Grant's knuckles were scabbed over again. He flexed his hand under the dim bulb in his cell, watching the dried blood crack like desert earth. The guards had stopped asking about his injuries months ago. When you spend twenty-three hours a day alone with concrete walls, you make your own entertainment.
Cliff adjusted his duty belt outside Grant's cell door, shifting his weight from one polished boot to another. Most guards hated solitary block — too quiet, they said — but Cliff didn't mind the rhythm of it. Check the meal slot, log the time, move on. Simple. Routine. Until today, when Grant's fingers curled around the steel tray as Cliff pulled it back, their fingertips brushing for half a second too long.
"Your hand," Cliff muttered without thinking. He could see fresh bruises blooming purple under Grant's old scars.
Grant turned his palm upward slowly, revealing the swollen joints. "Occupational hazard." His voice was rougher than the concrete floor. "Have you ever punched a wall just to feel something, Officer Briggs?"
Cliff's throat tightened. He shouldn't be lingering. Yet his gloved hand hovered near the slot as Grant's fingers spread wider—an invitation, or a challenge. The security camera above them blinked its red eye.
"Walls don't hit back," Cliff said quietly, then immediately winced at his own words. Prisoner psych 101: never engage. But Grant's laugh was unexpectedly warm, rolling through the bars like whiskey poured over ice.
The camera light flickered again. Cliff pretended to check his watch, leaning just close enough to smell the salt-and-metal tang of Grant's skin through the slot. Ten years of solitary should have made a man feral, but Grant carried his isolation like a tailored suit—wrinkled at the edges, but still holding its shape.
"Have you ever wondered," Grant murmured, tapping one split knuckle against the tray, "what kind of man volunteers to guard cages all day?" His eyes tracked Cliff's badge, then lower. "Or night shift, for that matter."
Cliff's pulse pounded in his ears louder than his radio static. The solitary block was deserted — just the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional drip from a leaky pipe. Protocol demanded he step back. Instead, he unhooked the latex glove from his belt with deliberate slowness. "The hand's gonna get infected," he said, nodding at Grant's wounds.
Grant watched, motionless, as Cliff pulled the glove on with a snap. When Cliff offered the antiseptic wipe through the slot, Grant didn't take it. Just held Cliff's gaze while pressing his bleeding knuckles against the cold steel between them. A thin red streak smeared the metal.
"You want to play nurse, Briggs?" Grant's voice dropped, roughened by years of disuse. "Gonna need more than wipes."
Cliff's glove creaked as his fingers tightened around the antiseptic packet. The metallic scent of Grant's blood mixed with the institutional lemon cleaner—a sickly sweet contrast that shouldn't have made his mouth water. He tore the packet with his teeth, the bitter alcohol smell flooding the narrow space between bars.
"You're pushing it, inmate." The warning came out hoarse as Cliff reached through the slot, dragging the wipe across Grant's split knuckles. The prisoner didn't flinch, just exhaled through his nose when the antiseptic bit into raw flesh. Grant's hand was furnace-hot against Cliff's latex-covered fingers, calluses scraping like sandpaper.
A drop of blood splattered Cliff's boot. Neither man moved to wipe it away. The solitary block's usual silence thickened, punctuated only by Grant's shallow breathing and the wet sound of the wipe moving over torn skin. Cliff's thumb strayed to the base of Grant's wrist — just checking circulation, he told himself — but the rabbit-quick pulse beneath his fingers told another story.
Grant shifted his weight forward until the bars pressed dark lines across his chest. "Tell me something true," he murmured, his breath ghosting hot over Cliff's knuckles. The antiseptic wipe lay forgotten between them, pink with diluted blood.
Cliff's fingers stilled. Twelve years on the job, and no one had ever asked him that in Block D. His pulse hammered against his collar. "The cameras are —"
"Blind spots exist," Grant whispered. His uninjured hand slid up the bars, thumb brushing Cliff's wrist where the glove ended. "East corner by the fire extinguisher. Eleven minutes between rotations."
