Category Archives: Brutewood Minimum Security

Str8 Till Dark: Closetmates

Here’s the beginning of Str8 Till Dark: Closetmates, the long-awaited rebirth of the Str8 Till Dark series!

The storage closet was dim and dark. Raisin hurried in, then tried to switch the light on. The door shut as he flicked the switch. The light didn’t turn on. The closet remained pitch-black.
“Damn it,” he muttered to himself. He grabbed for the doorknob to reopen the door — just enough to get some light in so he could see.
But the door swung open before he could, and Officer Martin walked in, quickly, quietly shutting the door behind himself as though he didn’t want anyone to see him come in here. Raisin caught a whiff of his cologne and had to hold back a moan.
That’s because Officer Martin was sexy, and Raisin had had a crush on him ever since coming to the Peoria Jailhouse. The worst thing about prison, Raisin thought, was the sex.
That was the part he had been looking forward to. As a slim gay man with a feminine personality, Raisin had always fantasized about being bent over by some hulking alpha male cellmate or a stern uniformed guard. That part, he had hoped, should have been fun.
But as it turned out, jail was different from prison, and in jail — or at least in this one — the average inmate was sixty-four, sickly, fat and possessing a cock like a mosquito bite. Raisin was not into it. The one genuinely hot guy he got to share a cell with at all was a male stripper (a bit of a prettyboy, but Raisin wasn’t going to complain) who was straight but also literally piss-drunk. Raisin wasn’t into molesting unconscious prettyboys who stank of urine.
He hadn’t actually had sex since getting arrested. The closest he came was fantasizing about Officer Martin.
That’s because Martin was a thick-limbed amateur bodybuilder, with a craggy face, square jaw and an ungodly sexy accent like a Bronx cabbie. He was short, about Raisin’s height, and he had a harsh voice like he gargled with cigarette butts.
“Yo, hey man, hey,” Officer Martin said, whispering.
The jailhouse was quiet. Martin was the only officer on-duty right now, though the kitchen staff was in the other room cleaning up for the night. Raisin wasn’t in his cell because he was a prefect now; that meant he was allowed out to work during the day and evening. He worked in the jailhouse itself, mopping floors and doing whatever other tasks the cops asked.
It was Officer Martin who had asked him to come into this walk-in closet to get a box of breathalyzer tubes. As always, when that gravel-coated voice filled Raisin’s ears, Raisin giggled, blushed and gazed into Officer Martin’s dark eyes.
“Yo, hey,” Officer Martin said. He pursed his lips. His gravelly voice was nervous and wavering, and it filled the air, resonating in the walk-in closet.
“Hey. The light isn’t working. I think the breathalyzer tubes are over here. But the lightbulbs — if you just open the door a crack-“ Raisin blushed, not that anyone could see it. It was obvious Officer Martin wanted to talk to him, probably to ask if Raisin knew who was smuggling weed into the jail. Raisin did know, but he wasn’t about to say.
“I know. The light ain’t workin’ cuz I took the bulb out,” Martin said. “Shush, boi.” He wrapped his powerful arms around Raisin, whose heart fluttered, then picked him up to switch positions with him. That placed Raisin right next to the door.
“Oh. Martin…” Raisin was confused, a bit scared, and a whole lot aroused because he finally got to touch the only sexy man he had seen for the last three months.
“I put ya next to the door, on account of so you can leave,” Martin said. He whispered, but he had such a deep, potent voice that it wasn’t very quiet. No one was around anyway — it was after five, so all the cops save Martin were gone. There were only four inmates right now, so there was only a need for one officer at night.
“Oh…” Raisin’s dick rocketed to attention. He was already imagining getting fucked by Martin’s massive bodybuilder frame, but the intellectual part of his mind assumed that wasn’t it. He presumably had something else to ask. Raisin was just too horny to think of any other reason to go through all this.

Servicing Black Thugs: The Inmate

Here’s the entirety of Servicing Black Thugs: The Inmate, a story in the Servicing Black Thugs series!

Roger had gotten a part-time job delivering vegetables for AZO Distribution for only one reason — one of the other drivers, Charlie, was a studly black man, exactly the type of swaggering thug he lusted after.

Not only did Roger have a fetish for macho black thugs, he had a seemingly foolproof ability to zero in on precisely those black thugs who were willing to swing that way. He was sure that Charlie would do it, but it was hard to engineer a time to meet him alone. The dispatch center was always crowded.

He was focused on creating a plan as he drove on Friday, finishing up his round of deliveries. He was so lost in thought that he was surprised to see he his own delivery van pulling into the local jail. That was the kind of thing he would normally notice as soon as he saw it on the schedule. But it was just called Brutewood C.J. on the invoice, and Roger hadn’t given it much consideration; now he knew what it stood for — county jail. Brutewood was a private prison company who operated the local correctional system.

He was a bit annoyed his boss hadn’t specifically warned him. What if he had worn expensive jewelry? Or packed a switchblade? He’d be in danger, and possibly violating a contraband law as soon as he drove in. It was only a local jail, but still, Roger didn’t want to get in trouble.

He followed the signs for deliveries and pulled into the rear of the jail. He met with a uniformed officer, who signed for the invoice, and introduced him to Dwight, an inmate who would help unload the van.

As soon as Roger saw Dwight, he forgot all about Charlie. Dwight was a tall smooth-bodied chestnut-skinned man with a thick mustache. His orange jailhouse pants were slung low, and he had a thuggish swagger, though it was immediately apparent from his bearing — and the reverence with which he displayed a small crucifix over his neck — that he was a devout Christian.

Roger knew that would be no barrier. Dwight was hot to trot, and he was sure Dwight knew it too from the moment they laid eyes on each other. Dwight immediately began undressing Roger with his eyes.

He had a rough, southern accent. “Lemme get that fo’ ya, suh,” he said, taking both of the heavy boxes of potatoes. Roger grabbed the much lighter sack of salad mixes, following him into the kitchen area. There were no other inmates that he could see, and the uniformed cop wandered off.

Dwight looked Roger up and down as he showed him to the pantry. “You ken put them salad bags down right tharr,” Dwight said. He hefted the potatoes onto a shelf. “God bless ya, man. You ain’t the usual guy. What happened to Wilson?”

That was why Roger was given the prison assignment, he realized, suddenly grateful that he was the rookie, and had therefore been given Wilson’s deliveries — Wilson was a coworker whose sister had just died in a car accident. Roger explained that to Dwight, who clicked his tongue against his teeth and prayed.

“That poor man, I’ll pray for him, he is a good man, yup, a good church-going man,” Dwight said. “You help yusself to a glass of water, sirruh, yessum, I’ll go get the dolly.” He hurried off, big body shaking as he strode towards the truck. He came back a few minutes later with the hand-cart full of the remaining boxes of produce.

Roger didn’t want any water, so he just waited in the pantry. It was a small kitchen, with only one door, and from the pantry, Roger had a good view of the whole area. This was pretty close to ideal, he thought.

Dwight came to the pantry with the last box of produce. “Them carrots is lookin’ good. We ain’t normally get baby carrots. They’s nice.”

Roger nodded. “They’re on sale right now. I still like big, thick carrots though.”

“I bet you do,” Dwight said. “You look good enough to eat, boi. Bet you taste better than a carrot.” Something about the gasping, aroused way he said boi turned Roger on; it was equal parts insulting, seductive and menacing all at once.

“Do we have privacy here?” Roger asked. He gingerly reached out and touched Dwight’s chest. His pecs bulged through the too-small prison uniform shirt he wore, which was so short it left the lower part of his belly bare. He didn’t have a six-pack, that much was obvious even through his clothes; he had a thick, strapping body, bulky muscles behind a thick layer of flesh.

“Yup,” he said. “You suck good, huh?” He reached out and touched Roger’s lips, squeezing them together to form a kissy face.

“I do alright,” Roger said. He opened his mouth as wide as he could to demonstrate.

“I ain’t queer or nothin’,” Dwight said. He cleared his throat, the seductive tone momentarily leaving his voice. “You should know… No offense or nothin’… You know it’s a sin, right?”

“I do,” Roger said as he sunk to his knees.

“I mean… You should seek repentance. Me too, of course, but I know I will repent. I’ll beg forgiveness after this, and God will forgive me. I am bathed in the blood of the lamb, boi. You gonna ask forgiveness?”

Roger shook his head.

“Well, that’s yo’ right,” Dwight said in a way that suggested he didn’t think Roger should have that right. He wrinkled his nose. “Now go on and suck me. Wait.” He leaned down and kissed Roger right on the lips. At first it was just a chaste peck; their lips barely came into contact. Dwight moaned a little as though he had scarcely had any human contact recently. “Don’t tell no one I kissed you.” Then he kissed Roger again, and this time plunged his tongue deep inside.

Roger was shocked. He wrapped his arms around Dwight’s broad shoulders, which were bare as he took off his shirt and dropped his prison pants. His cock was rock-hard, sticking out the fly of his boxers.

Their tongues interlocked. Dwight’s was strong and forceful, pushing its way into Roger’s mouth. Roger tried to do likewise, but Dwight’s tongue took up the whole space between their mouths.

When he finally pulled his face away from Roger’s, Dwight had his eyes closed. Roger made a high-pitched mewling sound, hoping it came across as feminine. It seemed to work, as Dwight moaned exquisitely when he heard it.

“Yeah, baby, you wanna taste my meat? You gonna suck it all the way down, yeah, you gonna taste every inch of that shit. You gonna beg me for it.”

“Please let me taste your meat,” Roger said. He stuck out his tongue and demonstrated how wide he could open his mouth.

He plunged down on Dwight’s rod, and Dwight moaned again. He leaned back against the wall for support, and threw his head back, keeping his eyes closed. His knees went weak for a moment.

