Tag Archives: prison rape

A Prison Bitch Rimjob Raunch Tale

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey. My name is Eddie.”

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


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

“No. I ain’t-“

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

“I ain’t a faggot-“

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



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

“Uh… I mean-“

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

“Yes! Yes, I’m a faggot!”

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

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

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


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


He slapped him. “Say yes.”


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


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

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

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

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

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

“No, please-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’re you niggas doin’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’re you folks doin’ in there?”

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

“Why’re your dicks out?”


“That’s, uh… See, officer…”

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

“Uh… I’ll… uh…-“

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

“I’ll suck your dick better!”

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

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

Copper stopped. “What?”

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

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

“I love you.”


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

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

The Prison Bitch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

“I’m Charlie.”

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

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


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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, you-“

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


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


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


He nodded. “Good.”

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

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

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

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

Deep Orange

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Hernan said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

“What about ass?” asked one of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was thinking about that knife.

Mississippi Prison Life: Redneck Submission

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


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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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


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

Cellmate Lust

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Cellmate Lust, a new story from Brutewood Medium Security Penitentiary!


Coming to prison didn’t end up changing everything about Loquan’s life. Of course, a lot of things did change. But he hadn’t been eating well even before his arrest, and the food didn’t end up being a big change. His home had been a room rented from a shitty flophouse, so the prison cell was only a bit smaller. And his job went from selling crack to crackheads to selling heroin to smackheads.

That was because Loquan was a Nine Tat, a loyal footsoldier in the game. He kept quiet when he was arrested; he refused to roll over on his gang even though the police offered him a compelling deal to snitch. But Loquan never even considered it. He could do three years standing on his head; he wasn’t about to ruin his reputation to get out of it.

“Yo, you gots whatchoo need?!” That wasn’t how he usually asked around for customers; on the outside, he just hung out on street corners, and crackheads knew how to find dealers like him. In prison, they all dressed in orange jumpsuits; they all were in the same places at the same times, doing more or less the same things, so Loquan had to get the attention of the addicts. “Yo, you gots whatchoo need?!” was what the other dealers said, so that’s what Loquan said too, to get the attention of the prison’s users.

He hated them. On the outside, addicts were treated like shit. Loquan’s crew sold crack to them but didn’t associate with anyone who used; when one of their number had been caught smoking a rock, they beat him down and kicked him out. That had been that.

But here in Brutewood Prison, it didn’t work like that. There were too many addicts, and they lived in the same place as the dealers. Loquan had no choice but to interact with them.

“Yo, come on, lemme hit you back later.”

“My moms is puttin’ money in my commissary, nigga. I get you next week.”

“No!” Loquan said. On the outside, he and his crew delivered a beatdown to any crackhead who asked for a freebie. If you didn’t react like that, they’d keep asking until you said yes.

There was nothing Loquan could do here — even the guards didn’t really care about drugs. If they saw it, they’d confiscate it and charge whoever they could with possession, but they didn’t make an effort to find it. They wouldn’t have cared about people asking for drugs, and of course Loquan didn’t want to snitch, even on addicts.

There was a guard waiting there in front of his cell, when Loquan walked away from the rec area and the gaggle of addicts there begging him for heroin. Since he was knew, they were all testing him. Loquan knew that, and he knew that now was the time to keep himself tough. Once a newer dealer showed up, the addicts would all swarm him instead of Loquan.

But what was the guard doing? Loquan considered leaving, not going back to his cell as he had planned, but that was silly — Brutewood would find him sooner or later. If he was in trouble, he might as well face it now.

“Loquan Miles?” The guard asked. He was a stern-faced redneck named Officer Barnett, with a small, lean body that belied his powerful frame. He kept his face stony and still. “You’ve been transferred. Get your belongings together.”

Loquan was shocked. He had only been here for a week, and he was comfortable with his cellmate, an elderly white man and former bank robber. Loquan didn’t love living with someone he had such little in common with, but at least he felt safe there. He didn’t want to move.

“Where am I being transferred to?”

Officer Barnett didn’t answer. He just nodded into the cell. “Get yer shit together. You’ll see where you’re being transferred to. Hurry the fuck up.”

Loquan glared at him and clicked his tongue against his teeth. He quickly put his things together, and tried to avoid the sympathetic glare of his elderly cellmate. He hoped he wasn’t in trouble, but his cellmate’s gaze made him think there was something he didn’t know.

