Tag Archives: prison erotica

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.

“I-“

“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.”

“Okay-“

“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?”

“No-“

“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?”

“Uh-“

“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?”

“Yeah-“

“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?”

“You.”

“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?”

“You.”

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

“You.”

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.”

Str8 Till Dark: Prisonmates

Here’s the entirety of Str8 Till Dark: Prisonmates, which is now permanently free in the Kindle Store and on Smashwords! It’s part of the amazing Str8 Till Dark series of gay erotica about men whose straightness bends when the lights go out!

As Brian curled up on the floor to get some sleep, he tried to decide whether this had gone better or worse than he had expected. It was hard to tell. He had predicted a catastrophically bad entrance to prison life — that was just the way his mind worked, constantly coming up with disastrous possibilities. But it wasn’t really as bad as it could be. The worst part was simply that Brian had no protection. Nothing good had happened to him, which was bad, but nothing too bad had happened to him either, and that was good.

Brian had covered up his anxiety when he strode into Brutewood prison. He was a handsome young white man with long hair he kept pulled back into a ponytail. Given everything that he knew about prison life, he fully expected to have gay sex.

He was fine with that, more or less. Brian was straight, but he loved being anally penetrated by dildos or fingers. He had never actually taken a cock in his ass, and he was willing to try it — giving it up in exchange for protection behind bars was not his ideal scenario for experimenting with getting fucked, but he wasn’t too upset about it either.

Officer Armstrong shoved him into the prison cell and shut the door. It was much larger than Brian had thought it would be, but there were already twelve people there. There were also only twelve bunks, while Brian was the thirteenth person.

“Turn around and stick your hands out,” Officer Armstrong said. He sounded bored.

Brian was not bored. His heart felt like it might pound through his chest. He stuck his cuffed hands through the opening in the doorway. Officer Armstrong unlocked the cuffs.

“There’s not enough bunks,” Brian said. He shook his head to unlodge his hair where it stuck to the back of his neck.

“Then kill yourself,” Officer Armstrong said as he walked away. He laughed, the deep, baritone sound resonating in the steel-lined prison corridor.

Brian turned around. Twelve dour black man stared back at him. No one said anything. Brian had always been an outgoing and friendly young man, so his mind raced as he tried to think of something to say.

“So, uh… guys… I guess we’re prisonmates, huh?”

Someone chuckled dryly, but no one responded. Six of the men were playing poker, and they resumed the game without looking at Brian. Three others were taking turns working out, doing improvised pull-ups on a bar they had set up in the middle of the cell. The bar was also for hanging laundry, but they had taken all the clothes off before exercising. Their corded muscles gleamed, and Brian felt small and vulnerable.

He supposed he was meant to sleep on the floor. There was plenty of room in one corner, and he had been given a sheet, a blanket and a pillow, which smelled like piss though it looked clean. Brian wanted to cry.

He took a deep breath. He had been told what to do, and he had rehearsed it. He thought for sure he could pull it off.

He went to the biggest thug in the room. He was a tall, middle-aged black man with a burly body brimming with muscle and bravado. He was not exactly dressed like a thug — not like the others, he had a trimmed mustache, well-fitting pants, just a few tattoos, but he still talked like a pimp as he encouraged the others in their workout.

“C’mon, nigga, yeah! Push it!” He barked, slapping a younger black man  on his ass as he lifted himself up and down doing pull-ups.

“Hey, uh, excuse me, uh,” Brian said, trying to get the man’s attention. He blushed. “My name is, uh, Brian-“

“Nice to meetcha, Brian,” said the large man. Despite his relatively polite words, he spoke with a crude sneer on his face and a harsh look in his eyes. “Whatchoo want, whiteboi?”

“Uh… I’m just, I was told… uh… I know this can be a dangerous place-“

“Hurry the fuck up and say it.”

“I want your protection!”

“What?”

“Please protect me,” Brian said. He blushed again. “I… I’ll let you fuck me. I promise. I’ll… You can fuck me. I’m not gay, but, uh-“

The man cocked his head to the side. “My name is Samson, Brian. I ‘ppreciate yo’ offer. But I gotta decline.”

“Yeah, whiteboi, we ain’t like that no mo’.”

“We don’t rape whitebois.”

“That’s against the rules nowadays.”

“No one here gonna fuck wit’ you, whiteboi.”

“Ha! Queerbait!” That was Officer Armstrong, who was walking past the doorway. Brian blushed. He hadn’t meant to offer in front of a guard.

And so that was that. They dismissed Brian, who blushed and stumbled back to the corner of the cell he had decided to use as his bed. They ignored him after that. He wasn’t sure how to take that. Had they only said no because Officer Armstrong was there? He didn’t know. They hadn’t promised he’d be safe outside of the cell, and he didn’t trust them in the slightest.

But there was nothing to do. He couldn’t force them to promise he’d be safe everywhere in prison. He’d just have to come up with a different plan. Maybe, he thought, movies overdramatized prison life. Maybe it won’t be that bad.

The lights turned out. The evening had gone by faster than he thought. His prisonmates stayed up talking for a long time, but Brian didn’t complain. He zoned out and pretended he was asleep.

And so that was why he laid fitlessly on the floor, wondering how this was going to turn out. Maybe, he thought, he shouldn’t have asked to get fucked. That might have been bad advice.

Once the prison was quiet, however, a few whispered voices filled the air. Brian couldn’t tell if they spoke thinking he was asleep and couldn’t hear, or if they wanted him to hear it.

“You gonna fuck that whiteboi?!”

“Hell nah. I ain’t down wit’ dat.”

“I betcha big-nigga do it.”

“Fuck you, asshole. I ain’t down wit’ dat gaybones shit. You know who gonna do it? That whiteboi got it right when he offer Samson-“

“Hey!” Samson’s deep voice boomed. “Shut yo’ stupid nigga faces.” Samson was the biggest and oldest and, it seemed, he was in charge. No one talked for a few minutes. Then someone chuckled, which caused someone else to laugh. Soon the cell was full of deep-voiced thugs laughing, at what Brian couldn’t tell.

“Samson gonna get gay as shit, we all know it.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Samson got up and stalked around the cell like he wanted to figure out who had spoken. “None of you say jack-shit, motherfuckers. I ain’t no kinda queer.”

Brian was still nervous. The more they insisted that they weren’t going to fuck him, the more sure he was that they were. He really wouldn’t mind trying it. He just wanted the option to change his mind partway through, and of course he wanted to be assured he’d be protected while he was locked up.

Samson went back to his bunk, while the rest of the cellmates gradually fell asleep. Brian was wide awake. He soon gave up hope that he’d be able to sleep at all tonight. It was going to be a fitless night without rest.

Soon the cell was silent aside from the noisy breathing and occasional stirring of his prisonmates. Officer Armstrong walked by every half-hour or so but he didn’t look in the cells. Far away, Brian heard an inmate snore, but it wasn’t loud enough to keep him awake.

