right now. “Tell me what it is.”
You sigh, scratching at your forehead as you silently admit defeat. He was never going to let this go, now that he had sunk his teeth into it, now that he had correctly assumed that something was on your mind, now that he had dropped his focus on the fact that something was bothering you and needed to know what it was. You drop your gaze to the counter before bringing it back to Andrew’s face, eyeing him as you think about how to phrase your question, how to test the waters before diving in too deeply. “Do you…do you ever wish that I dressed more provocatively when I visit you?”
“Provocatively?” Andrew repeats back to you, the furrow in his brows deepening in surprise, maybe even confusion.
You nod, feeling the embarrassment burn on your skin and spread like wildfire, starting at your cheeks and making its way down your neck, surely to your chest too. You can only hope that Andrew doesn’t notice it, doesn’t ask you about that either. “Yeah, like– like revealing, sexy–”
“I know what provocative means, fuck.” Andrew sighs, running a hand across his mouth as he stares you down through the window. You wait for his answer, holding your breath as his eyes roam recklessly over your body, as if imagining what provocatively might mean for you, might mean for your visits with him. “Why would you ask me that?”
You deflate at his question, at his work around to not giving you a real answer right now, but you figure it’s a fair question. It is an odd thing for you to ask him, out of the blue, when he’s never been controlling or demanding about how you dress in any situation, never demanded you dress sexy for him when he sees you or you go out together. “I…a woman said something to me, and it got me thinking, is all.”
Andrew gapes at you, shaking his head before he even speaks again. “A woman told you that you should dress sexy when you come and visit me in prison?”
“Not so bluntly, but yes.” You grumble, glaring at him through your eyelashes. He still hasn’t answered your question, hasn’t even hinted as to what his answer might be, hasn’t given you any indication as to whether or not he thinks about you dressing sexy for him when you come and visit him. “That was the gist of it.”
A heavy beat of silence hangs around the two of you, Andrew staring at you like he’s never been more shocked, eyes slightly wide and mouth parted, while your pulse spikes, your head rushes with white noise as blood rushes through your body. You give him another few seconds to answer you, to come back to himself and remember that you asked him a real question, but when he just sits there and stares at you, you have to push him a little. “Please answer my question.” You beg, hating how pathetic you sound but needing his answer.
Andrew blinks to himself, nodding as he presumably thinks about your question. You give him all the time he needs to think about it, don’t rush him now that he’s taking the time to think about it, would much rather wait in a drowning pool of anxiety for his genuine answer than rush him and wonder if he was genuine for the rest of your life. “I’ve…I’ve never thought about it.” He eventually admits, voice slow and clearly considering. “I just care that you come and visit me. I don’t care what you wear or what you look like.”
You drop any mild frustration or insecurity you might have been clinging to, smiling at him through the window as you process his answer. He’s so sweet, so caring and careful with you, so thoughtful when he’s allowed to be, when he’s given space to think for himself and come to his own conclusions. He’s so fucking sweet, and you hate to do it, but you have to argue with him about his answer. “Don’t lie to me.” You playfully scoff, rolling your eyes as Andrew looks visibly taken aback at your protest. “You’ve really never thought about it? All these women come in half naked and dressing to get their men off, and you’ve never thought about me doing that for you?”
Andrew shakes his head right away, gaze going wide as if drawn to the idea of looking at the entire room once you pointed it out, but righting back on your face the second his eyes start to wander and he realizes what he’s doing. “I don’t look at anyone else when you’re here.”
“Oh.” You whisper, your face warming once again as Andrew stuns you with his words, his earnestness. You feel like an perverted, sick freak for pushing this, for even bringing it up in the first place, for getting turned on by the idea when Andrew didn’t even know it was happening, couldn’t even conceptualize the idea at first because he was just so happy that you were visiting him, however you happened to show up for him. You feel like a fucking monster. Of course he didn’t think about that, you knew that, knew that because he never gave any indication that he wanted that right now, that he even thought of it when you weren’t around. “I’m sorry, we can–”
“You think about that? You– you think about dressing…” Andrew trails off, finally letting his eyes wander and linger around the room, on the other women on the visiting side besides you. You watch him take in what you noticed two years ago, watch him realize that all the women on the other side of the window are practically throwing themselves against the window so their men could get a better look at their tits, are sticking their ass out as they pretend to dig around in their purse on the floor, are generally wearing very skimpy outfits that showcase their tits and hips and ass and thighs for the viewing pleasure of the men they are visiting.