That reminded Loquan of another off-putting stare he had endured. As he followed Officer Barnett, he recalled how uncomfortable he had felt at his first all-hands meeting of the Nine Tats because of one thug in particular: Thumper.

Wendell “Thumper” White was a burly middle-aged man, nearly fifty but with a burly athlete’s body. He had been a professional boxer before being locked up thirtysome years ago, and in that time, his body had gained a bit of padding, a multitude of faded amateur tats and a litany of crisscrossing scars. He spoke only a little during the meeting; he stared at Loquan most of the time. Loquan had pretended not to notice so he wouldn’t feel compelled to start a fight — Thumper was a powerful figure in the Nine Tats, and Loquan was too young and too new to challenge anyone like that.

His heart dropped when he saw Thumper standing outside a cell, watching. That was where Officer Barnett took him. It was a corner cell, which meant it was a bit bigger than most of the others, but it also meant that two of the walls were bars rather than only one. It felt very open and exposed to Loquan.

Redneck Worship: The Prison Guard

Here’s a new sample — the entire first chapter —  from Redneck Worship: The Prison Guard, a new story of redneck uniform alpha male worship!

Eric knew being a flamboyantly gay man in prison would mean he attracted attention. The fact that he was a male stripper with a pretty face and a tight ass made him an even bigger target. He wasn’t in bad shape, so he considered trying to act straight, to be tough, to take care of himself.

But he knew that wasn’t realistic. Eric had been flamboyant for so long there was no way he could pass for straight. Even passing for straight for a few minutes would be difficult; there was no way he’d make it five years.

So as he settled into his cell — at least it was a solitary cell, that made this quite a bit easier, he thought — he decided to lean into it. There he shook his ass as the other inmates called out to him. (Gonna take that, faggot! Gonna wreck it!) He smiled and pretended he wasn’t scared in the least.

In truth, if he had had an opportunity before being arrested, Eric would have paid good money to be prison-raped by (some of) the men who yelled out at him now. Of course it was very different now, when Eric couldn’t leave if he changed his mind, had to continue living with these people afterwards and couldn’t pick and choose who might come at him.

(Best start loosening up yo’ ass now, faggot, it’s gonna get tore up right soon.)

“C’mon, you gotta meet the work-counselor,” said a guard who suddenly appeared in the hall outside Eric’s cell. Eric had been so focused on making sure everyone saw his tantalizing ass that he had barely noticed. His plan right now was to sell himself up to whichever guy was the sexiest combo of big and tough without being fat or old. The guard, whose name-badge read Officer Martin, sneered a little as though disgusted. “Let’s go,” he said as he opened the cell door.

(Come back with lube.)

“I brought my own,” Eric said with a smile to the dirty man who leered at him as he walked by. He did not want to do anything with that man — he looked sickly and had sores all over his lips. Most of the men here were unappealing; that was one important difference he had noticed between real-life prison and movie-life prison — here, the vast majority of inmates were gross, ugly, fat or old. Only maybe five percent of the inmates here were even remotely attractive to Eric.

Officer Martin shook his head with disgust. He walked off the cell block, and Eric had to hurry along to follow. He smiled at the catcalls and hooting from the other prisoners, hoping he didn’t come across as nervous.

Brutewood Prison was a confusing network of cell blocks scattered among narrow corridors with low ceilings. Some of the bigger inmates had to stoop to walk, and Officer Martin barely fit through some of the doorways. He turned around halfway there, furrowed his eyebrows at Eric and frowned.

“You know they all know you’s a faggot, right?”

Eric nodded.

“They gonna fuck ya. You okay with that?” Officer Martin asked.

Eric nodded again. He blushed. “I can’t pretend to be straight, not for five years. So this will have to do. I’ve got a plan.”

There was a long pause. It sounded like Officer Martin wasn’t sure whether he should talk Eric out of this plan or not get involved. In the end, he just nodded and turned around. He went through a few more corridors, until he finally stopped at an office, where he knocked on the door.

No one answered. He knocked again and scowled. Then he made a phone call. After impatiently waiting a few moments, he tried someone else, then barked, “Hey, where’s Roger? What? No one told me. We got a new intake for him. Okay.” He hung up the phone and frowned. “Roger’s out. He got his appendix removed yesterday. Won’t be back for a couple days.”