“Shit… we ain’t got fags who suck dick like this… I mean… homosexuals who suck dick like this in this place. We got one f-… one homosexual. He don’t suck dick good,” Dwight said. Then he bit his lip and moaned.

Wanting to prove how good he was — Roger knew he was a good cocksucker, and he was proud to show it off — Roger deep-throated Dwight’s cock. Dwight was clearly astonished that someone managed to swallow his whole cock, and he was, for once, speechless. His mouth kept moving but he was too aroused to form actual words.

With one hand, Roger reached into his own pants and began stroking himself off, while using the other to play with Dwight’s pendulous balls. His sac was so sweaty the hair was plastered to his wrinkled scrotum-skin.

Dwight murmured under his breath as his dick pulsated precum into Roger’s mouth. It sounded like he was either talking trash to Roger or praying for forgiveness, or maybe a little of both, but Roger couldn’t hear his words.

“Hey, boi,” Dwight said, whispering even though there was no one around. He looked ashamed as he checked for witnesses out in the kitchen area. He turned back to Roger, whispering in a low, growly voice. “You shave yo’ ass? You that kind of queer?”

Roger nodded. He didn’t take Dwight’s cock out of his mouth, just looked into his deep eyes and nodded his head. He could lose himself in those incredible brown eyes — despite his kind personality, Dwight had the eyes of a hardcore, cruel thug, and Roger loved peering into them.

“Then drop those pants, boi,” Dwight said, cackling with glee. Then he stopped himself. “I mean… It’s a sin, boi. You shouldn’t be doin’ that. You should be acceptin’ Jesus Christ into yo’ heart. But if you gonna do it, shake that ass right now. I wanna see ya jiggle.”

Roger didn’t even think about declining. He turned around and undid his pants, glad he had shaved just a few nights ago. He bared his ass, and Dwight immediately began kneading the flesh as he groaned and grunted. It sounded like he was incredibly turned on by the sight of Roger’s bare ass. His rough fingers caressed Roger’s ass.

“Gonna open you up, boi, gonna get this pussy nice and loose, yeah,” Dwight said. “Make some sounds like I’m lickin’ yo cat, boi.” He rammed one finger in, and Roger yelped in pain. Dwight was being rough and crude, uncaring of Roger’s pleasure. That much wasn’t a surprise. The surprising part came a few seconds later when Dwight’s tongue plunged in.

Roger was so shocked to get a rimjob from a big straight stud like Dwight that he initially didn’t react at all. But then he realized that was why Dwight asked him to make sounds like a woman getting eaten out — he wanted to feel like he was licking pussy.

Roger yelped and moaned. He cooed in a womanly way, and opened his asshole up like he was sure women did. He murmured “Come on, baby, lick me,” in a feminine voice. Dwight growled, a deep rumbling sound that resonated in Roger’s ass. His mustache scratched at Roger’s crack.

His tongue enthusiastically lapped at Roger, his initial hesitation fading as he seemed able to convince himself it was just like eating pussy. He produced copious spit, making Roger’s smooth ass gleam with moisture.

By the time he pulled away, Roger’s ass was as loose as it could ever be. That was good because Dwight had an enormous cock, and he wedged it in, causing a shiver of pain to run up Roger’s spine. He let out a low moan that sounded obviously masculine, until he remembered to switch to a more feminine tone partway through.

“This is gonna hurt, boi,” Dwight said. “You into that, right? You like big dicks?”

“God yes, please! Fuck me,” Roger said.

“I was hoping you was gonna say that, I used to be a real thug, a gangbanger, nigga, I used to love making it hurt. Now I love makin’ love,” Dwight said. He took a deep breath as he squeezed more of his dick in. “Say you sorry, boi.”

“I’m sorry, Dwight.”

“Not me! Don’t ‘pologize to me, boi. I don’t care what you put in yo’ ass. Apologize to God.”

“I’m sorry, God,” Roger said.

“Good,” he said grinding his dick in even deeper. He wrapped both of his arms around Roger, holding him close to his powerful, hairy chest. Roger choked in pain and bucked, but submitted to Dwight’s position. Dwight whispered in his ears. “I’m real fuckin’ horny, boi. God told me that’s okay, that a man’s gotta do what he gotta do to get through tough times. You understand that? This is definitely a tough time,” He didn’t stop fucking as he talked, so Roger found himself unable to speak, the sensation of being fucked by Dwight’s foot-long cock too intense to overcome.

His own cock was rock-hard, demanding attention, but his hands were busy holding onto the pantry shelves for support. Dwight continued working his manhood in and out of Roger’s ass. The whole time, Dwight caressed Roger’s smooth chest, staying away from his nipples as though touching where he hoped to feel tits would be disappointing because Roger had none; it seemed Dwight wanted to pretend to himself he was fucking a woman.

“God want me to prove I’s doin’ this cuz I can’t resist the urges, boi. Not cuz I’m queer myself. So I’m gonna do something to show that I’m ‘ware of my sin.”

Roger had no idea what Dwight was trying to say. He was yelping and grunting as he took every inch of Dwight’s cock, which was too big for Roger to focus. He only realized Dwight’s point when the man’s thick, callused fingers reached around to Roger’s cock.

Oh fuck, Roger thought, I never dreamed someone like Dwight would give a reacharound!

An orgasm began building from the moment Dwight’s hands wrapped around Roger’s dickshaft. Dwight was hesitant, apparently undesirous of touching another man’s meat, and his rhythm was awkward. But somehow that made the handjob even sexier.

“Yo, boy!” boomed a male voice Roger didn’t recognize.

Someone was coming into the kitchen. Roger panicked, but Dwight shushed him and held him still. He then pushed Roger closer to the shelves, so somebody would have to be very close to see him. There were crates of supplies outside the pantry that concealed the fact that Dwight’s pants were around his ankles.

“G’afternoon, Officer Armstrong,” Dwight said.

“Go fuck yourself. Did that delivery come in?”


“Good. You know who stole the cocaine out of evidence?”

“Nossuh, don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout that,” Dwight said, as smooth as though he had rehearsed that exact line. It didn’t sound like Dwight was concealing something from Armstrong, more like he was confirming that he would keep it a secret that Armstrong was the one who stole cocaine out of evidence.

“You weren’t supposed to be there anyway, boy.”

As soon as Armstrong said boy, Dwight bristled. His cock jumped and pulsated in Roger’s ass. Roger squealed, biting his lip to avoid making noise. Luckily the walk-in refrigerator was nearby, and it produced a loud ambient noise, which covered up Roger’s panting.

“Yessuh, I real’ze that,” Dwight said. “I’m a Christian man, Officer Armstrong. I mind my own business. I don’t want any trouble.”

“I’m glad to hear that, boy. Don’t make trouble, and I won’t give you any.” Officer Armstrong was not far away. He must be just on the other side of those crates, Roger thought. If the crates weren’t there, he’d have seen Dwight fucking Roger’s ass plain as day.

“Yessuh. You’s in charge, suh, I assume you gots a reason for everything you do. And it’s prolly a good one,” Dwight said.

“That’s right. Don’t you forget that. I always have a reason, boy,” Officer Armstrong said. Then his feet clicked on the ground as he walked away.

At last he was gone. Dwight slammed his dick deeper into Roger’s ass, and growled. He obviously had some aggression to get out, Roger thought, and he was glad to take it.

His Christian demeanor vanished. Roger got the impression he was now seeing “the old Dwight”, a swaggering thug who muttered take it, bitch as he rammed his rod in and out of Dwight’s ass.

“I hate that fucking honky, man,” Dwight said. “If I thought I could, I would… be extremely unChristian toward that man.”

Roger tried to make sympathetic sounds, but all that came out was a strangled cry. He gasped and clutched at the wooden shelves. It seemed Dwight had forgotten about giving a reacharound

“I seen that fucking shithead doing some sleazy-ass shit, lemme tell you. I think he raped this Mexican boy who was in here-“ Dwight took a deep breath. He stopped moving for a moment. “Nevermind. I’m sorry. I am not behaving right. Am I hurtin’ you?”

“No, god, no, please, keep going,” Roger said breathlessly.

Dwight placed a box of kids cereal in front of Roger. “Nut in that,” he said. “That’s his. He eats that every morning.”

Then Dwight spat in the palm of his hand and resumed stroking off Roger. He was again clumsy and badly-timed, but Roger appreciated the effort and the feeling of his prison-toned biceps rubbing against Roger’s body. Dwight was so much bigger than he was that he felt like a monster behind him.

Roger was so close to cumming that he shot just moments after Dwight finally began getting into the rhythm of stroking him off. Roger’s whole body bucked, and squeezed around Dwight’s dick as he shot his load right into the cardboard cereal box. He gasped and rubbed his head against Dwight’s powerful pecs and erect nipples.

That was apparently enough to set Dwight off. He grunted as he wiped the cum off his fingers onto the side of the cereal box, and then he grabbed Roger by the hair. Pushing his head down to the ground, Dwight, uncaring of the cum still stick to his hands, began pounding his cock deep into Roger.

Pain split Roger’s sides, but his own orgasm was still continuing, the aftershocks making his whole body shake. Dwight’s cum filled his ass with hot, creamy goodness, and it dripped down his thighs onto the pantry floor.

“Thank you, fuck…” Roger said. “That was incredible. You always fuck like that.”

“I got a champion dick,” he said. He still hadn’t removed it. Its meaty thickness throbbed in Roger’s ass.

“You certainly do.”

“Shit…” Dwight said as he pulled his cock out. He wiped it off with a napkin. “You pretty good at deliveries too, boi. Can you take this route from Wilson permanently?”

“I can try,” Roger said. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

Twink on Top: Penal Party

Here’s the entirety of Twink on Top: Penal Party, the hottest story yet in the Twink on Top series! It’s a Brutewood Medium Security Penitentiary story, and it’s in the 50 Twinks Top 50 Tops megabundle for a great value.

