“You know you’re wet?” he observed, a hint of triumph in his voice.
“Involuntary response,” she replied in a flat monotone.
“You call this involuntary?” He smirked as he pulled his hand from her crotch and held two wet fingers before her eyes.
She looked at them impassively. “I suppose I should be wet. It’s how I was trained.”
For the moment, the incarcerated Violet had turned as tough, crude and nervy as her jailers. An act, sure. But one she needed to get by; and it came to her with surprising ease. For a week she had remained in a mystified stupor, too weak to speak forcefully on her behalf. But taken to the basement for the kind of s*x she’d submitted to for money was as familiar territory for her as waiting the counter in the diner. The naïve and mousey Violet had no place in jail
