Category Archives: Brutewood Maximum Security

A Prison Bitch Rimjob Raunch Tale

Here’s the first chapter of A Prison Bitch Rimjob Raunch Tale, a hardcore tale that features nonconsenting situations! Do not read this! It contains rape, and the novelette only gets more extreme from there!

Eddie walked into the cell block stark naked, carrying his prison uniform in a box. He knew the guards did that to make him look vulnerable to the other inmates. It was a power game. He resolved not to play it.

He thought he could hold his own in this place. He wasn’t very big, but he wasn’t a weakling either. He was sure there would be weaker men than he.

As he saw his new cellmates, he was no longer so sure. He was by far the smallest. All twelve men in this cell were black — including Eddie — but Eddie was shorter than any of them and skinnier by far. His heart thudded as they all looked at him.

He nodded and muttered a hello, but he didn’t talk to anyone. He sauntered straight to the unused bunk. No one stopped him so he sat down. He slowly got dressed, not wanting to look like he was afraid.

“Hey nigga,” said one of the other inmates. He was tall, a little older than the rest, but built like an athlete. He had broad shoulders and a thick beard, biceps as thick as melons. He had a big nasty scar over his face. “Hey nigga. Hey.”

“Hey. My name is Eddie.”

“Oh, that’s nice, that’s real nice,” said the man. He had the flamboyant cadence of a pimp, and he tapped his feet on the floor as he talked. “I ain’t ask you yo’ name though. I won’t punish you yet cuz I ain’t explain the rules — I’m a fair owner, ya see.” He paused and got down on his knees like he was going to propose to Eddie. “I was noticin’ you walk in here — my name is Copper, by the way — like the metal, not like the police officer, that was more obvious on the outside cuz I wore copper jewelry, ya feel me?”


He slapped Eddie over the face. “I gotta stop you cuz you talkin’ again and I ain’t given you no kinda permission for that. Now I’m sorry to hit you, but you makin’ me do it. I’m down here on my knee, comin’ to you like a man. I saw that ass you brought in here, and you look like you got nice big cock-suckin’ lips — I’m bettin’ you a faggot. That true?”

“No. I ain’t-“

He slapped him again, harder. Eddie winced, his cheek exploding in pain. Copper frowned. “I asked you a yes or no question, nigga. All you gotta say is yes or no. Quit makin’ me hit you. I am yo’ owner now, I’s in charge of those lips and that tongue.” He paused like he was waiting for Eddie to interrupt him. “Good. You don’t talk no more ‘cept with my permission, and from now on, when someone ask you if you a faggot, you say yes. Got it?”

“I ain’t a faggot-“

He punched him in the belly. “You got that question wrong, bitch. Answer it again. If someone ask you if you a faggot, you say yes. Got it?”



Another black man, a big fat one stepped in then. He cocked his head to the side in a mockery of a quizzical expression. “Yo, nigga… Eddie, right? You a faggot?”

“Uh… I mean-“

Copper grabbed Eddie by the neck and squeezed. “Nigga, I ain’t got much patience. Do not test me.”

“Yes! Yes, I’m a faggot!”

“Good,” Copper said. He let go of Eddie’s neck. “We gonna keep workin’ on that. Do you have any questions for me so far?”

“Uh… Yeah.” Eddie gasped for air. “Uh… Please, stop, I, uh… I can take care of myself. I ain’t gonna be yo’ bitch.”

Copper laughed a little. “Oh. Okay. That ain’t technically a question, but I didn’t say statements wasn’t allowed, so that’s okay.” He motioned for Eddie to sit down in his bunk, then Copper followed him. The other cellmates were all staring. Eddie felt very self-conscious and he couldn’t think about anything other than doing exactly what Copper told him to do. “Put that curtain up, nigga. We need some privacy.”


Copper slapped Eddie. “Don’t make me hit you, bitch. I wanna love you, I really do. A lotta pimps treat they bitches like trash, but not me. I care about my bitches, and I do not wanna hurt ‘em. You believe me?”


He slapped him. “Say yes.”


“Good. I’m glad you believe me, bitch.” The curtain was up — just a sheet tacked up around the bunk to provide a small amount of privacy. Eddie could still see men peering in through the edges. Copper was so big he took up almost all the space in here. “So don’t make me hurt you, bitch. Cuz when I hurt you, that hurts me too. It hurts me deep in my soul. I don’t wanna feel pain like that. I don’t wanna make you feel pain like that neither. I wanna make you feel good, bitch. That’s why I turned you into a faggot back then. You gonna love gettin’ fucked. Right?”


He slapped him. “Bitch, say yes or no.” He paused. “Do not say no.”

“Yes.” A sob rose up in Eddie’s throat. He tried to bite it back but was unsuccessful.

“Oh, bitch, you gonna cry? I ain’t have you pegged as a crier,” he said. He leaned forward and licked Eddie’s tears. “I’ll lick yo’ cryin’ up like milk in a saucer, bitch. I love bitch tears. They don’t work on me. You just tryin’ to seduce me, that’s what I think of tears.” He paused. “Quit cryin’, bitch.” When that didn’t work right away, he grabbed Eddie by the throat again. “Quit cryin’, bitch.”

Unable to breathe, Eddie couldn’t cry if he wanted to. Gradually Copper let go.

“You breakin’ my heart, boy. Whatchoo wanna do now? Huh? Say somethin’.” He didn’t give Eddie a chance to answer. He barked at him, increasingly belligerent. “Huh? What’s up now? You gonna do somethin’?”

“No, please-“

He slapped Eddie. “What’re you gonna do, bitch?”

“What? I don’t know!” Eddie choked back a sob.

“You said you loved me, you said you was gonna love gettin’ fucked by me! I’s askin’ how you gonna show yo’ love?”

“Oh… Uh… I dunno-“ This was all happening so fast Eddie couldn’t think. Had he actually said he loved Copper? He didn’t think so.

He slapped Eddie again. “Bitch, don’t you say you dunno. You do know, or you gonna figure it out real quick. It ain’t the kinda question any motherfucker can answer for you.”

“Uh… I’ll do whatever you say.” Eddie’s voice quavered.

“Oh that’s good,” he said, blinking back faux tears of love. “That’s real love. I feel that in my heart, bitch. I’m glad to hear it. I love you too. I won’t nevuh hurt you. I love you too much.” He took his dick out and flopped it over Eddie’s face. Eddie erupted in gags — his cock was sweaty, clammy, and the flavor was disgusting. Copper clucked his tongue against his teeth. “Oh, bitch, I love gaggin’. That is the sexiest thing a bitch can do, man.”

He left the tip of his dick on Eddie’s tongue and laughed at the sight of his gagging. He was so big he took up most of the bunkspace in here, and Eddie was pinned by his massive legs. Eddie sobbed until Copper smacked him again.

“You know what would be real sexy? It’d make me the happiest nigga on earth to hear you say, Copper, I love the taste of yo’ cock and I want you to throatfuck me wit’out mercy. I love to hear ya say that, sweetheart.” He smacked Eddie over the cheek and removed his dick so Eddie could speak.

Eddie blushed. He could hear snickering from outside this bunk, beyond the curtains. Someone even let a big black cock dangle in past the curtain until Copper barked at him to stop. Eddie had to suppress a sob.

“Say it, bitch.” Copper grabbed him by the neck. “You feel that resistance in ya, bitch? That’s yo’ remainin’ shreds of dignity, self-respect and joy. I’s takin’ those things, I’m grindin’ ‘em down, and I’m gonna swallow e’ry last bit of it, that way I can build you back up again in my image, bitch. I’m gonna be yo’ god. So yeah, I know it hurts to say it. That’s cuz you used to be a man. Now you a bitch. Change is difficult.” He punched Eddie hard in the belly and Eddie cried out. “Say it. Copper, I love the taste of yo’ cock and I want you to throatfuck me wit’out mercy. Say it in a sexy lady’s voice.”

“Copper… I love… the taste of yo’ cock… and I want you to throatfuck me wit’out mercy.”

“Good bitch. I will do as you wish,” Copper said and drilled his dick down Eddie’s throat. He didn’t give him any time to adjust, he just grabbed his nostrils, squeezed and rammed his cock in. That sour sweaty flavor assaulted Eddie’s senses again. He gagged as Copper’s massive shaft pushed into him.

Copper found the positioning awkward because this bunkspace was so tiny, so he had one of his fellow cellmates reach in — without looking — to pinch Eddie’s nostrils shut. That gave Copper free use of his hands.

A painful retch erupted in Eddie’s belly, but Copper didn’t slow down. He pivoted his hips, slamming his cock in and over and over, despite Eddie’s gagging. His dick filled Eddie’s throat so completely he couldn’t have bit down if he wanted to, which he didn’t — Copper seemed to be totally invulnerable and Eddie knew he’d be punished for  biting.

“Open that mouth, bitch. I ain’t playin’, I am not playin’, you best open wide right now.” He punched Eddie in the belly hard enough to make him nearly pass out.

Copper’s facefucking was so violent he shook the entire three-bunk bed, and the rest of the cell had gathered to snicker outside. Eddie was painfully jammed up against the edge of the bunk. Someone poked at his asshole with a finger and he didn’t have the wherewithal to fight back.

The curtain fell down and no one put it back up, so everyone could see Eddie now. Copper pulled his dick out but Eddie didn’t get a breath in before Copper grabbed him by the throat.

“Oh loverboy, that was some good gagfuckin’, I like that. That was real good for a first-timer. But you gonna get better. Did you love it?”


He squeezed harder. “You sure? You wanna reconsider that?”

“…” Eddie wanted to say no more than anything, but could he? He hated the idea of giving in to Copper. “Fine, yes!”

“Take deep breath, sweetheart, you doin’ real good, real good,” Copper said sweetly. “I love you so much. You breakin’ down just right, in all the right ways.”

Then before Eddie knew it — he barely got one halting deep breath in, hoarsely gasping for air — he was bent over the bunk backwards. That gave Copper the perfect angle to throatfuck him. He again relentlessly drilled his spit-soaked cock down Eddie’s throat, and this time he managed to get every inch in.

He daggered his hips, fucking Eddie’s face so hard Eddie thought something in his neck was broken. Copper’s balls stank horribly, hanging low and thick and hairy on Eddie’s nose.

His mind focused so relentlessly on his suffocation by cock that Eddie didn’t really notice the other cellmates at first. They kneeled down to peer into Eddie’s eyes, since his head was draped backwards over the edge of the bunk. Copper couldn’t see them and didn’t know what they were doing because they didn’t make any noise (or possibly, Eddie thought, they did make noise but Eddie’s mind didn’t process it because he was more focused on his relentless gagging).

Anyway, they first just took turns looking Eddie in the eye, so close Copper’s balls touched their face. It made them laugh and shove each other around.

“Don’t you start fightin’ me, bitch, I will fuck you up!”

