Four walls don’t a prison make

 

Four walls don’t a prison make, but a mind can, she thinks, feeling trapped in her own life again.

She could blame her ex-boyfriend, the cad,, thinking he did this to her, and he did, after a fashion, but in some vague way, she still loves him, maybe misses him a little, certain misses the sex, which she hasn’t had since they broke up.

Her two close friends bug her about it.

“You really got to get out and meet new people,” her girlfriend says.

“Like who? Like him?”

“Like anyone,” her girlfriend’s boyfriend says. “It’s unhealthy you living like this.”

She knows it is, and is so sick of the isolation, she agrees to go out with them for a drink.

Four walls don’t a prison make.

“But don’t count on me finding a new man,” she tells them. “I have no intention of letting any slime ball touch me.”

Not like her old man did, she thinks, not mistreated physically, perhaps not even intending to hurt her as deeply as he did – she did love him for a reason, even if the reasons changed and her love ceased. But she carries him around inside her, haunted by his ghosts, and she’s not going to put herself in the position to get hurt like that again.

“It’s just us, okay?” she tells her friends as they go into the local pub.

She’s comfortable around them, feels safe being with them.

Yet, the minute they sit down at the table, the moment the drinks are served and she gets a chance to look around, she regrets coming.

It’s the same old scene. She recognizes the look of hunger in the eyes of the men (and even women) at the bar, all playing the waiting game, the musical chairs that people play to determine who they will go home with for the night.

She wonders: “do I have that look in my eyes, too?”

Must be the case because even with her two friends guarding her, men – like the man she gave up for her solidary life – offer to buy her drinks or give her some other cheap pick up line that only makes her hate them, too much like the man she left behind, too much of the same thing, she wants to be back in her prison, her shell, where nobody can hurt her.

Four walls do not a prison make.

The problem is she feels the tingling between her legs, the ache for something more than a battery operated self-satisfying piece of plastic that keeps her company at night instead of a man. She wants to fuck again, wants to feel a man’s cock up inside her, while at the same time, it scares her. One can’t have one without the other, the cock comes with baggage and a chance of hurt.

Then, her girlfriend – apparently sensing some of this – reaches over under the table and touches her between the legs.

The act shocks her.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“What do you think?” her grinning friend replies. “Didn’t you like it? You seem to need it.”

Did she?

Yes, she did, and it makes her pussy wet.

“Just don’t do it again,” she says, and then notices her girlfriend’s boyfriend eyeing her as well, the kind of look that a best friend’s boyfriend shouldn’t be giving her.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he says, but doesn’t stop, and it makes her wetter and makes her want all the more to fuck, feeling she didn’t think she would ever feel again, with anyone, let alone with her girlfriend’s boyfriend.

“Just stop, all right? Both of you,” she says.

“You’re supposed to be having a good time,” her girlfriend says.

“Well, I’m not,” she says. “I want to go home.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“When?”

“Now.”

She gets up and heads for the door, passing the gauntlet at the bar, glaring at the parade of needy faces, at the hungry eyes, at the men and women who fuck her with just a look, and is relieved when the bar door slams behind her, with them locked on the inside.

Four walls a prison does not make.

Outside, in the cool air, she feels the urge lessen.

“To think I might have gone off with one of them,” she thinks as they make their way back to her apartment, and inside, the four walls close around her again, as if that brief time out into the real world makes her realize just how horrible her private life really is

Four walls is a prison in my own mind.

But she’s not alone. Her two friends are there and refuse to leave

“Aren’t you going to miss something back there?” she asks them, as they settle on either side of her on the couch.

“We want to be with you,” her girlfriend’s boyfriend tells her, leaning close, kissing her hard on the mouth, while her girlfriend’s fingers once more probe the now-dripping space between her legs.

They start to undress her.

“Stop that!” she says and slaps her girlfriend’s hand.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like that.”

“Really?”

Of course, she does, and knows she needs it, and feels the urge becoming overwhelming, to feel a cock inside her again, to have someone’s lips around her nipples, kissing on her neck, body pressed against her.

And as much as she wants to stop them, she can’t, feeling their tender touches, feeling their playful kisses, feeling her girlfriend’s boyfriend’s cock growing harder – and as he strips, exposed.

She licks her lips, as hungry for it as any of those she saw lined up in the bar, all those artificial barriers she had put up, falling to pieces before her, leaving her defenseless, leaving her aching for me.

All those lonely days in the prison of her own mind vanishing with each touch and kiss, each tender embrace, each bit of teasing that only makes her want to fuck all the more.

This is what all those people in the bar want, aching for someone like them to bring love into their lonely lives, and she realizes she is much luckier than any of them for having these two – not quite naked – friends to bring her back out of her cocoon.

In some ways, it is all too much, this violent desire, this passion to be physical, to get fucked without the risk of love.

And it confusing, his cock entering into her as her girlfriend sucks at her breast, fingers probing her anus as his cock plunges deep into her pussy, the three of them wrestling, unable to distinguish which body part belongs to whom, and not caring, the touch is enough, pounding against her pussy more than she could have hoped for, the lust, the sucking, the fucking, the long sighs when the cum comes.

And yet, she can’t help feeling the old pain, the pain left from the man she once loved, but can’t love, once fucked, but won’t fuck again, once cared passionately about but can only feel the pangs of regret.

How many times did he have his way with her in the very place, this prison of four walls in her mind, his cock penetrating her, getting passed her defenses to a place where he could really hurt her, and did, if not completely intentional?

“Stop thinking,” her girlfriend says.

“I’m not.”

“You are, and you’re spoiling the moment. Just let go. Let it happen. Enjoy it.”

And it does feel soooo good, and again the walls she has built up to keep people out of her life crumble, and she feels the penetration that brings joy rather than pain, the throb of his cock pounding against the back of her pussy, stroke after stroke, banging her hard, and yet strangely bringing her relief from her pain, as if letting out all those things she has kept locked up inside herself, so when she cums, all of those things flow out of her, staining the couch, leaving her free again.

This is not a prison, it’s a pleasure palace, she thinks, and feels her limbs sag as she lets them do whatever pleases them because what they do pleases her, too.

And slowly with each touch, with each kiss, with each deep plunge into her, the pain of her breakup and its aftermath faded away.

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