You watch him notice a woman two booths down from you who is groping and kneading at her tits over her thin, white tank top, humping the bench as she tugs at her own nipples and silently whines, getting herself off for her man while he presumably touches himself at the same time. He notices a woman sitting on the bench on her knees, legs spread wide and short skirt pooling around the tops of her thighs, barely covering her cunt as she arches her back and sticks her ass out, panties peeking out underneath the hem of her skirt as she gently bounces on…nothing, something, who fucking knows. He notices a woman sucking on three of her fingers like a cock and making a real show of it, spit running down her chin and neck, her eyes filled with tears and mascara running down her cheeks, gagging audible around her whimpers as she forces her own fingers to hit the back of her throat.
He sees all of the women wearing barely passable lingerie for clothing, occasionally flashing men sights of their bras under their shirts or panties underneath their jeans, all of the women around you who are getting themselves off or slutting themselves out for the men they are visiting. It’s depraved, truly corrupt and obscene, and you can’t believe he’s honestly never noticed it before. You can’t believe he’s been so focused on you for two years that he’s never noticed the hoard of women fucking themselves right next to you, the men lined up next to him getting off or audibly enjoying it, at the very least.
“The COs let this happen? They…they never try and stop it?” Andrew asks you, pulling his eyes away from the display happening around you, eyes back to being comically wide and stunned, genuinely surprised at what he saw. Andrew isn’t some virgin saint, not by a long shot, and the two of you have touched and taken it a little too far in public on occasion, but you guess you’ve never gone this far, never touched yourself so obviously while in a room full of people desperate to see a pair of tits or a wet, needy cunt.
You shake your head slowly, not expecting that to be his first line of thought right now. “No, I– I imagine it would be more trouble for the COs to stop it from happening than to just let it keep happening in front of them. There would probably be a riot if they intervened in this, if they took this away from you guys and forced everyone to not be upset about it.”
“I guess.” Andrew agrees distantly, eyes falling to the counter on his side of the window, eyes flicking frantically back and forth as he thinks about all of this, as he processes all of this for the first time, as he adjusts to what you have had two years to make sense of. “And this– it’s been happening the entire time? For all two years?”
“Yes.” You grumble, unfairly glaring at him through the window. This has become very embarrassing for you, Andrew completely losing track of your original point and instead focusing on the logistics of the women whoring themselves out in public view of the visitation room. If he didn’t want it, even as a distant fantasy, that was more than fine, but the two of you didn’t have to keep talking about it, didn’t have to keep circling your first question only to dodge it repeatedly. If Andrew didn’t want to even think about it, then you could move on, could never talk about it again and be fine, as long as you truly stopped talking about it. “Listen, if you don’t want— it’s really not a big deal—”
Andrew slaps a hand against the window and before you even know you’re doing it, you slap a hand against the window too, mirroring his touch. You can see his nostrils flare through the window, see a faint redness line his cheeks, see his knuckles turn white around the phone and nearly punch through the window to sit in his lap. “You’ve wanted this for two years? You want— you’ve wanted to touch yourself in here and get off for me for two years and didn’t say anything?”
Get off for me. You choke back a pathetic, needy whimper that starts to build in your throat as you open and close your mouth while staring at him, unsure of where to even start with that, even though you were just wanting him to be more direct. “Not two years.” You whisper, glancing up and down from him, unsure if you could admit this in its entirety while looking at him. “Just yesterday— last night. I thought about it after the woman told me I should show a little more skin for you, thought about— about touching myself for you like all the other women do here.”
“What else?” Andrew demands, his fingers curling against the window before straightening out again, his eyes dark and hungry as they force eye contact with you through your hesitance. “Tell me what else you thought about.” His voice is rough and gravely, desperate in a way you haven’t heard in a long time, and you could never resist him, even on a good day.
“I touched myself at home.” You admit, shifting on your bench again, squirming as Andrew’s eyes grow even hungrier, impossibly dark as he stares you down as you squirm and admit to touching yourself for him. You keep your voice low as you continue for him, as you tell him what you imagined last night, not prepared for the woman next to you to hear all of this. “I— I thought about wearing my pink skirt you like and a pair of lace panties to visit you, spreading my legs and touching myself over the panties until I came.”
“Fuck.” Andrew groans, low and long, letting his forehead fall forward and hit the window pane as he practically strangles the body of the phone in his hand. “Keep going. C’mon, tell me more.”
