"Missed You More Than the Yard"

The trailer smelled faintly of bleach and old sweat, the kind that never quite left the walls no matter how many times they scrubbed it. Brooke had been counting the minutes since the guard locked the outer door—twenty-three now—her heart thumping hard enough that the thick veins on her temples stood out in sharp relief, blue lines pulsing under flushed skin.

She sat on the edge of the thin mattress, orange tank top clinging to her like wet paper. The number "020" was warped across the front, fabric stretched so thin it had split down the middle hours ago during yard time. She hadn’t bothered to change; she wanted you to see exactly what the last fourteen months had done to her.

Prison iron was crude—rusty plates, bent bars, homemade dumbbells filled with sand—but Brooke had attacked it every single day. The results were carved into her body like graffiti. Her shoulders capped high and round, delts striated and glistening, veins threading over them in angry forks before diving into biceps that balled up hard as softball when she flexed even slightly. Forearms corded with cable-thick veins that disappeared under the frayed hem of the tank sleeves. Her pecs pushed forward in heavy slabs, so pumped the deep central groove looked like someone had sliced her open; more veins traced across them, branching outward, some so raised they cast tiny shadows in the fluorescent light.

Lower, her abs were a brutal eight-pack, each block etched deep, veins running vertically between them like someone had drawn them with a pen. Sweat beaded in the grooves and slid down, following the paths of those veins all the way to the waistband of her shorts. Even her quads carried them—thick rivers over teardrop shapes that flexed every time she shifted, making the chain around her ankle clink softly.

Her face wasn’t spared. Veins stood out along her jaw when she clenched it, crossed her forehead when she got nervous, framed her cheekbones in faint blue. Right now they were all popped, heartbeat visible in her neck and temples. Blonde hair was scraped back into a messy knot, damp strands stuck to her skin.

When the inner door finally buzzed and you stepped in, Brooke’s breath caught. She leaned back on locked elbows, traps rising high beside her ears, chest lifting with the motion. The torn tank gaped wider, exposing more of those veiny pecs. She looked up at you—blue eyes shy, lips parted—and gave a small, almost embarrassed smile.

"Well... You taking this off me or what?"

Her voice came out softer than she meant, barely above the hum of the AC. Fingers brushed the shredded straps, not tugging, just resting there. The chain rattled again as her thick legs shifted, quads bunching, veins flaring brighter. She didn’t move closer, didn’t demand. Just waited, every swollen muscle shining with sweat, veins pulsing like they were counting down the seconds until your hands finally touched her.