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slutforstabbings-archive · 1 year

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The Penpal

Only an hour an a half late to my own party! lol Here's my fic inspired by my news article about survivor!Corey and my conversations with @cordelium and @toxicanonymity!

survivor!inmate!Corey Cunningham x fem!Reader

As someone who grew up with awareness of Michael Myers despite not living in Haddonfield, you were gripped by the news of what happened on Halloween 2022. You reached out to Corey with a letter, and your correspondence became more than you ever dreamed it would.

contents/warnings - descriptions of prison, court, etc, family angst, handjob, riding, rough doggy

6,264 words

@rebel-blue @nachtmahr666 @wolvesandvampires @multifandom--mess @ethanhoewke @hersweetrevenge

18+, minors dni

Corey Cunningham. The man, the myth, the legend. The psycho babysitter, acquitted of aggravated manslaughter. The Michael Myers copycat who survived several severe injuries to become a celebrity during his murder trial. And, officially this afternoon, your husband.

You made the long drive to Chester from Chicago yesterday and stayed in a hotel overnight so you would be well rested for today. You go down to the hotel lobby in sweats and smash the continental breakfast before returning to your room on the third floor to get ready. As you wait for the tub to fill with water and steam clouds the bathroom, you reflect on the past year and a half, how a single letter changed your entire life.

<3 <3 <3

On November 1st you woke up to a barrage of texts from your cousin Kristin who lives in Monmouth, 20 minutes from a cursed small town. Growing up she was always so obsessed with The Boogeyman of Haddonfield, a mixture of fear and fascination. As teenagers she would always call you when she was babysitting, after the kids went to sleep. You would stay on the phone with her, just in case, even when it wasn’t anywhere near Halloween. You opened your eyes to a crisp fall morning, looked at your phone, and saw the messages.

11:30

HE CAME BACK AGAIN

HE CAME BACK AGAIN AND THEY KILLED HIM AND HES ACTUALLY DEAD THIS TIME

HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT

I don’t have any other details yet but they fucking did it!!!! They killed the boogeyman!!!!

12:15

Oh my god they put him in an industrial shredder of some kind????

They turned Michael Myers into fucking ground beef!!!

12:48

Corey Cunningham is involved somehow!??

There’s a lot of rumors and conflicting information but

it seems like he either killed someone or was killed by someone who thought he was Michael??

1:03

Okay not much more clarity on the Corey Cunningham thing, we still don’t know how what happened to him relates to Michael but he was shot AND stabbed and they found him in Laurie Strode’s house!? But he’s ALIVE and they airlifted him somewhere up by you. What a wild fucking night. Jesus Christ.

Kristin had told you all about Corey Cunningham. You remembered the news articles she’d sent you, the photos of him they ran in the local paper. You felt deeply for the guy, what a horrible case of wrong place, wrong time. And it couldn’t have happened to someone more gorgeous, which felt like it increased the tragedy, even though it shouldn’t. His face still lingered in your mind all this time later, coming to you as soon as you read his name. While you were very interested in what could’ve led to Michael Myers being turned into “ground beef,” you were much more concerned with what would happen with Corey.

In the following days and weeks, Kristin kept the updates coming. Much of what she told you wasn’t supposed to be public knowledge, but she had a loose lipped friend of a friend in the Warren County Sheriff's Office. Michael’s final rampage had left 12 dead. It would be 13 if Corey didn’t survive, he was in the ICU in a medically induced coma. Laurie and her granddaughter Allyson had killed Michael and taken his body to a junkyard to drop it in the metal shredder.

Then, suddenly, the police weren’t so sure all 12 victims had been Michael’s. They weren’t sure any of them had been. They found Corey’s fingerprints and DNA, clear as day, incontestable, on a glass door at one of the scenes. Everyone who died was connected to him somehow, including both of his parents. Laurie gave a statement that Corey had stolen Michael’s infamous mask and emulated him in a murder spree for days leading up to Halloween. When he woke up, if he woke up, he’d be arrested.

He occupied your thoughts for the whole month of November. A sick obsession you couldn’t shake. For years Kristin had told you about the way people talked about him, how even though he’d been acquitted, people treated him like he was just as bad as Michael. You read everything you could about him. It wasn’t hard for you to understand how being told you’re evil every day could make you snap — they wanted it, and he gave it to them.