This time you aren’t successful at keeping your noises to yourself, accidentally let loose a little whine as you cross your legs again and squeeze on your clit, trying to grind up into the seam of your jeans for even more relief. It’s largely disappointing, especially compared to the rush that shoots through you and sends a pulse right to your cunt when Andrew picks his eyes up at your noise, his burning gaze lighting you up from the inside out. “Fucking tell me.” Andrew demands again, gaze deadly and hot underneath his eyebrows, no room for debate in his words. “Tell me how you touched yourself thinking about giving me a little show in here.”
“God, I— I would wear my skirt and panties, but I’d already be so wet when I sat down, soaked through ‘cause I— I want you so bad, Andrew.” You pant, chest starting to heave as you recount your deranged fantasy for him, as you stare into his eyes and clench around nothing. Andrew drinks in every one of your words, your gasps, the poorly hidden shifting of your hips, and just raises an eyebrow at you to keep going, so you do.
“I would sit down and just spread my legs wide for you, show you my— my wet cunt and how badly I needed you, show you how I dressed up for you to make you feel good. I’d…I’d touch myself over the panties, rub my clit until I was crying and soaked through the panties even more, until— ‘til you told me to just take ‘em off, ‘cause you could see through them anyways.” You gasp, hips uncontrollable as you try and rub yourself off on the seam of your jeans, as you fight every instinct telling you to take your hand off the window and stick your fingers down your jeans. You moan quietly, pathetically, when it’s not nearly enough, when it does nothing but embarrass you and make you feel dirty, needy, makes you feel like something for Andrew to tease and play with until he was done with you.
“You would tell me to just take the panties off, ‘cause I had gotten them so wet, ‘cause you could see my cunt through them anyways because they were so soaked so what was the point—“
“Fucking hell.” Andrew breathes out, body jerking once on his bench before he stills. “Would you listen to me? Would you take them off for me?”
“Yes, yes.” You gasp, nodding wildly, deranged by this fantasy for a second time. You scooch as close to the window as you possibly can, get as close to Andrew as you can as you keep going, as you get deeper into the fantasy than you’d ever thought possible. “I’d take ‘em off, slide them down my legs and keep touching myself, spread my legs wider so you could see my cunt bare, touch my clit without the panties in the way. You’d— you’d tell me how fast or slow to go, if you wanted me to tease myself or force my orgasm, do whatever you want ‘cause it was for you, all for you, Andrew, I swear.”
“I know it’s for me, sweetheart.” Andrew murmurs, his breathing rate finally starting to pick up the pace alongside yours, licking his lips as he watches you fall apart over a nasty, sick fantasy that you shouldn’t be into. “I know it’s for me, it’s always been just for me. That pretty cunt is just for me, just for me to see and play with. Just for me to fuck full and messy, yeah?” Andrew lowers his voice so low, so deep, as he whispers that part into the phone, almost low enough that you lose his words through the shitty receiver and your wild breathing.
But you do hear him, hear his words loud and clear, as if he was right next to you, whispering slow and dirty in your ear as he fucked you full and messy in your bed, pressing you into the mattress as he gave you everything you wanted. “Oh, God.” You barely resist turning your words into a whine, your hips jerking forward as you lose even more control of yourself. “Andrew, I— I can’t—”
“I’d tell you to force your orgasm.” Andrew tells you, voice rough and destroyed but still somehow controlled, focused. He isn’t turning into a whining, sloppy mess over recounting a fantasy, he isn’t losing control over his words and body over some dirty talk. “Tell you to touch your clit rough and fast, go at it ‘til you were crying pretty tears and your legs were shaking for me. I’d wanna see you fall apart for me, come for me as fast as you could so I could make you go again and again—”
“Fuck.” You moan, dropping your head and crossing your legs as tight as possible, humping furiously into the seam of your jeans now, shameless with it, not caring if it makes you look needy or messy or easy for him, because you are, you always are, you always want him. “Please, I can’t take this anymore.” You admit, not even really sure what you’re begging for, just knowing that your body could only take so much teasing, so much of Andrew’s voice and impossible promises, so much anticipation without satisfaction before you went mad and did something stupid.