Then the other cellmates began poking Eddie with their own cocks. They silently — to avoid Copper’s attention — aimed their dicks right for his eyes. First, it was just one at a time, then they seemed to think it was funny to get as many on Eddie’s face as they could. They got four, maybe five to sort of touch Eddie’s skin before accidentally touching Copper’s balls.

“What’re you niggas doin’?”

“Nothin’, we just playin’ wit’ ya bitch, Copper. He lookin’ seductive like he wanted some more dick.”

Copper chuckled. “Yeah, he got that cock-loving slut look.” After a moment, he narrowed his eyebrows as he let Eddie take a breath. “You niggas get ya dicks away, unless you payin’. He ain’t yo’ property, he mine.”

They backed away. Eddie got just enough air to avoid passing out before Copper rammed his dick right back in. He gagged again and again. Copper held Eddie’s nostrils shut and glared at him.

“Alright, bitch, you gonna taste my nut in a minute. Look me in the eye. You mine. You gonna be mine forevuh. If there’s an afterlife, bitch, you be mine there too. You ain’t nothin’ but a nutrag.”

Suck that nut! Suck that nut! Suck that nut!

The other cellmates chanted and pounded on the cell-bars. They stood by the door to block the view, so when a guard came by to tell them to shut up, he couldn’t see in — he could hear though.

“What’re you folks doin’ in there?”

“Nothin’, suh, we just rehabilitatin’ ourself.” They snickered and jumped over each other to agree that that was what they were doing.

“Why’re your dicks out?”


“That’s, uh… See, officer…”

“That’s just the part we rehabilitatin’ today,” someone said. They laughed and the guard even joined in. Eddie squealed and snorted as he got dizzy. Copper had his dick all the way in Eddie’s throat. His face turned red and he slapped Copper’s ass as loud as he could to get the guard’s attention. Eddie felt cum flowing into his stomach, draining into him as Copper’s dick throbbed against his nose, but his cock was so deep Eddie didn’t taste it. All he could taste was ball-sweat.

“If I gotta take that new boy to the infirmary, I’ll shove my nightstick up your ass,” the guard said as he walked away.

Eddie was delirious. Water and spit covered his eyes, so he couldn’t see anything. He thought he was about to pass out when Copper finally withdrew his dick.

That was what it took for him to taste cum for the first time; it was sour and salty and astringent and it made Eddie’s stomach churn. Copper smacked him in the face as Eddie hoarsely cried out for oxygen. Someone else kicked him in the side.

Copper was shouting at him but Eddie couldn’t quite focus enough to hear what he said. The other inmates cackled and thwacked their cocks over the cummy mess on Eddie’s face. But eventually Copper realized that Eddie genuinely couldn’t hear him, so he shooed the others away.

“Go’n, niggas, he ain’t for sale just yet. I gotta break him in,” Copper said. “Back off for now.” He smacked Eddie’s face very softly, holding onto his hair, which was too short to easily grab on to. “You grow yo’ hair out, bitch, so’s I got something to hold onto.” He waited for Eddie to stop crying and choking. “You ain’t a good cocksucker yet, bitch. That’s why I had to treat you salty. You gonna get better?” He smacked Eddie. “Say yes.”


“Elaborate.” He pulled on Eddie’s hair. “I said elaborate, bitch. Tell me how you gonna get better.”

“Uh… I’ll… uh…-“

He smacked Eddie. “You say uh too much, like some slack ho. My bitches ain’t slack, so ac’ right. Speak in words. Say somethin’.”

“I’ll suck your dick better!”

“More details, bitch.” He smacked Eddie over and over. “More details. How? Better how?”

“I’ll-!” Eddie couldn’t speak with Copper smacking him. He couldn’t quite catch his breath either. “Stop!” He cried. “Deeper!”

Copper stopped. “What?”

“I’ll suck your dick deeper,” Eddie said, his voice hoarse. He looked down at the ground, but Copper pulled his hair to make eye contact with him. “I’ll do it deeper. So you don’t have to throatfuck me-“

“Bitch, I will throatfuck you. But that’s good. That’s real good. I got some other ideas too, but we gonna work on that. Now stay kneelin’, bitch,” he said. He pointed to a spot near the toilet. “Right there. Kneel and practice deep-throatin’ wit’ yo’ finger. Work on yo’ throat. You do that for one hour, then I give you some free time. Say you love me.”

“I love you.”


Eddie painfully crawled to the spot and kneeled. His knees already ached, but he didn’t dare ask if he could sit down. He tried to look at the ground but Copper made him face the other end of the cell, where he and the others began working out with improvised weights.

Eddie managed to sob quietly enough that Copper didn’t yell at him.

The Prison Bitch

Here’s the first chapter of The Prison Bitch, a hot new hardcore and extreme story from Brutewood Maximum Security Penitentiary.

Charlie had gotten through his first day in Brutewood Prison and, so far, everything had gone very well. People more or less ignored him. He was processed along with several weaker men, included one disgraced cop and a pedophile, so they were the target of most of the ire from the other inmates.

When he returned to his cell after dinner, he saw his cellmate — an elderly Latino man — being led out on a stretcher. He was alive, but he looked sick. He had looked sickly since Charlie met him, but now he looked much sicker.

Charlie was nervous. What did that mean for him? Was he going to get a new cellmate? Maybe it’d be someone else new, he thought. Was this a good thing or a bad thing for Charlie? He had no idea.

Soon after dinner, his cell door opened, and a middle-aged black man entered. He was Jackson; he was wiry and ropy-muscled, not huge or bulky but powerful. He had a shaved head and a wide, flat nose that looked like it had been broken several times. He was covered in gang tats, including the underlined words NINE TATS on his belly — Charlie knew that meant he was one of the head generals of the Nine Tats street gang.

Jackson stopped in the center of the cell, holding onto a box containing all of his belongings. The cell was open, since this was free time; anyone could just walk in or out. Jackson checked Charlie out from head to toe.

“Yo, you faggot, whiteboy?” Jackson asked.


“Wait just a sec, boy, befo’ you answer, I got somethin’ to explain,” he said. He spoke quickly but with great intent, like there was meant to be hidden subtext to everything he said. He had a very faint lisp like a pimp — it wasn’t very noticeable, but Charlie heard it. Charlie still hadn’t really decided if he would tell people he was gay. Some had said he should, some had said he shouldn’t. He had planned on playing it by ear.

When Jackson checked that no guards were around, he sat next to Charlie on the bunk. “Yo, lemme rap at you. But first, my name’s Jackson, howdayoudo?” He smiled broadly and shook Charlie’s head.

“I’m Charlie.”

“Charlie. That’s a pretty name. That’s very good. I like that, boy,” Jackson said. “Welcome to my cell. You should know this is my cell, alright? I be settin’ all the rules in here. You got any kinda problem wit’ that? Huh? You tell me now.”

He leaned forward until his eyes were right in front of Charlie’s, his lips so close he was virtually kissing him. “Yeah. You a faggot. I can tell. I can smell it on ya lips, yes, I bet you is. I can’t wait to hear yo’ answer. But don’t say yet. I ain’t finish askin’ the question.”


“Shut yo’ mouth. That’s rule one. You don’t speak unless I allow it, boy.” He paused as though giving Charlie a chance to disobey him. Charlie’s heart raced. Jackson smiled. He remained so close to Charlie their lips almost touched. “Good. Now when I ask if you a faggot, you gotta understand I’s askin’ cuz you gotta have a role. You gotta get somethin’ to do around here, somethin’ that contributes to the organization.” He pointed to his Nine Tats tattoo. That entailed leaning back so Charlie could see it, which meant he finally pulled his face away from Charlie’s. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. Jackson smiled at him. “Oh, that’s the Nine Tats. They’s my organization. See, if you say you ain’t no kinda faggot, then when I rape you a little later, you gonna be my bitch. You gonna be prostituted out for a cigarette or two, ya dig? I’m gonna sell yo’ ass. If I can find a way to sell yo’ organs, that’s what I’m gonna do. Okay? So that’s option one. You can tell me you straight, and I turn ya body into cash any way that I can. You like option one?”


“I ain’t think so. It ain’t popular. I think it’s got a branding problem, you know? Like maybe if we call it the Doritos Extreme Prison Bitch Experience or some shit, you know, then people would give it a try,” he said. “But option two might be better. Since I think you might really be a faggot, that’s the one that might suit ya needs the best. See, in option two, you tell me you a faggot. Then I tell you that you my wife now. I will treat you right-“ He held one hand up as though to forestall any objections. “Now I may still treat you wrong from time to time, cuz I am an imperfect man. We all just faded and disto’ted copies of God’s glorious visage, ain’t we?”


“No talkin’ just yet, boy, but I like yo’ enthusiasm,” he said. He gave Charlie a quick peck on the cheek. “If you my wife, I still rape you. I still gonna hit you when I gotta correct yo’ behavior, and maybe a little fo’ fun — but I always make that up to you, baby, I always say I’m sorry and give you some sugar to make up for misbehavin’.” He paused and smiled. “See? I normally give this little speech to straight boys who gonna pretend to be gay. I make love to they squirmin’ virgin ass till they bore me and I sells ‘em off. But you really a faggot, right?”


“See, now that’s nice. You ain’t gotta pretend. I might not get bored of you. I love fuckin’ faggots. Once you fuck a straight boy hard enough, he stop fightin’ back, then it’s like fuckin’ a dead fish. But a faggot, boy, I can make a faggot squirm for days,” he said. He licked his lips. “Suck on my finger.” He held up his middle finger, and Charlie sucked it down. It was callused and salty, and tasted a little of tonight’s dinner — hot dog and ketchup. Jackson licked his lips. “If you was straight and pretendin’ to be gay, you’d be gaggin’ right now, and I’d be saying that I fuck you so good you turn into a faggot fo’ real. I tell ‘em I know how to make ‘em cum from the prostate — you know about the prostate, right? Course you do, you a faggot — I tell ‘em that and make ‘em tell me they like it. I make ‘em jack off when I fuck ‘em. Ain’t nothin’ better than a straight boy cumming when you fuck ‘im.”

“Can I suck your dick now?” Charlie asked. He thought getting on Jackson’s good side would be helpful. Jackson was very sexy and in any other environment, Charlie would have genuinely wanted to suck his dick. But this was too frightening for him. He couldn’t even think about any actual desire for sex. All his mind focused on was Jackson’s intense words ringing in his ears.

“No you may not, but thank you for askin’,” he said. “I gotta work out. You watch me and study my body, so you can worship it later.” He paused. “Straight boys get this real cute look in they face when I say that.”

“I bet,” Charlie said. He smiled. “You are really hot, you know.”

“I know. Thank you fo’ sayin’ it, sweetheart.” He smiled. He got down on the ground and started doing push-ups. He counted off, and Charlie watched him the whole time. Then he did a series of other workouts using a pillowcase filled with odds and ends as a weight, and he almost totally ignored Charlie the entire time.

Eventually Charlie lost interest in watching him. He studied the marks carved into the stone wall of the cell, trying to decipher their meaning.