The cops were keeping the hospital Corey was in out of the news, but when word came along the grapevine that he had woken up and been moved out of the ICU, you asked Kristin to find out. She gleefully delivered. You wrote him a letter. Really you wrote so many letters you lost count, trying and failing to express your sympathy, your hope that he would recover and beat the charges, struggling to decide what tone the letter should take. Finally you felt like you had done the best you could, and you dropped it in the mail. You weren’t sure why you did it, or what you expected to come from it. Something in you just needed to reach out to him. To let him know, even after everything, he wasn’t alone.

<3 <3 <3

You sink into the bathtub. You never thought you would get married. The whole thing always seemed so hokey and archaic. But only spouses and children are entitled to unsupervised family visits at the prison. You can’t keep spending every visit you make with a guard breathing down your neck, barking at you every time you dare to reach across the table for Corey’s hand, timing your hugs when you get there and when you leave. Sporadic phone calls and driving 6 hours to sit across from him for 45 minutes once a week aren’t enough. It was a hell of a lot of paperwork, and you feared that the publicity your relationship had received during the trial would lead the warden to prohibit the wedding, but after months of red tape, you finally got the word. The marriage was approved.

You slather your legs in gritty body scrub, massaging scratchy circles. When you trust that all the dead skin has been obliterated, you plunge your legs back below the surface of the water. Bubbles plume around you. You want your skin to be silky for Corey. You know he’s touch starved in there. Affection between inmates is highly frowned upon, and he doesn’t have many friends anyway.

The other prisoners resent his notoriety. More than once you’d come for a visit and his beautiful features were hidden from you under bruises and swelling from getting jumped again. When you expressed your concern, Corey just smirked. “You should see the other guy,” he told you. You worry about him, but you’d be lying if you denied feeling a little pang between your legs when you think about how dangerous he is. You believe the other guy looks much worse.

<3 <3 <3

11 days after you sent your letter, you stopped in your apartment building’s mail room after work. Your mailbox was stuffed with what looked like the usual stack of garbage, but as you shuffled the envelopes on your way up the stairs something different caught your eye. A handwritten address, and not one of those bullshit fake handwritten ones from the cable company. You broke into a sprint, zooming up the remaining flights of stairs to your apartment. You slammed the door behind you prompting your roommate to shout at you from their bedroom. The sound of their protests barely registered. Hands trembling, you opened the envelope.

You read Corey’s response, and then you read it again. And a third time, still leaning against the front door of your apartment. The officer assigned to guard my room is writing this for me. I can’t move my arms yet, he began. Your letter meant a lot to me. I’ve been awake for two weeks today and you’re the first person who isn’t a nurse, a cop, or a lawyer that I’ve heard from. The letter was brief and a little stilted, but that was understandable. He probably had to be very careful, especially since he was dictating directly to a cop, not to say anything that could be used against him in court.

You sent your reply the next morning. After that his response came quicker, and again you sent something back right away, including a photo of yourself at his request. A few days before Christmas you heard from Kristin that Corey’s address at the hospital had gotten out, been published somewhere online. In his next reply Corey himself confirmed it. I’m getting a ton of letters now… They want me to write a book and turn the book into a movie… I’ve never gotten this much attention before… I always look for something from you first. But the most interesting part of that particular letter came at the end.

You’re so pretty. I had them prop the photo you sent up on my bedside table. I can move a little more now, so I can actually look at it. I hope that’s not weird. I talked to my lawyer about putting you on my visitor’s list. You should get a letter from his office soon. He’ll help, if you want to come see me. That’s all I want for Christmas.

<3 <3 <3

Fully clean, exfoliated, and conditioned, you rise from the tub. You’ve had butterflies in your stomach all morning, but they multiply as you dry off and look at yourself in the mirror. You’re starting to realize why more traditional brides tend to have huge entourages around them. Despite your disdain for marriage as an institution and your unconventional circumstances, you still wish there was someone here. Someone who was happy for you and could make sure the back of your hair looks okay. But nobody in your life even knows about this except for Kristin. The prison doesn’t allow guests at weddings, so she stayed home. You still should’ve asked her to come, to be there before and after.