“Shit, are you…” Andrew trails off, and out of your peripheral vision you see him stand up from his bench and look over the window, look through to your side of the window and watch you hump your jeans like a toy because you were too horny to sit still and not touch yourself, somehow. “Touch yourself.” Andrew suddenly demands, making you still and look up at him underneath your lashes, panting open mouthed in surprise at his command. He would— he wants you to—
“C’mon.” Andrew repeats, tone slightly mocking, making you squirm again. “This is what you wanted, right?” Andrew asks you, forcing the words through clenched teeth and a straining jaw, eyes wild and furious and wanting. Jesus, he looks fucking crazed, like an animal finally let loose from his cage, free to roam and bite and devour without anyone controlling him anymore. It’s intoxicating to see, after so long of Andrew being locked away in here, after so long of seeing him be beaten and molded into something he didn’t want to be. “Touch yourself for me, show off for me like you thought about.”
“You— you’re sure—” You feel the need to double check, even as your hand slides off the window and toward your jeans, even as your cunt pulses in anticipation at finally getting what you want, at finally being able to make yourself come, at finally giving into the fantasy you didn’t even know you needed until last night. “We really don’t have to—”
“Show me.” Andrew growls, the veins in his neck bulging as he screws up his face around an inpatient groan. You inhale quickly, shocked by his growly demand, by the way he keeps losing pieces of himself as he gets rougher and rougher with his tone, the way he can’t bring himself to be patient with you anymore. “Fucking— fucking touch yourself, get off for me, prove that it’s really all for me–”
You watch him lose his composure with wide eyes, quickly uncrossing your legs and jerking your hand toward your pants and undoing the button, tugging the zipper down carelessly and roughly shoving your hand down your panties, rubbing at your clit furiously. You spread your legs as wide as you can in your jeans once you get some real pressure on your clit, needy, gasping whines breaking free from your mouth as you stare at Andrew as you touch yourself, as your chest heaves and your cunt soaks around nothing as you— as you touch yourself in public, as you get yourself off in the prison, in front of everybody, as your hand works over your clit in the fucking prison.
You can’t believe you’re fucking doing this. You can’t believe you’re doing this, can’t believe it feels as good as it does, can’t believe that you were ever embarrassed or hesitant to share this fantasy with Andrew. You can’t believe Andrew told you to touch yourself, can’t believe he’s fucking talking as much as he is, can’t believe you’re about to come in the prison, joining the leagues of all the other women who whore themselves out for their men two years too late.
It– it feels so good. It feels dirty and wrong and good, feels disgusting and incredible to get off with fifty other people around you, possibly staring at you as you rub yourself raw, watching you be good for Andrew, watching you be good and take care of him like this, watching you give him what he needs while he claims you as his, his girl, his girl that touches herself and comes for him in the visiting room. Andrew’s girl, who is going to walk out of here with soaked panties, with come staining her jeans, warm and wet and good as she walks back to her car and drives herself home to do it all again next week. “Oh, please, Andrew–”
“That’s it, yeah.” Andrew breathes out into the phone, going dazed once you finally got a hand on your clit, once you finally gave him what he wanted. Andrew presses his forehead to the window again, eyes drilled onto where your hand disappears into your jeans, how quickly your wrist is moving betraying how desperate you are to come. “Show me, c’mon.”
“I’m close.” You gasp, bucking up into your hand as you graze your nail against your clit. Your cunt flutters in anticipation, the pit in your cunt tightening and pulling tighter as you rush toward your orgasm, your clit growing sore and raw with how fast and mean you’re rubbing at it, how badly you want to come for him right now. “‘M already close, I’m gonna come, gonna come for you, I promise–”
“I know you are, sweetheart.” Andrew whispers, like he’s momentarily forgotten that he’s speaking to you through a phone. “Gonna come so pretty and it’s all for me. Show everyone in here that you’re mine, my pretty girl who fucks herself whenever I ask–”
Your orgasm bursts from you with a gasp, squeezing your eyes closed as you hump your hand and bring yourself through it, the metal bench underneath your thighs squeaking as you ride your orgasm out. You whine through your orgasm, closing your mouth as you moan and whine, high pitched and desperate, keeping your noises contained as much as possible while your body shudders, while your body collapses and rebuilds on itself in an endless loop, shooting shocks of pleasure through you while you lose your adrenaline high and collapse back onto the bench.
“Oh, oh God—” You start to say, catching your breath and slowly opening your eyes, not yet ready to face your surroundings, not yet ready to face the fact that you just made yourself come in a room full of people now that you’re not actively losing your mind and chasing your orgasm. You really…you really got off in the prison, acted like a slut so Andrew could feel good and think about you getting yourself off for him later, moaned and whined and begged like a whore for anyone to hear because you couldn’t control yourself around him anymore.