It was the most enjoyable party Ted Halloway had ever been to. He knew perfectly well that it was only this fun because he had been in prison for a year and a half before it happened. It was the first enjoyable event in his entire time behind bars. So it felt like an evening in heaven.

It helped that there were no women. That meant the biggest alphas and thugs danced with gay girlish twinks like Ted as though he was a girl — Ted didn’t like cross-dressing, so he wasn’t as popular as certain other inmates, but still, he got closer to some sexy men than he had in quite awhile. He even got to kiss an incredibly hot redneck named Bubba, whom Ted had been drooling over for months.

The guards watched like it pained them to see inmates having a good time. Supposedly — Ted wasn’t privy to this because he was a pitiful twinky queer — all of the gangs were told that they’d be punished if anyone got in a fight during the party. That was why it went off without a hitch.

There was no alcohol, but the guards did allow a little weed in for the night. That was probably a wise decision, Ted thought; alcohol would make men fight, but the weed just made them giggle. Without any women among the inmate population, the feminine gays like Ted were treated much like women. He was feted as a queen by the entire prison.

But all good things come to an end, and this penal party was no exception. Ted was disappointed to hear the music come to stop. The guards bellowed at the inmates to head back to their cells Everyone slowly lined up, dragging their feet, grumbling and claiming they weren’t going to stop partying even as they did stop. But a part of Ted was at least happy that the party had gone off without a hitch — there was no fight, no smuggled-in booze, no one got hurt. That meant there was a chance the guards would allow another party in the near-future.

“Halloway, hey, Halloway… Ted!” boomed a male voice. It was one of the guards, Officer Armstrong, who grinned and grabbed Ted off the line. “Come on,” he said.

“What? What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Armstrong said. “You’re gonna have a second little party.”

“Do I have a choice?” Ted wasn’t sure what this was and he was nervous. He didn’t trust Officer Armstrong, whose voice was always menacing. It sounded like a threat even when all he said was it’s going to rain today.

“Well… yeah, I guess,” Armstrong said. “But come see what it is first. You won’t say no. If you refused this, I would be… more shocked than I have ever been in my life.”

It was hard to argue with that, and Ted was intrigued, so he followed Armstrong into an old disused showering area — he didn’t trust Armstrong in general, but he did trust him not to be a murderous psychopath or anything like that; he might strike back extra-judicially against an inmate who had wronged him, not someone easygoing and rule-abiding like Ted. Inside the dingy old shower were a handful more guards, all brimming with nervous smiles, and seated on the ground in the center of the shower, was Chowder.

Chowder was the leader of a gang called the Nineliner Mob. He was white, heavily tattooed, nearly inch of his body covered in Gothic letter, naked ladies, wild animals and an outline of Massachusetts over his left pec. He had a handsome jawline with deep dimples. His broad chest was hairy, and he had developed a six-pack since coming to Brutewood. He was also the tallest inmate in the facility; at nearly seven feet tall, he struggled to fit through doorways and down corridors.

He winced but smiled at Ted. His friendly grin wasn’t unusual — he was outgoing and charming, but he didn’t let that get in the way of business. He was one of the few big alpha males in Brutewood whom Ted had never sucked off. That was because he had a bitch named Sammi, whom Ted hated. Chowder fucked Sammi publicly, hard and often; Ted was jealous because he loved to get fucked hard by alpha thugs like Chowder. Ted normally preferred black thugs, but Chowder was insanely hot and his Boston accent aroused Ted every time he spoke.

“So, uh… Ted,” Chowder said. “I was, uh… I put togethah that pahty. I was… y’know… Uh, I had to arrange it all.” He laughed nervously into his hand.

“Chowder… come on, we ain’t got all day,” Officer Armstrong said. “Don’t drag this out.”

“They said we could have the pahty if I did somethin’ aftah it, to prove I’s really serious about makin’ sure the party was good. I had to show I was gonna make sure it went off without no fightin’ or nothin’,” Chowder said, sucking his teeth every other word. His thick Boston accent made it sound like his mouth was full of cotton balls. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Ted… will you… please fuck me.” The guards all whooped and hollered. Ted blushed even harder than Chowder, who bit his lip. He took Ted’s hand in his like he was gonna propose. “Will you let me suck yo’ dick and take it in the ass and lick yo’ ass but only fo’ five seconds? And no kissing, and no tellin’ nobody aftahwahds.” That sounded like something that had been carefully negotiated with Armstrong.

“Oh wow,” Ted was so excited his knees were weak. He looked to Officer Armstrong, who had a gleeful smile on his face — Chowder was often in trouble for fighting with the guards, so they were understandably glad to watch him get fucked.

Everyone looked at Ted, who didn’t know what he was expected to do. He looked down at his feet, too scared to say anything.

“You gotta say yes,” Armstrong said with a chuckle. “If you wanna do it.”


They all laughed at Ted’s excitement and Chowder sighed again, like he had hoped Ted might say no. He took off the plain blue baseball cap he wore — the only non-religious hat anyone at Brutewood Prison was allowed to wear — and ran his fingers through his clipper-short hair. He sucked his teeth and spat on the ground. He looked at Ted sternly. “No tellin’ nobody. ‘Specially not Sammi. I can’t let her find out I cheated on her.”

“Sure! Okay. I promise, nobody will find out,” Ted said. “I hate Sammi. I never talk to him. I-“

“Call Sammi a her.” Chowder said. He narrowed his eyes to slits, making it clear that was a threat.

Ted gulped. He knew Chowder, like most Brutewood alphas, referred to their bitches as a woman; Ted had simply forgotten because he was so excited. “Okay. Yeah, I won’t tell her. Or anyone else. I swear.”

Chowder stood there, his confidence gone as he very slowly dropped his orange prison jumpsuit. The guards laughed and clapped, hooting like he was a stripper. They demanded he dance as he undressed. “That weren’t paht of the deal,” Chowder said grimly. The guards seemed to accept that, but they had fun cheering him on, pretending he was stripping like a dancer even if he wasn’t.

The sight of his bare chest made Ted’s heart skip a beat. Chowder had been a violent thug, but one of those rather fat swaggalicious men whom Ted thought were hot even if they had a belly. In his time in prison, however, all of that fat had melted away, leaving behind a mass of muscle that bulged from his skin as though begging him to get fat again. Ted had seen him naked in the shower, of course, so this was hardly the first time, but this was closer and more exciting. Ted literally felt drool escaping from his lips as he caught whiff of Chowder’s post-party musk.

“If I evah catch you lookin’ at me in the showah like you lookin’ at me now, I will rip yo’ goddamn ahm off and smack yo’ face off with it,” Chowder said.

“Uh, Chowder-“ Officer Armstrong cleared his throat. “That’s not okay. You can’t control how people look at you.”

“What I can’t control is my reaction when some queehboy look at me like he wanna eat me up,” Chowder said through gritted teeth. “You may not fuck me in yo’ imagination, okay, not aftah today.”


“Fine. I’m sorry, queehboy. Or Ted or whatevah. I ain’t tryin’-a police yo’ mind.” He rolled his eyes at Armstrong’s stern face.

Ted still didn’t quite trust him, but he had already discovered that making it obvious whom he thought was hot was a bad way to stay safe in here. Chowder wasn’t the first prison alpha to forbid anyone from having gay fantasies about him.

“It’s okay. I won’t, Chowder, I promise. My dream man is Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson, and I’m sorry, you’re not hotter than him,” Ted said. That was accurate, at least. Ted blushed as the guards and Chowder all laughed together.

Chowder dropped his dingy prison-issued boxer, which had faded bloodstains ominously covering the crotch area. Ted wondered where that blood had come from. Was it Chowder’s? Probably not, he thought.

“Well, you the queeh, right? How do we proceed?” Chowder scowled.

“Uh… I guess… You should suck my dick,” Ted said. His voice had never sounded so weak and so flamboyantly gay, at least in his mind.

“Hope this party was worth it,” Officer Armstrong said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Get on your knees, Chowder. I mean… Chowdah.”

Chowder glared at him but sunk to his knees. He was nearly seven feet tall, so even on his knees, his face was even with Ted’s shoulders and neck. He was nowhere’s near close enough to suck Ted’s cock.

As Ted dropped his own pants, Chowder slunk lower and lower. In the end he laid on his back, propping himself up with his arms. Ted felt weak and cold, but he was glad no one was looking at his own body, which was skinny, pale and trembling with anxiety. He strained to spread his legs wide enough to straddle Chowder’s chest. He wanted to touch him, but Ted was still nervous about this — if there was one ironclad rule of prison life that nobody ever broke, it was that slim gay weaklings like Ted did not top massive alpha thugs like Chowder.

Yeah, suck it, Chowdah!

Fuck his face, Ted!

“Just foh’ the recahd, I’m doin’ this cuz I want to,” Chowder said. He spat on Ted’s dick. “I could say no. These mothahfuckahs ain’t got proof I agreed to nothin’. And I done it before. Not in prison of couhse, but back in the day, me and my boys shared some blowies on the downlow. Ain’t no shame in that-“

Less gabbin’, more suckin’!

Chowder glared at the guards, but he sighed, and seemed to decide that just going for it was the best way to get started. The longer he drew it out, the more they were going to tease him. He opened his mouth, took a deep breath and closed his lips around the tip of Ted’s dick.

He gagged even before his tongue touched it. He closed his eyes and his entire muscular chest roiled with disgust, but he didn’t slow down even a bit. He let the rest of Ted’s dick slide deeper even as his eyes frantically darted around as though looking for a way to escape.

Almost immediately Ted felt a surge of pride and confidence; he felt better than he ever had since coming to Brutewood, and even before that. He pushed his dick in even deeper, ignoring the angry look in Chowder’s eyes.

“Come on, make more spit,” Ted said, making the guards laugh. “You’ve gotten blowjobs before. You know how to do it.”