“So you ain’t gonna have a job till he gets back,” Officer Martin said. “Not officially. But you can clean the staff locker room. They’ll pay you for that.” Without waiting for an answer, he walked down the hall in the direction they had come from. “It’s right down here.”

The locker room was small, cramped, and it stank of used clothing. Eric was horny as soon as he walked in, because he saw another guard walking out at the same time. There was a puddle of water in the showering area, suggesting that that guard had just showered; the thought of seeing him naked aroused Eric. He blushed. If only I had come here about five minutes earlier, he thought.

“You know…” Officer Martin said, then let his voice trail off as he shifted his weight nervously. He cleared his throat. “You would be best off gettin’ one fella to make you his punk.” He blushed. He was a redneck, and his face turned as red as his shoulders as he avoided eye contact with Eric. “That way he can tell every motherfucker out there that you’s under his protection.”

“I know,” Eric said. “Don’t worry, Officer Martin, it’s okay.” His heart thumped loudly in his chest as an idea popped into his head. Officer Martin blushed as though he didn’t often interact with gay people. Eric smiled coquettishly. “Do you have any ideas on who that fella should be?”

Officer Martin shrugged. “Just make sure he big.”

Eric nodded. “You’re pretty big.”

Now Officer Martin blushed redder than Eric had thought possible, until his face looked like a worried cranberry. He looked down at his feet and scuffed his boots against each other.

Eric gently reached out and fingered Officer Martin’s button-down uniform shirt. “I’ve never met a cock I couldn’t deep-throat,” he said, his voice low and husky. “I can make it feel like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. I’ll drain you dry so good you’ll drop your girlfriend.”

He frowned and shook his head. “No, I won’t. I love her-“

“I didn’t really mean that literally,” Eric said. “I guarantee she doesn’t suck cock like I do.”

“She don’t suck cock.”

“Not at all?”

“She hates it,” he said. He sighed and put his hands on his hips. “You know this is a sin, right?”

Eric nodded. “That’s one of the things I love most about it.” He sunk to his knees and grabbed at the bulge in Officer Martin’s uniform slacks. Officer Martin bucked and twisted his back as though he had no idea this was happening, then he brought his thick forearm up to block his field of vision. He looked like he wanted to gag at the thought of a man touching his cock.

The pants tasted like polyester and laundry detergent, but behind that was the scent of manhood, the odor of muscles burning with exhaustion from a hard day’s work. Officer Martin’s dick pulsated beneath the fabric of his pants, virtually begging him to suck it down.

His pants dropped to his ankles, and he blushed as Eric took in his dingy-gray briefs — he wore tighty-whiteys, which seemed to embarrass him. Eric had always thought they were sexy on the right kind of man, and this hairy redneck was precisely that type. He kissed the outline of Officer Martin’s cock.

Then he bared it completely, and swallowed it in one smooth motion. After talking himself up, Eric knew he needed to prove his worth, so he deep-throated on his first suck. He stretched his mouth open and gagged, but forced himself on until his nose was nestled in Officer Martin’s thick nest of unkempt pubic hair.

“Aw, goddamn, boy!” Officer Martin exclaimed, blushing as his cock rocketed to full erection in Eric’s mouth. “You wasn’t kidding. Uh-uh!”

Eric loved his animated reaction. Officer Martin’s knees went weak, and he had to use the bank of lockers for support. He let out a shocked gasp. He threw his head back. He choked over the pleasure suffusing through his body, as though it felt so good it was nearly painful.

Hey, David? Can you work tonight?

Officer Martin sighed and scoffed. It was obvious that he wanted to say no to the person whose voiced crackled over the radio, but it was also obvious that he was going to say yes. He shook his head. “My girl is gonna kill me.” Then he spoke into the radio. “Yeah. I’ll do that. Make sure Warden knows this’ll be overtime.”

There was a long pause. Then that male voice finally responded, sounding unsure now. Ten-four.

That was that. Officer Martin was unhappy and stressed out about working tonight, and he kept sighing as he grew more and more annoyed with every thrust of his hips at Eric’s throat. The veins of his cockshaft throbbed beneath Eric’s tongue.

“You do suck good,” Officer Martin said softly. “Don’t tell no one how much I like this. Tell ‘em I had trouble gettin’ hard. I mean… don’t tell no one about it, and deny it if anyone asks, but if you have to, tell ‘em I struggled to do it.”

