Conviction of Steel

Conviction of Steel

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

The Brutewood Correctional Facility is the newest and cruelest force in incarceration, designed to systematically wring out the greatest profit from its inmates by subjecting them to a series of humiliating ordeals of a sexual nature, all for the reader's vicarious pleasure. Proud thugs and noble Aryan warriors are humbled through coerced sexual exploration, and their drawn-out suffering and shame is exploited for your pleasure. "Conviction of Steel" is a mind-blowing sexual adventure featuring a good-natured all-American white boy, a burly black thug and a middle-aged man, all of whom find themselves pushed to their sexual limits.

Summary

The Brutewood Correctional Facility is the newest and cruelest force in incarceration, designed to systematically wring out the greatest profit from its inmates by subjecting them to a series of humiliating ordeals of a sexual nature, all for the reader's vicarious pleasure. Proud thugs and noble Aryan warriors are humbled through coerced sexual exploration, and their drawn-out suffering and shame is exploited for your pleasure. "Conviction of Steel" is a mind-blowing sexual adventure featuring a good-natured all-American white boy, a burly black thug and a middle-aged man, all of whom find themselves pushed to their sexual limits.

Chapter1 (v.1) - Conviction of Steel

Author Chapter Note

The Brutewood Correctional Facility is the newest and cruelest force in incarceration, designed to systematically wring out the greatest profit from its inmates by subjecting them to a series of humiliating ordeals of a sexual nature, all for the reader's vicarious pleasure. Proud thugs and noble Aryan warriors are humbled through coerced sexual exploration, and their drawn-out suffering and shame is exploited for your pleasure. "Conviction of Steel" is a mind-blowing sexual adventure featuring a good-natured all-American white boy, a burly black thug and a middle-aged man, all of whom find themselves pushed to their sexual limits.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: May 26, 2015

Reads: 3934

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: May 26, 2015

A A A

A A A

 

Conviction of Steel
Curtis Kingsmith

 

 

 