Chowder did as he was told, even as his nostrils flared and his eyes filled with hostility. He choked up a mountain of saliva — since he was such a huge man, he produced a truly copious torrent of spit — that dripped down his chin and into his bare crotch.

A shudder of desire ran through Ted’s body as he gripped Chowder’s broad shoulders. His inhibitions melted away. Chowder was crisscrossed with scars and tattoos, including a handful of bullet wounds on his back. Ted reached down to caress his body, savoring the feel of his rippling muscles.

That made precum leak from the tip of his dick, which reawakened a torrent of sputtered gagging from Chowder. The guards laughed and clapped, again hooting and hollering like they were watching a strip show.

Suck that dick/Suck it like I ain’t rich/Suck it like a bitch/Suck it till you sick/Like you ain’t nevuh turn a trick/Yeah, suck that dick

One of the guards was rapping; Ted wasn’t hip enough to know for sure whether he was freestyling or repeating a popular song. It sounded rehearsed though.

Chowder pretended it didn’t bother him, but Ted could feel him bristling at the teasing. It was funny how Ted could sense Chowder’s reactions through his muscles’ twitching and the way his throat clenched around Ted’s spasming cock, like Ted could read Chowder’s mind through his body. Chowder arched his back as he nestled his nose deep in Ted’s crotch, easily deep-throating every inch of Ted’s cock. His new position meant his ass rose in the air.

Ted lusted after it. He couldn’t believe he was going to get to fuck Chowder in that ass, and he wondered if Chowder had ever done it before. He tried to reach but Chowder was too tall for Ted to reach his ass with his dick in Chowder’s mouth.

“Okay, you said you will lick my ass, right?” Ted asked, remembering that suddenly.

Chowder pulled off his dick. Thin tendrils of spit connected his greenish face to Ted’s cockshaft. Chowder grumbled. “Fo’ five seconds, that’s all I agreed to.”

Officer Armstrong laughed. “That’s just a minimum, Chowder. You can lick his ass as long as you want. We got all night.”

“No!” Chowder said.

Ted turned around and bent over as though he was going to get fucked, as that was the only position that raised his ass high enough for Chowder to lick it. Chowder looked away, breathed deeply through his mouth and closed his eyes.

He dove between those cheeks and slammed his tongue in. He was so forceful — and his tongue was so big — that it almost hurt. Chowder rimmed him more aggressively than anyone had ever rimmed him before, and Ted got the impression that Chowder had never done it before, not even on a girl. Chowder definitely enjoyed receiving rimjobs from his bitch and he always demanded more tongue-in-ass action, but since Chowder was so much bigger than Sammi, he needed as much tongue-penetration as possible, as deep and as hard as possible. Now Chowder’s cock-sized tongue shoved into Ted’s ass and explored there, hesitatingly as Ted’s ass-juices smeared over Chowder’s square-jawed face.

Five! Four!

But Ted then felt a ripple of pleasure emanating up his back as Chowder’s tongue explored his prostate. Chowder moaned into his ass and gagged without slowing down. Ted’s eyes rolled back in his head as pleasure walloped his petite frame. Chowder’s tongue suckled every drop of grime out of his ass, even as Chowder himself sputtered and choked on it.

Three! Two! …

The guards conspicuously stopped counting, but Chowder pulled away from Ted’s ass anyway. He spat on the linoleum shower floor. He wiped his face off with one hand, and his chin waggled but he kept it together. He sniffed, pointedly ignoring the guards as they cheered. He glanced over and saw one of the guards had bared his hairy ass — extremely hairy, nearly gorilla-like — and winked his asshole in Chowder’s direction.

If you enjoyed that, give Officer Torelli a try! He got all the ass-hair you could eat, boi! He be a ass-buffet for ya!

Chowder grimaced and looked away. He sighed as he stroked Ted’s dick with one meaty callused hand. It was the worst handjob of Ted’s life, but it was also somehow the greatest, its lack of rhythm and rough texture sending shockwaves of bliss through Ted’s body while slowing down his arousal enough that he was no longer nearly ready to blow his load.

Time for the ass, Chowder!

Give up the booty!

Chowder snarled at the guards. He turned around and bent over. His initial position was laughably impossible — he simply put his hands on the floor, sticking his ass in the air so high Ted’s short little body couldn’t even reach it. Ted had to stand on his toes to touch Chowder’s asscheeks and tap them, signaling him to lower himself.

Best get down lower, or we gonna need a winch and a pulley to do this right.

Chowder dropped to all fours. He had a nice plump ass, just enough padding for Ted’s taste — a remnant of when Chowder was fat-bodied in his pre-prison life. There was a tattoo on his left asscheek, an arrow pointing to his asshole and the words Cop Kissing Zone.

Ted separated those thick blubbering cheeks; at first it was difficult because Chowder instinctively flexed his cheeks, keeping them tight, but he forced himself to relax. His crack was lined with sweat-matted hair. Each of Chowder’s asscheeks was bigger than Ted’s head, making Ted feel truly tiny by comparison. He took a deep breath and pushed his dick in.

Chowder bit his lip so hard it drew blood. He breathed through his nose and snorted like a rampaging bull. His face turned bright red from both pain and humiliation. The muscles of his back tensed, lines flexing and curving, distorting the tattoos as he stretched.

Lookit him take it! Like a bitch!

Damn I wish we could fuckin’ tape this. Put it on the Internet, make a goddamn fortune.

“You bettah not!” Chowder said, but for once his voice was not bristling with confidence and machismo. It sounded like a whine, not a threat. He hung his head.

Ted hadn’t topped anyone since before he came to prison, so this was a refreshing experience for him. He pushed his dick in deeper and deeper, using copious lube (which was provided by Officer Armstrong — that seemed sweet, Ted thought, he didn’t need to do that; prisoners usually used hog fat from the prison kitchen, so Armstrong was being nice by providing actual lube). Chowder’s ass was clearly virgin, so tight that Ted struggled to shove every inch in his hole.

Chowder was on all fours, so the more powerfully Ted slammed into his ass, the more Chowder was forced to lower himself. He winced and dropped his hips, making it easier for Ted to fuck him harder. To his credit, Chowder managed to take every inch even though it was obviously difficult for him.

That hairy Italian guard had his dick out now, wagging it in front of Chowder’s face. Ted couldn’t hear his words because he was overwhelmed by pleasure and the boisterous laughter of the other guards drowned out the hairy guard, but it was clear he politely offered Chowder to suck his dick. Chowder just blushed and kept his eyes pointed away, even as the guard followed his face with his massive, uncut Italian cock.

Eventually Ted was just on top of Chowder, his feet no longer on the floor at all. Chowder’s broad muscles rippled beneath Ted’s face, and he licked the salty sweat that beaded on his skin. Chowder writhed beneath him.

Ted didn’t know how normal this was — he had only ever topped with thin gay twinks like him. He felt like a weird circus novelty, like a midget fucking a strongman to a shocked crowd. Chowder panted like a dog beneath him.

“God-damn, man,” Chowder said, his fingers and toes curling as though trying to dig into the linoleum floor of the prison shower.

Yeah! Get ‘im good, Teddy!

Lookit his little body on top of Chowder. Looks like a kid whose big bro is lettin’ him beat him up.

Ted blushed at the guards’ closeness. They were peering into Chowder’s ass as though they had never seen anal sex before and weren’t sure what was actually happening. Ted was a private person by nature — the public nudity, showering and toilet use of prison life had been difficult for him to adjust to — so having an audience like this was nerve-wracking for him.

His orgasm came on too soon. Ted was disappointed, but not surprised. As he felt it arising deep within him, Ted wasn’t even sure how long it had been — it felt like just a few minutes, but at the same time, it felt like hours. Surely Chowder would have complained if it had taken that long though, he thought.

The most powerful orgasm of his life ran through him. Ted’s entire body shook and trembled, and he moaned so loud he blushed as the guards erupted in a mixture of embarrassed grunts and excited shouts.

Cum sprayed within Chowder’ ass, a thick and copious loud that filled up every inch of his insides. Chowder moaned too, matching Ted’s voice, and he buried his face in his forearm. Then he grabbed the blue baseball cap he had thrown on the ground, and he buried his face in that instead.

One of the guards pulled the cap away and looked Chowder in the eye. Chowder’s red face was tense and a few tears of pain and embarrassment drifted down his cheek.

“Who’s the pussy-faced bitch now?” the guard asked. “Hope the party was worth it.” Chowder snarled and grabbed his hat back as his ass clenched again around Ted’s dick.

Exhausted, Ted fell back. His ass plopped out of Chowder’s ass, and Chowder breathed a sigh of relief. He stood and blushed as the guards laughed at the river of cum dripping down his trunk-like, tattooed thighs.

“Hey!” Chowder barked. “We said no bringin’ it up again after it’s done.”

“Ain’t done yet,” Officer Armstrong said. “It ain’t done until you both get your clothes on. Whatchoo think, Chowder? Was the party worth it?”

Chowder hurriedly threw his underwear on, wincing when he accidentally touched his ass and reawakened a torrent of sensitive pain. He put his jumpsuit on and then hurriedly slipped into his shoes when the guards made it clear they counted that as well. “Yeah,” Chowder said. “The party was totally worth it.”

Ted slow-walked it, both because he didn’t mind the guards teasing Chowder and because he was too overwhelmed to really focus on anything but the aftershocks of orgasmic pleasure wracking his body. But when Chowder was done and he saw Ted wasn’t, he shot him a few dirty looks until Ted jumped in action.

Soon they were both dressed. Ted still felt weak-limbed from the power of his climax, and he could still taste Chowder’s back-sweat in his mouth.

True to their word, the guards stopped teasing as soon as both inmates were dressed again. There was still some scattered laughter, especially when Chowder winced and skipped a step while he walked towards the door behind Officer Armstrong.

