Prison Snatch Read online

  Dear Reader:

  Cairo has delivered his fifteenth novel and as usual, this one is a spicy and tantalizing read. Meet Heaven Lewis, a new addition at Croydon Hill who fast becomes the queen bee at the prison where everything goes behind the gates.

  The vixen serving ten years for shooting her drug-dealing boyfriend is coveted by both correctional officers and inmates, and she relishes all the attention. She can be both adoring and vengeful as she moves back and forth from general population to solitary confinement. But wherever she goes, trouble and drama are at her heels. The luscious beauty with hazel eyes uses her body and wits to satisfy all her whims, including how to continue her preexisting lavish lifestyle.

  Cairo takes erotica to a new level and offers an amusing and sinister look at lockup life with a zany cast of characters.

  As always, thanks for supporting myself and the Strebor Books family. We strive to bring you the most cutting-edge, out-of-the-box material on the market. You can find me on Facebook @AuthorZane or you can email me at [email protected].

  Blessings,

  Publisher

  Strebor Books

  www.simonandschuster.com

  Thank you for downloading this Strebor Books eBook.

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  For you, the readers . . .

  Thank you for allowing me to be the literary stroker of your imaginations

  PROLOGUE

  Throw This Money On You . . .

  As Heaven’s hips naturally swayed, as she made her way down the near-empty corridor, CO Thurman rubbed a hand over his dick as he watched her on one of the zone-A monitors.

  He was sitting behind the desk in central control, several large surveillance monitors strategically placed on the wall for easy viewing of the entire prison. He quickly—with the push of a button—zoomed in on the long-lashed, hazel-eyed beauty, his gaze caressing over her dangerous curves.

  His tongue slid around his bottom lip.

  “Goddamn,” he hissed.

  Everything about her did it for him. She fascinated him. A woman looking like her inside a prison could only mean one thing—chaos. Those eyes, that body . . . he was sure she’d end up causing a damn riot in the building if they didn’t keep a close eye on her.

  And, shit, he’d loved nothing more than to be the one to stand watch over her. He wanted to watch her back it up on his dick. Watch his tongue glide around her clit, then push into (what he believed would be) her gushy slit. Fuck yeah.

  And he’d love to see what was beneath that orange hip-hugging jumper she somehow managed to make look like something from off a Parisian runway. Prison couture.

  He chuckled to himself. She definitely had a way of owning it—her sensuality, in the way she walked, in the way she carried herself. She walked like a woman who knew she had good pussy, like a woman who knew she was a bad bitch. And that shit in itself turned him on.

  He loved dime-pieces, especially those sexy red-boned, long-haired, pretty-eyed ones.

  The bow-legged, six-one, dark-chocolate CO with the big red lips had been working in corrections for almost twelve years, and he’d not seen an inmate as graceful or as beautiful as her. Sure, they had their share of pretty women come through the gates of Croydon Hill. But none compared to her thus far.

  She was fucking mesmerizing. And every time he saw her, he found himself turned on by her presence.

  Shit. He’d fuck around and dick her down, then trick up his whole overtime check on her fine-ass. He kept his gaze on her as she walked through the magnetometer on the right side of the hallway. He witnessed her roll her eyes up in her head as one of his colleagues, CO Clemmons—a stocky, big-breasted woman who wore her hair shaved bald—called back to her, and told her to go back through the metal detector again. She complied.

  The machine must have beeped again. CO Clemmons walked over and said something to the inmate, and then she took the wall. Palms pressed against the wall, legs spread apart, her plump ass poking out just right.

  He pushed out a hiss, massaging the head of his dick. He knew he’d end up with a nut-stain in his drawers, but fuck if he cared. He’d find some little trick-ass ho to suck him clean later (all the while thinking of her) once he clocked out.

  Clemmons ran her hands over the inmate’s body, sliding them over her back, down over her hips and then up and down the length of her outer and inner legs; her face mere inches from the inmate’s ass.