Brutewood Correctional Facility was a large campus, a couple hundred acres spread across forests, hills and a small swamp. There was a mess of buildings: long gray dormitories, squat administration centers, tall guard towers protruding like church steeples above it all, a work farm teaming with life off to one side. It was larger than he thought it was going to be - the dorms looked like they could hold thousands of people. The streets were dusty and unpaved; they were empty now, like a ghost town from an old Western novel.
Hank Altman sighed as the bus rolled in. He was trying not to worry too much about his predicament - with good behavior, he could be out in six months, his public defender had told him, and all he had to do was agree to work at a prison job to be kept in a safe and protected ward. He didn’t feel secure though, surrounded by the hard-faced men who filled the seats around him.
The bus rattled and jostled along the hard, packed-dirt road that ran through the center of the prison. One of the armed guards stood up and barked out instructions so fast Hank couldn’t hear them, but everyone else stood when the bus came to a stop, and he did likewise.
He was the only white guy on the bus, which had ten black men and two Latinos who sat together near the front. The other men were mostly taller and much stronger than Hank, so he was nervous about what might happen, but he kept reminding himself that all he had to do was agree to the prison job and keep his nose clean.
“It’s a private prison,” the public defender had said, “So as long as you agree to work as assigned, all they care about is that. They’ll keep you safe as long as you keep making them money.”
So he signed the necessary papers as part of his plea agreement, and the revenue gained from his work while incarcerated would pay his legal and court fees. That way, when he was released, he’d be financially free and clear.
Hank marched off the bus, hands still shackled together and to his feet with long chains that jangled as he walked. The prisoners were single-file, and lined up where they were told, along a concrete wall by a door marked “Intake”. The four guards stood in front of the group until everyone was standing and quietly watching them. The guards were tall and white, with broad shoulders and square jaws hidden by the shadows cast from their police-style uniform hats.
“Welcome to Brutewood Correctional Facility,” said one of the guards, “You are professional inmates, here to work a job as assigned. The rules, schedules and regulations are spelled out in your welcome packets, which you should have already received.” After a pause as though waiting for questions, which no one asked, the guard said, “Now all of you strip.”
There was some hesitance and grumbling, but the inmates did as they were told, Hank included, slowly taking off the bright orange jumpsuit he had worn at the county jail. When everyone was in their underwear, the guard raised his eyebrows and made the “go on” motion, and the men all dropped their drawers, revealing the spongy flesh of their flaccid penises.
Hank tried not to look at the naked men around him, one of whom said audibly, “Man, this shit’s fucked.”
The guard shot him a stern glare and said, “Now one by one, you will be called into the intake office, assigned a job and led to your cell. You will begin work tomorrow morning.”
One of the other guards pulled out a large bag from behind the Intake door. It was full of dingy white underwear, what appeared to be jockstraps. They were the old-fashioned kind, just a pouch with a few elastic straps to go around the thighs and waist. Each inmate had to lift up his balls and spread his cheeks for the guard before being given one of the jockstraps.
“In order to prevent the concealment of contraband, this is your uniform while here at Brentwood,” the head guard said, holding up one of the jockstraps.
There was more grumbling from the other men, and Hank heard someone say, “Fuckin’ gay, nigga.”
“Now we wait. The Intake personnel will call you in when they are ready. No moving or talking without permission.”
Hank waited nervously, his penis snug in the jockstrap, which felt well-worn and threadbare, his naked ass chilly in the brisk breeze. As the last inmate in line, a very tall black man, placed his jockstrap on, the guard spoke again, looking straight at one of the two Latinos, a handsome young man with dark eyes and a gleaming scowl, lean muscles inked with gang tattoos.
“Hey pretty boy,” the guard said, “Come here and suck my dick.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though he expected it to be done even before he had finished speaking. The Latino had barely registered his words when the guard barked, “Now!”
“No!” said the gangbanger proudly, arching his back and standing up straight, “I still got rights, esse.”
The guard stepped forward so that his toes were touching the Latino’s, whose bulging jockstrap was just inches from the guard’s pressed uniform slacks, through which his own bulge could be seen.
“If your mouth isn’t on my dick in the next thirty seconds,” said the guard, “I will make sure your job is ‘professional cumbucket’, do you understand?”
“Man, fuck you,” said the Latin thug, who crosed his arms across his chest, flexing his pecs smugly. He looked to the other guards, who ignored the exchange, watching the rest of the men with fllinty eyes. “Man, you can’t do this,” said the Latino.
“It’s right here on my form” said the guard, pointing to the clipboard in his hand, then showed it to the thug, “Any recommended jobs for this inmate?”
“Man, you trying to fuck with me,” said the Latino, smiling now.
“You have about ten seconds,” said the guard, “Of course ‘cumbucket’ wouldn’t be your title. You’d be a Recreation Engineer for your cell block, that’s all. It’s up to you.”
“What the fuck?” said the Latino, “You bullshittin’.”
Hank felt his asshole tensing up as though he was the one being threatened. The Latino’s ropy muscles quivered too, his hands nervously pushing against the constraints of his shackles.
“You really think I’m just playin’ with you? If I couldn’t follow through, that would pretty much kill my credibility around here. I don’t make threats I can’t make good on,” said the guard.
The Latino slunk to his knees, hung his head, resigned.
“I need to hear you say it. I need your verbal consent,” the guard said, “Otherwise I could be charged with rape, so I need your consent.”
“Man, ain’t consent,” the Latino mumbled, rattling his chains, “You threatenin’ me.”Hank could feel the men around him flexing their muscles as well, but the three remaining guards were aloof, staring at them with guns drawn. He was self-conscious about how small and thin he was in comparison to the black men surrounding him, murmuring aggressively to each other about what they would do if they were in the position of the Latin thug, who was still trying to be tough, sneering and slouching as he stared indignantly at the guard.
“You’ve already agreed to perform any job assigned,” said the guard, “And I can assign you a job for any reason. No further consent required,” sneering to reveal wide, perfectly straight teeth and deep dimples, “So that’s not technically a threat.”
“Fuck you, holmes,” said the Latino, and Hank heard his voice break, as he let out a cry, glancing in the direction of the other inmates, who refused to make eye contact.
“From now on, call me Officer Armstrong,” said the guard, “Now say your name and what are about to do willingly.”
Gritting his teeth, he said, “Oscar Delrio. I’m about to… willingly su… suck yo’ dick.”
“You have to use my name, and no pauses. Sorry, it’s a legal rule, for your protection. You have to say these words:” Officer Armstrong said, then imitated a crying little boy’s voice, “Waah, waah, I, Oscar Delrio, am choosing to perform oral sex on Officer Armstrong outside the duties of my prison job. This is a recreational activity on my part. I’m a big whiny baby about it too.”