You do your hair and makeup under the bright vanity lights. You always try to look your best when you visit Corey, but today is a special occasion. If not the wedding, then what happens after. Your first time getting more than 45 minutes with him in months, your first time alone with him in longer. You think about his hands. What a special pair of hands. Broad and freckled and strong. A huge, gnarled scar across his left palm. The hands that wrote you all those letters. The hands that took 10 lives and have broken countless bones in the other inmates’ faces, but would never ever touch you with anything other than love. You finally get to feel them on your skin again today. And that makes everything worth it.

You go to the closet and take out a long garment bag. You lay the bag on the bed and pull the zipper down. You can’t help but laugh. When the wedding was approved, the prison sent you a massive list of requirements, including a ridiculously long and yet somehow vague dress code. Nothing too full skirted or too heavily beaded. No cleavage. No trains. No veils. That was all fine with you, a cupcake shaped Cinderella gown doesn’t exactly seem appropriate for a prison wedding with no guests, even if the rules allowed it. You just picked something simple, and as sexy as possible without violating the rules. Corey doesn’t know anything about the dress, you tried to talk to him about it and he shut you down. “The groom’s not supposed to know anything about the dress until he sees it,” he told you. Well if he wanted to find room to be a little bit traditional, you could do that too. Turns out you look pretty good in white.

<3 <3 <3

It took until a week into the New Year because everyone was out of the office for the holidays, but you gave Corey his Christmas present. It was extremely awkward at first, sitting in the hard chair next to his hospital bed, a cop leaning against the wall in the corner, pretending not to be listening. He was handcuffed to the bed, just like in the picture you’d seen in your newsfeed that morning. He beckoned subtly for you to lean in towards him and he whispered to you. “My lawyer took that photo. He leaked it himself. He thinks it’ll help people see me sympathetically.” The cop in the corner yelled at him for whispering. You leaned back away from Corey, but he smirked at you. You loved being his conspirator.

The photo of him in the hospital worked. It sparked massive outrage that someone in his condition would be handcuffed. Where did they think he was gonna go? It seemed needlessly cruel, even for a murder suspect. It succeeded in making him more sympathetic with everyone… except your family.

When they found out you had written to him, they could understand why you might want to send a letter or two. They knew about Kristin’s fixation on Michael Myers and that you two were close. Everyone had felt bad for Corey and rooted for him during his manslaughter trial. Around letter number three is when they started to be weird about it. The case against him was mounting, more details were being released. Some of the victims died in really horrific ways, didn’t you understand that it wasn’t just a terrible misunderstanding happening to a handsome young man this time?

They were the ones who didn’t understand. The more you learned about Corey, from the news, from his letters, from the old coverage of his manslaughter trial that you’d been revisiting, the more you believed in him. Not in his innocence necessarily — you didn’t know how to feel about that, going back and forth from being certain he did to to being certain he didn’t. But you believed in his heart. If he did it, he did it for a good reason. That DJ that died had spent years promoting insane theories about him being a part of a cult that worshiped Michael or some bullshit. You couldn’t imagine what that would do to even the kindest of people.

When you got home from the hospital, they were waiting to confront you. Visits were the last straw. It was one thing to be a murderer’s penpal. It was quite another to hang out with him. What could you stand to gain from this, they wanted to know. Apparently genuine connection with another human being was not the answer they were looking for, and hybristophilia wasn’t a funny joke. You just stopped talking to them about him. They knew, or at least suspected that you were still visiting him, that when you were “busy” every weekend you were really with Corey. But if you didn’t talk about it, it wasn’t a problem.

When he was discharged from the hospital, Corey’s lawyer worked to get him on a pre-trial release program where he could be on house arrest instead of in jail until the trial was over. He wasn’t supposed to have visitors unsupervised, but you did spend a few glorious hours alone with him, once. He’d been in pre-trial release for a few weeks and realized his release officer was overworked and underpaid and would not be paying very close attention to him. Corey had a short term lease in a shitty apartment building, the only place his lawyer could find with a landlord that agreed to host an alleged murderer on house arrest.