“Alright, you can suck my dick now,” Jackson said suddenly, startling Charlie, who suspected that Jackson had been waiting for Charlie to get distracted. He seemed like he enjoyed those sorts of mindgames — he wouldn’t want Charlie to suck his dick because Charlie desired it, so he waited for Charlie to get involved in something else. He didn’t wait for Charlie to react either, he just grabbed him by the neck and made him lean over the edge of the bunk. In seconds, Jackson had his limp dick ramming into Charlie’s throat, while his hand squeezed his neck and his balls swayed in front of Charlie’s eyes. If Charlie had been straight, he thought, that would have been terrifying. “Open up that throat, boy.”

Jackson coughed like he was surprised at how good Charlie was at deep-throating, especially so suddenly. He whistled his appreciation as his balls slapped against Charlie’s nose. There was nearly a foot of black throbbing cockmeat in Charlie’s throat.

“Fuck, you oughta give lessons to the prison bitches around here. A lot of ‘em can’t suck worth a damn, man.” He groaned and started grinding his hips to get his dick in even deeper.

Charlie’s throat did gag and clench, but he was used to that. He was able to fight against his instincts, allowing every last inch of Jackson’s dick to fill up his gullet. His head swam. He was dizzy, tears leaking down his cheeks.

“Hey, boy, hey boy, look up here. Focus,” Jackson said, snapping his fingers to get Charlie’s attention. He swayed his hips, making Charlie gag as his balls dragged over his chin. “Look me in the eye when you suck my dick. Touch me right here if you understand.” He pointed to his left pectoral muscle.

Charlie had to reach up to touch him there. Jackson nodded like he was satisfied. Then he pulled out. As soon as he did, Charlie hoarsely gasped for air. Jackson grabbed him by the hair and lifted his head up so Jackson could watch.

“Yo, it takes three seconds to take a breath.” He held up three fingers, quickly counted down, then pushed Charlie back to the ground. Charlie had barely gotten a breath in before Jackson’s cock slammed back into his mouth.

Jackson was relentless and had his cock deep in Charlie’s throat again in moments. Once more he swayed his balls over Charlie’s chin and laughed when he choked. Spit spilled out of Charlie’s mouth, sliding down his cheeks and making a little puddle on the floor of the cell.

“You got three seconds to breathe. That’s what it takes. Any more than that is you on vacation, and I don’t allow my boys to take no time off,” he said. “You is doin’ a good job. I’s proud of you, sweetheart.” He spoke rather flatly, like he had read somewhere that he should give positive reinforcement but didn’t understand why.

He repeated that cycle several times. He held his cock in Charlie’s throat, fucking him back and forth, reminding him to keep his eyes aimed up at Jackson’s face, then gave him three seconds to breathe before resuming the cycle all over again. Charlie was so dizzy and discombobulated that he had no idea how long that lasted, and it was a complete shock when Jackson came — if he gave signs beforehand, Charlie didn’t notice them.

All of a sudden, just as Jackson slammed his dick in once again, a load of salty cum hit Charlie’s tongue. This time Jackson didn’t move, he rammed his dick down Charlie’s gullet and held it there, his load flowing directly into Charlie’s stomach. It was hot and creamy, salty, sour and delicious on Charlie’s tongue.

“Good boy, swallow it all, swallow it all. Don’t gag, no, I don’t like gaggin’ at this stage — you can gag when I fuck ya throat, that’s yo’ body reactin’ instinctively, but don’t you never gag on my cum, boy. That’s disrespectful. I might have to punish you if you do that. You look so pretty wit’ my cum dripping down yo’ chin. Look me in the eye. Who do you love?”

“Uh, you-“

He slapped Charlie, not as hard as he could, but hard enough. “Don’t say uh, don’t hesitate. If you in love, you ain’t gotta hesitate. If you know that shit in yo’ heart, you don’t gotta think about it.” He paused. “Who do you love?”


“Good boy.” He bristled and sniffled. “Sorry I hit ya. I don’t like hearin’ my boys hesitate, that’s all. Who do you love?”


“Good. Good, good. Who fucks you the best you ever been fucked?”


He nodded. “Good.”

Finally it was all over. Jackson made him sit there with remnants of cum on his face. Charlie stayed motionless, basking in the glow of his own orgasm. He was glad to be settling in, he thought, and he was glad Jackson was his prison husband.

At last, Jackson allowed him to clean up and go to bed. Charlie was genuinely grateful, and he already couldn’t wait to be fucked again. As soon as lights out came, Charlie had an idea.

“Jackson, can I masturbate tonight thinking of you kissing me? I just think you’re so hot-“

“Yes, sweetheart, you may, as long as you eat all yo’ own cum. Thank you for asking.”

The Prison Wife Treatment

Here’s the beginning of The Prison Wife Treatment, a hardcore story of alpha male worship by Calvin Freeman!


“Alright, baby, go in there and make me somethin’ tasty,” Ruddy said. He kissed Sal on the cheek, making Sal flush with desire and arousal.

He was Ruddy’s prison wife. Not really, of course, since they weren’t in prison, but Sal had asked Ruddy to treat him like a prison wife (and paid him handsomely for it). That’s because Ruddy was the sexiest mandingo stud Sal had ever seen. He was a tall thug with short braids and a harsh glare to his mean eyes; he had broad, strapping muscles like a farmworked ox, marked with legions of prison tattoos. He had spent twenty of his forty years in prison, though it was mostly in short stays of a year or two at a time.

Sal hurried into the kitchen. He had assumed this would be mainly about sex, but the first thing Ruddy asked for was food. Sal cooked him a quesadilla because that was just about all Sal had — he didn’t cook much and the kitchen was mostly empty. He hadn’t thought about buying food just for Ruddy.

This all started because Sal had gathered up the courage to go to the local prison and make an offer. All he wanted to do was suck Ruddy’s dick — he was the sexiest non-skinhead to be released that day — but Ruddy said no. Ruddy said he wasn’t gay and wouldn’t fuck with any man under any circumstances.

But, Ruddy said, there was a loophole: when someone became a prison wife, he said, that person was effectively female. It didn’t count fucking a prison wife. I reckon I could use one too, whiteman, yessuh, I don’t think there gonna be lotta females who wanna give up the pussy, so I could use a prison wife on the outside.

So they had both agreed upon the terms of their relationship. Even though it was scary and strange and off-putting, Sal had agreed to it. He had agreed to pay Ruddy a bit of money every week, plus give him a free place to stay. That was how Ruddy strolled into Sal’s house just a few hours after getting out of prison.

He just took one look at Sal’s dumpy little house and scowled. “You best start cleanin’ up in here, baby. I don’t much like mess, and I hate clutter. I’s gonna start punishin’ you tomorrow e’ry time I see it like this.”

“Okay, yes. I will.” Sal caught a harsh glare from Ruddy’s dark eyes. He stumbled over his words. “I will… uh, sir.”

“I ain’t a cop, don’t call me sir. Call me papi, and say it as though I make you horny,” Ruddy said. He imitated a Spanish girl seducing her boyfriend. “Papi!”

“… Oh-“

“You hesitatin’?” Ruddy advanced on Sal as though going to hit him.

“No! I’ll call you whatever you want! Papi,” Sal said, struggling to make it sound sexy because he was scared of Ruddy. He had always known there was a chance that this would be dangerous, but now that he had Ruddy in his home, it seemed even riskier than Sal had ever guessed. Ruddy could do rob him, burn the house down, frame Sal for a crime or just fly into an uncontrollable rage.

As Ruddy moved into his room — he had very few things after this most recent stay in prison — Sal finished cooking the quesadilla. He served it on a plate with a few sprigs of cilantro, but Ruddy scowled as though he didn’t like that. He didn’t tell Sal not to do it though.

“Get on your knees while I eat.”

Sal did as he was told. Ruddy sat on the couch. He was shirtless now because he had been moving his things into the house, and now he was sweaty. His chest muscles gleamed. Sal kneeled in front of him.

“You don’t eat when I eat. You should be on your knees watching in case I want something,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I’m a good husband, baby. As long as you mind yaself and do as ya told, I’ll treat you right.”

“Yes, papi.”

“Start fingerin’ ya throat.”

Sal hesitated before he pushed his finger into his mouth. Ruddy didn’t respond, he just took another bite. Sal pushed his finger deeper in, until he gagged.

“Good. Keep doing that,” Ruddy said. “Work on your gag reflex.”

“I will, papi, I promise. I won’t gag on your cock. I-“

He smacked Sal. “No. I ain’t say that. Did I? Don’t you get ahead of yaself. You don’t know what to do, you stupid bitch, don’t try and pretend you smart.”

Sal blushed. “Oh. Sorry, papi.”

“You s’posed to gag. I like makin’ bitches gag,” he said. He paused and sniffled. “Sorry I got salty wit’cha, baby. I got a demon inside-a me, it comes out when I see pretty girls like you behavin’ improperly. Don’t speak outta turn, baby.” He snorted. “You s’posed to gag, I ain’t trainin’ you not to gag. E’ry time you gag on my meat, that’s how I know you love me.”

“Yes, papi.”

“You gotta work on gaggin’ more, and gaggin’ without spitting out my dick. I like gaggin’. Gaggin’ on my dick is how you show you care, girl,” he said. He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Did I hurt ya feelings? You can still make me leave. You still gotta pay me, but-“

“No. I want to be your prison wife. Treat me like that. I’ll learn,” Sal said. He blushed. “I’ll learn how to behave properly.”

“That’s right. You will. I am a good educator, baby. I am a firm and fair teacher.” He finished his quesadilla and wiped the grease off his fingers on Sal’s shirt.. He put the plate down on the coffee table. He spread his legs and pulled his cock out.

“Take your clothes off,” he said. He had a big black cock, which was already throbbing beneath his fingers even though it was still limp. He burped loudly, blowing the fetid air into Sal’s face. He thwacked his cock against the palm of his hand, accentuating how thick it was. Sal couldn’t wait to do anal (though they had already planned on that not happening just yet — Sal wanted to build up to it).

Sal felt skinny and weak next to Ruddy, who stood up. He peered at Sal’s naked body. He caressed each of his limbs and his chest and back — not in a sexual way, more like a farmer might inspect a horse — and grunted his approval. He grabbed Sal’s dick and snorted.

“You got a tiny dick,” he said. He flopped his own massive cock against Sal’s. He chuckled. “No wonder you act like a girl.”

Sal blushed. “Yeah. I guess so, papi.”

Deep Orange

Here’s “Cagna angolo“ (which I believe means “sex-box” or something like that in Latin), a ultra-hardcore chapter from Deep Orange, which is a classic Brutewood Maximum Security novel!


Hernan thought about little other than killing Octavio. He used to only think about killing himself, back when he first came to Brutewood. He had done everything right, he thought, to protect himself – he had been a loyal Alcachubre on the outside, a foot soldier who sold crack for some tough cholos. He had gotten all the right ink and when he was tapped, he didn’t name names, agreeing to serve a seven year bid in honorable silence.