Oscar was clenching his teeth together so hard Hank wondered if he was cracking them. His testicles were shriveleing up against his body.
“Esse, come on!” Oscar shouted, his voice cracking again.
One of the other guards laughed, and his sudden breaking of the silence attracted everyone’s attention. “You look like a faggot right now, boy,” the second guard said to Oscar, whose fists instinctively shot in that direction but were stopped by his shackles.
“You’re technically way past my thirty second mark,” said Officer Armstrong, “Don’t make me regret my mercy. Say your line and get started or it’s cumbucket time.”
“I!” screamed Oscar amid a few tears that he snorted back, chest heaving as he hyperventilated, “I, Oscar Delrio, do choose, man, do choose to, fuckin’…”
“I said no pausing.”
“P’rform oral, uh, oral sex on… you. On Off’cer Armstrong,” said Oscar.
“I guess that’s close enough,” Officer Armstrong said, unceremoniously undoing his belt buckle, black uniform slacks falling to his feet. He was wearing a pair of green boxer shorts that were a little too small for his bulging thighs.
“You can do the rest in your shackles,” he said.
Oscar, looking away, lunged forward and in one quick swoop pulled down the boxer shorts. Officer Armstrong’s dick sprung out like a meaty toy. It was thick and darker than his skin, and it protruded, semi-erect, from between his legs.
“I’m through messing around, Oscar,” he said, wrapping his arms across his chest, “Get to sucking.”
Shackled hands clenched tightly into fists, Oscar gingerly put his head in front of Officer Armstrong’s dick. He looked up, giving the officer a murderous glare.
“Now.”
Oscar gagged, and Hank could tell it was the smell, the fetid stink of of balls wafting up and into Oscar’s flaring nostrils. Officer Armstrong opened his mouth as though to bark an order, and Oscar held his breath and went in for it. He wrapped his mouth around the tip of the guard’s huge dick and gagged again, but kept it in there.
Just a moment later, Officer Armstrong did bark an order: “Wait!”
He pulled Oscar’s head off his dick and pushed it in place, just millimeters away from the tip of his dick, so every time his erect penis twitched, its head, oozing salty precum, bounced off Oscar’s lip.
“I’m ex-military, so I always like to have a plan,” said Officer Armstrong, “Let me hear what your plan is for sucking my cock.”
Oscar glared up at him, opened his mouth slightly but didn’t say anything.
“Well, Mr. Delrio?” said Officer Armstrong, “You’ve had ladies… senoritas suck your cock before, right?”
“Hell yeah,” Oscar said, “Yo’ mother too.”
“You’re in an unusual position to be making yo’ mama jokes,” said Officer Armstrong, “But I appreciate your effort. Tell me how you want to do it so you can get me off. You’ve wasted so much time prevaricating, I suggest you hurry up. You won’t like the consequences if I’m still here with my pants down when it’s time for your intake to begin.
“I don’t know, man, I ain’t go no plan!” said Oscar, “I never did it before.”Armstrong coughed a few times, his great chest heaving beneath the guard’s uniform shirt he still wore over his barrel-shaped chest, then hocked up a great big wad of phlegm. He spat it on Oscar’s forehead and laughed. “Don’t wipe that off, that’s the spot I’m going to cum when you finally suck this cock.”
“I’m gonna, put it in my mouth, man, I’m going to put it in, and y’know, suck on it,” Oscar said, defiant, insistent, hysteria creeping into his voice.
Armstrong laughed again, “Oh Mr. Delrio, I don’t think that’s going to be enough. Your time to make me cum is rapidly running out. If I may offer a suggestion, why don’t you ask me what position I like best?”
“Fine, esse” Oscar said, “Whatever you want.”
“Throat-fucking it is!” said Armstrong, “Lay down on the ground, on your back.”
Armstrong handed his gun to one of the other guards, then picked up the pile of discarded prison jumpsuits. He rudely shoved them underneath Oscar’s back so that his head was dangling down slightly. He looked up at the concrete ceiling, eyes darting wildly, and he briefly made eye contact with Hank, who saw pure panic in his eyes.
“After a lot of research here at Brutewood Correctional,” said Officer Armstrong to the other inmates as he got on his knees so that Oscar’s head was right in front of his cock, “We determined that upside down, with the esophagus curving upward, is the ideal position for a blowjob. It allows for maximum penetration of the penis by matching its curve with the curve of the mouth and esophagus. Open up.”
Oscar reluctantly pried his jaws apart. Officer Armstrong, still haunched over on his knees like he was about to leap into a standing position, jabbed his throbbing dick straight into Oscar’s throat. The Latin thug let out a gag and Hank saw a thin rivulet of foamy spit come out the corner of his mouth. The Gothic lettering of a tattoo on Oscar’s throat heaved, and Hank wondered if that was Officer Armstrong’s dick, pushing against the confines of his esophagus. Hank saw the other inmates, the huge black men with muscles quivering as they flexed aggressively to no one in particular, and the Latino at the other end, who was studiously avoiding making eye contact with Oscar.
Armstrong’s thick, muscular ass flexed back and forth as he jackhammered Oscar’s throat. Spittle and vomit leaked out in great gobs, sticking to Oscar’s face, his bushy mustache and razor-short hair. Armstrong kept going, screaming at Oscar to keep his teeth to himself, that he was going to knock out any teeth that he felt.
Finally Armstrong paused, his great big hands wrapped around Oscar’s lean face and chin. About half of Armstrong great big cock was in Oscar’s mouth. He held his position there, and Oscar’s face turned blue as his limbs and torso began to writhe. Hank could almost see the cum spurting out in Oscar’s throat, great thick clots of it, and finally Hank did see it as Officer Armstrong delicately withdrew his dick from the thug’s spasming face. Oscar gasped for air and spat out wads of cums, which just stuck to his cheeks and nose. Between the sputum and bile and cum, Hank couldn’t see Oscar’s face at all, but somehow, he knew he was crying.
Oscar tried to lift his hands up to wipe his face, but the shackles prevented his arms from going that high.
“No, don’t wipe your face off,” said Officer Armstrong as he pulled his pants back up, buckled his belt and took his gun back from the other guard, “I never got to cum on that spot on your forehead. Leave it there for me for later.”
One of the other guards, a tall, slightly paunchy black man in his forties, gray wrinkles lining his masculine features, the one who had laughed at Oscar a moment ago, stepped forward and said, “Oscar Delrio, you’re being charged with unauthorized sexual conduct outside the bounds of your assigned job.”
“What?” Oscar said, the mixture of bodily fluids now congealing on his face.
“If you’d read your welcome packet, you’d know that you’re not allowed to engage in sexual activity that is not part of your professional duties.”
“But he made me!” Oscar said, his voice cracking again.
“He’ll receive a reprimand in his file,” the second guard said, “And you will be charged a one thousand dollar fine and given one month longer on your sentence.”
Oscar let out a cry. Just then, the door marked “Intake” opened and a thin, bespectacled man stepped out. He had a clipboard in his hand, and he looked at Oscar, whose naked muscles gleamed with sweat and saliva as he lay on the ground. His face was still invisible under the cover of the mountain of cum and spit on his face and in his stubbly beard and hair.
“Mr. Delrio,” said the thin man, “We’re ready for you.”