Andrew doesn’t let you get too far into your thoughts, though. “Come again. Force it.” He tells you, voice scraping out of his throat raw and rough as you tremble through the aftershocks, shaking as you immediately cup your hand around yourself again, even through your oversensitivity.
“It’s too much.” You mewl, shaking your head with your eyes still closed, even as you start rubbing at your clit again, even as you drag some of your come from your cunt onto your fingers, smoothing the slide of your thumb on your clit. You whine again, loud this time, surely loud enough to draw the attention of at least one other person, surely growing more depraved and desperate as to draw the attention of at least one other person with a wandering gaze. You squeeze your eyes closed again as your hips buck into your hand at the thought, as your cunt clenches at the thought of someone actually watching you touch yourself and come because you were too loud, too needy, too slutty and desperate for Andrew.
“Force it.” Andrew repeats, voice going mean and demanding again, losing his dazed quality as he grits his teeth and slaps his hand against the window again. “Open your eyes, look at me when you touch your cunt for me.”
You force your eyes open as you moan, immediately locking eyes with Andrew as you pick your head up and let him see you, let him see how you can’t keep your mouth closed around your whimpers and mewls and whines anymore, how your eyes are getting teary from overstimulation, how your breathes are hitching around sobs as you force yourself toward another orgasm too soon, all because he asked, all because he wanted to see you come again, all because he demanded it. You nod mindlessly at Andrew, not sure what you’re agreeing to or promising anymore, just knowing that you want it, that you want to give it all to him, that you would give him anything else he asked for right now because you wanted him to keep feeling something good.
“It’s– I’m so sensitive, Andrew.” You mewl, keeping your thumb firm and steady on your clit, occasionally pressing hard against your clit to make your hips buck and your cunt pulse, to push you closer to your orgasm your body wasn’t ready for, fighting against yourself to give Andrew what he wanted. “I don’t know if I can— it hurts—” Your words break off around a whine as your eyes well with a fresh wave of tears as you press down on your clit again, tears budding along your waterline as Andrew lets his eyes flutter closed before snapping them open again.
Andrew must take your nodding, your continued release of pathetic noises, your fake protests, as permission to ruin you a little more with his words, to demand more from you even though he knows you were going to come for him again, no matter what you said right now. “You said this was all for me. You said your come and your cunt were for me, that I could tell you to force it ‘cause it was for me.” Andrew growls again, his neck muscles bulging as he strains against himself, as he pushes his forehead harder against the window, something you can’t focus much on as you fall apart underneath your hand again.
“It is, it is for you, Andrew, I swear.” You cry, sliding your hand further into your pants, keeping your thumb on your clit as you cup your cunt fully with the rest of your fingers, using your finger pads to rub against your hole, to massage your cunt and give you something firm to grind against, to bounce on as you try and force your orgasm faster. You rock your hips more firmly against your fingers now, your thumb rough on your swollen clit as your fingers squeeze and press against your hole, grinding into the heady pressure, fighting through the oversensitivity, barely remembering to keep your eyes open as you bounce and rock and grind against your fingers and want your orgasm for Andrew.
“Prove it to me, then.” Andrew commands, as if you haven’t already done that, as if you aren’t currently fucking and rubbing yourself raw to give him what he wants, aren’t moaning with your hands down your pants in a public place, surely being watched like a whore by a handful of greedy people as you lose control of yourself again. “Gimme another orgasm— another orgasm from my cunt, yeah?” Andrew corrects himself at the last minute, smiling meanly at you as you shove your hips into your hands around a pitiful whine at his possessiveness. “Gimme it, ‘cause it’s mine, sweetheart, mine to claim, mine to force you to give me, mine to say when it’s had enough. My sweet cunt, never too sensitive for what I want, right, sweetheart?”
You get desperate, messy, slutty, with it before he’s even done speaking. You spread your legs as wide as you possibly can, muscles on the inside of your thighs pulling and burning with the stretch, arching your back as you really start to bounce into your hand cupping your cunt, tits bouncing along with your hips as the bench underneath you squeaks and groans with your movements, with how hard you’re falling back onto it as you squeeze and press your fingers around your cunt and against your hole. You’re so wet, cunt slippery and drenched in your come already, your hole sloppy and aching with being left empty for so long, so fucking wet that your fingers slide along your cunt easily, movements becoming too slick and fast as you ride your hand and try to cup your fingers at the same time, as your fingerpads press against your hole and do nothing but rile you up further.