But someone else did name names, someone he thought was his best friend, Pablo. Pablo was the only person who could have done it – he got a suspiciously light sentence, and he immediately told everyone in Los Alcachubre on the outside that Hernan had narced and gotten fucked over by his lawyer.

He thought he would be treated like a champion when he met up with the Alcachubres, spending most of the money in his Commissary to bribe Armstrong into taking him into an Alcachubre tent. He didn’t know that Armstrong had already beeen bribed to take him there, by Octavio himself. Octavio was a powerful gang leader who controlled the entire organization at Brutewood, and Hernan would soon learn how ambitious and ruthless he was.

Octavio met him at the tent flap on that first day, towering over him by more than a foot, with at least a hundred pounds more muscle and mass, not to mention body hair. Hernan still didn’t know they thought he was a narc, so he flashed his signs and his tats, expecting to be welcomed.

“You think we wouldn’t find out, snitch?” Octavio said as soon as he walked in, Armstrong closing the tent flap behind him.

Hernan’s heart sank at the sound angry mutterings from the Alcachutres gathered nearby, all of them wearing only dingy prison-issued boxer shorts. He heard the word “pig-lover” and realized what must have happened.

“No, no, no,” Hernan said. He knew he didn’t stand a chance physically – he had never been able to bulk up much, and he remained short and skinny no matter what he ate or how much he worked out. He thought desperately that it must be a mistake, that he had played by the Alcachutres rules and this hulking Mexican monster had to understand that.

“I didn’t snitch. I’d never-“ Octavio wasn’t listening, and he slowly pushed his hand into Hernan’s trembling mouth. He tried to push the older thug away but was trapped against the tent wall, and he tasted the raspy, sweaty thug, whose thick tattooed knuckles kneaded his tongue.

“I hope you ready to learn what happens to squealers,” Octavio said, pushing two of his fingers into Hernan’s throat. He gagged but managed to avoid vomiting, and Octavio removed his hand.

“I ain’t no pussy-bitch,” Hernan said with as much machismo as he could muster. He knew he was skinny, and he looked young and didn’t really seem tough no matter what he did.

The other cholos laughed, and one of them looked at his bare wrist as though he had a watch on. “Give it four minutes,” he said, exciting peals of laughter from the rest, and even the normally somber niggas in the back of the tent joined in.

Octavio dropped his prison workpants. He had a long, thick, uncircumcised cock, which stank of his own dried cum, urine and his incredibly sweaty balls. Hernan gagged every time he thought of Octavio’s balls, every time he saw them, and even every time he smelled sweat now. Any sweat at all made him think of that revolting stench. Octavio knew it too. He discovered on that first day that Hernan hated the taste of balls. The slightly leathery texture of the skin, the wrinkles, the thick curly hairs that got stuck in his teeth – it was horrid, and Hernan thought it might drive him crazy. Octavio sometimes spent lazy evenings playing cards with his buddies with Hernan laying underneath him, his balls right on his nose. “That’ll make you smell like me forever, puta, so everybody will know you mine.”

That first night, Octavio had celebrated the arrival of his squealing bitch by declaring his mouth free. People bribed guards to let them come from other tents, so that there was a line running through the prison encampment; black, white, Latin, even the Russian, Asian and Indian gangs all came out for the occasion. Everyone wanted to be the one to fuck a squirming pig, and since Octavio declared he was saving Hernan’s ass for a special occasion, they had to go for his throat. It lasted all night, and it only ended because Octavio said he was tired of the foot traffic in the tent and wanted to start charging.

Ever since then, Hernan had never felt clean. Even on those rare occasions when he could get through an entire shower unmolested, he felt millions of sperm swimming across his face, filling up his belly. He was tired all the time, but sleep only brought nightmares of being face-fucked, and after only a few weeks, he was surprised to realize that his memories of his former life were fading away.

Octavio never missed an opportunity to demean Hernan – not verbally, since Octavio rarely spoke, and he only spoke to Hernan in order to threaten him or order him to suck somebody off. If Hernan was physically in Octavio’s way, he’d push him over and walk on him. When he wanted Hernan, he didn’t speak, he’d just whistle, or grab him roughly and drag him to where he wanted. He took half of Hernan’s food, even though he sometimes just threw it away because he didn’t like it, and he sometimes tampered with whatever was left – wiping his sandwich on his asshole before giving it back, for example, and he hocked a giant loogie in Hernan’s oatmeal every single morning. At first Hernan couldn’t bring himself to eat it and just threw the whole bowl away, but of course, he eventually got so hungry he’d pick out the parts that seemed cleaner.

After a few weeks of eating around the snot bubble, Octavio told him to eat the whole thing.

“What?” Hernan said.

Octavio never repeated himself. He just hit Hernan in the back of head, and when that didn’t immediately produce results, he put Hernan in a chokehold, one thick hairy bicep pinning him against his forearm, and used the other arm to grip Hernan’s wrist. He pushed Hernan’s hand into the bowl, scooping out the loogie and oatmeal. Hernan’s hand trembled, Octavio squeezing his wrist so tight Hernan thought it might shatter. (Oh fuck nigga, that bitch gonna eat some snot! Come watch this fucking puta!)

“I didn’t snitch!” Hernan pleaded. Octavio rammed the spoon in, so far down Hernan gagged just from that, before he even felt the cold sliminess of the loogie on his tongue, smelled the clammy spit scent in his nostrils and felt bile rising up in his stomach.

“Don’t swallow that, snitch,” Octavio said, “Stick out yo’ tongue.”

Hernan didn’t know if he could keep it on his tongue and avoid swallowing or spitting it. Every muscle in his body was trying to fight, but he was enveloped in Octavio’s thick muscles. Octavio’s huge scruffy face was just inches away from Hernan’s, and the older thug suddenly hocked another loogie, even bigger, splattering across Hernan’s face. Octavio used Hernan’s hand to wipe the snot into Hernan’s open mouth, which he then shut. Hertnan gulped to loud cheers from all the niggas in the mess tent, the guards angrily demanding they sit back down.

And so that was why Hernan absolutely had to kill Octavio. That was the only way to make his feelings stop, he thought, and the only way to make the others realize he meant business. But it had to be a foolproof plan, and he had to find the perfect opportunity – if Hernan killed Octavio, he’d gain respect; if he only injured him, he’d probably be killed himself.

The most humiliating part of being Octavio’s bitch was being punked out. Octavio made him suck anyone’s cock for just a few cigarettes, and in prison, they were all rough horse-cocked brutes who thought he was a snitch, so they showed him no mercy. His throat was literally black and blue, as was his eyes and his cheeks for most of his time at Brutewood. A few months into his sentence, Octavio started taking him out at night, bribing Armstrong for a Freedom Pass to be allowed to go from tent to tent.

“At each tent, you offer yo’ mouth up,” Octavio said, “Ten cigarettes bulk discount, whole tent can do it.”


Octavio punched him for asking a question, and dragged him to the first tent, right around the corner from Tent Alaska. It was run by the Mossino family, with five brothers making up the core of the gang. They were strapping dark-haired Italian men, almost as hairy as Octavio, and they each had a small posse of lieutenants who hung around them.

“Well, bitch?” one of them asked when Hernan found himself shoved into the tent, Octavio behind him with his hands across his chest. Tent South Dakota was much better lit, bigger and cleaner than Tent Alaska, with lamps, wooden platforms over the mud and even a small couch next to the toilets. More ominously was a small bare spot on the ground, where blood and less unidentifiable stains marked it as a place for extreme violence or sex or both.

“I, uh…” Hernan said, unable to bring himself to say the words.

“If you don’t say something, I will beat your snitch ass,” said one of the brothers, grabbing his crotch through his prison pants.

“I, uh,” Hernan said again, “I was just, I mean… I’m supposed to say, I guess-“

He felt Octavio’s arms wrap around his body, and the Italians laughed. “Fucking Mexicans are animals.”

“Quit stalling, bitch. This is what you do now. Get good at it,” Octavio hissed.

“Ten cigarettes!” Hernan shouted, tears leaking out of his eyes.


“Ten cigarettes. I’ll…” Hernan said, “I’ll suck… y’know, I’ll suck on you.”

“Ten cigarettes for a blowjob?” asked one of the brothers, who rubbed his cock through his prison pants.

“No…” Hernan said, “All of you. Like a bulk discount.”

“Oh, so you’re like a coupon. Suck off fifteen wops for the price of two?” They laughed like it was the funniest joke they ever heard.

“What about ass?” asked one of them.

“I’m saving his ass,” Octavio said, and the Italians nodded. They knew that meant he was going to charge a lot of money to pop Hernan’s snitch cherry. Nobody fucked with Octavio, so Hernan’s ass was safe that night. He was ashamed of himself for begging Octavio, which he had sworn he would never do again, as the guidos dragged him to what they called Cagna angolo – Bitch Corner. He swore he’d do whatever Octavio wanted, but Octavio just sneered and said, “I know.”

It would be a long night for Hernan, who was left there alone, Octavio returning to Tent Alaska as soon as he made it clear that Hernan’s ass was not to be violated. The Italians fucked strictly by protocol, so the first one to get sucked was a powerfully built man with silver-flecked hair, smelling of lotion and gin. He was Vito, and he had been a fearsome assassin and enforcer before being arrested – considered a barbarian on the outside, he was a civilized predator as an old man at Brutewood, and he politely motioned for Hernan to take a position. They had constructed a facefucking table in cagna angolo, just a weight machine bench that had been angled downward and was adjustable so the bitch’s face could be placed at any height.

Vito’s heavy, drooping gray-tinged balls slapped against Hernan’s face as he fucked. He smoked a cigar while he did it, tapping his ash off on Hernan’s belly.  He shot a thin, watery load into Hernan’s mouth and dismounted, cleaning his own dick off with a wetnap.

Next was a very dark-skinned and portly Italian, covered with tattoos, who was followed by one of his brothers. They both fucked Hernan’s face the best they could, though their dicks were so thick Hernan could only fit their cheese-sour foreskins and fleshy cockheads in his mouth. (Oh look at him sucking on those dicks like a child with two lollipops. Italian sausage taste good, don’t it, frocio?) The brothers’ cum splashed together in Hernan’s mouth. “Hold that shit in there, snitch, hold it in, don’t let it out.”

“I’m not a snitch,” he said, gurgling through the cum, his whole body bucking violently at the texture in the back of his throat. But still, they laughed, insisting that he hold the goo in his mouth, and the next Italian slid his uncircumcised manhood down into the puddle, which splashed onto Hernan’s tongue and the inside of his cheek.

The whole tent fucked his mouth that day, and Octavio evidently considered the tent coupon a good business decision, because he kept at it every night, still pimping out Hernan’s face to anyone anytime during the day. The second night was Tent Nebraska, the Graybloods, and the following night was the Russians in Tent Florida. After that it was a blur, and Hernan only knew that someone was fucking his throat virtually every minute of his free time in the evening.

When he complained to Armstrong, the response was, “Well, that’s what you get when you snitch.”

“I didn’t!” Hernan screamed, and Armstrong looked as though he was surprised.