 

Hank was bewildered by the intake process, which took all day and consisted of a series of interrogations intermixed with physical and mental tests. He was mostly kept alone and shackled, but for other processes was part of the rest of the group. Every time he saw Oscar, his spirit seemed a little more broken, the wad of cum and spit still sticking to his face. During waits between tests, Hank was often standing next to Oscar while Officer Armstrong stared at him, assault rifle cocked and ready.
“How does that wad feel on your face?” Officer Armstrong asked every few minutes. Each time, Oscar let out another cry and didn’t respond.
Armstrong repeated himself, louder and louder while nurses and men in suits and ties consulted with each other, measuring the muscles and heights of the arriving inmates around them. Oscar’s shackles were attached to the floor, keeping his arms still too far away to reach his face and wipe off the remnant of his oral rape.
“It seems to me you should just wipe it off your face,” Armstrong said, staring down at Oscar, who was kneeling avoiding eye contact with anyone. Every few seconds he shook his head violently, trying to shake off the sticky goo that covered his face.
“I can’t, esse, man, quit playin’!” Oscar shouted venomously, rattling his fists in his shackles, “You say not to. You fuckin’ faggot-ass bitch!”
“Hey, don’t get uppity with me,” Officer Armstrong said, “As you pointed out, you have rights. I was asking you not to wipe off your face because I like the way you look like that. You don’t have to agree.”
“Then wipe it off, esse,” said Oscar, “I can’t reach.”
“Ew, I can’t do that. We have bodily fluid protocols, you know,” Officer Armstrong said, “I could piss on your face, wash it off that way.”
“Man, no,” Oscar said, pushing his naked tattooed back against the wall, away from Officer Armstrong.
“You know what, that’s what I’ll do. I’ve read urine is sterile, so maybe it will clean you up too,” Armstrong said, snickering.
“No!” Oscar said, looking away as best his shackles would allow.
Armstrong unzipped his trousers and withdrew the long, thick dick again, letting it dangle between his legs. Hank, standing a few feet away, smelled the acrid odor of piss fill his nostrils. He saw Oscar gag as urine splashed against his mouth and neck, but Officer Armstrong was deliberately missing the wad of oral santorum on Oscar’s face. Finally Armstrong stopped urinating, his piss dribbling out and onto Oscar’s chest, which was heaving with shame and disgust.
“Man, stop doing this to me, man, come on, esse, come on, man stop it,” Oscar started begging.
“Oh, that shit is stuck on there,” Armstrong said, pointing again to the wad of fluids on the Latin thug’s face.
One of the nurses stopped and looked down at Oscar. “Mr. Delrio,” he said, “You smell like urine, so I’m marking you down as having poor hygiene. You’ll be charged for the expense of keeping you clean if you can’t do it yourself.”
Oscar angrily gestured towards Officer Armstrong, who whistled as he zipped up his fly. “He did it!”
“Let’s not blame others for our shortcomings,” he said, unlocking his shackle from where it was attached to the floor, “And you have something on your face too. Come with me.” As he walked away, he looked at her clipboard and said, “I see you volunteered to be ward Recreation Engineer. That’s surprising.”
Hank watched Oscar limp away, his thuggish swagger now gone, his shackles seemingly much heavier as he lumbered after the nurse, who walked away briskly, admonishing him to hurry. Officer Armstrong was now staring straight at Hank, who looked on at the bevy of tests being conducted on the other inmates. He tried to ignore Armstrong’s pointed glare, and Hank felt his heart pounding, wondering whether the cruel guard would begin torturing him next as he had Oscar.
Near Hank stood a tall shackled black man, the biggest of the men who had been part of Hank’s bus. He was at least six and a half feet tall, with biceps thicker than Hank’s head, and a coat of wiry hair, tinged with gray on his massive chest. He had a small belly and wide, powerful thighs. His deep black skin was the color of the night-time sky, covered with blue and silver tattoos. He had locked eyes with Hank while a suited man with a receding bald hair line explained something, reading off yet another clipboard. Hank couldn’t hear the man, but he could see the prisoner’s eyes well up with tears, his tough, grizzled demeanor breaking into a loud sob as the man continued explaining.
“Mr. Johnson,” said the suited man, “You’ll need to calm down so that I can explain, or you will be further punished.”
But the powerful older black man only continued to wail, contorting against the bonds of his shackles. The suited man withdrew a stun gun from his breast pocket and emotionlessly triggered at the black man, who let out a pained shriek and writhed in agony, and then fell silent. The suited man said, “Mr. Johnson, we don’t have time for emotional outbursts. You’re expected to be a professional inmate here at Brutewood Correctional. I’m charging and convicting you on one count of disorderly conduct impeding the work of this institution.”
Mr. Johnson continued to sob, but quietly now, not impeding the suited man from reading more instructions from his clipboard.
“His assignment-“ Officer Armstrong said, now inches from the side of Hank’s face, startling him so badly he jumped up a few inches, “In case you were wondering, his assignment involves travelling. Not the ideal destination, in this case. He’s going to Rwanda, Africa. Have you ever heard of the Lord’s Resistance Army? They’re a rebel group down there, they buy one inmate from us a month. It has to be a very tall American black man. They believe that if you fuck a man, you gain his power, and they believe black people are strongest, and Americans the most powerful, so they want a big black American. They also believe that sodomy is a terrible sin, so hundreds of soldiers will beat him as they fuck him. Those fucking savages use soldiers as young as nine or ten, can you believe that? That motherfucker is about to get fucked to death by motherfucking children.”
Hank was shuddering, looking down at his feet, while the tremulous Mr. Johnson was led to his feet and, shuffling, choked with sobs, out of the room.
Another man in a suit, this one much younger, with dark hair, handsome eyes and a thin smile, came forward and said, “Mr. Altman, please.”
He was led to a small corner of the room, and the man in a suit said, “Mr. Altman, you’ve been assigned to the Brutewood Correctional Facility Farm. You will begin work tomorrow morning, and you will be expected to work a minimum of sixteen hours a day as assigned. You will be paid $85 per day. You will receive one free sandwich every day as a shift meal, and will be expected to pay for all other equipment, clothing, food and medical treatment,” he said, “Loans are available.”