Cliff's breath hitched. His fingers twitched around Grant's wrist — too tight for medical pretense now. The wipe slipped to the floor with a wet slap. Somewhere down the corridor, a vent rattled, but Cliff didn't hear it over the roaring in his ears. Grant's pulse jumped against his fingertips, rapid and alive.
"You been timing my rounds?" Cliff's voice came out lower than he intended, rough like he'd been the one screaming at concrete walls. His thumb pressed harder into Grant's wrist, feeling the ridge of scar tissue there.
Grant exhaled sharply through his nose — not quite a laugh. The fluorescent light buzzed above them, casting his stubble in sickly yellow shadows. "You're the only thing in here that moves, Briggs." His fingers twitched against Cliff's wrist, a silent counterpoint to the accusation. "Besides the roaches."
Cliff's grip loosened. The latex glove squeaked as he flexed his fingers, suddenly aware of how close Grant's mouth was to his exposed skin. The prisoner's breath smelled faintly of mints stolen from some guard's break room, undercut with something darker, metallic. Ten years of solitude should have eroded a man's edges, but Grant's gaze was razor-sharp, tracking the bob of Cliff's Adam's apple.
The fire extinguisher corner loomed at the end of the corridor — eleven minutes. Eleven fucking minutes. Cliff's tongue dragged across his suddenly dry lips. "You know what happens to inmates caught —"
"Touching?" Grant finished, his voice a gravel whisper. His thumb circled the tender skin of Cliff's inner wrist, slow as a prowling cat. "Same thing that happens to guards who let them." The challenge hung between them, sticky as the summer heat seeping through the prison walls.
Cliff's radio crackled with static — someone calling in a med kit to B-block. He should pull away. Should log this interaction. Should do a lot of things. Instead, his gloved fingers slid up Grant's forearm, tracing the raised veins beneath sweat-slick skin. The latex caught on old tattoos faded to prison-blue smudges: a swallow in flight, a coiled chain.
"East corner," Cliff repeated, low and rough. His knee bumped the meal slot as he leaned closer, catching the way Grant's pupils dilated. The security camera's red light blinked obliviously overhead.
Grant exhaled sharply through his nose, coiled tight as the springs in his cot mattress. He didn't move when Cliff's gloved hand slid higher, latex catching on the coarse hair of his forearm. The antiseptic wipe lay forgotten between them, soaked through with rust-colored streaks.
The East corner loomed like a mirage — eleven minutes of stolen oxygen in this concrete vacuum. Cliff's pulse hammered against his ribs as he unhooked the keycard from his belt, the motion shielded by his broad frame. The electronic lock chirped, louder than he remembered in the hollow silence. Grant's pupils swallowed the dim light when the cell door groaned open just enough for a man to slip through sideways.
"Boots," Cliff muttered, nodding at Grant's state-issued shoes pressing into the threshold.
Grant smirked but obeyed, toeing them off against the cell wall with a clatter that made Cliff's shoulders tense. The camera's red light blinked indifferently above them as Grant stepped out barefoot onto the chilled concrete, his toes curling against the sudden exposure.
Cliff's gloved hand landed on Grant's chest, stopping him just outside the cell — close enough that the heat radiating off Grant's body fogged the polish on Cliff's badge. The scent of sweat and rusted metal coiled between them, thick enough to taste. Grant inhaled sharply when Cliff's knee nudged his thigh, pressing him back against the pockmarked wall beside the fire extinguisher.
"Still playing nurse?" Grant rasped, tilting his head to expose the stubble-dark column of his throat. A fresh bruise bloomed beneath his jaw — Cliff hadn't noticed that earlier. His latex-covered thumb brushed it, feeling the thrum of Grant's pulse jump against the barrier.
Cliff exhaled through his nose, the glove creaking as his grip tightened on Grant's jumpsuit collar. The fabric was starched stiff with sweat and institutional detergent. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no heat in it. The East corner's shadow swallowed them whole, the camera's sightline broken by the protruding fire extinguisher cabinet.
Grant's chuckle vibrated against Cliff's palm. "That all you got, Briggs?" His hips rolled forward, pressing the unmistakable heat of his erection against Cliff's thigh. The movement sent a shiver up Cliff's spine — part shock, part electric anticipation. Ten years in the hole, and Grant moved like a man who'd never forgotten the weight of another body against his.