You ride your hand shamelessly, mewling and whimpering as you look at Andrew the whole time, as he burns a hole in your head as he stares at you from underneath his eyebrows, looking like he could eat you whole and still never be satisfied, still never have enough of you all to himself.
You’re being too loud. You’re being too obvious, drawing too much attention to yourself with your noises and your bouncing and grinding, the movements of your body no longer subtle, if they ever were in the first place. People are undoubtedly watching you as you rock on your fingers and rub at your clit like a whore, as you let every single one of your loud moans and mewls and whines free for Andrew to hear this time, as you arch your back and push your ass out and let your tits bounce with every one of your movements. You know people are watching you, were immediately drawn to the noises you were making and the movements you were forcing upon your body, because you saw the way people watched other women who got themselves off on this side of the room, often saw hungry and greedy bodies turn toward any and all high pitched noises that escaped from this side of the room without a second thought.
People are watching you. People are watching you slut yourself out for Andrew, are watching you moan and bounce like a paid whore for him, are watching you force yourself toward another orgasm just because Andrew told you to. People are watching you be good for Andrew, take care of him in one of the few ways you have left while he’s in here, people are seeing you listen to Andrew and give him everything he needs right now. People are getting off to the sight of your hand in your pants and your tits bouncing in the air and your endless mewling filling the room around you. People are talking about you, talking about how you look and sound, talking about how you look for Andrew, talking about your body and the way it moves, the way you use it to make Andrew feel good, the way you use it to take care of Andrew and take care of him well. People are watching Andrew finally stake his claim on you in this way, mark you as a perverted, fucked up girl who will loudly debase herself for Andrew’s pleasure, mark you as his girl now that he’s finally gotten you to touch yourself in here, now that you’re going to walk out of here flushed and out of breath, with a sore cunt that’s sticky and dripping with come.
“Fuck, look at you. I can’t believe you’re doing this for me.” Andrew whispers, gaze dropping from your face to trace over the line of your body, to ogle at your tits as they bounce in front of the window, at the deep arch of your back and the subsequent curve of your ass sticking out for him, the way your hips violently rock and bounce against the hand cupping and fondling your cunt inside your jeans. “I love you. God, I love you, you’re perfect for me, I swear—”
“Mmhm.” You come with your whine, keeping your eyes open as you come on your fingers again, as your cunt pulses and flutters to the point of exhaustion, two orgasms ripped from you back to back, too close together to make you feel anything but oversensitive and needy. You feel obscene, from the sounds being pulled from your throat to the way your body refuses to stop rolling into your fingers, the way your swollen cunt refuses to stop twitching underneath your thumb, the way you can feel how sticky and tacky your panties are already becoming, to the way Andrew is staring at you, mouth agape and eyes wide, wonderstruck, a level of admiration you don’t know what to do with burning away some of the desire in his eyes.
You take your hand out of your pants, slow and grazing against your hole and clit so Andrew can be witness to another one of your pathetic mewls, still not thinking clearly as you bring your fingers to your mouth and suck them clean, your mouth spreading wide and drooling as you lick all the come and slick from your fingers. You make sure to keep eye contact with Andrew as you do this, make sure to keep looking at him like he asked you to, but find Andrew promptly screwing his eyes shut at the sight, biting his lower lip through a deep breath as he slowly, finally picks his forehead up off the window.
“Thank you.” Andrew groans as soon as you take your fingers out of your mouth, as soon as you appear more cognizant and your blinking doesn’t feel so heavy and hazy. Andrew praises you easily, renewing his hand pressed against the glass, and you’re quick to press your hand against his over the window, imagining you could curl your fingers around his somehow, imagining that you could feel the warmth and roughness of his skin against yours. “Thank you, sweetheart, thank you. You— you’re fucking perfect, you have no idea. No idea what you do for me, I swear, no idea how good you make me feel.”
You think you might have some idea. “I love you too.” You whisper, voice too hoarse still for anything more, but Andrew’s expression lightens like you just shouted it for everyone in the room to hear.
~~~
So, it looks like you were wrong about a few things, namely how Andrew would react to your fantasy, how he could act as you told him about it and how far he would want to take it, how he would run his filthy mouth and tell you to touch yourself in a room full of people.
It’s a lot to think about on your drive home, a lot of possibilities to explore over the next four years.