Shanking Shaw (Patreon)

The moment he saw Emma Frost, Scott knew that he was in for a ride. The woman was not wearing what anyone else would wear inside a supermaximum security prison; not anyone sensible, at any rate. But she didn’t come off as crazy. Simply as a woman for whom supremacy outweighed sensibility.

She was young, hard. What many of the creeps around the prison would dub an old soul, but it wasn’t just wishful thinking. The blue ice in her eyes belied her soft, delicate face. But her well-developed curves were anything but girlish. And if they were womanly, the way what little clothes she wore emphasized her physique—it bordered on whorish.

Her white cotton blouse was tight, almost too small. It had to be tailored, the way it molded to the contours of her abundant breasts, outlining her top-hat nipples then plunging into the valley between her tits, yet clinging tightly to her slender waist. Practically showing the imprint of her taut little navel.

Those firm breasts bounced smugly with each stride; despite their excessive size, they were either real or some of the best titjobs Scott had ever seen. No bra hindered their jiggling motion and the way Emma moved… like a stripper approaching a big spender… hardly did anything to curtail their movement. She made their liquid vibration look exquisitely deliberate.

A tight white skirt held her hips and inner thighs. It was so smug it might as well have been painted on her, showing every flashing stride of her long legs, drawing the eye up between her thighs, to panties that seemed to always be on the verge of coming into view. Watching, Scott felt like he was observing a street hustler’s card trick, trying to follow the queen. But this queen would never show what she didn’t want to show.

Emma’s legs were long and slender and sculpted, exercise firming her thighs and chiseling her calves, but nothing in excess, not one single jot of muscle to ruin the lines of her shapeliness. They ended in white peep-toe shoes, showing off toenails lacquered the same elephant-tusk shade of white as the rest of the almost-lingerie she wore.

Her pert ass shifted easily under the sweep of her skirt, which moved like a harem girl doing the dance of the seven veils—seeing how close she could come to revealing without actually being seen.

Her crotch was the one thing she didn’t hint at, but Scott could see the fronts of her toned thighs stroking the inside of her skirt with each step. She didn’t have to tease that. One look at her and you knew her cunt was exquisite.

Her hair was long and blonde and nearly white, her irises a startling blue that seemed like they should glow from the wide eyes of a young girl, not the dark-kohled slits she looked through. Her lips were painted black—shocking on her pale face—and that grew attention to her mouth: wide, full, sensual. Not a trace of innocence, but neither of hardness. The smile she wore seemed to speak of passion, not cynicism. Like she wholly enjoyed the uses her body broadcast that it could be employed for.

Most men probably would’ve been fooled by the façade. Distracted by the promise of sex or intimidated by her invincible confidence. Scott saw her nerves.

Captains of industry, social titans, they skated through life never having to really worry about having their bluff called. Born with golden parachutes to do with their silver spoons. People like Emma were immune to consequences. It was easy to be brave then, even reckless. But they didn’t develop the calluses that Scott had. His life had been nothing but consequences. His very power came with a curse.

So when he saw Emma, he wasn’t impressed that he couldn’t see her sweat. He could smell the fear she wore under her perfume.

A nice brand, too. It smelled the least like prison of anything he’d ever scented.