Hank worked in the strawberry fields as a picker. He spent hours hunched over, his back aching. His entire body was sunburnt so badly from working outside in the regulation jockstrap that he had gone to the infirmary. But they allowed him only a day and a half out of the fields, and then just gave him a bottle of suntan lotion. He remained in agonizing pain for the first month of his incarceration, dreaming deliriously of the day he’d be released.
They spent sixteen hours a day working, with brief meal breaks. The meals consisted of tofu, turkey and boiled vegetables, along with bread, rice or pasta, in small quantities. He spent some money on snacks to eat in his cell, but they were very high-priced - $10 for a small bag of chips, for example, so he tried not to indulge very often.
His cell was a small room with one large bed with a lumpy mattress. He shared it with five other men, three black, one Latino and one white, all of them in the early thirties with a wide belly. One of them, Gerald, a black guy with touches of gray in his thick hair and beard, noted this similarity, in their age and body type, and said, “This place a man-factory, don’t you see? They givin’ us shit to turn us into muscle-men they can sell to fags ‘round the world, man. They sells us in porno videos, man, they got cameras on us all the time, and they edit that shit into porno, don’t you know? That’s why they sep’r’ting us, ya’ dig? They get some flabby tubs no fag wanna look at and work us till we get a little easier on the eyes.”
At first, Hank didn’t believe the man, whose name was Gerald, but he did notice that his cell block was made up of men of broadly his age, height and weight, except for some of those who had been here longest. They had eventually dropped some weight and gained some muscle definition, and soon were transferred away, never to be seen again. Gerald had been in Brutewood the longest of the others in his cell, and he said he had dropped fifty pounds already.
“Ma misses be fuckin’ crazy she see me now,” he said, patting his small paunch, and laughing uproariously, “She always say I got a belly like a beached whale.”
Hank had been worried about rape, of course, since he had seen so much of it on TV, and then had seen Oscar being openly abused by the guard. But he quickly discovered that he was safe from it for the time being at least - sex was strictly controlled, and guards would burst into the cell if they were caught so much as masturbating in their sleep. The men were, however, all given a hormone that gave them an overactive sex drive and a quicker refresh time for sexual activity.
Every cell block had a “Recreation Engineer”, a hideous little euphemism that made Hank shudder every time he heard it. The Recreation Engineer was usually somebody being punished. He came around at the beginning and end of each shift, and every man on the block was required to fuck him. Due to the limited time, it was a hurried affair, with naked men pushing against each other to get to him first.
When Hank first arrived on Cell Block C421, the Recreation Engineer was a very young looking Japanese man who didn’t seem to speak English, though he wasn’t allowed to talk anyway. He was very thin, and seemed to be either doped up or so brutalized he wasn’t even aware as he was fucked. It was difficult for Hank to cum, but he was so horny he found it easier and easier over time.
Gerald had been convicted of fleeing from an officer, though he adamantly maintained he didn’t hear the cop telling him to stop walking away. He had foolishly listened to a public defender, just like Hank had, and had agreed to work away his sentence at Brutewood Correctional. He was almost forty, and his once powerful frame had sagged a bit, but he was still an impressive man, especially now that his belly had melted away from the constant exercise.
He wasn’t surprised to be stopped on his way off the farm, in line with the others. It was raining hard that day, and Gerald was cold in his white jockstrap, which was transparent with moisture, revealing his soft cock, a hefty nine inches, curled up in the jock pouch. His chest was covered with short tufts of black hair which concealed a web of faded tattoos that covered most of his torso.
“Gerald Wilson,” said the fat, balding man in a suit, “You’ve been re-assigned to Cell Block D899. Follow me.”
Gerald looked back at Hank and the other guys and gingerly stepped out into the hall, following the balding man with a sweaty forehead and a cheap suit.
“What’s D899?”
The man spoke contemptuously, “It was in your welcome packet.”
“Don’t have that, man,” Gerald said.
The suited man ignored him as they walked across the dirt walkway to a different dormitory with a large red D over the front door. There he was checked in, and led into his new cell block. He was given an earpiece to put in his ear and told him to do whatever he was told by the voice he heard.
It was a large cell block with bunk beds and just enough room for eleven burly young black men to sit down. They were all much younger than Gerald.
“Do you see the man with cornrows there in the corner?” said the voice in Gerald’s earpiece.
“Yes,” he said, his eyes scanning the room and seeing all the men around him.
“Perform oral sex on him,” said the voice, a pleasant, even-toned man’s voice.
“What?”
“While you are on Cell Block D899, you are ‘Deep G’, a crackhead and thug who has just been sentenced to life for killing a police officer. That man is your former crack dealer. You used to suck his dick for drugs all the time,” said the voice.
“No I ain’t,” Gerald said.
“We’re filming a television show. You are acting,” said the voice.
“Man, I just got to this block, I ain’t wanna-“
“I did not ask for your opinion.”
The man with cornrows was sitting in the corner, smoking a cigarette. He was very muscular, with broad shoulders that tensed and flexed with every movement. His regulation jockstrap couldn’t conceal his large, muscular asscheeks, which spilled out from over the straps. His eyes had a lazy glare that concealed a predatorial mien, and when his dark eyes made contact with Gerald’s, the older man shuddered and looked away, then cursed himself for showing weakness.
“Yo dawg,” Gerald said, his voice trailing off as he realized he had no idea how to do this.
The muscular man glared, the bare skin of his muscular torso and ripped abs flexing and shining with sweat in the harsh fluorescent light of the cell.
“Yo, Deep G,” said the man, his voice thick, deep, gravelly, “I knew you’d come here one day. Thank god too, I was missing yo’ mouth.”