You stood on the stained, threadbare carpet outside his apartment, heart beating in your throat, vibrating with anticipation. You’d planned your visit in innuendo, pretending to tell each other about books you’d been reading, things you’d been up to. The building is really old and drafty, but at least I don’t have bugs, he’d written. The b in bugs in cursive, despite his usual cramped print. Bugs. He’d checked to make sure he wasn’t being listened to. In his coded way, he told you not to knock. So you stood there, kneading the floor with your sneakers, trusting he would check for you through the peephole soon.

Then the door swung open, and there he was. Standing up! No spinal halo, no neck brace, in sweatpants and a t-shirt instead of a hospital gown. His survival was so miraculous, you kind of never thought you’d get to see him like this. Heat flooded your cheeks as you made eye contact with him. He reached out and grabbed your wrist with his giant hand, gently pulling you into the apartment and into his chest as he closed the door. You were so unprepared for that first hug. You’d never gotten so wet from just a hug before, but feeling his arms slide around your waist made you gush.

He couldn’t stand up for very long yet, so he led you to the couch. He sat in the corner, half against the back, half against the arm stacked with pillows, and folded one leg towards him. You sat sideways to face him. He asked about your job, what was going on in the world out there, you asked him how he was adjusting to life outside the hospital bed. The arousal you felt from the hug refused to subside. You found yourself struggling to focus on the conversation, inching closer to him, watching his lips while he complained about how uncomfortable the ankle monitor was.

“Can I see it?” You asked.

“If you want to,” he said. He pulled the hem of his pants back on the leg folded on the couch between the two of you, and there it was, a little green light on it blinking. Your nails were longer than Corey’s and your fingers were more slender, so you slipped the tips of them under the strap and scratched. His lips parted in a sigh.

“Be careful. It has a sensor thing, so they know if you’re fucking with it.”

“Okay,” you whispered, scratching and rubbing all the way around his thick ankle, trying to jostle the monitor as little as possible. “Is that better?”

You looked up from his ankle to his face, and caught sight of an imprint in his sweatpants on the way up.

“Yeah, much better. Thank you,” he breathed.

You leaned in to him, pulled as if by a magnet. “No problem,” you said, face only inches away from his. You hovered, basking in the tension between you, until he brought his hand to cup your jaw and urged you towards him, closing the gap.

The warmth of his lips set your whole body alight. Your heart raced. You wanted to pounce on him but you had to be gentle. It was painful to restrain yourself, and you could tell he had the same problem. But you would take him any way you could get him. You took his top lip into your mouth and ran the tip of your tongue across it, following its gorgeous arch. He sank his teeth into your bottom lip. You moaned into his mouth, and he groaned back, reaching out to put his hands on your hips. You could tell from the way he dug his fingers in that if he had the strength, he would be yanking you into his lap, so you hurried to straddle him.

You hiked your skirt up to set your soaking panties directly on the bulge in his pants, rocking your hips ever so slightly.

“I’ve wanted you since you sent me that picture,” he said in a strained voice. “I hoped you would be pretty, but I didn’t expect you to be so pretty.”

“I have you beat. I’ve wanted you since I saw your mugshot in 2019.”

“You have?” He asked, looking at you in confused wonder.

“I thought you were devastatingly hot, and it’s even worse in person. I was almost your 14th alleged victim the first time I saw you in person.”

His face changed from awestruck to a cocky, almost creepy smile. You leaned back from him, standing up off the couch and his smile only got bigger as you took off your shirt and dropped your skirt to the floor. In just your underwear and a simple bralette you sunk to your knees in front of him. You put one hand on his thigh and the other on his cock, wrapping your fingers around the shape of it through the fabric, stroking him slowly. His smile fell as his face went slack with pleasure. He put his hands over yours, encouraging your stroking hand, weaving between the fingers of your free hand, and you clenched your thighs together as he moaned your name.

You relished making him feel good, treasuring every second with him, so it was extremely difficult to resist just making him cum, sitting on your heels, looking up into those beautiful eyes. But this might be your only chance to feel him inside you, ever.

“I brought a condom,” you purred.

“You- ah- you did?” he panted.