Eric nodded with the cock in his throat. He had sucked off straight guys a few times before, so he wasn’t surprised by this request. He loved the uncomfortable way Officer Martin’s whole body shook as he fucked, as though his knees were weak from the surprising power of Eric’s blowjob.

He sighed as precum leaked copiously down Eric’s throat. There was even a redneckish drawl in his sigh, his accent shining through though he didn’t say any words.

“Aw, why can’t girls suck like this?” Officer Martin’s voice was low and throaty, growling, and Eric could hear his pre-climactic pleasure in the trembling tenor of his voice.

When he could tell that an orgasm was coming soon, Eric held his head still, letting that massive cock throb in his throat. Officer Martin gasped again, and clawed at the wall he still held onto for support. He tried to say something, but all that came out was a confused jumble of vocables.

Then cum coated Eric’s tongue. He shot a thick load, wad after wad of his creamy issue flying into Eric’s mouth. It tasted savory and bitter, like a plate of collard greens, but with a sweet and salty desert-like aftertaste, which Eric gurgled on merrily as he let the entire load drain down his throat.

“Fuck yeah! Swallow that, piggie!” Officer Martin said, then bit his lip as though he hadn’t meant to show such passion.

Even as Eric’s cream-coated gullet spasmed and his lungs cried out for air, Eric held on to Officer Martin’s cock like he wouldn’t let him go. He smiled at the sight of those redneck muscles writhing from exquisite pleasure beneath the uniform shirt he had never taken off. His neck was ruddy to begin with, but as he orgasmed, he turned as bright-red as his cheeks.

At last it was too much for Officer Martin, who pulled out. He gasped for air, and Eric did likewise, his voice hoarse and throaty as he recovered, fingers kneading the plump flesh of Officer Martin’s ass.

Chuckling nervously, Officer Martin had a shocked expression on his face. He avoided eye contact with Eric as he pulled his pants back up and did his belt.

“Damn, boy, you wasn’t kidding,” Officer Martin said. He sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell them not to mess with you. If anyone does, tell me.”

Mississippi Prison Sex

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Mississippi Prison Sex, a new story of gay prison erotica from Brutewood Medium Security Penitentiary!


Robbie was beginning to feel comfortable in prison. Or not “comfortable”, exactly, but he wasn’t terrified anymore. He had been at the fearsome Brutewood Correctional Facility for a month and so far, things hadn’t really been too bad.

The main reason he wasn’t suffering was that Robbie had not squealed. He could have avoided any prison time at all if he had simply told the prosecutors what happened, but he declined. It had felt like a noble choice right up until he made it, when he realized it meant he’d be spending the next ten years nobly behind bars.

“Two pair,” Robbie said as he put his cards down. That brought him out of his reverie — he had won the hand, he was fairly certain of it, and that made him feel good. This was only his third time playing poker since coming to Cell Block Love, but it was the first time he really played his best. On the previous two occasions he had allowed himself to lose just a little money, so he didn’t upset anyone by winning too much. “Queen high.”

He smiled, thinking his victory was imminent. He still didn’t even really want to win any money overall, he just didn’t want to lose this hand because he had put all of his cash in the pot. The only other person still in this round was Forrest, a burly redneck like Robbie, with neck tats and bulging biceps. Robbie was confident he was bluffing. Forrest had been a bit scary when Robbie first came to this cell, but Forrest had proven substantially stupid, so Robbie was sure he could win in a contest of wits like poker.

“That’s a nice pair you got… But I gots two of mah own,” Forrest said with a grin, his deep Mississippi drawl resonating in the tiny prison cell. He paused for effect, then flipped over his hand. “King high.”

The cell burst into laughter, and they all clasped Robbie on the back. He blushed, astonished that he had lost — Forrest was a better bluffer than Robbie had suspected.

“Take off that shirt, boi!” Forrest said, his voice booming in Robbie’s ear. He was a tall farmboy turned marijuana-farmer, with a deep ruddy chest and just enough of a beer gut to cover up his six-pack. He had been joking about turning this game into strip poker — the Warden took away conjugal visits last month, so Forrest, and several other inmates, had gotten increasingly desperate for sex.