  He let out a groan, grinding his ass down into his chair as he discreetly squeezed and kneaded and rubbed his swollen dickhead. He felt the heat bubbling up around the sensitive gland and swallowed back a mouthful of drool.

  “Yeah, Clemmons, what that ass smell like?”

  Like sweet rainwater, he mused. Hell. He’d drink her piss water if she offered it to him.

  Clemmons said something else to her, and the inmate gave her a murderous look, swinging her hair over her shoulders. There was disdain in her eyes.

  The CO’s gaze darkened. “What the fuck is you doing now, Clemmons?” he questioned as he continued to look on.

  She must be up to her bullshit, again, he thought. She was known for trying to push up on inmates for pussy. But she had to know there wasn’t shit she could do with a beauty like her. Nah. A woman like her needed a freaky muhfucka with lots of dick, like him.

  He let out his breath in a long exhale. No inmate should be this fucking bad.

  Bottom line, he planned on fucking her.

  He didn’t care how long it took—one year, two, three . . . he was getting inside her, and he was going to make it his mission to feel the stretch of her pussy over his dick before another CO got to her first.

  Cash in her hand, or money on her books—whatever this hazel-eyed enchantress wanted, needed, he’d make it happen.

  The question was, when?

  ONE

  Breathe You in My Dreams . . .

  Fifty-five-year-old Lee Kateman—or Warden Kate, for short—sat behind her mahogany desk and fumbled with the button on her slacks, then undid it. Next she eased her zipper down, then slid her neatly manicured hand down into her opened slacks and cupped her pussy, but then she quickly shot up from her chair, knocking her knee against the desk. She grimaced, biting back a yelp as pain shot through her thigh.

  She limped over to her door and locked it, then hobbled back to her desk and pressed the DO NOT DISTURB button on her desk phone, before easing back in her chair with a groan. Then she sighed. Now she could orgasm without any sudden interruptions.

  She rubbed her knee a few times, then brought her attention back to the throbbing between her legs. She moaned in anticipation as she leaned back and spread her legs, her hand sliding back into the opening of her pants. She closed her eyes for a moment and moaned softly as she massaged her throbbing sex over the fabric of her white cotton panties. Mmm, yes. The ache between her thighs, which had started out as a slow burn over the course of the day, had now become an intense blaze.

  She needed this release, this time alone, so very badly. Being the chief administrative official of a women’s prison, which housed nearly nine hundred and fifty inmates in maximum, medium, and minimum security, along with another ninety women housed in the camps—coupled with the multiple personalities of nearly five-hundred-plus staff under her charge could be challenging in itself, some days more stressful than others. And today had been one of those days.

  There’d been a gang fight on 5 East during breakfast, where eight women jumped two other women. And one of the women who had been atta
cked had had her eyeball nearly gouged out with a broom handle. Then an inmate coming out of classroom B had been caught with a brick of marijuana wrapped in cellophane. She and the teacher had been the only two in the classroom. And when she’d come out of the room ten minutes later, she’d tried to avoid being frisked. Hidden down in her jumper were the drugs. The little sneaky twat tried to run off from the COs, but they’d restrained her shortly after she’d given chase. Surprisingly, neither she nor the male teacher would say how or where she’d gotten ahold of the drugs—enough to light up a whole housing unit.

  Then—as if her day hadn’t already been shitty enough—another inmate jumped off the third-floor tier over on 8 North in an attempt to kill herself.

  And all this occurred during first shift.

  These crazy bitches had stressed her out today.

  She’d already had three shots of pick-me-up by eleven this morning to take the edge off. Mmmph. These nasty bitches trying to drive me to smoke crack. She pinched her clit, and heard herself whimper as she touched herself. Her overly sensitive clit, all swollen and ready, protruded from beneath its hood, causing her whole body to shiver each time her hand stroked over her panties.

  “Mmm, yes . . . ooh,” she murmured.

