Metal Door
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I left the cell for the cafeteria. I was in desperate need for a change of scenery. And a distraction. Pronto. I needed to breathe; in the cell I’d felt suffocated by the memories of scorching, electric blue eyes, a climax unachieved, raging desire unfulfilled. Schneizel had left me unsatiated. I’d never known unfulfilled desire before. It was a torturous thing; to yearn for that which I knew was dangerous, forbidden.

I was ashamed to admit it, but I wanted more.

I had to be going crazy in this fucked up prison. Why else would I even be considering going all the way with a man when I was as straight as a ramrod? And with a murderous prison gang leader at that!

In the cafeteria, I sat alone at an unoccupied table –unlike last time I’d been here, the cafeteria was relatively empty. I stared down at my tray of bland food. Beans that didn’t exactly convey the term "fresh" to the mind, a cold, hard bread bun, orange juice, and a small bottle of water. This was what accounted for dinner in prison. I couldn’t help but yearn for the steak dinner I’d enjoyed recently.

A presence next to me made me look up, tearing me away from my musings. My heart stuttered. Memories of last night assaulted me for the hundredth time. I felt the blood rush to my face and neck.

Schneizel sat two trays on the table, grabbed mine, and then unceremoniously dumped it onto the occupied table next to us. The four inmates did not say a word of protest. Blinking, stupefied, I looked down at the two trays to see plates of grilled chicken.

“You will not eat that filth.” Piercing eyes bore into my own. I was torn between looking away and outright staring. The man was a specimen of the finest material, the highest caliber.

Speechless, I stared at the grand dinner again; grilled chicken that had a white, thick sauce drizzled on it, with fried potato cubes, asparagus on the side, and a glass of red wine. My stomach grumbled appreciatively.

He sat opposite me and wordlessly started to bite into his dinner with a knife and a fork –steel knife and fork. As far as I knew, inmates were given plastic, non-sharp cutlery to eat with, lest they had dangerous ideas. A quick glance around confirmed my assumption.

Awkwardly, I waited for him to say something, watching him leisurely slice the chicken and chew slowly at his own pace. We were not going to discuss last night, it seemed, much to my relief and agitation at the same time. I found myself watching his long fingers as he gently handled the knife and fork. The same long fingers that had brought me pleasure last night, that had deftly caressed and manipulated my body to the point I’d lost my will to resist and had shamelessly given in, surrendering myself to him as he’d wanted.

“Eat,” he suddenly commanded in a tone that brooked no argument without ever raising his eyes to look at me.

Realizing where my train of thought had unconsciously taken me, my cheeks pinkened. I mentally shook my head, pushing such dangerous musings to the back of my head, and picked up the fork and knife. With vigor, I sliced into the chicken and was done eating in five minutes, having devoured the whole plate. Half the chicken breast still remained on Schneizel’s plate.

“Where do you disappear to for hours every time you leave the cell?” It was my attempt at making small talk, but I quickly realized how intrusive the question had sounded.

He looked at me, then. “Instead of telling you, would you like for me to show you?”

I was genuinely surprised by the invitation. Without thinking, I blurted, “Yes.”

****

“How is your arm doing?"

It was yet another question in a series of questions Schneizel kept on surprising me with. I glanced at his sharp, aristocratic profile from the corner of my eye. Outwardly, he conveyed nothing; neither interest nor concern, his face the ultimate unreadable mask. Even his tone of voice gave nothing of what he was thinking. Yet his questions told another story.

“It’s still a pain in the ass to live with, but I’m getting used to it. It’s absolute hell though when it itches. Think you can find me a wire hanger?”

“No need. I’m here for that.” He looked at me then –really looked at me.

My heart skipped a beat at what I saw in the depths of his eyes. Once again, I remembered that which I had been trying to forget. This time, I recalled when I’d been fed ice cubes and bandaged by none other than Schneizel, the King. I felt my entire body grow considerably warmer.

All attempts at conversation ceased after that.

I did my best to not concentrate too much on his overwhelming presence as we made our way down a corridor lined with metal pipes. Schneizel had yet to tell me where we were going, mumbling something along the lines of “It’s a surprise.”

We went down a long flight of metal stairs, possibly going underground, then we came up to an old, studded metal door with huge metal bolt locks (three of them), metal hinges and a large padlock. I immediately started to wonder what was behind this door.

From somewhere on his person, Schneizel produced a key. He unlocked the padlock, unbolted the locks one after the other, then pushed the door open, it rusty hinges creaking ear-gratingly. Once open, he motioned for me to go in first. I did, Schneizel following close behind.

My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at the sight. What looked like even proportions of jarred marijuana were neatly stacked in huge bookshelves taking up one side of the large room, while the other side was taken up by more huge bookshelves that had cigarette packets neatly arranged and stacked on them.

I looked over my shoulder at Schneizel, eyes still wide. “Is this what I think it is?”

“If you’re thinking that this is my stash, then you are correct.”

“Wow,” I breathed a sigh of amazement, genuinely astonished. “You really are King here. You really do have the guards wrapped around you finger, scampering to you every need.”

“They better if they value their lives; they get a percentage of the earnings,” he said in all seriousness.

Gulping, I hurried to change the topic, “Who do you sell this to? The inmates?”

“And more than a few guards, too.” Schneizel walked past me and headed to a door at the far end of the room that I hadn’t noticed before. This door wasn’t a metal door like the previous one. It was actually a normal wooden door.

He beckoned me over. I went.

I thought I’d discover another stash of illegal merchandise, possibly guns this time, but I was sorely mistaken. What lay behind the normal door was a normal bedroom, similar to one found in a normal household. A king-sized bed stood on the other side of the regular-sized room directly opposite the door. Next to it sat a nightstand and on the left of it was a regular-sized closet. There was even a bookshelf loaded with books.

The door slammed shut behind me.

I suddenly felt him standing right behind me, his hot breath fanning my nape. A shiver shot down my spine like a spear, and the fine hair on the back of my necks stood on edge. Goosebumps exploded across my skin. My heart started to beat double time. I felt his arms wrap around my waist from behind. Something hard and bulging pressed into the small of my back. I involuntarily tensed. The breath hitched at my throat.

He whispered directly in my ear, “How about we continue from where we left off?”

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