Cliff's glove squeaked as he fumbled with the jumpsuit's zipper, the sound obscenely loud in the narrow corridor. Grant's breath hitched when cold latex brushed bare skin, his abdomen clenching under Cliff's touch. The prisoner smelled like salt and desperation, his skin fever-hot beneath Cliff's exploring fingers.
"Christ," Cliff breathed, his other hand pinning Grant's hip to the wall. He could feel the muscle twitching under his grip, Grant's control fraying at the edges. The jumpsuit pooled around Grant's waist, revealing a network of old scars and fresh bruises that made Cliff's teeth ache. He dragged his gloved hand lower, tracing the angry red line where Grant's waistband had dug in for years.
Grant's head thudded back against concrete when Cliff's fingers circled him, the latex impossibly smooth against flushed skin. "Fuck —" The word cracked in his throat as his hips jerked forward, chasing friction. His fingers scrabbled against the wall before finding purchase in Cliff's duty belt, yanking him closer until their bodies aligned with brutal precision.
Cliff hissed as Grant's teeth found his neck, sharp even through the polyester uniform. His gloved hand worked Grant in rough, rhythmic strokes, each twist of his wrist wringing another choked noise from the prisoner's throat. The glove's texture dragged deliciously over Grant's leaking cock — too dry to be comfortable, too urgent to care. Precum smeared in opaque streaks against the latex, shining under flickering fluorescents.
Grant's hips jerked erratically, his knees trembling where they bracketed Cliff's thigh. Every thrust ground his erection against the guard's palm — too fast, too desperate — his breath coming in ragged bursts against Cliff's collar. When Cliff thumbed the swollen head, Grant's entire body convulsed, his fingernails biting crescent moons into Cliff's bulletproof vest.
Cliff could feel every twitch, every pulse through the thin latex barrier. Precum soaked the glove's fingertips, making each stroke slicker, messier. Grant's cock was flushed dark red against the sterile white latex, veins standing proud beneath stretched skin. A strangled groan escaped Grant's clenched teeth as Cliff twisted his wrist on the upstroke, the glove's ridge catching just under the crown.
Saliva dripped from Grant's chin when he bit down on Cliff's shoulder to muffle another noise. The guard could feel the wet heat through his uniform shirt, the sting of teeth making his own neglected erection throb in his tactical pants. He sped up his strokes, watching droplets splatter onto the concrete between Grant's bare feet — translucent pearls in the flickering light.
The latex glove had gone tacky with sweat and precome, each downstroke dragging Grant's foreskin taut. Cliff twisted his wrist at the tip, letting the textured fingertips massage the slit until Grant's thighs trembled. A thick vein pulsed under his thumb when he squeezed — just shy of painful — and Grant's hips bucked hard enough to slam Cliff's back against the opposite wall.
Spit pooled between their mouths when Grant seized Cliff's collar and crushed their lips together. Ten years without kissing made him ravenous; his teeth caught Cliff's lower lip, his tongue pushing in hot and insistent. The taste of copper bloomed between them — someone's lip had split — but Grant only groaned deeper, rocking his leaking cock into Cliff's relentless grip. His balls drew up tight, the skin behind them twitching with each practiced stroke.
Cliff's glove squelched obscenely as he worked Grant faster, twisting under the swollen head on every upstroke. Precum dripped between them, streaking Grant's thighs and pooling in the divot where his hip bone jutted out. Grant gasped into Cliff's mouth when a thumb pressed behind his balls, blunt pressure lighting up his spine. His knees nearly buckled as Cliff's gloved fingers skimmed lower, tracing the pucker of his ass with clinical precision before pressing in just enough to make Grant's vision whiten.
The latex dragged deliciously against sensitive flesh, impossibly smooth yet textured enough to wring broken noises from Grant's throat. His cock throbbed against Cliff's palm, leaking steadily now — thick, viscous strands that clung to the glove's ridges. Cliff growled when Grant's teeth closed around his pulse point, answering with a brutal twist of his wrist that had Grant's toes curling against the concrete.
