Stiles’s knees were still weak from the blowjob marathon in the warden’s office, her pink lips swollen and glossy with residual cum, her porcelain skin flushed from the depravity. Mr. Argent had kept his word, though—Peter and Scott escorted her down a dimly lit corridor to a “special visitor room,” a small, windowless space reserved for conjugal visits or high-stakes interrogations. It was sparse: a metal table bolted to the floor, a couple of chairs, harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and a faint scent of disinfectant masking years of illicit encounters. The guards smirked as they unlocked the door, Scott’s eyes lingering on her ass. “Enjoy your alone time, slut,” Peter teased, giving her a wink before stepping back. “We’ll be right outside if things get too loud.” Stiles stepped in, her tiny black dress disheveled, nipples poking through the sheer fabric, pussy throbbing from the anticipation. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving her alone to wait, her heart racing like a trapped bird.