You slipped the fingers of the hand not stroking him out of his grasp and reached behind you into the pocket of your skirt. You held the little foil packet up for him to see and he made a deep, guttural sound. With some shuffling yourselves and the pillows around, you wound up straddling Corey’s lap again, naked and hovering over his latex-sheathed cock. You planted your hands on the back of the couch on either side of his shoulders and lowered yourself down onto him. You let out a long, high whimper as you settled onto his length. For a moment you just rested there, mentally pinching yourself to make sure it wasn’t a dream. You were really doing this, getting this close to Corey Cunningham.

You had to ride him carefully, deliberately, not to hurt him. Every nerve in your body strained as you fought your desire to fuck him, until the frustration itself became erotic for both of you, intensifying the sensations of your gentle movements. When his hands went from resting on your hips to grabbing them, you knew he was close. The thought alone pushed you over the edge and you dropped your face to his shoulder to muffle your whimpers, letting out the ecstasy vocally rather than in frantic spasms that might jostle him too much. Hearing you, feeling you clench, Corey followed suit, cursing and calling your name.

“Is the state paying for this?” You wondered, looking around. You’d both put your underwear back on, but didn’t get any more dressed than that, wanting to maintain skin contact as you sat together on the couch, enjoying the post-sex haze.

“I am. My life’s savings,” he sighed. “It’s not like I’m gonna need it.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t know that.” You admonished him, but really you were saying it for yourself. You couldn’t let go of the tiny sliver of hope that he would beat the charges.

“Do you think I did it?” Corey asked after a few moments of silence.

“What?” You replied, caught off guard.

“Do you think I’m innocent? Or do you think I’m guilty?”

“I… don’t know. The evidence I know about is… pretty damning.” You said falteringly, shifting uncomfortably against him. You’d considered what all the potential outcomes would mean to you. Could you keep seeing him if he really was a murderer? You knew the answer, had known since you heard about the boy who died with the torch in his mouth. Kristin had shared the crime scene photos with you. They were truly grisly, and for days afterwards, the specter of that burnt out face lingered when you closed your eyes. But even being fully confronted with the reality of what he - allegedly - did to those people, you felt nothing but affection for him. Still, you didn’t like the conversation. It seemed inadvisable. He’d checked for bugs but you still couldn’t quite relax.

“Would you be afraid of me, if I told you I really did it?”

“No,” you barely whispered.

“Jeremy, the kid I was babysitting? That really was an accident,” he began. And then he told you everything. Everything, everything. His whole life story, all the things it was too risky to say in his letters. You were still nervous about surveillance, but once he started talking it was like he couldn’t stop. And you couldn’t stop listening either. It was such a rush to hear him describe the kill. You felt all his emotions with him as he spoke. Heartbreak. Elation. Rage.

“You shouldn’t have told me all that,” you said when he finished. You adjusted your position on the couch to look at him better. “I’m so glad you shared it with me, but… They know we’re close. What if they call me as a witness?”

“I’m gonna make sure they don’t need to,” he said, eyes darkening.

“How?”

“You said it yourself. The evidence is pretty damning. The case against me is strong, and I can help the jury decide I’m guilty. The state won’t add you as a witness at the last minute if they feel like they’re winning.”

“Does your lawyer know you’re planning something?”

“No. He told me they didn’t have a case at all. Because of Michael complicating things. So I plead not guilty. But now they have a case. My fingerprints and my DNA at every crime scene. Even though I didn’t shoot Ronald, they’re charging me with that too. My fingerprints were on the gun.”

“Were you going to kill him?” You asked, morbidly curious.

“I hadn’t decided yet,” Corey admitted. “If he had just stayed in the office… It doesn’t matter now.”

For a moment you looked at each other in silence.

“How are you going to help the jury?

Corey chuckled a mirthless, black chuckle. “I’ve been researching all these other famous killers. Gein, Gacy, Dahmer, Bundy, Ramirez, the Manson Family. It’s practically a tradition to do crazy shit in the courtroom. The papers are all calling me a copycat. Why not keep copying?”

“Corey, that’s insane,” you protested.

“I am the psycho babysitter.” He took your hand and stroked your knuckles. “Do you want to help me?”

“Help you get life in prison on purpose?”

You remembered when he whispered to you in the hospital, how good it felt to conspire with him, to tuck his secret into your pocket, where not even Kristin would know. The idea of going to such lengths with him was so tempting, but you wanted him to put up a fight, to argue that the cops already had it out against him because of his history. All he needed to do was give them one little reasonable doubt.