  As her hand slowly caressed her sex, she silently wished she had traded her granny panties—white Fruit of the Loom with pink flowers—in for something sexier, like a lacy thong. But she had been in a rush this morning, scrambling to get dressed and in on time for a nine o’clock meeting with the commissioner. And now she was reminded of the mismatched panty-set she’d been wearing beneath her designer pantsuit all day.

  Not that she considered herself a sexpot, but there was something about the feel of silk rustling against her pussy lips that made her feel sexy. Even though that wasn’t at all what she ever saw reflected in her husband’s gaze whenever he looked at her.

  Oh well.

  Screw him! Her marriage was nothing more than a goddamn farce these days. So, she’d be damned if she was about to allow thoughts of him right now kill her vibe. She’d suppressed her need and longing for far too long. And, though, it was dirty desire, she was cognizant of what she was giving in to—of what she was stepping in to.

  Fire.

  And God help her, she wanted it, craved it and ached for it—with every breath in her quivering body. Mmm, yes. She pinched her clit again while staring at the computer screen that sat atop her sleek desk, and her breath hitched. The sight before her made her skin go hot. And her pussy instantly wet. She was slowly drowning in lust, drowning in want, drowning in fantasy.

  The image filled her with conflicting emotions. Stark desire mixed with guilty pleasure. Then, always immediately after . . . came shame.

  She and her fantasies were filthy. Dirty.

  But—damn it—she needed a good fucking. Badly.

  Still, she was a filthy, dirty, scandalous bitch for fantasizing over—oh, God help her—an inmate. But she couldn’t help whom—and what—she lusted.

  Or could she?

  God, yes—of course she could. She’d done it for most of her thirty-five-year career. Kept her secret desires neatly tucked away in the darkest crevices of her filthy mind; that was. She’d mastered pretending. Maintained professional, healthy boundaries, and kept her private life just that—private.

  But now she felt herself becoming more enticed, more driven, by her cravings, by the thrill, the rush, which surged through her veins every time she imagined herself taking a bite into the forbidden fruit of desire. Some days, she was so tempted to give in to spontaneity. To snatch the moment and revel in her most erotic fantasies, to indulge herself in debauchery.

  It was almost as if she couldn’t help herself. Sometimes she’d walk through the halls of her prison, and the smell of pussy would be clinging in the air, and her mouth would water and she’d become painfully aroused.

  Maybe it was the flask of vodka she kept hidden in the bottom of her locked desk drawer that made her feel less inhibited, more daring of late. Maybe it was the fact that it’d been over five years since her husband had touched her, caressed her, or made sweet, passionate love to her.

  Warden Kate grunted, her fingers greedily digging deeper, probing faster, stroking and stroking, desperately searching for that sweet spot. Her pussy needed some attention, some tender-loving fucking. A wet tongue licking over her folds would do her body so damn good right about now.

  Her husband had robbed her of a good fucking, and she was angry with him for taking his dick elsewhere—giving it to some other bitch. When things first started to sour between the two of them, he had always been too tired, too stressed, too uninspired to even initiate sex. Initially, she’d have to beg him, practically plead, with him to at least let her suck his dick—anything to feel close to him.

  Then gradually he’d come to bed long after she was asleep, doing anything he could not to share the same bed with her. And, over the last several months, he’d taken to sleeping in one of their spare bedrooms.

  Still, she’d never divorce him. Othello. They had a long, rich history together. They’d started dating when she was eighteen. Then married at twenty. And they shared three beautiful adult children, two sons and a daughter—ages thirty-five, thirty-three, and thirty, respectively. And she had six grandchildren. Her daughter had four children, and her middle son had two.

  Unfortunately, her firstborn—the apple of her eye, was too busy being a rolling stone to settle down and start a family of his own. He was a good catch. He was handsome. College-educated. Had fifteen years working with the state, and was making good money. But when it came to women, he just couldn’t seem to get it right. He seemed to be a magnet for every wet pussy gone wild and wrong.

