Rachel, Carswell Penitentiary, Solitary Confinement

      I sat on the bed, the only reasonably soft surface in my cell, my scratchy wool blanket wrapped around me. My knees were tucked up to my chest and my back pressed into the corner. I was alone, the silence of the space almost deafening. Even with one of the four walls being bars that opened to a long, main hallway, all was quiet. The painted cinderblock walls and gray sealed floor offered nothing of interest to look at. The single tiny window to the outside world was so high up that I couldn’t look out even if I stood on top of the bed. I knew, I’d tried. I could see the sky, know if it was clear or cloudy, but no ground. I didn’t even know what direction I faced.

      I’d heard this section of the facility had been designed that way. We’d come in through an underground tunnel, turning several times before stopping. The path from the converted prison bus to this confinement wing provided several additional turns with no windows. It was impossible to keep any bearings. No ground to look at.

      If I didn’t win my appeal, I would not see anything more of the world other than a few clouds for the next twenty-five years. That idea drove many to insanity, or to take their own life. What was a life with nothing in it? The clothes were drab, the cell drab, the food even more drab. There was nothing left.

      But I had hope. God, I clung to that hope by my chewed-to-the-quick fingernails. What else was there?

      The evidence my lawyer had would set me free. It proved my innocence. That one thumb drive was everything that stood between me and a life in hell. Until then, I waited. Day after day of nothing.

      I ran my hand over my face, trying to think of something… anything besides my case, my tiny cell, my new life. It was easy to think about the testing dream, for it had been perfect. I’d been free, no bars or concrete walls. I’d had two men who wanted me with desperation. I’d felt wanted. God, had I needed. And the things they did to me!

      I was no prude. I knew where my clit was and ensured my lovers did, too. Lovers, but not two at once like the dream. It had been a fantasy of mine. What woman didn’t dream about two men who knew exactly what they were doing? And they hadn’t had the Brides Program testing dream like I’d had.

      Holy hell, that had been hot. Twice as hot.

      My nipples tightened and my clit throbbed just remembering their hands, their mouths, their cocks.

      The dream lingered in my blood and I wanted to touch myself, knowing I was wet. The ache there had my hands slipping down between my thighs. Remembering that there were guards watching, I pulled my hand away. I wouldn’t taint the dream by touching myself and having the guards watch. I’d touch myself at night, when they turned the lights out. Again and again.

      God, even my orgasms were controlled. And bland. Even if I used my fingers to circle my clit and slip inside my pussy, it wouldn’t be anything like what those men in the dream made me feel. For twenty-five years I’d have in-the-dark, masturbation delivered orgasms. Nothing else.

      And just that fast, I was back to feeling sorry for myself.

      Maybe I should just call that Warden Egara and leave. Leave all of it behind. The lawyers and prison guards. The guilt.

      Strangely, the hair on my arms rose as if lightning had struck mere seconds before I heard voices. They were tipped low, but deep. It wasn’t lunchtime and I hadn’t heard the loud buzzer indicating the floor’s locked entry door was opening. There was no squeaky wheel from the food cart. No footsteps, until now. Someone, or two someones, were walking along the hall quickly.

      “How will we know who she is?”

      I jumped to my feet, curious. Nothing different from the monotonous routine ever occurred.

      “Warden Egara says we’ll just know.”

      The voices became louder. I could hear others down the line of cells calling out to them. From walking past, there were four cells between mine and the main door, and two after.

      “No. No. No.” It sounded as if they were playing Duck, Duck, Goose.

      When the big men walked up to my bars, they stilled. Their eyes were on me, roving over every single inch. I felt it, their gazes, as if there weren’t bars between us and their hands were on me.

      “She is the one,” the taller man said to the other. They held guns in their hands, guns unlike anything I’d ever seen. Smaller than a tiny pistol, they were very shiny metal and no competition for the rifles strapped over some of the prison guards’ shoulders.

      To call the other man short would have been humorous, for they were large. Very, very large. The shorter one was easily a few inches over six feet. They were like lumberjacks and Highlanders combined. They weren’t wearing plaid, but form-fitting armor of some kind that made them look like gladiators wearing armor molded to define every muscle. The strange black armor was mottled with browns and greens, almost like military camouflage but more like the swirls found in decorative marble.

      One had dark, deep coppery brown hair and dark skin, the other was golden and light, his hair and skin both a pale yellow. And Terminator parts. But I wouldn't consider them now. The dark one had eyes like milk chocolate, the light one’s eyes were amber. But neither was human. The angular lines of their cheekbones and oddly shaped eyes made them look just strange enough to make my heart race in panic. But their massive frames and muscular bodies made my pussy cry out in welcome. I knew those features, those huge hands. This was the race of alien warrior I’d seen in my dream at the Brides Processing center. And thanks to the warden and her brain games, all I could think about as they approached was the size of their cocks…and what it might feel like to be sandwiched between them.

      My body reacted viscerally. Yes, they were handsome. Yes, they met every single one of my checkboxes for what I considered to be a hot guy. Times two. My palms were damp and my heart literally skipped a beat, but I felt a connection as if there were a thread between us. It was more than just the processing center dream, it was instinctive. Deeper.

      I felt like I knew them.

      “Rachel Pierce of Earth. I am Maxim and this is Ryston. We are your mates from the planet Prillon Prime.”

      Oh. My. God. They were mine? My mates from the match.

      I couldn’t move. My feet felt as if they were anchored into the concrete just like my bed and the stool.

      “What are you doing here?” I whispered. I craned my neck, twisting in an attempt to look past them, knowing the guards would be coming. How had they gotten past security?