“Hey, if you want — and you don’t think Sammi will mind — you can fuck me later. As hard as you want,” Ted said. “If that, y’know, makes you feel better.”

“I know I can.” Chowder’s voice dripped with menace. “I will.”

Ted smiled. That promised to be almost as good as what had just happened. He couldn’t wait. The next couple days promised to be exciting.

Twink on Top: The Prison Guard

This is a sample from Twink on Top: The Prison Guard, a hot new story of Brutewood Minimum Security sex!


“You come in this cell, boi,” Deon said with a growl. “I’ll eat yo’ ass wit’ a spoon.”

The trustee shivered, blushed and walked away. He was a skinny white man with a weak face, so Leslie wasn’t surprised he was afraid. Deon watched him go and catcalled after his ass as he went. Deon whistled, then glanced in Leslie’s direction. He nodded, looking Leslie up and down.

“Who’re you?” he asked. He ran his tongue over his upper lip, undressing Leslie with his eyes.

Leslie stepped forward. This was his third month working at Brutewood Prison, and it was his first shift working on the Dangerous Inmates Ward. The men who had cells here were too dangerous to live in general population — they had mostly either killed or raped another inmate, or had threatened to do so too many times. It was rather like solitary confinement, and at the moment, Deon was the only inmate here who could even talk to anyone.

The cells in the D.I. Ward had two doors, so the inmates weren’t able to come near the hallway — the door to their cell only opened on the second, outer door, which was always shut and locked. They couldn’t say anything to anyone in the hall, or even see who was there. But Deon’s outer door was broken, so he was able to interact with anyone walking by for the first in more than a year.

Leslie strode over to Deon’s cell. Leslie was small; he wasn’t weak, but he was barely five feet tall. He was an openly gay, youthful-looking twink, so he had known the guards and inmates would consider him a weakling. One of the reasons he had taken this job was to prove them wrong, to prove that not only could a gay man be tough, he didn’t have to act straight to do so.

“I’m Officer Martin,” Leslie said. He stopped in front of the cell.

Having not seen Deon before, Leslie was surprised at how sexy he was. He was more than six and a half feet tall, and built like a football player — he spent his commissary money on protein bars so he could continue to bulk up. He was just slightly too old to have a six-pack, but you could tell he did before coming to prison. It was hard to keep a perfectly etched body behind bars, despite what the movies and television suggested; Deon must have spent almost all his time in that cell working out, Leslie thought, which wasn’t too surprising, since there wasn’t a lot else he could do.

“You new, huh?”

Leslie nodded. “I should punish you for threatening rape against that man,” Leslie said. “That’s against the rules, Mr. Green.” He wasn’t going to do that because it was a lot of paperwork, and he would have gotten in trouble for failing to maintain order on the ward. Besides that, the warden didn’t want a paper trail proving that the outer door to Deon’s cell was broken.

“Oh, Mr. Green, how fancy,” Deon said. “You a faggot?”

Leslie put his hands on his hips. He refused to say yes to that question — he would have said yes if Deon asked if he was gay, but he refused to answer whether or not he was a faggot. He knew prison officials treated antigay rhetoric behind bars as though it didn’t matter, but it did matter to Leslie.

“You don’t like bein’ called a faggot, huh? Well, I ain’t a fagbasher. I don’t mean it like that,” Deon said. He was so much taller than Leslie that he had to look straight down to make eye contact with him through the bars of his cell door.

“Then ask me properly.”

“Are you a homosexual, Officer Martin?” Deon said with mock pomp.

“Yes, I am.”

“Oh damn, you should come in here, whiteboi. I would tear your ass up. You look good enough to eat. I’d wear yo’ little body like a cockhat.”

“That’s another rape threat, Mr. Green. I can write you up-“

“Wasn’t rape.” He murmured lowly, looking Leslie’s trim little body up and down.


“I wasn’t threatenin’ to rape ya,” he said. He smiled. “I mean… I wanna make sweet love to ya.” He smiled again as Leslie gasped — it had never occurred to Leslie that this big brutish black thug might be gay, or bisexual. Deon licked his lips. “I ain’t a faggot, don’t get me wrong. I want pussy. But I been in this room for the last year, and I ain’t seen a girl in person in years. I need some contact, some affection, y’know. It’s a basic human desire. It’s on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.”

“… What?”

“It’s a psychological principle, yo. I been readin’ in here. People need different things, like food and water and affection. But those base needs like food come first — yo’ mind can’t conceive of finding affection or personal fulfillment or whatevuh until you satisfy yo’ need for food and water and shelter. Those needs is at the bottom of the hierarchy. Affection… that’s at the top.”

“Oh,” Leslie said. “So you’d suck my dick?”

“Hell yeah,” he said. He kissed a cell bar and licked it slowly to demonstrate. “I’d suck it clean. I suck yo’ ass too, honky, lick yo’ boypussy like a lollipop wit’ a friendly appeals court judge in the center.  Then you can fuck me good. I bet a faggot like you know how to do it right, huh?”

Alpha Convict Worship

Here’s the first chapter of Alpha Convict Worship, a new story by Marcus Greene! It’s chock-full of… well, alpha convict worship — Samson is a just-released ex-con with a need for release, and his gay neighbor Edward is all too happy to help out! It’s now available in the best-value bundle Gay Black Thugs, Vol. 2, which is in the Kindle Store and in Kindle Unlimited!

Edward was annoyed to find out he lived next to a halfway home. He would never have rented the house if he had known, but he found out later that his landlord had had to sign a non-disclosure agreement to protect the privacy of the residents. So he didn’t have a choice in not telling Edward about it.

But still, Edward was uncomfortable with his neighbors. He had moved away from the ghetto; he had always refused gang life; he was a young black man but that world had no attraction for him. And he was gay, which he knew would lead to him being teased, maybe even attacked, by the thugs, cholos and rednecks who lived next door. He acted as straight as he could whenever he was outside. The fact that the bevy of straight machos next door were almost all sexy both made the situation worse — because Edward had trouble ignoring them — and better, because at least he got some hot, usually-shirtless bodies to look at.

He was in his backyard, smoking a cigarette — one of his rare guilty pleasures — when he was first tested in his ability to pass as a straight man in front of them. His heart pounded when he heard one ex-con in particular approach the fence between the yards. It was nearly midnight, so the only light came from the bare bulb above Edward’s porch.

“Yo, man, you queer, right?” Came a hushed voice from the other yard. The man was smoking a cigarette there, Edward could smell the cheap menthol floating into his yard.

Was it that sexy cornrowed-daddy type? He had been lifting weights shirtless the other day, and Edward had been unable to look away from his sweat-dappled brown chest, covered in a layer of thick fur. Edward thought it might be that same man’s voice, but the high fence was in the way. He peered through the slats. It was definitely him, and Edward’s heart leapt up in his chest.

“You queer?” The man asked again. His silver-tinged cornrows moved as though he was chewing on his lip, though Edward couldn’t see the man’s mouth.

“Uh… no.”

Edward squealed when the man darted to the fence and looked at him through the slats. His dark eyes drilled into Edward’s soul. Edward bit his lip, embarrassed — that squeal had been decidedly gay, and the man chuckled knowingly.

“Sure, you ain’t,” he said. He snorted. “You want my meat?” He grabbed his cock through the paper-thin prison boxers he wore. The darkness of his rod was visible through the fabric. “Bit of the fence missin’ over there.”

Before Edward even said anything, the man sauntered to the edge of the fence, where two slats had been busted. That left an opening right about at the man’s crotch height.

“My name’s Samson,” he said. “Come on.” He sounded annoyed that Edward hadn’t already started sucking, even though Edward had denied being gay. He was embarrassed at how completely unable he was to act straight.

A part of Edward was offended that this man just assumed he would want to suck this stranger’s cock. He wasn’t wrong, but Edward would have liked to be asked seriously first. His humiliation didn’t stop him, however, from sinking to his knees next to that corner of the fence.

First came the acrid odor of treated wood from the fence, and then  Edward’s nostrils were overwhelmed by the mustiness of prison boxers.  They smelled like a hundred men, he thought as he inhaled deeply of the scent.

“C’mon, nigga, suck it,” Samson muttered. He was gripping the fence slats tight, and Edward suspected he really wanted to grab Edward’s head and fuck his throat, but couldn’t because the fence was in the way.

Edward used his mouth to reach into the fly of Samson’s prison boxers, pulling out a thick, rubbery cock. It was limp and greasy, and it smelled like the unwashed boxers he wore. Edward licked the tip and smiled as Samson groaned.

“I ain’t had someone suck my dick who actually wanted to in five years. It’s nice to have a little enthusiasm,” Samson said. “Suck it good, nigga.”

Opening his mouth wide, Edward swallowed it the best he could, wanting to give Samson a reason to come back another time. He sucked on that thick shaft and loosened his throat to deep-throat most of it.

“Ah, shit, bitch,” Samson said, sounding surprised at how good this felt.

It stiffened up in his throat right away, pulsating there thickly. It barged past his gag reflex and was unyielding even as Edward gagged on it. Edward moaned as soon as he felt it get hard, the spongy clamminess giving way to rock-hard heat.

Almost immediately after that precum flowed into his mouth. Samson must be incredibly horny, Edward thought to himself as he sucked. Samson was very vocal overhead, though he didn’t actually say much — he murmured low syllables and muttered to himself, sucked on his teeth and clicked his tongue as he gyrated his hips the best he could.

“You gonna swallow right, bitch?”

Edward didn’t answer. Of course he was going to swallow — he loved cum, and he could already taste Samson’s creaminess on his tongue. He wasn’t going to give that up.

Then Samson began grounding his hips onto Edward’s face. At first he had seemed to want to prove his masculinity. He had daggered his dick as deep as he could, but now that he could tell Edward wasn’t fighting back, he moved slow and sensuously. He swayed his hips as though trying to fuck every bit of Edward’s insides.