“What?” he asked.

Hernan told him everything, about he had committed the crime he was charged of and then not ratted on any of the men in his gang, and Armstrong listened to the betrayal of Pablo and to how Octavio punked him out to any tent with a half a pack of cigarettes. He nodded and frowned as though he was concerned.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Armstrong asked when he was done, leaned forward and opened his mouth as though to speak. He only let out a loud burp right on Hernan’s face; Hernan gagged at the smell, rotten and vile, like a sulfuric gym sock slapping his face. “I don’t give a shit whether you did it or not, shitheap. I don’t care at all. You are here to work for me. When I want to hear your sob story, I will work you until you sob and tell me what I want to hear. I’m charging you a Noncompliance Fee for taking up my time with this nonsense.”

And Armstrong walked away, later telling Octavio that Hernan had snitched again.

Tent Alabama was the worst. It was nineteen black guys who worked a road construction crew together during the day. It paid well for a prison job, and they rented Hernan’s mouth every Sunday night. They sometimes splurged on bribing the guards to be allowed to take Hernan out of the tent, to the woods for a night of face-fucking, drinking and smoking blunts under the stars, or to the rec room to watch lesbian porn while getting a blowjob from Hernan, or once, to a kitchen tent, where they pigged out on hoagies and macaroni salad, food that was normally reserved only for guards.

It was that night at the kitchen with the men of Tent Alabama that Hernan found the knife. They bent him over a bench that they angled slightly, lifting it up so that his mouth was at hip level. They thought that angle provided maximum throat penetration.

Hernan saw the knife when the third pulsating black cock was shooting wads of ropy cum into his throat. The knife had fallen into the crack between a large industrial refrigerator and a dishwasher. It gleamed even in the dim light of the kitchen tent. Hernan could hear himself gagging and heaving all over Tent Alabama’s thick cocks, but it was a distant sound for him. He felt the pain wafting from his mouth and throat down to his balls, which seemed to have shriveled permanently from the humiliation of his constant facefucking, but it didn’t quite feel real. He knew he was whimpering, begging them to stop, but he wasn’t consciously thinking about it.

He was thinking about that knife.

Mississippi Prison Life: Redneck Submission

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Mississippi Prison Life: Redneck Submission, a hardcore Brutewood Maximum Security Penitentiary story! Beware, it’s full of redneck non-consenting sex!


Kevin didn’t know he was asleep until he woke up with hands roaming over his body. He was confused at first, and didn’t know where he was. For one glorious moment he thought the last couple months had been a dream, and he was waking up next to Suzie.

But no, time was linear; reality was dismayingly predictable. Time had progressed forward while he was asleep, not backwards. Kevin was waking up to the feeling of his cellmate touching him. He shuddered with terror at the realization that this was it — he had gone nearly three months behind bars, and now finally, someone was trying to rape him.

Of course there was only one person it could be. He was locked in a tiny cell with Joshua Stockard, a hillbilly and former marijuana farmer. He went by Piggie, he had said, because he used to be fat. He had bulked up since coming to prison here at Brutewood Prison of Mississippi.

“You awake, huh? Hush though,” Piggie whispered. “Don’t make a lotta noise.”

The sound of his words shook the grogginess from Kevin’s mind. He shuddered, trying to decide whether to make a lot of noise to attract attention from the guards, fight back or give in. No option was appealing. He had trouble concentrating with Piggie’s thick fingers caressing Kevin’s smooth back. His hand moved down to Kevin’s ass, squeezed between his clenched cheeks and rubbed the rim of his asshole. Kevin yelped at his sensitivity, and his whole body tightened beneath Piggie’s muscles.


“Hush yer mouth, boy,” Piggie said softly, his moist breath warm and humid on Kevin’s cheek. “I am gonna make love to you now. That’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna stew up some love inside ya asshole.”


“I said hush yer mouth,” he said. “I’s tellin’ ya what’s gonna happen. Ain’t lookin’ for feedback. We gonna get wrapped up closer ‘an a Mama and Papa Bear in winter. I’m gonna fuck e’ry inch of yer body, boy, and I’m gonna keep fuckin’ it till you like it.” He wrapped one meaty hand over Kevin’s lips. His hairy, sweaty chest pressed against Kevin’s back, as he sucked on Kevin’s earlobe. Kevin shuddered in disgust, but found that he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even breathe deep enough to shout now if he wanted to, Piggie was right on top of him. His dick was rock-hard and wedged between Kevin’s asscheeks. He made no effort to fuck him at the moment, but Kevin was already awash with humiliation. “Good for you fo’ shuttin’ up. I ain’t gonna tell you twice in the future though. I’m gonna fuck you now. Got that? No point discussin’ it, that’s gonna happen, surer than a cock’s crow. There’s two ways this can go down now. I could whisper, keep it quiet, don’t tell no one. I still pretend we friends during the day. At night, I fuck you quiet and I use lube and I be as nice as I can be. I might even give you a reacharound if you behave. Let’s call that the coop’ation option. You understand that one? You can say yes.”

“Yes,” Kevin said, his voice weak and tremulous, muffled by Piggie’s hand.

“The second choice we call the ‘punk option’. If you pick that one, I’ll make a lotta noise. You will too — different noise, but just as loud. Everyone gonna know. I fuck you in the lunchline when I’m bored. You gonna lick my asshole, drink my piss and suck my balls, and you gonna do it in front of everyone. And I’ll start pimpin’ you out too. If you choose the punk option, Kevin, you can’t change yo’ mind later. If you choose to coop’ate, you can change yo’ mind. Ya understand the difference between those two choices?”


“Good. Now the next word out of yer mouth can either be coop’ate or it can be… anything else. Anything else is a vote for punk.”

Abused by a Warden

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Abused by a Warden, the latest Brutewood Maximum Security Penitentiary story!

Timmy knew he was in trouble. They had never searched his ass when coming back from the chain gang — but then, Timmy rarely had the opportunity to work on a chain gang. They didn’t even usually pat him down or make him empty his pockets. Somehow they knew, that was the only explanation. Timmy wondered if his friend John had been caught.

It was just weed, not a big deal. John had dropped a bag of weed near a stop sign, and when Timmy was picking up trash, he grabbed it. He snuck it into the back of his prison pants, and when he had a moment in the port-a-potty, he shoved it all the way in his ass.

Now he sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair, while the Warden sat at his desk and filled out paperwork. Timmy didn’t know what he was supposed to do — he thought he was in trouble, but the Warden was simply ignoring him for the moment.

“Uh, sir, I-“

“Be quiet!” the Warden snapped. He shook his head with disgust at Timmy, who bit his lip and fell quiet. The Warden was an ex-Marine Corps drill sergeant, and it showed. His burly body and harsh face projected authority, making it hard for Timmy to avoid doing precisely what he ordered. He was such a dominant man that it was nearly impossible to disobey him.

Finally, the Warden stood. He approached Timmy, sitting on the edge of his desk so he’d be close to Timmy. “So you thought you could sneak some drugs into my prison?”

Timmy thought about trying to deny it, but he decided it was best to be upfront about it. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“We’re going to have to teach you a lesson.”

Warden Warden — his actual last name was Warden, in addition to it being his title, so he insisted on being called Warden Warden — stood up. He sighed dramatically.

“You know what I woulda done to teach this lesson a couple years ago?”

“No, sir.” Timmy said. His voice broke and he winced in shame as Warden Warden chuckled.

“I would put you in Cell Block Sierra, and I woulda told them mothafuckers that you was a snitch,” Warden Warden said. His Southern drawl resonated in Timmy’s ears.

That idea terrified Timmy. Cell Block Sierra was the most hardcore part of Brutewood prison, and the people there had a reputation for cruelty, especially aimed at snitches. Guards didn’t regulate anything at Cell Block Sierra, they just tossed you in and collected you when your sentence was done.

“Do you want that, boi?”

“No, sir. Please don’t…” Timmy said, holding back tears in his eyes. He hated showing weakness like this, but he was glad at least that no inmates were around to see it.

“If I did that, they’d fuck you, you know that, right? That isn’t all they do, but they’d fuck you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not just with their dicks either. They’ll stick a spoon in, just to see you squirm. They’ll jam two cocks in your ass, two in your throat and then wrench your arms back so there’s a groove between your shoulder-blades, so someone else can fuck you there. Them mothafuckas is efficient, I give ‘em that.” He paused, then snapped, “Quit snifflin’, boi. I don’t like pussies. Men who cry annoy me. Makes me wanna give ‘em a reason to cry.”

“Yes, sir.” Timmy held back his sniffling. He didn’t think he was going to cry, but now that Warden had brought it up, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to resist.

“I know you ain’t want me to give you to Cell Block Sierra. Why don’t you show me that I ain’t gotta do that?”

Timmy was so nervous that he didn’t understand the question. He looked up at Warden Warden, who just frowned at him. There was a twitch in Warden’s pants.

A thought jumped unbidden into Timmy’s head — was Warden Warden demanding a blowjob? He thought for sure not. Warden Warden was a professional, a politician, really, he wouldn’t just demand a blowjob from an inmate. Or would he?

“Uh, sir?”

There were rumors that Warden Warden did precisely this sort of thing. Timmy had forgotten about that. He had never believed it. There were similar rumors about nearly every guard at Brutewood; surely they weren’t all a bunch of rapists, he thought.

“I like that you call me sir,” Warden Warden said. He was standing so close to Timmy that the bulge in his slacks was just centimeters from Timmy’s lip. Timmy could taste the sweat-stained fabric, and he smelled Warden’s balls.

“Yes, sir.”

“A lot of these pissants, they need me to teach ‘em a lesson about respect,” Warden Warden said. “You don’t need that lesson, do you?”

“Uh. No, sir.”

“So what are you doing to respect me right now?”

Timmy looked up and blanched at Warden’s knowing expression. Timmy was now sure he wanted a blowjob, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, both because he found the concept revolting and because he didn’t want to volunteer to do it if that wasn’t what Warden Warden was demanding.

“Uh, I’m calling you sir. Sir.”

“Yes, you are doing that,” he said. “But you should be respectful to all people, all the time, inmate. You should call all men sir, especially those who are older than you. That’s basic politeness. Your inability to understand that might be why you ended up in here in the first place. Disrespect.”

“Uh… Well… I was convicted of-“

“Shut up,” he said. “I don’t care. I wanna hear how you plan on showin’ me a little respect. After bringing weed into my prison, you better come up with something major, and soon.”

“Like what, sir?”

“I am not gonna give you any ideas,” he said. “You look like a creative guy. I bet you can think of something.”

“I… uh… I could do some… like work. For you,” Timmy said. “I could vacuum your office.” He blushed. It was the first thing he could think of that he was capable of doing without being a blowjob, which was really all his mind could focus on at this moment.

“You want to vacuum my office?”

“Well, uh, sir, I don’t exactly want to, but…”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Warden Warden said. “I hire people to vacuum my office. I don’t want to hire you, because I have you for free.”


“So think of something else.”