He yelped when someone touched him. A heavy hand pressed down on his mouth. Callused, rough skin rubbed against his face.

“Sssh…” Samson’s gravelly voice filled Brian’s ear. Brian squirmed, but Samson held him down. “Don’t worry. Ain’t gonna hurtcha. Relax. Chill out, whiteboi. Sssh…” Brian tried to stop moving, but he was instinctively frightened with that hand muffling his mouth. The knowledge that he couldn’t cry out if he wanted to made this terrifying.

Finally Samson calmed Brian down by removing his hand and planting his lips on Brian’s. Brian had never kissed a man before, and he had never thought a straight thug like Samson would kiss him, especially out of nowhere like this. It was so unnerving that Brian did stop fighting back, exactly as Samson intended.

“Good. Relax, whiteboi,” Samson said. He kissed Brian again on the neck. “I ain’t gonna hurtcha.”

“Okay.”

“Sssh… whisper,” Samson said.

“Okay, look-“

“Sssh. You wanna sleep wit’ me?”

“What?”

“We can share a bunk if you want. You can suck my dick like you want, and I’ll fuck you. I ain’t gonna promise you protection though.”

“Oh.”

“Cuz you don’t need it. I always take care of my family, and if you in this cell wit’ me, you my family. You my prisonmate, whiteboi,” Samson said. “If you wanna get fucked cuz you love gettin’ fucked, just come sleep in my bed. You gotta get up and out on the floor real early, so no one sees you. I got a rep to protect. The guards don’t allow us to make love.”

“Oh, well…” Brian felt like kind of a prick. He was glad to have protection, and he didn’t care about doing anything for or with Samson if he didn’t need to. Was it wrong to accept Samson’s protection without giving him anything in return.

But on the other hand, Brian did say that he had wanted to try this. He wanted to see what it was like to get fucked, and he could think of no one better to introduce him to the world of sodomy than the sexy massive prison-thug Samson.

“Okay-“ Brian said. Before he could say anything else, Samson had scooped him up in his arms and brought Brian to his bunk.

It was not a large mattress. Samson was a huge man, well over six-feet tall and built like a brick fuckhouse, as Brian’s grandmother would have said. Samson barely fit in the bunk by himself. When Brian crawled in with him, he was forced to cuddle with Samson’s iron-like muscles.

Samson smacked his lips. He kissed Brian on the ear, and he slowly pushed Brian’s hand to Samson’s crotch. Brian gulped and stuck his fingers through the fly of Samson’s prison-issued shorts.

“There you go, whiteboi, you doin’ nice, keep at it,” Samson said with a low, rumbling groan. He whispered but his voice was so deep it rumbled and echoed in Brian’s ear. “You gay?”

“No,” Brian said. “I, uh… I-“ He gulped. “I like to, uh… I use dildos. Like, on myself.”

“Oh? You like anal?”

“Yeah-“ Brian grunted as Samson rammed one of his fingers in Brian’s asshole. It was his pinkie finger, but he was a big man so it was hefty, and it was callused and rough. Brian squirmed and yelped again.

“You like dat, whiteboi?”

“Uh, no-oooooo!” Brian’s voice broke because his pain turned into pleasure all of a sudden as Samson’s finger hit his prostate. Brian tightened his ass around his finger. “I mean…”

“Ah, yeah, I see dat, you like it. Good boy,” Samson said. “I teach all these niggas in here how to love it when I fuck ‘em. That’s a lesson e’ryone learn sooner or later. I’m glad you learnin’ it sooner. It’s a good lesson, ain’t it?”

“Uh… yeah,” Brian said, his mind too focused on his asshole to think about what Samson was saying. He didn’t even stroke Samson’s dick as he endured the finger-fucking; he just laid there, pinned between Samson and the wall, with his hand gripping Samson’s half-hard dick but not stroking it.

“You wanna suck on it? I’d mighty ‘ppreciate it,” Samson said. He guided Brian’s head. He didn’t force it, but he did give Brian a push.

Brian did want to try it. Samson was ungodly sexy, and the more Brian endured his finger in his ass, the more Brian wanted to experience it all. He didn’t even mind if his other prisonmates found out.

So he allowed Samson to push his head into Samson’s crotch. Brian opened up and swallowed the tip of Samson’s cock.

The taste was powerful and sudden, an explosion of salty meat in his mouth. Brian gagged but that just opened his mouth a little wider, and Samson pushed his dick in farther. Samson groaned and started to move his pinkie finger in and out.

Samson began to writhe as though the blowjob felt so good he couldn’t control himself. His dick stiffened all the way up in Brian’s mouth. He loved the musky, unwashed flavor, and he loved the way he could feel Samson’s heartbeat in the throbbing of his dick. Samson’s muscles tensed when Brian’s hand caressed his chest.

“Told you, nigga,” someone said, and someone else giggled knowingly.

“Samson, we knew you was gonna do it.”

“Samson fuckin’ dat whiteboi! Least surprisin’ thing evuh.”

“Hey! Shut up!” Samson barked. “You gonna get Off’cer Armstrong lookin’ in here.”

They all settled down a little, but it didn’t last long. Now that he knew everyone else was awake, Brian was very self-conscious. His mouth made loud, moist suckling sounds as Samson worked his dick deeper and deeper, and every few seconds Brian choked despite his best efforts. Samson’s finger in his ass made noise too. Brian couldn’t tell how loud it was to everyone else, but to him, it was deafening.

“You doin’ okay, whiteboi, not bad ’t all,” Samson said. He caressed Brian’s head and kissed the air. Then Brian gagged very loudly and Samson clucked his tongue caringly. He grabbed Brian by the ponytail and dragged his head off Samson’s cock. It was such a crude, barbaric action that Brian was surprised when Samson kissed him on the lips. His tongue plunged into Brian’s mouth, but just for a moment.

He returned Brian to sucking his cock. Samson sighed. “You like dat? I don’t kiss boys a lot, okay? I don’t like it much, but I wanna show my ‘ppreciation for you suckin’ my dick nice.”

There were more moist sounds filling the air. At first Brian thought maybe his other prisonmates were having sex. That would be nice, he thought, because it would make him feel less self-conscious.

But then he realized that wasn’t true — they weren’t fucking each other, they were masturbating. They watched Samson’s finger disappear in Brian’s ass in the dim light as though it was an exciting movie, and all eleven of them stroked themselves off. They were each standing or at least sitting up on their cot and watching, cock in hand.

Brian had never been more aroused. He had also never been more embarrassed, but right now the arousal was more prominent in his mind. His own cock was rock-hard, and he tried to jack himself off the best he could crammed into the tiny bunk with Samson.

“Alright, whiteboi, we gonna see how much fun you really is,” Samson said. “Is it okay if I fuck you?”

“Yes, oh god, please, do it,” Brian said. He blushed, not that anyone could see in the darkened cell. His mouth was empty then, and Samson moved with catlike grace despite his huge size and bulky body.

