Dreams from an inquisitorial cell [MF] [TF]

*Loosely based on the life of Eleno de Cespedes, born 1545*

Jail is a strange thing. When they seized me I was frightened, but now that I find myself behind these bars, I am filled with a sense of calm. I have no illusions of escape. There is nothing I can do but sit and wait for them to come for me.

My cell is cramped and narrow. A bench along the side affords me a spot to lie down but limits the floor space further. One corner served as the previous occupant’s chamber-pot. It reeks of urine.

I wonder how Maria is coping. The stench of urine makes her ill; when we walk together outside she favors wide streets and plazas with orange trees in bloom. She inhales their scent deeply before we turn down the city’s side-streets, where the urine smell is stronger. I hope she is holding together, wherever they are keeping her. I hope she denounces me. I think they will let her go, if she denounces me.

I was given bread and water earlier today. Some portion of the water I used on a scrape I acquired when they seized me, for I fought bitterly. A blow I took to the side of the head leaves me dizzy. As a doctor I saw patients with such blows and I am apprehensive. Some of my patients suffered from poor memory afterward, and I will need to keep my wits about me for the interrogation.

I do not know how much time has passed, but I have gone through every song and poem I can remember, in my head of course. The man two cells down, a lunatic, sang to himself so they beat him. It’s not that singing is prohibited — it’s that the guards will take any excuse. They’re not unlike my ex-husband Cristobal in that respect. It’s been years since I left him, and I am a different person in more ways than one, but when I remember, a chill runs through me. I find myself making myself smaller, huddling into a corner, withdrawing into myself.No, I think, the way I always do when I get this way. I needn’t be afraid. I was a newly-freed slave then, and forced into a life not my own. I am living as myself now. I sit up straight and steady my breathing, reaching deep inside myself for sources of comfort.

*

Maria, when I first saw you, you were gathering water from the river. Your long, black hair tumbled over your face as you leaned down, and it was only when you stood that I saw your stubborn chin and bright eyes. You smiled at me for just a minute, then looked away. I knew I wanted to make you smile again.

That first time we made love, I asked if I could kiss you and you laughed as you assented. But as my lips traced your neck and my hands seized your breasts, as I started to run my tongue across your nipple, you stopped laughing. My knee pressed under your skirts; I could feel your cunt weep onto my hose as you let out a delighted sigh. As the night wore on, only my tongue penetrated you. Your fingers trembled against my scalp as you caressed me. Your pleasure mounted and you began tugging on my hair, a welcome pain. When you came, your back arched, an *arco iris* whose rain filled my mouth.

The night before our wedding, I went to the *hechicera*, the local witch. She knows what I am. We have, I think, an understanding. (Was it she who denounced me?) I told her what I needed, and she made me a cock, one designed to pleasure you.

On our wedding night, you were as shy as if we’d never touched each other. When I leaned down toward you, you planted a kiss on my cheek. “Be gentle,” you whispered.

I rested a hand against your cheek and kissed you. “We don’t have to tonight, my sweet. We can do as we’ve done before.”

“No,” you said, “I want to be yours.”

My love, I have been a soldier. I have been a surgeon. I have brawled with men in bars, and won. My face grows hair, though not a full beard. I am a man. But I have no manhood. The cock I had concealed in my hose couldn’t make you mine, because it wasn’t mine. It was yours, made for you, made for your pleasure.

That was why I moved off you, why I held my head in my hands. You got up and sat beside me. “What’s wrong, querido?” you asked softly. And I told you. And you loved me anyway.

When I pushed the dildo into you, your eyes locked on mine. I thought of the surgeries I had performed, the steps I had taken to ease the pain of the people in my care, and went slowly, gently. You wrapped your hands over mine and guided me, pushing past the pain. I do not know if the *hechicera* placed some magic on the object she gave me, but I swear, I felt you, clenched warm around me. And I know that you saw me as I am.

Maria, denounce me. I am clever, slippery. I will find a way. We had two years, the finest of my life, but they needn’t be the finest of yours.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/sx1n8k/dreams_from_an_inquisitorial_cell_mf_tf