But so far, there had not been any rape in this prison, which made Robbie feel good. Possibly in the black or Latino cell blocks, he knew there was rape there — or maybe Forrest and the other older guys just liked using those cell blocks as a threat when they needed to.  They certainly made it seem like a rape-factory.

But Forrest had been joking about strip poker since Robbie got here. So far, nobody had taken off any clothes.

Just as he was about to hand over the four dollars he had lost, Robbie heard the cell door click. He had to make a quick decision: put the money back in his pocket? Try to hide it? Hand it over to Forrest now?

In the end, he didn’t make a decision in time. Money wasn’t allowed in the cells, it was required to be in your Commissary account, and as soon as the uniformed guard walked in, Robbie knew he was caught. Everyone else had money tucked into the their slippers or the waistband of their shorts. Only Robbie had been too slow. His heart started pounding as his cellmates scattered back to their bunks.

He looked up into the stern face of Officer Barnett, who opened his mouth to speak then saw the cash in Robbie’s hand. He stopped for a moment, chewed on his lip and said, “Inmate O’Doyle? What is that in your hand?”


“Hand it over.”

“Sir, I… I just found it, and, uh-“

“So it isn’t yours?”

Robbie hesitated. This was the last of his cash. He had a little money in his Commissary, but he wouldn’t be able to get that out in cash. Oh well, he thought, I can just stop playing poker. And I’ll pay Forrest in honey buns, he’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.

Robbie handed the cash over. He felt like he should admit he had been lying, so Officer Barnett would put it in his Commissary — Barnett could be a rules-obsessed dickhole sometimes, but he was a stickler for fairness, so Robbie was certain he would deposit the money appropriately. However Robbie had an instinctual urge not to admit he was lying, even when the consequences were minimal, so he just bit his lip.

“I’ll put this money in the Christmas party fund then,” Barnett said, “Since it isn’t yours, Inmate O’Doyle — unless anyone else wants to claim it? I didn’t think so. I came here to tell y’all that we’s on skeleton crew tonight, so don’t expect to get up early tomorrow.” He paused, then nodded and shut the cell door. “Have a good night, gentlemen.”

Forrest smiled — he liked a skeleton crew of guards, because, he said, it meant he could stick his dick in whoever he wanted, and no one could stop him — despite his frequent boasts to that effect, Forrest hadn’t had sex with any men since Robbie got here. He just liked to make sure everyone knew he had a big dick and big enough muscles he could shove it in whomever he wanted.

The other cellmates groaned. With a skeleton crew, lights-out would come early and they’d be in their cells until late in the morning, so aside from Forrest, no one liked it. Barnett just smiled and shut the cell door.

Man! I was gonna write a lettuh to mah daughter tonight, fuck!

Everyone knows you can’t read or write, fuckhead.

Robbie sighed as his cellmates began complaining and bickering. The poker game seemed to be over, which he was fine with — he had no cash anyway. He stood up and stretched his legs.

“Hey. Hey! Hey!” Forrest’s deep, gravely voice filled the cell. He growled until everyone fell silent. “Shut the fuck up. All o’ you bastards is too fuckin’ loud. I was gonna get my magazines out, but ‘parently I can’t, cuz we got a gottamn skeleton crew again. So don’t blame me for what you’s ‘bout to see.”

There was a mixture of groans and cheers at that. Forrest blushed as someone grabbed for his cock through his white prison shorts. It wasn’t gay, just a prank — Forrest had a bevy of pornographic magazines, and he thought it was hilarious to bring them out and jack off openly in front of his cellmates. Officer Barnett no longer allowed him to keep the magazines in the cell due to complaints.

Robbie just sat on his bunk. He didn’t want to attract any attention to himself, especially not since he owed money to Forrest. He just laid back with his book.

“I’s a real man, nigguh, I can’t jest go to bed without a nut,” Forrest said as he pulled his shorts down, revealing a huge cock. That was, Robbie suspected, the real reason Forrest liked to jack off in front of everyone: it reminded them that he had the biggest dick on the cell block, if not the whole prison. That might have also been why he called them all nigguh even though everyone in this cell was white. Forrest liked being compared to a mandingo, and besides, he knew no one would stop him from using whatever words he wanted to.

He caught a whiff of Forrest’s sweaty balls then, as Forrest climbed on Robbie’s bunk to his own bed above that — Robbie was on the bottom of a three-bunk column, and Forrest was on top. So for a few seconds, Forrest’s hairy balls and trunk-like thighs were in Robbie’s bunkspace.