Samson kneeled against the wall, crouched awkwardly so he fit beneath the bunk above his head. His cock stuck straight out. He wrapped his arms around Brian and had him kneel right in front of Samson’s crotch.

His dick rammed right in. Brian’s ass was already open and loose from the fingering, but Samson soon added some lube anyway — it was hog fat, or lard, that he had stolen from the prison kitchen — and his massive dick slid right in.

“Yeah, whiteboi, take it, take e’ry inch of that nigga meat,” he said with a laugh. The others all joined in chuckling, but then shushed each other.

“Yo, guards gonna hear, man, shush.”

“Be quiet!”

Brian squirmed as he endured the ass-fucking. It started off painful, then felt so good he had to suppress a moan again, and then it hurt again before it became a low, slow, melting pleasure that made him wiggle like a worm.

His body was limp and submissive. Brian felt like he was falling because he kneeled on the bunk in front of Samson, who was also kneeling, but the bunk wasn’t really wide enough for both of them to sit up in front of each other like that. So Brian was suspended over the air, held aloft only by Samson’s arms keeping him in a bear hold. If Samson let go, Brian would plummet face-first onto the floor.

The pressure and pleasure in his ass was so intense Brian couldn’t even moan. He kept his mouth open but the only sound that came out was a strangled moan.

One of Samson’s hands remained in place, wrapped around Brian’s chest and holding him in place, while his other hand roamed south. Brian had a feeling he wasn’t supposed to say anything about it as Samson’s hand wrapped around his dick. Brian spasmed and gasped. The other prisonmates laughed quietly at Brian’s frenzied reaction, but they didn’t know Samson gave Brian a reacharound as he fucked.

“Hey,” Samson whispered into Brian’s ear, his chest muscles writhing and flexing against Brian’s back. “You wanna be the coolest whiteboi evuh?”

“Huh, yeah?”

“Whatchoo think, whiteboi?”

Brian’s mind struggled to focus on Samson’s words. He gasped and squirmed in Samson’s muscles. What had seemed awkward and strange at first was now deeply arousing. Brian loved the feel of potent, hairy, masculine power flexing against his flesh, and Samson’s throbbing fuckstick demolishing Brian’s ass. It was better than his girlfriend’s purple strap-on, which had been Brian’s go-to orgasm device for a long time.

His prostate tingled with such intensity that Brian could barely speak. He managed to say, “yeah”, not caring what the plan was — he would do anything his ebony sex-god of a cellmate wanted.

“Open yo’ mouth, whiteboi,” Samson said. He pried Brian’s mouth apart. “Yo’ prisonmates gonna nut in yo’ throat. This is like all of us sayin’ hello, okay? We gonna be good friends aftuh this. You gonna taste our nuts, nice and creamy goin’ down yo’ throat, okay?”

“Oh god yes,” Brian said. He opened his mouth.

Instantly two cocks pushed in at once. There were some deep grunting noises, and someone pushed someone else.

“Get outta my way.”

“I’m first, nigga, move!” In the end, both men shot their loads just seconds after Brian got the first taste of cockmeat. They had both been on the verge of orgasm already. Creamy, salty cum invaded Brian’s mouth. The flavor was not exactly tasty, but it was savory and Brian wanted more.

A loud clanging sound erupted, and everyone jumped “Hey!” Officer Armstrong stood outside the cell. He had slammed his nightstick on the door. “I’m gonna turn on the light in about five seconds, shitweasels. Ya hear me? If I see somethin’ in there that I gotta intervene about, you had best believe I am gonna shove this entire prison up your stupid shitweasel assholes!”

A moment of silence filled the air, and then Officer Armstrong began counting. “Five!” He banged on the door once more. Everyone in the cell burst into a frenzy of activity. Brian was annoyed to slide off Samson’s cock and crawl, still shuddering from the aftershocks of his interrupted orgasm. “Four! Three! Two! One!”

He turned the cell light on. Brian groaned as bright light assaulted his eyes. Everyone was in their bunks, sheets and blankets covering their hardons.

All in all, it must have been blatantly obvious what had been happening in here. But Officer Armstrong just flared his nostrils as he looked over the thirteen men pretending to be asleep. He spat a big loogie onto the floor of the cell, then shut the door again.

“Go to sleep, shitweasels. If you’re gonna fuck, finish in the next couple minutes so I don’t have to hear it when I come back around,” he said as he walked away.

Everyone — except the two who had already cum — was eager to finish up, having nearly been blue-balled by Officer Armstrong. Before Brian could even get up, Samson was behind him again, ramming his dick back into Brian’s ass.

Brian grunted and Samson growled seductively. He wrapped all of his arms and legs around Brian’s limbs, bringing him to the ground. Samson laid on his back, while Brian submitted, resting on Samson’s chest with his ass on Samson’s massive cock.

The pain was intense once again, but only for a moment before that mind-numbing pleasure hit him once more. As Brian tasted that ebony prison-cock and drooled over its meaty goodness, he smiled. He was going to love his time in prison, he thought.

“Yeah, whiteboi, swallow my nut,” someone said as he shot a hot load of salty cum all over Brian’s face. “Let’s bukkake him. Let’s make him real messy.”

The others all agreed, but most of them were barely listening — they were already about to bukkake him regardless. Their dicks sprayed heavy loads all over Brian’s face. He couldn’t even tell how many. He knew logically it should have been eleven, or no more than eleven, but it surely felt like more. Had someone jacked off more than once? It was impossible to tell.

But his mouth and face were covered in dripping cum, which coated his skin and seeped into his flesh. It leaked down the sides and onto Samson’s body, but Samson didn’t care — in prison, these kinds of sanitary, privacy issues stopped being so relevant. A few drops of cum even found their way into Samson’s mouth, but he barely noticed that either.

The sensation of getting fucked and the taste of a torrent of cum flooding his mouth was so overwhelming that Brian didn’t noticed his own orgasm until happened. It was the most intense experience of his life. It felt like it lasted the entire nine to twelve years he was to spend behind bars — his prostate sang and danced within him, sending waves of pleasure to every corner of his body. He squeezed around Samson’s dick.

“Swallow it while I nut inside you, whiteboi,” Samson said with a moan. He rammed his dick all the way in, making Brian scream, unable to muffle the sound at all. As he spewed hot wad after wad of cum inside Brian’s guts, Samson’s callused fingers pushed semen into Brian’s mouth. He smeared every drop of that bukkake mess down into Brian’s waiting throat.

He didn’t mind touching his niggas’ cum, and Samson groaned as the taste made Brian’s body clench around him. Samson knew how to make a prison bitch’s body react the way he wanted, so he filled Brian’s mouth up with eleven loads, plus Brian’s own cum that Samson scooped up from his chest.

“Yeah, whiteboi, nice…” Samson moaned as he shot the last few drops of his own cum into Brian’s ass. He laid there, dick throbbing while it limpened inside that tight hole. He had rarely felt such a wonderful ass.

“Comin’ back soon, boys!” Officer Armstrong called out. “Finish up!”