Within moments, Samson began cumming. He groaned and grunted. He bucked his hips against the fence, which rattled. His cock stuck in Edward’s throat, spasming there energetically.

“Take it, bitch, don’t spill none.”

Edward shot his own load into his hands and the grass, while he tasted wad after wad of hot cum running down his throat. He held on tight even as his lungs cried out for oxygen, he didn’t want to miss a single drop of sour cum.

Samson grunted and held on until Edward pulled out. Edward suspected that Samson would have made him suck until Edward was on the verge of passing out, if it weren’t for the fence blocking Samson’s hand.

“Thanks a lot, queer,” Samson said. He tucked his cock back away in his shorts. “I be around, nigga. Keep yo’ mouth ready fo’ me.”

The Prison Guard With a Desperate Need

Here’s a sample from The Prison Guard With a Desperate Need, a new story by a new author named Warden Steele! This is a Brutewood Minimum Security story.


Rick stumbled through the prison corridors. The shackles connecting his feet to each other and to his wrists made it difficult to walk quickly, so he shuffled the best he could as he followed Officer Gantreux.

He got the feeling he wasn’t going to like his new “job” — and he had the feeling it wasn’t a real job at all. It sounded like something unofficial and probably against-the-rules. Rick had worked in the medical bay for his first week at Brutewood, but then Officer Gantreux told him that he had a new assignment.

As one of the few Asian men in Brutewood, Rick knew he needed to do as he was told — there was no gang he could fall back on. There were two other Asian inmates, both of them Hong Kongese Triad enforcers who didn’t speak English and were so vicious that everyone avoided them. They hated Americans and Japanese and especially Japanese-Americans like Rick.

“You were convicted of writing scrips for people, right?” Officer Gantreux asked. He stopped in front of a door that read Staff Only.

Rick nodded, feeling a flush of humiliation as he had to relive it all over again. “For my husband. He had a car accident, and then he had a lot of leg pain, it was from a fracture of the tibia that-“

“I don’t care about that. It wasn’t gross incompetence, or something like that, right?”

“No. I’m a good vet,” Rick said. “It’s not technically illegal to be incompetent anyway.”

Officer Gantreux sighed as though that news was a big relief. He opened the door and motioned for Rick to follow him, into the private locker room that the guards used before and after their shifts.

Rick hesitated. “Am I allowed in there?”

Gantreux glared at him. “No. But it’ll be okay, you’re with me,” he said. “I had to sneak my dog in here, they’re not allowed in the prison.”

There was a flurry of barking from the locker room. It wasn’t hostile barking though, and Rick slowly realized what was happening — Officer Gantreux wanted him to treat his dog. Gantreux’s normally tough demeanor cracked a little when the dog yelped in pain. It was a strained yelp, as though the dog was having trouble breathing.

“Come on,” Gantreux said, his face all-business now. He virtually dragged Rick into the locker room, where a dog sat, leash attached to one row of lockers.

It was a male German shepherd with a friendly look, though he appeared sick right now, and displayed some hostility due to his fear. He trembled when he saw Rick, and went straight to Gantreux’s side. He nuzzled Gantreux’s thigh.

“This is Fugitive,” Gantreux said. He got on his knees and hugged the dog, the relief apparent in his eyes as he motioned for Rick to get started. “Why is he having trouble breathing? Is he dying? He’s only two years old.”

Once Rick began looking Fugitive over, he felt good about himself for the first time in a long time. He felt right, like he was doing what he was meant to do with his life. He smiled. He had always been a good veterinarian. In no time, Fugitive was licking his face.

Prison Guard Lust

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Prison Guard Lust, a new story from Brutewood Minimum Security! Yes, there’s a Brutewood Minimum Security!


Every Sunday morning, Winthrop worked early — he was the only guard there in the mornings on Sunday — and every single time, he said either things sure are quiet today or the cell block’s restless today, as though those were only two small-talk starters he was allowed. Gerald smiled each time as though he had never heard it before.

“Yeah, it’s been quiet all night,” Gerald said. Winthrop was about to walk away, and Gerald’s mind raced as he tried to think of a way to get Winthrop to stay. He didn’t want to sit in his cell with nothing to do all day. “Uh… how was Anna’s reading?”

Officer Winthrop stopped and sighed. His wife was a poetess, and she had had a reading of one of her poems at the community college last night. Winthrop had shared that with Gerald a few days before. To Gerald, that fact was like a lifeline — he hadn’t really connected with anyone since coming to prison, so gaining a friendly relationship with someone gave him a sense of vitality and purpose.

“I don’t know,” he said. He sounded disappointed.

“Oh? You didn’t go? Did you have to work? Boy, Warden Armstrong is a prick. I’ve got a theory about white men, you know-“

“He is a prick, but I can’t blame this one on him,” Winthrop said. “She dumped me.” He spoke directly into the little window into Gerald’s cell, and as he said that, his voice broke. He looked away.

“Oh. Wow, I’m sorry, my nigga,” he said. Gerald ordinarily never called anyone nigga, but he had gotten into the habit of it now that he was surrounded mainly by black people. He thought it came across as forced, but Officer Winthrop didn’t seem to think so. Gerald wanted Winthrop to know how much Gerald liked him, and saw him as a friend.

Winthrop shrugged. “Whatever. I never thought we would be serious.”

“She was your wife…”

“I know, I mean… When we first got together, I thought we didn’t have a chance. It wouldn’t work out. She was a white girl, a poet — a frickin’ published poet, who the hell actually makes a living as a poet? She was half my age. Less than that. She was only nineteen when I met her.”

Doing a little math in his head, Gerald whistled. “You’re in your forties? I had no idea. You look great-“

“But somehow it all worked out, or it seemed to,” he said. Winthrop hadn’t noticed Gerald’s compliment. He wasn’t really listening. “We got along just fine. We used to laugh so hard they’d ask us to leave the restaurant. And now I’m alone. We ain’t laughed together in a year, at least. I met her like a week after my girlfriend broke up with me We been together for like eight years at that point, so I ain’t really been single since I was like twenty-six years old.”


“I’m just so fucking horny,” he said. “I mean, I’m lonely too, but I forgot what it was like to be single, to have to pound yo’self off at night. A man shouldn’t live like that.”

Gerald’s heart started pounding as he realized this was his opportunity. He wanted to get Officer Winthrop on his side — and he wanted to get laid — so what better circumstance could he wait for? It was still early enough on Sunday that not many people were up, and Winthrop could spend a little extra time in Gerald’s cell, if he wanted to. Gerald’s eyes fluttered and he pursed his lips.

“You’re right, y’know. A man shouldn’t live like that. You want some help with that? I can help.”

“What? You know a girl you can hook me up with? I dunno about that, I was thinking about staying away from women for awhile,” he said. “I’m old enough I ain’t gotta be chasing after pussy all the damn time. I might just-”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. I’m gay, I don’t know many girls, and most of the ones I do know are lesbians,” he said. “But you don’t have to meet any girls to get your rocks off.”

“Wha-?” Officer Winthrop cut himself off when he looked Gerald in the eyes and realized what he was offering. “Oh. That’s against the rules, Gerry.”

Gerald hated being called Gerry, he always had. But Officer Winthrop had been calling him that since day one, and for some reason when Winthrop’s gruff voice said it, Gerald enjoyed it. It sounded sexy, instead of old-fashioned. Despite Winthrop’s words saying no, he didn’t walk away, and he didn’t sound like he was really refusing, so much as explaining why he couldn’t say yes so easily.

Arrested by a C.O.

This is a sample chapter from Arrested by a C.O., a story in the Brutewood Maximum Security Penitentiary series.

Victor woke up with a blistering headache. He was on his back in an uncomfortable position in a room with a brilliant fluorescent light beating down on his head. He groaned. There was a toilet at one end of the room, and he made a beeline for it. His stomach heaved as it emptied its contents into the dingy bowl.

Where was he? He had a dim recollection of the night before. As he vomited, he couldn’t quite piece it all together, however. He was just glad to be getting the booze and what appeared to be fried chicken out of his belly.

The toilet was steel, and filthy. The realization of that made him vomit again, and he pushed himself away from the toilet. He crawled to his knees. His pants were around his ankles. Why was that?

The prison! He had gone to Brutewood Prison with a whore named Shasta. He had planned the visit for weeks because it was the first serious mission he was given as part of the Novelli Family — he had long wanted to be a made man, and he was doing a favor for several high-ranking Novellis behind bars.

It had gone well. Or had it? He had brought the woman in, and had been prepared for the lax security. He knew exactly how to bribe one guard and get in a case of beer, some weed and enough Viagra to turn the conjugal trailer into a rollicking party.

It had been a good time. He was sure of it. Had he left? He didn’t remember that. He could now see that he was in a jail cell, or rather what looked like a holding cell. It was a large open chamber with a few benches along the wall, and one toilet. There was a door at one end of the room.

The door opened, and in walked a burly black man in a CO uniform. It was dark blue, with a Brutewood Prison patch over his heart. His name-badge read Freeman.

“Good morning, Inmate 32772,” he said. “I’m Officer Freeman.”

“I’m not an inmate… I’m a visitor,” Victor said weakly.

“You’ve been asleep for twelve hours,” Officer Freeman said. He whistled a tune to himself and began unbuttoning his shirt. “A lot has changed.”


“Well, I’ll just give you the highlights, because we’ve got a lot to get through today,” Officer Freeman said.

“What?” Victor felt like the fog was finally clearing on his mind, at least enough he could understand what was going on.

“Your pitiful attempt at bribery was a complete debacle, Inmate 32772. We put roofies in your beer, so you and all your cronies partied hard for about twenty minutes, and then passed out like little babies,” Officer Freeman said. He had finished taking off his uniform shirt revealing a powerful chest beneath a white t-shirt. Tufts of kinky black hair extended up to his shoulder.