Oh fuckin’ Forrest…

“I ain’t fuckin’. That’s what’s going on right now, dumbass,” Forrest said. His bunk creaked above Robbie’s. Robbie could hear the moist meaty sound of Forrest jacking himself off.

Thought you was playin’ strip poker anyway, man, remembuh?

“Fuck yeah!” Forrest shouted. He jumped to his feet and nearly fell off the bunk above Robbie, who tried to tune it out. He didn’t want to get involved, but had a sinking suspicion he was about to be.

Forrest jumped onto the floor. His dick was half-hard, sticking straight out from his hairy crotch — he had a huge pubic bush, which covered up just how huge his cock actually was. He lowered his head to look into Robbie’s bunkspace, then smiled.

“Howdy,” he said.

Robbie’s heart sank. He had a feeling he knew what was coming. He had been here more than a month without any sex happening, consensual or otherwise, but it sounded like his luck was about to run out.

Oh damn, that fuckin’ hillbilly is doin’ it!

This is gross…

You gonna fight back, Robbie?

“Hey!” Forrest barked. He was fiddling with something on his bunk and the middle bunk, which was currently unclaimed. Robbie blushed but stayed quiet even as his other cellmates peered at him with guilty, ashamed smiles, like they were watching a porn movie they didn’t like but couldn’t look away from. “I ain’t rapin’ no one. Y’all know I just kid around about that shit, I’s a Christian man.”

He had sheets in his hand. Forrest had taken the sheets off his own bunk and off the empty middle-bunk. He smiled at Robbie, barked for silence and said, “Howdy…” again. This time, when he said it there was a certain nervous energy, like he was a teenager asking a girl to prom.

There was some tittering laughter as Forrest pinned the sheets around Robbie’s bunk, forming a primitive wall. Robbie stammered over his words as he tried to think of a way out of this.

“Uh, so Forrest, you know… I, uh, I got two hundred dollars in my Commissary-“

“How much you got on you?” He poked his big, scruffy head through the corner of the sheets.

“Well… None.”

He smiled. “That’s okay, nigguh. I ain’t worried ‘bout it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You can suck mah dick, that’s all.”

“But, uh…”

“I mean, you ain’t gotta,” Forrest said. “I can sell yer debt.”

Robbie knew that was true. It would get him out of the sex, but it wouldn’t solve the problem. Forrest could sell his debt to the Italians, who were always eager to buy off a debt because they were ruthless about charging interest and getting their money back one way or another. It would be much simpler to simply suck dick.

How ‘bout it, newbie? You wanna owe the wops?

“No, no,” Robbie said. The Italians were both kinder and crueler about debt — they were too Catholic to demand sex, but they’d end up taking Robbie’s income from his prison job, and they’d humiliate him by sending folks on the outside to collect from his parents and brother. His four dollar-debt would double instantly, and they’d end up tacking on fees like a payday loan joint.

“Well you owe me tonight,” Forrest said. He finished pinning the sheet up, and Robbie couldn’t see anything but the dingy off-white of the prison linen. Forrest must have made some gesture because the other inmates in the cell all laughed.

Then he crawled into the bunk. Robbie curled his feet up, blushing. Forrest was blushing too, as though he didn’t really want to do this. But he grinned as well. His dick wasn’t hard anymore, and it hung like a limp greasy link of sausage between his legs.

“Uh, Forrest…”

Forrest whispered. “You ain’t gotta do this. It’s only four bucks.” Je smiled.

A part of Robbie wanted to say no, to finagle over it. He could have paid off the Italians pretty quick, but they would no doubt charge a few dollars right off the bat.

How’s dat taste, Robbie?

But was that worth it? He’d end up paying this off for some time, and he’d still be humiliated — the other prisoners would basically treat him as though he had sucked cock anyway. So, Robbie thought, he might as well do it. He nodded despite waves of humiliation washing through him.

Abused by a Warden

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

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

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

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

“Uh, sir, I-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want that, boi?”

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, sir?”

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“Uh. No, sir.”

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

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

“Uh, I’m calling you sir. Sir.”

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

“Uh… Well… I was convicted of-“

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

“Like what, sir?”

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

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

“You want to vacuum my office?”

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

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


“So think of something else.”

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

“I could… uh… service… you.”