The other prisonmates slowly made their way back to their bunks. They stopped to wipe off their dicks first with toilet paper, since most of them had done a little jousting and gotten each other’s cum on their shafts. They quietly shuffled into their beds, giggling nervously about what had happened.

But Samson remained right where he was, resting on his back on the floor, dick limpening inside Brian while Samson flopped Brian’s soft cock between his fingers.

“You wanna come sleep in my bunk?” Samson asked. “Remember, when the sun comes up, you gotta move back to the floor so the guards don’t see.”

“Okay,” Brian said breathlessly. He breathed a sigh of relief when Samson finally took his dick out of Brian’s ass.

Brian was so exhausted he fell right to sleep. He curled up in the tiny space Samson left for him, and he buried his nose in Samson’s warm bicep. He kept one hand on Samson’s belly, just low enough where he could feel the beginning of Samson’s pubic hair. He inhaled deeply of the musky scent of Samson’s sweat-dappled body.

“I love you, Samson,” Brian whispered.

“Shush, whiteboi,” Samson said. “I know you love me. E’ryone falls in love when I fuck ‘em. Don’t worry. I ain’t nevuh gonna stop fuckin’ you, Brian. So we gonna be in love forevuh.”

Twinks Top Too: The Prison Bottom

Here’s the first chapter of Twinks Top Too: The Prison Bottom, the first story in a brand-new series as well as part of Brutewood Minimum Security Penitentiary!

Lao only had two weeks left on his prison sentence, and he had never wanted to leave more badly. He was finally in protective custody, which turned out to be very boring. He had no cellmate, and he was rarely allowed out of his cell.

Not that he was complaining. When he was in general population, and the other inmates had found out he was gay — which happened right away, because Lao was a lithe, limp-wristed twink — he was the victim of a series of cruel attacks. That had been more than a year ago. It felt like much longer than that. He couldn’t believe he had only been in prison for fourteen months.

When his cell door opened up, Lao was shocked even before he saw who it was. Everything at Brutewood prison was regular and predictable, so it wasn’t often that someone came to his cell without it being planned ahead of time.

But this was someone Lao didn’t know, as far as he could remember; it was a black man in a shirt and tie, his clothes awkward and ill-fitting like he didn’t often dress so nicely. He had a smooth chin and cornrows in his hair, which was incongruous, Lao thought, with the more formal clothing. He smiled broadly. “My name is Marcus Greggs,” he said. “I’m a police officer, I work for this prison. I investigate crimes among the inmate population.”

“Oh… You look familiar, do we know each other?” Lao asked. He was excited, glad to be interacting with someone who didn’t want a blowjob. That didn’t happen often.

Lao loved sucking cock. He was a bottom by heart and by nature. He especially loved sucking off big buff black thugs, so when he came to prison, he thought he’d use his cock-sucking to protect himself. He knew he’d be a prison bottom anyway, so he decided to volunteer for it rather than wait for the decision to be made for him. He thought he could get on some important men’s good sides by sucking them off.

That worked for a little while. But they expected him to suck off the whole gang, and Lao hadn’t wanted to do that, at least not every single day. So he had requested protective custody, and as a result, the entire Nine Tats gang had declared Lao persona non grata.

“You might remember me from a few months ago. I carried myself differently then, I didn’t look the same as I do now,” Officer Greggs said. He sighed like he didn’t want to have this conversation. “And I didn’t wear a suit then. I was naked. I was…-“

“You were in the shower!” Lao shouted. He suddenly recalled where he knew Officer Greggs from. He was the thug — Tirade had been his fake name — who had threatened to stab Lao for fun, just to “watch his blood pour down the shower drain”.

Lao recalled the incident well, because it was so scary he had asked for protective custody. He had wanted to suck off Tirade even despite the threat, but it had become apparent that he wasn’t able to suck off just one thug, but not the dozens of men (most of them fat or old or gross or all three) who filled the shower at the same time. That was the final straw, that was when Lao realized he couldn’t handle the mess he had created for himself by volunteering to be a prison bottom.

“That’s right. I went by Tirade then,” he said. “I wanted you to know…” he cleared his throat nervously. “I would never have let them rape you. I knew the guards were coming, they wouldn’t let anything happen-“

“I did get my ass kicked before going to protective custody,” Lao said, crossing his arms over his chest. He had been told that Tirade sent the three thugs who beat Lao within an inch of his life. Now it turned out Tirade was an undercover cop the entire time?

“I know. That’s why I’m here to apologize. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t tell them to do that,” he said. “They thought I wanted to… I played God with your life, Mr. Zhang, and I should not have. I was trying to pass as a gang boss, so I couldn’t show any mercy at the time; I couldn’t let anyone know that I wanted to protect you. I can’t sleep at night because of what I caused to happen to you.” He wiped a tear away.

“Ah, Officer Greggs… Don’t beat yourself up over it-“

“I won’t,” he said. “You can.” He sniffed back his tears and forced a wan smile onto his face.

“What? You want me to beat you up?”

“Uh… Well, not exactly. If that’s what you want to do, that’s fine too. But I came here to apologize to you, in, uh… well, the Brutewood way, I guess you could call it,” he said. He took a deep breath and got on his knees like he was going to beg for forgiveness. “I’ll suck your dick, Mr. Zhang. I know that won’t undo what you went through, but I hope it might make up for it just a little bit.”

Was this really happening? Lao’s heart skipped a beat. He was a thin, weak twink in prison, so he had been sucking a lot of cock and taking more than a few in the ass, but he hadn’t topped anyone since well before coming to Brutewood. Lao was a bottom by nature, so that hadn’t really been a problem, but now that he realized he was going to receive a blowjob, Lao wanted it more than anything.

Officer Greggs sunk to the ground. He opened his mouth even before he pulled Lao’s orange prison pants down, as though he was eager to get started (more likely eager to finish, Lao thought). His muscles rippled beneath his button-down shirt.

“Wait, sweetie, if we’re gonna do it, let’s do it right,” Lao said. He leaned down, intending to kiss Officer Greggs on the forehead. But then it looked like he wouldn’t fight it if Lao kissed him on the lips, so he did that instead.

Officer Greggs had full, plump lips that quivered as he kissed Lao back. Lao pushed his tongue in, but Officer Greggs’ tongue remained limp and only moved around at all after a few minutes of one-sidedly passionate kissing.

Yo, nigga, whatchoo doin’ in there? You fuckin’ that Chinaboi, Greggs? I ain’t think you was that kinda cop.

Undercover piggie! Undercover piggie!

The other inmates on the cell block heard enough to know something was happening, but not enough to figure out what it was — and it would probably never occur to them that Greggs might start sucking Lao’s dick instead of the other way around. It seemed they all hated Greggs, and they all already knew that he had been undercover; Lao, as usual, was the last to find out.