Cliff worked Grant's length in earnest now, long strokes from root to tip timed with the roll of Grant's hips. Every downward pull drew a fresh pearl of precome from the flushed head, smearing translucent streaks across Cliff's glove. When his thumb swiped roughly over the slit, Grant arched off the wall with a choked gasp, his cock jerking violently between them. The prisoner's nails scraped down Cliff's vest, catching on the Velcro straps as his thighs trembled with impending release.
The latex glove had turned translucent with fluids, clinging obscenely to Grant's pulsing veins. Cliff squeezed tighter, twisting his wrist on the upstroke to drag the textured fingertips along that sweet spot beneath the crown. Grant's breath hitched — sharp, ragged inhalations that fogged Cliff's nameplate — before his entire body locked tight. His cock twitched violently once, twice, then erupted in thick white stripes of sperm across Cliff's vest and his own heaving stomach. Ropes of cum splattered between them, some landing hot on Cliff's still-stroking fingers as Grant's hips stuttered through each pulse.
Cliff didn't let up, milking Grant through the aftershocks with slow, deliberate pumps that made the prisoner's knees buckle. More seed dribbled over his glove, mixing with the earlier streaks until the latex shone pearlescent under flickering lights. Grant's fingers scrabbled at the wall for purchase, his biceps quivering as he tried — and failed — to push Cliff's hand away. "Fuck — fuck, Briggs —" His voice cracked on a moan when Cliff's thumb pressed hard into the frenulum, wringing out a final shuddering spurt that dripped sluggishly down his oversensitive shaft.
The smell of sex hit Cliff like a physical blow — salt and musk and the tang of latex — thick enough to coat the back of his throat. Grant's cock twitched weakly in his grip, still half-hard and leaking against Cliff's palm. The glove had gone sticky-warm, clinging to Grant's spent flesh with every lazy stroke. Cliff slowed his movements, watching Grant's eyelids flutter at the unbearable sensitivity, his breathing ragged as Cliff's fingers traced the sticky mess cooling on his stomach.
"You're gonna —" Grant's voice broke as Cliff dragged two fingers through the pooled cum, lifting them to the light. The fluorescents caught the strands stretching between his fingertips before snapping, droplets spattering Grant's collarbone.
Cliff exhaled sharply through his nose. His glove peeled off with a wet sound, fingers glistening underneath. Static buzzed in his ears louder than the prison's hum when Grant caught his wrist and dragged those sticky fingers toward his own mouth.
"Don't —" Cliff's protest died as Grant's tongue swiped hot across his fingertips, cleaning the mess with agonizing precision. Every muscle in Grant's body vibrated with tension, his pupils swallowing the dim light. Cliff could feel the scrape of teeth against his knuckles, the wet heat of Grant's mouth working between his fingers like they were the last thing he'd ever taste.
A clang echoed from the south corridor — just metal settling, but it snapped Cliff back to reality. His cum-smeared glove lay discarded near their feet. Eleven minutes had bled into thirteen. He jerked his hand free, wiping residual wetness against his thigh where Grant's tongue couldn't follow. The taste lingered between them — salt and latex and something indefinably Grant.
Grant exhaled shakily, still pressed against the wall with his jumpsuit bunched around his hips. His chest rose and fell unevenly, sweat trickling down the valley between his pectorals. Cliff watched a droplet catch on an old knife scar before continuing southward. The camera light blinked back to life overhead.
"That's contraband," Cliff muttered, nodding at the abandoned glove pooling semen between their boots.
Grant smirked, dragging a still-trembling hand through the mess on his stomach. "Evidence destruction then." He wiped his palm casually down the fire extinguisher cabinet, leaving a translucent smear. The metal would dry before the next inspection.
Cliff's pulse hadn't slowed — if anything, the sight of Grant's lax posture against the wall, spent cock glistening in the fluorescent light, made his own neglected erection throb painfully. He adjusted his belt with jerky movements, the stiff fabric catching against his damp uniform pants. The institutional cleaner's lemon scent did nothing to mask the musk clinging to them both.
