The prisoner.

………This is part of a longer story, but I hope you can enjoy it…………

The prisoner.

Jolka had thought out and prepared her deed quite carefully.

He would not recognize her, he did not know her. But that was not the point here.

She had let her fingernails grow longer so that she could sharpen them to a point. It was important to her plan. It would also make her hands appear larger and rougher. There was no way he could recognize her as a woman. She had eaten garlic so that she smelled appropriately repulsive and washed it down with cheap beer. The clothes she wore belonged to her husband, and she also applied his strong-smelling aftershave.

She felt uncomfortable, smelled bad, and had something to do that she hated.

The night could begin. She had only this one night.

Slowly, she approached her victim. He was considerably taller than her but there were also petite men. Her size would not reveal her. For safety, she also wore boots with rather high heels.

He had heard her in his cell long ago, but said nothing. He had been silent since his trial, and no one had been able to get anything out of him yet.

The wide iron handcuffs around his wrists left him little freedom of movement. His arms were almost completely stretched out on both sides. That had to mean permanent pain. But it did not show on his face. Only the wounds on his wrists testified to his struggle against the shackles. Whether from anger or fatigue, she didn’t know.

She was not allowed to feel pity now.

Allow no feelings. Only her task.

His arms were marked by numerous scars but were beautifully shaped and undoubtedly strong. She would be careful not to place herself in the grip of his fingers.

She approached him and placed the items she had brought on the floor. She was afraid and didn’t want him to feel it. Afraid of what he might do to her, but also afraid of what she would do to him.

She stepped in front of him and reached out to touch his head. The moment her fingers touched his hair, his head shot forward with lightning speed and force. He was going to break her nose.

Nice. It was impressive for a prisoner.

If she had been a man stepping up to him and trying to take his head in her hands, he would have bin hit.

But Jolka was well prepared for his possible reactions and much too small to stand in the direct way of the blow. His head shot into the void, and the chains held him in place.

He had to smell her already. Beer, garlic, man.

That was a good thing. She stepped aside and grabbed his wrist.

With her sharp fingernails. It should feel as uncomfortable as possible. Then she lightly scratched across his arm to his shoulder. There was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do about it. Already, he had to suspect, that something quite nasty was going on here.

She didn’t have to pretend to run her sharp fingernails along his arm with admiration.

His arm and the play of his muscles under his slightly sweaty skin unintentionally distracted her from her task and conjured up images in her imagination that she had to banish immediately.

It didn’t feel good to scratch over his scars, but it shouldn’t feel good to him either.

Finally, she put her warm hand on his biceps and ran it under the short sleeve of his shirt. Not a muscle twitched in Rhinsoh’s face. But she could clearly sense his discomfort.

So she felt her own.

Her nails must have made her hand seem large on his shoulder, to which she had just worked her way up.

She blew her foul garlic breath in his face. Then she picked up the bottle of water she had brought from the floor and shook it gently next to his ear so he could hear what she was up to.

She opened the bottle and gently held it to his lips. He was thirsty, just had to be thirsty. But of course, he didn’t drink. She had expected that, too. It would be easier for him to just drink, but he wasn’t easy.

She stepped back again and put the bottle on the floor. Loud enough for him to hear. Then she stepped carefully in front of him again, and put her hands on either side of his head.