Lao’s pants were around his ankle, his ample cockmeat already rock-hard even as neither he nor Greggs had touched it. Lao pulled his lips away from Officer Greggs’ mouth, and aimed his cock in that direction. Still nervous that this might be a trap, Lao waited for Officer Greggs to open up again and swallow it down.

Bite it off, Lao!

His lips trembling with anxiety, Officer Greggs did force himself to suck down Lao’s dick, after taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. He gagged when it hit the back of his throat, but then his whole body relaxed as though it didn’t turn out to be as gross as he had thought it would.

After a few moments of awkward stillness, Officer Greggs moved his head up and down. The motion sent waves of pleasure up Lao’s body as he felt the tight moistness of Greggs’ mouth caress his shaft.

Lao gasped, surprised that Greggs had really gone through with it. He threw his head back and suppressed a moan because he was worried about making it obvious who was on bottom and who was on top. The other inmates would never respect Officer Greggs if they found out he had submitted to an inmate — willingly! — and sucked cock.

But the pleasure that rocked his body now was so intense that Lao struggled to keep quiet. Every fiber of his being wanted to scream and shout, to grab that sexy cornrowed head and ride Griggs like a prison bitch.

“Damn, Officer Greggs, you suck dick like a fuckin’ champion,” Lao said, whispering softly. Greggs looked up at him but didn’t respond. He lips were tightly enclosed around Lao’s throbbing cock.

Soon precum leaked down Greggs’ throat and coated his gullet. He gurgled, again like he hated it though he didn’t fight it or slow down in the slightest. Lao got more and more excited that this was really happening, and his inhibitions diminished.

He grabbed ahold of Officer Greggs’ scalp — after all, this was Brutewood Prison and violent facefucking was the norm here; Lao had rather enjoyed being a prison bottom for that kind of aggressive throat-based copulation, so it made sense to top Greggs in the same way now. Lao moaned as he pistoned his hips and jammed his dick all the way down Greggs’ throat.

He produced copious spit, which dripped onto his button-down shirt until he took it off. Lao loved the sight of his rippling chest, which grew sweaty in the overheated cell as he sucked harder and harder.

Finally Officer Greggs couldn’t take it. He tapped Lao on the asscheeks to signal he needed a break, and Lao pulled off. Greggs gagged and choked, producing a puddle of spit on the floor of the cell. He frowned at himself and looked up to Lao.

He fuckin’ you good, Lao! Report that bastard! You can snitch on a snitch, that’s a rule!

You can’t snitch on a snitch, nigga, that’s still snitchin’. You can stab a snitch. You can shoot a snitch. You can slit a snitch’s throat like he a old sick horse. But no snitchin’, not even here in the snitch’s ward.

“Damn, you taste better than I expected,” he said, breathless and hoarse. “But I wasn’t expecting it to be like that. Your dick didn’t seem that big in the shower.”

Lao blushed. “I mean… I was just doing it like I thought I was supposed to. What were your asking for if not a prison facefucking the Brutewood way.”

He nodded and flared his nostrils. “I did a lot when I was undercover, a lot of things that I feel bad about now. This is how God wishes to punish me,” he said. “So you should do it… however you wish.”

You guys taking a break from yo’ lovemakin’ in there, huh? You bite it off, Lao?

Are you sure that was Lao? His voice sounded too deep to be that prancing Chinaman. Maybe he brought someone else in during the night.

Yo, Greggs, who you fuckin’ right now!?

A part of Lao was insulted by Greggs’ attitude — hadn’t the gay community come far enough that gay sex couldn’t be seen as divine punishment? But prison life was a parade of insults and unfair punishment, so he didn’t think he should say anything. Besides that, he certainly wasn’t going to talk Officer Greggs out of continuing the blowjob.

After a few seconds of heavy breathing, Officer Greggs opened his saliva-and-precum-clogged mouth, which made him gag again. Lao dropped his silky-haired balls in there, and giggled when Officer Greggs trembled. Lao’s ballflesh tingled in his mouth as his day-long layer of sweat dripped down Greggs’ throat. Lao was ticklish, so he couldn’t help but laugh even as pre-orgasmic pleasure ran up his spine from his sensitive scrotum-skin.

“Sorry, sweetie, I just needed a little ball-sucking,” Lao whispered. He put the tip of his dick back in, and Greggs loudly sucked on it. He made a sour face at the taste of precum. Lao closed his eyes and shuddered as potent feelings overcame him, washing over him like a bolt of pain shot through him.

Instincts took over again, and Lao resumed his facefucking. It was an awkward position, with Lao on his toes to reach Officer Greggs’ mouth with his crotch, while Greggs himself had to stoop down unnaturally low. Lao had never felt shorter than he did before coming to Brutewood, where most of the men were giant hulking brutes, but now he felt especially short, like some sort of dwarf trying to make his way in the world of man.

As his orgasm approached, Lao tried to slow himself down. He didn’t want to rush through this, and it felt so good he would have let it last forever if he could. But Officer Greggs sucked like he knew what he was doing, and he slathered spit all up and down the shaft of Lao’s spasming dick. Lao wanted to cum so bad he could explode.

“God damn, Greggs…” Lao blushed and grunted. He had never been this excited during sex before, not even when he lost his virginity. He wasn’t even facefucking Greggs anymore; he just stood there on weak knees while Greggs deep-throated him with every noisy, moist-suckling thrust of his head all the way down on Lao’s spasming cockmeat.

At last, Lao felt his orgasm approach. He wished he could prolong it, but he knew that wasn’t reasonable — this felt entirely too good for him to slow himself down. He could feel the climax slamming into him like a speeding train.

“Here I cum,” Lao said, his voice tense, reedy and pinched because it took all of his concentration to keep his voice down. Even with that, he could tell the inmates in the other cells questioned what was happening; they still didn’t believe that Greggs was on bottom and Lao was on top, but they seemed to accept that whatever was going on was not typical. They hooted and hollered; Lao blushed as he was overwhelmed by orgasm.

He was about to ask Officer Greggs if he was willing to swallow or not — at Brutewood, it was always assumed a prison bitch would swallow but Lao didn’t want to make that assumption — then Lao’s climax surprised him. Lao’s knees buckled and he dug his fingertips into Greggs’ cornrowed head.

A torrent of hot cum sprayed down Greggs’ throat. He gagged and sputtered on it, but he didn’t try to pull away, he just accepted it like a real prison bitch. He let every drop drain down his spasming gullet, and the hot, creamy cum pooled in his belly.

Damn, Lao, he fucked you good!

Greggs, you sound like a faggot when you get a blowjob. You get girls soundin’ like that?

Lao was spent. He couldn’t even think about what to do next. It took all of his focus not to collapse on a sweaty heap on the floor in the center of his cell. He couldn’t even crawl back to his bunk right now. The only thing keeping him upright was the aftershocks of orgasm running through him as his dick slowly softened in the tight warm mouth of Officer Greggs.

Eventually though, Greggs had enough. He removed Lao’s dick and spat what cum remained onto the ground. His light brown skin blushed a deep reddish color as he listened to the other inmates tease whoever had just sucked cock — which they assumed was Lao, but was actually Greggs. Greggs glared at Lao as though this had been Lao’s idea.