“Be more specific.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turkish Prison Shower Sex

Here’s a sample from Turkish Prison Shower Sex, a new story in the Brutewood Medium Security Penitentiary series.


The cell had obviously been made for three people. It was clear where the stack of three bunk beds had been attached to the wall at one point. But Reggie was the twelfth prisoner assigned to that cell, so there was not even enough room for them all to stand at once, much less use actual beds. There was nothing in the cell but a toilet and sink, and piles of clothing and other personal goods scattered over the floor.

He ignore the awkward stares of his new cellmates. Reggie knew appearing weak on his first day was the best way to get yourself victimized in prison, so he tried to appear nonchalant, as though being convicted of a crime in a foreign court was just a minor problem that happened every day.

Should he be openly gay? Reggie wasn’t sure. There were a lot of factors to consider: would he be able to maintain a hetero facade? Would it be better to appear openly gay? Would he be forced into some sort of sex-for-protection deal? Should he seek out such a deal willingly? He didn’t know.

Everyone ignored him as he stepped in. No one moved out of the way, which meant Reggie could do nothing more than stand there at the doorway like an idiot. The men sitting on the floor were burly, robe-wearing Turks who did not look at him, though Reggie had an intense suspicion that every single one paid close attention to him.

Then, before anything else could happen, the muezzin blared from the speakers in every room here. As always, it sounded to Reggie’s ears like the bleating of an angry goose. But the Turks around him all began praying.

That gave Reggie enough of an opportunity to make it to the other side of the cell, where there was a small spit of space on the floor. He took the blanket he had been given — no pillow — and sat down.

When the prayers were over, Reggie realized he had chosen poorly (not that he had many options): there was a violent-looking, angry man sitting nearby. It would have been better to not be near him.

“You are new, yes? You are American?”

Reggie was British, but he had a feeling it would be better to say he was American. So he nodded. He even had a backstory ready if needed — he was a member of the Screen Actors Guild, due to a bit part he had had in a TV show many years ago, that would be easy to prove for anyone could get online, and it was even in his file (it had come up in court). So he thought he could get away with claiming to be a Hollywood actor.

“You should not be telling people you are American. Many people here do not like Americans,” said the burly man. He had an angry sneer on his face. One of those big bear-like mittens clasped Reggie on the shoulder. Reggie’s heart stopped. For a moment, it looked like the big man was going to choke Reggie. Then he spoke softly, “I am not one of them. I like Americans.”

“Oh, that’s good…” Reggie breathed a sigh of relief.

“You are not Muslim?”

Reggie shook his head. “I’m Christian,” he said. He had never really considered himself a true Christian, but he knew Muslims saw Christians as “people of the book”, and tolerated them much better than they tolerated atheists or Buddhists, which were the other two answers Reggie might have considered.

“That is okay. Christians are good,” the man said. “My name is Kemal. I speak English okay.”

Reggie nodded. “Yeah. Your English is very good,” he said. Though his accent was thick, Kemal did speak English well. Reggie’s Turkish was rudimentary — he had just picked up a bit during his arrest and trial.

After that, Kemal began talking at length. He seemed to want to be very helpful, explaining all aspects of how the Turkish Federal Prison System worked. He talked about prayer times, recreation, sports leagues, meals, the commissary system, and even which guards were being cuckolded. But he talked about all of it at once, and in such a frenzied burst of Turkish-accented English that Reggie didn’t catch any of it. It might as well have been in Turkish. He was so big that Reggie remained intimidated of him all afternoon.

But Kemal was such a huge guy that Reggie wanted him as a friend and ally, so he just smiled and nodded. He pretended to be paying close attention to every word.

The meal that night was some sort of chickpea-based porridge. Reggie didn’t enjoy it, but he didn’t really mind it either; he had been training himself to expect a lot worse. It tasted like cheap supermarket hummus, with some vegetables mixed in.

That was when Reggie began to get more confident that he would be alright here. His initial nervousness had subsided by then, and his mind focused on the muscle-bound men surrounding him. The guys here seemed to do little more than pray and lift weights, so beneath the prison-issued robes, Reggie caught glimpses of bulging muscles.

Prison Rapists Downlow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We want the booty!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let… Go…”

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, Moxie is… my master.”

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

“I am… Moxie’s bitch.”

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

“I… I’m a communal bitch.”

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