The other men now surrounded Gerald, who swallowed nervously.
“I ain’t really Deep G,” said Gerald nervously.
“Gerald Wilson!” the voice in his ear barked, “I’m charging you with one count of interfering with prison operations. You have been assigned a role to perform, and you have agreed to perform any assignment. You will play the part!”
“What was that, Deep G?” said the cornrowed man, whose name was tattooed in small letters on his thick biceps - Balaka.
“I said ‘yeah, thass me,’,” Gerald mumbled, hanging his head.
Balaka stepped closer, the imposing might of his muscles more imposing now that they were mere inches away, and the stench of his sweat and balls and pits filled Gerald’s nostrils. Gerald had been waiting for this day for weeks, knowing it was coming, that Brutewood eventually found a way to torture everyone profitably.
Balaka’s large hand reached out and grabbed Gerald’s jaw, squeezing it, pushing his lips open. He turned to the other men and said, “You’ll never guess how fucking shameless this nigga was. Man, I was fifteen years old this nigga offer to suck my dick for a crack rock man. And he could suck dick like nobody’s business even then. He say he used to rob niggas and shit like any other crackhead, then saw about he might as well just get fucked like the bitch he is. He don’t even care that he some street trash.”
The other men were laughing now, and were playing with their long, thick, dark cocks. Gerald shuddered again, knowing that he’d be tasting each one soon enough.
“Motherfucker’d do anything for some crack. I made him go find me a dozen homeless men, then lick their assholes all in front of me, just for one fucking rock,” said Balaka, laughing uproariously now with the others.
“Let’s fuck him now then!” shouted someone.
“Yo, none of that’s true!” Gerald screamed, “I ain’t no crackhead, ain’t gonna claim to be one neither.”“Gerald Wilson, that’s another charge of interfering with prison operations. That’s worth two weeks more here, Mr. Wilson. I suggest you play along, as you agreed to.”
Balaka had dropped his own jockstrap now, his erect cock, so dark it was almost purple, engorged head dripping with pre-cum already. “I know you ‘member how I like this, nigga,” he said.
“Tell him no but get on your knees anyway, like you know you don’t have a choice.”
“Man, fuck you! No!” Gerald shouted, and whether it was at the men surrounding him, penises dangling between their legs like uncocked guns, or at the disembodied voice in his ear even he didn’t know. He dropped to his knees, and his arthritis almost immediately picked up, the cold, scratchy concrete floor aggravating his pain.
He tried to shift his weight, but Balaka’s dick was already in his face. Gerald smelled the distinctive odor of balls, heard the cruel laughter of the men around him and tentatively opened his mouth. Balaka put his rough, tattooed hands on his jaw again, pushing it open even wider.
“Hey nigga,” he said, “Remember this game?”
Balaka let out a big wad of spit from his mouth, which dangeled, suspended by a single stream of saliva over Gerald’s open mouth, which quivered as he tried to shut it. Balaka’s strong hand held him in place, however, and moments later Gerald finally felt the sticky spit hit his own tongue. Gerald spasmed and gagged, tried to push away but only bumped into another man behind him, whose hairy muscular legs trapped Gerald where he was, in the center of the room.
“That ain’t how we play, nigga,” said Balaka, “Now keep yo’ mouth open. We all gonna take turns spitting in there. If you can let us fill yo’ mouth up with spit and loogees, you get a crack rock. Well, we ain’t got no crack rocks, so you don’t get nothing today ‘cept maybe I won’t rip yo’ face off.”
One of the other men, a very tall one with huge strapping muscles and a penis that was as thick as his arm, said “I would say if you cooperate we go easy on you, but you some old-ass crackhead and we horny as shit from those hormones they give us. So yeah, we gonna make you moan, whore.”
“Man, niggas, please,” Gerald said, “Have a little respect, I could be yo’ grandad.”
“My grandad ain’t no crackhead getting spit on for rock,” said Balaka, “Keep that mouth open.”
Balaka drew up some phlegm a couple times, loudly clearing his throat until its moist thickness could be heard in his throaty chuckle as he positioned his face over Gerald’s, who was looking upwards, his eyes closed, mouth open.
“Open your eyes, Mr. Wilson,” said the voice, and when he didn’t comply immediately, he repeated it. “Open your eyes. Test audiences find it sexier if you keep your eyes open.
Gerald blinked his eyes open and saw the large cruelly chiseled ebony face of Balaka right in front of him, tattooed teardrops running down his cheek just a few inches from Gerald’s own face, lined with wrinkles of age and worry. Balaka spit and the wad of phlegm plopped right in the center of Gerald’s mouth. He gagged, his head bobbing, but Balaka dropped to his knees and wrapped Gerald’s neck and head in his awesome muscles. Balaka’s erect penis was hot and throbbing, pressing against Gerald’s belly. The older black man’s arms were pinned beneath Baraka’s heavy muscles. Gerald could feel the mucus in his mouth like melting ice cream, bitter and noxious against his tongue. (Yeah nigga, hold that shit in there if you want your treat.)
Somebody else spit, then another, and someone missed, getting a wad of saliva right on Gerald’s eye, which shuddered in discomfort as he tried to keep it open, hands pinned to his side so all he could do was rub his fingers against Balaka’s thick muscled back. (Eyes open, Mr. Wilson! No excuses for disappointing our audience!)
Balaka was whispering in his ear, “Oh you gonna learn to love being here, crackhead. I done learn a thing or two ‘bout turning niggas into bitches, and when we get out of here, you gonna still be my bitch forever. Got that? You been my bitch, and you gonna be my bitch from now on, no matter what happen. Don’t swallow that spit now. I want to use it to lubricate yo’ throat when I stick my cock in there.”
Gerald managed to shake his head before Balaka got a firmer grasp on it, his thick muscled fingers now splayed out against Gerald’s face, squeezing so tight Gerald wondering if he was going to break any bones. He could feel the pre-cum leaking from Balaka’s dick even more now, a thick stream of it sticking to Gerald’s chest. (Fill yo’ mouth with nigga spit, bitch. Don’t you dare spill any of that! I know you ain’t thinkin’ about spittin’! Ain’t you remember how we used to play this? You hold all that shit in yo’ mouth or you don’t get no rock.)