“Alright, Mister Zhang,” he said, pulling pubic hairs out of his lips as Lao’s fat cock plopped against Officer Greggs’ rough-hewn face. “That’s enough. I’m sorry I was unable to protect you when I was undercover. My investigation wasn’t worth getting you hurt. But we’re even now; I’m not coming back here again.”

“Okay…” Lao’s voice trailed off as he plopped onto his bunk, stark naked and dazed. He barely even noticed as Officer Greggs fixed his shirt, then took a deep breath and walked out with his head held high.

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.

“What?”

“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?”

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.

“Piggie-“

“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.”

“Why-?”

“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?”

“Yeah.”

“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.”

The Prison Guard and the Submissive Prisoner

Here’s a sample from The Prison Guard and the Submissive Prisoner, a new story by Curtis Kingsmith!

 

Jerry’s heart felt like it was about to pound out of his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t do anything but stand there and blush as he dropped his shorts. As an openly gay man, he didn’t mind the idea of being naked in front of Officer Armstrong — he had always had an exhibitionist streak, after all — but the actuality of it was more nerve-wracking.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He stood there in front of Armstrong, with his cock dangling between his legs. He had covered his crotch with both hands, but Armstrong barked at him to stand at attention. Now Armstrong was just sitting at a desk, filling out paperwork, ignoring Jerry completely.

“How tall are you?” Officer Armstrong asked.

“Uh, five feet, seven inches.”

“How much do you weigh?”

“One hundred and thirty-five pounds,” Jerry said. He blushed. He was skinny. Before the trial, he had been working out regularly and gained weight, making it all the way up to one hundred and fifty pounds before the stress of his arrest had let to him eating less and less. Now he was a skinny fuck again.

Officer Armstrong snorted. “You best be thankful I won’t put you in with those animals. They’d eat you alive.”

“Uh, what?”

Armstrong looked up and furrowed his brow. “You’re a weakling, a pussy, and you’ve got a tiny dick,” he said, sneering as Jerry blushed. “If I put you in the jail with a cellmate, you’d be someone’s bitch in no time. Unless you wanna be a faggot…”

That was that, Jerry thought. He had wavered on whether or not to be openly gay while he was in prison. He had been leaning towards being out up until now, but it sounded like Officer Armstrong was not very tolerant. It was better, Jerry thought, to fly under the radar. If it was expected that he’d be straight, he’d be straight. He had been in the closet for years, he could go back in for six more months.

“No!” Jerry exclaimed. He blushed, not sure if that was too overeager or not.

Armstrong sighed and stood up. “Turn around and bend over,” he said. When Jerry didn’t do it right away, Armstrong repeated himself. “If I have to bend you over, I will. You won’t enjoy that, motherfucker!”

Tears welled in Jerry’s eyes as he bent over. His asscheeks spread and cold air hit his butthole. He heard Officer Armstrong putting on plastic gloves. He was going especially slow, drawing this out to torture Jerry. He opened up a container of lube and smeared some on his finger.

“Tell me when this hurts,” Officer Armstrong said. He rammed the tip of his finger in.

Should I say that it hurts now? Jerry wondered. He didn’t want to sound like a pussy, but a straight man would be in pain right away, wouldn’t he?

He straightened his back and said, “It hurts, man.”

His finger wiggled in Jerry’s ass, and Jerry squealed in pain to cover up the excited pleasure he felt deep in his prostate. He blushed, but luckily his head was down near Armstrong’s polished black leather boots, so Armstrong couldn’t see his crimson cheeks.

“Man? You don’t call me man, maggot. As long as you’re in here, I am your god. I’ll let you call me sir instead of master, but if you call me man again, we’s gonna have problems, boi,” Armstrong said, his finger curled up inside Jerry’s ass.

It brought tears to Jerry’s eyes even as it made his cock stand up straight. He tried to think of something else, anything else, but his mind was entranced by the agony and bliss emanating from his asshole.

More of Armstrong’s finger slid inside his ass. It was his middle finger, the longest, and it was thick too, like a slab of sausage sliding inside him. Jerry moaned.

“You like that?”

“No-oh…” Jerry said, his voice breaking partway through. Did that sound like orgasm or agony? He couldn’t tell.

“Kiss my boots,” Armstrong said.

Jerry did so. The black leather was cold and astringent, and it distracted him from the pain in his ass. Jerry tasted the bitterness of shoe polish and the funk of Armstrong’s sweaty feet behind that.

Armstrong began ramming his finger in and out of Jerry’s ass, chuckling at how easily he managed to do it. He wiggled his finger too, as though trying to explore every inch of Jerry’s large intestine. He cackled when at last Jerry threw his head back and screamed, a note of pleasure distinct and obvious in the tenor of his voice.

It must be obvious he was gay now, Jerry thought. His cock was rock-hard and leaking precum. His spine undulated as his ass worked its way up and down Armstrong’s finger, instinctively fucking himself.

“You a faggot, ain’tcha?” Armstrong asked. He grabbed Jerry by the back of the neck, keeping his finger in Jerry’s ass, and lifted Jerry’s head up.

Breathing hard, unable to focus on lying due to the finger in his ass and the strain in his cock — he knew he could claim his erection was simply due to anxiety; that wasn’t impossible. But he didn’t think he could pull that off. Armstrong was looking at him like a disgusting species of bug.

“Yes!”

Armstrong sneered. “You think I’m hot?”

“Yes!”

Armstrong shook his head. “You’s disgusting, faggot,” he said. “But you’s a bit useful to me too. Don’t you tell no one I did this.” He took a deep breath, sighed and wrapped his left hand around Jerry’s cock.

Black Guys Behind Bars

Here’s a sample from Black Guys Behind Bars, a new story by Curtis Kingsmith!

 

Brutewood Prison was dirtier than Karim thought. For some reason he had the idea from movies and TV that prisons were clean, sterile, stainless-steel places, but that wasn’t what he found at all. The clean white surfaces were coated with grime, loose hairs and faded graffiti. The prison stank, not of disinfectant, but of ball-sweat and moldy food.

But Karim was tough. He had grown up in a ghetto, and his mother had never cleaned a thing — literally — he had only learned what clean was when he began cleaning the apartment himself. He had been on his own for a long time, and he could take care of himself.

“No fighting, no matter what the reason,” Officer Armstrong said with a bored, disaffected tone. “No spitting. No graffiti.” He went on listing the various things that were forbidden, but Karim didn’t listen.

He heard the catcalls and insults of the other inmates around him, the threats of rape and untold tortures. They wanted to get under his skin. Karim had never been locked up before, but he knew how it worked. These men wanted him to break down.

But he wasn’t going to let that happen. Karim had been preparing for this for a long time. He knew he was going to end up doing a bid as soon as he saw the sirens flashing behind his buddy’s car. He only had a little weed in his pocket, but he also had a gun with him in the car, and those two things together were enough to get him a few years behind bars.

