The metal fence groaned under Jim’s weight as he vaulted over the last barrier between him and freedom. Behind him, two of his guys—Ricky and Dex—hit the dirt with soft thuds, their breathing ragged from the sprint. “See? I told you this would be as easy as Detroit,” Dex jubilantly whispered.

The warm and humid Hunan air clung to their skin, as if the land itself were trying to hold back the escaped prisoners. The floodlights painted everything in jagged shadows, but the real problem stood ten feet ahead: a Chinese guard in a crisp uniform, her pistol holstered at her hip. She hadn’t seen them yet, her back turned as she adjusted her radio. The guard couldn’t have been more than five-foot-two, her uniform stretched tight over rounded hips. Long, straight black hair cascaded down her back.

Jim moved before he thought, tackling her hard enough to knock the wind out of her. She didn’t stand much of a chance, being a foot and a half shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than him. Her knees hit the dirt, arms pinned beneath his weight as he clamped a hand over her mouth. “Not a fucking sound,” he hissed, close enough to smell the floral shampoo in her hair. She tensed, but didn’t fight—smart. The patrol’s footsteps crunched gravel somewhere beyond the fence line. If she yelled, they’d be on the convicts before they could get away.

His grip slackened just enough to shift his weight, and that’s when he noticed the tear in her pants—right at the seam of her thigh, split open from the scuffle. Pale skin, pale as porcelain, peeked through, the edge of white cotton panties visible where her legs were forced together. His pulse spiked, the danger of the moment twisting into something hotter. “Well shit,” he mused, dragging a calloused finger along the exposed underwear. She jerked, a muffled noise escaping his palm.

“Bet you never had an American barbarian’s hands on you before,” Jim taunted, pressing harder. The patrol’s voices faded into the distance. Ricky groaned under his breath, “Jesus fucking Christ, man.” But Jim didn’t care.

His thumb worked the lily-white fabric, grinding slow circles until the cotton clung to her folds. She twisted her hips and squirmed. “Yeah, you like that?” He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Bet your little commie boyfriends don’t know how to touch a pussy right.”

Her thighs tensed, but she didn’t pull away. Jim chuckled, low and mean. “Fraternizing with the enemy, are you?” he taunted. He now wiggled three fingers through the hole in her pants, and rubbed them up and down against the cotton-covered slit. Then, he shifted his grip to pinch the fabric between his fingers and tug—just enough for air to rush in and greet her folds, but not so much to expose her sex to him. “Want this American to fuck you?”

She tossed her head as she squirmed, her long black hair whipping in the dim light. Jim grinned and released her panties, letting them slap against her core. Then he pressed his fingers harder against her, dragging the gentle fabric in slow circles. “Do you want some big American barbarian cock?” he continued, voice dropping to a mocking growl. “Do you want this dumb, uncivilized, American brute to give you a star spangled fucking?”

Her breathing hitched, her body trembling under his weight—but then she twisted her head back, turning her placid expression to him, dark eyes locking onto his. Then, she wordlessly glanced downwards—not at him, but at the breach in her pants where his fingers teased her. The deliberate flick of her gaze sent a jolt through him. Jim froze, his smirk faltering. He studied her expression—the slight parting of her lips, the flush creeping up her neck—and realization kicked him in the gut. “No way,” he muttered, half-laughing. “You’re serious?”

“I’ll be damned,” Dex mused with a devilish smile. Ricky cursed under his breath. “Unbelievable. Dude, we are literally mid-escape—” Jim ignored him, already fumbling with his belt buckle. The guard arched her back slightly, pressing her ass against him in silent invitation.

Through the torn fabric of her pants, Jim hooked two fingers into the her panties and yanked them aside. The sight punched the air from his lungs—her cunt glistened under the dim floodlights, swollen lips parted and slick with want. “Fuck me,” he breathed, dragging his thumb through the mess of her. “You’re dripping, you little traitor. Little communist guard getting wet for the enemy!” She shuddered, biting her lip in the unconscious throws of lust.

Jim didn’t bother with preamble—he shoved his pants down just enough to free his cock, already rigid and twitching against her thigh. He spat into his palm, gave himself a rough stroke, and lined up. The first thrust was swift—he buried himself to the hilt in one go, her tight heat clamping down on him with a wet gasp.