Grant's fingers flexed against the wall, his breathing still uneven. "Your turn," he murmured, nodding pointedly at Cliff's obvious bulge. His throat worked as he swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing against sweat-slick skin.
Cliff's jaw tightened. The camera's red light swept across them — thirty seconds until the next rotation. His fingers twitched toward his belt before he caught himself. "Not here." The words came out strangled.
Grant exhaled through his nose, pushing off the wall with deliberate slowness. Cum dripped down his inner thigh when he stepped closer, the jumpsuit still tangled around his waist. "Then where?" His breath skated hot over Cliff's cheek. "Your office? The showers?"
Cliff's fingers tightened around his duty belt. The leather creaked under his grip. Somewhere down the block, a toilet flushed — the only other occupied cell in the wing. His throat clicked when he swallowed. "You know I can't —"
Grant's smirk was knife-sharp. He leaned in until his lips brushed Cliff's ear. "The control room's empty during shift change," he murmured. His breath hitched when Cliff's knee pressed between his thighs. "Twenty-three minutes. There's a camera blind spot behind the server rack."
Cliff's fingers dug into Grant's hips hard enough to bruise. The prisoner's cock twitched against his thigh, already half-hard again despite the mess cooling between them. Somewhere beyond their ragged breathing, boots echoed in the adjacent corridor — Deckard making his rounds early.
"Control room," Cliff growled against Grant's temple, tasting salt and prison soap. His knee pressed higher, eliciting a choked noise as Grant's oversensitive flesh ground against tactical fabric. The camera light blinked red above them, counting down the seconds until discovery.
Deckard's footsteps grew louder. Cliff shoved Grant back toward the cell with one broad palm, watching the prisoner stumble barefoot over concrete streaked with their mingled fluids. Grant caught himself against the bars, his spent cock glistening under flickering lights. His smirk promised ruin.
The glove. Cliff snatched it up, shoving the sticky latex into his thigh pocket just as Deckard's shadow rounded the corner. The older guard paused, nostrils flaring at the musk thickening the air. "Briggs." His flashlight beam danced over Grant's disheveled jumpsuit. "Is the inmate giving you trouble?"
Cliff stepped sideways, blocking Grant's exposed body with his bulk. "Med check. He got combative when I treated his lacerations." The lie rolled off his tongue smoother than it should have. Deckard's light lingered on the wet streaks by the fire extinguisher — too opaque for water.
Grant coughed into his fist, the motion deliberately sloppy. A pearl of semen dripped from his fingers onto the concrete. Deckard's gaze snapped upward as Grant wiped his hand on his jumpsuit with exaggerated care. "Sorry, Officer. Prison food don't agree with me." His throat worked around a grin as Cliff's boot scuffed over the evidence.
Deckard's flashlight beam danced across Cliff's sweat-damp collar. "Smells like disinfectant gone bad in here." His keys jingled as he shifted weight.
Cliff exhaled through his nose. The lemon cleaner reek from his pocket couldn't mask the musk of Grant's release still clinging to his uniform.
"Ventilation's shot again," Cliff muttered, adjusting his belt to hide the damp spot on his pants. Grant's smirk burned against his back as he stepped forward, effectively crowding Deckard toward the corridor. "I'll log it with maintenance."
Deckard's flashlight beam lingered on Cliff's glove-less hands before sweeping over to Grant's cell. The prisoner lounged against the bars now, one arm slung casually over bent knees. The torn jumpsuit sleeve exposed fresh scratches along his bicep — conveniently covering the red marks Cliff's fingers had left minutes earlier.
"Solitary rec time was yesterday," Deckard said, thumb hovering near his radio. The static hiss filled the corridor like a held breath.
Grant's fingers curled around the bars behind him, knuckles whitening. "Tell that to the roaches playing poker in my shitter." His voice was all gravel, but Cliff saw the pulse hammering in his throat.
Cliff cleared his own throat, stepping smoothly between them. "I'll file the pest control req. Again." His bootheel ground into something tacky on the concrete. Deckard's nostrils flared at the scent of bleach and something muskier underneath.