Another huge wad of phlegm left someone’s mouth and landed on Gerald’s upper lip, in the wiry hairs of his mustache. It hung there, partially in his mouth, partially not, and Gerald struggled against his captor, trying to free his arms to wipe it off his face. The urge to swallow or spit was strong, but the voice in his head kept repeating, “Keep it in your mouth, Mr. Wilson.”
Balaka’s huge, bulging muscles pushed against Gerald’s well-worn skin and ropy frame. He was whispering in the older man’s ear still, “Shh, calm down, you just gotta remember yo’ place like you did once. You a crackhead, even in here where you ain’t got no crack, you still a crackhead. You still gonna guzzle cum like every crackhead do. You ain’t worth shit ‘cept a little toy for me and my boys to play with until it breaks, so if you wanna last, you best start playing along the best you can. You gonna get my nigga dick in yo’ mouth, you gonna get my nigga dick in yo’ ass, you gonna get off my boys cuz they my boys and thass just right, y’know? You gonna beg me for my dick every day, just like my bitches do. You gonna get my nigga asshole in yo’ mouth, and ya ain’t gonna use no syrup make it taste right neither, you gonna get every bit of funk in yo’ teeth and tongue, nigga.”
Gerald could feel the spit in his mouth running down the sides of his cheek now, and he knew his mouth was full. Still he felt and heard the plopping of spitwads of phlegm, the splashing of saliva against his face, as the remaining niggas continued to spit. (When he starts copulating with your mouth, it’s okay to struggle. Gurgle with what’s in your mouth now, but don’t spill any.)
“I’m gonna let go,” Balaka said, “So I can stick my dick in yo’ mouth. Do you need me to get Big Boo to hold you?”
Gerald didn’t answer, gurgling with a mouthful of spit, and Balaka said, “I think I should, you look like you ain’t totally convinced I mean business yet.”
Big Boo was the biggest man in the room, at least six and a half feet tall, with outrageously thick muscles and a small belly. He didn’t have the sculpted body of a model, but rather a powerful, barrel frame like a bodybuilder or lumberjack, and he knelt down, interlocked biceps and thickly muscled thighs with Gerald. (Keep the saliva in your mouth. No spilling.) For a moment, Gerald, forcing himself to keep his throat placid despite its tortuous wretching, was totally encompassed by the ebony muscle of much younger men, rock-hard triceps and lateral muscles pressing against his sagging flesh. Then Balaka stood up and Gerald was now held in place by the muscles of Big Boo, who wrapped his arms and legs and around Gerald’s, his thick slab of cock pressing against the small of Gerald’s back, heavy hands keeping his head in place.
Balaka positioned his penis just outside the mass of spit and phlegm in Gerald’s mouth. He stuck the tip in, just dipping his uncircumcized foreskin in the fluid mash then taking it out, long string of sticky spit attached to it. (You fucking crack-slut gonna take every inch of my monster down that throat. Gonna hear you singing my praises, bitch.) He dragged the spit across Gerald’s face and laughed as he shuddered beneath Big Boo’s enormous biceps, which squeezed painfully on all sides of Gerald’s neck. (Yo’ face is my cunt, nigga, yo’ face is my cunt.)
“I can’t wait for you, nigga. When I fuck,” Big Boo said, “I ruin assholes.”
Gerald squirmed, his heart pounding, but Big Boo kept him in place. Finally, Balaka jammed his cock into Gerald’s mouth, spit spilling down the sides of his cheeks and onto Big Boo’s chestnut brown biceps. (Yeah nigga, that mouth is right. Where you learn to suck cock like this? Huh? Where you learn that? Oh right, you done sucked my cock more than any female in the world.) His mouth already full of phlegm, Gerald couldn’t taste the cock, he could just feel it ramming against the back of his throat, him gagging every time.
“A little more tongue, nigga, little more tongue,” said Balaka, “And keep yo’ eyes on me.”
Gerald looked up at Balaka’s cruel, handsome face - he looked like some handsome young stud who’d be picked to be a famous rapper, with his square jaw and high cheekbones, and an aura of danger and swagger around him. Gerald found it hard to make eye contact with the cruelly smiling man, grinning, showing straight white teeth. Every few seconds he spit again and laughed, “Crackhead nigga, take that.”
Gerald looked away, and Balaka withdrew his dick from Gerald’s mouth and slapped him. “Ain’t I always tell you I like to look in the eye of any nigga that suck my dick? That way I know who it is, ya dig? I can see that yo’ soul is some bitch whore, and ya ain’t worth nothing more than a few loads of my cum.”
“That’s what my daddy always say too,” Big Boo said, whispering into Gerald’s ear, “He say, ‘Boo, ya ain’t no faggot if you get yo’ dick wet in some nigga’s mouth. If you look in his eyes while you fuck his throat, you break his spirit, and you get all the strength in his bones. My old man was a crazy voodoo nigger. But I don’t really need no excuse to stick my dick in some bitch’s throat anyway.”
Balaka unexpectedly closed his eyes, shoving his dick all the way into Gerald’s throat, which spasmed as his face turned red. He felt himself vomiting just as warm jets of hot, sticky cum filled the back of his mouth. He hadn’t eaten in many hours, so his vomit was nothing more than watery bile, which mixed with the remnants of spit and phlegm in his mouth, and the pool of cum from Balaka’s drug-fueled ejaculation. He thought he could feel the sperm swimming around in his mouth, and he felt himself gagging more as he struggled to inhale and got only body fluids that he choked and sputtered on. Balaka let out a loud roar, hands clenching Gerald’s head and shaking it like a rag doll, the younger thug’s thick muscles tensing and flexing.
“When he takes his dick out, spit whatever’s left in your mouth out,” said the voice in his ear, but when Balaka did slowly remove his thick dick, sparkling with fluids, from Gerald’s still spasming throat, Gerald wasn’t even paying attention, and the wad of cum and bile just fell out of his mouth anyway, plopping unceremoniously on Big Boo’s arm.
“Ah, nigga, that shit’s gross, keep you fagness to yo’self,” Big Boo said, but he made no move to wipe the cum off his thick forearm.
“Alright, Deep G,” said Balaka, “Welcome to Cell Block D899. Next up is my main nigga Street. Let’s see if he can break your fucking throat.”