“You roofied me?”

“That I did, Inmate 32772. And you know what…? I totally didn’t plan this, but that whore you brought with you? Well, it turned out she had a heart problem. She passed away,” Officer Freeman said. He sat down on a bench and placed a foot in a heavy black leather boot in front of Victor’s face. He gently pushed the steel toe of the boot into Victor’s mouth. It tasted of acrid piss, and he gagged. “Yeah, the animals piss on my shoes all the time. Don’t worry, it doesn’t get through to my socks.”

“What are you doing?”

“My plan was to fuck that whore when she woke up — I’d pay her, of course, I’m not a jerk. And then just charge you with one measly felony. But that bitch died, which is annoying because there’s a lot of paperwork to do… And I have to blame it on somebody. I can’t just say oops, there’s a dead whore here, somebody come pick her up,” Officer Freeman said. “So I’m arresting you for felony murder. You committed a felony, smuggling items into a prison, and that felony lead to a death. That way I get a new inmate to play with for life.”

“What?!” Victor’s heart skipped a beat.

“I don’t like shitheads like you making my prison look poorly-run. That makes me look bad,” Officer Freeman said. “Do you want me to reconsider?”

“Yes, man, I-“

“Please address me as Officer Freeman. That’s a rule here. Of course you’re not technically an inmate yet, you’re just in holding before being arraigned and tried, so that rule doesn’t apply to you. But I suggest following it anyway. It’s good practice.”

“Officer Freeman, if there’s any way you can let me go, I’d do anything you want,” Victor said. He had trouble groveling before an officer, and he knew he should make a pitiful face, but it was all he could do to speak the words. He had always sworn he would never beg a pig for a second chance, but it seemed that was exactly what he was doing.

“See, this pisses me off,” he said. “If you was a nigga like me, you’d have no chance, you wouldn’t even think it was possible to get a second chance from a cop. But your white privilege means you think you deserve an exemption from the rules.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll do anything.”

“Open your mouth,” he said. “This is how my grandfather got out of a lynching a couple decades ago, and I’d like to return the favor. Come on, let me see those tonsils.”

Victor opened his mouth as wide as he could. His heart raced and his mind whirred as he tried to think of why Officer Freeman wanted him to open his mouth, aside from the obvious. He hoped very much it wasn’t that.

But then Freeman unzipped his slacks and let his long, chocolate-colored cock flop out. He smiled as he whacked Victor across the face with it, leaving a trail of slimy stale sweat. The cockshaft was sweaty and clammy, and it made Victor want to throw up again.

Victor gagged. He closed his eyes as Freeman fed the tip of his cock into Victor’s mouth. A burst of salty flavor hit his tongue.

“Open your eyes. Look up at me. That’s what my granddaddy had to do. That’s how you show respect to your superiors,” he said.

Victor burned with hatred. He had sworn over and over he was a real thug and a playa, he wasn’t supposed to cooperate with pigs no matter what. But he couldn’t spend life in prison, especially not now — he wasn’t officially a Novelli since that first mission had gone poorly. That meant he would be unprotected behind bars, or worse since the Novellis might well blame him for the simple mission having gone wrong.

“Good, yeah. Keep on like that,” Officer Freeman said several times. He put his hands behind his head. “Ya gotta deepthroat it, boy. Don’t just play around with respect, you gotta swallow it all the way down. That’s respect. If you ain’t gaggin’ on it, it ain’t respect.”

As if on cue, Victor gagged. He tried to bury his face in it, but Officer Freeman’s huge cock simply didn’t fit in his throat. He let Freeman guide one of his hands into that moist sweaty crotch of his uniform slacks, and Victor gripped his balls. He gagged again just at the hairy, moist feeling of Freeman’s scrotum.

“Who’s the master race, boy? Whitebois or niggas?” He put his hand on the back of Victor’s head as he asked, holding him in place. Victor’s eyes frantically darted back and forth as he struggled for breath. Freeman leered down into his eyes and said, “Well? Go on, say it.”

Victor said niggas as well as he could with his mouth full of cockmeat. He considered saying whitebois, just because it was obvious Freeman wouldn’t have understood anyway, but he didn’t want to tempt fate.

“Did you just use the n-word?” Freeman said with a laugh. “Just kiddin’, I don’t give a shit, honky. Now I’m about to cum, and you better swallow every drop. For every drop that you spill, I will keep you here for one year. Got it?”

Victor nodded his head. Freeman resumed fucking his face then, slamming his dick in and out with as much force as he could. Victor felt like he was being split in half with the massive shaft, and then finally Freeman stopped moving.

Wads of cum spurted forth, so much it filled up Victor’s mouth and he swallowed as furiously as he can. He hoped to swallow before he could really taste it, but the foul sour flavor did hit him first.

The hot semen sat in his belly like a disgusting gutshot, Victor thought, and he cradled his stomach to avoid spitting any up. Officer Freeman knelt down and rubbed his fingers over Victor’s face. Victor swallowed and opened his mouth for inspection.

“Good,” Officer Freeman said. “I will go consider whether or not to keep you around. Be ready to serve me a little more.”

“Yes, sir.” Victor said. He had to virtually spit the words out to make it happen — his tongue was just as rebellious and anti-authority as it always had been so he had to force it to do his bidding.

“Excellent showing of respect,” Officer Freeman said. “But maybe I’ll keep you around to demonstrate to other inmates how to show respect properly. You could be useful for that…” He shut the cell door behind himself.

Prison Prey Turns to Prison Love

This is a sample chapter from Prison Prey Turns to Prison Love, a story in the Brutewood Minimum Security Penitentiary series from  It is also available along with many other stories for a great value in the Brutewood Medium Security, Vol. 2 compilation.

Before I was arrested, people joked about prison, about how terrible it was, about how awful it would be for people like me, an effeminate white man, behind bars. But after my arrest, nobody said anything about that. They just avoided meeting my gaze. They said supportive things and made supportive faces like supportive people do, but in the end, we all knew I was out of luck. The jury didn’t believe me. The judge didn’t believe me. Not even my lawyer believed me, no matter how strenuously he claimed he did.

I guess I had always pictured an old-timey prison cell, with bars for one wall, probably two, maybe four, people to a cell. But that wasn’t it at all. My cell was a large gymnasium-type room with dozens of inmates.

As soon as I walked in, the men clapped and cheered, jeering at me, hooting and hollering. They were mostly black and Latino, with a smattering of white people, all scattered about the room — beds were assigned at random, I later learned, in an effort to “combat tribalism”.

I went to the bed I had been assigned and sat in it. Pretending to be nonplussed about the men leering at me, I put my paucity of belongings away in the little shelf by my bed. I wondered if I was being treated the same as all new intakes, or at least all the slim, white ones, or if it was that obvious I was gay. I was being as butch as I could, which admittedly was not very butch at all. I’ve been told I ooze gay, so acting straight is well beyond my capacity.

A black man watched me closely even after everyone else had lost interest. He had the bed next to mine, and he was staring with unabashed interest. He was in his late thirties, with deep brown skin pocked with faded tattoos, scars and cuts, coarse hairs crisscrossing his body.

Not sure how to respond to his staring — should I fight him? Kiss him? Ask him how his day was? — I picked up my information packet with prison rules and procedures spelled out, pretending to study that.

Finally I couldn’t bear it anymore and looked up. “Hi,” I said, “I’m Travis.” I held out my hand for him to shake, though I knew as I did it that he wasn’t going to shake back. I shrugged and settled back in my bunk.

“Nasir,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nasir. My name is Nasir.”

“Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Nasir,” I said.

“You got a man yet?” he asked.

I raised my eyebrows, not sure what he was asking. “Are you asking if I’m single?”

He looked down at me like a dog he was about take to the pound. “No. I be askin’ you if anyone is fuckin’ wit’ you.”

“Oh, well… no,” I said, “I don’t have a man.”

A long pregnant pause fell between us. His eyes drilled deep into me, and I was uncomfortable, wanting to turn my head, run away and scream. But I couldn’t tear my gaze from his, and didn’t have anywhere to go anyway. A half-dozen or so other men had fallen silent nearby and were watching.

Nasir took his shirt off and flexed his pecs. He was hot, I had to admit — I didn’t normally go for the scruffy-thug look, but he had the body and the grizzled face to pull it off.

“Do you want to?” he asked.

I couldn’t tell if he was really asking or not. If I said no, would he have grinned and said “too bad”? If I said yes, would he hit me and call me a faggot? It was impossible to tell, and his face gave no clues.

So I decided to be noncommittal. “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess… maybe.”

“Well you best make a decision,” he said, then motioned for me to stand up. I did, nervously, my hands shaking. He slapped my ass though my prison pants. “Cuz if you ain’t gonna be my bitch, those niggas over there probably gonna punch you and take your shit.” The watching men all nodded. Someone behind me snickered. “They gonna do it unless someone stops ‘em.”

I blushed. “Okay then, I uh… Yes. I want, uh, to be your man.”

He looked at me and scoffed. “You got that backwards. I am yo’ man. You are my female.” He slapped my ass again. He stood up and got close to me. He was shorter than I was by a few inches, but his toned muscles made him much bigger overall.

“Oh,” I said, “Okay… I mean, what does that, like, mean? What do I have to do?”

“I bet you can guess,” Nasir said.

“Uh, like doin’ your laundry and shit?” I said, hopeful that that was all he meant.

He laughed, the other watching men joining in after a few seconds. They patted their bellies and traded knowing glances with each other.

“Yeah,” he said, “There’s that.” He stared me down, his eyes narrowed to slits. “But that ain’t all. You gonna be my girlfriend, so I want you to treat me like one. Go on, get down on your knees.”