Finally Officer Armstrong stopped in front of a prison cell. It was old-fashioned, Karim thought, not like those submarine-pods they always show on TV. This was like something out of the old West — it was a large squarish room with bars on all sides. One wall was shared with the cell next to it. There were three bunks with three beds in each. Counting heads, Karim was glad to see he wouldn’t be sleeping on the floor.

Karim didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he was pushed into the cell. Officer Armstrong listed the day’s schedule, but it didn’t sound like Armstrong really expected Karim to listen anyway, and he actually shut the door on himself before he even finished speaking, his voice trailing off.

Eight pairs of hostile black eyes glared at Karim. His heart started pounding. He had been told that only the obvious pussies got turned out on their first day — everyone else gave people a chance to see what they were made of. Karim had intended to prove that he was made of tough stuff.

But he didn’t feel like it now. He had been a football player in high school, and briefly in college until he threw out his knee, so he was in good shape. He could be intimidating when he wanted to be.

The only consolation Karim could think of as he looked over his new cellmates and the door slid shut noisily was that one of his them was a thin transvestite with a willowy frame and dour eyes. That meant there was a real queer in the room, someone who was an obvious bitch, something whom Karim was definitely stronger than.

Karim had no desire to turn anyone out, kick anyone’s ass or even criticize someone’s sexuality. But he was glad to see that there was an easy target in the cell. That made him feel a bit safer.

“Yo, man, what’s yo’ name?” asked one of the men. He was a tall thug with a permanent frown and a wild afro — it looked like he didn’t normally have the afro, but that his cornrows were awaiting being redone.

“Karim,” he said. He slapped hands with the man, who introduced himself as Abu.

“I’m in charge around here, Karim. The guards don’t interfere too much, so we pick our own leaders. And inside this cell, I run a tight ship.”

Karim bristled. He had an instinctual urge to tell him no, that he wasn’t in charge. Karim didn’t like authority figures, and he assumed that Abu abused his power over the others in the cell. But he didn’t want to start off his prison sentence with needless conflict.

“Oh yeah?”

Abu raised his eyebrows. “Yes,” he said in a firm tone. “Nobody will be allowed to hurt you here. Not in this cell. I can’t protect you outside here-“

“You can’t protect no one anywhere!” called out one of the other men. “Nobody gives a shit about yo’ Muslim ass, Abu. This ain’t the goddamn Kwik-E-Mart, nigga.”

A few others chuckled at him, and even Karim smiled. He hadn’t expected a joke. Luckily, it looked like Abu had a sense of humor.

“Are you a follower of Islam, Karim?”

Karim shook his head. “Nah. I respect it, you know, I’m down with it and all that shit. But I ain’t into it.”

“You are ‘down with it’? I am glad to hear that, Karim,” he said. “You should know that this is an Islamic cell. So there is no sin allowed-“

“He a bullshitter, Karim. We eat pork here all the fucking time-“

“No, we don’t! It is foul and unclean. Pigs fuck in the mud, y’know!” Karim snorted at his cellmates.

“Shit, point me at a pussy in some mud, and I gonna oink like none other!”

Oink, oink!

The entire cell laughed, and even some of the guys in the cells nearby chuckled, especially when Abu grew blustery as he shouted for order. Karim smiled. He was glad to see that someone like Abu purported to be in charge, but he was also glad that the others didn’t unambiguously accept that.

Before anything else could happen — before Karim could even put his things down on the only empty bunk in the prison — he heard guards bellow as they strode through the halls.

“Lockdown, shitbirds! Some motherfucker got stabbed on Cell Block Jig! Now none of us get to-“

Karim didn’t hear the rest of what the guard said — he later figured that they were supposed to have rec time today, but it was cancelled on account of the stabbing. His voice was overwhelmed by the other men in the prison, who hooted and slammed their plates against the cell bars. The tinny resonance echoed in the prison, and hurt Karim’s ears.

Then it was over as soon as it had begun. The door to the cell block slammed shut, and the guards were all gone. Karim climbed up to his bunk. He unpacked the paucity of belongings he was allowed, while his cellmates began talking, and a card game began.

The transvestite unnerved Karim. Abu, the burly broad-shouldered Muslim, sat on the floor with the transvestite behind him on a bunk, legs spread so Abu rested in the man’s crotch. Karim felt vaguely sick watching them sit in that position — the transvestite, who apparently went by Jamie, began redoing Abu’s cornrows — because he thought Abu must be able to feel Jamie’s cock on the back of his neck. He couldn’t imagine why a straight man would allow that.

“Yo, whatchoo lookin’ at, nigga?” asked Jamie. He frowned and rubbed Abu’s shoulders, which were bare now as he had taken his shirt off. He had cornrows over half his head.

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.”

“Damn…”

“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.

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.”

“What?”

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

“Moxie.”

“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.”

Hairback Appreciation Society: Convict Worship

Here’s a sample chapter from a new series, the Hairback Appreciation Society. This one is called Convict Worship, and it’s the incredible story of Rufus, a hairback lover who worships a convict alpha male fresh out of prison. It’s also part of the Brutewood Correctional Facility.

 

Rufus’ heart started pounding from the moment he saw men file past the prison gates. This is really happening, he realized, I am about to find the sexiest hairback around! He didn’t see the one he was looking for at first, but when he did, Rufus almost fainted.

He was Wendell “Thumper” White, a former pro-boxer who was finally leaving prison. He was not extremely tall, but he was thick and wide-bodied, not sculpted like he used to be yet still retaining all the power of his pro-athlete days. Rufus had arranged to pick him up and take care of him, but hadn’t given Thumper any information on who he was or why. Thumper, for his part, gave little indication that he cared. He seemed to just assume that Rufus was from some sort of halfway home.

Rufus waved to him and approached to shake his hand. Thumper just shrugged, shook and hopped in the passenger seat of Rufus’ car.

“Hello, Mr. White,” Rufus said. “I-“

“Thumper.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Call me Thumper. Not Mr. White,” he said.

“Oh, okay, sure. Thumper it is.”

“Whatchoo want from me?”

“Well… I’ve heard that you were in need of a place to stay. I-“

“What’s in it fo’ you? You a cop? I won’t snitch, man.”

“No, I’m not a cop. I just want to service you. I want to lick every inch of your body. I want to suck your dick and your ass and your balls-“ Rufus wasn’t usually this blunt, but he got the impression Thumper liked being direct.

“I ain’t queer,” Thumper said, in a way that suggested he was fine with Rufus’ plan, he just wanted to be sure Rufus knew it would be one-sided. In truth, Rufus only liked bottoming, he wouldn’t want to be with Thumper if Thumper was versatile.

“I know,” Rufus said. “I heard you were flexible behind bars, that you like fucking slim, hairless twinks. That’s me.”

“I don’t take dick.”

