RedCherry
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🔒 Mistaken Visit
🕑 Added 2025-07-30 18:00:03 +0000 UTCThe heavy steel door clanged shut behind her. Anna flinched.
— "Visiting room three, miss. Straight ahead," — said the guard, not looking up from his clipboard.
Dressed in a tight red dress and heels too high for prison floors, Anna clutched her small purse and walked down the dim hallway. Her heart pounded — she hadn’t seen Mark, her husband, in weeks. This visit mattered.
The door creaked open. Inside — a small cell, two bunks, a metal toilet… and a man.
He was not Mark.
Anna froze.
The man was older, broader, thick-necked and tattooed. His eyes scanned her in silence, heavy and slow. His build was massive, barely fitting the uniform. One hand rested on his knee. The other, she noticed, adjusted something beneath the loose fabric of his pants.
Her voice caught.
— “I… I think I’m in the wrong…”
But the words never fully left her lips. He stood up — deliberately — and stepped closer. She stumbled back, spine pressing to the wall behind her. His presence was overwhelming — the heat of him, the way his eyes held hers like a grip.
Then she saw it — as he loosened the waistband. It was… enormous. Thicker than she imagined possible. Her breath hitched.
— “You’re not leaving yet,” he said. His voice was deep, rough, but not unkind.
— “You wore red for someone. Might as well let it mean something.”
His hand moved to her thigh. She didn’t stop him. Her skin burned where he touched — not from fear, not entirely. It was wrong, but her legs didn’t obey. The adrenaline made everything louder — her pulse, the sound of fabric sliding, the press of his hand under her dress.
He slid her panties down slowly, like peeling a secret away. Her knees trembled. She looked at the locked door. No camera. No witness.
Then he pressed himself against her from behind — teasing at first, the heat of him rubbing between her thighs, thick and heavy. She gasped. Her hands braced against the wall. A part of her screamed to stop — but another part… wanted to feel what her husband never could give.
When he entered her, it was a stretch — too full, almost painful, but her breath turned into broken moans. His hands gripped her hips like stone, guiding the rhythm. The room smelled of sweat and metal. Of something forbidden.
Each thrust sent a jolt through her spine. Her moans became desperate. She bit her lip to stay quiet.
Then — footsteps.
The echo of a guard's boots down the corridor.
— "Faster," he growled, not stopping.
— "We don’t have long."
She whimpered, legs weakening. Her body pulsed around him, betraying her shame. He groaned low, deep in his chest, and drove into her one last time — holding, shaking, and then…
Release.
Hot, heavy, and deep.
She felt it fill her — no condom, no hesitation — thick warmth claiming her from within.
He pulled back just as the guard's voice called from the hallway.
She scrambled, panties barely up, dress clinging to her thighs. Her inner muscles still trembled from the aftershocks. As she stepped out of the cell, trying to look composed, she could feel it. His release, slowly dripping out with every step. No matter how tightly she pressed her thighs, she couldn’t stop it.
The hallway was colder now. Her face burned.
At the end of the corridor, her husband waited in another cell. Smiling.
She forced a smile back, knees weak.
She was flushed. Filled. Still trembling. And no one could tell — except her.