The older guard's flashlight beam lingered on Grant's bare feet — still streaked with traces Cliff's glove hadn't caught. "Inmates wear shoes during transport." Static crackled from his radio as fingers twitched near the call button.
Cliff's palm itched where Grant's teeth had marked him through the uniform. "He said he had a fungal rash." He jerked his chin toward the abandoned antiseptic wipe, now crusted brown-red beside Grant's discarded boots. "Protocol 814-C."
Deckard's flashlight beam skittered over the dried blood speckling Grant's toes. A muscle twitched in his jaw — Cliff had cited the right manual, but barely. The radio hissed with an incoming transmission. Both guards stiffened as dispatch crackled: Deckard, respond to B-wing altercation.
Grant's fingers tightened around the bars behind him, tendons standing stark against ink-stained skin. Cliff could still feel the imprint of those fingers clawing at his vest, dragging crescents into the Kevlar. Deckard hesitated, flashlight beam dancing between them. The scent of sex hadn't dissipated — if anything, the lemon cleaner amplified its muskiness, turning the air thick as syrup.
"Briggs," Deckard started, just as Grant's bare foot slid forward on the concrete. A wet sound — unmistakable now — as his toes peeled up from where they'd stuck in drying fluids.
Cliff's pulse stuttered. He shifted his weight, the tactical belt creaking as he blocked Deckard's sightline. "You're needed in B-wing," he said, low and steady. The radio static filled his ears like white noise.
Grant's breath hitched — too loud — as Deckard's flashlight beam skated along the concrete between them. The wet imprint of Grant's bare foot glistened under the fluorescents, sticky strands stretching between skin and floor.
Cliff's boot came down hard over the evidence, the rubber sole squeaking against concrete. "Stand down, inmate," he barked, too sharp, watching Deckard's eyebrows climb. Grant's smirk promised retribution later as he slumped against the bars with exaggerated lethargy.
Deckard's flashlight beam lingered on Grant's bruised throat — fresh marks Cliff had traced with gloved fingers not twenty minutes prior. The radio crackled again, urgent this time: Deckard, B-wing — NOW!
Cliff exhaled as Deckard backed toward the corridor, though the older guard's gaze remained fixed on Grant's split knuckles. "Log that medical intervention," Deckard tossed over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner. The click of his heels faded, swallowed by the hum of fluorescent lights.
Grant's fingers uncurled from the bars one by one, his breathing still uneven. "Fucking Deckard," he murmured, tongue darting out to catch a bead of sweat at his lip. His pupils were blown wide, gaze locked on Cliff's belt buckle with predatory focus.
The camera light blinked green overhead — thirty seconds before rotation. Cliff's pulse hammered in his throat as Grant stepped forward, bare feet sticking slightly on the concrete with each step. The jumpsuit hung open, revealing the mess Cliff had left on his abdomen, now smeared across taut muscle.
"You're still hard," Grant observed, nodding at the obvious strain in Cliff's pants. His fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to touch but knew better. The fluorescent light caught the sweat beading along his collarbone.
Cliff swallowed against the dryness in his throat. His belt dug into his hips where he'd adjusted it to hide the damp spot. The scent of Grant's release still clung to his uniform — musky and sharp under the lemon cleaner. Every breath pulled it deeper into his lungs.
Grant's bare foot slid forward, toes curling against the concrete. "Control room's empty for twenty-three minutes," he murmured, watching Cliff's jaw tighten. The jumpsuit rustled as he shifted, letting the fabric gape wider. Cum streaked across his abdomen like war paint.
Cliff's knuckles whitened around his duty belt. The camera light blinked red — ten seconds to rotation. His radio crackled with distant chatter as Grant leaned in, lips grazing Cliff's stubble. "Server rack's got enough space," he breathed, teeth scraping earlobe. "Enough for you to fuck me against the cooling vents."
The camera light switched to green. Cliff moved without thought — one hand fisted in Grant's jumpsuit, the other palming the cell's control panel. The lock disengaged with a metallic snick. Grant stumbled backward into the cell, his bare feet sliding in their own drying fluids. Cliff followed, slamming the door shut behind them just as the camera's rotation mechanism whirred to life.