“Look, I’ve been through this before,” he reminded you. “It’s hell. I already know I’m guilty in most people’s minds. There is no getting off this time. There’s only a guilty verdict, or a hung jury, and then I have to do it all again. I want it to be over quickly. I don’t want to wait two weeks for a verdict again. I wanna rip the bandaid off.” His gaze was so intense, you knew he meant it.

“Okay,” you agreed.

<3 <3 <3

When you pull up to the prison, you follow all your usual rituals. Turning your phone off and putting it in the glovebox, giving yourself a pre-pat down pat down to make sure you didn’t slip up and bring something prohibited. You check your hair and makeup in the rearview mirror one last time before heading inside.

You and Corey aren’t the only couple getting married today. The prison does weddings in batches. You’re shuffled into the visitation room with two other women, and a man. They’ve arranged the cafeteria style tables to somewhat resemble an aisle and an alter, and the prison chaplain stands at the far end of the room, prepared to officiate, assembly line style.

You sit anxiously on the edge of your seat, waiting for the prisoners to be brought in. A loud buzzer sounds and the door on the other side of the visitation room swings open. There he is, shackles around his ankles, handcuffs on his wrists, shuffling behind the other inmates. When he sees you his jaw drops in disbelief. You smile and wrinkle your nose at him.

Luckily the two of you are the second couple in line. When it’s your turn, a guard removes the cuffs from Corey’s hands, but not the ones around his ankles. You meet him at the end of the “aisle” and you’re thankful for all the experience you’ve had restraining yourself with him, holding back the force of your affection to be within the rules. Practice has made perfect.

The prison chaplain runs through the standard wedding vow script. You sign the marriage license and hand the pen to Corey. You just got fucking married. You’re allowed one brief kiss. Then a guard comes over with a polaroid camera and takes two pictures, one for each of you, before they put the cuffs back on Corey’s wrists and lead you out of the visitation room.

Rather than going through the prison, you’re escorted out into the yard and around the side of the building. The guard buzzes you through several doors and leads the way down a long hall. Finally you come to a door that sits ajar. Inside is a little room that reminds you of the dorm you lived in as a freshman in college. More than just a bedroom, but not quite a whole studio apartment, full of simple, sterile furniture. The guard releases Corey from his restraints, both sets this time, then locks you into the room with him for the next 6 hours.

You stand motionless next to Corey as the sound of the guard’s footsteps retreat down the hallway. When you can’t hear them anymore, you turn towards him and break into a massive smile.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey,” he replies, grinning back.

Then you collide. Kissing messily, hungrily, violently. He wraps his arms around your waist and crushes you against him with surprising strength. You cling to him, desperate to get closer, wanting to eliminate the space between you all the way down to the molecular level.

Within seconds his thick fingers are roaming, trying to figure out how to get your dress off of you. Still kissing him, his tongue filling your mouth, you put the bottom hem of your dress in his hand. He gathers it up around your waist and holds it in one big fist while the other hand cups and kneads your ass. You feel a hot flood between your legs, and your clit throbs. You rake his scalp with your fingernails as you step out of your shoes.

He hooks his thumb in the waistband of your underwear and yanks them down to your thighs, before returning to get a handful of ass cheek. You can feel his rock hard cock against your stomach. You push against him, trying to get enough space to actually get undressed, but he won’t let you get farther away from him than a centimeter.

“Corey,” you say against his lips, “We have all night.”

He groans, but he lets you pull away from him. You pull your dress up over your head and drape it over the back of one of the chairs at the little table in the room. Then you step back into him and take over undoing the buttons on the front of his jumpsuit. You get all the way to the bottom and push the sleeves off his shoulders and halfway down his arms before you look away from his face.

“Holy shit. When did all this happen?” You hiss in awe.

When you had been with him before, he was weak from his time in the hospital. Not small, he wasn’t built in a way that would let him be truly small, but he’d lost a lot of muscle just laying there for weeks. You could tell he’d bulked up some since then, but the jumpsuit obscured the true extent of his progress. You squeeze one of his biceps and he flexes it in your hand. The muscle hardening under your hand makes your clit throb.