The next hour passed in a blur. Gerald couldn’t see, his eyes blinded by spit and cum and tears, and he could barely think as his mind reeled with humiliation, and his knees and jaw throbbed with agony. Street, a tall, slim black man with long, thick dreadlocks and aquiline features called out “Yo, this nigga is shameless, man, fuck,” as he fucked Gerald’s throat. Gerald was still wrapped in the thick muscles of Big Boo, who was sweating now, his chocolate skin slippery with the mess of fluids that had collected along his bulging arms and shoulders, along his thinly inked thug tattoos. Gerald was producing an inordinate amount of saliva, he thought, what felt like gallons came out of his throat with every thrust, leaking just out of the corners of his mouth, which was otherwise chokingly full of Street’s dick. (Yeah nigga I may nevah take this dick out o’ mouth.)
“Man, you used to do this for crack, now you doin’ it for… what now? We still gonna fuck you up,” Big Boo said, “But so long as you cooperate, we prolly won’t sell you to the Mexicans. You don’t want that, old nigga, not at all.”
Gerald strained against Big Boo’s muscles - he was built like a football player, his chest hard as a statue, smooth and slick with sweat and spit. (Yes, keep fighting Mr. Wilson, audiences love that. Make him actually work to hold you down.)
Big Boo squeezed him even tighter, and Gerald could smell only Boo’s armpit stench underneath the reek of cum and balls that covered his face. “Yo nigga, quit yo’ squirmin’. You gettin’ more o’ yo’ faggot-soup all over me,” Big Boo said, wiping some flecks of fluids off his face onto Gerald’s neck.
“You ready for my nut?” Street said, letting out a wide, cruel grin as he withdrew his dick and began sliding his rough hand up and down its shaft.
Gerald, his mouth for once free, coughed, a baseball-sized wad of phlegm and cum flying out of his mouth and landing on Big Boo’s face. The bigger man roared and let go of Gerald, who fell to the ground, dizzy and dazed.
“You ready for my nut, nigga?” Street said again, more insistent.
Big Boo stood, clawing at his face, cursing as he dropped the wad on the ground. Gerald was still coughing, and Street still jacking off over him.
Gerald was trying to regain his breath, and couldn’t speak. “Yo, nigga, I say, ‘you ready for my nut?’”, Street said again.
Gerald shook his head just as he felt a sharp pain in his side, where Big Boo kicked him. There was another blow, then another, and Gerald was on his back now, screaming in agony. He was sure one of his ribs was cracked, and he winced, easing his eyes open and saw three naked black men holding Big Boo back, their erect dicks rubbing against his massive muscled thighs.
“I know I get in trouble!” Big Boo was shouting, “But fuck that nigga, you saw what he did. Don’t care about no ‘interfering with prison operations’, man, fuck that!”
Street roughly grabbed Gerald by the chin and said, “Man, you best answer this question so I can cum. Are you ready for my nut?”
“No!” Gerald screamed, then spat on Street’s hand and let out a choked sob.
“He won’t fucking say it! Just let me nut, man, my balls is aching,” Street said, and Gerald realized he was talking to the man in the control room, who spoke in his ear.
“No, I ain’t ready, nigga,” Gerald said.
“Then I best prepare you,” Street said, grabbing Gerald’s face again, his lean, hawkish eyes drilling down into Gerald’s. He was still slowly tugging his cock, biting his lower lip.
“Man, I gotta go to the infirmary, nigga,” Gerald said, “I think my rib is broken.”
“You ain’t calling sick till you finish with all these dicks in here,” Street said, “So say it. Ask me for my nut.”
Gerald glared, his eyes narrowed to slits. He gritted his teeth and said, “Gimme. Yo’. Nut. Nigga.”
“Alright,” Street said, and jammed his cock back into Gerald’s mouth. Moments later hot cum streamed out, what felt like an impossible amount, rivulets of it dripping onto his face. Street’s whole body vibrated a few times, tickling Gerald’s gag reflex and triggering a new torrent of spit and bile. (You’re quite adept at vomit-copulation, Mr. Wilson. I’ll make a note of that.)
Street removed his dick, then knelt down and punched Gerald right in the face, his jaw exploding in even more pain. “That’s for making me wait, nigga.”
(Yeah nigga you gonna taste this shit.) Street turned around, and was replaced moments later by Blue Paul, a very short black man whose skin was so dark it really was almost black, pockmarked with the sores and scars of a long-time addict, lean face covered by a scraggly beard and dull eyes. His huge dick smelled like hobo too, Gerald thought, as it slid into his mouth moments later, gagging on its odor of rotten cheese. (Fuck yeah nigga, fuck yeah, let me feel yo’ tongue. Come on, let me feel that tongue all up on that meat. You can do it, bitch, yeah come on. Get ready to choke on my load.) His cum tasted even worse, like watery sour milk with the aftertaste of copper wire. At first Gerald thought his semen was piss, it was so thin, it spilled out of his mouth like water as his mouth and throat contorted with revulsion.
Gerald could see the spreading bruise of his broken rib on his torso, but the man in the control room was no longer talking, so he realized the only solution was to get through the dicks in front of him as fast as he could. Next up was Jig, a very tall, light-skinned man with cute dimples and handsome cheekbones, and the swagger of a high school jock. He was obviously awkward about the fucking, and had trouble getting his long, veiny dick hard. (Oh yeah nigga, you gonna get used to this cum. I could almost forget you not a female, yo’ throat is that fine. Like silky butter, man, you gonna make my bid go by real quick.)
Trying not to dwell on his predicament, Gerald pictured his wife but had to think to even remember her face. That fact - his lack of a memory of her - filled him with sadness and he started crying again, wondering if he would ever see her, if he was stuck in this hellhole for the rest of his life. He wandered if he really deserved this, if he had done something that made God think he deserved it. (Here’s my nut, oh fuck, you such a bitch. That shit done filled yo’ mouf, yeah, but hold that shit in there and open up so I can see it. Yeah, I see my nut in there, I see it. Make some noise with it, bitch, make me know you like how it taste in there. Yeah, that’s right, snargle that shit right up. Okay, you ready to swallow it? Fine, bitch, you can swallow my nut. Don’t say I never gave you nothing.)
Gerald’s mind wandered to the first time he had had sex with a man, and so far the only time outside of prison. He had been a young man then, fresh out of high school, hanging out on the streets of Baltimore with his friends and chasing sexy ebony bitches. (Just so you know, this one skanky whore I fucked said I had the worst-tasting nut she ever got. I said, ‘it’s cuz I always stickin’ my dick in some nigga’s asshole, fuckin’ him all wrong. Leave my shit smellin’ like fag.) Gerald was stylish, with muscles in all the right places and a smooth grin, so he usually found someone to go home with. But one night he found himself at a particularly dead party, just a handful of girls who found other ways home, leaving behind about a dozen semi-drunk guys, all of them horny.
Complaining about his hard dick, Gerald went to the bathroom, only to be joined by another young man, one he barely knew. (Yeah I see you gagging, don’t look away from me though. I wanna see you savor that nigga flavor, bitch. There’s still a couple drops on there, lick it up.) He was a slim young nigga with deep caramel skin and a thick afro. He offered, whispering in the bathroom, his fingers already slipping into Gerald’s jeans even as he was saying no. But the afroed man’s smooth fingers caressed Gerald’s rod, and he sighed, undoing his belt and letting his dick fall into the other man’s mouth. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said, “But I can get you off.”
It felt like heaven then, like comfort itself was gobbling up his dick. Gerald leaned back and let out a moan he stifled halfway through. The afroed man reach up and under Gerald’s shirt, massaging his big black pecs, which throbbed as Gerald flexed his muscles. (My turn, show me what you learned so far, bitch.)
Moments away from cumming, the door had opened, and Gerald heard a surprised voice say, “Yo!”
Gerald saw his friend Reggie there, and panicked. He knew he couldn’t be seen as homosexual, which was a concept only recently introduced to his neighborhood. As far as his friends were concerned, and even Gerald himself until moments before, men only had sex with men by force in prison.
“Yo, man, check out this pansy suck,” Gerald said, pretending to be just as shocked at the faggotry as Reggie was.
“Yo, yo yo!” shouted Reginald, “Gerald fucking that mouth-pussy, man!”
They crowded into the bathroom to see, and eventually took turns. Gerald found himself defending, even encouraging the others to take part, not wanting to make it seem like he had been pressured into it. The afroed man, whose name Gerald never caught, cried after the first few cocks, but nobody even thought of stopping. Gerald went a second time to prove that he could, filling the man’s mouth with a thin blob of cum that dripped onto his nostrils. (I’m gonna make it seem like those other niggas went easy on you.)
Gerald had always felt bad about betraying that man’s trust, and he thought about it now, wondering where he had ended up, as he sat on the ground, not held in place by Big Boo anymore, just sitting there, leaning to one side to favor his agonizing chest. He could barely feel his pained jaw being pounded by the dick of Underwood, another thug, built like a boxer, who was shouting threats as he fucked Gerald’s throat. “Yeah, nigga, you gonna like this for real? You gonna take this, huh? I am gonna fuck you up, nigga, fuck you ten ways to sundown. I gonna break yo’ goddamn windpipe, man. You some old-ass nigga, you past yo’ prime and good for nothing but taking my nut. This what happens to old thugs with no juice left in ‘em, nigga, you should have left the game a decade ago.”
Gerald’s whole body contorted as Underwood held him in place and ejaculated a long stream of cum straight into Gerald’s belly. His throat ached from the heaving and vomiting, and his whole body was sticky with fluids. He saw two guards now, standing near the cell door, watching him.
Underwood withdrew his dick and was replaced only moments later by someone tall, with thighs like tree trunks. The man pushed closer to Gerald, forcing him back until he was forced to clutch the thick thigh muscles to stay upright. “Look me in the eye, nigga,” said the man, and Gerald did, seeing a crude, barbaric face, screwed up with anger, harsh features tight, “I don’t usually like my bitches well-used, but they said you got a throat can take anything, nigga.”
The next few minutes passed in a blur, and Gerald couldn’t even tell how long it had been before the tall man’s body vibrated, and the salty sweet taste of cum filled Gerald’s mouth again.“Man, how long this go on? Was only eleven guys here,” Gerald said, spitting out the cum in his mouth, into the pool of fluids at his lap.
Another man, light-skinned and tall, lean like a basketball player, with a long, thick, uncircumcised cock that hung between his legs, approached. “Yo’ mouth be the most disgusting thing I have ever put my dick in,” he said, lifting it up and pulling back the foreskin to reveal a wide purple head.
The voice in Gerald’s ear said, “Mr. Wilson, your job finished about an hour ago. You are now on your free time, and are not being paid for your services.”
“What?” Gerald said, his heart pounding again as his mind raced to understand.
“It’s your responsibility to stop filming when you are ready,” said the voice, “You’re allowed to continue taping, of course, if you are enjoying yourself, or if you want to put on a better show for the audience. We encourage that, but it’s not required.”
“Open up, nigga,” said the next man, slapping Gerald’s face with his dick.
“Well I wanna stop,” Gerald said.
“Then just stop. The guards won’t let them rape you, of course,” said the voice.
“Stop!” Gerald said, and the tall man moved away. In seconds the crowd


© Copyright 2017 CurtisKingsmith. All rights reserved.

Chapters

Add Your Comments:

Other Content by CurtisKingsmith

More Great Reading

Popular Tags