“Oh, I know. I wouldn’t want you to. I’m a bottom,” Rufus said. He didn’t live far away from the prison, so they were already pulling into his driveway. His heart nearly pounded out of his chest — there were so many ways an arrangement like this could go wrong, he thought, and so few it could go right.

“You like prison cock?”

Rufus nodded. “I love it.”

“You like black cock?”

“Love that too.”

Thumper smiled. “Alright, but if I’m gonna let some queer paw all over me, we doin’ things my way. Gimme money too.”

Rufus frowned. “Well, I don’t have any cash…”

“You can go get some later,” Thumper said. He got out of the car and walked with Rufus to the front door. Thumper leaned over and whispered in Rufus’ ear, “You gonna worship me?”

“Yes.”

Thumper sneered in disgust. He looked around for neighbors as Rufus unlocked the front door, then Thumper grabbed Rufus by the head. He pulled on his hair until Rufus’ whole body tensed up. Thumper sneered at him. “If you gonna be my bitch, you gonna act like a bitch, a female dog. A bitch decide what kinda man she like by sniffin’ his ass. So get on yer knees and smell my ass, bitch.”

Rufus blushed but did as he was told. Thumper wore lime-green basketball shorts which sagged low to reveal a bare asscrack covered in thick, kinky black hair. Rufus inserted his nose into the sweaty crack and inhaled deeply.

“Yeah, smell yo’ daddy real good, bitch.”

The smell was overpowering, musky and it made his eyes water. Rufus inhaled again as Thumper scoffed, then strutted inside. Rufus had to scamper behind him to keep his nose ensconced in Thumper’s hairy crack. Thumper grinned. “When you’s about to leave, they don’t let you stay in yo’ cell. They make you be in solitary for a couple days,” he said. “So I ain’t had a bitch in a bit.”

“You must be horny as hell, you poor baby… You want me to put on some straight porn?” Rufus asked.

“Hell yeah. Put on something wit’ a white bitch gettin’ double-teamed,” Thumper said. “I’ll take a shower.”

Rufus stood up, then blurted out, “No!” He hesitated as Thumper bristled at being given an order. “I mean… I want to lick the prison off you.”

“Oh, you one of them nasty kind of faggot?”

Rufus nodded. “The nastier the better.” He bent over his computer and hurried to a free porn site he knew of — he didn’t have any straight porn, so it took him a few minutes to find one.

Thumper started grabbing at his ass in a decidedly prison-rough way — he was crude and forceful, and he growled as though having trouble not raping Rufus right then and there. Stripping his shirt off, Thumper shoved one hand down the back of Rufus’ pants and jabbed a finger into his asshole.

“You my bitch?”

“Yes,” Rufus clicked play. He wasn’t sure this was a long enough video, but he was suddenly too horny to focus. It would have to do. It didn’t seem Thumper was paying much attention anyway.

“Who owns yo’ ass?”

“You do.”

“Say my name.”

“Thumper owns my ass,” Rufus said.

“That’s right,” Thumper said.

Rufus turned around and kissed his bare bicep. He tasted of dust and sweet and stainless steel, the flavor of prison, Rufus thought, distilled into one musky flavor that Rufus couldn’t get enough of. Thumper flexed his arm and chuckled at Rufus’ aroused reaction.

Diving into one armpit, Rufus inhaled deeply. The overpowering sweat hit his nostrils like an acrid train, and Rufus moaned with pleasure. He suckled each hair in Thumper’s armpit, marveling at how thick the hairs were, how kinky and curled, and how much of his own manhood had been trapped there over the years. It was strong enough to make Rufus’ eyes water.

He licked around to Thumper’s back, tasting each hair as he went. He licked the man’s back from shoulder to the top of his asscrack, going back up and down, kneeling to get as low as he could then standing on his toes to get up on top of his shoulder.

Thumper shuddered; he was a little ticklish, it seemed. He chuckled dryly. “You really is nasty. I made one of my bitches do this a couple years ago. Cried the whole fucking time.”

“He’s an idiot.”

Thumper nodded. “Yep, that he is. You don’t mind that my back’s hairy?”

“Mind? I love it. That was one of the things that drew me to you,” he said.

“All the young cats in my cell say I gotta get my bitch to shave my back,” he said. “They said you can’t leave prison with a hairy back. It’ll look bad to everyone outside the gang. You’ll never get a chick.”

“Not everyone gets it,” Rufus said. “Specially women.” He normally didn’t lick anyone’s back this long, but the more Thumper made a big deal out of it, the more he didn’t want to stop. He did move to the small of Thumper’s back and worked on slathering every inch of that with his spit.

“You know what to do,” Thumper murmured softly as he dropped his pants. He had hairy trunk-like thighs, and Rufus gave them each a quick lick. But it was obvious that Thumper wanted a rimjob. He bent over the couch and stuck his round, hairy ass in the air right in front of Rufus’ face.

He dove right in and licked the sweat out of Thumper’s asscrack. His tongue left a trail right through the center of his ass, while Rufus used both hands to separate the cheeks. Thumper’s dark asshole beckoned like a tasty treat.

He plunged in, and tasted a direct feed of Thumper’s essence. It was like chugging a beer made of musk, he thought, and the grimy, hairiness of Thumper’s ass made it even hotter.

Thumper growled and grunted and his muscular body writhed as though Rufus’ tongue was painful. He howled and bit his lip. He pounded his meaty fists on the ground to emphasize how good this felt, and he even lifted one foot off the ground. He shook his dangling foot as sexual tension roiled his middle-aged body.

His was dirty and grimy and hairy, exactly as Rufus liked it. As he lapped at the ebony hole, his hands delicately massaged Thumper’s hairy lower back, which writhed above Rufus’ head as Thumper responded to the rimjob. Rufus suspected he hadn’t had a rimjob from someone who wanted to give one in a long time, and he was surprised about how intense the pleasure was shooting up his intestines.

“Ah, fuck yeah nigga, you oughtta go to the prison and give some fucking lessons,” he said softly. His hips were undulating and pushing back now, as though his rectum was trying to fuck Rufus’ mouth. He used his ass and hips to pin Rufus against the wall, rubbing his hairy cheeks and hole on every inch of Rufus’ face.

Without a word of warning, Thumper turned around and slammed his dick down Rufus’ throat. He was just in time for the first wad of cum to land deep in Rufus’ gullet, making him gag just a little before guzzling the rest of the load down.

Thumper lightly smacked him on the cheek with one hand, using the other to caress his neck like an owner making sure his dog swallowed a pill. “Go on, swallow it, bitch. Swallow daddy’s seed.”

His semen was copious and creamy, but it had a certain wateriness that Rufus suspected was due to the prison diet. It was sour and snotty, and it stuck to Rufus’ tongue and mouth as he swallowed it down.

“Show me yo’ mouf, boi.”

Finally he was done and Rufus showed off his empty mouth. Thumper sneered and nodded. “Disgusting, faggot. Go clean my sweat off yo’ stupid queer face. Then go to the ATM and get me cash.”