I looked around, nervous. At least two dozen black men had gathered — all of them members of Nasir’s gang, I later learned, the Nine Tats — and they watched with satisfied smiles, as though they had been waiting a long time to see this.

“Don’t worry about them,” he said, “I ain’t gonna let no one hurt my bitch but me.” He slapped me on the cheek, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to sting a little. “That’s for not sucking my cock the moment I told you to. I tol’ you I gonna treat you just like a female on the outside, right? Go on.” He crossed his arms across his chest and flexed his pecs. His tattoos gleamed with sweat. He glowered at me as I descended to my knees.

“Suck it, suck it, suck it!” shouted the men.

I pulled Nasir’s orange prison pants down. I was sure I saw something in the rules handbook about sex being banned, so I hoped I wouldn’t get in trouble. But no one seemed in the least bit concerned about being caught.

I opened my mouth, determined to give Nasir the blowjob of his life. I wouldn’t mind sucking his cock, so as long as he thought I was good at that, I figured that’d be mostly what I did. If sucking him as well as I could prevented him from pimping me out or beating me or, ideally, fucking my ass too much, I’d consider that a great deal. I sucked most of it down my throat, enough that he gasped in pleasure and the spectators clapped.

“Oh man, that bitch is doin’ it right,” said one of them. “You sure you ain’t gonna pimp this one out?”

“We see how things go,” Nasir said. “But I like breakin’ em in myself.”

Saliva burst out of my mouth as I gagged on his cock, which smelled like the rest of the prison, like unwashed clothes and locker room sweat, stale farts and astringent cleaning supplies. Nasir’s muscles pounded his cock deeper and deeper into my throat.

I thought for sure I was going to pass out from lack of oxygen when I finally felt his balls contract beneath my fingers. He roared and lightly slapped the side of my head with one hand. Cum poured out of his dick, so voluminous it felt like it filled my stomach completely. I coughed most of it up, spilling it on my own pants.

He laughed and said, “Alright, baby, you mine now. This is gonna work out real good.”

Men of the El Salvador Federal Prison

This is a sample chapter from Men of the El Salvador Federal Prison, a story in the Brutewood Minimum Security Penitentiary series from

Straight from the courtroom to the prison, no stop to take to a rest or say goodbye to his mother, just a morning spent learning his fate and trying to accept it. He never thought he would follow his brother’s path. He tried so hard not to but at the end life got in the way of his plans.

He was being sent to Zacate, a prison on the outside of San Salvador. Like most Latin American prisons, it was extremely dangerous, poor hygiene, overcrowded, literally men on top of men because of the lack of space.

The entire bus ride to the prison all Hernan could think of was his girlfriend, and the last time they had made love, the last time they did it in the shower of her house. It would probably be a long time before he had sex again, he thought. Last time he and his girlfriend had talked she assured him she would not come to visit, not once. It was too dangerous and filthy, she said — the guards would at best demand a bribe, at worst rape her and sell her off to other inmates. He would miss her but he had to admit she was right.

Hernan got off the bus and walked towards the prison gate, which was heavily guarded by big armed men in the posts surrounding it. He had nothing with him except for a little plastic bag with his clothes. Before he was accepted into the prison he had to go through a body cavity search. He had always found that humiliating and gross, and he was self-conscious about being fondled by strange men. But then, he had a feeling he would have to get used to that behind bars anyway.

First the prison guard ordered him to remove his clothes, then the guard visually examined him looking for god knows what: weapons, cell phones, drugs maybe. The part he liked the least, the part he detested was when the guard made him bend over so he could take a look at his rectum. He felt so vulnerable in this position and as he knew for experience, some guards liked to take advantage of this moment to tease him, make jokes, grab him and maybe even molest him.

The guard searching him was a stout, tattooed Salvadoran with a beard and an expressionless face. His finger stayed in Hernan’s ass for longer than seemed reasonable, until Hernan turned around and saw him smirking. Then the guard removed his finger and told him to move on.

All his life Hernan had been perceived as gay. Maybe it was his thin boyish figure or because he was kind and gentle, he didn’t know. Growing up he was teased about being a fag and the only person who always was there to protect him was his older brother. But who would protect him now?

Hernan hated the idea of two men being sexual with each other. The idea of two men kissing, of one cumming inside another, was so bizarre to him and was one of his biggest fears about going to jail. He was not a stranger to the things that happened at prison, but he wished he was.

When the guard showed him to his jail cell, Hernan discovered that he had only one cellmate — this was highly unusual since in a cell made for four inmates, for instance, you usually found eight or more men locked in. But some inmates had been recently transferred and there was more space than usual. The man he would share a room with was named Charlie, a British lad being kept in a Salvadoran jell cell rather than being deported back to his home country.

Hernan picked the bunk bed just in front of Charlie’s and went straight to sleep. It is late, there’s no point in getting to know each other right now – he thought, there will be plenty of time for that.

Later that night he was awaken by the sound of the metal bar gate being slide open. He heard a man coming inside the cell; he didn’t know whether to stand or literally play dead. He heard another voice – “I’ll stay outside” – the voice said. Hernan recognized it, it was one of the guards, the same burly one who had searched his rectum.

Next thing he heard was someone getting into the bed in front of his. Charlie had been awake, obviously expecting the visit. There was some murmuring and silent laughter.

Hernan kept his eyes closed and stayed very still not knowing if his presence had been noticed or not. The two men on the other bed started kissing. Hernan could hear them locking lips, and the sound of their clothes being taken off and thrown to the floor. The bed started creaking and banging against the wall. Then, he heard a slow moan, he couldn’t tell if it was from pain, maybe at first, but then it changed. Charlie was moaning — this wasn’t a rape, Hernan realized, Charlie liked what was being done to him. He was being fucked by some mystery man, and Charlie actually liked it, He enjoyed it. Hernan marveled at the novelty of it, and he wondered if maybe he could enjoy it as well.

Hernan opened his eyes and through the dark tried to distinguish what was going on. Once his eyes adapted to the lack of light, he could see a massive man on top of Charlie, fucking him with incredible force. Charlie was laying on his bunk bed, his legs wrapped around that Goliath’s waist, his hands were grabbing the man’s buttcheeks pulling him towards him. He wanted more of that hard cock deeper inside his ass. The mysterious man was fucking him so hard Charlie was screaming as if he was being tortured, but with the passionate tenor of a man who loved what was happening to him. Hernan knew the entire prison could hear, and he was embarrassed, wondering if they would think it was him being fucked rather than Charlie. He didn’t know what to do so he stayed quiet, waited for it to be over, and although it went on and on for a long time, near the breaking dawn it finally was. Somehow, Hernan managed to fall asleep even before the unknown cholo had disappeared.

The next morning Hernan was awoken by the shouting of the guards telling everyone to get up. Every man had to get up and immediately take a very quick shower, all in the same room, no separation or privacy. A line was formed and then the men were sent into the showers.

For Hernan the public nudity was uncomfortable due to his shy nature. When he stepped into the shower room naked, many of the other inmates stared at him. He felt so many eyes on him glaring at his naked body, Hernan couldn’t stop wondering what they were thinking. They touched their dicks as he passed by, licking their lips and murmuring softly in his direction. Hernan realized they wanted him, but no one made a move. It seemed like they just liked to look at his smooth, almost girlish figure. He left the showers having seen more naked men than the entire rest of his life combined.

After the shower came breakfast and after that the men were left outside in the workyard. Charlie approached Hernan there, where he sat alone by the wall.

“You are a quiet one,” he said.

“I guess,” Hernan said.

“It’s not good being too quiet in here. They take it as a sign,”said Charlie.

“A sign of what?” Hernan asked.

“A sign that you can be tamed,” Charlie said.

After what he had witnessed the other night, he needed to know what was expected of him in this place. Was he supposed to be upset by that display? Offended? Disgusted? Maybe a little aroused?

He asked Charlie bluntly about what he had seen the previous night. Charlie didn’t seem feminine to Hernan, he was just another regular gringo, so why did a man come inside the cell to fuck him then? Why would Charlie allow him to do that?

Charlie explained that in prison there is another set of rules. There’s a hierarchy — a way to do things and everyone needs to find their place in that system. If you are not an alpha cholo, then you need protection from someone who is. And if you can’t pay for that protection with money or goods, you better be attractive enough to catch somebody’s attention.

“I gotta admit I had been with other men before coming to this place, but I had never enjoyed sex the way I do in here. The violence, the roughness, in here it’s like being with a beast, being gloriously forced into submission, and that thin line between consent and violation brings it to a different level. You better get used to the idea and don’t look at me that way. You are no alpha, and you don’t seem to have money, but you are cute, you will catch somebody’s attention. If you want, I can give you a shag, just so you get used to it, know what it feels like.”

Hernan got away from Charlie, he didn’t wanted to be near him, the things he said, the things he has subjected himself to, scared him to his very soul. Other inmates noticed the frightened look in his eyes. They started to tease him as he passed by, whistling, calling him princesa. Hernan was on the verge of crying when he saw him: a big and muscular man near the barbells at the gym. He was the same man that had visited Charlie the night before.

The man was tall and strong, muscular, with long hair that started touching his shoulders. He wasn’t wearing a shirt as he was working out in the gym; his arms were covered in tattoos that gave him a real rough cholo kind of look, the kind you know is trouble. But there was also something very intriguing about him, something charming and almost trustworthy. He looked directly at Hernan, who tried to look the other way and leave, but he was stopped.

The man called out to Hernan. “Hey you! Come here.”

Hernan obeyed. He walked up to the man, intimidated by his hulking presence.

“I haven’t seen you around before, I am Oso,” the man said.

“I’m new here,” Hernan said.

“I thought so. You look fresh,” Oso said as he gently touched Hernan’s left arm.

Hernan pulled away. “I have to go,” he said, his heart pounding as he left. He was glad he had escaped from that interaction, but he was increasingly pessimistic about his chances here at Zacate.