  She grunted. She wished like hell he’d learn to keep his dick in his pants, or at the very least—stop giving it out so freely.

  She loved him dearly, but he was a manwhore. Or at least he had been.

  Of late, he seemed to be slowing down. Not going out as much, or tricking up his money on pussy. Maybe he was finally growing up. He’d been known to practically fuck anything with a pulse, if he thought he’d get away with it. And, once or twice, he’d gotten himself in some trouble with a few of those dogged-face bitches, leaving her to have to clean up several of his messes.

  Truth be told, there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do to protect her family. She was simply downright too loyal, too supportive. And not always goddamned appreciated enough. But she would always be there for them, including her husband, Othello, no matter how shitty he treated her. So tearing her family apart wasn’t a part of her life plan, even if she had given it serious thought several times over the years. Bottom line, she’d stay stuck in a sexless marriage for appearance’s sake. It was a benefit to them both. And, as he’d once told her, it was “cheaper to keep her.”

  Still, some hard dick plunging her cunt would be a nice treat from time to time, even if she did have her mind on something else—someone else. Ooh, yes, God. She had a taste for some pussy. And she wanted to taste herself on another woman’s lips. Maybe even grind clits together while suckling on each other’s tits. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  Hell. She was sure Othello had some Becky-looking bitch sucking his long, fat dick. There’d been a time, long ago, when she enjoyed the feel of him stretching her cunt, hitting the bottom of her well with all nine inches.

  But now he was giving the dick to some sidepiece; he just had to be. Oh, sure. She’d found the text message exchanges between her husband and some lonely bitch he’d met on some social media site. Veronica. And she’d even found a few nude photos of the shameless hussy.

  She’d become so sick and tired of giving a damn that now she simply didn’t. Still, she’d invested too much of her time and life in her marriage. Lots of sweat and tears and sacrifice went into being married. So if he wanted out, he’d have to leave her. Period.

  Warden Kate sighed, pulling herself from her reverie. She sighed
regretfully. She’d given her troubled marriage enough thought for one day. Right now, she had a more pressing matter that needed her attention.

  Her pulsing loins.

  She licked her lips as her gaze flickered up and locked on the image in front of her on the Department of Corrections’ inmate locator page.

  “Mmm . . . ooh, yes . . . I bet you have a sweet, tasty hole . . .”

  A soft moan slipped from the back of her throat as she winded her hips down into her chair, her fingers ever so lightly flicking over her cloth-covered clit. God how she wished she could feel her ass and the back of her bare pussy pressed down into the plush leather of her chair as she brought herself to climax.

  If it hadn’t been in the middle of the day, she would have pulled out her ridged “vibrator-friend”—the one she kept tucked in the back of her locked drawer in a satin black bag—and fucked her horny cunt real good with it. But, for now, she’d have to settle for her fingers and hand to take her to her happy place.

  Hmm. Nirvana.

  Oh how she longed for it. Yearned for it. The overwhelming need burned through her core. With her free hand, she unbuttoned her blouse, then slipped her hand inside, her fingers finding their way inside her bra—pink, cotton and . . . boring.

  Why hadn’t she worn the one with the scalloped, lacy edges?

  Lee’s hand moved languorously over her clit and lips until her juices simmered and slowly seeped into her underwear. She patiently teased herself, lightly pinching and patting her clit, her gaze fixed on her computer screen.

  She pressed the palm of her hand down on her clit and moved her hand, harder, faster, creating a hot friction that set her pussy ablaze.

  “Mmm, you degenerate bitch,” she murmured. “You criminal. Mmm, yes . . . eat my pussy, you villainess whore . . .”

  She hated herself for becoming so licentious, so loose . . . so damn greedy; potentially jeopardizing everything she’d worked so hard for her entire life—her career, her family—her reputation, for God’s sake! She’d spent most of her career in corrections with an unblemished track record of being no-nonsense and by the book.