Grant's back hit the concrete wall with a grunt. His knees knocked against Cliff's tactical gear as the guard crowded between his thighs. The jumpsuit tore further under Cliff's grip, exposing Grant's flushed chest where earlier marks were visible. "Twenty minutes," Cliff growled against Grant's throat, tasting salt and the ghost of latex.
Hands scrambled at belts. Cliff's leather duty strap clattered to the floor while Grant's fingers worked the stiff zipper of the tactical pants with prison-honed precision. The rasp of fabric parting drowned out the hum of surveillance equipment outside. Cliff's cock sprang free, already leaking against Grant's stomach where old sperm smeared fresh.
Grant exhaled sharply through his nose when Cliff's calloused fingers gripped his hipbones. The concrete wall bit into his shoulder blades as Cliff lifted him effortlessly, Grant's thighs clamping around tactical gear with bruising force. Neither spoke — breaths mingling in the narrow space between mouths — until Grant's blunt nails scored down Cliff's vest. "Fucking do it already," he gritted out, arching his spine to press their erections together.
Cliff's snarl vibrated against Grant's jugular as he lined up, the head of his cock catching on Grant's rim with no preamble. Dry friction burned — Grant's choked gasp echoing off concrete — but Cliff drove forward in one brutal thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt. Grant's open mouth sank into Cliff's shoulder to muffle the shout, his body bowing like a drawn bowstring around the intrusion.
The heat was obscene. Cliff's hips stuttered as Grant's inner muscles clenched in alternating spasms, still sensitive from earlier. Sweat dripped from Cliff's temple onto Grant's heaving chest, mingling with drying streaks beneath them. Every shallow withdrawal dragged Grant's rim tighter around his shaft, the sticky slide of overstimulated flesh audible in the cell's eerie quiet.
Grant's lips found Cliff's collarbone through the uniform, sucking hard. Cliff retaliated with a deep, rolling thrust that made Grant's thighs convulse around his waist. The prisoner's cock swelled again between their stomachs, smearing fresh precum over drying streaks.
Cliff's tactical pants rasped against Grant's inner thighs as he set a brutal rhythm, each snap of his hips driving Grant higher up the wall. Concrete dust rained down where Grant's shoulders ground into cinderblock, his fingernails carving half-moons into Cliff's vest straps. Their harsh breathing synced — Grant's inhalations sharp when Cliff angled upward, hitting that spot that made his vision whiten.
The stench of sweat and sex thickened as Grant's thighs trembled, his oversensitive cock trapped between their bodies. Cliff watched spit string between Grant's teeth when he threw his head back, tendons standing rigid along his throat. The same throat Cliff had pinned to this wall forty minutes prior. His grip tightened on Grant's hips as he pistoned deeper.
Grant's shout hit the concrete walls dampened only by Cliff's uniform when he came untouched — a violent arch that nearly dislodged them both. Hot stripes painted Cliff's vest, mixing with earlier stains as Grant's body milked him through convulsions. The cell reeked of bleach and spent lust, Grant's ragged panting the only sound beyond the creak of tactical gear.
Cliff's hips stuttered, buried to the hilt as Grant's inner muscles pulsed around him. The prisoner stifled another cry as Cliff ground deeper, wringing out aftershocks with ruthless precision. Sweat dripped from Grant's trembling thighs where they hooked over Cliff's belt, his heels digging into the backs of Cliff's legs.
The guard's uniform shirt clung to Grant's chest as they heaved against each other, fabric smearing fresh cum over drying streaks. Cliff could feel Grant's cock twitching weakly against his abdomen — still half-hard despite the violent climax — and it made his own neglected erection throb impossibly harder.
Grant's breath hitched when Cliff adjusted his grip, fingers digging into his hipbones as he pulled back slowly. The wet drag of oversensitive flesh made Grant's thighs jerk, his nails scoring fresh grooves in Cliff's vest. "Fuck —" The word dissolved into a groan as Cliff sheathed himself again with deliberate slowness, savoring the way Grant's body resisted then yielded around him.