The pressure built. Timmy couldn’t even come up with anything else to say, besides offering to suck his dick; he literally couldn’t name a single nonsexual chore or task he was capable of doing. The bulge in Warden’s pants was now so close that if Tommy turned his head to the right, his face would be ensconced in fabric-covered balls.

“I could… uh… service… you.”

“Be more specific.”

“Well, uh, however you want, I guess. That’s-“

“Don’t guess. Say what you know, you little pissant.”

“I don’t know what you want, sir!” Now he couldn’t help but cry. Tears flowed down his chin. He blushed, but he lost control of his own emotions.

“Quit cryin’,” he snapped, “And yes you do know what I want. I can see it written all over yer face.”

“I could suck your dick!” Timmy said through his tears.

“There’s an idea,” Warden said thoughtfully. He whacked his limp cock against Timmy’s cheek, through the pants he still wore. Timmy winced at the momentary burst of salty cock-flavor.

Prison Rapists Downlow

This is a sample chapter from a hardcore gay prison rape story, Prison Rapists Downlow, available now on Smashwords! Check out the rest of the Brutewood Maximum Security books as well!

Trigger Warning: This chapter (and the rest of the story) is chock-full of rape!

Kurtis managed to keep his face stony and still until the cell door slammed shut. The second door on the other side slid into place as well, and then there was nothing but a resounding echo.

He finally let himself cry a little, but not too much. Kurtis had been convicted of raping his cellmate, which he thought was unfair — the man had begged Kurtis for protection, and Kurtis had refused to do it unless he got something out of it. The man had sucked his dick, and only after a few months suddenly declared that he had never been willing, that Kurtis had set him up to be in danger and need protection in the first place.

None of that was true. Kurtis had no desire to force anyone into sucking his dick. But he didn’t care. He was glad to be out of general population, even if the Sex Offenders’ Ward was much more boring.

When he was finally let out for recreation, Kurtis assumed it would be like protective custody, and they’d get an hour when all they were allowd to do was walk around a circle quietly. But instead they were led to an old rec area for the prison, and told they had three hours to do whatever they wanted.

There was a small basketball court, free weights and an open shower area. The other guys immediately went to work out, while Kurtis slowly took stock of the area.

He had thought his old friend Moxie would be here, but he was nowhere to be seen. Kurtis didn’t recognize anyone. He had been told the Sex Offenders Ward was a bunch of old queers and creeps, but these were gangbangers, younger and tougher than general pop. That was disconcerting, he thought.

No one was in the shower. They all wanted to work out first, Kurtis thought, which seemed natural. That meant he could take the entire shower area and not get into conflict with anyone on his first day.

He had been in prison long enough that he didn’t feel self-conscious getting naked in front of the whole cell block. He was proud of his big cock, and liked to show it off. He was big and tough, and as long as the rest of them didn’t all gang up on him at once, he could come out on top.

His heart leapt into his throat as he realized that was precisely what was happening. The men surrounded him, approaching from all sides.

Yo, nigga, you gonna give it up or what?

We want the booty!

Someone grabbed him from behind and he instinctively struggled, but found himself pinned by someone much bigger. He had to free his face from the man’s thick, tattooed pecs, which stank of sweat, to look up into the eyes of his attacker — El Carcayú — whose name was tattooed on his cholo chest.

He was the biggest Mexican Kurtis had ever seen, and he was known for raping every new guy at Brutewood until he was finally caught and sent here to the sex offenders’ ward. Kurtis had thought (hoped) that Carcayú was dead.

But instead he was here, grinning as Kurtis screamed profanity. His hairy chest rubbed against Kurtis’ face, some of the hairs coming loose in Kurtis’ mouth. He dragged Kurtis’ moist body out of the shower area, and then took him to the ground.

Kurtis’ dick was rubbing against El Carcayú’s, which was rock-hard. He bit at the man’s chest but he got the feeling El Carcayú was turned on by that. Kurtis was ensconced by his tattooed, caramel-brown flesh; it was all he could see, all he could smell, all he could taste.

“You can struggle all you want, but this is happening,” El Carcayú said. His voice was low and even — he wasn’t even straining to keep Kurtis still, he was actually enjoying the dry-humping Kurtis was doing as he tried to push away. “We decided to make you a communal bitch, that way we ain’t always fightin’ over who gets to fuck who.”

Kurtis felt fingers groping at his ass, and he renewed his struggle. That was enough to make El Carcayú cum, however, and his dick sprayed seed all over both of their chests.

“See, I love this, go ahead and keep struggling,” El Carcayú said, his thick Mexican accent resonating Kurtis’ ear. He had all four of his limbs wrapped around Kurtis, while someone else worked their dick into his ass.

Kurtis lifted his head up and screamed, stopping a few seconds later when thick brown hands wrapped around his face. The man who was fucking him gripped Kurtis tight and whispered in his ear. “This is happening, nigga. You ain’t never been fucked before?”

The pain was blindingly intense. Kurtis yelled into the man’s hand. He could see a little better now that his head was free — El Carcayú still had him in a bear hug with all four limbs, but Kurtis could see the entire cell block had gathered around, naked.

That was when Kurtis recognized the man fucking him. It was Moxie, Kurtis’ old friend from the outside, and former cellmate just a few years ago. “Mo… Moxie?”

“That’s right, nigga. I voted to wait for the next guy, just so’s you know. I was gonna let you move in here just fine. I got outvoted, so you’s the bitch now,” Moxie said. “Nothin’ personal, it’s just business.”

“Let… Go…”

“Nah,” Moxie said with a chuckle. “Once a bitch, always a bitch, and you know I work my bitches hard. Say my name again, nigga.”


“Say my name. You know how I do,” he said.


“You know that ain’t what I want,” Moxie said. He stopped moving with his dick about halfway in Kurtis’ ass. “So say it right.”

“Moxie, your big black cock is in my ass,” Kurtis said. He choked back a tear and hoped nobody noticed.

“That’s right,” he said with a sigh. A jolt of pain shot up Kurtis’ spine, and he closed his eyes at the realization the entire cell block was watching him. “Hey, Kurtis, remember the ‘do you feel it?’ game?”

Kurtis’ blood ran cold. He shook. He remembered that game very wel, and he was desperate to get out of playing it — it was extraordinarily humiliating.

“Why don’t you explain it to everyone else here?”

Kurtis spoke through gritted teeth. He tried to avoid eye contact with anyone, but Moxie held him by the dreadlocks and kept his face pointed in their direction.

“I… I have to say when I feel you cum,” Kurtis said, tears rolling down his cheeks. “When I can feel it in my ass.”

“And what happens if you don’t say you feel it when I nut?”

“You make me do ass-to-mouth,” Kurtis said. His voice broke as the entire cell block burst into cheers.

He always hated ass-to-mouth. He had made more than a few bitches do it, but Kurtis always thought it was gross. The thought of sucking off his own slimy assjuice made his stomach revulse.

He did feel it. As soon as that first jet of cum hit his intestines, he jumped over himself to say it. “You doin’ it, nigga! I can feel it,” he said, then buried his head in his hands so no one could see his face as they laughed.

Moxie was huge, and he loved showing off his dominance. So as he came, he flexed his biceps and roared so loud it brought a guard to the ward to tell them all to be quiet. Cum spewed inside Kurtis, who moaned in disgust as he felt it coat his insides in sticky semen.

“Say it!” Moxie shouted. His dick fell limp in Kurtis’ ass, and he grabbed Kurtis by the roots of his dreadlocks.

Kurtis knew what game this was. They used to make their bitches do this — basically make them think you had told them to say something in particular, and hit them until they say it, even though you never actually told them what to say. Moxie’s cock in his ass hurt, even though it was limp, and made it impossible for Kurtis to concentrate.

“Uh, Moxie is… my master.”

“That ain’t it, nigga,” Moxie said. He pulled on Kurtis dreadlocks and smacked him in the face.

“I am… Moxie’s bitch.”

“Nah. I voted against that, ‘member? I wanted you to be mah nigga like we used to be,” Moxie said. “But you a communal bitch now.” He punched Kurtis in the back.

“I… I’m a communal bitch.”

“That’s right, bitch. Don’t you forget it.”

Arrested by a Sheriff

This is a sample chapter from Arrested by a Sheriff by Bubba Marshall.

Scott was almost glad he had been arrested for the cause. He was sure he’d get a lot of national attention for it; he’d be sure to get an award from the ACLU, he thought. He chatted amicably with the cop who arrested him, Officer Ramsburg, on the way to the jail. It was a very friendly arrest.

He had registered more than two hundred voters in Bumcraw, Alabama, before Ramsburg arrested him for voter fraud. As far as he was concerned, it was a success despite the arrest, which he didn’t even understand — nobody was voting, just signing up to register to vote.

Scott’s elation dwindled as he was processed at jail, and the friendly Officer Ramsburg was replaced by a succession of dim-eyed cops in dingy uniforms.

Then he was finally shoved into a jail cell. Six black men were there, glaring in his direction though none of them made eye contact with him. They flexed their muscles beneath their civilian clothes.

Scott nodded politely and sat down on an empty bench in one corner of the large cell. He would have to walk next to the men to get to the toilet, he realized, and he hoped he would be released before he had to go.

One of the black men sidled next to him, and grinned in a menacing, grim way. “Wuzzup, whiteboi?”

“Hello,” Scott said. His heart pounded in his chest.

“You ever been a prison bitch?”

“No….” Scott said. He wanted to sound confident but knew he didn’t.

The black man placed one hand on Scott’s shoulder. It was heavy, weighing him down, and the black man scooted closer, so they were virtually hugging.

“You wanna take it in the ass or the mouth,” he said.

Scott stammered. “N-n-n-n-either….”

The black man stood up, seemingly about to attack Scott, when the cell door opened up. All of the black men fell silent, and glared at Scott, openly this time.

“Come on,” said Officer Ramsburg, “Come with me.”

Scott gladly followed orders and walked out of the cell. He could feel twelve black eyes watching him. He thought he was going to be arraigned, but was surprised to find that Ramsburg brought him to a plainly decorated office.

“So you thought you could come to my town and register a bunch of Democrats?” Ramsburg asked as he sat behind his desk.

Scott realized with mounting fear that he was trapped with Ramsburg and no witnesses. His hands were cuffed. He couldn’t do anything but submit.

“It’s their right to vote, it’s-“

“Don’t you talk to me about rights! Half of them were felons anyway, son,” he said.

“Then the state will reject their application,” Scott said.

“You saw what those animals were like in that cell.”

“They didn’t do anything to me.”

“We both know they was about to,” Ramsburg. “I thought I’d let you out before that happens, give you a second chance.”

“A second chance to do what?”

“To show me the respect I deserve as an officer of the law.”

Scott sat there quietly, trying to decide what Officer Ramsburg was suggesting. What should he do that was more respectful than he had been? He hadn’t insulted Ramsburg at all. “How?… How should I show respect, sir?”

