An erotic exploration of the prison of marriage.
I can’t help it that married men fall at my feet.
It’s like a domino effect, I have to do so little as to just walk past a married man and he falls to his knees for me. I love it, but I can’t help it.
It’s not my fault that they see me as an escape from the prison where shackles take the form of a wedding ring. Where regulations change on a daily basis and convicts are bludgeoned endlessly with new and creative charges.
A prison where admittance is voluntary, and is made to be desirable from an outside perspective; but once your cell door clangs shut, you realise what you’ve done. You’re not aware yet of what you have signed up for, but your gut is telling you to panic.
It’s human nature to desire what you don’t already have, particularly if you’re not permitted to have it. We cheat on diets when we crave something sweet, and examinations when we’re sat next to the smart kid; we cheat at work when we’re feeling lazy, and movie theatres by taking in our own snacks.
Men in particular will do anything to cheat, especially when they are introduced to me. Causing arguments in the yard in order to be sentenced to the couch where he can hear me moan his name over the phone; trying everything they can to be granted the solitary confinement of their home office.
The trouble with the Prison of Marriage is that all inmates are serving a period of incarceration without the chance of parole. The detainees grow bored, and tired of the same four walls to swing their dick around, the mundane routine of everyday life slowly chipping away at their ability to remain a sane and evolved human being.
Voluntary admittance to the Prison of Marriage is made under false pretences, and empty promises made by a Warden who you swear to your fellow offenders looked good back in the day. Charges are piling up against you, and just when you’re about to give up hope of ever being happy again...
An opposing Warden struts into your cellblock and poses a threat to the woman currently holding your balls in her hand. Whether it’s temporary or permanent, I make them so much happier than their vows ever have.
I’m what would be considered contraband in the Prison of Marriage, how often do you think I’m snuck in for conjugal visits?