Lloyd dreamed in vivid colors, his restless movements constrained by the massive erection in his pants. He could feel Jamie’s warmth pressed against him, the scent of her perfume so strong he could almost taste it.
He rolled on his side in a pole-vault motion, careful not to bend the swollen appendage under his own weight. He touched his hand to Jamie’s face and kissed her painted lips, moist and sweet. He felt her tongue tease his mouth as he pulled her closer to embrace her warmth and devour her like no woman he had ever known before.
He touched her delicious breasts, enriched by her flawless figure, soft and pliant in his powerful hands. He kissed her nipples, brushing his tongue along the textured contours of her skin. Pressure swelled inside him. His heart pounded in his throat when his energy met her glowing aura, sustaining a sexual connection beyond the physical plane—a spiritual bond consecrated by their unbridled passion for one another. Then as quickly as her image came to him, it faded.
Lloyd rolled on his back, his euphoric state obliterated by a shrill announcement piercing the early morning hour.
Varden blew the whistle a second time. His face turned red. “Rise and shine, ladies.” He kicked Lloyd’s bed frame and flicked the lights on. “Up and out,” he yelled across the hall. He pounded the mattress by Marvin’s head. “You too, Sunshine. Let’s go.”
“What time is it?” asked Lloyd, blinded by the rows of overhead track lights strategically placed to maximize their assault on his eyes. He shoved the blanket aside and stood up from the lower bunk. He tucked his somewhat diminished, but still ample erection in the side of his boxer shorts.
“Stow your junk, Mr. Sullivan. That’s the last thing I need to see.”
Lloyd adjusted himself again, his jubilant fantasy supplanted by the angry warden’s callous demeanor.
Varden waited for Marvin to comply. “Let’s go, Mr. Tate. I’m not getting any younger.”
“Why you gotta run this drill three times a week?” Marvin whined.
“Mind over matter, Mr. Tate. I don’t mind, so it don’t matter.”
Marvin joined the group while Varden tossed the sheets and mattresses on the rack assigned to Tate and Sullivan.
Men grumbled and pointed from the hallway outside, but no one interfered with Varden’s mission.
A one-man wrecking ball, Varden tore pillows inside out, turned dresser drawers upside down, and scoured every inch of Lloyd’s foot locker until he uncovered what he’d planned to find all along: folded pages from Playgirl magazine. “Would you look at that, Mr. Sullivan.” He unfolded the glossy photos and displayed his discovery to the room of spineless observers praying the next bunk Varden searched wasn’t theirs. “Looks like Mr. Sullivan enjoys playing for the other team. Who knew?”
Varden turned to Lloyd. “Is this what got you fired up this morning?”
“I’ve never seen that before,” Lloyd stated loudly.
“Do you know what this is, Mr. Sullivan? It’s strike number three for you. A ticket back to prison. Section nine, paragraph two, states—”
“I know what it says,” Lloyd belted out in frustration.
Varden crumpled the glossy pages in his hand. “Are you trying to screw with me?”
“I’m trying to educate you.”
A chuckle from the back of the room extinguished quickly in the heated confrontation.
“Do you prefer the company of other men, Mr. Sullivan? Because as certain as the sun will rise, most every man in this room took a pole between the pillows at one time or another. But I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to enforce the rules.”
Lloyd kept his emotions in check. A fight with Varden would only blemish his jacket further and promote another obstacle to overcome when he challenged his parole violation in court.
Varden pressed harder. “What you do outside of here is your business. What you do inside these walls is mine.” He pointed his finger at the audience in the hall. “Let this be a warning to the rest of you. There is no expectation of privacy in this facility. Like it or not, you men are under my direct supervision. You are all on provisional status. My policies are zero tolerance. No discussion. No exception. Am I making myself clear? Or do I need to haul the rest of you out with Mr. Sullivan?”
Varden put his hand to his ear. “I didn’t hear you.”
“No Sir,” came the collective reply from everyone but Lloyd and Marvin.
Varden pulled his cell phone from his belt. “Get dressed,” he told Lloyd. “I’ll have the sheriff here in twenty minutes.”
Marvin blocked Varden’s path.
Varden stood firm with his hands on his hips. “You got something to say, Mr. Tate?”
Marvin cleared his throat. “The magazine doesn’t belong to Lloyd.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because it belongs to me.”