Ramsburg leaned back in the chair behind his desk. His legs were spread wide, a thick bulge in his tight slacks plainly apparent in front of Scott’s face. He almost looked like he was suggesting he wanted a blowjob, Scott thought, but he was probably just trying to be intimidating. Probably.

“I’m sure you’ll think of a way. Voter fraud is a serious crime, Scott. It’s a felony. If coupled with a violent crime, it requires a minimum two year jail bid.”

“I didn’t do anything violent.”

“Are you sure?” Officer Ramsburg picked up a piece of paper and pretended to scrutinize it. “I think my report here suggests you resisted arrest and assaulted an officer.”

“What? No, I didn’t.”

“That’s what the report says.”

“It’s wrong!”

“Are you calling me a liar? That’s not very respectful, Scott,” Officer Ramsburg said. “You’re off to a bad start.” He paused and began unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the powerful barrel chest beneath the uniform. He was wearing a white sleeveless t-shirt underneath. “You’re going to have to show a lot of respect.”

He was now getting a very strong impression that Ramsburg wanted a blowjob. Did he think he was gay? He wasn’t gay, but he was a fashionable and sophisticated urban man, and a small town Southern sheriff like Ramsburg might think he was gay. Scott was terrified and couldn’t have asked to suck his dick even if he had wanted to.

“I don’t like outside agitators coming in and stirring things up, Scott. I don’t like that at all. You urban homosexual elite always want to-“

“I’m not gay!”

“Don’t interrupt me, Scott. I’ll interpret any interruption as a physical assault, and I’ll document it as such. So not another word, got it?”

Scott nodded.

“Good. You’re a rabble-rouser, Scott,” he said. He stood up and stripped off his white t-shirt. His chest was powerfully strapped with muscles and hair, a few military tattoos visible on his pecs and upper biceps. He picked up a civilian shirt as though he was going to change, then stopped and held it in his hand. His crotch was only a few inches from Scott’s head. “Have you figured out how to show me some respect?”

Scott shook his head.

“You ain’t makin’ this easy, son,” he said. He put a hand on Scott’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. “I bet if you think long and hard, you’ll come up with a plan.”

“Are… Are you trying to get me to suck your dick?” Scott’s voice sounded impossibly small and weak.

“I’m trying to find a reason to let you go home,” he said. “I don’t wanna keep you in that jail cell with those animals for the next couple years. You’re the one who ain’t got nothin’ to offer but a nice warm mouth.”

Scott quivered with fear but he knew what he had to do. His mouth slowly opened as though of its own accord, while he couldn’t think about anything but Officer Ramsburg’s eyes staring deep into Scott’s.

“What do you want me to do with that mouth?”

“What…? Sir?”

“I wanna hear you say it.”

“I’ll… suck your dick if you let me go,” Scott said.

“I know,” Officer Ramsburg said. He unbuttoned his slacks and let his musty, sweat-stinking cock flop out between his fingers. “But you’ll suck my dick even if I don’t let you go.” He then plunged his cock all the way into Scott’s mouth, plunging deep inside.

He was hard almost right away. Scott felt his fleshy shaft thickening inside his throat, and the flavor of his musky manhood overwhelmed Scott’s nostrils. It all began so fast Scott didn’t resist at all, he just swallowed Ramsburg’s cock and then choked on it in his neck.

The sound of Ramsburg’s radio flickering into life startled Scott, who heard a bored female voice repeating numbers into the ether. Scott’s nose buried in Ramsburg’s wiry pubic hair, which smelled of copper and baby powder. Ramsburg’s cock pulsated stiffly inside him, leaking precum right down his gullet. The salty flavor suffused into his tongue, and he could even smell Ramsburg’s cockshaft in his nostrils.

“Look up at me while you suck my dick,” Ramsburg said. Scott obliged though he blushed as he made eye contact with Officer Ramsburg’s cruel green-irised orbs.

Scott’s eyes frantically darted away, but he forced himself back to staring upwards so as to avoid angering Officer Ramsburg. His body bucked as though rejecting the cock in his throat, and he felt like he was trying to vomit but couldn’t because his neck was plugged up.

“Don’t fight me, Scott,” he said. “I ain’t gonna fuck yo’ face. That would be disrespectful of me. This is a choice you are gonna have to make.”

Scott’s face turned red, and he looked at the crotch in front of his face until Ramsburg barked at him not to break eye contact. He felt like he couldn’t deep-throat Ramsburg’s cock any further; there was about an inch left but he was unable to move his head any farther down. Spit leaked from his nostrils already, and his eyes watered from lack of oxygen.

“If I don’t feel your nose on my skin,” he said, “Then you ain’t doin’ it right. You showin’ respect or what? Those niggas in there would be treating you twice as bad, by the way, they’d be doing this to both holes, and they wouldn’t be letting you run it neither.” Ramsburg snorted in frustration, wrapped both his hands around the back of Scott’s head and bent his knees slightly. “Do you want me to show you how far down my dick will go?” He didn’t wait for a response, he just pushed his hips forward and used his hands to keep Scott from moving away.

Scott felt a tremendous pressure inside his throat, and he thought he might pass out from lack of oxygen. Ramsburg wasn’t even humping anymore, just holding his dick in Scott’s throat and sighing as the last few millimeters disappeared past Scott’s lips.

Finally his nose was pressed against Ramsburg’s crotch, his whole face buried by pubic hair. Ramsburg’s cock was so far down his throat that Scott couldn’t even taste it as Ramsburg began cumming.

Ramsburg snorted as he orgasmed, his whole body bucking beneath the uniform shirt and slacks. Cum flowed from his dick straight into Scott’s gullet. He felt it sitting there, hot and heavy in his belly.

Scott pulled away and gasped for breath tears twinkling in his eyes from lack of oxygen. The flavor of cum then hit his tongue as Ramsburg shot a few more drops of semen, their salty-cotton taste coating Scott’s mouth. He burped up a bubble of fluid, mostly cum but also spit and bile, which spilled out his mouth and down his chin. It stank horribly, Scott thought, and he gagged again.

“Alright, maggot. Let’s get you ready to learn your next lesson,” Officer Ramsburg said.

Undercover Behind Bars

This is a sample chapter from Undercover Behind Bars, a story in the Brutewood Maximum Security Penitentiary series from

Reggie Meyers was eager to get to prison. Not many people could say that, but he was looking forward to it. He had been practicing for this day for a long time, and it was likely to be the most difficult mission of his career.

So he could barely contain his smile as he went through the intake procedure, poked, prodded and screamed at by a horde of ruddy-faced white men with arrogant sneers. He couldn’t allow himself to look happy to be there, of course, or it would blow his cover. So he went along with the legion of sullen-faced and fearful men shuffling past the prison gates.

His target was processed right alongside him. Reggie was there to investigate Cornelius Broad, or ‘Broadback’ for short. He was a known gangbanger who had only been convicted on a few minor gun offenses, and would be out in a couple months. Reggie’s bosses thought he might confess to a fellow inmate, and Reggie was eager to prove he could make it happen. It was obvious Broadback was guilty of crimes far worse than possessing unlicensed handguns, including the murder of two FBI agents. It was only a matter of time before he slipped up and got a life sentence; Reggie wanted it to happened before he could kill anyone else.

Broadback was a tall nigga built like an iron brickhouse, every inch of him cut and tattooed with Gothic lettering, naked women and violent symbols. He had a prison-hard stare even though he had only spent a few cumulative years behind bars — it had probably been passed down, Reggie suspected, from his uncles, mother, father and grandfather, all of whom did time for robbery, assault or murder.

Since they were next to each in line, both Broadback and Reggie were sent to Tent Maryland, one of the smaller living quarters at Brutewood. They were both nude, carrying their orange prison uniforms in their hands, told not to stop to dress or to talk. They also had to march — as all Brutewood inmates were required to do — in what was called ‘the Safety March’.

Said to reduce contraband and violence, the Safety March required inmates to walk in a single-file line, arms interlocked with the person in front. Thus, when performed naked as Broadback and Reggie did, it was only one erection away from being gay sex. Broadback’s cock was hot and limp, pressing right in between Reggie’s asscrack. For the first time, the exhilaration of being undercover vanished and was replaced by dread and humiliation at what being in prison was like.

“Hey sorry about this, man, I ain’t gonna rape ya,” Broadback whispered into Reggie’s ear as they walked, “I don’t usually rape niggas.”

He undoubtedly meant his statement to be reassuring, but Reggie didn’t find any part of it comforting — he didn’t like the idea of anyone being raped, and he really didn’t like the word usually there. He was having trouble maintaining his composure, wrapped in Broadback’s muscular arms and rubbing against his hairy chest. He didn’t want to start gagging or having an involuntary reaction. Undercover agent or not, that was likely to get him seen as weak and vulnerable.

By the time they got to Tent Maryland, in a distant corner of the prison yard, Reggie felt sure that Broadback was beginning to get hard. His cock was hot like a cooked sausage pressed between his cheeks. Broadback dismounted from Reggie, his confidence sapped by the awkward familiarity, and they stepped into the tent.

Four bunks filled up the room, a latrine in one end giving a chemical disinfectant smell to the whole area. But if Reggie had hoped to cease with the forced homoeroticism when removing himself from Broadback, he was disappointed to step into the tent and see the other two inhabitants together.

They were El Oso and Pepe. El Oso was almost as big as Broadback but more burly, with a faint belly, and cholo tattoos covering his naked body. Pepe was a thin Latin man in his early thirties, wearing lipstick, rouge and little else. They weren’t having sex, but it looked like they were about to — Pepe was dancing, shaking his ass like a stripper for Oso. Pepe’s red lingerie was the only piece of clothing being worn in the room.

Oso stood, pushing in front of Pepe as though to protect him from Reggie and Broadback. Oso and Broadback made eye contact first, exchanging mean mugs while the air grew thick with tension. They stared each other down, then Oso flicked over to Reggie. No one did anything immediately hostile, so Oso visibly relaxed after a few seconds.

“Yo,” Broadback said, “We movin’ in. Don’t let us innerupt yo’ date night.”

There were four bunks, in pairs, one pair empty, and Broadback took the top, Reggie the lower. He settled into his bunk and tried not to watch Oso and Pepe. He knew there was a chance he’d witness rape and be unable to stop it without breaking his cover, and he had resolved to ensure justice was done as soon as his investigation was over, if that happened. But he couldn’t tell if Pepe was willing or not — he didn’t seem entirely unwilling, but when he didn’t resume dancing right away, Oso slapped him to tell him to start. So his consent was questionable, to say the least.

Pepe blushed, having been distracted by the sight of Broadback’s black ass bent over his bunk. He kissed Oso on the cheek and resumed his unaccompanied dancing, which was little more than swaying his hips and shaking his ass in Oso’s face.

Oso kissed Pepe’s asscheeks, loudly smacking his lips and slapping their bare skin. He looked over to Reggie and Broadback, then said, in a thick accent, “One dollar for handjobs, ten for blowjobs. Is very good blowjobs, esse. You like for real.” Pepe made a kissy face.

Reggie nodded and said, “Yeah, maybe later, okay.”