The second orgasm built differently — deeper, slower. Cliff could feel it coiling in his gut as Grant's trembling legs tightened around him, the prisoner's heels digging into the small of his back. Every shallow thrust now drew a punched-out noise from Grant's throat, his cock dribbling weakly between them despite its spent state.
Cliff's uniform shirt tore at the collar when Grant twisted a fist in it, their sweat-slick foreheads knocking together. The emergency light above them flickered — ten minutes until shift change — casting strobe-like shadows across Grant's wrecked expression. His lips moved against Cliff's stubble, forming silent curses with each punishing thrust.
The server room's hum vibrated through the wall at Grant's back, its rhythmic thrum syncing with Cliff's accelerating pulse. Grant's thighs trembled where they locked around Cliff's waist, his cock smearing fresh streaks between them with every jolt of their bodies. Cliff could taste where Grant had bitten through his own lip to stay silent.
Twenty minutes evaporated between panting breaths. Cliff's tactical vest creaked under Grant's clawing grip, the Velcro straps loosening with each brutal thrust. He watched Grant's face fracture — eyelids fluttering, pupils blown — as his prostate took the relentless assault. The prisoner's choked curses vanished into Cliff's shoulder when he angled deeper, hitting that spot that made Grant's body convulse like a live wire.
Precum dripped steadily from Grant's spent cock now, each drop joining the mess between them. Cliff's thrusts grew erratic, his hips snapping forward with bruising force. The emergency light flickered again — five minutes remaining — casting jagged shadows across Grant's heaving chest where Cliff's badge left red imprints on his skin.
Grant's fingernails found fresh purchase on Cliff's vest, dragging down as his body tightened around the guard's cock. "Gonna —" The warning rasped out between clenched teeth, his thighs quaking where they gripped Cliff's waist.
Cliff responded with three brutal thrusts that slammed Grant's skull against concrete. The prisoner's climax hit silently — just a full-body tremor and sudden wet heat smearing between their stomachs. Cliff buried himself to the hilt and came with a muffled curse, his hips jerking erratically as Grant's oversensitive walls milked him dry.
Their harsh breathing synced in the aftermath, chests heaving against sweat-slick tactical gear. Grant's thighs trembled where they still locked around Cliff's waist, his cock twitching weakly against the guard's abdomen. Cliff could feel his own release leaking down Grant's inner thighs, mingling with earlier messes.
The emergency light's hum grew louder — three minutes remaining. Cliff's softening cock slipped free with a wet sound that made Grant hiss through clenched teeth. The prisoner's bare feet touched concrete first, legs nearly buckling before Cliff caught him by the hip. Their gazes locked in the flickering gloom, Grant's lips swollen where he'd bitten them.
Cliff thumbed away a streak of semen on Grant's collarbone, watching the prisoner's eyelids flutter at the rough contact. The smell of their exertions clung thicker now — salt and musk and the ozone-tang of overheated server equipment through the wall. Grant's fingers fumbled at Cliff's belt buckle, pausing when the guard caught his wrist — not restraining, just feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath ink-stained skin.
"Camera rotation in ninety seconds," Cliff muttered. His own voice came out wrecked. Grant leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Cliff's tactical vest where fresh stains darkened the Kevlar. The movement made his spent cock twitch against Cliff's thigh, still glistening.
Cliff's fingers tightened around Grant's wrist, his thumb pressing into the delicate veins. He could feel Grant's pulse rabbiting against his callouses — too fast, too alive for this concrete tomb. The prisoner's breathing hitched when Cliff's other hand slid up his spine, pausing at the knobs of vertebrae where sweat had pooled.
The emergency light flickered again — sixty seconds left. Grant exhaled sharply through his nose, his forehead still pressed against Cliff's vest. "You're still wearing your fucking earpiece," he murmured, lips grazing the radio clipped to Cliff's collar. His tongue darted out to trace the seam where sweat had collected.
Cliff's fingers spasmed around Grant's wrist. Static crackled in his ear — Deckard's voice reporting B-wing secure. The camera rotation mechanism whirred overhead, gears grinding like a death row clock. Grant's teeth found Cliff's pulse point through the uniform, biting down just as the guard's radio squawked: Briggs, report to C-wing for lockdown check.
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