Charles the Cuck 4
The final command of Mister James has been set. Now he wants Alda all to himself!
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Charles felt a sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know what James had in mind when the prison king told him that it was way too early to celebrate. He spent the rest of his day and evening staring into space, a strange sort of despair hovering over his form. After all, he had made a deal with the devil, and he knew that something terrible was on the horizon, but what?
What could Charles give James the right to see his wife in prison?
The courier arrives, tossing packages to the inmates throughout the block. He stops by a neighboring cell and chuckles as he hands a parcel to the inmate within. “Yeah, you were right. Prime French slut just showed up today.”
Charles’s ears perk up. He pushes himself to a seated position, staring out the bars.
The courier arrives, tossing a package onto his lap. “Good morning to you, Mr. Whitebread.”
Charles gasps, grabbing the package and staring down at the label.
As he feared, the label was “Whitebread.”
“I don’t,” he gulps, his hands trembling. “I don’t understand.
“Noon,” the courier says. “Then you will. But make sure you open it first.”
Charles rips the paper open, finding a tablet with an impressive 4K HDR screen within the package. He frowns as he examines the device and the provided instructions.
“Open the video app at noon, Whitebread - James.”
Even more, waiting makes the prisoner sick. He curls up in the corner, hearing the wafting rumors of some European whore walking about the prison. He tries to close his mind off to such suggestions, but that leaves him in a near catatonic state, curled in a fetal position, wrapping the tablet around him.
“Hey, Whitebread,” his cellmate says. “It’s about that time, isn’t it?”
Gulping, Charles activates the app. He’s greeted with a camera feed of a white room, and sitting in that room is James, legs spread, leaning forward.
The door opens, and from the other side steps a beautiful châtain figure, stepping into the room with the highest of heels, her sway impeccable, as if she’s used to walking in such luxury. Though that’s the only thing elegant about her look. Her makeup rests heavily upon her face, obscuring her natural beauty. Her breasts hardly stay inside the overtight straps that are ridiculous to call a top. Her skirt is so tiny that it would expose anything if she bent even a little bit. The only thing covering her womanhood is a thong, the straps of which poke up from the skirt, wrapping her immaculate waist.
“So glad you can join me,” James says, a predatory gleam in his eye.
The woman, no, Alda… Charles’s Alda looks down, gripping tightly to her purse.
“What’s the matter? Ain’t got nothing to say?”
“Let’s just get this over with,” she says, sighing.
“Where’s that fight you showed on the phone yesterday, baby, hm? That fire and determination? Gotta admit, that was hot, but this aura of defeat you got, well, that’s even hotter.
“And the way you fit into those clothes we got you, well,” he whistles, “It’s almost like you’re used to playing the part. You got yourself a secret past you haven’t told your husband?”
Alda winces at his insinuation, then speaks up. “We do this. He’s safe, and then I never have to see you again?”
“Only if I like what you deliver, and I only like the dirtiest of whores.” James says this, rubbing his thigh. “So, you understand the assignment, madame?”
He keeps his legs spread and sits back, his hands moving behind his head as he lounges. “If so, let’s get down to it.”
Alda bites her crimson-painted lips. She looks about herself, yanking a pillow from the bed. Dropping it to the floor, she uses it as cushioning as she sits on her knees before the prisoner.
The dutiful wife shakes as she places her hands on the gross prisoner’s knees, looking up at him with her green-flecked brown eyes, looking for pity or mercy.
But there is none to be had in the eyes of the King of the Prison. He just shrugs and chuckles through his crooked grin.
She works on his button and pulls his pants apart, pulling the leggings down and revealing that massive monster between his legs, throbbing and tall.
“That’s right, bitch. Bet you ain’t seen nothing this big since you said, “I do, ain’t that right?”
Alda closes her eyes, swallowing hard. She shakes her head, gripping the man’s thighs. “N-no, I have not.” She answers truthfully.
“Then I’m glad to provide that mouth of yours a wild ride it’s been craving.” He says, tapping the back of his head. “Now, go ahead, kiss your king’s cock.”
Alda pushes herself forward, her ample chest resting on his thighs as she leans in, pressing her pillowy lips upon the massive member’s tip. Her kiss is agonizingly slow, a loud smack rising up from between the two of them as she finishes the initial kiss. “Like… like that?” she asks.
“It’s good for now,” he says, grabbing her hair tightly and gripping her strands. “But it’s only the beginning. You’ll treat it like you’re in the desert and I’m the oasis. Then, and only then, your punk of a husband will ever see any of my protection, got it?”
She gasps, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “Y-uh, yes.”
“Yes, what?” James growls.
“Yes, oh, prison king!” She responds.
“Good,” he says, thrusting her forward against the thing, pressing her nose against the length, rubbing her face against it. “Now, you may suck the king!”