That isn’t the only surprise though. He’s got tattoos. So many tattoos. He’d mentioned to you on the phone that he was trying to figure out how to build a tattoo machine, that he liked the intellectual challenge presented by his limited resources, but you had no idea it was going to be used on him.

“I guess you got that tattoo machine working.”

He laughs. “I was gonna tell you, but when we started trying to get married, I thought you might like the surprise.”

“I do,” you half moan, half giggle.

You squat in front of him and pull the jumpsuit the rest of the way off of him, leaving him in a tight thin tank and his prison issue briefs, already so wet with precum they’re see through in that spot. You ache to have him inside you. You rub your hands over his thighs, then slide them under his shirt as you stand back up. He reaches behind you and unhooks your bra. You let the straps slide down your arms and drop it to the floor.

Corey grabs your hips and pulls you in for a hard kiss, then uses his grip on you to spin you around, so your back is pressed against him. The desire to grind back against his cock overtakes you immediately, and you thrust your hips into him hard. He reaches under your arms to grab your tits, massaging them, pinching your nipples. Your underwear are still pulled halfway down and you can feel his wetness on your skin. You let out a deep moan.

The room is narrow and it only takes a gentle push from Corey for you to be on the bed on your hands and knees. He pulls your underwear the rest of the way off and finishes undressing himself. You requested condoms on one of the hundreds of forms you filled out to get married, and the prison provided three in silver foil on the little table. As Corey unwraps one and slides it over his raging erection, you wiggle your hips, putting on a show for him.

“Fuck,” he huffs, stepping toward the edge of the bed.

You feel the mattress sink as he kneels behind you, lining himself up. He rubs the tips of his cock against your pussy, tracing circles outside your entrance. You look back over your shoulder at him. His chest and face are flushed a deep red and his eyes look almost black. The sight is too much to take and you jerk your hips towards him. He takes the hint and slides himself in, all the way in.

You both cry out in unison. Corey pulls almost all the way out of you, then slams back into you, so hard you both lurch forward. Your knees slip out from under you and you end up flat on your stomach with your arms pinned under your chest. He comes down with you, but catches himself with his arms on either side of your head.

Corey pounds you. You thought you’d been fucked before, but you had been mistaken. This is fucking. With every thrust, the bed hits the wall and bounces off. He’s so deep, hitting just the right spot, so fast and so hard your moans all blend together into one long wail. He presses his forehead between your shoulder blades as he slams you into the thin mattress. It feels so good, all your other thoughts completely dissolve. You get one arm out from under you and wrap that hand around his veiny, freckled forearm. Your fingers don’t even make it halfway around.

Your long, unbroken sound changes from a moan to his name, spelled with 100 O’s.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he grunts.

It feels so insane, you don’t think it could possibly feel better, but the pleasure builds and it does. It feels better and better and better until you unravel completely, knowing you're screaming but unable to hear it, the orgasm ravaging your whole body. And it doesn’t stop. Corey keeps thrusting and you keep cumming, your vision going white until finally, with a growl of your name, he collapses the rest of the way, all his weight crushing you.

You take the deepest breaths you can with him pinning you down, your brain completely fried, until you’re brought back to earth by him pulling out and standing up. You roll onto your back and groggily watch him remove the condom, tossing it into a small trash can under the table. A shy smile crosses his face when he sees you watching. He lies down next to you and puts his arms around you gently, all the animal lust gone from him for the moment.

“I love you, Corey Cunningham,” you say.

“I love you too, Mrs. Cunningham,” he says. You both laugh.

Your eyes fall onto the clock on the wall behind him. You have five hours and two condoms left and you intend to get everything you can out of them.

end note:

While writing this, I found out that Illinois actually does not have conjugal visits or any kind of private spousal or family visitation for prisoners. Most states don't. And many prisoners never even get letters. If you have the time and inclination, I highly suggest getting in contact with a service that provides prisoners with pen pals. Many of them let you choose to only write letters to people serving certain types of sentences for your comfort, for example if you want to write to someone serving life, or if you'd prefer to only talk to those convicted of non-violent offenses. No matter what crimes they may have committed, prisoners are people and people need connection and support.

And if you think the whole system is broken, I highly recommend reading about prison abolition.

#corey cunningham #corey cunningham x reader #corey cunningham smut #mine #smut #fan fic

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