“How much for anal?” Broadback asked.

“Ass is for me,” Oso said. “Not for sale.”

Broadback scoffed. “No way. I got a big ol’ piece of meat,” he said, hefting it between his fingers. “Blowjobs ain’t worth a damn.”

Oso smiled and said “Lemme show you what this bitch can do.” He snapped his fingers and Pepe dropped to his knees in front of Oso.

The sound of Oso’s relaxing groan filled the room. Pepe swallowed the entire caramel shaft in one motion, slurping on it and using his hands to coax Oso’s balls.

Oso moaned some more and held his head in place, moving his hips in a circular motion. Pepe seemed to have an impossibly open esophagus, and though he gagged every few seconds, he held on like a pro, and let Oso’s cock stay in the back of his throat. He started turning red and finally slapped Oso’s meaty thighs.

His muscles flexing with every motion, Oso let loose Pepe’s head. Pepe heaved for breath and spat a huge wad of saliva onto his hand. He smeared it on Oso’s cock while gathering his breath.

“See?” Oso said. “She is better than a real female.”

“We don’t wanna watch you fuck with a man, homes,” Broadback said. He looked away from the scene, and Reggie did likewise.

“You just ain’t been here long enough,” Oso said. Pepe moved back to his dick and loudly swallowed it. Oso smiled. “Ten bucks.”

Reggie decided this was a good time to get info from Broadback, so he stood and faced the bed. “Hey, I need a distraction, man. I ain’t even wanna think about that homo shit. Let’s talk about something.”

“Yeah,” Broadback said. He looked around the tent. “Whatchoo think?”

Reggie shrugged. “I guess it prolly ain’t bad for a prison, I dunno. When I saw these tents I thought there was gonna be like sixteen niggas in ‘em. So that’s nice.”

Broadback nodded. “Yeah. I wonder if they gonna move more niggas in. Probly will eventually.”

Oso placed one hand on Reggie’s shoulders for support as he had a powerful orgasm. His moaning was so loud Reggie and Broadback fell silent, and Reggie twisted away, not wanting to feel Oso’s sexually contorting body on his.

Cum poured out of Pepe’s mouth and onto the cold ground beneath him. He swallowed as much as he could get in his mouth before it spilled. Reggie felt a little sick, but couldn’t turn his head to look away, like he was looking at a terrible car accident.

Pepe stood and wrapped one thin arm around Oso’s waist. Oso beamed as though proud of a beautiful girlfriend, Pepe casually kissed his nipple, then jumped onto his own bunk.

Men of the Baltimore City Jail

This is a sample chapter from Men of the Baltimore City Jail, a story in the Brutewood Maximum Security Penitentiary series from It is also available for less than half the cost per story as part of The Interracial Lust Collection, Vol. 1.

The longest, most excruciating period of every workday for me was mealtimes. The inmates of the Baltimore City Jail ate in a large open cafeteria, most of them wearing just prison-issue orange pants and scuffed wifebeaters or t-shirts, muscles bulging underneath their clothes. Seeing them crowd next to each other got me so hot it was all I could do to remain professional. The cafeteria was highly monitored and recorded, so I couldn’t take any chances there. The rest of my shift, however, afforded me considerable freedom.

I worked Sundays because it meant I was allowed to usher the chaplain through every part of the prison, but then left him alone to minister to the inmates. I always began on one of my favorite cell blocks, Whiskey. It was a segregated unit, meant unofficially for the Black Guerilla gang — we had always found it beneficial to divide cell blocks up by gang, to prevent violence and rape.

Appreciative whistling echoed in the steel-ceilinged hall as I walked past the rows of cells, sticking my uniformed ass out in the way I knew they liked. Each cell had four black men in them, mostly wearing boxers and t-shirts at first, but they quickly stripped them off. Their muscles pressed through the bars of their cells; some of them reached for me, but I stayed just far enough away they couldn’t touch.

I undid a couple buttons on my shirt, so the edge of my powder blue bra could be seen. Cell Block Whiskey had old-fashioned doors with bars running the entire height, so most of the inmates let their erect cocks poke out of their cells, stroking them and murmuring from their rough-hewn faces as I passed. I loved the smell of desperate sweat and precum, and their rugged, lip-licking mouths. Swagger spilled out of them, making my clitoris quiver just from the feel of my soft panties vibrating as I walked.

Paul Samson was a cruel-faced Black Guerilla, with broad shoulders and a shaved head, perfectly smooth and shiny, inked with the names of his daughters. He was one of my favorites, and had been for a long time because he had a perfect cock. It was long and thick and veiny, and it tasted like his entire manhood was bursting out of it. I would have loved to suck it down and taste his cum, but I needed to maintain my power over the inmates, and that meant teasing them more often than not.

“Yeah, Officer Charlotte, get over here. Let’s get it on,” he said as I leaned against the bars to his cell. His orange pants were around his ankles, bristly leg and pubic hair wild, stinking of dried sweat. His handsome jaw line moved even when he wasn’t talking, his tongue rolling in his mouth as though he was imagining the taste of my pussy. But I had a special nigga just for that, and no longer found it worthwhile to get eaten out by anyone else.

“Beg me for it, Samson.” I reached into his cell and wrapped my hands around his muscular waist, feeling his skin pucker at my fingertips. His tattoos flexed around my grip. His dick pulsated, begging me to grab it.

“Please, suck on my dick, come on, bitch,” he said, “Be my bitch. You want it, don’t ya?”

“Oh, I do,” I said, wrapping one hand around his hot, thick cock. I slowly slid along its shaft. It was already hard as cell bars, leaking sticky precum even before I touched it (Yeah, that guard is doing it. Fuck, come over to my cell next, bitch!)

I motioned for his cellmates to come forward. They weren’t as sexy as Samson was, their bodies strong but not dripping with sex like his, their faces too rearranged from prison brawls, their teeth jagged and broken, eyes scarred and wild. There was one in his early fifties, Thumper, his hair just streaked with gray, his body burly and bark-colored, and two younger men, lithe and heavily tattooed, Rabbit and Harsh.

As he usually did, Thumper got up real close to Samson, their hips pressing against each other. He jabbed his dick towards me. “Come on, rub me off too,” Thumper said as Samson winced. I knew he hated Thumper touching him. Thumper wrapped one of his muscular arms around Samson’s waist, hugging him close. (Yeah, she gonna do ‘em both. Give the whole block a handjob, slut!)

“Man, don’t jump in on this shit,” Samson said, “Let her do me.”

“You gonna jack me off instead?” Thumper asked. Samson groaned. “Then shut the fuck up and let her do it. Damn, nigga…”

Thumper smiled at me and nodded, and I grabbed his engorged cock with my left hand. He moaned right away, and I began stroking both niggas off in unison. Thumper’s dick was shorter than Samson’s, but much thicker and veinier, his gray-tinged pubic hair bushier.

“I needed this, bitch,” he said, “My own hand just don’t cut it.” He wrapped his right arm around one of the wiry tattooed niggas in the cell with him and kissed him chastely on the cheek. “This nigga too squeamish. He just wanna cry the whole time.”

The younger, skinny man, Rabbit, whined, “Nigga, that ain’t how it is, shut yo’ mouth.” He tried to step away from Thumper, whose jovial face grew serious.

Thumper grabbed his cellmate’s bare ass, jabbing one finger into it and pushing him against the cell bars. The young man closed his eyes and said, “Sorry, nigga, stop, stop.”

“You done contradictin’ me, boi?”

“Yes, I’m done,” Rabbit said. Thumper took his finger out of Rabbit’s ass and shoved it in the young man’s mouth. He gagged at the taste in his mouth, Thumper sneering at his disgust.

I felt Thumper’s cock pulsating with power as he whispered in the young man’s ear. “You best not disrespect me or I gonna punk you out for real.”

Someone in a cell next to me came, their semen flying through the air and landing on my pants leg. Others must have cum too, because I could smell it in the air. (This bitch is cock crazy. There should be one like her in every joint.)

Samson’s handsome face went sullen as I told him to hug Thumper. “I wanna jack you both off together,” I said. Samson gingerly placed his arm around Thumper’s broad shoulders, his armpit hair brushing against Thumper’s torso, their muscles shimmering with each other’s sweat. They angled their hips together and I took both cocks between the same cell bars. When their hot cockflesh touched, Thumper grinned and Samson frowned, moaning and laughing a little to hide his discomfort.

“You wait till you been here a couple more decades,” Thumper said to his cellmate, “You gonna learn to love it, nigga. Use our precum as lube so it’s actually better, man.” Sure enough, both cockshafts were thick with precum, sliding against each other as I wrapped both my hands around the cocks.

(Oh fuck, she jacking them off with the same hand! This bitch need-a work e’ry night!)

“You gonna suck down my cum, ma’am?” Thumper asked with a wide, goofy grin. “I’m ‘bout to bust the world’s biggest nut.” He looked at Samson’s awkward face. “You gonna get beat to nut by some old nigga, man. You should be ‘shamed of yo’self. I gonna tell yo’ paps too.”

Thumper’s gyrations grew more and more exuberant until he was fucking my hand. He kept talking, cracking wise about his cellmates and me, making the listening crowd laugh with silly jokes and exaggerated fucking noises. I held out my left hand in front of his cock when it began convulsing, his body shaking as he screamed and cheered. He shot his wad right in the palm of my hand, a hot soup of cum that had to be at least a full tablespoon.

“Man, can’t you suck my dick, Officer Charlotte?” Samson asked, having trouble keeping his dick hard.

“No, I like it like this,” I said.

“Well you can let go of his dick. He’s done,” Samson said.

“But I like it like this,” I said.

Samson winced and muttered something about it being gay, but he didn’t stop. He closed his eyes, ignoring Thumper’s teasing and pawing over his muscular frame.

“I’ll swallow your cum when you’re done,” I said, and that finally got him excited again.

Samson began thrusting his hips forward, his precum mixing with Thumper’s semen, making a squishing sound with every stroke. His toned muscles flexed, making my pussy wet even without touching it. I felt his orgasm coming and put my hand in place to catch his load.

He shot a wad even bigger than Thumper’s, a heavy spurt that almost overflowed out of the palm of my hand. The men around me hooted with appreciation, and the snotty smell of semen filled the air.

“You take it in your mouth first,” I said, “Then we’ll kiss and I’ll swallow.”

“No!” he said, “That’s fucking gross. His cum is in there.”

“Do it,” I said.

The other inmates started chanting, “Do it! Do it!”

I held my hand up in front of his handsome black face, and Samson reluctantly slurped the cum out of my palm. He gagged, his whole body rejecting it, then opened his mouth to show me. He crossed one arm across his belly as though he needed to physically force the semen to stay in his mouth.

I nodded. “Good job, Inmate Samson. You hold onto that load.”

I darted away, laughing as he protested with his mouth full of cum. He spat the semen out of the cell, where it landed in the center of the walkway, congealing there coldly.

“You fucking bitch!” he shouted.

I smiled and moved onto the next cell.